"There is a common superstition that ‘self-respect’ is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation." -Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
A simple observation, her good natured ribbing did it: all about my beloved black socks. It was more than just the socks, but it was a reminder; the ends were very far from the surface.
Black socks. Bridges. Endless talk. The curl of her lip… That night.
•
We all shouted "ammonia man" as he clawed at his eyes. Then he stood in front of me wearing a weather-beaten leather vest and big black m.c. boots; hair all slicked back and a deep olive complexion. He asked me his name. I said it, and he hit me. It was a test and I failed. Standing there in front of the candy store shivering from the cold, the shame I felt was nearly unbearable.
I knew the reverberations of that punch would shake right through the neighborhood, and I'd live with it for a time in the spotlight, and for years to come in my own dark corners. There were many moments to come after that snowy day that I'd get hit, literally or otherwise. Many more days and nights of shame, sending me into a dizzying spiral of doubt without reflection.
He asked me his name, I answered and got hit so hard it took my wind away and left me shaking. Why then did I spend time with him the next day, blurring the edges? What was I trying to prove?
•
Her hand reaching out across a scarred, beer-soaked table, wrapping itself in mine. That breathtaking curl of her lip. It all turned into everything I desired and was lost before I could even understand it.
Black socks... How could that ever sum it up?
Words and photography by Lee Greenfeld © 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment