AzureMonkey

Moonbeam

2010-01-10T20:39:00.000-08:00

Safe

2007-03-30T23:23:00.000-07:00

My voice is raised. “Let’s go, already!” I don’t want to be here.

I hate arguing, the words sticking in my throat, nothing but grunts and sputters coming out, along with some spittle, a few gurgles, sniffs of snot, and the ever-presence of tears. Always with the tears.

He stands close to me and he’s mad at me, at the situation. “You think I want to be here?”

Don’t say it. Don’t. “This is all your fault.” Bitch.

His hand reaches for me, grasping my forearm, his grip strong, and he shakes me a little. Maybe I’m in shock, maybe I need to be shaken. Shaken, not stirred. Shaken-baby syndrome. Shake well before serving.

I’m still crying, going at full-tilt, I can’t stop now that I’ve started, I can’t catch my breath either. He’s already breaking down, already sorry, already sad. “Don’t.” His hand is still on my arm. He’s deciding whether to pull me closer or push me away.

A nurse comes up behind him, dressed in green scrubs, maybe blue scrubs washed green. “We need more information,” she says softly. I’m in shock, I need to be talked to like a four-year-old. The shock makes me stupid. “Could you follow me?”

No. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to follow her, but I’m already following behind her.

“In this room, please.”

No. I don’t like hospitals. I don’t want to be in a room. I want to be home, I want the heat on, I want a fuzzy blanket, I want sweet tea. The room smells and my stomach lurches, ammonia in my nostrils, cleaning product pitched into my stomach, clawing at me from inside, the hospital smell seeping into my clothes, my purse, my shoes.

There’s a doctor inside the room. That’s not normal. Normally, I wait. And wait and wait, stealing hospital supplies inside my large purse, only to throw them away later, I deserve them, don’t I?, the cost of co-pays these days.

“You’re safe now,” the doctor says. She’s a tall blonde in pressed slacks and a purple shell top on sale at Express right now. Why is the nurse in the room? It was only a minor fender-bender, but I banged my forehead on the glass and it’s starting to swell, so we came to the emergency room.

Am I dying? I can’t be.

“You’re safe now. Anything you want to say, you can.”

What does she mean? I hate her slacks, her bright hair, her concerned expression. I hate the way the nurse smells, of something overpowering and found at perfume counter at Macy’s.

“Does he…” she hesitates and looks to the nurse standing behind me, “does the man you’re with, does he hurt you?”

Yes. We’re supposed be at the movies, I wanted the darkened theater, the popcorn and the large icee. I don’t want to be in a hospital. I hate him right now.

“You have unexplained bruises on you,” she says slowly, every word said clearly. I’m still four. At my look, she points to the large bruise on my calf under my linen skirt.

“No.” I shake my head.

“He doesn’t have the right. Whether he’s your husband or your boyfriend or your date. He doesn’t have any right to hurt you.”

I’m still shaking my head. “I’m just accident prone. I bump into things all the time.” I don’t think they believed me. Most grown-ups don’t believe four-year-olds.

Rumors of My Death, I Started Those

2007-03-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

[real]

I was gone for a while. Maybe longer, I can't remember. I was writing, honest I was, writing novel #2, novel #1 hidden away from the sunlight to keep it preserved for now, so I can spend time in this new novel, in this new world. Well, writing, but also working. Okay, mostly working. It's what I do. But also writing, which means something, no?

Intermitten, that's me.

[/real]

The Courier

2006-08-15T12:34:00.000-07:00

Phil was excited about his new position. Here 6 years now, he was well past the point of being the new guy. He had given up hope of ever getting any further than processing paperwork. But, miraculously, his turn to be promoted to something better had finally come. He was being asked to keep careful watch over the beige briefcase and get it to Martha’s Vineyard by Wednesday at 10:00 am.

What was in the briefcase, he was not told. Neither did he know who was employing him, what was to happen on Martha’s Vineyard, and who would be meeting there. All they told him was that it was of vital importance to the nation that he makes sure the briefcase is kept safe and delivered by Wednesday morning. He was to tell no one.

And Phil had not. He had no one to tell. His parents had both died years ago. His work was his life and he believed in doing it well.

Phil held onto the briefcase with one hand and gripped the edge of the boat as tightly as he could with the other. With the deadline delivery time of 10 am, Phil had not had many options. He had rented a dinghy and paid a man to take him to Martha’s Vineyard. The man had promised it would be less than an hour’s ride. But the sky had unexpectedly turned darker and the waters had become choppy. The man had seemed less concerned a few minutes ago, but now he looked worried also. He was obviously fighting to keep the dilapidated boat afloat. Phil would have offered to help, but he had to keep hold of his precious package.

Suddenly, a giant wave overtook them. Phil was instantly thrown into the water. He fought the water and finally made his way to the surface for air. He instantly held the briefcase over his head, to prevent any damage to the contents. He looked around, but could not tell which way would lead him to Martha’s Vineyard. He decided it would be best that he stay where he was. After all, someone would come looking for him. They needed what was in the briefcase.

Phil was not worried.

****

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Greg turned to his superior and said, “I can’t believe this was pulled off so quickly. How did you manage to keep the location of the meeting secret?”

Greg’s superior smiled. “I arranged for private couriers to take empty briefcases all over. Chicago, Singapore, Australia, Martha’s Vineyard.”

My Life for a Towel

2006-06-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

No one told me that the currency in Cancun was towels. Otherwise I might have bought a few of my own.

This is an honest conversation I overheard:

Father: I have four towels. I know we checked out six this morning. What happened to the other towels? I’m responsible for them. How’d we lose two towels?
Mother: Sharon has one. She’s out by the pool.
Father: I’ll go talk to her Where’s the other towel?
Mother: Maybe Kristen has one.
Father: Where is she?
Mother: I think she’s talking a walk on the beach.
Mother’s Friend: Who’s she out with?
Mother: I… don’t know. Should we be worried? I don’t know who she went with.
Mother’s Friend: I wouldn’t worry. She probably didn’t go far.
Father: Are you sure she has a towel?

Those towels, man, worth more than a human life.

You could always have another kid. But where, oh where, are you ever going to get white bath-sized towels?

God Bless You

2006-05-04T10:21:00.000-07:00

Clint Waylon let out the biggest, grossed fart ever. He even leaned sideway a little, holding the edge of the table for support, when he let it rip. She could almost see his butt cheeks sputter in her mind’s eye. And wished she couldn’t.

“You should say ‘God Bless You’ now.”

She ignored that remark, and the six other crazy comments he’d made previously and tried to get him to stay on the topic. “Did. You. Touch. The body?”

“God moves through us. When we laugh, it’s God laughing through us. When we cry, it’s because he’s sad.”

“Just a yes or no, please.”

“When we sneeze, people say ‘God Bless You’.” Clint’s voice got louder, “And those fuckin’ hippies say ‘Bless You’. ‘Cause somehow not saying the ‘God’ part makes it okay. Like He doesn’t exist. But who’s doing the blessing, I ask you? That’s right – God!”

“Mr. Waylon, if you could please concentrate, this would go a lot faster.” Maybe even get her out of here in the next twenty minutes. She had a hair appointment she wasn’t going to miss, brutal homicide or not.

“When we sneeze, it’s God sneezing though us. And when we fart, it’s God farting through us.”

Why did she always end up with the crazies? “Mr. Waylon, I’m only going to ask one more time: was the deceased laying on his back or on his stomach when you came in?” Because the follow up question to that one was, Did you see the knife that caused the twelve stab wounds to the victim’s back. That was if she could ever get there.

“So, you see, you’re being inexcusable rude by not saying “God Bless You” when I farted. That’s God’s gas you’re smelling, lady! Don’t you understand that? That came directly from Him, through me, unto you.”

When he climbed onto the table, she had the first officer at the scene cuff him and lead him away. And she still had fifteen to make her appointment. Thank goodness.

Clint was screaming as he was led away. “Bless me! Bless me for the Lord moves through me!”

Clothing Optional...

2006-04-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

(My roommate and I are always having the strangest conversations. Several nights ago, the conversation went like this:)

Me: You weren’t supposed to be home for another half hour.
Roommate: What are you…? Are you not wearing pants?
M: Nope.
R: Go put some pants on!
M: I didn’t expect you back for a half hour.
R: So in a half hour you were planning to put pants on?
M: I’d have thought about it.
R: Go put some pants on, crazy lady!
M: Why? It’s not like we don’t have the same equipment.
R: OK, (a) please stop saying ‘equipment’ and (b) I don’t wanna see your equipment!

(And then later…)

M: Yes, I’m kicking IRS’s butt! I am SO filing my own taxes this year.
R: With or without your pants on?
M: I don’t need my pants for this.
R: I beg to differ.

(And finally…)

M: I kicked IRS's ass!
R: No, you didn't.
M: Totally kicked it!
R: No. You didn't.
M: *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. Ooo-ooo-ooo-otie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: You filed an extension.
M: Exactly! Kicked. It's. Bootie. Did you hear my song? *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: That's like saying you're going to kick my ass. In like... June. Oooo, I'm scared.
M: I-- But-- *singing* I kicked it's -- *not singing* You're totally ruinning my fun!
R: I know.
M: *singing* I'm going to kick it's boo-tie. It'll be full of... doody... *not singing* I hate you.
R: I know.

(/real)

Some Days

2006-04-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

Panting, he ran down the last flight of stairs, feeling the sweat trickle down his forehead and plop off the end of his nose, streak across his cheek, and blend into the sweat in his hair. His vision, already blurry, stung when he accidentally rubbed the perspiration across his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision as he hit the landing, spinning and shoving the heavy wooden door open with his shoulder, muscling into like a linebacker. The world around him was jumpy as if he were watching one of these cinema veritié movies with shakily camera work.

He didn’t have time to look at his watch. Not that he’d be able to see it at any rate, even if he tried it. But he had time. He had to!

He hit the blue box at the corner still running at full speed, the breath leaving his body in one long swoosh. Made it. Yes! The world was his. He owned it.

The sound of screechy brakes had him looking up. The post office van crossed the intersection and continued on its way down the street.

Damn it. He hated the days when the mailman picked the mail up early. Oh, well. He’d have to call his client and tell him the paperwork would go in tomorrow’s mail.

Most Precious Gift

2006-04-25T22:09:00.000-07:00

Today is the best day of her life, just her entire life. She’s been waiting for this day since she was a little girl. Since her ninth birthday, actually.

They had gone to the pier, to see the sea lions. Crowds had gathered at the end of the pier to look at the big, slippery things bark and lie in the sun. Her father took her to a restaurant that overlooked the part of the pier cordoned off for the sea lions.

“Look at them,” he’d said. “They are sick and perverted. The girl sea lions lay there, willing mating with any one of the male sea lions, with no disregard for the sanctity of the bonds of holy matrimony.”

She didn’t know what ‘mating’ was but her daddy sounded so serious. He didn’t say it like it was a good thing. She believed him, too. He’d never lie to her.

“But people are different honey. God made us different. And the best thing He ever did was make daughters. He made mine special.” He reached over to stoke her hair. “I want you to know that you were a one-of-a-kind from the moment you were born. I want you to stay that way forever.” He stopped to look out the window.

She knew she was special because Daddy always told her so. Her mother said she was the most cherished girl probably in the entire state.

“Animals are called that because they don’t know any better. But we do, honey. I want you to promise me that you will never become like those girl sea lions out there. Your purity is your most precious gift.” He looked at her intently. “It’s something to be saved for the man who will replace me in your heart: your future husband. My future son-in-law.”

She’d already imagine him – the man she’d marry – a million times. Tall, like her dad, with a strong jaw and slick hair darker than hers. He would have beautiful hazel eyes and have straight white teeth.

Her father handed her a box. “Open it.”

Inside was a heart-shaped locket. She pulled it out and held it up to her neck.

“It’s beautiful, honey. This locket represents something to you and me. It means that you will save yourself for the man who will come after me, your future husband. The key,” he held it out to her, “is mine for now. On your wedding day, I will joyously give my new son the key to you, baby.”

