A funny thing happened during the course of writing in this blog; its original purpose evolved in a way I didn't expect.
In the blog's early days, when I commented on the fact that I kept a blog, people asked what kind. 'For writing about myself,' I admitted. 'Oh,' they replied, 'Why?' 'To let my family and friends know how I'm doing,' I told them. 'Oh,' they replied again in a way that made me think I had six heads. There always followed a pause and a change of topic.
I changed the blog to cover different topics on different days. That went well for a while with my 'Sporting Rants and Raves' as well as the 'It's Personal' posts. I seemingly gave to all of you - my ten consistent readers - something that might pique your respective interests. But I realized that I wasn't writing what I wanted to write. I was writing what I perceived you wanted me to write. And I perceived you wanted to know about me and about what I thought.
And you did. But I didn't need to tell you about myself and my thoughts as explicitly as I did. The stories are, in a sense, too true. They have little of that spirit that makes stories good. Instead, I can tell you just as much about myself in a story about an old demented man who escapes confinement to meet his friends for hockey or in a story about a young man running for his life from someone seemingly intent on catching him.
In my first post, I declared that I would use the blog as a conduit for others to keep up with me. I proceeded to post about my political views, my partner, my current job, my dogs, and my past. Well, my political views have evolved. I am no longer with that partner. I am no longer at that job. I no longer have the dogs. And with a bad memory, even my past drifts further into obscurity every day.
In this, my last post in this blog, I promise nothing in the future except, perhaps, a few stories that might steal you away to places you do - and sometimes don't - want to go. That said, be on the lookout for some of my fiction - old and new - on a new site.
Until next I write...
TD
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Two Runs
It was the bottom of the fifth at the new Yankee Stadium. The boy of no more than six returned from the bathroom ahead of his lagging father. The boy scurried to his seat and picked up the magazine. He looked up at me and asked, ‘What happened?’
I replied, ‘A-Rod flied out to right. And Cano is on first.’
A bit confused, he looked back at me and inquired, ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I looked at him equally confused. ‘No, it’s still three to nothing.’
It was a friend’s birthday, and she had suggested a Yankees game to celebrate. The brunch she was having with friends proved a bit early, so we chose to meet at the stadium before the game. After a quick stroll around the new sports complex immediately adjacent to the stadium – and the location of the old Yankee Stadium – we met up with the crew and entered.
We climbed the stairs and proceeded to our seats among the Bleacher Creatures in section 201. Although we could not see left field from our seats, there were three large screen televisions to our right to aid us should any ball travel beyond our line of sight. In addition, we did not have the benefit of being able to see the giant scoreboard since we were directly beneath it. But there is an abbreviated horizontal scoreboard that extends across the front of the stadium, which gave us enough information about the current state of affairs.
In the bleachers sat an eclectic mix of young and old. Bud Light flowed like water into the cups of most fans. I decided to stick to water as I was saving the extensive alcohol intake for later in the day. In front of us sat an older gentleman and his five year old kid, who was fully garbed in Colorado Rockies attire. As a Yankees fan, I cannot help but feel disdain for anyone not wearing white, navy blue, or the barely acceptable ‘Away’ gray. But, I decided to make an exception as I immediately recognized a father-son outing replete with the father teaching the son how to score the game.
In the middle of the second inning, the father turned and asked if we would watch their stuff while they went to the bathroom. The kid, at that point, was not making eye contact. When they returned with a beer – presumably for the father – and a hot dog with ketchup (such a travesty), play had already resumed. The kid asked his father what had happened fully expecting him to know. I volunteered, ‘A-Rod got out on a five three.’ The father lit up, and aided his son in the correct scoring.
Over the next couple innings, we chatted briefly. They had traveled from Colorado to watch a few games at Yankees Stadium, and they just happened to come for Old Timer’s Day. In fact, the father told me about how they had run into Goose Gossage in the elevator of their hotel. When the kid very earnestly told Goose that he wanted the Rockies to win, Goose answered, ‘Well, I hope not.’
In the fourth, the father asked me to take a picture of him and his boy. I took his iPhone and snapped what I considered to be a pretty good shot of them with the field extending behind them. After I handed the phone back to the father, the kid looked up at me for the first time and said, ‘What happened?’ I answered honestly, ‘I don’t know; I was taking your picture. But I know he got out.’ The boy harrumphed and went back to concentrating on the next batter.
In the middle of the fifth – just before play was to resume – the kid needed to use the bathroom again. Again, the father asked us to watch his stuff. And off they went. A-Rod flied out to right. Cano got a hit. That’s when the kid descended the stairs – with his father lagging behind – and snuck back to his book. He opened it hastily and looked up at me. ‘What happened?’ I told him. ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I made a concerted effort to understand where he had seen the two. The score at that point was three to nothing. The Rockies had five hits and the Yanks had one. The Rockies had no errors and the Yanks had one. I looked at every other number on the board, and there was no two. I looked at him and responded, ‘No, it’s still three to nothing. Swisher’s at the plate.’
As soon as I finished speaking, the crowd roared. Nick Swisher sent a ball hurtling into the right field seats; he and Cano both scored. Amazed, I glanced down at the kid, who was busy filling in the appropriate boxes on the score sheet. I tried to understand if the kid understood what he had just said. But Posada sent a ball to deep center that made the stadium erupt. By the time the roar had ceased, the time to analyze had passed. Instead, the occurrence passed into the realm of that abyss between the sublime and the mundane. I leave you to draw your own conclusions…
I replied, ‘A-Rod flied out to right. And Cano is on first.’
A bit confused, he looked back at me and inquired, ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I looked at him equally confused. ‘No, it’s still three to nothing.’
It was a friend’s birthday, and she had suggested a Yankees game to celebrate. The brunch she was having with friends proved a bit early, so we chose to meet at the stadium before the game. After a quick stroll around the new sports complex immediately adjacent to the stadium – and the location of the old Yankee Stadium – we met up with the crew and entered.
We climbed the stairs and proceeded to our seats among the Bleacher Creatures in section 201. Although we could not see left field from our seats, there were three large screen televisions to our right to aid us should any ball travel beyond our line of sight. In addition, we did not have the benefit of being able to see the giant scoreboard since we were directly beneath it. But there is an abbreviated horizontal scoreboard that extends across the front of the stadium, which gave us enough information about the current state of affairs.
In the bleachers sat an eclectic mix of young and old. Bud Light flowed like water into the cups of most fans. I decided to stick to water as I was saving the extensive alcohol intake for later in the day. In front of us sat an older gentleman and his five year old kid, who was fully garbed in Colorado Rockies attire. As a Yankees fan, I cannot help but feel disdain for anyone not wearing white, navy blue, or the barely acceptable ‘Away’ gray. But, I decided to make an exception as I immediately recognized a father-son outing replete with the father teaching the son how to score the game.
In the middle of the second inning, the father turned and asked if we would watch their stuff while they went to the bathroom. The kid, at that point, was not making eye contact. When they returned with a beer – presumably for the father – and a hot dog with ketchup (such a travesty), play had already resumed. The kid asked his father what had happened fully expecting him to know. I volunteered, ‘A-Rod got out on a five three.’ The father lit up, and aided his son in the correct scoring.
Over the next couple innings, we chatted briefly. They had traveled from Colorado to watch a few games at Yankees Stadium, and they just happened to come for Old Timer’s Day. In fact, the father told me about how they had run into Goose Gossage in the elevator of their hotel. When the kid very earnestly told Goose that he wanted the Rockies to win, Goose answered, ‘Well, I hope not.’
In the fourth, the father asked me to take a picture of him and his boy. I took his iPhone and snapped what I considered to be a pretty good shot of them with the field extending behind them. After I handed the phone back to the father, the kid looked up at me for the first time and said, ‘What happened?’ I answered honestly, ‘I don’t know; I was taking your picture. But I know he got out.’ The boy harrumphed and went back to concentrating on the next batter.
In the middle of the fifth – just before play was to resume – the kid needed to use the bathroom again. Again, the father asked us to watch his stuff. And off they went. A-Rod flied out to right. Cano got a hit. That’s when the kid descended the stairs – with his father lagging behind – and snuck back to his book. He opened it hastily and looked up at me. ‘What happened?’ I told him. ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I made a concerted effort to understand where he had seen the two. The score at that point was three to nothing. The Rockies had five hits and the Yanks had one. The Rockies had no errors and the Yanks had one. I looked at every other number on the board, and there was no two. I looked at him and responded, ‘No, it’s still three to nothing. Swisher’s at the plate.’
As soon as I finished speaking, the crowd roared. Nick Swisher sent a ball hurtling into the right field seats; he and Cano both scored. Amazed, I glanced down at the kid, who was busy filling in the appropriate boxes on the score sheet. I tried to understand if the kid understood what he had just said. But Posada sent a ball to deep center that made the stadium erupt. By the time the roar had ceased, the time to analyze had passed. Instead, the occurrence passed into the realm of that abyss between the sublime and the mundane. I leave you to draw your own conclusions…
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Taste of Metal
He placed his hand on the grip and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. He wondered what this moment might feel like, this moment of both ultimate power and weakness. He lifted the dead weight and placed it square on his undeveloped chest. There was a moment of chilled discomfort which prompted him to adjust the piece slightly. Both arms hung lifelessly by his side.
He stared down the barrel wanting to feel happy or angry or at least impressed by the ingenuity that created such a weapon. His mind wandered to stories of wrist slitting and self-hanging. He admired those who could take their lives in such a noble way. But he couldn’t do it. He needed this gun.
A southpaw, he brought his left up to the gun and moved the now warm metal up to just below his chin. He formed an ‘o’ with his lips and stuck the gun in like a popsicle. The barrel struck his teeth causing him to flinch; the gun fell from his mouth onto his left arm and then onto the floor with a thud. A shiver ran down his spine. He spit onto the throw rug, trying to extract the metallic taste. For an instant, he had the urge to flee, if only because the metal on his teeth made him remember the multiple fillings he had endured.
He rolled over on the couch and reached for the gun; it was just out of his reach. ‘Shit,’ he said aloud as he rolled onto his back. His eyes closed; the smell of something rotten filled his nostrils.
He found himself in a dirt pit with sides as high as cliffs. Above him men and animals leapt across the chasm. He grasped a root that stuck out of the wall of dirt and yanked it, only to find that the tree to which it had been connected had died long ago. A yelp came from above; one of the animals hadn’t made the leap. Down it came tumbling against rock and dirt. ‘Nothing can survive that fall,’ he thought to himself. He pressed himself against the side hoping to avoid both the falling debris and the animal itself. He expected a thud, but heard instead an eloquent thump. He opened his eyes, and there before him stood a King Cobra, both beautiful and terrible. Fear washed over him. Not this way, he thought. Not by a snake in a pit. The snake smiled at him, his teeth a bright white with fangs longer than the mouth should be able to contain. Except it was a human smile. He looked into its eyes and saw not the eyes of a serpent but of a man, a pensive man who was considering his options for escape.
‘If we work together, we can essscape,’ the cobra lisped between his giant teeth.
He stared at the teeth and considered whether he should respond.
‘I will not bite you; I am not hungry,’ the snake admitted in an even tone. ‘If you wait, however, you will be consssumed.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, almost willing not to be scared.
‘I ate a man before I fell into this pit. I am no longer hungry.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall we essscape?’ The snake moved its head toward him.
Suddenly, he felt no fear for the cobra but for what existed outside the pit. ‘I don’t know if I want to.’
‘You would rather remain here with me then? We can wait. They will sssave me; I am rare. You are not.’
He felt indignation at the snake’s claim. ‘I’m a man. They would save me.’
‘You are worthlessssss,’ the cobra spat.
‘And you are a killer. They will kill you.’
‘Yesss. If I kill too many men. But I will not. I will kill enough to sssate my thirssst. And no one will know the differenssse.’
‘They will know if you eat me.’
‘They will think it ssself defenssse,’ the snake slurred.
He considered the snake’s stance for a moment and realized he had no defense. ‘And if I do want to escape?’ he inquired. ‘What makes me think I can believe that you would be true to your word?’
‘I have not given my word, my friend. You have little choissse in the matter.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
‘Yesss, between the frying pan and the fire. Which will it be?’
He considered his position. ‘I’d rather neither if I have the choice.’
Something akin to a laugh escaped from behind the snake’s forked tongue. ‘But you don’t.’
‘If I were to agree, what must I do?’
‘Trussst me.’ The snake smiled.
‘Fine. What do I need to do?’
‘You mussst kill a man.’
‘I am a pacifist.’
The snake laughed again. ‘You are a liar.’
‘I am not. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never so much as got into a fight.’
‘You’ve never had the desssire to hurt anyone? Ever?’ the snake asked mockingly. ‘I think you have.’ The words lingered in the pit; they caused a recurring echo that grew louder in his ears.
‘Stop! Stop, please! I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Even kill sssomeone?’
‘Yes, if I must,’ he whimpered.
‘You mussst.’
A stone hurtled down and struck the dirt beside him. Another came soon after. ‘What’s going on?’ he questioned the snake.
‘It’sss your opportunity. Take it while you can.’ The snake spoke while trying to avoid the falling rocks.
‘What do you mean?’
The snake looked up. And suddenly a rope descended with a single man attached to its end. The man immediately saw the snake but did not see the other inhabitant of the pit. He struck at the snake with some kind of tool meant to paralyze it.
He knew it was his chance. In an instant the tool struck the snake leaving it unconscious. The snake tamer extracted a burlap bag and stuffed the snake inside. Still, he did not see the other man in the pit. He was about to give a tug when the other man revealed himself.
‘Please help me. I need to get out of this pit,’ were the first words from his mouth.
Startled, the man wielded the snake paralyzer and struck at the other man, who barely avoided the strike. He then grabbed the rope and attempted to tug. Meanwhile, the trapped man leapt from the ground and tackled the snake charmer.
‘Look,’ he said,’ I just want to get out of here.’
The snake charmer elbowed the trapped man squarely in the jaw dislodging him for a moment. He yanked the rope with his next moment and waited impatiently for the rope to ascend. But the trapped man was on him again, pulling at his clothing and hair.
‘You have to help me,’ he screamed. ‘You can’t leave me down here.’
