Sunday Scribblings (Dangerous): Remembering and Forgetting

He smiled at the waitress as he departed. A cute girl. No more than twenty, he guessed, with her blonde ponytail reaching the center of her back. She was studying biology, wanted to become an endocrinologist. Whatever that happens to be. He remembered a time when he could woo a girl like her with his irresistible charm. Alas, that charm had dwindled with age. Now, young girls simply felt sorry for who they considered to be a man well past his prime. They smiled at him, certainly, for he was kind. But the smiles were as limpid as he. They were but the shadows of erotic glimpses that women once stole.

He stepped from the diner, noticed the street lamps flicker and thought of Memory. The tune played in his head; he could remember only the first line. He passed in front of a Rite Aid. In the doorway laid a black man in his sleeping bag. There were newspapers strewn about; he recognized the Sunday Funnies from a few weeks back. The latest Cathy. He read somewhere that Cathy would end soon.

He found himself on a street alone in the city. Not where anyone wants to be. Towards him walked a band of strange young men, their hats turned sideways and their pants falling from their respective waists. They shouted obscenities at no one in particular, mock fought along the sidewalk as he passed. He felt their glares but made certain to avoid eye contact.

He retrieved the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The smell of something rotten wafted from the apartment. He checked the refrigerator but found nothing. Upon further inspection, he knew the trash to be the culprit. He carried the trash to the proper receptacle and returned to his apartment for the evening. The television kept him company as he dozed. Memories of his ex blossomed in his mind; he half dreamt of lost children and broken promises. He awoke to find himself drooling on an ochre couch pillow. The bed called him, and he complied. A too large king bed with seven pillows of differing shades.

He listened for the sound of his ex snoring but heard only the central air. The bed proved too large. He moved to the leather couch with a sheet and a single pillow. Television didn’t help his cause. He clicked the power button after a time and the room went dark, apart from the lone street lamp that shone through his window. He stared at the barren room and wondered how he’d recover this time. He then had another thought he’d never contemplated. What if it all ended? What if he didn’t have to worry about lost children and empty beds any more? But the thought automatically gave way to another. ‘Danger, Will Robinson,’ he repeated to himself. It saved him for another night as he finally dozed into thoughtless oblivion.

Sunday Scribblings: View from Inside

I see a row of cars, their license plates opalescent from the tawny street lights. A tree that could be maple covers the dully illuminated sign indicating my temporary residence. Cars criss-cross the newly repaved junction; they become fewer and fewer as the night progresses. The towering building across the street sits idly; there are no signs of life in the pale marbled lobby.

I feel better now with the three alit lamps sporting their energy saving bulbs. The air conditioner rumbles and squawks noisily. The clock reads 12:09 a.m. The hallway has long since quieted; I no longer hear flip-flopping footsteps pounding along the corridor. The door knocking enjoyed by what I can only imagine are middle school aged brats seems to have dwindled to Doppler Effect giggling that may belong either to a budding young female or a yet budded young man.

I must admit a sense of loneliness in this singular room. The regularly sized bed acts as the centerpiece around which all the other furniture fits. It is flanked by faux wood end tables upon which sit what I can only call ribbed cylindrical lamps that have most likely never actually been in style during any decade. Opposite the bed is a long unattractive bureau that resembles the end tables. Upon it sits a rectangularly ribbed lamp and a television that I cannot watch. Adjacent to the bureau is what passes for a kitchen: a miniature black refrigerator and a microwave that I never use. I stare at the lemon yellow rectangle on the wall, a reminder of the mirror that I shattered for fear of seeing more than I could bear.

The staff does not ask questions. Pay enough money, and you never have to worry about questions. They simply place the trays of food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at my door. And then they retrieve said trays like clockwork. Each week, I place the laundry bag outside the door; I find freshly laundered clothing awaiting me when I open the door later in the evening. If I need any toiletries or clothing, I simply make a list. They dutifully obtain and bestow.

