Vex. (Draft #1)

prologue

my love my maiden my soul my dream

I evaluate the truth hidden beneath the sand fossilizing the evergoing past I long to build again.

The noon clock, the porridge in it's oval counter case, all of which belittled me.

The house was still the same; It was just my memory that had long been shattered.

//

The futile term it was given leads me to believe that it holds such a victorious name to it:

wife beater

those who wore it apparently had their way with their partner, physically gnashing open wounds into helpless women throughout the century past. I guess clarifying for this would surely help me explain further**/not confuse the dumbest minds.

My father, James Eltridge, was a stockbroker who worked out in the city. Not only did he mend his little hours of the morning shifting through subways and dancing through dim lit passages, he does his paperwork while on transit. It's quite fascinating, really, when you think about the process; first, you have about three-quarters shy of a hundred pages in front of you from the night prior, giving you merely 24 hours to complete the taskwork to keep up quota on the phone-call twizzler taking place starting about seven in the morning.My father makes his timing right, giving him exactly fifty-two minutes after he gets home from work at 11:42PM each day, after relaxing himself with a drink and such, but from then on out, he swifted his craft together. From the times I've collected recently, his daily 75% finish rate ends at around three in the morning; lending my father the advantage of getting up two hours later to restart this process on the train ride out to New York. Calculator in one hand, coffee in another, while the paperwork spread wide across his grey-silk dress pants.

The nighttime, when my father arrives home from work, really livens the house. Not h with a sign of happiness, either. My mother, Mary Eltridge, works out of the house, mainly taking care of my sister, Judy and I. She slaves herself over a hot oven for hours preparing a warm meal for my father, shallow-smiled and such, to say the least. The aurora of lime-seasoned pot roast fills my nostrils just thinking about it. It was a mouthwatering stench that filled the roof over my head for my children. At the same time as usual, my father steps off the poisonous station train, landing his way down a mile or so walk to our suburban Jersey household. Sometimes the man would come home drenched from sweat or rain; mainly dependent enough on the weather. The moment he walks in to our pale colored house - life shells away and the fickle shrieks become sinister. My father has been known for his violent antics, from time to time; anger infused punches and slaps that, in his mind, kept my mother intact and on point. This wasn't, surely, out of hatred towards his companion. My parents were married for around six years before considering my sister, Jody, and before that, they were high-school sweethearts favored for their starstruck. My mother, always in a nostalgic mindset when not stressed over cooking, recalls the story as if it were the only memory she had from her youth. "We met eyes in the middle of Chemistry class," she would proclaim from the dinner table whenever we had guests over, "our teacher, Mr. Lindsey, saw our contact in the middle of class, purposely sending each other to opposite corners just to get away from one another." It was a joyful romance they shared, at first. When my father tells the story to his friends, though, he uses the scarred details I wish I didn't hear; leaving the numb distaste away from the food I was shoving down my mouth when explained. Nonetheless, their story was countlessly told.

"You fucking bitch," my father raised his voice to a elevated level, allowing neighbors to hear if they were awake, "what have I told you about going through my work-notes?" The neigh sense of care was evident. He has intentions of hurting my mother from the moment he came inside. Whether it was steam, stressful nights at work, or just a mid-life crisis; my father couldn't keep his composure when speaking to my mother. Once given a couple glasses of Jack Daniel's, we are told to lock ourselves inside our rooms - leaving sheltered violence on the playing field. The thought of keeping my door locked scared me; it was like I was hiding away from such great danger that was named my "dad".

Glasses and plates were thrown sounds were made that made me wish I could see what was going on. Wailing from Judy's room became apparent, nevertheless making me more distraught. My mother begged for a break in between tears - it was horrific. All at once, night after night, I would close my eyes and dream. Blotting the noises started to become easy.

=

"I love the smell of your cologne," she said with a smile across her face, "it reminds me of the Summer."

June 13th, 1945

I long for you in the nighttime I seek comfort towards the valley I show spring my love I beg of you./

Today we swept upon the Summer's peak, allowing us to see the change in New York. You gave me the most incredible idea that led me to believe my theory is right -

I am truly falling in love with you.

The learning is out of session and I hope for us to get more time in before you go away. Please give me time, at least. Okay, I will be on my way now.

xx JE

-

The longing for silence; the wait for the sunrise to hit through my window peak.

