A Brief Note on the Human Species

By the time we reach a certain age, we start to notice patterns in life. We start to recognize things as things that we’ve seen before. When this happens, it allows us to have a more measured response to things. A less emotional response, or, at the very least, a response that is not only emotional. However, by the time we reach this point in our lives, we’re usually old. We’re old and it’s time for us to check out. It’s time for us to die.

This seems almost by design. Not “Intelligent Design,” but a design of the species to help us survive. It’s possible that we have to remain in the dark, ignorant, we have to stay dumb long enough to regenerate the species. If we become too intelligent, too reasonable, we would ask ourselves, “what really is the point of going on?”

She Goes to Estate Sales

We were at the bar. In her kitchen. The counter that we call the bar. We were drinking coffee. Outside the rain was swirling in a light, mist-like drizz. I guess it was January.

“Ellen’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night?” Liz said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Why ‘oh’?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s just not my favorite person, I guess.”

“She’s nice,” Liz said, “and I don’t see her very much since she moved out of the neighborhood.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s nice since she moved.”

“That’s not fair. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re right. I can’t place it. She is nice, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with her, but still . . . something about the way she’s . . . I don’t know, I can’t explain it. There’s just . . . you know.”

“She stays too long, I’ll give you that. But even so, I think she means well.”

“She definitely stays too long. She never leaves. You practically have to kick her out.”

“She’s a good listener,” Liz said.

“She’s not very interesting.”

“And you are?”

“You know what I mean . . . she’s too sincere or something. I can’t figure it out. The conversation is always so serious with her. So solemn. Remember the time she kept talking about her dog?”

“Yes . . .”

“It was your birthday, for gods sakes.”

“That was too bad,” Liz said.

“And it just had the dog flu or something like that.”

“The dog flu?”

“Isn’t that what you said?”

“I said it had distemper.”

“Okay, distemper.”

“That’s what Ellen told me. She said distemper.”

“Anyway, the point is, the dog was just sick and she ruined your birthday because she was so upset because she thought it was dying.”

“It’s true,” Liz sighed.

“No offense to the dog, but . . . she shouldn’t have come.”

“No, probably not.”

“She’s too heavy for me. She has no sense of irony. Or sarcasm. Or something. I don’t know what it is, but she’s boring.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yes it is. She almost seems proud of it. She’s pretentiously boring.”

“Stop.”

“Ostentatiously boring. She’s extravagantly boring.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Liz said.

“I’m sorry but there’s something egomaniacal about how there’s always some terrible drama she’s upset about. Some terrible melodrama. Shitty things happen to all of us. You don’t have to go talking about it at dinner parties.”

“I know, but I invited her, so . . .”

“What is that called? Munchausen Syndrome?”

“I think so. I don’t know if it’s full-on Munchausen but it’s something . . . Anyway it doesn’t matter. She’s coming to dinner tomorrow night, so . . .”

“I wish she wasn’t,” I said.

“Well she is. I invited her. I ran into her at the park and we don’t see her much anymore.”

“I realize that. I like that we don’t see her much anymore.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“Well . . .”

“Also, she said that she and Scott are having problems . . .”

“Oh, great.”

“Stop,” Liz said.

“Fun! I’m really looking forward to hearing about her relationship issues with Scott. What an exciting Saturday night!”

“It’ll be fine. She’s nice.”

“I know she’s nice, but . . . Can we at least make negronis?”

“She said she’s not drinking for a while. That whole Dryuary thing.”

“Oh god.”

“I know.”

“Why is everything so trendy now? Were things always this trendy?”

“Probably . . . But who cares, you can have a negroni.”

“You’re not going to have one?”

“I don’t know. I might. It depends on how upset she is about Scott.”

“Wow . . . this is gonna be a great night . . .” I took a sip of the coffee, which was no longer hot. “Maybe we should invite Nacho and Tanya,” I said.

“I don’t think so. They’d just steal the show. Ellen wouldn’t get a word in.”

“All the more reason.”

“That’s not fair. Ellen is a good person.”

“I know . . . I’m sorry. I’m sure she is.”

“Why are you so annoyed with her?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

“She’s a good listener.”

“Uh huh.”

“And she has a good heart.”

“Okay . . . whatever that means.”

“It means that there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s my friend.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s Saturday night and . . . well, I mean it’s Ellen. If it was anyone but Ellen it would be fine.”

“What if it was Sarah?”

“Which Sarah?”

“Sarah Lozenge.”

“You’re right, that would be worse, but at least she drinks.”

“I’ll make Bolognese . . .”

“Oh wow, you’re bribing me now.”

“. . . and garlic bread and a Caesar.”

“Fine.”

“Great. It’ll be fun.”

“I doubt that, but at least the food will be good. And I’m making negronis.”