The snake charmer pulled a small knife from his belt and swiped cutting open the trapped man’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound. But the adrenaline rush kept the trapped man focused on his goal. He grabbed for the snake charmer’s hand with his left hand and punched him in the mouth with his right. The snake charmer dropped the knife. The trapped man snatched the knife and in one moment stabbed at the snake charmer’s abdomen. It was a fatal strike. The snake charmer struggled with what little strength he had but it was not enough. The trapped man extracted the knife and cut the rope. He then grabbed the bag with the snake and pulled hard on the rope. In an instant, he was ascending from the pit.
While ascending, the snake somehow slithered from the bag onto his arm and wrapped itself securely around his midsection. ‘Are you ready?’ asked the snake.
At the moment he looked down, the snake buried its fangs into his stomach. The venom spread almost instantly throughout his body. He felt the life drain from the body he had inhabited. Except, he didn’t feel as though he was dying. Of course, he had never actually died – or at least he had never recalled dying in the past – so he couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t dying. But something in his consciousness told him that he wasn’t.
‘How do you like thisss essscape?’ he heard the snake’s voice say.
He opened his eyes and immediately noticed a change. ‘I’m a snake,’ he thought to himself.
‘But you aren’t, my friend. I am the ssssnake. You are my unfortunate guesssst.’ The slurring wracked his mind. ‘I look forward to your sssstay…’
His eyes opened. The sweat glistened on his brow. He listened to his breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. As he breathed, the memory of his dream faded. There was dirt. And falling stones. No way out. Nothing he could do. And there was someone. Or something. There was fear. He breathed. In and out. He tried to remember. The memory teetered on the edge of an abyss. He closed his eyes again and focused. He felt himself losing consciousness; he had never been able to revisit a dream. But this one was important. He knew it. He had to go back. He felt the weightlessness of sleep. ‘Ssssam…’
‘Sam!’ The exclamation yanked him from the gray matter of sleep. ‘What are you doing?’ His sister’s frantic voice lingered in his ears.
He shook his head. ‘Hi, sis. What’s up?’
‘What’s with the gun?’ She kept her distance from both him and the gun.
‘Jeff left it here,’ he lied.
‘Jeff? Why did he leave a gun here? What were you doing?’
‘Sleeping. I just woke up.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Sam. Don’t lie. Don’t be like dad. Let me help. Let me help you. Why is this gun here?’ she yelled.
‘You want to know?’ he yelled back. ‘Do you?’ He grabbed the gun with his right hand and put his left index finger on the trigger. He leaned the gun back until the barrel was under his chin. ‘I don’t care anymore. What’s the point? I’m tired. I’m young. I’m stupid. Things aren’t fair. What’s the point? Really.’
His sudden movement paralyzed her. She simply watched; there were no words.
The moment passed. He loosened his grip with his right hand and let the barrel fall forward. His left index finger flinched. There was a shot.
He heard a voice, ‘Even kill sssomeone…’ The hissing laughter lingered for what seemed an eternity.
He stared down the barrel wanting to feel happy or angry or at least impressed by the ingenuity that created such a weapon. His mind wandered to stories of wrist slitting and self-hanging. He admired those who could take their lives in such a noble way. But he couldn’t do it. He needed this gun.
A southpaw, he brought his left up to the gun and moved the now warm metal up to just below his chin. He formed an ‘o’ with his lips and stuck the gun in like a popsicle. The barrel struck his teeth causing him to flinch; the gun fell from his mouth onto his left arm and then onto the floor with a thud. A shiver ran down his spine. He spit onto the throw rug, trying to extract the metallic taste. For an instant, he had the urge to flee, if only because the metal on his teeth made him remember the multiple fillings he had endured.
He rolled over on the couch and reached for the gun; it was just out of his reach. ‘Shit,’ he said aloud as he rolled onto his back. His eyes closed; the smell of something rotten filled his nostrils.
He found himself in a dirt pit with sides as high as cliffs. Above him men and animals leapt across the chasm. He grasped a root that stuck out of the wall of dirt and yanked it, only to find that the tree to which it had been connected had died long ago. A yelp came from above; one of the animals hadn’t made the leap. Down it came tumbling against rock and dirt. ‘Nothing can survive that fall,’ he thought to himself. He pressed himself against the side hoping to avoid both the falling debris and the animal itself. He expected a thud, but heard instead an eloquent thump. He opened his eyes, and there before him stood a King Cobra, both beautiful and terrible. Fear washed over him. Not this way, he thought. Not by a snake in a pit. The snake smiled at him, his teeth a bright white with fangs longer than the mouth should be able to contain. Except it was a human smile. He looked into its eyes and saw not the eyes of a serpent but of a man, a pensive man who was considering his options for escape.
‘If we work together, we can essscape,’ the cobra lisped between his giant teeth.
He stared at the teeth and considered whether he should respond.
‘I will not bite you; I am not hungry,’ the snake admitted in an even tone. ‘If you wait, however, you will be consssumed.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, almost willing not to be scared.
‘I ate a man before I fell into this pit. I am no longer hungry.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall we essscape?’ The snake moved its head toward him.
Suddenly, he felt no fear for the cobra but for what existed outside the pit. ‘I don’t know if I want to.’
‘You would rather remain here with me then? We can wait. They will sssave me; I am rare. You are not.’
He felt indignation at the snake’s claim. ‘I’m a man. They would save me.’
‘You are worthlessssss,’ the cobra spat.
‘And you are a killer. They will kill you.’
‘Yesss. If I kill too many men. But I will not. I will kill enough to sssate my thirssst. And no one will know the differenssse.’
‘They will know if you eat me.’
‘They will think it ssself defenssse,’ the snake slurred.
He considered the snake’s stance for a moment and realized he had no defense. ‘And if I do want to escape?’ he inquired. ‘What makes me think I can believe that you would be true to your word?’
‘I have not given my word, my friend. You have little choissse in the matter.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
‘Yesss, between the frying pan and the fire. Which will it be?’
He considered his position. ‘I’d rather neither if I have the choice.’
Something akin to a laugh escaped from behind the snake’s forked tongue. ‘But you don’t.’
‘If I were to agree, what must I do?’
‘Trussst me.’ The snake smiled.
‘Fine. What do I need to do?’
‘You mussst kill a man.’
‘I am a pacifist.’
The snake laughed again. ‘You are a liar.’
‘I am not. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never so much as got into a fight.’
‘You’ve never had the desssire to hurt anyone? Ever?’ the snake asked mockingly. ‘I think you have.’ The words lingered in the pit; they caused a recurring echo that grew louder in his ears.
‘Stop! Stop, please! I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Even kill sssomeone?’
‘Yes, if I must,’ he whimpered.
‘You mussst.’
A stone hurtled down and struck the dirt beside him. Another came soon after. ‘What’s going on?’ he questioned the snake.
‘It’sss your opportunity. Take it while you can.’ The snake spoke while trying to avoid the falling rocks.
‘What do you mean?’
The snake looked up. And suddenly a rope descended with a single man attached to its end. The man immediately saw the snake but did not see the other inhabitant of the pit. He struck at the snake with some kind of tool meant to paralyze it.
He knew it was his chance. In an instant the tool struck the snake leaving it unconscious. The snake tamer extracted a burlap bag and stuffed the snake inside. Still, he did not see the other man in the pit. He was about to give a tug when the other man revealed himself.
‘Please help me. I need to get out of this pit,’ were the first words from his mouth.
Startled, the man wielded the snake paralyzer and struck at the other man, who barely avoided the strike. He then grabbed the rope and attempted to tug. Meanwhile, the trapped man leapt from the ground and tackled the snake charmer.
‘Look,’ he said,’ I just want to get out of here.’
The snake charmer elbowed the trapped man squarely in the jaw dislodging him for a moment. He yanked the rope with his next moment and waited impatiently for the rope to ascend. But the trapped man was on him again, pulling at his clothing and hair.
‘You have to help me,’ he screamed. ‘You can’t leave me down here.’
The snake charmer pulled a small knife from his belt and swiped cutting open the trapped man’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound. But the adrenaline rush kept the trapped man focused on his goal. He grabbed for the snake charmer’s hand with his left hand and punched him in the mouth with his right. The snake charmer dropped the knife. The trapped man snatched the knife and in one moment stabbed at the snake charmer’s abdomen. It was a fatal strike. The snake charmer struggled with what little strength he had but it was not enough. The trapped man extracted the knife and cut the rope. He then grabbed the bag with the snake and pulled hard on the rope. In an instant, he was ascending from the pit.
While ascending, the snake somehow slithered from the bag onto his arm and wrapped itself securely around his midsection. ‘Are you ready?’ asked the snake.
At the moment he looked down, the snake buried its fangs into his stomach. The venom spread almost instantly throughout his body. He felt the life drain from the body he had inhabited. Except, he didn’t feel as though he was dying. Of course, he had never actually died – or at least he had never recalled dying in the past – so he couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t dying. But something in his consciousness told him that he wasn’t.
‘How do you like thisss essscape?’ he heard the snake’s voice say.
He opened his eyes and immediately noticed a change. ‘I’m a snake,’ he thought to himself.
‘But you aren’t, my friend. I am the ssssnake. You are my unfortunate guesssst.’ The slurring wracked his mind. ‘I look forward to your sssstay…’
His eyes opened. The sweat glistened on his brow. He listened to his breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. As he breathed, the memory of his dream faded. There was dirt. And falling stones. No way out. Nothing he could do. And there was someone. Or something. There was fear. He breathed. In and out. He tried to remember. The memory teetered on the edge of an abyss. He closed his eyes again and focused. He felt himself losing consciousness; he had never been able to revisit a dream. But this one was important. He knew it. He had to go back. He felt the weightlessness of sleep. ‘Ssssam…’
‘Sam!’ The exclamation yanked him from the gray matter of sleep. ‘What are you doing?’ His sister’s frantic voice lingered in his ears.
He shook his head. ‘Hi, sis. What’s up?’
‘What’s with the gun?’ She kept her distance from both him and the gun.
‘Jeff left it here,’ he lied.
‘Jeff? Why did he leave a gun here? What were you doing?’
‘Sleeping. I just woke up.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Sam. Don’t lie. Don’t be like dad. Let me help. Let me help you. Why is this gun here?’ she yelled.
‘You want to know?’ he yelled back. ‘Do you?’ He grabbed the gun with his right hand and put his left index finger on the trigger. He leaned the gun back until the barrel was under his chin. ‘I don’t care anymore. What’s the point? I’m tired. I’m young. I’m stupid. Things aren’t fair. What’s the point? Really.’
His sudden movement paralyzed her. She simply watched; there were no words.
The moment passed. He loosened his grip with his right hand and let the barrel fall forward. His left index finger flinched. There was a shot.
He heard a voice, ‘Even kill sssomeone…’ The hissing laughter lingered for what seemed an eternity.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Outta Time 6
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the fourth part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 5 for the fifth part of the story.
The sirens were getting closer. But he couldn’t leave without understanding what had happened.
His eyes went immediately to the perfectly made bed. And it wasn’t the perfection of a good housewife, but rather it was that of a hotel maid. Or of a new cadet recently graduated from boot camp. He surveyed the bureau and spotted Ella’s untouched purse. A stack of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby end table.
‘Ella?’ It was a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘Ella?’ This time it came out as something of a scream except an octave higher than his normal voice.
Something was very wrong with the picture. He walked to the window beside the bed and looked out at a few of the local buildings as he had when he lived there. Then he glanced down at the street below and noticed a commotion. He also noticed at that moment that the sirens had ceased. He opened the window and stuck his head out the screenless window. Below, he saw what looked to be a large quilt covering something on the sidewalk.
He backed away from the window catching his left foot on the edge of the throw rug. He fell with a thud. The precious seconds quickly ticked away, limiting his potential options. Still, he felt the paralysis of indecision. He could try to make a run for apartment H and ‘sit on the couch’ as he was told. He could try to get out of the building, which was less and less promising every moment he waited. Of course, he could just wait to be caught and try to explain the strange events that had been happening. He had the DVD after all. But the DVD wasn’t much; in fact, it was nothing more than a cut-rate production that made no reference to any person specifically.
‘Okay, gotta go,’ he said out loud. ‘The apartment seems as good a choice as any.’
He stepped back into the hallway and grabbed the fungo. He moved past the kitchen and glanced down at the floor. On the floor laid Bruce face down in a pool of blood; there were two gunshot exit wounds in his back. Darren froze. For whatever reason, he couldn’t move. He just stared at the expired body.
A loud knock came at the front door, startling Darren. His time to contemplate had ended.
‘Darren Brahm, we know you’re in there,’ came the voice of a young man. ‘Surrender yourself.’
Darren considered his remaining options. He wasn’t going to bring a fungo to a knife fight; that much was certain. He turned and ran back into the bedroom. He looked out the open window at the crowd below. Then he looked from side to side. The wall was sheer.
‘This is your last warning,’ spoke the muffled voice.
Darren threw the bat onto the bed and seized the wooden trunk in front of it. With all his might, he lifted the trunk by its two handles and carried it into the hallway. He placed the trunk gently in front of the front door.
Then, he called out as non-chalantly as he could muster, ‘I’ll let you in in just a moment officer.’
‘I’d advise that you open the door now, Mr. Brahm!’
It was just the time he needed. Darren backed away from the door, extracted the DVD from his jacket, and put it into the DVD player. He hit the red power button to turn the television on.
The first thud upon the front door followed, but the door itself held. ‘This is for your own good, Darren!’
He wasn’t listening. The screen came to life showing the destruction of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
He heard gunshots. The officers were shooting out the locks. Somehow, the deadbolt and the trunk held the door shut.
The screen went black. The voice exclaimed, ‘There are no escapes this time.’ Playing softly in the background was End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys.
Darren sighed. There came another volley of shots to take out the deadlock.
He had two options. He could wait for them to enter. Or he could decide to allow gravity seal his fate. The latter seemed more enticing at that moment.
The television cut suddenly to one of the closing scenes from Star Wars III. A droid presented each of the twins to Padme to be named. The voice spoke, ‘I wouldn’t choose gravity if I were you because Ella wasn’t completely honest with you about the abortion.’ The DVD ended.
An explosion came from the front door, and two men – rather boys – entered.
Darren dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the bat. The two boys stood in the doorway. The short, stocky white one had a pistol. The taller black kid – whom he recognized as the one from the street – had his hands in his jacket pockets.
