The immortal and slightly henpecked Lance, whose blog can beat up your blog, as well as your Pinterest and Facebook pages, continues with the mad dash which is the 100 Word Song Challenge. This week's inspiration was selected by yours truly, the Black Crowes' "Hotel Illness".
The room was dark, silent and still. It had the smell of accumulated sweat and funk that you get used to when you live with another human being, whatever their age or gender.
"You OK?," I said into the dark. She had cried out suddenly, sharply, bringing me to full alertness in that panicked way parents and submariners understand.
"Yeah....migraine...," she said weakly.
"Anything I can do?"
"No," she said. "Well, yes. Sit with me. I hate feeling alone."
I went into her room and sat there, saying nothing, until her breathing finally slackened into the quiet of sleep.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Part Seven Of The Thing We Continue Not Naming
[Author's Note: We simply must stop meeting like this. The Thing That Has Become A Thing is continuing to be A Thing. Please read Maid Marian's marvelous addition to the saga here, which we are calling Part 6, partially because it's the sixth part, and partially because we haven't thought of a better name. This is Part 7. Your move, Runaway Sentence! (For a link to parts 1-4, please look here on the entry for Part 5.) (As always, the standard disclaimer applies: NSFW, Your Mileage May Vary, Some Settling May Occur, Manufactured in a Facility Where Peanuts Are Present, Past Performance Is No Guarantee of Future Results, Costume Does Not Enable Wearer to Fly)]
I had settled into my morning routine. I answered some routine emails, took care of other minor business, then spread out some paper on my drawing table, removing a mug full of drawing pens to sit beside me. I really only needed a dozen or so, but I bought them compulsively, seeking out new ones on exotic Japanese pen sites, filling up mug after mug, the excess spilling into my duffel bag. I needed 5 concepts to take to a meeting this afternoon, and while I had 4 drawn up, I really wanted to have a fifth. I was still shaken by the strong emotion Aimee had left in her wake, so I sat quietly, allowing my mind to drift, waiting for the muse to take me.
I certainly had felt stirrings before. While I had never been unfaithful, like anyone, I daydreamed. Surrounded by women who are smart and smell nice and look pretty all day long, who wouldn't? I didn't consider it infidelity, but I certainly didn't make a point to bring it up at home. We had more than enough items to fight about without dragging in new ones. It was just harmless null activity, like a screensaver on a computer monitor, something that your brain does between other things. While the feelings Aimee evoked were startlingly strong and explicit, I didn't act on them, and she didn't suggest that I do so.
I was doodling a stylized version of the Major League Baseball logo, a silhouette of Harmon Killebrew lacing a double into the gap, thinking about my different lunch options, when my door opened. It was general practice to knock, our offices being home to some temperamental artists, so it startled me. I dropped my pen and pushed my chair back. The pen fell to the floor.
Aimee was standing there, a cardboard box of copy paper in her hands. The box was full of what must be the contents of her desk. I could see the top of a bonsai tree, and the back of what was probably the framed picture of her sister's kids. Aimee wasn't the crying type- some women were, and she adamantly wasn't- so to hear her voice crack was heartbreaking.
"I'm-I'm-I'm sorry, Michael, I...I just....he didn't take it well." Her face was already reddening, the makeup around her eyes starting to blur.
"He wants me out. Now. Today."
"He doesn't want you to help with Griffiths? That was your baby!"
"Nope," she said. She sniffed once. "I just wanted to say goodbye. Again. I've learned so much from you. I really appreciate everything you've done for me...God. I've got to get out of here before I lose it completely."
I was stunned. Dave, the mercurial bald mystic that built our firm into a leader in the Pacific Northwest, was the prototypical founder. If you were pleasing him, you could do no wrong. But if something didn't go well on your watch, there were few people you less wanted to see. He took every business decision personally- if the firm placed first and second in a competition, he wanted to know why we didn't get third place too. We put up with his rages because he paid well, and because he didn't stand over your shoulder as you worked. To throw someone right into the street when they resigned was cruel, even for him.
Aimee was backing away. I jumped to my feet.
"Aim," I said quickly. "Let me buy you lunch. Something."
"Oh no," she said, her lip quivering. "I couldn't."
"No, let me," I said. "Let's go to the shiny diner and talk about it." A local eatery with cheap, decent fare, the shiny diner was so named because the new owners decided to cover the outside of the building with silver siding that made it look like a spaceship.
"I'm a mess, Michael. I can't."
"Aim, please. You clean up pretty good."
She looked down. "Thanks." I could hear her breathing, labored and short.
"Please?"
"OK. Fine. You win. I'll meet you there."
She went into the bathroom, and I locked up my supplies and left. I went in as the lunch rush was beginning, securing a table that overlooked the parking lot and a grove of trees on the other side of the highway. After ordering drinks (I worked with Aimee enough to know she would want a Diet Coke), she finally came in. She had washed her makeup off, but enough residual redness remained to give her a sort of glow. Traces of water lingered in the hair around her face.
"Sorry. I started to clean up, then I lost it again. I had to wash all over again. I left a mass of paper towels behind."
"Serves him right," I said.
She smiled.
"I appreciate this, Michael. I just feel so...so ashamed. He made me feel so small!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. He's a small man. He's very driven, and he feels like if you're not on his team, you're on the opposing team. He takes resignations personally. He shouldn't. But he does. He's a child. It's what makes him great, but it also makes him petty."
"Yeah," she said softly. The waitress, a wide hipped blonde with black roots, took their orders, and then they were alone again.
"I wonder why he can't just be happy for me?"
"It's not in his DNA," I said. "That software was not installed on his machine. This is a good opportunity for you. You need to do things like this now, before you get tied down."
"I kind of wish I was tied down," she said.
"Oh, no you don't," I said chuckling. "It's no fun. Trust me."
"I know," she said. "I don't really mean that. But I have always envied you. You have permanence. You know who you are."
"Ha," I said. "I have no idea who I am. Never have."
She looked down and blushed a little bit more. "You know what I mean. You're Dad. You're a husband. You're a son. You're a brother. You have a network. People who are linked to you, forever and ever, no matter what. I feel rootless. The only connection I have is to an ex husband, and I don't even want that."
"I see what you mean," I said. "But you have freedom."
"I know I do. Believe me, when I see some mother trying to maneuver a stroller in Starbucks, I thank God that I do. But sometimes it feels like a curse, being free. I want to matter. I want people to notice when I'm gone."
"I notice. I have noticed. I will notice."
"I know, Michael. You're sweet."
The food came, and we busied ourselves with cutting, arranging, and pouring ketchup.
"Do you remember the Christmas party? The one at the Hilton?" It was two Christmases ago, when a particularly fertile final quarter put Dave into a munificent mood. We hadn't had one since.
"Sure. You wore that short sparkly green dress, but you got sick and had to leave early."
"I'm flattered you remembered," she said, chewing on a bite of salad. "But I wasn't really sick. I spent the whole first hour just staring at you and your wife. If I was sick, it was envy. I've never wanted to be someone else so much in my life. I watched you two, how you would be talking to someone else, but your eyes...your eyes would just flick back to her. Just for a fraction of a second, but you tracked her, probably without knowing it, the whole time. And she tracked you. It's that kind of connection I'm talking about. It's atomic. It's primeval. I went home because I couldn't stand the fact that I don't have that connection with anyone, and I never will."
"I don't think that's-"
"Don't, Michael. Don't. I know what you're going to say. I have read it in a thousand magazine articles, and I've seen it on a hundred TV shows, and I've read it in a thousand books. 'You'll find someone! Don't worry! Just be yourself!' I've heard it before, so don't say it," she said, her voice edging up the register now.
"Okay," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
"Michael, I'm going to be honest with you. If you were single, we would be at my apartment right now."
I really didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, I managed to muster, "What makes you think I'd say yes?"
Her eyes twinkled, a long absent sign of merriment. "Michael," she said with disapproval. "I'm not 16 anymore. I know the signs. I'm not stupid." She was right, that was the damnable thing.
"I've been thinking about this for a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm right. Almost positive. They say everybody has one person, a perfect match, a yin to your yang. I thought my first husband was mine. Obviously, I was wrong. Now, after knowing you for 5 years or so now, I'm positive. You were mine. You were the one who I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. And she's got you, and I'm never going to have you. And I'm not OK with that, but I can live with it. And I have to, because I'm not going to be anyone's other woman."
She took another big bite, chewed and swallowed. I was staring at her, trying to get a handle on what she was saying. I was afraid to speak.
"Look, like I said, I'm not 16. I'm a grown person. I've read the books and the magazines. I know where my G spot is. I've been making myself orgasm since I was 12. So it's not that. There were days I wanted to throw you down on your desk, sure, and there were other days where I wanted to take the first guy to approach me at McGee's home. But I can take care of those needs myself. It's the kind of connection you have with your wife, that mystical something, that invisible force- that's what I was supposed to have with you. But she got you first. So I have to let it go."
She took a deep swallow of Diet Coke, then pulled her purse into her lap. Her salad was half eaten. She took out a ten and laid it on the counter, halfway between us.
"Thank you, Michael. Thank you for inviting me to lunch, and giving me a chance to say this. I had to get this out of my head. I feel a little better now."
She slid down the vinyl of the booth. She stood up, brushing a few crumbs off of her thighs. I looked up at her, my lunch still half eaten in front of me.
"This is it, Michael. Goodbye. I'll miss you. I'll miss you more than you can possibly know."
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked at me.
"By the way? There is no job in Philadelphia. I made it all up."
I watched her walk, her hips twitching invitingly, between the tables and out the front door.
I had settled into my morning routine. I answered some routine emails, took care of other minor business, then spread out some paper on my drawing table, removing a mug full of drawing pens to sit beside me. I really only needed a dozen or so, but I bought them compulsively, seeking out new ones on exotic Japanese pen sites, filling up mug after mug, the excess spilling into my duffel bag. I needed 5 concepts to take to a meeting this afternoon, and while I had 4 drawn up, I really wanted to have a fifth. I was still shaken by the strong emotion Aimee had left in her wake, so I sat quietly, allowing my mind to drift, waiting for the muse to take me.
I certainly had felt stirrings before. While I had never been unfaithful, like anyone, I daydreamed. Surrounded by women who are smart and smell nice and look pretty all day long, who wouldn't? I didn't consider it infidelity, but I certainly didn't make a point to bring it up at home. We had more than enough items to fight about without dragging in new ones. It was just harmless null activity, like a screensaver on a computer monitor, something that your brain does between other things. While the feelings Aimee evoked were startlingly strong and explicit, I didn't act on them, and she didn't suggest that I do so.
I was doodling a stylized version of the Major League Baseball logo, a silhouette of Harmon Killebrew lacing a double into the gap, thinking about my different lunch options, when my door opened. It was general practice to knock, our offices being home to some temperamental artists, so it startled me. I dropped my pen and pushed my chair back. The pen fell to the floor.
Aimee was standing there, a cardboard box of copy paper in her hands. The box was full of what must be the contents of her desk. I could see the top of a bonsai tree, and the back of what was probably the framed picture of her sister's kids. Aimee wasn't the crying type- some women were, and she adamantly wasn't- so to hear her voice crack was heartbreaking.
"I'm-I'm-I'm sorry, Michael, I...I just....he didn't take it well." Her face was already reddening, the makeup around her eyes starting to blur.
"He wants me out. Now. Today."
"He doesn't want you to help with Griffiths? That was your baby!"
"Nope," she said. She sniffed once. "I just wanted to say goodbye. Again. I've learned so much from you. I really appreciate everything you've done for me...God. I've got to get out of here before I lose it completely."
