"Alexandria" by Hunter Prichard
Photo Credit: Claudio Schwarz, obtained and licensed through Unsplash
Alexandria
It took a while, but Oliver worked himself into an upright position. He chewed his lips to hide a smirk. Alexandria always made herself at home here and he sure was thankful. The Thanksgiving things she’d brought for him were spread out on his table. There were yams, bread-stuffing, carrots, marshmallows, gravy mix and a slice of pecan pie. It was all for him. Alexandria busied about the kitchen. He sat by the window drinking wine out of a teacup. He felt things were about perfect.
“No more chocolate for you.” Alexandria said. “You want to be hungry for dinner, don’t you? That means you got to be careful about that chocolate.”
“I’m enjoying myself, Alexandria. I’ll keep doing so, no matter what, on Thanksgiving.”
“No more wine. The doctor said.” Alexandria came over to him. “You’re drinking that wine and now I don’t know what to do with you. It’s not right, Oliver.”
“No, the doctor said nothing on wine. Wrong again, Alexandria.”
“The doctor made sure to advise –”
“Alexandria, wine here and there won’t hurt me. You know it.” Oliver ate his chocolate balls. Alexandria had brought them for him as a treat. “Doctors are smug and don’t even follow their own advice,” he whispered. “I can’t blame them. People refuse their advice to get better and doctors have only themselves to blame. It’s funny to me –”
“Not so loud, Oliver.”
How they hate people, he mouthed, looking about conspiratorially. That doctor hates me and he always will. What’s the point in listening? Doctors want you to get ignore them and get sick and then they can swoop in like a big fat God and –
“What are you saying over there?” she interrupted.
“Nothing at all, Alexandria.”
There was a strong, vigorous man in his brain. This man ate a steak in a café, watched a woman die, sat drunk on a bench, laughed at an old man, dug at hard turf with a sledgehammer, received bread and bean stew behind others, waited outside a concert hall for a girl that wouldn’t show up, repetitively stamped labels onto sardine-cans. It was a good dream and he wished the man would stay for a long longer, but the man was gone.
“No more chocolate. Must I take it from you?”
“No, Alexandria. You cannot.”
“I might,” she chuckled. “Look at you! Grinning over there.”
“Am I?” He wondered. “Grinning? Me?”
“Sometimes you can be gloomy. I get worried.”
“I’m never gloomy. Funnily enough, I’m always happy.” Oliver settled back in the chair. “People are nothing. They want boredom, emptiness.” His voice sounded hard and unfriendly, so he tried to unstiffen it. “They didn’t like me. We were different. It occurred to me as a little boy that I was born into the wrong family. So, I fixed it.”
“What’re you talking on over there?”
“Smiling? Talking? No, not me. I’m only thinking aloud. Don’t worry.”
Alexandria bent to see on the hen. The kitchen was warm and dry. He couldn’t wait on later. They would enjoy Thanksgiving dinner together and get a little too drunk. He would tell her all he could of what was in his heart. She would cry and laugh until she cried more. Young woman like Alexandria were always winking and giggling and a pretty woman doing that to him made him want to collapse.
Through the window was much of his town’s historical district. Boys played football. An unaccompanied girl skipped rope. Some men drank beer outside of the all-night gas station. A clerk came out to upturn a pail of dirty water into the street.
Blame them. They didn’t like me. Me them too. I fixed it.
They would enjoy Thanksgiving dinner together and get a little too drunk. He would tell her all he could of what was in his heart.
Oliver liked watching the people below. It was only too bad that the bottle of wine was empty. Even more so, he didn’t feel drunk, only delirious. He considered his many Thanksgivings and tried to put them in order. But that only made him feel odd. Most Thanksgivings, he’d been an out-of-the-way man in some other part of America. He hadn’t friends, nor turkey-dinner. There’d been purpose in such desolation. He didn’t know why he’d done it. Although he was feeling too wonderful to resent such a past, it still tickled him.
“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve cleaned some.” Alexandria stood loudly. Her nose wiggled. “It’s dusty, but it smells alright. You’ve been cleaning, haven’t you? Like I said.”
“I made sure to clean, Alexandria. Please, don’t go into the bedroom!”
“I know Oliver. I won’t go anywhere you don’t want me to.”
“I only want to make sure that you don’t.”
