Salvation

JASON

Life was lame and it was fizzling out until the sweaty landscape guy bumped into me. 

I was walking through Grant Park listening to Nirvana. Kurt Cobain just sang about steaming soup, and I smirked because the path ahead was disguised in a dank mist and the day was uncomfortably warm, like steaming soup.  Too warm to wear a hoodie, apparently, according to Dick. It was the only thing he said to me all day. He grunted it as he lounged on his pulpit—a leather couch with eczema. I wore the hoodie anyway. I liked the simple gray look on me. I didn't think it looked melancholic or drab.  It fit my vibe. Plain and complicated. A mixture of black and white. I was staring ahead, lost in the gray clouds.

I didn't see sweaty landscape guy coming from my right, and so we collided. His elbow grease leaked through his flannel and soaked the shoulder of my hoodie. He marked me. 

I'm sorry, I started to say. All that escaped my parted lips was "I…"

—Don't worry about it, he said before I could get a word out. 

His jagged hand swept me aside gently. I watched him spread his back sweat onto a tree and gulp down a bottle water. It ran down his chin and made his collar more wet. I had to say something. 

—What are you working on?, I said casually. 

—Oh, nothing mind blowing, he said, nonchalantly. 

He had to know he was doing incredible things. He had to know that he was a jacked workhorse who pumped pure life into those who had none. He had to know the effect he had on the Earth. He had to know the effect had on others. I wonder how many hopefuls he'd lured into his rough face and his soft lips.

—Shame. I like to get my mind blown, I said. 

His eyes scanned me. He had to have known what I meant, because after I said that, he took me into his grove, and he introduced me to the garbage bags he filled, the paths he cleared, and the goddamn birdhouse he made. I looked over the birdhouse's splintered wood, admiring its clumsy simplicity. I felt him watching me, taking note of me. 

—I can teach you to build one sometime, if you want, he said. 

—Yeah. I'd like that, I said. 

—Name's Puck, he said.

—Name's Jason, I said.

—You got a lot going on Jason?

—I like to paint. I'm not very good, but I like to capture the mystery in natural life. No one seems to understand it.

His cheeks bunched up. 

—It's too complex for most people to understand. Finding the meaning in nature requires too much appreciation. And devotion. And intelligence. But… who am I to say who has it and who doesn't.  

So deliciously self-absorbed. 

—Sounds pretty easy to me, I said. 

—You ever work in the woods before, he said. 

—Yes. Not nearly enough, though.

—You know how to tie knots.

—I would embarrass myself if I tried.

—Don't know what kind of outdoor work you've been doing then.

—The kind where you don't tie knots.

—You're one smart alec.

Old timey. Just out-of-date enough to be charming.

—A smart alec who cares about nature, I said. 

I only ever cared about nature when I could make my room look sick with it. I once painted a mural on my wall of a cherry blossom tree. It was the most spontaneous thing I'd ever done, and it took me three days to complete. So epic. The only other person to see it was Dick. His eyes looked right through it. He just called it nice then closed the door and never mentioned it again. Dick. 

—Keep on caring, kid, he said.

—Can you show me how, I said.

Throughout the next week, I would start my walk through Grant Park. Puck would find me about halfway through, and he'd take me. We picked up stray trash in the dirt, picked up stray trash in the pond, picked up stray trash in the trees, picked up more stray trash from the never-ending influx of discarded wares, cleared out dangerous hazards, wiped off our brows in sweat, watered the garden that was erected in memoriam of the late governor, tore out weeds from the garden, took off our shirts in the garden when the humidity acted up, learned how to sand wood and properly land a nail, put up birdhouses in the bird sanctuary, caught butterflies in the butterfly sanctuary, saved injured ducks from the duck pond, picked up stray trash, threw each other water bottles, raked our shoes through mud and sediment, talked about our feelings on nature, chatted about manhood, asked what there was to do in life, told each other about the mom advice I hated and the girlfriends he couldn't get right, talked about his nice quaint house at the Cape with a large basement, and I thought about him taking me back to his quaint basement and teaching me what it really meant to be a man. 

—Being a man is about hard work, and a lot of self-restraint, he said troweling.

I nodded in agreement.

—It's about seeing what the world is missing and putting that out there, he said.

I looked thoughtfully at him. 

—You don't complain. You keep your head low, he said.

Of course.

—And you have to love. You have to love things even when it's hard, he said.

I can do that.

—It's all about… Dammit. It’s about time that lady stops feeding those birds all that bread, he said.