Mornings sat normal throughout the house - not a bit of tension, as the smoke filled the room from my mother's lit cigarette in her left hand, while she balanced the frying pan with cooked bacon on the right. My mother had this style when it came to breakfast; she wore a bright yellow nightgown and hair curlers in her hair matching the color, almost as if she was a full lemon. Judy was basically the cooking assistant; preparing the fresh assortment of fruit and baked goods across our red plaid tablecloth. It was modern to us, having a busy morning before school let in. This was, of course, without my father's company. He met his subway trip early on, leaving my mother to devour a pot of coffee to manage the household in the morn. With the radio blasting by the table, we were able to hear our fix of the daily news report. "Segregation ties hit the margin," the news anchor read, "five black men found dead across the mouth of the Hudson River." My mother immediately grabbed for the knob on the radio, changing it from the news to modern rock and roll. The racial confliction really took a toll on the older generation. My grandfather, later on in life before his death, recalled a time where his boss made him hit a fellow negro employee due to the fact that she wasn't working at the same speed as him. Once hearing this, I was extremely appalled at this languish behaviour.

Breakfast was bonding time for us, as three-fourths of the family. We sat around the oval table in the living room, sharing school stories about polished creations we've made in class. Judy was about nine, and I nearing six. My mother's mind was focused on greater priorities that one day, though. There was something bugging her out; having my mother rub her hand across her head. "Hold on a second," she told Judy, who was mid-story about learning basic math, "Mommy needs to check on something." She quickly hurried to the bathroom, as if it were an emergency. All I vaguely remember was her trying to find bandages.

My father was known around for giving my mother terrible scars. Whether it would be a blackened eye, cut in lip, or a limp leg; he made it fairly visible. Regret never filled his eyes when I saw him on weekends, when he had off. He had a conscious notion that they were noticeable, but not a care in the world about it. His main focus was on relaxation in the form of a bottle. I never understood the appeal to alcohol, especially when my father drank it, due to the fact that it had such a vile stench on my father's breath, lingering around him for hours on end. Once Friday night hit, my parents would go out to meet up with our neighbors - The Kline's. Most of the time they went to a club on 67th Avenue named The Lagoon. The place was a resort for anyone who wished for fresh seafood right off the bay. David and Martha Kline were relatively close to my parents, from what I recall. Both David and my father worked a couple offices down from each other, occasionally taking the same transit to work in the morning. As for my mother, Martha and her generally cook Sunday dinner together. I remember vividly a conversation my mother had with Martha Kline, when describing the feel of a punch. "It is like a rock hitting a glacier." Without any sign of reaction, Martha continued to prepare dinner; simply placing silverware and placemats on the dining room table, strongly holding onto what my mother had said in such a somber tone.

Sunday dinner had a good luck charm on the Eltridge history for ages. Growing up in a Catholic household, my family and I would go to the Jersey Commons Community Church on 76th Street, just two blocks down from my house, at around seven in the morning every Sunday. We all managed to dress accordingly - my father would wear his special sueded black suit, with a navy blue striped tie to sparken the look, matching from head to toe. Since money wasn't our subtle causality, I settled for a white button-down shirt with a black tie - equally respectful for the times matter. The church didn't have regulations for superb attire, but my family ran that way. Mother and Judy both matched in blue bright-eyed dresses that stood out when standing next to my father and I. We all walked down the block to reach our neighbors and family friends to gather around and hear Father Smith's sermon. Around two to three hundred people packed into this small, suburban church, listening to each word that he spoke out. Some sermons go over my head, from time to time, but it really stuck out to me, at the age of 11, when he spoke truth outside of Proverbs 4:6-7. He quoted the verse, word from word, allowing me to take in the look about the future console inside. "Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you. Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding." This spoke to me, somehow. After this, I paid close attention to the words infusing my brain from this local priest, while allowing questions to seep into my head. Questions such as 'What do I need to understand?' and 'How do I find this Wisdom?" Once I recall my grandfather telling me the tradition of Sunday morning church and it's significance to him. "You see," he would hold his wide-framed glasses in his hands while he spoke, "we go to show gratitude to God. I am grateful that we have the surroundings now because of Jesus."

During this time period, my father's father, Jacob Eltridge, was suffering from colon cancer - leaving him stuck on his red-dotted couch for two months upon diagnosis leading to a traumatic death in a Englewood Hospital bed that nearly left half of the Eltridge family torn between greed and love. My grandfather carried a chain of stores in the early 1950's in South Jersey named "Grain & Wheat", varying in selling home appliances to fresh foods. The chain kept a widely known reputation throughout all of the 60's and 70's, constantly having offers to be bought by new Mom & Pop shops throughout the southern Jersey area. Though being known for having a beard, in pictures and such, it is difficult to remember how my grandfather looked, truly, during his misery. Around the time of his death, he kept a bald spotted head and shaved face. At such a young age, I didn't really understand who he really was and what significance he had on my family life; all I recall is him coming over, with beside red-bricked, several times in different settings around south Jersey. Though coming from a family of divorce, my grandparents had a marriage lasting 47 successful years, upon my elders' abrupt everlasting sleep. I've heard before that they were the reason my father wanted to settle down with a woman; they somewhat motivated my father to gain confidence in his proposal to my mother.