Maple Street - Lee, Pt. 2 (a short story by kenneth)

(If you haven't already, read the first part of this story in the older posts)

Shelby had been waiting for the bus for almost an hour. The schedule posted on the inside of the clear glass bus stop said that one was supposed to stop on Maple Street every eleven minutes. She had already watched two drive by without stopping. Both were fat with passengers. The second one had wheezed by riding slow and low; someone’s blue backpack was wedged in the back accordion door, keeping it half open.

She looked at the time on her phone again. She squinted, as if it would turn her gray eyes into binoculars, and stared down the hollow throat of the street. No buses coming. No buses. It was annoying, it was obnoxious, it meant the people at the transit authority were either incompetent or damn liars and at very least could not be considered authorities on the city’s transit system, but ultimately it was not that big of a deal. She didn’t have to be anywhere at any specific time. She just kind of wanted to be somewhere else right now.

The only traffic came from cars turning right onto Maple from Dustin. An endless stream. Everyone in town was currently driving on Dustin and desperately wanted to be driving on Maple, which meant that everyone in town was going her way –except her. She thought about hitching before deciding that people probably didn’t really do that and that she would probably do it wrong anyway and end up as a rug in somebody’s den. So she sat down on the sidewalk and watched the cars drive by. She would follow one with her eyes until it went out of view, imagining what the interior was like, who the driver was, what was playing on the radio. Then, in an instant, she would flash back to the corner to follow the next car and immerse herself in another imaginary place for a few seconds.

Blue Ford pickup truck. The bench seat was covered in old scratchy woven fabric with little knobby bumps. It always smelled like dust and motor oil. Her name was Kristine and she had rebuilt this truck in her parents’ backyard over the summer between graduation and her first year of grad school. She was going to be a microbiologist, but her secret desire was to open an auto garage and hire only women as mechanics. She listened to 90s rap and power ballad mixes on her way to school. Since this was Thursday, she was singing along to “Heaven,” by Warrant, hitting about every third note. She was thinking about her boyfriend, Marcus.

Flash

Red Subaru Impreza, sedan. The grey fabric and vinyl-trimmed seats were pushed uncomfortably close to the dashboard. The passenger seat was slightly pitched so you felt like you were sliding forward. Alan bought the car for his wife five years ago. It was their second car, and he thought the all-wheel-drive would be safer for her in the mountain winters. Sometimes, when it was cold, the gearshift would stick and it would become impossible to put the car into drive. You had to let it run for half an hour first. When the transportation and delivery company he worked for was bought out by UPS they “streamlined” most of the local staff, including Alan. They had to sell the house and his car, so now every morning Alan dropped Melissa off at the restaurant and he drove around the rest of the day drinking a big gulp half-filled with Jack Daniels. He was listening to “Gimme Shelter,” by the Rolling Stones, but changed the station until he found some Toby Keith. “Hell yeah,” he said, taking a swig of his Jack and coke.

Flash.

Forrest Green Honda Civic, two-door. An angry woman once slashed the seats with a pocketknife, so a thick orange garbage bag had been fixed to the passenger seat with packaging tape. Morrie had repaired his seat in a similar fashion with a Kermit the Frog beach towel instead of a trash bag. The seats worked fine and he had only spent $600 on the whole car. He would drive it until the engine fell out onto the highway, which judging by the shaking and screeching coming from under the hood might be anytime. He was listening to Miley Cyrus “Party in the USA,” and even though he was alone he pretended that he left it on ironically.

Flash.

Silver Toyota Corolla, with only one hubcap on the right front wheel. The beige interior was soft and smooth, some kind of new man-made fabric that repels stains. It was cold, really cold; the max AC was pumping. Shelby shivered, pulled a sweatshirt out of her bag and tugged it over her head. Carlo had inherited the Toyota from his grandmother. He had flown one way to Ohio to pick up the car and drive it back home in a three-day solo road trip. Bruce Springsteen was on the radio proclaiming, in case there was any doubt, that he was born in the USA.

“Ugh,” Shelby shuddered and made a face. “I hate Springsteen.” Carlo glanced over with a wounded look in his eyes. “How can you hate Bruce? I mean he’s the boss! Come on?”

“Are you actually listening to this song?” she asked.

“Yes – its brilliant.”

“Its like one chord over and over. And he just said, ‘yellow man.’”

“He’s not saying it like that. He’s talking about the way America creates and attacks other people using fear. How that’s part of our Legacy. He’s not a racist, he’s singing about racism.”

“I didn’t say he’s a racist, but I also don’t think you should sing about the ‘the yellow man,’ in a pop song. I mean, come on.”

Carlo turned the volume up, and watched her sidelong out of the corner of his eye. He offered his closing argument: “Bruce is a legend!”