A dirty blond wearing an ugly blue coat with weird shoulders knelt next to the duck pond. Her black leggings were lightly dusted in sand. She shewed bread crumbs at the ducks. 

—They get bloated with that processed stuff. They get so fat they can't move. And they lose their appetite for real nutrients. Nutrients are also important for manhood, he said. 

—That's not right that she would do that to them, I said.

—Who knows if she's hurting them on purpose. Probably not. Probably has no idea what she’s doing.

Soon after we took a break from digging new holes for an array of flowers. I laid my spade down and approached the lady in a calm manner. She didn't acknowledge my presence. She just kinda knelt and sprinkled bread and knelt and sprinkled and pretended I wasn't there. 

—You know that stuff is awful for the ducks? It kills them, I said, they lose their nutrients then they die. 

—Hm. I know what I'm doing.

Her lips pushed together. She kept kneeling and sprinkling, unphased. I could feel Puck's gaze watching me from the edge of the memorial garden. His eyes were probably squinted a bit and he was probably leaning against a tree.  I didn't look back though. I pressed on.  I told that bitch that Wonderbread doesn't have any nutrients in it, because it's made from machines and fake shit. I let her know that she thinks she's getting brownie points for being this eco-friendly hippie who's feeding the ducks in her spare time, but actually she just looks dumb. I informed her that she was dumb for thinking she could just sprinkle some product, concocted by man, into the ecosystem to save it from devastation that very man created. I hated her guts for interrupting the sacred rhythm of nature. 

—Just so you know, she said, I'm feeding them rye bread, which is healthier for them. And they don't get enough food here anyways, because the pond's mostly dried up.  They might be able to scrounge some of the leftover pizza shreds and beer cans, because people treat this place like a dump, but then you and your man husk clean up everything and it's all gone, so what are they going to eat? They have to have something. I'm settling for this. If you're so fucking displeased with what I'm doing then get your whiny skinny little ass to a gourmet fucking restaurant, use the money which I'm sure you have to buy out the stock they have in the back for ducks, then to get rid of that stench I can smell from standing all the way over here, and then handfeed it to them like they’re your baby. Babies you know absolutely zilch about. Anything else you want to add before I leave for the day?

Whatever else I had to say it didn't matter. She stormed off to her car, half a loaf still in her tinfoil. Puck waited for me to return to the site. He sat me down on a stump. He put away his half-eaten PB&J sandwich carefully. Too carefully. My hairs tingled. He asked me about my parents, and I told him that my mom's out of the picture and that my dad and I don't talk much, because he asked me. So, he got his knees in the dirt and looked me dead in the eyes. 

—I get it, kid. You and your parents might not be in a mutual respect type of relationship, but the world runs on respect. When you don't show respect, you don't get any in return. Don't let that happen, And don't you ever speak to a woman like that ever again, he said.

—But, I said. 

He leaned into me. 

—You sounded like a spoiled brat. And spoiled brats do not go anywhere in life. So take whatever insolence was infecting you in that moment and crush it. I don't want to see that side of you when I'm around. Or else this is done, and you can go back to walking alone, he said.

—I was just doing what I thought you wanted me to do, I said through the knot in my throat.

—When did I ever say harass her? Look, if you really wanted to do right by me you should have told me what you were going to do. Ask me what I want, don't just assume, he said. 

I wanted to bring up all the questions I had for him, but I couldn't. The knot in my throat tightened and I couldn't get any words out. Over the sound of my blood pounding, I struggled to make out what he was saying, let alone my own thoughts. I didn't have the strength to ask about the sweat, or the basement, or knots, or self-restraint, or what manhood really meant. That would have to wait until I had enough courage. 

I did muster up one question.

—Do I smell?, I said to Puck. 

—If you smell, I'm no different. We've both been at it hard, he said. 

—Cool, I said.

He sniffed me.

—Fresh as a daisy. 

PUCK

People will see you for everything but who you truly are. That's what Mom would always say. She was a deep fountain of wisdom—the only source of wisdom I had growing up. I had read all of her books.  She got her third publication, a manifesto in self-management, on the New York Times Bestseller's list, but the one of hers that holds a special place in my heart is Letting Go: A Memoir by Laura Menano, on the inherent struggle between individuality and safety. In it she used her experience as a woman in construction work to rectify the limitations on the human spirit. That's word-for-word off the back cover. Whenever I'd almost quit caring about life, Letting Go reminded me that there was a future that needed to be protected in every flora, fauna, identity, and idea, even when all hope faded away. Hope for hope's sake is what will save the world, she'd say. 

