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.’
Friday, May 13, 2011
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.
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