The white one spoke, ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’
Darren grabbed the bat and decided that he’d try to bring the bat to a gun fight after all. He stood and, with all his might, flung the bat at the gun-toting kid. The white kid stepped back. The black kid rolled forward and bounced to his feet. In the next moment, the black kid extracted a small device and aimed it square at Darren’s chest. ‘The easy way,’ he said through a smirk. He pressed the button and tased Darren until he rendered him a limp body on the apartment floor.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the fourth part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 5 for the fifth part of the story.
The sirens were getting closer. But he couldn’t leave without understanding what had happened.
His eyes went immediately to the perfectly made bed. And it wasn’t the perfection of a good housewife, but rather it was that of a hotel maid. Or of a new cadet recently graduated from boot camp. He surveyed the bureau and spotted Ella’s untouched purse. A stack of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby end table.
‘Ella?’ It was a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘Ella?’ This time it came out as something of a scream except an octave higher than his normal voice.
Something was very wrong with the picture. He walked to the window beside the bed and looked out at a few of the local buildings as he had when he lived there. Then he glanced down at the street below and noticed a commotion. He also noticed at that moment that the sirens had ceased. He opened the window and stuck his head out the screenless window. Below, he saw what looked to be a large quilt covering something on the sidewalk.
He backed away from the window catching his left foot on the edge of the throw rug. He fell with a thud. The precious seconds quickly ticked away, limiting his potential options. Still, he felt the paralysis of indecision. He could try to make a run for apartment H and ‘sit on the couch’ as he was told. He could try to get out of the building, which was less and less promising every moment he waited. Of course, he could just wait to be caught and try to explain the strange events that had been happening. He had the DVD after all. But the DVD wasn’t much; in fact, it was nothing more than a cut-rate production that made no reference to any person specifically.
‘Okay, gotta go,’ he said out loud. ‘The apartment seems as good a choice as any.’
He stepped back into the hallway and grabbed the fungo. He moved past the kitchen and glanced down at the floor. On the floor laid Bruce face down in a pool of blood; there were two gunshot exit wounds in his back. Darren froze. For whatever reason, he couldn’t move. He just stared at the expired body.
A loud knock came at the front door, startling Darren. His time to contemplate had ended.
‘Darren Brahm, we know you’re in there,’ came the voice of a young man. ‘Surrender yourself.’
Darren considered his remaining options. He wasn’t going to bring a fungo to a knife fight; that much was certain. He turned and ran back into the bedroom. He looked out the open window at the crowd below. Then he looked from side to side. The wall was sheer.
‘This is your last warning,’ spoke the muffled voice.
Darren threw the bat onto the bed and seized the wooden trunk in front of it. With all his might, he lifted the trunk by its two handles and carried it into the hallway. He placed the trunk gently in front of the front door.
Then, he called out as non-chalantly as he could muster, ‘I’ll let you in in just a moment officer.’
‘I’d advise that you open the door now, Mr. Brahm!’
It was just the time he needed. Darren backed away from the door, extracted the DVD from his jacket, and put it into the DVD player. He hit the red power button to turn the television on.
The first thud upon the front door followed, but the door itself held. ‘This is for your own good, Darren!’
He wasn’t listening. The screen came to life showing the destruction of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
He heard gunshots. The officers were shooting out the locks. Somehow, the deadbolt and the trunk held the door shut.
The screen went black. The voice exclaimed, ‘There are no escapes this time.’ Playing softly in the background was End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys.
Darren sighed. There came another volley of shots to take out the deadlock.
He had two options. He could wait for them to enter. Or he could decide to allow gravity seal his fate. The latter seemed more enticing at that moment.
The television cut suddenly to one of the closing scenes from Star Wars III. A droid presented each of the twins to Padme to be named. The voice spoke, ‘I wouldn’t choose gravity if I were you because Ella wasn’t completely honest with you about the abortion.’ The DVD ended.
An explosion came from the front door, and two men – rather boys – entered.
Darren dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the bat. The two boys stood in the doorway. The short, stocky white one had a pistol. The taller black kid – whom he recognized as the one from the street – had his hands in his jacket pockets.
The white one spoke, ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’
Darren grabbed the bat and decided that he’d try to bring the bat to a gun fight after all. He stood and, with all his might, flung the bat at the gun-toting kid. The white kid stepped back. The black kid rolled forward and bounced to his feet. In the next moment, the black kid extracted a small device and aimed it square at Darren’s chest. ‘The easy way,’ he said through a smirk. He pressed the button and tased Darren until he rendered him a limp body on the apartment floor.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Do Over
She sat on a coffee-colored leather sofa in the split ranch waiting for her husband to come home. She felt no real desire to see him. She couldn’t yet admit to herself that her lack of desire was, in fact, disdain bordering on disgust. But she justified the relationship because this one had to work. After three failed marriages, there wasn’t much of a choice. She reached for the wine glass but miscalculated sending the Cabernet tumbling to the floor. The stain blossomed on the carpet. She leaned back into the couch and stared at the empty images spewing from the television. Her eyes closed; she wished – not for the first time – that she could do the whole thing over.
The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.
The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.
She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.
She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.
She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.
The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.
She ignored him. She stared at her toes.
‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’
She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.
‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’
The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’
‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’
Her guile receded. She continued rocking.
‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.
She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’
Her rocking became more pronounced.
He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’
She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.
He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’
She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.
‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.
He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.
It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.
The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.
She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi mom.’
‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.
‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.
‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.
‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.
‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’
There was a pause.
‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.
‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.
‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’
‘I hope so. I think I have to.’
‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’
‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’
‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’
The line went dead.
The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.
She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’
And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’
She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.
‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.
He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.
‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’
‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?
‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’
And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?
‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’
‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.
‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.
‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.
The key dangled in the ignition.
The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.
The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.
She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.
She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.
She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.
The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.
She ignored him. She stared at her toes.
‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’
She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.
‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’
The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’
‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’
Her guile receded. She continued rocking.
‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.
She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’
Her rocking became more pronounced.
He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’
She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.
He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’
She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.
‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.
He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.
It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.
The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.
She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi mom.’
‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.
‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.
‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.
‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.
‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’
There was a pause.
‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.
‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.
‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’
‘I hope so. I think I have to.’
‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’
‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’
‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’
The line went dead.
The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.
She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’
And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’
She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.
‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.
He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.
‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’
‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?
‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’
And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?
‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’
‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.
‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.
‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.
The key dangled in the ignition.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The Basement
They told me they had guests in the basement. It was immediately before they left for the wedding. He had been a good friend from high school; I didn’t really know his wife.
I had arrived only that morning after a short train ride. It had been shorter that I had expected, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be longer. The ride had always been that brief, at least as far back as I could remember. Ian and his wife had picked me up at the station. I had commented to Ian about how long it had been. ‘Since graduation, I think. We certainly made a scene.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Or maybe… There was that one time in Seattle when we tried to climb Mt. Rainier.’ He smiled and nodded again.
I had free roam of the house, except for the basement. It wasn’t that they told me I couldn’t go into the basement; it was the mere fact that I knew I shouldn’t.
I was only staying the night, and I could amuse myself without access to a television. I perused the books. I saw Death of a Salesman and The Yankee Years. I thought them oddly juxtaposed. I wondered if Ian’s wife was the Yankees fan.
My phone rang. I answered without looking at the number.
‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?’ came the familiar voice.
‘I have to be back in the afternoon,’ I said to him.
‘I’m your father; I want to see you.’
‘Okay, I can go back in the evening.’
‘I’ll be there around 11,’ he growled.
‘See you then,’ I chirped.
I clicked off. The phone began vibrating in my hand. I answered again without looking.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, how’s my favorite son?’
‘That’s no way to speak, mom. You have four other kids.’
‘And I tell them all the same.’
‘That seems to defeat the purpose.’
‘Don’t judge. I heard you’re in town. Will I get to see you?’
‘Umm…’
‘I never get to see you.’
‘I can do breakfast.’
‘What are you doing for lunch?’
‘I’m not available for lunch. Can we make it early?’
‘How’s nine?’
‘That’s fine, mom.’
‘Okay, looking forward to it.’
I hang up again. I wait for another call. None comes. I hear rustling in the basement, but I ignore it. Instead I sit at the kitchen table, and stare out the window into the darkness. I sit for three hours. I sit completely still, waiting for something tragic.
The rustling becomes something more than rustling. I suppose it could have been called pounding. I heard things breaking too. I thought about going to bed, but something told me to go downstairs. The voices were not the better angels of my nature.
I opened the cellar door and peered down. I saw red lighting amidst which there came a flicker, like a television. I stepped down into the darkness and saw movement. There was a lot of movement. People were moving around one another. It was almost an orgy. Almost. I took one more step and looked over the railing down into the room. It was a television flickering. Further squinting indicated a horror film. I think it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it. My eyes wandered further into the room where I saw something resembling an orgy. Except it wasn’t an orgy. There were people with weapons impaling each other. I saw a body that looked like it had been hit by a bus. The blood oozed everywhere. I felt sick and flew up the stairs.
They hadn’t noticed me. They hadn’t even turned. They simply stabbed each other with delight. I felt the shock engulf me. I considered calling someone; I could think of no one. I didn’t have Ian’s number. I didn’t think I should share the information with my parents. I decided to go to bed. There was nothing I could do.
I woke up in the morning. There were bloody footsteps on the kitchen floor. My mother called to say she would be late. My father called to say he would be early. They arrived simultaneously, my father walking up the driveway from the front and my mother traversing the backyard from behind. They had keys and entered. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down. I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. I wanted to be with both of them away from the house as quickly as possible.
The doors opened. Ian and his wife entered. They greeted me, and noticed I was white as a ghost.
‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked.
I pointed to a red sneaker mark on the ground. ‘They reenacted Texas Chainsaw Massacre downstairs,’ I said louder than I had intended. ‘Except it wasn’t really with a chainsaw.’
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed as if to say, not again. He and his wife began cleaning the kitchen as I sat at the table.
When they were finished, Ian turned to me and motioned me downstairs, ‘Can you help me clean up? The wife’s exhausted from the wedding.’
I stared at Ian as if trying to remember something. I shook my head. Nothing happened. I shook it more vigorously and realized what was happening. I shook my head again and lifted it groggily from the pillow.
My wife sat on the bed; there were tears in her eyes. I sat up too quickly and saw stars.
‘What is it?’
‘I just got a call from the Barkleys. Aaron died in an accident just an hour or so ago. He was riding his bike along a busy road, lost control, and was bit by a bus.’
I blinked. ‘He’s only 10.’
‘I know. They’re going to cancel the Little League games tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God.’ I reached for her and pulled her into me.
A knock came at the door followed by a 9 year old bursting with excitement. ‘Ready for the batting cages, dad,’ he exclaimed. But Alex stopped short when he saw his parents holding each other.
‘Alex,’ I started. ‘I have something I have to tell you.’
I had arrived only that morning after a short train ride. It had been shorter that I had expected, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be longer. The ride had always been that brief, at least as far back as I could remember. Ian and his wife had picked me up at the station. I had commented to Ian about how long it had been. ‘Since graduation, I think. We certainly made a scene.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Or maybe… There was that one time in Seattle when we tried to climb Mt. Rainier.’ He smiled and nodded again.
I had free roam of the house, except for the basement. It wasn’t that they told me I couldn’t go into the basement; it was the mere fact that I knew I shouldn’t.
I was only staying the night, and I could amuse myself without access to a television. I perused the books. I saw Death of a Salesman and The Yankee Years. I thought them oddly juxtaposed. I wondered if Ian’s wife was the Yankees fan.
My phone rang. I answered without looking at the number.
‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?’ came the familiar voice.
‘I have to be back in the afternoon,’ I said to him.
‘I’m your father; I want to see you.’
‘Okay, I can go back in the evening.’
‘I’ll be there around 11,’ he growled.
‘See you then,’ I chirped.
I clicked off. The phone began vibrating in my hand. I answered again without looking.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, how’s my favorite son?’
‘That’s no way to speak, mom. You have four other kids.’
‘And I tell them all the same.’
‘That seems to defeat the purpose.’
‘Don’t judge. I heard you’re in town. Will I get to see you?’
‘Umm…’
‘I never get to see you.’
‘I can do breakfast.’
‘What are you doing for lunch?’
‘I’m not available for lunch. Can we make it early?’
‘How’s nine?’
‘That’s fine, mom.’
‘Okay, looking forward to it.’
I hang up again. I wait for another call. None comes. I hear rustling in the basement, but I ignore it. Instead I sit at the kitchen table, and stare out the window into the darkness. I sit for three hours. I sit completely still, waiting for something tragic.
The rustling becomes something more than rustling. I suppose it could have been called pounding. I heard things breaking too. I thought about going to bed, but something told me to go downstairs. The voices were not the better angels of my nature.
I opened the cellar door and peered down. I saw red lighting amidst which there came a flicker, like a television. I stepped down into the darkness and saw movement. There was a lot of movement. People were moving around one another. It was almost an orgy. Almost. I took one more step and looked over the railing down into the room. It was a television flickering. Further squinting indicated a horror film. I think it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it. My eyes wandered further into the room where I saw something resembling an orgy. Except it wasn’t an orgy. There were people with weapons impaling each other. I saw a body that looked like it had been hit by a bus. The blood oozed everywhere. I felt sick and flew up the stairs.
They hadn’t noticed me. They hadn’t even turned. They simply stabbed each other with delight. I felt the shock engulf me. I considered calling someone; I could think of no one. I didn’t have Ian’s number. I didn’t think I should share the information with my parents. I decided to go to bed. There was nothing I could do.
I woke up in the morning. There were bloody footsteps on the kitchen floor. My mother called to say she would be late. My father called to say he would be early. They arrived simultaneously, my father walking up the driveway from the front and my mother traversing the backyard from behind. They had keys and entered. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down. I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. I wanted to be with both of them away from the house as quickly as possible.
The doors opened. Ian and his wife entered. They greeted me, and noticed I was white as a ghost.
‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked.
I pointed to a red sneaker mark on the ground. ‘They reenacted Texas Chainsaw Massacre downstairs,’ I said louder than I had intended. ‘Except it wasn’t really with a chainsaw.’
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed as if to say, not again. He and his wife began cleaning the kitchen as I sat at the table.
