What Flavor Is Your Mood Disorder?

08/10/201208/10/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

“What’re you having?” the rakish twenty-something asks. Still staring into the fluted dish before me, spoon in hand yet inactive, I respond, “I’m not sure exactly. I asked for a double-scoop of Desire and was handed this.”

The twenty-something turns so his torso, while dissected by the cafe table, is visible to me, “What’s it taste like?” Turning my head in his direction I realize he’s: 1) That “guy-in-the-tuxedo” from my cousin’s Mystery Date game; and 2) Sans the tux! I asked myself, why would “Mr.-Mystery-Date-Man” be sitting in a soda fountain, at a table next to mine, wearing only a smile? My chagrin whips my gaze back to the disappointing confection now taking the shape of a poached egg. “Well,” I stammer, still shaken by his cheeky immodesty and dismayed by my immediate craving for carnality, carousal, and covetousness, “It hints at Desire, but clearly an inferior attempt; the delicacy of Desire is overwhelmed by the coarse texture and indulgence.” I decided to shift my chair and face the tempest of his proximity head-on, “What’s that you seem to be enjoying?” I ask, sounding foolish.

“A Raspberry Restraint,” he said as the spoon scraped and clanked against the spotless bowl. “I have at least one every day. I could probably eat fifty. Moderation, that’s what I hear, everything in moderation. Who’re they trying to kid? I can spell; and I assure you that there’s no Mania in moderation,” he said as he slid slowly forward in his seat, the heat of his knees gently toasting my flank; “Sounds like they did the switcheroo. . .gave you a two-scooper of Licentious Lingonberry; they do that when they’re out of Desire.”

Flabbergasted, I now understood why I was staring at the freshly filleted fellow, splayed before me like an all-you-can-eat-buffet stocked with preprocessed food. “But I wanted Desire. . .gentle, demur Desire. . .subtly prurient, hopeful and hungry. . .Desire. . .in general terms!” Sounding exasperated, I wave my hand indicating his wanton availability, “Licentious Lingonberry? No wonder it tasted so obviously. . .bitter. . .each spoonful made me thirstier. . .and there you were, the perfect glass of ice-water.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up trying in vain to disguise my arousal, “Sure, you’re lust personified; carnal; and after, I’m right back here; the one place where we can savor those flavors of humanity lost to us; before we go back to our senseless mockery of life,” I said as I began to leave.

“Sounds to me,” Mr.-Mystery-Date-Sans-Tux shouted, “like you ought to have ordered the Passion Fruit!”

Called Life This Morn: Took A Sick Day

07/28/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

It took me much longer than I’d expected to find their number. Having never actually called before, it took me a while to figure out how to reach them. Liz, one of my friends who decided to resign all together said that they found her. “Oh yeah,” Liz said, “as soon as I took the exit, there they were at the stoplight. Waiting. Walked right up, smiled like we’d known each other forever. I’m thinking, easy-sneezy: this guy’s going to give me directions! Then he pokes my shoulder and says “You didn’t call this morning,” he said sounding serious, “Why is it, do you think, that people don’t call?” I said I just wanted to quit. Figured if I never showed up you’d get the message. Then we were nose-to-nose, “The only time I get a message is when people don’t call. Then I’ve got to waste my time to come out here and drag you back. . .” That’s when I became aware. . .aware of my failure. . .aware of all the facial. . .”

Liz never finishes that story; she always stops right before she describes her consequence, which is evident when you meet her, but of which she just can’t describe. The best she can do is, “I avoid mirrors.”

Because I couldn’t find the number and when I did, I was still on the fence about calling and just punching in, I greatly increased my chances that someone would answer. It’s Saturday I thought, maybe they’re off. Slowly I dialed the number; by the fifth ring I knew I was in the homestretch and could leave a mes. . . “Department of Human Services, Life speaking,” he said, and then repeated, “Human Services, Life speaking. Hello? Hello?” Uhm, yes. . .Life this is T.M. Mulligan, I said sheepishly. “Yes Mr. Mulligan, why do I have the pleasure of this call?” he asked. I told him I was ill and taking a sick day. “So you’re taking a day away from the human race, Mr. Mulligan?” His interrogation could be found on any page of a dime-store detective paperback. Yes, I replied, I’m just not up to the task today; not even the battalion of amphetamines could take command of depressions beachhead; everyone’s at a block party, my spouse made brownie’s, the dog’s been there twice already. I just can’t go.