I told Jason about my mother and how much I worshiped her strength. I was driving him to the public market to pick up some lunch, because he hadn't eaten in days. He said he was fasting, but it was no good for him to be running on fumes while doing all that manual labor.  He thought the food his dad made for him was infected, and he also thought that anything his dad said to him was suspicious, even his friendly 'ello's.  The way he talked about his father made me wish he could have gone to the store and pick up a newer, tougher one.  

It wasn't right that he called his father Dick, no matter how fitting it was. He was a poor kitchen cleaner who had no idea what he was doing, leaving his kid to figure out everything on his own, only communicating with him through generic kindness.  I gathered that much by what Jason told me.  His Pops treated him most nicely, which ironically made Jason more and more fed up. By the time we had spent a week together it was clear he did not trust the world around him.  That moodiness would have been enough to repel anyone, but I knew there had to be something more when it came to who he truly was.

—I think your mom is an unrelenting optimist, he said forcing down his beet burger.

—She's got the grit to back it up, I said handing him a napkin.

—Dick could use some more of that, he said wiping the corners of his mouth.

—Have you told him you loved him like I told you to do?, I said.

—I tried.

—That's a start.

—I just don't want Dick getting the wrong idea. I'm not mushy like he is.

I realized he called his father Dick to come off jaded and mature. 

—You have friends, kid?, I said. 

—I wouldn't really call anyone that. Just not my thing, he said.

I almost chastised him for being close-minded, but I bit into my chickpea salad hard and resisted the urge.  What did I know about friends? I didn't hold onto them long. My life was plagued by an unfortunate pattern of people who didn't want to see things the way I saw them. Joe Simon got close; he was a college buddy of mine. He was a witty conversationalist, but after we graduated I couldn't hold my own long enough in conversation for him to stick around. Tyler Jacobs was also a college friend, but he turned out to be gay. Alyssa Stewart was someone more recent; she worked at the plant shop on Skinner Ave.  She knew everything about botany and talked my ear off about it for months. Eventually she ran out of new material, and we recycled old conversations on the life cycle of bugs until we didn't have much else to talk about. Connor Hillsby and I did landscaping jobs at one point but he turned out to be a chauvinist. Hailey Anne the punk librarian stopped meeting with me for tea after I professed my feelings for her. Willow Ramsy from childhood… Travis de la Paz from the library… Mrs. Forrester from next door… A revolving door of people.  Sometimes more came in, sometimes more went out.  

—When you meet a good friend, treat them right as long as you can, I said as we arrived at the parking lot. 

Jason nodded introspectively.  I put the car in park and we ate the rest of our food in silence. I devoured my salad like a caveman. When I looked over at Jason, he sat calmly and carefully picked at his bun. He looked like he was confused or high or in love with his food or all three. It was a nice break from that dead glaze he usually had over his eyes. I let him finish up while I took the Windex and scrapers out of the trunk. We were going to spend the afternoon cleaning the moldy bathrooms near the entrance of the park.

From outside, the bathrooms reeked of death. I had only been working at Grant Park for a year, but whatever was hiding in those stalls had been working there long before I arrived. I had never seen anyone use those bathrooms.  If it were up to me, I'd let the whole public piss in bushes and dump in holes. That's what I did when I was on the job, because for me there's no issue with giving back to nature like that. But, most people did not take care of business in the woods. They needed to use bathrooms, which needed to be cleaned. And, the bathrooms were right in between the swings and the front gate, so it's only right that one can breathe near them without blowing their lungs out. It looked like no one else dared to address the stench or the discoloration, but I was on it. I looked at hard work as doing my part. Taking care of the world and the people in it is what gave my life meaning. Caring was the only thing that made sense.  I hoped for hope's sake, and I had the grit to back it up.

—Don't be mad at me if I vomit in there, Jason said. 

—Don't. You'll just make more mess that needs to be cleaned up, I said. 

We didn't get to cleaning, though, because a woman approached us from the duck pond, wearing the same blue dress coat and boots that she was wearing last time we saw her, when Jason made a fool of himself.  She dangled a homemade handbag at her side, and she carried a loaf of tinfoil underneath her armpit. That blue coat paraded straight through the iron fence around the duck pond and past the faded red and yellow playground. Jason pouted.

—Hi, you two!, she said, forcing a smile. 

I stuck out my hand.

—Name's Puck, I said. 

She took it gently. 

—Holly. Holly Hockett. 

 She stuck out her hand to Jason, who shook it like it was a stick of dynamite. In the awkward silence that briefly ensued, I noted that I should teach him how to properly shake hands.  Then Holly broke the silence.

