Write On Edge's prompt this week involves one of two pictures, showing here. My story is based on the second picture, called "Model Citizen".
It was kind of funny. They want to make the pictures natural looking, but in order to do that, they bring artificial lights, and fans, and probably 20 different people being paid by the hour to make sure I look natural. They do this by fiddling with every possible variable- the blush on my cheek, the amount of blonde in my hair, the shine on the tip of the 700 dollar shoe I'm supposed to be selling. There has to be some wind blowing, but not too much- bystanders in the background, but photogenic ones.
I've been doing it for so long it hardly fazes me anymore. Yes, fine, fiddle with that. Sure. No trouble. Turn 4 millimeters to my right? Of course. Sun's behind a cloud? Yes, I'll wait.
It's a strange thing, being this object that all the action centers around. And that's what you are- an object. A pretty thing for them to hang their stuff on.
Helmut calls a break, so I take my leg down from the bench. I feel the muscles of my leg bunching uncomfortable, so I take a couple of tiny steps to try and make the feeling go away. The shoes aren't really comfortable, but that's not the point, is it?
There's a young woman, maybe 20 years old or so, staring at me open mouthed from behind the camera. I recognize the look. It's "I hate you for looking that good" mixed with "I wish I could look that good", about half and half. She's pretty enough, conventionally speaking- a nice, average looking girl body, with cute glasses and a short, spunky haircut. I looked at her skirt, her shoes, the way her blouse stretched tight across her body. I wondered what her life was like. Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go home and spitefully finish a pint of ice cream by herself?
I wished I knew, for a minute, what her life felt like. Not obsessing about skin tone, and angles, and blisters, and weight, and time.
"OK! Let's go everyone!," Helmut called out. I took a couple of tiny, teetering steps, back to the hard steel bench. The girl turned away and walked across the square. I watched her walk as the functionaries fussed and fluttered around the body. At least, I thought, with all her imperfections, she owns her body. I feel like I'm renting.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: "Lunch Break"
Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge this week where we are to write a story given one of two first lines. My entry is called "Lunch Break".
“You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man’s thoughts turn to love, but I think they’re wrong.”
Her colleague turned to her, egg salad sandwich in hand. "Well, I can tell you one thing- they certainly don't turn to thoughts of geometry."
She laughed, a high, soft sound. "Nobody's thoughts turn to that, Javier." She ate a spoonful of raspberry yogurt. At the other end of the table, the head of the history department, John Samuelson, ruffled the pages of his newspaper.
"Mine do," he said calmly. "Ptolemy's. Pythagoras'."
She chuckled again. "That's the only ones."
"So what do young men turn their thoughts to, then?" He took another bite of his sandwich.
"I've never been a young man," she said. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Oh, I agree with the poets. Love, definitely."
"Not sex? They are two different things, you know."
He looked at her strangely, like he had never seen her before.
"That's true. One has more letters."
"Always the geometer," she said, smiling. "Measuring the world."
"I don't know how else to describe it," he said to her. She was scraping her spoon along the bottom of the plastic yogurt container.
"The world? How about art? Music? Dance? Literature? There's more to life than theorems, Javier. You just said it- young men's thoughts turning to love. What do your ancient Greeks and your protractors have to say about that?"
"Oh, they had lots to say, you know that." He pointed to a framed picture on the wall, a Degas print. "Look at the curve of the dancer's calf, the arch of her back. There's geometry all around you. Math can be beautiful. You just have to know to look for it."
She stood up, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her print dress. He watched her in silence.
"All I know is, the young men in my classes are sex crazed. You hear them talk- it's all braggadocio about who they're going to do, who they did, who's doing what to who. No talk of love."
"News flash, Janine: they are men."
"We were never like that in our day."
Javier barked out a laugh. "You weren't, maybe. We were. All men are."
"Not all men. You're not like that."
"I grew up," he said, finishing his sandwich and crumpling up the plastic wrap. "But underneath? On some level? All men are like that."
She put her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to say?," she said, frowning.
The newspaper at the end of the table rustled shut. Samuelson spoke in a gravelly voice. "He's saying he wants to sleep with you."
The air was tense. "Do you?," she asked.
"Of course I do," Javier said. "I want to sleep with every woman I see, to some degree. I don't, because I'm married, and because it's wrong, and because my wife would cut my head off in my sleep if I did. But we all want to. Wanting to is just part of being men. As we get older, we just learn to hide it better."
"You make it sound like men are one step removed from animals," she said.
"I'm not positive it's a full step," he said.
"I don't understand men at all," she said, throwing her yogurt container away.
The bell sounded, meaning they had to go to their next class. "Don't worry. We don't understand ourselves, either," Samuelson said to her back.
“You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man’s thoughts turn to love, but I think they’re wrong.”
Her colleague turned to her, egg salad sandwich in hand. "Well, I can tell you one thing- they certainly don't turn to thoughts of geometry."
She laughed, a high, soft sound. "Nobody's thoughts turn to that, Javier." She ate a spoonful of raspberry yogurt. At the other end of the table, the head of the history department, John Samuelson, ruffled the pages of his newspaper.
"Mine do," he said calmly. "Ptolemy's. Pythagoras'."
She chuckled again. "That's the only ones."
"So what do young men turn their thoughts to, then?" He took another bite of his sandwich.
"I've never been a young man," she said. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Oh, I agree with the poets. Love, definitely."
"Not sex? They are two different things, you know."
He looked at her strangely, like he had never seen her before.
"That's true. One has more letters."
"Always the geometer," she said, smiling. "Measuring the world."
"I don't know how else to describe it," he said to her. She was scraping her spoon along the bottom of the plastic yogurt container.
"The world? How about art? Music? Dance? Literature? There's more to life than theorems, Javier. You just said it- young men's thoughts turning to love. What do your ancient Greeks and your protractors have to say about that?"
"Oh, they had lots to say, you know that." He pointed to a framed picture on the wall, a Degas print. "Look at the curve of the dancer's calf, the arch of her back. There's geometry all around you. Math can be beautiful. You just have to know to look for it."
She stood up, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her print dress. He watched her in silence.
"All I know is, the young men in my classes are sex crazed. You hear them talk- it's all braggadocio about who they're going to do, who they did, who's doing what to who. No talk of love."
"News flash, Janine: they are men."
"We were never like that in our day."
Javier barked out a laugh. "You weren't, maybe. We were. All men are."
"Not all men. You're not like that."
"I grew up," he said, finishing his sandwich and crumpling up the plastic wrap. "But underneath? On some level? All men are like that."
She put her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to say?," she said, frowning.
The newspaper at the end of the table rustled shut. Samuelson spoke in a gravelly voice. "He's saying he wants to sleep with you."
The air was tense. "Do you?," she asked.
"Of course I do," Javier said. "I want to sleep with every woman I see, to some degree. I don't, because I'm married, and because it's wrong, and because my wife would cut my head off in my sleep if I did. But we all want to. Wanting to is just part of being men. As we get older, we just learn to hide it better."
"You make it sound like men are one step removed from animals," she said.
"I'm not positive it's a full step," he said.
"I don't understand men at all," she said, throwing her yogurt container away.
The bell sounded, meaning they had to go to their next class. "Don't worry. We don't understand ourselves, either," Samuelson said to her back.
"Call Me Immediately" (IndieInk Writing Challenge)
This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from Andrea, who gave me this prompt:"and the anger was smoothed again by a breaking bone". I challenged Head Ant with the prompt "Can I take your order?".
Emergency rooms are always the same: lots of motion and sound, but very purposeful. People in colored pants and shirts are moving back and forth, talking firmly but quietly. Ringing telephones, beeping equipment, clipboards and computers and bags of clear fluid. Someone was bringing trays off of a tall cart and delivering them to a few people behind blue curtains. It smelled like the trays had some variety of baked chicken on them.
"She in here, sah" the pretty woman with the deep black hair said as she held the curtain aside to let him through. She had an accent that he couldn't place exactly, but it sounded Caribbean. Inside he saw his wife, sitting on a hard hospital chair, actively flicking at the screen of her phone. He was so keyed up he forgot to thank her.
"What is it? What happened?," he asked her excitedly.
"Settle down, Parker," she said distractedly, intent on the tiny screen. "She's fine. Just a field hockey accident. She may have broken her arm."
"But," he sputtered, his anxiety sliding into anger at her nonchalance, "you used the code!"
They both had occupations that did not always allow the acceptance of telephone calls, so they adopted a shorthand system of text messaging to quickly communicate essential ideas. "PUD" was "Pick Up Dinner," meaning the sender was too tired to cook. "PUP" was "Pick Up Prescription," etc. The code she had sent 95 long minutes ago was "CM-911", meaning, "Call me immediately, it's an emergency." The last time she had sent that, she was in the middle of delivering their stillborn son. His frantic phonecalls to her were ignored, her only reply being a text saying simply, "Ewing Hospital ER".
"It was the only way I could get you to come," she said icily.
He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. He couldn't think of anything useful to say to that. Yes, it had made him come, but that didn't mean...
"Kelly, I was right in the middle of..."
"Do shut up, Parker. You're always in the middle of something. And you know what? It's never as important as you say it is. So shut up and sit here and wait for your daughter."
He felt the tension along his back. He wanted to punch someone, to yell. "Where is she?"
"They took her for X rays. I told them I would wait here for you."
She was typing away on her phone's tiny screen. Along with her day job as an assistant to a City Council member, she was the head of the Horticultural Society, and was constantly rearranging, delegating, ordering and confirming. He liked to joke that he had to email her to have sex. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain, some of the staff started laughing at a joke one of them had told.
"Kel, I was really worried. I thought something had happened. I thought we agreed you wouldn't use that code unless..."
"Oh, Parker," she said, distracted. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."
His wife's legs were primly crossed, one modest heel bobbing slightly as she typed. He understood very little, but at times like this he felt like he understood nothing at all, like the first time he went to Helsinki by himself. He remembered wondering if everyone was talking about him, and secretly suspecting that they were.
The curtain parted and a man and a woman in identical green scrubs pushed her inside the room in a wheelchair. They all could smell the grass and sweat from her clothes. She had eyeblack on next to her pert nose, and her hair pulled into a single greasy ponytail with a yellow tie, her left arm in a tan sling, and her full uniform- skirt, knee socks, spikes, and dirty uniform top with her number, 24, near one shoulder. Marissa had a faraway look on her angelic face. She looked almost comical, all suited up for battle inside this cement and fabric square.
