You Stand on Soft Wood Chips: A Swing Set Monologue

You Stand on Soft Wood Chips: A Swing Set Monologue

By Dave Woehrle        

            The bell rings and you run headfirst outside, whooping, yelling, living.

            You look to the swing set – six swings divided, three on each side, no baby swing nonsense – the chains of each swing suspended from a high gray support beam, with six yellow legs extending down for support, and you realize the swing set resembles an ant, and so it’s like you’re swinging from the udders of an ant when you swing, but you won’t tell anyone that because they will put you in counseling.

            But you love swings. Everyone loves swings: those gods of elevation, dashed to at recess, the hot limited commodity of the playground, the space under each swing cleared of woodchips, like worn launch pads. The blue spongy swing seats, like Smurf smiles, under you butt, you reach and pull, your little legs clawing the air, like hungry oars in dense water, higher and higher, and your arms pull, too, and you lean back on the upstroke, legs extended, and at your zenith, you see your shoes silhouetted on the backdrop of blue sky and you feel infinite and hope you don’t puke up your shark and dinosaur fruit snacks.

            And you look to friends swinging around you, each dreaming and sweating and wishing there was more than fifteen minutes to do this, and someone gets in the same swing rhythm as you, and you yell, “We’re married!” and then you sing songs from Aladdin and dare each other to keep eye contact as you swing, and it’s so CRAZY DUDE and your equilibrium gets squishy and if you fall, someone will take your swing and that sucks but that’s the recess code.

            But you don’t fall. Not today.

            You swing as hard as you can and your body is its own ride. And at your highest point on the backside of your arc, you’re level with the top support beam, so high the chain goes suddenly slack and suddenly back with a THUNK like a bass drum kick to the body and you know you’ve reached your peak and there’s nothing more to prove, so it’s time to jump.

            Jumping off a swing is its own art, its own philosophy. If you jump too early on your upswing, you launch, line-drive style, over the safe bed of wood chips, and onto the unforgiving blacktop, knees and palms scraped up, and others will laugh. You release too high, you stall, you panic, you flap your arms, and you drop like a rock. You get no distance. You get bruises.

            You must time your leap to create a slow, parabolic glide to the Earth, like a last second three-pointer, a trajectory beyond physics, more of a mindset, an angle only swing set practiced children know.

            Everyone’s watching you just as you’ve been watching those jump off around you, judging, nodding, taking stock of it all, recalibrating popularity ranking of playground dominance. Jamey can’t jump worth crap. I won’t sit next to her during story time. Besides, she farts.

            So this is important, this leap, this letting go, hands unclenching the chains, butt off the seat and in the air, giving your body to gravity and luck. You’re scared and excited, the same emotion regardless of what adults tell you, but you must jump. So you swallow a hard ball of nervousness, take a breath, and you’ll go on your next upswing.

            Yeah. The next upswing. Okay. Not that upswing, it felt off. The next new upswing. No no. One more. Make sure the right people are looking and remember to jump to mid-upswing, and okay be ready. This is it. This upswing now. Go go go go go go.

            Oh yeah oh yeah this is great momentum and here it is and here it goes and……………………………………………………………………….......................................

            Time stops. You’re flying. Or the closest you’ll get to it. You’re t-shirt billows, your arms raise, you’re like seaweed moving in water, suspended, eyes popping, mouth open, not surprised by the falling sensation, just in love with it.

            And in that jump, you’re a legend, a superhero, looking over the school’s roof, to houses and fields and worlds, and you know you have a test about the Louisiana Purchase you didn’t study for when you go back in after recess, but right then, in the air, in the air of this strange day as they all are, you’ve conquered the art of the swing set, the swing leap, the landing, and you stand on soft wood chips, proud and sweaty, a god of the suburban playground.

            And the bell rings again.

            And it’s over.