“Sure . . . It shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what it is about her.”

Liz took a sip of her coffee. “And just so you know ahead of time, she said her dog passed away.”

“Oh god!”

“I know, it’s sad.”

“Sad? It’s terrible. She’s gonna talk about her fucking dog all night. Unless she’s talking about her problems with Scott, or how great she feels now that she’s sober . . .”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m really looking forward to it.” I grabbed the pot of coffee off the stove and poured some into both our cups.

“You know, she goes to estate sales.”

“What do you mean?”

“She goes to estate sales. I think that’s what it is.”

“What what is?”

“Why you don’t like her. Why there’s something weird about her. She goes to estate sales.”

“Wait, what? You think I don’t like her because she goes to estate sales? I didn’t even know she goes to estate sales.”

“Well, she does.”

“Okay?”

“You know those people who are always going to estate sales even though they don’t need anything . . .”

“Okay? So she goes to estate sales. So what?”

“So what? Well, I think she goes early, too. Like first thing in the morning.”

“Uh huh?” I said.

“Like she waits in line for the sale to open.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. She’s like, a regular estate sale goer . . .”

“A regular estate sale goer . . . is that a thing?”

“Definitely. It’s a whole thing. An entire thing. It’s like a cult or something. But I don’t think anybody talks to anybody else. There’s no god, of course. People just wander around in other people’s houses. Usually a dead person’s house.”

“Jeezus.”

“I know.”

“Are you making this up?”

“Nope. She goes to estate sales. I think that’s what’s wrong with her.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Wait,” I said, “you mean she goes to estate sales since her dog died?”

“Both before and since.”

“But she’s so young.”

“I know.”

“She’s, like, thirty-five, right?”

“Something like that . . . she’s definitely not forty.”

“What does she buy?”

“I don’t think she really buys anything. Like I said, she just wanders around looking at people’s things. Walking through all those houses, going through their kitchens, and closets, and basements. Touching their clothes. Smelling things.”

“That’s kind of crazy.”

“I know.”

“That’s kind of batshit crazy.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m gonna ask her about it tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think we should.”

“Why not?”

“I think it’s a secret.”

“A secret?”

“I think. Maybe not a secret, exactly, but she told me a while ago . . .”

“And she asked you not to tell anyone?”

“Not exactly.”

“Okay?” I said, confused.

“I don’t know, maybe it would be fine to ask, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But I don’t know. It just seems like something we shouldn’t talk about. She might be embarrassed about it.”

“But it’s the most interesting thing about her. I’m actually kind of looking forward to it now. Besides, it’s either that or Scott. Or the dog.”

“True.”

“Or her sobriety. I don’t really want to hear about Scott.”

“No.”

“Or the dog.”

“No, but he passed away.”

“Thank god.”

“Be nice,” Liz said.

The rain was coming down harder now, and there was a crow on the roof of the building next door. We both saw it land. The coffee wasn’t nearly as good as it should be. Not as good as the idea of having the coffee.

“She goes to estate sales,” I said.

“That’s what she said.”

“Maybe tomorrow night I should make other plans.”

Portrait of My Wife in the Garden

I love gardening. Not weeding, but gardening. Actually, I don’t really even love gardening. I just love being in the garden. Doing nothing. I love looking at the garden, from within it. The gray sky and the garden. Sitting on a bench beside a poppy that hasn’t yet bloomed, its orange lips just beginning to pout.

Sometimes my wife will join me there. In the garden, on a bench beneath a gray sky.

“I would like to get one of those garden signs that have an icon of a dog defecating,” I said to her one day. One day when she’d joined me in the garden. “The ones that say, ‘No Dog Poop In The Garden, Please.’ I would like to get one of those signs.”

“Maybe for your birthday,” she said.

“Oh what a gift that would be!” I said.

“Nothing but the best for you, dear.” She was wearing a red-and-black wool flannel shirt, a button-down that had once belonged to an ex-lover of hers. I’m not sure she knew that I knew that. Every time she wore it, I thought of him, her ex, who owns a café on Dolores that I despise and won’t even walk by, much less buy coffee from.

My wife is very kind. Much kinder than I am. And I was thinking how much I love how kind she is, despite her wearing her ex-lover’s shirt. I was thinking this as I shoveled away a pile of dog shit from a clump of as yet unblooming day lilies. When I said to her:

“If you get me one, will you have it say, ‘If Your Dog Poops In My Garden, I Will Cut It Open Lengthwise, Pull Out Its Intestines, And Use Them As Fertilizer . . . Please.’”

“That’s terrible,” she said.

“No no,” I said, “not if it says please. It would have to say please.”

She winced, there in the garden, beneath the gray sky. There in the garden wearing the red-and-black wool flannel shirt.