"I'm going to let the doctor tell you for sure, but I'd bet my life it's broken," the woman said. She had dark brown skin and black hair, and spoke like an Oxford don.
"Oh, yeah," the man chimed in, a redhead with blooms of bright red on each cheek. "It's busted for sure."
They helped Marissa up into the bed, where she regarded her two parents uncertainly, like she couldn't recognize them. He felt offended at the notion her precious arm now hanging useless and broken from her neck, the arm he had protected and nurtured and fed for so many years, that arm that used to be flung around his neck with unrestrained joy when he came home. He felt like he could see the two ends of the bone, discontinuous now where they had always been so solid.
"Daddy!," she said after pausing for too many seconds. "You came! Momma said you wouldn't. She said you'd be too busy!" She didn't sound like herself- no painstakingly constructed, logical sentences, no breathless wonder of conspiratorial talk with a friend. She sounded like a little girl, like she had at 8 when she would throw a fit if she couldn't accompany him on the shortest errand.
"Did you give her something for the pain?," he asked the woman.
"You can't tell?," she observed before the two parted the curtain and left.
"It doesn't hurt, honey?," he said to his daughter.
"Oh, no, Daddy. No. It doesn't hurt," she said dreamily.
"So what happened?," he said to her. He pulled the sheet up to cover her dirty knees.
"To what?" she asked.
"Your arm, baby." His wife pecked away on her phone's keyboard, oblivious.
"Oh that? I broked it, Daddy," she said, erupting in a fit of giggles. "I was playing field hockey, and then Shannon just, like, fell on it. And it broke."
He looked at her laughing, her head thrown back. He had stopped treating her like a little girl years ago, watching the two of them retreat into an armed camp, isolating him. Conversations ended when he came in the room, with glances and laughter marking where words once stood. He would ask his wife later what it was, and she would dismiss it idly. "It's just girl talk, Parker. Never you mind about it." He remembered previous visits they had made under these flourescents, a bout of vomiting that wouldn't stop when she was three, a twisted knee after a skateboard mishap at nine, and, of course, the death of his son.
His wife stood up, her business evidently concluded. "They said she collided with two other girls. They went down in a heap and one of the other girls just fell on her wrong. Listen, Parker. I'm starving. Why don't you go get some dinner and meet us at home? I can wait for the doctor as well as you can." His wife had an expectant look, like she was surprised he hadn't left already. She was used to being obeyed, listened to, respected.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it. He stepped forward and planted a kiss on his daughter's forehead. He could taste the salt of her sweat. She wasn't the little girl who idolized him anymore- she was headstrong and beautiful, confident and strong, with a woman's body and her mother's steel trap of a mind.
"I'll get some pizza and see you guys at home then," he said, backing away from the two of them. His wife looked at him. "Goodbye, Daddy," his daughter said. She hadn't called him that since grade four.
He walked through the curtain and back out through the maelstrom to his car. He had a brief, vivid image of himself taking his cell phone from his pocket and going into a full windup and just heaving it into the pavement in front of him. He could picture it shattering, precious metal connections shattering and rare metal alloys now so much shiny junk. But he'd have to explain that to them, and he couldn't imagine saying something that would not brand him a lunatic.
He called up the pizza place on his contact list, hit the button and watched the phone do its magic. While he waited for them to pick up, he wondered if there was any beer left in the fridge.
Emergency rooms are always the same: lots of motion and sound, but very purposeful. People in colored pants and shirts are moving back and forth, talking firmly but quietly. Ringing telephones, beeping equipment, clipboards and computers and bags of clear fluid. Someone was bringing trays off of a tall cart and delivering them to a few people behind blue curtains. It smelled like the trays had some variety of baked chicken on them.
"She in here, sah" the pretty woman with the deep black hair said as she held the curtain aside to let him through. She had an accent that he couldn't place exactly, but it sounded Caribbean. Inside he saw his wife, sitting on a hard hospital chair, actively flicking at the screen of her phone. He was so keyed up he forgot to thank her.
"What is it? What happened?," he asked her excitedly.
"Settle down, Parker," she said distractedly, intent on the tiny screen. "She's fine. Just a field hockey accident. She may have broken her arm."
"But," he sputtered, his anxiety sliding into anger at her nonchalance, "you used the code!"
They both had occupations that did not always allow the acceptance of telephone calls, so they adopted a shorthand system of text messaging to quickly communicate essential ideas. "PUD" was "Pick Up Dinner," meaning the sender was too tired to cook. "PUP" was "Pick Up Prescription," etc. The code she had sent 95 long minutes ago was "CM-911", meaning, "Call me immediately, it's an emergency." The last time she had sent that, she was in the middle of delivering their stillborn son. His frantic phonecalls to her were ignored, her only reply being a text saying simply, "Ewing Hospital ER".
"It was the only way I could get you to come," she said icily.
He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. He couldn't think of anything useful to say to that. Yes, it had made him come, but that didn't mean...
"Kelly, I was right in the middle of..."
"Do shut up, Parker. You're always in the middle of something. And you know what? It's never as important as you say it is. So shut up and sit here and wait for your daughter."
He felt the tension along his back. He wanted to punch someone, to yell. "Where is she?"
"They took her for X rays. I told them I would wait here for you."
She was typing away on her phone's tiny screen. Along with her day job as an assistant to a City Council member, she was the head of the Horticultural Society, and was constantly rearranging, delegating, ordering and confirming. He liked to joke that he had to email her to have sex. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain, some of the staff started laughing at a joke one of them had told.
"Kel, I was really worried. I thought something had happened. I thought we agreed you wouldn't use that code unless..."
"Oh, Parker," she said, distracted. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."
His wife's legs were primly crossed, one modest heel bobbing slightly as she typed. He understood very little, but at times like this he felt like he understood nothing at all, like the first time he went to Helsinki by himself. He remembered wondering if everyone was talking about him, and secretly suspecting that they were.
The curtain parted and a man and a woman in identical green scrubs pushed her inside the room in a wheelchair. They all could smell the grass and sweat from her clothes. She had eyeblack on next to her pert nose, and her hair pulled into a single greasy ponytail with a yellow tie, her left arm in a tan sling, and her full uniform- skirt, knee socks, spikes, and dirty uniform top with her number, 24, near one shoulder. Marissa had a faraway look on her angelic face. She looked almost comical, all suited up for battle inside this cement and fabric square.
"I'm going to let the doctor tell you for sure, but I'd bet my life it's broken," the woman said. She had dark brown skin and black hair, and spoke like an Oxford don.
"Oh, yeah," the man chimed in, a redhead with blooms of bright red on each cheek. "It's busted for sure."
They helped Marissa up into the bed, where she regarded her two parents uncertainly, like she couldn't recognize them. He felt offended at the notion her precious arm now hanging useless and broken from her neck, the arm he had protected and nurtured and fed for so many years, that arm that used to be flung around his neck with unrestrained joy when he came home. He felt like he could see the two ends of the bone, discontinuous now where they had always been so solid.
"Daddy!," she said after pausing for too many seconds. "You came! Momma said you wouldn't. She said you'd be too busy!" She didn't sound like herself- no painstakingly constructed, logical sentences, no breathless wonder of conspiratorial talk with a friend. She sounded like a little girl, like she had at 8 when she would throw a fit if she couldn't accompany him on the shortest errand.
"Did you give her something for the pain?," he asked the woman.
"You can't tell?," she observed before the two parted the curtain and left.
"It doesn't hurt, honey?," he said to his daughter.
"Oh, no, Daddy. No. It doesn't hurt," she said dreamily.
"So what happened?," he said to her. He pulled the sheet up to cover her dirty knees.
"To what?" she asked.
"Your arm, baby." His wife pecked away on her phone's keyboard, oblivious.
"Oh that? I broked it, Daddy," she said, erupting in a fit of giggles. "I was playing field hockey, and then Shannon just, like, fell on it. And it broke."
He looked at her laughing, her head thrown back. He had stopped treating her like a little girl years ago, watching the two of them retreat into an armed camp, isolating him. Conversations ended when he came in the room, with glances and laughter marking where words once stood. He would ask his wife later what it was, and she would dismiss it idly. "It's just girl talk, Parker. Never you mind about it." He remembered previous visits they had made under these flourescents, a bout of vomiting that wouldn't stop when she was three, a twisted knee after a skateboard mishap at nine, and, of course, the death of his son.
His wife stood up, her business evidently concluded. "They said she collided with two other girls. They went down in a heap and one of the other girls just fell on her wrong. Listen, Parker. I'm starving. Why don't you go get some dinner and meet us at home? I can wait for the doctor as well as you can." His wife had an expectant look, like she was surprised he hadn't left already. She was used to being obeyed, listened to, respected.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it. He stepped forward and planted a kiss on his daughter's forehead. He could taste the salt of her sweat. She wasn't the little girl who idolized him anymore- she was headstrong and beautiful, confident and strong, with a woman's body and her mother's steel trap of a mind.
"I'll get some pizza and see you guys at home then," he said, backing away from the two of them. His wife looked at him. "Goodbye, Daddy," his daughter said. She hadn't called him that since grade four.
He walked through the curtain and back out through the maelstrom to his car. He had a brief, vivid image of himself taking his cell phone from his pocket and going into a full windup and just heaving it into the pavement in front of him. He could picture it shattering, precious metal connections shattering and rare metal alloys now so much shiny junk. But he'd have to explain that to them, and he couldn't imagine saying something that would not brand him a lunatic.
He called up the pizza place on his contact list, hit the button and watched the phone do its magic. While he waited for them to pick up, he wondered if there was any beer left in the fridge.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Report For Duty
Chuck Wendig, the irascible penmonkey and Yo Yo King, has a new post time for the Terrible Minds Challenge this week, Monday. This week's challenge is to write a story in three sentences. My entry is called "Report For Duty".
“There’s got to be some way to get out of this town without joining the Army,” Julia said.
I tucked the letter into my back pocket as I looked at the soft brown hair framing her face.
“Got to be,” I said.
“There’s got to be some way to get out of this town without joining the Army,” Julia said.
I tucked the letter into my back pocket as I looked at the soft brown hair framing her face.
“Got to be,” I said.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Tuesday Morning, 9:37 AM
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is drying slowly in the fall sun. The word is "Occupy," and I call this "Tuesday Morning, 9:37 AM"
It was oceans and rivers of talk.