February Journal Entry

February Journal Entry

By Dave Woehrle

It’s easy not to drink when you’re hung over. It’s the day after the hangover when the urge bites the brain again. But instead I read and wait in bed, praying without saying I am. I overate today after a substantial dinner. No one wants to be logy and lonely but tonight I am both. The bitter arrival of your blue self, the painting that dissolves like cold rain on February grass. We live in an odd world. News is entertainment and vice versa. Jeremy Lin stats and Rick Santorum hates condoms and Bill Maher smirks and we can’t have four more years of failure and there was a Koran burning on a U.S. military base, and a man in Georgia went on a killing spree because Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons told him to, so HLN has experts to discuss Bipolar I and Bipolar II disorder. Which chemical or social institution is to blame? I know nothing but suspect happiness doesn’t roar like a river. It trickles like a stream. You have to be quiet to hear it.

Karen

Karen

By Dave Woehrle        

She's fifty-seven. Her father is dying. She loves him but hates him for dying and for taking up so much time to do it.

            At her deli job, she packs her pockets with bits of baked chicken breasts. She pinches off little white chunks throughout the day and tries to hide her nibbling.

            She sneaks pulls of Peach Schnapps in the bathroom, returning red-faced and talkative about the weather and how the new coleslaw recipe isn’t as good.

            One night at closing, she cried while saran-wrapping a side of ham. I asked her if she was okay. She turned to me, her glasses thick and fogged, and said, “Stop saying that. I just need to finish this.”

The Alpha Alpaca

The Alpha Alpaca

By Dave Woehrle

 We talk on the school bus on the way to Starved Rock. He sits alone in the seat behind me, so I lean my back parallel to the window to converse.

            The sun is rising and I sip a thermos of coffee. I try at small talk.

            “What’s your favorite food?” I ask.

            “Mangos,” he says. He looks out the window.

            “Mangos?”

            “Mangos. I love mangos.”

            I nod.

            He asks, “Do you even know what mangos are?”

            “Yeah, I know. They’re a fruit.”

            “They’re a great fruit, the best in the world. Not like grapefruit.”

            “What’s wrong with grapefruit?”

            “God, grapefruit is too tart. And too large. So freakish. But I like grapefruit juice. It’s probably the most quenching juice known to man. Strange at first taste but a great aftertaste.”

            I laugh. I say, “Like Ruby Red?”

            “Yeah. That’s good stuff.”

            He opens a bag of Animal Crackers and asks, “Do you know what an alpaca is?”

            “Sure.”

            “Yeah. I like them. They’re really anti-social animals.”

            “What? I thought they were herd animals, like they live in a pack?”

            “Nope. They don’t like anything.”

            “So they don’t live together?”

            “They do. I mean, they can. But if you put them together, they prefer to stay in a ten foot radius of the other alpacas.”

            I laugh. “Really? That’s something. Aren’t they similar to llamas?”

            “Yeah, but alpacas don’t spit much. They purse their lips and look like they’re going to spit, but they don’t.”

            “Wow. You know a lot about alpacas.”

            “Yeah, I do actually.”

            “How do you know so much?”

            “My grandparents raise them. They have three.”

            “What are their names?”
            “Blanco, Crow, and Kevin. Blanco’s white. Crow and Kevin are black. Crow is the leader, for sure.”

            “The leader? I thought they weren’t social.”

            “Well, I mean…what’s the word for, like, the dominant dude?”

            “Alpha?”

            “Yeah. Crow’s the alpha alpaca. For sure. But Crow and Kevin have similar voices.”

            “Voices?” I ask.

            “Like the sounds they make in the morning,” he explains. “It’s high-pitched. Like a bird, kind of. I mean, when I woke up at Grandpa’s farm last month, I heard that alpaca sound. And I thought it was Kevin and I told my grandpa at breakfast, and he said it was Crow. Crow is very vocal. You should really hear the sound of alpacas some time. I wish my voice was like that."