—Look, I just wanted to say that I'm a frequent visitor here, and when there are other people who I see on a regular basis, whether on my own volition or not, I want to make sure we are on good terms. So, if the both of you are going to keep… being together here, then I think it's only right that we find some common ground… I actually have been carrying around an extra loaf of bread with me in case you wanted any.

She awkwardly balanced the tinfoil loaf in her armpit and dug through her bag.  I was charmed and excited to try a taste of her bread. I peeked at Jason to see how he was taking this, which I instantly regretted. His frown was so miserable and so static that it made me question my own goodwill.   Then she pulled out a small Tupperware with two hearty slices of bread inside, and she handed it to us. 

—Rye bread?, Jason said. 

—Homemade, Holly said. 

—Great, even more reason not to eat it, Jason said. 

Holly smiled hard. 

—Someone doesn't hold back! You always let him talk like this?, she said brushing a waft of hair from her forehead. 

—He's not my property, I said.

—Oh, I thought you were his father, perhaps, she said.

—Nope, I said.

—So, you're his uncle, I assume, she said. 

—I wish! Jason would be a great nephew. But no. I'm bringing him on to do some volunteer work for the park, I said.

—Right, she said, how lovely. 

She smiled even harder. 

I took out a slice of Holly's homemade rye bread and ate it. Jason shot daggers at me; he probably thought I'd die of poison after taking a bite. The bake itself was decently made; I'd eat more if I had some strawberry preserves to go with it. The disappointing thing was that the flavor was bland and there was so little to it.

—So this must be what you're feeding the ducks, I said. 

—Yes. Fresh loaf every time I visit, she said.

—How often is that?, I said. 

—Three or four times a week. I like to take in everything here. It's nice… even though it's a little rundown, she said.

—I knew this girl once, her name was Alyssa Stewart. She works at the botany shop on Skinner Ave, I said. 

—Don't think I know her… she said quietly. 

—We talked about bugs and wildlife and stuff like that, and she taught me a lot. The thing is, those ducks need to eat a lot more than you think… 

She pushed her lips together and looked at me inquisitively. 

——...And flour's not that much of a provider when it comes to nutrients…

She nodded at me. 

—...They need protein and fat and vitamins and minerals, and all that good stuff…

—Of course, she said.

—This bread is fine for guys like me who have access to plenty of other food, but for them it fills them up too quickly. So, I think this bread could use a little more seeds in it, maybe some crushed up caviar or worms. 

—Well, I was giving this to you two, so I didn't put any seeds or worms in it. And I make do with what I have, she said.

—I can help get some for you.  Or I can show you how to catch some grub. It's very simple, really. 

She scoffed and laughed and forced those lips back into a smile. 

—No, that's ok. We all have our own way of doing things, don't we?, she said. 

—It's not really about our own ways, ma'am, it's about doing things the right way.

—I'm sure you two have your own way of doing things.  I've been seeing you guys do things all around the park. 

—We always do things the right way, ma'am, I can assure you that. 

—Do you do things the right way, Puck? 

—Naturally. It's all I know how to do. I learn how to do things right before I ever do them. That way I never do anything wrong. 

—Is that how you justify grooming a minor? 

—I'm sorry, what?

—I said grooming. You see, the thing is, minors are a lot like baby ducks…

—I don't see the correlation.

—They tend to follow the leading adult duck very easily, and they'll go anywhere and do anything the leading duck says. So, if that leading duck, which, yes, I am referring to you… If that leading duck begins to abuse that power, let's say they make the baby duck admire them and love them only to ask for inappropriate favors in return, that's what grooming is. And it's illegal. I'm glad I could explain it to you.

—I think you’re mistaken. I'm a responsible leader.

Holly circled around me and rested her talons against the trunk of my car. 

—Let me cut to the chase. I had a friend that was taken advantage of by a creep like you for seven years. It started when she just turned a teenager. She was only thirteen. She was a depressed little kid, and some creep who worked at the cafeteria at our high school started messaging her, cooking for her and taking her out on dates… He was 30, and he was sneaky about it. He made her be sneaky about it, too. She couldn't say a word about it to her parents or the school or else he'd stop loving her. She talked to me about it, though. The whole thing unraveled as I watched, just as clueless as her and thinking that it was all in good fun. But, it wasn't. And I know now, of course I know now! I know the warning signs. I know the behaviors. So don't think you can fool me. I know what's going on. And I am not afraid to say something.

So many thoughts tumbled through my head I struggled to get one out.

