re: untitled

Waves upon waves of suburban concrete crash down around me. Sometimes I fear I will drown in it. The funny thing is, I’m not sure I get here. This place of perfection, of clean-cut lines and the trash out every Tuesday morning and my wife with the decorative towels in the bathroom that I can’t use to dry my hands. Who puts towels in the bathroom that can’t be used? They’re pink with little daisies embroidered on them. I hate pink.

On Wednesdays we have dinner with her parents and Thursdays are movie nights with a couple from church. My wife expects the dishes to be done and the living room to be swept before they come over. And after they come over because he tracks in mud on his work boots. He works construction during the day. Sweaty skin beneath the sun’s rays, swinging hammers and calling crude remarks out to women as they walk by. I’ve never looked at dirt with such longing.

But I sweep it up. I light a candle that sits on the coffee table so the room smells like vanilla, my favorite scent. Then I change into a freshly ironed pair of khakis and a polo, tussle my hair a bit and style with some gel. This makes me look younger and my wife likes it best this way.

She works for a men’s clothing company, with models in clothing we can’t even afford to buy. But she knows what is most fashionable and picks out most of my clothing. I love her and she’s good to me so I try to please her. I don’t really care about my appearance, but marriage is a give and take, right?

I work in an office doing pointless paperwork. Ok, it’s not so pointless. But it feels pointless. I’m sure someone, somewhere appreciates what I do. I daydream them finding exactly the document they needed at exactly the right time, smiling and wondering what promising hopeful might be out there, ready to promote at that very moment.

What I really want to do is run, work with my hands, feel the burn in my calves from standing too long and the sting in my eyes as sweat runs down my face. I want to come home and wash dirt out from under my fingernails, sit down to a hearty meal and then relax in my chair with a good beer. My grandparents were farmers. Or at least my grandfather was. It is him I picture when I think of this, his overalls stained with grease from laying beneath a tractor all day, fixing the problem, or dirt from the fields. We would eat the things he grew, collect the eggs from his chickens, swing from the trees in the apple orchard.

I talk to my wife about moving to the country, maybe when we have kids. I describe the two-story farmhouse that surely awaits us. A red barn on the property with a couple silos for storing the grain I plan to buy. A cat and a dog that roam the property. Goats for the kids to help raise and cows we will slaughter in the fall or keep for fresh milk. My story grows bigger and bigger every time I tell it. She smiles, touches my cheek and suggests I start by planting the trees we just bought in the backyard. And maybe while I’m at it, she says I can mow the yard and rake the leaves and til that area in the front yard where she wants to plant some flowers.

So I put on my best cut-off shorts, the one with the little holes that are the style now. I put on a shirt from college, one of the few that have survived the years and the many wardrobe changes. I dedicate a Saturday to making my yard beautiful. A neighbor or two stops my progress to chat about the weather, what the homeowner’s association will be doing about the political signs in the yards or that one lazy neighbor who will never mow the lawn. What an eyesore! they proclaim, and I agree. They joke and tease me about finally tending to my lawn, to which I just nod and make a comment about the wife cracking the whip. To which he heartily agrees and then mentions needing to get back to his own “honey-do” list.

The yard looks great when I am done, trees planted just where she wanted them. Ground broken up and tilled under, the flowers arranged with perfect distance between them but not yet planted. I like to leave that to her; it’s her favorite part. She likes to feel the dirt between her fingers, to be a part of creation renewing itself. But she doesn’t have all day, this I know because the living room has to be swept again before company comes over.

I put all my tools back in the our shed, and sweep the clippings from the drive-way and sidewalk. My back is all sweaty and is showing through my shirt. I leave my old tennis shoes on, covered in dirt and grass, just for a bit longer. Just long enough to walk to the bathroom down the hall. I wash the dirt from beneath my fingernails and check my reflection in the mirror. My hair hangs down, sweat dripping from the end and I’ve gotten some sun on my forehead and nose. My beard is beginning to make an appearance. Rugged, I decide. Definitely rugged. Sexy, even.

I splash cold water on my face and hang my head, letting it drip off. I reach for a towel, careful not to grab one of the pink ones and put it to my face. I carefully remove my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from my arms and neck. I walk back to the front door and take off the shoes at last, putting them in the closet, away from unseen eyes. I head to the shower and notice an outfit layed out for me on the bed. Back to my khakis and polo.