(I am blessed to work with brilliant children)

           

           

           

Band Names Taken Entirely From the Dialogue of the 1990 Film Home Alone

Band Names Taken Entirely From the Dialogue of the 1990 Film Home Alone

By: Dave Woehrle

Grow A Goatee

Kevin

Make Me

Ornaments Out of Fishhooks

Toilet Paper and Water

Fancy Orphanage

Hideaway Bed With Fulner

I’m Living Alone

Not In The Winter

South Bend Shovel Killer

Back in ‘58

The Salt Turns To Bodies

$122.50

Early!

Easy On The Pepsi

Get A Plate

Such A Disease

Pee All Over Me

Real Crystal

Uncle Frank Is This A Joke

Acey Said 10 Percent

Reading Glasses

The Silver Tuna

I Did

Odd Marketable Securities

Nothing To Chicago

I Don’t Know No Snakes

Polka Bums

Big In Shebogan

Basements Are Like That

26 on 26

26 on 26

By: Dave Woehrle

I recently turned 26 years of age. The following are some bits of wisdom I’ve acquired during my earthly stay thus far. Enjoy.

1. Never high-five a woman after sex. Never. She will neither comply nor laugh.

2. It’s okay to consume a whole anything (pizza, watermelon, a bottle of Jim Beam, box of Fruit Loops, carton of ice cream, birthday cake that isn’t yours, etc.) Never let varying units of measure hinder completion.

3. A really fat man walking a really small dog is one of the most agreeable sights.

4. Read. Do it. Yes, you have time to do it. No one talks about how playing Angry Birds on the long train ride changed their life. On your deathbed, you will NOT regret missing “Dancing with the Stars” either. Missing out on some Steinbeck, well, that should haunt you.

5. Make love outside at least once in your life. It’s the best way to get grass stains.

6. If you’ve been drinking, do not attempt to ride those playground creatures on bouncy springs. You will get severely injured.

7. There’s a moment of profound yet wonderful dread when you meet the eyes of another person eating fast food alone in the parking lot alone, just like you.

8. Never trust a man who wears a sweater vest or hair gel. Especially if he’s smiling. He’s trying to sell you something.

9. Get lost in a foreign country at dusk at least once. It’s the best way to know your ego.

10. I’m not saying good love-making will solve the world’s problems, but it’s not like Barry White was a terrorist.

11. You never see a squirrel walk. They always scamper and dash. They’re up to something.

12. The word “Agenda” sounds like the name of a beautiful black woman.

13. When all else fails, dip pretzels in cream cheese and watch Sportscenter until you pass out.

14. Don’t reach the age of 26 without owning at least one of the following: a cowboy hat, a ukulele, a cross-bow, or Van Morrison’s Moondance on vinyl.

15. The Golden Rule was God’s way of telling us oral sex is highly encouraged.

16. Falling off an elephant makes you feel alive.

17. Beetlejuice is the greatest movie ever made.

18. Shania Twain should die.

19. The sum of all human tragedy can be summed up with this: “I didn’t want that to happen, but then it did. Damn it.” It’s difficult for academics in the humanities to admit this.

20. Never start an acappella gospel band no matter how good you feel about being alive.

21. Bisexuals are just people who’ve done the math.

22. You never see gardeners mope.

23. The largest game of leap frog used 849 members. When I’m having a bad day, I think about each of those 849 individuals and hope they know how beautiful they are.

24. Chicken noodle soup, a homemade quilt, sweatpants, and a Disney movie cures the common cold.

25. Buffalo Wild Wings…it happens.

26. The daughter of a fellow musician friend of mine gave her review of the musical “South Pacific” and inadvertently said what I hope are my last words: “I didn’t really get it, but the music was nice.”

What To Believe

What To Believe

By: Dave Woehrle

Post-coitus, they cuddle, sweat, and breathe. Faces flushed, groins drained, dopamine pulsing, they smile blissfully on moist sheets. In that otherworldly hum of an orgasm wave retreating, finely smoothing and removing worry, the body and soul murmur one big silent “Hell yeah.” They lay in that Hell Yeah for a few minutes.