When they were finished, Ian turned to me and motioned me downstairs, ‘Can you help me clean up? The wife’s exhausted from the wedding.’
I stared at Ian as if trying to remember something. I shook my head. Nothing happened. I shook it more vigorously and realized what was happening. I shook my head again and lifted it groggily from the pillow.
My wife sat on the bed; there were tears in her eyes. I sat up too quickly and saw stars.
‘What is it?’
‘I just got a call from the Barkleys. Aaron died in an accident just an hour or so ago. He was riding his bike along a busy road, lost control, and was bit by a bus.’
I blinked. ‘He’s only 10.’
‘I know. They’re going to cancel the Little League games tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God.’ I reached for her and pulled her into me.
A knock came at the door followed by a 9 year old bursting with excitement. ‘Ready for the batting cages, dad,’ he exclaimed. But Alex stopped short when he saw his parents holding each other.
‘Alex,’ I started. ‘I have something I have to tell you.’
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Suitcase
Barney waddled up to George and licked him on the cheek with his semi-wet tongue. Without a word from George, Barney gingerly dropped to his stomach and rolled half-heartedly. George rubbed the old beagle’s belly and showered him with loving remarks.
‘You’ll only be gone a few days,’ remarked Molly, George’s dearest friend.
‘He’s my boy,’ he retorted earnestly. ‘The only guy who’s stuck with me through everything.’ He turned his head back to the resting dog. ‘Aren’t you, Barney?’
‘What about me?’ Molly asked.
‘You’re not a guy. Technically, though, I’ve known Barney longer.’
‘We’re not going through that again.’
‘Well, I knew him when he was in the womb. Queenie’s second or third litter, I always forget.’
‘Yeah, I know, I was the unfortunate neighbor who got dragged into helping.’
‘Don’t sound so upset. That’s when we met. And here we are now,’ he exclaimed with an innocent joy.
‘Yeah, yeah. So when are you leaving?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Oh, yeah, what time is it?’
‘Almost eight.’
‘It’s about that time. I need to catch a cab. I should make it in time for an eleven o’clock flight.’
‘Yeah, you should be fine.’
Before he stood, he buried his nose into the nape of the Barney’s neck. The dog glanced backward nonchalantly and licked the air a few times; the last tongue swipe landed on George’s cheek.
‘Bye, bye Barney. Good boy.’
Barney remained on his stomach but tracked George with his sad, brown eyes. Barney knew what was happening, but he just didn’t have the energy to leap and lick with as much enthusiasm as he did even a few years prior. At almost seventeen years of age, everything was a chore.
George donned his jacket and grabbed his suitcase. ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ And then to the dog, ‘Good boy, Barney. Good boy.’
The dog wagged his tail in response. When the door closed, Barney stood and waddled over to it. He then plopped down in front of the door and closed his eyes.
Molly grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She decided on a marathon of the seventh cycle of America’s Next Top Model. She became absorbed in her disdain for Melrose, her least favorite contestant, and jeered aloud when Melrose won multiple challenges.
Sometime in the middle of the ninth episode, Molly noticed that Barney hadn’t scratched at the door as was his habit when he needed to potty. She hoped she hadn’t ignored him accidentally. She got up from the couch and walked toward the front door, where Barney had seemingly remained since George left. She reached down and patted his head as a passing gesture. Not only did the dog not move but his head felt unusually cool. She let her hand skim Barney’s nose; it was sandpaper dry.
‘Barney?’ She tried his name a few times with increasing volume. The dog didn’t stir. She felt her hands getting sweaty; her heart was starting to race. She reached down and jiggled him a bit. Nothing. ‘Oh my God. Don’t be dead.’ She felt hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘Barney!’ She put her ear down by the dog’s mouth and nose. There was no breath.
The dog was dead.
‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I gonna do?’ she asked herself as she sat back down on the couch.
Molly started thinking of anything that could get her out of this situation. She thought about leaving the dog in front of the door until George came back. But she couldn’t lie to George if he asked how Barney was doing. She thought about getting another dog, another Beagle she could call Barney so she could soften the blow. But that was ridiculous.
Of course, there was only one thing she could do. She had to call George. But she didn’t know if she could do it; she didn’t know if she could speak the words without breaking down. She picked up her cell phone and found his name. She pushed the call button and readied herself to blurt out what she needed to say.
After the third ring, she knew he wasn’t picking up. And then she remembered that George was on a flight to Seattle and wouldn’t be landing for another four hours. Molly hung up the phone and put it down on the table.
At that moment, it became apparent to her that she was sharing the apartment with a corpse, a dead body. Her brain took it from there. Her hands became clammy. She heard strange noises. She was convinced she smelled rotting meat. She turned off the television to try to focus on what to do next, but the silence proved louder than noise; she turned the television back on. She noticed she had to pee, but ‘it’ was blocking the path.
After a few paralyzing moments, she shook her head vigorously. ‘Snap out of it,’ she said to herself. ‘What’s next?’ She found that talking to herself often helped when she felt nervous or upset. ‘I could leave him here. But then he’d start to stink. I can’t do that.’ She paused and looked up the ceiling. ‘I have to do something with him, but what do I do with a dead dog in the city? I can’t throw him away. And George would be pissed if I did anyway.’ She curled her legs underneath her until she was sitting Indian style. ‘I should call someone.’ Her father’s calm face appeared in her mind, and she felt the lump in her throat. Then she thought of her mother; not a chance. ‘Who would I call in this situation?’ She paused. ‘George, that’s who. Well, what would he do?’ And then it hit her. ‘The vet.’
She bounded off the couch and into the kitchen. The vet’s number was on the refrigerator. She grabbed her phone and dialed. A woman answered.
‘Yeah, hi, I need some help,’ Molly replied.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I… umm… well… uh… there’s a dead dog here, and I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he a patient of ours?’
‘Yes. But I’m not his owner. I was dog sitting. His owner’s gone, and I can’t reach him.’
‘Okay. Can you give me his name?’
‘The dog or the owner?’
‘The owner.’
‘George Bell.’
‘Barney?’ the woman asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, are you in the city?’
‘I’m at George’s apartment.’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘No, I take subways.’
‘Here’s what you do. Now this may sound strange, but there’s not much choice. Put Barney in a suitcase and bring him to the office. We can take care of his body from there.’
‘Can’t you come get him? I don’t know if I can…’ her voice drifted.
‘Sorry, hon, we’re just not staffed for it. And it’s better if you bring him in sooner than later.’
‘Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.’
‘Okay,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘See you soon,’ was the extent of her wisdom.
Molly put the phone down. After staring out the window at the cloudy sky for a moment, she decided that she would heed the woman’s advice; she had to find a suitcase. After she thought a moment, she decided that the only place he could keep a suitcase was under his bed. She hopped the corpse and entered the bedroom. She ducked down and felt for the suitcase; when she felt the handle, she pulled out a gigantic, tan monstrosity made sometime in the 1960s. She unpacked George’s summer clothes onto the bed.
She carried the open suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to the body. Without thinking, she scooped the corpse up and flipped it into the bag. With another motion, she slammed the top down and zipped it up. She took a deep breath and paused. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and money clip; grabbed the suitcase; and exited the apartment.
At once, she realized the suitcase had no wheels; they had broken off at some point in the distant past. She became immediately aware of what dead weight really meant. She struggled down the stairs and through the streets. A few passersby even offered to lend a helping hand, but she politely refused.
She descended the stairs to the subway and somehow maneuvered through the turnstile. It was only a short time before an uptown train squealed to a halt in front of her. She dragged the bag onto the half-filled train and sat in the corner.
All the while, she was convinced that the suitcase was giving off an odor. Or that some kind of bodily fluid would seep out. Or that the suitcase would rip revealing the ear or the tail of a dead dog. She guiltily surveyed the train and caught only fleeting glances from disinterested strangers.
One stop before the closest stop to the vet, the train conductor announced that the next stop was closed because of construction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough notice for her to escape the train with the suitcase. Instead, she decided that she would get off at the next stop.
She dragged the suitcase off the train and made it to the bottom of the escalator. The broken escalator that ascended the equivalent of 3 flights of stairs. She had the option of getting on another train north and going to the next stop in order to catch another train south. Or she could suck it up and do the stairs. She chose the latter.
And thus she began her trek up the escalator stairs. Luckily, there weren’t many others trying to get by.
About half way up, she heard someone jogging up the stairs at a good pace. She inched to the side and pulled the suitcase close. She looked back and saw that it was a guy with a red Yankees cap, a navy blue t-shirt, and jeans. She looked ahead again and waited. Suddenly, she felt the bag jerk away from her; she grasped the rubber handrail for balance. She looked up and saw the guy with the bag in his right hand galloping up the stairs. She raced behind him up the stairs trying to yell between her breaths. But he was too fast for her. When she got to the exit, he was nowhere to be found.
She asked the nearest couple if they had seen a guy with a suitcase. But when she looked around, she realized how stupid that question was. Half the people around her had suitcases. The couple shook their heads solemnly.
Molly began running south. Down the sidewalk she galloped, knocking into trash, trees, and tourists. She didn’t realize she was crying. She kept yelling, ‘Barney.’
When she arrived at the vet, she was a tear-stained mess. She leaned onto the counter and stammered between sobs, ‘I don’t have Barney.’
The nurse – the same woman who had answered the phone earlier – came from behind the counter and put her arm around Molly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly admitted. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s okay. He’s in a better place.’
‘No, he isn’t. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is he still at the apartment?’
‘No,’ she said a bit too loudly. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He took him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know! I couldn’t find him.’
‘Wait,’ the nurse squared Molly’s shoulders. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone stole the suitcase.’
At that moment, Molly’s phone began ringing. She dug it out of her jeans. She saw the picture of Barney appear. And the name George. She sniffled, dragged her finger across the screen, and raised it to her ear.
‘Hi George. I have some bad news.’
‘You’ll only be gone a few days,’ remarked Molly, George’s dearest friend.
‘He’s my boy,’ he retorted earnestly. ‘The only guy who’s stuck with me through everything.’ He turned his head back to the resting dog. ‘Aren’t you, Barney?’
‘What about me?’ Molly asked.
‘You’re not a guy. Technically, though, I’ve known Barney longer.’
‘We’re not going through that again.’
‘Well, I knew him when he was in the womb. Queenie’s second or third litter, I always forget.’
‘Yeah, I know, I was the unfortunate neighbor who got dragged into helping.’
‘Don’t sound so upset. That’s when we met. And here we are now,’ he exclaimed with an innocent joy.
‘Yeah, yeah. So when are you leaving?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Oh, yeah, what time is it?’
‘Almost eight.’
‘It’s about that time. I need to catch a cab. I should make it in time for an eleven o’clock flight.’
‘Yeah, you should be fine.’
Before he stood, he buried his nose into the nape of the Barney’s neck. The dog glanced backward nonchalantly and licked the air a few times; the last tongue swipe landed on George’s cheek.
‘Bye, bye Barney. Good boy.’
Barney remained on his stomach but tracked George with his sad, brown eyes. Barney knew what was happening, but he just didn’t have the energy to leap and lick with as much enthusiasm as he did even a few years prior. At almost seventeen years of age, everything was a chore.
George donned his jacket and grabbed his suitcase. ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ And then to the dog, ‘Good boy, Barney. Good boy.’
The dog wagged his tail in response. When the door closed, Barney stood and waddled over to it. He then plopped down in front of the door and closed his eyes.
Molly grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She decided on a marathon of the seventh cycle of America’s Next Top Model. She became absorbed in her disdain for Melrose, her least favorite contestant, and jeered aloud when Melrose won multiple challenges.
Sometime in the middle of the ninth episode, Molly noticed that Barney hadn’t scratched at the door as was his habit when he needed to potty. She hoped she hadn’t ignored him accidentally. She got up from the couch and walked toward the front door, where Barney had seemingly remained since George left. She reached down and patted his head as a passing gesture. Not only did the dog not move but his head felt unusually cool. She let her hand skim Barney’s nose; it was sandpaper dry.
‘Barney?’ She tried his name a few times with increasing volume. The dog didn’t stir. She felt her hands getting sweaty; her heart was starting to race. She reached down and jiggled him a bit. Nothing. ‘Oh my God. Don’t be dead.’ She felt hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘Barney!’ She put her ear down by the dog’s mouth and nose. There was no breath.
The dog was dead.
‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I gonna do?’ she asked herself as she sat back down on the couch.
Molly started thinking of anything that could get her out of this situation. She thought about leaving the dog in front of the door until George came back. But she couldn’t lie to George if he asked how Barney was doing. She thought about getting another dog, another Beagle she could call Barney so she could soften the blow. But that was ridiculous.
Of course, there was only one thing she could do. She had to call George. But she didn’t know if she could do it; she didn’t know if she could speak the words without breaking down. She picked up her cell phone and found his name. She pushed the call button and readied herself to blurt out what she needed to say.
After the third ring, she knew he wasn’t picking up. And then she remembered that George was on a flight to Seattle and wouldn’t be landing for another four hours. Molly hung up the phone and put it down on the table.
At that moment, it became apparent to her that she was sharing the apartment with a corpse, a dead body. Her brain took it from there. Her hands became clammy. She heard strange noises. She was convinced she smelled rotting meat. She turned off the television to try to focus on what to do next, but the silence proved louder than noise; she turned the television back on. She noticed she had to pee, but ‘it’ was blocking the path.
After a few paralyzing moments, she shook her head vigorously. ‘Snap out of it,’ she said to herself. ‘What’s next?’ She found that talking to herself often helped when she felt nervous or upset. ‘I could leave him here. But then he’d start to stink. I can’t do that.’ She paused and looked up the ceiling. ‘I have to do something with him, but what do I do with a dead dog in the city? I can’t throw him away. And George would be pissed if I did anyway.’ She curled her legs underneath her until she was sitting Indian style. ‘I should call someone.’ Her father’s calm face appeared in her mind, and she felt the lump in her throat. Then she thought of her mother; not a chance. ‘Who would I call in this situation?’ She paused. ‘George, that’s who. Well, what would he do?’ And then it hit her. ‘The vet.’
She bounded off the couch and into the kitchen. The vet’s number was on the refrigerator. She grabbed her phone and dialed. A woman answered.
