Summers spent practicing in the apartment
stairwell: hand on the bannister, one foot after
another. Did I ever tell you I couldn’t walk
until I was three and then sort of dragged
myself up and downstairs until I was seven
or eight? That burgundy carpet.
I’d stop to breathe and look out the window,
over brick tenements, toward the Capitol
building. Oak leaves so full of late summer
sun even I thought, “Obscene” and stood stunned
for a moment. My God. The urge to rest like the birds
on the phone wires, chatting like barristers
at the end of the day. Myself the useless
Ambassador from the third floor. I was the last one
up so the door was left open. I can still see it gaping
from two stories down. Sometimes music played.
Sometimes I’d smell supper. Neighbors stopped
to say hello. Achingly beautiful how the sky
looked as I stood after they left. Nicer somehow
in the middle. All the trees tucking blackbirds
into their darkness. It really did take this long.
Copyright © 2015 by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 15, 2015, by the Academy of American Poets.
I am thirty-three and working in an expensive clothier, selling suits to men I call “Sir.” These men are muscled, groomed and cropped— with wives and families that grow exponentially. Mostly I talk of rep ties and bow ties, of full-Windsor knots and half-Windsor knots, of tattersall, French cuff, and English spread collars, of foulards, neats, and internationals, of pincord, houndstooth, nailhead, and sharkskin. I often wear a blue pin-striped suit. My hair recedes and is going gray at the temples. On my cheeks there are a few pimples. For my terrible eyesight, horn-rimmed spectacles. One of my fellow-workers is an old homosexual who works hard and wears bracelets with jewels. No one can rival his commission checks. On his break he smokes a Benson & Hedges cigarette, puffing expectantly as a Hollywood starlet. He has carefully applied a layer of Clinique bronzer to enhance the tan on his face and neck. His hair is gone except for a few strands which are combed across his scalp. He examines his manicured lacquered nails. I admire his studied attention to details: his tie stuck to his shirt with masking tape, his teeth capped, his breath mint in place. The old homosexual and I laugh in the back over a coarse joke involving an octopus. Our banter is staccato, staged and close like those “Spanish Dances” by Granados. I sometimes feel we are in a musical— gossiping backstage between our numbers. He drags deeply on his cigarette. Most of his life is over. Often he refers to himself as “an old faggot.” He does this bemusedly, yet timidly. I know why he does this. He does this because his acceptance is finally complete— and complete acceptance is always bittersweet. Our hours are long. Our backs bent. We are more gracious than English royalty. We dart amongst the aisles tall as hedgerows. Watch us face into the merchandise. How we set up and take apart mannequins as if we were performing autopsies. A naked body, without pretense, is of no use. It grows late. I hear the front metal gate close down. We begin folding the ties correctly according to color. The shirts—Oxfords, broadcloths, pinpoints— must be sized, stacked, or rehashed. The old homosexual removes his right shoe, allowing his gigantic bunion to swell. There is the sound of cash being counted— coins clinking, bills swishing, numbers whispered— One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. . . We are changed when the transactions are done— older, dirtier, dwarfed. A few late customers gawk in at us. We say nothing. Our silence will not be breached. The lights go off, one by one— the dressing room lights, the mirror lights. Then it is very late. How late? Eleven? We move to the gate. It goes up. The gate’s grating checkers our cheeks. This is the Mall of America. The light is bright and artificial, yet not dissimilar to that found in a Gothic cathedral. You must travel down the long hallways to the exits before you encounter natural light. One final formality: the manager checks out bags. The old homosexual reaches into his over-the-shoulder leather bag— the one he bought on his European travels with his companion of many years. He finds a stick of lip balm and applies it to his lips liberally, as if shellacking them. Then he inserts one last breath mint and offers one to me. The gesture is fraternal and occurs between us many times. At last, we bid each other good night. I watch him fade into the many-tiered parking lot, where the thousands of cars have come and are now gone. This is how our day ends. This is how our day always ends. Sometimes snow falls like rice. See us take to our dimly lit exits, disappearing into the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul; Minneapolis is sleek and St. Paul, named after the man who had to be shown, is smaller, older, and somewhat withdrawn. Behind us, the moon pauses over the vast egg-like dome of the mall. See us loosening our ties among you. We are alone. There is no longer any need to express ourselves.
From The Clerk’s Tale by Spencer Reece. Copyright © 2004 by Spencer Reece. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin. All rights reserved.