Sebastian's parents decided at the end of a three-hour dinner that they should renew their vows. They were in Vegas, after all, and it would be fun to have their own son serve as the ring bearer. Sebastian was darkening in a wizard on his children's placemat when they told him the plan, and after they finished their vodkas they were walking down the strip to the nearest chapel.
The chapel they found was small and triangular. A woman played the organ as Sebastian's mother walked down the aisle with a crooked smile, which was nice. Sebastian had her ring and his father's in his hands. They were wet now, his hands and the rings. The air conditioning wasn't working.
A tall man presided over the couple. He was white and had the seedlings of a beard poking through his chin. Sebastian's father was a man and his mother was a wife, and they kissed for a long time. The organ woman struck a chord, then swiped their credit card, and the renewed family was back on the smoggy sidewalk.
At the hotel Sebastian's mother sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands and supported by her bare arms. His father gave him two rolls of quarters. "This is for being a good ringboy," he said, and patted Sebastian on the shoulder. "Go play in the arcade. Try to beat all of the games, if you can." His father's breath burnt his nose, but Sebastian didn't care. He was happy to see his father happy, and he had quarters now. There was so much he could do with a roll of quarters, and now he had two. It was like having a chest of gold coins. He hugged his father and kissed his mother, and then his parents kissed each other, and that's how he left them.
*******
The hotel arcade wasn't the biggest he'd been to, not even close. It had about ten games, five lining each side wall, and an air hockey table guarding the wall opposite the entrance. No one was playing; all the other kids were probably asleep. Sebastian felt like an adult for being up so late. He walked around the room, reading the titles and watching the game demos. In front of Wrestlefest he kicked away a milk crate, the kind of thing he needed a year ago, and started playing, standing on his own two feet.
The Million Dollar Man was jawing away when he heard soft footsteps behind him on the thin carpet. He could see a silhouette in the screen, small at first and walking across the room, then bigger and stationary. He heard a man's voice from behind him: "Hey, you're pretty good." He was pretty good; Sebastian knew it. He was the fastest tapper he knew. His fingers were like lightning. He liked to call himself Merlin in his head.
"You like Mr. Perfect, huh?" the man said. Sebastian nodded and kept his eyes on the screen. "Do you know how to do the Perfect-plex?" Sebastian nodded again, but the man reached over him and took his hands. "Here, let me show you." The man's hands were big and white, and there was hair all over them, even on the knuckles. They were warmer than Sebastian's, like they'd been holding a mug of hot coffee, but they hit the buttons clumsily, and Mr. Perfect was pinned for a three-count.
"No!" Sebastian cried. He ducked beneath the arms around him and looked for another game.
"You could always add more quarters for energy. Hulk says so." Sebastian ignored him. "Have you played The Simpsons game?" the man asked Sebastian's back. Sebastian nodded. "I wish I could play it. But I ran out of money. Could I borrow a quarter?" Sebastian took a quarter out of his pocket and softly tossed it at the man's stomach. "Thanks, kid. You're a really nice boy. Most people aren't very nice to strangers."
There was a game called Ghosts 'n Goblins which Sebastian had never played. He put his quarter in, and he controlled a man in armor. He threw a lance at zombies and other colorful monsters. Sebastian wished his character had magic powers, because that's the only way to really kill monsters.
Sebastian died, as everyone does. He walked around and came to a basketball game in the corner. It was the kind with an actual hoop and actual balls, and the game counted how many shots you made. He couldn't reach the balls, though, so he walked past it, looking for the spurned crate.
"Did you want to play that?" the man said. He walked over next to Sebastian. "A big boy like you doesn't need a crate. I can lift you up if you want to play." Sebastian squeezed a quarter in his sweaty palm. He nodded and stood in front of the game. The man put his hands in Sebastian's armpits and lifted him until he was standing on top of the machine. There was a gate ahead of him, which locked the balls up until he put his money in. Then they would roll to his feet.
"Here, I'll use the quarter you gave me." The man started the game. There were digital notes playing "Charge!", and Sebastian got excited.
"I'm really good," Sebastian said. "I'm gonna be the next Michael Jordan."
"I bet you are, kid. Now shoot some hoops."
Sebastian bent over to grab a ball. It was huge in his hands, not like his child-size one at home. He chucked it at the hoop, brushing the bottom of the net. The man was holding him at the waist so he wouldn't fall, and he shot some more, getting closer every time. He must have been moving a lot, because the man held onto him by the waist of his sweatpants. "Don't want you to hurt yourself," the man said. Sebastian shot rapid-fire, then took his time. He threw a ball up with all his strength, and it felt like he was watching in slow-motion as it bounced off the rim and through the hoop. Sebastian pumped his fist in the air, and the man yelled "Yeah! All right!", and then Sebastian felt funny, like he was getting his temperature taken. He felt an evil presence in the room. He put his hands down and spoke in a low voice, chanting a spell he had written to kill monsters, and then the man stepped back, and the feeling went away. Sebastian jumped down on his own and walked out of the arcade.
"Where are you going? You didn't finish the game."
Sebastian cast a spell on the arcade entrance, and then on every third tile he stepped on. When the tiles became carpet, he enchanted the green boxes, but left the red ones alone. He took the elevator up to his family's room, and put a curse on the floor buttons. The curse was only meant for evil fingers, so he didn't feel bad. The door was locked when he go to the room, and he could hear his dad snoring when he put his ear against the hallway wall. He knocked and no one let him in. He was tired, though, so he sat with his back against the green door, took off his sneakers and put one on each side of him, because he had a spell that would create a forcefield between them, and he knew he would be protected.
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
An Adequate Opening?
The infant crowned through a red mess. The doctor reached inside and pulled him out in relative silence, only the beeps of machines around him and the nurses and the father looking down at the spent mother. The infant cried, dripping in umbilical disarray, and was shown to his father, who glanced once and nodded, his eyes drawn back to his wife whose eyes were closed, as if she were only sleeping.
They asked him for a name later, the father. A name for the survivor. It's likely the thing that had transpired was still on his mind. She had to have been on his mind, her name ringing "Judith" like church bells. The nurses knew he was grieving, too, and knew he would continue for, they hoped, an appropriate amount of time. The question was meant to provide stasis: grieve for your wife, but here, there is tangible joy. But he was not ready, not yet. So when they came upon him, not with forms, out of respect, just an index card and a pen and said, "Mr. Newbell, a name for your son?" he took the card and pen and leaned against the smooth but imperfect concrete hospital wall and wrote: Judas Newbell.
They asked him for a name later, the father. A name for the survivor. It's likely the thing that had transpired was still on his mind. She had to have been on his mind, her name ringing "Judith" like church bells. The nurses knew he was grieving, too, and knew he would continue for, they hoped, an appropriate amount of time. The question was meant to provide stasis: grieve for your wife, but here, there is tangible joy. But he was not ready, not yet. So when they came upon him, not with forms, out of respect, just an index card and a pen and said, "Mr. Newbell, a name for your son?" he took the card and pen and leaned against the smooth but imperfect concrete hospital wall and wrote: Judas Newbell.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Domain
You came into the world with your eyes shut, Mary's mother tells her, and that's how you'll go. Her mother keeps a Bible by her bedside next to her Luckies and arthritis medicine. Mary doesn't sleep well.
Life is becoming harder to reconcile for Mary. Mr. Penns taught her in Biology that she is full of cells, covered in them, and she has domain over them, on a certain scale, movement and such. On the largest scale, though, those cells came from other cells, were begotten, divided, transformed into her, and will be taken away from her. She is Mary now, was perhaps a bumblebee or a compost heap, further down the line a sperm and egg, then Mary, and eventually an insect's wing or ash sucked through a marlin's gill.
She doesn't understand, how she is made of things she can't see with her bare eyes, how she is made at all, her body doesn't feel like a real thing, it's the voice in her head that's real. An inner voice that she doesn't really hear, not traditionally, with her ears. She doesn't get it: movement, emotions, pain, hunger, saliva, disease, thoughts. It's why people believe the things they do, she thinks.
Everything turns to ashes or dust, her mother says, so when the sun lights up her living room and gives shape to the stuff in the air, Mary holds her breath.
Life is becoming harder to reconcile for Mary. Mr. Penns taught her in Biology that she is full of cells, covered in them, and she has domain over them, on a certain scale, movement and such. On the largest scale, though, those cells came from other cells, were begotten, divided, transformed into her, and will be taken away from her. She is Mary now, was perhaps a bumblebee or a compost heap, further down the line a sperm and egg, then Mary, and eventually an insect's wing or ash sucked through a marlin's gill.
She doesn't understand, how she is made of things she can't see with her bare eyes, how she is made at all, her body doesn't feel like a real thing, it's the voice in her head that's real. An inner voice that she doesn't really hear, not traditionally, with her ears. She doesn't get it: movement, emotions, pain, hunger, saliva, disease, thoughts. It's why people believe the things they do, she thinks.
Everything turns to ashes or dust, her mother says, so when the sun lights up her living room and gives shape to the stuff in the air, Mary holds her breath.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Night's Natural Shadows
Joshua is sitting home alone. What Joshua doesn't know is what is outside his front door.
Air in a common plumbing pipe, or an air vent, can make a sound, like a thud. And it does. Joshua looks out his window to see nothing but night's natural shadows.
A strong wind can knock branches about, and if circumstance are just right, can bump them into stationary things, like houses. And one strong wind does. Joshua curls up in his blanket, praying for his mother.
But God speaks. "You are the son of none," He says. "You were born of this house."
But there is no God, so He doesn't really speak. An over-carbonated can of Coke can kick about made-up voices.
