Monday, April 15, 2013
SPE: "An Eye For An Eye"
{For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: "What would you give up?" I gave Venusmoon this prompt: ' "The time it takes to get something done is the time it takes." --Mandy Patinkin'}
What would I give up? I feel like giving it all up. Once again, I am staring at a blank document, a lovely little prompt, meant for me to conjure up a work of imagination and beauty, staring me in the face, while all I can think of is far off death and destruction and blood. This time, the tragedy came from my ancestral home, Boston, where bombs exploded in the crowd at the Boston Marathon today. And again, I am stunned, numbed into silence and grief and a heartsick anger. It's easy to feel helpless. Again, there is precious little I can add. As I write these words, very little is known about what or why or who, as if there can be a possible why. I've turned off the television and turned away from social media out of raw, burning frustration, unable to make sense of the rumors and half truths and earnest pronouncements. Unable to make sense of anything, really.
I don't know why some things affect me more than others, exactly. If I can be said to hold one principle more or less sacrosanct, it is that blood should not be shed unless one is really, really sure there isn't another way out. And this is a principle that gets violated constantly, and new mourners are created all too regularly. Grief is not tangible- it can't be weighed. Aurora is not more tragic than Columbine, and Boston is not worse than Sandy Hook. "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind," John Donne urges, but that isn't really true. Sandy Hook shook me more than most because it was children. Today gives me a nasty knock because at heart I am a Bostonian- those are my streets. Those are my people.
Yet I know intellectually that Iraqis and Palestinians and Israelis and French and Belgians and Ugandans love their children, too. But as Jeff Foxworthy pointed out once, we see so many awful events all around the world that they kind of blur in the mind- we see if any Americans were killed, and then we turn the page and read Dilbert. People around the world die for horrible reasons because of drone strikes and car bombs and plane crashes and the simple, stupid grinding slaughter that American cities serve up to their lower classes in a grisly buffet.
We are a violent people, and we live in a violent world with a violent culture. I have consumed mass media right along with everyone else, and I have undoubtedly watched thousands of portrayals of murders on television, in films, and during video games. I have paid thousands of dollars in taxes, some of which has gone to buy bombs and missles and bullets and mines, some of which have no doubt blown off an arm or a leg or a finger or a head of someone who never did anything to me. In that sense, there are no innocent people any more. We're all in it, up to our eyeballs in the gore and the blood and the muck.
Nothing can excuse or explain what happened today. I don't have any answers, no one to blame, no path out of the woods. The butcher's bill grows ever longer, and the charnel house that the 21st century has become got a little bit bloodier today. But I find myself going back to the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, whose words caused a sensation during the 2008 campaign when President Obama's former preacher was said to have made "anti American comments" in his sermons. I remember hearing one passage set to music and played on Adam Curry's podcast at the time, and thinking that, while uncomfortable to hear, I couldn't dispute what the man was saying.
I don't know who did this, and I don't care. I don't know how to prevent things like this from happening, and neither do you. But I do know one thing: As Gandhi is supposed to have said, and as Martin Luther King did write, "an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind." If we respond to our grief and rage with more killing and violence, I am certain I will be writing this essay again.
"We took this country by terror away from the Sioux, the Apache, Arikara, the Comanche, the Arapaho, the Navajo. Terrorism.
"We took Africans away from their country to build our way of ease and kept them enslaved and living in fear. Terrorism.
"We bombed Grenada and killed innocent civilians, babies, non-military personnel.
"We bombed the black civilian community of Panama with stealth bombers and killed unarmed teenage and toddlers, pregnant mothers and hard working fathers.
"We bombed Qaddafi's home, and killed his child. Blessed are they who bash your children's head against the rock.
"We bombed Iraq. We killed unarmed civilians trying to make a living. We bombed a plant in Sudan to pay back for the attack on our embassy, killed hundreds of hard working people, mothers and fathers who left home to go that day not knowing that they'd never get back home.
"We bombed Hiroshima. We bombed Nagasaki, and we nuked far more than the thousands in New York and the Pentagon and we never batted an eye.
"Kids playing in the playground. Mothers picking up children after school. Civilians, not soldiers, people just trying to make it day by day.
"We have supported state terrorism against the Palestinians and black South Africans, and now we are indignant because the stuff that we have done overseas is now brought right back into our own front yards. America's chickens are coming home to roost.
"Violence begets violence. Hatred begets hatred. And terrorism begets terrorism."
-Reverend Jeremiah Wright
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
SPE: The Way It Should Be
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Mark G. gave me this prompt: "Show your devotion to me."
I gave Anna this prompt:' "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" -Krishnamurti ']
Marie Gallagher liked her routines. She got up at the same time every morning, she took care of her bathroom needs, she washed and changed, she cooked herself an egg and made toast, and then she neatened and straightened the rest of the morning. There wasn't much to straighten any more. The children were gone now, along with Frank, dear sweet Frank, who looked up at her 14 years ago and complimented her cooking, as he always did, belching as he pushed away from the table, then went into the family room and passed away silently in his recliner, his open eyes staring at "Wheel Of Fortune" while she washed dishes, oblivious, in the next room. Those nice handsome young men from the ambulance told her there was nothing she could have done, and that tiny little Indian doctor said the same thing at County General, her perfect round brown face full of sorrow, but she never believed them.
Marie prayed about it, prayed as she puttered around, cleaning and recleaning. The house didn't get dirty the way it used to, Marie both loving and hating the mess and the chaos and the glorious noise of the toddler grandchildren years ago. Of course, they grew older as time went on, the daughters silent and moody, the sons muted and out of place without Frank to balance the energy in the house. Marie prayed that her Frank had gone to his reward, that he was as decent a man to the Lord as he was to her. She prayed that she had done right by him.
Frank's death felt like it opened a trap door under her feet, suddenly responsible for a world full of things she didn't understand, a world of cable bills and municipal taxes and annuities and wills and probate court. Thank the Lord for the girls and their husbands, Lisa's dark, intense Richard and Wendy's placid, fat Steven, who came in and explained and reexplained how it all worked, where the circuit breakers were and how a cell phone worked and who plowed the driveway and who to hire at tax time. She felt the tide nipping at her ankles, but eventually, with the kids' help, she got it all down pat.
The kids didn't come by the way they used to. Which was fine- it was time for her beautiful daughters to raise their own family units, to become stars in someone else's sky. They had both chosen well, nice respectful husbands with good paying jobs who loved their kids with a depth and intensity that Marie's generation never got from their own fathers. It was time. It was the natural order of things. The grandkids had choir and art and band and football and soccer and the school play and the prom, and that was the way it should be. Marie had her routines, and that was fine by her. That was also the way it should be.
After "The Price Is Right," where that pudgy comic had replaced tall suave Bob Barker, she made herself a tuna sandwich, then ate it in front of the noon news carnival of maladjusted criminals and crooked mayors. Marie cleaned up zealously, then napped in front of the soap operas whose storylines she could never follow anymore, finally waking up with that nice Katie Couric, always talking so gently to those confused looking young starlets with the long beautiful legs who all looked alike.
Then, after the final applause died off on Katie's show, she knew to turn to channel 267, where
she knew Pastor Benny was waiting. They repeated his service at different times during the day, but this was Marie's hour to spend with him. Pastor Benny talked to her the way no one else did, not the nurses at Dr. Burns' office, not that nice round hipped girl at the pharmacy who always remembered her name, not anybody in her life. Nobody answered her concerns, listened to her fears, made her feel wanted and necessary, like Pastor Benny.
When Lisa saw the repeated entries in her checkbook one day, she asked her what "B.H.L.H" stood for, and she made up something about a church appeal for Bosnia, and that seemed to satisfy her younger daughter's curiousity. Marie didn't want anyone else to know about Pastor Benny, because Pastor Benny was hers, and she didn't want anyone interfering with her rhythms. Pastor Benny filled her heart with joy, and that was a feeling she seldom had since Frank died.
She watched intently as the service began, the organ playing, the choir in their identical purple robes making a joyful noise, and then he came out from the side of the stage, the parishioners cheering and crying out, steady clapping suddenly dissolving into a roar. Marie watched the camera focus on one woman, a large Hispanic woman with an enormous bust who was crying big fat tears as Pastor Benny came out, bathing in the love and the devotion of his flock. His church was enormous, every inch luxurious carpet or glittering chandelier, and his crowds filled the room, making Marie swoon with how much power there was coming out of her television.
"My people, my children," Pastor Benny said, his hair slicked back, walking across that huge stage in a gray suit that fit him perfectly. "Welcome. I want you to come together with me today, come together with me and make God's love manifest in the world. Now, my children, my people, I want you to join with me, join together and show your devotion, in Jesus' name, show your devotion to the world, show your devotion to the Lord, and show your devotion, my children, show your devotion to me." An address flashed on the screen, and Marie reached for her glasses so she could write it down, even though she knew Pastor Benny would show it again.
I gave Anna this prompt:' "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" -Krishnamurti ']
Marie Gallagher liked her routines. She got up at the same time every morning, she took care of her bathroom needs, she washed and changed, she cooked herself an egg and made toast, and then she neatened and straightened the rest of the morning. There wasn't much to straighten any more. The children were gone now, along with Frank, dear sweet Frank, who looked up at her 14 years ago and complimented her cooking, as he always did, belching as he pushed away from the table, then went into the family room and passed away silently in his recliner, his open eyes staring at "Wheel Of Fortune" while she washed dishes, oblivious, in the next room. Those nice handsome young men from the ambulance told her there was nothing she could have done, and that tiny little Indian doctor said the same thing at County General, her perfect round brown face full of sorrow, but she never believed them.
Marie prayed about it, prayed as she puttered around, cleaning and recleaning. The house didn't get dirty the way it used to, Marie both loving and hating the mess and the chaos and the glorious noise of the toddler grandchildren years ago. Of course, they grew older as time went on, the daughters silent and moody, the sons muted and out of place without Frank to balance the energy in the house. Marie prayed that her Frank had gone to his reward, that he was as decent a man to the Lord as he was to her. She prayed that she had done right by him.
Frank's death felt like it opened a trap door under her feet, suddenly responsible for a world full of things she didn't understand, a world of cable bills and municipal taxes and annuities and wills and probate court. Thank the Lord for the girls and their husbands, Lisa's dark, intense Richard and Wendy's placid, fat Steven, who came in and explained and reexplained how it all worked, where the circuit breakers were and how a cell phone worked and who plowed the driveway and who to hire at tax time. She felt the tide nipping at her ankles, but eventually, with the kids' help, she got it all down pat.
The kids didn't come by the way they used to. Which was fine- it was time for her beautiful daughters to raise their own family units, to become stars in someone else's sky. They had both chosen well, nice respectful husbands with good paying jobs who loved their kids with a depth and intensity that Marie's generation never got from their own fathers. It was time. It was the natural order of things. The grandkids had choir and art and band and football and soccer and the school play and the prom, and that was the way it should be. Marie had her routines, and that was fine by her. That was also the way it should be.
After "The Price Is Right," where that pudgy comic had replaced tall suave Bob Barker, she made herself a tuna sandwich, then ate it in front of the noon news carnival of maladjusted criminals and crooked mayors. Marie cleaned up zealously, then napped in front of the soap operas whose storylines she could never follow anymore, finally waking up with that nice Katie Couric, always talking so gently to those confused looking young starlets with the long beautiful legs who all looked alike.
