In bed, she is still sleeping, even as the sun begins its rise.  Standing silent at the window, I see her just past my reflection, her hair mussed, her curls covering her eyes.  She is wearing my school sweater and her breathing is sweet and light.  I straighten my tie and remember that we are young and how in our most private moments, I’ve told her all my dreams – not yet erstwhile but getting there.  I part my hair with precision and I am looking well.

They are listed from A to Z – World Book and Britannica, industry stalwarts who sneer at the new and modern.  But even they’ve been wise to jump into a binary clicking world.  But somewhere there is a market for this.  And aren’t I sincere in delivery?  Sweet in humour?  Aggressive but never pushy?  I believe that these books are worth reading.  I believe these tomes need a home on your shelves.  I believe that it’s better to read something on paper than on a screen.  So, I stare at my hardcover livelihood, each meticulously printed with gold foil on edges.  Zipped carefully in a carry-on bag, I roll them out the front door.  I am already starting to sweat.

I roam throughout the city, using a mental grid.  The rich won’t suffer to meet me.  The poor are simply suffering.  So, I search for a shrinking middle.  At worst, I can hook them on intellectual pretensions.  Even if they are ignored and seldom read, they will look nice on shelves.  At best, I can convince them that somewhere along the line, we’ve lost our inner bearing.  Our drive toward curiosity has been nibbled away by sound bites and trite proclamations.  And I might as well be selling pencils and paper, but how to convince people of the efficacy of words born of physical movement, hand to pencil, pencil to parchment, the beauty of script?  I sell heavy books instead.  If they’ll permit me an audience, I’ll show them the special benefits of tropical fish on glossy finish or the quaint drama of Alexander Hamilton’s life mapped out on two sheets of paper.  From the alpha to the omega, the beginning to end, one can possess so much on a fraction of wall space, nestled between aquariums, ferns and cable TV.  I’ll mention Gutenberg’s press and how we can all own symbols of what was once the common man’s dream, access and understanding.  Flesh on wood: I move from door to door and my knuckles are callused from the knocking.  In Portuguese, they mutter that I am high-falutin’.  In Polish, I must be plotting trouble.

For lunch, I eat an apple in the suburbs.  Ducks feed on crumbs floating down a stream.  Trophies turned chubby pass by.  With my daily luggage, I imagine I look like a businessman who has lost his way, miles from any airport.  Perhaps I’ve missed my plane.  Or perhaps I’ve no idea where I am going.  But of course, I am here, simply gathering my breath.  Yes, I will sell three sets today.  I will re-center my heart on God.  I will choose to be simple.  I will refuse to be shady.  I’ll find that goodness matters.  I’ll believe this is a winning formula somewhere.  The weather is getting humid and no manner of unbuttoning or repositioning can fix it.  So, I sit still and intentionally satisfied, watching the sun hit leaves or mallards bobbing in and out of the water.  But the humidity settles and moves like a drifting down comforter and it makes us sleepy.  It unravels my creases and softens the afternoon.  Does intent make for purpose or do we also need progress?  I wonder what she is doing right now.

I manage to find entrance with a retired couple and separately, an immigrant family just two weeks fresh.  I leave brochures and go on my way.  I call it laying the groundwork for empire.

She is sympathetic and doting when I return.  The doorway embrace is simple and clean.  I like her smell.  The clink of forks, knives, unbreakable plates and chuckling conversation follows.  I’ve found that with each passing day that turns into months that turns into years, the universe is expanding.  It’s one understanding of the physics of time and of two-flesh-turned-one.  The city looms higher, the boundaries stretch outward and the mental grid that guides me fades.  It’s like the Big Bang where we were at the center of some massive explosion and suddenly everything went and became so much more than just us hoping and holding hands.  At the growing edges, like waves on sand, a cosmic reach was grasping and pulling, stretching past former limits.

In boxes, stacked to a garage ceiling, a gilded, illustrated alphabet gathers dust.  I open to the Puffer Fish who makes his way through all the currents, never truly able to grasp the depth and expanse of the sea.  When afraid, he puffs himself up to be bigger and more capable than he really is – like a smallish man swinging his fists, telling naysayers to back away.  Existence is timeless and moment-to-moment for a prickly creation.  Fascinated, I turn to Pizarro, the conquistador of things, big and remembered.  Hardship and a brutal climate decimated his troops but he trudged onward to take hold of the Incas.  He ransomed the life of a king for a room filled with gold and silver piled high.

It’s evening.  I’d like to tell her about the potential evolution of dreams, tied so deeply to the promises I’ve made her.  But we’re caught in the swell and undertow of what’s already been spoken; I find she is sleeping earlier and waking later.  And so, I watch reruns of Carson on cable and study the folds in her nightgown, mustering the ritual gumption to keep believing.  If I laugh, I’ll wake her; so instead, I smile broadly at Animal Hijinks and the Great Carsoni. 

Sleep carries us to the clean break of morning.  Compressed tightly, pushing at seams, the sun perpetually chases the horizon.  Deeply in love, pressing firmly, aching for small victories, I am making an omelet. 

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Ike (1890-1969)

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Natural Hunger