She shouldn’t, but she can’t help peeking. She wants to see the moment when Gary realizes she’d meant what she’d said about saving herself. He would only love her more. How could he not? Her father had said Gary would.

The smile on Gary’s face is her answer. She walks into the dressing room and asks her maid of honor to pin her veil to her hair. It’s time. She’s not nervous anymore. It’s going to be the best day of her life.

And the best night.

Finally.

She has to physically stop herself from throwing herself into her father’s arms when he enters the room. She wants him to tell her to news. She wants to savor it.

He pauses to look at her, to take in the white dress, the long veil, the strand of pearls at her throat. His eyes well with tears. He has something in his hand for her as he comes closer.

***

She runs down Powell and into the BART station. Without bothering to wait for the attendant, she slips through the handicapped entrance, her dress held high enough so she can run down the escalator. Jumping into the first train she sees, she sits down and finally catches a breath, her wedding dressing poufing around her.

Clutched in her palm is a tiny key. It opens a special locket – HIS.

Gary has been saving himself for his wife.

That wife – whomever she is – can have him. She wants a man, not some virgin.

(Lest you all think I'm slipping into dementia, check out the Heart2Heart website. After that, read the World O'Crap entry -- get all the way to the end, there's some juicy, sick stuff in there -- if you can stomach it. Me? I'll be cowering under my bed.)

Surprise Attack

2006-04-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

(my friend gave me a prompt: a guy who's ready to strangle his stupid co-worker)

"I finally get there and you'll never guess what I find? Go ahead, guess. No, seriously. You'll never believe it."

Non-stop for forty-five minutes. If Billy doesn't stop talking from over the cubicle wall soon, I refuse to be responsible for my next actions. Or his ability to breathe. I have work to get done, mountains of it in my in-box on the edge of my desk, thirty "urgent" emails I'd received since yesterday, and the big project my boss dumped on my desk as I was leaving work last night.

Which is why, on a perfectly good Saturday afternoon, I’m at work… getting nothing done. Since I got in, it’s been nothing but—

“It was closed! On a Friday night. Can you believe that? Don’t these people understand they’re in the US now. They can’t just keep whatever hours they want. Why do they think they’re still living in some backwater country?”

What would James Bond do?

But he’d start with a martini. And then there would be a leggy blonde in a see-though nightie… No that’s not getting me anywhere.

What would Buffy do?

But decapitation and staking is only fun on TV and in the movies. In real life, there’d be jail time to contend with and, well, I’m too pretty to go to prison. But for a moment I imagine a slingblade in my hand, a sharp slash across his throat. Not dead, just… severing his vocal cords.

What would Mother Theresa do?

But I’m not a saint. Feeding Billy or offering him solace wouldn’t satisfy me in the least.

What would Donald Rumsfeld do?

And that’s when I know what has to be done. A quick call, a few suggestions, and I hang up. Then I wait. When Billy’s phone rings, I try to sit still. His voice carries, as I’ve learned over the last six months, over to my cube.

“Me? But I thought… Well, no, if you think… Don’t I need some sort of… I did say I knew the material in the staff meeting, that’s true… It’s just that— Right. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

Within seconds, he appears at the entrance to my cubicle. “Klein thinks I should take over the Marek project. Guess the old man is impressed with my work.” The smile he pulls is strained and never makes it across his face. “Can I get the file from you?”

“Sure. Congrats.”

“Thanks, dude.”

I manage to wait until he’s gone before throwing my head back and letting out a soundless laugh. In ten minutes, I’m packed up and on my way out the door. My “See you later, buddy,” is met with silence.

A surprise attack. So much more satisfying than a beheading or choking. Way more satisfying.

The Confrontation

2006-04-20T00:31:00.000-07:00

“This can be easy, very easy. Think about it for a second and you’ll agree.” Flash had both hands out and slightly raised. The international ‘I’m not armed’ symbol. “Let her go and we deal.”

Verne had a hand tight against her throat, keeping her head turned. He rubbed a thumb on her beating pulse for show. Flash wasn’t a fool; he know Verne couldn’t be pushed very far before he’d push back.

“She drops,” Flash said, “and so do you.” Damn it! Did his eye flinch? He fucking hoped not.

“Tough talk for a nobody.” The knife in Verne’s hand spun in dizzying circles through his thick fingers, round and round, forcing a person to notice the long blade, the sharpened tip. How it stayed between those beefy fingers was a mystery. Clearly this was a man experienced in such matters. “What’re you putting on the table?”

“Your dick.”

“Funny guy considering I can slice this slut’s throat before you had a chance to reach for my zipper.” Verne thrust forward and his pelvis ground into her ass.

With just a huff from between her lips, she let out a gasp. But she didn’t move. She let Verne mash into her.

“Which is a shame ‘cause I wouldn’t mind a quick oil and lube right about now.”

“You didn’t let me finish, Verne. I’m putting both your dick and balls on the table. You let her go, I get the fuzz to stop squeezing, if you know what I mean.”

“You got that kind of power?” Verne stopped his gyrations to consider this new information. The knife continued to twirl in his hand. “And if I finish her, you squawk?”

“Just like a Polly.”

“Let me think it over.”

“Doesn’t work like that, Verne.” Flash made his voice as tough as he could. He couldn’t afford to have her leave his sight. He might never see her again. “Now.”

“Least you can do is give a man time to think.”

“The least I needed to do was meet you. Did that.”

Verne smiled. It wasn’t the prettiest sight. He was full of crooked, yellow teeth, the kind of mouth a dentist with two alimonies and three house payments would salivate at.

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

The blade stopped spinning. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Rip It Out

2006-04-18T00:55:00.000-07:00

The little girl sat on the rough brown carpeting. The rain streamed down the wall of windows in front of her, leaving irregular and moving shadows on her hair and face. She didn’t look out at the darkening night sky. In fact she didn’t look up at all. The only way anyone could see she noticed the rain was that she flinched, just the tiniest tightening of her cheeks and the skin around her eyes, every time the rain plunked loudly onto the gutters.

She was bent almost in half over a small stack of books. She was tearing into the pages slowly and methodically. Tearing into Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home by Emily Post, 1922. The only copy they had at the Rosewood Library.

The library staff watched her go through that book and then start in on the next one -- Sexual Politics, Kate Millett, 1968 – stoically. With a resigned shrug, they turned away as one. After all, there was nothing to do. It would keep raining, at least for another week. And she would keep ripping and flinching. Flinching and ripping.

Poisoned, Well and Truly

2006-04-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

“Come on, already! What are you waiting for?”

Sherrilynn has Donna Reed hair. It poufs up and over in the back and the ends curl up perfectly. She wears A-line dresses and skirts that hit her just beneath her knees and shoes that look like penny loafers. I didn’t know they still sell penny loafers. Though, knowing Sherrilynn, they’re originals that she’s kept from the 80’s. She does stuff like that.

“Are we sure about this?” I ask. I need to be certain. Because… well, the idea had seemed right before. But before seems like a long time ago.

“Quit being a wuss!” She grabs my elbow, hard, and shakes me a little. “Oh my god. You’re going to wimp out on me, aren’t you?”

“No.” Yes.

“After all the work, you’re going to leave me swinging.”

“No.” Yes.

She lets go and backs away from me. Her green-brown eyes are wide; her black eyelashes curled in perfect arcs blink rapidly. She’s staring at me as if she’s never seen me before. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I am. I swear.” My voice wavers. I’m not; I never will be.

“Then do it.” Her voice is pitched low and the way she says “do it” carries the urgency of a botox patient needing her fix. Sherrilynn gets botox injections three times a year. Her mother is adamant about the whole anti-aging thing; it’s her religion.

“I thought we’d wait until later.” Not yet. I’m not ready yet.

“You’re not going to do it. Fine. Then leave. You can’t be a part of the club anymore.” She spins in a circle, the brownies in her box shaking on the parchment paper inside. She walks away from me in measured steps, her loafers squeaking the tiniest bit.

I inch forward to peek around the curtain in the back. I have to watch. By now, I can’t not watch.

She makes her way to the front. They’re all sitting still, waiting for her, her followers. Her sheep. They hang on her every word. They’d do anything for her. They’ll do what she asks because she’ll be asking it of them.

The ultimate sacrifice.

“Ladies,” she says. Sherrilynn looks at each woman for a second. She holds their gaze and fills them with her certainty. “The time has come. It will be painless. You won’t feel anything. And after? It’ll be better than rapture. It’ll be… perfection. The kind you can’t find on Earth.”

She takes a breath and adds the final line. “I promise.”

No one says a word. She opens the box and takes out a perfect marble brownie, half chocolate, half cream cheese. Laced with enough cyanide to stop the heart of a horse.

“Who will be first?” She holds the brownie out temptingly. Her hand doesn’t shake. The light of the believing pours out from her, lighting the ends of her hair, coursing around her pale green dress, bathing her. Until you want to bath in her light.

I’m in the aisle making my way toward her. “I will.”

Accessorizing It

2006-04-04T00:11:00.000-07:00

“Did you fall down or something?” The six bangles she wore on her right hand clanked on the metal tray when she set it down on the table. “My cousin told me about a guy who hit his head and he seemed fine – talking to everyone and shit – and then he just died. In the middle of a sentence. Died like in, dead.”

Raynie was my best friend. She wasn’t super smart or nothing, but as far as friends go, she’d walk with you through the snow barefoot for a good sale. That’s the kind of person you wanted at your back always.

“That’s just stupid, Ray.” The Diet Dr. Pepper fizzled and spilled over the lip of the can when I popped it open. “Anyways, I’m serious.”

“You can’t be a virgin. You’ve already you-know’ed!”

“I didn’t say I wanted to be a virgin. I said I was going to stop having sex.” The Philly cheese steak sandwich was more cheese than steak. Oil dripped down my fingers as I bit into it.

“You can’t just stop. Can you?”

“I’m tired of my reputation. Guys only go out with me for one reason.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.” Ray had chosen the spaghetti, but when I saw the mess she made to the front of her shirt with her first bite, I was glad I picked the sandwich instead.

“Mrs. Kinney told us how in the olden days virgins were more valuable because they were pure.”

Ray slurped a noodle into her mouth before saying, “But I thought we agreed you can’t be a virgin no more.”

It got a little tiring explaining everything to Ray twice. But like I said, she may not have been the brightest at Polk High, but she always had my back. Plus, we were the same size, which meant we shared all our clothes. It was like doubling my wardrobe hanging out with her.

“I’m not. From now on, it’s going to be all about chastity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have to say no to anything passed second base.”

“But…” Ray’s mouth opened and closed, twice. “Chastity? Really? But… why?”

I leaned in. “Seriously? Get this, there are accessories involved. A belt or something. Mrs. Kinney told me about it.”

“Accessories? Well, hell, count me in!”

One of Those Days...

2006-03-28T23:37:00.000-08:00

“He was always so nice. He didn’t seem the sort…”

Quiet, mild-manner, lean and sweet. He never said much, but he was always smiling. He was just a regular guy.

He didn’t seem the type to stand by his partner’s bed, seething. He didn’t seem the type to hold a serrated knife over her head, mouthing words silently, his lips moving faster and faster, bits of spittle collecting at the sides of his mouth, bubbles blowing and popping, his anger growing. He didn’t seem the type to stab a defenseless woman fourteen times in her back and arm, while she screamed in pain, waking her daughter from sleep in the room next door.

Covering his ears when the daughter came into the bedroom, screaming for her mother, jumping on the bed to protect her, pulling her off the bed, her fingers slipping off her mother’s arm, sliding on all the blood, pressing her fingers into the gaping wounds, rushing her out of the room. The last thing the two women saw, not believing it, was him plunging the knife into the side of his own throat.

He never made it to the hospital.

Just Riding

2006-03-24T12:57:00.000-08:00

Jack’s pedaling too fast; he isn’t going to make it around the curve without barreling out. But he can’t stop now even if he wants to. The feel of the wind is like razorblades slashing against his face, the breeze blowing through his longish-hair, hearing the whirl of the wheels and the clicking of the chain. It feels good just to ride hell-bent-for-leather, no real direction, no specific destination, no agenda.

