Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MARGE, by HAYDEN CARRUTH Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Look, friend, you got troubles? Like it's Subject(s): Death; Friendship; Old Age; Dead, The | ||||||||
Look, friend, you got troubles? Like it's damn hard figuring what it all means, right? Right. So let me tell you. The Pizza Hut won't throw out a couple old guys like us, it's a slow night, we had our supper, now we're just gabbing, eh, with a mite more coffee if you can call this coffee, and what would you give for a real old-time mug right now instead of who knows what this cup is, pressed glue -- why hell, a lunger like me even could blow it out the door. So let me tell you. We were close like that, Margery and me, close as two fingers until she died last night. And no funny stuff, what was hers was hers, and mine was mine, and besides she was 25 years older than me, though sometimes you couldn't tell. A live wire she was. M-A-R-G-E-R-Y, that's how she spelled her name, she said it was English, from England, and her elder brother got killed in Flanders. Could be. But for sure she was born in Orange, N.J., I saw it written out legal on her death certificate this afternoon. Well, I'm the only one left to handle her affairs at a time like this. But now you got to go back maybe 15 years when I was near 45 and she was 70. Here's how it was. I had me a nice little business going, o.k.? -- contracting, out around Camillus, the phone ringing all the time, money coming in pretty good. The wife did the bookwork, I did the rest, and I don't know, but life seemed to be humping along without too much trouble. Plenty of work in those days. Usually had 5 to 10 hands on the job, with all the taxes, codes, insurance, and that stuff, red tape like you wouldn't believe, but the wife handled it, she even liked it, all that figuring. Jesus! Then we got divorced. No use explaining, the both of us were nuts, I think, bored crazy, but if you haven't been through it you can't really understand, though like as not you do, these days practically everyone knows how it is. Well, I tried to keep going. But the truth is I had one hell of a time with hired accountants, and I was boozing too, half skunked by 10:30 every morning. So what else? You know as well as I do. Sure, the business went, then I went too. Ended up selling the Olds to eat with and to rent me a basement room here in Liverpool, down in the village on Aspen Street. Been living there ever since. What'll happen now? I'll have to get out, that's obvious. But damned if I know where to. No picnic, being 60, chest crammed with rock wool and a million cigarettes, what's left of it. So Marge was the landlady, she had this 5-room cape sitting on a 150-foot lot with half the basement fixed up for a roomer, kitchen privileges, place for a car. I'd bought an old heap by then. So I moved in, and soon we were friends, shared our meals, maybe went out for dinner once a week, the movies, et cetera. But mostly we sat and talked. Why? What did she want with a lush? Well, she figured she could save me, see, and she was the saving kind, but a good one, you know? -- no lectures, no getting me lined up to be converted, nothing like that. She was solid gold all through, no plated stuff. Booze wasn't quite forbidden in her house, she'd nibble a sherry herself once in a while, but she made it clear; no scotch, no vodka nor gin, and the first time I got smashed I'd be out -- out on my ear, you understand? But of course I did it, that was damn near inevitable, I got juiced but good, boiled like a cabbage, three days in the pressure cooker, crocked, and next day rabbity as an ice-cube in a skillet while I packed my gear. But she come in. She come and leaned on my bedpost, sighing a bit, and she said, "Neut --" that's what she called me because you see my name is Spaid, Charlie Spaid, I know it ain't plausible but it's true, S-P-A-I-D, and when I told her I'm Mr. Spaid she gave a shiver like she was cold and said you must mean Mr. Neutered, don't you? -- so now she said, "Neut, I changed my mind. You can stay if you swear off, teetotal off, and join the AA. And if it'll help I won't take no more myself." I bust out bawling then. And by Jesus, Joseph, and Mary too, I did it. I quit. Not one sip from then till now, you know what I'm saying? The bottom line is death, and I'm still living. I went to AA three times a week at first. Don't knock it, plenty guys from way down in the hole have come back up alive because of it, and plenty dames too. It's great to see. One friend of mine, little guy named Cheever, came in the same time I did, and he was already 65. "How come?" I said. "You ask me," I said, "at your age I'd go on out sozzled." But he said, "Yeah, that's one way of looking. And then there's another. Dead I can take, but who wants to die puking all over someone else's furniture?" By God, that hit me. I won't come to disremember that in a hurry, no sir. But back to Marge. She taught me how to play cribbage. You got a