I was stunned. Dave, the mercurial bald mystic that built our firm into a leader in the Pacific Northwest, was the prototypical founder. If you were pleasing him, you could do no wrong. But if something didn't go well on your watch, there were few people you less wanted to see. He took every business decision personally- if the firm placed first and second in a competition, he wanted to know why we didn't get third place too. We put up with his rages because he paid well, and because he didn't stand over your shoulder as you worked. To throw someone right into the street when they resigned was cruel, even for him.
Aimee was backing away. I jumped to my feet.
"Aim," I said quickly. "Let me buy you lunch. Something."
"Oh no," she said, her lip quivering. "I couldn't."
"No, let me," I said. "Let's go to the shiny diner and talk about it." A local eatery with cheap, decent fare, the shiny diner was so named because the new owners decided to cover the outside of the building with silver siding that made it look like a spaceship.
"I'm a mess, Michael. I can't."
"Aim, please. You clean up pretty good."
She looked down. "Thanks." I could hear her breathing, labored and short.
"Please?"
"OK. Fine. You win. I'll meet you there."
She went into the bathroom, and I locked up my supplies and left. I went in as the lunch rush was beginning, securing a table that overlooked the parking lot and a grove of trees on the other side of the highway. After ordering drinks (I worked with Aimee enough to know she would want a Diet Coke), she finally came in. She had washed her makeup off, but enough residual redness remained to give her a sort of glow. Traces of water lingered in the hair around her face.
"Sorry. I started to clean up, then I lost it again. I had to wash all over again. I left a mass of paper towels behind."
"Serves him right," I said.
She smiled.
"I appreciate this, Michael. I just feel so...so ashamed. He made me feel so small!"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. He's a small man. He's very driven, and he feels like if you're not on his team, you're on the opposing team. He takes resignations personally. He shouldn't. But he does. He's a child. It's what makes him great, but it also makes him petty."
"Yeah," she said softly. The waitress, a wide hipped blonde with black roots, took their orders, and then they were alone again.
"I wonder why he can't just be happy for me?"
"It's not in his DNA," I said. "That software was not installed on his machine. This is a good opportunity for you. You need to do things like this now, before you get tied down."
"I kind of wish I was tied down," she said.
"Oh, no you don't," I said chuckling. "It's no fun. Trust me."
"I know," she said. "I don't really mean that. But I have always envied you. You have permanence. You know who you are."
"Ha," I said. "I have no idea who I am. Never have."
She looked down and blushed a little bit more. "You know what I mean. You're Dad. You're a husband. You're a son. You're a brother. You have a network. People who are linked to you, forever and ever, no matter what. I feel rootless. The only connection I have is to an ex husband, and I don't even want that."
"I see what you mean," I said. "But you have freedom."
"I know I do. Believe me, when I see some mother trying to maneuver a stroller in Starbucks, I thank God that I do. But sometimes it feels like a curse, being free. I want to matter. I want people to notice when I'm gone."
"I notice. I have noticed. I will notice."
"I know, Michael. You're sweet."
The food came, and we busied ourselves with cutting, arranging, and pouring ketchup.
"Do you remember the Christmas party? The one at the Hilton?" It was two Christmases ago, when a particularly fertile final quarter put Dave into a munificent mood. We hadn't had one since.
"Sure. You wore that short sparkly green dress, but you got sick and had to leave early."
"I'm flattered you remembered," she said, chewing on a bite of salad. "But I wasn't really sick. I spent the whole first hour just staring at you and your wife. If I was sick, it was envy. I've never wanted to be someone else so much in my life. I watched you two, how you would be talking to someone else, but your eyes...your eyes would just flick back to her. Just for a fraction of a second, but you tracked her, probably without knowing it, the whole time. And she tracked you. It's that kind of connection I'm talking about. It's atomic. It's primeval. I went home because I couldn't stand the fact that I don't have that connection with anyone, and I never will."
"I don't think that's-"
"Don't, Michael. Don't. I know what you're going to say. I have read it in a thousand magazine articles, and I've seen it on a hundred TV shows, and I've read it in a thousand books. 'You'll find someone! Don't worry! Just be yourself!' I've heard it before, so don't say it," she said, her voice edging up the register now.
"Okay," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
"Michael, I'm going to be honest with you. If you were single, we would be at my apartment right now."
I really didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, I managed to muster, "What makes you think I'd say yes?"
Her eyes twinkled, a long absent sign of merriment. "Michael," she said with disapproval. "I'm not 16 anymore. I know the signs. I'm not stupid." She was right, that was the damnable thing.
"I've been thinking about this for a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm right. Almost positive. They say everybody has one person, a perfect match, a yin to your yang. I thought my first husband was mine. Obviously, I was wrong. Now, after knowing you for 5 years or so now, I'm positive. You were mine. You were the one who I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. And she's got you, and I'm never going to have you. And I'm not OK with that, but I can live with it. And I have to, because I'm not going to be anyone's other woman."
She took another big bite, chewed and swallowed. I was staring at her, trying to get a handle on what she was saying. I was afraid to speak.
"Look, like I said, I'm not 16. I'm a grown person. I've read the books and the magazines. I know where my G spot is. I've been making myself orgasm since I was 12. So it's not that. There were days I wanted to throw you down on your desk, sure, and there were other days where I wanted to take the first guy to approach me at McGee's home. But I can take care of those needs myself. It's the kind of connection you have with your wife, that mystical something, that invisible force- that's what I was supposed to have with you. But she got you first. So I have to let it go."
She took a deep swallow of Diet Coke, then pulled her purse into her lap. Her salad was half eaten. She took out a ten and laid it on the counter, halfway between us.
"Thank you, Michael. Thank you for inviting me to lunch, and giving me a chance to say this. I had to get this out of my head. I feel a little better now."
She slid down the vinyl of the booth. She stood up, brushing a few crumbs off of her thighs. I looked up at her, my lunch still half eaten in front of me.
"This is it, Michael. Goodbye. I'll miss you. I'll miss you more than you can possibly know."
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked at me.
"By the way? There is no job in Philadelphia. I made it all up."
I watched her walk, her hips twitching invitingly, between the tables and out the front door.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Self Promotion Gazette, Tuesdays With Me Edition
Right off the top, Mr. Matt Potter from A Land Down Under has seen fit to publish a story of mine in his Valhalla of Flash Fictional Excellence, the one and only Pure Slush. The story is called "Orangina and Yogurt", and it can be found here.
Second of all, my main man Lance, who is not only dope on the floor, but magic on the mic as well, has chosen my 100 word story as this week's winner of the 100 Word Song Jamboree. You can read it again (and why wouldn't you) here, and feel to jump in with your own entry with this week's song, "Hotel Illness".
Second of all, my main man Lance, who is not only dope on the floor, but magic on the mic as well, has chosen my 100 word story as this week's winner of the 100 Word Song Jamboree. You can read it again (and why wouldn't you) here, and feel to jump in with your own entry with this week's song, "Hotel Illness".
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "What I Am Is What I Am"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Dim Dom challenged me with "You are walking out the door to go to work and your car keys are not where you usually put them." and I challenged Carrie with " 'I yearn for honesty in life. As an artist, I yearn for the clear moment.' -Jack Nicholson"
[Author's Note: This is a little weird, and a bit of a departure for me. Either this is excellent, or I missed completely. I can't tell. Comments welcome, whichever side of the fence you fall on.]
The day started like it always did, suddenly emerging from the fog of a nightmare. We had been watching one of those History Channel shows about ancient wars, which wound up filling my dreams with clanging swords, grunting, sweating effort, and blood and gore on the tan sand. I gained consciousness, swimming to the surface, checking my surroundings. Reality came swimming back suddenly- it was Friday, I was at home, and my alarm was nagging at me from across the room. Morning, I thought, then got up to turn off the blaring, angry tone.
I placed it across the room for precisely that reason- by the time I walked over there to shut it off, I would be fully awake. The distance seemed longer than it should be, almost like someone had rearranged our bedroom in the night. The floor felt cold under my feet, which was odd, and cold air was rushing up my legs, which was also strange. Clearly, I had managed to remove both my pants and socks during the night. I made my way to the bureau, finally slapping my alarm to silence it.
I realized the jacket I had brought home from the cleaners last night was still hanging in the back seat of my car. If I was going to wear it today, as I had planned, I needed to get pants on and go get it. I started fumbling with the objects on the dresser, knowing I had left my keys there. I kept the light out in deference to my sleeping companion. I knew the keys were there- I always left them there. It was my evening routine.
"What are you looking for," a voice said sleepily. I was surprised at how deep it sounded.
"My keys," I said. My voice sounded strange, too high. I cleared my throat. "I left them here. I always leave them here."
I gave up on the keys momentarily and crouched down, feeling around for the sweatpants.
"Your keys are in your purse. Besides, what are you doing up? I'm taking the kids to school before work, remember? This is your day to sleep in!" The voice was still too low, I thought. Why did we both sound so odd? My purse? What?
I found the familiar feel of the cotton pants, pulling them close. I stood to begin to work them up over my bare legs. They were enormous and billowy, far too large. I felt the fabric slide downwards over my waist. I grabbed it, trying to find some purchase on my body that would hold them up.
"What do you mean?," I said, still sounding too high, no matter how much I tried to clear my throat.
"What do you mean, what do I mean?," the voice said in the dark, strong and firm. "I'm going to get an early shower and get the kids to school while you sleep in. Like we discussed. Come to bed."
My head spun for a moment. I remembered that conversation. I had agreed to get up a little earlier and do the school run, giving up on the luxury of being the last one to leave, the one who can linger over SportsCenter, the morning paper, and a second cup of coffee. It was a fair trade, I thought. So why was I now the one staying home? What was going on here? I tried to pull the sweatpants up, waiting until I felt that I had pulled them taut. They swam on my body, as if they had grown 10 sizes overnight. Had I discovered the secret to quick, painless weight loss? I tried to tuck my shirt into the sweatpants to hold them up.
Suddenly, I was fully awake. My hands found buttery smooth skin, with taut, eager quads, where my misshapen thighs should be. I slid my hands all over- up, down, sideways- finding only smooth skin. Not perfectly smooth, but smoother than mine, with virtually no hair. Had my body hair fallen off overnight? I felt different, unreal. I had to be dreaming. My hands ran up my belly, across my rib cage, finding the shocking weight and warmth of a woman's breasts.
My wife's breasts. I recognized the feel, although I had never felt them from this angle. If this was a dream, it was a particularly vivid one.
I silently recited my name, my social security number, my ATM password. I knew who I was. I was born in Boston. I recited the starting lineup of the 1986 Red Sox: Boggs, Barrett, and Buckner, Rice, Evans, and Baylor, Henderson, Gedman, and Owen. I remembered the first girl I ever kissed, who I lost my virginity to, who played bass on "Big Man On Mulberry Street". I remembered driving the boss' Audi on deliveries, playing "New York State of Mind" over and over again, blasting it through the sun roof. I remembered the first concert I went to, and the first person I ever saw pass out from drinking too much. I remembered my child being born, my brother's names and dates of birth, my college graduation. I rested my hands on my suddenly ample hips. I must have looked like I was molesting myself. I felt myself breathe, felt intestinal gurgles and shifted my weight from side to side. This was definitely not my body, but this was absolutely my mind.
"Come to bed," the voice said. I suddenly realized why it didn't sound right- I was listening to my voice from outside, instead of in the echo chamber of my own head. I allowed my hands to slide forward, then inexorably below my belly button. That was definitely new. I knew my own thoughts, knew my own history, but I was inside my wife's body.
I wonder who is inside my body? Is that also me? He seems to have my memories, too. So where is my wife? What is going on?
And where the hell are those keys?
[Author's Note: This is a little weird, and a bit of a departure for me. Either this is excellent, or I missed completely. I can't tell. Comments welcome, whichever side of the fence you fall on.]
