Hillocks And Bellies Like Thumbs

By J. Spinazzola

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Maybe you had time on your hands. Maybe you got snowed in from work, and had already cleaned the house the weekend before, and you didn’t feel like watching television or surfing the net, so maybe you decided to explore your lunch.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an explorer until this history teacher of mine pulled out a map.

“Look,” she said, “there’s nowhere left to go. Why don’t you become a dentist?” I liked being a dentist, but still I wonder.

That’s why I’ve returned to my childhood dream. It’s not as if I’m senile. It’s just that, after all these years, I’ve stumbled upon unchartered land. Places lost to the map. I’m tracing my own path on the skin of an onion. I’m kind of tired, though, so I’ll start with the Tomato Sea for now and fill the rest in later.

First let me disclose that this map will have no saturated fat and will fulfill three of the four food groups while being low in sodium. In fact, if you use enough water, two cans from the tap, it’ll fill you up without making you fat. It’ll make your belly swell, but after traveling to the Porcelain Mushroom and draining your Banana Boat, you’ll be able to watch your tummy sink down like a ship after a storm.

Maybe you’d prefer some pictures of the continents. That is, after all, what you’ve come to expect from maps. You’re probably younger than me and don’t have all the pictures tucked in your head like a squishy photo album, a web gallery of the mind. That it’s not as easy for you to close your eyes and call up hillocks and bellies like thumbs.

You could be watching television right now or looking at a magazine and getting all the pictures you want.

Or else traveling along the digital highway. Perhaps that’s how you think. That there is nothing left for me to show you, but some images don’t show up at the news rack or in thumbnails. They fade away before anyone pops a bulb: the border of a country changes, trees give to the weight of a machine.

Don’t worry. I’m not a preacher or a conservationist. I’m not here to judge you or your values. I’m just an old man with the time it takes to spread his thoughts across the mattress, watching hills form over my sheets. A man with just enough time to lump together a few new maps from all the places I’ve been since I woke up this morning.

Everyone wants to feel useful. I’d like to give you what I can, something like the things you’ve seen, only turned upside down by a modern-day Michelangelo: on his back, but in a convertible bed.

Vroom. Vroom.

The wind blows in from an open window, and if you’ll close your eyes, the reel should start up soon. That’s what I’d like to give you. A Tomato Sea speckled with parsley seaweed.

But first you’ll need directions.

Just give me a few minutes under the sheets. When I come out from my shell, you bring some juice; and if you have some extra bills in those jean pockets of yours, bring some candy, too, and I’ll tell you all about the Tomato Sea and where to find it and what kind of clothes you should pack for the trip.

It’ll just be a catnap. I won’t be long. Morning comes earlier each day. Waking makes me feel old and slow. So let me get to the good stuff. Let me out of this damn bed, over to the Straight of Can Opener. Ready my heavy artillery, cut through the aluminum booty with a few twists of the wrist. Strike a match, set the stove aflame, and watch the Tomato Sea bubble up in the tempest.

Stir the soup, add parsley, and serve.

The Tomato Sea. When my wife was still alive, I used to feed her like this. “Here’s the cruise ship,” I’d say, skimming the surface with a spoon. “What’s this up ahead,” holding up the soup accented by parsley.

“Seems like the engine is caught in a giant bed of seaweed. We’re going under. Need help. Bring up the submarines.” The spoon would turn from ship, to sub, to helicopter, my wife opening her mouth, and I’d bring the spoon to her lips, making sure to spill a little on the corner of her lip so I could clean the deck. I had to eat, too, you know. Only fair.

From there I’d take her to visit the Porcelain Mushroom where I’d set candles around the bathroom fit for a queen. I’d lift the window, letting in wind from outside. As the candles began to flicker, like somebody’s birthday, I’d serenade my wife in forgotten lyrics. She’d drain her belly, a tinkling of chimes, and her mound of Venus would shrink to a slight hillock. This was usually when I’d regret not having the strength to give her a piggyback ride from the toilet to the bedroom. Luckily she never knew my suffering, the least of it my back. Nor did she know about the maps, a hobby begun too late, though I could tell she enjoyed all the places we went. I’d return with her to the bedroom where I’d help her under the covers. She was still responsive to touch, and I could always tell when she wanted me to explore. Then the sheets would become caverns, I the great spelunker, and I’d kiss her belly, which always looked like the soft-side of a thumb, and if I could hear her smiling from under the sheets, I’d take my hands to her hips, wedging my thumbs beside the trees that ran along her hillock.

Despite my age, whatever the necessary contraption of science, I could always hear when she was smiling; and when we tired, I’d set up camp down there, under the sheets, until it was time to take my wife to the waterfall for a shower, or to the tub for a bath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BIO:   J. Spinazzola’s stories, poems, and legal articles have appeared in print and online. Most recently, Charlotte Viewpoint published my short story, “The Next Big Thing.”