—First of all, I like women. Men, boys included, are sweaty and gross. But second, and more importantly, I would never look at a child like that. I would never cause trauma to a child like that. I would never think of it.

Jason huffed and got real close to me. 

—Hey, how about let's stop talking about me like I'm some child. 16 is the legal age of consent in some states, so it's not a big deal what we do.

I practiced Pranayama at that moment. It's a Sanskrit term for the regulation of breath. It's a useful practice to prepare for stressful situations. I would recommend it. My friend Travis got me into yoga. He was the reason I had a yoga studio in my basement all for myself. I could hear my mother's words calmly in my head. If you give yourself over to the world, people will see you for everything but who you truly are. So gather your soul and make them see it. Make them grapple with it, because then you exist. -Letting Go: A Memoir by Laura Menano. I played that excerpt in my head and gazed at a pair of rubber gloves hanging off the cleaning bucket. Meanwhile Jason and Holly were expecting me to give a response.  How could I? Jason said what he said with such clear motivation. There was no doubt he was standing too close to me.  His hand felt too close to mine, like he wanted to grab it. He hated this woman. I could feel it. Standing across from him was an ugly blue alien wrapped in tinfoil. He wanted to grab my hand and hold it until she died and until he died and until I died. I couldn't see his hand, but I could feel it searching for its leading duck. How could I respond? I could have said I never thought this kid would turn out to be gay. I thought he was just a normal kid. I couldn't look at him. I didn't want to smell his sweatshirt that hadn't been washed for a week. And those eyes—that deadly glaze. Lurking underneath those dead eyes was a virus.  

—I just remembered I forgot to feed my Mom's cat, I said. 

I fumbled for my keys and made my way behind the truck's wheel.  Mom's cat died a couple weeks ago. We had a small funeral because she loved it so much. Leaning over the gear stick, I opened the shotgun door and brushed out Jason's crumpled up napkins. As I backed up, the Tupperware slid off the hood as I pulled away.  I didn't look at Jason, and I didn't look at Holly, but I could hear her going on about something to Jason. I could feel them through the windshield; they were too close. I passed the park's front gate and they were too close. I passed by Skinner Ave. and they were too close. They were too close when I reached the Cape and pulled into my driveway. They lurked in the mirror and in the shower curtains, waiting to hear my response. They hid in my reflection when I passed a shiny spoon, blank TV screen, or a shadow on the wall. Even when I locked myself in my basement, turned off all the lights, lit some candles and incense, laid out a yoga mat and laid down in shavasana, and closed my eyes, far away from Grant Park, they were too close. 

HOLLY

So, whoever started the rumor about ducks being allergic to bread must have been making stuff up. I'd been feeding them for a while, and nothing happened other than them honking excitedly every time they saw me. Spending time at the pond was a form of catharsis in a non-stop world, and it gave me a chance to put my grandma's rye bread recipe to good use.  I had made it so many times that my hands worked separately from my brain, and I could shut all the thoughts down, just like Grandma. Teaching me things was her language; which, I thought was heavy-handed of her. I initially brushed off her ramblings as old person pretentiousness, but with time my dad's great respect for her inspired me to appreciate her tough lectures as gifts. The two of them were poor and immigrants and Polish back in the 70s, and they worked and married their way up to being comfortable.  

I moved in with Douglas, who was a resident doctor, also a Polish, whose ancestors immigrated to the States too far long ago to know the names of.  He was mostly gone during the day, so he never got to see me making bread… maybe occasionally he noticed the dough I left to prove overnight in the fridge… but it was probably for the best that he didn't see the chef in the kitchen, because he wouldn't have liked the mess it makes.  Seeing the flour on the counter would have burst an eye vessel, which is why I always made sure to wipe down every surface with a rag and scrub the mixing bowls vigorously so I could put them back in the cupboards. Sometimes, I was really good at keeping everything in the bowl, so I wouldn't have to reach all the way to the top shelf to get the rags out.  

That was on days when I didn't pick up a shift at Michael's when I would make the bread: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.  On those days, when I wasn't at Michael's, I was getting ready to feed the ducks, but if for some reason I wasn't getting ready to feed the ducks, I was pricking my fingers and twiddling some thread into scarves and mittens—another skill my grandma left behind.  If it wasn't one of those days, I'd be at Michael's while the sun was still up, standing behind the cashier saying 'All set?' over and over again, and if I wasn't saying 'All set' over and over again, I would be in the backroom helping load out some stock onto the main shelves. And, if it wasn't daytime on any day of the week, I wouldn't be at Michaels, and instead I'd probably be saying 'Anything else?' behind the sliding windows at the Wendy's drive through… Ah! I could go on and on. 