He concentrates, still one hundred percent certain he isn’t going to make it. He almost presses down on the brakes, but changing his mind, he leans into the turn, spinning the handbars hard. He can smell burning rubber. Pebbles kick up and the bike screeches. He barely misses the building, gliding close enough to reach out and catch the feel of bricks before the friction singes his fingertips.

He turns into the main street that runs through town. Pedding fast, he rides in a wide pattern skimming from side to side across the near-empty street. He catches a few people off-guard as they scramble to get out of his way. He can hear someone yelling at him but he’s too busy riding to care.

He kicks the front of the bike up, popping a solid wheelie. And continues out of town, just riding.

Lessons

2006-03-20T19:29:00.000-08:00

She was spitting mad, her dyed black hair picking up the sun and turning the ends blue, her skirt flaring as she paced the length of my backyard.

“Fucker! That’s what he is. I mean—” – she swung around to face me – “Can you believe he had the nerve to say that to me? I mean, where’d he find the balls?”

I didn’t have to bother answering. She went back to pacing, stopping to pick up the little white pebbles I had put down to stop the weeds from growing wild, and throwing them over the fence into Mr. Lanzki’s yard one by one. I didn’t hold back my sigh. Later, I’d have to go over to his house and apologize. Again. And pick all the pebbles out of his pool. Again.

“He…” She sputtered to a stop. I held my tongue, hoping she’d worn herself out and would leave soon. But she only snapped her fingers and said, “He’s worse than that college professor I dated three years ago. You remember him?”

The one that tried to corner me near the ladies room on her birthday at that crappy Italian place? Yeah, I remembered him.

“He’s always telling me what to do and how to do it.”

“Well, he is your husband.”

“So?” She seemed genuinely surprised by my line of thought. “Doesn’t mean he can tell me things. That’s not how it works.” I nodded. It was always easier to just nod and not say anything.

“You know what I ought to do?” When she smiled, it completely changed her face. She could become beautiful just by the potency of those wide lips pulled up to the apples of her cheeks. “I should teach him a lesson.”

That didn’t sound good.

“I will. Trust me; I know men.”

The doorbell rang. I instinctively got up to answer and the sound of me turning the lock almost drowned out her words. Almost.

“I’ll sleep with the next man that comes along. Let’s see how the fucker likes that.”

Oh, no. I opened my mouth to say something, but I already had the door open by then. A deep voice said, “How many times do I have to tell you to not throw shit into my pool.”

Mr. Lanzki, in his typical burgundy cardigan and house slippers.

“I’m so sorry. Can I come over later to—”

She came clicking on my Mexican tiled floor, taller than me in her three inch heels, and threw her arms out wide. “I’m so sorry. That was my fault. Is there any way I can apologize?”

He seemed flustered by the way she stood close to him, one of her hands on the sleeve of his sweater. “Well, it’s just that…” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “My pool…”

“Let me take care of that.” She slipped her arm under his and turned his back down the walkway. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit, though. I hope that’s not a problem.”

I didn’t bother stopping her; I just closed the door. If nothing else, my problems with Mr. Lanzki were solved for the time being.

I’d let her figure out what kind of guy he was on her own.

Dead Hobos

2006-03-18T11:20:00.000-08:00

(The first line was a comment a friend made and it just got me laughing!)

“As a literary genre, the dead hobo story is sadly neglected.” By this point, the conversation had stopped being an exchange and had become a monologue.

My lunch companion had all my prerequisite qualities: tall, striking, and in no way likely to dominate in a social setting. He was the kind of guy whose social interaction began and ended at the gym, where discussions of repetitions, protein intake, and cardio vs. weight lifting ratios reigned supreme.

He had said all he could about my lunch order and about what he had done last night – four hours at Gold’s Gym (surprise, surprise) – and had nothing further to offer.

“There’s so much to be had,” I said. I stopped only to take a sip of my imported mineral water and to see the lights sparkle on the rim of my crystal goblet. “There’s the flayed dead hobo, the body-swapped dead hobo, even the dead hobo as the linchpin to solving the whole mystery story. That’s what I pitched: a series of books based on dead hobos. Different hobos, of course; you can’t have the same one. Then it becomes derivative, like a bad Weekend at Bernie’s type thing. Not that Weekend at Bernie’s was any good, mind you.”

He was checking out the little Asian girl in the lyrca micro-mini that walked in with the decrepit old man. I shook my head.

“I think my agent liked it. She looked interested enough. If I could work in a knock-out girl with a razor-sharp mind and a body for sin, she might even pitch it to the network execs.”

He picked up his napkin from his lap and used it to wipe at the corners of his pristine mouth. He set the napkin carefully alongside his plate before he said, “Cammie, that’s a load of bullshit. Who’d ever want to read stories about dead hobos?”

Well I would, I thought. Struck down fast and hurt much like a child whose balloon popped at the carnival, I could only glare at him as he pulled three fifties out of his money clip and placed them on the table. I’m sure the dirty old man would, too.

He walked over to stand beside me. Placing a hand on my elbow, he propelled me up and out of the dining room. I turned to take in one last glance of my unfinished plate of linguini in alfredo sauce sitting forlorn on the table. I hope a hobo picks it out of the dumpster and eats it before someone kills him. That thought made me smile.

Dirty, Dirty Joke

2006-03-16T16:34:00.001-08:00

(I once told Monkey0 that I was going to use an opening line of his if he didn't update his prompts. Well, he hasn't in a very long time, so I went ahead and stole his angel telling a dirty joke opening:)

The angel rolled in to the seventh grade classroom at eleven seventeen, and told a dirty joke. Which normally would have filled little Ronnie Duncan with glee. To see his teacher turn scarlet and then stammer because it’s an angel for christ’s sake, what can she do about it? Yeah, normally this would have been the best day ever. Except that the angel looked a lot like his grandmother.

He couldn’t look the angel in the eye. He kept his eyes down near her pumps, something purple and sparkly. What his mother would have called whore shoes as she picked through the half-off bin at Shoe Barn on Wednesday afternoons.

The angel’s shoes were nice, as were her legs. But the rest of her… First there was the smell. Ronnie had imagined only old women smelled like that. But the angel looked young, way younger than his mom even.

Her skirt was definitely something Grams had worn to Thanksgiving dinner. The angel’s voice too sounded pack-a-day and her teeth were yellowed like Grams. The angel said a dirty word and Ronnie clamped his hands over his ears. He’d never be able to look at his grandmother ever again. As the joke picked up steam and the kids tittered, Ronnie only sunk lower and lower in his chair. All he could think was that Sunday night dinner was going to be the worst night of his life.

Memory, pt 2

2006-03-13T22:15:00.000-08:00

No, no, they’re wrong. It’s all too overpowering, the scents mingling, burning his nose, confusing his brain. He doesn’t know what to do. There are too many people, long and lean, in skirts, swishing around him. He can’t ask. What would he say?

“Do you want to smell this?”

A bottle dangles in front of him. He jerks back. A sales lady in a skirt with green flowers and a green sweater sprays something in front of him. He can’t avoid it, is breathing it in before he has a chance to think. Pungent and powerful, it hangs on the back of his throat. He chokes.

“Are you looking for a gift for your mom?”

He shakes his head, backing away.

“For your grandmother? I can help. Do you want my help?”

He shakes faster, backpedaling and spins through one counter and out past another. There are so many: so may ladies, so many lights, so many bottles. How will he find the right one?

He creeps low along the edge of one counter and when no one is looking, he swipes a bottle off the glass top. A label says “tester”. He presses it to his nose and sniffs. He coughs. He can’t tell what it smells like.

“Do you want me to spray some on a paper for you?” This lady is tiny and blonde. She has a big smile and a dimple on one cheek.

He nods.

She sprays it on a paper. It’s not right.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

He nods.

“For your mom?”

He hesitates and then nods.

She takes him by the hand and walks him from counter to counter, spraying the mysterious bottles on tiny pieces of paper. He smells each one, hoping, but none are right.

He’s tired but she’s determined. They reach a smaller counter. She hands him a paper, but before he can place it to his nose, he can tell. It’s her. He rubs it to him, under his nose. When he pulls it back, he can still smell it. Her.

When the saleslady is busy spraying something else, he plants a twenty on the counter and swipes the bottle. He runs out of the store, clutching his half-empty perfume bottle. He’d be able to smell her as he fell asleep tonight.

The Sweetest Person

2006-03-03T17:20:00.000-08:00

Norman is the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Whenever I see him, he’s wearing his green hospital shirt and white pants that truly flatter no one. He has a sloping forehead, a large nose, and a belly that, under the billowy shirt, makes him look like he’s about 6 months along.

I’ve been working with Norman off and on for about five years. He’s been through every training program in the San Francisco Bay Area: welding, dentistry, computer training, forklift operations, haz-mat -- you name, he’s tried it. But he tries so damn hard that I bubble over for him, helping him cheat, walking him through simple computer operations, the works.

There are moments, though, when Norman isn’t so sweet. When he becomes violent. Shouting, throwing papers, banging on the ancient printer.

The two times he’s hit me, well… at least one of those times was my fault. My co-worker warned me to leave him alone, but I wanted to help. Got within striking distance. He got me good. My face was swollen, my cheek battered for a long time.

The second time, he came for me purposefully. Smacked me so hard I literally bounced off the wall. Bruised a couple of ribs.

I still help him with his homework whenever he comes into the mental clinic. I walk him through cutting and pasting in Word. And I remind him every time to take his meds.

He just nods.

The Rattle or the Gun?

2006-03-02T22:50:00.000-08:00

Darryl Lee could tell stories and entertain people for hours. “There were two of them in bed with me. One swore up and down that she was a witch. Did I ask if she put some kind of hex on me? Hell, yeah, I did. Wouldn’t have minded if she had, either, let me tell you.”

Along the stench of road known as “The Harris Stench”, Darryl Lee broke down on a hot August day. "It was the hottest day in a decade, broke all prior records." Hitching up his loose pants, he started walking along the road. "The quietest stretch of highway. If I’d have been in the desert, there would have been tumbleweeds rolling in the backgrounds." Spotting a house in the distance, he jumped over the fence and made his way toward the lights.

Darryl Lee tripped over a sprinkler. "You’ll never guess what began hissing less than fifteen feet from me? A rattlesnake. Never seen one in my life and I can’t say I ever wanted to." A creaking sound drew his attention. A man in a straw hat came out of a pick-up truck. "A guy with a shotgun charged at me from nowhere. I swear I nearly shit my pants. A snake or a gun, I knew one of them was going to take me out that day. I just wondered if I’d have a choice or if it’d already been made for me."

Everyone had heard that story before. Darryl Lee could tell it a million times. But the day his story came true, he couldn’t speak.

It wasn’t the first time his car had stalled. Darryl Lee just grabbed his wallet and made his way toward a house.

The rattlesnake threw him. Yeah, he’d told it, but he didn’t think he’d actually see one. It was rattling and hissing. He started edging away, no sudden movements. The cocking of the gun stopped him. “Want to tell me what you’re doing on my land?”

Darryl Lee wanted to say that he’d told this story before. He knew how it ended. He lived. In his stories. But neither the rattlesnake nor the guy with the gun looked like they cared.

Outpouring

2006-03-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

The slide of it, hardly more painful than a pinprick. The penetration not deep enough, not yet. The fluid as it seeps down her body. The smell. She wants to taste. To lick, just a little. But concentration is needed. She has to pay attention, to finish.

Another stroke. Still beautiful. A buzzing in her ears. She wants to pass out, but she loves this too much. Loves the feel, the softest rasp of it.

Harder, her brain screams. It wants it all now, doesn’t want to wait.

This time it’s deeper. The blood is thicker. Red like wine. But she can’t see it clearly, the blackness curls around the edges. No! She wants to finish. Needs to.

But the razorblade has fallen out of her hand. She can’t reach for it. Can only watch as the blood slips like tears down her arm and she falls to the floor.

(A/N: Today is National Self-Injury Awareness Day. For more info, check out SelfInjury.org.)

