EXTRACT FROM A LIFE

by
Rodge Glass

The radio is always on.

That’s the news again – I can almost recite it by heart. A drop in interest rates, the Prime Minister in America, some girl’s body found in the bottom of the Thames – why don’t they mention me? There was an item about lay-offs at a car factory as well, but they’re not doing that now – it mustn’t be news any more.

He’s talking again.

Is it to himself or me?

Unless he speaks up it’s hard to hear him over the radio. I need to say something.

'Hello? Are you there?'

'Anything on telly tonight?'

It’s the only thing I can think of.

There must have been something, tell me about it. What’s happening in the soaps?

Silence. I know he’s there though.

I have to wait. Seconds pass.

He speaks:

'That pregnant girl finished with her man from the garage. Caught him kissing the barmaid.'

'Really? The blonde one?'

'The brunette.'

I don’t know what to say next, and he doesn’t have to speak if he doesn’t want to. The conversation ends.

More time passes.

The news turns into adverts and then music.

Something happens. Is he laughing? I strain to listen, hold my breath, try not to move, but the sound is already gone. Maybe just a cough. I can hardly move in here, but when I do the rubbing makes a noise and I miss things because of it. My skirt catching, my feet brushing against the inside, it’s all so loud. The blackness makes the air heavy, it’s difficult to know what’s happening.

I have to move a little or I get cramps in my legs.

You learn quickly.

Clunk-click, clunk-click. Clunk-click, clunk-click. He’s pacing; the floorboards shake with his movement. I shake as well. Clunk-click, clunk-click. I am his now. He sounds so steady, so self-assured. Not at all like when we met, he hardly even spoke. More like a nervous child then, pitter-pattering around behind me, as I tap-tap-tapped confidently ahead in my high heels.

We toured the house in virtual silence, up and down the stairs, in and out of bare rooms. A quiet family man, I thought. Dull but polite, harmless, no different from a lot of my clients. Everything on him was grey. Suit, shirt, tie, even his eyes. He walked awkwardly. I imagined him, two grey, dumpy daughters and a little grey wife, washing his pants on a Sunday, making his sandwiches for work. As we walked he was nervous, hands shaking, rolling them over each other. Always cold, he said, runs in the family, weak blood. But it was warm, I’d put the heating on myself before he arrived. I suppose that makes sense now. But I was too busy, too confident of making the sale to notice:

'It’s a bargain for what you’re getting, sir. An immaculate property like this is a true investment.'

And then, so quickly, it all disappeared. I smelled plastic and suddenly the bag was over my head, my legs swept from under me. Everything has been black since. If I hadn’t turned my back…well, you wonder.

I know all about him now, when he talks I have to listen, but other people don’t interest me any more. I have to think of me. Between the drifting moments of half-sleep, snatches of radio, the nightmares, the hours of darkness after intoxicating darkness, I need all my energy.

The news again. They identified that girl’s body.

When he takes me out of here he covers my head – doesn’t want to see my face, he says – but it doesn’t matter, I don’t need to see. I know what he looks like. The grey man, dead-eyed, passive, incapable. And that’s why we’re here. So every time he flips me over to teach me a lesson I’ll never forget, again and again he’s a hero.

A door closes, he’s gone again.

He keeps saying he’ll kill me.

But I’m still here.

© Rodge Glass
Reproduced with permission

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RETURN FROM A YOUNG MAN'S FUNERAL

Hearing the news, we came
from close by, from distance
old friends and new
some you crossed often
some you had not seen or thought of in years.

We unlocked doors, opened them
made ourselves comfortable in the weapons that ended you.
We clicked seatbelts, started engines
came hundreds of miles or a few
to show respect, in silence – the only way.

Even some you never knew
but who knew the ones who knew you best
wanted to come, crouch, soothe, give love –
they took a day off, or called in sick, or rushed home.
Not understanding, not able to. Not speaking, not able to – not able.

Some, leaving the scene, phoned loved ones,
said things only previously thought,
thought things never dreamt in worst nightmares.
And clung tight.
Even in death you affect the living.

And I, who knew you best when small
need to pull over one more time
to stop. To breathe. To think.

© Rodge Glass
Reproduced with permission

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A SECRETARY DOES HIS DUTY

Professor!
Don't look!
What? he says.
What is it?
I click, to messages from
Viagratastic; Nikkicam;
WecanmakeyouthreeinchesbiggerbyChristmas.
The great man stands, paces, pouts, points skyward - says
Dictation!
(He replies to all his mail)
"Dear Sir or Madam,
You will do no such thing.
Yours Truly."

© Rodge Glass
Reproduced with permission

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3 POEMS

by
Rodge Glass

One Serious, One Less So, One Not At All

ON COMPETITION: An Artist Laments the Emergence of Others

My children do not think they are mine
Want what I gave them
Or see what I created
Though it is everywhere.

My name, thought secured, is fading
That new form, that filthy swagger
I built monsters
Who disagree.

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OUR FIRST ROMANTIC HOLIDAY TOGETHER: THE FERRY JOURNEY

Love is...
Taking turns
To look into the swinging toilet bowl
Me not able to be sick
You not able to stop
Holding hands
In the dark
Hours later
On parallel single beds
Wishing we'd got the fucking plane
Or were able to still the waters.

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DAY 254 AS A BOOKSELLER

Till One - mine -
Dumb, clanking machine
Unable to speak or think
Has some advice.
Every time I return it flashes:
Sign on!
Sign on!
And I might.

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© Rodge Glass
Reproduced with permission

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