I’m in the back of the ‘71 Toyota Hilux, she’s sputtering up a muddy road, we are sweating, all 21 of us crammed together in compressed open air body odor. The chicken has just escaped the brown withered hands of the woman across from me, as she desperately clutches six other cluckers. We are doing about 20 going uphill, the chicken is on the metal edge about to jump to certain freedom and probably certain death. Por favor, ayuda! She calls out. I’m her last chance. I haven’t held a bird since I was six when my parents bought me a parakeet that I named Tweety (yes, highly original), but I don’t hesitate, lunge out to grab the poor bird by the neck. One motion, quick swing, and before the bird knows it, she is back with the others. The woman shares a toothless grin with me, her gringo hero of the moment.
This is every day in Honduras. If I don’t get a ride, I walk, I sing Jimmy Cliff to myself, I wait at crossroads, I throw rocks, I eat peanut butter, I walk, I sweat, I get picked up, I work for my ride, move wood, move rocks, move tiles, rides aren’t always free, but I’m free. No one is forcing me to do any of this. I have a vague schedule checking up on public health volunteers. Sometimes I show up in the middle of the night, soaked from thunderstorms, not a soul ever knows where I am, not even me. My bed is on my back, a Go Kot, I can assemble it in 4 minutes, can sleep anywhere, and do, on floors, in sheds, with fleas, near dogs, under farting people in hammocks, all true. By the end of summer, I’ve lost twenty pounds, light, agile, free.
Category: Memoir
30 Years Ago
i fled the west village & my soho writer girlfriend, escaped, not so much the place or the person, but rather my futon (not really mine), my part-time bookstore job, my raisin bagel with a hard boiled egg breakfasts, i was done, with having no money, done with the cacophony of 2am drunken shouts rising from west 4th street below, as i tried to dream about characters in an isaac bashevis singer novel, done with the flood of tourists who swarmed sidewalks every weekend, so i got on a train to dc, new york city chapter closed.
Maine March Golfing
the course is empty, except for large patches of slick glistening ice/snow, alone in gray wind, 7-iron in hand shivering, this is not my sport, but colby college requires me to take a wellness credit, i’m not well, double bogeyed the last hole, but no one is watching, then, on the horizon i see his steel shopping cart, like a wheeled sled, he pushes it through the freezing brownish/green fairway, pragmatic mainer, who needs a golf bag in march?
Canadian Doubles
we all have true stories, like when i tried out for varsity tennis in jeans & docksiders, loved the sport, not the apparel, then there is kevin bacon, degrees of separation, i have exes, true, & yes, they too dated others, so who are my ex-girlfriend’s exes? another true story about tennis, the first guy was #13 in the world, 1991, the second played for amherst, me? i was varsity for three years, (but my real claim to fame was beating craig brown when i was in middle school, he was the washington golf & country club champ, threw his racket 100 feet out of the fenced in court after i pushed him for 40 minutes), but i digress, end the suspense, guy uno, derrick rostagno, you wouldn’t remember him, the other? well maybe, he was kind of a big deal, emphasis on was, preterite, not now alive, & not a good person to the woman i was once with, david foster wallace, he loved tennis too, now that i think of it, we could be in a dumas novel playing canadian doubles, i’d probably lose.
When I Applied To NYC Bookstores (1995)
don’t wear your l.l. bean parka to the interview, you look like a b & t, (bridge & tunnel person), not from the nyc, but that was me & my american studies degree, gatsby, hemingway, salinger, bell jar, norton’s anthology, smart kid, i actually cut off the l.l. bean label, kinda punk, kinda just whatever, brandless living in the village, enter the strand, barely glanced at me, colby kid, or dartmouth, or michigan, or name your generic mainstream college, i wasn’t sarah lawrence or bard, or maybe oberlin, khakis & bucks, yuppie, you are not hired, place was a maze anyway, books stacked everywhere, chaos, dusty chaos, enter st. mark’s, east village, pretentious, pretentious, pretentious, horn-rimmed glasses, scrutinize through me, that look, you know nothing kid, this is new york city, mecca, the edge, no instant rejection, ok fine, take this piece of paper, write down five books that we must have in the store, be ready to tell me why, uh ok, short stories of flannery o’connor, in our time, go tell it on the mountain, captain’s verses, remember, i was smart, wanted to cover all bases, gender, identity, writing style, number 5? the quran, why? no idea really, lots of muslims in the world? are any of your authors still alive? um, um, well, no, thanks for applying kid, enter barnes & noble astor place, huge building, flagship store, this is november, christmas coming, standard one-page application, fill it out, we will call you, place was busy, packed, they called, i answered, my first paid job in new york.
