THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A HURRICANE

By Ben Greenman

Apologies to Wallace Stevens and everyone.

I.

In a season of bad weather,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the hurricane.

II.

I was of three minds

Of how to beat it,

Denial, paper towels, or nukes.

III.

The hurricane whirled over the summer ocean.

It was a large part of the weather map.

IV.

A man and a woman 

Are one.

A man and a woman and a hurricane

Are one.

V.

I do not know which to prefer

The beauty of destruction 

Or the beauty of disaster management,

The hurricane gusting

Or just after.

VI.

Streaks of rain in the window

Give the sense of shatter.

The shadow of the hurricane

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the shadow

Terror and loss.

VII.

O thin men and women of meteorology,

Why do you speak about the climate?

Do you not see how the hurricane

Can be beaten by paper towels

Or by a nuclear bomb?

VIII.

I know paper towels are

The best and most absorbent;

But I know, too,

That I control the nukes.

Isn’t that exciting?

IX.

When the hurricane flew out of sight

It went as it came

In a symphony of circles.

X.
At the sight of hurricanes

Looming in a bruised light,

I tried to put

My finger on the button.

XI.

It wasn’t my first choice

Like I said before.

Once, I threw paper towels

In Puerto Rico.

People caught them

Lovingly.

XII.

The paper towels in the air

Go in a straight windless line.

XIII.

It was evening all afternoon.

The light stepped down.

And it was going to rain.

The nuke came in

Whistling its helpful song.

FRAGMENTS FROM “BLAGOJEVICH! THE MUSICAL”

By Ben Greenman

Originally Composed January 2009

[It is 2008. BARACK OBAMA wins the Presidency handily over John McCain.]

BARACK OBAMA:

America is beautiful

A place of possibility

Where great power can coexist

With great responsibility

I’ll soon be sworn in on the Capitol steps

Looking out west toward the Lincoln Memorial

But before that day, I must address

Some matters senatorial

[BARACK OBAMA vacates his Illinois Senate seat. The responsibility of appointing a replacement falls to the unpopular Illinois governor ROD BLAGOJEVICH.]

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

My numbers are bad

There’s no denying it

I’ve tried and I’ve tried

But the voters aren’t buying it

My approval rating’s at four per cent

That hits me like a ton of bricks

What can I do to help my case

With the other ninety-six?

[JOHN HARRIS, Blagojevich’s chief of staff, enters the office.]

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

Disapproval’s no fun

It’s a hard state to run

Plus, the hours and the stress

Man, I’m really a mess

JOHN HARRIS:

Much as I like this psychodrama

We have business on the table

To replace Senator Obama

As selfishly as we are able

Wait: did I say selfishly?

I meant honestly. I mean,

“Selfishly” is dirty pool

And we are scrupulously clean

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

John. You’re blinking. Why?

Is there something in your eye?

JOHN HARRIS:

Winking, not blinking

My God, you’re slow

No wonder your numbers

Are so low

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

You’ll have to be clear

About wheelings and dealings

Four per cent, John!

It hurts my feelings

And makes it hard to concentrate

Have I mentioned that I’ve put on some weight?

JOHN HARRIS:

This appointment

Should make you feel glad

It’s not a fly in the ointment

But gains to be had

[JOHN HARRIS explains to ROD BLAGOJEVICH how the Senate seat can be sold. Down the street from the Governor’s office, BILL, a federal agent, is sitting in a van drinking coffee and monitoring the Governor’s wiretap. There is a van ahead of him and another behind him.]

BILL:

I feel useless, half dead

I feel like a vagrant

It’s cold and boring

I’m full of frustration

This long conversation

Has me nodding and snoring

Nothing that flagrant

Ever gets said

All the other agents are acting like schmucks

They stranded me here and went off to Starbucks

[JOHN HARRIS and ROD BLAGOJEVICH enter the Governor’s office. BILL switches on the tape.]

BILL:

Ho hum

The fox is in the den

Ho hum

Here we go again

JAMES HARRIS:

Let’s talk now

About the sale

Of Obama’s seat

The plan can’t fail

[BILL does a spit take.]

BILL:

Wha? What the eff?

Is this some perverse trick?

JOHN HARRIS:

Let’s make certain we get

The most for our pick

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

I’ve dreamed of this since I was a boy

A Senate seat in Illinois

Do you know the value of what I’m holding?

I’ve got this thing and it’s fucking golden

BILL:

Holy moly. Holy hell.

