Joseph Stem's Grab Bag of Water
an excerpt

As Understood by Forrester McLeod

1

Joseph Stem's fingers were long and skinny. Gnarled and blackened they were not. Just long and skinny and otherwise nondescript. Like his torso. And his brain at the moment. He was turning in his grave of old ideas. All stale. Tapping his long skinny fingers on his long skinny legs which were attached to his long skinny feet that had carried him practically nowhere for the entire 53 years he had owned them. He stared at the kitchen wall. All very predictable.

Submerged in his bathtub he could hear the rat-a-tat typewriter of his neighbor who didn't exist. Fairies flurried to and fro all day long. Not homosexual men. Fairies. Real ones. Made of all sized flashes of white hot and royal blue light. Like the buzzing of light that had run between him and his first love like railroad tracks between their souls. The only other thing he had shared. She had seen it. No one else shared his world. Except her. And she was gone and really not worth mentioning or remembering. At least that's what Joseph Stem told himself. About four times a day. Having someone know you, see you, validate that you are real is worth all the money in the world. But Joseph swears he doesn't give a fuck.

Joseph laughs outloud. The church bells chime. An echo of another story he read or wrote or something. It grinds obnoxiously reminding you that you are being watched by God. He knows you are late to school. Again. That you lie. That you are afraid. That you love sugar and want to throw open the doors and go on walkabout. Be they the doors of your house or the doors of your body; just a bit of freedom would be peachy keen, a okay with Joseph.

Dreams. They tap dance on his brain all night. And whisper in his eyeballs all day. Thick black frames hold up the passports to his world. Perfectly slicked back hair reflects the sun's beauty right back at it.

Wrong. This is all wrong. He mutters numbers to himself wishing he were obsessive compulsive or some other understood, accepted abnormality. Something that could be medicated. Staring at his watch, he feels superior noticing that, as usual, the church clock is off. Just a smidgeon. God may be aware of his every fake smile. But Joseph Stem knew God was always a day late and a dollar short. The lost planet. The lost man. The lost man makes a cup of coffee and wonders where his humor got off to? His sense of huomor. Didn't even leave a good bye note, the asshole.

Laughter in the alley. Pitter patter of two pairs of feet. Joseph Stem reaches for the sugar with one hand and for the volume of his radio with the other. Drown it out. The kissing and the gossiping and the laughter. Stirring his coffee and ignoring the news, he decides this is the day. This is the day that it will change. Huge and foreboding as it is. They say our thoughts make our world. We ultimately have to make the journey alone. They say if you can imagine it, you can become it. They say this is a dream. That one day the dream will wake up laughing and will apologize for scaring the shit out of us. Doors will fly open. The band will play. Old lovers will come back. They will come right back to us on rails made of glorious indigo light.

Joseph was proud that he was learning how to make decent coffee. He sighed relief as the laughter echoed its way out of the alley. Walking to the window, the thin white curtains danced out to greet him. Extending their effervescent fingers. He glides softly in between their folds allowing his face to be caressed. An orgy of cool window pane, the sun, silk, and breeze. Delight. So easy. So easily found alone. In almost everything. Smells. Of flowers and food and air and moods and seasons. Colours of plants. Every outfit nature owns. Each step the weather takes. Hateful or with the gentlest of tones. Textures of every sort, all day long. Far too many pleasures to even measure or recall occur in each and every day. Alone there is an understanding. An appreciation. A knowing. But throw another person into the mix. Words, or not. Just throw another person into the mix and everything seems to disappear. It all zips up. Smiles. The world. Safety. Joy. The stakes shoot threw the ceiling. Your money or your life but your wallet's empty and no one gives a fuck. Better plan your funeral.

Joseph Stem walks out of that room into a party. A wild, raging party thrown in his honour. He sits back. Another hour has passed. The church bells chime two minutes past the truth. And now he leans upon the back legs of his barstool chair, props his feet upon the windowsill.....the fragile curtains, his afternoon lover of the day, now dancing pirouettes along his calves and the sun unsuccessfully tries to find a way inside his trousers. The alley empty now. The party comes to full swing. Resplendent blue gown making the noon sky envious. Swirling like the milk in his coffee. And music. All kinds rolled into one white noise kind of bellow from his gut. But it feels nice and it reminds him of the best kind of silence. The silence that is an eternity inside eyes that remember. The silence that likes to crawl around inside a sleeping child's smile. Easy. Enough. This party was part of Joseph Stem's funeral plan. He'd seen it since he was a child. There would be very blue skies. And a blonde woman. A beautiful, silent angel of a woman would joyously turn.....bejeweled, begowned as mentioned above, and barefooted she would twirl in the sand of the sandiest desert releasing his ashes from a golden vase into the gentlest of breezes. No music and all kinds. His weightless remains surfing through time. Twelve year old girls plan their weddings. Joseph planned his funeral. No magazine covers to overrun his imagination and tell him how it should be done. How it should look and sound and smell to be perfect.

He didn't know any blondes. Not silent angelic ones anyway. Not anymore. Not any coffee left either. Now that's the rat's ass. Joseph considers going to the grocery store. He comes right smack up against the energy to move....to pick up his wallet and to lace up his shoes....when he looks back over his shoulder and slithers back inside his past. Deserts were brought up. And the big mystery of this whole funeral thing.