Then, after the final applause died off on Katie's show, she knew to turn to channel 267, where
she knew Pastor Benny was waiting. They repeated his service at different times during the day, but this was Marie's hour to spend with him. Pastor Benny talked to her the way no one else did, not the nurses at Dr. Burns' office, not that nice round hipped girl at the pharmacy who always remembered her name, not anybody in her life. Nobody answered her concerns, listened to her fears, made her feel wanted and necessary, like Pastor Benny.
When Lisa saw the repeated entries in her checkbook one day, she asked her what "B.H.L.H" stood for, and she made up something about a church appeal for Bosnia, and that seemed to satisfy her younger daughter's curiousity. Marie didn't want anyone else to know about Pastor Benny, because Pastor Benny was hers, and she didn't want anyone interfering with her rhythms. Pastor Benny filled her heart with joy, and that was a feeling she seldom had since Frank died.
She watched intently as the service began, the organ playing, the choir in their identical purple robes making a joyful noise, and then he came out from the side of the stage, the parishioners cheering and crying out, steady clapping suddenly dissolving into a roar. Marie watched the camera focus on one woman, a large Hispanic woman with an enormous bust who was crying big fat tears as Pastor Benny came out, bathing in the love and the devotion of his flock. His church was enormous, every inch luxurious carpet or glittering chandelier, and his crowds filled the room, making Marie swoon with how much power there was coming out of her television.
"My people, my children," Pastor Benny said, his hair slicked back, walking across that huge stage in a gray suit that fit him perfectly. "Welcome. I want you to come together with me today, come together with me and make God's love manifest in the world. Now, my children, my people, I want you to join with me, join together and show your devotion, in Jesus' name, show your devotion to the world, show your devotion to the Lord, and show your devotion, my children, show your devotion to me." An address flashed on the screen, and Marie reached for her glasses so she could write it down, even though she knew Pastor Benny would show it again.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
SPE: Strike Three
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Kirsten Piccini gave me this prompt: "Your power over me is diminishing because while you hate, I love." --Please use this sentence in your piece..I gave kgwaite this prompt: "I am not at all concerned with appearing to be consistent. In my search after Truth I have discarded many ideas and learnt many new things." --Mahatma Gandhi]
The table was long and flat and black, an imposing reminder of the important decisions made in this room. Contracts were negotiated here, corporate empires formed and shattered, high level crimes covered up or exposed. Big things happen here, the room said, and you wanted to fall into a hush, in awe of your surroundings. A pretty woman in a dark green skirt set a glistening pitcher of ice water onto a tray in the center of the table, where glass tumblers were already waiting.
"Mr. Hanigan will be right with you," she said officiously, before turning to leave the room.
"I'll wait outside," my attorney, Alison Wainwright, said. I watched the two women leave the room, Alison's tiny strides behind the secretary's long legs. She looked like the other woman's baby sister.
The glass door closed silently behind them. It was impossibly clean, looking somehow thin yet soundproof.
"Are you banging her yet?," Darlene said, her lip curled with contempt. My soon to be ex wife was already sitting in one of the soft chairs, looking up at me. We were in her attorney's office, so she probably felt invulnerable. She had a cruel streak that came out when she felt like she was on solid ground. It was one of the many things that had emerged over the course of our relationship.
"I'm not sure why you would care."
"You don't think I care about you, Stephen?"
"We're here, aren't we? Why do you think we're here?"
"I told you I want another chance."
"I know. But I've seen that movie before. Remember the last time you asked for another chance? And the time before that? Three strikes and you're out. You know the rules."
Her face fell when I said that. It was mean, needlessly so.
"That's not fair, Stephen. Not fair at all." She was looking down, her voice soft. I could see her cleavage down the neck of her flowery summer dress. "Why do you do that to me?"
"Do what, Darl? Bring up what you did?"
"Yes, Stephen. Why do you do that? I said I was sorry."
"Yes, Darl. Twice."
"I hate you, Stephen. I hate you when you're like this. So mean."
"I'm sure you do. It can't be easy to be reminded. See, that's the part that drives you crazy about this, Darlene. Your power over me is diminishing because while you hate, I love. I love you, Darlene. I've never stopped loving you. We have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that we can't live together as a married couple. I've made my peace with that. You can't stay faithful. That's insulting, but I have made my peace with that, too. But fundamentally, I still care about you. I want you to be happy, even if it isn't with me. You say you hate me, and that's not nice for me to hear, but I'm a big boy. I can take it."
Darlene's eyes were wide. "Please," she said mockingly. "please tell me more about what I think."
"You can do that all you like," I said. "It doesn't make it untrue. You say you hate me, but fundamentally, you're angry with me because you can't play the victim. All your life, you've waited for men to hurt you. And they have. And when they have, you've been able to play your favorite role, the wounded martyr, the delicate flower, wounded by faithless, treacherous man. And your friends rush in to console you, poor Darlene, why can't she find a good man? And then you found me, and I wouldn't hurt you. So that wouldn't feed into the negative self image you spend so much time maintaining, would it?"
Darlene smirked up at me. "You tell me. You're the one who understands so much about me."
"It doesn't. So you started acting out. First in small ways, then in bigger and bigger ones. Then, finally, the ultimate betrayal. Why? Why were you determined to sabotage our marriage? Deep down, Darlene, you can't stand the fact that I love you. It makes you question the way you have lived your life. So you hate, Darlene. And I love. And that, fundamentally, is why we're here."
The door glided open silently, Alison being followed by Darlene's attorney, a tall, trim man with an iron jaw named Ryan Hanigan. He looked at me, a man sizing up another man, primal instincts coming to the fore.
"Are we interrupting?," he said jovially.
"No," Darlene said firmly. "No, you are not."
The table was long and flat and black, an imposing reminder of the important decisions made in this room. Contracts were negotiated here, corporate empires formed and shattered, high level crimes covered up or exposed. Big things happen here, the room said, and you wanted to fall into a hush, in awe of your surroundings. A pretty woman in a dark green skirt set a glistening pitcher of ice water onto a tray in the center of the table, where glass tumblers were already waiting.
"Mr. Hanigan will be right with you," she said officiously, before turning to leave the room.
"I'll wait outside," my attorney, Alison Wainwright, said. I watched the two women leave the room, Alison's tiny strides behind the secretary's long legs. She looked like the other woman's baby sister.
The glass door closed silently behind them. It was impossibly clean, looking somehow thin yet soundproof.
"Are you banging her yet?," Darlene said, her lip curled with contempt. My soon to be ex wife was already sitting in one of the soft chairs, looking up at me. We were in her attorney's office, so she probably felt invulnerable. She had a cruel streak that came out when she felt like she was on solid ground. It was one of the many things that had emerged over the course of our relationship.
"I'm not sure why you would care."
"You don't think I care about you, Stephen?"
"We're here, aren't we? Why do you think we're here?"
"I told you I want another chance."
"I know. But I've seen that movie before. Remember the last time you asked for another chance? And the time before that? Three strikes and you're out. You know the rules."
Her face fell when I said that. It was mean, needlessly so.
"That's not fair, Stephen. Not fair at all." She was looking down, her voice soft. I could see her cleavage down the neck of her flowery summer dress. "Why do you do that to me?"
"Do what, Darl? Bring up what you did?"
"Yes, Stephen. Why do you do that? I said I was sorry."
"Yes, Darl. Twice."
"I hate you, Stephen. I hate you when you're like this. So mean."
"I'm sure you do. It can't be easy to be reminded. See, that's the part that drives you crazy about this, Darlene. Your power over me is diminishing because while you hate, I love. I love you, Darlene. I've never stopped loving you. We have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that we can't live together as a married couple. I've made my peace with that. You can't stay faithful. That's insulting, but I have made my peace with that, too. But fundamentally, I still care about you. I want you to be happy, even if it isn't with me. You say you hate me, and that's not nice for me to hear, but I'm a big boy. I can take it."
Darlene's eyes were wide. "Please," she said mockingly. "please tell me more about what I think."
"You can do that all you like," I said. "It doesn't make it untrue. You say you hate me, but fundamentally, you're angry with me because you can't play the victim. All your life, you've waited for men to hurt you. And they have. And when they have, you've been able to play your favorite role, the wounded martyr, the delicate flower, wounded by faithless, treacherous man. And your friends rush in to console you, poor Darlene, why can't she find a good man? And then you found me, and I wouldn't hurt you. So that wouldn't feed into the negative self image you spend so much time maintaining, would it?"
Darlene smirked up at me. "You tell me. You're the one who understands so much about me."
"It doesn't. So you started acting out. First in small ways, then in bigger and bigger ones. Then, finally, the ultimate betrayal. Why? Why were you determined to sabotage our marriage? Deep down, Darlene, you can't stand the fact that I love you. It makes you question the way you have lived your life. So you hate, Darlene. And I love. And that, fundamentally, is why we're here."
The door glided open silently, Alison being followed by Darlene's attorney, a tall, trim man with an iron jaw named Ryan Hanigan. He looked at me, a man sizing up another man, primal instincts coming to the fore.
"Are we interrupting?," he said jovially.
"No," Darlene said firmly. "No, you are not."
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
SPE: You Give Love A Bad Name
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, The Fiction Vixen gave me this prompt: "And with that, she shot him." I gave kgwaite this prompt: " 'We gain no wisdom by imposing our way on others' -James Lee Burke "]
{I don't know why I insist on doing this, but caveat emptor: the following contains adults doing adult things with other adults. And furthermore, as always, let me remind you that the opinions expressed herein are those of fictional characters, not of the artist himself.}
"Come right in!," a voice called out from somewhere in the enormous, high ceilinged space.
"I'll be right there!," it said again. She stepped out of the rickety looking old fashioned elevator, but it stayed where it was, as if inviting her to change her mind. Her low heeled boots made a gentle rapping sound on the hardwood floor. The space yawned in front of her, exposed pipes and huge windows with tarps and paint and canvases spread everywhere. The room smelled of chemicals and paint and onion soup. She set her bag down, her practiced eye already measuring angle and light and shadow in the huge loft.
She heard a toilet flush, and the sound of water running, and then he came around the corner, drying his hands on a wad of paper towels.
"You must be the young lady from...," he said, his voice trailing off. He reminded her of Johnny Depp's father from that pirate movie, his hair uncombed , his face a wrinkled mess of tanned leather, his clothes sloppy and disorganized, an untucked dress shirt that used to be white over black jeans with a hole in one knee and no shoes. He walked like an old man, each step uncertain.
"Art Week, yes," she said quickly. "I'm...,"
"Never mind, sweetie. I'll never remember it anyway. I'm only doing this because Claire told me it would help the show. But I can't imagine how. Those rich fuckers will either buy it or they won't. I'm sure a spread in Art Week won't matter worth a damn." He coughed twice. "But that's not your fault, doll. Do you have a place in mind? By the window, perhaps?"
"Yes," she said uncertainly. Clearly he wasn't entirely out of it- the window was the perfect place, with the filtered light and the shadows. His instincts were sharp. "Let's start there."
He walked over to the window, the sunlight still streaming in, fighting its way into the room through decades of grime. She assembled her gear and followed him, marvelling at the way he looked, already beginning to think about arrangements.
"Do you need me to pose?," he said.
"Not really," she said. "I'll let you know. Just act naturally."
"As Carl Perkins used to say," he said, smiling to himself. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"It's your home," she said.
"Thank you," he said. "So many people are so uptight these days. Do you smoke, honey?"
"No," she said.
"Why not? Aren't you afraid your boyfriend is going to stop fucking you if you lose your adorable little waist?"
She looked at him, shocked, as he moved canvases aside so she could get a good angle against the window. She thought about the locked door, and her cell phone, miles away in her bag all the way on the other side of the room. She felt a prickle of fear, sweat suddenly forming at her temple. He didn't look that strong, but she suddenly felt very alone with him. He saw the expression on her face and stopped.