Lots of people strolling through Grant Park looked at me like I was some enigma, probably because I was nothing like they'd ever seen before.  And I rarely ran into other people like me. No one else in Grant Park wore epaulets or berets.  I had nothing against loose-fitting sweatpants, or the LuluLemon running gear, or the puffy-ill fitting coats that all the kids wore when they swung on the creaky swings, but I just didn't have stuff like that in my closet. I liked to dress more like ducks, the male ones, in any case. 

The male ducks, called drakes, were the more colorful ones; they had that glistening green head that caught the light with every neck movement. The drakes brought a bit of rainbow to the world and I loved that for them. They were fierce. The female ones didn't have as much color, they just made a lot more noise. There was this one gal with a wonky foot that I named Bunny, because I just thought it's silly to name animals after other animals.  She took more time to hobble over to my bench than the other boys and girls, and she wasn't as aggressive as the others, so I had to throw some crumbs extra far to reach her. It was a shame that not many other people did what I did. People might notice the ducks are here, but no one engages with them. There is so much beauty in nature most people never even notice. 

—Hey. Bird lady. 

Jason took out his Airpods next to my bench. I hadn't seen him since I broke him and Puck up, about a week past. He stood still like a ghost, which was off putting, but at least he didn't smell greasy anymore.  A new start, almost. 

—Hi Jason. Please, call me Holly. 

He went silent, which could have been from a place of defiance or acknowledgement; I had no idea. He was an enigma, like me.  He kind of reminded me so much of Michaela, who hadn't spoken to me in years. Her sudden disappearance after the cafeteria guy left her and skipped town made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me, which made sense, because I carried around too many bad memories for her. If I had to guess, I'd say she was embarrassed to show her face around me, or she resented me for not snapping her out of it and forcing her to do what the rest of us in school did, like complain about reading Lord of the Flies. I found her on Instagram randomly one day; I found out that she moved to Atlanta and went by Mickie now.   

—What you did was sucky, he said. 

—You'll be happy it's over, I said.

—It's not over yet… The trail by the train tracks is blocked.  And the memorial garden's not finished yet, he said. 

He shuffled his feet.

—I'm sure someone will take care of it, I said.

—Puck would take care of it if he wasn't too scared to come here, he said. 

I made space for him on the bench by neatly placing my tinfoil on my lap, but he stayed standing. An energetic duck, Kitty, pecked at my hand.

—Ow! Go, go, you, I'm in the middle of a conversation. So, Jason. I'm not your mother. I don't know you. But, I could not in good conscience let that man treat you like that, I said

He treated me nicely, he tried to get out, but I didn't stop talking. 

—My friend Michaela spent seven years wasting her life being taken advantage of. She had to start over somewhere else, and now she has plenty of trauma to deal with. You don't want that. You're a sweet boy. I said. 

—I'm not sweet. And I don't have trauma, and I'm not your friend, he said. 

I knew that denial is one of the five stages of grief, according to the philosophers of Ancient Rome, but they didn't really get to the heart of what denial meant. Dissociation was more a propos, I thought. People in dissociation lose their spiritual awareness, so that their hopes and dreams are tainted with grotesque self-sabotage, and the raw pain that used to live in its host, making them long for change, is no longer so.  Jason reminded me of all of this. I never saw him without his body stilled and his voice lowered, an indication of dissociation. 

—Have you seen him, he mumbled. 

—Not since last week since he left you, I said.

—Because you gave him awful bread, he said bunching up his lips. 

—Look, he left because he didn't want to be around you anymore, I said. 

—Because of you. You made this mess. So fix it. Tell him you don't think it's a big deal or whatever, he said.

He had some nerve telling a stranger what to do, especially one who he'd never graced with an ounce of respect.  His hands clenched in the pockets of his black track shorts. It was warm, about 60 degrees, but he was shaking. Shaking! Here he was, going for a walk, walking very slowly, I might add, in Grant Park, a peaceful place with ducks and oak trees and lilypads and an occasional swan if you're lucky… but here he was, shaking with anxiety and huffing at a good samaritan who had saved his life. What monster had gotten into him? What had that cedar-scented prickly-haired beer-wielding soil-stained truck-driving serial-mansplainer son of a bitch implanted in him? He couldn't go through this much longer. Now, I'd only ever given bread to Puck, but I knew that if I could come up with the right words to put in his mouth, and this would all end.

