and this is what she saw:
an excerpt

Introduction

She walked around the block 30 times, and this is what she saw: house number 1, a terrible fight, the third child, a man doing stretches, golden rings, a school bus stop sign, heaven, card tables on the side lawns, a boy on a skateboard, a dirty blond synthetic ponytail, the new convenience store delivery car, hopscotch, sidewalk chalk genitals, dolls in a window, a permission slip, a lollipop and a sucker, music, a cigarette box, a bird flying into a window, money, vomit, tropical colored plastic baby keys, the Australian down under, an engagement party, a silver dollar, a “Just Married” sign on the back of a old white Lincoln Continental, fountains and light, cracks, a “Nothing’s Gonna Change My World” teeshirt, and a group of students walking home.

House Number 1

Most people would probably assume the Universal Encyclopedia of Walking Styles begins with The Angry Walk, because angry walking is among the more obvious. Blind people can hear angry walking, dogs chase after it, and enemies are never surprised by it, regardless of its perpetrator.

The female version features first and foremost the jiggling of B cups or better. Jiggling also signals the angry walk of the less-endowed, commonly occurring in other parts such as the cheeks of the face or of the buttocks. If a child is in tow, the jiggling lands there instead, at the point of contact, and is typically (preferably) relieved by a firm yet careful pressing of the child to the angry walker, to reduce turbulence.

The male version features prominent arms which need securing. The male angry walker’s arms often rise up to waist level, with the hands being thrust down again into pockets or pulled up to clasp behind the neck, unless deliberate arm and hand motions are being used (obscene gestures, pointing, reaching for objects, etc.). When the arms are otherwise occupied, visible distention of the chest is the most conspicuous feature.

Almost invariably, the Angry Walking Style proceeds in a straight line from point to point. In the female presentation, this line stills you. If you are at the end point, you are frozen with fear that the angry walker will tell you why. In contrast, once determined to be the end point of the male presentation, you are inspired to action—running away, cowering, pleading, lying, soothing, bluffing. Angry Walking back, now that’s serious.

In both cases, the motive at the end point is self-preservation. And it is all this, combined with a familiar rhythmic syncopation, and the particulars regarding the carriage of limbs, flesh, and children, that makes for, as noted prior, an obvious and familiar recognition. And an unfortunate shared assumption, because in fact, Angry is not where the Encyclopedia of Walking Styles begins. It begins with The Able Walk.

Able walking, which should be revered as the most well-constructed, unassuming yet impressive, effective, walking style of them all, is generally considered below commonplace! A shame…the first entry, and all hints of admiration, lost. Alas, what seems obvious in practice is not always so in theory, and so, The Able Walk, despite its widespread accessibility, goes largely unnoticed by most, overshadowed by numerous subsequent entries into the popular walking culture of man.

For example, moving on, we arrive at The Absent Walk. The style of walking she was doing when I first noticed her coming around the bend past this old cul de sac.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heaven

When Mira was small, and saw rays of sun coming down through clouds like fractured spotlights with traffic lines, she used to say, “that's where heaven is, Auntie Lulu." She could hear wet wiping coming from the pink and blue swirls which, if they had been made of ink and petroleum, could have served as the bright markers they used at the diner to write curly breakfast words like Delicious Belgium Waffles and Special Brew Bottomless Cup on the black light-up sign.

Children and future angels know how to see heaven, and how to hear what’s on special. It is a kind view and a nice airy whoosh of a sound--we’re not trying to convert anybody over here. It’s just that Kind is the only view there is that is felt to be worth the neon. Like the White Cliffs of Dover and the Pearly Gates. And Whoosh is the same for the sound, like the fur on the Sheltie pups chasing after the flying disks, aloft in grassy parks at dawn. Especially the ones with only three legs.

Sure, something bigger could be used. Stars could be aligned in the sky to say “Hello to YOU there, on the Earthly plane! Heaven sends Its Love!” Something louder could be used. We’ve got drum lines if we want them.
But here on sunny rays of fragmented childsight, we usually only have need for the thinking of small-sized thoughts, and the giving of small-sized answers in quiet-sounding voices. (If you hear somebody screaming down from the clouds, in your face or at your heart, rest assured, that’s not us, that’s not coming from here.)