"Oh, relax. Does Anna still give out assignments at that rag of yours?"
She pictured her photo editor, Anna Thomas, her short boy's haircut, unsatisfied frown and untucked men's t shirt. "You could stage the resurrection for her," a coworker said once, "and she would complain that there were too many cherubim."
"Yes, she's still there."
"She didn't tell you about me? I propositioned one of her people back in the 90s. She called me up right afterwards and told me if I ever did it again, she'd cut my dick off. And besides, I'm too old for any of that. I don't think it works anymore."
She stared at him for a moment. Neither of them knew quite how to proceed.
"So what do you do? Work out? Starve yourself? Probably some of both. Am I right?"
"Yeah," she said uncertainly. "All my friends do."
He shook his head slowly. "Of course they do. Everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die."
She wasn't sure what he meant by that. She could still feel her heart pounding.
"Do you know what's wrong with your generation? Of course you don't. No generation does. Mine certainly didn't. You people never have any fun. That's your problem. Do you have any idea what thanatos is? Of course you don't. Nobody gets properly educated anymore. Thanatos is the death force. The personification of death. The death drive. It's the other half of eros. It's the only thing that gives anything meaning. You beautiful young people, with your nonfat lattes and your spin classes and your yoga, you think you're never going to die."
She stared at him. She wanted to be far away from him at this moment, distant from this strange man and his stupid art, sitting with Andrew, listening to him complain about his boss over a plate of takeout Thai food. She didn't want to think about dying.
"You don't," he continued. "Everyone thinks my work represents something, takes a stand for something, is anti war or anti poverty or pro gay rights or some such crap. You know what it is? You know what every single thing I've ever done is all about, you with your pretty little boots and your trim hips and your tiny little breasts that you wish were a little bit bigger? Every single thing I have ever done, every painting, every sculpture, every painting, every sketch, is a scream into the void, a way of saying that I'm here, that I existed, that I mattered, that I made the world different. That's all my work represents. It's just a way of saying that I count, that even when I'm dead and gone, when my bones are ground to dust, when I'm as dead as Caesar or Napoleon or Van Gogh, that dammit, I was here. And I did something."
He put out a cigarette, then quickly lit up another and took a drag before he continued.
"You don't understand. You think I'm talking a bunch of crap. What could this pathetic old man possibly know about anything? You just want all this to be over, so you can go back to your apartment and bang your boyfriend. Bang him silly, and bang him until you forget about the fact that I was young once, and I used to be beautiful. They used to line up, the art students who wanted a shot with me. We'd drink wine, and we'd talk about love and sex and art and death and we'd fuck as the sun came up. We didn't think about death then, either. It's not like I blame you. You're young. How could you possibly know? I didn't."
"It's all about death, honey. All of it. And all the drinking and smoking and carousing and writing and painting and humping in the world doesn't change the fact that it's coming for all of us, sooner or later. No matter how many crunches you do, no matter how soon your boyfriend proposes to you and moves you out to Mount Kisco and knocks you up, he's going to keep working 80 hours a week, and eventually he's going to find a 20 year old with stars in her eyes and you're going to be staring into the eyes of Thanatos, divorced with two kids and nothing to depend on but some pictures you took of an old painter when you were young and perfect. Then you'll see what I meant. Nothing is real, honey. It's all about the end. We're all bags of meat, moist robots who have delusions of grandeur."
"You don't know anything about me," she said defensively.
"I don't?"
"No."
"You're probably right. You shouldn't listen to foolish old men. Well," he said, clearing his throat. "We might as well start."
And with that, she shot him. She shot him standing, sitting at his drafting table with blank paper in front of him, smoking moodily, staring at a silent television. She shot him staring at a silver piece of pipe, as if it was about to explain God to him. She shot him lying on his couch, his hands folded over his chest as if he were in his coffin. She shot him reading the new Tom Wolfe novel, and she shot him drawing her portrait, a quick pencil sketch on a piece of shirt cardboard.
She shot him until her camera signalled that it was full, and then she took the elevator downstairs. She took the train back uptown, then sat in a Starbucks near her apartment and transmitted the photos to Anna, then took the rest of her tea upstairs with her. She shut her door, ignoring the mute stare of her roommate Maggie, and stared at the surface of the tea until her eyes started to blur.
{I don't know why I insist on doing this, but caveat emptor: the following contains adults doing adult things with other adults. And furthermore, as always, let me remind you that the opinions expressed herein are those of fictional characters, not of the artist himself.}
"Come right in!," a voice called out from somewhere in the enormous, high ceilinged space.
"I'll be right there!," it said again. She stepped out of the rickety looking old fashioned elevator, but it stayed where it was, as if inviting her to change her mind. Her low heeled boots made a gentle rapping sound on the hardwood floor. The space yawned in front of her, exposed pipes and huge windows with tarps and paint and canvases spread everywhere. The room smelled of chemicals and paint and onion soup. She set her bag down, her practiced eye already measuring angle and light and shadow in the huge loft.
She heard a toilet flush, and the sound of water running, and then he came around the corner, drying his hands on a wad of paper towels.
"You must be the young lady from...," he said, his voice trailing off. He reminded her of Johnny Depp's father from that pirate movie, his hair uncombed , his face a wrinkled mess of tanned leather, his clothes sloppy and disorganized, an untucked dress shirt that used to be white over black jeans with a hole in one knee and no shoes. He walked like an old man, each step uncertain.
"Art Week, yes," she said quickly. "I'm...,"
"Never mind, sweetie. I'll never remember it anyway. I'm only doing this because Claire told me it would help the show. But I can't imagine how. Those rich fuckers will either buy it or they won't. I'm sure a spread in Art Week won't matter worth a damn." He coughed twice. "But that's not your fault, doll. Do you have a place in mind? By the window, perhaps?"
"Yes," she said uncertainly. Clearly he wasn't entirely out of it- the window was the perfect place, with the filtered light and the shadows. His instincts were sharp. "Let's start there."
He walked over to the window, the sunlight still streaming in, fighting its way into the room through decades of grime. She assembled her gear and followed him, marvelling at the way he looked, already beginning to think about arrangements.
"Do you need me to pose?," he said.
"Not really," she said. "I'll let you know. Just act naturally."
"As Carl Perkins used to say," he said, smiling to himself. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"It's your home," she said.
"Thank you," he said. "So many people are so uptight these days. Do you smoke, honey?"
"No," she said.
"Why not? Aren't you afraid your boyfriend is going to stop fucking you if you lose your adorable little waist?"
She looked at him, shocked, as he moved canvases aside so she could get a good angle against the window. She thought about the locked door, and her cell phone, miles away in her bag all the way on the other side of the room. She felt a prickle of fear, sweat suddenly forming at her temple. He didn't look that strong, but she suddenly felt very alone with him. He saw the expression on her face and stopped.
"Oh, relax. Does Anna still give out assignments at that rag of yours?"
She pictured her photo editor, Anna Thomas, her short boy's haircut, unsatisfied frown and untucked men's t shirt. "You could stage the resurrection for her," a coworker said once, "and she would complain that there were too many cherubim."
"Yes, she's still there."
"She didn't tell you about me? I propositioned one of her people back in the 90s. She called me up right afterwards and told me if I ever did it again, she'd cut my dick off. And besides, I'm too old for any of that. I don't think it works anymore."
She stared at him for a moment. Neither of them knew quite how to proceed.
"So what do you do? Work out? Starve yourself? Probably some of both. Am I right?"
"Yeah," she said uncertainly. "All my friends do."
He shook his head slowly. "Of course they do. Everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die."
She wasn't sure what he meant by that. She could still feel her heart pounding.
"Do you know what's wrong with your generation? Of course you don't. No generation does. Mine certainly didn't. You people never have any fun. That's your problem. Do you have any idea what thanatos is? Of course you don't. Nobody gets properly educated anymore. Thanatos is the death force. The personification of death. The death drive. It's the other half of eros. It's the only thing that gives anything meaning. You beautiful young people, with your nonfat lattes and your spin classes and your yoga, you think you're never going to die."
She stared at him. She wanted to be far away from him at this moment, distant from this strange man and his stupid art, sitting with Andrew, listening to him complain about his boss over a plate of takeout Thai food. She didn't want to think about dying.
"You don't," he continued. "Everyone thinks my work represents something, takes a stand for something, is anti war or anti poverty or pro gay rights or some such crap. You know what it is? You know what every single thing I've ever done is all about, you with your pretty little boots and your trim hips and your tiny little breasts that you wish were a little bit bigger? Every single thing I have ever done, every painting, every sculpture, every painting, every sketch, is a scream into the void, a way of saying that I'm here, that I existed, that I mattered, that I made the world different. That's all my work represents. It's just a way of saying that I count, that even when I'm dead and gone, when my bones are ground to dust, when I'm as dead as Caesar or Napoleon or Van Gogh, that dammit, I was here. And I did something."
He put out a cigarette, then quickly lit up another and took a drag before he continued.
"You don't understand. You think I'm talking a bunch of crap. What could this pathetic old man possibly know about anything? You just want all this to be over, so you can go back to your apartment and bang your boyfriend. Bang him silly, and bang him until you forget about the fact that I was young once, and I used to be beautiful. They used to line up, the art students who wanted a shot with me. We'd drink wine, and we'd talk about love and sex and art and death and we'd fuck as the sun came up. We didn't think about death then, either. It's not like I blame you. You're young. How could you possibly know? I didn't."
"It's all about death, honey. All of it. And all the drinking and smoking and carousing and writing and painting and humping in the world doesn't change the fact that it's coming for all of us, sooner or later. No matter how many crunches you do, no matter how soon your boyfriend proposes to you and moves you out to Mount Kisco and knocks you up, he's going to keep working 80 hours a week, and eventually he's going to find a 20 year old with stars in her eyes and you're going to be staring into the eyes of Thanatos, divorced with two kids and nothing to depend on but some pictures you took of an old painter when you were young and perfect. Then you'll see what I meant. Nothing is real, honey. It's all about the end. We're all bags of meat, moist robots who have delusions of grandeur."
"You don't know anything about me," she said defensively.
"I don't?"
"No."
"You're probably right. You shouldn't listen to foolish old men. Well," he said, clearing his throat. "We might as well start."
And with that, she shot him. She shot him standing, sitting at his drafting table with blank paper in front of him, smoking moodily, staring at a silent television. She shot him staring at a silver piece of pipe, as if it was about to explain God to him. She shot him lying on his couch, his hands folded over his chest as if he were in his coffin. She shot him reading the new Tom Wolfe novel, and she shot him drawing her portrait, a quick pencil sketch on a piece of shirt cardboard.
She shot him until her camera signalled that it was full, and then she took the elevator downstairs. She took the train back uptown, then sat in a Starbucks near her apartment and transmitted the photos to Anna, then took the rest of her tea upstairs with her. She shut her door, ignoring the mute stare of her roommate Maggie, and stared at the surface of the tea until her eyes started to blur.
To Paraphrase Rahm Emanuel...
...which This Blog seldom has cause to, never let a chance for self promotion go to waste. Matt Potter, my friend and a friend to all sentient beings, has caused to be born onto this fragile Earth "obit.", a book about a man what never was, Webster Allen. This fictional New York lawyer has his life story told through tales created out of whole cloth by none other than yours truly as well as scores of other much more talented writers. (All tales penned by me are entirely new to readers of This Blog, having appeared neither here nor anywhere else.) If this sounds like your particular brand of vodka, please click the link embedded in Mr. Potter's name and buy scores of copies. Or just one. Your call.
