Collateral (30 page)

interpretation of the piece. I'm glad

I know most of these poems, and

understand the poets' intent.

Still, seeing them in this way

brings a deeper meaning. I love

it. A few kids definitely rise to

the top. We narrow it to five, ask

them to perform again so we can

rank them. The winner will go

on to represent San Diego at

the state level. There are five

of us judging, and our scores

are averaged. The girl who finishes

first totally rocked it. “Thanks for

inviting me to do this,” I tell

Jonah, once we've wrapped it up.

“If you ever need another judge

for one of these, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

These kids have such great energy.”

How's
your
energy? I'd love to take

you to dinner. To thank you. And

then, if you're not too tired, there's

a slam downtown tonight. Have you

ever been to one? If you enjoyed

this, you'll go crazy over that.

I should say no. But he's so sweet,

and I am hungry. And I've never

been to an actual slam, though

I've always meant to go to one. Oh,

why not? It's Saturday, and all I'll

do is go home and wonder what

Cole's up to. So I say, “I'd like that.”

I've never eaten here. Too pricey

for my budget. But I've heard

about it. The décor is simple

dark wood, polished so it glows

in the low light. Brass and crystal

embellishments add glitter.

It's early yet, but the place hums.

“Are you sure we can get in?”

He grins.
I was an Eagle Scout,

you know, and I live by the motto,

“Always be prepared.” I made

a reservation. Hoping you'd say yes.

We wait only a few minutes before

the maître d' escorts us to a table

in back. Jonah pulls out the chair

for me, more gentleman than explorer.

“Were you really an Eagle Scout?”

You betcha.
He sits across from me,

stretching his long legs toward mine,

the warmth of them obvious, even

without contact.
My dad signed me up

for Cub Scouts the day I turned seven.

I glance at his hair, which hangs

straight down to his collar.

My expression must change

because he says,
What? You

don't think I look like a scout?

I think my feelings are hurt.

But he laughs, so he must be

joking. Why is it so hard to tell?

Maybe because Cole is always

so serious. And why must I over-

think everything, anyway?

The waiter arrives to take our

drink order.
Red wine okay?
I nod,

so he orders an expensive Napa

Valley cabernet. The waiter seems

pleased.
So, what looks good?

I scan the menu. Oh, my God.

How much do college professors

make? “I, uh . . . don't know. Maybe

a dinner salad?” Maybe just water.

Hey, now. I didn't ask you to

go dutch, you know. You're not

a vegetarian, are you? All the beef

here is locally raised and hormone

free. I suggest the blackened filet.

I refuse to look at the price.

I haven't had a really brilliant

steak for a long time. “I'll take

your word for it. Sounds good.”

Back comes the waiter, plus wine.

He opens it, invites Jonah to taste.

Very good, thanks.
Once our glasses

are poured, Jonah orders our meals.

Filets, medium for me, rare for himself.

Baked potatoes. Salads with balsamic.

The slightest bit suspicious when a guy

seems to intuit things like the way

I like my steak cooked, or that balsamic

is my favorite dressing. He looks at me

for approval, of course. What can I do,

but give it? “Did you do a background

check on me? Or maybe you've been

peeking in my windows?” The thought

makes me blush. I'm glad it's dark

in here. “Or, are you just psychic?”

No background checks and not

psychic. I'll keep you guessing

about the windows. Um, but if

I were a betting man, I'd say

blinds, not curtains.
At my raised

eyebrows, he laughs.
I'm just good

at assessing people. You watch

your weight. Balsamic. You have taste

but are conservative. Medium beef.

Okay, I like that he thinks I watch

my weight. Not much, but whatever.

I have taste. Good. But the conservative

thing bugs me. “Wait a minute.

I'm one hundred percent progressive.”

Really? Not sure how I missed that.

A dedicated liberal would be hard

pressed to give up her dreams to make

other people happy. Don't get mad.

That's only what you've told me.

But only because this little voice

keeps whispering, “He's right.”

Okay, I've told him more than

I should have. Given him insights

few enough even care to know.

What is it about him that makes

me want to expose my innermost

eccentricities? Did I just think

of myself as eccentric? Damn it.

He's
eccentric. I mean, he teaches

poetry
, at a university. Does he have

a PhD in poetry? What does that take?

And why does he have to be so freaking

intriguing? Okay, I really must chill.

The best defense is a solid offense.

I'm ready to spar. “So, how did an Army

brat end up teaching poetry? What did

your parents have to say about that?”

You know, I blame my mom. All that

Dr. Seuss got me completely hooked.

He's funny. And totally charming.

“No, really. I'm being serious.”

So am I. Growing up, we didn't have

a lot of things because we moved

pretty often and Mom hated all that

packing and unpacking. But she was

a rabid book lover, and insisted on

reading out loud to my brothers and me.