She rises to open a window, brave in her glowing nakedness, and a cool April breeze defunkifies the steamy room. She flops back down on the bed and says, “Yowsa.”

He says, “I know. Totally Yowsa.”

She smiles with closed eyes.

He turns to look at her. She radiates. He might marry her. He will. He might. He wants to. He believes he wants to.

He can see them in the future, walking together as an old couple wearing bulky sweaters in a Midwestern park, pointing out bird nests and nodding. He can see them eating warm stew on cold days. He can see them stepping on their children’s toys in the middle of the night and cursing. He can them laughing at themselves.

So in this moment, as he contemplates the future, the heaven of her, she opens her mouth to ask a question.

She asks, “Do you have any margarine?”

He is silent for a moment, a bit bemused.

She asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Of all the things you could’ve said just then, I could’ve never predicted a question about margarine.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘I love you’ or ‘that was great’ or something.”

“I do love you. And it was great. I said ‘Yowsa’ already. I’m just asking if you have margarine.”

“Why do you want margarine? Something kinky I hope?”

“I was just thinking about having a bagel, but I don’t want a bagel if you don’t have margarine.”

“I think I have butter.”

“I don’t want butter. I want margarine.”

“Why?”

“I like margarine more. And it’s better for you. Less fatty.”

“I thought butter was better.”

“Butter isn’t better.”

“Butter isn’t better?”

“Nope.”

“I thought it was.”

“It’s not.”

“Oh,” he says and sighs.

She says, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you gonna go check?”

“Like, right now?”

“Yes, right now. I’m hungry.”

He sighs again.

She says, “Just go check for me, babe.”

He gets up, still naked, and walks to the kitchen and checks his fridge for margarine.

“Huh. I don’t see any.” He only sees beer, eggs, and Chalua sauce, the essentials.

She yells from the bed, “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Keep looking.”

“Well, if I don’t see any, what else do you want me to – oh wait.” He spots a yellow container in the vegetable crisper.

He says, “All right found some.”

“Nice. What kind?”

“I got some I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”

“Oh. Well I don’t want that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s butter.”

“No. It’s not butter.”

She says, “Babe, no. It’s called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. That’s a double negative.”

“Double negative?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Can’t and the Not. It’s a double negative. So it is butter.”

“If it was butter, they’d just call it butter.”

“It’s marketing, babe, a catch phrase. If it were margarine, it would be called I Can’t Believe It’s Butter.”

“You wouldn’t believe it because it is margarine.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

There is a brief silence where both of them sense agreement yet lingering puzzlement.

He says, “So what’s the next step here?”

“I want margarine.”

“Yeah, and I fucking found some.”

“No. No, you didn’t. And don’t swear.”

“Yes, yes I did. And fuck that. This is ridiculous.”

“Double negative, like I said. Can’t and Not. So I believe it’s butter.”

“But that has more to do with the belief system of humans than what is put on a goddamn bagel. It’s a margarine that’s so similar in taste to butter, that you can’t believe it isn’t.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect fucking sense, actually.”

She sits up in bed and says, “Why are you so angry about this?”

“I’m not angry!”

“Then stop yelling. We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“No. I’m not agreeing with that. Google it.”

“Just nevermind, babe. Whatever it is, I’ll try it anyway.”

He pulls some bagels from the cabinets and says, “I only have bagels that have onions on the top.”

“Oh. I don’t like those bagels.”

“Well, what the fuck? Do you want something or not?”

“I guess not. Thanks, though.”

It’s quiet. He’s mad. He stays mad for a full three minutes. He’s mad but he knows he’s lucky. Just to have such a meandering discussion about condiments after great sex is often a blessing ignored.

And there, naked, defeated, and frustrated, holding a container of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better and some crappy onion bagels, he suddenly believes he wouldn’t want to have stupid arguments with anyone else as much as her.

He will marry her. He will ask her later in life. With a bagel covered in margarine for a ring.