Over in Flash Fiction Friday Land,this week's task is to write 1500 words or less about, or involving, St. Patrick's Day. My story is "Don't Stand So Close To Me".
She was late. I told her it looked bad. I told her we couldn't let anything seem amiss. But she was late anyway. She strolled in, ironic Lucky Charms T shirt worn tight, sweatpants that were somehow still form fitting, and her deep brown hair pulled back into a devil may care ponytail. She took the blue exam book from me without a sound, turned to sit near the front and began writing. I tried to shoot her a look as I gave her the book, but she only smiled. It made my blood boil, the way she didn't care. She lived that way, heedlessly, like Fitzgerald's Daisy, not caring who or what she broke.
She was beautiful. They are all beautiful at that age, of course. But she was special, like she wasn't even human, as if a UFO had left her as evidence of a different, more perfect race. She looked artistic, like blown glass or spun silk, every angle perfect, every part in proportion with every other, the Golden Mean made flesh. Air smelled better after she had moved through it. I watched her as she worked, hair shielding her pages from her neighbor, her hand moving in her distinctive little girl script. She had to appear like all the other students, but I knew she wasn't.
She was forbidden. Being with her broke my employment contract, the canons of professorial ethics, and my own moral code, which held that in matters of the heart between adults, all's fair, as long as the power balanced equally, as long as both parties can refuse. When we were apart, I told myself, lectured myself. "You're no Humbert," I'd hear in my own head. "When she calls, don't pick up." But I did, God help me. I did. I always did, and I always buzzed her in, and we always ended up in my bed.
She was addictive. Two times a week, sometimes more. I was enraptured, unable to refuse. On the floor, in the bed, one night even on the balcony. Whatever activity she wanted, we did, from nearly the full Kama Sutra all the way down to her sitting on my floor, painting her toenails while I graded papers and watched the Mavericks game. We seldom talked. We had so little in common, what would we talk about? But she came in, helped herself to my food, and showered, and then she called the tune. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop.
She was dangerous. She would do things, foolish things, things that would set off alarm bells in my head. One morning I saw her in a student lounge with an Oregon State shirt that I knew came from my closet, but I never had the nerve to confront her about it. Another morning she shut my office door and insisted that I pleasure her, right there, with a colleague just on the other side of the wall. But of course, I complied. I always did.
She was magnetic. A hulking frat boy in the front row, wearing a Fighting Irish T shirt featuring the traditional leprechaun with the shillelagh, got up and handed in his test. I watched him look at her longingly as he straightened. It was something I was familiar with- hotel clerks, wait staffs, passersby. She turned heads, male and female. I couldn't help but feel a moment of male pride, looking up at his athletic physique. He didn't seem the real bright type. "The closest you'll get to Notre Dame, son, is the beer from Ireland you're going to drink tonight," I thought.
She was mysterious. I didn't know how her school was being paid for, what her other classes were, where she lived, anything about her family. She seemed to have no feelings at all, other than the ones our activities brought her. When I questioned her one night about the grumbling I heard when I scheduled the exam for St. Patrick's Day, she shrugged as she began dressing to leave. "I don't care," she said. "You're going to give me an A anyway." She was right, but it was more damning to hear it said aloud.
She was finished. She waited until the appropriate number of students were finished, and then she got up, busying herself with putting away her pen and pushing in her chair. She picked up her water bottle and her purse, walking to the front to hand in her test. I looked up at her, no makeup, unshowered, and I was helpless. I thought about the first time I allowed myself to consider an affair with her. I feared it would wind up disappointing me, like when my father took me to meet a Star Wars actor at the mall, and it turned out it was Warwick Davis, who played an Ewok in Return of the Jedi. Some things are better anticipated than experienced, but she was not one of them.
She was gone. She was out the door and down the hall, off to heaven knows where, away until my phone rang late at night or she rang my bell at 1am. Foolish and male, I would always, always answer. I didn't dare look at her test paper until the final student, a diligent Chinese girl who always spent the entire hour, handed hers in shyly and walked quietly away. I listened to the silence for a moment before finally opening her paper. "I don't know why you make me do this," she had written, over and over again, for the first three pages, then finally an elaborate scrawled signature and a P.S. "Give me an A minus this time," it said, "so no one gets suspicious."
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 09, 2012
100 Word Challenge: Positive
My brother in arms Lance, whose blog will earn two technical fouls and be ejected when it meets up with your blog, has renewed the 100 Word Song cache this week with John Hiatt's "Have A Little Faith In Me". This story is called "Positive".
Her head dropped and her shoulders slumped. I didn't have to ask what the test said. Her hair was hanging in front of her face. She didn't make a sound, then suddenly blurted out a single obscenity. It sounded ugly.
"We can't afford it."
"I know," I said.
"I can't do it."
"I think you can. We can. But I hear you."
"I can't not do it."
"I understand." I swallowed. "I'll support you, either way."
"Do you want to?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I have faith."
"In me? In us?"
"In you. And in us."
Her head dropped and her shoulders slumped. I didn't have to ask what the test said. Her hair was hanging in front of her face. She didn't make a sound, then suddenly blurted out a single obscenity. It sounded ugly.
"We can't afford it."
"I know," I said.
"I can't do it."
"I think you can. We can. But I hear you."
"I can't not do it."
"I understand." I swallowed. "I'll support you, either way."
"Do you want to?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I have faith."
"In me? In us?"
"In you. And in us."
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "I Swear To Tell The Truth"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Allyson challenged me with "I've got half a mind to destroy the world that destroyed me." and I challenged Tara Roberts with "'There's a phrase in Judaism, 'tikkun olam', which means 'repairing the world.' The concept is that people shouldn't do something simply because the religion requires it but rather because it makes things- something, anything- a little bit better.' -Mike Mayo"
As an adult, I realized my grandfather probably said it to all the grandkids, but as a child, having him swoop me up high in the air, and whisper right into my ear in his smoky voice, "Don't tell your brothers, but you're my favorite!," was an intoxicating thrill. Being the only girl in a passel of brothers, I was special, for sure, but when he said that, I believed it, and I will always think that, in his heart, he meant it. In my case, anyway.
I was sitting with my legs primly crossed, wearing my very best power suit, the one that said I meant business. Black jacket, knee length skirt, ivory blouse, big girl heels, pearls. No nonsense, no fear, no remorse, no regret. I tried not to let my hand tremble as I poured water from the pitcher into a glass. The company lawyers had gone over it and over it with us. "Only answer what they ask," they said, "if you don't know, say you don't know, and most of all, for God's sake, look confident. It's a dog and pony show. They are there to make points and get on the evening news. They can't do anything to you, so just stare back at them blankly."
As I sat stiffly, waiting for the affair to begin, I pointedly did not look at the raft of cameras, flashes going, motors winding, that were taking in the scene. I thought about my grandfather, his rock ribbed honesty, and what he said to me when he caught me in a lie as a 9 year old. Having broken one of his drafting tools, I allowed my younger brother to take the fall, and then tearfully confessed an hour later, unable to live with myself. "Ally," he told me, "I'm disappointed you didn't admit it up front. But I'm proud of you for stepping forward. It's hard to be honest, especially when you've already gotten away with it. You show your true colors by what you do when no one's looking." This was far from no one looking.
Charles, Marion and I, the three people nominally in charge, were sitting in front of a House committee, here to testify about the rise and fall of our company, Intersection Mortgage. I had forgotten exactly what committee it was, but it didn't matter. It was our day to answer for what we had done, inflating our tiny firm beyond all reason until somebody, somewhere, realized that trees don't grow to the sky, and suddenly the party was over and all the money was gone.
"Don't worry," Charles had assured us both the evening before. "It's all grandstanding. As long as nobody admits anything, we get a few days of bad press, and then I'll hire you both as lobbyists at my new firm for double your salary. Just follow my lead," he insisted.
"You mean lie," I said.
Charles, the smooth, tan, thrice married CEO, laughed once, hard. "I'll deny I ever said it," he explained, "but yeah, essentially."
The questioning was coming around to me, and after the first Congressman, a cornpone Southerner with an accent as thick as Robert E. Lee's boot leather, finally finished his peroration, I had forgotten what the question was. I took a sip of water, then cleared my throat in as genteel a manner as I could.
"Could you repeat the question?," I asked.
"In summary, Ms. Haverman, I am asking you whether or not Intersection Mortgage, in your opinion, as a company, cared whether or not the mortgages you wrote ever got paid back?"
Everyone was too clever to ever say it- no policy ever said, "take every mortgage, no matter how crappy, no matter how much lying you have to do." It was a gradual thing, like the ocean attacking a sand castle. First you take a little bit lower credit rating, then you take someone who is retired but somehow making enough to afford BMW sized monthly payments, then you take someone a little more desperate than that. They always couched it in positive language. "Be creative," the memos said, "be flexible, be open to new approaches!" The memos came in, exhorting you to do more, produce more, get more people into more houses, and when your pay went up, and then up again, and then up a little bit more, that made you work harder, too. When you knew, in your soul, what they meant, and never said- just feed the beast, at all costs, and when this thing goes belly up, it will be someone else's problem. And that, in the end, was all that mattered.
I said things that I knew weren't true, I lied and cheated. I kept filling the pipeline with new loans, stuffing them in, as many as I could, watching my bank account swell with every little percentage point chip off the massive block of money. Some part of me knew that each one of these sheets I signed was a person, a soul with hopes and dreams and desires, somebody who wouldn't be able to afford this house in 6 months. Or in 3 months. Or even a month. I told myself I would look for another job, an honest job that wouldn't leave me trembling at the end of the work day, but it was just so easy to put it off for another week, another month, just save up a little bit more. I kept approving them, so many that in the end, I wasn't even looking anymore. Whatever it said, I just stamped it, signed it, and sent it off.
I leaned forward, picturing my grandfather's weathered face before the stomach cancer hollowed him out to a skeleton. "The truth never hurt anyone, in the long run," he used to say.
"In my opinion, Congressman?," I said.
"That's what I said, ma'am. Your opinion."
I knew what they wanted me to say. "Of course Intersection cared," the lawyer suggested last night, knowing this very question was coming. "Intersection's sole mission was to get the right family into the right home with the right mortgage. Then something about the American dream, and homeownership helping society, and motherhood and apple pie. All that crap," he said with a sardonic chuckle. The answer was right on the tip of my tongue.
"No, sir, I do not think so," I said. "I got the very clear impression that Charles could not care less whether or not the loans went bad, as long as they were off of Intersection's books when they did so." My voice sounded smooth and even, much more polished than I felt. My stomach turned, and I could feel the eyes of the other two at the table staring at me.
As an adult, I realized my grandfather probably said it to all the grandkids, but as a child, having him swoop me up high in the air, and whisper right into my ear in his smoky voice, "Don't tell your brothers, but you're my favorite!," was an intoxicating thrill. Being the only girl in a passel of brothers, I was special, for sure, but when he said that, I believed it, and I will always think that, in his heart, he meant it. In my case, anyway.
I was sitting with my legs primly crossed, wearing my very best power suit, the one that said I meant business. Black jacket, knee length skirt, ivory blouse, big girl heels, pearls. No nonsense, no fear, no remorse, no regret. I tried not to let my hand tremble as I poured water from the pitcher into a glass. The company lawyers had gone over it and over it with us. "Only answer what they ask," they said, "if you don't know, say you don't know, and most of all, for God's sake, look confident. It's a dog and pony show. They are there to make points and get on the evening news. They can't do anything to you, so just stare back at them blankly."
As I sat stiffly, waiting for the affair to begin, I pointedly did not look at the raft of cameras, flashes going, motors winding, that were taking in the scene. I thought about my grandfather, his rock ribbed honesty, and what he said to me when he caught me in a lie as a 9 year old. Having broken one of his drafting tools, I allowed my younger brother to take the fall, and then tearfully confessed an hour later, unable to live with myself. "Ally," he told me, "I'm disappointed you didn't admit it up front. But I'm proud of you for stepping forward. It's hard to be honest, especially when you've already gotten away with it. You show your true colors by what you do when no one's looking." This was far from no one looking.
