Posted: Dec 30, 07 11:12pm
Okay, I've pounded on this thing until I can't see it anymore, so I need some perspective. What do you all think about this? Is it schmaltzy? Too on-the-nose? Wordy? Are the characters believable and do you care about them? Does the story flow well? Description--too much, not enough, just right?
"6-A"
It’s black outside, cold and raining, but the cranberries are coming along nicely. I watch them burst in the syrup and they fill my tiny kitchen with their sweet smell. Then my leg cramps again.
Dancing to keep the spoon over the pot, I bend over, massaging my thigh. My blood potassium level's south again. Welcome to congestive heart failure and the side-effect of diuretics.
Steely Dan's "Do It Again" plays on the stereo. You go back, Jack, do it again, wheel turning 'round and 'round....
BANG! BAM!
What the hell? I rinse my hands and limp to the front window.
A battered silver U-Haul trailer is backed against the apartment building's front landing, the trailer door swung open and a man in a black hooded slicker, jeans and wet running shoes wrestles out a potted ficus. In the trailer, stacks of beer-brand cardboard boxes stuffed with books, a muddy mountain bike, a black Fender guitar case splattered with stickers, a microwave oven, and industrial blue trash bags stuffed with soft goods. A framed poster for the opera “La Boheme” leans against a vaccum cleaner.
I open my door. "Hey, man; you okay?"
He turns and stares at me, the hood framing a lean ascetic’s face almost smiling at me, a scruffy black goatee reefing his chin.
"Yes, thank you, just moving Lindsey here out of the rain."
"You're 6-A?"
He reaches into his pocket and fumbles out a key with a white paper disc string-tied to it. "Ah...yes, 6-A."
I step forward and hold out my hand. "Kevin. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He steps toward me shakes my hand. A strong grip. I feel the grit from Lindsey’s terra cotta pot on his palm.
“Tom.”
“What brings you here?”
“It’s closer to UCLA than my old place in the Valley.”
“You a student?”
He looked in my eyes for a moment.
“No, a patient. Cedars-Sinai. I’m in the new AIDS treatment program.”
I know what showed on my face. His own flattened.
I coughed. “Oh. Uh, hope it works out for you.”
“Thank you. This thing won't move itself, so if you don’t mind...?”
I stepped back. “Sorry. Sure. Nice to've met you.”
“Yeah.”
He turned his back and began hoisting the tree up the steps. I closed the door.
Cooking cranberries is simple, but you’ve got to keep an eye on them; they burn easily, so I stir them slowly.
The music changes and Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome” comes on. I’d loved it since my college days as a freelance photographer until my astigmatism worsened, finally rendering my pictures out of focus and me unemployed.
When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school….
The cranberries finally break down; they’ll be perfect in a minute. I lean down and inhale, filling my skull with that blood red fruit, sugar, lemon and orange zest; it's all there, rich and sweet. I toss in the last pinch of kosher salt.
I wonder how many more cranberry sauces I have? The phrase from the doctor’s report scrolls across my eyes: “…high risk of sudden cardiac death.”
My fingernails knock against the paper plate I use as a trivet and I remember. A son came home for the holidays and told his family he had HIV. That Thanksgiving day his family seated him, alone, at a card table with a paper plate and disposable tableware. To the side, a small, cheap red New Testament was open and a verse was highlighted in yellow.
The cranberries are done. I turn off the gas and pour them into the white porcelain creamer shaped like a smiling cow. The spout's too small to pass cranberry sauce so I just spoon it out of the broad opening on its back. It’s awkward but I like the expression on the cow’s face. She looks happy.
The machine gun clicking of a spinning bicycle wheel and derailleur seeps through from my ceiling.
I lean my forehead against the cool yellow metal of the vent hood and close my eyes, breathing in those sweet, sweet berries. “…high risk of sudden cardiac death.” I tap my finger on the paper plate.
It’s difficult for me to get up the steps. I lose my breath every few and have to stop to rest. Plus it’s awkward with my arm held out like this. Dear God, I feel like such a moron. Forgive me.
Knock knock
The door opens and Tom looks at me, a crescent wrench in his hand and a small brown unlit cigar in his mouth. “Yes?”
I hold out the plastic-wrapped plate.“It’s not much. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey and giblet gravy, fresh cranberry sauce.”
He looks up at me. “Thanks, but don’t go to any trouble. I’m fine.”
I shrug. “No trouble. I cook, you look hungry.”
He takes the plate hesitantly. “Thank you. I can smell the cranberries from here.”
“That’s what my brother said. The last time I saw him.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story. Come down and eat dinner with me and I’ll tell you. It’s Thanksgiving. No one should be alone on Thanksgiving.”