Did he say what I think he said?

He can’t really be serious

My heart is racing. My face is red.

JOHN HARRIS:

Let’s take what we want

In exchange for what we give

It’s a jungle, and only

The craftiest can live

BILL:

Holy hat rack. Holy cow

Is he truly prepared to peddle the seat?

I need to get the other guys

Jack and Manny and Don and Pete

[BILL runs outside to get the other agents, JACK, MANNY, DON, and PETE. He finds them in Starbucks.]

JACK:

What’s the big idea, Bill?

I’m drinking a latte, which means we’re busy

Your face is flushed and your shirt’s untucked

You look like you’re in quite a tizzy.

[BILL gestures but cannot speak.]

DON:

Slow down, man,

And catch your breath

BILL:

You know that

Shakespeare play “Macbeth”?

PETE:

No. Well, maybe

MANNY:

Por supuesto

BILL:

Well, the Governor is twice as nuts

What he’s done might lead to arrest…oh,

I want it to be a surprise

Come to the van and listen, guys

[BILL leads JACK, MANNY, DON, and PETE back into his van and gives them all headphones. They sit and listen to ROD BLAGOJEVICH’s conversations.]

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

Pepperoni on just one half

Also send a mushroom, large

Don’t bother telling me the price

I don’t think I should get charged

JACK:

This is only pizza, Bill

MANNY:

Si—what did we come here for?

DON:

I left a half-full mocha frappucino

Back there at the store

[BILL motions for them to listen. JOHN HARRIS and an AIDE enter the conversation.]

JOHN HARRIS:

Other men will hint and hint

Pussyfoot around the matter

I’m not going to waste your time

With whispered words and cunning chatter

Strategies will just delay it

Why not come right out and say it?

Let’s take Obama’s Senate seat

And sell it to the highest bidder

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

Where should we start? Three million? Four?

JOHN HARRIS:

This is something to consider

Or if there’s no cash in the deal

A Cabinet post has appeal

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

You know how the wheels turn

It pays to be nice to the nice

Health and Human Services

Will be my final price

AIDE:

This seems wrong. This seems untoward

Of course, influence moves the gears

But the process isn’t so direct

You should really wait two years

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

No one gets this seat for free

Otherwise I’ll just keep it for me

Anyway, let’s all think more

I think that I’ll be leaving now

I’m going home. I’ll see you

JOHN HARRIS:

Ciao

[During ROD BLAGOJEVICH’s drive home, BILL and the other agents discuss what they have heard.]

PETE:

He’s trading the seat for a Cabinet post?

This guy is crazy. He’s finished. He’s toast

DON:

Hold on a second

Don’t be so hasty

I know that scandal

Is alluring and tasty

But let’s slow down

This is a man’s life

Let’s see what happens

When he talks to his wife

JACK:

They certainly seem

Like schemers and liars

But I’m holding my breath

To see what transpires

[ROD BLAGOJEVICH arrives at his home. PATRICIA BLAGOJEVICH greets him at the door.]

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

Hi, honey

What’s up?

How was your day?

PATRICIA BLAGOJEVICH:

There’s a phone call

From Deputy Governor A.

[ROD BLAGOJEVICH goes to the phone. In the wire-tapping van, BILL scrambles to press record.]

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

You have reached

The Blagojeviches

DEPUTY GOVERNOR A.:

Those Tribune scumbags

Should sleep with the fishes.

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

What do you propose?

Harming the writers who compose

The paper’s editorials?

That’s far too dictatorial.

JACK:

See

I exhaled

Cooler heads

Have prevailed

[PATRICIA BLAGOJEVICH grabs the phone from her husband’s hands.]

PATRICIA BLAGOJEVICH:

Fuck them all

I’m so mad I could spit

Fire the writers

And hold up that Cubs shit

Whoever dares to interfere

With us will simply disappear

Their faces I’ll slap

Their necks I will break

I’ll cut them to the bone

Like the wind off the lake

[The federal agents all stare at one another.]

JACK:

Oh my God

Oh my God

Thank you, Lord

Thank you, Rod

Most of all, I give thanks

To our wonderful host Bill

In the past I doubted you

But now I never will

DON:

This is huge

This is huge

A gigantic eruption

Of political panic

And naked corruption

PETE:

Your face is all aglow

And each eye is like a moon

MANNY:

¡Ay caramba! ¡Dios mio!

I think that I may swoon

[The next day, federal agents arrest ROD BLAGOJEVICH and JOHN HARRIS.]

