Paul was the satisfaction of a hammer hitting a nail.

Paul was put up in a nearby motel. As he traveled light, he had no tools of his own & borrowed a belt of slightly worn, but workable, tools for daily use.

 

He could take orders well, and work within the commands to get task completed in a creative and time effective manner. He could rethink repeated processes and improve upon energy expended. Assembly lines and such. Landscapes created.

Paul was dividing the plots into manageable portions.

Paul was on the carpentry crew. There were individual crews for each aspect of the home construction, surveyors, masons pouring concrete, framers, roofers, electricians wiring the places, crews insulating and sheet rocking, et cetera.

 

There was one guy who just put handles on the cabinets.

 

Each job the same repeated motion completing steps in one house, moving to the next. The work never done. As if always working on the same house, the same job, putting that stud in not quite at 16’’ on center, a nail bent at the same junction in each déjà vu.

 

Paul hit nails with a hammer.

Paul was family fiction.

Paul was a new suburb. Levittown cut through flat former farm field. Manifest destiny in poured concrete and ranch style homes.

Paul was comfortable with manual labor. Simple instructions; move this there; demo that room; conjugate the verb to fit the proper tense; three 2×4’s from the bile hoisted up to the second floor; get more nails; move the ladder.

 

& lunch from a pail.

Paul was the family as fiction.

Paul was field trip tomorrow. To see maple syrup made. The teacher had lessoned them on spigots stuck into tree trunks that tap sap from the maple’s core.

Paul was hoping to turn one of the faucets, draw the insides out, drink in the tree’s flavour.

Paul was not in possession of boots. But you must wear boots. The teacher said it. You must wear boots. Mom didn’t buy me any boots. How can I see syrup made if I don’t have boots? I need boots. & all the other kids have boots. Mike, Bill, Fred, Ben, Mark — they all wear boots on snowy day. I just wrap up my feet it plastic grocery bags to keep the winter out.

How will I go if I don’t have boots?

Paul was fiercely loyal to place because his father, Paul, was not.

Paul was to keep account of passing. Because postcards aren’t enough Loraine. Because maybe I want to understand the reinvention that is between. One card he is working at a farm, another her is logging. Another card he has visited a gold mine & then the one “Ocian in view O! The Joy!”.

Paul was “what was he when he was there?”

Paul was just passing again & again & again.

Paul was the events all lined up, but not much of a story.

Paul was everyday you will forget.

Paul was buried in his notebook. He was good at dividing time separating & sorting (this visit would be filed under: Loraine Sophomore Year, Autumn) but his notebook was empty besides his timed titles. Containers waiting to be filled.

Loraine was good at drafting. Pulling out a moment from the past.

“Remember the tree in the front yard, the one near the street that I needed a boast to get into. You had some system of getting up, digging your fingers into the bark in and putting your foot on a bump. Gosh, you were a monkey.”

 File under: Before the move, Summer of babysitting.

Everything at Loraine’s engineering school was on a hill. Sitting on sloping grass they overlooked the tops of various university buildings, eventually a main street, then a river. Paul flipped through pages as Loraine stared past the river, looking at the other half of the city rising up.

“Remember buying bubblegum at the deli on the corner.”

File under: After Dad left, Before the move.

In filing there was forgetting; still, a remembrance of what passed, though, a clear distance placed between Paul & event occurred after he wrote a memory down. Storing everything on paper, notes necessary for later story sorting.

Paul was trainscribed.

Paul was postcards (not sent #1).

Paul was seeing a woman & her dolls. He did not post this information in a card to mail home to his son (Paul). If he would have, the obverse of the card would have featured one of these scenes:

Allen meets a horse!

 

or;

Tucking in

or;

Duck!

&

"Family" photo

Paul was “Remember Dad buying us Italian ice in the park?”
“No, he never did that”
“Yes, cherry for me and him, lemon for you.”
“Mom told him ‘No. It will spoil their supper’”
“No, no, that happened too, but Dad did buy us Italian ice”
“She said ‘If you want to suck on ice I’ve got plenty at home’”
“The flimsy papercup cold in my hand”

Paul was dividing his past into manageable portions.

Paul was Spring, Ahead.

Paul was putting the red jam on his toast. Then he wanted marmalade. His toast was half red and half orange. & sweet. His coffee, black.

Before him lay the middle of an idea fueled by clarity in coffee. Pen marks & perspective lines. The diner placemat framed with a brown lattice pattern. Next to a coffee ring, a list of photography supplies. In short script on the right side were subjects he wished to shoot. His head humming with a crisp white clarity, what steps next to take, snowing.

“It’s going to be a hot one” the flannelled figure next to Paul remarked.

“I don’t have much to say.”

“If it gets much above 45 degrees workin is gonna be tough.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for working if it was hot? Put some rum in your straw.”

“Ground thaws. Bad news.”

 

The waitress refilled Paul’s coffee.

“Hey doll how about some sugar and crème?” Paul asked.

“You asked for it black”

“Oh.”

Before he could respond she had placed the seasonings on the counter & stared straight into his eyes, her one eyebrow cocked.

“Thanks.”

“Cindy just likes to fool with ya,” the man said, “just give her a rap on her backside when she walks round the counter — that will set her straight.”

“I did that in a place down in California. Waitress slapped me straight away.”

“People up here know their place. Cindy knows her place. I move trees. And you?”

“Looking for work. Was down by the coast for a while; I thought I wanted sun; I missed winter.”

“If it gets much warmer, there won’t be any work.”

“Place needs to be frozen, white, to get things done.”

 

Snow was melting. The crisp white outlines melting. Away.

Paul was keep me posted.

Paul was lyrics to all along the watchtower.

Paul was a picture text message.

Here is the birdcage. lame.

Paul was

“Remember by the creek the concrete drainpipe leading into the city’s sewers?”

Paul was outlined.

Paul was waking up, starting over each morning, forgetting the day week month year white space expanding ahead & there are birds & snacks & handholding infinitely

 

but then

 

melted concrete patches; how to operate a telephone switchboard; worked at the warehouse back then; visiting Loraine at school, above her desk a periodical table; a postcard from South Dakota with a wheat field being consumed by a combine; tonight’s TV lineup; frozen pizza for dinner last night; today’s weather; traffic stopped at the railroad crossing; signed Paul, not Dad; the swingset built in the backyard giving Loraine & me splinters; moving, changes

 

& here, now, a moment that has already passed.

Paul was xeroxed.