knack for cards? Not me, but I learned good enough to beat her maybe one out of six, and the game wasn't much anyway, not for either of us, because the main thing was just relaxing like, you know, talking, laughing hard enough to bust our crankcases, and drinking iced tea, oceans of it, summer, winter, spring, fall, it didn't matter. We loved it. From then on I was o.k. Marge got me a job on the grounds out at General Electric through a cousin. It sounds goofy, I guess. But I was fed up to here with being a boss, husband, lover, father, the whole schmeer. A damn dingbat, that's what a man is in this world today. I resigned. I was single, but I had a real friend. Never could find anything like that in the younger broads that got into my bed. So at night Marge and me played cribbage or made do with whatever was on the tube. Fridays we went to the bank and the Price-Chopper. Weekends out of town, like to a state park, Beaver Lake or the falls up the Salmon River. It went that way for ten years. Then Marge got cirrhosis -- her, not me! -- then shingles in her mouth and nose, phlebitis, fainting spells. She'd keel over right off her chair, then wake up painted head to toe with her own vomit. Her teeth got loose, eyesight not so good. In the hospital, then out. What could I do? In and out, in and out. She lost 40 pounds. Finally she had a stroke, but not quite good enough, she lost all feeling from the neck down, no control, she was blind, paralyzed, couldn't talk right, she was helpless. But she knew whereabouts she was, and why. Two and a half years she lay there, clear enough to know what's coming down but not enough to gear herself up for it, so to speak. Two and a half years, that's a hell of a long time to be in the line of fire. Rats have it better, you know that? "Neut, take me home, take me home." She'd wail it out like that. Ho-o-o-m-me! My lungs turning to foam, no money, what could I do? It killed me. Two and half years. Nobody should have to die that way, nobody. After a while she just cried, all her strength gone. Then finally she had another one, massive, and five days later she went under for the last time, just a few minutes before I came for my daily visit. When I went through the door to her room I knew she was gone even though she looked the same, all shrunk up. Well, you got to say for her it was a break, there's no one should be tortured like that, but for me -- what am I going to do now, with old Marge gone? Not much butter on my bread these days, no two ways about it, I ache for her something awful. You know that? It begun to take quite some time back too. So now I'll have to move, and the disability don't pay much rent either, so I'll get this spongy chest down to the old hotel, I reckon, where all the other old guys are rooming, where I can watch the crawling traffic on the main drag and catch the sun when it shines once every ten days, a second-floor window, creeper vines, an outside sill where I can put seed for the sparrows. That's not too much to ask, is it? Once I had a dog, two cats, and Marge. Why don't I go to the Senior Citizens? Have you ever tried it? I did, but just once. Sat on a davenport and watched the tube. Played cards, and one guy forgot his turn, he didn't put down a card, staring at some invisible something, like we all do, and the rest of us waited without saying anything, not waiting for the eight of clubs or the jack of hearts or whatever, just waiting -- you understand? Not like AA at all. Marge always dinged it into me how you got to keep fighting, otherwise you lose yourself and turn into a thing, like a burr in a dog's ass, that's how she put it, something to be got rid of. But look at her. Was she fighting at the end? Not likely. And me? Emphysema is slow, gradual, yet you wind up on your back, crazy for one more cigarette, concentrating every bit of energy and thought on getting one more breath. Is that fighting? Or is it more honorable to take things into your own hands. I remember my friend Alf years ago who shot himself with a Remington .22 up in the woods. He looked so peaceful laying there with his head resting on a mossy stone. Null and void, that's for sure, but at least he looked like himself. Marge looked like old, like rotten. So I won't be getting much charge out of the good old days while I'm sitting in my window, no sir. Once I heard a guy say on some kind of talk show, "Nostalgia is the poison of old age." I never forgot that. No, I'll be thinking about Marge and me, or more about what we really are, her dead now, me in this mess, and what it really means. Things or people. Well, I don't guess my thinking will amount to much, but that's what I have to do. No choice, is there? So take care. I'll be seeing you. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND I'VE NEVER SEEN SUCH A REAL HARD TIME BEFORE' by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION' by HAYDEN CARRUTH A POST-IMPRESSIONIST SUSURRATION FOR THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER by HAYDEN CARRUTH |
|