Joshua will not sleep. He does not know this yet, but he will breath and tremble, awake until his mother is standing on the front stoop fumbling with her keys. Until then, he will jerk with every cold draft. But after, when she's passed through the doorway and calls his name in tired monotony, when the sun toys shadows through his tightly shut blinds, then his trembling will cease. He will be able to sleep.
Air in a common plumbing pipe, or an air vent, can make a sound, like a thud. And it does. Joshua looks out his window to see nothing but night's natural shadows.
A strong wind can knock branches about, and if circumstance are just right, can bump them into stationary things, like houses. And one strong wind does. Joshua curls up in his blanket, praying for his mother.
But God speaks. "You are the son of none," He says. "You were born of this house."
But there is no God, so He doesn't really speak. An over-carbonated can of Coke can kick about made-up voices.
Joshua will not sleep. He does not know this yet, but he will breath and tremble, awake until his mother is standing on the front stoop fumbling with her keys. Until then, he will jerk with every cold draft. But after, when she's passed through the doorway and calls his name in tired monotony, when the sun toys shadows through his tightly shut blinds, then his trembling will cease. He will be able to sleep.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Relieved
Eileen was crying in the bathtub again when Patrick came in to urinate. Her sounds were drowned out by the piddling in the toilet and its flush, but then entered a harmony with the post-flush porcelain ringing.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Patrick said, spotting the empty cardboard box, crushed flat on the pink bath mat. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“It’s called hope, Pat.” She sniffled and trembled.
“There’s no hope here, hun.”
“There is, though. I swore I saw it start to change. I got so excited, I peed all over myself.” She looked up at him. The ends of her hair had dipped into the bathwater. “If you don’t have anything to add, I’d like to be alone.”
“Look, Eileen.” He saw his hand out in front of him, as if he were begging for change. Eileen looked down into the water. “Just lock the door next time, all right honey? And don’t catch a cold in there.”
*****
Patrick got dressed, tied a tie around his neck and drove to work. He would be half an hour early, but that was good because he had to move his bowels. Eileen was still in the tub when he left.
The air was cool, so he drove with a window down. He turned up the volume of his radio, trying to distract himself and relieve his hidden pressure, but falling acorns bouncing off his windshield made him drive faster.
The CVS parking lot was empty, typical for pre-noon on a weekday. His shift didn’t start until 12, but still he threw his white coat, his name stitched in cursive above his right breast, over his arm and race-walked through the automatic doors.
The entrance to the backroom stood just next to the pharmacy. It was comprised of two swinging doors and an alarm that had to be coded off before entering. Pat’s fingers fumbled and hit the wrong code twice before finally getting it right. His hand was pushing its way through when he heard a weak shout.
“Mr. Daughton.” He almost ignored it, but turned his head out of duty. “Mr. Daughton?” It was one of his regular customers.
“I’ve told you, Mrs. Mcgee, call me Pat. Or Patrick.”
“Right, right. Of course. Patrick, how are you?”
“Fine. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes actually. I just have a question about which I should take.” Mrs. McGee sniffled and coughed. She pointed to three small boxes in her shopping cart. Patrick’s bowels felt tight, wound in twine like a baseball’s core.
“Take the red one, Mrs. McGee. It’ll clear you right up. Help you sleep too, so don’t take your Ambien with it.”
“Oh. But I don’t want to be drowsy.”
“OK, well you can’t take the Sudafed.”
“Why not?”
Patrick swore his testicles were rising into his stomach. He thought he smelled something. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his customer or mere fantasy, or if Mrs. McGee could smell it too. Maybe it was seeping through his skin? The old woman sniffled.
“Because you can’t. It’s not good for you. Take the green one. That should do you fine. Go ask Max if you have any questions.” He made a sweeping motion towards the pharmacy counter. “I have to run in the back for a minute.”
He heard her protest, something about Max being German, but he just walked through the door. A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears. He was on the toilet when he heard it go silent.
*****
A man sitting on a toilet is relieved of all pride. This is why he locks himself away in small rooms, or smaller cubicles within larger rooms.
Patrick studied his hands as he sat. Hair had crept its way up the back of each hand over the years, sloping up towards his pinkies. His fingers were unadorned. He prided himself on simplicity, on minimalism. When he felt a warmth in his urethra, his right hand aimed his hanging prick towards the waiting water. This led his sight to his thighs, pushed wider than normal from the act of sitting. There were thin red bands across it, stretch marks recording a previous time like rings in the trunk of a tree. Here and there pimples stood like puritan pariahs.
Patrick knew he was a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like Eileen in his life. He wished he could give her the two things she wanted: a child and marriage. But what was one without the other? In his mind, the act of marriage was more a transformation into mother and father than wife and husband. They’d been living like they shared a name for years now; a ceremony wouldn’t change anything. But a baby would.
These thoughts upset Patrick, though they were as regular for him as bowel movements. When he felt composed, he pushed the lever and flushed his waste away without a glance.
*****
Max was at the prescription drop-off window when Pat entered the pharmacy. He half-smiled at Pat under his graying moustache. Pat sat down at the pill counter, put the caps back on some opened bottles. Neither talked to the other. Without customers, there was no reason to talk. Pat stared at the phone, hoping for a ring and a line to light up, when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.
“Call me now,” read the text message. It was from Eileen. He called her, but the line just rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. Pat flipped his phone shut before he heard the greeting.
An hour later his phone vibrated again: “Come home!” Max looked over at Pat.
“Urgent business?”
“No. It’s just Eileen. She wants me to come home for some reason.”
“I bet I know what she wants,” Max said. Patrick thought he knew too. In the past she had lured him home from work on her days off for some afternoon fun. Max didn’t know about this, but still strung his joke along. “Can’t have you today, though. No way am I covering for you. Got plans myself tonight.”
Pat felt a primal excitement as he stared at the text message. “What kind of plans?”
“It’s my day with Kate. Her mother’s dropping her off around 5. Probably go shopping with her and spend a paycheck. But that’s how it goes, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Pat was still fantasizing about Eileen, what she would be wearing, how she’d greet him at the door, when a customer called to refill a prescription. Then another called, then there was a line in front of Max and a line at the cashier. Max left at 4 so Patrick had to deal with the afternoon rush alone. There was no time to think about Eileen.
*****
It was dark when Patrick pulled into his driveway, but the lawn was blanketed in light. Every light bulb in the house must have been burning. Patrick peeked in the window and saw Eileen sitting at the counter. Her hands were clasped and held her chin up, while her elbows were pushing on the countertop for support. Patrick looked away and walked to the door. His long shadow bounced across the lawn.
“Hey honey, sorry I couldn’t call you back. Rough day,” he said after the storm-door rattled shut. He bent over to untie his shoes. Eileen didn’t say anything, only looked up. She was wearing jeans and an old gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back. He could see light shining off of her eyes. Her mouth seemed to be slightly trembling, and she was holding something in her fist. “Eileen? What’s the matter?”
Eileen lowered her hands. She started smiling when Patrick walked over to her, and thrust what was in her hand into his face. It was a white stick, and he flinched when it flew so close. It looked wet, and had a rank smell coming off it. On it, there was a thin pink line running across a small plastic window.
“Oh, Eileen. I’m sorry.” He hugged her, but her arms did not close around him. She pulled away.
“Why are you sorry?”
Patrick felt a tingle along his arm-hair when he saw her teary eyes. “Because, the test…the minus.”
“That’s not a minus. That’s what it shows when the test is positive.” “Why would a minus mean positive?”
“It’s not a minus, Patrick. It’s a different symbol altogether. It means I’m pregnant.”
Patrick almost took a step back from her, from the stick and its minus. He balanced on his heels for a second, then repositioned his weight more evenly on his feet.
“How can you be pregnant? Remember what the doctor said?”
“Yes, I remember. He gave us a small chance.”
“Small? His exact words were ‘slim to none.’”
“That’s still a chance. Why aren’t you happy?”
Patrick wondered why he wasn’t happy. In his mind he saw himself ejaculating into a cup; the doctor’s scowling face, like a factory inspector judging him unfit for business. Then he saw the ring he would have to buy; Eileen’s stomach growing round and plump; the fluid that would pour out of her, that might drown him in his bed; the blood on a doctor’s white clothes. Then he saw what he thought was the truth.
“Tell me how this really happened.” He felt as if he was leaning forward slightly. He thought he could fall at any second, and was thankful the windows behind him were not open.
“You know how this happened. I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“Was I?” He saw her eyes glance at his hands, felt them tighten and tense.
“Yes, of course.”
Her eyes were teary again, and Patrick’s hands fell open, loose at his sides. He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her, upstairs to their bedroom.
“I think you should take another test, to be sure.” His voice was weak, and muffled by the growing steps between them. “False positives do happen.”
He didn’t see her sit back down at the counter, because his back was turned, or hear her when she said, “You know, Pat, miracles do happen,” because her voice was scarcely existent. He didn’t see her cry until her cheeks were cramped, or kiss the test stick with her lips slightly parted.
*****
It was ten o’clock when Patrick woke up, alone in his bed. It was Tuesday, and Eileen worked on Tuesdays, so he wasn’t alarmed to reach over and feel cool sheets. He noticed a pain in his sides when he breathed too deep, so he got up and walked to the bathroom in his boxers.
When he turned on the light, he noticed something on the lowered toilet seat cover. He walked in, and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw that it was a pair of Eileen’s underwear. This was another game she had played with him, leaving her panties around for him to find. He reached down to pick them up, and had them in his hand when he saw the small brown blotches blemishing the crotch. He dropped them back on the toilet seat on reflex.
