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joseph mclaughlin
joseph mclaughlin recently retired as an associate professor
of english at stark state college of technology in canton, ohio.
his current collection of poems is "memory, in your
country" (pale horse press, 1995). recent work has
appeared in pif (online) and "the formalist." a
story and a poem are scheduled for publication in "ilya's
honey."
Works on this page:
chug
robert
the dance
chug
at last we took the boat out at sunset, running fast, trying
to get as far as we could by dusk when we turned for home to
drive slowly back into the gathering darkness with running lights
reflected on the water, motor humming so quietly you could hear
the pontoons gurgle as we entered, as if through a gate, some
mystical space
by 10 p.m. the moon was out, other red and green lights were
gliding on the inky surface (lost marina twinkling ahead) a
late heron crossed our bow like a messenger, now and again a
jumping walleye startled us, nearing our dock we passed boats
moving in slow procession, crouched in them more daring, hooded
travelers headed out to fish
later, from our campsite, we heard their motors on the lake
all night, trolling until dawn for the great silver fish, the
shimmering trophy which might briefly satisfy their souls before
being unsnagged and tossed casually back into the black void
of the watery mirror
a moment later we opened our eyes to morning and the sun was
streaming in from the big green tree and white clouds had astonished
a blue sky which seemed to have been overhead forever and where
did that come from?
robert
every saturday morning, the same business men come to the
small-town post-office their secretaries are off and they feel
compelled to put another half-day into their little enterprises
at least they can dress more casually, some even in jeans, without
the need to appear before a judge or see a client or visit a
customer it is like a club, this saturday gang of acquaintances
who gather early at the scaled-down brick replica of independence
hall, waiting for the window to open they nod and speak to each
other and sometimes shout over the false front to jesse, the
clerk, to open up
here comes robert, someone says, having spotted a white cadillac
at the curb they all turn to look the men nod and speak as a
stocky, prosperous-looking man shoulders his way through the
group a path opens to the wall of old-fashioned lock boxes with
tiny windows that let you see right away whether there is mail
inside
hello, robert
mornin', robert
nice day, robert
robert is a square-jawed, aging man who is always dressed
in new clothes this morning he is wearing checkered slacks, a
blue sport-coat, white shirt, and black tie winter and summer
he wears a broad-brimmed hat in winter, it is a gray felt
stetson, just now, in mid-july, a close-plaited straw, probably
from panama and the only one in town it looks pure white from
a distance
robert uses a key from a huge ring of keys to open one of
the biggest boxes in the post office wall the mail pours into
his square, thick hands he needs both hands to hold it all at
least fifty percent of robert's mail looks like checks, envelopes
with little windows--brown, green, blue ones of that certain
size that you know isn't a bill he begins sorting it on the lobby's
central work table with its little postage scale and inkless
blue pens tethered on chains
the men who are waiting for the window to open gather around
him they are both curious and bored no one really understands
what robert's business is they only see him through a small window
in his downtown office which is all of two blocks away they only
see him picking up checks at the post-office
looks like another good day, robert, says a sharp-nosed, mustached
face which is pretty close to robert's working shoulder
ummm ( robert's eyes are little blue beads)
finally, the window clatters open as the postal clerk raises
the venetian blinds and the iron grating from the marble counter
the man from the chamber of commerce, the local ford dealer,
the traveling salesman, queue up at the window to buy stamps
or present tickets for packages being held behind the counter
they watch robert finish sorting his mail from their places along
the wall they see the straight line of his mouth, the glint
of his rimless glasses under the panama as he drops the advertising
pieces into the cardboard trash barrel and hammers his stack
of checks onto the tabletop to square them with a loud
"thwack" he snaps a heavy rubber band around his money
and turns to go as again the chorus of voices arises
s'long, robert
bye, robert
the men feel privileged to call robert by his first name he
barely waves his body with its clothes and hat becomes a silhouette
in the morning door the postal clerk is thumping things with
