"Everything in its right place"
"What, what is that you tried to say?" – Thom Yorke, 2000
For reasons I prefer to keep private, I have not written a publishable sentence for over three weeks. The hundreds I wrote for intergovernmental organisations and fashion houses don’t count. Nor do the two sentences above and, truth be told, the dozens that follow, including this one, which, admittedly, falls well short of being even remotely interesting.
Entirely unrelated, but perhaps significant, on the day I ceased being able to write sentences that might matter to a broader audience than policymakers and sellers and buyers of expensive frocks, watches and perfumes, I was presented with an olive branch – not extended in peace or as an offer of reconciliation. Nor as a sign that the floodwaters had, after 47 long years, resided, for this extended branch was too long for a dove to hold in its beak — a full fathom long, the size of the one Odysseus and his men heated in the fire and ground into the Cyclops’ eye.
I, however, did not receive it through cunning from a one-eyed human-munching monster while holed up in the cave of Polyphemus. I was given it at the threshold of my front door by a man named Eric, whom, in previous posts, I referred to as Fred for reasons that now escape me.
Eric. Snot-faced, drunk, grinning, wild-eyed, clothes-torn, cigarette-in-one-hand-tall-boy-in-the-other Eric, who, seconds before, had tried to break down my front door with his fists and feet.
The door swings open.
Me: Eric! What the fuck?
Eric: Hey! Wow, hi, you’re home! How’s it going?
Me: I told you not to bang on my door, Eric, and not to come around after dark.
Eric: You okay?”
His eyes squeeze into slits. His mood darkens. He looks past me into the kitchen.
Eric (white telemarketer voice): Is someone in there bothering you? Is someone HARASSING you?
Me: Only you, Eric.
Eric: Harass. Har har. Ass. Ha!”
His laughter gets louder. He spins on his heels, sloshing beer on my shirt.
Me: Eric!
He darkens again, remembering that dangerous people are inside, and tries to push past me to see. I grab him by the collar and push him back. We spill out onto the street.
Me: Go away, Eric.
Eric: I just wanted to see how you’re doing. And if you had some money.
Me: Eric, go. And don’t ever fucking bang on my fucking door like that again.
Eric: I didn’t fucking bang on your fucking door.
He belly laughs again.
And that’s when I see the olive branch.
Saying that Eric “gave” or “extended” the olive branch isn't entirely accurate. The truth is, before pounding on the door, he tore it off the olive tree in front of our front window with his bare hands.
We bought the olive tree years ago on leboncoin.fr. The seller was sketchy. We think he stole it from an olive grove in Spain. We felt guilty when he arrived and we saw how beautiful it was, but by then, the money had changed hands, and there was no way to trace it back to its original owner. And as said, it was beautiful – and big, at least 50 years old – and ridiculously inexpensive. So we bought a second one.
We bought our home from a couple on the same site. Initially, they, too, seemed sketchy, as if hiding something. Our suspicions deepened when we offered a price well below their asking price, which they quickly accepted. What’s wrong with this place, we asked ourselves, what’s the catch? Ten years on, no surprises. Everything works; we love every inch, even those at the front entrance that Eric and I spilt out from a couple of paragraphs ago and from where, for the first time, I saw the olive tree he mutilated and its dismembered branch which, for reasons only comprehensible to Eric’s persecuting demons, he felt impelled to drag to the pharmacy next door, place it, upright, against the window, come back, retrieve his beer and cigarette from the rim of the planter, and try to punch and kick in our front door.
Please look at the links above for a fuller story of Eric, who has been very much in our lives since 2018. I don’t have the energy to get into it here except to say he doesn’t come around as much anymore. I’ve stopped giving him stuff and arranged a place down the street where his father can leave him money and clothing.
I still see and talk with him most days.
Just yesterday, for example, a few blocks away:
Eric: Hey, wow, what the hell are you doing way over here?
Me: Why did you hurt my tree, Eric?
Eric (grinning ear to ear): What tree?
A year ago or so, I watched Eric tear a big chunk off our fascia plant. I gave him hell. He swore it wasn’t him, even after I told him I’d seen him do it.
Me: Don’t fucking touch our plants, Eric.
Eric: I don’t!
And for a while, he didn’t. But a few weeks ago, we noticed bits of broken-off plants and trees. And that Eric seemed more deranged than usual.
But then again, who doesn’t?
(Deranged? Disturbed? Mad? Angry? Words these days don’t so much fail as flail, swing wildly, thrash about, flounder uselessly, flag and flog whoever tries to grip onto them.)
Let me back up. No, let me lie where I am. It had been a seriously shitty day. The glass of wine I had just poured was the first nice thing. Then came the pounding. First, with fists. Then the feet. I opened it, enraged, knowing what – who – would be on the other side. Eric. With a tall boy in his hand and a wild grin on his snotty face. I began to see things red.
All, however, is well. I didn’t hurt him, and he didn’t hurt me or any of my loved ones. And, who knows, perhaps the branch will grow back, and we will have peace. And reconciliation.
Related question: Does anyone out there know how to grow an olive tree from a branch? Odysseus knew; he grew one out of an oar, and another two, “one wild, one planted,” became his bed.
I jammed Eric’s about a foot down into the maple tree pot. But I didn’t use any rooting solution.
I’m told spit works.
Puzzled, I raised my hand a bit and slowly Broke off a branchlet from an enormous thorn: And the great trunk of it cried: “Why do you break me?” And after blood had darkened all the bowl Of the wound, it cried again: “Why do you tear me? Is there no pity left in any soul? Men we were, and now we are changed to sticks. – Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, CANTO XIII, John Ciardi translation.
Aww.Terrible about.your poor plants.You must get something called "Root Grow." perfect timing turns out:"Take cuttings in late autumn or early winter when the plant is dormant. This gives the cutting time to produce a new plant before spring."
My mental guy- I befriended for a couple years -ended up stealing from me.I had to cut him off and became just another face in the street.It has to end-even though it's a heartbreak to see them rough,dishevelled ,having been god-knows where.
Gawd. The first story about this Eric a few years ago was very touching. This one... chilling. We all want to help people, but some people can't be helped. It gets to the point where either they drown or you do. Time to cut this guy loose.