He turned to the sink, still with a pain in his sides, in his kidneys. He grimaced as he brushed his teeth, tried to stretch out the pain by tilting from side to side. He was trying to think about Eileen, what he could say to her tonight. Maybe he would buy her a ring today? Or a vacation somewhere might be nice. He would ask her what she thought of Cleveland.
Patrick’s pain wouldn’t go away. He had no other choice but to piss in the sink.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Patrick said, spotting the empty cardboard box, crushed flat on the pink bath mat. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“It’s called hope, Pat.” She sniffled and trembled.
“There’s no hope here, hun.”
“There is, though. I swore I saw it start to change. I got so excited, I peed all over myself.” She looked up at him. The ends of her hair had dipped into the bathwater. “If you don’t have anything to add, I’d like to be alone.”
“Look, Eileen.” He saw his hand out in front of him, as if he were begging for change. Eileen looked down into the water. “Just lock the door next time, all right honey? And don’t catch a cold in there.”
*****
Patrick got dressed, tied a tie around his neck and drove to work. He would be half an hour early, but that was good because he had to move his bowels. Eileen was still in the tub when he left.
The air was cool, so he drove with a window down. He turned up the volume of his radio, trying to distract himself and relieve his hidden pressure, but falling acorns bouncing off his windshield made him drive faster.
The CVS parking lot was empty, typical for pre-noon on a weekday. His shift didn’t start until 12, but still he threw his white coat, his name stitched in cursive above his right breast, over his arm and race-walked through the automatic doors.
The entrance to the backroom stood just next to the pharmacy. It was comprised of two swinging doors and an alarm that had to be coded off before entering. Pat’s fingers fumbled and hit the wrong code twice before finally getting it right. His hand was pushing its way through when he heard a weak shout.
“Mr. Daughton.” He almost ignored it, but turned his head out of duty. “Mr. Daughton?” It was one of his regular customers.
“I’ve told you, Mrs. Mcgee, call me Pat. Or Patrick.”
“Right, right. Of course. Patrick, how are you?”
“Fine. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes actually. I just have a question about which I should take.” Mrs. McGee sniffled and coughed. She pointed to three small boxes in her shopping cart. Patrick’s bowels felt tight, wound in twine like a baseball’s core.
“Take the red one, Mrs. McGee. It’ll clear you right up. Help you sleep too, so don’t take your Ambien with it.”
“Oh. But I don’t want to be drowsy.”
“OK, well you can’t take the Sudafed.”
“Why not?”
Patrick swore his testicles were rising into his stomach. He thought he smelled something. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his customer or mere fantasy, or if Mrs. McGee could smell it too. Maybe it was seeping through his skin? The old woman sniffled.
“Because you can’t. It’s not good for you. Take the green one. That should do you fine. Go ask Max if you have any questions.” He made a sweeping motion towards the pharmacy counter. “I have to run in the back for a minute.”
He heard her protest, something about Max being German, but he just walked through the door. A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears. He was on the toilet when he heard it go silent.
*****
A man sitting on a toilet is relieved of all pride. This is why he locks himself away in small rooms, or smaller cubicles within larger rooms.
Patrick studied his hands as he sat. Hair had crept its way up the back of each hand over the years, sloping up towards his pinkies. His fingers were unadorned. He prided himself on simplicity, on minimalism. When he felt a warmth in his urethra, his right hand aimed his hanging prick towards the waiting water. This led his sight to his thighs, pushed wider than normal from the act of sitting. There were thin red bands across it, stretch marks recording a previous time like rings in the trunk of a tree. Here and there pimples stood like puritan pariahs.
Patrick knew he was a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like Eileen in his life. He wished he could give her the two things she wanted: a child and marriage. But what was one without the other? In his mind, the act of marriage was more a transformation into mother and father than wife and husband. They’d been living like they shared a name for years now; a ceremony wouldn’t change anything. But a baby would.
These thoughts upset Patrick, though they were as regular for him as bowel movements. When he felt composed, he pushed the lever and flushed his waste away without a glance.
*****
Max was at the prescription drop-off window when Pat entered the pharmacy. He half-smiled at Pat under his graying moustache. Pat sat down at the pill counter, put the caps back on some opened bottles. Neither talked to the other. Without customers, there was no reason to talk. Pat stared at the phone, hoping for a ring and a line to light up, when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.
“Call me now,” read the text message. It was from Eileen. He called her, but the line just rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. Pat flipped his phone shut before he heard the greeting.
An hour later his phone vibrated again: “Come home!” Max looked over at Pat.
“Urgent business?”
“No. It’s just Eileen. She wants me to come home for some reason.”
“I bet I know what she wants,” Max said. Patrick thought he knew too. In the past she had lured him home from work on her days off for some afternoon fun. Max didn’t know about this, but still strung his joke along. “Can’t have you today, though. No way am I covering for you. Got plans myself tonight.”
Pat felt a primal excitement as he stared at the text message. “What kind of plans?”
“It’s my day with Kate. Her mother’s dropping her off around 5. Probably go shopping with her and spend a paycheck. But that’s how it goes, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Pat was still fantasizing about Eileen, what she would be wearing, how she’d greet him at the door, when a customer called to refill a prescription. Then another called, then there was a line in front of Max and a line at the cashier. Max left at 4 so Patrick had to deal with the afternoon rush alone. There was no time to think about Eileen.
*****
It was dark when Patrick pulled into his driveway, but the lawn was blanketed in light. Every light bulb in the house must have been burning. Patrick peeked in the window and saw Eileen sitting at the counter. Her hands were clasped and held her chin up, while her elbows were pushing on the countertop for support. Patrick looked away and walked to the door. His long shadow bounced across the lawn.
“Hey honey, sorry I couldn’t call you back. Rough day,” he said after the storm-door rattled shut. He bent over to untie his shoes. Eileen didn’t say anything, only looked up. She was wearing jeans and an old gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back. He could see light shining off of her eyes. Her mouth seemed to be slightly trembling, and she was holding something in her fist. “Eileen? What’s the matter?”
Eileen lowered her hands. She started smiling when Patrick walked over to her, and thrust what was in her hand into his face. It was a white stick, and he flinched when it flew so close. It looked wet, and had a rank smell coming off it. On it, there was a thin pink line running across a small plastic window.
“Oh, Eileen. I’m sorry.” He hugged her, but her arms did not close around him. She pulled away.
“Why are you sorry?”
Patrick felt a tingle along his arm-hair when he saw her teary eyes. “Because, the test…the minus.”
“That’s not a minus. That’s what it shows when the test is positive.” “Why would a minus mean positive?”
“It’s not a minus, Patrick. It’s a different symbol altogether. It means I’m pregnant.”
Patrick almost took a step back from her, from the stick and its minus. He balanced on his heels for a second, then repositioned his weight more evenly on his feet.
“How can you be pregnant? Remember what the doctor said?”
“Yes, I remember. He gave us a small chance.”
“Small? His exact words were ‘slim to none.’”
“That’s still a chance. Why aren’t you happy?”
Patrick wondered why he wasn’t happy. In his mind he saw himself ejaculating into a cup; the doctor’s scowling face, like a factory inspector judging him unfit for business. Then he saw the ring he would have to buy; Eileen’s stomach growing round and plump; the fluid that would pour out of her, that might drown him in his bed; the blood on a doctor’s white clothes. Then he saw what he thought was the truth.
“Tell me how this really happened.” He felt as if he was leaning forward slightly. He thought he could fall at any second, and was thankful the windows behind him were not open.
“You know how this happened. I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“Was I?” He saw her eyes glance at his hands, felt them tighten and tense.
“Yes, of course.”
Her eyes were teary again, and Patrick’s hands fell open, loose at his sides. He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her, upstairs to their bedroom.
“I think you should take another test, to be sure.” His voice was weak, and muffled by the growing steps between them. “False positives do happen.”
He didn’t see her sit back down at the counter, because his back was turned, or hear her when she said, “You know, Pat, miracles do happen,” because her voice was scarcely existent. He didn’t see her cry until her cheeks were cramped, or kiss the test stick with her lips slightly parted.
*****
It was ten o’clock when Patrick woke up, alone in his bed. It was Tuesday, and Eileen worked on Tuesdays, so he wasn’t alarmed to reach over and feel cool sheets. He noticed a pain in his sides when he breathed too deep, so he got up and walked to the bathroom in his boxers.
When he turned on the light, he noticed something on the lowered toilet seat cover. He walked in, and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw that it was a pair of Eileen’s underwear. This was another game she had played with him, leaving her panties around for him to find. He reached down to pick them up, and had them in his hand when he saw the small brown blotches blemishing the crotch. He dropped them back on the toilet seat on reflex.
He turned to the sink, still with a pain in his sides, in his kidneys. He grimaced as he brushed his teeth, tried to stretch out the pain by tilting from side to side. He was trying to think about Eileen, what he could say to her tonight. Maybe he would buy her a ring today? Or a vacation somewhere might be nice. He would ask her what she thought of Cleveland.
Patrick’s pain wouldn’t go away. He had no other choice but to piss in the sink.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Positivity
She had red hair and he didn’t know her name, but he could see in the curves of her cheeks and breadth of her smile how someone could love her. She was across the aisle, in one of the 20-odd folding chairs planted in the small meeting room, dressed smartly in a black suit, her skirt reaching just below her knees. He watched her ankles in glances, one bouncing in the air like a child on a trampoline, and they were chubby like a child, but with a feminine curve, which he liked.
He wore a suit too, grey and awkward on his frame. He held his resume, his life boiled down to snippets of experience, with his name across the top in bold and embarrassing capital letters: ERIC LOW. The redhead and he and about a dozen other men and women had come to this small office building off of the Garden State Parkway in hopes of a job, and were waiting for the owner to arrive to begin the information session.