—I can't fix it, because nothing I can say or do or bake can change the way he feels about you, or… the way he doesn't feel about you would be more accurate. When I spoke with him last he said he hates fags and wants nothing to do with them. That's just what he said, I would never speak like that. I think love is love, and love should be celebrated, I said.

—You're lying, he said quietly. 

I just shrugged, then rustled my hand into the tinfoil and showered Bunny with some crumbs. Silence speaks volumes in times of great noise. That was another thing I learned from Grandma. She was a serial passive aggressor, and she'd sting you with a 'is that right?' or an indifferent nod. It was charming if you didn't stick around her for too long.  Kitty honked obnoxiously. 

—I'm all out, boys and girls, no more. See!, I said wiping my hands on a crumpled up napkin from my purse.

I glanced at Jason; his face dropped. The conviction fled from his eyebrows, very neatly trimmed, by the way. Michaela had nicely shaped eyebrows, too, or so I remembered. She would be proud of me. Little by little, I was peeling away at his dissociation and mixing in a new direction for his life.  

—He wanted me to tell you he was skipping town, so you'd stop looking for him. I said.  

—Tell me exactly what he said, he said.

—Well, he said he wasn't going to work here anymore. Said he was going back to freelance work.   Then he ranted about how he never wanted anyone to think he was gay and that he would rather die than talk really high and stick things up his butt. I suggested he wouldn't know until he tried, I said. 

—I don't talk high or stick things up my butt, Jason said.

—Well, I know that, but he hasn't fully come around yet, not that he has anyone in his life that he has to come around for. I don't think he has any kids. People with kids are just more open-minded, because they can really envision the future of the world in their children. That's not to say people without kids can't be open-minded; I've been childless for 25 years and I've been doing pretty good myself… I said. 

Only the ducks were listening. Jason was dragging his feet to the park exit, huffing the whole way, Airpods back in. I felt powerful. Mom and pops would be proud. If Michaela were here she'd say job well done. Dougie would put his hand on my knee. And Grandma, ha, she'd probably smack her lips together and look at the ripples in the water, because she wouldn't want to admit I did something right.

I never did anything up to Grandma's standards.  And after she died, my dad grew more bitter and his mustache grayed, and I could never do anything up to his standards.  Which was ironic, because he wasn't perfect himself. Every time we saw each other, his breath hit my face hard with a waft of coffee, which was gross. And, I didn't like his office; he never put paper away. He said it was easier for him to find stuff, but the piles just looked cluttered to me. But no, he was doing everything right, and I just didn't understand the world, even though I was the one learning from it. When I first brought my gay friend Zach home, Dad ignored me for the rest of the night, and I could sense shame in his voice the next morning at breakfast, along with his morning coffee.  He also thought I should be spending more time laboring in school than begging for tips behind counters. Whenever I'd bring home paper straws for the house he'd rub his temples and accuse me of not knowing anything, which I thought was unreasonable, because although he would not be there when the world suffocates us all, I would, and he didn't care. I got the same reaction when I tried to get him and mom into therapy. The times were changing, but he was a man of his tradition through and through. I can respect that, as was a woman of her own tradition. 

Dad would not take kindly to Puck; he'd probably insult his intelligence, because he did too much work for not enough reward. Speaking of Puck, there he was pulling into the corner of the parking lot.  His truck looked just as grimy as it did a week ago, because he always drove it through the mud and never washed it, but I'm not one to judge.  To be respectful, I kept my distance from him by standing outside the bathrooms; I needed to hold my breath to block out the mold from entering my nose. And I watched him. Little did I know, he was heading straight towards the bathrooms where I was standing.  I never wanted to speak with him again since he ditched me and Jason, so I just held my tongue and looked him up and down.

—The kid didn't even touch the bathrooms, he said.

—Well, he had no one telling him to do so, I said.

—Is he around? He said.

—I'm not telling you where he is, I said.

When he lifted the handle of the bucket, one of the rubber gloves fell off the side. He quickly snatched it and shoved it in his jeans pocket. He slowly made his way to the trunk, hauled the supplies onto it, started to go around to the driver's seat, but then stopped for a moment. He ran his plump hands over his stubble. 

—You know… you know nothing about ducks.  

—That's very random, I said. 

—You make up about 'em whatever tickles your fancy, and you don't think it's important to learn anything valuable. Turns out you treat people the same way, he said. 

—I do not need to be told what I'm doing wrong or right; I am an adult, thank you very much, I said. 

—Then start acting like one, he said. 

