by Kelly Spitzer
Sometimes, after the doctor has reminded her yet again to exercise, Hendy walks across the street to the park. The park is a full city block of turf and dog poop. Two paces in, there is an oak tree with a bench underneath. It is the lone tree, the sole bench, and the only park in the city.
Every time Hendy sits on the bench, she finds an abandoned colony of thin, blue rubber bands. They are left by the man in apartment 2B, a unit two doors down from her, but a man whom Hendy has never seen. Every afternoon, he orders lunch from the deli around the corner. Sometimes it is General Tso's, other times macaroni and cheese or fried chicken with potato salad. Each container comes with a fork, secured to the meal with the rubber bands in question. Though they don't suit her needs, Hendy slides them over her fingers anyway, and later, after the sting of suffering nerves has worn off, she slips the rubber bands into her pocket.
Once, long ago, Hendy thought she'd found the perfect candidates—long, red rubber bands designed for toy guns. She stole a handful from her nephew, snuck them out of her brother's house by rolling them up her wrists and onto the heft above her elbow. When three days later the indentation was still there—a strawberry licorice twist tattoo—she decided they'd do. One by one, she placed each rubber band on her tongue. They tasted sour and dirty, like the lid of a pickle jar dug out of a garden. With the help of two diet cokes, she swallowed them. But they passed. Each and every one of them passed.
Still, Hendy keeps every rubber band she encounters. She slides them off of rolled newspapers, pilfers them from desk drawers and cash registers. Once home, she stores the rubber bands in empty cereal boxes—Captain Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, Frosted Flakes featuring Tony the Tiger. In her fridge, they spill out of her leafless vegetable bin, perch next to the butter. She lays individual favorites under packs of bacon, links of sausage, patties of burger, which she buys, unknowingly, for a family. Economy size, they say on the label. She cooks the contents all at once, though nobody but her graces the kitchen table.
If Hendy bought her own tape and staples, if she actually walked not just to the park, but around it, or across it and back, and then sat on the bench, she would know that there are Jeremys and men in apartment 2Bs.
If she saw Jeremy, she could tell him he looks like her brother did when he was his age, that the girls compared him Tom Cruise in the movie Taps. Jeremy would smile and blush because he's never had a girlfriend, and instead of going into the employee room and huffing solvent during his break, he might flirt with the new checker on aisle three.
And if Hendy met the man on the bench, the man who lives in apartment 2B, she might discover he didn't have an "in case of emergency contact" either, and though neither of them ever went anywhere, they could offer to feed each other's fish if they ever did.
What's more, if Hendy followed her doctor's orders and didn't eat like a "child," she would know that the rubber bands she is looking for exist in a supermarket produce aisle. They bind lettuce leaves and broccoli stalks. Bunches of asparagus. They are lavender with black printing, or the blue, blue of a summer sky. A sky which rain cannot touch and lightning cannot break. A sky that gathers.
"Gathering" was first published by Redivider. It appears here by permission of the author.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2013 by its authors.
Kelly Spitzer's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Binnacle, Redivider, Cream City Review, Hobart (web), elimae, 3:AM Magazine, Vestal Review, and other publications.
Read the interview.
Mel Kadel, born in 1973, grew up in the Pennsylvania suburbs. She has been living and working in Los Angeles for the last 9 years. Her drawings are made using stained or found paper, tiny pens, q-tips, and glue. Visit her online at www.melkadel.com.
|Issue Twenty-One (June 15, 2008): Paper Mouse by Bob Arter «» The Folk Singer Dreams of Time Machines by Matt Bell «» The Bone Orchard by Randall Brown «» Disease Relics by Blake Butler «» We Decided to Make Porn by Brian Allen Carr «» The Baby Drop-Off by Natascia Casey-Dean «» The Cougar by Dave Clapper «» Anointed by Myfanwy Collins «» Sister Earth by John Colvin «» Soap by Katrina Denza «» The Interpretation of Light by Murray Dunlap «» The Hole by Ashley Farmer «» Repair Man by Kathy Fish «» In the Kitchen She Wakes by Stefanie Freele «» American Gothic by Scott Garson «» Lobster Girl by Alicia Gifford «» Pen and Notebook by Natalie Goldberg «» Memento Mori by Rosanne Griffeth «» BiC by Steven Gullion «» Parting by Evelyn Hampton «» Tuesday by Lindsay Hunter «» Waiting on Lombard Street by W.P. Kinsella «» Johnny by Nance Knauer «» Like Swimming by Jeff Landon «» Feeling Sad by Darby Larson «» Alone With Cooper by Ellen Meister «» The Angel's Visitation by Corey Mesler «» South Dakota by Mary Miller «» California Fruit by Meg Pokrass «» Home Made by Bruce Holland Rogers «» Handful of Dirt by Jim Ruland «» Steam City Girl by Paul Silverman «» Sugar by Claudia Smith «» The 13th Toast by Amy Sparks «» Gathering by Kelly Spitzer «» Tiny Shadows by Maryanne Stahl «» Double-Exposure by Thomas White «» Epistemology by Joseph Young «» Why This Isn't a Good Story to Tell by Shellie Zacharia «» Liquid by Michelle Zellers «» Real Estate by Bonnie ZoBell «» Interviews: Bob Arter «» Matt Bell «» Randall Brown «» Blake Butler «» Brian Allen Carr «» Natascia Casey-Dean «» Dave Clapper «» Myfanwy Collins «» John Colvin «» Katrina Denza «» Murray Dunlap «» Ashley Farmer «» Kathy Fish «» Stefanie Freele «» Scott Garson «» Alicia Gifford «» Rosanne Griffeth «» Steven Gullion «» Evelyn Hampton «» Lindsay Hunter «» Nance Knauer «» Jeff Landon «» Darby Larson «» Ellen Meister «» Corey Mesler «» Mary Miller «» Meg Pokrass «» Bruce Holland Rogers «» Jim Ruland «» Paul Silverman «» Claudia Smith «» Amy Sparks «» Kelly Spitzer «» Maryanne Stahl «» Thomas White «» Joseph Young «» Shellie Zacharia «» Michelle Zellers «» Bonnie ZoBell «» Cover Art "Five Years of SmokeLong" compiled from art by Marty D. Ison, Robert Dornberg, Malina, and Rebecca Gullickson «» Letter From the Editor|