The buildings are amazing in this shitbox town.
Late eighteenth-century row houses. Dirt-basement Colonial wonders. High-ceilinged Victorians. Clapboards. Wood stoves, crappy plumbing, gracious proportions. Faded grandeur, semi-rot. Clawfoot bathtubs with old brass fixtures rusty as hell. Here and there the odd sparkling restoration. Someone's nouveau riche marble kitchen.
Here's my favorite: four-story brick, three windows wide, with a Historical Society Landmark plaque. Built in 1868. Elaborate molding painted many shades of green. My friends Crispin and Jerry spent the better part of ten years rehabbing it. They're on sabbatical this year in Rome, those bastards. They sublet to this amazing poet with a visiting gig at the college. Mina Morris. I'm a little obsessed with her, by which I mean a lot, which I guess is what obsessed means.
The parlor curtains are open and the lights are off.
I drove Crisp and Jer to the airport, and Crisp handed me an estate-sale mother-of-pearl cigarette case perfectly filled with nine meticulously rolled joints.
I teared up.
Medicine man, please don't go.
Listen. He lifted my chin and met my eyes in this avuncular way he has. You've come a long way. You're going to be fine. He said it slowly, like I might be very old, very stupid, or both.
I have five joints left.
The baby's first birthday approaches. Still, there are bad days. Today's not so bad. Today I have fulfilled two imperatives: one, the baby is napping; two, we are out of doors, a few blocks from home.
Anyway, Mina Morris. Crisp gave me her contact info because we're supposed to be landlord proxy, Paul and I, take care of anything that comes up with the house while they're gone.
Mina Morris. Quasi known as the bass player from the Misogynists. Girl band, Oregon, late eighties. Lots of better-known girl bands talk about having been influenced by them.
Cold this week, and dark so early. Late afternoon and the light is dead. So it begins: months of early darkness and cold. November again, back around to another. Last November a nightmare blur of newborn stitches tears antibiotics awake constipation tears wound tears awake awake awake limping tears screaming tears screaming shit piss puke tears. My weeks structured around a very occasional trip to the drive-through donut place near the mall, baby dozing in the back. Idling in the crappy old Jewish cemetery across the highway, heat cranked, reading names on crooked headstones, sipping an enormous, too-sweet latte, tapping at the disappointing glow of my device.
Faint whistle. There goes a train. To the city, probably. Four fifteen. Too late for the baby's nap now, too close to bedtime. But I've given up trying to control this shit. If you have an agenda, any needs or desires of your own (like, for example, to take a shower, take a dump, be somewhere at a given time, sit and think), you're screwed. The trick is to surrender completely, take your moments when you get them, don't dare want for more.
Mina Morris: erstwhile poet, almost rock star. Here, in Crisp and Jerry's house. Gives me an obscure little thrill, it does. I want to be friends.
A third-floor light goes on, and simultaneously the baby starts up with the whimpers. I take my cue. Keep the stroller moving, always moving, a reflexive animal sway. Respite over. Maneuver down the block toward the river, up Chestnut, and on home. Put some cheese on crackers and call it dinner.
Another day gone, okay, and I get it, I got it: I'm over. I no longer exist. This is why there's that ancient stipulation about the childless being ineligible for the study of religious mysticism. This is why there's all that talk about kid having as express train to enlightenment. You can meditate, you can medicate, you can take peyote in the desert at sunrise, you can self-immolate, or you can have a baby, and disappear.
I'm not interested in anything.
Which might make sense if I was all consumed with thoughts of baby-food making and craft projects and sleep-training philosophies and bouncy-chair brands, but I really can't get all that excited about any of that shit either. So basically I have no idea what to do with myself, Paul.
Babe. Give it some time.
Fine, I mean, great, but how much time? He's one, Paul.
Exactly, babe, he's one.
You should just send me away someplace. You should just take me out back and shoot me.
Excerpt from AFTER BIRTH by Elisa Albert. Copyright 2015 by Elisa Albert. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.