Monday, March 18, 2013
SPE: "Flying"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Anna gave me this prompt: "It was a joy just to see her fly." I gave Debbie this prompt: "Getting everything you want has nothing to do with anything." -Thom Yorke]
"Why don't you see if Tom can do it?," I heard as my heart sank. My wife was trying to include me, constantly assuring her daughters that while I wasn't Daddy, I was someone, and I could occasionally be of some use. Jessica knew I ached to help, and while we all felt our way along in this new world family unit, she was always trying to shoehorn me in. I appreciated the effort, but I couldn't shake the feeling they just didn't want me there.
Marissa was there, standing at the door of our bedroom, her body half hidden by the door as if she didn't want to be seen. The older one of the two girls, she had her mother's impervious outer walls and sheltered, soft center, with the red, tangled hair of a Pixar heroine and the temperament that went with it. I was pulling my shoelaces taut, ready for a post workout afternoon of chores and televised sports.
"Uh, Tom?," she said softly.
"Yes?," I said. It was like defusing a bomb with her. Hormones and all that didn't help, but there was another anger there, a rage against the universe that nothing ever seemed to quell. I never knew quite what to say, so I kept my statements even and neutral.
"Can you...uh....can you rebound for me? I need to shoot." Marissa was determined, against all odds, to make the high school varsity as a freshman. She seldom admitted to wanting anything, because wanting implies weakness, that there is something lacking.
"Of course."
She disappeared from the door without a word. I tied my sneakers tight and followed her downstairs. I raised my eyebrows at Jess as I walked by, who caught my eye and gave me a quick thumbs up before returning her focus to her younger daughter and her struggles with math.
It was a pleasant day, still warm with the shadow of fall sneaking in along the sides. I heard the familiar echoing bounce of the ball on our driveway. Marissa, her hair pulled back, was bouncing the ball with grim determination near where the free throw line would be. She shot me a look as I walked out, already impatient to start.
She pushed a shot up from her waist, and it bounced away hard from the backboard. I nearly winced at her form, all full of mismatched effort and strength. She kept shooting, and I started fielding the errant bounces and feeding them back to her, strong bounce passes so she could shoot again without pausing. She was tall, almost as tall as me, but newly so, her brain still unsure where all of her limbs were. She was not content, frowning as the ball bounced away, hard and graceless.
After 8 or 9 straight misses, I said softly, "Would you like a little advice?"
Her hair was beginning to stick to her shirt, her cheeks red with exertion. "OK," she said uncertainly.
"Hold the ball like you're going to shoot," I said, and she did. I adjusted her form, getting her to hold the ball out away from herself. I recalled my ancient time at Dave Cowens' Basketball School, all the drills about footwork, about clean releases and flipping the ball off of your fingertips. I gently guided her elbow into the right position, correcting her when necessary. Her mouth was set grimly, but she followed my advice.
She kept shooting, and I kept retrieving the errant ball and feeding it back to her, keeping her rhythm going. The ball started making a different sound, the lighter, gentler ring of a shot that was carefully placed. The shots started to fall then, her first make greeted with a half smile and an open mouth, and then the swish of more baskets falling.
She was getting her feet underneath her, going up strong, seeing the ease that jumping gave her. She went up straight and strong, flicking the ball instead of forcing it, her elevation making it increasingly easy to make shots. I watched success reinforce good habits, her joy at each made shot increasing as I slipped the ball back to her for another try.
I encouraged her to move around, letting her brain make the calculations automatically, the different angles and trajectories subtly adjusted. I reminded her gently to keep her arms out and her head up, to let her body gain the muscle memory of successfully jumping. I started to sweat, marveling at her energy, her hair whipping around in dark ringlets now, leaving moisture behind in the air like a boxer.
I kept her going, watching her face tighten with effort and try to hide a small smile as she made shot after shot after shot. I cheered her, trying to tread the line between praise and sucking up. She was gliding now, her body moving elegantly in space, the sweat equity paying off in practiced, smooth grace. I could see her colt thin legs moving with assurance and strength. She was getting it.
"Lunch!," my wife called from the doorway, and Marissa was gone, her last shot falling with a puff through the white netting, her confidence so high she didn't need to watch it. I caught the ball as it fell through, watching her take the steps in one long bound, her ponytail. slick with sweat, trailing behind, a last reminder of the effort expended. I felt certain I had taken a step closer to her, even though she would probably never admit it.
It was a joy just to see her fly.
"Why don't you see if Tom can do it?," I heard as my heart sank. My wife was trying to include me, constantly assuring her daughters that while I wasn't Daddy, I was someone, and I could occasionally be of some use. Jessica knew I ached to help, and while we all felt our way along in this new world family unit, she was always trying to shoehorn me in. I appreciated the effort, but I couldn't shake the feeling they just didn't want me there.
Marissa was there, standing at the door of our bedroom, her body half hidden by the door as if she didn't want to be seen. The older one of the two girls, she had her mother's impervious outer walls and sheltered, soft center, with the red, tangled hair of a Pixar heroine and the temperament that went with it. I was pulling my shoelaces taut, ready for a post workout afternoon of chores and televised sports.
"Uh, Tom?," she said softly.
"Yes?," I said. It was like defusing a bomb with her. Hormones and all that didn't help, but there was another anger there, a rage against the universe that nothing ever seemed to quell. I never knew quite what to say, so I kept my statements even and neutral.
"Can you...uh....can you rebound for me? I need to shoot." Marissa was determined, against all odds, to make the high school varsity as a freshman. She seldom admitted to wanting anything, because wanting implies weakness, that there is something lacking.
"Of course."
She disappeared from the door without a word. I tied my sneakers tight and followed her downstairs. I raised my eyebrows at Jess as I walked by, who caught my eye and gave me a quick thumbs up before returning her focus to her younger daughter and her struggles with math.
It was a pleasant day, still warm with the shadow of fall sneaking in along the sides. I heard the familiar echoing bounce of the ball on our driveway. Marissa, her hair pulled back, was bouncing the ball with grim determination near where the free throw line would be. She shot me a look as I walked out, already impatient to start.
She pushed a shot up from her waist, and it bounced away hard from the backboard. I nearly winced at her form, all full of mismatched effort and strength. She kept shooting, and I started fielding the errant bounces and feeding them back to her, strong bounce passes so she could shoot again without pausing. She was tall, almost as tall as me, but newly so, her brain still unsure where all of her limbs were. She was not content, frowning as the ball bounced away, hard and graceless.
After 8 or 9 straight misses, I said softly, "Would you like a little advice?"
Her hair was beginning to stick to her shirt, her cheeks red with exertion. "OK," she said uncertainly.
"Hold the ball like you're going to shoot," I said, and she did. I adjusted her form, getting her to hold the ball out away from herself. I recalled my ancient time at Dave Cowens' Basketball School, all the drills about footwork, about clean releases and flipping the ball off of your fingertips. I gently guided her elbow into the right position, correcting her when necessary. Her mouth was set grimly, but she followed my advice.
She kept shooting, and I kept retrieving the errant ball and feeding it back to her, keeping her rhythm going. The ball started making a different sound, the lighter, gentler ring of a shot that was carefully placed. The shots started to fall then, her first make greeted with a half smile and an open mouth, and then the swish of more baskets falling.
She was getting her feet underneath her, going up strong, seeing the ease that jumping gave her. She went up straight and strong, flicking the ball instead of forcing it, her elevation making it increasingly easy to make shots. I watched success reinforce good habits, her joy at each made shot increasing as I slipped the ball back to her for another try.
I encouraged her to move around, letting her brain make the calculations automatically, the different angles and trajectories subtly adjusted. I reminded her gently to keep her arms out and her head up, to let her body gain the muscle memory of successfully jumping. I started to sweat, marveling at her energy, her hair whipping around in dark ringlets now, leaving moisture behind in the air like a boxer.
I kept her going, watching her face tighten with effort and try to hide a small smile as she made shot after shot after shot. I cheered her, trying to tread the line between praise and sucking up. She was gliding now, her body moving elegantly in space, the sweat equity paying off in practiced, smooth grace. I could see her colt thin legs moving with assurance and strength. She was getting it.
"Lunch!," my wife called from the doorway, and Marissa was gone, her last shot falling with a puff through the white netting, her confidence so high she didn't need to watch it. I caught the ball as it fell through, watching her take the steps in one long bound, her ponytail. slick with sweat, trailing behind, a last reminder of the effort expended. I felt certain I had taken a step closer to her, even though she would probably never admit it.
It was a joy just to see her fly.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
SPE: "It's Alright Ma"
{For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Stacey gave me this prompt: "Bills to pay."
I gave Kirsten Piccini this prompt: ' "I have found that...imagination sometimes has to stand in for experience." --Steve Martin'}
(To steal an idea from Esquire's Charles P. Pierce, optional soundtrack for this blog post here.)
[In a departure for This Blog, to steal Mr. Pierce's locution, this is a nonfiction piece.]
"Money doesn't talk, it swears."
I open my bank account web site with a hollow nausea in my stomach. It's never a pleasant process, paying the bills. It falls to me because, well, it's my job. I hate it less than my spouse, so I do it. Every household has tasks that have to be done to keep the family unit functioning. Some are merely annoying, some are time consuming, some are physically hard. Like Rita Rudner points out, at some point things become your job, and this is one of mine. Paying bills isn't hard, just mentally exhausting.
The math is simple enough. A second grader can add and subtract. To add and subtract larger numbers, it's simply the same operation, iterated over and over. It's simple, at its core. Money in, minus money out, equals what is left. There are mildly complicating factors- repeating automatic payments for car insurance, gym membership, tuition. But even those complications are locked into my brain with cement- the first of every month is a bad day, the 20th is another rough one. I expect these bumps in the financial road, one anonymous computer talking to another in the night, money disappearing in one place, reappearing in another, teleportation made real, with Mr. Scott nowhere to be found.
I have been paid, throughout my life, in weekly or biweekly installments, each allotment arriving on schedule, my employer deciding my worth and pumping in my lifeblood, each pay period a tiny gust of wind into my sails. Silently, another bank computer blinks somewhere in Phoenix or Boise or Charlotte and suddenly, my account swells, another expression of gratitude for my toil, my aching legs, my ruined feet. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to keep me coming back. Not so little I quit for greener pastures, not so much my employer spirals into insolvency. Just enough.
I've tried to imagine what it must be to be a comedian, or a musician, or an author, sudden paydays interspersed with long, fallow periods where you must wonder, like a stranded sailor, if another breeze will ever blow. I would be rendered insane with the insecurity of it, I think, but then I realize you can get used to anything, so I would probably get used to that. So much of life is what you can endure. And also, you can ask former employees of Lehman Brothers how insecure security can be.
It's the ultimate sin, the final taboo. People would rather show you their genitalia than their bank statement. We don't talk about what we make, my employer reminds me periodically. As far as I know, they have no means to enforce that provision, save perhaps for firing me. And they may do that anyway. To reveal what you make is almost pornographic, a revealing look at you, the way we measure how we're doing, the way we keep score. What you're worth is what someone decides to pay you, period. Nobody wants to show their hole cards. We're all bluffing, pretending we are worth more than we are.
LeBron James is paid a little less than $200,000 per regular season game this year. Someone has that money, and they have decided he is worth it, therefore he gets it. (And if the man who paid it to him didn't recoup the money in t shirts and hot dogs and tickets and foam fingers sold, he surely wouldn't get it.) To paraphrase the great baseball writer Bill James, "Would you rather the owners just keep it?" To argue that LeBron James shouldn't be paid five or ten times what a teacher or a garbage man makes is to argue that the rain shouldn't be wet. It would be convenient if it were, it would be helpful, it would be nice. But it isn't so.