“Why? Did you not make your bed this morning?” Alexandria prepared the dish of yams and marshmallows for the oven. “You always say how much better you feel when you make your bed first thing when you get up. Now, you’ve had too much chocolate. No more.”
“I want it.” Oliver brushed his pajama pants. “I wouldn’t trade chocolate balls for all the olives in Oklahoma. I’m doing alright sitting here, waiting, watching how things go. Do you understand, Alexandria?”
“You don’t want to spoil your dinner.”
“I’ll have what I want.” He chuckled. “I’m looking forward to the Thanksgiving, Alexandria, and so thankful of you for helping me with the cooking.”
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she mumbled. “I’m disappointed, Oliver, more than a little, that you’ve drunk wine so early in the morning.”
“It’s Thanksgiving. The most wonderful day of the year.”
“If you must drink, please do it in the evening with your dinner.”
“I rarely drink, Alexandria. You know that. On Thanksgiving, we do what we wish.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t drink in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t make that promise on Thanksgiving. Don’t worry on me, Alexandria, and don’t tell me your things. I barely drink. You know that. You know it. You know that you’re complaining over nothing.”
“I don’t like to see you drinking, not even if it’s Thanksgiving. You’re all bones now, aren’t you? Do you get enough to eat? You need some fat.”
“Sticks and bones. Huh? Me?” Oliver said. “No, Alexandria. Look! I even have a paunch.” He stood from the chair and made his body slack. Sometimes he could give himself a stomach that way. “It’s not there today. Do you know how I know? I have a fizzy drink. If I’m sick afterwards, I know I’m eating well.”
“Did you have your dinner last night?” Alexandria pan-fried carrots and turnips in butter. “Did you write your grocery list?”
Oliver tittered at that funny question. Alexandria condescending him like she did, made him so delighted it was almost better than when she winked. Anyways, it was obvious he had written the list, and she knew that was so. She was only being bothersome. It was too bad for him that she cared deeply for him and was as much in love with him as he wasn’t with her.
“Alexandria, we haven’t more wine for dinner. I’ll run to the store?”
“No, I don’t think you’ll have any more for today.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
“You’ll be alright without it.”
“You might want it too,” Oliver said shyly. “We can properly celebrate.”
“I won’t be able to stay for dinner. I’m sorry.”
“Is that so?” He considered. “I’ll go later, by myself.”
Alexandria might be the most naïve person in the world. He was a bit sheepish that he’d brought up the wine to her. She was a worrier and he didn’t like to think he’d disturbed her. As well, he knew that she knew that he drank however much wine he wanted, that he took the bus to the supermarket once a week, and if he ever ran out of food, he went to the gas station for pop-tarts. If he didn’t eat, that was because he wasn’t hungry. So, when she acted dense and bothered, he only shook his head, wondering how she couldn’t know any better.
“I refuse to waste today,” he told her urgently. “A whole year will go by before I have my most favorite day once again. That would make me a twisted, knotty mess. So, I’m going to do what I want and nothing else. Going to look at my pictures and take a walk later, then eat my dinner nice and slow. I like it slow, Alexandria. Thank you very much for the chocolate because it’s what I love for dessert most of all. I’m going to eat all the hen, to prove to you I’m not getting bony. I might get waffles later too. I especially like caramel chocolates. I want to go for a walk later. It might be cold.”
“It was absolutely freezing on my walk over. Oliver, will you stay inside for me?"
"No, I see some boys playing football. They’re alright.”
“Boys are one thing, but I don’t want you to go out. Will you not do so for me?”
“There’s a girl skipping.” Oliver looked for her. “She’s gone now.”
“She must’ve gotten too cold.”
“No, her mother called her in. You see, mothers are always calling people in to be safe. Mothers like being safe but being safe never got anyone anywhere. They don’t understand, like you don’t understand, Alexandria, and you can’t do anything about that.”
“I must ask you sincerely to not go out.”
“I’ll want to get some waffles later,” he muttered. He watched her prepare the Thanksgiving. She seemed aware of this and began to tremble. The potatoes boiled, the sprouts and carrots sizzled. The yams with marshmallows were in the oven, besides the hen. Oliver ate a chocolate and popped his finger-joints. “Don’t you smell the firewood smoke in the air? How can a person not want to be outside in it?”
“It’s not necessary for you to go out, so please don’t.”
