Sylvie Shame
I didn’t want to leave my van unattended
so Dan and Jan came to me instead. We grilled hot dogs
on sticks in my firepit. Dan made me eat
some of his potato salad before Jan asked me
to pull each card out of my wallet and take
stock. The Amex was gone. The cash was gone
too, probably stuffed in Dawn’s underwear
if she was even wearing any. The retirees could tell
I didn’t want to talk, so they talked to me instead. Showed me
pictures of every waterfall in the Upper Peninsula,
Sable Falls and Miners Falls and Tahquamenon
Falls, Jan in a skirted swimsuit with her arms up
like touchdown in the spray. Dan tossed
Winslow a hot dog bun. It was almost enough
to take me out of the overheated mess
of my body. My brain. I kept remembering Cal
opening his Christmas present from my mom—
a gaming PC custom-built, thousands
of dollars put into this nonsense thing
he didn’t need—and Cal smiling
like he’d expected it. I thought about the long days
I’d spent in my garage with goggles on
and an orbital saw, a sander, a nail gun,
turning this van into a home. Wiring the thing
myself, and the way I felt when the electrician
I’d called in to check my work told me I’d done
a good job, Cal frowning behind him
like this was somehow bad news. We can hire
someone to do the rest, he’d kept saying, but I said
no. I’d felt so practical then. Grounded. Better
than where I came from. Now I just thought of Cal
on the side of the road if I needed to remember
what I’m really worth.
Tonight, while Jan
and Dan fussed over me, I felt ashamed. Kept staring
through the fire to the space out where
some happy family had been hours before. All I could see
was nothing. All I felt was grimy and tired
and after I made my excuses to my new friends
I grabbed my shower caddy and went to wash it off.