I don't want it to be this way. I'm no Communist- I like buying a meal at a restaurant as much as the next person does. But your worth as a person isn't the same as your earning power. It shouldn't be. People are capable of artistic achievement, selfless devotion to others, acts of greatness and beauty and sensitivity and gorgeous, unvarnished truth. You can't buy a hug (at least, not a sincere one) or a child's laugh or a sunset or the smell of lilacs. Money is not the central value of human life. But when you're balancing your checkbook, it sure seems like it is.
I hate money. I hate the way it makes me feel, I hate the way I can't seem to grasp it. I hate the way I never seem to have enough of it. I hate the way it disappears, the constant feeling of robbing Peter to pay Paul, the constant slippage, the feeling that you are that old plate spinner on a variety show. Always behind, always filled with insecurity. I should be able to manage this, but I can't. It's just math. But the numbers never say what I want them to say, what I need them to say. They never say that I'm OK, that I can rest easy, that I can buy a 5 dollar used paperback without being consumed by guilt, that I deserve happiness, that I am a good provider, that I am making it. The numbers never say that I'm good.
"Money can't buy me love"
I gave Kirsten Piccini this prompt: ' "I have found that...imagination sometimes has to stand in for experience." --Steve Martin'}
(To steal an idea from Esquire's Charles P. Pierce, optional soundtrack for this blog post here.)
[In a departure for This Blog, to steal Mr. Pierce's locution, this is a nonfiction piece.]
"Money doesn't talk, it swears."
I open my bank account web site with a hollow nausea in my stomach. It's never a pleasant process, paying the bills. It falls to me because, well, it's my job. I hate it less than my spouse, so I do it. Every household has tasks that have to be done to keep the family unit functioning. Some are merely annoying, some are time consuming, some are physically hard. Like Rita Rudner points out, at some point things become your job, and this is one of mine. Paying bills isn't hard, just mentally exhausting.
The math is simple enough. A second grader can add and subtract. To add and subtract larger numbers, it's simply the same operation, iterated over and over. It's simple, at its core. Money in, minus money out, equals what is left. There are mildly complicating factors- repeating automatic payments for car insurance, gym membership, tuition. But even those complications are locked into my brain with cement- the first of every month is a bad day, the 20th is another rough one. I expect these bumps in the financial road, one anonymous computer talking to another in the night, money disappearing in one place, reappearing in another, teleportation made real, with Mr. Scott nowhere to be found.
I have been paid, throughout my life, in weekly or biweekly installments, each allotment arriving on schedule, my employer deciding my worth and pumping in my lifeblood, each pay period a tiny gust of wind into my sails. Silently, another bank computer blinks somewhere in Phoenix or Boise or Charlotte and suddenly, my account swells, another expression of gratitude for my toil, my aching legs, my ruined feet. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to keep me coming back. Not so little I quit for greener pastures, not so much my employer spirals into insolvency. Just enough.
I've tried to imagine what it must be to be a comedian, or a musician, or an author, sudden paydays interspersed with long, fallow periods where you must wonder, like a stranded sailor, if another breeze will ever blow. I would be rendered insane with the insecurity of it, I think, but then I realize you can get used to anything, so I would probably get used to that. So much of life is what you can endure. And also, you can ask former employees of Lehman Brothers how insecure security can be.
It's the ultimate sin, the final taboo. People would rather show you their genitalia than their bank statement. We don't talk about what we make, my employer reminds me periodically. As far as I know, they have no means to enforce that provision, save perhaps for firing me. And they may do that anyway. To reveal what you make is almost pornographic, a revealing look at you, the way we measure how we're doing, the way we keep score. What you're worth is what someone decides to pay you, period. Nobody wants to show their hole cards. We're all bluffing, pretending we are worth more than we are.
LeBron James is paid a little less than $200,000 per regular season game this year. Someone has that money, and they have decided he is worth it, therefore he gets it. (And if the man who paid it to him didn't recoup the money in t shirts and hot dogs and tickets and foam fingers sold, he surely wouldn't get it.) To paraphrase the great baseball writer Bill James, "Would you rather the owners just keep it?" To argue that LeBron James shouldn't be paid five or ten times what a teacher or a garbage man makes is to argue that the rain shouldn't be wet. It would be convenient if it were, it would be helpful, it would be nice. But it isn't so.
I don't want it to be this way. I'm no Communist- I like buying a meal at a restaurant as much as the next person does. But your worth as a person isn't the same as your earning power. It shouldn't be. People are capable of artistic achievement, selfless devotion to others, acts of greatness and beauty and sensitivity and gorgeous, unvarnished truth. You can't buy a hug (at least, not a sincere one) or a child's laugh or a sunset or the smell of lilacs. Money is not the central value of human life. But when you're balancing your checkbook, it sure seems like it is.
I hate money. I hate the way it makes me feel, I hate the way I can't seem to grasp it. I hate the way I never seem to have enough of it. I hate the way it disappears, the constant feeling of robbing Peter to pay Paul, the constant slippage, the feeling that you are that old plate spinner on a variety show. Always behind, always filled with insecurity. I should be able to manage this, but I can't. It's just math. But the numbers never say what I want them to say, what I need them to say. They never say that I'm OK, that I can rest easy, that I can buy a 5 dollar used paperback without being consumed by guilt, that I deserve happiness, that I am a good provider, that I am making it. The numbers never say that I'm good.
"Money can't buy me love"
Thursday, March 07, 2013
SPE: "It's All Too Much"
{For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Debbie gave me this prompt: Use these sensory words in a piece: cool, yellow, fresh, sweet, and crackle. I gave Anna Ellis this prompt: "It's funny how everything was roses while we held onto the guns." -Guns N Roses}
The condensation beaded up on the side of the cool glass, the drops racing each other down the side to the growing pool of moisture on the counter. Diet Coke, plenty of ice, a slice of fresh yellow lemon, and a splash of whiskey. Or two. I could see Sophie's head from where I was standing, her fluffy red hair exploding from the neat ponytail I placed it in this morning. I didn't like her watching television, but the color and the sound kept her attention for a few minutes.
I needed a few minutes. A few minutes without the yammering, the howling hole of need and want that was torn from me a year and a half ago and now sits, enraptured, purple and blue light playing over her perfect, even face. She looks just like my sister, my sister with a hint of my husband's strong chin and deep blue eyes. She's a head turner, far prettier than me, the kind of little girl that strangers stop to look at, with the unruly crimson hair that folklore promised would pay off in a ferocious temper.
I took a sip of the drink. Sophie's dinner was cooking, while I mixed cookie dough, piling the mush on top of itself in the large bowl, stirring and stirring to give myself something to do. I thought about spooning a load into my mouth, but I knew how that would end, a rush of delirious taste, joy and intense sweet flavor followed by guilt and a crushing depression, weeping in the bathroom while John sleeps blissfully in our bed. I shifted my weight uncomfortably, both hips hurting from a long day walking around in heels. No position felt comfortable. I longed to sit, but tomorrow was Friday, and the big cookie sale was Saturday, so I had to be ready.
I thought about Evie, perfect blond Eveline with her runway model looks, thousand dollar purses, and abs that seemed to spring back seconds after her kids are born. The way she asked me to make cookies, the implied answer already embedded in the question like a bomb. "You are making the chocolate chip, right? 8 dozen should do it, I think. Oh, thanks so much, hon!," she said, already clicking off onto another call before I could really form a thought.
"I'm too tired," I thought to the silent air after her call. "I'm too worn out from holding up work, and marriage, and this hurricane of mess and love and joy and anger," I wanted to say now, staring at my daughter, her thoughts miles away in a world where blue dogs yelped and salt and pepper shakers talked with a French accent and answers were found in notebooks. The oven pinged and I moved to remove her dinner, chicken nuggets and macaroni and carrots she wouldn't touch.
I had to arrange it the way she wanted, each third of her Elmo plate holding a single dish, nothing touching, her drink not too cold, her food not too hot. My father laughed and called her "The Tyrant", and we all laughed because that's what you do when a grandparent said anything because grandparents are joyful and fun, right? The remark cut into me, though, especially when I started turning it over, late that night, sitting by myself at the dining room table, drinking red wine, realizing that he was exactly right, children were tyrannical. Their demands were absolute, they could not be negotiated with, and everyone suffered if you defied them.
I picked up my drink, taking a long swallow, setting it down on a wrapper from a bag of chocolate chips that gave off a crackle. I had to change the oven temperature for the cookies, then begin setting trays full of cookies in there, tray after tray after tray, denying her repeated requests to try one, rushing her through bathroom and brushing teeth and changing into pajamas and brushing the hair and bed, battling at each stage until I am nearly senseless with rage and guilt.
And then John comes in, tired from work but full of affection, sweetly tucking Sophie in, then turning to me, expecting passion and love and sweat and the girl he married, looking for a champagne flute and getting an empty, cracked cup. It's all too much, I thought, hearing George Harrison sing it in my head. "It's all too much/for me to take..."
"Dinnertime, Sophie," I said.
"OK," she said with practiced annoyance at my interruption. .
OK? I thought, feeling my emotions redline like I was driving in first gear. I felt the hot bubble of anger in my throat. Do you have any idea what I have given up for you? What I do for you? What you made me? And I'm interrupting your precious program? The words formed, enraged sentences and obscenities forming in my head. I took a step towards her.
Just as suddenly as it started, it broke like a wave across my forehead. Of course she doesn't know. She's one. How would she know? She's all sensation and want, and she's still a little surprised the world is still there when she opens her eyes in the morning. I undid the bottom button on my blouse, which was uncomfortably tight across my middle. I looked down at her, watching intently as the clues are revealed, knitted together to answer the question posed at the beginning.
I let a breath out, then took another deep draw on my drink. O Sophie. Love of my life, despoiler of dreams. Tyrant, dreamer, imagined foe, red headed wonder. She turned to look up at me when the program broke for commercial. She didn't ask for any of this. I was deeply unworthy of such a perfect, pure love.
I heard the front door open, and the sounds of John coming through the front door. "Daddy!," she yelled, bolting from her seat and dashing for the door.
Yes, I thought, hearing the joyful cries, her high screech and his low rumble. Daddy.
The condensation beaded up on the side of the cool glass, the drops racing each other down the side to the growing pool of moisture on the counter. Diet Coke, plenty of ice, a slice of fresh yellow lemon, and a splash of whiskey. Or two. I could see Sophie's head from where I was standing, her fluffy red hair exploding from the neat ponytail I placed it in this morning. I didn't like her watching television, but the color and the sound kept her attention for a few minutes.
I needed a few minutes. A few minutes without the yammering, the howling hole of need and want that was torn from me a year and a half ago and now sits, enraptured, purple and blue light playing over her perfect, even face. She looks just like my sister, my sister with a hint of my husband's strong chin and deep blue eyes. She's a head turner, far prettier than me, the kind of little girl that strangers stop to look at, with the unruly crimson hair that folklore promised would pay off in a ferocious temper.
I took a sip of the drink. Sophie's dinner was cooking, while I mixed cookie dough, piling the mush on top of itself in the large bowl, stirring and stirring to give myself something to do. I thought about spooning a load into my mouth, but I knew how that would end, a rush of delirious taste, joy and intense sweet flavor followed by guilt and a crushing depression, weeping in the bathroom while John sleeps blissfully in our bed. I shifted my weight uncomfortably, both hips hurting from a long day walking around in heels. No position felt comfortable. I longed to sit, but tomorrow was Friday, and the big cookie sale was Saturday, so I had to be ready.
