Give and Take “Bill, I hate these forced ratings,” Diana said. “You know it’s especially tough this year, since we’ve eliminated two director positions.”
“That does make it tough,” he said. “I’ve got the option for only one one-rating and three two-ratings,” she said. “And one three-rating,” he added. “That’s right,” she said. “Bill, this is hard, but given two of your three big initiatives this year fell short of their objectives, I have no choice but to rate you a three. I’m sorry.” Bill looked at Diana. In that moment, he saw her not as his boss, but as an intern in his group nearly 20 years earlier. Since then, he’d been Diana’s biggest advocate within CPG. “I’m sorry too,” Bill said. He looked calm, but inside Bill was dying. He had dedicated his life to this company. Over nearly 30 years, he had helped develop its biggest breakthrough products, and he’d personally hired and coached more than half the people now working in R&D. But Bill also had several strikes against him. First, he was not very ambitious. He had been a director for nearly 20 years. Now he was the oldest and most expensive R&D director in the company. Second, he routinely devoted at least half his time to developing people. Now CPG’s leaders were judged mainly on their short-term business results. Third, over the past couple of years, Bill’s biggest initiatives hadn’t reached their objectives. Bill was in charge of R&D for the company’s paper goods business, its biggest division. Paper goods had suffered two bad years in a row, and people had begun pointing fingers at R&D. Now, faced with a three-rating for the first time in his career, Bill felt humiliated. “I think we should talk about what this means for your path ahead,” Diana said. “Yes,” he said. “I guess we should.” She stood up, folded her arms and began pacing. “First,” she said, “let’s talk about your options.” “Options” was a loaded word at CPG, especially when it came to career discussions. “At this point, I see three options for you, Bill. First, you can stay in your position and try to continue to compete. But if you’re two-rated again next year ... Well, as you know, you’d be counseled out.” Counseled out? Bill felt queasy. “Second, we could try to find you another position in the company.” Hearing Diana say “we” made Bill feel CPG was a club and that his membership was tenuous. “Third, we could find a way to retire.” “Retire?” Diana stopped pacing, looked at Bill and smiled. “Not immediately,” she said. “I was thinking over the next few months or so.” “The next few months?” “Yes. I have a few retirement packages available to me. If we move on this soon, I should be able to get you full retirement benefits.” So that’s what this is about, Bill thought. They’re trying to get rid of me. Bill had indeed thought about retirement. But he still had kids in college and was hoping to work at least another few years. “Diana, this is a lot to think about,” he said. “If it’s okay, I’d like to take some time to think about what you’ve said and talk it over with a few people.” “That’s fine,” she said. “How much time do you think you’ll need?” He resented her pushiness. “I don’t know. A week?” “How about we reconvene in two days?” He was stunned by her callousness. But he said yes, and they agreed to get back together in two days. “Thank you,” she said, extending her hand. He stood up, shook her hand and looked into her eyes. He expected to see something warm there, something that reflected an appreciation for all he had done for her, maybe even a tear. But instead her eyes were cold, and he felt violated. # Bill went home that evening and talked with his wife, Karen. He told her everything. She was stunned. “How could they do this to you?” she blurted out. She wasn’t upset about Bill retiring. She welcomed that. She was upset about the way he had been treated. “I don’t know,” Bill said. “Oh, Bill,” she said, embracing him. “I’m sorry.” Over dinner, Bill told Karen he had already decided to retire. “Good,” she said. “So I guess it’s just a matter of when.” “Well, retiring in time for the holidays would be nice.” # The next morning, Bill called his financial advisor to make an appointment. He knew he had plenty of money. But now he would need to begin drawing it down sooner. That afternoon, Diana’s office called down for Bill. Her secretary said she would like to see him right away. When Bill got there, Diana was sitting at her desk. She looked dazed. Her face was pale. “Bill,” she said softly. “Please come in and shut the door.” “Is everything okay?” he asked, sitting down. “No,” she said. “I’ve just talked with Arun and Emily. They’re leaving.” Arun and Emily were R&D directors too. Bill had hired both of them. “Leaving? Why?” “Better opportunities elsewhere,” she said, “and apparently they’ve not cared much for the way they’ve been treated around here lately.” Bill knew what this meant. A defection like this could put the business at risk, and it reflected poorly on Diana. He felt bad for her. At the same time, he knew Diana’s tough ways had finally caught up with her. Bill also knew that if he left now, Diana would be toast. He looked at her face. The chill in her eyes was gone. In its place, he saw pain. “How can I help?” he said. “I knew you would ask that,” she said with a smile. They sat together and worked out a new plan. It called for Bill to take on a new role, working to strengthen the entire R&D organization, including helping Diana get the right leadership team in place. Once things were back on track, Bill would retire. Diana looked greatly relieved, and Bill was happy for her. At the same time, he had to wonder: once R&D was back in good shape, would she honor their agreement or simply cut him loose? “Diana,” he said, “there is one thing I’d like to ask of you.” “What’s that?” “I’d like a three-year guarantee on my assignment and a 25 percent pay increase.” “Are you serious?” “Yes.” “Well, Bill,” she said with a nervous laugh, “I’m game, but I’ll need approval.” “I’m trying to finalize my retirement plan,” he said. “I’ll need your answer in the morning.” She smiled. “Okay,” she said. “In that case, I’ll give you my answer now. It’s yes.” “Thank you,” he said. “Let me ask you something,” she said. “What was your answer going to be, I mean based on our conversation yesterday?” “I was going to retire.” “But you could have done that just now. Why didn’t you?” Bill leaned in and looked her in the eye. “Leaders know when to give and when to take,” he said. “I needed to see that from you today.”