Eric hadn’t gleaned much from his initial interview a week earlier. He had met with an attractive 30-something woman in a blank one desk office, hidden upstairs from a stationary store in his town. She wore a stylish cap, the kind an upscale cabbie might wear, leather and brown. Her name was Margaret.
“So, Eric, what are your goals?” she asked after formal introductions and they had both taken a seat.
“Hmmm…Security, I guess. I’m just out of college, so I’m looking for a tolerable job. With healthcare.”
“Interesting.” She wrote something down on the inside of a folder. “Do you have any special skills?”
“I’m competent with a computer. I can write proper sentences.”
“Good, good,” she nodded, half-smiled. Eric looked at her hat, which he liked, her short hair style, then the top button of her tight white blouse.
“Well, Eric, you seem like the type of person we are looking for. Energetic. Positive. Smart. You went to a good college. That’s what we want in an employee at Arthur Industries. Let me tell you a little more about our company. We are rapidly expanding as the fourth largest generic perfume distributor in the Northeast, and we’re looking for an office manager. Honestly, I’ve got a good feeling about you.” She winked, and he felt a tug below his stomach. She spoke some more but Eric couldn’t hear it, just nodded until he was in his car again with an address, date, and time in his hand.
*******
Redhead’s lips were moving subtly, forming mute words, and she would smile to herself every few sentences. She had index cards in her hand, her eyes intensely focused on them, so Eric could glance at will, longer and harder than before. Her ankles and calves were bare, the skin fair and blemish-free, like the tiled floor in his bathroom. Her face was the same, seeming so smooth from across the room, and her fingers were long, but he could see the skin tensed around the bones in her hand. Her chest was large, and he blushed when he noticed.
It was a minute late for the 10:30 scheduled meeting. Eric had seen Margaret and her hat when he arrived, said a quick hello, then sat in the empty room, the first to arrive. Twenty minutes later, the room was full of antsy prospective hires, all black except for the redhead and himself. Who they were waiting for, they didn’t know, he didn’t know, but he was reading down his resume for the 10th time that day when the man walked in.
His swagger matched his shirt: loose and breath-like, confident as a conductor. His slacks were grey and neatly pressed, and the aforementioned shirt, though slack to his body, was a business white, the top button opened to mix his message. His hair was full and brown, his face rough and handsomely craggy, deeply tanned, as if he had hoped the sun’s light could fill in those facial imperfections. A gold cross hung from his neck outside his shirt, nested in the chesthair that that curled at his open button.
Eric straightened up as the man walked down the makeshift aisle, shuddered slightly at the hollow clap that came from behind the podium. The man’s hands were large and wide, like fleshy cymbals, and his clap echoed significance around the room. It had begun.
He introduced himself in a low, gruff voice. “Welcome. My name is Jack Clifton. I’m President of Arthur Industries, and I’m glad to meet you all today. First, I’ll start with a little background.” He picked a batch of index cards from his chest pocket. Eric saw the hair again, its black contradicting the brown on his head. “Arthur Industries was started and is owned by a good friend of mine, Art Flowers. He worked his ass off with this company, and now he’s a millionaire out in California, living the good life. A few years ago, he asked me to run his East Coast operations, and I gladly accepted. Back then, we were small, barely on the perfume-distribution map, but now we’re a strong fourth and consistently growing.” Jack Clifton stopped talking and looked around the room. Eric glanced over at Redhead, whose eyes were wide like a porcelain doll’s. He felt that if she leaned back, her eyelids might descend.
“Now,” Jack Clifton began again, “we’re here today to find three,” he held up three-fifths of a hand’s fingers, middle ring and pinky, thumb and pointer shaping an ‘O’, like the gold-rings that each counting finger held, “office managers for sites we’re planning to open in the future. These are very good, lucrative positions we’re offering. Who here thinks they have what it takes?” He put a hand to his ear, and it sounded like everyone applauded a little. Some people shouted, “I’m your man, Jack.”
“Good. I like to hear energy, positivity. And I hope you all have energy today, because I have more good news. Not only are we hiring office managers, but, in fact, we are also looking for salesmen to fill those offices. These are high commission positions for strong self-starters. If you want to be living in Cali like Art Flowers, this is the position for you. So, who wants to be rich?”
Again, the whole room seemed to respond, only louder than before. People began talking to each other, high-fiving. Eric heard someone say, “You my boy, Jack.” There was laughter and smiles everywhere. Eric looked at Redhead. She looked solemn, listening like an angel in service.
“Honestly,” Jack Clifton said when the speaking began to diminish, “there’s no reason why every person in this room won’t have a job by the end of this meeting.” People clapped, pointed approval. “As long as you have that winning attitude, that go-getting spirit we love at Arthur Industries, then…” He trailed off.
His darting eyes stood still, saw what Eric could only guess was enthusiastic faces, happiness, hope. Then his eyes rose up to look at the back of the room. His mouth was tight like a stretched rubber band. Some people craned their necks, turned around to follow Clifton’s eyes, but Eric kept his gaze straight ahead. The man lowered his eyes, shook his head, then looked up again. He breathed a sigh. His eyes looked like pebbles.
“I can’t do it,” he said to nobody, to himself, but his voice was angry, as if the audience had provoked him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” And he walked down the aisle and out of the room.
*******
There was silence, a stop in time. Life was a single slide rather than a moving picture. Then there was more silence. Then Eric started laughing, shrill as a flute, which the rest of the room took as a starter’s pistol. Everyone began to chatter, their voices filled with outrage, with disbelief. The men were clutching their ties, the women had their arms folded, and all were swinging their heads, looking to the front in case Clifton hadn’t really walked out, and then to the back, where they knew he’d gone. There was no choreography, only chaotic neck flailing.
*******
By the time Eric had ceased laughing, his eyes were wet and seeing fuzzy shapes grow in height and lumber to the exit. He cleared away the tears to watch everyone go. A glance told him Redhead had left already.
The parking lot was full of complaints. “That motherfucker,” and “Waste of my damn time.” Eric wheeled around the crowd outside the door and went towards his car, giggling helplessly every few seconds. Ahead he saw tense white legs move across the concrete. Above that he saw a head of red hair.
To say something, he thought. To say something, a joke, an observation, how Clifton’s chest was full of spiders or, oh, look how the newly autumn leaves drift like falling pilgrims. She seemed to be parked next to him, and she stopped when she reached the hood, slammed one hand on the red-painted metal and put the other to her face. Eric let his left leg levitate for a couple of seconds, then walked to his car and got in.
He looked at her as he turned the ignition. The engine erupted, and there were black lines stretching down her pale face. Her eyes were closed, so he could look all he wanted. From here he could see the tangles in her hair, her bra strap peeking out on her shoulder, the soft fuzz on her chin. From here he could see tiny makeup-filled scars.
He wore a suit too, grey and awkward on his frame. He held his resume, his life boiled down to snippets of experience, with his name across the top in bold and embarrassing capital letters: ERIC LOW. The redhead and he and about a dozen other men and women had come to this small office building off of the Garden State Parkway in hopes of a job, and were waiting for the owner to arrive to begin the information session.
Eric hadn’t gleaned much from his initial interview a week earlier. He had met with an attractive 30-something woman in a blank one desk office, hidden upstairs from a stationary store in his town. She wore a stylish cap, the kind an upscale cabbie might wear, leather and brown. Her name was Margaret.
“So, Eric, what are your goals?” she asked after formal introductions and they had both taken a seat.
“Hmmm…Security, I guess. I’m just out of college, so I’m looking for a tolerable job. With healthcare.”
“Interesting.” She wrote something down on the inside of a folder. “Do you have any special skills?”
“I’m competent with a computer. I can write proper sentences.”
“Good, good,” she nodded, half-smiled. Eric looked at her hat, which he liked, her short hair style, then the top button of her tight white blouse.
“Well, Eric, you seem like the type of person we are looking for. Energetic. Positive. Smart. You went to a good college. That’s what we want in an employee at Arthur Industries. Let me tell you a little more about our company. We are rapidly expanding as the fourth largest generic perfume distributor in the Northeast, and we’re looking for an office manager. Honestly, I’ve got a good feeling about you.” She winked, and he felt a tug below his stomach. She spoke some more but Eric couldn’t hear it, just nodded until he was in his car again with an address, date, and time in his hand.
*******
Redhead’s lips were moving subtly, forming mute words, and she would smile to herself every few sentences. She had index cards in her hand, her eyes intensely focused on them, so Eric could glance at will, longer and harder than before. Her ankles and calves were bare, the skin fair and blemish-free, like the tiled floor in his bathroom. Her face was the same, seeming so smooth from across the room, and her fingers were long, but he could see the skin tensed around the bones in her hand. Her chest was large, and he blushed when he noticed.
It was a minute late for the 10:30 scheduled meeting. Eric had seen Margaret and her hat when he arrived, said a quick hello, then sat in the empty room, the first to arrive. Twenty minutes later, the room was full of antsy prospective hires, all black except for the redhead and himself. Who they were waiting for, they didn’t know, he didn’t know, but he was reading down his resume for the 10th time that day when the man walked in.
His swagger matched his shirt: loose and breath-like, confident as a conductor. His slacks were grey and neatly pressed, and the aforementioned shirt, though slack to his body, was a business white, the top button opened to mix his message. His hair was full and brown, his face rough and handsomely craggy, deeply tanned, as if he had hoped the sun’s light could fill in those facial imperfections. A gold cross hung from his neck outside his shirt, nested in the chesthair that that curled at his open button.