JOHN HARRIS:

This is just outrageous!

ROD BLAGOJEVICH:

What are you implying?

ARRESTING AGENT:

When you get to jail

Say hi to George Ryan

[BILL, MANNY, JACK, DON, and PETE are still in their van, overcome with shock and joy. That night, there is a heavy snowfall. The agents are trapped. They subsist on protein bars for a few days and then perish. When they are found, they are all grinning.]

THE HAMMER’S NOT FOR THAT

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

Timothy keeps a hammer in a box under his bed. Where are the nails? There are no nails. The hammer’s not for that, as he’ll explain to anyone who will listen. Almost no one will listen, so he says it louder and louder. “The hammer’s not for that. The hammer’s not for that! The hammer’s not for that!!” His mom hears him the third time and comes into the room. “Put that away,” she says. He hadn’t meant for her to hear him, even at his loudest. Her voice is not loud. It’s soft, like his voice was the first time he said the hammer wasn’t for that. He puts the hammer away, somewhat red-faced now. His mom goes out of the room, and the second the door closes he wonders if she was real. How do you know for sure if a person is real if you can’t see them? He knows the hammer is real. He cannot see it because the box is closed, but he remembers it. He cannot un-remember it. He builds back the reality of his mom from that example. He slides the box with the hammer under his bed. Then he reaches over his head to the small bookshelf that has been above his bed since it was a crib and grabs a comic book. He hates regular books. They are for kids who are dorks and jerks, dumb kids who act smart. He is a smart kid who acts dumb, and he feels the rightness of that decision on every page of the comic book. Such freedom! Such comfort! Whatever expectations others might have of him, he can just smash them flat. The hammer’s not for that either.

He cannot sleep. He leans over the side of his bed, slides out the box, and looks at it. He lives in his room most of the time, except when he’s living in the basement where the television is, or at school where other kids also live for part of every weekday, or at a restaurant, or at the supermarket with his mom, or along the side of the road where he sometimes stands and looks for his father’s car. This requires special planning, especially where worrying is concerned. If it is a rainy day, he must let the water fall into him without worrying about catching a cold. (But rain causes colds, doesn’t it?) If it is a sunny day, he must squint against the light without worrying that it is putting cancer in his skin. (But the sun is one of cancer’s main suppliers, isn’t it?) If he does not know whether the day will be sunny or rainy, he must venture out onto the sidewalk and walk along the road without worrying if it will eventually be a cold day, or a hot day, or a windy day, or a day with locusts or hail or plague. He has read about all these things in the Bible. He found one in the nightstand on his mother’s side of the bed when he slept there for a month or so. He had been under the impression that the Bible was supposed to be a book of comfort. He feels ripped off. His mother still keeps that Bible there. Or so she says. She’s smart enough to know what’s really in it, so probably she’s put it away, or moved it to the nightstand on his father’s side of the bed, which is where she slept for a month or so. Maybe on her side now she keeps comic books. Good old mom. He smiles. He’s out on the side of the road, looking for his father’s car. He’s not smiling.  

His father’s car is red. Or is it blue? Whatever color it is, that’s the color it was the last time he saw it, which is the last time he saw his father. There had been discussion of anger, his father’s anger, and his mother had been clear that she could not put up with it for much longer. She swerved at the end of a long speech. “Can not?” she said. “Will not.” Then she repeated herself with increasing volume. “Will not! Will not!!” His father stood. “Well,” he said. Or “Well, then.” Or, “Oh.” Whatever he said, it was the last thing he said. His voice was not raised. His anger, often the only thing about him, had dissipated. He walked out to his red or blue car and drove away. A week later, Timothy received a postcard. He heard his father’s voice when he read it. There was still no anger in it, though he could not make sense of the tone he heard in his head. “I could not, for many reasons, stay,” the postcard—his father—said. “But going has made a failure of me in ways that can never be reversed, not even if I reverse the going.” The second “g” in going was flattened against the right wall of the postcard. This Timothy remembered more clearly than any red or blue or “Well” or “Oh,” even though he had ripped the postcard into a million pieces, burned it, mixed water into the ashes, poured the ashy water into the dirt outside of his bedroom window, covered it with a board, and then nailed the board into the earth. That’s what the hammer was for. 