The day started like it always did, suddenly emerging from the fog of a nightmare. We had been watching one of those History Channel shows about ancient wars, which wound up filling my dreams with clanging swords, grunting, sweating effort, and blood and gore on the tan sand. I gained consciousness, swimming to the surface, checking my surroundings. Reality came swimming back suddenly- it was Friday, I was at home, and my alarm was nagging at me from across the room. Morning, I thought, then got up to turn off the blaring, angry tone.
I placed it across the room for precisely that reason- by the time I walked over there to shut it off, I would be fully awake. The distance seemed longer than it should be, almost like someone had rearranged our bedroom in the night. The floor felt cold under my feet, which was odd, and cold air was rushing up my legs, which was also strange. Clearly, I had managed to remove both my pants and socks during the night. I made my way to the bureau, finally slapping my alarm to silence it.
I realized the jacket I had brought home from the cleaners last night was still hanging in the back seat of my car. If I was going to wear it today, as I had planned, I needed to get pants on and go get it. I started fumbling with the objects on the dresser, knowing I had left my keys there. I kept the light out in deference to my sleeping companion. I knew the keys were there- I always left them there. It was my evening routine.
"What are you looking for," a voice said sleepily. I was surprised at how deep it sounded.
"My keys," I said. My voice sounded strange, too high. I cleared my throat. "I left them here. I always leave them here."
I gave up on the keys momentarily and crouched down, feeling around for the sweatpants.
"Your keys are in your purse. Besides, what are you doing up? I'm taking the kids to school before work, remember? This is your day to sleep in!" The voice was still too low, I thought. Why did we both sound so odd? My purse? What?
I found the familiar feel of the cotton pants, pulling them close. I stood to begin to work them up over my bare legs. They were enormous and billowy, far too large. I felt the fabric slide downwards over my waist. I grabbed it, trying to find some purchase on my body that would hold them up.
"What do you mean?," I said, still sounding too high, no matter how much I tried to clear my throat.
"What do you mean, what do I mean?," the voice said in the dark, strong and firm. "I'm going to get an early shower and get the kids to school while you sleep in. Like we discussed. Come to bed."
My head spun for a moment. I remembered that conversation. I had agreed to get up a little earlier and do the school run, giving up on the luxury of being the last one to leave, the one who can linger over SportsCenter, the morning paper, and a second cup of coffee. It was a fair trade, I thought. So why was I now the one staying home? What was going on here? I tried to pull the sweatpants up, waiting until I felt that I had pulled them taut. They swam on my body, as if they had grown 10 sizes overnight. Had I discovered the secret to quick, painless weight loss? I tried to tuck my shirt into the sweatpants to hold them up.
Suddenly, I was fully awake. My hands found buttery smooth skin, with taut, eager quads, where my misshapen thighs should be. I slid my hands all over- up, down, sideways- finding only smooth skin. Not perfectly smooth, but smoother than mine, with virtually no hair. Had my body hair fallen off overnight? I felt different, unreal. I had to be dreaming. My hands ran up my belly, across my rib cage, finding the shocking weight and warmth of a woman's breasts.
My wife's breasts. I recognized the feel, although I had never felt them from this angle. If this was a dream, it was a particularly vivid one.
I silently recited my name, my social security number, my ATM password. I knew who I was. I was born in Boston. I recited the starting lineup of the 1986 Red Sox: Boggs, Barrett, and Buckner, Rice, Evans, and Baylor, Henderson, Gedman, and Owen. I remembered the first girl I ever kissed, who I lost my virginity to, who played bass on "Big Man On Mulberry Street". I remembered driving the boss' Audi on deliveries, playing "New York State of Mind" over and over again, blasting it through the sun roof. I remembered the first concert I went to, and the first person I ever saw pass out from drinking too much. I remembered my child being born, my brother's names and dates of birth, my college graduation. I rested my hands on my suddenly ample hips. I must have looked like I was molesting myself. I felt myself breathe, felt intestinal gurgles and shifted my weight from side to side. This was definitely not my body, but this was absolutely my mind.
"Come to bed," the voice said. I suddenly realized why it didn't sound right- I was listening to my voice from outside, instead of in the echo chamber of my own head. I allowed my hands to slide forward, then inexorably below my belly button. That was definitely new. I knew my own thoughts, knew my own history, but I was inside my wife's body.
I wonder who is inside my body? Is that also me? He seems to have my memories, too. So where is my wife? What is going on?
And where the hell are those keys?
Monday, February 13, 2012
100 Word Song: "I'm Leaving"
Funk Soul Brother Number One Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, continues the new tradition of 100 Word Challenges centered around a song, this week Bob Mould's "See A Little Light". My story is called "I'm Leaving."
Abby for the first time understood what it felt like to want to kill someone. "30 years, Roger?," she said, her voice low, acidic, and eerily calm. She was far beyond tears at this point.
"You spend 30 years with me, you have kids with me, you spend your whole adult life in this house with me, and now you tell me you were miserable the whole time? If you wanted to leave so bad, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you, Abs," he said softly, putting on his jacket. "You just weren't listening."
Abby for the first time understood what it felt like to want to kill someone. "30 years, Roger?," she said, her voice low, acidic, and eerily calm. She was far beyond tears at this point.
"You spend 30 years with me, you have kids with me, you spend your whole adult life in this house with me, and now you tell me you were miserable the whole time? If you wanted to leave so bad, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you, Abs," he said softly, putting on his jacket. "You just weren't listening."
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
"What Happened": Indie Ink Writing Challenge
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Nimue challenged me with "A (pick a color) bottle and a (pick another color) glass together changed the night for her; something even his smile could not" and I challenged Tara Roberts with " 'Blind faith, in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed.' -Bruce Springsteen"
The bottle was brown. It was a gentle brown, but still so opaque that it almost looked like the side of an adobe house. The bottle had a picture of a tree on it, with a bear looking out from behind the tree. The pictures were almost impressionistic, drawn with very few lines, so it could be something else. But it was probably a bear and a tree. The bear might mean the wine was from California- she thought she remembered Sophie having to memorize the 50 state flags, and California's had a bear on it. But she could be wrong. A lot of things she thought were true turned out not to be.
The glass was clear, but it had lipstick smudges and other stains on the sides. One smear looked like it was from spinach dip that had gotten onto her finger and was transferred onto the glass. The glass was dirty, but she made it a point of pride not to get a clean one. Those stains were her stains. There was a bit of red wine, no more than a sip, at the bottom of the glass. When she looked at it, she had a panicky feeling. She wanted to reach and pour more into the glass until it was almost full, but she wasn't sure she had the dexterity to do it. So she stared at the mostly empty glass and the half full bottle and thought about how nice it would be if someone refilled her glass for her.
She always felt tighter when she was drunk, like her insides were swelling up, about to burst through her skin. It was a frantic, nervous feeling, a restlessness that made her talk faster, move faster, do more. The only thing that soothed her was more wine, and that only worked for a while. She remembered everything, including showing Thomas' best friend Paul up to the kids' bathroom upstairs when the lower level one was occupied. She remembered what happened, the way he washed his hands and emerged to find her still standing there, the way he stood very close to her for the moment right before it happened, but she was unclear as to why it started, or exactly when, or how long it took. She remembered that it happened, though. She wanted it to happen, and then it happened, and then it was over. She wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what happened.
Then Thomas was getting up, starting to stack individual plates and cups into larger groups. She supposed she should help, although Thomas probably wouldn't say anything if she didn't. She gathered her feet together, pressing down hard on the toes of her shoes. They felt more stable than she thought. She felt weak, and sore, but able to stand. She pushed her chair back from the table, then slowly rose to her feet, wobbly in her high heels, but upright. She tugged at her dress, pulling it down where it had ridden up until it fell loose. She moved very deliberately, as if she was defusing a bomb, stacking empty cups together to move them into the trash, making decisions what leftovers would keep and which ones were ticketed for the trash. It reminded her of her first days at home after having Sophie, always doing everything very slowly and carefully because you never knew what motion would cause pain.
Thomas came into the room, lugging a green trash bag. She added a pile of dirty paper plates to the sodden mess he had collected. He smiled at her slowly, like he knew something she didn't know.
"That was fun, huh?"
"Yeah," she said, eyeing the swallow of wine still in her glass. Would it be too much to reach over and gulp it down?
Her head spun a little bit, and she stood still until it passed, then gently tipped a bowl full of potato chips back into the bag they came from. Why was he still smiling? She moved around the table, stacking, gathering, cleaning. She took very small steps. She wanted to take her shoes off, but she was pretty sure she wasn't coordinated enough to undo the buckles. Her insides shifted uncomfortably.
"We should do that again," he said.
"Not anytime soon," she said softly. She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"You OK?," he said, scooping the potato salad into the trash bag, where it fell with a wet, thick sound.
"Yeah," she said. "You know I get weepy when I drink," she added.
"Yes," he said. "Let's clean this up and go to bed. Kids'll be up soon." He smiled at her again. He looked proud.
"Yeah, let's do that," she said.
The bottle was brown. It was a gentle brown, but still so opaque that it almost looked like the side of an adobe house. The bottle had a picture of a tree on it, with a bear looking out from behind the tree. The pictures were almost impressionistic, drawn with very few lines, so it could be something else. But it was probably a bear and a tree. The bear might mean the wine was from California- she thought she remembered Sophie having to memorize the 50 state flags, and California's had a bear on it. But she could be wrong. A lot of things she thought were true turned out not to be.
The glass was clear, but it had lipstick smudges and other stains on the sides. One smear looked like it was from spinach dip that had gotten onto her finger and was transferred onto the glass. The glass was dirty, but she made it a point of pride not to get a clean one. Those stains were her stains. There was a bit of red wine, no more than a sip, at the bottom of the glass. When she looked at it, she had a panicky feeling. She wanted to reach and pour more into the glass until it was almost full, but she wasn't sure she had the dexterity to do it. So she stared at the mostly empty glass and the half full bottle and thought about how nice it would be if someone refilled her glass for her.
She always felt tighter when she was drunk, like her insides were swelling up, about to burst through her skin. It was a frantic, nervous feeling, a restlessness that made her talk faster, move faster, do more. The only thing that soothed her was more wine, and that only worked for a while. She remembered everything, including showing Thomas' best friend Paul up to the kids' bathroom upstairs when the lower level one was occupied. She remembered what happened, the way he washed his hands and emerged to find her still standing there, the way he stood very close to her for the moment right before it happened, but she was unclear as to why it started, or exactly when, or how long it took. She remembered that it happened, though. She wanted it to happen, and then it happened, and then it was over. She wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what happened.
Then Thomas was getting up, starting to stack individual plates and cups into larger groups. She supposed she should help, although Thomas probably wouldn't say anything if she didn't. She gathered her feet together, pressing down hard on the toes of her shoes. They felt more stable than she thought. She felt weak, and sore, but able to stand. She pushed her chair back from the table, then slowly rose to her feet, wobbly in her high heels, but upright. She tugged at her dress, pulling it down where it had ridden up until it fell loose. She moved very deliberately, as if she was defusing a bomb, stacking empty cups together to move them into the trash, making decisions what leftovers would keep and which ones were ticketed for the trash. It reminded her of her first days at home after having Sophie, always doing everything very slowly and carefully because you never knew what motion would cause pain.
Thomas came into the room, lugging a green trash bag. She added a pile of dirty paper plates to the sodden mess he had collected. He smiled at her slowly, like he knew something she didn't know.
"That was fun, huh?"
"Yeah," she said, eyeing the swallow of wine still in her glass. Would it be too much to reach over and gulp it down?
Her head spun a little bit, and she stood still until it passed, then gently tipped a bowl full of potato chips back into the bag they came from. Why was he still smiling? She moved around the table, stacking, gathering, cleaning. She took very small steps. She wanted to take her shoes off, but she was pretty sure she wasn't coordinated enough to undo the buckles. Her insides shifted uncomfortably.