Heaven is relative balance, and the constant stream of visuals and questions tends to come at us big and loud: What does heaven look like? How do you get there? Who is in heaven, who is not, who runs the place? What do people do in heaven? Are you trying to tell me that my mother, who did charity work every day of her life, and never asked for nor expected a thank you or a favor in return, and who raised all seven of us by herself, wet with her sweat and our spills and our snot, without so much as a penny or a kind word or a helping hand from our no-good drunkass swamp of a father, is not in heaven?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the year that everything changed. Berty emerged. At age 13, she was still Bobbie at school and most everywhere other children were. At home she was often RoRo, there were good times after all, and also Roberta when a story was being told to an Aunt. At age 14 ½ she realized, my parents named me Roberta. So then, Roberta Liv Upworth left Misty Hills, but only in her mind. She stole away with her known identity, never to be caught, laundering it little by little through legitimate outlets over time. She mostly became Bert or Berty, depending. Math and science teachers: Bert (smart like a boy). Gay ballet partner: Berty (-curtsey). First date at a Friday night basketball game, Bert (horny, and watches the game, like a boy). English teacher’s cute young assistant during the poetry unit, with the curly hair and slender fingers: Berty (flirty). Shelly: Berty.

Shelly was her biggest fan. Except for maybe weird Uncle Bob who wasn’t really anyone’s uncle, but he took his friends’ kids’ best interests under his advisement, trying to be “there for them.” That’s right, he was Bob, short for Robert. Roberta’s parents really appreciated how he bought the children nice, unnecessary presents, and took them places with tickets no one else could get, even if they could afford them. Like front row at the Ice Capades where you might get selected for the audience participation portion of the show. And Bozo’s Circus! He knew someone at WGN television, so he said, but every one wondered if he really hadn’t sent away for many sets of Bozo tickets several years earlier.

“Uncle” Bob died unexpectedly just before Roberta became Berty, thank GOD, because he was the type that would have assumed he could call her Berty once he heard Shelly do so, and what was he doing listening in on them anyway? But he would have been in the Bert category, at best. Or better yet, maybe still RoRo, because fake Uncle Bob was seemed much more allowable if he could have been frozen in time, like from when she was four or five years old. But he never realized that. Did anyone? And she couldn’t have told him (or anyone), because then he’d want to “rap” or something, and he’d say it was “far out” that she was deciding what to call herself, and then he’d have called her Berty, even if she specifically asked for Bert. Just like he brought her a crystal heart pendant on Valentine’s Day, when she was 11, when she asked him not to visit her on Valentine’s Day at all. Wait, maybe she never really asked him out loud. Oh yeah. No. She just wished it. Not for him to die of course. Wait, maybe.

So when he died, and she wondered about what she wished. At the age of 14, only 3 months after they met during track practice in the first quarter of high school, Michelle/Misha was quick to point out to Roberta/Bobbie that simply wishing things didn’t make them happen. Moreover, to make things happen, you had to kick ass, no wait, more like you had to kick your own ass. So that night they went down by the creek with a bottle of strawberry Boone’s Farm bubbles, which they had walked right into World Liquors and bought for themselves, and they, with mascara and no hairclips, became Shell/ShellY and Bert/BertY, depending. The Y was a tipsy/burpy special, a secret weapon, a coy code. Y? Because we like you! Oh it was perfect. It still cracked her up. It explained everything. She laughed about it at Shelly’s funeral. Only in her mind, but man, they did kick ass.

This morning, with no Shelly on earth to help her kick her own ass, Bert looks in the mirror, in the same bedroom, in the same house, on the same block that she has lived in her whole entire life, and says “Listen, Missy, you better not do this guy tonight no matter how good you look.” And she knows exactly what she means. There is no greater seduction than one’s own Best Self. To be your best you must feel your best; you must feel impressive to impress. All that is the broken spinner of an unfortunate cycle that messes with rational judgment and creates an ego life which gets plenty of action but leaves behind a little turmoil, and takes away a little honor, in every act of besting, self or otherwise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was as if two long, graceful dream fingers lay dormant by day, gently curved on a spongy hammock suspended a few hidden inches above the clover bed of her pelvic floor. During waking hours, there was a buzzing shhh buzzing hover, but no stings; only the sweet collection of pollen for her sleeping libido.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...I feel like all this is a code I’m supposed to break or something. I mean, what am I doing? I'm thinking about food and sex and my past and my health and my dreams, and I'm walking around and around the block where I live."

"And that's all secret code for...?" Pause. Typical.

"You know, you, Dr. Janer, can be a real ass."

"We’re a perfect pair then, because you, Mirabella Fontinella, can be a real pain."

"I think my cat talks to me."

"Everybody thinks that. Cats are masters of disguise and wile. In fact I’ve been meaning to suggest you watch out for that cat."