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Sean Devlin is a Milwaukee based writer. His work has appeared in The Cardiff Review, Knight's Library Magazine and more. He earned a MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick, Ireland. He teaches high school composition. The Weight of a TrainHe makes fun of my stories a lot, Sam does. To start, he mocks annoyance by rolling his eyes, mouth open a bit but then smiles and settles on an elbow to listen. A nervousness shivers up my spine before telling him what I’m thinking. At the end, he smirks and lists off questions, forgetting he puts up his front. I told him once about Dickey Chappelle and how she used to jump out of planes with the military in places like Vietnam and Korea without a gun but a camera and hid in the brush snapping shots of action. Sam said, ‘Fuck’s sake,’ his eyes wide. Dickey made bets with other photographers whose troop would be shot at next. ‘Hell of a gut she had,’ Sam said to that one. Dickey’s troop walked into a trap in Chu Lai, triggering a grenade attached to a mortar and she died after shrapnel caught her neck. Nothing he could poke fun at there. Instead he jumped off the side of my truck in the driveway and tucked and rolled into the grass with his phone out and tried taking a picture once settled on his knees beside the lilac bush. ‘Imagine,’ he said. I’m the reader in the group, between me, Sam, and my younger brother Ryan. Always keeping a few copies of National Geographic or a .75 cent novel from Amstel Anne’s Books in the console of my truck. During summer, when the food co-op, diners, and coffee shops expect weekly deliveries of radishes, green beans and whatnot, I leave the farm around 5:30 a.m. arriving to my first drop-off forty-five minutes early with a thermos of coffee and a blueberry muffin and sit in my truck and read. I know it would sound silly to anyone, but I see it like I’m embezzling time from the morning, keeping it to myself and plunging into a different universe before mine opens its eyes. Something about reading stories of people from long ago and all their secrets gives me energy. I read this one book where a woman in the 1860s pushed her husband down a well because he was a prick and beat her, and she poisoned the second, because she saw some of the first one in him and figured he was already poisoned and what’s a bit more. I walk around Amstel as if my characters are up hiding in a loft somewhere only trusting me with their darknesses. Sometimes I give them my mistakes. Acting like my foolishness is theirs’ instead. They are easier to forgive. Sam tries to read. When we used to hook Uncle Paul’s boat to the truck and head for northern Minnesota, fishing gear in tow, he’d get a couple pages in while I drove but then start his own plot. He’s always wanting to make his own stories, coming up with wild plans for us. ‘Let’s start hustling the towns south of here, Eh Timmy?’ he said one night we were playing pool at Boar’s Head. He had just jumped his stripe to hit my solid into the side pocket getting himself one closer to the eight. ‘I was reading that article about that pool player Minnesota Fats and how bets don’t shake him. His game didn’t change whether it was worth a buck or a thousand, or something like that,’ he said. We don’t really have game though. I have a pretty sophisticated backspin, and Sam can jump two balls at a time and sink something close to the hole, but other than that, its wonky long shots and over-cutting the odd angles. ‘We can’t do it around here cause everyone knows us. Let’s hit Merrimoc, Pullstown, and on down. There’s loads of tables. Imagine the cash!’ he said. He had a way of pulling me into his head after he was halfway through a plan; he needed my head nods to build his confidence. Before I could say anything, he shouted, ‘The inland sharks!’ as he looked at me and pointed his cue in the direction of Lake Superior. A few nights later we went up three-hundred bucks down at a county road bar 30 miles south before two cooks on their break cleared the table in two turns leaving five of our balls untouched and our pockets empty. The one who sunk the eight, Rodney, a meager middle-aged guy with cruddy long, black hair and a patchy mustache smirked at us and bought us a round of Buds before heading back into the kitchen. We got shitfaced back at the farm with Ryan and Sam set up the tent he packed in my truck earlier in the day when he was imagining us hustling our way down Highway 13 into central Wisconsin. There’s a shyness to Sam. It makes him seem polite to others - which he is - though I know it’s because he’s always second-guessing himself. But his imagination is untamed; he’s got this hope about him, like it’s something he can carry in his pocket and rub as he starts talking. His sentences are always questions to me, building at the same point and asking, You think that’s a good idea? Ryan is close with him, but Sam is my best friend. After my brother went for a piss in the woods the night we camped on the farm, Sam got quiet and looked at me, one side of his lip upturned and his eyes a bit wet. ‘Ever wonder if farming is it?’ Drunkenly he reached for his beer, knocked it over, picked it up, took a swig and grabbed the nearest cloth-like thing and mopped up the spill. Twenty minutes later we found out it was Ryan’s sweatshirt. Sam almost drowned in Lake Superior when we were eight, and our bond was proven. We were making an evening of jumping off the dock besting each other’s cannonballs and can openers when the sky darkened and thunder stomped and the water followed suit. Sam had tried to swim out as far as he could, cause Uncle Paul was talking to a friend at the front of the dock who was asking about corn prices and wasn’t paying much attention. The sky’s face changed like crossing mom in the morning. Sam went under and I clung to the ladder crying. I looked up after I heard boots pounding the wood planks and saw Uncle Paul dive in and snatch a slippery arm before it sunk. He nearly buckled to Superior’s will himself. After Uncle Paul pumped all the water out of Sam’s lungs I wrapped my skinny arms around his shaking head and stayed there until he settled. Friendship proved raw at that age lasts a lifetime. It had been us since that day and we had plans of marrying sisters and probably growing into the dirt on the farm. Ryan would be there, too. It was only a few months ago, the three of us sat on Raspberry Hill watching the trains on the way to Duluth. It was just about two in the morning, the sky was clear and fall hadn’t given way to winter yet. The rumble of the trains was low like a song fading but never out. ‘I wonder how many people have actually said fuck it, packed a sack and hopped on the back of a train in the middle of the night to somewhere else,’ Sam said. ‘That’d be something, eh?’ Ryan said tipping a bottle back. ‘It’s great here and all. Like, quiet and I’d never wanna fully leave. But, like, imagine fucking off for a bit? See what all the fuss about California is.’ I stayed quiet and imagined how many people missed on their first jump, splayed out in the stones next to a rushing train. They were imagining it without flaw, most likely with an old Army burlap hanging over one shoulder. With one foot on a step and a hand clutching a handle, they look out at Amstel in the night: purple gauze stretched in black sky and stars shimmering above the churches and lake. ‘Imagine being run over by a train,’ Sam said, grounding me. Remember all those cartoons with people tied to the tracks and sweating rivers as the horn blasts? What if no one came to save you? Like, it just fucking happened?’ Ryan laughed, stood up. ‘Always gotta turn it depressing, don’t ya, Sammy?’ They both chuckled and Ryan walked down to the truck to get a few more beers out of the cooler. But I heard it in Sam, that lowness that he can’t help sink into when he feels something bright on a deep level. Almost like his soul is telling him, Nah, bud. You’re just as well here. Stay with what you are half decent at. Potential is just a combination of letters. A few years back, we were on that same hill, and he was on about his dad. Meth sent him into a spiral of crimes until he landed in a penitentiary in Illinois for nearly clawing his own mother’s face off for a twenty dollar bill to restore the high. Sam and his mom spent the next ten years living in a trailer past Amstel and only had clean water if it came from a well. Sam’s voice would fall an octave and his eyes would widen but look at the grass. He would tell the same story about how his mother burnt the minute rice when she was trying to make him a burrito on his sixth birthday and she threw the pan in the sink cracking the plastic and she fell to her knees bawling and he sat there with a hand on her back until she stopped. ‘I don’t know how long it took. We ate Doritos for dinner,’ he’d say with a brief, watery laugh. That same night, when he was done, I shot gunned a beer and somersaulted down the hill. When I stood up and shot my arms in the air to get a reaction, I puked. Sam nearly rolled down the hill from laughing. ‘What happens after it hits the poor fuck?’ he said. I stayed quiet. ‘I imagine it just keeps rolling. Probably a bit off kilter for a few seconds, all the bone and flesh grinding to nothing, then it just goes on,’ he said pulling a few blades of grass out of the earth. Ryan walked back up the hill and we sat in silence a bit longer watching as the trains pulled into the pines and out of sight. I imagined them both running alongside one in the middle of the night. Sam a bit slower but eventually tearing past Ryan who would stop and start rubbing his forehead. Sam would jump, hopefully catch hold, and look back with a frown but stay on and with a wave, head on out of Amstel. Ryan is fixed here. I don’t mean