"We should do that again," he said.
"Not anytime soon," she said softly. She felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
"You OK?," he said, scooping the potato salad into the trash bag, where it fell with a wet, thick sound.
"Yeah," she said. "You know I get weepy when I drink," she added.
"Yes," he said. "Let's clean this up and go to bed. Kids'll be up soon." He smiled at her again. He looked proud.
"Yeah, let's do that," she said.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Part Five Of The Thing That Has No Name
[Author's Note: Apparently, this is now a thing. I started the whole kerfluffle by writing this, and then the marvelous Marian over at Runaway Sentence wrote this, so I in turn wrote this, which induced Maid Marian to write this. Whatever this thing we have started is, this is part 5 of it. I don't think you need to read the previous ones to enjoy this one. But it can't hurt. (Previous warnings still apply. All of these stories are about adults doing adult things, and some of those things may include saying bad words and/or engaging in sexual activities. If you're offended by these stories, I guarantee a full refund of all the money you've ever paid to read this blog.)]
I always hate waking up. I'm never sure where the line is between the dream world and the real one, and it takes about thirty seconds of terrified thought before I banish the phantasmagoria of dream space for the concrete reality of my bed, this space, my life. I heard two things at once, the distant hiss of my wife starting her shower, and a bang, followed by a yelp, coming from the boys downstairs. I hauled myself upright, pulling my pants on to investigate, suddenly remembering when I felt unfamiliar pains from muscles I hadn't used in a while. We had spent long hours at a charity function last night, then come home and started some stupid fight. Then we made up.
I went downstairs, feeling like I was walking through paraffin wax, and separated the boys, who were bickering over a toy lightsaber. I put the toy out of reach, then set them on more appropriate tasks, drank some coffee, served breakfast, and kissed my wife, hair wet and gloriously messy, when she came down to continue the process. My uncle always said it required less manpower, was less costly and less complicated, to occupy France than it was to raise small children, and nearly every day we proved it.
Between the two of us, we eventually got clothes on everyone, shoes on feet, and the two hellions out of the house. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror, corraling a stray hair and tucking it into the neat dancer's bun she had assembled. I noticed avidly the way her blouse gapped and tugged where it tucked into her slim black skirt. I felt a slight, distant ache, the throb of memory from last night. I loved watching her when she thought I wasn't watching.
She had thoughtfully constructed the classroom snack last night, so we both gathered our materials together and set off, her for the school and then back home to work on her consulting business. She dressed up to work at home because that made it easier to dash out to lunch meetings, and because she said it reminded her not to slack off. We parted at our cars with a final kiss, her getting into the gleaming new cherry red compact SUV, me into the older grey sedan. I felt the familiar churn when her high heels left the ground as she climbed in.
I drove to the office sedately, half listening to NPR tell me about records I will never buy and books I will probably never read. My mind was still half in the fugue of dreamland as I parked in my usual spot, taking my travel cup of coffee and my duffel bag into the studios. Our building looked like it had been left here by a more advanced species, all darkened hardwood and sharp angles with enormous windows everywhere. My office was still when I got to it, my pens capped and put away, my desk clear of scraps of paper, my office whiteboard virginal and pure.
Aimee, a brunette who wanted my boss' job without stopping at mine first, was at the door before I even set my cup down.
"Hey, Michael? Can I talk to you about something?"
"Of course," I said. She came in and shut the door behind her. She had a dark blue dress on, the kind that wraps around like a toga on top, and some kind of deep black hosiery that sucked your eye in, along with gray shoes with a modest heel. She always dressed like a model. today in cool shades of blue, black, and muted gray, all the way down to her necklace and a dangling bracelet. If she were a male, I'd refer to her as a sharp dresser.
"I wanted you to hear this first," she said. She had a great body, fleshy where my wife was toned, bawdy, funny, and very creative. We had just come off a long project, a series of ads about orange juice that had required some long nights. We had always had a light, easy relationship, bantering flirtatiously. I remembered exchanging those looks, two adults knowing they were alone. I felt a charge, and I always wondered if she did.
"I'm going back to Philadelphia," she continued. "My college friend is opening her own firm, and she wants me to come work for her." I looked at her evenly, trying to weigh her words. Her face was pinched and tight. The sunlight gleamed off of the corner of her cat's eye glasses.
"That's great! Congratulations!," I said. I started calculating what that meant. More work for me? Less? Would they hire? Does that mean I have to delay my departure? Do I really want to leave? I looked down at her shoes, elegant and restrained. She leaned back on her heels.
"Thanks," she said, looking down. "I'm going to miss you," she said. "More than most." The looked at me full on. Did this mean something? The look felt smoldering. Was I reading into it? I felt my pulse start to pound.
"I'll miss you, too," I said. What else could you say? "Have you told Dave?"
"Nope," she said. "I'm going to," she added. "Today. I wanted you to know." She shifted her weight, crossing one foot slightly in front of the other. I had never touched her, but I can't say I had never thought of it. I felt something in the room, like the silence had weight to it.
"Thank you. I'm really happy for you. I'll miss those late night work sessions though. Nobody's more fun than you," I said. I came a little closer to her, setting my coffee on my desk. I could picture my arms sliding around her waist, pinning her against the door. The thought came unbidden, but once I entertained it, it was persistent. Something about the way the fabric covered her hips, sloping at her waist. It was warm, it seemed to invite touch.
She was looking away, her gaze distant. "I have to get to Dave before he gets wrapped up in something," she said. I thought about never seeing her again. Would I regret never tasting her lips on mine, never feeling the plush softness of her pressed against me? Was she thinking along the same lines as I was? All I knew about her was she was divorced and seldom talked about it. Was she picturing the hem of her dress coming up above her smooth thighs?
"So I assume we'll do something Friday? Like a dinner?"
"I suppose," she said. "Up to Dave, I guess."
"Yes," I said. She moved her hand towards the door handle. Was this my chance? I felt myself preparing to take a step forward.
"Good luck," I said.
"Thanks," she said, and smiled brilliantly. She grasped the door handle and pulled it open, heading down the hall. I exhaled deeply. At times, I don't understand myself at all.
I always hate waking up. I'm never sure where the line is between the dream world and the real one, and it takes about thirty seconds of terrified thought before I banish the phantasmagoria of dream space for the concrete reality of my bed, this space, my life. I heard two things at once, the distant hiss of my wife starting her shower, and a bang, followed by a yelp, coming from the boys downstairs. I hauled myself upright, pulling my pants on to investigate, suddenly remembering when I felt unfamiliar pains from muscles I hadn't used in a while. We had spent long hours at a charity function last night, then come home and started some stupid fight. Then we made up.
I went downstairs, feeling like I was walking through paraffin wax, and separated the boys, who were bickering over a toy lightsaber. I put the toy out of reach, then set them on more appropriate tasks, drank some coffee, served breakfast, and kissed my wife, hair wet and gloriously messy, when she came down to continue the process. My uncle always said it required less manpower, was less costly and less complicated, to occupy France than it was to raise small children, and nearly every day we proved it.
Between the two of us, we eventually got clothes on everyone, shoes on feet, and the two hellions out of the house. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror, corraling a stray hair and tucking it into the neat dancer's bun she had assembled. I noticed avidly the way her blouse gapped and tugged where it tucked into her slim black skirt. I felt a slight, distant ache, the throb of memory from last night. I loved watching her when she thought I wasn't watching.
She had thoughtfully constructed the classroom snack last night, so we both gathered our materials together and set off, her for the school and then back home to work on her consulting business. She dressed up to work at home because that made it easier to dash out to lunch meetings, and because she said it reminded her not to slack off. We parted at our cars with a final kiss, her getting into the gleaming new cherry red compact SUV, me into the older grey sedan. I felt the familiar churn when her high heels left the ground as she climbed in.
I drove to the office sedately, half listening to NPR tell me about records I will never buy and books I will probably never read. My mind was still half in the fugue of dreamland as I parked in my usual spot, taking my travel cup of coffee and my duffel bag into the studios. Our building looked like it had been left here by a more advanced species, all darkened hardwood and sharp angles with enormous windows everywhere. My office was still when I got to it, my pens capped and put away, my desk clear of scraps of paper, my office whiteboard virginal and pure.
Aimee, a brunette who wanted my boss' job without stopping at mine first, was at the door before I even set my cup down.
"Hey, Michael? Can I talk to you about something?"
"Of course," I said. She came in and shut the door behind her. She had a dark blue dress on, the kind that wraps around like a toga on top, and some kind of deep black hosiery that sucked your eye in, along with gray shoes with a modest heel. She always dressed like a model. today in cool shades of blue, black, and muted gray, all the way down to her necklace and a dangling bracelet. If she were a male, I'd refer to her as a sharp dresser.
"I wanted you to hear this first," she said. She had a great body, fleshy where my wife was toned, bawdy, funny, and very creative. We had just come off a long project, a series of ads about orange juice that had required some long nights. We had always had a light, easy relationship, bantering flirtatiously. I remembered exchanging those looks, two adults knowing they were alone. I felt a charge, and I always wondered if she did.
"I'm going back to Philadelphia," she continued. "My college friend is opening her own firm, and she wants me to come work for her." I looked at her evenly, trying to weigh her words. Her face was pinched and tight. The sunlight gleamed off of the corner of her cat's eye glasses.
"That's great! Congratulations!," I said. I started calculating what that meant. More work for me? Less? Would they hire? Does that mean I have to delay my departure? Do I really want to leave? I looked down at her shoes, elegant and restrained. She leaned back on her heels.
"Thanks," she said, looking down. "I'm going to miss you," she said. "More than most." The looked at me full on. Did this mean something? The look felt smoldering. Was I reading into it? I felt my pulse start to pound.
"I'll miss you, too," I said. What else could you say? "Have you told Dave?"
"Nope," she said. "I'm going to," she added. "Today. I wanted you to know." She shifted her weight, crossing one foot slightly in front of the other. I had never touched her, but I can't say I had never thought of it. I felt something in the room, like the silence had weight to it.
"Thank you. I'm really happy for you. I'll miss those late night work sessions though. Nobody's more fun than you," I said. I came a little closer to her, setting my coffee on my desk. I could picture my arms sliding around her waist, pinning her against the door. The thought came unbidden, but once I entertained it, it was persistent. Something about the way the fabric covered her hips, sloping at her waist. It was warm, it seemed to invite touch.
She was looking away, her gaze distant. "I have to get to Dave before he gets wrapped up in something," she said. I thought about never seeing her again. Would I regret never tasting her lips on mine, never feeling the plush softness of her pressed against me? Was she thinking along the same lines as I was? All I knew about her was she was divorced and seldom talked about it. Was she picturing the hem of her dress coming up above her smooth thighs?
"So I assume we'll do something Friday? Like a dinner?"
"I suppose," she said. "Up to Dave, I guess."
"Yes," I said. She moved her hand towards the door handle. Was this my chance? I felt myself preparing to take a step forward.
"Good luck," I said.
"Thanks," she said, and smiled brilliantly. She grasped the door handle and pulled it open, heading down the hall. I exhaled deeply. At times, I don't understand myself at all.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
100 Word Song: "What do you want?"
My pal Lance has posted a new 100 Word Song Challenge, this week about Radiohead's "Idioteque". I call this story "What do you want?"
"What do you want for lunch?," I said.
My nephew's head was down on the table, brown hair tousled, his eyes locked on his toy. I wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was hearing dialogue from a TV show, or music, or if his mind was silent and still, like an empty whiteboard.
"Buddy? Lunch?"
He was in his own world, imagining, thinking, focused on what was in front of him. I wondered what it was like to be in the moment like that, a tiny Zen master.