“So is Bigfoot, and I don’t want to buy any of his fricking records either,” she said, pulling a CD wallet out of her bag. She flipped through the plastic pages, not looking for a specific disc.

“You mean you don’t like any Bruce songs?” he said, as he reached behind his seat and pulled a Dr. Pepper out of a cold pack. He held it out to her, label first as if presenting a rare vintage.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the bottle warily. She twisted the cap off and took a big long sip, feeling the bubbly burn slither down her throat. “No, I kind of like ‘Born to Run,’ but that’s a pretty short greatest hits CD.” She smirked and let out a little laugh when she stumbled across the right disc. “Try this,” she said, sliding it into the dash radio.

“Born to Run?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

“Hardly.”

He couldn’t place the sound right away. Was that a clarinet or a saxophone? It sounded like a horn carved from some poor creature’s thigh-bone. A xylophone of beer bottles, each filled with a different measure of filthy rain water. Hoboes stomped their feet and patted their freezing hands against their bodies for warmth, slapping out a persistent chugging rhythm. Finally the give-away, the heavy howling throat. He has to be mostly throat –a giant hollow throat with legs.

“Tom Waits,” Carlo hissed, impressed with her selection. She smiled and nodded. “Misery Is The River of the World,” she said.

“Is it?”

“What?”

“I mean, what do you think. Is this like a Buddhist ‘all life is inherently to suffer’ thing, or some lapsed agnostichristian thing?” He turned the volume down, just barely, just enough to hear her better.

“Do you mean what is Tom singing, or what do I think he’s singing?”
He shrugged, took a sip from his own soda. “How about just what you think? I mean, what is this – what’s the purpose of life, what’s the purpose of suffering. You know – why. . .”

“Jeez, man.” She shook her head. Feeling a little awkward and suddenly very uncomfortable in her seat she absently scratched the back of her neck. She shivered in the cold again. “A little heavy for Thursday afternoon. I don’t know.” She took a long sip from her soda, slowly shaking her head.

He cleared his throat, and bobbed his head back and forth. “Well, you know how my grandma just died. Have you ever been with someone when they died?” She said nothing –just shook her head and looked over at Carlo. She was trying to see his eyes, but his gaze was fixed on the road. He continued. “The last couple of days her tissues were filling with fluid, so they couldn’t give her anything to eat or drink. All I could do is dip q-tips in water and rub them on her lips. Every time I felt like a Roman soldier. You read the bible? I felt like I was giving her a sponge full of vinegar.”

They sat silently for a moment, then both started to speak at the same time:

“I’m sorry…”

“She was just…”

His recent grief overrode her and he kept on talking. “She was just out of it, most of the time. She couldn’t really see anything. She could hear me, but she couldn’t remember who I was or where she was. She started talking to people who weren’t in the room, who died years ago. But the truth is, it was actually pretty peaceful. I mean, you see people die in movies and its always this moment, this huge drawn out dramatic moment. She just stopped. Stopped. But even that was just. . . I don’t know.”

“Were you suffering, or was she?” she asked, turning the radio off. It didn’t seem right to listen to anything but his story.

“I guess both. It was just the two of us. My parents are, well were. . . So it was just me and gran, and I felt like I couldn’t stand another minute. I wanted her to let go so bad. Not that she was in that much pain, I guess. I mean, she was doped. But it was the struggle against the inevitable. How’s this fair? We both knew, the doctors knew, everybody knew it was happening, and the suffering was just this stupid waiting. Misery is the river of the world. And none of us can swim. And we’re drowning.”

She had stopped trying to look into his eyes. It wasn’t that she felt awkward. In fact, she felt strangely comfortable with him, hearing these intimate things. Still, she looked away and stared out the window, watched the trees and lampposts and cars
rolling by.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to lay that all out. It just…”

“No it’s, it’s fine. I’m glad you told me about it.” She looked back and for a second their eyes met. For the first time, they looked at each other. “I’m really glad, I just don’t know what to say.”

“Well tell me about you. Where are we going?”

“Well, you’re going home.” She smiled when he shot her his fake annoyed look. “Okay, I know you know that. I’m not really going anywhere. I mean, I’m just trying to get out of the house, you know?”

“Out of the house?” he asked. She sighed. “Well. I feel like a schmuck now. I’m depressed. I mean, I have depression. I don’t know how you say it. I’m sad a lot. No reason. Well, I mean there’s always a reason. I’m certified, or diagnosed, whatever. Medicated. The problem today is that I have a really great life.”

“Me too,” he said, smiling weakly.