“Can’t be part of the party? Rather be alone?” Life asked. Today, yes. Not every day. Just today, I answered. “How many people do you think call Time and tell her they’re taking off? And Birth, do you think those kids call Birth and threaten a sit in?” he asked. Well, I don’t think they have phones in there. . . “Or Death? Death never answers, and they don’t have voice mail; they’ve dumped their phone into a trash can and threw it in the closet. But Life? Life’s phone is always answered; even if I personally believe you could act as if you were having fun, you’ve had your share of suffering recently and, except for once in July, 2008 you’ve always managed to drag yourself out of abysmal despair and try to live life. I’ll mark you down as sick today, and we’ll see you tomorrow?” Yes, I stammered, yes I’ll definitely be in tomorrow. “Until tomorrow, then. By the way, I’ve sent you a little sunshine. Good-bye, Mr. Mulligan.”

The line went dead and then the doorbell rang. Cupped in the hands of a delivery person was the essence of Life: A bouquet of sunflowers.

Loosing Elasticity

07/04/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

It seems that my mind is like a farmer’s field: memories, like field stones continue to break ground. And like the farmer, which stones I remove and which stones remain is largely one of effort: some stones rise wholly like a new moon; others merely crack the surface, their real mass remains solidly rooted; these unearthed boulders are marked like land mines. But unlike the farmer who can adapt to the obstacle, I am intrigued by the coincidence of its appearance. So I am willing, on occasion, to recall an incomplete memory: as a writer of a particular age I no longer rely on the creative end of creative writing. Instead I dip my hand into the cold creek of memory where most recollections lay scattered, scoop up what my numb fingers can manage, and attempt to detail, at best a mosaic of my memory. For instance:

Not yet school age, one early afternoon I watched my mother organize her ironing station in front of the television in anticipation of the daily broadcasts of her favorite soap opera’s No more than three minutes into the first program the telephone rang. My mother, hypnotized by her program, allowed the phone to ring six times before answering. I vaguely recall the immediate change in my mother’s telephone voice (from pleasant to pointed) she confirmed leaving a message, and agreed to hold for that department. Moments later she was complaining to a sales clerk in the lingerie department at Gimpel’s that the bra she’d purchased three months earlier had lost its elasticity, which without, failed to uphold its purpose.

The clerk understood my mother’s tone immediately and transferred the call to a junior manager who was, I gathered, an obstinate, pushy and unapologetic salesman who strongly suggested that my mother purchased the wrong size. Speechless, my mother put the phone down and stormed to her bedroom. I picked up the receiver just in time to hear the insolent salesman male suggest to one of his minions that my mother might wish to engage my father’s help in gauging her size, as he (the salesman) was quite certain your husband (my father) was absolutely certain as to the size of her breasts. At that moment my mother yanked the phone from me: I repeated the salesman’s suggestion: pause: slam!

Ten minutes later my mother was dragging me in one hand and her bra in the other uptown to Gimpel’s. Never before and never since have I heard my mother use so many words in such a short period of time in such a loud voice which naturally attracted female shoppers, then clerks from other departments, department managers, and finally three men in dark suits that parted the crowd like royalty, and in a vain attempt tried to interject while my mother’s consternation whirred on like the blades of a window fan.

We rode home in the back seat of a large black sedan, just my mother (who actually radiated a self-confidence and fragrance (thanks in-part to a gift from Chanel), and I. And at our feet were bags and bags and bags of bra’s compliments of the three dark suits; Executive’s, my mother said proudly; Chief Executive’s, the chauffeur added with a little laugh.