"Pal? What do you want?"
"Everything," he said softly.
"What do you want for lunch?," I said.
My nephew's head was down on the table, brown hair tousled, his eyes locked on his toy. I wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was hearing dialogue from a TV show, or music, or if his mind was silent and still, like an empty whiteboard.
"Buddy? Lunch?"
He was in his own world, imagining, thinking, focused on what was in front of him. I wondered what it was like to be in the moment like that, a tiny Zen master.
"Pal? What do you want?"
"Everything," he said softly.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "Lunch Date"
"Hello? HEY! Caroline! How are you, hun?"
"Uh huh. Getting tough, huh? Yeah. I remember those days."
"Oh, you have Braxton- Hicks? Oh, you poor thing. I remember those. Awful."
"You'll get through it, though. We all do. It's tough. But you can do it."
"Is it worth it? Yeah. Well, sometimes it is. It depends."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh."
"What? Oh, I just took my shoes off. They're cute, but God, do they hurt."
"Mark? Oh, he's fine. Busy, like we all are. But he's fine."
"Kristen? God. Don't get me started."
"Oh, I know, the teen years are tough. I was a beast to my parents, so I guess it's karma, right? But I can take the snotty attitude and the back talk. I mean, I don't like it, but I can take it. It's her schoolwork that's killing me."
"Oh my God. It's a disaster. She won't study for anything, she won't do any homework. We threaten, and we beg, and we cajole, and....nothing. She'll do a little bit, just enough until we back off, and then she's right back to her old habits."
"Mark? He's worthless when it comes to her. Worthless. He can't say no to her. He's as bad as those stupid pimply faced idiots who call her at all hours of the night. They're all in love with her. At least Mark isn't trying to get into her pants. "
"Ha! You're funny!"
"I know. It's awful. I keep asking her, 'What's your plan? What are you going to do without an education? How are you going to pay your phone bill? Car insurance? How are you going to pay for all those shoes you love so much?' And all I get is 'I don't know,' and 'I'll figure something out,' and shrieking, and tears. God, I'm so sick of the same arguments. Every year since about second grade, it's the same talk. 'You have to do your homework!' It's freaking Groundhog Day."
"I know some people do it, just get married and have families. There's nothing wrong with that. You found David, and that's great. But you got your education, too, that's the thing. I know you never use your degree. Heck, I barely use mine. But you have it. God forbid something happens to your husband, you have skills, something to fall back on. Kristen has nothing. I know high school is stupid. But we all did it!"
"No, I don't think I want her to be just like me."
"No, I don't. I really don't. I just want her to be something, to be someone, to be able to support herself. Something other than somebody's other half."
"Are you saying there's something wrong with being like me? Owning a business? Creating something?"
"Oh, OK. I understand."
"No, I understand what you're saying. Maybe that is her destiny, just to get married and drop a litter. But don't you think that's setting your sights a little too low?"
"I know she is. You should hear the messages come in when she turns her phone on. I hate to say it, but I would have been such a slut in high school if I had looked like her."
"Right? Seriously."
"What really frightens me is that I can so picture her getting knocked up, right out of high school. I really can. What I keep thinking of, what I keep picturing in my head, is her looking up from some precious baby's face and telling me she wishes she had listened to me. It turns my stomach."
"I mean, am I working too many hours? Is that it? Am I ruining her life? Does she not get enough attention? Doesn't she see how hard I work? It really makes me question everything I've ever done as a parent. As a person."
"Thanks, honey. I appreciate that. And it would help if we had a united front. But Mark always, ALWAYS takes her side. No matter what. "
"Maybe you're right. Maybe she'll catch on. I hope you are right. I get nauseous every time I think about her future just crumbling away into nothing. You have a future with David. And even without him, God forbid, I think you'd be OK. 'Mom' just isn't a career choice that pays that well. You know that."
"You're right. There really isn't anything I can do, is there? I can yell until I'm hoarse. And I have! And I can't make her do it. I just don't want her to ruin her life."
"I know. You're right."
"God, listen to me. Here you are, about to have a baby, and I made it all about me! I'm such a bitch."
"Thanks. You're such a good friend for letting me monopolize the conversation like this. I really appreciate it. I better get back to work, though. "
"Tomorrow? Absolutely. 12:30 tomorrow................I can, yeah. At the Cafe Gano? I love their Caesar salad! Sure. No problem."
"Alright, I'll see you then."
"OK, sweetie. Bye."
The Flash Fiction Friday Challenge this week is to write a story about Groundhog Day. This story is a little wierd, and it is called "Lunch Date".
"Uh huh. Getting tough, huh? Yeah. I remember those days."
"Oh, you have Braxton- Hicks? Oh, you poor thing. I remember those. Awful."
"You'll get through it, though. We all do. It's tough. But you can do it."
"Is it worth it? Yeah. Well, sometimes it is. It depends."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh."
"What? Oh, I just took my shoes off. They're cute, but God, do they hurt."
"Mark? Oh, he's fine. Busy, like we all are. But he's fine."
"Kristen? God. Don't get me started."
"Oh, I know, the teen years are tough. I was a beast to my parents, so I guess it's karma, right? But I can take the snotty attitude and the back talk. I mean, I don't like it, but I can take it. It's her schoolwork that's killing me."
"Oh my God. It's a disaster. She won't study for anything, she won't do any homework. We threaten, and we beg, and we cajole, and....nothing. She'll do a little bit, just enough until we back off, and then she's right back to her old habits."
"Mark? He's worthless when it comes to her. Worthless. He can't say no to her. He's as bad as those stupid pimply faced idiots who call her at all hours of the night. They're all in love with her. At least Mark isn't trying to get into her pants. "
"Ha! You're funny!"
"I know. It's awful. I keep asking her, 'What's your plan? What are you going to do without an education? How are you going to pay your phone bill? Car insurance? How are you going to pay for all those shoes you love so much?' And all I get is 'I don't know,' and 'I'll figure something out,' and shrieking, and tears. God, I'm so sick of the same arguments. Every year since about second grade, it's the same talk. 'You have to do your homework!' It's freaking Groundhog Day."
"I know some people do it, just get married and have families. There's nothing wrong with that. You found David, and that's great. But you got your education, too, that's the thing. I know you never use your degree. Heck, I barely use mine. But you have it. God forbid something happens to your husband, you have skills, something to fall back on. Kristen has nothing. I know high school is stupid. But we all did it!"
"No, I don't think I want her to be just like me."
"No, I don't. I really don't. I just want her to be something, to be someone, to be able to support herself. Something other than somebody's other half."
"Are you saying there's something wrong with being like me? Owning a business? Creating something?"
"Oh, OK. I understand."
"No, I understand what you're saying. Maybe that is her destiny, just to get married and drop a litter. But don't you think that's setting your sights a little too low?"
"I know she is. You should hear the messages come in when she turns her phone on. I hate to say it, but I would have been such a slut in high school if I had looked like her."
"Right? Seriously."
"What really frightens me is that I can so picture her getting knocked up, right out of high school. I really can. What I keep thinking of, what I keep picturing in my head, is her looking up from some precious baby's face and telling me she wishes she had listened to me. It turns my stomach."
"I mean, am I working too many hours? Is that it? Am I ruining her life? Does she not get enough attention? Doesn't she see how hard I work? It really makes me question everything I've ever done as a parent. As a person."
"Thanks, honey. I appreciate that. And it would help if we had a united front. But Mark always, ALWAYS takes her side. No matter what. "
"Maybe you're right. Maybe she'll catch on. I hope you are right. I get nauseous every time I think about her future just crumbling away into nothing. You have a future with David. And even without him, God forbid, I think you'd be OK. 'Mom' just isn't a career choice that pays that well. You know that."
"You're right. There really isn't anything I can do, is there? I can yell until I'm hoarse. And I have! And I can't make her do it. I just don't want her to ruin her life."
"I know. You're right."
"God, listen to me. Here you are, about to have a baby, and I made it all about me! I'm such a bitch."
"Thanks. You're such a good friend for letting me monopolize the conversation like this. I really appreciate it. I better get back to work, though. "
"Tomorrow? Absolutely. 12:30 tomorrow................I can, yeah. At the Cafe Gano? I love their Caesar salad! Sure. No problem."
"Alright, I'll see you then."
"OK, sweetie. Bye."
The Flash Fiction Friday Challenge this week is to write a story about Groundhog Day. This story is a little wierd, and it is called "Lunch Date".
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Sunday Morning On Thornton Street"
The fiendish Chuck Wendig has been up to his flash fictional tricks again. Last week's challenge is to select three random Flickr photos, using the handy dandy tool located here to select them, and write a 1000 word story. The pictures I chose are this one, this one, and this one. However, since I am a Slowey McSlowerton from Slowville, I did not complete it before the Friday deadline. This week's challenge is to write a 1000 word story in the present tense. I'm going to (hopefully deftly) combine these two challenges into one with this story. I call it "Sunday Morning On Thornton Street"
It wasn't the Grand Canal or the Champs Elysees, but walking down Thornton Street on a sunny fall day with David still felt pretty good. We had just returned from two weeks in Venice and Paris, where he had to go for work, and since we managed to cash in enough miles for me to join him, it became as much of a honeymoon as two unmarried people could have. I have loved David for nearly all my adult life, so after we spent most of Saturday sleeping off the time changes, when he proposed a stroll down to Marge's Cafe for coffee and pastry and the Sunday paper, I couldn't have been more willing.
We walked silently. We both felt talked out, I think. The house we bought together was a pleasant 8 minute walk from a strip of small stores that featured a drug store, the cafe, and a convenience store with a newsstand, all opposite an open park with a softball diamond and dog run. Our dogs, Buster and McCormick, ranged nearby, examining every leaf and scrap of newspaper as we walked along the sidewalk. You were supposed to have them on leashes, but they knew better than to range too far.
I was at the age when our friends were getting married and having babies, so each time we gathered in someone's living room to celebrate one or another of these events, the question laid on the table like a dead fish. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, it came up, implied or expressed, from relatives near and far: when are you two getting married? And the answer was, basically, when we were good and ready. I was never the kind of girl who dreamed about a princess wedding. I was always more interested in playing kickball with boys than talking about them. But still, the questions came, and I fended them off as best I could. A well meaning, "what if you get pregnant" parried with "we're careful," and a "what if he leaves you" answered with, "he'd have to get out of the lease, which is twice as hard as getting a divorce."
We usually got our coffee and donuts to go, then walked back with the paper, feeding bits of plain donut to the dogs as we went, before settling down into a lazy Sunday sprawl. He was watching me approach, which always made me feel a little bit like I was on stage. He had a scraggly beard, because he hadn't shaved since we left Paris on Friday. His look was intense, with a palpable weight to it. I never felt worthy to return his gaze.
"Hey, you," he said, his voice still thick with sleep.
"Me?," I asked innocently. I still felt the little lurch in my chest when he looked at me, like I suddenly was able to breathe deeper.
"No, McCormick," he said. "Of course you, silly." One of the things I loved most about him was that we laughed constantly, at small things and big, at serious things and trivial.
I altered my path to come in front of him. He stood with his legs slightly apart, a posture that allowed me to slide up close. He was just tall enough- not so tall that we looked like a freak, but just tall enough for me to have to wear heels, or go high on tiptoes when I was wearing sneakers, in order to kiss him. The first time we ever danced together, I remember I surprised myself by sighing when I noticed how well we fit.
"Come here," he said. I could hardly be any closer. I took two more tiny steps towards him. My feet were between his shoes, my thighs brushing his, looking up into his face, his charming crooked nose.
"Yes?," I said. I didn't have any idea what he wanted. I felt this aura of trust and love. Both dogs stopped, looking at him expectantly.
"Marry me," he said.