“I just; sometimes I just can’t really do anything, you know? I lay awake all night. I get up in the morning and call in to work sick just because I can’t stand the idea of talking to people. Then, I go and ride the bus. Just go where it goes. I know half of the bus drivers in town by name.” she started laughing, not believing how this sounded out loud. “There’s this one driver, Steve. His parents were both born in Japan, but he grew up in Texas. Wears a big steer belt buckle, has an outrageous accent. Steve’s the best. He keeps his window rolled down, even in January, so he can yell at people. Other drivers, people crossing against the lights. ‘Open your eyes jackass!’” she couldn’t stop laughing, covered her eyes with her hands.

Carlo was laughing too, was having a hard time steering the car. “You just keep riding? What, all day?" “Sometimes.” She said, starting to calm herself down. “Sometimes the driver, if it’s someone new, makes me get off or pay another fare when they’ve made a full trip.”

“This helps you?” he asked. He sounded concerned.

“Sometimes,” she said. “I mean, its always better then sitting in the house, surrounded with all of my wonderful things, felling guilty about having everything. My parents, my sisters and brother, they’re all great and they love me, and I love them. And every day I have food and clean clothes. Why do I get to have clean clothes?” Her voice started to shake. Her eyes were glassy with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, reaching his arm over around her shoulders. “I’m glad you told me.”

They drove silently for a minute before he turned the music back up. Waits was still howling, but this time about his “Coney Island Baby,” and it was weird how sweet it sounded. Ahead Carlo noticed a bus about to turn left. “Should I follow it? I’m not in a hurry?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to – I know its weird. Its not normal.” She looked down at her hands, and took a deep breath, not a sigh. He put on his blinker, glanced over his shoulder, and eased into the left lane just behind bus 57. She leaned over and laid her head against his right shoulder. He smelled the lavender from her shampoo. At a red light they looked up and their eyes met for the second time.

Flash

Maroon Volvo 700. She said it like "Vahl-vo." The tan leather interior had not been distressed intentionally, just thoroughly abused. Sierra was always either laughing or crying. Today, she was laughing, which was actually worse.

Salinger's Other Opus

I would imagine that most of you have read The Catcher in the Rye. Even if you haven't read it, you know all about it. It is just one of those books that has permeated into our collective self. Let me be clear: I like the book. I've read it more than once. I am not, however, one of those people. Which people, you ask? A brief theatrical scene to elaborate:

(13 year old Kenneth is sitting at a bus stop in Salt Lake City reading the infamous maroon-jacket novel. An unknown man, age 35, is sitting nearby)

Man: (Gestures to the book) Is this your first time?

Kenneth: Uh, yeah.

Man: Whadya think so far?

Kenneth: Its pretty good. I don't know.

Man: (A creepy smile spreads across his face) That's my favorite book of all time. Holden Caulfield knows what's up man. What is up.

Kenneth: (Stands up from the bus bench) Yeah, see you later.

(Kenneth walks to another bus stop)
(End Scene)

That really happened. That is why I say, emphatically, that while I enjoy Catcher, I am not one of "those people."

Most of you probably also realize that Catcher was Salinger's only novel. At least, only known novel. It is possible that he wrote hundreds of brilliant books during the decades of solitude that preceded his death, which won't see the light of day until someone who values money more than his wishes inherits his estate. However, you may not realize that there is another major Salinger work, one that many fans actually prefer to Catcher and consider his true magnum opus.

This sequence of short stories published in the New Yorker and Harper's from 1949 to 1965 focuses on the fictional Glass family. Most of the stories have been republished in short story or novella collections. Franny and Zooey is probably the best-known of these. However, the last Glass story, which was not very well received and is Salinger's final published work to date has never been republished. I will not spoil the discovery for you by giving away characters or plot points. Suffice it to say if you enjoyed your time in the Rye, I highly recommend the Glass family. If you have studiously avoided reading Catcher, because of "those people," you should give this a try. The Glass stories cover much of the same ground as Salinger's better-known masterpiece, but I would argue in a slightly more mature way.

Without further ado, I present my personal version of The Glass Family, in order of original publication. A word on this version. A few years ago I decided to copy these stories from their original magazines. I have preserved them as you would have found them in 1949, 1957, or 1965, surrounded by ads and New Yorker cartoons. This may annoy some of you but I think it is strangely beautiful to read these as originally presented. For so long Catcher has been sacralized. We have separated it from the "crass," world of commercialization, evidenced by the book's notorious bland cover designs. Salinger's choice to remove himself from public space, to stop publishing 45 years before his death only adds to this aura. However, here we see his other major work side by side with advertisements for whiskey and golf clubs. It brings Salinger back into our space, into our world. Now we can approach him and not be afraid to muddy his pure thoughts with our dirty feet.

Get it here.