the balad of all i knowA Poem by Philip Gaber IThe phone would ring. “Hello,” I’d say. “You said you were gonna call me.” It was always Heidi, a girl I’d met at an adult children of alcoholics/dysfunctional families support group. She always wore black because she thought black was sexy. but the way she wore black it was like she was in mourning. “You got company?” she’d say. “No,” I’d say, and whoever was in my bed would look at me funny. “I’ve had a change of heart,” Heidi would say. “I want you to move in with me...” “Oh, really?” “You’re the only one who gets me.” I’d usually go silent on purpose at that point. “Oh so, you don’t love me, anymore?” she’d say. “I didn’t say that,” I’d say. “You didn’t have to.” “Why do you say that?” “Because you’re in bed with some chick right now who’s trying to figure you out.” I’d just close my eyes, take a deep breath and pray for a simpler life. “It’s too bad,” she’d say. “We could have had a little somethin’-somethin’ together,” and she’d hang up and I wouldn’t hear from her again for at least two or three days. I’d climb back into bed and whomever was lying there would say, “Who was that?” and I’d shake my head and sigh and say, “Don’t worry about it.” “It’s another woman.” “No one like you,” which never seemed to satisfy them. Only made them more competitive and bitchy. “She ain’t got nothin’ on me,” they’d say, and I’d agree with them and close my eyes and fall asleep with their arms around me. II I’d wake up and it would always be raining and my sunglasses could never keep the glare of her honesty from blinding me. She’d say, “So now what’s your plan?” I’d hem and haw and do what slackers usually do, crack a Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoke a bowl. Then I’d say something like, “Well, the thing of it is…” and nothing more. Had no plan. Never did. Most I ever had was a fragment of a plan, a fragmented fragment of a plan. I’d lived my whole life like that. Always fucked up with women during the most crucial point in our intercourse. Always dropped the ball with them. Never knew how to answer them, always felt like I was on a job interview, whether we were eating dinner or in post coital cool-down, they were always trying to get inside my ambition, wanting to know if I had anything to offer them, the world, their family. We’d be lying there, sweaty, out of breath, smelling of semen and vaginal juices, staring at the missing tiles in the ceiling. They’d be asking me questions, boy. “Want children?” “Dunno.” “Wanna get married?” “Dunno.” “Wanna better job?” “Dunno.” Then there’d be like 3 minutes of silence. They’d be thinking, This guy seems like one of those conflicted guys who never seems to be able to form attachments with women. I’d be thinking, Jesus Christ, now what? © 2024 Philip GaberFeatured Review
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1 Review Added on August 4, 2024 Last Updated on August 4, 2024 Author
Philip GaberCharlotte, NCAboutI hate writing biographies. I was one of those kids who rode a banana seat bike and watched Saturday morning cartoons and Soul Train. But my mother would never buy any of those sugary cereals for us k.. more..Writing
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