"And then the monster said his eggs were hidden in the secret places and then Thomas said …,"
Cameron's blue eyes were wide. She was forcing her swollen face into an expression of intense interest, but she was craving silence, just waiting for the waves of words to finally stop.
"...he could take me to Knapford Station, and I said..."
Searching for something to occupy him, she did what she swore she would never do.
The TV came on. "It was a sunny day on the Island of Sodor...," the narrator said.
It was oceans and rivers of talk.
"And then the monster said his eggs were hidden in the secret places and then Thomas said …,"
Cameron's blue eyes were wide. She was forcing her swollen face into an expression of intense interest, but she was craving silence, just waiting for the waves of words to finally stop.
"...he could take me to Knapford Station, and I said..."
Searching for something to occupy him, she did what she swore she would never do.
The TV came on. "It was a sunny day on the Island of Sodor...," the narrator said.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: The Buck Stops
Chuck Wendig, lord and master of all he surveys, issued a flash fiction challenge last week to use three of five words he gave you in a 100 Word Flash Fiction piece. My entry is called "The Buck Stops".
"New! With Bio Enzyme Cleaning Power!," the label to the cleanser said, though it still smelled the same. Julie was cleaning out the back seat of her SUV, her kids at Grandma's house. She finished wiping the seat and looked underneath, quickly regretting it. Old French fries, a bishop from a travel chess set, and a lollipop cemented to the carpeting. If she were at work, she could order it done, but here at home, there's no way to get out of the manual labor.
Sigh.
She misses being home, but right now, she longs for the office.
"New! With Bio Enzyme Cleaning Power!," the label to the cleanser said, though it still smelled the same. Julie was cleaning out the back seat of her SUV, her kids at Grandma's house. She finished wiping the seat and looked underneath, quickly regretting it. Old French fries, a bishop from a travel chess set, and a lollipop cemented to the carpeting. If she were at work, she could order it done, but here at home, there's no way to get out of the manual labor.
Sigh.
She misses being home, but right now, she longs for the office.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Hanging Curve
This week's Indie Ink Writing Challenge, the cryptic "Seven Deadly Zins", comes at me from Miranda, while my challenge was flung at the feet of urbane Billy Flynn, who is sure to razzle dazzle us.
I must emphasize before we begin that what follows is 110% fiction. I haven't even been to San Diego.
It was the kind of night that reminded you why you lived in San Diego- warm and dry, so pleasant it should be illegal, with enough of a gentle breeze to ruffle the hem of a woman's dress when she walked. Even so, I was driving carefully all the way there, like I expected there to be land mines along the way. I parked, and she got out without a word, the silence uneasy. I watched her walk, the green dress, bought years ago for a nephew's wedding, still fitting well around her hips.
It was our monthly splurge, a dinner out with all the trimmings. We got dressed up, summoned a babysitter, and went to an expensive place, experiencing the high life for 2 or 3 hours before returning to the world of projects and deadlines, runny nosed kids and orthodontist bills. We had been favoring the same place for a while, and apparently I had made an impression with my good tipping as they seated us along a huge window that looked out onto the ocean.
The table was gorgeous, polished walnut, everything gleaming and arranged with Zen like perfection. With a forced smile, I let her order, because it was simpler than listening to her criticize what I ordered. She knew a lot more about food anyway, so whatever she ordered usually suited me fine. Her face lit up when she placed our order, some seafood dishes and a bottle of Zinfandel, as if she was trying to oversell her happiness to be there. I ordinarily would raise my eyebrows at that large a wine order, but I didn't dare.
I was watching a tanker, far out to sea, making its way north, millions of tons of steel floating, like a magic trick, on top of billions of gallons of water. I knew there were physical principles involved- buoyancy and specific gravity and such, but just like an airplane's flight, I preferred not to think too hard about it. It seemed like magic, and to really understand what went on in terms of equations and numbers took some of that away.
I thought back to when she came into our bedroom 90 minutes ago, when I was dead to rights: hung out to dry, like the runner on a busted hit and run. There was no alibi, no explanation, no innocent interpretation. I was on the bed, eagerly trying to tug the jeans off of the 23 year old graduate student we paid exceptionally well to watch our two young boys while we stole an evening out.
We were both shocked. It wasn't a planned event. That didn't make it okay- as my father used to say, an explanation is not always an excuse. The babysitter, the preternaturally calm Grace, had settled our two boys down for the night, and I was finishing getting dressed while we awaited my wife's arrival from a thorny real estate negotiation. Grace padded into my room on bare feet, her glasses suddenly appearing above my left shoulder.
"Look at you!," she said approvingly.
"Well, shucks, ma'am," I said, trying a John Wayne imitation and missing by several nautical miles.
She was standing close to me, right off my elbow. I would be lying if I said I had never felt an attraction, with her long legs and uneven, endearing smile, but it was the same attraction I had for Natalie Portman or the cute blonde who did the morning weather report on the local news- sure, you'd like to, but it's not like they are offering, so it's not really an issue. Purely theoretical. Never, ever going to happen. But it was nice to hear praise from someone who wasn't obligated to give it.
What happened in the next five seconds was something I was going to agonize over for the rest of my life, I know now. I think I might have known it then. Or maybe I didn't know anything then.
I half turned, and we were suddenly face to face, standing probably closer than we ever had before. "I wasn't thinking" is a cliche, and it's not even true- we're always thinking about something, until we're dead. But it certainly felt like my hands found her trim little waist on their own, that my head bent by itself, and that the kiss itself emerged out of nowhere. We didn't talk- she didn't say no, but she didn't say yes. I guided her over to our bed in sloppy half steps, my hands already ranging up her long belly to her soft, round breasts. She laid down, and I had undone her jeans, trying to guide them over her hips when my wife came in behind us.
I stood up, and then Grace did, pulling herself together guiltily and standing behind me. It was by far the single strangest moment I have ever experienced. My wife didn't even break stride, coming across the room to her makeup mirror, shedding her modestly heeled shoes and beginning to shimmy out of her black pencil skirt.
"Oh good, you're ready," she said. "Give me time to change into my dress, and we can leave. Why don't you go downstairs and show Grace where I put the Diet Pepsi for her?"
Like automatons, we did as she asked. I didn't ask her about what had happened, and she didn't say anything. I showed her the soda, opened the freezer to reveal a new box of ice cream sandwiches, pointed out the new cheese dip we had bought, and showed her the brand new boxes of Triscuits I had laid in. She nodded, wide eyed with shock and fear. I stared at Grace, her shirt rumpled, her hair mussed slightly, and started to question my own sanity. If you saw something happen, but nobody else will talk about it, did it really happen at all? My wife came downstairs and we left. She was utterly silent all the way over, and I didn't dare break it.
I was staring at my wife, who still hadn't uttered a word to me, next to the gorgeous ocean view, surrounded by privilege and opulence. The restaurant had that low murmur of adult conversation, somehow made even quieter because of the august surroundings. I took a sip of the wine they had poured for us. It was fine. I would have preferred a beer.
She looked at me over the rim of her wineglass. "Aren't you wondering what I'm thinking?", she said calmly.
"Kind of," I said. It felt like I had just hung a curveball, that feeling of impending doom combined with the inability to change the events that you just set in motion.
"I'm not going to leave you, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not mad at you. I'm not even mad at Grace, really. You can be very persuasive when you want to be. And let's face it- you look pretty damn good in that suit. So I'm not going to make a scene, or throw the wine in your face, or storm out in a huff. I knew this was going to happen at some point, so it doesn't even hurt that much. So I saw you, and I saw her, and I saw what you were doing, and I only had one single thought- I've got you now."
"So we're going to sit here, and we're going to have a nice dinner, and then you're going to take me home. And we're not going to talk about this ever again. But some day, you're going to need something from me- something small, but my participation is going to be really crucial to something that's important to you. And I'm going to tell you that I'll do it. And then I won't. And whatever you have planned will get screwed up. And every time you ask me to do something from now on, you're going to ask yourself, 'is this the time she lets me down?' And you won't know until it's too late."
"And Steven? Because you tried to do it on our bed? On my Martha Stewart sheets? I'm going to take a freebie. So if I decide I want to bang our child's teacher, or a hot father at the bus stop, or my old boyfriend Charles? I'm going to do it. And you can't say shit."
"And one more thing. Don't get any ideas about leaving me and running off with her. Do that, and I will destroy you. I will tell all the partners what you did, and what's worse, I'll tell your clients. And just maybe I'll suggest that she was 15 instead of 23. And then you won't be able to represent anyone outside of Traffic Court."
"You just threw the wrong pitch, Steven. And now I'm going to take you deep."
I must emphasize before we begin that what follows is 110% fiction. I haven't even been to San Diego.
It was the kind of night that reminded you why you lived in San Diego- warm and dry, so pleasant it should be illegal, with enough of a gentle breeze to ruffle the hem of a woman's dress when she walked. Even so, I was driving carefully all the way there, like I expected there to be land mines along the way. I parked, and she got out without a word, the silence uneasy. I watched her walk, the green dress, bought years ago for a nephew's wedding, still fitting well around her hips.
It was our monthly splurge, a dinner out with all the trimmings. We got dressed up, summoned a babysitter, and went to an expensive place, experiencing the high life for 2 or 3 hours before returning to the world of projects and deadlines, runny nosed kids and orthodontist bills. We had been favoring the same place for a while, and apparently I had made an impression with my good tipping as they seated us along a huge window that looked out onto the ocean.
The table was gorgeous, polished walnut, everything gleaming and arranged with Zen like perfection. With a forced smile, I let her order, because it was simpler than listening to her criticize what I ordered. She knew a lot more about food anyway, so whatever she ordered usually suited me fine. Her face lit up when she placed our order, some seafood dishes and a bottle of Zinfandel, as if she was trying to oversell her happiness to be there. I ordinarily would raise my eyebrows at that large a wine order, but I didn't dare.
I was watching a tanker, far out to sea, making its way north, millions of tons of steel floating, like a magic trick, on top of billions of gallons of water. I knew there were physical principles involved- buoyancy and specific gravity and such, but just like an airplane's flight, I preferred not to think too hard about it. It seemed like magic, and to really understand what went on in terms of equations and numbers took some of that away.
I thought back to when she came into our bedroom 90 minutes ago, when I was dead to rights: hung out to dry, like the runner on a busted hit and run. There was no alibi, no explanation, no innocent interpretation. I was on the bed, eagerly trying to tug the jeans off of the 23 year old graduate student we paid exceptionally well to watch our two young boys while we stole an evening out.