it in a bad way. The way people talk about those that never leave their hometown are pricks. You never hear, Oh, he never left Chicago. Stayed in the damned place his whole life. It’s always about the small-towners. As if Amstel is the first stone in a meandering pattern across a shallow river. It suits him. He’s forever walking into Hank’s Hardware and getting a wave from everyone or a free beer to start his night at any bar. He’s like grease in the town’s hinge. If he weren’t here, it would still open and close, but with him, it’s a bit smoother. Sam will leave eventually. I think I knew that even before one of them accidently shot Uncle Paul a few months back. That day sunk Ryan’s boots further into the farm’s mud. Sam up and left the night of the funeral without a fucking word. Didn’t matter what anyone in town said, even Sheriff Jolma ruled it an accident, a hunting disaster described by fate. But no one knew what to say so they always said the wrong thing. Eh, Sammy. Tough luck, man. It sure is a pity, but we know you and Ryan didn’t do nothing on purpose. Or, His mind was wandering on him, boys. Can’t tame dementia. Poor old bastard. Uncle Paul was walking in the woods when he was supposed to be sitting in a rocking chair on the porch with a mug of coffee and his Sudoku. Mom blames herself for not watching. Then people say to her, Ah, Molly. You couldn't have your eyes on him all day. Sure you have enough to worry about. And now here I am driving down Highway 13 at one a.m. looking into every bar like some jackass with a picture on my phone of a smiling Sam, the dim light of a High Life sign behind him in Boar’s Head. The drive is kind of consoling. It’s the trees. My headlights are spilling over the trunks of pines and illuminating natural paths into blackness. Maybe he is in there somewhere, saying the hell with people and going at it by himself, becoming a hermit like the guy in Maine I told him about who got caught after twenty-six years, because the camp he was stealing food from hired a security guard. Maybe it’s not childish to think about other worlds, dimensions or whatever. I bet I’m not the first to imagine pulling over, setting the keys on the hood and heading into the forest until I find my way into a new life where none of this exists. Maybe Sam is already in his new world, now it’s my turn and Ryan and Mom will eventually find theirs. The farmhouse will sit empty and fall apart with age and disappear into the dirt. Leaving in the first place is the surest decision Sam’s made in his life, and he did it without me. Was it a confidence he found in his leaving or had he lost it and now he’s a spiraling drunk shuffling in and out of every bar down 13? Maybe he’s not even in the state anymore. Fucked off west or something. Or maybe he’s fine and found himself solace in a new life and I’m the nut careening down the highway in the middle of the night in search of a single person who doesn't want anything to do with me cause the sight of me only punctures his soul; small enough where he can’t find the hole and stop the spill of everything good. That’s probably more the case than anything. Now I’m just thinking this is my way of shedding my mind of the sight of Uncle Paul’s casket, shroud in roses under a cross in the church I am not sure he ever gave a second thought to. We all know what hurts others and what doesn’t, Timmy. Go by that feeling and you’ll never be called a prick, he said to me so many times. But not anymore because he’s dead. I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing anymore. FIRST PUBLISHED IN The Knight's Library Magazine
Between Us and the Wild Beasts |
Joseph Austin is a writer and teacher. He lives in Forest Hills, NYC, with his husband, Rick, and their dog, Olive. Joseph has been previously published in Writer’s Digest, Newtown Literary, Adelaide Literary, Page and Spine, The First Line, and most recently Teach.Write, among other publications. He currently teaches English and Creative Writing to middle school students. |
Monday for Saddies, Ann-Margaret and the Universe
I eye the empty booth for myself. I know how it feels with its slashed, fake leather seats, scarred table top, a patch of stuffing bulging out along the crest of its lumpy back. Yeah, that’s my booth, all right; that should be my picture above it, not Ann-Margaret’s, like it’s been waiting for me to find it. I look at it and then the bar, which is wide and wraps toward the back. Twelve stools, maybe ten. Only four are taken.
I look at the booth again. My booth. Then the bar. I’m stuck in place. Ann-Margaret calls to me.
Sit here, sweetheart, she says to me, a giggle in her voice. The picture, though askew, is from the opening scene of Bye Bye Birdie. I can’t tell if the dress is gold or yellow from the faded magazine cut-out, but her arms are down, palms open in supplication; even at a crooked angle, Ann-Margaret’s eyes are speaking to me.
