Sue Aside, ect.
By
Jeffrey Zable
SUE ASIDE
I knew her from a few classes we had together. She always seemed
upbeat and positive on the outside, but I felt that beneath the surface
she was hiding some deep-seated pain—that she had a dark side
she didn’t want others to see.
I felt this because I’m pretty attuned to others, and can perceive
what people are feeling by their overall facial expressions.
I perceived on numerous occasions that after she had smiled
or laughed she would assume a very serious, morose expression--
as if she was being confronted with the unhappy, reflective person
that she really was.
When I heard the news with regard to what she had done,
I really wasn’t surprised, but felt sad nonetheless as I thought
she was someone with exemplary qualities and that if she’d
gotten help she would have been able to carry on like most of us. . .
THE TRANSFORMATION
I went to the swami for some insight and direction
but all he said was, “Follow your heart and it will lead
you where you need to go, whether it’s to drugs, kinky sex,
a coup, a new you, or to a class in Bulgarian folk dancing.”
He said all this with such compassion and conviction that
all I could say was, “Bless you Swami!” And so off I went
thinking my best option was to find a new me. I followed
my heart as the swami suggested and wound up at a homeless
shelter. Immediately I knew what to do, as if I’d heard a voice
from above. I handed out money until there wasn’t a single cent
left in my pockets. “Do you have more money?” several of them
asked me, to which I responded, “I’m one of the richest men in
the world. Of course I have more, as much as you could ever need!”
And so from there, as word got around, I gave out handfuls of
money to dozens of homeless people who subsequently lived like
kings and queens. Unfortunately, each discovered that life had lost
all meaning, as mine had done. One by one I sent them to the swami
who told them something quite different than what he had told me.
“Tis better to give than receive!” he said to each of them, spelling out
clearly that giving him their money would lead to discovering their
true purpose in life. And so after giving the swami all their money
each returned to the homeless shelter seemingly happy and content,
while for my part, I was happier than I ever knew was possible for
I had finagled my own room with a mattress on the floor and a small
wooden trunk in which I kept all the clothes to my name: a pair
of torn Levis, an old mohair sweater, and some left footed shoes. . .
LOWER MANHATTAN
(after a painting by George Grosz)
Maybe you’ve come because someone told you they were giving away
free ice cream for the entire week. Maybe someone told you that inside
one of the buildings you would find your true love. Maybe just crossing
the street will seem so dangerous that it will take you three days to get
to the other side. And once you do, you’ll be so exhausted and hungry
that you’ll hardly be able to stand on your feet. And just as you’re about
to fall, a man with a black bandana, several gold teeth, and an earring
in each ear will lead you to an alley with the assurance that his mother
is there who will make you some chicken soup. But when you arrive,
a guy who looks pretty much the same as your new friend will point
a gun at you, strip you of all your clothing, which not only contains
your wallet with all your money, but all your credit cards as well.
Soon after that, two policemen will arrest you for indecent exposure,
vagrancy, and disturbing the peace. . .
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, accomplished conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. He's published five chapbooks and his writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Uppagus, The Paradox, Cacti Fur, Beach Chair, The Raven’s Perch, Trashlight, Hot Pot, Little Leaf and many others. His selected poetry (from Androgyne Books) should be out any time now.
By
Jeffrey Zable
SUE ASIDE
I knew her from a few classes we had together. She always seemed
upbeat and positive on the outside, but I felt that beneath the surface
she was hiding some deep-seated pain—that she had a dark side
she didn’t want others to see.
I felt this because I’m pretty attuned to others, and can perceive
what people are feeling by their overall facial expressions.
I perceived on numerous occasions that after she had smiled
or laughed she would assume a very serious, morose expression--
as if she was being confronted with the unhappy, reflective person
that she really was.
When I heard the news with regard to what she had done,
I really wasn’t surprised, but felt sad nonetheless as I thought
she was someone with exemplary qualities and that if she’d
gotten help she would have been able to carry on like most of us. . .
THE TRANSFORMATION
I went to the swami for some insight and direction
but all he said was, “Follow your heart and it will lead
you where you need to go, whether it’s to drugs, kinky sex,
a coup, a new you, or to a class in Bulgarian folk dancing.”
He said all this with such compassion and conviction that
all I could say was, “Bless you Swami!” And so off I went
thinking my best option was to find a new me. I followed
my heart as the swami suggested and wound up at a homeless
shelter. Immediately I knew what to do, as if I’d heard a voice
from above. I handed out money until there wasn’t a single cent
left in my pockets. “Do you have more money?” several of them
asked me, to which I responded, “I’m one of the richest men in
the world. Of course I have more, as much as you could ever need!”
And so from there, as word got around, I gave out handfuls of
money to dozens of homeless people who subsequently lived like
kings and queens. Unfortunately, each discovered that life had lost
all meaning, as mine had done. One by one I sent them to the swami
who told them something quite different than what he had told me.
“Tis better to give than receive!” he said to each of them, spelling out
clearly that giving him their money would lead to discovering their
true purpose in life. And so after giving the swami all their money
each returned to the homeless shelter seemingly happy and content,
while for my part, I was happier than I ever knew was possible for
I had finagled my own room with a mattress on the floor and a small
wooden trunk in which I kept all the clothes to my name: a pair
of torn Levis, an old mohair sweater, and some left footed shoes. . .
LOWER MANHATTAN
(after a painting by George Grosz)
Maybe you’ve come because someone told you they were giving away
free ice cream for the entire week. Maybe someone told you that inside
one of the buildings you would find your true love. Maybe just crossing
the street will seem so dangerous that it will take you three days to get
to the other side. And once you do, you’ll be so exhausted and hungry
that you’ll hardly be able to stand on your feet. And just as you’re about
to fall, a man with a black bandana, several gold teeth, and an earring
in each ear will lead you to an alley with the assurance that his mother
is there who will make you some chicken soup. But when you arrive,
a guy who looks pretty much the same as your new friend will point
a gun at you, strip you of all your clothing, which not only contains
your wallet with all your money, but all your credit cards as well.
Soon after that, two policemen will arrest you for indecent exposure,
vagrancy, and disturbing the peace. . .
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, accomplished conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. He's published five chapbooks and his writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Uppagus, The Paradox, Cacti Fur, Beach Chair, The Raven’s Perch, Trashlight, Hot Pot, Little Leaf and many others. His selected poetry (from Androgyne Books) should be out any time now.
