Post Meridian

Post Meridian
By Blaine Kauffman

From the far corner of my vision they came, to the river. I could not see them clearly. They were shadowy, flapping things, like dark rags. But I could hear them honking, dozens and dozens of them, in chorus. It echoed across the river and the far hills and back. Honk honk honk—what a racket!!
The late winter afternoon had been getting dark when I finished my shift—clear dark when I punched out. I work too hard. By the time I got home the lights were already on and shining through the yellow trailer windows. I could see Maxine watching her soaps through those pearly-frame glasses she always wears, but I didn’t want to go in. I always just come home and go in, have a couple beers, and go to bed. But tonight I wanted to shoot my new gun from Wally Mart.
She wouldn’t notice anwyay. She never does, never gets off that chair. She didn’t even hear me pull up. It wouldn’t matter if she did, she’d just keep watching her damned soaps even if the trailer caught fire.
The afternoon was already dark blue. Not dark blue exacly, more like a light blue. But dim, like moonlight on new snow, “…/gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below.” What color crayon do you use for snow at night? That colot. Shoot the new rifle. I can hear it crack and echo across the river and back in the indigo stillness. Glassy, hammer-sharp. Like a snare-drum rim shot. Beautiful. Crack! Pow!
I know, kind of ice blue like in snowcones you get t the street fairs. That blue. Zero blue, as in “I’m fricking freezing!”
I thought of that guy, what’s his name? That guy who wrote, “T’was the night before Christmas….” Clemens? Clem—some clodhopper. Yes, “t’was” indeed. I looked around for a snowman but found none. I looked around for a snow fort to have a good fight with my friends and maybe think about whether to throw the really hard ones, the iceys, or just splatter them with semihards and slushballs and powderballers. It all depended, I guess. Did I want to play with those friends again or blow them away? Save the iceys for a revenge barrage if they threw iceys at me first. If they did, they’d be sorry alright.
Don’t even throw anything. Just shoot. Right down at the edge of the river. They’re there, but it’s too dark to see them now. And the honking has stopped. Or maybe just shoot anyway and flush them up. Or maybe lob a couple of rocks over there and see what they do. But they’re not moving now. In for the night, I guess. Safe haven. Where do they sleep? Are they even there? I didn’t hear them take off.
No, they’re not there anymore. They’re not anywhere. I’m just imagining it. There are no snow men, no snow forts to crouch down behind. Not for the past thirty years. The air didn’t smell this way anyway. It’s probably the cirarette. No, probably the acetone from the shop, or the thinners. It gets in my nose.
There’s something so quiet about snowy evenings when you stand alone aoutside and the cold air slaps against your face. Your shoulders hunch up against it and your fanny gets cold, and it doesn’t matter which way you turn, it still bites your skin and makes it tingle. It’s far to the door. Your knees ache. You don’t want to shiver; you fight it, because if you start to shiver you can’t stop for a long time.
That icy blue of late afternoon, it’s good for snowball fights. But it won’t conjure anything. It won’t conjure up anything tonight. I like that streetlamp, though—that one barebulb with the circular white reflector above it, way up on the power pole. Makes good shadows. I got me this thing for Christmas, didn’t I? I mean, I ought to be able to shoot it—hey, there they go again, right down there close to the river! I’m gonna pop one off and let them know I’m watching them. Honk honk!
No cops anywhere. Yep, I’ll just squeeze one off, “and there’ll be one less goose in this world to carry on, to carry on….” Blod, Sweat, and Tears—ha!
Wait a minute. Maxine’d be out here all over me. Might even call the cops. Hey, no “might” about it, she would definitely call the cops. And it might scare Jeff and the baby. Better not. I don’t need that. But they can’t expect me to get me a new rifle for Christmas and then not shoot it, can they? Get her up off of that goddam chair though, I’ll bet.
Man, it’s cold I’m freezing. No, I’m not going in. I don’t care if I stay out here all night. My jacket’s warm enough, but my butt’s freezing on the stoop, and my feet, geez! I can’t even feel my toes. Maybe one more cigarette. Yeah, I’ll go in when I’m good and ready, not a minute sooner. Go in, have me a beer, and curl up in a nice cozy bed and warm up.
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep/ But I have miles to go before I sleep….” Who said that? Jack Frost, hah! Got that one. He writes about freezing in the snow, and he’s Jack Frost. Ha! That’s pretty funny. Stopping on a snowy evening, that’s me. I’m stopping by a damned woods on a snowy evening. With a flock of demon geese. And I’m cold. And I’m fricking crying. And they won’t leave, they just keep coming. And flapping and whooshing and honking and honking at me. It drives nme nuts. And one of these days, “Some one of these days….?” Hey, Sophie Tucker, “last of the red-hot mamas.” Ha!
Okay, I’m going in. Put this thing back in the car trunk, but just for now. “Some one of these days/ you’re gonna miss me, honey.”