Jeff Friedman
Nothing Nothing enters the room in a gust of wind, a falling light, a flaming shadow. Nothing grabs you by the shoulder, causing you to wince. Nothing prophesies nothing good for your future. “In your case,” nothing says, “nothing is a bargain.” Hold onto your self as if you are holding on to nothing. Pretend that nothing exists and you won’t be disappointed. Pretend that nothing doesn’t exist, and nothing will surprise you. Try to imagine nothing. Does it encircle you? Is it the sky empty of darkness and light, and therefore empty of sky? When you embrace everything, nothing embraces you. Nothing rings a bell. Nothing deals the cards, plays all your hands. Nothing believes everything you say. Nothing touches you with all its tenderness and tears. Nothing tells you what you want to hear. Nothing takes it all back and gives it to you again. ** This was first published in American Journal of Poetry, and in Floating Tales (Plume/Madhat Editions). ** Difficult Times The boss came in with his usual alacrity. “Sorry we have to let you go,” he said. He held the doorframe and hung his head as if stunned by his own revelation. When I got up to offer him my chair, he crumbled into it and began sobbing, the tears running down his red cheeks. I handed him my handkerchief, which he used to sop up the tears. Then he blew his nose, and the chair shot back into the wall. “It’s so hard, my job,” he cried. “These are difficult times,” I answered and patted his shoulder for support. He bent over as if he were going to be sick. I pushed the wastebasket under his face, because if he made a mess, I was worried I’d be responsible for cleaning up. He coughed a few times and spit into it. “I’ve been here 10 years. Do you have to let me go?” I asked. Suddenly, he fell on the floor, doubled up, a fierce pain in his gut. I called the infirmary but the operator broke in to say that the infirmary had been shut down. My boss rolled back and forth as if in a seizure. He moaned so loudly he couldn’t hear me repeat my question, so loudly the floors and windows vibrated. When I pinned his shoulders, he went limp and his eyes rolled back. I couldn’t hear his breathing. Firing me had killed my boss. How would I explain that to Human Resources? Then miraculously he came to, smiling and cheerful. “You’ll be missed,” he said and jumped to his feet, extending his open hand. ** This was first published in Smokelong Quarterly, and in Floating Tales (Plume/Madhat Editions). ** All the Old Lies All the old lies are still here, leaning across the table, drunk on bar scotch, grabbing your sleeve, or your forearm, telling their stories as their spray of spit dots your cheeks and the tip of your nose, their stories growing larger and larger like beanstalks in fairy tales, like long ropes of hair strong enough to climb up, epics without endings—no facts, no evidence, no witnesses—the old lies mixing falsehoods and truths, championing unhinged warriors, laying claim to countries, continents of deformation, rubbing out races, clearing away histories as if cleaning windows or erasing whiteboards, burning pages of memory until there is only smoke. ** Another Orpheus “Isn’t this cosy?” I said. “We’re in a box,” she answered. “I want out.” The sun shone in the window, and a rainbow fell across her face. Over the years, our house had grown small. I pulled out a matchstick and played my tiny violin. Even the dust listened. ** Schmidt Schmidt disappeared from the cubicle where he had sat at work, even though his fellow workers could still sniff his microwaved Ragu, and his umbrella with ripped blue nylon torn from the metal spokes still leaned against the gray cloth wall. When one of them opened the dictionary that lay on his desk, it almost broke in half in his hands, several pages floating to the floor. Schmidt disappeared from the crowd of faces bobbing up and down like buoys on choppy waters. He disappeared from all the shop windows that he stared into on his way home. He disappeared from the grass, mud and leaves of the shortcuts he often took. There were no footprints following him or leading to where he was. He disappeared from the chilly air of his apartment. His name fell off the lips of the woman with whom he lived, but Schmidt didn’t answer, didn’t see himself in the mirrors of her blue eyes. But the foam of the mattress hadn’t given up its memory or impression of him. And from the streaked window where he stared out at the chipmunks plunging into their caves, and the fat squirrel hopped through the ground cover, the hummingbird, hovering above the bee balm, fanning its wings, looked right through him. ** Sudden Laughter My friend couldn’t speak—her words strangled noises. Her throat muscles atrophying, she lived on liquid food sipped through a straw. When we would walk slowly through my neighborhood, she’d often point at tulips or irises and nod her head to let me know they were beginning to bud or to signal that they were wilting. The sun was out, warm on the faces of the flowers and on our faces. I talked to fill in the silence, to bridge the gap that had grown between us. Sometimes when laughter suddenly poured from her mouth, her bright blue eyes full of fear, she cupped her hands to her face as if to push it back in. ** Jitter Even when we weren’t on speed, Rachel and I were always jittery as though lights flickered inside us. When we weren’t doing speed, we drank coffee black, not fancy coffee either, Maxwell House or the kind you get in a coffee shop early in the morning. Our friend Jimmy dealt cocaine, and he paid us to make deliveries to his clientele. Our hands shook exchanging the packets of powder for cash. Jimmy sold us the speed at a discount. Rachel would poke the syringe into my vein and then hit up herself. Even our bodies, even the night, couldn’t contain us. We shared everything, a bed, Cheerios, cheese sandwiches, cash, credit cards, sweatshirts, needles, even hepatitis. ** Jeff Friedman's tenth collection, Ashes in Paradise, was recently published by Madhat Press. Friedman’s poems, mini tales and translations have appeared in American Poetry Review, Poetry, New England Review, Poetry International, Cast-Iron Aeroplanes That Can Actually Fly: Commentaries from 80 American Poets on their Prose Poetry, Flash Fiction Funny, Flash Nonfiction Funny, Fiction International, Plume, 100-Word Story, Cleaver, Dreaming Awake: New Contemporary Prose Poetry from the United States, Australia and the United Kingdom and The New Republic, and Best Microfiction 2021, 2022 and 2023. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship and numerous other awards and prizes. |