Eric straightened up as the man walked down the makeshift aisle, shuddered slightly at the hollow clap that came from behind the podium. The man’s hands were large and wide, like fleshy cymbals, and his clap echoed significance around the room. It had begun.
He introduced himself in a low, gruff voice. “Welcome. My name is Jack Clifton. I’m President of Arthur Industries, and I’m glad to meet you all today. First, I’ll start with a little background.” He picked a batch of index cards from his chest pocket. Eric saw the hair again, its black contradicting the brown on his head. “Arthur Industries was started and is owned by a good friend of mine, Art Flowers. He worked his ass off with this company, and now he’s a millionaire out in California, living the good life. A few years ago, he asked me to run his East Coast operations, and I gladly accepted. Back then, we were small, barely on the perfume-distribution map, but now we’re a strong fourth and consistently growing.” Jack Clifton stopped talking and looked around the room. Eric glanced over at Redhead, whose eyes were wide like a porcelain doll’s. He felt that if she leaned back, her eyelids might descend.
“Now,” Jack Clifton began again, “we’re here today to find three,” he held up three-fifths of a hand’s fingers, middle ring and pinky, thumb and pointer shaping an ‘O’, like the gold-rings that each counting finger held, “office managers for sites we’re planning to open in the future. These are very good, lucrative positions we’re offering. Who here thinks they have what it takes?” He put a hand to his ear, and it sounded like everyone applauded a little. Some people shouted, “I’m your man, Jack.”
“Good. I like to hear energy, positivity. And I hope you all have energy today, because I have more good news. Not only are we hiring office managers, but, in fact, we are also looking for salesmen to fill those offices. These are high commission positions for strong self-starters. If you want to be living in Cali like Art Flowers, this is the position for you. So, who wants to be rich?”
Again, the whole room seemed to respond, only louder than before. People began talking to each other, high-fiving. Eric heard someone say, “You my boy, Jack.” There was laughter and smiles everywhere. Eric looked at Redhead. She looked solemn, listening like an angel in service.
“Honestly,” Jack Clifton said when the speaking began to diminish, “there’s no reason why every person in this room won’t have a job by the end of this meeting.” People clapped, pointed approval. “As long as you have that winning attitude, that go-getting spirit we love at Arthur Industries, then…” He trailed off.
His darting eyes stood still, saw what Eric could only guess was enthusiastic faces, happiness, hope. Then his eyes rose up to look at the back of the room. His mouth was tight like a stretched rubber band. Some people craned their necks, turned around to follow Clifton’s eyes, but Eric kept his gaze straight ahead. The man lowered his eyes, shook his head, then looked up again. He breathed a sigh. His eyes looked like pebbles.
“I can’t do it,” he said to nobody, to himself, but his voice was angry, as if the audience had provoked him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” And he walked down the aisle and out of the room.
*******
There was silence, a stop in time. Life was a single slide rather than a moving picture. Then there was more silence. Then Eric started laughing, shrill as a flute, which the rest of the room took as a starter’s pistol. Everyone began to chatter, their voices filled with outrage, with disbelief. The men were clutching their ties, the women had their arms folded, and all were swinging their heads, looking to the front in case Clifton hadn’t really walked out, and then to the back, where they knew he’d gone. There was no choreography, only chaotic neck flailing.
*******
By the time Eric had ceased laughing, his eyes were wet and seeing fuzzy shapes grow in height and lumber to the exit. He cleared away the tears to watch everyone go. A glance told him Redhead had left already.
The parking lot was full of complaints. “That motherfucker,” and “Waste of my damn time.” Eric wheeled around the crowd outside the door and went towards his car, giggling helplessly every few seconds. Ahead he saw tense white legs move across the concrete. Above that he saw a head of red hair.
To say something, he thought. To say something, a joke, an observation, how Clifton’s chest was full of spiders or, oh, look how the newly autumn leaves drift like falling pilgrims. She seemed to be parked next to him, and she stopped when she reached the hood, slammed one hand on the red-painted metal and put the other to her face. Eric let his left leg levitate for a couple of seconds, then walked to his car and got in.
He looked at her as he turned the ignition. The engine erupted, and there were black lines stretching down her pale face. Her eyes were closed, so he could look all he wanted. From here he could see the tangles in her hair, her bra strap peeking out on her shoulder, the soft fuzz on her chin. From here he could see tiny makeup-filled scars.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Most of this is Unimportant
It was a desolate land, to be accurate, or maybe to exaggerate the smallest bit. Because there was grass, in small square grass colonies, and there were trees that sucked the moisture from the ground. And there was death, for sure, for how could it be otherwise? But this death was neither more or less than a place less desolate. It just was, like the pebbles that roll under the weight of your foot.
There were people who lived in this desolation. They had hopes, like cognizant beings in far better locales, and they had these hopes smashed like stained glass. Constantly, a hope was being crushed, its blood trickling into the shallow water table to feed the the red-leafed trees that somehow survived. One could find dead hopes underfoot as one will notice cigarette butts on a sidewalk, the hopes' faces brown, too, like a spent cigarette filter.
Some people kept wild hopes chained in their barren backyards. On certain days you could hear the hopes' howls, and the clanging of their chains as they pulled and pulled at the stake that stopped their wanderings. Curiously, this made many chained hopes cross-eyed. The morning after a full moon would find many a hope clinging to its home stake, spun around by its marred vision and choked by its chain.
Fact: Hopes are androgynous and asexual.
One man I knew had a hope which he repeatedly buried in the dry land, only to see it dig its way out. This happens, too, when you pour sand on an ant. Watch long enough, and you will see the grains tumble and give way, maybe just a few at a time, until an antenna is peeking through back into the air. The same happened with this man's hope, until he grew tired of this sport and drowned his willful pet in his above-ground swimming pool. It sank like a skeleton key.
All of this is unimportant.
Moreso, most of this is unimportant.
What is important is: It was a desolate land.
There were people who lived in this desolation. They had hopes, like cognizant beings in far better locales, and they had these hopes smashed like stained glass. Constantly, a hope was being crushed, its blood trickling into the shallow water table to feed the the red-leafed trees that somehow survived. One could find dead hopes underfoot as one will notice cigarette butts on a sidewalk, the hopes' faces brown, too, like a spent cigarette filter.
Some people kept wild hopes chained in their barren backyards. On certain days you could hear the hopes' howls, and the clanging of their chains as they pulled and pulled at the stake that stopped their wanderings. Curiously, this made many chained hopes cross-eyed. The morning after a full moon would find many a hope clinging to its home stake, spun around by its marred vision and choked by its chain.
Fact: Hopes are androgynous and asexual.
One man I knew had a hope which he repeatedly buried in the dry land, only to see it dig its way out. This happens, too, when you pour sand on an ant. Watch long enough, and you will see the grains tumble and give way, maybe just a few at a time, until an antenna is peeking through back into the air. The same happened with this man's hope, until he grew tired of this sport and drowned his willful pet in his above-ground swimming pool. It sank like a skeleton key.
All of this is unimportant.
Moreso, most of this is unimportant.
What is important is: It was a desolate land.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Conveyance
Hmmmm...How to explain. This is gonna be hard. It's like, like...God, this is tough. The words, they just don't mean what I want them to mean. Like, let's say there's a dolphin, who really really likes graham crackers...no, wait. I mean, let's take your mom. Just an example, no insult intended. Well, it's kinda like your mom, with all her sundresses and sunglasses and sunroofs and shit. Almost like that, I guess. More like a skylight that some bluejay has shat on.
Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.
OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.
You still don't get it, do you?
That's what I thought.
Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.
OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.
You still don't get it, do you?
That's what I thought.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Chosen-For-You Adventure #1: Happy Hour
The sun is warm on your face, accompanied by a cool wind that makes you smile. It is Thursday, your lunch hour, and the bright day makes you forget the tie around your neck. Suddenly, you are bumped out of your ecstasy from behind. You turn to see an attractive young woman before you, her eyes lowered in embarrassment, her lips whispering "excuse me." You have a choice.
Do you step aside and let her pass? Or do you try to strike up a conversation?
As you watch her walk down the street away from you, you curse yourself for your cowardice. While you plan on which of your toes you should hit with a hammer as penance, a co-worker, Giuseppe, taps you on the shoulder. He says that "some of the guys" are going to happy hour tonight, and wonders if you'd care to come along.
Do you take him up on his offer? Or do you offer a lame excuse because of your social anxiety?
You thank him for the invitation, but tell him that you have "a lot" to do tonight. "Big plans. Like, tons of stuff." He nods and just stands there, not leaving, and you really really want him to leave so you can stand alone some more in the sun, so you blurt out that you'd be able to go the following evening. This satisfies him, so he high-fives you and leaves you by yourself.
Back at your desk, you laugh to yourself, thinking about how you have no intention of going to happy hour the next day. An hour later, though, and Giuseppe has begun to high-five you every time he passes your desk. Other co-workers have taken up the habit, and you are being barraged with high-fives.
Do you continue to reciprocate the high-fives? Or do you tell your co-workers to go fuck themselves?
5:30 finally arrives, and both of your hands are sore, your right hand from high-fiving everyone, and your left hand from slamming it a few times with your stapler when no one was looking. Giuseppe asks you one last time, as they are about to walk to the bar.
Do you cave in and join them? Or do you make up more excuses?
You tell them about some girl you have plans to see, a girl who is visiting from out of town. You say you plan to explore a bit, maybe ball up together somewhere comfortable. "Or maybe just ball her." The guys applaud your masculinity and leave, never realizing you were referring to Samus Aran.
That night you play Metroid until 1 AM. Your hands hurt the whole time.
********************************************************
You wake up the next day at 6 AM.
Do you get up, shower, dress and eat? Or do you sleep a little more?