‘Yeah, hi, I need some help,’ Molly replied.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I… umm… well… uh… there’s a dead dog here, and I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he a patient of ours?’
‘Yes. But I’m not his owner. I was dog sitting. His owner’s gone, and I can’t reach him.’
‘Okay. Can you give me his name?’
‘The dog or the owner?’
‘The owner.’
‘George Bell.’
‘Barney?’ the woman asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, are you in the city?’
‘I’m at George’s apartment.’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘No, I take subways.’
‘Here’s what you do. Now this may sound strange, but there’s not much choice. Put Barney in a suitcase and bring him to the office. We can take care of his body from there.’
‘Can’t you come get him? I don’t know if I can…’ her voice drifted.
‘Sorry, hon, we’re just not staffed for it. And it’s better if you bring him in sooner than later.’
‘Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.’
‘Okay,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘See you soon,’ was the extent of her wisdom.
Molly put the phone down. After staring out the window at the cloudy sky for a moment, she decided that she would heed the woman’s advice; she had to find a suitcase. After she thought a moment, she decided that the only place he could keep a suitcase was under his bed. She hopped the corpse and entered the bedroom. She ducked down and felt for the suitcase; when she felt the handle, she pulled out a gigantic, tan monstrosity made sometime in the 1960s. She unpacked George’s summer clothes onto the bed.
She carried the open suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to the body. Without thinking, she scooped the corpse up and flipped it into the bag. With another motion, she slammed the top down and zipped it up. She took a deep breath and paused. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and money clip; grabbed the suitcase; and exited the apartment.
At once, she realized the suitcase had no wheels; they had broken off at some point in the distant past. She became immediately aware of what dead weight really meant. She struggled down the stairs and through the streets. A few passersby even offered to lend a helping hand, but she politely refused.
She descended the stairs to the subway and somehow maneuvered through the turnstile. It was only a short time before an uptown train squealed to a halt in front of her. She dragged the bag onto the half-filled train and sat in the corner.
All the while, she was convinced that the suitcase was giving off an odor. Or that some kind of bodily fluid would seep out. Or that the suitcase would rip revealing the ear or the tail of a dead dog. She guiltily surveyed the train and caught only fleeting glances from disinterested strangers.
One stop before the closest stop to the vet, the train conductor announced that the next stop was closed because of construction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough notice for her to escape the train with the suitcase. Instead, she decided that she would get off at the next stop.
She dragged the suitcase off the train and made it to the bottom of the escalator. The broken escalator that ascended the equivalent of 3 flights of stairs. She had the option of getting on another train north and going to the next stop in order to catch another train south. Or she could suck it up and do the stairs. She chose the latter.
And thus she began her trek up the escalator stairs. Luckily, there weren’t many others trying to get by.
About half way up, she heard someone jogging up the stairs at a good pace. She inched to the side and pulled the suitcase close. She looked back and saw that it was a guy with a red Yankees cap, a navy blue t-shirt, and jeans. She looked ahead again and waited. Suddenly, she felt the bag jerk away from her; she grasped the rubber handrail for balance. She looked up and saw the guy with the bag in his right hand galloping up the stairs. She raced behind him up the stairs trying to yell between her breaths. But he was too fast for her. When she got to the exit, he was nowhere to be found.
She asked the nearest couple if they had seen a guy with a suitcase. But when she looked around, she realized how stupid that question was. Half the people around her had suitcases. The couple shook their heads solemnly.
Molly began running south. Down the sidewalk she galloped, knocking into trash, trees, and tourists. She didn’t realize she was crying. She kept yelling, ‘Barney.’
When she arrived at the vet, she was a tear-stained mess. She leaned onto the counter and stammered between sobs, ‘I don’t have Barney.’
The nurse – the same woman who had answered the phone earlier – came from behind the counter and put her arm around Molly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly admitted. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s okay. He’s in a better place.’
‘No, he isn’t. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is he still at the apartment?’
‘No,’ she said a bit too loudly. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He took him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know! I couldn’t find him.’
‘Wait,’ the nurse squared Molly’s shoulders. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone stole the suitcase.’
At that moment, Molly’s phone began ringing. She dug it out of her jeans. She saw the picture of Barney appear. And the name George. She sniffled, dragged her finger across the screen, and raised it to her ear.
‘Hi George. I have some bad news.’
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Outta Time 5
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the third part of the story.
Complete silence followed. Darren made no sound. He couldn’t exactly look into her eyes, but he couldn’t look away from her face. He settled on her eyebrows.
Ella waited for a reaction, any reaction. After five seconds she expected his face would break into the uncommon smile of which he was capable on special occasions. After fifteen seconds, she would have settled for his normal scowl. After thirty seconds, she just wanted a reaction.
‘Darren?’
Before he could stop himself, he heard the question, ‘Didn’t you just have your period?’ come from his lips.
‘What?’ She transformed from vulnerable to stony as his question registered in her brain.
Unfortunately for him, Darren decided to answer the question. ‘I just thought you couldn’t get pregnant after your period.’
Her eyes narrowed slightly; her face blossomed into a red Darren had never before witnessed. She opened her mouth. ‘I…’ was all she managed before she closed her mouth again. Darren realized that she was no longer looking at him but somewhere beyond him on the wall. After a long moment, she asked, ‘Is that all you have to say?’
Darren’s head turned slightly, like a confused dog’s. ‘I just don’t know if I’m ready for a kid.’ It was the straw.
‘Get out,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I can’t see you right now.’
‘But Ella, can’t we talk about this? I’m just confused. I don’t know what to think.’
‘Darren, you’re a selfish bastard. And I want you out of here now.’
‘I love you, Ella,’ he pleaded.
A laugh, bordering on a guffaw, escaped her lips. The sound surprised Darren; it surprised Ella more. She glanced around as if trying to find the thing that made her laugh. Then, she looked back at Darren and approached him with a wild look in her eyes. He backed up a step, uncertain what to do next. In the next moment, she nearly grabbed him, obviously trying to slap, scratch, or strangle him. Instead, she tripped over a wire and feel to her knees. ‘You don’t love anyone. I wish I’d never met you.’ She burst into tears.
The phone began to ring.
She popped to her feet and rushed to the bathroom. The door slammed but didn’t close. She slammed it again.
His eyes popped open, and he tried to focus on the digital clock. He squinted and made out 2:17. When he moved his right arm to stretch, he noticed for the first time something in his hand. A gun. He had no idea what kind. His eyes went wide. He turned back to the television and saw a movie playing. Being a Trekker, he knew it was Star Trek 3. A Klingon held out a communicator to a display counting down seconds. The screen flashed to a Klingon Christopher Lloyd who stands and yells, ‘Get out, Darren! Get out of there!’ The scene replays. After the second replay, Darren heard a distant siren. His adrenaline kicked in once again.
He stood with the gun in his hand, picked up the middle couch cushion, set the gun down, and replaced the couch cushion. He ejected the DVD, put it in the envelope, and secured it in his jacket. Then, he grabbed the fungo and stepped into the hallway. Although he heard the siren growing louder, he knew he couldn’t leave until he looked into Ella’s room. He didn’t understand why.
He turned, and grabbed the doorknob. He quietly twisted it and peered inside. There was no one there.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the third part of the story.
Complete silence followed. Darren made no sound. He couldn’t exactly look into her eyes, but he couldn’t look away from her face. He settled on her eyebrows.
Ella waited for a reaction, any reaction. After five seconds she expected his face would break into the uncommon smile of which he was capable on special occasions. After fifteen seconds, she would have settled for his normal scowl. After thirty seconds, she just wanted a reaction.
‘Darren?’
Before he could stop himself, he heard the question, ‘Didn’t you just have your period?’ come from his lips.
‘What?’ She transformed from vulnerable to stony as his question registered in her brain.
Unfortunately for him, Darren decided to answer the question. ‘I just thought you couldn’t get pregnant after your period.’
Her eyes narrowed slightly; her face blossomed into a red Darren had never before witnessed. She opened her mouth. ‘I…’ was all she managed before she closed her mouth again. Darren realized that she was no longer looking at him but somewhere beyond him on the wall. After a long moment, she asked, ‘Is that all you have to say?’
Darren’s head turned slightly, like a confused dog’s. ‘I just don’t know if I’m ready for a kid.’ It was the straw.
‘Get out,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I can’t see you right now.’
‘But Ella, can’t we talk about this? I’m just confused. I don’t know what to think.’
‘Darren, you’re a selfish bastard. And I want you out of here now.’
‘I love you, Ella,’ he pleaded.
A laugh, bordering on a guffaw, escaped her lips. The sound surprised Darren; it surprised Ella more. She glanced around as if trying to find the thing that made her laugh. Then, she looked back at Darren and approached him with a wild look in her eyes. He backed up a step, uncertain what to do next. In the next moment, she nearly grabbed him, obviously trying to slap, scratch, or strangle him. Instead, she tripped over a wire and feel to her knees. ‘You don’t love anyone. I wish I’d never met you.’ She burst into tears.
The phone began to ring.
She popped to her feet and rushed to the bathroom. The door slammed but didn’t close. She slammed it again.
His eyes popped open, and he tried to focus on the digital clock. He squinted and made out 2:17. When he moved his right arm to stretch, he noticed for the first time something in his hand. A gun. He had no idea what kind. His eyes went wide. He turned back to the television and saw a movie playing. Being a Trekker, he knew it was Star Trek 3. A Klingon held out a communicator to a display counting down seconds. The screen flashed to a Klingon Christopher Lloyd who stands and yells, ‘Get out, Darren! Get out of there!’ The scene replays. After the second replay, Darren heard a distant siren. His adrenaline kicked in once again.
He stood with the gun in his hand, picked up the middle couch cushion, set the gun down, and replaced the couch cushion. He ejected the DVD, put it in the envelope, and secured it in his jacket. Then, he grabbed the fungo and stepped into the hallway. Although he heard the siren growing louder, he knew he couldn’t leave until he looked into Ella’s room. He didn’t understand why.
He turned, and grabbed the doorknob. He quietly twisted it and peered inside. There was no one there.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Rocky Road
Paul had grown accustomed to his new schedule. It was quieter, slower. He even admitted to his wife Lucy – and only to his wife – that it was unexpectedly soothing.
He hadn’t been one of those people who excitedly anticipated retirement. In fact, he had always believed he’d die within months of his last hurrah. As Coach K, he had coached baseball for 25 years. He had even brought the team to a few championship games. As Mr. K he taught AP English, the most difficult – and most worthwhile – class in the entire school, and he had supervised the student paper. As Paul, he directed multiple plays and served as treasurer of the local Elk’s Club. His students and friends believed he hadn’t slept since college. And many of them silently wondered if retirement would kill him.
It didn’t. Instead of dying off – as he believed he would – he volunteered his time mentoring young basketball and baseball coaches. In addition, he redirected his patience and discipline from the classroom to his own home as he and his wife served as an inexpensive daycare for their identical twin grandchildren Alex and Caleb. He and his wife traveled incessantly. And he even wrote articles for the local paper.
The small corner market wasn’t far from the couple’s house. And the late spring night was beautiful. Paul donned his jacket and announced to his wife, ‘Honey, I’m going to the store. I’m in the mood for ice cream.’
‘Paul, you know what the doctor said.’
‘Oh, Lucy. I’m 73 years old. If ice cream’s gonna kill me, then let it.’
She shook her head but couldn’t help reveal a little smile.
‘You want anything special?’ He asked.
‘I’ll just have some of your Rocky Road.’
‘I think I may try something different tonight. Maybe vanilla. Or that Tom and Jerry type of ice cream.’ He hadn’t come home with anything but Rocky Road in over 20 years.
‘You mean Ben and Jerry’s?’
‘Yeah, maybe I’ll try something new.’
‘Okay,’ she replied.
‘Just make sure…’
He bolted out the door before he could hear her say, ‘To get the frozen yogurt.’
The neighbor’s newly cut grass evoked memories of all kinds. The smell of leather on his left hand from the battered baseball glove. Planting a bunch of flowers with his tall, slender mother. He smiled at the thought of his mother. Her face seemed to come to him more of late, as if she were calling him to come home.
He entered the market with a dreamy expression on his face.
‘Hey Coach K,’ came a voice to his right.
Paul turned as if woken from a dream and saw Gary with a box of chicken noodle soup in his arms.
‘Hey Gary, how are you?’ He motioned as if to shake Gary’s hand but thought better of it. ‘How’ve you been?
‘Same as usual. Wife and kids are good. And the store’s okay.’
Gary hadn’t been the smartest kid in the school. And he hadn’t been the best ballplayer either. But he had been a good kid and had worked damn hard. When Paul discovered that Gary had ‘stepped in it’ and had married the oldest daughter of a local wealthy store owner, he announced to his wife that ‘what comes around, goes around,’ one of his favorite sayings. (And when his wife corrected him – as she always had – by saying that it’s ‘what goes around, comes around,’ he smirked and said, ‘does it really matter?’)
Paul preferred the hard workers to those with natural talent. At the first sign that a kid wasn’t fully invested in Mr. K’s class or on Coach K’s team, that kid’s life became a living hell either until the kid shaped up or shipped out. Most did the latter.
‘Well, good to see you, Paul. I’ve got to pick up some ice cream for Mrs. K.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind?’ Gary knew very well what kind but always asked.
‘I think she wants Rocky Road tonight,’ Paul answered. ‘The ice cream,’ he emphasized.
‘I think all we have is the frozen yogurt,’ Gary answered with a smirk. He had actually stopped carrying Rocky Road ice cream at Mrs. K’s request.
Paul playfully frowned as he followed Gary to the frozen food section. He liked to play the game. He retrieved the half gallon and walked with Gary up front.
Standing at the checkout counter was a tall, bespectacled man in a blue pinstripe suit. The man was typing rapidly on some electronic device. When he heard Paul and Gary approaching, he turned and identified Gary as someone who worked at the store.
‘Hey, I’m in a hurry, get me a pack of Newport Lights,’ he casually commanded.
‘Sorry, we ran out. Delivery tomorrow. You want Newports?’
‘Shit. I always hated this lousy store. Never had what I needed.’
Gary was behind the counter looking perplexed at the reaction.
‘Richie? Richie Taylor?’ Paul asked.
Richie turned his head to look more closely at the old man. Recognition flickered in his eyes. ‘Mr. K,’ he replied. ‘Been a long time.’