“I like stretching my legs. I don’t much care about the cold, certainly not on Thanksgiving. Alexandria, celebrations like these make me sentimental. I feel worthless and puny sitting here. I was thinking of going down to the cemetery and saying hello. Do you understand, Alexandria?”
“I do, but I don’t think it’s good for you to do it today. Especially not after the wine.”
“The wine? How’s anybody supposed to celebrate without it?”
“A little here and there is alright. But I think you’ve overindulged.”
“We should get some wine. So, we can both enjoy ourselves.”
“I don’t drink at all. You know that.”
“I thought you might, because of the holiday.”
“I get too sick and not so drunk. I worry that you drink as you do.” She sighed. “I ask that you be as careful as you can.”
“I will.”
“You don’t want to hurt yourself.”
“Good for you for not drinking, Alexandria.” He hadn’t wanted to offend her, and he wanted to make it better. “It’s best some people don’t. Lots of people can’t stop. My father went crazy and furious after a sip of beer.”
“I know he did.”
“The trouble is that sometimes I get sentimental and nasty. I want to remember things how they were. The lying eats at me.”
“Alexandria, he couldn’t drink more than one beer. He never learned. As for me, some days you got to celebrate. It’s important to let go a little – go a little crazy.”
“I don’t like drinking at all and pray people don’t do it. I mean, if you can handle a little, I’m not one to throw stones. But I can’t forget that much wrong happens when alcohol is involved. I cannot help but to worry.”
“You’re a worrier.”
“Everyone needs to be careful.”
“Alexandria, haven’t you heard the phrase: ‘Remove the wood from your eye before you – you what?’” He slapped his head, attempting to recall it.
“Stop hitting yourself, Oliver. It’s alright.”
“I’ve forgotten it. I’ve forgotten it, Alexandria! I’ve lost my thought.”
“Remove the beam from your own eye. Then you can remove the specks from another.”
“I figured something like that. Alexandria, it’s important to be lazy and stupid at least part of the time, isn’t it? The trouble is that people don’t want to do what they wish when the opportunity is there for them. Some do. But no person can be strict all the year. That’s my bond. The problem with people is that some don’t know how to rest. Some don’t know how to work. They get stuck. You need a little bit of both sides. There’s the middle.” He took some chocolates he’d hidden in his pajama-shirt pocket and made a line of them on the floor. “Look, Alexandria, you got to keep one foot on either side of the line. Otherwise, you go too far. Working hard makes you tense. Laziness makes you worthless. Now, on most days, you got work and duties. Afterwards, it’s fun. On Thanksgiving, you got be foolish. Don’t waste it. Now isn’t time for being serious. On Thanksgiving, I refuse all obligations. I believe this very much. Will you believe it? I hope so, for your own sake. On Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.”
“Please pick up your chocolate,” she told him. “You’ll make it dirty.”
“I was trying to make my point.”
He waited to see if she would laugh or smile, and when she did not, he took up the chocolate, rubbed each piece with his shirtsleeve, and ate one, to prove they weren’t unclean.
“Don’t get your shirt dirty.”
“I like using my sleeve.” If she was so frightened for him, he would stop telling her things. There were others he could speak with. He would go to the cemetery later and explain why things came to be this way and why. She wouldn’t know. That was her own fault. “I’m going to look at my pictures now.” He waited for her to respond. “Alexandria, I’m going to get my pictures,” he almost shouted. “Will you sit and look at them with me?”
“I will. But Oliver, I will be needing to leave soon?”
“Back home?”
“There’s much to do for my own Thanksgiving.”
“Back home.”
“I’m sorry, but I will need to be –”
“Alexandria, I don’t want to keep you. I know you need to go. You don’t need to keep telling me. I won’t be mad. But you can go and come as you like without telling me, can’t you?”
“I’m only telling you, so you know.”
“Alexandria, I want to show you my pictures.”
Oliver felt an dim haziness come upon him as he crossed the kitchen. He leapt at the table and gripped tight the edge. Alexandria was nearby. She looked upset, he grinned and ate another chocolate. “Sometimes, I get wobbly.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. But he wouldn’t ever flop in front of her. “Can I show you my pictures? Would you like to see them?”
“I can get your box for you. Maybe it’s best if you sit.”
“Alexandria, we need more wine, to keep this wonderful buzz.”
“I don’t want you to drink anymore. Will you promise not to, for me?”