It is 7:30 when you finally get Samus back to her ship to save your game. You skip the shower and just head to work, taking some Famous Amos cookies for the road.
The first half of your day is a breeze. Giuseppe isn't in today, so there have been no high-fives, and it looks like you are in the clear regarding happy hour. After lunch, though, Giuseppe shows up, as he had been a doctor's appointment that morning. He leans over your cubicle and reminds you about happy hour, saying how glad he is that you are coming.
Do you make up a new excuse? Or do you nod and smile?
You nod and smile. He pats you on the back, and says "See you at 5:30."
The time finally comes for you to make the trek down the road to some loud bar with people you don't really speak to. You don't know half of their names. As you enter the bar, Giuseppe asks you what you want to drink.
Do you tell him you've never had a beer before? Or do you play it cool?
"Whatever you're having," you say, blindly leaning on a stool to your right. Your weight spins the stool around, and that's when you realize someone is sitting in it. It is the girl who bumped into you the day before. She is wearing a very cute skirt, and looks prettier than you remember her being. You can kind of see up her skirt.
Do you excuse yourself and run home before the image escapes your mind? Or do you just stand there and do nothing?
You just stand there and do nothing, except breath awkwardly. She remembers you and offers you a seat next to her. Giuseppe comes back with your beer, and just places it in front of you, as he sees the situation you are in. He pats you on the back, and you and the girl talk. Her name is Bonita, which you find strange, as she is obviously Scandinavian, but you suspend your disbelief and surrender yourself to the power of suggestive names. After a good hour of talking, or listening to her talk, she asks if you'd like to see her apartment.
Do you go home with her? Or do you go home with her?
On arrival at her apartment, you begin to have a hard time breathing. You've never been alone with a woman, and you need time to adjust, so you excuse yourself and find the bathroom. She ends up following you in and molesting you. You begin to make out and disrobe. After a few minutes and a quick discussion, you realize that neither of you have a condom handy. This may be your only chance at this for a long time.
Do you trust in luck and go it condomless? Or do you try to improvise?
After scraping the last of the toothpaste from the tube, you realize that the plastic is probably harder than latex and would be painful. She has excused herself to her bed as you prepare. You feel a breeze come through her open bathroom window, and your clothes are lying there on the toilet lid.
Do you leave through the window? Or do you act like a man and tell her that this isn't happening tonight?
You leave through the window. And you steal her soap. The next day you tell everyone how many times you "sexed" her. Eleven.
The End
Do you step aside and let her pass? Or do you try to strike up a conversation?
As you watch her walk down the street away from you, you curse yourself for your cowardice. While you plan on which of your toes you should hit with a hammer as penance, a co-worker, Giuseppe, taps you on the shoulder. He says that "some of the guys" are going to happy hour tonight, and wonders if you'd care to come along.
Do you take him up on his offer? Or do you offer a lame excuse because of your social anxiety?
You thank him for the invitation, but tell him that you have "a lot" to do tonight. "Big plans. Like, tons of stuff." He nods and just stands there, not leaving, and you really really want him to leave so you can stand alone some more in the sun, so you blurt out that you'd be able to go the following evening. This satisfies him, so he high-fives you and leaves you by yourself.
Back at your desk, you laugh to yourself, thinking about how you have no intention of going to happy hour the next day. An hour later, though, and Giuseppe has begun to high-five you every time he passes your desk. Other co-workers have taken up the habit, and you are being barraged with high-fives.
Do you continue to reciprocate the high-fives? Or do you tell your co-workers to go fuck themselves?
5:30 finally arrives, and both of your hands are sore, your right hand from high-fiving everyone, and your left hand from slamming it a few times with your stapler when no one was looking. Giuseppe asks you one last time, as they are about to walk to the bar.
Do you cave in and join them? Or do you make up more excuses?
You tell them about some girl you have plans to see, a girl who is visiting from out of town. You say you plan to explore a bit, maybe ball up together somewhere comfortable. "Or maybe just ball her." The guys applaud your masculinity and leave, never realizing you were referring to Samus Aran.
That night you play Metroid until 1 AM. Your hands hurt the whole time.
********************************************************
You wake up the next day at 6 AM.
Do you get up, shower, dress and eat? Or do you sleep a little more?
It is 7:30 when you finally get Samus back to her ship to save your game. You skip the shower and just head to work, taking some Famous Amos cookies for the road.
The first half of your day is a breeze. Giuseppe isn't in today, so there have been no high-fives, and it looks like you are in the clear regarding happy hour. After lunch, though, Giuseppe shows up, as he had been a doctor's appointment that morning. He leans over your cubicle and reminds you about happy hour, saying how glad he is that you are coming.
Do you make up a new excuse? Or do you nod and smile?
You nod and smile. He pats you on the back, and says "See you at 5:30."
The time finally comes for you to make the trek down the road to some loud bar with people you don't really speak to. You don't know half of their names. As you enter the bar, Giuseppe asks you what you want to drink.
Do you tell him you've never had a beer before? Or do you play it cool?
"Whatever you're having," you say, blindly leaning on a stool to your right. Your weight spins the stool around, and that's when you realize someone is sitting in it. It is the girl who bumped into you the day before. She is wearing a very cute skirt, and looks prettier than you remember her being. You can kind of see up her skirt.
Do you excuse yourself and run home before the image escapes your mind? Or do you just stand there and do nothing?
You just stand there and do nothing, except breath awkwardly. She remembers you and offers you a seat next to her. Giuseppe comes back with your beer, and just places it in front of you, as he sees the situation you are in. He pats you on the back, and you and the girl talk. Her name is Bonita, which you find strange, as she is obviously Scandinavian, but you suspend your disbelief and surrender yourself to the power of suggestive names. After a good hour of talking, or listening to her talk, she asks if you'd like to see her apartment.
Do you go home with her? Or do you go home with her?
On arrival at her apartment, you begin to have a hard time breathing. You've never been alone with a woman, and you need time to adjust, so you excuse yourself and find the bathroom. She ends up following you in and molesting you. You begin to make out and disrobe. After a few minutes and a quick discussion, you realize that neither of you have a condom handy. This may be your only chance at this for a long time.
Do you trust in luck and go it condomless? Or do you try to improvise?
After scraping the last of the toothpaste from the tube, you realize that the plastic is probably harder than latex and would be painful. She has excused herself to her bed as you prepare. You feel a breeze come through her open bathroom window, and your clothes are lying there on the toilet lid.
Do you leave through the window? Or do you act like a man and tell her that this isn't happening tonight?
You leave through the window. And you steal her soap. The next day you tell everyone how many times you "sexed" her. Eleven.
The End
Friday, April 14, 2006
What a Weekend - Part Two(Sunday)
I'm trying to remember what happened that Sunday. It was like three weekends ago. God, I have an awful memory. At the time, it was really exciting, but I guess other things happen in my life, and those new things are written over the old.
Oh, right, my jacket was all linty, and I had spent all of Saturday in a drunken haze, bothering nice people about some un-invented invention called a lint mop. No idea what the fuck that was all about. I was really hung over on Sunday. I remember waking up and being like, "God, my mouth tastes like a mule's ass." I had some tea and english muffins. A Centrum. "From A to motherfuckin Zinc," as Shitface always said, before he went generic. Then i brought my jacket to the dry cleaners, which seemed like the logical thing to do. The dude behind the counter was kinda grossed out, though, what with all the lint and other unmentionable stains, but it seems like thats his goddamn job. He is supposed to take dirty clothes and make them clean, why sneer at an article of clothing in front of the customer? That kinda pissed me off, so I took another Centrum.
The rest of the day was wasted. I tried to work on my robot a little bit more, but there was still something wrong with the wiring, as the lightbulb eyes refused to light up. I haven't gone back to it since. It's just so frustrating, it makes me tired. I think I played some Tetris DS after that. It's surprising how arousing it is to fit the straight piece into a slot and score a four-line tetris. Setting up some space in the middle of the board, sometimes just slowly settling the piece in, other times a hard and violent drop. God, it's beautiful. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night with my bedroom door shut.
Now I remember! What made the day special was the epiphany I had while playing Tetris. I'll try to set the scene: I'm on my bed, fully clothed but wishing I wasn't, in video game ecstacy, hormones pumping through my blood. Suddenly, it dawned on me: All I needed was a girl. It was so simple, just a girl, to be my physical companion as my brain and thumbs worked away. She wouldn't have to do much, just sit there and cheer my on, and perform oral sex. I called it "Nintendome." It is now on my list of things to do after I learn to publicly refrain from being a nerd and before I become impotent.
After that breakthrough, I spent an hour or so organizing the phone numbers I'd picked up over the last few weeks, sorting them into piles dubbed "Probably Won't Call" and "Won't Call." Then I watched the Sopranos. What a weekend, right?
Oh, right, my jacket was all linty, and I had spent all of Saturday in a drunken haze, bothering nice people about some un-invented invention called a lint mop. No idea what the fuck that was all about. I was really hung over on Sunday. I remember waking up and being like, "God, my mouth tastes like a mule's ass." I had some tea and english muffins. A Centrum. "From A to motherfuckin Zinc," as Shitface always said, before he went generic. Then i brought my jacket to the dry cleaners, which seemed like the logical thing to do. The dude behind the counter was kinda grossed out, though, what with all the lint and other unmentionable stains, but it seems like thats his goddamn job. He is supposed to take dirty clothes and make them clean, why sneer at an article of clothing in front of the customer? That kinda pissed me off, so I took another Centrum.
