call•me•jonah

jonah was lying on a picnic table again. this time in trinity park by trinity river in fort worth. he was reading a book called CULTURE SHOCK! CHINA. the guy writing the book didn't seem to like china very much. or maybe china wasn't such a great place. or maybe it was and he wanted it all for himself. it's hard to say for sure what the guys motives were. but he wanted the book to sell no doubt. he wanted to make a living no doubt. support his asian wife and his kids (if he had any). but he didn't say a lot of nice things about china. suppose that's the point though. it wasn't like it was a lonely planet guide or something.
Jonah began to regret reading the book at all. even though it said some very useful things, if he ever found himself in china. but maybe he'd rather be surprised, even by the unpleasentries. maybe he'd rather find out for himself. probably a character flaw he thought.
for lack of an audiece. jonah often speaks to himself inside his head. long monologues in an empty theater. for sake of added interest i have invented a friend, an acquaintance really, to the scene. someone who soothes jonah into sanity. for sane people converse with other sane people. insane people converse with themselves.
and so we find jonah sitting alone at the picnic table in the park. he chose this table because not only was there relatively little birdshite, but it was also in the shade. a virtual necessity on a texas summer day, even a pleasent mild one like this. it didn't bother him that he was sitting in relatively close proximity to the children's jungle gym upon which many mexican children clamored, shieking like monkeys while their mothers pushed strollers around in circles brimming with now-quiet-angel-babies soon future-monkey-children.
but for jonah their shrieks were distant enough to be forgotten. fased out along with the buzz of tires on pavement and honking of horns from the nearby streets. some escape into nature this.
"...but it's ok. most things are if you let them." jonah spoke to the young man who, passing, had sat down across the table. saying almost simultaneously "nice day," and "watcha reading?" "a book."
and the conversation continued. though rather stilted. jonah found that talking to another real live human took more effort than talking to himself. people sometimes take jonah's short replies as hostility. sometimes they are. but usually he just doesn't know how to reply any other way.
earlier, when jonah said "but it's ok." he wasn't actually talking about the park. he was talking about life in general. having a terrible mind for details, he often found himself philosophizing in the most egrarious generalizations, a trait he was quite aware of but as incapable of changing as a cripple his lame legs. that's one reason he kept a journal. to remind himself of life's peculiarities. those delicate moments lost to his memory were kept safe in a lockbox of scribbled lines on cream colored pages. often when he found himself retracing these lines with his eyes, images would return to him as if from a dream. of places and people long forgotten, of emotions long dead.
"so you're going to live abroad?"
"i dunno, maybe."
another personal trait, jonah noted to himself, all too aware of his own character. the inability to commit. but of course he could not commit. nothing is set in stone. even you must admit that it was also quite possible that jonah would not live abroad. in fact, you must admit that the only explanation for the future are those very words that jonah uttered : i dunno, maybe. the future is as certain as dice in middair. common sense prevented him from making a definitive statement about the future. well common sense and a lack of faith.
jonah wasn't sure if he enjoyed this boy's company or not. he had been perfectly content lying on the table reading to himself in the shade. but i put him there. i don't know why. just curious how jonah would respond i guess. he'll probably leave if jonah doesn't figure out something to talk about. some common interest. trouble is jonah isn't interested in a lot of common things.
what do children talk about? back before there were current events and celebrities and gossip and sports?
i don't know. jonah didn't know. he hadn't had a conversation with a child in many years.

the sun was already beginning to set when jonah pulled into the state park visitor center. he laughed. he didn't know why. it kinda burst out of him like a burp. as he approached the visitors center he began to ask himself questions like: will they care if i have a tent or not? should i ask? why would they care?

you want one near the showers? or does that matter?

(do i smell bad or something?) nah, secluded if it's possible.

i'll give ya 64. right here.

she highlighted the numbers on the park map. they were close to the left edge of the paper. jonah smiled.

perfect. he said.

thought the park wasn't big, it took a while winding through the twisted roads to reach the back. he pulled his black jetta into the spot and stepped out. it was perfect, just what he wanted. well almost. there was still a water spicket. he didn't need that.

i wonder if i'm paying extra for that.

there was also a picnic table. perfect, i'll sleep on that, he thought. he didn't have a tent. nor even a sleeping bag exactly. just a sheet sewn together and a fleece sack.

that night after the sun had set, after he had walked around the park a bit, searching in vain for the waterfalls of the camp's namesake, after he had dined on his honeywheat bagel and peanut butter and chased off two curious raccoons, he lay his fleece down for padding on the table and curled up in his cotton sheet. the air was heavy and hot even in the dark. his skin was damp with sweat, but he didn't dare get out of the sheet for the mosquitos. he wondered if mosquitos liked faces. if he would wake up pizza faced. he dozed. awakened ever few minutes by a strange noise or a little sting on his neck or shoulder. but he didn't mind. this is it man. he would say to himself and laugh.
eventually however the stings became too frequent, he had killed far too many ants. he sat up on the table. it was 230. he shined his flashlight down where his head had been. and saw it vibrating with excited ants.

oh my.

quite heavy eyed, and disappointed he began to exterminate the little pests one by one. then when he could see no more to flick off he lifted the sheets and shook them out violently. he wondered if someone saw him from a distance if they might think the sheet was a ghost. maybe a woman haunting the woods.