“I cannot promise, Alexandria, not on Thanksgiving. But have some chocolate. And thank you, once more, for the hen and everything else. It smells wonderful.”
“Why don’t you give all the chocolate to me? Will you please?”
“I want to eat as I like, and I don’t want to ask you.”
“You want to be hungry for your dinner.”
“No, Alexandria. Anyways, Alexandria, I’m getting hungrier by the minute, stronger too. I can’t wait for Christmas and New Year, by the way, which are delightful too, though not as good as Thanksgiving. Sit right down at the table. I’ll get my box.”
“I can get your box for you if you would like.”
“You don’t know where it is,” he reminded her.
“It’s in the closet. You sit and rest.”
“You might think it’s in the closet, but you don’t know where in the closet,” he laughed as he tottered across the kitchen. “While you wait, have whatever you want, Alexandria. I will be back. The trouble is that I have it hidden.” He stuck his head in the closet and mumbled many muffled cusses directed at her that she couldn’t hear.
In the closet, on the top shelf, was the shoebox that contained important things like bills, the apartment’s lease, bank statements, bus tickets, vouchers, tobacco, and chocolates. Underneath that, were photographs and newspaper clippings he’d saved. He hadn’t looked at such things in what could’ve been a long while. He was pleased that Alexandria was here, and that she’d agreed to look too. She sat comfortably at the table as he came with his box burrowed under one arm. His other hand clutched the table, so he would remain upright. He sat and ate a chocolate. He spread the papers on the table. He quivered tensely as he studied the wood of the table in-between the pictures and then he looked expectantly to her.
“When I was little, wasn’t she an artist? Alexandria, of course, she was. Yes, that must be when, Alexandria, you see, down the block, where the cemetery ends and the hospital begins, there’s a big lot. Do you know? There used to be a house where that lot is. I remember it. But not good enough for me to say exactly what it looked like.”
“You go slow,” she advised. “You don’t want to get excited.”
“I’m saying that it was right out on the lawn of the big house I grew up in.”
“I know, Oliver.”
“Do you? What I mean when I say that any man must get used to things, some people might think I had all in the world what anyone could ever want. But to me it was different. I had to get used to it. Hard work. I didn’t know how I was able to do it for so long until the day I quit them. Thing about it that it makes it seem like nursey rhymes. I can’t make sense of it. But I know what happened to me and what’s true and why don’t you eat chocolates with me? I’ll go get some more wine for dinner. There’s not enough for both of us. We need wine to toast the future. You will toast me. I will toast you. We will toast the future. Alexandria, that’s what you’re doing here. You’re supposed to do what I want. If I want you to drink wine, then you will. If I want you to look at my pictures, you better.”
“I’m here.” She rested her hand on his. “I’m not leaving yet. Don’t get excited.”
“I won’t. Then again, who knows? I might. We’ll have to see. I’m not interested in it anymore. It doesn’t mean anything. Anybody with half a brain makes whatever they want, and it doesn’t matter in the end.” He coughed harshly. “I don’t like stupidity, Alexandria, I hope you don’t think I’ll put up with it. I know you must do what I say. No bullshit, Alexandria.”
“Please, no swear words. It offends me.”
“I like saying it. It’s a good word.”
“Not in front of me please.”
“Bullshit,” he whispered. But he didn’t like to upset her and tried to make his voice soft and apologetic. “The trouble is that sometimes I get sentimental and nasty. I want to remember things how they were. The lying eats at me.”
“I’m here.” She rested her hand on his. “I’m not leaving yet. Don’t get excited.”
Oliver studied a photograph of a short, square-shouldered man. For a moment, he felt warmth in his cheeks. The newspaper clipping said this man donated to the college. But the newspaper had too many creases and it was difficult to read the faded words. Oliver only remembered it from the other times he’d looked, that this man in the photograph was important and generous. “Look, Alexandria. Please, won’t you?”
“I’m right here.”
“Are you? Are you looking?”
“That’s a beautiful picture of him,” she said softly. “I can’t believe how well people dressed back then. Look at those top hats and bowties, and those dresses.” She tried to smile. “All that money. I’m inspired by his charity, every time I read it.”
“A drop in the bucket for him. For them, they can give whatever.”
“You say it, but you must be proud regardless.”
“Not even a smidge, Alexandria.”