The rest of the day was wasted. I tried to work on my robot a little bit more, but there was still something wrong with the wiring, as the lightbulb eyes refused to light up. I haven't gone back to it since. It's just so frustrating, it makes me tired. I think I played some Tetris DS after that. It's surprising how arousing it is to fit the straight piece into a slot and score a four-line tetris. Setting up some space in the middle of the board, sometimes just slowly settling the piece in, other times a hard and violent drop. God, it's beautiful. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night with my bedroom door shut.
Now I remember! What made the day special was the epiphany I had while playing Tetris. I'll try to set the scene: I'm on my bed, fully clothed but wishing I wasn't, in video game ecstacy, hormones pumping through my blood. Suddenly, it dawned on me: All I needed was a girl. It was so simple, just a girl, to be my physical companion as my brain and thumbs worked away. She wouldn't have to do much, just sit there and cheer my on, and perform oral sex. I called it "Nintendome." It is now on my list of things to do after I learn to publicly refrain from being a nerd and before I become impotent.
After that breakthrough, I spent an hour or so organizing the phone numbers I'd picked up over the last few weeks, sorting them into piles dubbed "Probably Won't Call" and "Won't Call." Then I watched the Sopranos. What a weekend, right?
Monday, March 27, 2006
What a Weekend - Part One(Saturday)
Can I tell you about my weekend?
Well, it all started Saturday morning. My Friday night was a hard, long, grueling night of sleeping, so when I woke up at 9 AM, I was too tired to get out of bed. I slept some more, until about 1, then until 3. I got up to "urinate," then took a nap until 5. Now I was ready to start my day!
I only had one thing on my to-do list for the weekend: obtain a lint mop. I had noticed my jacket was full of lint and hair, so much so that a normal brush probably wouldn't do the trick. This was a mop job. So, I high-tailed it over to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, assuming that the Beyond would undoubtedly include the object of my desire.
After walking the aisles for a good 2 minutes, I was on the brink of giving up. Luckily, a pretty young saleswoman wandered down my aisle, so I asked her for assistance. When she heard the words "lint mop," her face instantly turned into a James T. Callahan scowl. She had never heard of such a product! I prodded her some more, hoping that some extra description and pantomime might jog her memory, but she just shook her head like a young Charles S. Dutton. That's when I started to cry.
My tears must have stirred something inside of her, possibly all those feminine hormones I always hear about, stirred them like a soup. A woman soup. She took my hand, and led me to the darkest corner of Bed, Bath, and Beyound, and stuck a business card in my hand. It read "Tiger Crenshaw III - Lint Mops," and had a phone number in the bottom lefthand corner. The lettering was all in Batang font, which I now know was a foreshadowing. When I looked up from the card, the pretty saleswoman was gone. I knew now what I would be doing on my Sunday.
Well, it all started Saturday morning. My Friday night was a hard, long, grueling night of sleeping, so when I woke up at 9 AM, I was too tired to get out of bed. I slept some more, until about 1, then until 3. I got up to "urinate," then took a nap until 5. Now I was ready to start my day!
I only had one thing on my to-do list for the weekend: obtain a lint mop. I had noticed my jacket was full of lint and hair, so much so that a normal brush probably wouldn't do the trick. This was a mop job. So, I high-tailed it over to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, assuming that the Beyond would undoubtedly include the object of my desire.
After walking the aisles for a good 2 minutes, I was on the brink of giving up. Luckily, a pretty young saleswoman wandered down my aisle, so I asked her for assistance. When she heard the words "lint mop," her face instantly turned into a James T. Callahan scowl. She had never heard of such a product! I prodded her some more, hoping that some extra description and pantomime might jog her memory, but she just shook her head like a young Charles S. Dutton. That's when I started to cry.
My tears must have stirred something inside of her, possibly all those feminine hormones I always hear about, stirred them like a soup. A woman soup. She took my hand, and led me to the darkest corner of Bed, Bath, and Beyound, and stuck a business card in my hand. It read "Tiger Crenshaw III - Lint Mops," and had a phone number in the bottom lefthand corner. The lettering was all in Batang font, which I now know was a foreshadowing. When I looked up from the card, the pretty saleswoman was gone. I knew now what I would be doing on my Sunday.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Patrick Duffy Goes to the Gas Station
Now, see, why do you have to do that? I ask you to fill it up, premium, so you put the nozzle in the tank and let the pump do its thing. See, I like that. That machine knows when my tank is full. What I have a problem with is you pumping more gas into my tank so that the total is a "round" number. I'm paying with plastic anyway, there's no need to make the numbers even. There's no change!
This is why I hate getting gas in Jersey. The prices may be lower, but the savings aren't worth it when something like this happens.
Look, I know you're trying to do a nice thing. I know you think it's a convenience for me, but I'd just rather that when the pump says my car is full, you believe it. I like to take care of my car, and I don't know what kind of effect overloading the tank with gas could have on it.
See that card you just swiped? That Gold Mastercard? Now look at this chest. See the masculine hair, the round and toned muscles? This was my Gold Mastercard. This is what bought me my mansion in LA, my house in southern Oregon, and this magnificent Jetta. It bought me friends like Sasha Mitchell, and a temporary voice role on Justice League. You may work at a gas station and do this type of thing for a living, but this chest gives me the authority to tell you that what you're doing is wrong.
I don't expect you to understand. I'm not even surprised that you don't recognize me. How could I expect anything less with that beard you have? My chest hair is cleaner, more fragrant, and more masculine than that beard will ever be, and one more thing...oh, wait, you do recognize me?
No, I'm not Randy West.
(Puts magnificent Jetta into drive, pulls away with trademark exasperated face)
This is why I hate getting gas in Jersey. The prices may be lower, but the savings aren't worth it when something like this happens.
Look, I know you're trying to do a nice thing. I know you think it's a convenience for me, but I'd just rather that when the pump says my car is full, you believe it. I like to take care of my car, and I don't know what kind of effect overloading the tank with gas could have on it.
See that card you just swiped? That Gold Mastercard? Now look at this chest. See the masculine hair, the round and toned muscles? This was my Gold Mastercard. This is what bought me my mansion in LA, my house in southern Oregon, and this magnificent Jetta. It bought me friends like Sasha Mitchell, and a temporary voice role on Justice League. You may work at a gas station and do this type of thing for a living, but this chest gives me the authority to tell you that what you're doing is wrong.
I don't expect you to understand. I'm not even surprised that you don't recognize me. How could I expect anything less with that beard you have? My chest hair is cleaner, more fragrant, and more masculine than that beard will ever be, and one more thing...oh, wait, you do recognize me?
No, I'm not Randy West.
(Puts magnificent Jetta into drive, pulls away with trademark exasperated face)
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
open to doubt or suspicion
So I was walking down the street, minding my own business, not doing anything dubious whatsoever, when a man with a dubious look on his face approached me. I saw his hand dubiously pull something out of his coat pocket, something hard and cold and dubious, when he said in a dubious voice, "Give me your wallet."
I was stunned. I'd heard of these dubious sorts(or 'dubes' as I call them), but had never had such a dubious encounter before. And now, here I was, on a semi-dubious corner, a dubious gun pointed at me, a dubious finger on an even more dubious trigger, and this dube's face just staring at me in a half-dubious smile. I almost dubed myself.
But then a miracle! A not-dubious-at-all policeman must have seen the dube, because now he was behind the dube, his barely dubious police-issued gun pointed at that damned dubious back. I couldn't help cracking my least dubious smirk, and I could tell in his dubious eyes that the dube knew what was up. The obviously un-dubious cop told the dube to drop his dubious gun, which he did, in a quite dubious manner, I must admit. Soon enough, his dubious wrists were encircled in hardly dubious handcuffs, and I was escorted to my never-dubious house.
If there's anything I learned, it's always be on the lookout for dubes. They can dubiously appear on any dubious alley or sidewalk. I've also begun to practice my dubious face in my bathroom mirror, because, as I've heard dubious, i mean numerous times, the best defense is a dubious offense.
I was stunned. I'd heard of these dubious sorts(or 'dubes' as I call them), but had never had such a dubious encounter before. And now, here I was, on a semi-dubious corner, a dubious gun pointed at me, a dubious finger on an even more dubious trigger, and this dube's face just staring at me in a half-dubious smile. I almost dubed myself.
But then a miracle! A not-dubious-at-all policeman must have seen the dube, because now he was behind the dube, his barely dubious police-issued gun pointed at that damned dubious back. I couldn't help cracking my least dubious smirk, and I could tell in his dubious eyes that the dube knew what was up. The obviously un-dubious cop told the dube to drop his dubious gun, which he did, in a quite dubious manner, I must admit. Soon enough, his dubious wrists were encircled in hardly dubious handcuffs, and I was escorted to my never-dubious house.
If there's anything I learned, it's always be on the lookout for dubes. They can dubiously appear on any dubious alley or sidewalk. I've also begun to practice my dubious face in my bathroom mirror, because, as I've heard dubious, i mean numerous times, the best defense is a dubious offense.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Returning
When she came to the door of her apartment, when she turned the lock with her key, she noticed that it was already unlocked. Entering the front hall, the living room light was unexpectedly on. "Hello?" she yelled, repeated. Grabbing the umbrella in the entrance tightly with both hands, she tiptoed her way towards the light.
The first thing she noticed was the sound, a familiar crunching. She saw nothing in the room that would make such a sound, no broken radiator or faulty VCR, but still it persisted, and still she couldn't place how she knew it. She followed its source, across the room, past the glass table, near the couch, and that's when she saw the shoes, toes pointed towards the ceiling.