He will not sleep tonight, and maybe not ever. He takes the box off the floor and lifts it onto his bed. He takes the hammer out of the box and weighs it in his hand. The hammer has a flat snout that he used to drive the nails through the board and down into the earth. Where are the nails? They are outside. He turns the hammer over. It also has a claw. He knows that this can be used to pry the nails from the board. That’s a start. Then he will lift the board away from the earth, separate the ashy water from the dirt, divide the ash from the water, reverse the fire until the postcard is in not ashes but pieces, reverse the ripping until it is not in pieces but whole. The Bible has resurrection in it, where death reverses into life. When he read it in his parents’ bed, it was one of the only parts that comforted him. He can use that to make comfort now. “Can?” he says. “Will!” He realizes immediately that he has spoken too loudly. He cannot unsay what he has said but he can re-say it, and he does, repeating it more and more softly, imagining his words getting smaller like in a comic book. He feels the lightness of them as they shrink. What silence! What innocence! He weighs the hammer in his hand again. He’ll pry out the nails. He’ll bring the postcard back to life, back from ash, back from pieces, and understand it fully and reply to it and his father will reply to his reply, not with another postcard but in person, driving his car back onto the street, turning into the driveway, hugging him, forgiving him. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t even worry about the weather. He’ll pry out the nails. The hammer’s for that.

SINCERELY, YOUR LOVING WIFE

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

It was not a red-letter day when she got and read the letter from Ledbetter. He had led her astray but then led her back. He kept her on track, or at least that’s what he said. He told her that in bed. He insisted. She made a fist just thinking about it. But maybe he was right about it. He said he had the gift of second sight and she could not doubt it. 

When the letter arrived she had returned from a drive. She spent a while eating. She was reading. The letter stopped her cold. She dropped her paperback, popped a pill out of a blister pack and downed it. A sound escaped her lips. She felt memories in her hips. She put the letter underneath her chair and said a prayer. She ran until her lungs burned to confirm that she was alive. 

She reviewed what she knew of this man, this writer. She tested herself. Her chest felt tighter.  

Ledbetter had not married her but he had asked her if they could operate in that mode. That was a kind of code. They had carried the idea in their hearts. They had sworn they’d never part. He owed her and she was his debtor. And still—and here she popped another pill—she had left. He was bereft. He had said so on the phone. He possessed a pleasant baritone.

She ate some more, felt hate in her core. She read the letter. It said that he’d been better. It said that he doubted he’d ever move on. It wondered about the assumptions she was under regarding people in her bed. His language was vague but she got the gist, made another fist. With her other hand she held her head.

The letter wasn’t right. She crumpled it up with all her might, her chest still tight. She tried her best to think of men other than Ledbetter. She thought of Sam from the fruit stand, of Hiram from the airlines, of her ninth grade teacher Mr. Meacham, of Lloyd Meacham his tall tan son, of Officer Kenneth Lombardi, who had impounded her car some years before. She thought of the Emperor Wu-ti, a historically significant horse-rustler who had brought Imperial China to the brink of destruction. She thought of Linc, of Stink-Brained Philip, of Gasoline Jerry, of Tony Romo, of Batman, of Perry Como. She thought of all the men she had met and all the men who had met her. But in the end, she knew she had to send a letter back to Ledbetter. She could not pretend otherwise. She closed and opened her eyes. She grabbed a pen and collected her strength again.