The Literature Student (2/10 – “The Other: A Collection of Doubt”)

06/04/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

I slowly struggled with my bags through the compartment quickly losing hope that my usual and coveted southbound window seat was still vacant. As I approached the familiar row of seats I spied an opening, a seat on the window, but, unfortunately, a hurdle across a studious young lad on the aisle.

The train suddenly lurched forward and frankly I don’t recall which struck the poor lad first; was it my laptop bag, my workout bag, my triple-shot short latte or me. But all at once I found myself face first splayed across his chest and lap, atop the physics or astronomy or bio-medical text like a filleted tuna. My arms hung over the back of the seat like a marionette, and my full combined weight crushed his small frame. Before I could begin to stammer an apology I felt two small hands worm their way between our bodies and onto my chest and push me upright as though I were a multi-colored beach ball. I felt the muscles of his chest expand as he lifted me to an awkward, semi-straight position. With this help I was able to tuck my hand under his arm and assist in him in the lift.

He pressed me higher and with a gymnast’s dexterity he leveraged my body between himself and the seat back in front and lowered me into my southbound side window seat next to him as though I were his favorite stuffed animal. Bags, triple-shot short latte and I landed with a thump which caused my fellow passengers to careen their necks to our side of the train convinced they would witness the deer or elk or moose bounce off the train and back into the brush from whence it came.

I sat rigidly still for a moment afraid to draw in even a single breath for fear of losing any semblance of balance. When I finally dared to turn my head in his direction, he had already straightened the crushed pages of his book and quietly resumed his private study. At the same moment the conductor with whom I had become routinely familiar appeared like an aberration soliciting our tickets. My hands had become bound like a criminal by the numerous straps of my assorted bags and I desperately tried to work them free like a trapped illusionist. Seeing my predicament, the lad reached across his lap and took swift hold of my triple-shot short latte instantly understanding its critical importance. Even with his quick help I still could not free my hands and I asked if he would reach into my hip jacket pocket and extract my ticket. He looked at me, quickly turned to look at the conductor who by now had smelled the blood of a stowaway, and reached his small hand into my hip pocket.

Instantly I wondered what else I had packed into that pocket this morning or last night or nights before. Instantly I tried to recall when last I had worn this jacket. When last had I tucked something into this pocket. The moment his hand touched my hip I felt a very unfamiliar sensation. A sensation which immediately catapulted me back years: back to a time when ignorant, curious, hurried hands explored my clothed body: back to a time when eager hands explored the various folds, searching for flesh or muscle or hair: back to a time when familiar hands probed, searching for intimacies.

In a moment his fingers plucked the ticket from its warm pocket and presented it to the disappointed conductor. The conductor quickly scanned its validity and then pivoted and scurried down the aisle. The lad sat stoically for a moment, my ticket in one hand and my triple-shot shot latte in the other, a frail, youthful, poised representation of myself. He slowly turned towards me and began to laugh, quietly at first, then louder. I saw the humor but couldn’t myself laugh. I was terribly embarrassed and in desperate need of the sudden jolt of caffeine. With my free hand I reached across and took hold of the triple-shot short latte and in one quick motion threw the cup back and swallowed its entire contents. By the time I emptied the cup the giddy lad had regained some semblance of composure, turned to look at me, and slowly returned the ticket to its rightful place. However, this time the hand lad paused a moment on my hip. It hovered there, on the bone, warmly, slowly moving as the fingers and their tips dug softly into my flesh. Fingertips kneaded my flesh as though they were kneading sand.

In the meantime I had been able to untie my hands from the baggage straps and quickly moved my hand on top of his, and held his hand for a moment.

“I think we’re okay now,” I said quietly, “I think everything is right where it belongs.”

He slowly withdrew his hand, trailing his thin fingers over my hip, down my thigh, and across the narrow strip of vinyl seat cushion which separated us. It finally retreated onto the crushed pages of his book. He continued to look at me, and then slowly returned to his book.

