A Collection Of Recollections: Between Here And There

By Jennifer Schneider

In 'A Collection of Recollections: Between Here and There' Jen Schneider curates, collects, and shares bits and pieces of story and life.

From “bus delays” to “knees on concrete” to “states of suspension”, the pieces prompt new ways of thinking about both language and lived experiences. Exploring a range of experiences from “rec time” to “things that go bump in the night”, the collection plays with time, form, and fashion in ways both experiential and experimental.

Full of “angles” and “tangles”, the work counters chance and curates curiosity. For anyone who questions, queries, and wonders, this collection will not disappoint.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 482411375X

Jennifer Schneider

Jennifer Schneider lives and works in New York City. She has an MFA from the University of Wyoming. She writes with her brother often; this is their first published project together.

Book preview

THE 32 BUS

The 32 bus is late, again. Why my first reaction is one of scorn when the schedule is rarely acknowledged, I do not know. Perhaps it’s the bitter cold of the iron bench against my thinly clothed body. Wrinkled cotton blouse, a skirt with a zippered waist when what I really need is elastic – and heels a half-size too small and an inch too high. Our standard uniform, rigid and strictly enforced. Perhaps it’s the stench of the garbage piled five feet high or the rumble of trucks outside my window 5am most mornings. Perhaps it’s the man at the far corner, counting math facts out loud. His answers are always wrong, but I don’t have the heart to interject. Perhaps it’s simply habit.

I’ve been told habits take a good seven months to stick. I want to know who has that kind of time. Even so, my New Year’s resolution had been working for a while. Writing three daily things of gratitude in the small spiral on my nightstand, I was able to transfer my focus outward. Like everything, I’ve been slipping and I’m going to get back on track. The bus is the only one that’s behind schedule. But hey, I already have a small gratitude for today: The 32 bus will come, eventually.

As my body and mind adjust to the reality of delay, I step outside my own senses and observe. People-watching used to be my favorite pastime. The bus delay is a gift, an opportunity to relish some unexpected free time. Daily gratitude number two – check. I recall fun games of imagining the adventures of those around me. Good stuff – a couple about to be engaged, a young boy on the way to a feature film, a rebellious teen seeking freedom, an older man like a character in a favorite novel. I decide to find 32 stories as I wait for the 32 bus.

My eyes scan and then settle. I’ve seen him before, though he looks smaller somehow now. His nose is pressed flat against the glass. Mismatched socks, one brown, one red, protect his feet. Odd sandals with a single strap secure his socks. The brown one, on my right, looks like threadbare cotton, hugs his ankle, leaving some skin bare.

Suddenly, the elastic band snaps and I jump. Did I do that? My stare? My own desire to burst through the zippered skirt that restricts my breathing? Should I scratch my second gratitude?

His left hand holds a garbage bag, his right a few coins. I see his head turn toward a laminated menu taped to the interior of the restaurant window. Rows of four digits or more, in a bright red, fill the 12 by eight rectangle. Beneath a dark curtain of hair, his eyes scan, up and down, and his breath leaves a mark that matches the steam on the other side of the glass.

I’m curious. I stand and walk over, and then peer through the window.

The math counter calls out to me, but I don’t turn.

As I lean in towards and then against the glass, my eyes focus on the salad bar. Daily gratitude number three? No, it’s out of our reach. Two rows of 20 compartments flush with nourishment. Chocolate pudding, apple butter, fresh cut vegetables, and macaroni salad. Pots of steaming soup, chicken, beef, clam chowder. On the clear protective glass, a sticky note warns those who approach not to reuse utensils, glassware, and dishes. The faded yellow sticky is secured with tape on all four corners. A second p in approach is covered in whiteout paste. I worry about my sight and my spelling. Is it me?

Glancing down, I see a couple at the wooden table on the other side of the glass. They either ignore or do not see us. Perhaps both. Their lips move at just the right tempo. Quickly. Quicker. Puckered. O. His, a soft, plump pink with upturned corners. Hers a glossy, deep red, painted to perfection. Lush cranberries, plump juicy grapes. I watch his lips and read his words.