It has been two years to the day since I stepped foot from this hotel room. Within the first three months, I contemplated multiple methods of suicide. I could jump, but a fall from the third story wouldn't kill me unless I dove head first. And I can't willingly dive head first. Drowning in the bathtub seemed overly difficult. They serve only butter knives even when they bring steak. Electrocution could work, but it freaks me out too much. So, after the third month, I decided to blind myself. Except I can't even get contacts because I'm afraid of touching my eyes. Suffice it to say, that didn't work either. I had to find another obsession.

I started peaking out the window at passersby, playing 'chicken' in a way. I'd stare long enough to see if people actually noticed. There are those who seem to have that sixth sense. And if they attempted to steal a glance, they'd see only a lightly swaying curtain where my eyes had been. Yes, it has come close a number of times, but I've been careful never to let it happen again. Not after what I did.

I was visiting for work from the east coast. I had just had dinner with a friend and walked to the bus stop to wait for the bus that would take me back to the hotel. At the bus stop was a young couple who didn't seem to speak much English. We exchanged smiles and waited. We three heard a man approach; he had the look of a vagrant. He started to yell, which seemed to scare the couple a bit. I glanced back at him disgustedly, but that encouraged him to yell all the more loudly. He got closer to the couple. When he turned towards me, he looked into my eyes. At that moment, I silently wished him dead. Except it was somehow conveyed to him as an order he could not disobey. I watched as he lost control of his body and fell to the ground writhing in momentary agony. Within two minutes, his body ceased all movement. All at once, the bus arrived, the woman screamed, and the vagrant breathed his last.

I have looked not one person in the eye since.

3WW (Drink, Feeble, Predict): Duck Confit

The duck floats gracefully on the water. It flaps its silver-brown wings a few times and dips its dark green head into the murky lake.

I wait for her to arrive, the ring stashed in my back pocket. The sun lingers like the taste of bad wine. Maybe I shouldn’t do this tonight. It doesn’t feel right. We’ve been dating for eight years, and we’ve discussed marriage often. I thought tonight would be the best night. At dusk on the bench where we met. I was taking a break from a run, she was attempting to walk that damn dog she had. Fluffy? Fluffers? I can’t remember now. Has it just been too long? Or not long enough? I take a drink of the nauseating coffee that will keep me awake another couple hours.

The duck quacks a few times. I notice he’s alone. Don’t ducks usually travel together? He’s swimming in circles; I wonder if ducks get dizzy.

I can’t stand it when she’s late, which is often. She doesn’t call or text. But I know she has a tough job; she’s always on the phone and doesn’t want to be bothered by it after work. Speaking of which, she should be off work by now. I don’t think today’s a deployment day. She would have told me. At least I think she would have told me. It’s tough to predict her schedule; she’s always so busy. So damn busy.

The duck has stopped swimming in circles. Now he’s staring at me. He’s literally swimming in one place and staring. It reminds me of the guy who played one note continuously on the trombone while his right arm pumped the main slide vigorously. Except creepier.

The sun is about to set. I’d like to believe she’ll make a grand entrance at exactly the right moment, but I think that’s a pipe dream. Artificial light replace the feeble sunlight. Mosquitoes and wandering single men abound. The neighborhood isn’t as nice as it used to be. She’s not coming.

‘She’s not coming.’

I wonder if I’ve spoken aloud. But I can’t remember doing so. I look around but see nothing.

‘Yeah, I said it.’

‘Who the hell’s talking to me?’

‘It’s me, the duck.’

I turn to look at the duck, who’s still staring at me.

‘She’s with another guy. The missus has ‘em staked out. I wouldn’t waste that ring on someone like her. Just my two cents.’

The duck dips its head in the water again, flaps its wings, and takes off into the air.

I stare at the spot where the duck was, unable to grasp what happened. I hear steps along the sidewalk.

‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late. You ready for dinner?’

I stand, kiss her on the cheek, and walk with her arm in arm to the small French restaurant. We love their duck confit.