We were both shocked. It wasn't a planned event. That didn't make it okay- as my father used to say, an explanation is not always an excuse. The babysitter, the preternaturally calm Grace, had settled our two boys down for the night, and I was finishing getting dressed while we awaited my wife's arrival from a thorny real estate negotiation. Grace padded into my room on bare feet, her glasses suddenly appearing above my left shoulder.
"Look at you!," she said approvingly.
"Well, shucks, ma'am," I said, trying a John Wayne imitation and missing by several nautical miles.
She was standing close to me, right off my elbow. I would be lying if I said I had never felt an attraction, with her long legs and uneven, endearing smile, but it was the same attraction I had for Natalie Portman or the cute blonde who did the morning weather report on the local news- sure, you'd like to, but it's not like they are offering, so it's not really an issue. Purely theoretical. Never, ever going to happen. But it was nice to hear praise from someone who wasn't obligated to give it.
What happened in the next five seconds was something I was going to agonize over for the rest of my life, I know now. I think I might have known it then. Or maybe I didn't know anything then.
I half turned, and we were suddenly face to face, standing probably closer than we ever had before. "I wasn't thinking" is a cliche, and it's not even true- we're always thinking about something, until we're dead. But it certainly felt like my hands found her trim little waist on their own, that my head bent by itself, and that the kiss itself emerged out of nowhere. We didn't talk- she didn't say no, but she didn't say yes. I guided her over to our bed in sloppy half steps, my hands already ranging up her long belly to her soft, round breasts. She laid down, and I had undone her jeans, trying to guide them over her hips when my wife came in behind us.
I stood up, and then Grace did, pulling herself together guiltily and standing behind me. It was by far the single strangest moment I have ever experienced. My wife didn't even break stride, coming across the room to her makeup mirror, shedding her modestly heeled shoes and beginning to shimmy out of her black pencil skirt.
"Oh good, you're ready," she said. "Give me time to change into my dress, and we can leave. Why don't you go downstairs and show Grace where I put the Diet Pepsi for her?"
Like automatons, we did as she asked. I didn't ask her about what had happened, and she didn't say anything. I showed her the soda, opened the freezer to reveal a new box of ice cream sandwiches, pointed out the new cheese dip we had bought, and showed her the brand new boxes of Triscuits I had laid in. She nodded, wide eyed with shock and fear. I stared at Grace, her shirt rumpled, her hair mussed slightly, and started to question my own sanity. If you saw something happen, but nobody else will talk about it, did it really happen at all? My wife came downstairs and we left. She was utterly silent all the way over, and I didn't dare break it.
I was staring at my wife, who still hadn't uttered a word to me, next to the gorgeous ocean view, surrounded by privilege and opulence. The restaurant had that low murmur of adult conversation, somehow made even quieter because of the august surroundings. I took a sip of the wine they had poured for us. It was fine. I would have preferred a beer.
She looked at me over the rim of her wineglass. "Aren't you wondering what I'm thinking?", she said calmly.
"Kind of," I said. It felt like I had just hung a curveball, that feeling of impending doom combined with the inability to change the events that you just set in motion.
"I'm not going to leave you, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not mad at you. I'm not even mad at Grace, really. You can be very persuasive when you want to be. And let's face it- you look pretty damn good in that suit. So I'm not going to make a scene, or throw the wine in your face, or storm out in a huff. I knew this was going to happen at some point, so it doesn't even hurt that much. So I saw you, and I saw her, and I saw what you were doing, and I only had one single thought- I've got you now."
"So we're going to sit here, and we're going to have a nice dinner, and then you're going to take me home. And we're not going to talk about this ever again. But some day, you're going to need something from me- something small, but my participation is going to be really crucial to something that's important to you. And I'm going to tell you that I'll do it. And then I won't. And whatever you have planned will get screwed up. And every time you ask me to do something from now on, you're going to ask yourself, 'is this the time she lets me down?' And you won't know until it's too late."
"And Steven? Because you tried to do it on our bed? On my Martha Stewart sheets? I'm going to take a freebie. So if I decide I want to bang our child's teacher, or a hot father at the bus stop, or my old boyfriend Charles? I'm going to do it. And you can't say shit."
"And one more thing. Don't get any ideas about leaving me and running off with her. Do that, and I will destroy you. I will tell all the partners what you did, and what's worse, I'll tell your clients. And just maybe I'll suggest that she was 15 instead of 23. And then you won't be able to represent anyone outside of Traffic Court."
"You just threw the wrong pitch, Steven. And now I'm going to take you deep."
Thursday, September 15, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Shampoo
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge has resumed its reign of terror atop the 100 word literary challenge landscape. The word is "inhibited" and my story is called "Shampoo".
She was proud of her hair, and rightfully so. It was long, brown, and wavy, and she flipped it around constantly. It wiggled when she raised her head to watch the lecture. I wanted to touch it constantly, see what sort of magic it held, but I never did. She always smelled like shampoo and baby powder, and she always seemed under control somehow, like she wanted for nothing, had no simple human lusts like the rest of us.
"When that signal reaches the gonads, the production of sex hormones will be inhibited," the professor said.
Hardly, I was thinking.
She was proud of her hair, and rightfully so. It was long, brown, and wavy, and she flipped it around constantly. It wiggled when she raised her head to watch the lecture. I wanted to touch it constantly, see what sort of magic it held, but I never did. She always smelled like shampoo and baby powder, and she always seemed under control somehow, like she wanted for nothing, had no simple human lusts like the rest of us.
"When that signal reaches the gonads, the production of sex hormones will be inhibited," the professor said.
Hardly, I was thinking.
Write On Edge: Kiss The Bride
My friends at Write on Edge have a new challenge up, 600 words about heartbreak. I expanded a previous stub and came up with this, "Kiss The Bride".
She’s getting married.
I'm in the church, sitting apart from anyone else, nodding politely when nodded to. I had to see it, had to prove it to myself. She's gone. The church is silent, save for squeaks when someone shifts their weight on the ancient wood and the buzz of the road outside, commerce and progress and other people's lives moving onwards like nothing was happening. I'm not even invited to the wedding. I snuck in, sitting in the very back, needing to witness, wanting to see. I wouldn't dare talk to her.
I want to protest, but why shouldn’t she get married? She’s been out of my life for years, lingering in my head like a ghost image on an old TV, but she greeted my return to her life with a multi paragraph apology that I sweated blood to compose, with a simple reply.
“No worries. We were young.”
Nope, no worries. And young? Yes, we were so damn young.
We were beautiful, and we were free, young and careless and as wild as a minimum wage job would let someone be. I burned with ferocious pride when I saw her sitting at a restaurant table, sitting there, guileless and open. I couldn't spend enough time with her, putting aside everything I could, even if it was only to drive her home after dance class. She was perfect to me, and I wanted to protect her from everything, the rain and the wind and every possible heartbreak. I didn't know yet that you can't do that. Nobody can.
Sitting here in an old suit jacket I whip out for weddings and funerals, sweating in the sneaky June warmth, I feel the little aches and pains that tell me I'm not young anymore. The clergyman, in a broad baritone, asks if anyone objects. No one ever does, except in movies, but I have to stifle the urge to shout out in the quiet. Like the Elton John song, I should just stand up and say I want to kiss the bride. I do. She looks beautiful, wiser now, of course, with a few wrinkles. Her face, with her hair pulled back tight, still looks innocent. I do want to kiss her, and apologize, and beg her to reconsider. But I don't.
The whole thing was doomed to failure. What I had for her was a worship, not a relationship with give and take and human interaction. I didn't know how to be someone's partner- I was barely human myself. I was a kid, a kid who thought he knew it all, but still, a kid. Even if I hadn't ended it, it would have ended. There isn't any doubt about that. I know this, and yet, and yet...my heart breaks as they kiss. Something is gone forever.
"You may kiss the bride," the clergyman says.
It's one thing to suspect you've blown it. It's quite another to see it demonstrated.
She’s getting married.
I'm in the church, sitting apart from anyone else, nodding politely when nodded to. I had to see it, had to prove it to myself. She's gone. The church is silent, save for squeaks when someone shifts their weight on the ancient wood and the buzz of the road outside, commerce and progress and other people's lives moving onwards like nothing was happening. I'm not even invited to the wedding. I snuck in, sitting in the very back, needing to witness, wanting to see. I wouldn't dare talk to her.
I want to protest, but why shouldn’t she get married? She’s been out of my life for years, lingering in my head like a ghost image on an old TV, but she greeted my return to her life with a multi paragraph apology that I sweated blood to compose, with a simple reply.
“No worries. We were young.”
Nope, no worries. And young? Yes, we were so damn young.
We were beautiful, and we were free, young and careless and as wild as a minimum wage job would let someone be. I burned with ferocious pride when I saw her sitting at a restaurant table, sitting there, guileless and open. I couldn't spend enough time with her, putting aside everything I could, even if it was only to drive her home after dance class. She was perfect to me, and I wanted to protect her from everything, the rain and the wind and every possible heartbreak. I didn't know yet that you can't do that. Nobody can.
Sitting here in an old suit jacket I whip out for weddings and funerals, sweating in the sneaky June warmth, I feel the little aches and pains that tell me I'm not young anymore. The clergyman, in a broad baritone, asks if anyone objects. No one ever does, except in movies, but I have to stifle the urge to shout out in the quiet. Like the Elton John song, I should just stand up and say I want to kiss the bride. I do. She looks beautiful, wiser now, of course, with a few wrinkles. Her face, with her hair pulled back tight, still looks innocent. I do want to kiss her, and apologize, and beg her to reconsider. But I don't.
The whole thing was doomed to failure. What I had for her was a worship, not a relationship with give and take and human interaction. I didn't know how to be someone's partner- I was barely human myself. I was a kid, a kid who thought he knew it all, but still, a kid. Even if I hadn't ended it, it would have ended. There isn't any doubt about that. I know this, and yet, and yet...my heart breaks as they kiss. Something is gone forever.
"You may kiss the bride," the clergyman says.
It's one thing to suspect you've blown it. It's quite another to see it demonstrated.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Labor Day
Chuck Wendig will not run, and if elected, will not serve. This week's challenge is about a picture on his website of a woman holding a torch, and my story is called "Labor Day".