He had left 9 months earlier, his departure abrupt and unexplained. And now he was lying behind her couch, sprawled out with his arms and legs opened wide, his body like a fallen star. His teeth were grinding, hard and rough like rusty gears, and she could smell the alcohol on him without having to crouch. His jacket was stained(soil? blood?), as were the knees of his jeans, and she nudged his hand with the toe of her boot. He did not move, just kept grinding. Suddenly, she found her foot was in the air behind her, building up momentum for a strike to his stomach, but she stopped it mid-swing. Her boot hit the floor, grounding her anger for the moment.
She wished he was gone, and she wished he was awake, sober. There were too many questions, all starting with 'why.' But there would be no answers tonight. Tossing the umbrella onto the couch, she stepped over him on her way to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. In bed with her eyes shut, she wondered if this time she'd be able to hear the fading footsteps. She could still hear his violent teeth.
The first thing she noticed was the sound, a familiar crunching. She saw nothing in the room that would make such a sound, no broken radiator or faulty VCR, but still it persisted, and still she couldn't place how she knew it. She followed its source, across the room, past the glass table, near the couch, and that's when she saw the shoes, toes pointed towards the ceiling.
He had left 9 months earlier, his departure abrupt and unexplained. And now he was lying behind her couch, sprawled out with his arms and legs opened wide, his body like a fallen star. His teeth were grinding, hard and rough like rusty gears, and she could smell the alcohol on him without having to crouch. His jacket was stained(soil? blood?), as were the knees of his jeans, and she nudged his hand with the toe of her boot. He did not move, just kept grinding. Suddenly, she found her foot was in the air behind her, building up momentum for a strike to his stomach, but she stopped it mid-swing. Her boot hit the floor, grounding her anger for the moment.
She wished he was gone, and she wished he was awake, sober. There were too many questions, all starting with 'why.' But there would be no answers tonight. Tossing the umbrella onto the couch, she stepped over him on her way to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. In bed with her eyes shut, she wondered if this time she'd be able to hear the fading footsteps. She could still hear his violent teeth.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Expecting
Jane bled as she walked across the carpet, leaving red prints of her big toe as her trail. When she got to the dinner table, she fell into a chair and rattled the table. A candlestick fell over, and Mark came out of their room.
“What is this? Jane, are you bleeding?”
“Yeah, I am,” she said, putting the pliers in her hand down on the table top.
“Well, what happened?”
“My toenail came off,” she said, pointing to her right foot.
“Jesus, could you be a little more careful at least? What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he mumbled. “Well, why didn’t you put a band-aid on it yet?” His hands pleaded in exasperation.
“I can’t. We don’t have any.”
“You could’ve gone and bought some.”
“And bleed on the driveway, and in the car, and in the store?” Her lips started to tremble with her voice. She tossed her hair back from her eyes while her toe continued to drip. Mark took a deep breath.
“I don’t have time to clean this up right now. Why would you just walk across the house with a bloody foot?”
“I didn’t realize there would be a mess.”
“Well, what did you expect?” He saw the puddle beneath her growing. “Don’t move.” Mark went to the kitchen and grabbed some napkins, then handed them to Jane. “Wrap it up with that for now, maybe it’ll help it stop.” She put a napkin to her toe. It turned red, and stung her uncovered skin. She winced. “I’m sorry. You could have asked me, though. Here, I’ll get you something to soak it in.” He filled a plastic bowl with water and handed it to her. “I’ll go out and pick up some bandages, ok? Anything else you need?”
“Lunch would be nice.”
“OK, I’ll pick up a burger for you. Now, sit down and soak that toe, and don’t walk around anymore until I get back.” Jane closed her eyes expecting a kiss. Mark put on his jacket and shut the front door behind him, so she dipped her big toe into the water. The blood disbursed, turning the water faintly red. She could still see the exposed flesh.
“What is this? Jane, are you bleeding?”
“Yeah, I am,” she said, putting the pliers in her hand down on the table top.
“Well, what happened?”
“My toenail came off,” she said, pointing to her right foot.
“Jesus, could you be a little more careful at least? What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he mumbled. “Well, why didn’t you put a band-aid on it yet?” His hands pleaded in exasperation.
“I can’t. We don’t have any.”
“You could’ve gone and bought some.”
“And bleed on the driveway, and in the car, and in the store?” Her lips started to tremble with her voice. She tossed her hair back from her eyes while her toe continued to drip. Mark took a deep breath.
“I don’t have time to clean this up right now. Why would you just walk across the house with a bloody foot?”
“I didn’t realize there would be a mess.”
“Well, what did you expect?” He saw the puddle beneath her growing. “Don’t move.” Mark went to the kitchen and grabbed some napkins, then handed them to Jane. “Wrap it up with that for now, maybe it’ll help it stop.” She put a napkin to her toe. It turned red, and stung her uncovered skin. She winced. “I’m sorry. You could have asked me, though. Here, I’ll get you something to soak it in.” He filled a plastic bowl with water and handed it to her. “I’ll go out and pick up some bandages, ok? Anything else you need?”
“Lunch would be nice.”
“OK, I’ll pick up a burger for you. Now, sit down and soak that toe, and don’t walk around anymore until I get back.” Jane closed her eyes expecting a kiss. Mark put on his jacket and shut the front door behind him, so she dipped her big toe into the water. The blood disbursed, turning the water faintly red. She could still see the exposed flesh.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Grasps
The tiny scars on her calf were like Braille, and he wondered if they spelled out anything as his hand felt its way, hidden beneath the table. They were two of four, she to his right, her right leg crossed over the left, giving him access to at least a bare ankle. Farther from him, about a curved yard stick to his left, was one friend, and across the table, more than a handshake away, was another. He tried to concentrate on the conversation they were all having, but it was a struggle.
“Did you guys see that Hasidic guy on the dance floor?” one asked, and though he had seen the odd dancer and wanted to respond, his hand was now above the mosquito bumps onto smoother skin. The skin stole his voice.
“Yeah, I saw him. I’ve seen him there before, too. He never drinks, he just loves dancing.” The other had filled the silent space, and he felt less pressured.
When he sensed the waitress behind his right shoulder, he let go of her leg and turned to order. The waitress took everyone’s requests, going clockwise around the table. When she walked back towards the kitchen, his hand found its former place, this time on her knee.
He wondered if he was giving away his hidden action, if his face betrayed him, if his lack of concentration to the group was noticeable. He heard her laugh, and he moved his hand above her knee, his fingers slipping under her denim skirt. The muscle there was soft, and his fingers gave it some extra pressure. When she stopped laughing, he felt a few light kicks to his leg, and then a hand displacing his. She excused herself and got up from the table.
He could feel his face burning and what might have been sweat on his forehead, but he tried to get past it, sipping some of the ice-filled tap water and fiddling with his silverware. He and his friends spoke of sports and related disappointments, until he heard her walking back to the table. Her hand touched his shoulder, and he saw her slip her chair out from the table, sliding it away from him. When she sat down, he didn’t even try to find her ankle. Taking a sip of water, he crossed his own legs and let his hand grasp his sock. Before the food had come, his nails had dug their way through the cotton, finding his own skin, his own muscles, his own protruding bones.
“Did you guys see that Hasidic guy on the dance floor?” one asked, and though he had seen the odd dancer and wanted to respond, his hand was now above the mosquito bumps onto smoother skin. The skin stole his voice.
“Yeah, I saw him. I’ve seen him there before, too. He never drinks, he just loves dancing.” The other had filled the silent space, and he felt less pressured.
When he sensed the waitress behind his right shoulder, he let go of her leg and turned to order. The waitress took everyone’s requests, going clockwise around the table. When she walked back towards the kitchen, his hand found its former place, this time on her knee.
He wondered if he was giving away his hidden action, if his face betrayed him, if his lack of concentration to the group was noticeable. He heard her laugh, and he moved his hand above her knee, his fingers slipping under her denim skirt. The muscle there was soft, and his fingers gave it some extra pressure. When she stopped laughing, he felt a few light kicks to his leg, and then a hand displacing his. She excused herself and got up from the table.
He could feel his face burning and what might have been sweat on his forehead, but he tried to get past it, sipping some of the ice-filled tap water and fiddling with his silverware. He and his friends spoke of sports and related disappointments, until he heard her walking back to the table. Her hand touched his shoulder, and he saw her slip her chair out from the table, sliding it away from him. When she sat down, he didn’t even try to find her ankle. Taking a sip of water, he crossed his own legs and let his hand grasp his sock. Before the food had come, his nails had dug their way through the cotton, finding his own skin, his own muscles, his own protruding bones.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
In a Field
When I tried to get up and run, she grabbed my ankle, and I fell, laughing. When she ran, I did the same, and took her shoe right off. She hopped and ran her way into the trees, and I just sat and laughed and watched her, watched her leg muscles tighten and release.
I tore some grass out of the ground and smiled while I waited, ripping each blade down its veins. Then I put my hand in her sneaker, where my fist barely fit. To show I was a sport, I took off my shoes. I think there were birds. The longer I waited, the more I lost the laughter. When it was all gone, I got up on my feet and walked towards the trees.
When I saw the red, I thought it was in my eyes. I wiped at my closed eyelids, then opened them. Her head lay against a stone, and I could see the bottom of her dirty sock, brown with soil and mucked with twigs and leaves. I never got to see her fall.
I tore some grass out of the ground and smiled while I waited, ripping each blade down its veins. Then I put my hand in her sneaker, where my fist barely fit. To show I was a sport, I took off my shoes. I think there were birds. The longer I waited, the more I lost the laughter. When it was all gone, I got up on my feet and walked towards the trees.
When I saw the red, I thought it was in my eyes. I wiped at my closed eyelids, then opened them. Her head lay against a stone, and I could see the bottom of her dirty sock, brown with soil and mucked with twigs and leaves. I never got to see her fall.
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