TROOPS

Macro crises get disaggregated into localised events

TROOPS

“Is that so? Too bad. Anyway, Helen —Mrs. Wilcox—says that Mrs. Patterson visited regular as clockwork,

TROOPS

The stars had all been stifled by the spreading ink of the clouds.

TROOPS

After these visits I would return to the unit, with its faux-homey look, in a black mood.

Every time I peel potatoes I think about the Holocaust. In the comfort of my well-appointed kitchen. Why is that? Is it some movie, “Sophie’s Choice” or “Schindler’s List”? Is there a potato-peeling scene in one of them? In both? Of an attractive Jewess who’s been adopted by the sadistic camp commander and who, in the midst of horror, has the chance to peel and fuck her way to survival? Such a European food, potatoes. So plain and dumb and useful. Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, fry ‘em. The food of kings and pawns and Nazis. I think I also read that the peels were desperately coveted by starving prisoners. Forced to grovel for scraps, like dogs. I think about them with each flick of my wrist.

TROOPS

—Your sister lives in a big house outside town

Come Fellowship With Us

Brothers, sisters, join us in the light. Our hearts are open. Our doors are open. Thursday’s potluck begins at six o’clock, well, five-thirty if you have something for the steam trays. You can use the side entrance and head straight to the kitchen. Linda will be there. She’ll tell you what to do. As usual.

We’ll need volunteers to help with the folding tables and chairs.

Come fellowship with us.

Brian just came back from Togo and he’ll put on a little presentation about the children he saw, the wretchedness. Your contributions go a long way toward bringing the eternal light of the Redeemer to the darkest places in Creation. They buy mosquito nets. Lentils.

There’s a sing-along every night at eight. Join hands with us in fellowship in the light and love of the Lord.

I understand our Couples Perseverance Circle is becoming quite popular. Tuesdays at seven. What? What’s that Linda? Oh, seven-thirty. OK. You don’t have to— You don’t have to corr— Now come on. You don’t have to correct me in that tone. No, no, no. I know. Seven-thirty, not seven. I know we wouldn’t want our brothers and sisters to be misin— Now come on, now. It’s just your tone, Linda. Please don’t correct me in that tone of voice.

Come in the spirit of fellowship and lay your burden down. Why just last week the Robertsons shared something quite remarkable with the group. I don’t think I’m speaking out of school when I declare that they have reaffirmed their commitment to each other in Christ. Remember some of the interesting scripture they quoted? May all your pain be pleasure; may your bondage set you free. I was intrigued by that. It’s been a long road, and yea the road be curvy. It’s a tall mountain, and verily it be steep. But anywhere a man plants his flag be his... home? Something like that. Can I get an amen? What was it, 1 Corinthians? Not sure about chapter and verse. What Linda? What now? Galatians? Linda thinks it’s Galatians. I’m not so sure, but— Honey? Honey, please don’t interrupt me during the writing of the newsletter, it’s one of the few goddamned moments of peace I get in this—

Forgive me.

Not you Linda, them. Forgive me, dear brothers and sisters in Jesus. No— Uh— What?

OK, of course, of course. You too. You too may forgive me, dear.

I’ve asked Terri and Sam to do a show-and-tell for us next time, anyway. Of some of the blessed objects they described. That have brought them so much light and joy in Christ.

Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see. Who’s ready to get their gambling on? Ha ha ha, I like to use vernacular. Our monthly casino night is coming up on the 12th. You won’t believe your eyes as we transform our cherished house of worship into a veritable temple of sin. Blackjack, roulette, you name it. Pai gow poker. The various games of chance. Try your luck, partner! Just for one night, though. At 10 pm sharp we tear everything down and revert back to a modest sanctuary for those seeking the succor of faith. Again, if anyone could stay a little late to help with the chairs and the tables. Those tables, they’re a two-man job. I really threw out my back last m— That’s right, I did! What do you mean, I’m a— Linda, that’s disrespectful. It’s very disrespectful. I did overwork my lumbar. I told you— No, I did. I DID. That’s not true. I need them. I need those for my back, Linda. No, that’s beside the point. THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT. There’s no law against it, Linda. No law. No law of earth or heaven. There’s no goddamn law says I can’t have a glass of bourbon with my percocet. I know, I know, but— He’s one to talk. That’s right. He’s one to talk. Dr. Allen is an old pervert, Linda. People have been saying it for years! For YEARS. You said it! You said it! You didn’t seem to be joking at the time. I’m just saying, you trust a sexual predator, you give ME grief? What do you mean, that’s got nothing to do with his medical opinion? In my fucking medical opinion, he should not have pressed his penis into that girl’s face while she was under sedation. MY OPINION. Sue me. Sue me if that seems, I don’t know, controversial. A rumor? Every single member of our congregation couldn’t stop talking about it for a month. These are good people, Linda. People of faith. People of the Lord. For your information, I’m going to give thoughtful consideration to their fucking opinions of Dr. Allen. That’s right. FYI. You goddamn right I’m going to, it’s a free fucking country. “Potentiate the medications.” It’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane in our marriage, Linda. God help me. It’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane in this goddamned slog that we call life together. Help me Jesus Christ.