‘Sure has,’ Paul said. ‘And you remember Gary Sullinger, yes?’
Again, there’s recognition, but they don’t exchange pleasantries.
Paul felt the tension and continued, ‘How’s my best reporter and his family? I heard you and your beautiful wife are expecting. Congratulations.’
Richie looked out the window absently and responded, ‘Fine. Fine. Like I said, I’m really in a hurry. Just give me whatever you got back there.’
‘Can you be a little more specific?’ Gary answered with some sarcasm that Richie didn’t appreciate.
Richie shot back a look. ‘Give me the Newports.’ He wanted to insult him but decided against it.
The market’s front door opened. An attractive olive-skinned woman was speaking into her cell phone. She paused long enough to say, ‘Rick, can you please get me some mints? I like Altoids. Something minty.’ She smiled and waved with her free hand.
The encounter left Richie shaken. His face turned brick red.
His reaction wasn’t lost on Gary or Paul. They stood in the market, Gary behind the counter, Richie facing Gary, and Paul to Richie’s left. No one said a word.
Paul moved his arm to Richie’s shoulder saying ‘It’s all…’
But Richie reacted to the touch by swinging his body. Paul lost his balance and fell backwards onto the tile floor before he could brace himself. The Rocky Road yogurt and Paul’s head simultaneously fell onto the floor with respective thuds. The ice cream rolled away.
Richie and Gary both stared at Paul’s motionless figure on the white tile.
Richie reacted first. ‘Oh my God. I gotta go.’ He turned, exited, and sped off in his car.
Gary moved to Paul’s side. ‘Coach K?’ No response. He grabbed Paul’s hand. ‘Coach?’ Still nothing. Gary dropped Paul’s hand and moved to the phone. He dialed 9-1-1.
‘Yes, hi. I need an ambulance at 413 North Center St. It’s a market.’
‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’ asked the operator.
‘A 73-year-old man was attacked by a guy named Rick Taylor. He sped off in a 2009 Toyota Camry.’
‘Thank you, sir. An ambulance is on its way.’
Gary hung up the phone. ‘Payback’s a bitch, Rich.’ He moved to Paul’s side and held the old man's hand until the ambulance arrived.
He hadn’t been one of those people who excitedly anticipated retirement. In fact, he had always believed he’d die within months of his last hurrah. As Coach K, he had coached baseball for 25 years. He had even brought the team to a few championship games. As Mr. K he taught AP English, the most difficult – and most worthwhile – class in the entire school, and he had supervised the student paper. As Paul, he directed multiple plays and served as treasurer of the local Elk’s Club. His students and friends believed he hadn’t slept since college. And many of them silently wondered if retirement would kill him.
It didn’t. Instead of dying off – as he believed he would – he volunteered his time mentoring young basketball and baseball coaches. In addition, he redirected his patience and discipline from the classroom to his own home as he and his wife served as an inexpensive daycare for their identical twin grandchildren Alex and Caleb. He and his wife traveled incessantly. And he even wrote articles for the local paper.
The small corner market wasn’t far from the couple’s house. And the late spring night was beautiful. Paul donned his jacket and announced to his wife, ‘Honey, I’m going to the store. I’m in the mood for ice cream.’
‘Paul, you know what the doctor said.’
‘Oh, Lucy. I’m 73 years old. If ice cream’s gonna kill me, then let it.’
She shook her head but couldn’t help reveal a little smile.
‘You want anything special?’ He asked.
‘I’ll just have some of your Rocky Road.’
‘I think I may try something different tonight. Maybe vanilla. Or that Tom and Jerry type of ice cream.’ He hadn’t come home with anything but Rocky Road in over 20 years.
‘You mean Ben and Jerry’s?’
‘Yeah, maybe I’ll try something new.’
‘Okay,’ she replied.
‘Just make sure…’
He bolted out the door before he could hear her say, ‘To get the frozen yogurt.’
The neighbor’s newly cut grass evoked memories of all kinds. The smell of leather on his left hand from the battered baseball glove. Planting a bunch of flowers with his tall, slender mother. He smiled at the thought of his mother. Her face seemed to come to him more of late, as if she were calling him to come home.
He entered the market with a dreamy expression on his face.
‘Hey Coach K,’ came a voice to his right.
Paul turned as if woken from a dream and saw Gary with a box of chicken noodle soup in his arms.
‘Hey Gary, how are you?’ He motioned as if to shake Gary’s hand but thought better of it. ‘How’ve you been?
‘Same as usual. Wife and kids are good. And the store’s okay.’
Gary hadn’t been the smartest kid in the school. And he hadn’t been the best ballplayer either. But he had been a good kid and had worked damn hard. When Paul discovered that Gary had ‘stepped in it’ and had married the oldest daughter of a local wealthy store owner, he announced to his wife that ‘what comes around, goes around,’ one of his favorite sayings. (And when his wife corrected him – as she always had – by saying that it’s ‘what goes around, comes around,’ he smirked and said, ‘does it really matter?’)
Paul preferred the hard workers to those with natural talent. At the first sign that a kid wasn’t fully invested in Mr. K’s class or on Coach K’s team, that kid’s life became a living hell either until the kid shaped up or shipped out. Most did the latter.
‘Well, good to see you, Paul. I’ve got to pick up some ice cream for Mrs. K.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind?’ Gary knew very well what kind but always asked.
‘I think she wants Rocky Road tonight,’ Paul answered. ‘The ice cream,’ he emphasized.
‘I think all we have is the frozen yogurt,’ Gary answered with a smirk. He had actually stopped carrying Rocky Road ice cream at Mrs. K’s request.
Paul playfully frowned as he followed Gary to the frozen food section. He liked to play the game. He retrieved the half gallon and walked with Gary up front.
Standing at the checkout counter was a tall, bespectacled man in a blue pinstripe suit. The man was typing rapidly on some electronic device. When he heard Paul and Gary approaching, he turned and identified Gary as someone who worked at the store.
‘Hey, I’m in a hurry, get me a pack of Newport Lights,’ he casually commanded.
‘Sorry, we ran out. Delivery tomorrow. You want Newports?’
‘Shit. I always hated this lousy store. Never had what I needed.’
Gary was behind the counter looking perplexed at the reaction.
‘Richie? Richie Taylor?’ Paul asked.
Richie turned his head to look more closely at the old man. Recognition flickered in his eyes. ‘Mr. K,’ he replied. ‘Been a long time.’
‘Sure has,’ Paul said. ‘And you remember Gary Sullinger, yes?’
Again, there’s recognition, but they don’t exchange pleasantries.
Paul felt the tension and continued, ‘How’s my best reporter and his family? I heard you and your beautiful wife are expecting. Congratulations.’
Richie looked out the window absently and responded, ‘Fine. Fine. Like I said, I’m really in a hurry. Just give me whatever you got back there.’
‘Can you be a little more specific?’ Gary answered with some sarcasm that Richie didn’t appreciate.
Richie shot back a look. ‘Give me the Newports.’ He wanted to insult him but decided against it.
The market’s front door opened. An attractive olive-skinned woman was speaking into her cell phone. She paused long enough to say, ‘Rick, can you please get me some mints? I like Altoids. Something minty.’ She smiled and waved with her free hand.
The encounter left Richie shaken. His face turned brick red.
His reaction wasn’t lost on Gary or Paul. They stood in the market, Gary behind the counter, Richie facing Gary, and Paul to Richie’s left. No one said a word.
Paul moved his arm to Richie’s shoulder saying ‘It’s all…’
But Richie reacted to the touch by swinging his body. Paul lost his balance and fell backwards onto the tile floor before he could brace himself. The Rocky Road yogurt and Paul’s head simultaneously fell onto the floor with respective thuds. The ice cream rolled away.
Richie and Gary both stared at Paul’s motionless figure on the white tile.
Richie reacted first. ‘Oh my God. I gotta go.’ He turned, exited, and sped off in his car.
Gary moved to Paul’s side. ‘Coach K?’ No response. He grabbed Paul’s hand. ‘Coach?’ Still nothing. Gary dropped Paul’s hand and moved to the phone. He dialed 9-1-1.
‘Yes, hi. I need an ambulance at 413 North Center St. It’s a market.’
‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’ asked the operator.
‘A 73-year-old man was attacked by a guy named Rick Taylor. He sped off in a 2009 Toyota Camry.’
‘Thank you, sir. An ambulance is on its way.’
Gary hung up the phone. ‘Payback’s a bitch, Rich.’ He moved to Paul’s side and held the old man's hand until the ambulance arrived.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
3WW Fiction in 58 (Breeze, Mellow, Tickle): Blue Kite
He grabbed the kite, blue as a widowed newlywed. The mellow night spilled onto him as he exited, engulfing him in its wetness. Once upon the sand he raced to and fro, beads of sweat tickling his brow. The kite trailed him like a stubborn dog, diving into sandy clumps. Like his wife the breeze had abandoned him.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Outta Time 4
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
His finger pressed the red power button on the remote control. The screen flickered to black. From the bedroom came some rustling followed by silence. Even Bruce’s snoring had subsided. He was alone with his thoughts.
His first instinct was to grab the bat and run into Ella’s bedroom swinging; only those last few words that floated across the television screen deterred him. Paralysis ensued. He felt both helpless and angry. The rush of adrenaline instantaneously warmed his body, turning his face a bright red.
‘Who the hell is this guy?’ he thought to himself. ‘Why the hell should I listen to him?’ But the answer was all too apparent. Because the guy on the DVD had been right about the apartment. And not only right about the apartment, but had saved Darren’s life. Though Darren wanted desperately to disregard the message, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.
He relaxed a bit, trying to stop his mind from racing, but he soon discovered relaxation was an equally bad idea. If he had ever boxed, he could have equated the feeling to a punch directly in the solar plexus. Vomit – or more likely bile – edged into his throat. He tried to counter with short, deliberate breaths. It didn’t work. He made it to the kitchen sink and spewed yellow liquid into the tub. His stomach felt as though it was turning inside out. Dry heaves followed. He put his right cheek down onto the cold tile; spittle inched from his half-open mouth.
Expending considerable effort, he lifted his head from the counter and tried to focus on the pink Hello Kitty clock with its tail wagging to and fro. The consistency of the movement calmed him. He grabbed a glass from the dish rack and put it right side up next to the sink. He then opened the refrigerator and pulled the milk carton – skim milk, unfortunately – from the top shelf. It didn’t pour as creamily as he would have liked. For whatever reason, water and soda had never helped him feel better; it was always a cold glass of whole milk, even though his mother constantly told him it would only make things worse. He took three large gulps, hoping to rid himself of the lingering bile. It felt good going down until he allowed his taste buds to process the liquid. The soured nectar didn’t taste much different than the bile; his stomach contracted, and he leaned into the sink again to allow his body to rid himself of the offending substance.
Darren decided not to try his luck with anything else in the refrigerator. Instead, he limped back into the living room and fell onto the couch. The cable box clock’s red digits displayed 11:11; he made a wish. His eyes closed. The words from the DVD floated in front of his eyelids. He struggled to open them again. He felt himself losing consciousness. Ella’s voice repeated in his mind, ‘For whatever reason, I love you. I forgive you. I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here by 7 a.m.’
Ella cuddled, her right cheek nuzzling into his bare chest. Her left hand played with the tuft of chestnut brown hair around his right nipple. She looked up and saw his scraggly chin; she kissed him on the neck. Darren didn’t move. She wrapped her left arm around the right side of his body; her hand squeezed just above his love handle. He turned suddenly; his left side upended her, causing her to roll back and away from him.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Huh? What?’ He didn’t feign sleep altogether well. She knew as soon as he ceased breathing deeply that he was awake.
‘I know you’re awake Darren.’
He made a few more grunting noises and shook his head a few times. He wasn’t a good actor.
‘Good morning,’ she spoke hesitantly.
He rolled off the bed and onto the floor; his feet landed flat on the wooden floor.
‘Where are you going?’ she wondered aloud.
‘Bathroom,’ he muttered.
She felt herself begin to cry. ‘Just calm down,’ she said to herself. ‘It will be okay.’ A few tears streamed down her face before she could get the cream-colored sheet to her eyes.
He re-entered and fell into the bed. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hi,’ he grunted. There were no tears to notice on Ella’s cheeks.
‘Hi Darren,’ she answered. ‘How are you?’
‘Sleepy,’ he responded. His eyelids flapped from closed to open and closed again.
She kissed him on the lips. Softly. Just enough to open his eyes again.
‘Hi,’ she said, allowing the sound to linger in the room.
He wasn’t accustomed to such affection, at least not recently. He stared into her blue eyes and became immediately frightened by what he saw. ‘What’s up?’
‘Did you sleep well?’ She kissed him again on the lips.
‘Yeah,’ he answered. His voice cracked.
‘I have some news.’ She smiled again.
He already knew what she was going to say. He looked away and wished that he could postpone the moment indefinitely. He took a deep breath.
‘Please look at me,’ she half ordered and half pleaded.
He turned his head towards her and instantly regretted it.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
His finger pressed the red power button on the remote control. The screen flickered to black. From the bedroom came some rustling followed by silence. Even Bruce’s snoring had subsided. He was alone with his thoughts.
His first instinct was to grab the bat and run into Ella’s bedroom swinging; only those last few words that floated across the television screen deterred him. Paralysis ensued. He felt both helpless and angry. The rush of adrenaline instantaneously warmed his body, turning his face a bright red.
‘Who the hell is this guy?’ he thought to himself. ‘Why the hell should I listen to him?’ But the answer was all too apparent. Because the guy on the DVD had been right about the apartment. And not only right about the apartment, but had saved Darren’s life. Though Darren wanted desperately to disregard the message, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.
He relaxed a bit, trying to stop his mind from racing, but he soon discovered relaxation was an equally bad idea. If he had ever boxed, he could have equated the feeling to a punch directly in the solar plexus. Vomit – or more likely bile – edged into his throat. He tried to counter with short, deliberate breaths. It didn’t work. He made it to the kitchen sink and spewed yellow liquid into the tub. His stomach felt as though it was turning inside out. Dry heaves followed. He put his right cheek down onto the cold tile; spittle inched from his half-open mouth.