I thought about Evie, perfect blond Eveline with her runway model looks, thousand dollar purses, and abs that seemed to spring back seconds after her kids are born. The way she asked me to make cookies, the implied answer already embedded in the question like a bomb. "You are making the chocolate chip, right? 8 dozen should do it, I think. Oh, thanks so much, hon!," she said, already clicking off onto another call before I could really form a thought.
"I'm too tired," I thought to the silent air after her call. "I'm too worn out from holding up work, and marriage, and this hurricane of mess and love and joy and anger," I wanted to say now, staring at my daughter, her thoughts miles away in a world where blue dogs yelped and salt and pepper shakers talked with a French accent and answers were found in notebooks. The oven pinged and I moved to remove her dinner, chicken nuggets and macaroni and carrots she wouldn't touch.
I had to arrange it the way she wanted, each third of her Elmo plate holding a single dish, nothing touching, her drink not too cold, her food not too hot. My father laughed and called her "The Tyrant", and we all laughed because that's what you do when a grandparent said anything because grandparents are joyful and fun, right? The remark cut into me, though, especially when I started turning it over, late that night, sitting by myself at the dining room table, drinking red wine, realizing that he was exactly right, children were tyrannical. Their demands were absolute, they could not be negotiated with, and everyone suffered if you defied them.
I picked up my drink, taking a long swallow, setting it down on a wrapper from a bag of chocolate chips that gave off a crackle. I had to change the oven temperature for the cookies, then begin setting trays full of cookies in there, tray after tray after tray, denying her repeated requests to try one, rushing her through bathroom and brushing teeth and changing into pajamas and brushing the hair and bed, battling at each stage until I am nearly senseless with rage and guilt.
And then John comes in, tired from work but full of affection, sweetly tucking Sophie in, then turning to me, expecting passion and love and sweat and the girl he married, looking for a champagne flute and getting an empty, cracked cup. It's all too much, I thought, hearing George Harrison sing it in my head. "It's all too much/for me to take..."
"Dinnertime, Sophie," I said.
"OK," she said with practiced annoyance at my interruption. .
OK? I thought, feeling my emotions redline like I was driving in first gear. I felt the hot bubble of anger in my throat. Do you have any idea what I have given up for you? What I do for you? What you made me? And I'm interrupting your precious program? The words formed, enraged sentences and obscenities forming in my head. I took a step towards her.
Just as suddenly as it started, it broke like a wave across my forehead. Of course she doesn't know. She's one. How would she know? She's all sensation and want, and she's still a little surprised the world is still there when she opens her eyes in the morning. I undid the bottom button on my blouse, which was uncomfortably tight across my middle. I looked down at her, watching intently as the clues are revealed, knitted together to answer the question posed at the beginning.
I let a breath out, then took another deep draw on my drink. O Sophie. Love of my life, despoiler of dreams. Tyrant, dreamer, imagined foe, red headed wonder. She turned to look up at me when the program broke for commercial. She didn't ask for any of this. I was deeply unworthy of such a perfect, pure love.
I heard the front door open, and the sounds of John coming through the front door. "Daddy!," she yelled, bolting from her seat and dashing for the door.
Yes, I thought, hearing the joyful cries, her high screech and his low rumble. Daddy.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
SPE: "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, The Baking Barrister gave me this prompt:' "Do you know how to say 'peace' in Italian?" he asked. "No, but I can say 'I love you' in 12 languages," she replied.'
I gave Kirsten Piccini this prompt: "How could I forget?"]
"Do you know how to say 'peace' in Italian?," he asked. He was doing The New York Times crossword, trying to ignore the silent phones they had placed in the center of the table. They were having a late breakfast, soft croissants with butter and jam, strong coffee, and reading. She was seated opposite him, her face in a book of Lorrie Moore short stories. She didn't want to look at the silent phones either.
"No, but I can say 'I love you' in 12 languages," she replied. They were dressed, but just barely. He was rumpled and unshaven, wearing an untucked blue dress shirt over dark jeans with black basketball sneakers. She wore leggings and soft suede boots, with a t shirt and a long cardigan over it all. Her hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun, one rebellious curl hanging over her eye like a comma.
He had urged her to come out for breakfast, arguing that the walk and the outside air would do them good. He also observed that a little activity would distract them from the call they were both waiting for, the call that they both lusted for and feared. He finally won the day by pointing out that there was precious little to eat or drink in the house. They dressed quickly and decamped for the nearest coffee shop, a faux retro place that pretended to be old and dark, but wound up just looking like it was trying too hard.
"Oh? Which ones?"
"French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Mandarin, Cantonese, Danish, Tagalog, Basque, and Arabic."
"That's only ten."
"Well, English, too. And American Sign."
"Oh. What possessed you to learn that?"
She took a sip of coffee. "College. We did a project one year, where we tried to make a video with "I love you" in as many languages as we could find. I just found it fascinating, and I just decided to memorize as many as I could. I used to know over 30."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"You never cease to amaze me."
"I'm glad," she said. He took a bite of croissant and started chewing it. She returned to her book. The phones did not ring. Their coffees continued to cool. She got up and added some more cream to hers. She sat back down, crossing her legs again. People came in and out of the coffee shop. Kids chewed on sugary treats. Dogs waited outside patiently for owners to return. Time passed.
"Tagalog," he said.
"What?," she replied.
"Say 'I love you' in Tagalog."
"You don't believe me?"
"Just say it," he said.
"Mahal kita."
"Arabic."
"Ana Behibak." A woman with very pretty eyes, her hair covered, turned her head to look as she said it. The woman continued past with a bottle of water and a banana.
"How do I know you're not just making these up?"
"You don't believe me?," she said, her voice betraying a little hurt.
"I just don't know whether or not these are real."
"My word isn't enough?"
"Of course it is," he said. "I'm just giving you a hard time."
"Well don't," she said.
They sat together. The phones didn't ring. He finished his coffee and got up to get more.
She watched his easy physical grace over the top of her book, something that was once so appealing. He played baseball at a high level at the university where they met, until a slide from an Iowa State baserunner destroyed his left knee. He still carried himself like the star he was, and it made her stomach hurt to watch him now. Other women watched him when he moved, their eyes following him, then darting back to her and probably finding her wanting. She stared at the phones, willing them to ring. She wanted to know, whatever the answer was- not knowing, being suspended between the two poles, was killing her.
He came back and sat down. She watched him return to the puzzle, tapping the point of his pen on the paper.
"Mandarin?," he said.
"Shut up," she said as she got up from the table. She closed her paperback and put it into her bag, and grabbed her phone.
"You don't think I'd tell you?," he said. "When they call?"
"Shut up," she said. She walked into the back and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door of the stall. She stood there for a moment, thinking about the call that hadn't come. She wanted to throw up, more for the mental purgation than the physical relief. She thought about a movie she saw once where someone made an escape through a bathroom window, then she thought about that Beatles song. She looked down at her flawed body, too small breasts and too large thighs and sweaty and matted and gross and bitter and nasty and pure, focused fuckedupedness, and she suddenly saw herself getting away from him, away from this, away from it all. She'd take all the pills in her handbag if she didn't believe she'd probably get that wrong too.
"Didn't anybody tell her?," she sang softly to herself. "Didn't anybody see?"
Nobody told her, she thought. Nobody saw.
I gave Kirsten Piccini this prompt: "How could I forget?"]
"Do you know how to say 'peace' in Italian?," he asked. He was doing The New York Times crossword, trying to ignore the silent phones they had placed in the center of the table. They were having a late breakfast, soft croissants with butter and jam, strong coffee, and reading. She was seated opposite him, her face in a book of Lorrie Moore short stories. She didn't want to look at the silent phones either.
"No, but I can say 'I love you' in 12 languages," she replied. They were dressed, but just barely. He was rumpled and unshaven, wearing an untucked blue dress shirt over dark jeans with black basketball sneakers. She wore leggings and soft suede boots, with a t shirt and a long cardigan over it all. Her hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun, one rebellious curl hanging over her eye like a comma.
He had urged her to come out for breakfast, arguing that the walk and the outside air would do them good. He also observed that a little activity would distract them from the call they were both waiting for, the call that they both lusted for and feared. He finally won the day by pointing out that there was precious little to eat or drink in the house. They dressed quickly and decamped for the nearest coffee shop, a faux retro place that pretended to be old and dark, but wound up just looking like it was trying too hard.
"Oh? Which ones?"
"French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Mandarin, Cantonese, Danish, Tagalog, Basque, and Arabic."
"That's only ten."
"Well, English, too. And American Sign."
"Oh. What possessed you to learn that?"
She took a sip of coffee. "College. We did a project one year, where we tried to make a video with "I love you" in as many languages as we could find. I just found it fascinating, and I just decided to memorize as many as I could. I used to know over 30."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"You never cease to amaze me."
"I'm glad," she said. He took a bite of croissant and started chewing it. She returned to her book. The phones did not ring. Their coffees continued to cool. She got up and added some more cream to hers. She sat back down, crossing her legs again. People came in and out of the coffee shop. Kids chewed on sugary treats. Dogs waited outside patiently for owners to return. Time passed.
"Tagalog," he said.
"What?," she replied.
"Say 'I love you' in Tagalog."
"You don't believe me?"
"Just say it," he said.
"Mahal kita."
"Arabic."
"Ana Behibak." A woman with very pretty eyes, her hair covered, turned her head to look as she said it. The woman continued past with a bottle of water and a banana.
"How do I know you're not just making these up?"
"You don't believe me?," she said, her voice betraying a little hurt.
"I just don't know whether or not these are real."
"My word isn't enough?"
"Of course it is," he said. "I'm just giving you a hard time."
"Well don't," she said.
They sat together. The phones didn't ring. He finished his coffee and got up to get more.
She watched his easy physical grace over the top of her book, something that was once so appealing. He played baseball at a high level at the university where they met, until a slide from an Iowa State baserunner destroyed his left knee. He still carried himself like the star he was, and it made her stomach hurt to watch him now. Other women watched him when he moved, their eyes following him, then darting back to her and probably finding her wanting. She stared at the phones, willing them to ring. She wanted to know, whatever the answer was- not knowing, being suspended between the two poles, was killing her.
He came back and sat down. She watched him return to the puzzle, tapping the point of his pen on the paper.
"Mandarin?," he said.
"Shut up," she said as she got up from the table. She closed her paperback and put it into her bag, and grabbed her phone.
"You don't think I'd tell you?," he said. "When they call?"
"Shut up," she said. She walked into the back and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door of the stall. She stood there for a moment, thinking about the call that hadn't come. She wanted to throw up, more for the mental purgation than the physical relief. She thought about a movie she saw once where someone made an escape through a bathroom window, then she thought about that Beatles song. She looked down at her flawed body, too small breasts and too large thighs and sweaty and matted and gross and bitter and nasty and pure, focused fuckedupedness, and she suddenly saw herself getting away from him, away from this, away from it all. She'd take all the pills in her handbag if she didn't believe she'd probably get that wrong too.
"Didn't anybody tell her?," she sang softly to herself. "Didn't anybody see?"
Nobody told her, she thought. Nobody saw.
Friday, February 22, 2013
FFF: "Way Past Joking Time"
(The folks at Flash Fiction Friday apparently want us to hear the word of the Lord, because this week's challenge is about dem bones dem bones dem dry bones. This story is called "Way Past Joking Time")
No matter how tightly I closed my windows, the lights still came through. Flashes of red and blue leaked onto my ceiling, making all sorts of spooky shadows. I still felt sick, so sick that I almost never wanted to eat again. I was laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, watching a bubble of red light chase a bubble of blue around in a lazy oval. I had taken a shower and changed into pajamas, like my Mom said I should, but everything felt itchy and too hot and wrong.