his rubber stamps one of the men asks if robert comes in like
this every day and does he ever talk business? naw, the balding
clerk replies without looking up, robert's girl picks up the
mail through the week
the dance
finally, as an old man, he got up to dance after fifty years
of listening to every kind of music, he was finally moved to
dance and got up from his stool at the end of the bar it was
his birthday, his sixty-eighth, and he didn't know how many more
he was going to have he was determined to celebrate the day,
and it was almost gone already white hair shimmering, dark eyes
on fire with determination, he caught the waitress softly by
the arm as she was sweeping past from delivering drinks to a
nearby table
dance with me, he said gruffly she was obviously startled
by his unexpected animation, and he watched for her reaction
across the canyon of their ages she couldn't be more than twenty-five,
he thought such soft brown eyes such perfect olive skin her long
black hair shone in the half-light of the bar like the sheen
on a record album he'd been watching her closely for the month
or so she'd worked there she always brought his beer and glass
to him on a small, round tray surely he was familiar to her by
now
after a moment, her face relaxed into a smile, and she put
the little tray on an empty table and lifted her arms up to him
they began to dance with his right hand, the old man could feel
the flesh beneath her nylon uniform dress, the way it swelled
out slightly from under her bra she was as firm and lovely as
his clearest dream had been and the sweet smell of her body and
hair, that delectable odor she always trailed past his seat,
came rising up for him now, like incense at a ceremony
It was a long, slow song he wanted it to be that way he'd
planned it for a long time, picking the music carefully if he
didn't catch her right at the beginning of the song, there'd
still be time for them to dance he'd tried to think of everything
for weeks now, he'd been practicing the steps in his room at
night, with the shades drawn and the lights dimmed so he wouldn't
make a crazy silhouette so he wouldn't step on her feet
now he was dancing stumbling a little, but dancing for the
first time in his life the music was slow this was far too important
a moment to be spent hopping around like a jackrabbit maybe he
would do that later maybe later tonight for now, he was glad
that she seemed to understand drawing herself closer, making
one slowly revolving world of the two of them, the girl laid
her head on his right shoulder and her warm breath touched his
neck just above the collar of his shirt she seemed to relax then,
to settle into his arms as if she belonged there, warm and familiar,
and their thighs brushed casually together as they slid their
feet over the plastic-tiled barroom floor
it was exquisite. The old man wanted the song to go
on forever but in three minutes and twelve seconds it stopped
he had to let go of her while they stood awkwardly on display
in the crowded, smoky room he felt naked without the cover of
the music
can I put in another quarter? he suggested in a hoarse whisper
the girl looked hesitantly around her the owner of the place
was ringing up sales on the register and watching them over his
glasses his warning look made the old man a little angry after
spending a lifetime of paychecks there, you'd think he'd be entitled
to some of the girl's time but he knew that wasn't the way the
world worked
i,uh...have to go now, she said, as if she were really sorry
she raised a hand tentatively toward tables of customers god...
the old man said in a breath of anguish she touched his hand
thanks for the dance, she said with a bright falsity before picking
up her tray and moving busily away
the old man returned to his stool at the end of the bar he
ordered another boilermaker from the bartender and looked at
his watch would he ask her to dance again? probably not, he decided
he was elated with his success, and he didn't want to spoil the
feeling by taking a risk and then being rejected maybe the owner
of the bar would tip her off not to do that again he shook a
final cigarette out of the pack in front of him and carefully
lit it he always kept cigarettes, matches, and change on the
bar while he drank no, he would not ask her to dance again, not
tonight she was too busy it had been an imposition tolerated
by the girl and her boss he had pushed his goodwill as far as
it could go
but he would play the song again picking up a coin from the
pile of change on the bar, he dropped it into the jukebox and
punched B-6 he sat back and listened to the music, replaying
the dance in his mind while he watched the girl in her white
dress move around the room like some ethereal being, half-luminous
in the failing light
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