Charles, Marion and I, the three people nominally in charge, were sitting in front of a House committee, here to testify about the rise and fall of our company, Intersection Mortgage. I had forgotten exactly what committee it was, but it didn't matter. It was our day to answer for what we had done, inflating our tiny firm beyond all reason until somebody, somewhere, realized that trees don't grow to the sky, and suddenly the party was over and all the money was gone.
"Don't worry," Charles had assured us both the evening before. "It's all grandstanding. As long as nobody admits anything, we get a few days of bad press, and then I'll hire you both as lobbyists at my new firm for double your salary. Just follow my lead," he insisted.
"You mean lie," I said.
Charles, the smooth, tan, thrice married CEO, laughed once, hard. "I'll deny I ever said it," he explained, "but yeah, essentially."
The questioning was coming around to me, and after the first Congressman, a cornpone Southerner with an accent as thick as Robert E. Lee's boot leather, finally finished his peroration, I had forgotten what the question was. I took a sip of water, then cleared my throat in as genteel a manner as I could.
"Could you repeat the question?," I asked.
"In summary, Ms. Haverman, I am asking you whether or not Intersection Mortgage, in your opinion, as a company, cared whether or not the mortgages you wrote ever got paid back?"
Everyone was too clever to ever say it- no policy ever said, "take every mortgage, no matter how crappy, no matter how much lying you have to do." It was a gradual thing, like the ocean attacking a sand castle. First you take a little bit lower credit rating, then you take someone who is retired but somehow making enough to afford BMW sized monthly payments, then you take someone a little more desperate than that. They always couched it in positive language. "Be creative," the memos said, "be flexible, be open to new approaches!" The memos came in, exhorting you to do more, produce more, get more people into more houses, and when your pay went up, and then up again, and then up a little bit more, that made you work harder, too. When you knew, in your soul, what they meant, and never said- just feed the beast, at all costs, and when this thing goes belly up, it will be someone else's problem. And that, in the end, was all that mattered.
I said things that I knew weren't true, I lied and cheated. I kept filling the pipeline with new loans, stuffing them in, as many as I could, watching my bank account swell with every little percentage point chip off the massive block of money. Some part of me knew that each one of these sheets I signed was a person, a soul with hopes and dreams and desires, somebody who wouldn't be able to afford this house in 6 months. Or in 3 months. Or even a month. I told myself I would look for another job, an honest job that wouldn't leave me trembling at the end of the work day, but it was just so easy to put it off for another week, another month, just save up a little bit more. I kept approving them, so many that in the end, I wasn't even looking anymore. Whatever it said, I just stamped it, signed it, and sent it off.
I leaned forward, picturing my grandfather's weathered face before the stomach cancer hollowed him out to a skeleton. "The truth never hurt anyone, in the long run," he used to say.
"In my opinion, Congressman?," I said.
"That's what I said, ma'am. Your opinion."
I knew what they wanted me to say. "Of course Intersection cared," the lawyer suggested last night, knowing this very question was coming. "Intersection's sole mission was to get the right family into the right home with the right mortgage. Then something about the American dream, and homeownership helping society, and motherhood and apple pie. All that crap," he said with a sardonic chuckle. The answer was right on the tip of my tongue.
"No, sir, I do not think so," I said. "I got the very clear impression that Charles could not care less whether or not the loans went bad, as long as they were off of Intersection's books when they did so." My voice sounded smooth and even, much more polished than I felt. My stomach turned, and I could feel the eyes of the other two at the table staring at me.
Monday, March 05, 2012
100 Word Song- Homeless
My main man Lance, along with his metallic pal Leeroy, continue on the musical literary affair of the heart called the 100 Word Song Challenge, this week concerning Richard Thompson's "Dimming of the Day". Lance posted a link to Bonnie Raitt's version, but while I have nothing against the multihued songstress, I like the version from Pink Floyd's Roger Gilmour, which you can hear here.
"It's time to go, ma'am."
I looked up at him. He looked serious and hard in his police uniform. He clanked whenever he moved. There was a pile of mail on the dining room table. It had gotten so hopeless I stopped opening it, the red words saying "FINAL NOTICE" notwithstanding. Richard was already at his brother's place with the kids, but there just wasn't room for me there. I missed him terribly. It was always his department to handle financial stuff.
I stood up, picking up the trash bag with my earthly possessions.
"Fixed rate, my ass," I thought.
"It's time to go, ma'am."
I looked up at him. He looked serious and hard in his police uniform. He clanked whenever he moved. There was a pile of mail on the dining room table. It had gotten so hopeless I stopped opening it, the red words saying "FINAL NOTICE" notwithstanding. Richard was already at his brother's place with the kids, but there just wasn't room for me there. I missed him terribly. It was always his department to handle financial stuff.
I stood up, picking up the trash bag with my earthly possessions.
"Fixed rate, my ass," I thought.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "You Never Give Me Your Money"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara Roberts challenged me with "'If I had a dollar bill for all the things I've done, there'd be a mountain of money piled up to my chin...' Annie Lennox" and I challenged Shelley with "'When you meet someone, you can get something out of him like when you first look at a painting.' -Gary Oldman"
I took it all out, laying it on the hard brown vinyl of the broken down couch in what we called the "locker room." It was no such thing, of course. People did change in here, and there was a tiny grimy toliet and sink that got some use, and a dirtier shower that mostly didn't, but that was the only way it resembled a locker room. I laid the bills out in front of me, the wrinkled and folded and sweaty ones, and fives, and tens and twenties, and a lone fifty. I knew paper money was filthy- years of biology classes had taught me that nearly everything was, and a hung over morning watching the Dr. Oz show confirmed that money itself was pretty gross, generally speaking.
But these bills looked especially dingy. Part of it, I knew, was where they had been. They had gone from sweaty Levis pockets into my cleavage, or underneath a strap on my hip, or in between my toes. I knew that when I looked at them, and that made them feel especially dirty. I organized them compulsively, in order by denomination, all facing the same way, then folded over. Not bad, so far- after paying everyone I had to pay, I'd go home with a full car payment, which wasn't bad for a night's work. The place was still half full, although I was getting the sense that most of the big dogs had gone home. The guys that were out there were the hangdog regulars, just staring at the nudity, putting off going home for one more hour. You could get a couple of bucks out of them if you tried, but they looked tapped out.
I folded the stack, returning it to my tiny, clear purse. You didn't leave anything of value in this room, I had learned early on. So ID, car key and phone came with me in this little plastic bag, while the small duffel that stayed in here contained a few changes of underwear, an extra pair of heels, and a pair of flats and a change of clothes to go home in. You were supposed to do a turn on the pole every 15 minutes, but as the night went on, they stopped really caring. As long as someone was up there, they were happy. And if they were happy, you kept being asked back. So you keep the bosses happy, you keep the parade of men happy, and your little bag fills up with cash.
I stood up, feeling the strain as my legs and back adjusted to being up in my heels. I thanked my years of basketball and track in high school that let me stand up to the pounding. I checked my face in the cracked mirror, tossed my hair around a bit, and headed back out. It can't hurt to take a shot- maybe there's a 20 year old kid who just got paid out there. The music turned from a dull throb into a banging, loud maelstrom as I entered the showroom. It smelled like beer, perfume, sweat, and desperation. A painfully skinny Eastern European girl was dancing now, her bony thighs almost a parody of femininity. There were maybe 10 guys in the room, and 5 other dancers, all milling about in the psychedelic strobes and flashes. I saw Roger, one of what I would call, for lack of a better word, my regulars, sitting down at the bar with a brunette I didn't recognize.
Roger had been coming in about once a month or so. If I was around, he would usually gesture me over and ask for a private dance. He was relatively polite, followed the rules, and was kind, so I was happy to see him. He was looking my way, so I made my way over, approaching him from the side away from the woman. He talked about a wife now and then, but you never knew. His name might not even be Roger. Mine certainly wasn't Mandy. I made my way in close, letting him put his arm around my bare waist.
"Hey, you!," he said jovially into my ear. You had to talk like that to be heard.
"Hey," I said back. "Is this your wife?" She was looking at me through cat's eye glasses, betraying nothing. She was dressed relatively plainly, a shapeless sweater and dark jeans and simple flat shoes. Mom clothes. I could tell her body was nothing too special. If this was who he had to go home to, it was no wonder he'd spend a couple of hundred dollars to look at me with nothing on.
"Sure is," he said, "Meet," and then he said her name. It could be Marie, or Mary, or Maureen. It didn't matter.
I leaned over him, intentionally pressing against him, and introduced myself.
"Nice to finally meet you," she said in a clipped voice.
"We had a talk about my coming here," Roger said. "She said she wanted to see what it's like."
I leaned over him again, my breast brushing his chest. "So what do you think?," I said to her.
"It's loud," she said. She forced a smile, like she was meeting me at a cocktail party. You bitch, I thought. You know your husband thinks about me when you fuck him, and it's killing you, isn't it?
"So do we have to pay double for both of us?," he said quickly. I could sense his eagerness.
"Afraid so," I told him. It was one of the iron clad rules. Along with no touching, a rule that could be circumvented, the boss said you could have as many viewers as you want in the tiny little sin studios, but everybody in there pays- $30 per 5 minutes.
He leaned over to tell this to her. I stayed close, watching her face register the news. She leaned in to speak to him, and then he spoke to her again. I wondered if she would share this story on a girl's night out, describing over a glass of Merlot how pathetically ugly we all were. Tell it right, I told her silently. Tell your little friends that we give your pathetic husbands something you never could.
"She wants to go by herself," Roger told me. I could tell he was disappointed.
"Fine with me," I said. Some girls wouldn't dream of giving another woman a dance. I wasn't like that. She probably just wanted to tell me to keep away from her man, or something, which was fine. Roger was cute enough, in his way, and he was nice, but there was no way I wanted to get in the middle of that-I just wanted his money. The wives never had any idea how simple their men really were.
She took a long pull from her beer and stood up, coming around the back of Roger's chair. I took her hand, which felt clammy, and led her down to the back of the room. Up a short flight of stairs was one of the bouncers, watching a series of video screens that showed what was going on in the private rooms. "Three," Charlie, an enormously fat man with a beard but no mustache, said in between bites of a tuna sub, and I led her into Room 3, the bass from the stereo fading to a rumble as I shut the door.
She looked me up and down. I was about 6 inches taller than her before the shoes. I knew I was prettier than she was, with a much better body, and I could feel the waves of fear and resentment coming from her.
"I don't know what the, uh, etiquette is...," she said gently.
"It's simple," I said. "It's $30 every five minutes. Charlie will say over the intercom when the time is up, and you can stay longer for another thirty, or we can stop. Totally up to you. As for what happens, again, it's up to you. I can just do what I usually do, or we can talk, or we can do nothing at all. It's totally your call."
I stepped out of my shoes, feeling the relief of being flat footed again. Some people wanted me to keep them on, and I was willing to oblige. But it was nice to be out of them for a few minutes, and it reduced the chance of turning an ankle.
"Do I, um...," she said.
"You don't have to do anything," I said. "You can stand, sit, lie down, whatever you like. The only rule is no touching, but they turn a blind eye to it unless I complain. Anything you feel like doing is OK by me, pretty much."
"Have you had...have other women... have they...done this?" I undid my top, watching her eyes as my breasts emerged. I was naturally big, but I had gotten some surgery a couple of years ago when gravity started to take a toll. They were pretty damn nice, even if I do say so myself. She stared, which was something I was used to.
"Sure. We get more than you probably think," I said. "Wives, like you. Some college kids. A few actual gay women. Not many." Maybe 1 out of 10 were sexually interested, but the majority were college students doing research, or religious crazies wanting to convert us, or various other agendas other than the single minded parade of men. It didn't matter to me. If they wanted to pay, they could read me Marcus Aurelius for all I cared.