Expending considerable effort, he lifted his head from the counter and tried to focus on the pink Hello Kitty clock with its tail wagging to and fro. The consistency of the movement calmed him. He grabbed a glass from the dish rack and put it right side up next to the sink. He then opened the refrigerator and pulled the milk carton – skim milk, unfortunately – from the top shelf. It didn’t pour as creamily as he would have liked. For whatever reason, water and soda had never helped him feel better; it was always a cold glass of whole milk, even though his mother constantly told him it would only make things worse. He took three large gulps, hoping to rid himself of the lingering bile. It felt good going down until he allowed his taste buds to process the liquid. The soured nectar didn’t taste much different than the bile; his stomach contracted, and he leaned into the sink again to allow his body to rid himself of the offending substance.
Darren decided not to try his luck with anything else in the refrigerator. Instead, he limped back into the living room and fell onto the couch. The cable box clock’s red digits displayed 11:11; he made a wish. His eyes closed. The words from the DVD floated in front of his eyelids. He struggled to open them again. He felt himself losing consciousness. Ella’s voice repeated in his mind, ‘For whatever reason, I love you. I forgive you. I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here by 7 a.m.’
Ella cuddled, her right cheek nuzzling into his bare chest. Her left hand played with the tuft of chestnut brown hair around his right nipple. She looked up and saw his scraggly chin; she kissed him on the neck. Darren didn’t move. She wrapped her left arm around the right side of his body; her hand squeezed just above his love handle. He turned suddenly; his left side upended her, causing her to roll back and away from him.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Huh? What?’ He didn’t feign sleep altogether well. She knew as soon as he ceased breathing deeply that he was awake.
‘I know you’re awake Darren.’
He made a few more grunting noises and shook his head a few times. He wasn’t a good actor.
‘Good morning,’ she spoke hesitantly.
He rolled off the bed and onto the floor; his feet landed flat on the wooden floor.
‘Where are you going?’ she wondered aloud.
‘Bathroom,’ he muttered.
She felt herself begin to cry. ‘Just calm down,’ she said to herself. ‘It will be okay.’ A few tears streamed down her face before she could get the cream-colored sheet to her eyes.
He re-entered and fell into the bed. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hi,’ he grunted. There were no tears to notice on Ella’s cheeks.
‘Hi Darren,’ she answered. ‘How are you?’
‘Sleepy,’ he responded. His eyelids flapped from closed to open and closed again.
She kissed him on the lips. Softly. Just enough to open his eyes again.
‘Hi,’ she said, allowing the sound to linger in the room.
He wasn’t accustomed to such affection, at least not recently. He stared into her blue eyes and became immediately frightened by what he saw. ‘What’s up?’
‘Did you sleep well?’ She kissed him again on the lips.
‘Yeah,’ he answered. His voice cracked.
‘I have some news.’ She smiled again.
He already knew what she was going to say. He looked away and wished that he could postpone the moment indefinitely. He took a deep breath.
‘Please look at me,’ she half ordered and half pleaded.
He turned his head towards her and instantly regretted it.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Shrimp Fork
He grabbed the shrimp fork and drove it into the table with a force even he didn’t expect. It stuck, vibrating briefly before it became motionless. He looked up into her startled countenance and glared with fire in his eyes.
‘You’re what?’ he cried.
‘Not here, Stan. Not in front of all these people,’ she said almost disinterestedly, her face stony with indignation.
She said it more for him based on others’ shocked glances. There was still a part of her that wanted to save him the embarrassment of making an ass of himself in a public place.
Stan didn’t hear her. He simply stared, though not at her. He traveled instead to the moment when his sister explained to him that their mother had died suddenly of a heart attack. It was the same sensation. He had no air to fill his lungs, no moisture in his mouth; he wondered only if there was a next moment.
‘I wondered if I should even try to explain. I thought I’d be honest as I always said I would.’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
His head snapped back to attention, and he thrust his face forward. He eyed her as if she were an alien. ‘And you brought me out to a public place? After 25 years?’ He paused and leaned back in his chair. His salt and pepper hair moved like a wave, kept together with generous amounts of mousse. ‘This is what you do when you fire people, isn’t it?’ His neck rolled to the right and down so he could see her face. ‘It is what you do.’ A chuckle escaped from his lips. ‘You’re not even laying me off; you’re firing me.’
She chuckled too. It wasn’t from nerves, and it wasn’t because she thought it was particularly funny. (He never had been particularly funny.) It was because he was right. Her demeanor changed; she seemed to grow more comfortable, almost jovial. She still kept her voice just above a whisper. ‘Yes, Stan. That’s exactly what I’m doing. You’ve hit the nail on the head. You’re both inefficient and ineffective. There’s no synergy, no chemistry, no electricity. You bore me. You have no ambition. And, what’s more, you’re bored with me. You have your porn. You even have that bimbo on the side you see from time to time.’
His head jerked, and his eyes went wide.
‘C’mon, Stan, I’m the smarter of the two of us. If I didn’t know for a fact – because Ms. Tanya is in the same yoga class I am and confessed it to me after you’d pissed her off a while back – I’d know because of women’s intuition. You suck at lying.’ She was on a roll, as if she were managing a meeting with a bunch of opinionated loudmouths.
Before she could get out another word, the waitress returned to the table and gleefully asked, ‘Dessert?’ She glanced at each in turn, oblivious to the fact that anything of import could be happening. ‘We have strawberry shortcake, chocolate cake, key lime pie…’
Stan turned his weary eyes to her, ‘I don’t think we’re interested.’
The waitress grimaced, mostly because she didn’t get a chance to show them that she had memorized the desserts. She walked away before she could think to ask them if they wanted coffee or tea.
‘Stan, look, it’s better for you, and it’s better for me. It’s a win-win. You can continue with your World of Warcraft and Michelob Ultra – by the way, I think it’s ridiculous that you think Michelob Ultra is going to help you lose weight. And I’ll learn to live without you. I did it for a while before I met you. I think I can manage again.’
The waitress returned, still grimacing, and dropped the check holder on the table. She began to clean the table and accidentally knocked a half glass of water into Stan’s lap.
‘Looks like your glass just went from half full to empty,’ his wife remarked. ‘Since I know you’re not having the best day, I’ll get the check.’
She opened the holder to find a note that read, ‘To the woman I love on the 25th anniversary of the first day we met.’
She closed the holder and looked him in the eyes. ‘Today, huh?’
‘Yep,’ he replied.
She stood and skirted the table gracefully. She leaned in and kissed him on his lips. ‘Thanks for remembering,’ she purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘but it was 25 years too long.’
‘You’re what?’ he cried.
‘Not here, Stan. Not in front of all these people,’ she said almost disinterestedly, her face stony with indignation.
She said it more for him based on others’ shocked glances. There was still a part of her that wanted to save him the embarrassment of making an ass of himself in a public place.
Stan didn’t hear her. He simply stared, though not at her. He traveled instead to the moment when his sister explained to him that their mother had died suddenly of a heart attack. It was the same sensation. He had no air to fill his lungs, no moisture in his mouth; he wondered only if there was a next moment.
‘I wondered if I should even try to explain. I thought I’d be honest as I always said I would.’ Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
His head snapped back to attention, and he thrust his face forward. He eyed her as if she were an alien. ‘And you brought me out to a public place? After 25 years?’ He paused and leaned back in his chair. His salt and pepper hair moved like a wave, kept together with generous amounts of mousse. ‘This is what you do when you fire people, isn’t it?’ His neck rolled to the right and down so he could see her face. ‘It is what you do.’ A chuckle escaped from his lips. ‘You’re not even laying me off; you’re firing me.’
She chuckled too. It wasn’t from nerves, and it wasn’t because she thought it was particularly funny. (He never had been particularly funny.) It was because he was right. Her demeanor changed; she seemed to grow more comfortable, almost jovial. She still kept her voice just above a whisper. ‘Yes, Stan. That’s exactly what I’m doing. You’ve hit the nail on the head. You’re both inefficient and ineffective. There’s no synergy, no chemistry, no electricity. You bore me. You have no ambition. And, what’s more, you’re bored with me. You have your porn. You even have that bimbo on the side you see from time to time.’
His head jerked, and his eyes went wide.
‘C’mon, Stan, I’m the smarter of the two of us. If I didn’t know for a fact – because Ms. Tanya is in the same yoga class I am and confessed it to me after you’d pissed her off a while back – I’d know because of women’s intuition. You suck at lying.’ She was on a roll, as if she were managing a meeting with a bunch of opinionated loudmouths.
Before she could get out another word, the waitress returned to the table and gleefully asked, ‘Dessert?’ She glanced at each in turn, oblivious to the fact that anything of import could be happening. ‘We have strawberry shortcake, chocolate cake, key lime pie…’
Stan turned his weary eyes to her, ‘I don’t think we’re interested.’
The waitress grimaced, mostly because she didn’t get a chance to show them that she had memorized the desserts. She walked away before she could think to ask them if they wanted coffee or tea.
‘Stan, look, it’s better for you, and it’s better for me. It’s a win-win. You can continue with your World of Warcraft and Michelob Ultra – by the way, I think it’s ridiculous that you think Michelob Ultra is going to help you lose weight. And I’ll learn to live without you. I did it for a while before I met you. I think I can manage again.’
The waitress returned, still grimacing, and dropped the check holder on the table. She began to clean the table and accidentally knocked a half glass of water into Stan’s lap.
‘Looks like your glass just went from half full to empty,’ his wife remarked. ‘Since I know you’re not having the best day, I’ll get the check.’
She opened the holder to find a note that read, ‘To the woman I love on the 25th anniversary of the first day we met.’
She closed the holder and looked him in the eyes. ‘Today, huh?’
‘Yep,’ he replied.
She stood and skirted the table gracefully. She leaned in and kissed him on his lips. ‘Thanks for remembering,’ she purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘but it was 25 years too long.’
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Snub-Nose
I lifted the discolored fork to my chapped lips. A few corn kernels leapt from the tines, attempting to avoid ingestion. Of course, they with their limited sense perception could not have known that a brindle Boxer had stationed himself directly below the faux wooden folding stool. The kernels lingered on the laminate checkered floor for just a bit longer than it takes for light to pass from a rising sun to the eyes of an old woman with a young lover. I released the fork and let it clatter upon the cheap, chipped ceramic plate. The rattle succumbed to the overwhelming silence; it hadn’t the strength to echo off the off-white walls. My blue eyes met the brown orbs of the dog. I witnessed his snub-nosed ignorance and woeful inability to express regret. Before the tears began to well, I gripped the platter with its residual fat stewing in a shallow pool of meat juice and whipped it across the infinitesimal space. The dog leapt and let fly but one frightened bark before it raced to taste the succulent gravy strewn about the floor. I leaned back in the chair, burping under my breath and half-heartedly thanking a God I doubt exists.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Lines
He stared at the screen and saw nothing, Not because there was nothing on the screen but because he had been staring at the screen for the past 16 hours. He wasn’t finished, though. And he probably wouldn’t be finished for another 16 hours. Except it was due in 8. ‘Work smarter, not harder,’ flashed through his brain, a recommendation from a former boss who spoke in clichés. ‘Because when the going gets tough…’ He banged his head on the desk; it reverberated throughout the empty office. Well, not completely empty.
‘You okay in there?’ the IA asked disinterestedly.
‘Yep,’ he responded a little too gleefully. The IA decided it might be best to check on Bernard visually. Although brilliant, Bernard was a bit unstable.
He stuck his head into the office and noticed Bernard’s head on the desk; his left cheek lay flat against the faux cherry, and his eyes were wide open. He had heard the story of the first IA in charge of Bernard; the IA initially thought Bernard had died and moved in closer to see if he was breathing. When the IA noticed very shallow breaths, he tapped lightly on Bernard’s shoulder. At that slightest touch, Bernard grabbed the man’s arm, broke it, and then slammed the man into the ground, breaking his nose in the process.
‘Bernard, have you finished?’ The IA kept his distance.
‘Nope. I’ve got 16 hours of work to do in eight. How’s that for ridiculous?’
‘I’m certain you will do your best.’
‘I’m certain I will too.’ Bernard lifted his head and looked back at the screen.
To many, the imaginary lines he drew seemed arbitrary, cutting through countries and towns with neither rhyme nor reason. But the algorithm would save humanity, so he said. He had convinced countless scientists and world leaders of the plan’s efficacy. Though there was significant opposition, when it came time to make the decision the vote to proceed was nearly unanimous. The three dissenters threatened to take the plan public, but the world’s leaders had little stomach for trying to explain the plan – never mind defend it – to the world. They therefore completely discredited those dissenters and sent them hurtling to their deaths in an unfortunate accident blamed on terrorists.
Bernard had already requested one extension, but these world leaders were not people that should be kept waiting. Not to mention the world situation wasn’t getting any better. Class wars – the likes of which had not been seen in over a hundred years – erupted in rich and poor countries alike. The lower and lower middle classes declared war first on the rich and then on the upper middle class not because of the latter’s belongings but because of their food. Former maids ransacked their employers’ pantries. Illegal immigrants fought with wolves and coyotes for stray cattle.
Bernard dragged a line south from Minneapolis, down through St. Louis, and then around New Orleans. Half of most cities would survive, according to his plan. Others like New Orleans would disappear entirely. To be clear, the city itself would not disappear but the inhabitants would. They’d disintegrate at the push of a button.
The microchip hadn’t been Bernard’s idea. They had preceded his idea by more than a year. For safety’s sake, everyone in the world – as agreed in the Tehran Accord – would have a microchip inserted in order to ensure the knowledge of their whereabouts at all times. Of course, no one knew that the microchip carried a lethal toxin that could kill more quickly than a King Cobra. There were a few mishaps, i.e. the toxin was accidentally released, but the microchip certainly achieved close to a six sigma rating in terms of effectiveness. And the released toxin simulated a heart attack so well that very few doctors ever suspected anything. Those doctors that did either voluntarily or involuntarily did not speak.
Bernard dragged a line that surgically dissected Japan. Tokyo and Osaka were on the wrong side of the line. He included London but excluded Paris. Manhattan survived; the other four boroughs weren’t as lucky. Most of East Africa fell by the wayside. As did Cape Town. But Johannesburg stayed in tact. Little by little, Bernard carved the world into the haves and have-nots. What was more remarkable was that he did so objectively without any consideration for humanity. He simply wanted to test his hypothesis that he could efficiently and effectively reduce the surplus population in order to protect the dwindling food supply.
