On the Blue Line I See A Girl Whose Eyes Are A Poem
Sam Berman
Fancy: meeting you.
I want to say in a very charming way. But I’m too sweaty. And I need to either get back to Effie’s place. Or get to Oren’s place. Or my dad’s place––anyplace. I need to straighten out and get back on this bus tomorrow, okay? A quick pilgrimage to gargoyle. A quick run to the dopethrone and I’ll have it all together. Then I can say what I mean to say, okay? I’ll hop right back on here, same time tomorrow and bust out this poem for you. A poem about your eyes! Because you got eyes–Oh–you got eyes! And they’re so good I hardly noticed the prosthetic leg. Seriously! I barely clocked it. And that’s a testament to your eyes! And tomorrow I’ll write everything about them. Every line: an eye line, which will result in some type of eye poem. It will be good. It will be okay. You know what it will be, something like: Your eyes got the job. Your eyes can dance at my club anytime. Your eyes are under arrest. Your eyes plead “no contest.” Your eyes are suspended without pay. Your eyes are lifting weights, focused on making the team. Your eyes are two-for-one coupons at any participating location. Your eyes are a Wendy’s. Your eyes are near TacoTime. Your eyes are a Jack in the Box being robbed at gunpoint. Your eyes properly identify the perp. Your eyes are a 501(C)(3). Your eyes are exactly the same but also a little different. Your eyes have the keys to the van out back, but still, they choose to leave out the front.
Now: your eyes have started to see the change in things.
And as a result: your eyes have stopped sugar-coating.
Your eyes have a plan, a double date with the Olsen Twins. Your eyes don’t have a reservation, but your eyes did do coke with the Maître d’ a few weeks ago in the bathroom of a dance club on the Lower East Side. Your eyes get a table, but the twins they don’t like sitting so close to the throughway, so, they tell your eyes they’ll text you later––or next week––when things aren’t so crazy. When Mary-Kate isn’t walking for Batsheva at fashion week and Ashley isn’t prepping her G8 address on carbon offsets for private jet owners. Your eyes get it. Your eyes won’t raise their voice. Your eyes have seen it all and are growing impatient. Your eyes leave the table before the twins have a chance to. Your eyes go south for the winter. Your eyes go blue on the golf course. Your eyes grow red in the snowstorm as you contemplate jumping into traffic. (I’ll cross that out before I give you the poem). Your eyes–of course–nail the December spread. Your eyes bow to the photographer, the crew, the interns from the New School way up high on the ladders, dropping helicopter seeds into your hair and all around your perfectly made-up face. Your eyes have bought you a little time and a little cash. Your eyes have raised a little rabble. Your eyes realize it’s not enough.
So.
Your eyes get up early and enroll to serve their country.
Your eyes want a uniform and a gun. Your eyes don’t say no to a signing bonus. Your eyes want a top bunk when you get to Kentucky. Your eyes are narrow on the weapon range and don’t miss a shot. Your eyes clear another target. Your eyes are “a natural” and sent to sniper school, only the second women in the history of the armed forces to be bestowed with such honor. Your eyes are a legend in the desert. Your eyes are the Black Canary, according to the enemy. Your eyes–in truth–have yet to get a shot off. But your eyes are ready. Ready. Your eyes are so ready for them to peak. But they never peak. Your eyes scream: JUST PEAK YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! JUST ONE CORNER OF YOUR STUPID HEAD!
But no peaks. no, no.
Your eyes wait for a long time.
Your eyes are the two-disc boxset, collector’s edition, just waiting in Anbar to ship out.
Your eyes–
Your eyes one day see something they hardly believe: two men in dirty jackets jump out from behind an abandoned fruit stand holding a missile launcher. Your eyes have the order. Your eyes shoot to kill. But. Then the strangest thing happens to your eyes…they…well…your eyes close during the excitement of real war. Your eyes do not shoot to kill. This is Bad. Real bad. Your eyes are so sorry for closing during the real war. Your eyes acknowledge that Sergeant Sitwell and Staff Sergeant Yates, as well as the bottom half of your leg would all still be here if you’d exercised a bit more discretion and, well…accuracy on the battlefield. Your eyes are court-martialed and sent to the brig. Your eyes have one call. Your eyes don’t remember any good phone numbers, so you call the Mediterranean restaurant you worked at in high school, Pita Inn, and leave a message for your old boss, Cole H, explaining this was probably your last message for a little while and if he could, please, get ahold of your parents and tell them that you’re going to be okay, and also, please, if possible: DM Ashley Olsen and wish her luck with all her important, environmental causes. Your eyes then hang up before they overfill. Because it’s true and you know it: your eyes could, if left unattended, flood the entirety of a jail cell with a single sad thought. And that’s because your eyes are special. And because your eyes are special it’s no surprise when: your eyes are selected. Your eyes dilated and painted black as they prep you for surgery. Your eyes are crying as the replicant pulls them from your skull. Your eyes don’t like the way those last few lines hit––your eyes don’t like talking about, or even thinking about war. But your eyes forgive me, they do!
Because they know I’m not feeling my best.
And the poem I come back with tomorrow will have all these little mistakes, half-truths, anachronisms and lazy hyperboles all ironed out. Yes. Your eyes will read my poem tomorrow, as I sit dope-filled and brilliant by your side, knowing I took not a single shortcut. Your eyes will love me then and I will be capable of anything.Yes. I might even jump behind the wheel and drive the bus myself, tomorrow, when I am whole and capable of flight.
“Please Don’t”
Sam Berman
I said to the dopeboy who put a knife against my stomach.
Now: he grows white spruce, Douglas firs and Leyland cypress trees in the spring and summer months.
Come winter: he sells his trees in the paved lot between the Best Buy and the TJ Maxx.
I’ve seen him out there.
Doing his thing.
SAM BERMAN is a short story writer who lives in Chicago with his dog & soon-to-be fiancé. He works at Lake Front Medical. The prose above is taken from his novella, The Return of the Pulaski Kid, due out in early 2024. He also has upcoming work in The Idaho Review, Bullshit Lit, and Joyland, among others.