Her knees were together, prim and proper. Now that she was alone, I could see she had a better body than I gave her credit for. She was still trim, which was impressive if she had kids, which most of them did. I looked at her tiny ankles, up her jeans, to her hips and her waist, her hands folded in her lap, and to her breasts, which looked a little more impressive when she sat up straight. Her eyes were locked on me, taking in my half nakedness. I stepped forward, putting one foot on either side of her tiny shoes. I leaned in, being sure to brush against her. I brought my lips to her ear.
"Just relax," I whispered. "Tell me what you want." She shivered.
I started doing my usual routine, rubbing, brushing, grinding. She was paying real money, so she'd get a real show, until she said something. I watched her watch me, because I was genuinely curious about her motives. If she got turned on, that was fine, and if she didn't, that was fine, but it was like playing an opponent you hadn't scouted- you wanted to know if they preferred to shoot outside, so you could try to prevent them from doing what they wanted. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't make any sounds. I could feel her shift in her seat now and then, but she certainly didn't appear to want me to stop. It was harder to tell with her, but I thought she was liking it.
She put her hands on my thighs as I was facing away from her, and I covered her hands with my own, gently pushing them higher. I wondered how far she wanted to go, and it was pleasant, feeling a woman's touch, so much gentler than a man's aggressive one. I turned my head, whispering into her ear again.
"It's okay," I said. She didn't say anything. I felt her exhale heavily.
"What makes you...do this?," she said. Her voice was breathy, soft, the kind of voice you have when you're congested.
The truth tumbled out before I could stop it. "An ex boyfriend signed me up for a bunch of loans and credit cards for the business he wanted to start. Then he skipped out. I owe about 75 grand."
"Men," she said, in that tone that implied we women were all in this together. It was something my sister said too.
"Why not go bankrupt?," she continued, her voice still soft. I guided her hands a little higher. She wasn't resisting, but she didn't seem to be getting the hint either. A tiny part of me wanted her to want me.
"I don't think that's right," I said. "Plus I probably wouldn't be able to get into grad school if I did that. Once I pay that money off, I'm going to finish my degree." I don't know why I was telling her this. I didn't have to justify myself to her, or to anyone. I did the same thing she did- I gave my body away for money. The difference was I got paid in cash and didn't get pregnant.
Her fingers were finally on top of the tiny fabric triangle that separated me from a prostitute. I held her in place with my hand and pushed down, arching my pelvis from underneath. I felt some genuine arousal from inside me. I promised myself I would revisit this encounter inside my head later this morning when I was trying to get to sleep. This was getting interesting. After a couple of long thrusts against her hand, I turned over again, bringing my body up close to her sweater covered breasts. I felt her squirm again, and I let her brush her breasts against me. I looked at her eyes behind her glasses, and they were starting to cloud and lose focus. She half closed them, exhaling again. I came in close, my nose buried in the nape of her neck. I felt her body underneath me, pressing up. It felt just like it did with the men. I had her. I turned and buried my face on the other side of her neck, giving her a tiny kiss there. Her arms found the back of my neck, and she let me run a hand gently between her thighs. She gasped softly when I pressed against her, her back arching. She made a soft sound, high in her throat. I moaned gently, too, and I was only half pretending.
I picked my head up to look at her again, our noses centimeters apart. Her eyes were swimming with tears. It took me aback. I stopped moving and just stared. Her mouth started to move, and then stopped. Her lip quivered slightly. I felt a stab of alarm. I thought she was enjoying this.
"Are you okay?," I started to say.
"I have to go-," she said, the short, bitchy tone returning. I pushed myself up to my feet.
"I can stop," I said. "We don't have to-"
"No, no," she interrupted. "No, you're fine. You're great. That was so amazing. It was great. I just...," she said. Her voice was breaking along the edges. It reminded me of my 3 year old niece. You knew it was naptime when her voice started to get shrill like this.
"I have to go," she said again. She was standing up now, her hand digging in one pocket of her tight jeans. Her body was really a lot better than I thought. She threw a folded bill onto the cheap couch.
"I'm sorry-" I tried.
"No," she said again. "You're fine. It was great. Really. I enjoyed it."
"You can sit here, and-"
"No, I have to go, really."
She opened the door and was gone, her shoes making little click clack sounds on the floor. I looked at the bill, which I now saw was a fifty. I wanted to run after her, to ask what had happened, what had changed, what was wrong. I reached down and unfolded the bill. It was greasy, like the others, probably from the sweat of her thigh. Charlie watched me impassively through the open door as I put my top back on and slid the bill into my bag. I put my heels back on, gave Charlie a shrug in reply, and walked back onto the floor again.
I took it all out, laying it on the hard brown vinyl of the broken down couch in what we called the "locker room." It was no such thing, of course. People did change in here, and there was a tiny grimy toliet and sink that got some use, and a dirtier shower that mostly didn't, but that was the only way it resembled a locker room. I laid the bills out in front of me, the wrinkled and folded and sweaty ones, and fives, and tens and twenties, and a lone fifty. I knew paper money was filthy- years of biology classes had taught me that nearly everything was, and a hung over morning watching the Dr. Oz show confirmed that money itself was pretty gross, generally speaking.
But these bills looked especially dingy. Part of it, I knew, was where they had been. They had gone from sweaty Levis pockets into my cleavage, or underneath a strap on my hip, or in between my toes. I knew that when I looked at them, and that made them feel especially dirty. I organized them compulsively, in order by denomination, all facing the same way, then folded over. Not bad, so far- after paying everyone I had to pay, I'd go home with a full car payment, which wasn't bad for a night's work. The place was still half full, although I was getting the sense that most of the big dogs had gone home. The guys that were out there were the hangdog regulars, just staring at the nudity, putting off going home for one more hour. You could get a couple of bucks out of them if you tried, but they looked tapped out.
I folded the stack, returning it to my tiny, clear purse. You didn't leave anything of value in this room, I had learned early on. So ID, car key and phone came with me in this little plastic bag, while the small duffel that stayed in here contained a few changes of underwear, an extra pair of heels, and a pair of flats and a change of clothes to go home in. You were supposed to do a turn on the pole every 15 minutes, but as the night went on, they stopped really caring. As long as someone was up there, they were happy. And if they were happy, you kept being asked back. So you keep the bosses happy, you keep the parade of men happy, and your little bag fills up with cash.
I stood up, feeling the strain as my legs and back adjusted to being up in my heels. I thanked my years of basketball and track in high school that let me stand up to the pounding. I checked my face in the cracked mirror, tossed my hair around a bit, and headed back out. It can't hurt to take a shot- maybe there's a 20 year old kid who just got paid out there. The music turned from a dull throb into a banging, loud maelstrom as I entered the showroom. It smelled like beer, perfume, sweat, and desperation. A painfully skinny Eastern European girl was dancing now, her bony thighs almost a parody of femininity. There were maybe 10 guys in the room, and 5 other dancers, all milling about in the psychedelic strobes and flashes. I saw Roger, one of what I would call, for lack of a better word, my regulars, sitting down at the bar with a brunette I didn't recognize.
Roger had been coming in about once a month or so. If I was around, he would usually gesture me over and ask for a private dance. He was relatively polite, followed the rules, and was kind, so I was happy to see him. He was looking my way, so I made my way over, approaching him from the side away from the woman. He talked about a wife now and then, but you never knew. His name might not even be Roger. Mine certainly wasn't Mandy. I made my way in close, letting him put his arm around my bare waist.
"Hey, you!," he said jovially into my ear. You had to talk like that to be heard.
"Hey," I said back. "Is this your wife?" She was looking at me through cat's eye glasses, betraying nothing. She was dressed relatively plainly, a shapeless sweater and dark jeans and simple flat shoes. Mom clothes. I could tell her body was nothing too special. If this was who he had to go home to, it was no wonder he'd spend a couple of hundred dollars to look at me with nothing on.
"Sure is," he said, "Meet," and then he said her name. It could be Marie, or Mary, or Maureen. It didn't matter.
I leaned over him, intentionally pressing against him, and introduced myself.
"Nice to finally meet you," she said in a clipped voice.
"We had a talk about my coming here," Roger said. "She said she wanted to see what it's like."
I leaned over him again, my breast brushing his chest. "So what do you think?," I said to her.
"It's loud," she said. She forced a smile, like she was meeting me at a cocktail party. You bitch, I thought. You know your husband thinks about me when you fuck him, and it's killing you, isn't it?
"So do we have to pay double for both of us?," he said quickly. I could sense his eagerness.
"Afraid so," I told him. It was one of the iron clad rules. Along with no touching, a rule that could be circumvented, the boss said you could have as many viewers as you want in the tiny little sin studios, but everybody in there pays- $30 per 5 minutes.
He leaned over to tell this to her. I stayed close, watching her face register the news. She leaned in to speak to him, and then he spoke to her again. I wondered if she would share this story on a girl's night out, describing over a glass of Merlot how pathetically ugly we all were. Tell it right, I told her silently. Tell your little friends that we give your pathetic husbands something you never could.
"She wants to go by herself," Roger told me. I could tell he was disappointed.
"Fine with me," I said. Some girls wouldn't dream of giving another woman a dance. I wasn't like that. She probably just wanted to tell me to keep away from her man, or something, which was fine. Roger was cute enough, in his way, and he was nice, but there was no way I wanted to get in the middle of that-I just wanted his money. The wives never had any idea how simple their men really were.
She took a long pull from her beer and stood up, coming around the back of Roger's chair. I took her hand, which felt clammy, and led her down to the back of the room. Up a short flight of stairs was one of the bouncers, watching a series of video screens that showed what was going on in the private rooms. "Three," Charlie, an enormously fat man with a beard but no mustache, said in between bites of a tuna sub, and I led her into Room 3, the bass from the stereo fading to a rumble as I shut the door.
She looked me up and down. I was about 6 inches taller than her before the shoes. I knew I was prettier than she was, with a much better body, and I could feel the waves of fear and resentment coming from her.
"I don't know what the, uh, etiquette is...," she said gently.
"It's simple," I said. "It's $30 every five minutes. Charlie will say over the intercom when the time is up, and you can stay longer for another thirty, or we can stop. Totally up to you. As for what happens, again, it's up to you. I can just do what I usually do, or we can talk, or we can do nothing at all. It's totally your call."
I stepped out of my shoes, feeling the relief of being flat footed again. Some people wanted me to keep them on, and I was willing to oblige. But it was nice to be out of them for a few minutes, and it reduced the chance of turning an ankle.
"Do I, um...," she said.
"You don't have to do anything," I said. "You can stand, sit, lie down, whatever you like. The only rule is no touching, but they turn a blind eye to it unless I complain. Anything you feel like doing is OK by me, pretty much."
"Have you had...have other women... have they...done this?" I undid my top, watching her eyes as my breasts emerged. I was naturally big, but I had gotten some surgery a couple of years ago when gravity started to take a toll. They were pretty damn nice, even if I do say so myself. She stared, which was something I was used to.
"Sure. We get more than you probably think," I said. "Wives, like you. Some college kids. A few actual gay women. Not many." Maybe 1 out of 10 were sexually interested, but the majority were college students doing research, or religious crazies wanting to convert us, or various other agendas other than the single minded parade of men. It didn't matter to me. If they wanted to pay, they could read me Marcus Aurelius for all I cared.
Her knees were together, prim and proper. Now that she was alone, I could see she had a better body than I gave her credit for. She was still trim, which was impressive if she had kids, which most of them did. I looked at her tiny ankles, up her jeans, to her hips and her waist, her hands folded in her lap, and to her breasts, which looked a little more impressive when she sat up straight. Her eyes were locked on me, taking in my half nakedness. I stepped forward, putting one foot on either side of her tiny shoes. I leaned in, being sure to brush against her. I brought my lips to her ear.
"Just relax," I whispered. "Tell me what you want." She shivered.
I started doing my usual routine, rubbing, brushing, grinding. She was paying real money, so she'd get a real show, until she said something. I watched her watch me, because I was genuinely curious about her motives. If she got turned on, that was fine, and if she didn't, that was fine, but it was like playing an opponent you hadn't scouted- you wanted to know if they preferred to shoot outside, so you could try to prevent them from doing what they wanted. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't make any sounds. I could feel her shift in her seat now and then, but she certainly didn't appear to want me to stop. It was harder to tell with her, but I thought she was liking it.