Approximately eight hours later, he completed his first draft. He washed his face and hands in the office restroom; he did not change his clothes. At approximately 9 a.m. he and the IA were in the Town Car on their way to the United Nations to change the course of world history.
‘You okay in there?’ the IA asked disinterestedly.
‘Yep,’ he responded a little too gleefully. The IA decided it might be best to check on Bernard visually. Although brilliant, Bernard was a bit unstable.
He stuck his head into the office and noticed Bernard’s head on the desk; his left cheek lay flat against the faux cherry, and his eyes were wide open. He had heard the story of the first IA in charge of Bernard; the IA initially thought Bernard had died and moved in closer to see if he was breathing. When the IA noticed very shallow breaths, he tapped lightly on Bernard’s shoulder. At that slightest touch, Bernard grabbed the man’s arm, broke it, and then slammed the man into the ground, breaking his nose in the process.
‘Bernard, have you finished?’ The IA kept his distance.
‘Nope. I’ve got 16 hours of work to do in eight. How’s that for ridiculous?’
‘I’m certain you will do your best.’
‘I’m certain I will too.’ Bernard lifted his head and looked back at the screen.
To many, the imaginary lines he drew seemed arbitrary, cutting through countries and towns with neither rhyme nor reason. But the algorithm would save humanity, so he said. He had convinced countless scientists and world leaders of the plan’s efficacy. Though there was significant opposition, when it came time to make the decision the vote to proceed was nearly unanimous. The three dissenters threatened to take the plan public, but the world’s leaders had little stomach for trying to explain the plan – never mind defend it – to the world. They therefore completely discredited those dissenters and sent them hurtling to their deaths in an unfortunate accident blamed on terrorists.
Bernard had already requested one extension, but these world leaders were not people that should be kept waiting. Not to mention the world situation wasn’t getting any better. Class wars – the likes of which had not been seen in over a hundred years – erupted in rich and poor countries alike. The lower and lower middle classes declared war first on the rich and then on the upper middle class not because of the latter’s belongings but because of their food. Former maids ransacked their employers’ pantries. Illegal immigrants fought with wolves and coyotes for stray cattle.
Bernard dragged a line south from Minneapolis, down through St. Louis, and then around New Orleans. Half of most cities would survive, according to his plan. Others like New Orleans would disappear entirely. To be clear, the city itself would not disappear but the inhabitants would. They’d disintegrate at the push of a button.
The microchip hadn’t been Bernard’s idea. They had preceded his idea by more than a year. For safety’s sake, everyone in the world – as agreed in the Tehran Accord – would have a microchip inserted in order to ensure the knowledge of their whereabouts at all times. Of course, no one knew that the microchip carried a lethal toxin that could kill more quickly than a King Cobra. There were a few mishaps, i.e. the toxin was accidentally released, but the microchip certainly achieved close to a six sigma rating in terms of effectiveness. And the released toxin simulated a heart attack so well that very few doctors ever suspected anything. Those doctors that did either voluntarily or involuntarily did not speak.
Bernard dragged a line that surgically dissected Japan. Tokyo and Osaka were on the wrong side of the line. He included London but excluded Paris. Manhattan survived; the other four boroughs weren’t as lucky. Most of East Africa fell by the wayside. As did Cape Town. But Johannesburg stayed in tact. Little by little, Bernard carved the world into the haves and have-nots. What was more remarkable was that he did so objectively without any consideration for humanity. He simply wanted to test his hypothesis that he could efficiently and effectively reduce the surplus population in order to protect the dwindling food supply.
Approximately eight hours later, he completed his first draft. He washed his face and hands in the office restroom; he did not change his clothes. At approximately 9 a.m. he and the IA were in the Town Car on their way to the United Nations to change the course of world history.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
With Hobos
The subway squealed to a halt; the doors slid open. With my luggage in tow, I entered the last car of the train and immediately detected the stench of the hobos. I glanced to the far end of the car and noticed 2 bums flanking the car. By the time I had made the decision to exit and sprint to another car, a familiar voice warned, ‘Stand clear of the closing doors.’ The doors slid shut unceremoniously.
I had the choice to try my luck at passing through the via de los vagabondos or to hold my breath and wait patiently. I adjusted my sports coat and sat on the blue plastic bench. To take my mind from the stench I extracted my Blackberry from my left jacket pocket and unlocked it with some quick thumb work. Although I had no service in the subway car, I noticed two emails that had arrived just minutes before I descended the stairs to the subway. The first was spam, some message detailing the benefits of Viagra. The second was an epistle from my boss explaining that an issue for which I was responsible had been escalated to none other than the president of the company. The last two words of the email were ‘Call immediately!’
One of the bums stirred and made a noise akin to coughing that seemed a mix of yodeling and choking. The other bum slipped off his ragged shoe and flung it at his counterpart, hitting him in the shoulder. Bum one emerged from his gray parka revealing a sanguine complexion beneath a scraggly silver beard. Our eyes met briefly; in his I saw no sign of recognition. But I vaguely remembered him. Or perhaps remembered is not the right word. He was familiar to me, a person I had encountered long ago. I couldn’t place him. Bum Two settled back under his Steelers jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His shoe remained in the middle of the car.
I brought my attention back to the Blackberry and reread the message more carefully. In the ramblings of my boss’s writing, I determined that the latest catalogue we had sent for our spring line excluded all clothing from our most lucrative designers. I cursed my uselessly antiquated boss under my breath. I had fought tooth and nail with her to ditch the catalogue and increase our presence on the web. And I had wanted to wait until I returned from this business trip to send out the catalogues. But no, she had to have her way and get the spring catalogues out the second week of February because that’s the way it had always been done. I felt my blood pressure rising.
We reached the first stop. I considered exiting the train and calling my boss, but I knew better than to attempt an intelligent conversation while fuming. I didn’t even consider trying to escape the hobo car until I heard ‘Stand clear of the closing doors’ at which point it was too late.
I locked the Blackberry keypad and put it into my pocket. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of ten year old moldy cheese. My eyes actually began to water. I reverted to mouth breathing and glanced down at the bums with disdain. To my surprise, Bum One was staring at me. It was a wooden stare from a defeated man. It would have been creepy had there not been melancholy in his eyes. I averted my eyes to one of the many posters contrasting the Knickerbockers of yesterday to the Knicks of today and regretted that my reading material was tucked in my suitcase.
Bum One began to cough again; he gasped and gurgled as if afflicted by the final stages of consumption. Bum Two awoke suddenly, stood, and yelled, ‘Find your own fuckin way home, shithead’ and stalked into the next car leaving me and Bum One – now just Bum – occupying the car.
The subway stopped again. My anger was subsiding, but I wasn’t quite ready for my boss. And I could always use the excuse that I was on the subway, primarily because I was. Meanwhile, a young Asian woman and an older white gentleman entered the car. They both sat down near me after spying Bum wrapped in his gray parka. When Bum commenced with his death rattle soon after departing the station, both Asian Lady and Old Guy decided to try their luck in the next car, leaving me and Bum together again.
I began to feel calmer, more willing and able to volley with my boss. I already had a plan brewing. I would call each of the designers who hadn’t been included in the catalogue and explain that we had planned for two catalogues. The first, I’d explain, was our more traditional catalogue meant for the old guard. The second, however, would be bold. Released closer to spring, these designers would break molds and set trends and fulfill whatever other clichés he could imagine. I began planning the party at an exclusive club with a private unmarked entrance. There will be hundreds of martinis and living statues displaying the clothing.
A few more stops passed as I contemplated the fabulous success I would extract from my boss’s incompetence.
In the midst of my daydream, Bum began anew. I tried to ignore the incessant cough, but something about the sound struck me at my core. I noticed that he had extracted the parka to reveal a black thermal shirt and disgustingly muddy jeans. Unlike his previous fits, Bum wasn’t letting up. I considered going to see if he was okay, but decided against it in case he was a nutjob with a knife. The train slowed to a stop, and the automated voice announced that because of train traffic ahead, we were being delayed.
I tried to return to my thoughts of designer victory, but Bum’s cacophony was not to be overcome. I glanced back over and saw him fall the short distance from the plastic blue bench to the sticky black floor of the car. I obeyed the instinct to stand but froze as soon as I had. I watched as Bum curled into a fetal position, trying desperately to regain his breath. He wasn’t succeeding. I wanted to help, but couldn’t find the courage to help.
Bum ceased for a moment. He craned his neck and stared into my eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he said, ‘I’m sorry Brian.’
I cocked my head like a confused dog. His death rattle commenced for the last time. It was not as loud this time, but it was final. The train moved ahead into the next station. I grabbed my luggage and stood in front of the doors. As soon as they opened, I exited and ran through the turn style and up the stairs. I took a deep breath and grabbed for my Blackberry.
I had the choice to try my luck at passing through the via de los vagabondos or to hold my breath and wait patiently. I adjusted my sports coat and sat on the blue plastic bench. To take my mind from the stench I extracted my Blackberry from my left jacket pocket and unlocked it with some quick thumb work. Although I had no service in the subway car, I noticed two emails that had arrived just minutes before I descended the stairs to the subway. The first was spam, some message detailing the benefits of Viagra. The second was an epistle from my boss explaining that an issue for which I was responsible had been escalated to none other than the president of the company. The last two words of the email were ‘Call immediately!’
One of the bums stirred and made a noise akin to coughing that seemed a mix of yodeling and choking. The other bum slipped off his ragged shoe and flung it at his counterpart, hitting him in the shoulder. Bum one emerged from his gray parka revealing a sanguine complexion beneath a scraggly silver beard. Our eyes met briefly; in his I saw no sign of recognition. But I vaguely remembered him. Or perhaps remembered is not the right word. He was familiar to me, a person I had encountered long ago. I couldn’t place him. Bum Two settled back under his Steelers jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His shoe remained in the middle of the car.
I brought my attention back to the Blackberry and reread the message more carefully. In the ramblings of my boss’s writing, I determined that the latest catalogue we had sent for our spring line excluded all clothing from our most lucrative designers. I cursed my uselessly antiquated boss under my breath. I had fought tooth and nail with her to ditch the catalogue and increase our presence on the web. And I had wanted to wait until I returned from this business trip to send out the catalogues. But no, she had to have her way and get the spring catalogues out the second week of February because that’s the way it had always been done. I felt my blood pressure rising.
We reached the first stop. I considered exiting the train and calling my boss, but I knew better than to attempt an intelligent conversation while fuming. I didn’t even consider trying to escape the hobo car until I heard ‘Stand clear of the closing doors’ at which point it was too late.
I locked the Blackberry keypad and put it into my pocket. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of ten year old moldy cheese. My eyes actually began to water. I reverted to mouth breathing and glanced down at the bums with disdain. To my surprise, Bum One was staring at me. It was a wooden stare from a defeated man. It would have been creepy had there not been melancholy in his eyes. I averted my eyes to one of the many posters contrasting the Knickerbockers of yesterday to the Knicks of today and regretted that my reading material was tucked in my suitcase.
Bum One began to cough again; he gasped and gurgled as if afflicted by the final stages of consumption. Bum Two awoke suddenly, stood, and yelled, ‘Find your own fuckin way home, shithead’ and stalked into the next car leaving me and Bum One – now just Bum – occupying the car.
The subway stopped again. My anger was subsiding, but I wasn’t quite ready for my boss. And I could always use the excuse that I was on the subway, primarily because I was. Meanwhile, a young Asian woman and an older white gentleman entered the car. They both sat down near me after spying Bum wrapped in his gray parka. When Bum commenced with his death rattle soon after departing the station, both Asian Lady and Old Guy decided to try their luck in the next car, leaving me and Bum together again.
I began to feel calmer, more willing and able to volley with my boss. I already had a plan brewing. I would call each of the designers who hadn’t been included in the catalogue and explain that we had planned for two catalogues. The first, I’d explain, was our more traditional catalogue meant for the old guard. The second, however, would be bold. Released closer to spring, these designers would break molds and set trends and fulfill whatever other clichés he could imagine. I began planning the party at an exclusive club with a private unmarked entrance. There will be hundreds of martinis and living statues displaying the clothing.
A few more stops passed as I contemplated the fabulous success I would extract from my boss’s incompetence.
In the midst of my daydream, Bum began anew. I tried to ignore the incessant cough, but something about the sound struck me at my core. I noticed that he had extracted the parka to reveal a black thermal shirt and disgustingly muddy jeans. Unlike his previous fits, Bum wasn’t letting up. I considered going to see if he was okay, but decided against it in case he was a nutjob with a knife. The train slowed to a stop, and the automated voice announced that because of train traffic ahead, we were being delayed.
I tried to return to my thoughts of designer victory, but Bum’s cacophony was not to be overcome. I glanced back over and saw him fall the short distance from the plastic blue bench to the sticky black floor of the car. I obeyed the instinct to stand but froze as soon as I had. I watched as Bum curled into a fetal position, trying desperately to regain his breath. He wasn’t succeeding. I wanted to help, but couldn’t find the courage to help.
Bum ceased for a moment. He craned his neck and stared into my eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he said, ‘I’m sorry Brian.’
I cocked my head like a confused dog. His death rattle commenced for the last time. It was not as loud this time, but it was final. The train moved ahead into the next station. I grabbed my luggage and stood in front of the doors. As soon as they opened, I exited and ran through the turn style and up the stairs. I took a deep breath and grabbed for my Blackberry.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Sunday Scribblings: Political Rhetoric
Ray listened intently to one side of the conversation through the paper-thin walls. His brother spoke plainly, remorselessly. ‘She should die,’ he heard the animated voice declare into his cell phone. ‘She’s a traitor to all mankind. Everything she says is a lie. I wish someone would just kill her. Damn liberals.’
Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.
‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’
Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.
‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’
Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.
‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’
Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.
Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’
‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.
Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’
Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.
‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’
Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.
‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’
Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.
‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’
Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.
Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’
‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.
Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy
Brian grabbed the green ink. Across the front of the black bottle in flowing gold script was the word ‘Emerald’. His older brothers always confiscated the black – ‘Raven’ – and blue – ‘Cobalt’ – leaving him to opt for some other more adventurous hue. He dipped the Waterman pen into the ink bottle and sloppily sucked some of the dark green ink into the miniature tube. The rest he carelessly sprayed on the old wooden table.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
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