Come on over here, sweetheart. Come sit with me.
I turn my head from her. I choose the bar and I leave one stool between me and this guy wearing an expression like someone shot his mother a year ago and he hasn't gotten over it. Long hair, hanging down in sweaty strands, face low, his hand wrapped around a Corona like someone might steal it. I try not to catch his eyes. He might look back, and I’m not here for conversation, even if I'm curious as hell what the eyes of a man who looks this sad from the profile would look like from the front. Instead, I order a Jack and Coke from the bartender.
"Soda and ice?" he asks me.
"Yes. Soda. And ice," I say.
"Lots just want the Jack,” he tells me. “They just say Coke 'cause they think they should, like it's code.”
"No," I tell him. "I'll take ice and Coke in my Jack."
He doesn't smile as he makes my drink and slides it to me. I put a twenty on the bar and notice the surface is nearly covered in carved names and initials. Right in front of where I'm sitting someone took the time to carve out a large heart with the epitaph R.I.P MAMA inside of it. I wonder if the guy next to me scratched it. I steal a glance at him and think he would have been more of a Ma or a Mom than a Mama kind of guy.
I sip my drink. It’s perfect. After the day, hell the week, I've had, this crappy bar is more than perfect.
Surprisingly, I’m pleased by the complete absence of music in the place. The other four people at the bar are not speaking to each other and the bartender is looking at his phone.
“Quiet today," I say. The bartender looks up at me.
"Sucks," is his only answer. "I'm down to two nights a week here and these few afternoons. I couldn't get a tip in here today if you were a rabbi."
I laugh. He laughs with me. "Never been here before. Is this usual?"
"Tuesday nights we do trivia. That’s busier. Fridays are good for a happy hour, but it always ends by 8:30ish. The best night here is Sunday, believe it or not."
"Why Sunday?" I don't know why I'm engaging him in conversation. I came in here to drink and sulk, and yet here I am, unable to help myself. It's like even I can't stand the deep quiet.
Before the bartender can answer me, Mr. Ma or Mom answers. "Sunday's karaoke. And two-dollar Pabst."
I look at him. Sad as he looked from the back, he's quite handsome from the front. The eyes have a darkness to them, but not an angry darkness— a sort of ho-hum, stuck in the doldrums darkness— like the difference between a brown-out and a blackout.
"Sounds fun," I say.
"It is. I usually come," he says.
"What's your go-to karaoke?"
"Whitney."
"Houston?"
"Like there's another," he answers, and sips his Corona.
"This is Jayce. He does drag at Mira-Mira over on 36th Street."
Explains the hair, maybe.
“Never been to Mira-Mira. Any good?" I just sort of throw that one out there for whoever wants to answer because I'm not sure who I'm really talking. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m talking, but it suddenly feels better than the alternative. I glance back at my booth and see the white tuft of stuffing in the dimness of the bar like a surrender flag. Ann-Margaret’s outstretched hands seem to be pointing at it.
The bartender puts his phone down and pulls three shot glasses out from a shelf below. He fills them with something red.
“It’s fun. And Jayce is very good when he's not all Eeyore,” he says, pointing to Jayce with the top of the bottle.
I like this bartender.
"I'm Vince," I say. I shake the bartender's hand. He tells me his name is Phil. I like that he's not Philip.
I turn to Jayce. "Hi, Jayce. Nice to meet you."
Jayce raises his Corona instead of shaking my hand. "You, too. I guess."
Phil laughs. "Jayce is having a rough couple of days, aren't you Jayce?"
Jayce looks up at him, slides the empty bottle forward and points at it, then at himself, as if he had to gesture across a crowded room rather than just ask for another across the two-foot distance from his face to Phil's.
"Yeah. But isn't that why you came in here, too, on a Monday, Vince? Isn't that why anyone would sit in this shithole on a Monday at 2..." he taps the top of his phone..."2:23 on a Monday afternoon?" Jayce says, taking the new beer.
"Hey!" Phil says.
"Oh, it's not a shithole?"
Phil just shrugs.
Jayce slugs his beer and turns to me. He really is good looking. Almost pretty. I watch as Phil places the shots before us and then pours one for himself.
"To shitholes," he says, and we all shoot down the awfully sweet red liquor. It burns both my throat and my eyes. Then, like it was a syrupy elixir, Jayce opens up.