She put her hands on my thighs as I was facing away from her, and I covered her hands with my own, gently pushing them higher. I wondered how far she wanted to go, and it was pleasant, feeling a woman's touch, so much gentler than a man's aggressive one. I turned my head, whispering into her ear again.
"It's okay," I said. She didn't say anything. I felt her exhale heavily.
"What makes you...do this?," she said. Her voice was breathy, soft, the kind of voice you have when you're congested.
The truth tumbled out before I could stop it. "An ex boyfriend signed me up for a bunch of loans and credit cards for the business he wanted to start. Then he skipped out. I owe about 75 grand."
"Men," she said, in that tone that implied we women were all in this together. It was something my sister said too.
"Why not go bankrupt?," she continued, her voice still soft. I guided her hands a little higher. She wasn't resisting, but she didn't seem to be getting the hint either. A tiny part of me wanted her to want me.
"I don't think that's right," I said. "Plus I probably wouldn't be able to get into grad school if I did that. Once I pay that money off, I'm going to finish my degree." I don't know why I was telling her this. I didn't have to justify myself to her, or to anyone. I did the same thing she did- I gave my body away for money. The difference was I got paid in cash and didn't get pregnant.
Her fingers were finally on top of the tiny fabric triangle that separated me from a prostitute. I held her in place with my hand and pushed down, arching my pelvis from underneath. I felt some genuine arousal from inside me. I promised myself I would revisit this encounter inside my head later this morning when I was trying to get to sleep. This was getting interesting. After a couple of long thrusts against her hand, I turned over again, bringing my body up close to her sweater covered breasts. I felt her squirm again, and I let her brush her breasts against me. I looked at her eyes behind her glasses, and they were starting to cloud and lose focus. She half closed them, exhaling again. I came in close, my nose buried in the nape of her neck. I felt her body underneath me, pressing up. It felt just like it did with the men. I had her. I turned and buried my face on the other side of her neck, giving her a tiny kiss there. Her arms found the back of my neck, and she let me run a hand gently between her thighs. She gasped softly when I pressed against her, her back arching. She made a soft sound, high in her throat. I moaned gently, too, and I was only half pretending.
I picked my head up to look at her again, our noses centimeters apart. Her eyes were swimming with tears. It took me aback. I stopped moving and just stared. Her mouth started to move, and then stopped. Her lip quivered slightly. I felt a stab of alarm. I thought she was enjoying this.
"Are you okay?," I started to say.
"I have to go-," she said, the short, bitchy tone returning. I pushed myself up to my feet.
"I can stop," I said. "We don't have to-"
"No, no," she interrupted. "No, you're fine. You're great. That was so amazing. It was great. I just...," she said. Her voice was breaking along the edges. It reminded me of my 3 year old niece. You knew it was naptime when her voice started to get shrill like this.
"I have to go," she said again. She was standing up now, her hand digging in one pocket of her tight jeans. Her body was really a lot better than I thought. She threw a folded bill onto the cheap couch.
"I'm sorry-" I tried.
"No," she said again. "You're fine. It was great. Really. I enjoyed it."
"You can sit here, and-"
"No, I have to go, really."
She opened the door and was gone, her shoes making little click clack sounds on the floor. I looked at the bill, which I now saw was a fifty. I wanted to run after her, to ask what had happened, what had changed, what was wrong. I reached down and unfolded the bill. It was greasy, like the others, probably from the sweat of her thigh. Charlie watched me impassively through the open door as I put my top back on and slid the bill into my bag. I put my heels back on, gave Charlie a shrug in reply, and walked back onto the floor again.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
100 Word Song: "Crossroads"
The once and future King of England, Lance, whose blog will get a 5 minute fighting major when it encounters your blog, has renewed the one hundred word song story challenge, this week featuring Oh Land and their song "White Nights". This story is called "Crossroads".
I loved him, but he scared me. We were sitting at an intersection, staring up at a green light. Somewhere, a siren wailed. He was listening intently, his head cocked like a dog. I watched him.
"Where are we going?," I asked softly.
"Follow the sirens," he said, making a right turn and accelerating. "That's where the action is."
I could feel the sweat pooling on my lower back as he accelerated through the night.
"Why do you keep doing this?," I said against the rushing air.
"It makes me feel alive," he said. I hoped he was right.
I loved him, but he scared me. We were sitting at an intersection, staring up at a green light. Somewhere, a siren wailed. He was listening intently, his head cocked like a dog. I watched him.
"Where are we going?," I asked softly.
"Follow the sirens," he said, making a right turn and accelerating. "That's where the action is."
I could feel the sweat pooling on my lower back as he accelerated through the night.
"Why do you keep doing this?," I said against the rushing air.
"It makes me feel alive," he said. I hoped he was right.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "Locked Ward"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, R Martinez challenged me with "Kill them! ordered the voice inside my head." and I challenged Leo with ""My sense of God is my sense of wonder about the universe." -Albert Einstein"
"Kill them," it said. I tried to, but I was on the ground suddenly. I felt someone on my back, pressing me against the floor. The floor was dirty, hard tiles, and very cold. They were handling me roughly, several blue people, and one brown and one pink person. I was down on the ground, and there was a lot of yelling and chaos. I hated it when things got crazy like this.
"They're trying to kill you," it said. "Fight back! Escape!" I felt my arms being pulled backwards. My shoulders exploded in pain, and I felt tears coming to my eyes. I looked up at the pink person. I could tell it was a girl. She was standing by a blue and white cart on wheels, and she was writing something. I could see a vial and a syringe on top of the cart. I could see a little bit of her belly where it bulged out under her top, where it was pressing against the plastic of the cart. Her belly looked cute. The shot was probably for me. I hated shots, but they always gave me shots, even when I wasn't sick. I didn't want them to kill me, and I didn't want them to give me shots, but every time I moved, it hurt my shoulders. I couldn't get up, no matter how hard I tried. I kept trying to tell them about Frankenstein, and the marsupials, and the kings and the queens. Everything I said, they just told me to shut up, though.
"They'll never let you go," it said. It hurt, having them leaning on me. I couldn't get up, and every time I squirmed to try and move, they pushed down harder, which made it hurt more. I could feel the cold of the floor coming through my skin. It felt like I was going to freeze, so I kept moving my arms and legs. But every time I did that, someone would grab them or sit on them so I couldn't. I tried to say I didn't want to hurt them so they would leave me alone, but my mouth just kept saying "waffles". I really like waffles.
"It's going to be too late," it said. It was yelling at me. I hated when it yelled. Before, when I was in the bank, with all the pillars and all those people yelling, it said the same thing. It said I had to get my money out before it was too late. And now that they took me out of there and into the hospital, with all the lights and people running and beeping sounds, I knew I wasn't going to be able to do it. The government owes me money for my inventions, and I was sure it was going to be there today. But the pretty girl with the green earrings said it wasn't, and it made me mad. They had to bring first one man, then another, and then the police came and took me to the hospital. Nobody would listen to me, no matter how loud I yelled. When I came in the hospital, I tried to explain again, but nobody would listen, and then a bunch of other people came in when I got mad. I only threw one thing, though. Everybody got really mad, even though I only threw one thing.
The girl in pink came closer, and the person holding my arm let go for a second. I thought about punching someone, and maybe I could get free that way, but I looked at the pink girl's face. She had her hair pulled back from her face, so I could see the bones of her face. It was strange, almost like I was looking right at her skull. She was down on the floor, crouching like a catcher does in a baseball game. I wondered if she played softball in high school. I remembered when I used to watch the girls play softball when I was in high school, how their uniforms all looked the same, even though all the girls looked really different. I thought about the girl in the pink, and I remembered something a doctor told me once in a hospital room. He told me to try to remember that everybody I talk to has people who love them and people who will miss them if they are gone. I wondered if the pink girl had a little boy. Maybe she had a 4 year old little boy who called her Mommy and cried when she went away to work at the hospital this morning. I didn't want to punch her because it might make that boy sad. I was looking at the pink girl's eyes when I felt a pinch in my arm. I wanted to tell her about the money that the government was going to give me for all the work I did, but I just looked at her eyes, and I didn't want to say anything.
It really hurt, but then it stopped when she took it out, and it didn't hurt anymore. It tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear it so loud anymore. I felt rubbery all of a sudden, like I couldn't stand up any more, and then I felt very sleepy, and I closed my eyes for just a second.
"Kill them," it said. I tried to, but I was on the ground suddenly. I felt someone on my back, pressing me against the floor. The floor was dirty, hard tiles, and very cold. They were handling me roughly, several blue people, and one brown and one pink person. I was down on the ground, and there was a lot of yelling and chaos. I hated it when things got crazy like this.
"They're trying to kill you," it said. "Fight back! Escape!" I felt my arms being pulled backwards. My shoulders exploded in pain, and I felt tears coming to my eyes. I looked up at the pink person. I could tell it was a girl. She was standing by a blue and white cart on wheels, and she was writing something. I could see a vial and a syringe on top of the cart. I could see a little bit of her belly where it bulged out under her top, where it was pressing against the plastic of the cart. Her belly looked cute. The shot was probably for me. I hated shots, but they always gave me shots, even when I wasn't sick. I didn't want them to kill me, and I didn't want them to give me shots, but every time I moved, it hurt my shoulders. I couldn't get up, no matter how hard I tried. I kept trying to tell them about Frankenstein, and the marsupials, and the kings and the queens. Everything I said, they just told me to shut up, though.
"They'll never let you go," it said. It hurt, having them leaning on me. I couldn't get up, and every time I squirmed to try and move, they pushed down harder, which made it hurt more. I could feel the cold of the floor coming through my skin. It felt like I was going to freeze, so I kept moving my arms and legs. But every time I did that, someone would grab them or sit on them so I couldn't. I tried to say I didn't want to hurt them so they would leave me alone, but my mouth just kept saying "waffles". I really like waffles.
"It's going to be too late," it said. It was yelling at me. I hated when it yelled. Before, when I was in the bank, with all the pillars and all those people yelling, it said the same thing. It said I had to get my money out before it was too late. And now that they took me out of there and into the hospital, with all the lights and people running and beeping sounds, I knew I wasn't going to be able to do it. The government owes me money for my inventions, and I was sure it was going to be there today. But the pretty girl with the green earrings said it wasn't, and it made me mad. They had to bring first one man, then another, and then the police came and took me to the hospital. Nobody would listen to me, no matter how loud I yelled. When I came in the hospital, I tried to explain again, but nobody would listen, and then a bunch of other people came in when I got mad. I only threw one thing, though. Everybody got really mad, even though I only threw one thing.
The girl in pink came closer, and the person holding my arm let go for a second. I thought about punching someone, and maybe I could get free that way, but I looked at the pink girl's face. She had her hair pulled back from her face, so I could see the bones of her face. It was strange, almost like I was looking right at her skull. She was down on the floor, crouching like a catcher does in a baseball game. I wondered if she played softball in high school. I remembered when I used to watch the girls play softball when I was in high school, how their uniforms all looked the same, even though all the girls looked really different. I thought about the girl in the pink, and I remembered something a doctor told me once in a hospital room. He told me to try to remember that everybody I talk to has people who love them and people who will miss them if they are gone. I wondered if the pink girl had a little boy. Maybe she had a 4 year old little boy who called her Mommy and cried when she went away to work at the hospital this morning. I didn't want to punch her because it might make that boy sad. I was looking at the pink girl's eyes when I felt a pinch in my arm. I wanted to tell her about the money that the government was going to give me for all the work I did, but I just looked at her eyes, and I didn't want to say anything.
It really hurt, but then it stopped when she took it out, and it didn't hurt anymore. It tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear it so loud anymore. I felt rubbery all of a sudden, like I couldn't stand up any more, and then I felt very sleepy, and I closed my eyes for just a second.