Food

2006-02-17T22:56:00.000-08:00

…

…

(taps fingernails on table)

…

…

(switches channels rapidly)

(door opens)

“You’re back!” (stands) “Wait. Where’s the food?”

“They’re out, dude.”

“The stores?”

“Yeah.”

“They were out of food?”

“Yeah.”

“What, all of them?"

“Yeah.”

(falls back on the couch, clutching head) “That’s so hard to… Wait. How far did you get?”

“You mean out going for groceries?”

“Yeah. How far did you get?”

“To the car, but wait—”

“The car!”

“It’s rainy and windy out there. You don’t understand.”

“Dude, there’s no food in the place. And you’re worried about getting a little wet?”

“I can’t go back out there.”

“You lost the bet. You have to go.”

“I can’t. I’d rather starve.”

“Well, I wouldn’t!”

(silence)

“Well?”

“What?”

“Food!”

“I told you I’m not going back out there.”

“Seriously?”

“Can’t go. Sorry.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We got any of those raid chips left?”

Fight

2006-02-13T16:44:00.000-08:00

Don’t make a sound.

Listen. Is there anyone moving on the other side of the door? It’s hard to tell over your own grasping breaths, your heart beating in fear against your throat, the non-stop thump of “you’re going to die, you’re going to die” pulsing in your ear.

You force yourself to calm, but that’s like telling the dog not to get excited when he hears a car approach. You try to remember those meditation seminars the company forced you to go to. Three deep breaths, in through the nose, hold, out through the mouth, filling your lungs deeply with every intake and fully letting it out. Two is all you can manage before you feel like you’re going to pass out.

A gurgle of laughter bubbles up when you think it’s a good thing you’re sitting down. As if you had a choice. A sound manages to escape your lips. Did it echo in the room or only in your ears? Could they hear it outside? Were they going to come in? You try listening again. It’s too quiet. Where were they? If they’ve abandoned you here, is that better or worse?

Your wrists are raw and bleeding; you can feel the blood trickle over your clenched fists, coursing slowly over knuckles and sliding through your fingers. It’s not rope they’ve bound you with, but some sort of plastic. Aren’t all kidnappers supposed to use rope? The plastic doesn’t loosen no matter how hard you strain against it.

You can’t tell anymore how long you’ve been in there. Hours, days, maybe minutes. It’s all a panic-filled blur. There’s no window and though you’ve never considered yourself claustrophobic, you feel the walls move in, inch their way toward you, locking you in further, into a tight square where you won’t be able to move, to fight, to breathe.

You pull harder on the restraints scrapping raw flesh deeper and deeper into the bindings, chocking on the cloth wrapped tight around your mouth, coughing, using your tongue to push it out enough to take in air.

Wait. Was that a noise? Your legs shake. You stop thinking altogether when you hear the door open.

Strength

2006-02-12T21:01:00.000-08:00

“The strength of fourteen men.” That’s what Jimmy’s mother told him. That he had the strength of fourteen men. But he had to use it carefully, she warned him, because that much strength was not meant for this world. Others would be jealous and mean. They’d want what he had, so he had to hide it for that one day when it was needed.

In the playground, Jimmy could have taken on all four bullies easily. But he pretended not to have his powers. He’d stumbled home with a hole in his jeans and bloodied elbows. His mother rubbed antiseptic and blew on it to cool the pain. She told him he was a brave boy for not giving in, for not taking them all out with his strength.

His dad yelled at her. “What’re doing to the boy, Gladys? Why are you filling his head with such nonsense?” But neither of them paid any attention. Jimmy had the strength of fourteen men. They both knew that.

In college, Jimmy watched as the dorm burned, heard the cries from within. But he’d let the firemen do their job. He could have gone in and held the beams steady, only it hadn’t been the time. He’d attended the funerals with a sad heart, knowing inside he’d done the right thing. He had to save his power.

The little girl wore a bright red scarf tied in her hair. She walked home alongside the tracks, her head buried in a book, the scarf bright against her black hair. She hopped off the curb into the street, not paying attention to the silver Mercedes that peeled out of the shopping center.

This was it.

He stepped into the street, the scarf calling to him, and held his hands out. That car would stop and he’d save the day.

Margaret

2006-02-06T23:54:00.000-08:00

The woman I knew intimately wore her hair unbound at night. Her face tilted toward the door would be framed by the wispy strands. She never moved at night. (Unlike me. I would toss and turn like a wild thing in those days.) I loved brushing her hair and hearing the bristles rub against her scalp. She wore it long. I had impetuously cut mine short only a few months before I had met her and I wanted my long hair back. She would laugh, shakily, afraid I’d take offense (I did easily in those days) and would say to be patient, that it would all grow back. (It has.)

I would select her bra for her in the morning, envious that she could, had she wanted to, gone without it. (That’s never the case with me.) She had a sure grip when her hands reached for me. Not always steady, but firm. And when she leaned against me, she pressed all her weight into me until I was supporting her, knowing I wouldn’t drop her. (I never did.) Her eyes were like that too, trusting, looking like a two-year-old.

It’s what made the work easier, waking her, undressing her, easing her onto the toilet, cleaning her, dressing her. She was a doll, stripped of her decency by then, but never sullen about it. Just accepting and trusting. Holding my arm while she settled into the wheelchair. Closing her lids with a flutter so I could wipe the sleep from her eyes. Never blushing when I would put her soiled underwear into the cloth laundry bag.

She was my favorite during the three months I worked at the retirement home across the street from my apartment. She spoke little and asked nothing of me directly. Unlike the other residents, she was not curious of my background, never drilled me with questions of my college life, so much so that sometimes I wondered if she knew I was a different girl than the one that cared for her during the day shift.

I would settle her at the dining table. She was happiest then, waiting for the med cart, excited about the large glass of OJ I would give to her only, lightly toughing the petals of the flower I’d place on her end of the table. She was usually the last thing I’d look for at the end of my shift before leaving to get home, shower, and get to my classes.

Waiting

2006-02-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

It was going to happen. Manny just had to wait. He’d seen the shows and he’d met some of the survivors. They often spoke in short sentences and said “you know” a lot. Like, “It was the craziest thing, you know? Never would have thought it’d happen to me, you know?”

Manny would nod and sip the tepid tea they inevitably gave him. And he’d ask in a hushed voice, “Can I see?” The tapes were always in places of honor, atop the mantle or in the left-most slot in the video cabinets. One man had his inside the safe in his study. Had to be kept, preserved.

He’d watch the footage, note the surroundings, the time of day, the bystanders. He loved looking at the expressions on the passerby’s faces more than the victim’s. Shock, horror, and in the select few, glee. How could this be? What kind of world did we live in? And yet… And yet, it happened, all around the world, to people from all walks of life.

One day it would happen to him. When that day came, he would have his camcorder handy. He never even went to the bathroom without it.

He wanted it to be a lion, but not at the zoo; that was a cliché. No, he wanted it to be a pet lion of some kind. “Gentle” was how the family would describe it. “Never hurt no one before. Can’t understand it.” But it would come for him. And he’d have it saved forever. One of these days, something would attack Manny, and then he’d be a star.

A Monkey0 Rant

2006-02-02T10:27:00.000-08:00

(So, these topics of Monkey0's? Yeah. I got a smack down:)

AZ, you've got to TELL ME in a comment on the TOPIC POST when you've WRITTEN ABOUT IT or I may not know if I fall off the blogging wagon for a bit! Come on, now, you and bones have got to get with the program here.

(Isn't he so cute? That's all I had to say. Nothing left to see. These aren't the droids you want. Move along.)

Cool, pt. 2

2006-01-31T00:17:00.000-08:00

“We’re like Butch and Sundance.”

“Dude, we really are.”

“And we get the same girl.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But I get her first.”

“Wait, wait. You think you’re Sundance.”

“Yeah. I’m younger than you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m Sundance because I’m way cooler than you.”

“I’m cool.”

“I got two words for you: Shawshank Redemption. ‘Nuf said.”

“Shut up.” (pause) “Anyways, didn’t Butch and Sundance do stuff, go places? Get up off the couch?”

“OK, so we’re not them. We’re like one person that’s cool and one that’s dorky.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I know! We’re like Kirk and Spock. I get all the bootie, like Kirk did. And you’re all brainy and shit like Dr. Spock.”

“Mr. Spock! It’s not Dr. Spock. Anyone who knows anything knows that!”

“Calm down. What does it matter?”

“Because they’re like different people. Dr. Spock was some old guy who did shit. Mr. Spock was first in command on the Enterprise. Two different people.”

“Whatever, major dweeb. Dweeb-arama. Dweeb-apollza. Dweeb-tastic.”

“Doesn’t make me a dweeb to know that. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t. Cool people don’t know stuff like that." (trails off) "Oh, wait. I got it! We’re like the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

“Tonto was a horse, dude.”

“Really? You’re like way brainy. The only reason you’re even remotely cool is by association.”

“You’re not that cool.”

“How can you say that? Check out the cool, floppy hair. The cool, soulful eyes. The cool clothes.”

“Yeah, you’re so cool, what’re doing on the couch at home on a Friday night?”

“No money, dude. We don’t even have anything to eat around here.”

“So, we’re like broke, cool guys. Butch and Sundance.”

(nods) “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“But, I’m Sundance.”

“Whatever.”

Ghost

2006-01-30T00:51:00.000-08:00

The scariest part of working at a mental facility was the day I turned a corner and an entire building had disappeared.

The office where I used to work was located on the top floor of a converted inpatient facility on the grounds of a hospital. They ran lines in for phones and the internet, added real doors on the bathroom stalls and painted the whole floor pink, and presto, an office building was born. I think pink was supposed to make it look less like a hospital building. It didn’t; it looked as if some drunk had spray painted it with Pepto-Bismol.

The first time I worked late, I had my office door wide open and I didn’t worry at all. Hospital security offered to walk me to my car and I said no thanks. I enjoyed having the place to myself during those hours.

It wasn’t until the next day, when one of my co-workers, a disgruntled teacher in his 50’s who called me Gidget – and every time he did, he would tell me Gidget was short for girl midget, because being from a foreign country, I couldn’t possibly have any knowledge of something so American as a Sally Field movie – told me that the building next door was where the events that were described in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest actually happened. The injections, strapping down patients, the electroshock, the works. There was so much controversy that the entire building had been demolished only the year before I had started working there.

I searched all over the hospital’s intranet, over the internet, through books at the local library, but I couldn’t find anything to substantiate the claim. Still, in the following years, I’d swear I heard noises the nights I worked late. When it was just me and the ghosts, tormented or otherwise, until 11, midnight. I’d locked myself into my office and play the music super-loud and plow through hours of stuff.

I think I was waiting for the ghosts to visit. And when anything wasn’t exactly where I’d left it, or if I felt a breeze, even though the windows were all sealed shut, I’d stop. And wait. But nothing ever touched me or really creeped me out. Nothing.

I still work on the hospital grounds, but I hadn’t been back to that building in at least five years. I had heard it was demolished, but I didn’t believe. Didn’t really want to.

Last week, I was taking a walk with a co-worker, struggling to keep up with her quick steps, when we rounded a corner and came upon a little park. Exactly where the building had been. All evidence it had once been there was gone, as if some artist had opened up Photoshop and just erased it.

Standing in the afternoon sun, I had the shivers.

Hamburger and Fries

2006-01-23T18:21:00.000-08:00

Chase is hungry. He eyes the roast beef drenched in succulent juices on Serra’s plate and images what it could be like to jump over his table, to fly over the blue metal fence, to land onto her table and bite into the thin slabs lying on her plate. He can almost taste it, can feel it slide down his throat. He swallows his own lunch painfully. The wheat germ threatens to come back out.

Meal time is over in another five minutes, but it doesn’t matter to him. Eating is a chore. The nutrient police have sucked all the life and flavor from it.

He remembers hearing of the days when meals consisted of anything. All a person had to do was dream it. Desserts covered in whipped cream, crepes in a béchamel sauce, the smell of shallots and garlic sautéed in butter, the tanginess of soy sauce on egg rolls, the burn of tandoori, savory galettes, crème brulee, eggs Benedict, creamy Alfredo on penne pasta.