"Yeah, it's been a rough few days. My boyfriend left me. I was working two jobs to put his ass through grad school, doing drag for shit money and tips, and then, out of nowhere, bye. Bye. That was it. Came home to find him packing and telling me he took a fucking job in Atlanta. Dream job. We weren't really going to work out anyway, didn't I think? Yeah. Pretty fucking shitty few days.”
I feel bad for him, but I'm glad his mother is okay. I don't know what to say.
"Wow," is the best I can muster.
"Yeah. Fucking wow."
"'nother?" Phil asks, but doesn't really wait, the red shit is sliding toward Jayce and then toward me. Phil doesn't join us on this one. Instead, he walks to where the other Eeyores are seated and gets them their next drinks. Two beers and a vodka tonic. He's back quickly.
"So, what are you going to do?" I ask. Shit. There I go. Talking again. Dammit.
"What can I do? He wants to go, he goes. Didn’t ask me to go with him. Didn’t ask what I wanted. He just left."
"But he has to pay you back," I tell him.
"Yeah, like that's going to happen."
"Sue him. This is America. People sue for getting paper cuts on McDonald's napkins, for Christ’s sake."
Jayce looks at me. "Sue him for the tuition?"
"You didn't get the degree. He did. He owes you the money."
Jayce’s eyes lock onto mine. The darkness slides from them a bit, and, with that lightness I notice for the first time that they are a stunning shade of green. He is very pretty, but I want to cut his hair.
"You think I have a case?”
Phil chimes in. "Sue his skinny ass."
"That ass has gotten bigger in the last two years," Jayce comments with a spitting sound in his voice. "On food and drink I bought."
"Are you telling me he was a full-time student? Didn’t even contribute to your home?" I ask.
"Exactly."
"Sue his ass, then beat it," I say. "Has he moved yet?"
"Next week. He's still packing. He's staying at his mother's apartment on the west side."
"Went home to mommy. Aww," Phil says.
"Nah, she doesn't live there. It's empty. Been empty for three years. She just holds onto it in case she comes to visit. It's a crappy little studio."
"Serve him with papers before he leaves. That'll rock his world."
"Do you really think I have a case? I mean, we lived together."
"Married?"
"No."
"So, maybe. Talk to a lawyer. See. Maybe even just the legal fees will be enough.”
"Do it!" Phil shouts.
Jayce looks like he's actually considering it, but then the darkness slides in again and he's thinking about the fact that he probably still loves the guy and I know exactly what's going on inside of him. His heart is fighting with itself. One part is devoted; the other part is broken and he's all Eeyore.
Same fucking reason I'm sitting in this shithole on a Monday afternoon.
"I say give it a shot. I'm going through the same shit, but there's no case for me. No lawyer. No nothing. You can't sue a boyfriend for cheating on you."
Jayce looks at me. "Sorry."
"Yeah, sorry for you, too," I say. "I should have gone to work today. I should have done a lot of things, but instead I called in, slept late, ate a crappy breakfast, then came here. I wanted to sit somewhere dark and quiet. I just wanted to drink and not be home."
I look back at my lonely booth, but Phil’s words pull me back.
"Well, I'm glad that this place opens at noon. Seems all the saddies needed a place today. Those three over there," he says, leaning in conspiratorially, "have not said a word since they walked in. The guy in the black shirt hasn't stopped texting since he sat down. I think that battery is about to die. The guy in the Superman t-shirt has been writing on the napkins for about thirty minutes. That pen has been non-stop. He's used a thousand of my fucking napkins, like they grow on trees," he says.
"They do," Jayce reminds him.
“Shut up, asshole. Guy should buy a fucking journal! And that other guy, with the dark glasses, he's the reason the music is off. He told me if I couldn't make it lower could I turn it off because he swears if he hears even one thing other than silence for the next hour or so, he's going to go crazy. It's too damn quiet in here."
All I can think to say is, "Saddies. I like that word."
"Just made it up this minute," Phil says, and laughs. I guess we were all just talking and laughing a little too much because Mr. Dark Glasses gets up, tosses one single dollar bill on the bar and leaves. The moment the door closes, Phil turns the music on. It's Tina Turner's Private Dancer.
The other two guys at the bar, Black shirt and Napkin Writer sort of perk up a bit. Phil walks down to their side of the bar and says, loudly: "Come on down here, boys. Sit with us. Making me walk back and forth is bullshit.”
Silently, they do as they are told. Napkin Writer sits next to me. Black shirt sits next to Jayce. There is still the one stool between us. Phil lines up five shot glasses.
"The place is a dead today. I don't care if I give this shit away. Everyone's so goddamn morose, these are on me."