100 Word Song: "Always On Call"
The immortal and slightly henpecked Lance, whose blog can beat up your blog, as well as your Pinterest and Facebook pages, continues with the mad dash which is the 100 Word Song Challenge. This week's inspiration was selected by yours truly, the Black Crowes' "Hotel Illness".
The room was dark, silent and still. It had the smell of accumulated sweat and funk that you get used to when you live with another human being, whatever their age or gender.
"You OK?," I said into the dark. She had cried out suddenly, sharply, bringing me to full alertness in that panicked way parents and submariners understand.
"Yeah....migraine...," she said weakly.
"Anything I can do?"
"No," she said. "Well, yes. Sit with me. I hate feeling alone."
I went into her room and sat there, saying nothing, until her breathing finally slackened into the quiet of sleep.
The room was dark, silent and still. It had the smell of accumulated sweat and funk that you get used to when you live with another human being, whatever their age or gender.
"You OK?," I said into the dark. She had cried out suddenly, sharply, bringing me to full alertness in that panicked way parents and submariners understand.
"Yeah....migraine...," she said weakly.
"Anything I can do?"
"No," she said. "Well, yes. Sit with me. I hate feeling alone."
I went into her room and sat there, saying nothing, until her breathing finally slackened into the quiet of sleep.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Part Seven Of The Thing We Continue Not Naming
[Author's Note: We simply must stop meeting like this. The Thing That Has Become A Thing is continuing to be A Thing. Please read Maid Marian's marvelous addition to the saga here, which we are calling Part 6, partially because it's the sixth part, and partially because we haven't thought of a better name. This is Part 7. Your move, Runaway Sentence! (For a link to parts 1-4, please look here on the entry for Part 5.) (As always, the standard disclaimer applies: NSFW, Your Mileage May Vary, Some Settling May Occur, Manufactured in a Facility Where Peanuts Are Present, Past Performance Is No Guarantee of Future Results, Costume Does Not Enable Wearer to Fly)]
I had settled into my morning routine. I answered some routine emails, took care of other minor business, then spread out some paper on my drawing table, removing a mug full of drawing pens to sit beside me. I really only needed a dozen or so, but I bought them compulsively, seeking out new ones on exotic Japanese pen sites, filling up mug after mug, the excess spilling into my duffel bag. I needed 5 concepts to take to a meeting this afternoon, and while I had 4 drawn up, I really wanted to have a fifth. I was still shaken by the strong emotion Aimee had left in her wake, so I sat quietly, allowing my mind to drift, waiting for the muse to take me.
I certainly had felt stirrings before. While I had never been unfaithful, like anyone, I daydreamed. Surrounded by women who are smart and smell nice and look pretty all day long, who wouldn't? I didn't consider it infidelity, but I certainly didn't make a point to bring it up at home. We had more than enough items to fight about without dragging in new ones. It was just harmless null activity, like a screensaver on a computer monitor, something that your brain does between other things. While the feelings Aimee evoked were startlingly strong and explicit, I didn't act on them, and she didn't suggest that I do so.
I was doodling a stylized version of the Major League Baseball logo, a silhouette of Harmon Killebrew lacing a double into the gap, thinking about my different lunch options, when my door opened. It was general practice to knock, our offices being home to some temperamental artists, so it startled me. I dropped my pen and pushed my chair back. The pen fell to the floor.
Aimee was standing there, a cardboard box of copy paper in her hands. The box was full of what must be the contents of her desk. I could see the top of a bonsai tree, and the back of what was probably the framed picture of her sister's kids. Aimee wasn't the crying type- some women were, and she adamantly wasn't- so to hear her voice crack was heartbreaking.
"I'm-I'm-I'm sorry, Michael, I...I just....he didn't take it well." Her face was already reddening, the makeup around her eyes starting to blur.
"He wants me out. Now. Today."
"He doesn't want you to help with Griffiths? That was your baby!"
"Nope," she said. She sniffed once. "I just wanted to say goodbye. Again. I've learned so much from you. I really appreciate everything you've done for me...God. I've got to get out of here before I lose it completely."
I was stunned. Dave, the mercurial bald mystic that built our firm into a leader in the Pacific Northwest, was the prototypical founder. If you were pleasing him, you could do no wrong. But if something didn't go well on your watch, there were few people you less wanted to see. He took every business decision personally- if the firm placed first and second in a competition, he wanted to know why we didn't get third place too. We put up with his rages because he paid well, and because he didn't stand over your shoulder as you worked. To throw someone right into the street when they resigned was cruel, even for him.
Aimee was backing away. I jumped to my feet.
"Aim," I said quickly. "Let me buy you lunch. Something."
"Oh no," she said, her lip quivering. "I couldn't."
"No, let me," I said. "Let's go to the shiny diner and talk about it." A local eatery with cheap, decent fare, the shiny diner was so named because the new owners decided to cover the outside of the building with silver siding that made it look like a spaceship.
"I'm a mess, Michael. I can't."
"Aim, please. You clean up pretty good."
She looked down. "Thanks." I could hear her breathing, labored and short.
"Please?"
"OK. Fine. You win. I'll meet you there."
She went into the bathroom, and I locked up my supplies and left. I went in as the lunch rush was beginning, securing a table that overlooked the parking lot and a grove of trees on the other side of the highway. After ordering drinks (I worked with Aimee enough to know she would want a Diet Coke), she finally came in. She had washed her makeup off, but enough residual redness remained to give her a sort of glow. Traces of water lingered in the hair around her face.
"Sorry. I started to clean up, then I lost it again. I had to wash all over again. I left a mass of paper towels behind."
"Serves him right," I said.
She smiled.
"I appreciate this, Michael. I just feel so...so ashamed. He made me feel so small!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. He's a small man. He's very driven, and he feels like if you're not on his team, you're on the opposing team. He takes resignations personally. He shouldn't. But he does. He's a child. It's what makes him great, but it also makes him petty."
"Yeah," she said softly. The waitress, a wide hipped blonde with black roots, took their orders, and then they were alone again.
"I wonder why he can't just be happy for me?"
"It's not in his DNA," I said. "That software was not installed on his machine. This is a good opportunity for you. You need to do things like this now, before you get tied down."
"I kind of wish I was tied down," she said.
"Oh, no you don't," I said chuckling. "It's no fun. Trust me."
"I know," she said. "I don't really mean that. But I have always envied you. You have permanence. You know who you are."
"Ha," I said. "I have no idea who I am. Never have."
She looked down and blushed a little bit more. "You know what I mean. You're Dad. You're a husband. You're a son. You're a brother. You have a network. People who are linked to you, forever and ever, no matter what. I feel rootless. The only connection I have is to an ex husband, and I don't even want that."
"I see what you mean," I said. "But you have freedom."
"I know I do. Believe me, when I see some mother trying to maneuver a stroller in Starbucks, I thank God that I do. But sometimes it feels like a curse, being free. I want to matter. I want people to notice when I'm gone."
"I notice. I have noticed. I will notice."
"I know, Michael. You're sweet."
The food came, and we busied ourselves with cutting, arranging, and pouring ketchup.
"Do you remember the Christmas party? The one at the Hilton?" It was two Christmases ago, when a particularly fertile final quarter put Dave into a munificent mood. We hadn't had one since.
"Sure. You wore that short sparkly green dress, but you got sick and had to leave early."
"I'm flattered you remembered," she said, chewing on a bite of salad. "But I wasn't really sick. I spent the whole first hour just staring at you and your wife. If I was sick, it was envy. I've never wanted to be someone else so much in my life. I watched you two, how you would be talking to someone else, but your eyes...your eyes would just flick back to her. Just for a fraction of a second, but you tracked her, probably without knowing it, the whole time. And she tracked you. It's that kind of connection I'm talking about. It's atomic. It's primeval. I went home because I couldn't stand the fact that I don't have that connection with anyone, and I never will."
"I don't think that's-"
"Don't, Michael. Don't. I know what you're going to say. I have read it in a thousand magazine articles, and I've seen it on a hundred TV shows, and I've read it in a thousand books. 'You'll find someone! Don't worry! Just be yourself!' I've heard it before, so don't say it," she said, her voice edging up the register now.
"Okay," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
"Michael, I'm going to be honest with you. If you were single, we would be at my apartment right now."
I really didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, I managed to muster, "What makes you think I'd say yes?"
Her eyes twinkled, a long absent sign of merriment. "Michael," she said with disapproval. "I'm not 16 anymore. I know the signs. I'm not stupid." She was right, that was the damnable thing.
"I've been thinking about this for a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm right. Almost positive. They say everybody has one person, a perfect match, a yin to your yang. I thought my first husband was mine. Obviously, I was wrong. Now, after knowing you for 5 years or so now, I'm positive. You were mine. You were the one who I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. And she's got you, and I'm never going to have you. And I'm not OK with that, but I can live with it. And I have to, because I'm not going to be anyone's other woman."
She took another big bite, chewed and swallowed. I was staring at her, trying to get a handle on what she was saying. I was afraid to speak.
"Look, like I said, I'm not 16. I'm a grown person. I've read the books and the magazines. I know where my G spot is. I've been making myself orgasm since I was 12. So it's not that. There were days I wanted to throw you down on your desk, sure, and there were other days where I wanted to take the first guy to approach me at McGee's home. But I can take care of those needs myself. It's the kind of connection you have with your wife, that mystical something, that invisible force- that's what I was supposed to have with you. But she got you first. So I have to let it go."
She took a deep swallow of Diet Coke, then pulled her purse into her lap. Her salad was half eaten. She took out a ten and laid it on the counter, halfway between us.
"Thank you, Michael. Thank you for inviting me to lunch, and giving me a chance to say this. I had to get this out of my head. I feel a little better now."
She slid down the vinyl of the booth. She stood up, brushing a few crumbs off of her thighs. I looked up at her, my lunch still half eaten in front of me.
"This is it, Michael. Goodbye. I'll miss you. I'll miss you more than you can possibly know."
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked at me.
"By the way? There is no job in Philadelphia. I made it all up."
I watched her walk, her hips twitching invitingly, between the tables and out the front door.
I had settled into my morning routine. I answered some routine emails, took care of other minor business, then spread out some paper on my drawing table, removing a mug full of drawing pens to sit beside me. I really only needed a dozen or so, but I bought them compulsively, seeking out new ones on exotic Japanese pen sites, filling up mug after mug, the excess spilling into my duffel bag. I needed 5 concepts to take to a meeting this afternoon, and while I had 4 drawn up, I really wanted to have a fifth. I was still shaken by the strong emotion Aimee had left in her wake, so I sat quietly, allowing my mind to drift, waiting for the muse to take me.
I certainly had felt stirrings before. While I had never been unfaithful, like anyone, I daydreamed. Surrounded by women who are smart and smell nice and look pretty all day long, who wouldn't? I didn't consider it infidelity, but I certainly didn't make a point to bring it up at home. We had more than enough items to fight about without dragging in new ones. It was just harmless null activity, like a screensaver on a computer monitor, something that your brain does between other things. While the feelings Aimee evoked were startlingly strong and explicit, I didn't act on them, and she didn't suggest that I do so.
I was doodling a stylized version of the Major League Baseball logo, a silhouette of Harmon Killebrew lacing a double into the gap, thinking about my different lunch options, when my door opened. It was general practice to knock, our offices being home to some temperamental artists, so it startled me. I dropped my pen and pushed my chair back. The pen fell to the floor.
Aimee was standing there, a cardboard box of copy paper in her hands. The box was full of what must be the contents of her desk. I could see the top of a bonsai tree, and the back of what was probably the framed picture of her sister's kids. Aimee wasn't the crying type- some women were, and she adamantly wasn't- so to hear her voice crack was heartbreaking.
"I'm-I'm-I'm sorry, Michael, I...I just....he didn't take it well." Her face was already reddening, the makeup around her eyes starting to blur.
"He wants me out. Now. Today."
"He doesn't want you to help with Griffiths? That was your baby!"
