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Liaison

I found myself halfway to the mouth of the harbor before I felt the need to pause. I hesitated for an instant, pulled over to the shoulder of the gravel roadway. I sat there motionless, for an unknown period of time. I know it’s unwise, but I also know: I’m a creature born from habit. I am inclined to conditioned reflexes, I fall prey to kneejerk reactions.

These episodes occur more often than not. I tried to frame in the mind’s eye what will happen in the next 24 hours. I can never come up with a precise estimate.

I became preoccupied with the fact that if you’re at a standstill on the side of a major highway, it only attracts the state police in droves.They ask for your license and registration. They wonder why you’re stalled in the middle of nowhere.

This gives me a bad case of the jitters. I have no ready explanation, so I usually get out of the car in the spirit of good sportsmanship. When they get through with the whole routine, I sit at the wheel for a while to gather my scattered thoughts. Deep breathing soothes my nerves.

Sooner or later, I’m looking for the next exit ramp. The interstate leads to a two-lane highway. More than two or three cars at a time rarely occur. For this reason, I find my stride on a familiar Jetstream. Over blackened asphalt, the gas pedal pressed to the floor.

I am jealous of other drivers with bigger, more expensive cars. I always imagine they lead perfect lives with the kind of society surrounding them that would scorn me. This is coupled with the fact I realized a while back that I am a difficult person; exactly how hard it is to love me. People tend to think they’re being hoodwinked.

The thought intrudes on my thinking at random moments. In the middle of an average day, every lover I ever held or every member of my family is called into question.

This is an event that has happened many times. But there’s not much to be said in the aftermath. It’s not a matter of the hollow feeling I have inside, or a lack of inspiration. I just don’t like it when others surpass me. It’s hard to accept the fact that you often do things out of jealousy and spite.

I can’t shake the taste I get from eating sour grapes.

It’s probably just the sudden change of climate.

Along those lines, when I left the house it was already 90 in the shade. I notice this time of year when the plastic of the dashboard heats up. I extend my fingertip to the surface. It ‘s hot to the touch.

On the way to the harbor mouth, I followed a roundabout detour to the Haymarket. I was always told to steer clear of the North End. There’s a feeling of danger. Vendors hawk wares at the top of their lungs. They take it hard if you only look and won’t buy what they peddle. Hollow anger dances in their faces. I have to look away, fix my gaze on some neutral object. My eyes teared up from the relentless sun. I made a big mistake when I left my sunglasses in the car.

I’m sure to give Phoebe fair warning whenever I come to call. I make a point to wear black the wingtip shoes that give me the look of a Big Bossman. I know she takes her daughter to the playground late mornings. I have a copy of the key, so I just wait till she gets there. She does a load of laundry every day like clockwork. Changes the cat litter too. She shifted to this location, a Section 8 apartment, from a motel room. I admire the way she takes advantage of things. She is vigilant when it comes to improving her lifestyle and living conditions.

I filled a plastic coffee cup halfway with a half pint of bourbon. I started to toy with the knob on the clock radio. A warm rush suddenly sets in. I watch the laundry spin behind a round glass panel.

We’re below the direct route to Logan Airport. There’s always the lonesome sound of aircraft overhead.

The bathroom has a steel mirror attached to the wall above the basin. There’s always one in these kinds of places. I place two fingers over my eyelids and marvel at the images as they ascend in order. I am the culprit behind this rendezvous, a guilty party whose only saving grace is a childlike disposition.

What they say is true; you have to make hay when the sun shines. She’ll be back soon and for a while, everything will be in slow motion. Suspended animation.

But I’ll never understand how anyone makes love in the bleakness of furnished rooms. The warm pastels of the walls keeps desire at bay. With no guarantee of reflexes or reaction time, you depend on your shifting weight to achieve satisfaction. Ignoring all the dim and distant echoes that reverberate throughout the building. The only way to perform is to find the right timing. Suspicion falls on someone without the benefit of polite conversation that takes place at intervals. In a moment of awkward silence, you’ll get left far behind.

About the artist

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Works appear in journals and anthologies available at amazon.com, lulu.com, barnesandnoble.com. National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award 1997. Best of the Net nomination 2003.