Oh, Mish/Marcia, what a chore
getting to you! And I didn’t
even know you were here
waiting—minor footnote
in this crappy bio of Danny
Beaver. (Truly a shit-kick
of a trek.) FYI, I’m still kind of
hooked on Danny B., five years
dead, lesser known (aren’t we
all) writer, memorable teacher:
I wasn’t the only student
who trotted their backpack
of pent-up adolescent (or—
ahem—middle-aged) angst
into the welcoming towns
of Danny’s iris-blue eyes, laid
a weight down to rest. Hence my
willingness to slog through pages
of “pitch” penned by a childhood
friend (fiend?) of Danny’s
to scavenge what I can of this
man I will never sleep with. Here’s
an amazement: I wrangled
a sketchy wiki-reference (not link!)
to the ground to score this .pdf.
(If I didn’t have access to
obscure legal journals
(yes, legal journals—
I could explain, but won’t)
Mish/Marcia I wouldn’t know
you ever existed.) I pretty much skip-
to-my-Lou through the 200 page mess,
except, the paragraph where your cameo
spikes the meaningless
minutia quotient to such heights
I bow down in marvel: “Marcia F__,
who went by Mish Z__
when she was growing up
in Danville, drove from
Springfield to Mattoon
for Danny’s hometown reading
even though she was in the early
stages of terminal cancer.”
ARGH. At least I know these
towns—I hail from central Illinois.
I’m not even going to address
the “shocking” notion of
someone with cancer
going for a spin. Or why we need
multiple names of a character
mentioned ONCE. (This isn’t
a Russian novel.) Mish/Marcia,
you’ve never met Danny, but you’re
a friend of a friend, so here you be
witnessing the blue-eyed Florida
transplant returned home to share
his wares. The Mattoon chapter
slides from sixth grade math
memories, to summer swims,
Cardinal batting averages
and God knows where else.
It’s only on second troll that I
snag the narrative’s more relevant
ghost: “The book signing over,
Danny and I shook hands . . . .
It was the last time I saw
Marcia F., too. After the reading,
the two spent the night
together” [Whoa] [Whoa]
[Whoa]. Wham, you just met
and here you’re grand
slamming the silver-
haired auteur I’ve damp-
dreamed about for decades?
The chapter’s last sentence:
“Two years later, Marcia
was dead.”
Hmmm. Wow. Okay.
Danville and Springfield and
Urbana (Urbana born, I’d be
remiss to omit her!). And
of course, Mattoon. Life.
Death. (Sex.) We all
connect. Truly, does anyone
living know exactly what
that “spent night” entailed?
Both you and Danny are gone.
Maybe you went to Shoney’s
for a cup of coffee. However,
we can only assume . . .
(I’d just like a whiff).
Voila! fifteen years post
mortem, your obit (with photo)
persists. Here, at 61, you’re simply
“Marcia.” Attractive, but not melt-
worthy: thinning, below-the-ear
streaked coif; brows, lips—
an Irish line; I detect the small-town
interior design in you. The marriage,
the divorce. Nothing to write home
about. I dig up your daughters,
their own doe-eyed young, whom
you’ll never meet (this side of
things). Their beauty stops me
in my tracks. Click back
to funeral home toasts: “If I could
live with half Marcia’s grace, her
humor” (say more, damn it!);
“Twenty years ago, we sang, laughed,
danced, disagreed about Dr. Laura,
became instant friends.” Some
from women, as many from men.
Longing thumps my chest; to be
other than the interior girl
(the world too much, too loud)
I am. Let go. Let be. Pulse
of minutes/moments,
your browns meet
my blues, singular,
plural, outside place
and time, we
surely own a truth.