Anything to Avoid Becoming Harold
S. Beth Bishop
Mile-High Harold
He’s the one holding steady at the ticket counter, left-
elbowed, double-eyed, eleven-toed, in dark sun-
glasses, Jesus sandals, and blue flowered shirt. All the
tourists shift their feet around him, the same, tired motions,
from five to five. Their sensible soles squeak along,
keep the queue lined in yellow tape on the terracotta
floor. Their smooth chests threaten Hang Ten or Forever
Miami. But he chews on a toothpick and whispers to
the day clerk: Certain Things under my breath. No one else
can make it out, though some still duck their necks
and try. Flying stand-by makes him giddy—and not
just because it’s cheap. He’s a sucker for such last-
minute rites. Plus he always gets a seat. By the end
of the safety demonstration, he’s grinning, as they say, ear-
to-waist, and beginning his battery of winks at the cute
new attendant, who considers slipping him her
number on a parachute instruction card, Next time
you’re in Pittsburgh curlicued underneath, in green
anti-gravity pen. Of course…. Of course, she gestures
toward the real, thinking, No one ever jumps
at this sort of a thing. And Harold reads her escape
from the ol’ second-guess. Even through her thick
accent, the tell-tale marks of distress are forming
in the bleached-blonde fringe of hair under her nose,
her lips a slick, red letter topped off with a wet
umlaut of sweat. That’s as good as a Yes. He forces
a frown for effect and orders her around, Another
Rusty Nail! and laughs up his sleeve at the sound
of her thighs in his service, the friction of their sweet
stick and slide against each other, scissoring up and down
the aisle, going at the quaintest little clip of resistance,
her uniform vest and slacks so practical, like her,
How they’re put-on! and economical, How quickly undone!
The skin behind his zipper responds with its own
easy-care-polyester, wash-and-wear kind of rhythm,
moving with him but holding firm. He can already see
how the seams of her girdle cut dotted lines
in the sides of her body, the zig-zag stitches
that snooze in the pillows of her hips, and forgiving
brown stockings made to hug the porcelain curves
of the tiny airplane sink, still supple, still giving
him permission to handle. Their label is exposed
in the inside-out fold of his-and-hers dance of becoming,
then coming clean. Her User’s Directions must tickle
and itch when she stretches toward the cockpit
for a fresh coffee filter. All of it reminds him of his
responsibility to the principles of Inner Style: guts
of steel, balls of gold, and the classic traveler’s ethics, just
like good panties—colorfast, but nearly infinitely elastic.
isbn 1-59661-065-4
36 pages/$9
Beth Bishop’s Harold poems weave a clever and fascinating vision, not only of Harold—a sometimes lovable, always eccentric rascal—but also of the narrator herself, who is both attracted and repelled by him. Anything to Avoid Becoming Harold is a tour de force in the exploration of character through language as lively as it is revealing.
—John Bensko, Yale Younger Poet and author of The Iron City (University of Illinois Press) and Sea Dogs (Graywolf Press)
These poems are like delicate, dirty pairs of panties. You’ll like them even if you don’t like the word “Panties” or aren’t sure why panties always come in pairs. Told from the perspective of somebody who has fallen in and out of love with Harold, an Ignatius Reilly-cum-Henry Darger wannabe, these are songs about attraction and detraction, the fortune of being disarmed in equal measure by love and revulsion.
—Mark Yakich, author of National Poetry Series winning book, Unrelated Individuals Forming a Group Waiting to Cross (Penguin Books)
S. Beth Bishop recently published her first full-length collection of poems, Shouldering Zero (Custom Words/Word Press). Her work appears regularly in print journals, such as Quarterly West, Greensboro Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Columbia Poetry Review, and in select online venues, including The Pedestal and Exquisite Corpse. She is currently an instructor of English at the University of Memphis.