So if any of you could devote a few minutes to moving back the tables. And the chairs.

As I conclude this edition of the Fellowship Newsletter, I wish you all peace and blessings in Jesus. May you see nothing but love and holiness in each other and yourselves. May you never strain for the fruit of the tree, nor the light of the s—

OK, OK. OK Linda. I’ll be there in a minute.

Come fellowship with us.

TROOPS

She didn't know how to answer that question. She didn't want to.

No One's Right or Wrong

As I walked the dreary walk down Carmine Street to the subway after work I passed a young woman sitting on the steps of Our Lady of Pompeii Church. She was talking on her phone and weeping.

“It's not about being right or wrong!” she sobbed. “No one’s right or wrong!”

Last night we watched the rainless lightning illuminate the clouds. It was right over Lower Manhattan, or maybe it was over Jersey behind it.

As I lay on the beach on Long Island on Saturday I closed my eyes and listened to the conversations around me. A girl had worked in real estate and done real good, she bragged to her friends, but she didn’t want to ever go back. After a while, a man wandered up to them with a rap about how he learned to swim.

“My family had a boat when I was a kid. A lot of us. We were in a bay and we all jumped off. The last one out forgot to drop the anchor. We had to be rescued by the Coast Guard the following day.”

There were murmurs of admiration from the girls.

“You didn’t swim, you didn’t survive,” he said. “Now two of my cousins are Olympic swimmers.”

More cooing. Oh! Ah!

“In the Army they tell you water is like, an obstacle,” he continued. “In the Navy it’s a refuge. The water like, protects you. You not gonna get shot.”

A group of two or three men walked right by our tent, in mid-conversation.

“Sounds like a liberal,” one said.

“... so he gets all naked and starts going on about Donald Trump,” said another.

“Sounds just like a liberal,” he repeated. The word liberal pronounced not with disgust exactly but a kind of exasperated disappointment.

I hit my head hard under Jackie’s loft bed today, and bit my lip. I wondered, Is this where I see stars? But I didn’t see stars. I dutifully collapsed on the arm of the big blue chair for a few seconds. But there was nothing wrong with me. I was almost disappointed to realize it. There was nothing to do, really, but to stand up and go on.

TROOPS

“If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less willing to pay the price, son.”

The events of the day defy description, honestly. Not because they were remarkable but because they were not.

Still there is an unseen world of splendor behind every door, over every wall and under every floor.

There was a young couple sitting cross-legged on Carmine Street this morning, with their dog and their cup. They reminded me of those mangy kids on Haight Street, trying to make a buck off some long-dead idea of beautiful, eternal youth. Except these two were alone among the oblivious passersby like me, trudging to our jobs. There was no scene for them. As I walked by I noticed the boy was drinking a tall Bud Light Lime Straw-Ber-Rita. Who knows, maybe life was good.

While the players took turns passing out and falling in love in the panoramic production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in Prospect Park, I spied a couple a few yards in front of us on the lawn. They were conversing softly, intimately, oblivious to the drama before them. They sat close on a blanket, their limbs in easy, affectionate contact. But she had a pained look. It seemed like she was inquiring about something troubling. He’d say a few words, apparently serenely, and she’d press him, her brow tense with worry. Was a couple breaking up in the audience of a play about couples breaking up? I imagined that he’d cheated on her but considered it to not be a big deal—they were young, they didn’t have kids, they’d only recently started going out for real, the other woman didn’t matter to him, it was her that he wanted, he was sorry, of course he’s sorry, but what more can he say? He loves her. It’ll never happen again. All the usual lines.

Then she smiled and touched his arm, and I realized maybe this is just the way her face looks.

What am I about to dream about?