It's the first time I really look at Phil. He's easily older than I am, and looks like he weighs no more than 140 pounds after a trip to the buffet. He's also short and balding and he blinks a lot. I mean a lot. But there is something so kind about his face that you just have to smile along with him. As he continues talking about the still unknown red shit we're drinking, I think that he seems like someone I'd love to be friends with.
Black Shirt says, "Thanks, man."
Napkin Writer slides his pen into the pocket of his cargo shorts, then wipes a hand on his Superman shirt. I see smudges of ink on his fingertips.
"Jesus, the four of us are a friggin' bunch of sad-ass idiots, aren't we?" I say. "Middle of the day and our mopey asses are in a bar. Bars are supposed to be fun. Yeah, I just found out two days ago that my boyfriend of four years has been cheating on me for three months. Yeah, it sucks and I'm not going to forgive him any time soon, if ever. I broke up with him and that’s really shitty because I love him and he broke my fucking heart. And this one...." I point to Jayce. "Same old story there, but he more or less robbed him for two years."
"Damn right he robbed me."
"So what're your tales of woe?" I ask the other two.
Black Shirt goes first. "Lost my job yesterday. I've got no savings and rent is due. It wasn't a great job, but it paid my bills.”
"Sucks."
"Sucks," he agrees.
Napkin Writer looks up at us. "One more shot and I'll tell my tale." Phil obliges.
"So," he begins, "I'm getting drunk on a Monday afternoon because I'm 41 years old and I just came out to my mother and she told me not to bother calling her again. Told me to go pray and when God answers, I can call her."
"You win," I say. "Damn. You win, Superman. Okay, this round's on me, Phil. Line those bitches up."
"And turn up this music," Jayce says. “That fuckface is gone."
"You guys got any friends you can call?" Phil asks. "Get this place packed?" He laughs at his own joke, knowing the four of us sitting here don't have that many friends, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting in the Shithole on a Monday with broken hearts and wallets.
Tina turns into ABBA. Phil turns it up. He sets the drinks before the four saddies and then reaches behind the bar again and pulls out a large empty bowl. He fills it with the contents of a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, my favorite.
"Okay, Superman. What's your name?" I say.
"Funny enough, it's Clark," he says.
All five of us laugh. Even Jayce smiles, but I'm not sure if it's because of Clark or ABBA.
"And you, Mr. Unemployed?"
"Billy."
"So here we are," I say. "Vince, Billy, Jayce, Clark and Phil. I walked in here to brood and cry and get drunk. But I meet Jayce who has it worse than me, then Billy who has it worse than both of us, then Clark who has it worst of all. Maybe this is the universe telling us something," I offer.
"Oh shit," Jayce says. "I hate when the fucking universe talks to me. It never works out the way you think it should."
I laugh. "Maybe it’s serendipity. Mr. Dark-Glasses-No-Music was not supposed to be part of this little gathering. He had to leave to make room for the universe to do its job."
"Are you drunk?" Phil asks me.
“Not yet, but here’s hoping,” I laugh. “I'm wondering why the hell, of all the places...."
"Don't go all Casablanca," Billy says. "Don't even," he laughs and in front of Jayce and slaps a hand down in front of me on the bar.
"I won't. But, doesn't it seem weird to that we walked in here on the same day to drown our sorrows, and end up drinking and laughing together?”
"And listening to ABBA," Jayce says.
Clark says, "Fuck my mother and her church," and raises his glass.
"Let's all fuck Clark's mother!" Billy says, and even Clark laughs.
"Wait, let me get a drink," Phil says. "I'm not missing this toast!"
We all laugh, clink glasses and laugh some more.
"Fuck rent!" Billy says.
"Fuck boyfriends!" I say and Jayce seconds it.
"Fuck ABBA," Phil says.
* * *
I reach up and touch the picture of Ann-Margaret. The frame shutters a bit under my fingers, but stays on the wall. It’s greasy, probably years of smoke left from all the decades before, but Ann-Margaret doesn’t move at all inside the cheap frame; she’s as young and beautiful as ever. The table is scarred and filled with names and dates and curse words, carved through the years, lost and found loves etched forever. I run my finger over some of the engravings. My glass of Jack and Coke is sweating and some of the condensation has inched toward the edge of my journal. I look down at the page. I wrote far more than I seem to remember writing. I look at the names on the table and up at Ann-Margaret again. Some of the names on the table: J.C. + Phil. Billy/Vince is written in a heart. There's a Superman logo carved deeply at the far end of the table. Kilroy is carved near the edge, but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him with glasses.
I look at the bartender. He's swiping right and left on his phone. The four people sitting there are still apart from one another. I look at my glass. I look at the bartender.
He doesn't look my way, so I suppose if I need another, I have to get up. I do.