Wherever we went, one of our first

stops was always the library. Books

were our entertainment. Books, and

BB guns. That was pretty much it.

The salads come and the waiter

refills our glasses. I wait until

he's finished before I ask Jonah,

“How many brothers do you have?”

I had three. But I lost one four years

ago. In Fallujah. The other two

are still in the Army. Lifers, like Dad.

They used to tease that I must have

been adopted because I just never

had an interest in artillery. I was,

in fact, born a pacifist. A hippie gene

must have snuck in there somewhere.

As we eat our salads—the dressing

is exceptional—and move on to

the perfectly seasoned steaks.

I keep stealing glances at Jonah,

who cuts his meat delicately.

Gracefully. Some might find it

borderline feminine, but he is all

man. Enigmatic, because despite

a definite hippie gene influence,

he maintains the self-assurance

of a soldier. Nurture, nature, or

both. He is utterly fascinating.

Teacher. Wine connoisseur.

Rider of the Banzai Pipeline.

“So, where did you learn to surf?”

He takes the time to swallow.

In Hawaii. My dad was stationed

at Fort Shafter when I was in high

school. It was the first place I really

felt at home. Like I belonged there.

I went to a public high school, and

pretty much everyone surfed. Not

only did I pick it up right away, but

when I discovered riding, I found

myself. Right there in the ocean.

Riding big water? That liberated

me. It's something my brothers

would never do. And it takes almost

as much courage as facing bullets.

I like the sound of that. I think

I need to ride bigger water.

We finish dinner. Turn down

dessert in favor of getting to

the theater a little earlier.

The poetry slam is similar to

the spoken word competition,

except the poets perform their

own original work. Some of it

is funny. Some of it is sexy.

Some of it reflects the time—

unemployment, foreclosure.

War. Depression. Loss. A couple

of times as people take the stage

Jonah lets me know they were

in his classes at some point.

See that guy there?
he whispers.

He actually gets paid to teach

performance poetry at schools.

Pretty cool gig, don't you think?

I do, actually. Making a living

doing something creative, not

to mention something you love,

has immense appeal. It's a great

evening, topping off a fabulous day.

On the way home, I find myself

happy. Why does that strike

me as strange? How long has it

been since I've felt content?

What's even more interesting

is this feeling has nothing to do

with alcohol—two glasses of wine

at dinner, and that was hours ago—

or pills. It's all about the activity,

and the company, and the idea

that life brims with possibility.

When we get to the apartment,

Jonah walks me to the door.

“Thanks so much for today.”

Suddenly, I'm afraid to go inside,

back to the isolation I've created

for myself. I put my key in the lock,

wishing I could invite him in for

a nightcap. But that could go all

kinds of wrong. Jonah smiles.

Reading my mind again?
Thanks

for helping out today, and for your

company tonight. I really enjoyed

the day. See you in class Monday.

Before he can turn away, I give

him a quick hug, more thank you

than invitation. He looks surprised,

but pleasantly so. “Night.” I go inside,

surprised by myself. In many ways.

I find myself wishing I had

taken Jonah's hand, coaxed

him in for that nightcap.

Sometimes it's just so tiresome

playing the martyr role.

Before I really understood

what sex could be, it was

easy enough to convince myself

I didn't need it. I mean, if you

don't enjoy it, shun it! Cole taught

me how to love it. And I do,

with him. But every now and then

I wonder if it's only because

I'm with Cole, or if the lessons

he's taught me could make me

love it as much, or more, with someone

else. Is an orgasm the same with

every partner? Sitting here, buzzed,

I imagine being with Jonah.

My hand slips down between my legs

where fantasy has made me wet.

When I finish, I write it as a pantoum.

by Ashley Patterson

Even a small bed is too big, alone.

She lies half-awake, draws stuttered breath,

listens to memory's bittersweet drone,

wonders if silence comes cloaked in death.

Not quite awake, she draws stuttered breath,

promises shattering on her pillow.

She wonders if silence comes cloaked in death,

as her storm clouds begin to billow.

Promises shattering on her pillow,

she conjures the image she cannot dismiss,

seeding her storm clouds. They billow

with the black remembrance of his kiss.

She conjures the image she cannot dismiss,

summons the heat of his skin on her skin,

the black remembrance of his kiss,

desire, abandoned somewhere within.

She summons the heat of his skin on her skin,

opens herself to herself, in disguise,

recovers desire, abandoned within.

Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes

And opens herself to herself, in disguise,

listens to memory's bittersweet drone.

Heart beating ghosts, she closes her eyes,

knowing her small bed is too big, alone.

Suggest the belief that someone

is in your room, in your bed, where

you can hear them breathing and

feel their hands at your throat,

even though, in reality, no one

is actually there, can be explained