"We’ll take the nachos, extra spicy," the male says to the approaching server.

I had the time, I’d wait. The man to my left waited, too.

Within moments, a tray emerged. Forbidden fruits. Steam blanketing layers of melted cheese. Specks of green jalapeños, tiny bits of bell peppers, squared corn kernels with a hint of brown char. Triangle corn chips.

I could taste the crispy tortilla and the warm blanket of cheddar. I turn to smile at my partner in dreaming but stop. I see a finger tapping the back of the man to my left. A deep voice tells him he must leave. My back remains untouched. My cheeks flush.

I hear his belly growl and watch his eyes peek out from under the curtain of hair. He turns and walks away, pausing first at the trash can next to my former seat at the bench. He pulls out a pair of ketchup-stained khakis, skunk-scented denim, and the half-empty can of Pepsi I tossed in there five minutes earlier. My cheeks flush further as I catch my recycling error. Another habit I’m working on.

He stuffs the clothing in the bag held in his left hand and takes a swig from the can with his right. He, too, tosses the can back in the trash and moves on. I’m left standing. Full of shame. Alone. In a city I no longer recognize. Perhaps I no longer see. Documenting daily moments of gratitude and waiting for the 32 bus.

LIFE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A BOX OF CHOCOLATES

She parked the blue sedan in the front spot, two inches from each of the freshly painted white lines. A cautionary sign reading Wet Pain dotted the neatly manicured grass. I wondered about the missing t. Serendipity, I suspected, the unidentified groundkeepers more in tune with my predicament than friends and family.

The girl didn’t seem to notice the sign or the paint. Perhaps she simply did not care. Present for a purpose and an unidentified fee, she was determined to deliver. She opened the driver's-side door and placed her four-inch heels directly on the fresh marks. She navigated the freshly painted line like a balance beam, walking three steps to the back, and opening the rear door. Come on, baby, she whispered, then bent and swiped a finger on the paint. She sniffed it, though I don’t know why.

If I were her, I would have waited. The box of chocolates on the glass table in the middle of the second-floor apartment had a much more pleasant scent. I purchased it that morning. A Whitman’s Sampler. My boy’s favorite. Caramel cream in the top left corner, butter finger crisp in the bottom right. Milk chocolate rectangle in the center. A silhouette of a young lad – his profile – etched on the solid rectangular plank. The box had two tiers, though I could neither confirm nor communicate what inhabited the envelope secured in the lower level. Similar to the odd noises from the first-floor apartment. Some things are, indeed, better left unsaid.

I placed the envelope in the box’s lower level on impulse. I knew not where else to secure the information. Me, the keeper of my boy’s fate. Now safe, just beneath the surface of the complexity that hovers along the surface, in the space between spoken and unspoken truths. A fitting resting place, I remember thinking. I had become distracted.

My thoughts had turned to the service. I hoped they were serving chocolate. I should have confirmed. Too late then. They were there and I was here. My age deemed too advanced and my heart too fragile for travel. I was detained to tend to the girl, and she was delegated to my watch.

Sent to distract me and soon, she had arrived. My right hand pulled back the front-room drape – a thick lavender velvet, so soft to the touch, just enough. I watched her move from the car to the front-door landing. I wondered about the heels but knew that I would say nothing. Neither would she.

The girl punched the entry-pad buttons with her left hand and held the baby carrier in the crook of her right arm. The child stirred. I heard a giggle, a sweet sound. Not unlike the red robins that sing outside my back-bedroom window each morning. Just beyond the paisley curtains. A sweet family, with three, maybe four, young chicks.

The box of chocolates was sweet, too. I picked it myself. Off the end cap in the drugstore around the corner from the apartment. Two for one sale, though I purchased only one. A cluster of tiny silver bells, strung on the top of the glass door, jingled as I entered. I liked the sound. Reminded me of my boy. A musician. Never let a bad right ear or a bad review dissuade him.