PERFECTLY PATIENT

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

She watched, not from her car window, but from his, looking across the field, focusing on the two teams competing, remembering the scoring that had already occurred, the cheers that had followed, the careful way the players took their time setting up new scores, the perfect patience with which their minds moved their bodies into place. Not just remembering: cherishing. Mountains backdropped the scene. Her husband was next to her, looking out the same window. He was both leaning in too close and not paying attention, and she thought about saying something, but she knew that if she complained his face would tighten with what could be violence, if she was not careful. She corrected herself: if he was not careful. Her shrink had taught her to make that correction. And also to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry” less, and “I don’t care” not at all. Her shrink was a wise old man who called his bicycle “mine steed” and every can of soda he drank “mine silver chalice.” His advice helped her but more importantly he made her laugh. Her husband never made her laugh. He focused on her too intently and couldn’t put across any real ideas of his own. Coming to watch was not his idea. She had brought it up a week earlier. He had ignored it. She did not bring it up again. That was another piece of advice from her shrink: Don't repeat yourself. Then one morning he had announced that he would drive her to the field at the foot of the mountains. He did not explain the change of heart but from questions he asked she was able to ascertain that she had said something in her sleep about leaving, and that he had planned the trip as a countermeasure. He committed to his performance fully. He talked about the players whose names he knew: there were maybe two or three. He tacked the schedule on the wall. The morning of, he set the alarm for early, made breakfast, supported every choice she made as she got ready. “Choice of clothing, choice of scent, choice of where the razor went.” That was her shrink’s song. He sang it when she talked about altering her appearance. She wanted more hair on her body or less. She wanted more revealing clothing or less. She wanted a thick natural odor or artificial citrus. But she worried the wrong choice would put her husband off. “Who gives a shit?” her shrink said. “If it puts him off, put somebody else on. Not me, of course. No thanks. I’m as old as a commandment. I shalt not. But if you ever want to give me a peek, let me know. It would warm mine cockles of mine heart.” He knuckled his chest merrily. Would he ever stop making her laugh? She was dreaming about putting someone else on the night she talked in her sleep about leaving. In her dream she had hair most everywhere and smelled both of herself and of grapefruit. She couldn’t wait to tell her shrink about the dream. Maybe she’d even give him a peek. She politely ate a few bites of breakfast though she was always saying that it was not a meal that interested her. She must have said that a thousand times over the years. Her husband frowned when she scraped off most of the breakfast into the trash but said nothing. He packed up the car in silence and drove all morning with his jaw set tight. “Looking forward to the game,” he said, though it was fact a match. “Nice day,” he said, ignoring the crushing heat. “We’re here,” he said, before they were. “I like this better than I though I would,” he said, leaning in too close, not even looking. “Matter of fact, I’m glad we did this.” She knew he was lying—facts were never like that—but she didn’t care. She watched the match, cherishing the players’ patience. On the field a girl scored a goal, not her first.

SYMPOSIUM

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

A thing is coming up out of the ground. Everyone is scared and everyone knows that everyone else is scared, which scares everyone more than the thing coming up out of the ground, though that’s scary, too, “proof of certain death,” murmurs one person, but then another person turns toward the that person, shakes her head, turns toward all the other people, not shaking her head any longer, and explains that everything is proof of certain death, that death is certain, doesn’t need to prove itself, that it’s more a question of when rather than if, and this thing that’s got everyone scared, that’s got everyone knowing that everyone else is scared, has a similar approach, doesn’t furnish a timetable, that there’s no ticking or darkening or heating up or even a shadow thrown sundial-style across the ground where they’re standing, and she shakes her head now again, impatiently, “the thing,” she says, “about this thing,” and she’s speaking haltingly, fidgeting the end of a pigtail, “is that it’s just a symbol, and a symbol only scares people who can’t look past it or through it, so that’s where we have to look, we have to step away from it so it doesn’t take over our way of seeing,” and she’s speaking faster toward the end, more confident, now, hands out in front of her, free of fidget, palms up in persuasion, and that’s the pose that’s recorded on the wall in crude red brown-paint and discovered thousands of years later by archaeologists who determine that she was set upon by the panicked mob and torn to pieces, just steps away from the thing coming up out of the ground. They also determine that the paint was made from powdered minerals mixed with blood.

A FAMILY OUTING

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

The father goes to see the daughter, who’s in the bin. Or is it the mother going to see the son who's in the bin? “Don’t call it the bin,” says the child. “That’s an insulting characterization. The people here are struggling through a phase in their life, all hoping they pass through this time, that time passes through them.” Or is it the parent who speaks? Neither speaks. No one speaks. They sit on a bench, out in the courtyard, an alphabet book perched on the pads of the reader’s thumbs, pages turned in faith for the read-to, there’s an anteater, there’s a ball, there’s a cow. The clues are getting simpler as time passes through the book. “I’m calling it the bin,” says the child. “And you can’t stop me.” The parent sighs. “I’m the one who’s calling it the bin,” says the parent. “And you’re the one who can’t stop me.” The child looks at the parent. The child looks for love in the parent’s eyes. The parent’s eyes stay fixed on the book, still on cow. What’s next? Is it doll? Is it dog? Is it duck? The daughter looks at the father. The son looks at the mother. Both are afraid to turn the page. One lifts a corner. The picture is revealed, In part: a mound of dirt, a cross, a shovel. One releases the corner. The picture is concealed, in full. Time does not pass. Behind them, massed in the courtyard, leaning out of windows, fingers wriggling like worms in the spaces behind the leaves of trees, are all the other children in the bin, all the other parents, too, murmuring, yelling, buzzing, grumbling, shrieks and susurrations. Everyone is speaking.