They really didn't know what to do with us. We were too old for the kid programs, and too young for the adult programs, and our parents weren't brave enough to leave us at home alone all weekend. So when Labor Day Weekend rolled around, we went up to the lake and the Family Conference anyway. We wandered, sitting on the beach where it was too cold to swim, or watching the softball game we were too cool to participate in. We played frisbee, or congregated around an electrical outlet to listen to each other's collection of tapes. We complained about how boring it was, but we still managed to fill every minute.
There were six of us: moody Goth Victoria, straightlaced Susan, happy go lucky Kelly, aimless Jim, troubled Mark, and me. 3 boys, 3 girls: perfectly symmetrical. We all either had special someones back home or were too disaffected to care, so by some unspoken agreement, we didn't talk about it. We talked about sports, or our plans for the fall, or whether the Smiths were better than the Cure. We had been coming to this same old campground for years, so we knew each other, but only for these four day stretches once a year.
It was late Sunday night, and we had all gathered around a campfire. Every group of cabins had an assigned "babysitter" who sat by the fire and kept warm while the parents were off at some seminar or other. They were basically in charge of being around, comforting children with bad dreams until their parents returned from yoga, or Movie Night, or the book group. We were sitting on the end of picnic tables, on rocks, on stumps, all aware that the long weekend was about to end, and our regular lives beckoned.
Susan was tall, unusually tall for a girl, with short, intensely curly hair that always looked wet. She had the gift of looking well put together, somehow more formal than everyone else, even when wearing teenager chic. She was fairly quiet, but when she spoke, everyone listened. If she laughed at something I said, my heart leapt. I had been in love with her more and more each year. Becca, the pig tailed teen whose fire we were gathered around, stared at her as rapturously as I did.
"Everybody back next year?," cheerful Kelly began. There were a chorus of yesses, including mine, except for Susan. She was sitting, chin on her knees. She stood up. There was dirt on the knees of her jeans, which was unusual. She seemed like the sort of person who would change pants after dirtying the knees.
"Susie Q?," Kelly said, a little softer.
Susan stood close to the fire. The licking tongues of orange made flashing patterns on her face. I wanted to cry out, tell her to back away, that it wasn't safe. She wasn't looking at any of us. Without warning, she stuck her hand out and took the butt end of a stick that was in the fire, holding it aloft. The other end burned unsteadily, a nub of flame separated from the larger body. She held it up above her head, watching it sputter and glow in the moonlight. I looked at her brown eyes, her perfect face, looking for an answer. Was she looking for an honest man?
She brought it down and held it close to her lips.
"No," she said softly. "This is my last year." She put the stick back into the fire again.
Nobody said anything. I knew I was never going to see her again now. It was time. Get up, I thought. Tell her. You have to let her know how you feel. Now. Don't wait.
"That's too bad," Kelly said. "I'll miss you."
I looked up at her, standing too close to the fire, the ember by her lips. If you don't say it now, you're never going to.
"I'm going to go to bed," Susan said. I watched her walk across in front of me, dirty knees almost at eye level. Reach out, I thought. Stop her. Tell her you need to stay in touch.
"Good night, everybody."
"Good night," we echoed.
She walked off into the night, and I stared at the fire. It was cold.
They really didn't know what to do with us. We were too old for the kid programs, and too young for the adult programs, and our parents weren't brave enough to leave us at home alone all weekend. So when Labor Day Weekend rolled around, we went up to the lake and the Family Conference anyway. We wandered, sitting on the beach where it was too cold to swim, or watching the softball game we were too cool to participate in. We played frisbee, or congregated around an electrical outlet to listen to each other's collection of tapes. We complained about how boring it was, but we still managed to fill every minute.
There were six of us: moody Goth Victoria, straightlaced Susan, happy go lucky Kelly, aimless Jim, troubled Mark, and me. 3 boys, 3 girls: perfectly symmetrical. We all either had special someones back home or were too disaffected to care, so by some unspoken agreement, we didn't talk about it. We talked about sports, or our plans for the fall, or whether the Smiths were better than the Cure. We had been coming to this same old campground for years, so we knew each other, but only for these four day stretches once a year.
It was late Sunday night, and we had all gathered around a campfire. Every group of cabins had an assigned "babysitter" who sat by the fire and kept warm while the parents were off at some seminar or other. They were basically in charge of being around, comforting children with bad dreams until their parents returned from yoga, or Movie Night, or the book group. We were sitting on the end of picnic tables, on rocks, on stumps, all aware that the long weekend was about to end, and our regular lives beckoned.
Susan was tall, unusually tall for a girl, with short, intensely curly hair that always looked wet. She had the gift of looking well put together, somehow more formal than everyone else, even when wearing teenager chic. She was fairly quiet, but when she spoke, everyone listened. If she laughed at something I said, my heart leapt. I had been in love with her more and more each year. Becca, the pig tailed teen whose fire we were gathered around, stared at her as rapturously as I did.
"Everybody back next year?," cheerful Kelly began. There were a chorus of yesses, including mine, except for Susan. She was sitting, chin on her knees. She stood up. There was dirt on the knees of her jeans, which was unusual. She seemed like the sort of person who would change pants after dirtying the knees.
"Susie Q?," Kelly said, a little softer.
Susan stood close to the fire. The licking tongues of orange made flashing patterns on her face. I wanted to cry out, tell her to back away, that it wasn't safe. She wasn't looking at any of us. Without warning, she stuck her hand out and took the butt end of a stick that was in the fire, holding it aloft. The other end burned unsteadily, a nub of flame separated from the larger body. She held it up above her head, watching it sputter and glow in the moonlight. I looked at her brown eyes, her perfect face, looking for an answer. Was she looking for an honest man?
She brought it down and held it close to her lips.
"No," she said softly. "This is my last year." She put the stick back into the fire again.
Nobody said anything. I knew I was never going to see her again now. It was time. Get up, I thought. Tell her. You have to let her know how you feel. Now. Don't wait.
"That's too bad," Kelly said. "I'll miss you."
I looked up at her, standing too close to the fire, the ember by her lips. If you don't say it now, you're never going to.
"I'm going to go to bed," Susan said. I watched her walk across in front of me, dirty knees almost at eye level. Reach out, I thought. Stop her. Tell her you need to stay in touch.
"Good night, everybody."
"Good night," we echoed.
She walked off into the night, and I stared at the fire. It was cold.
Flash Fiction Friday: "No Way Out"
This week's Flash Fiction Friday challenge involves music, and my story this week is called "No Way Out".
It was the only way out. Sherry and the kids are gone, the bank is up my ass about the mortgage, the car needs brakes, and springs, and Lynnie needs asthma medicine, and every job short of fry cook is "not a match for my skills". Everything is fine, until suddenly it isn't- you're late one day, and then another, and then another, and you start to worry. You worry, and you can't sleep, and then you oversleep, and then you're late again. There's screaming, and fighting, and less sleep, and less performance, and on and on and on.
I pulled over to the side, putting my hazards on after a passing car honked at me. "Want the car, buddy? Take it," I thought bitterly. You couldn't get very close to the bridge, probably because they don't want you to do what I am about to do. So I parked, left the keys, and started walking across. The rain swollen river rushed and roared under my feet. I knew it wasn't far enough to do the job, but I figured the current and the cold would do what I needed it to do.
There's a weird kind of peace that came over me Saturday when I decided this was the way to go. I started making extravagant promises.
"Sure," I told the guy from Chase. "I'll get the money together by Tuesday. Not a problem. Yes, I'll absolutely call you. No problem."
"Absolutely," I told Sherry. "I'll take the kids next weekend. Not a problem at all."
"Certainly, I'll mail you that resume," I told the headhunter. "Just let me print it out."
I got to the middle. I knew, in my middle of the night torture sessions, that I had to get out there quick, because someone would notice and try to intervene. I didn't want to talk about it- there wasn't any other way forward. Sherry? Well, she's just going to have to figure things out. Sorry. I've done what I can, and I've taken all I can take.
There was an inner barrier, about chest high, with a second one beyond that. After that second one, just the terrible, empty air. I kicked one leg up, then brought the other one up and over, and all there was between me and the water was a smooth, silver rail. I felt like a clock was ticking. I only had a couple of minutes before someone noticed me. I had the nagging feeling there should be some ceremony.
I heard a distant saxophone playing. Perfect, I thought.
Someone was playing on a rooftop nearby. It was coming from behind me, so I couldn't tell who it was, but I knew the sound. I listened to it swoop and soar on the wind. Somebody whose roommate was sick of them playing, maybe, or perhaps just someone who just felt like making something beautiful and putting it out there. I didn't know all the music the anonymous troubadour was playing, but I recognized elements of it. It seemed like they were trying phrases from pop records like "Darkness on the Edge of Town" and "52nd Street", combined with meandering, wandering slow solos. A player in a cover band, perhaps, getting warmed up.
As I feared, I felt my nerve melting away. My heart rate slowed, and I really listened. Something perfect and beautiful, as ephemeral as snow, seemingly being played just for me. I stood and I waited. I tried to picture the fall, the rushing air and the smack when I hit the water. Would it knock me out? Would I have to go through the torture of drowning?
The music kept coming. I could feel the eyes of the drivers on the bridge behind me. I didn't look like I belonged, and people were noticing. I thought I heard a siren starting towards the bridge. The music kept coming, flowing and echoing amid the rushed grinding of cars across the bridge.
I felt like my feet decided before I did. As I began the walk back to the car, I wondered how much dinner I could get for the $4.75 I had in my pocket.
It was the only way out. Sherry and the kids are gone, the bank is up my ass about the mortgage, the car needs brakes, and springs, and Lynnie needs asthma medicine, and every job short of fry cook is "not a match for my skills". Everything is fine, until suddenly it isn't- you're late one day, and then another, and then another, and you start to worry. You worry, and you can't sleep, and then you oversleep, and then you're late again. There's screaming, and fighting, and less sleep, and less performance, and on and on and on.
I pulled over to the side, putting my hazards on after a passing car honked at me. "Want the car, buddy? Take it," I thought bitterly. You couldn't get very close to the bridge, probably because they don't want you to do what I am about to do. So I parked, left the keys, and started walking across. The rain swollen river rushed and roared under my feet. I knew it wasn't far enough to do the job, but I figured the current and the cold would do what I needed it to do.
There's a weird kind of peace that came over me Saturday when I decided this was the way to go. I started making extravagant promises.