These mean nothing to him, but he loves the way they feel on lips when he says them. “Bechamel sauce. Galettes. Tandoori.” They are foreign and filling. But only to say. The words can never fill his belly or satisfy his mouth.

Serra chews methodically. She’s not even looking at the food on her table, so wrapped up is she in her book. Some cheap trashy romance from the machine that recycles plots from old Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and even a little Barbara Cartland.

The smells from the kitchen could not possible reach him. The vents are too strong, industrial high-powered. But they call to him any way. They speak a compelling language.

Chase can’t stand it anymore! He runs into the cafeteria, past the salad bar and the soy-atorium. He races by the juicing stand. At the grill, he doesn’t order a hamburger. He knows he won’t get it. Instead he rips a tray out of someone else’s hand. He doesn’t bother to look at who or to wait when he hears the shriek of protest. He only pauses for a split second when the alarm triggers.

He bangs the tray down on the nearest flat surface and unwraps the burger. His hands tremble so badly, a piece of the wrapping is trapped inside the bun. He doesn’t care. He bites into it, without even taking a breath. The taste of it against his lips, on his tongue. Oh my god. He chews only because he has to. If he could, he’d swallow it in one bite.

His breathing now labored as if he’d been running for 4 hours, he continues to chew, letting out moans of pleasure when his mouth isn’t too full. He uses his other hand to stuff French fries in between bites of the meat. The oil, the starch. The mingling of the lettuce, and the tomato and onions. He hates onions, but it hardly matters. There is real meat inside his mouth. Oh, the excruciating pain.

“Sir, you can’t eat that.”

“Moushhee,” he says, mouth stuffed, bits of food flying onto the tray.

“Sir, you are not authorized to eat that. You have been placed on a regimented eating schedule. Any and all deviations are strictly forbidden. Please put down the hamburger.”

It’s only a matter of moments now. His lungs hurt and his mouth is straining from chewing. He has not had anything to really chew in over 15 years. His teeth tingle and his temples ache from the motions of his mouth. And still he continues to eat, one bite of burger, three or four fries. One bite of burger. Three or four fries.

“Sir!” The guard grabs the food from him. “Please come with us.”

Chase closes his eyes and savors all of it, the texture, the flavors, his pain. The mixture is an aphrodisiac. With one last, hard swallow, the food’s gone. It doesn’t matter; it’s been worth it.

“We’re taking you to a detainment cell. Your nutritional therapist and psychologist will be waiting for you.”

Chase nods.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, sir. You only had ten more pounds to lose. Then you would have been able to eat a burger or two every year. You’ve only ruined it for yourself,” the guard says, pulling Chase away.

Fourteen Tickets

2006-01-20T11:08:00.001-08:00

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Danae pulled out the paper stuck under the wiper. “Come on! Not today.”

He looked around and there, about half a block down, was his foe. He ran down the street.

“Hey! Hey, you. Don’t act like you can’t see me. I know you can hear me! Hey, give me a break here, will ya?” Out of breath, Danae stooped and put his hands on his knees while he sucked in some much-needed air. “Hey. Come on, already.”

The parking enforcement Nazi turned to him in the act of writing on a pad.

“Know what this is?” He waved the paper in his hand. “I asked if you know what this is? This is the fourth ticket this month. Know what that means?” He didn’t bother waiting for a response. “It means I’ve gotten a ticket on every street cleaning day this month.”

The Nazi blinked but didn’t move.

“Know how many tickets I got in the last four months? No, go ahead and guess.” Danae waved his hands, encouraging the Nazi to play his game. “Come on, it’s fun. Count the weeks in a month and times it by four. You’d get sixteen, right? But I was in Chicago for two weeks with my sick mom last month. So, take away two and that’s fourteen. Fourteen! Fourteen tickets in the last four months! That’s gotta be some kind of record, right?”

He was sweating now having worked himself up good. He paused to take another breath and looked at the Nazi. Nothing. No expression, no movement.

“So, I gotta ask: what’s a guy gotta do to get you to leave me the hell alone? I’d swear you was like stalking me or something.” He thought about that for a bit. “You, like, stalking me or something?”

The Nazi blinked once and then twice rapidly. “You know, Danae, you still talk too much,” she said.

“Do I know you?”

“It’s me: Kelli. Remember, your prom date? The one you ditched halfway through the night to take off with Connie. Ring a bell?” She finished writing her ticket and pulled it out of her pad.

Danae scratched his head. “So, these tickets, they’re like payback or something?” he looked at the ticket in his hand, wondering if it had the answer. It didn’t.

“The first one, yeah. Maybe even the second one.” She leaned over and put the paper under the wiper of a white Chevy truck.

Now he was really confused. “What about the other twelve tickets, then?”

She let out a laugh and climbed into her cart. She wheeled back and looked at him. “Danae, the signs say no parking between 8 am and 11 am. They’re pretty clear. I was just waiting to see how long it’d take for you to stop leaving your car on the street past eight.”

With a whirl, she continued down the street. Danae looked at the ticket and scratched his head again. Did that mean he still had to pay this?

Cool

2006-01-17T12:30:00.000-08:00

“Dude! You did NOT just say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Shut up!”

“Hey, I’m just expressing what everyone else already knows.”

“And what’s that? That you’re a lame-ass?”

“Dude, diss me, you diss popular vote.”

“From the dawn of time we came. Moving silently down through the centuries, living many secret lives—”

“You’re just dating yourself! No one thinks Highlander is the coolest guy movie, ever. No one.”

“Fuck you!” (silence) “Fine. What’ve you got?”

“There’s a fine line between stupid… and clever.”

“Spinal Tap? Really? That’s soooo original.”

“Stop rolling your eyes at me. Makes you look like a girl. Man, stop that. Your turn.”

“He who draws the sword from the stone, he shall be king. You, Arthur, you are the one.”

“Excalibur. Always excellent.”

“How’s Excalibur still cool, but Highlander’s out?”

“Let. It. Go. Man.”

“Fine. Whatever. Your turn.”

“I don't know why he saved my life. Maybe in those last moments he loved life more than he ever had before.”

“Blade Runner. Nice. Darryl Hannah.”

“That’s the first thing that pops into your head when you think of Blade Runner? Yeah, she was hot, but everyone watched that movie for Rutger Hauer.”

“Who? Who are these lame ‘everyone’ you keep talking about?”

“Rutger Hauer’s like crazy bad. He can kill you just by looking at you.”

“That’s Michael Madsen.”

“Him, too. But, seriously, people think of Blade Runner, they think of bad-ass Rutger.”

“It’s Harrison Ford’s movie. He’s Han Solo. The man has a lifetime cool pass for that alone. Plus, he’s dating Calista Flockhart, you know.”

“True. She’s like Kate Moss hot. OK, go.”

“I must admit I didn't think much of Andy first time I laid eyes on him. Looked like a strong breeze would blow him over.”

“What’s that from?”

“Shawshank Redemption.”

“Shawshank— you did NOT just say Shawshank Redemption.”

“It’s a cool movie.”

“You obviously don’t know cool.”

“Morgan Freeman’s in it! He’s the epitome of cool.”

“Shut up.”

“They, like, took a poll and it was voted as one of the best cult movies, like, ever.”

“Go away. And stop talking.”

“Whatever.”

Memory

2006-01-15T22:57:00.000-08:00

( This is a true story. For Chemical Billy. Because...)

It had been spring break and I was on my way home from college, piled six deep into a friend’s car. We’d gotten a late start and were dropping people off along the way, where every stop required an hour tearful goodbye, last minute sage advice about spring break etiquette, the thirtieth time a punch line to a joke was recycled, still as funny as the first time.

We somehow managed to get lost off 152 ending up in Watsonville of all places, the roads through the mountains pitch black, where our vision extended to the twenty-some-odd foot radius of our high beams, following random signs and not really caring where we ended up as long as the journey there was fun.

By the time I’d gotten dropped off, it was nearly five in the morning. I snuck into my old room, which my younger sister had begrudgingly vacated for my visit, moving herself back into the small “guest” room.

I got into bed before I remembered that my mom had wanted me to go to temple with her that morning, as my birthday was nearing and she’d wanted me blessed. I didn’t believe – still don’t – but I normally went to temple, looked at the marble gods, went through the motions. For her. Because though I was a heathen, I never mocked her faith.

She got up almost as soon as I had gotten home, so it wasn’t long before she was showered and dressed. She came quietly into my room. I was hanging on the edge between sleep and not, lying on my side and could see her through one half-open lid.

She must have stood for a minute or two, not much more, though I still remember it being longer. She wasn’t going to wake me; she’d just wanted to reassure herself that I was home safe (since I never bothered to call to tell her I’d be home late.)

That’s the last solid memory I have of my mom: her just standing there watching me sleep; me falling asleep feeling safe and loved.

Fighter

2006-01-13T19:48:00.000-08:00

He danced on the balls of his feet, half-crouched, arms at the ready, fists loose. Like Rocky, Joe, Evander, or The Great, Muhammad. He took a few steps toward me, faked a punch, hopped away.

“I wouldn’t have hit him, you know. I get how you feel about violence. You’re all religious and shit, that’s cool.” He couldn’t stand still. Bouncing, jabbing, hopping. “I would have laid my hand on him and blessed him. You know what I mean? Blessed him the way the Lord did in better days.” He lit up at the idea, as if even though he’d been the one to say it, the thought hadn’t really occurred to him until the words had come out of his mouth. “Yeah, blessed him, like, ‘Bless you, bless you, bless you’”—with three quick punches at his imaginary enemy – “’Bless the fuck outta you.’”

Took me ten minutes to get him to the car and another five to convince him to stop “boxing” and get inside.

He’d forget the whole thing in the morning. Me? I’d remember it.

The drive to the border. Crossing into TJ, all happy, surrounded by three of our friends, my arm wrapped around his waist. The first bar, Papas and Beer, because that was always the first bar. The bet and then the waiter sticking the bottle with the spout on one end into his mouth. Four more bars after that one.

The guard stopping us at the border on the way back, asking if he was a citizen. And him, smelling of tequila, a worm in his belly, saying what if he wasn’t, huh? What would they do about it? The police “detaining” him, pulling him away into another room.

Me showing up with money collected from my ATM and from my friends, ready to “bail” him out. Him sitting on the plastic yellow chairs, the ones that connected together, his head back against the wall. The tears on his splotchy face. The snot dribbling out of his nose, onto his upper lip and into his mouth. Him not bothering to wipe at it. Just sitting there, crying.

He wouldn't remember any of it in the morning.

The Game

2006-01-12T00:52:00.000-08:00

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette.”

“A rave downtown or a quiet picnic on the beach?”

“Picnic on the beach.”

“Rich and ugly or gorgeous and broke?”

“Easy. Rich and ugly.”

“Baseball or basketball?”

“Baseball.”

“Planetarium or Laserium?”

“Planetarium.”

“Boxers or briefs?”

“Wait, am I still answering as if I’m Claudia Schiffer?”

“Yes.”

“Neither. Trick question.”

“Aaaaaah!” moaning in pain.

“Dude, I keep telling you, there’s no way you can win this game.”

“Couple more rounds!”

“Nope. I win. You get groceries.”

5:44 Train

2006-01-10T22:55:00.000-08:00

“You need to shut the hell up!”

“I… I didn’t mean to forget.” The redhead reached over to smooth his shoulder. “Honest.”

He knocked her hand aside. “I said ‘shut up.’ What’re you going retarded now?”

Len had been listening to this for the last five minutes. Nothing else to do waiting for the commuter rail. 125th to Katonah on the Harlem line.

Len had heard many things in the last four and half years of commuting into the city: arguments, break-ups, sex behind the stairs, apologies, slurs, fights and once, on a really cold February day, someone doing the Macarena. When caught, the man had claimed he was taking dance classes for his April wedding, but none of the commuters had believed him.

The redhead sighed, putting her hands in her pockets. She looked in both directions and with a noticeable shrug she sat down beside the man and laid her head on his shoulder.