Beauty In The Drive
before my severe bulging disc-osteophyte i never understood rv’s, those people who drive through the grand tetons without actually hiking the trails, like the 90% of yosemite visitors who don’t leave the paved paths, but as my anterolisthesis continues to slip, i view life differently, i now see wheelchairs & sitting people, i never assume anything anymore, i used to think non-walkers were lazy, that not standing was weak, why drive when you can run? walk? bike? now i cry when watching documentaries about disabled people, my people, my new story, i used to hike miles and miles with my son, now i barely walk at all, but i can still drive down highway 1, pacific coast, alongside surf, crashing waves, seals, pelicans, whales, you get the drift, the past is over, no time machine is coming to get me, like fugazi said, you can’t be what you were, so you better start being, just what you are, so now i drive, there is beauty in the drive.
This Stanford Life
Three colleges have made their mark on me: Colby College (BA), Washington University in St. Louis (MA), and Stanford University (Coe Fellowship/Unofficial 4-year student). Early on, “Stanford” was almost a bad word. I taught at a large public high school (Terra Linda) where many of my highest achieving students went to Cal or UCLA, almost never to Stanford. Stanford was considered a snobby school for rich kids. My impression began to change during the summer of 2000 when I studied 20th century history at Stanford, while living in the French House on campus as part of my Coe Fellowship. Taking classes in the history corner (building), brought me into the Richardsonian Romanesque architecture, as the campus permeated my ethos. I moved to Palo Alto in 2004, thus beginning my informal education at the school. From 2004 to 2008, I attended events/classes on campus every single week. I went to lectures, films, business seminars, education roundtables, musical performances, athletic games, and completed a weeks-long writing workshop with the author Stephen Elliott. The school won me over with its never-ending generosity to the public. I recently visited Stanford with my son and now consider it my third alma mater.
Postscript: One of my former Terra Linda students is now an English Professor at Stanford. A former high school classmate (from my 1989 AP European History class) is the Provost.
Meeting Willie Mueller
September 20th 1981, Willie Mueller’s last day as a major league pitcher. We didn’t know that, and he probably didn’t either. My 2nd Orioles game, and I’m with my friend David on the first base line, autograph-seeking. Willie wasn’t a household name. He ended his career with one win, 7 strikeouts, & a 6.14 ERA, but David walked away with a signed baseball. Just recently, David reminded me about meeting Willie. That got me curious. It turns out that Mueller went on to star in the film Major League (1989), with Charlie Sheen. This is one of my earliest ballpark memory.
Listening To My Shortwave Radio
you might think it was all tina turner, the cars, or tears for fears, but vinyl could only take me so far, same songs, over & over, flip to side 2, try to save allowance money for the new billy idol album, or listen to casey kasem, see if anyone fresh was in the top 40, but then i got my GE shortwave radio & became an auditory magellan, forget karma chameleon & all that pop sound, i now spent nights slowly turning the dial, on a quest to travel the airwaves, listening as the basketball play by play guy said, louisville has the ball, i added a marker dot to my map of cities: new orleans, pittsburgh, morgantown, buffalo, each night i tuned in to: games, preachers, news, weather, anything & everything, in search of a new locale, another mark for my map, of course it was more than this, i was a 1980’s lewis & clark kid, connecting with my country, & this is still what i’m doing today, except i’m the one broadcasting & you might be in croatia instead of cincinnati.
Working at the 30th Street Senior Center, 1996
the elderly are grumpy, cloistered together in plastic chairs, waiting for their number to be called, i’m the guy with the microphone calling the numbers, the elevator can only take 8 people down to the cafeteria at a time, i’m so lonesome all the time, since i left my baby behind, on blue bayou, i’m crooning to the mostly spanish speaking geriatric crowd, entertainment for the hungry, they smile, call me young clin-ton, or danielito, charlie is my elevator operator, he gives me a shout when he’s ready for more people, send them my way danny boy, they shuffle their feet, eager to eat a free meal, i say hello to conchita, manuel, margarita, & maria vela, they are all so kind -i only worked at the senior center for 6 months, but they gave me a few hundred dollars & a nice card when i left, periodically i looked through obituaries over the years, one by one they disappeared.
Daniel W. Polk 