"Sure," I told the guy from Chase. "I'll get the money together by Tuesday. Not a problem. Yes, I'll absolutely call you. No problem."
"Absolutely," I told Sherry. "I'll take the kids next weekend. Not a problem at all."
"Certainly, I'll mail you that resume," I told the headhunter. "Just let me print it out."
I got to the middle. I knew, in my middle of the night torture sessions, that I had to get out there quick, because someone would notice and try to intervene. I didn't want to talk about it- there wasn't any other way forward. Sherry? Well, she's just going to have to figure things out. Sorry. I've done what I can, and I've taken all I can take.
There was an inner barrier, about chest high, with a second one beyond that. After that second one, just the terrible, empty air. I kicked one leg up, then brought the other one up and over, and all there was between me and the water was a smooth, silver rail. I felt like a clock was ticking. I only had a couple of minutes before someone noticed me. I had the nagging feeling there should be some ceremony.
I heard a distant saxophone playing. Perfect, I thought.
Someone was playing on a rooftop nearby. It was coming from behind me, so I couldn't tell who it was, but I knew the sound. I listened to it swoop and soar on the wind. Somebody whose roommate was sick of them playing, maybe, or perhaps just someone who just felt like making something beautiful and putting it out there. I didn't know all the music the anonymous troubadour was playing, but I recognized elements of it. It seemed like they were trying phrases from pop records like "Darkness on the Edge of Town" and "52nd Street", combined with meandering, wandering slow solos. A player in a cover band, perhaps, getting warmed up.
As I feared, I felt my nerve melting away. My heart rate slowed, and I really listened. Something perfect and beautiful, as ephemeral as snow, seemingly being played just for me. I stood and I waited. I tried to picture the fall, the rushing air and the smack when I hit the water. Would it knock me out? Would I have to go through the torture of drowning?
The music kept coming. I could feel the eyes of the drivers on the bridge behind me. I didn't look like I belonged, and people were noticing. I thought I heard a siren starting towards the bridge. The music kept coming, flowing and echoing amid the rushed grinding of cars across the bridge.
I felt like my feet decided before I did. As I began the walk back to the car, I wondered how much dinner I could get for the $4.75 I had in my pocket.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Indieink Writing Challenge: Modern Day Cowboy
This week, my Indie Ink Writing Challenge, "Bringing It All Back Home", goes out to Alisha, while mine, "If I were 21 again", comes at me from Angela.
This may be off a little bit on the timing of it- I may be going back to 19 or so. I am also borrowing heavily from a Hollywood film I've never seen, and heaping it with gobs of poetic license. This never happened. In the end, I'm probably better off that it didn't.
This is called "Modern Day Cowboy"
When you were driving, it didn't seem so cold. Everything looked shiny from a distance, made new by the ice and snow. It was only when you got close that you saw the imperfections, the dripping water, the black snowl kicked up from the car tires, the dirty, messy ugly side of it all. I drove through the night, Jeff Keith's rasp keeping me company on my car stereo. We sang along together about being cowboys of the modern day.
I was on a fool's errand. I knew that when I left, but I also had a feeling that if I didn't try this, I was going to spend the rest of my life wondering why I hadn't. She had hung up the phone in tears, almost wailing that I shouldn't make it any harder than it was. I said flatly, with a calm I did not feel, "I'm coming over. Look out your window," hanging up before she could protest.
Her parents had decided that I had become too much of a distraction for her, and she would be unable to see me for the forseeable future. Her phone call to me, late on a Saturday night as the snow began to fall, was supposed to be the termination point, the graceful exit where she could move on with her life, and I with mine. I rebelled against the whole notion of it, but she maintained there was no point in continuing if we couldn't even exchange phone calls.
I got up and left, not explaining, and the act was enough unlike me that I was in the car headed down the hill before anyone had the time to react. I knew there would be a blizzard of questions when I returned- where did I go, why in the middle of a storm, what could possibly be so important. They would be difficult to answer, but I knew I had to go. Sometimes you have to make your stand, even if it's not on ground you would have chosen.
Her street was close enough to the main drag that it got attention from the plows, so it was relatively easy to make my way to her house. I drove past it, turned around, and came back in front, parking by their mailbox. When I shut the engine off, and the cold began to creep in immediately, the imperfections of my plan were apparent. What if she didn't come out? What if they didn't let her? Was I prepared to stay here all night? What did I think this was going to accomplish?
I got out, shutting the door firmly with a slam that echoed up the street. I decided the pose was to stand against the side of the car, facing the house, which was set on a tiny hill maybe 10 feet higher than the street. There weren't many lights on, but I could tell her bedroom light was on, and someone was watching TV in the family room. I couldn't tell precisely what it was, but there was a lot of black stage with human forms moving around, so it might be ballet or opera on PBS.
It was snowing steadily, the sky a steady, gunmetal gray, spitting relentless waves at you. I couldn't see anyone moving inside, so I decided to just lean against the side of my car and wait. I wished I smoked, so I would at least have something to do with my hands. I looked up into the sky, watching the snow fall. I thought about that famous scene where John Cusack stood outside the girl's window playing Peter Gabriel. I was pretty sure that scene didn't happen in the dead of winter, plus John Cusack is considerably better looking than me. In any case, I had a pretty short window before the roads got fairly difficult, and it was awfully cold, so I hoped she consented to see me soon.
I noticed a few glances- glasses frames peeking over the top of the couch in disbelief, then her unmistakable silouette framed by the light from the TV. I could see the emotion in the way she moved her arms, up and back, shrugging, as if she was asking someone, "What do you want me to do? I didn't tell him to do this." I saw her disappear, and then their front door opened.
Her face was red and wet from crying, her long brown hair stuck to it in places. She had a blue coat on, zippered up over gray sweatpants and plastic little girl boots that had a black and white checkerboard pattern. I remembered a rainy summer day where she wore them and we laughed a whole evening away because they squeaked every time she put her right foot down. She crunched her way across the hard packed snow, finally stopping about a foot in front of me. She was looking down.
"Hi," I ventured.
"You know I'm going to get in trouble for this."
"Well, I guess. But you're already in trouble, right?"
She half smiled and looked at me. Her eyes were red. She was at my eye level because of the slope of the hill. "That's not funny."
"No, it's not."
"What are you doing here? We're supposed to get 10-12 tonight!"
"I know."
"So why did you come here? You know I can't go anywhere."
"I know."
"So what is it, then? Why did you drive all this way?"
"A couple of reasons. I wanted to see you, one. Sometimes you have to do things even if they don't make a lot of sense, two. And three, I want to change your mind."
She looked towards the center of town. The lights from the Sunoco looked gauzy and unreal with the snow that was lining our eyelashes.
"You can't change my mind. This is the best way. You can't be someone's girlfriend if they can never see you or call you on the phone. You deserve someone better. Someone who's available. You can't be in a relationship if I can never speak to you."
Her voice seemed to catch on the last sentence. She swallowed, which is what she did when she was nervous.
"I understand what you're saying," I began. "But I don't want anyone else. I'm willing to wait a month, three months, 6 months, I don't care. I'll write you letters-"
"They'll open them-"
"I'll write them in code, then. Or I'll mail them to Shari, and she can give them to you in school. I'll send you telegrams, Morse Code, smoke signals, whatever. I don't care. I just want to be with you."
"You're a lunatic," she said, chuckling, tears still rolling out of her eyes.
"Probably," I said. "It's a cowboy thing," I added lamely. "We're persistent."
We were silent. I motioned for her to step closer.
"They're watching," she whispered.
"I know," I said.
"I can't do this. It's too much."
"I think we can make it work," I said. "I want to. I can take not seeing you for as long as it takes. I just can't stand the thought of being without you. I'll make it. I think it can work."
"I know you think so. But I don't. And this has to be a mutual thing. You can't love me enough for both of us."
She took a step back.
"So this is it?," I asked, my mouth tasting bitter and dry.
"Yeah," she said. "It is. This is too much. You're too much. Even if they weren't grounding me, I...I can't do this. I just can't. I'm sorry you drove all this way. I'm...just...I'm sorry."
She took another step back. Her boot squeaked, then she turned and walked back into her house. As if to dismiss me, their front light went out. I got back into the car and started for home, wipers parting the snow as I went. As the heat burned off the chill and the ice melted away on my windows, Jeff Keith told me I'd find love again. I didn't believe him.
This may be off a little bit on the timing of it- I may be going back to 19 or so. I am also borrowing heavily from a Hollywood film I've never seen, and heaping it with gobs of poetic license. This never happened. In the end, I'm probably better off that it didn't.
This is called "Modern Day Cowboy"
When you were driving, it didn't seem so cold. Everything looked shiny from a distance, made new by the ice and snow. It was only when you got close that you saw the imperfections, the dripping water, the black snowl kicked up from the car tires, the dirty, messy ugly side of it all. I drove through the night, Jeff Keith's rasp keeping me company on my car stereo. We sang along together about being cowboys of the modern day.
I was on a fool's errand. I knew that when I left, but I also had a feeling that if I didn't try this, I was going to spend the rest of my life wondering why I hadn't. She had hung up the phone in tears, almost wailing that I shouldn't make it any harder than it was. I said flatly, with a calm I did not feel, "I'm coming over. Look out your window," hanging up before she could protest.
Her parents had decided that I had become too much of a distraction for her, and she would be unable to see me for the forseeable future. Her phone call to me, late on a Saturday night as the snow began to fall, was supposed to be the termination point, the graceful exit where she could move on with her life, and I with mine. I rebelled against the whole notion of it, but she maintained there was no point in continuing if we couldn't even exchange phone calls.
I got up and left, not explaining, and the act was enough unlike me that I was in the car headed down the hill before anyone had the time to react. I knew there would be a blizzard of questions when I returned- where did I go, why in the middle of a storm, what could possibly be so important. They would be difficult to answer, but I knew I had to go. Sometimes you have to make your stand, even if it's not on ground you would have chosen.
Her street was close enough to the main drag that it got attention from the plows, so it was relatively easy to make my way to her house. I drove past it, turned around, and came back in front, parking by their mailbox. When I shut the engine off, and the cold began to creep in immediately, the imperfections of my plan were apparent. What if she didn't come out? What if they didn't let her? Was I prepared to stay here all night? What did I think this was going to accomplish?