They wouldn't leave me alone. First the police came through, a black woman and a handsome guy with a funny looking beard, telling me gently that they didn't blame me, that it wasn't my fault, and then going over everything again and again. In between police visits, Mom would come in and try to say something and just wind up blubbering, and then Dad would come in a few minutes later and just kind of stare, putting his hand on my shin for a minute, then getting up and leaving again. The police took all of Lindsay's stuff, even the pillow she was going to use, which was actually mine. But I didn't say anything.
Lindsay was the only girl I had met so far that was my age, and since I was the new kid, I hung on to her like a barnacle. We had been playing outside, our giggling too much for Mom, kicking a ball around and talking about nothing. Lindsay was taller than me and a little bit stronger, and she kicked the ball at me hard. She was that kind of person, the kind of person who would do something just because, just to see what you did. It hurt a little- the ball hit me high on my thigh, and it slapped against my stomach too. I was a little mad, but I didn't show it. Instead, I wound up and kicked it back, as hard as I could, half hoping I could sting her leg back.
The ball, a new one my Dad bought after the World Cup, went high, over Lindsay's head and over the gray fence that separated our yard from his. Our neighbor was strange. He didn't have any kids, and you never saw him doing anything like washing his car or mowing his grass or even walking around. He came and went at weird times, never home when the other adults were, and sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I would stare at his house, waiting to see something happen- a light go on, the glow of a TV, something. Nothing ever did.
Nobody said anything, but you just got this feeling of wierdness, of ghosts and monsters and horrible things that might happen if you went in his yard. Grace Park, who lives across the street, said that she went up to his front door to sell Girl Scout cookies once, and they knew he was home, because they had seen him go in, but they knocked and knocked and he never came to the door. She said she saw bones in his yard when she walked in, but Grace tended to exaggerate sometimes. It was just weird.
Lindsay smiled at me after the ball went over. I started feeling sick right then, ready for another lecture from my Dad about how hard he worked for his money and how I should be more careful.
Lindsay said, "Dare ya to go get it!"
It was like daring me to flap my arms and fly to the moon. "No!," I said quickly. "Are you crazy?"
"Nope!," she said. She was a really good tree climber, and she was up and over the wall in a second. By the time I said "Don't!," she was gone.
I didn't hear anything at all after that. I figured she was going to sneak up on me and try to scare me, so after a few minutes, I gave up and went inside. I washed up, taking extra long, listening for her footsteps in the hall, determined that she wouldn't get me. I came downstairs, expecting her to jump out of a closet or come rushing out of the downstairs bathroom or to burst in through the back door. She never did.
My mother asked me where she was as soon as I came into the kitchen, and I spilled it all in a nervous rush. They told me never to go over there, and I never did, and I tried to tell them that I warned her and suddenly everything was exploding with movement and sound. My Dad got up and marched out the front door. My Mom called Lindsay's parents, and the Parks, and the Mitchells, and nobody had seen her. The police kept asking me if I heard a car go down the street, but I just couldn't remember if I did or not.
Dad came back, panting and red faced, and saying that there wasn't anybody there, and his car, a green van, was gone. Then Dad mentioned bones, too, and I knew Grace wasn't exaggerating. They called the police, and the lights came, and all the questions, and the madness, and the tears. I stopped listening to them, waiting for someone to ask me something. All I could see was Lindsay's sneakers disappearing as she dropped onto the other side of the fence, her devilish grin when she dared me.
When the police came in and put all her stuff in bags, I watched them do it, making notes on a clipboard as they went, cleaning away her backpack, her clothes, her brush and her slippers and her stuffed toad and her One Direction magazine. My room looked like she had never been there, but I could see the absence, the space where she was supposed to be. I wondered why my kick didn't go straight, banging off the fence instead of sailing over it, or why I couldn't have gone with her across the fence, or why I hadn't just told Mom right away instead of waiting.
I didn't know what had happened, but it was way past joking time, which meant it had to be something bad. I stared at the lights some more, trying not to think about what it could be, not wishing that it had been me instead of Lindsay, but kind of wishing that it had been, too.
No matter how tightly I closed my windows, the lights still came through. Flashes of red and blue leaked onto my ceiling, making all sorts of spooky shadows. I still felt sick, so sick that I almost never wanted to eat again. I was laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, watching a bubble of red light chase a bubble of blue around in a lazy oval. I had taken a shower and changed into pajamas, like my Mom said I should, but everything felt itchy and too hot and wrong.
They wouldn't leave me alone. First the police came through, a black woman and a handsome guy with a funny looking beard, telling me gently that they didn't blame me, that it wasn't my fault, and then going over everything again and again. In between police visits, Mom would come in and try to say something and just wind up blubbering, and then Dad would come in a few minutes later and just kind of stare, putting his hand on my shin for a minute, then getting up and leaving again. The police took all of Lindsay's stuff, even the pillow she was going to use, which was actually mine. But I didn't say anything.
Lindsay was the only girl I had met so far that was my age, and since I was the new kid, I hung on to her like a barnacle. We had been playing outside, our giggling too much for Mom, kicking a ball around and talking about nothing. Lindsay was taller than me and a little bit stronger, and she kicked the ball at me hard. She was that kind of person, the kind of person who would do something just because, just to see what you did. It hurt a little- the ball hit me high on my thigh, and it slapped against my stomach too. I was a little mad, but I didn't show it. Instead, I wound up and kicked it back, as hard as I could, half hoping I could sting her leg back.
The ball, a new one my Dad bought after the World Cup, went high, over Lindsay's head and over the gray fence that separated our yard from his. Our neighbor was strange. He didn't have any kids, and you never saw him doing anything like washing his car or mowing his grass or even walking around. He came and went at weird times, never home when the other adults were, and sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I would stare at his house, waiting to see something happen- a light go on, the glow of a TV, something. Nothing ever did.
Nobody said anything, but you just got this feeling of wierdness, of ghosts and monsters and horrible things that might happen if you went in his yard. Grace Park, who lives across the street, said that she went up to his front door to sell Girl Scout cookies once, and they knew he was home, because they had seen him go in, but they knocked and knocked and he never came to the door. She said she saw bones in his yard when she walked in, but Grace tended to exaggerate sometimes. It was just weird.
Lindsay smiled at me after the ball went over. I started feeling sick right then, ready for another lecture from my Dad about how hard he worked for his money and how I should be more careful.
Lindsay said, "Dare ya to go get it!"
It was like daring me to flap my arms and fly to the moon. "No!," I said quickly. "Are you crazy?"
"Nope!," she said. She was a really good tree climber, and she was up and over the wall in a second. By the time I said "Don't!," she was gone.
I didn't hear anything at all after that. I figured she was going to sneak up on me and try to scare me, so after a few minutes, I gave up and went inside. I washed up, taking extra long, listening for her footsteps in the hall, determined that she wouldn't get me. I came downstairs, expecting her to jump out of a closet or come rushing out of the downstairs bathroom or to burst in through the back door. She never did.
My mother asked me where she was as soon as I came into the kitchen, and I spilled it all in a nervous rush. They told me never to go over there, and I never did, and I tried to tell them that I warned her and suddenly everything was exploding with movement and sound. My Dad got up and marched out the front door. My Mom called Lindsay's parents, and the Parks, and the Mitchells, and nobody had seen her. The police kept asking me if I heard a car go down the street, but I just couldn't remember if I did or not.
Dad came back, panting and red faced, and saying that there wasn't anybody there, and his car, a green van, was gone. Then Dad mentioned bones, too, and I knew Grace wasn't exaggerating. They called the police, and the lights came, and all the questions, and the madness, and the tears. I stopped listening to them, waiting for someone to ask me something. All I could see was Lindsay's sneakers disappearing as she dropped onto the other side of the fence, her devilish grin when she dared me.
When the police came in and put all her stuff in bags, I watched them do it, making notes on a clipboard as they went, cleaning away her backpack, her clothes, her brush and her slippers and her stuffed toad and her One Direction magazine. My room looked like she had never been there, but I could see the absence, the space where she was supposed to be. I wondered why my kick didn't go straight, banging off the fence instead of sailing over it, or why I couldn't have gone with her across the fence, or why I hadn't just told Mom right away instead of waiting.
I didn't know what had happened, but it was way past joking time, which meant it had to be something bad. I stared at the lights some more, trying not to think about what it could be, not wishing that it had been me instead of Lindsay, but kind of wishing that it had been, too.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
100 Word Song/Master Class: "Baby Monitor"
[Our metal pal Leeroy, who has switched to a different viscosity of oil for the frigid winter months while picking up for his humanoid buddy Lance, who is busier than the condom salesman on Valentine's Day, brings us Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" for this week's 100 Word Song. In addition to that, Professor Sudden SAM teaches her first Master Class with a line from Julia Glass' "Three Junes", which is the first line of this piece, which a clever combination of both prompts called "Baby Monitor"]
Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic. "You can do this," the universe tells you, unctuous and smarmy. "Never mind the time required, the money, the energy, the life force, your complete lack of qualifications, you can handle this. If a teen in Arkansas can handle it, so can you." So you struggle onwards, greeting the 3am crying jags with a forced smile, pretending you are happy to see the tiny person when your every cell screams for sleep. You're tired, and frustrated, and you want to give up, but you won't back down.
Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic. "You can do this," the universe tells you, unctuous and smarmy. "Never mind the time required, the money, the energy, the life force, your complete lack of qualifications, you can handle this. If a teen in Arkansas can handle it, so can you." So you struggle onwards, greeting the 3am crying jags with a forced smile, pretending you are happy to see the tiny person when your every cell screams for sleep. You're tired, and frustrated, and you want to give up, but you won't back down.
VV: "Good Morning Good Morning"
Our friend Velvet, who is kind to old women and small children and always pays her taxes on time, slips us a 100 Word Challenge this week with the word "Surviving". This is called "Good Morning Good Morning".
She smiled at me as I came in through the front door. It was the same ritual, the unofficial beginning of my work shift.
"Good morning," I said to Dawn. "How are you?"
"Fine," she usually said, expertly balancing phone calls and incoming email, her blue eyes excited with the prospect of another day, plunging into life.
"Surviving," she said today. Her eyes were puffy, with dark circles. I searched her face for clues.
"How are you?," she asked.
"Fine," I lied.
I wanted to ask, but I didn't stop. I wasn't that kind of person, really. Neither was she.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
TWC: "Trials"
(My Trifectan friends, who agree with George Thorogood that "one aint enough, Jack, you better make it three", provide Trifecta Nation with the word "exhaust" this week. This is called "Trials".)
"We need to exhaust all the avenues here. There are combinations we haven't tried, and work is going on all the time. New biologics are being found. I was just at a conference where a French oncologist was showing off a new compound he was using on exactly this kind of disease. There are lots and lots of options."
Her voice was smooth and soft, like I imagined her hair would be. I wondered what she would say if I asked her if I could touch it. It would probably be against the rules. It was fastened on top of her head in a tortoiseshell clip, and it framed her face with very gentle waves. A strand or two had come loose, and I could see them bounce about as she moved her head. She kept her knees tightly together as she faced me, her hands open and flat on the tops of her thighs. I looked guiltily at the tiny dark triangle where her skirt gapped between her knees. The line of the hem was razor sharp. A pencil skirt, I remember hearing someone call it. Her toes pointed straight at me in her modest black shoes.
