roundabout

collards and kudzu

porch sitting bird watching

No one tells you that growing old poor takes forever. It takes forever to take the bus all the way back to the roundabout for the bags of collard greens you got for half off at the farmers market.

Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

No one tells you that the VA benefits plus the Social Security check only covers one or two ham hocks a month which is why you need collard greens to give them a stretch. Which is also why you took the bus across town on the first hottest day of spring and back home on a good Friday.

But then at the bus stop you were patting your pockets for your readers trying to double check the late bus schedule and also the flamboyant (man?) in (his?) purple mumu which was glittered with glued on rhinestones. You find the readers and yes-(man!)

Which is when the bus came and you fumbled in line and forgot the collards in the kudzu.

And once you realized what you did, you couldn’t turn back because you left the ham at home on a low simmer. But what good is ham without the collards?

Miss Ilona can you give me a ride to get my collard greens? Eddie is sweating in his red sweatshirt. Eddie is ten years older than me but he’s a southern gentleman so he always calls me MISS Ilona.

I was on my third cup of coffee and watching the tiny screech owl that was sitting in the Dogwood down back—turning it’s head two-three times an hour.

It was my first day off out of three and my feet were swollen all the way up to the ankle bones.

The box fan easy breezed me with a slight whiff of shrimp and Tide pods. His laundry was grey hanging on the two lines between our houses.

I made gumbo yesterday, I’ll bring you a bowl, he said.

It was so hot my titties were crying me a river. Last thing I wanted to do was drive over to the roundabout with the windows down and these swamp assed titties. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I was porch sitting and bird watching. Which, Jesus christ these heavy pendulums swing both ways.

But Eddie lost his license last year when he plowed over the cement divider at Ingles and straight into traffic with his lime green Cadillac so I felt bad for him.

Give me a minute Eddie, I crossed my arms over my chest and swished my feet under the table for my garden clogs. Didn’t really want to stand up tits ah swinging in front of Eddie or god or anyone else really. If I had the money I’d go down to a C cup but I can barely pay the doubled up Duke Energy bill much less afford a reduction.

I’ll go lock up, he slapped at a mosquito and ducked under a limp row of thinning undershirts and faded Levis.

Mother fucker and god damn. My feet were pin needles jib jabbing and stabbing at my nerves. My neck was in a crik from falling asleep to Murder She Wrote reruns. My back was permanently bent into the shape of a beer keg.

Eddie met me at the curb and waited while I put the dog bed in back and made room for his feet in the front seat.

What is this? He pulled the seatbelt across and tried to find where to put the buckle.

It’s a Toyota Yaris. I turned the key halfway and waited for the belt to warm up. Sometimes that helped with the screeching noise, which I planned to fix Monday after next.

Whooo, he snapped the belt in. Sounds like you need a new Serpentine.

I waited while the belt screamed and then eventually warmed to a whir.

Which roundabout? I waved at Michael across the street.

The one over by the River Arts. He put his hands on his knees and something about that reminded me of my Pappy smoking his pipe at the bi-centenial parade.

No, go straight. Eddie motioned me to the long way over. Short Michigan St would’ve saved us five minutes but I went along with his directions because it was my day off.

How long you been retired Eddie?

Since ‘92 and I don’t miss it. He was staring straight ahead.

What kind of work? I shook my head (NO!) at the pan handler by the I 240 on-ramp. City council said they’d fix that but they’re taking their sweet time.

I laid brick all over town, even worked on the Biltmore Estate one year.

So you were pretty good?

I was the best. He rubbed at his knees and I wondered if maybe he did miss it just a little bit. Being the best at something. Having a place to always be.

What about you? Turn here, he motions another wrong way long turn.

Aren’t we going to the roundabout? I wanted to get back home in time for the hummingbirds to feed. Miss Cindy Lou made it back from Mexico in one piece and she had some stories to tell.

Thrumming and humming and tall tale telling.

Yeah, this is how I always go. Eddie’s been taking the bus for so long he forgot how a car can get there quicker on the back streets.

It takes us forever but we finally get to the roundabout. Park over there, he says, but I put on my blinkers and wait in the bus lane instead.

He shuffles behind a scrub of kudzu and there they are, his bags of collard greens. He hugs them to his chest and does a thumbs up.

Once he settles back in we look inside the bags and they are a little bit wilted. Some cold salt water will fix these right up, he’s smiling wide. And then he leans over and stiff hugs me sideways so now my shoulder smells like shrimp too.

It took me all day to get these damn collard greens, he chuckles. It ain’t all that easy gettin’ old.

Don’t I know it, I say and take the short cut home.

You ever get tired of being lonely?

I think about that while the light turns yellow on State Street. I get tired of cooking for myself sometimes.

Humming and thrumming.

Ain’t that the truth. He peeks at the collards in the bag again and I can tell he’s worried they got a little too wilted.

That cold salt water will do the trick, I turn left on Short Michigan like I wanted to in the first place.

You got that right, he says.

My one bed-sit house sits catty cornered from Pisgah View. I got it for a sweet deal right after the hurricane. It used to be an airbnb but the owners for some reason couldn’t make a go of it—is what the realtor told me when I said I’d keep the burnt orange Ikea couch and the cube shelves if she wanted.

As if she doesn’t know that hipsters don’t want to wine and dine on the wrong side of the tracks. Voting for Barack was just about as good as it gets for those types. They think poor is a violence and maybe it is but not the kind you’d think of.

Poor is broken toes and brick factories and collard greens you left at the roundabout. Poor is tuna fish and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I was still mostly poor but not as poor as Eddie. When my Aunt Molly died and left me her house up in Halifax, I sold it and put some money down on this one.

I told people at the bar I was just one of those people who likes to stay busy. And sure, some of that is true. But really I’m on the work till I die—side of the tracks. And fortunately or unfortunately other than the subcutaneous fat around my liver, heart and organs—I guess I’m ok for now.

They say you need a million dollars to retire in America.

You got that right.

The other day I read about this old French lady who was held in immigration deportation because her new husband died and she didn’t have her citizen papers sorted out. His two grown sons turned her in because they wanted their share of the split level. The house sold for 170 grand and they split the 1500 he had in checking two ways.

Well touche mother fuckers you just bought yourselves six American months free and clear.

I made Eddie a cuba libre when he finally bought me a bowl of yesterday’s gumbo.

He took a long haul on the drink and asked me for the umpteenth time, you ever get tired of being lonely?

Yeah, sometimes I get tired of cooking for myself. I squeezed my lime wedge and waited for the hummingbirds.