Len was moving, had the guy around the shoulder before he could fling his girlfriend off him.

“What do you want?” even with a respectable sneer.

“You don’t want to do that,” Len said amiably. Knowing what’d come next.

“Mind your own business. Bitch.”

Never failed. Len shook her head. As the train barreled into the station, she connected solidly and heard the man’s nose pop. Then he was lying on the ground clutching at the blood pouring out.

“Are you crazy?”

She ignored him. “What’s your name?” she asked the pert girl who was leaning over her man to help and was roughly pushed away.

“My name?” she asked, all wide-eyed and puffed lips. “Tana.”

Len got on the 5:44 train to Croton Falls. She’d repeat the name Tana along with the sound of the wheels all the way home.

Circus Freak

2006-01-09T13:45:00.000-08:00

She was one of those. Lord help him, it meant a long night. He wanted badly to check his watch, but he only smiled and nodded instead.

“Have you ever been?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s an amazing experience. They hang from these long ropes and they twirl and twist and bend their bodies into such amazing shapes…”

Make it stop. Please make it stop. The circus people were freaks; they obsessed over it like members in a cult. Tuning them out only worked for a little while. Eventually their voices hit a note high enough to penetrate the eardrum and make it throb in pain.

“I can tell you’re one of those people who’s made up their minds about it without ever going.”

“No, I fully intend to go,” he said. It was as likely as him getting back together with his ex-wife, the hoebag. As likely as it would be for his boss to dance naked on her desk singing “I Touch Myself”. Or for his mother to stop referring to him as Johnny-cakes.

Her eyes caught an unholy light. They sparkled with the madness of the converted. “We should go next weekend. No, I know what you’re thinking. I felt the same way. But my friend took me to Cirque du Soleil and it was just the most amazing thing ever.”

He gave in and checked his watch. 6:45. They were only on appetizers. He had hours to go before he could get home and ream his roommate for fixing him up with a co-worker.

“Oh, you’ll like her,” Charlie had said. “You two have lots in common.”

He had yet to find the commonalities. He looked at the calamari on his plate and imaged them dangling from a rope forced to writhe for the amusement of patrons. Freaks like the one seated in front of him.

He wasn’t going to last. He just knew it.

The Answer's Not Very Simple

2006-01-04T23:30:00.000-08:00

Laurie couldn’t stop laughing. Her breath hitched and she knew she was close to hyperventilating.

Dr. Mortimer was looking at her funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny as in was-she-going-funny-in-the-head and the was-it-time-to-have-her-committed funny. He had Mr. Magoo glasses, black frames and all, making his eyes look bugged out. He was perpetually quizzical with his eyes wide open and blinking in slow-mo. He couldn’t be expected to know that this was normal; they hadn’t had enough sessions together. He was her third psychiatrist in the last month.

She had this ability: the moment she entered a shrink’s office, she knew if she would be comfortable or not. The last one had chintz everywhere; the fact that it was a guy made it all the more creepy. The one before that had a crocheted picture thingy hanging on the wall: “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” In baby pink and blue stitching. Laurie had asked, “Why should I pay you when clearly it’s the Lord doing all the work?” When she got only a bucketload of sputtering and some bullshit response, she walked out the door. They tried to bill her for the session. She returned it unpaid with a note saying, “The Lord pays all my bills; charge Him.”

The hysterical laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. She wiped at the tears in the corners of her eyes with the pad of her middle finger. “I’m sorry, Dr. Mortimer.”

“I didn’t realize the question was so funny.”

“It’s not. The answer’s not very simple, you see.”

“It can be. Tell me, truthfully, what’s on your mind.”

“Right this minute? Okay. My empty checking account, bald tires on my car, the electric bill past due, hairy Hugh Jackman, outdoor cafes, Misha Barton’s nipple, the return of lycra, rotten peanuts, Kate Moss’ coke habit, the on-going war, the state of our highways, amber alerts, Heath Ledger’s scraggly beard, children left behind, colored-coded threat alerts, The Passion of the Christ, Destiny’s Child retiring, our returning veterans, George Lucas’ money, defcon one, Matthew Broderick’s career, Dick Cheney’s heart condition, the popularity of “American Idol”, Will Smith’s career, The Passion of the Jew, Macy’s White Sale, Will Smith’s ass, and global warming.”

“Hmmm.” The doctor looked very thoughtful. “Maybe we should start with something a little easier.”

Raid Chips

2006-01-03T14:38:00.000-08:00

“How long do chips last?”

“Dunno. Maybe a month if you remember to put one of those bag clips on it. How long have we had that bag?”

“Maybe three months.”

“I can’t believe food in this house has lasted that long.”

“Well, I forgot it was in the back of the cabinet when we sprayed for roaches.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“You can’t eat that.”

“Why not? Tastes fine to me.”

“That’s just gross.”

“No, really, they’re fine. Want one?”

“No.”

“OK, suit yourself.”

(pause)

“They don’t taste like Raid?”

“Nope. They’re a little soft in the middle, but other than that they’re good.”

“That’s not right.”

“Sure you don’t want one?”

“No.”

(longer pause)

“Maybe just one.”

“Well?”

“They don’t crunch.”

“Nah. Told you: a little soft in the middle.”

“Chips shouldn’t bend like that.”

“I know. Want another?”

“All right, one more and then I’m going to brush my teeth. I think we’re taking in chemicals.”

“Yeah, but there’s nothing else in the place to eat.”

“You’re right. Lean the bag this way.”

“Soft chips. Think about it: chips that babies can eat.”

“Babies shouldn’t eat chips. They’re supposed to eat stuff that’s good for them like beets and peas.”

“But beets and peas are nasty. Soft chips, mmmm.”

“Stop hogging all the big chips.”

“Can’t help it. You’re not reaching in fast enough."

“Seriously, dude, we have got to go grocery shopping.”

Flat Tire

2006-01-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

“Are you sure, ma’am, that this is your car?”

What kind of question was that? How on Earth could someone not know if a particular car was theirs or not? Seriously, who went around forgetting their own car, for fuck’s sake?

I mean, sure, it wasn’t much. Yes, all the dents and scratches on it were of my own doing, the bumper stickers placed if not lovingly then at least haphazardly on by myself, and I could tell you the exact reason the paint was peeling on the hood.

“When we enter your license plate, another name shows up. Do you know a Manny Barlow?”

Another fifteen minutes of fuming and snarling at the guy behind the counter before it finally hit me. Manny. Yeah, I knew a Manny. Ah, one of those memories that had been wiped clean many, many moons ago.

I had just moved back to the Bay Area and was driving around looking at apartments. A flat tire in the middle of the afternoon left me waiting five fucking hours for a tow truck from AAA. How was I to know that I was in El Cerrito and not Berkeley and that if you don’t give the triple-A guys the exact name of the city, they don’t just drive around looking for you? That they pack up and go and leave you sitting on the hood of your car making conversation with the guy whose house you’re stuck in front of?

The guy, Manny, had a few tips for me. Mostly of the restaurants-to-check-out-and-bars-to-go-to variety. He also offered me his Costco card number so I could get a cheap tire. I probably shouldn’t have given him my real name. And my home phone number. And I probably shouldn’t have, a few days later, had drinks with him in some dive off San Pablo, but, yeah, that’s another story. As is the one about his wife calling and harassing me for weeks after. And leaving threatening messages on the machine. Hence the Manny mind-wipe.

But the story here is that I used Manny's Costco card then to get a tire. And years later I was at a completely different Costco arguing with some 19-year-old about why they had my goddamn car listed under some other guy’s name. I could have told them the truth, but I went with the tried-and-true combination of lip-quivering tears and the dumb-blond act. Ten minutes later I was out of there, with Manny’s car.

The Getaway

2005-12-30T15:13:00.000-08:00

He didn’t take anything when he left but his favorite denim jacket and a bottle of Jägermeister. He left his leather jacket because she’d given it to him. But the denim one was his and the bottle, because fuck, yeah, Jäger.

It was better this way because she’d believe, even for a little while, that he’d be back. Dumb bitch. If she knew him at all, she’d know he didn’t care about all the other stuff. When it was time to leave, well, you just left. No thinking, no planning, no nothing. Just grab what’s important and walk out the door. No need to run or anything. Besides she wouldn’t be off work for another hour. He had plenty of time.

He stopped at the corner store to pick up some cigarettes and a bag of Cheetos. Then it was on the road, the long way out and into the desert. Where a man could think of something other than a woman hollering at him to eat some greens, to put on a clean shirt now and again, to stop at every red light. Where a man could just look out and find nothing. The hills in the distance, the prickly vegetation, even the setting sun all bleed together into a smoke-screened haze of pastels.

He burned through a tank of gas and was halfway through another when he spotted the truck. The driver was crazy flying side to side in the lane, keeping him from passing by. He spent ten minutes staring at the mudflaps – silver tipped women lounging on their asses – before he really thought about them. If she’d been in the car with him, she would have made some Thelma and Louise joke about all truckers being jerks and needing to get blown up. Then he would have had to correct her, that they shot the truck, not the trucker. And she’d argue it was the same thing and he’d be fuming inside for even remembering the movie, let alone the scene.

And it clicked into place: that’s why he’d left. Arguments about Thelma and Louise. No man should have to endure that. Not ever. And it wouldn’t matter to her anyway; she’d just find a sucker, one that would take her to weepy movies about gun-carrying women, and she’d be set.

And he had his cigarettes and his Jäger. That was all right by him.

Destruction

2005-12-23T15:10:00.000-08:00

What she needed was a sledgehammer.

She had already broken two fingernails tearing into the wood with her fingers and the back end of her hammer to pull the cabinet apart. One nail had cracked slightly and she’d pulled it off with her teeth, ripping skin with it. Perfect round drops of blood splattered onto the surface and dripped down as she pulled planks off. Flecks of red found their way into the jagged edges, looking like henna painted on the splintered ends.

When the frilly sleeve of her blouse caught for about the tenth time, the lace cuff torn to shreds, she took her shirt off. It took her half the afternoon and the piece was still mostly intact. It looked like a wooden piñata, only instead of treats inside, it was old mahogany. Rich and beautiful even in destruction. Only now it smelled of sweat and blood, of coffee and bile.

She stepped back and plucked distractedly at some splinters stuck into her belly, her shoulders, in through the soft cotton bra. Her slipper hit something that slid along the tile and stopped near the French double doors. A piece of wood lay on the marble like spilled nail polish, ruby red. Entering the rectangle of light flooding through the windowed doors, she paused to take in the warmth of the day. That the sun was shining in the west part of her house told her it was late afternoon. She’d missed her lunch meeting and her 2:30 appointment with the CFO.

Before she bent to pick up the broken piece, she knew what she’d find. The maker’s mark. Well, half of it. She clutched it in her fist, the most valuable part as damaged as the cabinet itself, and thought about crying.

But it was nearly four. She padded into the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea instead.

(A/N: a long-delayed companion to The Piece.)

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like X-mas

2005-12-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

(A/N: I have nothing new to say today. Instead I will give you this:)

Dear Aunt Mabel,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing you from the Christmas frontlines...

(BIG ASS CUT)

What kind of person just rubs his religion right in your face like that?

I was prepared. My mind is always ready for these challenges, and I knew what to do. I waited for him to ring me up, and paid my money, and got my receipt.

"Merry Christmas," I said, experimentally.

"Merry Christmas," he replied cheerfully.

I narrowed my eyes with a snarl, and with all my strength, I hit him as hard as I could with the twentyfour pack of Rudolph and Frosty paper towels.

Read the rest here: Dispatch From the War on Christmas

My First Bible

2005-12-14T12:54:00.001-08:00

The first bible I ever held was given to me by a neighbor. She lived somewhere on my block or possibly a nearby block. She would walk past our apartment building on her way to and from… wherever she needed to go. Her clothes were frequently torn or faded in places and her skirt hems were always dirty. Always.

She would stop and talk to us. Sometimes she had candies she would pull from her deep pockets. We would give her a chorus of “thank you’s” but not a one of us ever ate the licorice.