I turned my attention to the window and tried to watch recognize the blur of landscape which flew past. This was new to me, this embarrassment, this excitement. It dawned on me as the forest blew by that I was not really embarrassed but titillated. Had I imagined his hand on my hip? Had I been projecting some sort of flirtation? He was a youth, and as a youth he couldn’t be so certain of his motivation as I imagined. He was a student, buried in his text until I stumbled into him this hurried morning. What motivation besides accommodation could he possibly have? I was simply an errant traveler in need of assistance. Wasn’t he simply being a good Samaritan? Could someone his age be so certain of himself as to actually grope a complete stranger?

I slowly pulled my attention from the window to see him foraging in his backpack. He withdrew a yellow highlighter and placed it in his mouth. He continued to dig through his backpack and withdrew a pen which, when he attempted to also place in his mouth. When he realized that his mouth was already holding the highlighter he looked confused. I reached across and took hold of the highlighter. His jaw loosened and I extracted the highlighter remembering a time not long ago, in Rome, when I had taken hold of a newly lit, slightly moistened cigarette from the lips of Antonio. I held the highlighter as though it were on fire and watched as he deposited the ballpoint in his mouth, smiling slightly. He slowly stowed his backpack beneath his seat and withdrew the ballpoint.

“Are you studying medicine?” I asked.

“Chaucer” he replied quietly.

“Chaucer? I wouldn’t have taken you for a lit major” I responded, immediately regretting my profiling.

“You expected me to be studying medicine or physics or astronomy maybe?” he said, acutely aware of my gaff.

“I guess so,” I stammered, feeling caught, “but I guess there’s time for that given your age.”

“Or given I’m interested in it regardless of my age,” he said turning his attention back to his text.

I quietly handed him his highlighter and turned my attention back to the window wishing I had sipped my triple-shot short latte so I’d have something to occupy myself. Now all I had to think about was how old or silly or short-sighted he must think I am. What an old fool he must think I am. I turned back to him.

“Thanks for helping me out there. I don’t normally behave like that.”

“Neither do I,” he said without looking up.

“Of course not,” I said wondering if he meant being helpful or forward.

“You don’t seem the type,” he said as he was highlighting text “to be so rushed in the morning,” and then looking up from his book “you seem to be the more organized, routine type,” and then turned back to his book.

All this, I thought, from one interaction? Could he possibly be so perceptive? Or was I blatantly disheveled?

“You’re right” I admitted, “this morning was terrible.”

“But it’s gotten better, right?” he asked.

“Yes it has, especially now since I’ve had my coffee,” I replied. “My name is Tom,” I offered and extended my hand.

“Scott,” he said and extended the hand which moments before had found its way into my pocket. His hand appeared small yet strong. A confident hand, smooth, marbled with bluish veins which mapped its top. I studied the crisscrossing veins like a road map thinking they would take me somewhere new. They converged into one main artery which disappeared into the thick flesh of his forearm. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I wish it could’ve been under different circumstances,” I admitted, hoping I didn’t sound too interested.

Going back to Chaucer he said, “under what kind of different circumstance?”

“Well, not so bumbling to start,” I answered, “I’d like to think that first impressions play an important role in how we are perceived.”

“And what’s wrong with being perceived as bumbling?”

“I don’t think bumbling is particularly attractive,” I replied, laughing slightly.

“I think bumbling is very attractive. It shows that you’re not perfect. It shows that you need help every now and then,” and then Scott turned to look me straight in the eye, “and I think that that is very attractive.”

“Oh,” I said quietly. Very attractive he said. Me, in state of total disarray is something that he finds very attractive. I turned back towards the window and remembered in painful clarity the number of hours I have primped and preened myself into a dizzying fervor trying to look my absolute best before hitting the bars at night. Selecting just the right jeans and just the right t-shirt, or just the right tie and suit. And here Scott finds embarrassment attractive. “Well, I think helping a teetering stranger says plenty about your character.” I said turning back to him.

“Like what?”

Cornered like a child about to be caught in a lie, Scott pauses for a moment reflecting on how this happenstance began. Turning in his seat to face Scott he said, “Helping someone in need is an act of kindness. Kindness is a quality we all share, yet few ever display it and even fewer have the chance to feel it. Your kindness felt strong, careful, and conscientious; important qualities to share with those close to you.”