"Nope," she said. She sniffed once. "I just wanted to say goodbye. Again. I've learned so much from you. I really appreciate everything you've done for me...God. I've got to get out of here before I lose it completely."
I was stunned. Dave, the mercurial bald mystic that built our firm into a leader in the Pacific Northwest, was the prototypical founder. If you were pleasing him, you could do no wrong. But if something didn't go well on your watch, there were few people you less wanted to see. He took every business decision personally- if the firm placed first and second in a competition, he wanted to know why we didn't get third place too. We put up with his rages because he paid well, and because he didn't stand over your shoulder as you worked. To throw someone right into the street when they resigned was cruel, even for him.
Aimee was backing away. I jumped to my feet.
"Aim," I said quickly. "Let me buy you lunch. Something."
"Oh no," she said, her lip quivering. "I couldn't."
"No, let me," I said. "Let's go to the shiny diner and talk about it." A local eatery with cheap, decent fare, the shiny diner was so named because the new owners decided to cover the outside of the building with silver siding that made it look like a spaceship.
"I'm a mess, Michael. I can't."
"Aim, please. You clean up pretty good."
She looked down. "Thanks." I could hear her breathing, labored and short.
"Please?"
"OK. Fine. You win. I'll meet you there."
She went into the bathroom, and I locked up my supplies and left. I went in as the lunch rush was beginning, securing a table that overlooked the parking lot and a grove of trees on the other side of the highway. After ordering drinks (I worked with Aimee enough to know she would want a Diet Coke), she finally came in. She had washed her makeup off, but enough residual redness remained to give her a sort of glow. Traces of water lingered in the hair around her face.
"Sorry. I started to clean up, then I lost it again. I had to wash all over again. I left a mass of paper towels behind."
"Serves him right," I said.
She smiled.
"I appreciate this, Michael. I just feel so...so ashamed. He made me feel so small!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. He's a small man. He's very driven, and he feels like if you're not on his team, you're on the opposing team. He takes resignations personally. He shouldn't. But he does. He's a child. It's what makes him great, but it also makes him petty."
"Yeah," she said softly. The waitress, a wide hipped blonde with black roots, took their orders, and then they were alone again.
"I wonder why he can't just be happy for me?"
"It's not in his DNA," I said. "That software was not installed on his machine. This is a good opportunity for you. You need to do things like this now, before you get tied down."
"I kind of wish I was tied down," she said.
"Oh, no you don't," I said chuckling. "It's no fun. Trust me."
"I know," she said. "I don't really mean that. But I have always envied you. You have permanence. You know who you are."
"Ha," I said. "I have no idea who I am. Never have."
She looked down and blushed a little bit more. "You know what I mean. You're Dad. You're a husband. You're a son. You're a brother. You have a network. People who are linked to you, forever and ever, no matter what. I feel rootless. The only connection I have is to an ex husband, and I don't even want that."
"I see what you mean," I said. "But you have freedom."
"I know I do. Believe me, when I see some mother trying to maneuver a stroller in Starbucks, I thank God that I do. But sometimes it feels like a curse, being free. I want to matter. I want people to notice when I'm gone."
"I notice. I have noticed. I will notice."
"I know, Michael. You're sweet."
The food came, and we busied ourselves with cutting, arranging, and pouring ketchup.
"Do you remember the Christmas party? The one at the Hilton?" It was two Christmases ago, when a particularly fertile final quarter put Dave into a munificent mood. We hadn't had one since.
"Sure. You wore that short sparkly green dress, but you got sick and had to leave early."
"I'm flattered you remembered," she said, chewing on a bite of salad. "But I wasn't really sick. I spent the whole first hour just staring at you and your wife. If I was sick, it was envy. I've never wanted to be someone else so much in my life. I watched you two, how you would be talking to someone else, but your eyes...your eyes would just flick back to her. Just for a fraction of a second, but you tracked her, probably without knowing it, the whole time. And she tracked you. It's that kind of connection I'm talking about. It's atomic. It's primeval. I went home because I couldn't stand the fact that I don't have that connection with anyone, and I never will."
"I don't think that's-"
"Don't, Michael. Don't. I know what you're going to say. I have read it in a thousand magazine articles, and I've seen it on a hundred TV shows, and I've read it in a thousand books. 'You'll find someone! Don't worry! Just be yourself!' I've heard it before, so don't say it," she said, her voice edging up the register now.
"Okay," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
"Michael, I'm going to be honest with you. If you were single, we would be at my apartment right now."
I really didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, I managed to muster, "What makes you think I'd say yes?"
Her eyes twinkled, a long absent sign of merriment. "Michael," she said with disapproval. "I'm not 16 anymore. I know the signs. I'm not stupid." She was right, that was the damnable thing.
"I've been thinking about this for a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm right. Almost positive. They say everybody has one person, a perfect match, a yin to your yang. I thought my first husband was mine. Obviously, I was wrong. Now, after knowing you for 5 years or so now, I'm positive. You were mine. You were the one who I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. And she's got you, and I'm never going to have you. And I'm not OK with that, but I can live with it. And I have to, because I'm not going to be anyone's other woman."
She took another big bite, chewed and swallowed. I was staring at her, trying to get a handle on what she was saying. I was afraid to speak.
"Look, like I said, I'm not 16. I'm a grown person. I've read the books and the magazines. I know where my G spot is. I've been making myself orgasm since I was 12. So it's not that. There were days I wanted to throw you down on your desk, sure, and there were other days where I wanted to take the first guy to approach me at McGee's home. But I can take care of those needs myself. It's the kind of connection you have with your wife, that mystical something, that invisible force- that's what I was supposed to have with you. But she got you first. So I have to let it go."
She took a deep swallow of Diet Coke, then pulled her purse into her lap. Her salad was half eaten. She took out a ten and laid it on the counter, halfway between us.
"Thank you, Michael. Thank you for inviting me to lunch, and giving me a chance to say this. I had to get this out of my head. I feel a little better now."
She slid down the vinyl of the booth. She stood up, brushing a few crumbs off of her thighs. I looked up at her, my lunch still half eaten in front of me.
"This is it, Michael. Goodbye. I'll miss you. I'll miss you more than you can possibly know."
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked at me.
"By the way? There is no job in Philadelphia. I made it all up."
I watched her walk, her hips twitching invitingly, between the tables and out the front door.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Self Promotion Gazette, Tuesdays With Me Edition
Right off the top, Mr. Matt Potter from A Land Down Under has seen fit to publish a story of mine in his Valhalla of Flash Fictional Excellence, the one and only Pure Slush. The story is called "Orangina and Yogurt", and it can be found here.
Second of all, my main man Lance, who is not only dope on the floor, but magic on the mic as well, has chosen my 100 word story as this week's winner of the 100 Word Song Jamboree. You can read it again (and why wouldn't you) here, and feel to jump in with your own entry with this week's song, "Hotel Illness".
Second of all, my main man Lance, who is not only dope on the floor, but magic on the mic as well, has chosen my 100 word story as this week's winner of the 100 Word Song Jamboree. You can read it again (and why wouldn't you) here, and feel to jump in with your own entry with this week's song, "Hotel Illness".
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "What I Am Is What I Am"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Dim Dom challenged me with "You are walking out the door to go to work and your car keys are not where you usually put them." and I challenged Carrie with " 'I yearn for honesty in life. As an artist, I yearn for the clear moment.' -Jack Nicholson"
[Author's Note: This is a little weird, and a bit of a departure for me. Either this is excellent, or I missed completely. I can't tell. Comments welcome, whichever side of the fence you fall on.]
The day started like it always did, suddenly emerging from the fog of a nightmare. We had been watching one of those History Channel shows about ancient wars, which wound up filling my dreams with clanging swords, grunting, sweating effort, and blood and gore on the tan sand. I gained consciousness, swimming to the surface, checking my surroundings. Reality came swimming back suddenly- it was Friday, I was at home, and my alarm was nagging at me from across the room. Morning, I thought, then got up to turn off the blaring, angry tone.
I placed it across the room for precisely that reason- by the time I walked over there to shut it off, I would be fully awake. The distance seemed longer than it should be, almost like someone had rearranged our bedroom in the night. The floor felt cold under my feet, which was odd, and cold air was rushing up my legs, which was also strange. Clearly, I had managed to remove both my pants and socks during the night. I made my way to the bureau, finally slapping my alarm to silence it.
I realized the jacket I had brought home from the cleaners last night was still hanging in the back seat of my car. If I was going to wear it today, as I had planned, I needed to get pants on and go get it. I started fumbling with the objects on the dresser, knowing I had left my keys there. I kept the light out in deference to my sleeping companion. I knew the keys were there- I always left them there. It was my evening routine.
"What are you looking for," a voice said sleepily. I was surprised at how deep it sounded.
"My keys," I said. My voice sounded strange, too high. I cleared my throat. "I left them here. I always leave them here."
I gave up on the keys momentarily and crouched down, feeling around for the sweatpants.
"Your keys are in your purse. Besides, what are you doing up? I'm taking the kids to school before work, remember? This is your day to sleep in!" The voice was still too low, I thought. Why did we both sound so odd? My purse? What?
I found the familiar feel of the cotton pants, pulling them close. I stood to begin to work them up over my bare legs. They were enormous and billowy, far too large. I felt the fabric slide downwards over my waist. I grabbed it, trying to find some purchase on my body that would hold them up.
"What do you mean?," I said, still sounding too high, no matter how much I tried to clear my throat.
"What do you mean, what do I mean?," the voice said in the dark, strong and firm. "I'm going to get an early shower and get the kids to school while you sleep in. Like we discussed. Come to bed."
My head spun for a moment. I remembered that conversation. I had agreed to get up a little earlier and do the school run, giving up on the luxury of being the last one to leave, the one who can linger over SportsCenter, the morning paper, and a second cup of coffee. It was a fair trade, I thought. So why was I now the one staying home? What was going on here? I tried to pull the sweatpants up, waiting until I felt that I had pulled them taut. They swam on my body, as if they had grown 10 sizes overnight. Had I discovered the secret to quick, painless weight loss? I tried to tuck my shirt into the sweatpants to hold them up.
Suddenly, I was fully awake. My hands found buttery smooth skin, with taut, eager quads, where my misshapen thighs should be. I slid my hands all over- up, down, sideways- finding only smooth skin. Not perfectly smooth, but smoother than mine, with virtually no hair. Had my body hair fallen off overnight? I felt different, unreal. I had to be dreaming. My hands ran up my belly, across my rib cage, finding the shocking weight and warmth of a woman's breasts.
My wife's breasts. I recognized the feel, although I had never felt them from this angle. If this was a dream, it was a particularly vivid one.
I silently recited my name, my social security number, my ATM password. I knew who I was. I was born in Boston. I recited the starting lineup of the 1986 Red Sox: Boggs, Barrett, and Buckner, Rice, Evans, and Baylor, Henderson, Gedman, and Owen. I remembered the first girl I ever kissed, who I lost my virginity to, who played bass on "Big Man On Mulberry Street". I remembered driving the boss' Audi on deliveries, playing "New York State of Mind" over and over again, blasting it through the sun roof. I remembered the first concert I went to, and the first person I ever saw pass out from drinking too much. I remembered my child being born, my brother's names and dates of birth, my college graduation. I rested my hands on my suddenly ample hips. I must have looked like I was molesting myself. I felt myself breathe, felt intestinal gurgles and shifted my weight from side to side. This was definitely not my body, but this was absolutely my mind.
"Come to bed," the voice said. I suddenly realized why it didn't sound right- I was listening to my voice from outside, instead of in the echo chamber of my own head. I allowed my hands to slide forward, then inexorably below my belly button. That was definitely new. I knew my own thoughts, knew my own history, but I was inside my wife's body.
I wonder who is inside my body? Is that also me? He seems to have my memories, too. So where is my wife? What is going on?
And where the hell are those keys?
[Author's Note: This is a little weird, and a bit of a departure for me. Either this is excellent, or I missed completely. I can't tell. Comments welcome, whichever side of the fence you fall on.]
