Sorta Like a Rock Star(36)

He had said I could read any poem in the sections segmented by the blue and red and black plastic dividers, but he didn’t want me to look at the pages between the green dividers. Of course, I turned to the green section just as soon as PJ was out of the room, and he seemed to stay in the kitchen for a very long time—way longer than it takes to make tea—so maybe he wanted me to read the Vietnam haikus, I don’t know. But from what I have gathered from reading his haikus—because he doesn’t tell me squat about his life—it seems like Private Jackson started writing haikus in the jungle, maybe as a means of staying sane, and he just never stopped writing haikus when he came home.





CHAPTER 11





“So what is bothering you today?” PJ says as he hands me a steaming hot cup of green tea.

“What? Can’t I just visit you for no reason at all?”

“You only come when you’re sad.”

“Joan of Old hit me with a whole bunch of new depressing Nietzsche quotes, but I eventually made her smile,” I say, and then sip my tea, which tastes like mown grass. Green tea is an acquired taste that I have not yet acquired, but I drink it like a woman for Private Jackson, mostly because it’s all he keeps in his house other than water. He mostly eats rice and roots, so no snacking here either.

“How’d you get her to smile this week?” he asks, which makes me pause, because he usually never asks me any questions about anything. This is as lively as PJ gets when it comes to conversation. This is Private Jackson on speed.

“I kissed her. And I said a bunch of funny stuff too. Hey, do you think I have a dinosaur face? You can be honest with me. If you were seventeen would you want to get all hot and heavy with me, or no? And if no, is it because I have a dinosaur face? You can be totally honest with me.”

“I think you are exactly as you should be. You are perfect for this moment.”

“More Zen hooey.”

“Do you have any poems for me?”

I reach into my pocket and hand him a sheet of paper housing eight doggie haikus written by yours truly.

Private Jackson reads my poetry very slowly as he slurps his tea with this very determined look on his face—almost like he is taking a dump or something.

“Which is your favorite,” I say after—like five minutes. He’s still reading, contemplating each set of seventeen syllables as if they were new constellations that suddenly appeared in the sky one night. He’s a crazy serious cat sometimes.

“They are all perfect,” he says without looking up.

“No Zen bullcrap. Which one is your favorite?”

“I cherish them all equally and will hang them on the wall just as soon as you leave, finding the perfect spot for your words.”

“Which do you think is the funniest then?”

Private Jackson reads them all over again and then a little smile blooms on his face. He reads number four very dramatically, saying, “Dogs go into the—bedroom and get funky wild—humans drink green tea.”

“Tried to capture the present moment,” I say.

“You certainly have.”

“You want to meet Donna?” I say, because I’ve been telling Private Jackson that I could hook him up with the sexiest woman he has ever seen in his life—and she’s rich ta boot!

“No.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing out on, and—”

“How do you like your tea?” he asks politely.

“Tastes like grass.”

“Grass is natural. Grass is good.”

And then we sip tea in silence until Ms. Jenny and BBB come out of the bedroom, walking like they are a little drunk or something, with this crazy look in their eyes.

“Only dogs can truly love,” Private Jackson says.

“You could know love, my friend,” I say. “Donna is a catch. She is—like—very hot.”

“I will wash your teacup now,” Private Jackson says.

I hand him the teacup and say, “Can I give you a hug before I leave?”

“I would be honored to shake the hand of such an accomplished poet,” he says like always, so when he extends his hand, I hold it with both of mine for as long as Jackson will let me.

“You’re a good man, Jackson,” I say, looking him in the eyes, “and a great poet.”

“I will wash the teacups now,” he says, and then he drops my hand, turns his back, and walks into the kitchen.

And so BBB and I hop on Donna’s bike again and ride it back to her house.

When we arrive, I don’t really want to go inside for some reason, but B Thrice needs to eat, so I go in for the sake of my doggie’s health.

Donna all but sprints into the kitchen when she hears the back door open and says, “Did something happen to you, Amber?”

“No. Why?” I say without making eye contact, even though I realize she was worried because I didn’t make dinner, and then I make my way over to the cabinet where BBB’s cans are kept.

I pop one open and feed B Thrice.

He starts pigging out, because he’s always hungry after making love to Ms. Jenny.

“Did Joan of Old finally make you cry?” Donna asks, looking genuinely concerned.

“Almost, but I got her to smile with a big, sloppy sneak-attack kiss. She’s protesting the battle, because she says kissing is illegal, but it’s pretty much a bullcrap claim, and Old Man Thompson is never going to side with Joan of Old, because of that time when she called the cops and tried to get him thrown out of the home by placing a restraining order on him, because he was looking at her funny.”