One day she asked me about god. In my most grown-up voice I explained that it depended on the season. And on the object. Different gods, you see, inhabited different things. And you prayed to various ones according to the calendar. She smiled at me and nodded. When she walked away, I felt almost three feet tall; I had educated someone for the first time.

When I saw her again, she asked me my name. She pulled out a crumpled page from her pocket and asked me to write it down. Her eyes scanned each letter and she had me repeat it out loud.

A week, maybe two, passed before she came walking by. “I have something for you,” she said. It was a beautifully bound bible with my name in gold lettering on the front cover. And the page edges were trimmed in gold.

My sister and I argued all night whether it was real gold or not. In the week that followed, I lost it somewhere. I found it the summer before we moved to California and I sold it along with a few other things on the street. I got $2 for it.

Please Help

2005-12-11T13:02:00.000-08:00

She’d seemed nice enough when she picked him up in front of the supermarket asking if he’d be willing to do a small favor for her in exchange for a warm meal. But the moment he’d entered her house he had the urge to take off. Standing by the doorway, he missed his sign (Vietnam Vet, Please Help), his corner of the world (between the exit door of the market and the Pepsi machine), he even missed the numbness in his fingers (the feeling coming back to them were stabbing pricks of pain).

The rattling in the kitchen stopped and she suddenly came out. “Have a seat, won’t you?” She gestured to her couch. “I just need another few seconds.”

“Ma’am.” He walked over and sat gingerly.

“My name’s Shirley.”

“Yes, ma’a— All right.”

She held up a finger and mouthed, “One more minute,” and vanished down the hallway.

The ceiling seemed to close in on him. It was the same with the rest of her house. Though nicely furnished, when he looked at the white walls from the corner of his eye, it looked like they were melting rivers of puss-like fluids. The carpet from here seemed nice and plush, yet when he was standing by the door, it was dingy and he would have sworn he saw pools of dried blood.

He rubbed his eyes clear and looked around. Regular walls, plants, ceiling, doors, books. Everything completely normal—

What was that? Had he just heard a guttural mewling from her bedroom?
He didn’t want to know. To take his mind off it, he focused on the couch. It was golden brown, the color of Lizzie’s hair. He used to brush it every day in the months he’d had her before she’d been taken from him. To satisfy his curiosity, he ran a hand along it. Soft. As soft as Lizzie’s.

His hand slipped between the cushions and his finger rubbed something hard. He would never take anything that didn’t belong to him. Especially not when the lady had offered him food. He wasn’t a thief.

And still he picked it up, the thing between the cushions. He was mesmerized by the way it caught every beam of light and shined it back out. It suddenly made sense – the leaking walls, the bloodstained carpeting, the feeling of dingy and cluttered sadness the house radiated.

He put the object in his pocket and made his way to the door.

“Are you still there? I’ll be right out. Thanks for being patient.”

He ran out so fast he thought he might have forgotten to close the door. He didn’t mind that his sign was still in her car or that he’d never be able to go back to his Safeway store ever again. None of it mattered. Not as much as what he had in his pocket.

Everything

2005-12-08T12:11:00.000-08:00

(A/N: OK, so I'm playing Monkey O's game. Mostly because I tend to be too lazy to think of my own topic.)

It tickled him at first, creeping along his leg. He flicked it away and turned back to the game. The Steelers were up! The weeks passed, him in front of the large screen checking the quarterly score against his pool picks, the thing wrapping around his leg. He wouldn’t have done a damn thing about it if his girlfriend hadn’t come over that Monday and shrieked when she saw it.

“There’s a plant growing out from the cushions of your couch!”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. Didn’t seem like it warranted shouting.

“Are you just going to leave it there?”

“Doesn’t really bother me.” It was actually comforting having a living thing to watch the games with. Something low-key that didn’t talk.

“You need to get rid of it, Dave. Now!”

She wouldn’t stay in the apartment after that. Waving her arms around her head, she ran down the stairs toward her Dodge Neon.

It seemed a shame to just pull it. He didn’t want it dead. But, now that he thought of it, it did seem weird: a plant growing out of his couch. Where could it have come from?

Dave got down on the ground. It seemed to be coming up through the hardwood floor. He pushed the couch back from the wall a little and sure enough, there was a gaping hole in his floor. It wasn’t there when he’d moved in two years ago. He was sure he’d have noticed that.

The new guy downstairs had moved in about two months ago. He was real quiet-like, didn’t bother Dave any. He rang the bell to apartment 1C. A strange pink light filtered out the bottom of the door and around the sides. No one answered. Dave tried the doorknob, just in case. It turned and Dave stuck his head in.

“Hello?”

“Back here.”

Dave made his way through a forest of plant. There were long, spiky ones, and small, bright green ones, large heart-shaped ones and thin, razor-sharp ones.

“Watch out for Rufus!”

Rufus? Was that a dog or a …

A plant shifted directly in front of Dave.

“What the…?”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t bite. It’s just attracted to movement.”

“Hey, who are you? And do you know about a plant growing in my couch?”

“Just make your way through to the kitchen. I’ll explain everything.”

“Everything?” Dave asked skeptically. All his life women had been promising to explain everything to him in ways he’d understand. So he wouldn’t have to think much anymore. It never worked out. Mostly because women-logic wasn’t what he’d call logical.

“Everything," the calm voice said. "Trust me, the plants are just the beginning.”

A True Story

2005-12-07T12:31:00.000-08:00

It cuts in front of me, this massive SUV. Green, the color not of tall grasses on the prairie, but that of faded leaves of a forgotten plant left on a window sill. In the middle of August. The sides of this monstrosity stretch, the way Mr. Ragghetti’s shirts would stretch across his middle when he’d turn to write on the blackboard, making his lower back look like a flattened box. Black smoke curls out of the tail pipe, like a wizard puffing leisurely on his pipe-weed after a large Hobbit meal.

And this ginormous vehicle, the color of fading leaves, stretched like Mr. R’s shirts, puffing out sooty oils, carries but a simple message. The license plate reads: ECO GIRL.

(This is true. I honestly couldn't make this shit up.)

The Last Slice

2005-11-30T00:45:00.000-08:00

Kelly wanted that last slice. Would have gladly stabbed Lenore in Human Resources if the bitch came anywhere near it. But, of course, it wasn’t as if she needed that last slice. Did anyone ever need pie? Was there such a thing as an addiction to pumpkin? Were there rehab centers for flavors of the season obsessions?

The bitch was inching closer. As if Kelly couldn’t see Lenore – all 800 pounds of plaid – making her way to the dessert table. Tapping her plastic fork, licked cleaned of all evidence of her last piece, on the edge of her Styrofoam plate. Sending out a signal, “Who, me? I’m innocent. I innocently want that last piece of pumpkin pie heaven.”

Bitch!

Now Kelly knew she could have sliced that sucker in half, so they could have shared that last piece. But, damn, she hated people who did that at office parties. As if halving a piece and stuffing it in your face and then coming back five minutes later to halve it again – and again and again – somehow muted the calories in it. Kelly wasn’t a genius, but she figured that theory of halving a distance to never reach the end didn’t work on a 1/8 slice of regular pie.

And inevitably, there was always a sliver no one ate. Wasted pie. If there was one thing she hated above all else, it was people who left a crumble of good pastry go into the trash. So in effect, she was doing a service to the slice by snatching it up.

Lenore was welcome to those glazed fruit tarts no one had touched.

The View

2005-11-26T17:02:00.000-08:00

Jess knew he should have been enjoying the view. And he was trying but, damn, man, the bumblebees.

They were everywhere. He’d gotten it into his head that he’d die there, on that two-foot ledge walkway clinging to the side of the mountain. The bees were attracted to the fragrant bushes that sprung out from the rock wall. Was it honeysuckle? Was he supposed to know what the bushes were, for fuck’s sake? He couldn’t tell a peony from a pansy.

He needed to get a grip. After all, it wouldn’t be the bees. No doubt it would be the lack of a handrail that would do him in. Shit, he thought, it was like a mile straight down. Into jagged rocks below. He could almost hear the sound his body would make when he impaled himself to death. A cross between a squish and a crunch.

It had seemed like a good idea to tell his friends to go on without him. But without them, in that moment when the silence of the world filled him, he’d heard the buzzing. No one had walked him by in over a half hour.

He was going to die here, hanging off the sheer side of a mountain, in Italy, where he had no business being, man. None whatsoever. No one else in his family had ever left the States and they were just fine for it. But, no, dumbfuck that he was, he had to go “see the world” right out of college, didn’t he?

One wrong step and he was going down. And he couldn’t call out. The bees would know he was there and come swarming around him. For now he was going to stand perfectly still.

After all, someone had to come hiking by. Sooner or later.

Friday Night

2005-11-25T17:24:00.000-08:00

What was it, anyway?

Was it those gleaming white-toothed couples on TV, talking about how something with an “e” in the name gave them peace of mind, companionship, the love of their life?

Was it those moments when you stumble across the cat lounging on your bedcovers, snuggled into a tight ball, that makes you snuggle with her, face pressed into her fur, the purrs massaging your cheeks?

Was it nights at the bar, talking with the bartender about pilgrimages, roadway signs, the inflated price of baseball players, well into the morning hours, when everyone else has gone home but you’ve one more drink in front of you, alone with the tall man behind the counter, thinking, “Maybe he’s the one…?”

Was it being shuffled by the crowd on a packed night with a paper hat elasticized under your chin, yelling “Happy New Year” to all and sundry, kissing everything that moves, pressing into bodies you wouldn’t normally touch, sloshing along, imbued with the love, the majesty of life teaming around you?

Was it a myth, compatibility, was it something manufactured and sculpted? Compromised and despised? Or pure and ephemeral?

And did she really need to be thinking about it on a Friday night hours before last call? She blamed her co-worker -- Debbie who had gone on and on about her upcoming wedding -- for putting her in this mood. Fuck it, she thought, raising a finger to order another scotch on the rocks.

Dilate

2005-10-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

She shifts the ice pack on her tender jaw, through by now it’s more rote than actual need. It’ll swell but good, in a rainbow of blacks and blues and purples. OK, not really a rainbow, but more like the range of those mood rings she wore as a child.

The fight had raged for a full half hour, him getting some good licks in, most especially to her face – the bastard – but she’d finally gotten him in the end. Yup, that sounded good to her. And it looked believable.

Of course, she couldn’t tell anyone the truth. Falling off the curb and hitting a fire hydrant because she’d had her eyes dilated – not nearly a good enough story.

The Worm

2005-09-25T23:38:00.000-07:00

It had wormed its way into my shoulder, in the space between bones. Settled comfortable without any fear of ever being dislodged. First it had started in the hand, but found it too delicate. No room for expansion. So it moved up into the elbow, but it could see bigger, better things on the horizon. And now it had found a home.

I’m sure signals have been sent to the brain alerting it of the presence. But the brain only had one thought, “Gotta get it done, gotta get it done, gotta get it done.” And it was a mating call to the worm inside. The more my brain sang out in desperation, the more the thing inside me ground out a filthy dance, shaking it’s hips in ever-widening circles, a lambada, a forbidden dance, maybe the macarena, gyrating against muscle, bone, tissue, thumping inside my blood. Until I wanted to amputate, dislocate, anything to alleviate.

But where was my brain during all this? Humming out it’s distress tune, ‘Gotta get it done.”

The Last Stop

2005-09-07T01:12:00.000-07:00

He should have taken that last exit.

The lark that had sent him out during the day was waning. No, not lark. That wasn’t manly. The drive. He had had a drive to… well, drive. Not just drive, to get well and truly lost.

Left hand on the steering wheel, the other tucked between his legs. No radio, no one else in the car. Just him. He’d taken one highway to another and another until he’d come upon one he didn’t recognize. That had been fine at 5 that evening when there had been enough light to see by. But that highway poured into a smaller one, and still smaller one, until he felt he’d been driving for days instead of just over 6 hours.