I got out, shutting the door firmly with a slam that echoed up the street. I decided the pose was to stand against the side of the car, facing the house, which was set on a tiny hill maybe 10 feet higher than the street. There weren't many lights on, but I could tell her bedroom light was on, and someone was watching TV in the family room. I couldn't tell precisely what it was, but there was a lot of black stage with human forms moving around, so it might be ballet or opera on PBS.
It was snowing steadily, the sky a steady, gunmetal gray, spitting relentless waves at you. I couldn't see anyone moving inside, so I decided to just lean against the side of my car and wait. I wished I smoked, so I would at least have something to do with my hands. I looked up into the sky, watching the snow fall. I thought about that famous scene where John Cusack stood outside the girl's window playing Peter Gabriel. I was pretty sure that scene didn't happen in the dead of winter, plus John Cusack is considerably better looking than me. In any case, I had a pretty short window before the roads got fairly difficult, and it was awfully cold, so I hoped she consented to see me soon.
I noticed a few glances- glasses frames peeking over the top of the couch in disbelief, then her unmistakable silouette framed by the light from the TV. I could see the emotion in the way she moved her arms, up and back, shrugging, as if she was asking someone, "What do you want me to do? I didn't tell him to do this." I saw her disappear, and then their front door opened.
Her face was red and wet from crying, her long brown hair stuck to it in places. She had a blue coat on, zippered up over gray sweatpants and plastic little girl boots that had a black and white checkerboard pattern. I remembered a rainy summer day where she wore them and we laughed a whole evening away because they squeaked every time she put her right foot down. She crunched her way across the hard packed snow, finally stopping about a foot in front of me. She was looking down.
"Hi," I ventured.
"You know I'm going to get in trouble for this."
"Well, I guess. But you're already in trouble, right?"
She half smiled and looked at me. Her eyes were red. She was at my eye level because of the slope of the hill. "That's not funny."
"No, it's not."
"What are you doing here? We're supposed to get 10-12 tonight!"
"I know."
"So why did you come here? You know I can't go anywhere."
"I know."
"So what is it, then? Why did you drive all this way?"
"A couple of reasons. I wanted to see you, one. Sometimes you have to do things even if they don't make a lot of sense, two. And three, I want to change your mind."
She looked towards the center of town. The lights from the Sunoco looked gauzy and unreal with the snow that was lining our eyelashes.
"You can't change my mind. This is the best way. You can't be someone's girlfriend if they can never see you or call you on the phone. You deserve someone better. Someone who's available. You can't be in a relationship if I can never speak to you."
Her voice seemed to catch on the last sentence. She swallowed, which is what she did when she was nervous.
"I understand what you're saying," I began. "But I don't want anyone else. I'm willing to wait a month, three months, 6 months, I don't care. I'll write you letters-"
"They'll open them-"
"I'll write them in code, then. Or I'll mail them to Shari, and she can give them to you in school. I'll send you telegrams, Morse Code, smoke signals, whatever. I don't care. I just want to be with you."
"You're a lunatic," she said, chuckling, tears still rolling out of her eyes.
"Probably," I said. "It's a cowboy thing," I added lamely. "We're persistent."
We were silent. I motioned for her to step closer.
"They're watching," she whispered.
"I know," I said.
"I can't do this. It's too much."
"I think we can make it work," I said. "I want to. I can take not seeing you for as long as it takes. I just can't stand the thought of being without you. I'll make it. I think it can work."
"I know you think so. But I don't. And this has to be a mutual thing. You can't love me enough for both of us."
She took a step back.
"So this is it?," I asked, my mouth tasting bitter and dry.
"Yeah," she said. "It is. This is too much. You're too much. Even if they weren't grounding me, I...I can't do this. I just can't. I'm sorry you drove all this way. I'm...just...I'm sorry."
She took another step back. Her boot squeaked, then she turned and walked back into her house. As if to dismiss me, their front light went out. I got back into the car and started for home, wipers parting the snow as I went. As the heat burned off the chill and the ice melted away on my windows, Jeff Keith told me I'd find love again. I didn't believe him.
Write On Edge: Everything and Nothing
My new friends at Write On Edge have a flash fiction prompt up involving jeans. I'm not sure what brought all this on, but this story is called "Everything and Nothing".
I leapt up with the practiced scramble of a parent of small children. Naked, I bent low, hauling on pants with a smooth tug, standing up straight to pull them to my waist. They came up much too far, making it clear to me I had pulled his on instead of my own. They were loose in some places, tight in others. The fit was different- odd, but not unpleasant. I was ashamed to note I had enough of a belly to hold them up without a belt.
I stopped for a moment, wearing his pants, shirtless, listening, getting my mental processes up to speed. No one was vomiting, or coughing, or murmuring about bad dreams, or complaining about branches making strange shadows on their floor in the moonlight. It was silent, and I drank it in for a moment. A glorious fall Sunday, open and pregnant with possibility. The last Sunday we'd have for months.
He's leaving tomorrow. I bent and scooped up the shirt he hurriedly discarded last night. "ARMY", it said in simple, block print. Simple and utilitarian. No frills, no mess. Utility above all other virtues. The taxi would come in the dark, early tomorrow morning, taking him away from us again, while I laid awake, weeping silently to get all the tears out before the children woke up. I pulled the shirt on, braless, arranging it on my frame so it would hang correctly.
I crept forward, watching John as he slept. My toes found my flip flops almost instinctively, slipping them on. John's face, so intense and serious last night, was relaxed in sleep, reminding me of what he probably looked like as a teenager, dreaming about playing center field in Yankee Stadium. It was the only time he really seemed relaxed, when sleep finally took him and he unclenched all over. It was odd, hearing no sound in the house as I snuck around. Even the dog was quiet.
I moved down the hall towards the front door, his jeans rustling slightly between my thighs as I walked, intent on donuts and coffee. I could slip out to the store, letting John and the kids wake up to the smells and tastes of a wanton, carbohydrate drenched morning of no church, cartoons and laughter and wrestling on the rug, followed by naps and football. Perfect, I thought, smiling in the dark. An ideal sendoff.
I thought about the mess I was probably leaving in his jeans, his odors and mine mingled. I delighted in it, secretly, my inner child fascinated by the raw biology of us, our sweat and need distilled and faded to odors and stains on coarse blue denim. I would sneak these dirty jeans into his things, I decided instantly, tucking them far away down one side of his bag so he would come across them, still smelling of me, of us, and he would have this to remind him of what he had to come back to.
I smiled again, thinking of him, blushing softly in that faraway place, all the dirt and the mountains and the cold, remembering his last night with me. I hoped someone would ask him what that was, and he'd tuck them back away, saying defensively, "Nothing!," but the smell would fill his nostrils, and he would remember me, and that would mean everything.
I leapt up with the practiced scramble of a parent of small children. Naked, I bent low, hauling on pants with a smooth tug, standing up straight to pull them to my waist. They came up much too far, making it clear to me I had pulled his on instead of my own. They were loose in some places, tight in others. The fit was different- odd, but not unpleasant. I was ashamed to note I had enough of a belly to hold them up without a belt.
I stopped for a moment, wearing his pants, shirtless, listening, getting my mental processes up to speed. No one was vomiting, or coughing, or murmuring about bad dreams, or complaining about branches making strange shadows on their floor in the moonlight. It was silent, and I drank it in for a moment. A glorious fall Sunday, open and pregnant with possibility. The last Sunday we'd have for months.
He's leaving tomorrow. I bent and scooped up the shirt he hurriedly discarded last night. "ARMY", it said in simple, block print. Simple and utilitarian. No frills, no mess. Utility above all other virtues. The taxi would come in the dark, early tomorrow morning, taking him away from us again, while I laid awake, weeping silently to get all the tears out before the children woke up. I pulled the shirt on, braless, arranging it on my frame so it would hang correctly.
I crept forward, watching John as he slept. My toes found my flip flops almost instinctively, slipping them on. John's face, so intense and serious last night, was relaxed in sleep, reminding me of what he probably looked like as a teenager, dreaming about playing center field in Yankee Stadium. It was the only time he really seemed relaxed, when sleep finally took him and he unclenched all over. It was odd, hearing no sound in the house as I snuck around. Even the dog was quiet.
I moved down the hall towards the front door, his jeans rustling slightly between my thighs as I walked, intent on donuts and coffee. I could slip out to the store, letting John and the kids wake up to the smells and tastes of a wanton, carbohydrate drenched morning of no church, cartoons and laughter and wrestling on the rug, followed by naps and football. Perfect, I thought, smiling in the dark. An ideal sendoff.
I thought about the mess I was probably leaving in his jeans, his odors and mine mingled. I delighted in it, secretly, my inner child fascinated by the raw biology of us, our sweat and need distilled and faded to odors and stains on coarse blue denim. I would sneak these dirty jeans into his things, I decided instantly, tucking them far away down one side of his bag so he would come across them, still smelling of me, of us, and he would have this to remind him of what he had to come back to.
I smiled again, thinking of him, blushing softly in that faraway place, all the dirt and the mountains and the cold, remembering his last night with me. I hoped someone would ask him what that was, and he'd tuck them back away, saying defensively, "Nothing!," but the smell would fill his nostrils, and he would remember me, and that would mean everything.
Friday, September 09, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Obviously
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is bloody but unbowed after assaults from malware bearing pirates. Arrrrrrr.
This week's word is "Whimsy" and my story is called "Obviously".
"Let's go somewhere," he said to her.
She looked back at him. "What's gotten in to you?" He wasn't prone to flights of whimsy.
"What?"
"What do you mean, go somewhere? Go where?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. Away."
"We can't afford it."
"Not like that. Something close. Local. A play. A movie."
"I hate crowds."
"A picnic."
"I hate bugs. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I just want it to be like it was."
"It can't be like it was. You're not like you were. I'm not like I was."
"Obviously."
This week's word is "Whimsy" and my story is called "Obviously".
"Let's go somewhere," he said to her.
She looked back at him. "What's gotten in to you?" He wasn't prone to flights of whimsy.
"What?"
"What do you mean, go somewhere? Go where?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. Away."
"We can't afford it."
"Not like that. Something close. Local. A play. A movie."
"I hate crowds."
"A picnic."
"I hate bugs. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I just want it to be like it was."
"It can't be like it was. You're not like you were. I'm not like I was."
"Obviously."
Monday, September 05, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Scenes In An Elevator
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes to me from Kelly, who asks me about fractured living. I issued a challenge to Karla.