plan B. sleep on the car. it won't be that bad he thought. he propped himself on the hood up against the windshield. the engine was still warm. he looked up at the stars. they shone dimly through he clouds. it was difficult to keep from sliding off the hood, though it wasn't very steep. he placed his legs flat on it to create as much friction as possible and gradually fell asleep. he awoke shortly after to an ambulance and its coyote ensemble singing right along. they sound like they were inside the camp, not in the woods. they kept it up for a good ten minutes. but he fell asleep again anyway.

two hours later, feeling not very rested. and growing more irritated with the task of staying atop the car. he decided to throw caution to the wind and just sleep on the ground. choosing a leafy area close to the tent spot, he spread out his fleece once more and curled up in his sheet. it was growing quite chilly at this point. and ah what comfort. compared to the picnic table and the car hood, the cold hard ground was quite luxurious. he slept there until eight, when he was awakened by the ants. who discovered his new location and were punishing him vigilantly for his destruction of their brothers.

i need to get a tent. he thought.

i always find myself in cars. if trains were more popular i'd probably find myself there. if i was richer maybe i would fly. i forgot how much i love my jetta.

life i think. to me is like those heartbeat machines. that green line that peaks and dips with each thump. telling the doctors that you're alive. as the sun was setting i was just reaching the texas hill country outside of san antonio. above me the sky was dark grey. military battleship grey. in front was a sliver of blue light. the grey was reaching down long skinny fingers into the blue. it was drizzling like a fog. and as i drove the rain seemed to be running up my windshield instead of down.
behind me the sun bled all across the horizon. a smeary crimson stain. i pulled over. i wanted to watch the sun set forever. hit repeat and sit there. i grabbed my camera. the pentax k1000 my aunt just gave me. and pointed it westward. i couldn't get the light meter to read right. so i fiddled with it. trying to find the right shutter speed aperture setting. when i finally got it right i looked up and the sun was almost gone. i took a picture anyway.
lesson: if you see a pretty sunset. don't waste it trying to make it last forever.

maybe i'll start writing about myself in third person. i'll call myself jonah and i'll rename everyone i know. i'll create symmetry for jonah and give him direction. i'll be jonah's friend and creator and god.

jonah turned the stereo up. he sang along to crooked fingers with a passionate if unskilled voice. he tried not to think about what he sounded like. if people would tell him to shut up if they heard him. if his mom liked his voice, if his sister liked his voice, if his brother like his voice. he told himself that it was the feeling that counted. that maybe he could make someone feel something with his voice. he imagined himself singing with a guitar in hand on stage in front of a small crowd. he saw everyone leave. no not everyone, a few people stayed and listened. he told himself those people were the gold. the others the sand. and the gold would go gather more gold and he'd be a folk legend.
but he tried not to think about those things. he tried to just sing along and appreciate the hillside and the setting texas sun and the feeling.

he loved the feeling that movement brings. he looked out the driver's window at the blurred blades of grass. the slash of green and black asphalt. like a rothko, he thought. a rothko in motion. the road ahead was straight and long and narrow. like texas roads ought to be. he was thinking about the west. how far does I10 go? he didn't want to stop or turn around. he didn't to ever stop and turn around. but sometimes you can't have what you want. in boerne he caught 46 east to 281 south. back into san antonio for the night.

he lay. catatonic you might think at first, in the hospital room. mouth agape, eyes shut. but he can still understand. he knows whos there. and sometimes he moves his right arm, trying to communicate. his breathing is loud like a snore, dragging air past his tongue. his mouth gets dry as sandpaper so we have to dab it with a damp swab periodically.

everyone takes turns holding his hand. talking to him.
i wanted to tell him about my trip. but i couldnt. when my voice left my mouth it was aimed at the air. i felt foolish. and kept it brief. i wanted to talk to him as if he was listening. but it just didnt seem like he was. didnt seem like he was in there at all. but he was. he is. hes holding on longer than they thought he would. yet the funeral is scheduled for tuesday...

is it sad that everyone has to die? that someday this skin and muscle and bone will rebel against our wills. and trap us, suffocate our conscious and squeeze out our life.

my grandmother is dying in a different way. her mind is rebeling. and slowly she's forgotten most of the things she held dear. like the names of her grandchildren and the faces of her daughters. Aunt Becky soothed her sobs with the promise of heaven. she mumbles to herself. like she's doing a math problem in her head. she told me as i sat there silently holding his hand. 'its ok, he's going to heaven.' she assured me. i smiled and nodded. my grandmother is such a sweet child.

he always faced his death straight on. i remember him joking with me about it three years ago at the funeral of my mothers mom. 'i'll be the next one to go,' he said with a wink and a smile. i smiled uncomfortably, unable to laugh at death the way he did. holding onto conditioned shame. a little embarassed to be alive and young. my grandmother reprimanded him playfully. the idea of death didnt seem to bother him. i guess he was helping to prepare me. nobody expected it. the massive bleeding in the brain.

"he just wanted to hold his hand." she bit off the last word to hold back tears.

i wonder what its like to live ever closer to death. an old friend had come. he held tightly to grandfather's hand. Two worn, gnarled hands. expressing all the love he could not speak. his sunglasses kept his tears private.

i don't know what to do or think at times like this.