I was a saxophone
a brief memoir in three parts
Part 1
“Chicken sea pocket for any garbage.”
I looked up from my book, forgetting, for a moment, where I was.
“Chicken sea pocket for any garbage.”
Puzzled by what I was hearing, I felt myself squint, as if the bright rays of sun reflecting off the clouds out the small oval window were obscuring my ability to hear clearly.
A flight attended materialized to my right. They pointed down at my lap. My gaze followed their wagging finger.
They said: “We’ll be landing soon, check your seat pocket for any garbage.”
I replied: “Oh, I thought you said: ‘chicken sea pocket for any garbage’.”
They looked at me for what felt like 10-20 seconds, but was actually 2-4 seconds, before walking to the next row of seats without another word.
I heard mutely from the row behind me, as my eyelids folded closed, before the collection of words bounced in various directions off the walls in my skull, echoing again and again eternally: “chicken sea pocket for any garbage.”
Part 2
Sitting at the square table in the diner. I saw a middle-aged woman with short hair and a focussed expression reading some sort of flyer with the words “Dog Swim” printed on the front flap. I wondered why there were so many old guys walking around with empty strollers, no babies.
Much, much later, I sat down at my desk on the second floor of the house I share with several roommates to do some work on my computer.
I thought: “I should put music on while I work,” though I couldn’t decide what to listen to. I quietly worked for 2-4 hours before standing and walking to the room next door to brush my teeth.
Part 3
Told me it’s a beautiful day, that I should go outside. Bright beige. Fake fog. I feel the need to decide a way to go.
I am outside now. I am walking. I turned right. Two trees to my left. A green one, green still, the same as the one we were going to get (still might). I feel an urge to be in the sun. It is a nice day, after all.
I turn left and there are several sounds. Many people arranged in a line, faces of dispute and impatience. I see a man stand on the front-edge of his foot to see further down the way.
I step up onto a small concrete rectangle. There are trees housed within which I don’t look at. I see soil. I step around the outer edge and think of my shoes. Often worn, paddle-like.
I step down and see peace on the left. I see down the street where the sun is. Everything appears as if placed there. I look at the front yards as I walk by. Everything appears as if placed. I see a recycled paper bag filled with discarded remnants of nearby trees. I see a box with a painted rubber imitation of a human arm. I extend my left arm into a series of plants and I feel their reaction to my reach. I look at the front yards, puzzled. I turn around to a man in a helmet discussing with another man in a helmet. I turn back towards the direction I am moving. I see a multicoloured dog made of tin. I consider taking a picture, but decide against it.
I see a large frog with a gaping mouth. I see three gods leaking from the trees in the distance across the intersection. I turn right and make my peace with the passing.
I see a front yard with no grass. Concrete tiles, I think. I see objects on the yard, I am puzzled. I feel as if a visitor encountering a strange space with objects and relations I am not accustomed to. I feel as if a ghost or a yellow leaf.
I turn left and I see the parking lot where I have always been parked. I enter as indicated by the arrow, left again. I feel the building up of exhaust in my exhaust pipe. I seek a place to turn off my engine, but I feel indecision. I am puzzled as I finally, after forever in the parking lot, follow the arrow towards the exit.
Exhaust thickening into mucus as I enter the laneway behind the storefronts. I see an alcove with a large rust bin. I realize that I can’t enter the alcove. Unrelated, there are other things in the alcove. At the time of writing I can’t remember what they looked like. I see slanted lines in the concrete and a closed entrance to a parking garage. I am puzzled. I continue and see a small paper sticker on the hardware lining a house. There is an image of a woman and some text. I see a warning etched into the grey plastic by a machine at some point. At first I don’t understand. I pull out my phone and take a picture.
I am on the street. The shadows of the tree I don’t look at are fighting with the bricks on the building. At war in 2D. The sun projecting this, forcing the dispute. I think, “Claritin Clear,” before turning, hearing a saxophone, thinking “free jazz, no, spiritual jazz.”
Encountering a neon message: “It Was All A Dream, Old School,” styled in cursive on a wall adorned with green plastic flora. Placed there by people associated in some way with the adjacent building. Cursive “Old School” written several times around the space. Chairs stacked. I remember climbing the tree to fasten a wooden cow between the branches around 1 metre from where it says: “It Was All A Dream, Old School.” Soon my life briefly feels like it took place long ago before re-entering the present.
I think and cross the street. Mucus has subsided. I see a man in a parked car smoking a cigarette as I pass around. I think of an idea. I walk through the gate as if pulled.
I turn around to the right and look at the chair. It seems foggy. I am puzzled. I pull out my phone and take a picture. I turn back and continue up the steps. Eventually, I hear an organ.