Naked in the supermarket, didn’t study for the test?

Something erotic?

A familiar city, but strange? Driving in a car without a steering wheel?

What am I about to dream about?

Notes Written Upon Waking Up About a Dream I Can No Longer Remember 2

I took acid with Steve and someone else, a friend of his but no one that I know in real life. I wanted to have enough left over to sell. I really felt high when I took it. Felt high in my dream.

The neighbors upstairs.

A bus ride.

Dragging a suitcase through the mud.

I wondered how many times there was a man overboard. Must be lots. The railing is pretty low. It was crowded on that deck on Saturday, tourists from everywhere. People must get jostled, get pushed. Or jump. Then there’s the drunks going back to Staten Island on weekend nights. Maybe they just huddle in the cabin, bracing themselves against the seasick spins.

It was a beautiful day. Sailboats darting across the water. Helicopters buzzing overhead. The Statue of Liberty right there. I’d seen it up close before. But every time I do it seems like the first.

The Enterprise - 54

There might have been a malaise in the office. I don’t know. Couldn’t quite feel it myself. Days would go by when a hush would fall upon the space. Everyone with their headphones on. Staring at whatever on their screen—maybe some tired old code, maybe The Times, Yahoo!, Fucked Company. When you got up and looked around, you could almost hear the click of a mouse.

“Neil, Alan’s in your office,” Robyn called out one day as Neil emerged from the elevator after lunch.

Neil stopped and turned to her. “Alan?”

“Alan.”

“Alan Block?”

“Yes.”

“He’s in my office?” Neil asked, pointing at his opened door.

“He’s at your desk.”

“He’s at my desk?”

“I think so,” Robyn replied airily.

Neil shook his head in bewilderment. I watched as he entered his office. Alan was standing behind the desk, poking through whatever was on it like you would a pile of magazines at a doctor’s office. Neil shut the door. It was the first time I’d ever seen Alan. It was the last time I ever saw Neil.

Welcome to the Club

Nothing but the finest for the most refined and sophisticated gentleman. A man such as yourself—well-versed in the ways of the world, women and their wiles, expensive food and drink. A smoker of Cuban cigars. A player of golf. For you, we offer our most exclusive and luxurious package. Three days of deep, intense pampering. Three nights.

You are keenly discerning. A man of few, though judicious, words. Whose strength and vitality is evident to any ordinary passerby who spies you heaving your hulking frame from the back of a limousine, accepting—though not requiring—the gloved hand of a mustachioed chauffeur.  Know the softer touch of Maarja, our Estonian masseuse. She has been trained in the use of oils. She is aware of your unwillingness to engage in conversation. You have a lot on your mind. She’ll help you forget it.

Admire the awning. Our name in gold leaf. Cursive—of course. You’d accept nothing less. Inside you’ll find a peaceful, welcoming sanctum. Do you see the walls? Italian rose marble. No expense has been spared to create an appropriate space around you. Do you see the writing on them, carved by long-dead craftsmen?

Your personal realm is appointed with the best French silk, the best faux Louis chairs, the best Scandinavian wood. The best, the best, the best. Open the armoire to find a sleek, regal, sixty-inch flat screen. Run your manicured fingers softly over its cool, dark face. Does it not seem to pulse with mysterious, otherworldly power? Upon this screen you will have the opportunity to view a cornucopia of expertly curated pornography. You have very specific desires and expectations. BDSM, roleplaying, bukake. Special Ops interrogation. Boardroom humiliation, food & tears, Learjet orgies. Grooming accidents. Nothing too esoteric or risqué. You know yourself. And we know you. Prepare to enter an onanistic paradise without peer, designed and programmed for the one and only you.

Sometimes a man needs a counterpart, a foil. Especially a man of great distinction. How else is he to properly stand out among other men, lesser men? At your leisure you will have the opportunity to shout at the help. Dial one on your room phone and an insecure, introverted, bookish young man of dubious sexuality will present himself at your door to welcome your abuse. Dial two and an unaccountably confident, headstrong young woman will appear. Dial three, a black. Four, a Mexican. Five, a second-generation Middle Eastern immigrant. You may say anything you wish to them. As loudly as you like. Let it all out. Feel your cheeks glow red with righteous rage. You are permitted to touch yourself, but please: not them.

Welcome to the Club. You’ve arrived. You deserve it. You. You. You. Sit on the edge of your king-size bed. Now take off your shoes. We’ll knock your socks off.