I didn't think I heard him right.
"What?"
"Will you marry me?," he said again.
"When?"
"I don't care."
"Where?"
"I don't care."
"How? Who?"
"I don't care," he said again. "Invite everybody or invite nobody, I don't care. I love you, and I can't imagine a world without you. Let's shut everybody up and do it."
"Oh my god," I said, my head spinning. I felt tears springing into my eyes, blurring my vision.
"You haven't said what your answer is," he said calmly.
"Oh my god," I said again, my voice breaking. "Yes, of course, yes," I said, before stepping closer, standing on my toes and kissing him, his arms around my waist, next to the black iron fence while the dogs and God and everyone watched.
It wasn't the Grand Canal or the Champs Elysees, but walking down Thornton Street on a sunny fall day with David still felt pretty good. We had just returned from two weeks in Venice and Paris, where he had to go for work, and since we managed to cash in enough miles for me to join him, it became as much of a honeymoon as two unmarried people could have. I have loved David for nearly all my adult life, so after we spent most of Saturday sleeping off the time changes, when he proposed a stroll down to Marge's Cafe for coffee and pastry and the Sunday paper, I couldn't have been more willing.
We walked silently. We both felt talked out, I think. The house we bought together was a pleasant 8 minute walk from a strip of small stores that featured a drug store, the cafe, and a convenience store with a newsstand, all opposite an open park with a softball diamond and dog run. Our dogs, Buster and McCormick, ranged nearby, examining every leaf and scrap of newspaper as we walked along the sidewalk. You were supposed to have them on leashes, but they knew better than to range too far.
I was at the age when our friends were getting married and having babies, so each time we gathered in someone's living room to celebrate one or another of these events, the question laid on the table like a dead fish. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, it came up, implied or expressed, from relatives near and far: when are you two getting married? And the answer was, basically, when we were good and ready. I was never the kind of girl who dreamed about a princess wedding. I was always more interested in playing kickball with boys than talking about them. But still, the questions came, and I fended them off as best I could. A well meaning, "what if you get pregnant" parried with "we're careful," and a "what if he leaves you" answered with, "he'd have to get out of the lease, which is twice as hard as getting a divorce."
We usually got our coffee and donuts to go, then walked back with the paper, feeding bits of plain donut to the dogs as we went, before settling down into a lazy Sunday sprawl. He was watching me approach, which always made me feel a little bit like I was on stage. He had a scraggly beard, because he hadn't shaved since we left Paris on Friday. His look was intense, with a palpable weight to it. I never felt worthy to return his gaze.
"Hey, you," he said, his voice still thick with sleep.
"Me?," I asked innocently. I still felt the little lurch in my chest when he looked at me, like I suddenly was able to breathe deeper.
"No, McCormick," he said. "Of course you, silly." One of the things I loved most about him was that we laughed constantly, at small things and big, at serious things and trivial.
I altered my path to come in front of him. He stood with his legs slightly apart, a posture that allowed me to slide up close. He was just tall enough- not so tall that we looked like a freak, but just tall enough for me to have to wear heels, or go high on tiptoes when I was wearing sneakers, in order to kiss him. The first time we ever danced together, I remember I surprised myself by sighing when I noticed how well we fit.
"Come here," he said. I could hardly be any closer. I took two more tiny steps towards him. My feet were between his shoes, my thighs brushing his, looking up into his face, his charming crooked nose.
"Yes?," I said. I didn't have any idea what he wanted. I felt this aura of trust and love. Both dogs stopped, looking at him expectantly.
"Marry me," he said.
I didn't think I heard him right.
"What?"
"Will you marry me?," he said again.
"When?"
"I don't care."
"Where?"
"I don't care."
"How? Who?"
"I don't care," he said again. "Invite everybody or invite nobody, I don't care. I love you, and I can't imagine a world without you. Let's shut everybody up and do it."
"Oh my god," I said, my head spinning. I felt tears springing into my eyes, blurring my vision.
"You haven't said what your answer is," he said calmly.
"Oh my god," I said again, my voice breaking. "Yes, of course, yes," I said, before stepping closer, standing on my toes and kissing him, his arms around my waist, next to the black iron fence while the dogs and God and everyone watched.
Lily Childs Feardom 100 Word Challenge: "Heading Home"
Lily Childs' Feardom is sponsoring another Flash Fiction O Rama, 100 Words using the words "ballet", "organ", and "follow". My entry is called "Heading Out"
I liked to follow her, watching the delicate grace with which she took each step, her hemline swaying softly. I had watched the tears spring out on her bright cheeks as the Phantom played the organ, accusing the ballet dancer/songstress Christine of betrayal. We were heading into the subway, bound for home. I couldn't have felt happier.
"You think that's us? I would never do that!," she whispered, leaning against me as the train left the station.
"And I'll never leave you," I whispered back, meaning every word of it.
She was right. I was wrong.
I liked to follow her, watching the delicate grace with which she took each step, her hemline swaying softly. I had watched the tears spring out on her bright cheeks as the Phantom played the organ, accusing the ballet dancer/songstress Christine of betrayal. We were heading into the subway, bound for home. I couldn't have felt happier.
"You think that's us? I would never do that!," she whispered, leaning against me as the train left the station.
"And I'll never leave you," I whispered back, meaning every word of it.
She was right. I was wrong.
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Kickoff
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Satu Gustafson challenged me with ""He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man." - Samuel Johnson" and I challenged Wendryn with " 'I believe that writers run out of material, I really do.' -Brian Wilson ".
I had to keep telling myself to calm down. It was hard not to be excited, playing in the showcase game of your professional life. It was an "obituary game", a term my position coach, Donnie Hasselbeck, came up with. If you achieved nothing else in your life, playing in this game would be in the first line of your obituary. It was both bigger and smaller than everyone thought it was, both the summit of achievement in my field and simply a football game- 60 minutes of concentrated mayhem, after which one side or the other will be remembered forever, while the other side will be a good team that couldn't land the big one.
"Do your job," I repeated to myself softly. It had been the refrain since summer camp, way back in July and August, every speech beginning with it, every sign, every playbook page emblazoned with it. It meant several things, as all aphorisms do- both the "Do" part, meaning you have to perform your role in the 11 part ballet, and "Your Job", meaning, of course, you have to know what you're supposed to do, and then do it, and only it. Trust your teammates to do their part, and don't try to do too much. Overreaching leads to blown assignments, followed by your opponents dancing in the end zone. They tried to strike a balance- play instinctively, but inside of our parameters. Jump if you want to, but if you're wrong, it's on you.
I jumped up and down, standing in place, waiting for the signal to start. One of the keys Jake Warner, one of our vets who was here with New York a decade ago, told us about actually playing in the game was that there are more pauses, and longer pauses, than a regular game. He told us to always be moving, even if you're just walking in a circle- you have to stay loose, no matter what. I looked at the stands, packed full with flash bulbs constantly going, and I didn't think that would be an issue. I had played before big crowds before, but this was the ultimate. The whole world, literally, was watching.
"Stay your lane," I said under my breath. "Do your job." I had been on kickoffs most of the year, so I knew the drill- see where they are trying to guide you, and fight against that. We had been watching tape of how they handled returns, so I was ready for their different formations. Be quick. Get to the spot. If nothing else, occupy one, or ideally two blockers so that someone else can make the play. If you get a chance to make the play, hit him hard and finish. If you only get a piece of him, hold on and wait for help. Most of all, don't let him get behind you, and keep pursuing until the whistle sounds.
This was the most physical, and the least cerebral, of all the jobs on a football team. When playing defense as a nickel or dime corner, or while filling in for an injured teammate, there were a number of assignments, and variations on those assignments, based on down, and distance, and time, and further refined by what our captains saw from the offensive setup. I was thankful that my first action would be less thoughtful and more instinctual. I just wanted to hit someone and get my juices going.
My five year old, Sophie, has finally made the connection between the mad pace of football on television and the flesh and blood of the men who play it. During our bye week, I was sitting with her watching the start of the Monday night game when Tom Floyd of New Orleans got laid out on a pass over the middle. It was one of those blood chilling moments, one that has been mercifully rare in my career. They broke to commercial, then came back to Tom being loaded onto a stretcher, with circles of players, helmets off, praying at midfield. "Is he OK?," Sophie said. I told her the truth, saying I didn't know, then spent the next two hours trying to console her. Sophie hasn't been the same since, refusing to say goodbye when I leave, and greeting me like Caesar returning to Rome when I come home.
That was the thing that nobody in our business wants to think about. I know that any play, particularly the Newtonian physics writ large of the kickoff, can result in something horrific happening. Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. I didn't think it would- I used good form, never going for the kill shot, just good, strong fundamental tackles. But I couldn't promise Sophie, or Jane herself, that it wouldn't happen. It was another paradox- I couldn't operate properly while thinking about it, but it wasn't possible to not think about it. I lived my working life doing something violent, yet I hated violence.
Janie started reminding me last night, as we talked in low voices while Sophie slept on the other bed, that she wanted to try for another baby. I didn't blame her- we weren't getting any younger. But I really wanted to get a little more secure before we take such a drastic step. I reminded her about the movie Jerry Maguire, telling her nothing was certain, that I served at the pleasure of the team, while she would counter with the fact that Rod Tidwell got the big contract in the end. She added that if we waited for the perfect time, it would indeed be too late. She's right, I thought, looking down at my cleats on the playing surface. I swiveled my neck and shook out my arms, trying to release excess energy.
I looked at the ref, who was waiting for a signal from the TV people. Focus, I told myself silently, picturing my lane down the field and trying to see who might be blocking me. If it was a bigger player, like a lineman, I would try to blow past him. If it was someone closer to my size, I would probably try a basketball type move- get him leaning one way, then go the other. Like in martial arts, so much depended on what the opponent did. Every move had a counter move, and every counter had a counter counter. Just do your job, I reminded myself, remembering the old baseball joke, "don't think, kid- you're hurting the ballclub."
I wanted to hit somebody- if not the ballcarrier, then at least a blocker. It would siphon off the tension, and it would release me from the net of worry. Once it gets down to just playing football, it's relatively simple. Angles and vectors, force and acceleration. We had practiced until it was second nature- if they do this, you react this way. Doing it allowed me to disconnect, no longer a father worried about his family, no longer worried about contracts and paychecks and whether some kid from Nebraska would take my spot this April and do my job for $200,000 less. Doing it means you're judged based on results, not on your college pedigree or the fact that your agent is a prick. There's no arguing with doing it.
I bounced on the balls of my feet again, when finally the referee blew his whistle. A few more seconds, and we'd be underway, 11 men with one goal. We all checked our spacing, and I instinctively did a quick count- 5 and 5, plus the kicker. It was time. The crowd sensed it too, building to a roar that became almost a physical presence. The tension was thrumming in the air. We could almost feel it through the soles of our feet. Our kicker, Ludwig, put one hand up, our signal to take off when he brought it down. I dug for a little bit more purchase, getting low, picturing Lightning McQueen from that movie about the cars.
Time to do, and not think. The kicker dropped his hand, and I was off, sprinting full out towards the other end of the field, where the next moment waited.
I had to keep telling myself to calm down. It was hard not to be excited, playing in the showcase game of your professional life. It was an "obituary game", a term my position coach, Donnie Hasselbeck, came up with. If you achieved nothing else in your life, playing in this game would be in the first line of your obituary. It was both bigger and smaller than everyone thought it was, both the summit of achievement in my field and simply a football game- 60 minutes of concentrated mayhem, after which one side or the other will be remembered forever, while the other side will be a good team that couldn't land the big one.