In my head, I counted. As I neared 30, I heard the pair in the hallway. I knew, then, that they would soon ring the bell, likely for longer than needed. My own hearing had become compromised, and I noticed a change in how others would treat me. That day and the days before, too. I knew, as well, that I would then open the door and welcome the pair into the apartment. I would ask if they were thirsty. Hungry, too. The girl would ask after my own habits. We’d both play our assigned roles, including with the child. I had prepared a small collection of my own boy’s favorites from years prior. Before purchasing the chocolates, I climbed up on one of the kitchen chairs and extracted a small plastic tub from the top shelf of the den closet. A shoebox of wooden blocks, a trio of matchbox cars, and a deck of playing cards. A tower of books, as well.

I knew that soon after their arrival, we would play. I knew that we would retreat to the back den and that gameshows would run on the television. Artificial laughter would serve as a backdrop for the child’s high-pitched laughs. I would sit in the quilted rocking chair, a Christmas gift from my boy, and watch the girl and the child on the burlap carpet. She would remove her heels and take the baby out of the carrier. She will have books with her, I am sure. I will remain in the fabric rocker. My age deemed advanced, and my heart deemed fragile. We will gawk over the baby. I will offer chocolates. She will not say anything about the reason for her visit. Her mission, to distract me with sweet sounds. Mine, to make sure I let them know I knew.

Eventually, I will offer the box of chocolates. Guaranteed fresh. Not to the baby, of course. She will decline at first, but I will restate the offer. She will acquiesce and then gawk over the mix of caramel, cream, nuts, and milk chocolate that form the box’s top layer. A blanket – rich, warm, filling – for the truth, wrapped in a thick, ivory-colored envelope, below the manicured surface.

Everything was ready and then, just as I knew it would, the bell rang. And, so, we begin. As we visit, 12,000 miles away, a small gathering, a sampler of folk near enough to pay respects yet far enough to not know why, bid their final farewells to a boy in a man’s body, also a man in a stranger’s skin. I play my part, and she plays hers, all the while we both picture the gathering; a collection of assorted acquaintances, the solid chocolate messenger in the middle. Various nuts in cloth of milk and dark chocolate around the perimeter.

At the center of my living room, in the center of the glass table, the COD remains sealed in the ivory-colored envelope that lingers just below the surface of our chatter and the baby’s sweet play. A special delivery, overnight, from unidentified clerks at the county hospital. All of us, keeper of unspoken truths.

GAME DAY

A mighty fine group of five women, all from my pod, had gathered around the television for the game. We’d been talking about it all week. Had trouble even thinking about much else, honestly. We each saved up our commissary order for game-day snacks.

Our six pairs of squinting eyes scanned the 10-point font sheets for coveted items. A commissary clerk counted out our change through glass-protected windows. We were all set. Stella had the Tostitos and some cheese dip. Bev took care of the napkins. Liz and Peggie covered cups and soda pop with enough left to add in an eight-ounce package of sour chewies. We all covered Terry, whose funds had run low. Me, I used my balance for something sweet, chocolate kisses, my boy’s favorite. I bought them in his honor, told the girls it was his treat. They all laughed, and this made me feel good. Well better.

Ripping the plastic bag open, Stella set the chips out for all to take. Don’t let the dip drop, she cautioned. Treat it like a silky golden thread. Priceless. We all laughed. Then the guard reminded us not to drop any crumbs. Rec time was on the line. We didn’t laugh at that. We unfolded our napkins and spread them quickly, making sure to prevent any messes. Liz blew me silent kisses as she unwrapped the silver foil from her chocolate. Everything almost felt like normal. Almost.

The guard stood in the corner and quietly watched the television. A robust dark brew perked in the coffee maker on his nearby desk. The timing was perfect. The local school was playing an arch-rival and rec hours began just as the first quarter was ending. My boy would be there, and I’d get to see him play.

We all watched while busily slurping cola and munching on chips. My senses