Postcards

 

Day after I purchase the snake I get a postcard.  From my brother Doug.  Older by six years.  Hey Bro it starts.  Doug doesn’t phone or email.  Sends postcards.  Usually fences.  Split-rail fences like out west.  Or wide plank fences that keep back horses.  All kinds.  This latest being a high fence like Tom Sawyer painted.  We grew up on Tom and Huck.  Our mom obsessed with Mark Twain.  Samuel she’d correct if someone slipped.  I bite the edge of the postcard.  Sticking it on my dresser near the fish tank.  Snake drowsing at the bottom in a good loop.  Outside it’s turning dark.  Cold.  I pull down the shade.  You feel cold I ask the snake.  My doorbell rings.  The front one ‘cause the back is broken.  Fuck I’m thinking.  It’s probably one of those petition nuts.  I ain’t signing anymore.  You sign they come back.  And back.  Endless those people.  The bell keeps ringing.  Like a pin got stuck in.  Snake moves in the tank.  The racket disturbing him.  I’ve started thinking it’s a him.  It doesn’t look female.  I poke underneath with a straw.  Nothing female-looking under there.  He wraps around the straw like a circus act.  Doug I start calling him.  After my brother.  It makes me feel less lonely.

 

Spoon

 

Doug I ever tell you the story of my marriage. To whats-her-name.  Doug is lazing in his fish tank. He seems to blink. With snakes it’s touch and go. You can’t really tell. Are they sleeping or maybe just dozing. I pick him out and hang him ‘round my neck. Good fella I say. He wiggles getting into position.  Doug we’re like a married couple I say. We spoon together.  It’s nice right.  Naturally Doug can’t answer.  I pretty much know when he’s happy.  So anyway the wedding was small I tell him. Her sister that bitch wore black.  Black to a wedding.  Bad omen. That sister could crack an egg just by looking.  I hold her in part responsible I tell Doug.  I pat his head to reassure him. I know he worries I might crack.  I get close at times.  But then I’ll pick him up like today. We might go out for a stroll. To the market. The dog park. We might drive out to Injun Joe for smokes. We might do nothing.  Long as we’re together I say. He snuggles even tighter ‘round my neck.

 

Tilt

 

Money is tight I tell Doug.  Bitch stuck us with the mortgage.  We could get repossessed. Doug is quiet at the bottom of his tank.  I tap the sides saying wake up.  It’s morning.  We got things to do.  Places to go.  People to see.  I swear to god he yawns.  I swear I see his mouth open and shut.  I peer in the tank doing rap-tap-tap.  He doesn’t move a muscle.  Doug hey Doug I say.  This is getting scary.  Maybe he’s not sleeping.  Maybe he died while I was sleeping. All the time I think about my old man dying.   He’s 93.  When I mentioned this to Doug (my brother) he told me I think crazy.  What is crazy about worrying about Dad I said.  He’s an old man.  He could die any second.  He lives alone.  No one to watch him.  Then Doug said a lot of things back.  The last thing he said was that’s the point.  That conversation took place over a series of postcards.  Seven I think.  I think a week’s worth.  Not in real time.  First buying each postcard.  Writing the message.   Going to the post office.  Time to fly back and forth.  Close to a month for Doug to say that’s the point.   It gave me an unease.  My wife who left said Doug carries unease.  At first I thought she said disease.  She said it right before she split.  That word unease.  It puts things on tilt.  This kitchen.  It’s cold.  I should turn up the heat.  But Doug (my Doug) is a cold blooded creature.  Not by heart.  He has a big heart.  Cold by evolution.  It’s out of his hands. Couldn’t be a mammal if he tried.  Same with her.  Couldn’t be a wife.  Did the wifey stuff.  Served her little meals.  And pathetic they were.  Sandwich crackers spread with cheese and pimento-olives.  Calling it a balanced meal.  Protein from the cheese.  Vegetable.  Two counting the pimento she said.  And a starch.  And proud of it.  Whole piles on a plate served with a Coke.  She came from a nuts family. The sister hardly eats.  The parents you need a crane to lift them out of the house.  I wasn’t surprised when she left.  Coming from a nuthouse.  I miss those freckles she tried to bleach that wouldn’t go away.