“It’s important to support charities,” she said cautiously and averted her eyes.
“Is it if you have more money than God.” He wished to say much more, and it took effort for him to keep his lips clamped shut. The rich and their bigheartedness ate at him. But he was too tired to go through the routine. The poor were trusting and stupid to understand it. “Doctors. Landlords. But do you know what they are? Bloodsuckers!”
“Yes, I know, but please don’t get excited.”
“Nobody can stop me if I wish to. I know what happened to me. I know what’s true. You want to know the truth?” He could laugh. He only shook his head and ate a chocolate. “Have a few, won’t you. Help me eat the candy? Rest some, Alexandria.”
“Not for me. Oliver, your dinner is almost ready.”
He ate his chocolates, so as not to become angry by her earnestness. Many words were trapped tightly in his throat, and he pinched the table until he felt calmer.
She took up the picture of a little girl. “Your mother, I believe.”
“Yes.” His eyes constricted as he took a different photograph from the pile. It showed an unappealing woman with dense jowls and a melancholy expression. “She’s older or younger depending on where you look.”
“She’s striking. Not dressed-up like your father.”
“An artist. But you knew that, Alexandria.” He shrugged. “Thing about memory is it turns things into folk stories, rhymes, mottos, aphorisms, etc. Can’t make sense of it. But I know what happened to me. I know what’s true. You want to know the truth?” He could laugh. He only shook his head. “One more chocolate for good luck.”
“Save them for dessert.”
“No.” He ate the chocolate as he pleased. “As I was saying, doctors are aggravated that people are too stupid to be healthy, and, of course, resentful of them for not following advice. They hate people. They love giving drugs and tonics out and cutting people up so much.”
“Oliver, that’s too nasty for me.”
“It’s the truth.”
Alexandria didn’t seem to quite understand. “Look at you,” she said suddenly. “That’s nice, Oliver. I like it when you smile. That’s better than crazy thoughts like yours.”
“Smiling? You shouldn’t like it,” he warned her. “Smiling doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, that’s quite a thing to say!”
“Sure, sure.” He couldn’t remember, but he supposed it could be right. “Probably the truth. Who knows? Who cares?” He had a coughing fit. “I’m not interested in it anymore. It doesn’t mean anything in the end.” He ate chocolate when he was done hacking.
“I will have to leave now,” she told him. Her hand rested gently on his back and there was water-drops on her eyelids. “I would say the hen hasn’t much longer. The bell will sound.”
“You can’t stay, Alexandria?”
“I need to be going.”
“I thought you might stay for dinner. That’s what you said.”
“Got to get myself home for Thanksgiving. You’ll be fine?”
“Go home and be with your family,” he said. He felt his head heavy, and his brain pierced by disorderliness. There was a hollering from somewhere. His lips worked noiselessly in response. “I think it’s wonderful that you have lived as you want and I have too, for everyone needs to. I’m perfectly alright and there’s nothing for you here. Go home and be happy with your family. I demand it.”
Alexandria had departed. He wondered, when she’d been standing at the door looking back on him, what his own eyeballs had allowed. She had to leave. There wasn’t any choice for her. She had a husband and a child. It was pathetic and sad for a woman to be stuck in obligations and wouldn’t ever be free, but a person’s life was of their own making.
Many times, a dispirited feeling came over that made him black and puny. Oliver would lie for a while with his eyes shut until the usual stillness resumed. Sometimes it wouldn’t for too long a while, and he understood he would have to drink a little until it went away. Drinking wine here or there was great. So, he took wine from where it was hidden in the cabinet. There was another bottle hidden in the bedroom. You see, Alexandria, I was the one to see my world. I’ve been everywhere. His eyes had become too damp. He couldn’t see so clearly. Alexandria, nobody knew. It was only me. I knew factories and dishwashing and farming. Once, Alexandria, I planned a bank robbery, Oliver said. He kept talking. Too bad we got drunk and called it off. They were rotted by money. Everything was tense and cold. Money leads to resentment and selfishness. Not for me, Alexandria. Once, I was hit by a car and became a cripple for a year or so. Another time, got into heroin. I drank gallons of whiskey and sang songs with cowboys. The world slowed about him. There was none of the people’s hollering on the street and the low rumbles of trucks. He drank wine and ate chocolates. He was nudged only by the oven bell’s ring.
Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, ME.