"Do your job," I repeated to myself softly. It had been the refrain since summer camp, way back in July and August, every speech beginning with it, every sign, every playbook page emblazoned with it. It meant several things, as all aphorisms do- both the "Do" part, meaning you have to perform your role in the 11 part ballet, and "Your Job", meaning, of course, you have to know what you're supposed to do, and then do it, and only it. Trust your teammates to do their part, and don't try to do too much. Overreaching leads to blown assignments, followed by your opponents dancing in the end zone. They tried to strike a balance- play instinctively, but inside of our parameters. Jump if you want to, but if you're wrong, it's on you.
I jumped up and down, standing in place, waiting for the signal to start. One of the keys Jake Warner, one of our vets who was here with New York a decade ago, told us about actually playing in the game was that there are more pauses, and longer pauses, than a regular game. He told us to always be moving, even if you're just walking in a circle- you have to stay loose, no matter what. I looked at the stands, packed full with flash bulbs constantly going, and I didn't think that would be an issue. I had played before big crowds before, but this was the ultimate. The whole world, literally, was watching.
"Stay your lane," I said under my breath. "Do your job." I had been on kickoffs most of the year, so I knew the drill- see where they are trying to guide you, and fight against that. We had been watching tape of how they handled returns, so I was ready for their different formations. Be quick. Get to the spot. If nothing else, occupy one, or ideally two blockers so that someone else can make the play. If you get a chance to make the play, hit him hard and finish. If you only get a piece of him, hold on and wait for help. Most of all, don't let him get behind you, and keep pursuing until the whistle sounds.
This was the most physical, and the least cerebral, of all the jobs on a football team. When playing defense as a nickel or dime corner, or while filling in for an injured teammate, there were a number of assignments, and variations on those assignments, based on down, and distance, and time, and further refined by what our captains saw from the offensive setup. I was thankful that my first action would be less thoughtful and more instinctual. I just wanted to hit someone and get my juices going.
My five year old, Sophie, has finally made the connection between the mad pace of football on television and the flesh and blood of the men who play it. During our bye week, I was sitting with her watching the start of the Monday night game when Tom Floyd of New Orleans got laid out on a pass over the middle. It was one of those blood chilling moments, one that has been mercifully rare in my career. They broke to commercial, then came back to Tom being loaded onto a stretcher, with circles of players, helmets off, praying at midfield. "Is he OK?," Sophie said. I told her the truth, saying I didn't know, then spent the next two hours trying to console her. Sophie hasn't been the same since, refusing to say goodbye when I leave, and greeting me like Caesar returning to Rome when I come home.
That was the thing that nobody in our business wants to think about. I know that any play, particularly the Newtonian physics writ large of the kickoff, can result in something horrific happening. Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. I didn't think it would- I used good form, never going for the kill shot, just good, strong fundamental tackles. But I couldn't promise Sophie, or Jane herself, that it wouldn't happen. It was another paradox- I couldn't operate properly while thinking about it, but it wasn't possible to not think about it. I lived my working life doing something violent, yet I hated violence.
Janie started reminding me last night, as we talked in low voices while Sophie slept on the other bed, that she wanted to try for another baby. I didn't blame her- we weren't getting any younger. But I really wanted to get a little more secure before we take such a drastic step. I reminded her about the movie Jerry Maguire, telling her nothing was certain, that I served at the pleasure of the team, while she would counter with the fact that Rod Tidwell got the big contract in the end. She added that if we waited for the perfect time, it would indeed be too late. She's right, I thought, looking down at my cleats on the playing surface. I swiveled my neck and shook out my arms, trying to release excess energy.
I looked at the ref, who was waiting for a signal from the TV people. Focus, I told myself silently, picturing my lane down the field and trying to see who might be blocking me. If it was a bigger player, like a lineman, I would try to blow past him. If it was someone closer to my size, I would probably try a basketball type move- get him leaning one way, then go the other. Like in martial arts, so much depended on what the opponent did. Every move had a counter move, and every counter had a counter counter. Just do your job, I reminded myself, remembering the old baseball joke, "don't think, kid- you're hurting the ballclub."
I wanted to hit somebody- if not the ballcarrier, then at least a blocker. It would siphon off the tension, and it would release me from the net of worry. Once it gets down to just playing football, it's relatively simple. Angles and vectors, force and acceleration. We had practiced until it was second nature- if they do this, you react this way. Doing it allowed me to disconnect, no longer a father worried about his family, no longer worried about contracts and paychecks and whether some kid from Nebraska would take my spot this April and do my job for $200,000 less. Doing it means you're judged based on results, not on your college pedigree or the fact that your agent is a prick. There's no arguing with doing it.
I bounced on the balls of my feet again, when finally the referee blew his whistle. A few more seconds, and we'd be underway, 11 men with one goal. We all checked our spacing, and I instinctively did a quick count- 5 and 5, plus the kicker. It was time. The crowd sensed it too, building to a roar that became almost a physical presence. The tension was thrumming in the air. We could almost feel it through the soles of our feet. Our kicker, Ludwig, put one hand up, our signal to take off when he brought it down. I dug for a little bit more purchase, getting low, picturing Lightning McQueen from that movie about the cars.
Time to do, and not think. The kicker dropped his hand, and I was off, sprinting full out towards the other end of the field, where the next moment waited.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "What A Man Does"
Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge this week involving a computer as a character. I call this "What A Man Does".
My father started working with computers when they took up whole rooms, clanking, whirring beasts that read data off of magnetic tape and had to be constantly monitored. "Computers never make mistakes. They do exactly and precisely what they are told. People, on the other hand, are often faulty," he used to say. That was the way he was. He was always more comfortable with the yes/no, if/then world of digital computing than the messy, uncertain world of human beings. It made him frustrating to live with, but people can't help being the way they are, so in the end, I didn't fault him for it.
Growing up in such a house, it would be understandable if I had become a Luddite, a rebel against all things silicon and logical, a computerphobe who insisted on the ancient verities of bank tellers, paper books, and silver coins. I did insist upon a few of the old ways, but I used a computer as well as the next person, opting for a middle ground between outright hatred and total immersion. Like most people, I didn't follow exactly the path that was laid out for me. Given a choice between 0 and 1, I chose to slide in around 0.24.
So I met developments in artificial intelligence with some skepticism. I stuck to my handwritten letters and paper checks longer than most people, but I wasn't unaware of what was going on in the wider world. When they announced that Japanese researchers had passed the Turing test, I smiled and wondered what my long dead father would think of that. When I read about Asimov's Laws being encoded on a chip, and about motion becoming more and more precise, and about advances in computing power enabling more and more intelligent machines, I wondered where we were headed, but never really gave it a second thought.
I wasn't that old, but I certainly had lost a few ticks on the fastball when Sophia, my son's elegant young wife, fluttered her eyelashes at me and asked me to please allow him to place a digital assistant in my home. I grumbled and groaned, but just like every other pretty girl I've ever met, she eventually got her way. They unboxed it bright and early on a Monday morning, assured me that its learning software would pick up on my routines almost instantly. All I had to do was talk to it, and it would do the rest. It was about 6 feet tall, clad in average looking clothes and shoes with a realistic looking skin underneath, and a pleasant, though fake, plastic face. I named it Data, after a character on a long forgotten TV show.
It was the perfect butler. It remembered where I left my glasses, reminded me to take my pills, told me about anniversaries I had forgotten, and most of all, it just stayed quiet when I wanted to read a book. As much as I had resisted, I secretly was glad Sophia had insisted I give in. On a Thursday morning, I swung my feet onto the floor after a particularly vivid dream. I sat there, getting my bearings, when I felt Data come into the room. I knew it was scanning my vital signs, waiting for instructions. The one rule I had made clear to it was that, generally speaking, I didn't want it to speak until I spoke to it first. I reached for my glasses and looked outside. It was raining and grey.
"What do I have scheduled today, Data?," I said.
"Your heart rate is elevated," it said calmly. The voice was pitched evenly, with perfect cadence and diction. The only way you could tell it was human was that it was so perfect. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine," I said. "I had a bad dream."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"No," I said firmly. It was about Lisa, the first girl I ever loved, and the one I let get away, all those years ago. She was in danger, and I had to get through some sort of glass wall to get to her. "What's on the list today?," I repeated.
"It is your grandson Joseph's 4th birthday," he said. "I have already arranged for a gift to be shipped to him, but Sophia suggests a call might be appropriate. I have scheduled it for after he has completed soccer practice. You have an overdue book, "The Letters of Eudora Welty," from the public library. I could return it for you. You will be charged a $2.50 fine. Your doctor would like a blood sample, but that can be done at any time today."
"That's fine, all except the library book. I'll take that back."
"It's not necessary," the robot began. "Sophia-"
"No, I'll do it," I said a little too roughly. "Sophia may love my son, but she doesn't understand a lot about men. Sometimes I have to do things myself. It's what men do."
"Other men allow-," it began again.
"No, no," I said. "It's not a statistical argument. It's a feel thing. I don't feel alive if I don't have things to do. I'm thankful that you're here, and you're very helpful. But I need to feel useful. My wife has been gone almost 25 years now, and I still need to have things to do every day. Men have to do things, not have them done for them. It helps me feel functional, like life is worth living."
"When will you return?," it asked.
"When I feel like it," I said, taking the pile of clothes it had gathered and walking into the bathroom. The day I can't run my own errands is the day you put me in the ground, I thought.
My father started working with computers when they took up whole rooms, clanking, whirring beasts that read data off of magnetic tape and had to be constantly monitored. "Computers never make mistakes. They do exactly and precisely what they are told. People, on the other hand, are often faulty," he used to say. That was the way he was. He was always more comfortable with the yes/no, if/then world of digital computing than the messy, uncertain world of human beings. It made him frustrating to live with, but people can't help being the way they are, so in the end, I didn't fault him for it.
Growing up in such a house, it would be understandable if I had become a Luddite, a rebel against all things silicon and logical, a computerphobe who insisted on the ancient verities of bank tellers, paper books, and silver coins. I did insist upon a few of the old ways, but I used a computer as well as the next person, opting for a middle ground between outright hatred and total immersion. Like most people, I didn't follow exactly the path that was laid out for me. Given a choice between 0 and 1, I chose to slide in around 0.24.
So I met developments in artificial intelligence with some skepticism. I stuck to my handwritten letters and paper checks longer than most people, but I wasn't unaware of what was going on in the wider world. When they announced that Japanese researchers had passed the Turing test, I smiled and wondered what my long dead father would think of that. When I read about Asimov's Laws being encoded on a chip, and about motion becoming more and more precise, and about advances in computing power enabling more and more intelligent machines, I wondered where we were headed, but never really gave it a second thought.
I wasn't that old, but I certainly had lost a few ticks on the fastball when Sophia, my son's elegant young wife, fluttered her eyelashes at me and asked me to please allow him to place a digital assistant in my home. I grumbled and groaned, but just like every other pretty girl I've ever met, she eventually got her way. They unboxed it bright and early on a Monday morning, assured me that its learning software would pick up on my routines almost instantly. All I had to do was talk to it, and it would do the rest. It was about 6 feet tall, clad in average looking clothes and shoes with a realistic looking skin underneath, and a pleasant, though fake, plastic face. I named it Data, after a character on a long forgotten TV show.
It was the perfect butler. It remembered where I left my glasses, reminded me to take my pills, told me about anniversaries I had forgotten, and most of all, it just stayed quiet when I wanted to read a book. As much as I had resisted, I secretly was glad Sophia had insisted I give in. On a Thursday morning, I swung my feet onto the floor after a particularly vivid dream. I sat there, getting my bearings, when I felt Data come into the room. I knew it was scanning my vital signs, waiting for instructions. The one rule I had made clear to it was that, generally speaking, I didn't want it to speak until I spoke to it first. I reached for my glasses and looked outside. It was raining and grey.
"What do I have scheduled today, Data?," I said.