The day started like it always did, suddenly emerging from the fog of a nightmare. We had been watching one of those History Channel shows about ancient wars, which wound up filling my dreams with clanging swords, grunting, sweating effort, and blood and gore on the tan sand. I gained consciousness, swimming to the surface, checking my surroundings. Reality came swimming back suddenly- it was Friday, I was at home, and my alarm was nagging at me from across the room. Morning, I thought, then got up to turn off the blaring, angry tone.
I placed it across the room for precisely that reason- by the time I walked over there to shut it off, I would be fully awake. The distance seemed longer than it should be, almost like someone had rearranged our bedroom in the night. The floor felt cold under my feet, which was odd, and cold air was rushing up my legs, which was also strange. Clearly, I had managed to remove both my pants and socks during the night. I made my way to the bureau, finally slapping my alarm to silence it.
I realized the jacket I had brought home from the cleaners last night was still hanging in the back seat of my car. If I was going to wear it today, as I had planned, I needed to get pants on and go get it. I started fumbling with the objects on the dresser, knowing I had left my keys there. I kept the light out in deference to my sleeping companion. I knew the keys were there- I always left them there. It was my evening routine.
"What are you looking for," a voice said sleepily. I was surprised at how deep it sounded.
"My keys," I said. My voice sounded strange, too high. I cleared my throat. "I left them here. I always leave them here."
I gave up on the keys momentarily and crouched down, feeling around for the sweatpants.
"Your keys are in your purse. Besides, what are you doing up? I'm taking the kids to school before work, remember? This is your day to sleep in!" The voice was still too low, I thought. Why did we both sound so odd? My purse? What?
I found the familiar feel of the cotton pants, pulling them close. I stood to begin to work them up over my bare legs. They were enormous and billowy, far too large. I felt the fabric slide downwards over my waist. I grabbed it, trying to find some purchase on my body that would hold them up.
"What do you mean?," I said, still sounding too high, no matter how much I tried to clear my throat.
"What do you mean, what do I mean?," the voice said in the dark, strong and firm. "I'm going to get an early shower and get the kids to school while you sleep in. Like we discussed. Come to bed."
My head spun for a moment. I remembered that conversation. I had agreed to get up a little earlier and do the school run, giving up on the luxury of being the last one to leave, the one who can linger over SportsCenter, the morning paper, and a second cup of coffee. It was a fair trade, I thought. So why was I now the one staying home? What was going on here? I tried to pull the sweatpants up, waiting until I felt that I had pulled them taut. They swam on my body, as if they had grown 10 sizes overnight. Had I discovered the secret to quick, painless weight loss? I tried to tuck my shirt into the sweatpants to hold them up.
Suddenly, I was fully awake. My hands found buttery smooth skin, with taut, eager quads, where my misshapen thighs should be. I slid my hands all over- up, down, sideways- finding only smooth skin. Not perfectly smooth, but smoother than mine, with virtually no hair. Had my body hair fallen off overnight? I felt different, unreal. I had to be dreaming. My hands ran up my belly, across my rib cage, finding the shocking weight and warmth of a woman's breasts.
My wife's breasts. I recognized the feel, although I had never felt them from this angle. If this was a dream, it was a particularly vivid one.
I silently recited my name, my social security number, my ATM password. I knew who I was. I was born in Boston. I recited the starting lineup of the 1986 Red Sox: Boggs, Barrett, and Buckner, Rice, Evans, and Baylor, Henderson, Gedman, and Owen. I remembered the first girl I ever kissed, who I lost my virginity to, who played bass on "Big Man On Mulberry Street". I remembered driving the boss' Audi on deliveries, playing "New York State of Mind" over and over again, blasting it through the sun roof. I remembered the first concert I went to, and the first person I ever saw pass out from drinking too much. I remembered my child being born, my brother's names and dates of birth, my college graduation. I rested my hands on my suddenly ample hips. I must have looked like I was molesting myself. I felt myself breathe, felt intestinal gurgles and shifted my weight from side to side. This was definitely not my body, but this was absolutely my mind.
"Come to bed," the voice said. I suddenly realized why it didn't sound right- I was listening to my voice from outside, instead of in the echo chamber of my own head. I allowed my hands to slide forward, then inexorably below my belly button. That was definitely new. I knew my own thoughts, knew my own history, but I was inside my wife's body.
I wonder who is inside my body? Is that also me? He seems to have my memories, too. So where is my wife? What is going on?
And where the hell are those keys?
Monday, February 13, 2012
100 Word Song: "I'm Leaving"
Funk Soul Brother Number One Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, continues the new tradition of 100 Word Challenges centered around a song, this week Bob Mould's "See A Little Light". My story is called "I'm Leaving."
Abby for the first time understood what it felt like to want to kill someone. "30 years, Roger?," she said, her voice low, acidic, and eerily calm. She was far beyond tears at this point.
"You spend 30 years with me, you have kids with me, you spend your whole adult life in this house with me, and now you tell me you were miserable the whole time? If you wanted to leave so bad, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you, Abs," he said softly, putting on his jacket. "You just weren't listening."
Abby for the first time understood what it felt like to want to kill someone. "30 years, Roger?," she said, her voice low, acidic, and eerily calm. She was far beyond tears at this point.
"You spend 30 years with me, you have kids with me, you spend your whole adult life in this house with me, and now you tell me you were miserable the whole time? If you wanted to leave so bad, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you, Abs," he said softly, putting on his jacket. "You just weren't listening."
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
"What Happened": Indie Ink Writing Challenge
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Nimue challenged me with "A (pick a color) bottle and a (pick another color) glass together changed the night for her; something even his smile could not" and I challenged Tara Roberts with " 'Blind faith, in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed.' -Bruce Springsteen"
The bottle was brown. It was a gentle brown, but still so opaque that it almost looked like the side of an adobe house. The bottle had a picture of a tree on it, with a bear looking out from behind the tree. The pictures were almost impressionistic, drawn with very few lines, so it could be something else. But it was probably a bear and a tree. The bear might mean the wine was from California- she thought she remembered Sophie having to memorize the 50 state flags, and California's had a bear on it. But she could be wrong. A lot of things she thought were true turned out not to be.
The glass was clear, but it had lipstick smudges and other stains on the sides. One smear looked like it was from spinach dip that had gotten onto her finger and was transferred onto the glass. The glass was dirty, but she made it a point of pride not to get a clean one. Those stains were her stains. There was a bit of red wine, no more than a sip, at the bottom of the glass. When she looked at it, she had a panicky feeling. She wanted to reach and pour more into the glass until it was almost full, but she wasn't sure she had the dexterity to do it. So she stared at the mostly empty glass and the half full bottle and thought about how nice it would be if someone refilled her glass for her.
She always felt tighter when she was drunk, like her insides were swelling up, about to burst through her skin. It was a frantic, nervous feeling, a restlessness that made her talk faster, move faster, do more. The only thing that soothed her was more wine, and that only worked for a while. She remembered everything, including showing Thomas' best friend Paul up to the kids' bathroom upstairs when the lower level one was occupied. She remembered what happened, the way he washed his hands and emerged to find her still standing there, the way he stood very close to her for the moment right before it happened, but she was unclear as to why it started, or exactly when, or how long it took. She remembered that it happened, though. She wanted it to happen, and then it happened, and then it was over. She wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what happened.
Then Thomas was getting up, starting to stack individual plates and cups into larger groups. She supposed she should help, although Thomas probably wouldn't say anything if she didn't. She gathered her feet together, pressing down hard on the toes of her shoes. They felt more stable than she thought. She felt weak, and sore, but able to stand. She pushed her chair back from the table, then slowly rose to her feet, wobbly in her high heels, but upright. She tugged at her dress, pulling it down where it had ridden up until it fell loose. She moved very deliberately, as if she was defusing a bomb, stacking empty cups together to move them into the trash, making decisions what leftovers would keep and which ones were ticketed for the trash. It reminded her of her first days at home after having Sophie, always doing everything very slowly and carefully because you never knew what motion would cause pain.
Thomas came into the room, lugging a green trash bag. She added a pile of dirty paper plates to the sodden mess he had collected. He smiled at her slowly, like he knew something she didn't know.
"That was fun, huh?"
"Yeah," she said, eyeing the swallow of wine still in her glass. Would it be too much to reach over and gulp it down?
Her head spun a little bit, and she stood still until it passed, then gently tipped a bowl full of potato chips back into the bag they came from. Why was he still smiling? She moved around the table, stacking, gathering, cleaning. She took very small steps. She wanted to take her shoes off, but she was pretty sure she wasn't coordinated enough to undo the buckles. Her insides shifted uncomfortably.
"We should do that again," he said.
"Not anytime soon," she said softly. She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"You OK?," he said, scooping the potato salad into the trash bag, where it fell with a wet, thick sound.
"Yeah," she said. "You know I get weepy when I drink," she added.
"Yes," he said. "Let's clean this up and go to bed. Kids'll be up soon." He smiled at her again. He looked proud.
"Yeah, let's do that," she said.
The bottle was brown. It was a gentle brown, but still so opaque that it almost looked like the side of an adobe house. The bottle had a picture of a tree on it, with a bear looking out from behind the tree. The pictures were almost impressionistic, drawn with very few lines, so it could be something else. But it was probably a bear and a tree. The bear might mean the wine was from California- she thought she remembered Sophie having to memorize the 50 state flags, and California's had a bear on it. But she could be wrong. A lot of things she thought were true turned out not to be.
The glass was clear, but it had lipstick smudges and other stains on the sides. One smear looked like it was from spinach dip that had gotten onto her finger and was transferred onto the glass. The glass was dirty, but she made it a point of pride not to get a clean one. Those stains were her stains. There was a bit of red wine, no more than a sip, at the bottom of the glass. When she looked at it, she had a panicky feeling. She wanted to reach and pour more into the glass until it was almost full, but she wasn't sure she had the dexterity to do it. So she stared at the mostly empty glass and the half full bottle and thought about how nice it would be if someone refilled her glass for her.
She always felt tighter when she was drunk, like her insides were swelling up, about to burst through her skin. It was a frantic, nervous feeling, a restlessness that made her talk faster, move faster, do more. The only thing that soothed her was more wine, and that only worked for a while. She remembered everything, including showing Thomas' best friend Paul up to the kids' bathroom upstairs when the lower level one was occupied. She remembered what happened, the way he washed his hands and emerged to find her still standing there, the way he stood very close to her for the moment right before it happened, but she was unclear as to why it started, or exactly when, or how long it took. She remembered that it happened, though. She wanted it to happen, and then it happened, and then it was over. She wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what happened.
Then Thomas was getting up, starting to stack individual plates and cups into larger groups. She supposed she should help, although Thomas probably wouldn't say anything if she didn't. She gathered her feet together, pressing down hard on the toes of her shoes. They felt more stable than she thought. She felt weak, and sore, but able to stand. She pushed her chair back from the table, then slowly rose to her feet, wobbly in her high heels, but upright. She tugged at her dress, pulling it down where it had ridden up until it fell loose. She moved very deliberately, as if she was defusing a bomb, stacking empty cups together to move them into the trash, making decisions what leftovers would keep and which ones were ticketed for the trash. It reminded her of her first days at home after having Sophie, always doing everything very slowly and carefully because you never knew what motion would cause pain.
Thomas came into the room, lugging a green trash bag. She added a pile of dirty paper plates to the sodden mess he had collected. He smiled at her slowly, like he knew something she didn't know.
"That was fun, huh?"
"Yeah," she said, eyeing the swallow of wine still in her glass. Would it be too much to reach over and gulp it down?
Her head spun a little bit, and she stood still until it passed, then gently tipped a bowl full of potato chips back into the bag they came from. Why was he still smiling? She moved around the table, stacking, gathering, cleaning. She took very small steps. She wanted to take her shoes off, but she was pretty sure she wasn't coordinated enough to undo the buckles. Her insides shifted uncomfortably.
"We should do that again," he said.
"Not anytime soon," she said softly. She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"You OK?," he said, scooping the potato salad into the trash bag, where it fell with a wet, thick sound.