He forcefully pressed his hand onto his car's bumper, right where green paint stained the metal.  I took a step off the bathroom wall and into the grass. I could hear a bicycle ringing as it rolled over the wood bridge over by the butterfly garden. 

—He hates you now, and he never wants to see you again, I said. 

His hand dropped to his side, and the wood bridge rattling faded away. 

—Well… there's nothing I can do about that… I acted out of line last week, and I feel sorry, ok? If you see him tell him I'm sorry and that he shouldn't be ashamed. I would try to tell him myself, but it seems worse things might come from that, he said.

—I will do no such thing, I said brushing my hair out of my face.  

My hair was barely even in my face, but still, combing through it reminded me that my hair was soft and my hands were calloused. I felt so powerful, like I was claiming Grant Park as a safe space for the whole world.  With each word, a force field grew around the dancing trees and the dusty rocks and the ozone layer up above, so that under it, people like me or Jason had no need to worry, except for simple things like whether we should bring an umbrella.  I spoke so obnoxiously that the air became tight. 

—There’s nothing else to do, I said.

—That's it, then, he said.

He left the forcefield. 

I wondered how many people could say they saved a minor from getting abused by a pedophile.

Grant Park

People went through me like a revolving door, as in, they entered, they went around in circles, then they left, having gone unchanged. The growth happened somewhere else. People would come back to me with a new shirt, with a new girlfriend, with a new car their parents bought for them, with child, with wrinkles, or they'd never come back at all. A mother would push her baby on the swings, then the baby comes back taller and starts stumbling around the playground, and by that time there was another baby on the swings. That was how it went. People changed and grew up and moved around, but there was always a baby on the swings.  Once I saw the map of all their lives, they all began to look the same.  Unchanging.  Usually. 

It was a day late in the spring, and the sun was just beginning to turn violent.  Jason was taking his usual stroll, and Holly perched on her bench.  Puck was trimming bushes for the Crawford family living across the street, when his trimmer broke. Even though he didn't work at the park anymore, he kept the keys for the shed over by the baseball field, where he would grab a new pair.  Jason and Puck both happened to walk across the wooden bridge at the same time in the same direction. Their heads strained, even though they both looked straight ahead.  Jason forced his hands into his pockets, and Puck rubbed his beard. They kept their eyes downwards to the planks, until they got off the bridge. Puck picked up his pace and speed-walked back to his work.

In the rest of their time here, I never saw them speak to each other again.  Jason walked the slowest he ever did. Puck sweat more profusely than he ever had, and he ate pizza now. Holly visited the ducks more often than she visited her own home.   

And, in other news, Bunny, the duck with the wonky leg, passed away suddenly. His fluorescent neck laid limp against the shore line.

Nance, a cashier at the public market

Hi Nance from the future, 

I'm really sick and tired of rude people who can't get over themselves. I was working Aisle 5 at the Grant Public Market, and we were the only aisle open, and this boy, a teenager if I had to guess, came through with a cart full of junk food: oreos, doritos, and the like. He was a little pudgy, but I still assumed all those empty carbs were for a group of friends.  I asked him that. I said 'Got a big party going on?' He said, 'Just me, some Nirvana, and some paint remover.' I said, 'Doesn't sound like a very fun party!' He said, 'I never said it was a party,' which I thought was just mean-spirited. 

I'm ringing up this kid's items, when a man gets on line at the express line I can see in front of me. He clearly had way too many items to be using that line, lots of vegetables and grains, so I told him to get on my line. He gave me some slack, saying that he didn't have that many items, which was a lie. 'I'm good over here,' he said, like he could just break the rules casually. So then, after he said this, the pudgy kid got white and looked like he'd seen a ghost. I guessed he probably was embarrassed for the express line guy, who was making a fool of himself. Then, like a ghost, he just walked out the store, leaving me with all this crap. And I had just finished registering the six cartons of Oreos!  I tried to make the best of the situation, and I thought it would be funny to ask the healthy express line guy to see if he wanted to pay for all these Oreos. And he ignored me. He heard me, clearly because he was standing right in front of me.  But he didn't give me the time of day; he just slapped his crap into a bag. When he was leaving I said, 'have a good day, sir,' and he didn't have the decency to say anything back. 

It's people like that who make me wish I worked somewhere else where everyone is pleasant and happy to see one another, like the beach. Although I don't like the beach, the weather's too moody.  The butterfly garden at Grant Park would be a nice one, too. Who can be mean in a butterfly garden? I'm going to look into a job there.  Hold me to it!

-Your present self,

Nance.