"Your heart rate is elevated," it said calmly. The voice was pitched evenly, with perfect cadence and diction. The only way you could tell it was human was that it was so perfect. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine," I said. "I had a bad dream."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"No," I said firmly. It was about Lisa, the first girl I ever loved, and the one I let get away, all those years ago. She was in danger, and I had to get through some sort of glass wall to get to her. "What's on the list today?," I repeated.
"It is your grandson Joseph's 4th birthday," he said. "I have already arranged for a gift to be shipped to him, but Sophia suggests a call might be appropriate. I have scheduled it for after he has completed soccer practice. You have an overdue book, "The Letters of Eudora Welty," from the public library. I could return it for you. You will be charged a $2.50 fine. Your doctor would like a blood sample, but that can be done at any time today."
"That's fine, all except the library book. I'll take that back."
"It's not necessary," the robot began. "Sophia-"
"No, I'll do it," I said a little too roughly. "Sophia may love my son, but she doesn't understand a lot about men. Sometimes I have to do things myself. It's what men do."
"Other men allow-," it began again.
"No, no," I said. "It's not a statistical argument. It's a feel thing. I don't feel alive if I don't have things to do. I'm thankful that you're here, and you're very helpful. But I need to feel useful. My wife has been gone almost 25 years now, and I still need to have things to do every day. Men have to do things, not have them done for them. It helps me feel functional, like life is worth living."
"When will you return?," it asked.
"When I feel like it," I said, taking the pile of clothes it had gathered and walking into the bathroom. The day I can't run my own errands is the day you put me in the ground, I thought.
Lance's 100 Word Song Challenge: "Polly Pocket"
My brother from another mother Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, and probably yours too, has started a 100 Word Challenge, each week based on a song. This week's song is "Take Me To The Pilot" by Elton John, a favorite of mine, and the story is called "Polly Pocket".
When he looked down, he had these bangs, black with red highlights, that hung in front of his face. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to peel him open, like the Polly Pockets I used to play with, and see what his heart said. Loving him was hard work- he was outgoing and fun one day, cynical and withdrawn the next. He was every love song ever written, and he was the lead in every romantic movie scene I had ever seen.
"What's wrong? I wish you would talk to me," I said cheerfully.
"I know," he said.
When he looked down, he had these bangs, black with red highlights, that hung in front of his face. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to peel him open, like the Polly Pockets I used to play with, and see what his heart said. Loving him was hard work- he was outgoing and fun one day, cynical and withdrawn the next. He was every love song ever written, and he was the lead in every romantic movie scene I had ever seen.
"What's wrong? I wish you would talk to me," I said cheerfully.
"I know," he said.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: New York Minute
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, The Last Astronaut challenged me with "...he replied: "what took you so long?"" and I challenged trencher with "'I just feel it as it goes. I do whatever I feel is right for me at the time.' -Johnny Cash"
[Author's Note: I don't know why I feel like I have to do this, but this story is a little NSFW. There is a bad word in it, and it implies that married people have sex. Be warned. This is also the third in a series of response pieces. My piece starts it off here, and my pal Runaway Sentence wrote a companion piece/follow up here. This is, I guess, the third piece, although it doesn't necessarily require that you read the first two.}
Her weight on top of me was pleasantly familiar. It never gets old, her hard pelvic ridge finding that perfect resting place, that familiar feeling of skin pressing against skin, her warm hairless thighs, taut from hours in the gym, pressing against the roughness of my short brown hair. Without my noticing, she had stripped out of her bedclothes, so I shifted around to match her nakedness.
It was comforting, knowing the smells, the curves and hard ridges and soft belly skin that I knew as well as my own. It was a communion, the simple need to be close to her, that feeling that you couldn't be close enough, that feeling that even if I could climb inside her skin, it wouldn't be enough.
"What took you so long?," I said. I looked up at her face, watching the surprise register, shading into anger.
"What took me so long?," she said incredulously.
"Well, I've been laying here," I said smiling. "I know you find me irresistible, so it was only a matter of time-"
Her face broke into a smile. "Oh DO shut up!," she said. "You're so obnoxious!"
"But you love me."
"Yes. Sometimes against my better judgement," she said, smiling wider now, a less wholesome, more mischievous one. "But I do."
I arched my back slightly, pressing against her in a way that spoke volumes. "Do you want to?"
She smiled that smile again. "I can. Do you?"
"I always do," I said. It was true. She wasn't 19 any more. Neither was I. But two kids and twenty years on, I still wanted her like a horny teenager. "But that's not what I asked you."
"I'm tired, honey. You know that. I'm pleased that you want to. Thrilled that you still look at me the same way you did when we were in college. But we can't act that way anymore. You have to work tomorrow, even if you are going to quit. I have a meeting with Nate's teacher, and I have to bring snack to Matthew's."
"Plus you have work to do."
"That too, yeah. But I can," she said, moving her hips against me suggestively.
"I don't want to force you," I said.
"You're not forcing," she said. "I'm volunteering. I know you like it, and I don't mind. I like giving you pleasure."
"But you don't want to."
She leaned back, her weight now more on my thighs. "Honestly, Michael? No. I'm tired. And I want to go to sleep. But like I said, I don't mind. We've started something, so I don't mind if you finish it."
"It's not worth it if you're not into it," I said. "If that's all it's for, I can do that by myself. You're not an object for my amusement."
"Jesus Christ," she said. I felt the eroticism drain out of the moment like water from a leaky squirt gun. "It's sex, not a hostage crisis. This drives me crazy. Sometimes you have to do something, not just think about it and ruminate forever. Michael, you've always put women on a pedestal. Me especially. And believe me, 98% of the time, it's great." She drew her legs up, folding her arms across her breasts. I stared at the way her calf muscles bunched up. "This is the other 2%. I'm a grown woman. I know when you met me, I was a scared little girl. And you've always tried to protect me. And like I said, it's nice."
"I feel like it's my job," I said.
"I know you do," she said. Her voice was edging into a hiss, the tone she adopted when the kids were home. If we were alone, she would be rattling the windows. "And that's your father's influence, and I understand it. But I'm a grownup. I can do things for you, I can make sacrifices, I can voluntarily do something for you that isn't a hundred percent my idea. I can even carry two children for you."
"And I appreciate it."
"That's just it," she said a little louder. "I know. I know. I know you appreciate the sacrifices I've made. Just like I appreciate the ones you have made for me. For us. I know how hard you work, how much you do, how much you gave up. At times, do I regret it? Do I wish I had my 20 year old body again? Do I wish I was still a barista at Starbucks, flirting with coworkers and giving blowjobs in the parking lot? Of course I do. It's part of being human. But I can't go back. Nobody can. And on balance, are the sacrifices worth it? Yes. Jesus, yes. I don't regret marrying you. I don't regret having the boys. And sometimes, you have to let me sacrifice for you, and don't hit me with your bullshit guilt trips."
She got up, snatching her bed clothes with one hand and a pillow with the other. She managed to open the door angrily, leaving it open behind her. I heard her footfalls down the stairs, and the distant tinny sound of the television coming on downstairs. I stared at the darkness, listening to the noises of the house. It was never clear whether or not I should pursue her at moments like this. Sometimes, she craved her own space, and other times, she would be sitting there lonely and scared, wanting me to talk her down. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I wondered, like in the old Don Henley song, if someone was going to emergency, or to jail.
[Author's Note: I don't know why I feel like I have to do this, but this story is a little NSFW. There is a bad word in it, and it implies that married people have sex. Be warned. This is also the third in a series of response pieces. My piece starts it off here, and my pal Runaway Sentence wrote a companion piece/follow up here. This is, I guess, the third piece, although it doesn't necessarily require that you read the first two.}
Her weight on top of me was pleasantly familiar. It never gets old, her hard pelvic ridge finding that perfect resting place, that familiar feeling of skin pressing against skin, her warm hairless thighs, taut from hours in the gym, pressing against the roughness of my short brown hair. Without my noticing, she had stripped out of her bedclothes, so I shifted around to match her nakedness.
It was comforting, knowing the smells, the curves and hard ridges and soft belly skin that I knew as well as my own. It was a communion, the simple need to be close to her, that feeling that you couldn't be close enough, that feeling that even if I could climb inside her skin, it wouldn't be enough.
"What took you so long?," I said. I looked up at her face, watching the surprise register, shading into anger.
"What took me so long?," she said incredulously.
"Well, I've been laying here," I said smiling. "I know you find me irresistible, so it was only a matter of time-"
Her face broke into a smile. "Oh DO shut up!," she said. "You're so obnoxious!"
"But you love me."
"Yes. Sometimes against my better judgement," she said, smiling wider now, a less wholesome, more mischievous one. "But I do."
I arched my back slightly, pressing against her in a way that spoke volumes. "Do you want to?"
She smiled that smile again. "I can. Do you?"
"I always do," I said. It was true. She wasn't 19 any more. Neither was I. But two kids and twenty years on, I still wanted her like a horny teenager. "But that's not what I asked you."
"I'm tired, honey. You know that. I'm pleased that you want to. Thrilled that you still look at me the same way you did when we were in college. But we can't act that way anymore. You have to work tomorrow, even if you are going to quit. I have a meeting with Nate's teacher, and I have to bring snack to Matthew's."
"Plus you have work to do."
"That too, yeah. But I can," she said, moving her hips against me suggestively.
"I don't want to force you," I said.
"You're not forcing," she said. "I'm volunteering. I know you like it, and I don't mind. I like giving you pleasure."
"But you don't want to."
She leaned back, her weight now more on my thighs. "Honestly, Michael? No. I'm tired. And I want to go to sleep. But like I said, I don't mind. We've started something, so I don't mind if you finish it."
"It's not worth it if you're not into it," I said. "If that's all it's for, I can do that by myself. You're not an object for my amusement."
"Jesus Christ," she said. I felt the eroticism drain out of the moment like water from a leaky squirt gun. "It's sex, not a hostage crisis. This drives me crazy. Sometimes you have to do something, not just think about it and ruminate forever. Michael, you've always put women on a pedestal. Me especially. And believe me, 98% of the time, it's great." She drew her legs up, folding her arms across her breasts. I stared at the way her calf muscles bunched up. "This is the other 2%. I'm a grown woman. I know when you met me, I was a scared little girl. And you've always tried to protect me. And like I said, it's nice."
"I feel like it's my job," I said.
"I know you do," she said. Her voice was edging into a hiss, the tone she adopted when the kids were home. If we were alone, she would be rattling the windows. "And that's your father's influence, and I understand it. But I'm a grownup. I can do things for you, I can make sacrifices, I can voluntarily do something for you that isn't a hundred percent my idea. I can even carry two children for you."
"And I appreciate it."
"That's just it," she said a little louder. "I know. I know. I know you appreciate the sacrifices I've made. Just like I appreciate the ones you have made for me. For us. I know how hard you work, how much you do, how much you gave up. At times, do I regret it? Do I wish I had my 20 year old body again? Do I wish I was still a barista at Starbucks, flirting with coworkers and giving blowjobs in the parking lot? Of course I do. It's part of being human. But I can't go back. Nobody can. And on balance, are the sacrifices worth it? Yes. Jesus, yes. I don't regret marrying you. I don't regret having the boys. And sometimes, you have to let me sacrifice for you, and don't hit me with your bullshit guilt trips."
She got up, snatching her bed clothes with one hand and a pillow with the other. She managed to open the door angrily, leaving it open behind her. I heard her footfalls down the stairs, and the distant tinny sound of the television coming on downstairs. I stared at the darkness, listening to the noises of the house. It was never clear whether or not I should pursue her at moments like this. Sometimes, she craved her own space, and other times, she would be sitting there lonely and scared, wanting me to talk her down. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I wondered, like in the old Don Henley song, if someone was going to emergency, or to jail.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)