"Yeah," she said. "You know I get weepy when I drink," she added.
"Yes," he said. "Let's clean this up and go to bed. Kids'll be up soon." He smiled at her again. He looked proud.
"Yeah, let's do that," she said.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Part Five Of The Thing That Has No Name
[Author's Note: Apparently, this is now a thing. I started the whole kerfluffle by writing this, and then the marvelous Marian over at Runaway Sentence wrote this, so I in turn wrote this, which induced Maid Marian to write this. Whatever this thing we have started is, this is part 5 of it. I don't think you need to read the previous ones to enjoy this one. But it can't hurt. (Previous warnings still apply. All of these stories are about adults doing adult things, and some of those things may include saying bad words and/or engaging in sexual activities. If you're offended by these stories, I guarantee a full refund of all the money you've ever paid to read this blog.)]
I always hate waking up. I'm never sure where the line is between the dream world and the real one, and it takes about thirty seconds of terrified thought before I banish the phantasmagoria of dream space for the concrete reality of my bed, this space, my life. I heard two things at once, the distant hiss of my wife starting her shower, and a bang, followed by a yelp, coming from the boys downstairs. I hauled myself upright, pulling my pants on to investigate, suddenly remembering when I felt unfamiliar pains from muscles I hadn't used in a while. We had spent long hours at a charity function last night, then come home and started some stupid fight. Then we made up.
I went downstairs, feeling like I was walking through paraffin wax, and separated the boys, who were bickering over a toy lightsaber. I put the toy out of reach, then set them on more appropriate tasks, drank some coffee, served breakfast, and kissed my wife, hair wet and gloriously messy, when she came down to continue the process. My uncle always said it required less manpower, was less costly and less complicated, to occupy France than it was to raise small children, and nearly every day we proved it.
Between the two of us, we eventually got clothes on everyone, shoes on feet, and the two hellions out of the house. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror, corraling a stray hair and tucking it into the neat dancer's bun she had assembled. I noticed avidly the way her blouse gapped and tugged where it tucked into her slim black skirt. I felt a slight, distant ache, the throb of memory from last night. I loved watching her when she thought I wasn't watching.
She had thoughtfully constructed the classroom snack last night, so we both gathered our materials together and set off, her for the school and then back home to work on her consulting business. She dressed up to work at home because that made it easier to dash out to lunch meetings, and because she said it reminded her not to slack off. We parted at our cars with a final kiss, her getting into the gleaming new cherry red compact SUV, me into the older grey sedan. I felt the familiar churn when her high heels left the ground as she climbed in.
I drove to the office sedately, half listening to NPR tell me about records I will never buy and books I will probably never read. My mind was still half in the fugue of dreamland as I parked in my usual spot, taking my travel cup of coffee and my duffel bag into the studios. Our building looked like it had been left here by a more advanced species, all darkened hardwood and sharp angles with enormous windows everywhere. My office was still when I got to it, my pens capped and put away, my desk clear of scraps of paper, my office whiteboard virginal and pure.
Aimee, a brunette who wanted my boss' job without stopping at mine first, was at the door before I even set my cup down.
"Hey, Michael? Can I talk to you about something?"
"Of course," I said. She came in and shut the door behind her. She had a dark blue dress on, the kind that wraps around like a toga on top, and some kind of deep black hosiery that sucked your eye in, along with gray shoes with a modest heel. She always dressed like a model. today in cool shades of blue, black, and muted gray, all the way down to her necklace and a dangling bracelet. If she were a male, I'd refer to her as a sharp dresser.
"I wanted you to hear this first," she said. She had a great body, fleshy where my wife was toned, bawdy, funny, and very creative. We had just come off a long project, a series of ads about orange juice that had required some long nights. We had always had a light, easy relationship, bantering flirtatiously. I remembered exchanging those looks, two adults knowing they were alone. I felt a charge, and I always wondered if she did.
"I'm going back to Philadelphia," she continued. "My college friend is opening her own firm, and she wants me to come work for her." I looked at her evenly, trying to weigh her words. Her face was pinched and tight. The sunlight gleamed off of the corner of her cat's eye glasses.
"That's great! Congratulations!," I said. I started calculating what that meant. More work for me? Less? Would they hire? Does that mean I have to delay my departure? Do I really want to leave? I looked down at her shoes, elegant and restrained. She leaned back on her heels.
"Thanks," she said, looking down. "I'm going to miss you," she said. "More than most." The looked at me full on. Did this mean something? The look felt smoldering. Was I reading into it? I felt my pulse start to pound.
"I'll miss you, too," I said. What else could you say? "Have you told Dave?"
"Nope," she said. "I'm going to," she added. "Today. I wanted you to know." She shifted her weight, crossing one foot slightly in front of the other. I had never touched her, but I can't say I had never thought of it. I felt something in the room, like the silence had weight to it.
"Thank you. I'm really happy for you. I'll miss those late night work sessions though. Nobody's more fun than you," I said. I came a little closer to her, setting my coffee on my desk. I could picture my arms sliding around her waist, pinning her against the door. The thought came unbidden, but once I entertained it, it was persistent. Something about the way the fabric covered her hips, sloping at her waist. It was warm, it seemed to invite touch.
She was looking away, her gaze distant. "I have to get to Dave before he gets wrapped up in something," she said. I thought about never seeing her again. Would I regret never tasting her lips on mine, never feeling the plush softness of her pressed against me? Was she thinking along the same lines as I was? All I knew about her was she was divorced and seldom talked about it. Was she picturing the hem of her dress coming up above her smooth thighs?
"So I assume we'll do something Friday? Like a dinner?"
"I suppose," she said. "Up to Dave, I guess."
"Yes," I said. She moved her hand towards the door handle. Was this my chance? I felt myself preparing to take a step forward.
"Good luck," I said.
"Thanks," she said, and smiled brilliantly. She grasped the door handle and pulled it open, heading down the hall. I exhaled deeply. At times, I don't understand myself at all.
I always hate waking up. I'm never sure where the line is between the dream world and the real one, and it takes about thirty seconds of terrified thought before I banish the phantasmagoria of dream space for the concrete reality of my bed, this space, my life. I heard two things at once, the distant hiss of my wife starting her shower, and a bang, followed by a yelp, coming from the boys downstairs. I hauled myself upright, pulling my pants on to investigate, suddenly remembering when I felt unfamiliar pains from muscles I hadn't used in a while. We had spent long hours at a charity function last night, then come home and started some stupid fight. Then we made up.
I went downstairs, feeling like I was walking through paraffin wax, and separated the boys, who were bickering over a toy lightsaber. I put the toy out of reach, then set them on more appropriate tasks, drank some coffee, served breakfast, and kissed my wife, hair wet and gloriously messy, when she came down to continue the process. My uncle always said it required less manpower, was less costly and less complicated, to occupy France than it was to raise small children, and nearly every day we proved it.
Between the two of us, we eventually got clothes on everyone, shoes on feet, and the two hellions out of the house. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror, corraling a stray hair and tucking it into the neat dancer's bun she had assembled. I noticed avidly the way her blouse gapped and tugged where it tucked into her slim black skirt. I felt a slight, distant ache, the throb of memory from last night. I loved watching her when she thought I wasn't watching.
She had thoughtfully constructed the classroom snack last night, so we both gathered our materials together and set off, her for the school and then back home to work on her consulting business. She dressed up to work at home because that made it easier to dash out to lunch meetings, and because she said it reminded her not to slack off. We parted at our cars with a final kiss, her getting into the gleaming new cherry red compact SUV, me into the older grey sedan. I felt the familiar churn when her high heels left the ground as she climbed in.
I drove to the office sedately, half listening to NPR tell me about records I will never buy and books I will probably never read. My mind was still half in the fugue of dreamland as I parked in my usual spot, taking my travel cup of coffee and my duffel bag into the studios. Our building looked like it had been left here by a more advanced species, all darkened hardwood and sharp angles with enormous windows everywhere. My office was still when I got to it, my pens capped and put away, my desk clear of scraps of paper, my office whiteboard virginal and pure.
Aimee, a brunette who wanted my boss' job without stopping at mine first, was at the door before I even set my cup down.
"Hey, Michael? Can I talk to you about something?"
"Of course," I said. She came in and shut the door behind her. She had a dark blue dress on, the kind that wraps around like a toga on top, and some kind of deep black hosiery that sucked your eye in, along with gray shoes with a modest heel. She always dressed like a model. today in cool shades of blue, black, and muted gray, all the way down to her necklace and a dangling bracelet. If she were a male, I'd refer to her as a sharp dresser.
"I wanted you to hear this first," she said. She had a great body, fleshy where my wife was toned, bawdy, funny, and very creative. We had just come off a long project, a series of ads about orange juice that had required some long nights. We had always had a light, easy relationship, bantering flirtatiously. I remembered exchanging those looks, two adults knowing they were alone. I felt a charge, and I always wondered if she did.
"I'm going back to Philadelphia," she continued. "My college friend is opening her own firm, and she wants me to come work for her." I looked at her evenly, trying to weigh her words. Her face was pinched and tight. The sunlight gleamed off of the corner of her cat's eye glasses.
"That's great! Congratulations!," I said. I started calculating what that meant. More work for me? Less? Would they hire? Does that mean I have to delay my departure? Do I really want to leave? I looked down at her shoes, elegant and restrained. She leaned back on her heels.
"Thanks," she said, looking down. "I'm going to miss you," she said. "More than most." The looked at me full on. Did this mean something? The look felt smoldering. Was I reading into it? I felt my pulse start to pound.
"I'll miss you, too," I said. What else could you say? "Have you told Dave?"
"Nope," she said. "I'm going to," she added. "Today. I wanted you to know." She shifted her weight, crossing one foot slightly in front of the other. I had never touched her, but I can't say I had never thought of it. I felt something in the room, like the silence had weight to it.
"Thank you. I'm really happy for you. I'll miss those late night work sessions though. Nobody's more fun than you," I said. I came a little closer to her, setting my coffee on my desk. I could picture my arms sliding around her waist, pinning her against the door. The thought came unbidden, but once I entertained it, it was persistent. Something about the way the fabric covered her hips, sloping at her waist. It was warm, it seemed to invite touch.
She was looking away, her gaze distant. "I have to get to Dave before he gets wrapped up in something," she said. I thought about never seeing her again. Would I regret never tasting her lips on mine, never feeling the plush softness of her pressed against me? Was she thinking along the same lines as I was? All I knew about her was she was divorced and seldom talked about it. Was she picturing the hem of her dress coming up above her smooth thighs?
"So I assume we'll do something Friday? Like a dinner?"
"I suppose," she said. "Up to Dave, I guess."
"Yes," I said. She moved her hand towards the door handle. Was this my chance? I felt myself preparing to take a step forward.
"Good luck," I said.
"Thanks," she said, and smiled brilliantly. She grasped the door handle and pulled it open, heading down the hall. I exhaled deeply. At times, I don't understand myself at all.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
100 Word Song: "What do you want?"
My pal Lance has posted a new 100 Word Song Challenge, this week about Radiohead's "Idioteque". I call this story "What do you want?"
"What do you want for lunch?," I said.
My nephew's head was down on the table, brown hair tousled, his eyes locked on his toy. I wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was hearing dialogue from a TV show, or music, or if his mind was silent and still, like an empty whiteboard.
"Buddy? Lunch?"
He was in his own world, imagining, thinking, focused on what was in front of him. I wondered what it was like to be in the moment like that, a tiny Zen master.
"Pal? What do you want?"
"Everything," he said softly.
"What do you want for lunch?," I said.
My nephew's head was down on the table, brown hair tousled, his eyes locked on his toy. I wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was hearing dialogue from a TV show, or music, or if his mind was silent and still, like an empty whiteboard.
"Buddy? Lunch?"
He was in his own world, imagining, thinking, focused on what was in front of him. I wondered what it was like to be in the moment like that, a tiny Zen master.
"Pal? What do you want?"
"Everything," he said softly.
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