"May I have your permission to apply for one of the trials Dr. Patel is running downstairs?"
No, I thought, I've had it. Just let me go. Give me some painkillers and let me off of this ride, and I'll go have a jam session with Kurt Cobain in heaven. It's my decision, and I just want all the foolishness about appointments and drugs and infusions over with. No. It's over.
I looked into her eyes, brown and wide and earnest, and I could see how much she wanted me to say yes.
"Sure," I said without realizing it. I never could say no to a pretty face.
"We need to exhaust all the avenues here. There are combinations we haven't tried, and work is going on all the time. New biologics are being found. I was just at a conference where a French oncologist was showing off a new compound he was using on exactly this kind of disease. There are lots and lots of options."
Her voice was smooth and soft, like I imagined her hair would be. I wondered what she would say if I asked her if I could touch it. It would probably be against the rules. It was fastened on top of her head in a tortoiseshell clip, and it framed her face with very gentle waves. A strand or two had come loose, and I could see them bounce about as she moved her head. She kept her knees tightly together as she faced me, her hands open and flat on the tops of her thighs. I looked guiltily at the tiny dark triangle where her skirt gapped between her knees. The line of the hem was razor sharp. A pencil skirt, I remember hearing someone call it. Her toes pointed straight at me in her modest black shoes.
"May I have your permission to apply for one of the trials Dr. Patel is running downstairs?"
No, I thought, I've had it. Just let me go. Give me some painkillers and let me off of this ride, and I'll go have a jam session with Kurt Cobain in heaven. It's my decision, and I just want all the foolishness about appointments and drugs and infusions over with. No. It's over.
I looked into her eyes, brown and wide and earnest, and I could see how much she wanted me to say yes.
"Sure," I said without realizing it. I never could say no to a pretty face.
100 Word Song: "Distance"
(Our friend Leeroy,whose electronic door I have not darkened in a while for no good reason, along with his carbon based life form friend Lance, present us with Billy Idol's "John Wayne" this week for the 100 Word Song. This is called "Distance".)
Modern technology brought her voice right next to me, but I could still feel every single mile that separated us.
"I'd save you all this suffering if I could."
"I know," she said. She sounded like she had just finished crying. Or was just about to start.
"There's nothing I can do?"
"Not unless you have $12,900."
I didn't. "I'm sorry. I feel helpless. I hate feeling this way. I want to save you. That's what I am supposed to do. I'm a guy."
"I'm not looking for a hero," she said softly. "I'm just looking for a friend."
Modern technology brought her voice right next to me, but I could still feel every single mile that separated us.
"I'd save you all this suffering if I could."
"I know," she said. She sounded like she had just finished crying. Or was just about to start.
"There's nothing I can do?"
"Not unless you have $12,900."
I didn't. "I'm sorry. I feel helpless. I hate feeling this way. I want to save you. That's what I am supposed to do. I'm a guy."
"I'm not looking for a hero," she said softly. "I'm just looking for a friend."
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
SPE: "Better Than Us"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: "Pick a four-syllable word you don't know out of the dictionary. Write a word around that prompt."
I gave Ankita this prompt: "My father's theory is: Listen, if someday you're going to tell someone to dig a ditch, you should know how to do it yourself." -Donald Trump Jr.]
(This prompt puzzled me a bit. It's almost metaphysical. I probably have a dictionary somewhere, but I'm not entirely sure where. More puzzling is the idea of it. There aren't a whole lot of words, in my experience, that I don't know, or haven't heard and have a general idea of the meaning of. Further, once I find the word and read the definition, I know it, thus negating the intent of the prompt. So I settled on "sequestration", mostly because it fit.)
Staff Sargeant Kelly poked her head through the door. That was unusual- we could go through a typical day without exchanging more than a dozen words, which suited us both just fine. Her hair was pulled back tight, and I could see the hint of makeup around her eyes.
"Colonel?," she asked. I wasn't doing anything of deep importance, but I was busy enough to be slightly annoyed by the interruption.
"Yes?"
"A Ms. Doreen Clarke is here to see you, sir."
"She doesn't have an appointment," I said uselessly. She knew that as well as I did.
"No, sir. Who is she, sir?"
I sighed. I knew Doreen would wait all day if she had to.
"I served with her late husband." I took a deep breath. "Show her in, would you?"
"Yes, sir," she said, her head ducking away. The door opened to reveal Doreen, the picture of middle aged health in a tan pencil skirt, flat black shoes, and a muted green blouse, all clean and pressed and neat looking. One thing military wives learn to do, I thought, is look put together.
"Doreen," I said warily. "How are you?"
She walked in and sat in my office chair without being invited. "Allen," she said evenly, "we need to talk."
I swallowed. "OK."
"Where is it?," she said. "I haven't gotten anything since August."
"I know," I said. I started to walk across my office. I had a Redskins calendar hanging on my olive drab file cabinet, with Sunday's Eagles game circled. I had two tickets down low that I had won in an office pool. "I had been meaning to call and explain."
"Explain?" Doreen said. "Explain what? What's to explain?"
"Sequestration." I stared out the window onto a parking lot, watching a bird come down and begin to wrestle with a discarded potato chip.
"What? You mean the budget crap that's on the news? That?" She uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them. She was leaning back now, her face skeptical and questioning.
"Yes," I said. "They're all over me, questioning every cent. I can't squeeze out overages like I used to. The cuts are coming, and we don't know how deep yet, so we are all down to skeletons. Bare bones on everything. I can't play fast and loose with numbers right now."
"Which means what?" Doreen said acidly. "Bottom line it. Am I just SOL? Or what?"
I smiled at the acronym. "Of course not," I said. I reached down for my briefcase, pulling it up onto my desk. "I told you I owe Robert my life," I said. "And I take care of people who take care of me."
"You did," Doreen said. "And I believed you."
"It's true, Dor," I said plaintively. "It is true."
"Don't call me that," she spat. I took out my checkbook and my Mont Blanc, one of the extravagances I allowed myself.
"A check, Allen?," she said in disbelief.
"I don't carry that kind of cash around, Dor," I said.
"Fine," she said.
I wrote the amount and signed it, noting it carefully in the register.
"What are you writing in there?," she said. "Bastard child?"
I swallowed again. "I use acronyms all the time. Marie is used to it by now. Besides, she never looks at the checkbook."
"Am I going to have to chase you every month now?"
"No, Dor," I said. "Doreen," I quickly added. "No. I'll make sure it is there on time next month."
"It better be," she added. "I don't want to have to go through channels."
"We discussed this, Doreen," I said, putting a little iron in my voice. "It's better she thinks Robert is her father. She ends up worse off if we do it that way. We all do."
"You do, certainly," she said, and then smiled grimly. "I know, Allen. You're right. I just hate lying to her."
"I do too." I tore out the check and came around the desk to give it to her. She stood up quickly, snatching it from my hand without ceremony. She folded it once and slid it into her purse.
"Just mail it next time," she said.
"OK," I said. She started to walk across the room. She still had the strutting, hip swinging walk of the young woman she was, all those years ago at 29 Palms. She stopped and looked back at me, her voice as cold as the onrushing autumn breeze.
"Aren't you even going to ask how she is?"
"How is she?"
"Elizabeth is fine," she said evenly. "She's going to be a better person than either one of us turned out to be," she said, opening the door and then letting it slam shut behind her.
I gave Ankita this prompt: "My father's theory is: Listen, if someday you're going to tell someone to dig a ditch, you should know how to do it yourself." -Donald Trump Jr.]
(This prompt puzzled me a bit. It's almost metaphysical. I probably have a dictionary somewhere, but I'm not entirely sure where. More puzzling is the idea of it. There aren't a whole lot of words, in my experience, that I don't know, or haven't heard and have a general idea of the meaning of. Further, once I find the word and read the definition, I know it, thus negating the intent of the prompt. So I settled on "sequestration", mostly because it fit.)
Staff Sargeant Kelly poked her head through the door. That was unusual- we could go through a typical day without exchanging more than a dozen words, which suited us both just fine. Her hair was pulled back tight, and I could see the hint of makeup around her eyes.
"Colonel?," she asked. I wasn't doing anything of deep importance, but I was busy enough to be slightly annoyed by the interruption.
"Yes?"
"A Ms. Doreen Clarke is here to see you, sir."
"She doesn't have an appointment," I said uselessly. She knew that as well as I did.
"No, sir. Who is she, sir?"
I sighed. I knew Doreen would wait all day if she had to.
"I served with her late husband." I took a deep breath. "Show her in, would you?"
"Yes, sir," she said, her head ducking away. The door opened to reveal Doreen, the picture of middle aged health in a tan pencil skirt, flat black shoes, and a muted green blouse, all clean and pressed and neat looking. One thing military wives learn to do, I thought, is look put together.
"Doreen," I said warily. "How are you?"
She walked in and sat in my office chair without being invited. "Allen," she said evenly, "we need to talk."
I swallowed. "OK."
"Where is it?," she said. "I haven't gotten anything since August."
"I know," I said. I started to walk across my office. I had a Redskins calendar hanging on my olive drab file cabinet, with Sunday's Eagles game circled. I had two tickets down low that I had won in an office pool. "I had been meaning to call and explain."
"Explain?" Doreen said. "Explain what? What's to explain?"
"Sequestration." I stared out the window onto a parking lot, watching a bird come down and begin to wrestle with a discarded potato chip.
"What? You mean the budget crap that's on the news? That?" She uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them. She was leaning back now, her face skeptical and questioning.
"Yes," I said. "They're all over me, questioning every cent. I can't squeeze out overages like I used to. The cuts are coming, and we don't know how deep yet, so we are all down to skeletons. Bare bones on everything. I can't play fast and loose with numbers right now."
"Which means what?" Doreen said acidly. "Bottom line it. Am I just SOL? Or what?"
I smiled at the acronym. "Of course not," I said. I reached down for my briefcase, pulling it up onto my desk. "I told you I owe Robert my life," I said. "And I take care of people who take care of me."
"You did," Doreen said. "And I believed you."
"It's true, Dor," I said plaintively. "It is true."
"Don't call me that," she spat. I took out my checkbook and my Mont Blanc, one of the extravagances I allowed myself.
"A check, Allen?," she said in disbelief.
"I don't carry that kind of cash around, Dor," I said.
"Fine," she said.
I wrote the amount and signed it, noting it carefully in the register.
"What are you writing in there?," she said. "Bastard child?"
I swallowed again. "I use acronyms all the time. Marie is used to it by now. Besides, she never looks at the checkbook."
"Am I going to have to chase you every month now?"
"No, Dor," I said. "Doreen," I quickly added. "No. I'll make sure it is there on time next month."
"It better be," she added. "I don't want to have to go through channels."
"We discussed this, Doreen," I said, putting a little iron in my voice. "It's better she thinks Robert is her father. She ends up worse off if we do it that way. We all do."
"You do, certainly," she said, and then smiled grimly. "I know, Allen. You're right. I just hate lying to her."
"I do too." I tore out the check and came around the desk to give it to her. She stood up quickly, snatching it from my hand without ceremony. She folded it once and slid it into her purse.
"Just mail it next time," she said.
"OK," I said. She started to walk across the room. She still had the strutting, hip swinging walk of the young woman she was, all those years ago at 29 Palms. She stopped and looked back at me, her voice as cold as the onrushing autumn breeze.
"Aren't you even going to ask how she is?"
"How is she?"
"Elizabeth is fine," she said evenly. "She's going to be a better person than either one of us turned out to be," she said, opening the door and then letting it slam shut behind her.
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