He’d landed smack in the middle of nowhere. He couldn’t see crops or trees or anything. For a few minutes he entertained himself with the thought that he was on another planet. Mars? Too close. He dismissed Venus outright. Maybe Jupiter? Although he knew it wasn’t a planet and he hadn’t seen any craters around, he liked the idea he was driving on the moon, enjoyed the thought of driving by the light of the Earth.

Hunger pangs told him dinnertime had come and passed. That last stop advertised a diner, but the highway sign had been neon yellow and pink. Pink! So he’d driven by. Lights in the distance told him more food options – better ones – loomed somewhere just beyond the next ridge.

Maybe he should have taken that last exit. But he was sure the next one would be better.

The Piece

2005-08-25T09:34:00.000-07:00

She carefully rubbed the last of the antique polish on the doors and closed them. They’d delivered it two hours ago, burly workmen that had put it down too hard, had made her wince. She’d missed two hours of work, but she couldn’t go, couldn’t not run her hands over every surface. It was curved like a woman, in like just beneath the swell of a breast, out flared like a hip, and in gently like a plump thigh. She closed her eyes and felt the magnetic pull of it call her like a siren’s song, until she'd been forced to call in late and grab the polish.

She'd fallen for this piece the moment she saw it on the other side of the showroom. Loved the owner enough to kiss his cracked lips when he promised to deliver it for free. And here it was, fitting like a dream in the entry, as if meant to be here and nowhere else. Two larger doors in the middle and six small drawers on either side, with antique gold-plated handles and hinges. The bottom left-hand drawer even had a secret compartment. She imagined hiding messages to her lover and finding them years later, reading them to herself.

She leaned close and smelled it. Musty on top, but underneath it, the smell of sea-swept journeys, singed trees, sun-baked clay, and just a hint of Chanel º5. It was the most valuable thing she owned. The symbol of her life coming together. Finally.

She didn’t know what she was thinking when she went to the garage for the hammer, didn’t think at all as she smashed into it.

Dissolve

2005-08-23T23:29:00.000-07:00

He came up too fast, his head breaking over the water, and nearly collided with the pole holding up the pier. His breath, short and gasping, mingled with the fog, merged into one. Closing his eyes against the glare of the full moon, he spead himself out and floated with the gently shifting waves.

It’d been a whim, a dare-I-or-won’t-I moment, and his pants were off, his shirt flung over his head. And he’d not so much dived in as clawed through the water, pushed his way past the cold, urged his chilled body faster. Held his breath longer than he had ever before, because in that moment breathing hadn’t been important. He’d just swam, cut through the water, floated away on a buzz-filled head.

If he turned himself around (and bothered to open his eyes) he’d see the bonfire. And the surf couldn’t completely drown out the voices. But here, one with the water, his foot occasionally tapping into the pole, where he’d push off, nothing but the salt, spray, and moonlight, he hovered in the space between living and dying. In the crack between breathing and being breathed in. He hung suspended in that time, waiting for nature to dissolve him, until he became the ocean.

Watching

2005-08-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t the same way every time. She was sure of that. But it must have the same the last few times, because he’d picked up on it. Hung back, let her lead them through the cracked-sidewalk streets, passing the Foster’s Freeze and Donut World, cutting through the alley and onto King Street.

She could feel him watching her, a burning spot on her lower back, on her ass. She’d caught a look at him from the window of Donut World, braids tight against his skull, a scraggly bread, and no body to speak of. Not even lanky, just a wooden plank. He wasn’t her type at all.

But there was something about the way he followed her, had been following her for the last three days on her way home from band practice. Yesterday she put her flute case on the ground while she pretended to tie her shoes. And then “accidentally” left it there and kept walking. But he hadn’t budged, just stood there while she came back, picked up the flute, and walked off in a huff. She looked for flashes of him in passing cars, reflected in windows. She’d have hacked off whatever was growing on his chin, but otherwise… Well, there wasn’t any harm in this. And maybe, possibly…

She smiled and added an extra wide swing to her hips as she continued on.

The Token

2005-08-22T13:28:00.000-07:00

The token fell from her and rolled along the gutter. She had to catch it. Her mother told her without that token, she would have to stay inside the train station. Forever. She didn’t like this station. It smelled the way her dad did sometimes after dinner, when he farts. Lucine knows about farts; her grandmother lived with them and she farted all the time. Before breakfast, during her afternoon soaps, at night, falling asleep watching the nightly news.

Lucine followed the token as it traveled toward the exit. Maybe it didn’t want to go to the dentist either. She couldn’t blame it. The dentist was always pulling teeth and drilling inside mouths. She’d never been to a dentist before, but her grandmother told her stories last night, about how they had big machines they clamped on your lips to keep them open. How they stuck long needles into your tongue to make it fall asleep.

The token spun in a circle and stopped rolling still a few yards from the turnstiles. Maybe it considered going as an adventure, to see if grandmother was telling the truth. Because sometimes grandmother lied. Her mother said that she couldn’t remember what actually happened so she made things up instead of asking. Lucine knew about that, too. But maybe, this time, grandmother wasn’t lying. It had sounded true.

She couldn’t take the chance. Lucine kicked the token, made it fly through the air, until it hit the metal gate at the entrance. She and the token were getting out of there.

Fire Water

2005-08-20T07:10:00.000-07:00

The angel was holding a water bottle. She unscrewed the squirt top. He felt a pulsing pain watching her lips close around the opening. His eyes followed her neck and he stuffed his hands in his pockets as her throat convulsed with each swallow. Looking away, he could feel the pain crawl up his body, spread down his hands. He ached to rub, unconsciously ran a finger along the inside stitch.

If he could only talk to his older sister about what he was feeling. But her latest crisis involved getting a haircut from a butcher. So, he decided to concentrate on anything else. But in the time it took to think of something, he was staring at her again.

She took a swig, grimacing, before taking another larger gulp.

“What is it, honey?”

The vision was talking to him.

“Uhhhh. Cou-could I have some… water, please?” Dork, that’s what his sister would call him.

His angel laughed like his dad. “This is adult water. I think there are some bottles over there, though.”

But he couldn’t look where she was pointing, could only see her long fingers curl in, her thumb resting on her middle finger until her hand formed a circle. Was he doubled-over? He felt caved in, a pool filling his middle.

Her dress brushed his arm as she walked by with her friends. He thought, momentarily, about watching her from behind (her behind!), but with a hop, he took off for the bathroom.

Teeth and Sagging Skin

2005-08-19T14:17:00.000-07:00

It not the face he hates. It’s the face of his grandmother, the same sagging skin under the eyes, the same toothy grin. It’s a face that’s been molded over the years, tempered in an indefinable way, like through a computer program, pixel by pixel. Altered, to look the same. And it was and wasn’t the same face that he pictures when he remembers. It is and isn’t the same one that he pushes away in his head, when the memories are too strong, too grasping.

He knows it’s his face, reflected to him. That the person in front of him will be him someday. And despite Picasso’s blurring effect, it’s not a face he can ever love. And though it’s not the face he hates, it is. It’s a beautiful façade. How everyone around him sees the same, remarks on the similarities. It’s a lying, deceiving face, full of grinning teeth. If he could break open that fucking deceitful exterior, the real story would come out, the one only he knows. The worms and shit would spill forth, he’s sure, the inside rotted and putrid. He doesn’t hate the face. But it’s the face he wants to smash.

Magic Cloth

2005-08-19T00:25:00.000-07:00

They say as a child, I would carry my mother's sari with me everywhere. Before she showered, she'd unravel the long cloth from her body, first off the shoulder, then pulling the folds out from her waist, and in two simple moves, she'd be undone. I believe my facination with her clothing started early. I am still amazed how it would hold her shape all day, with nothing but a single safety pin. It was a magical cloth: no buttons, eyelets, snaps.

They say that pooled on the floor, my mother's sari may have looked like any other piece of fabric, but that I was never fooled. No matter how many people came to visit, I would seek hers out. Clutching an end over my shoulder, I'd walk with it trailing four yards behind me.

And they joke that they wished they'd taken pictures of me, napping, curled on the floor, enfolded in my mother's discard, just my head visible above it.

Picasso's Blur

2005-08-18T02:00:00.000-07:00

It was as if the exposure button had been held down for years, decades and the blur in motion was the man she once remembered. But not quite right... not quite... she hated to say: human. Oh, they were all in the same place: eyes, ears, nose, mouth. But they had morphed into something she couldn't look at, not directly. To look at it straight on would have punctured her, ripped a hole somewhere, that mutation possibly filling her, into her, through her. Until she became that.

So she focused on the blurry outline that looked as if Picasso himself had reached down and lightly smudged it, ran a finger through the wet paint of him, the man before her, and just softened it. But only along the outside lines. Inside, where only she could have seen, would be something else. She knew. But she couldn't look at it. Not yet. Later, she told herself. Later, she'd look.

Tree Dancing

2005-08-12T13:49:00.000-07:00

Dana loved dancing with trees. She liked the tall, branching ones the best, forever afraid she'd crush the little tree-lets with her waffle-iron feet. She didn't touch them when she danced, but swayed with them. She knew the really strong, thick-barreled ones didn't sway. On the outside. But inside, she felt them stomp, dance, vibrate with her.

She didn't hum; she didn't hear songs. The music, orchestral, unidentifiable music, came from her, out of her, seeping out of her skin, like a sonic boom projected out to the trees. She wished she could whirl with them more, but on her street, they didn't have any trees. Nothing but concrete and brick, cars and trash cans, chain link fences and satellite dishes. The trees on the next street over were hostile. They refused to dance with her. She didn't know why.

There was a park a few blocks away, but her dad said only hobos went there. So she used her tree book -- an old school notebook filled with pictures torn from magazines -- to dance with sometimes. But it wasn't the same.

Curling Slip of His Mind

2005-08-11T19:08:00.000-07:00

The was a time, not recently because recently... well, recently, there'd been nothing, but there was a time. He could remember, on the curling slip of his mind, the one he imagined was folding over, compressing, until soon it might not exist. But for now he can see it, sepia-toned, edges faded like a TV show flashback, the beginnings of a dream. His dream, whch may have been a reality. He'd been there, that hotel, that room. That'd been him. Had he thought of it so often, not recently, because , well, recently... But had he thought it into existence? No, he could still smell the air-conditioned staleness of the room, the sequined dress on the chair by the window that wasn't his, the light that'd hit him in the eye that morning through the slit of drapes. But had he stitched those together, from other, less memorable days? Had he patch-worked a memory that had the reality of a Twilight-Zone episode? It wasn't an erotic dream, it wasn't much more than light, sequins, stale smell. So, whether it was a dream or not, why did he care? What'd it matter anyway?

Or, maybe more importantly, why had he stopped dreaming it?

The Crumbs

2005-08-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

You keep your head down. There’s nothing to be done, the conversation swirling around, the anger, the accusations. You stare at your bagel on the white paper. You spread the cream cheese on one half using the other, until it’s even. Do the same for the other half. It’s perfect. The conversation dims. No one leaves. Instead it’s as if the volume is turned down. Background noise. You take a bite, a perfect one, leaving teeth marks on the bagel. The onion bits stick to your fingers; you rub your fingers together until the bits flick off, litter the paper. But now the voices grow louder; what did you do? What did you mess up? The crumbs, the onion bits stare up at you. You pick each one, pressing them into your finger until they stick, spread them onto your bagel. There they sit on the cream cheese, toasted fake onion on white whipped cheese. You eat the bagel in measured bites, nothing rushed, nothing too big. You swallow past the ache, fill it with dough and cheese, fill your mouth with onion flavor. You chew the moment away.

Quarter Turn

2005-07-31T09:42:00.000-07:00

The curving highway, a thin railing separating the road from eternity. The urge strikes. A quick twist, not very big, maybe a quarter turn, and the car would veer. Off the edge, then hang suspended for a second. Not even that long. A millisecond. Defying the law of gravity, to be still, freed of the earth, of everything. Until the inevitable fall. But even the fall's a thrilling prospect, a descent into the unknown. It’s that that pulls, the indistinct and nebulous.

But maybe it's from those unknown depths that the strength comes, the will that keeps the hand steady on the wheel.