I'm not at all sure about this one. But it's what came to me, so here it is: "Scenes In An Elevator"
***
IN
***
those guys were up long after me, yet the room was empty this morning...where the fuck did they go...good not too many people on the elevator...am I the only person who thinks about the cable snapping and plummeting to the ground? the impossible physics of being so damn high with only a steel cable holding this metal cage in the air?...yeah, im probably the only one...jeremy was so gung ho to have his bachelor party in a casino...he was probably imagining some wild "the hangover" type adventure...instead he gets the same four idiots he's known since the fourth grade all blowing their bankrolls the first day and spending the rest of the time watching games in the sports book and eating crappy takeout pizza...ah well, your boys are your boys, right? for better or worse...heh, that's funny- "for better or for worse"...with jeremy gone, that makes me the last one...last of the mohicans, my father would say...everyone thinks you're gay when you're my age and not married yet...im not..."not that there's anything wrong with that!"...im just, i don't know, not ready yet, i guess...something...my life is ok as it is, i think...missing something, but i'll find it...how hard can it be, if that asshole did it?
***
god, my knee is killing me...here comes somebody...oh, it's just one guy...bachelor party, i bet...he looks a little out of it and hungover...doesn't look that tough...a suburban softy...even at my age, i could take him...it's nearly noon, son, shape up!...oh stop it. you're just a old man, out of touch, irrelevant and pathetic...do you have to do this, constantly remaining on guard all the time?...what the hell is the matter with you...that indian doctor at the va says its from the war, but marjorie would have said its just being a prick...dear marjorie...goddamn it, its been seven years and it still hurts like it happened this morning...she'd tell me to shut up and stop being a sentimental old man...the doctor asked me if i was having trouble controlling my impulses, and i thought about telling him about the gambling, but then i thought why bother...it's none of his goddamned business...besides, i know exactly how much i have left...and what do i have to save it for?...the kids?...they call on christmas and my birthday, but i hardly hear from them otherwise...ah well...its going to be a rude awakening for them when i kick and there's nothing for them...oh well...i didn't spend 34 years assembling transmissions to make them rich...a few more minutes, im back at the table, and all i care about is the cards...those damned, stupid, beautiful cards...
***
jacob is so fucking earnest, i just want to punch him sometimes...up before the damn birds, and downstairs hitting the elliptical, like I should be...now he's probably sipping on some juice smoothie thing, feeling healthy and wholesome...looking at the 23 year old Korean who poured it...asshole...no, stop. i shouldnt be so bitchy...he set this whole thing up for me...for us, he would say...he arranged for the kids, one at my mom's, two sleeping over at the neighbor's, so we could spend 36 hours acting like newlyweds...well, we certainly lived up to that...my thighs are killing me....maybe i do need that elliptical work...after all that last night, i better not be pregnant...there is no way, no way in hell, that i am going through that again...i dont think i am...i better not be...we cant afford it even if i wanted it...i better look up the name of that pill the comedian talked about....i love him, i do, but sometimes its like he's my worst enemy...
***
where are you supposed to stand?...i usually just stand near mom...i cant believe she is letting me go down and get my own orange juice...my legs are cold...i should have put some leggings on like mom said...i hate it when shes right...its wierd standing here with all these adults...it feels like im pretending...i wish somebody would talk...its so wierd just listening to the rattles and chunks as it takes us down, down, down...janie was so jealous when i told her where we were going...she has two brothers so her mom says they cant afford to go anywhere...being an only child is kind of boring, but it can be awesome too...i can feel the ac blowing under my dress...its so ticklish and cold...i wonder if anyone famous is here...i read in that magazine that the blonde girl on that show wants to have her birthday here...i wonder if shes really gonna...shes like 19 though so she'd probably go to that club...i remember seeing all the people lining up to get in there when we came in from the show last night...all the pretty dresses...like a prom...so glamorous...i wonder what its like to be famous...
***
there are like no single men here, none...wait, here comes a guy...not bad...no ring...but guys his age always have someone...maybe jonathan will call me back?...its been two weeks...he's not going to call...you know he's not, i dont know why you keep thinking he will...jonathan was so perfect, rich and funny and cute and smart...why the hell did i ever let him go...it killed me going to his wedding, absolutely fucking killed me...god, my head hurts...i drank so damn much...i cant remember anything after about midnight...i hope i didnt do anything stupid...usually anna is the one who keeps us under control. i wonder where she's at...i woke up dressed, so that's something...god, these elevators are slow...maybe try to talk to that guy?...have to get something to eat...so hungry when we stay here for some reason...there goes that guy...another chance lost...someday you're going to be too old, you know, and they're going to stop looking...
***
OUT
***
ok, everybody out...he's walking away...you just have one chance to follow him...do it...now...oh, forget it...my head hurts too much anyway...i want breakfast more...
***
the lobby is so busy, all the noises and everything...mom says just act confident, and no one will say anything...this is a little scary...which way was that store with the OJ again?
***
finally, downstairs...god, im going to kill jacob...ok, now to find him...the health club is by the pool, right?...yeah, there it is....
***
ok, we're here...love that smell, the sound, the feel of the lobby...now to the poker room...it's showtime...
***
boy, that girl was cute...should have chatted her up...oh well...ok, coffee first, then go see where the other idiots ended up...see what kind of trouble we can get into.
I'm not at all sure about this one. But it's what came to me, so here it is: "Scenes In An Elevator"
***
IN
***
those guys were up long after me, yet the room was empty this morning...where the fuck did they go...good not too many people on the elevator...am I the only person who thinks about the cable snapping and plummeting to the ground? the impossible physics of being so damn high with only a steel cable holding this metal cage in the air?...yeah, im probably the only one...jeremy was so gung ho to have his bachelor party in a casino...he was probably imagining some wild "the hangover" type adventure...instead he gets the same four idiots he's known since the fourth grade all blowing their bankrolls the first day and spending the rest of the time watching games in the sports book and eating crappy takeout pizza...ah well, your boys are your boys, right? for better or worse...heh, that's funny- "for better or for worse"...with jeremy gone, that makes me the last one...last of the mohicans, my father would say...everyone thinks you're gay when you're my age and not married yet...im not..."not that there's anything wrong with that!"...im just, i don't know, not ready yet, i guess...something...my life is ok as it is, i think...missing something, but i'll find it...how hard can it be, if that asshole did it?
***
god, my knee is killing me...here comes somebody...oh, it's just one guy...bachelor party, i bet...he looks a little out of it and hungover...doesn't look that tough...a suburban softy...even at my age, i could take him...it's nearly noon, son, shape up!...oh stop it. you're just a old man, out of touch, irrelevant and pathetic...do you have to do this, constantly remaining on guard all the time?...what the hell is the matter with you...that indian doctor at the va says its from the war, but marjorie would have said its just being a prick...dear marjorie...goddamn it, its been seven years and it still hurts like it happened this morning...she'd tell me to shut up and stop being a sentimental old man...the doctor asked me if i was having trouble controlling my impulses, and i thought about telling him about the gambling, but then i thought why bother...it's none of his goddamned business...besides, i know exactly how much i have left...and what do i have to save it for?...the kids?...they call on christmas and my birthday, but i hardly hear from them otherwise...ah well...its going to be a rude awakening for them when i kick and there's nothing for them...oh well...i didn't spend 34 years assembling transmissions to make them rich...a few more minutes, im back at the table, and all i care about is the cards...those damned, stupid, beautiful cards...
***
jacob is so fucking earnest, i just want to punch him sometimes...up before the damn birds, and downstairs hitting the elliptical, like I should be...now he's probably sipping on some juice smoothie thing, feeling healthy and wholesome...looking at the 23 year old Korean who poured it...asshole...no, stop. i shouldnt be so bitchy...he set this whole thing up for me...for us, he would say...he arranged for the kids, one at my mom's, two sleeping over at the neighbor's, so we could spend 36 hours acting like newlyweds...well, we certainly lived up to that...my thighs are killing me....maybe i do need that elliptical work...after all that last night, i better not be pregnant...there is no way, no way in hell, that i am going through that again...i dont think i am...i better not be...we cant afford it even if i wanted it...i better look up the name of that pill the comedian talked about....i love him, i do, but sometimes its like he's my worst enemy...
***
where are you supposed to stand?...i usually just stand near mom...i cant believe she is letting me go down and get my own orange juice...my legs are cold...i should have put some leggings on like mom said...i hate it when shes right...its wierd standing here with all these adults...it feels like im pretending...i wish somebody would talk...its so wierd just listening to the rattles and chunks as it takes us down, down, down...janie was so jealous when i told her where we were going...she has two brothers so her mom says they cant afford to go anywhere...being an only child is kind of boring, but it can be awesome too...i can feel the ac blowing under my dress...its so ticklish and cold...i wonder if anyone famous is here...i read in that magazine that the blonde girl on that show wants to have her birthday here...i wonder if shes really gonna...shes like 19 though so she'd probably go to that club...i remember seeing all the people lining up to get in there when we came in from the show last night...all the pretty dresses...like a prom...so glamorous...i wonder what its like to be famous...
***
there are like no single men here, none...wait, here comes a guy...not bad...no ring...but guys his age always have someone...maybe jonathan will call me back?...its been two weeks...he's not going to call...you know he's not, i dont know why you keep thinking he will...jonathan was so perfect, rich and funny and cute and smart...why the hell did i ever let him go...it killed me going to his wedding, absolutely fucking killed me...god, my head hurts...i drank so damn much...i cant remember anything after about midnight...i hope i didnt do anything stupid...usually anna is the one who keeps us under control. i wonder where she's at...i woke up dressed, so that's something...god, these elevators are slow...maybe try to talk to that guy?...have to get something to eat...so hungry when we stay here for some reason...there goes that guy...another chance lost...someday you're going to be too old, you know, and they're going to stop looking...
***
OUT
***
ok, everybody out...he's walking away...you just have one chance to follow him...do it...now...oh, forget it...my head hurts too much anyway...i want breakfast more...
***
the lobby is so busy, all the noises and everything...mom says just act confident, and no one will say anything...this is a little scary...which way was that store with the OJ again?
***
finally, downstairs...god, im going to kill jacob...ok, now to find him...the health club is by the pool, right?...yeah, there it is....
***
ok, we're here...love that smell, the sound, the feel of the lobby...now to the poker room...it's showtime...
***
boy, that girl was cute...should have chatted her up...oh well...ok, coffee first, then go see where the other idiots ended up...see what kind of trouble we can get into.
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