Chaos and Control(22)

“She was gone for three years, tramping around the country doing Lord knows what. I’d hardly call that a trip,” Mom interjects, never looking up from her shucking.

“Yes, Mother, only the Lord knows what. I can give you a rundown if you’d like. Shall we start with the Rastafarians in Queens or the Whispering Pines Nudist Colony of Clearwater, Florida?”

“No, Wren. I do not need to hear all the sordid details of your travels,” Mom says.

“I’m sure there were good things, too. Right, Wren?” Bennie asks, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. It’s an old habit of hers—one that only appears in this house. “What about the postcard you sent from Austin? Weren’t you volunteering at a homeless shelter there?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I was living in one.”

“My God will cast them away because they have not listened to Him; And they will be wanderers among the nations.”

Bennie’s eyes snap to Mom, and she glares at her. While I learned to grow indifferent to their judgment, Bennie never did. Every time they lay that crap on us, it eats away at her. She lets them poke at her like a bear in the zoo. I’ve been running interference ever since I understood the notion.

“How’s the church, Rev?” I ask, focusing my attention on the newly formed wrinkles cutting into the leathered skin around his eyes.

“Good,” Dad says. “Real good. Biggest congregation yet. We’re thinking of expanding the hall to hold more people. Imagine that. You should come by on Sunday.”

“They all follow your father, a true man of God, to lead them from sin. The lips of the righteous nourish many, but fools die for lack of sense. Proverbs 10:21.”

“Wise men say only fools rush in,” I say. “Elvis Presley, 1972.” Bennie grins and shakes her head at me. “What? I thought we were playing a quoting game. We seem to be incapable of actual conversation.”

“That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” my mother says.

“And I thought it would be my promiscuity and lack of respect for authority figures.” I stand quickly. The chair I am sitting in topples over and hits the floor with a loud thwack. “Well, it was great seeing you. Thrilling, as always. Bennie?”

Daddy gives me a nod, while my mother gives nothing at all.

Bennie stands, and we make our way toward the door. She pulls the front door open and sighs deeply. “Why do we even bother?”

“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you,” my mother calls out from the kitchen.

“Honor this,” I say and flip my middle finger in their general direction. Even though I know they can’t see me, it makes me feel better.

Bennie chuckles and pulls me out of the house. We pass the mailbox and turn left at the corner, never looking back.





Another shared meal

And she’s feeding me lines Claiming my need for order Is contagious

Perpendicular and parallel lines Of utensils

Prove her point

Her truth-speak is equally infectious When I hear admissions slip out I try to catch them

But they are water pouring through fingertips When they are laid between us A third place setting at this table She eats it up

A spoonful of sugar and all - Preston





Chapter Eight


Kind of Blue


I perch on the arm of the couch and watch Preston organize the jazz section for the third time this afternoon. Miles Davis plays through the speakers. The music is so breathtaking, so humble. Bennie sits at the front counter, flipping through a magazine. It’s such a stark contrast to the way things used to be around here. The store itself seems like an overly organized shell of the party place I knew. There used to be such a vibrant energy—disco lights and beaded curtains, music so loud the front windows rattled. Bennie and I would dance in the aisles. We’d crank up some Jackson 5 and jump around until we were breathless. These days, she barely leaves her post near the register.

“What’s your process?” I say to Preston’s back.

His fingers stop flipping through the stacks, and he looks over his shoulder. His profile is all Ralph Lauren model, and his body is Levi’s Vintage. The jeans that sit on his hips hang there like they’ve never belonged anywhere else. His plain white T-shirt leaves nothing to the imagination.

“What do you mean ‘process’?”

“I mean,” I say, walking over and standing next to him. “How are you organizing them?”

“Alphabetically and then chronologically,” Preston answers. He returns his attention to the stacks, but doesn’t pick up from where he left off. Instead, he starts over at the front of the pile.

“I would have pegged you as more of a subgenre kind of guy. Bebop, Big Band, Gypsy, Latin, Mainstream, Swing, Traditional.”

Preston’s fingers freeze again. He rests his hand on top of the records, and he turns to face me now.

“Subgenres would be too complicated. Some musicians were crossover artists. While one album would fit into one subgenre, it may complicate things for general fans of that artist. Besides, some of the subgenres can be defined chronologically. Alphabetical is concrete, it’s not subjective.”

The deep timbre of his voice, talking all nerdy to me about music, has me flustered. His pretty face is expressionless, so I know he’s serious. His love of music and vinyl and threadbare shirts makes Preston the personification of every naughty fantasy I’ve ever had.