"One more," I say, sliding the wet glass across the bar.
He doesn't say anything at all. He just slides a new one at me and I slide him $5. It's happy hour. The drink is four and I let him keep the change. As I head back to my booth, I look at my characters at the bar. Jayce's hair is still down and hiding his pretty face. Mr. No-Music is still here. Clark and Billy are still busy ignoring each other, but both have their phones out. I get to my table. I read through what's in my journal.
I quietly sip my drink with Ann-Margaret. I pick up my pen.
"No matter what, guys, even if we never see each other again," I write, "we are friends now and we are going to...."
I cross it out. I look at all I've written again, flipping through the pages and turn to see my story sitting at the bar. I close my journal. It's one of those small books with a clasp and it fits neatly into the pocket of my cargo shorts. I slide the pen down beside it, hoping it doesn't leak. I always buy shit pens that leak. I need to rethink my pen purchases.
I stand.
Looking at the bar, my new drink in my hand, I think about the five other people here. Who are they really? Why are they here? If I go over there will I only be the next silent guy at the bar? It’s an active choice to leave Ann-Margaret, who has been smiling down at me with that cute kitten-ish smile, that red hair that inspired imagination. It’s a nearly disabling choice to walk away from the only booth in the bar, to go and try to be a Vince for a change.
I sip my drink and feel the weight of my journal against my leg. It's lighter than the weight of so many other things I carry that I almost don't notice it anymore, and maybe because once they go in the journal, they leave me. But they come back again and wait to become my next story or that play I won’t finish or the poem I will ultimately hate. Poetry is the absolutely the worst fucking thing in the universe to create when all you want to do is write everything out of your head. It’s structured. It’s demanding. I wonder if Ann-Margaret likes poetry.
Now, I’m standing, stuck between the booth and the bar. I’m not moving, just standing in the middle of a this damp, dark bar where no one else is standing, except the bartender. I know I look weird. I understand that because I’m used to it. I could finish my drink and go home and write this ending. I like this story. I like the people I found here.
Out of habit, my hand reaches toward the pocket of my shorts, but I stop myself at the pocket flap. I feel the tension of the twist in my torso, my body leaning to the bar, my feet pointing toward the door.
I choose the bar. It’s difficult to make my legs move.
The bartender looks at me. "Why don't you sit here at the whore's table?" he asks me.
"Whore's table? Did you just say whore's table?"
The bartender laughs. "Jesus, no. I said horse stable. You know, the old joke, right? A horse walks into a bar...."
"...And the bartender says..." I say.
"Why the long face?" we both say at the same time. I laugh, and notice he's laughing, too.
Real world Jayce laughs as well, and mumbles, "Whore's table," and lets out a chortle.
"Sit, I'll get you a fresh one," the bartender says. He repeats the two words again, laughing to himself, shaking his head as he turns to grab the bottle of Jack.
"It does sound like that," Real world Jayce says. "That's funny. Never thought of it before."
"Never had a reason to," I say.
"And I guess we all do have long faces in here.”
"Well, we are drinking on a Monday afternoon," I add.
"True. True."
The bartender slides the drink toward me. He resumes his business on his phone.
"I'm Alex," I say to Jayce, though I don’t know how I did that. I usually don’t know how to start conversations. I can write them, create them, talk a shit-storm on paper, but, in person, I stammer, choke, hide. I’m sick with social ineptitude.
"Michael." He just nods, but rethinks that and raises his beer bottle.
"Nice to meet you, Michael.”.
"Welcome to the Whore's Table," he says.
I press my leg against the side of the barstool until the shapes of my journal and pen are impressed into my thigh. I hold my leg tightly in that position as Michael asks me a question, but I don’t understand the words through the pressure I’m purposely inflicting. I have to filter them through my brain and process them one by one: SO. ARE. YOU. A. WRITER?
Liquid courage is required. I sip twice.
“I like to think I’m a writer,” I answer him.
“Saw you scribbling your hand off over there.”
“I guess Ann-Margaret is my muse,” I say, and Michael smiles.
“Do you know why that’s the Ann-Margaret booth?” he asks me.
“No idea.”
“Well, according to the stories, when they filmed Bye Bye Birdie in New York, she and Dick Van Dyke came here and sat at that booth. Wasn’t a gay bar then, I don’t think, but that’s why it’s the only one left here. They got rid of the rest of them a long time ago. They couldn’t part with the Ann-Margaret booth.”
I now press both of my leg against the bar stool. I almost choke on my own spit, but hold off the cough. I feel my eyes water.
“You okay?” Michael says, leaning in.
“…uh…uh…yeah,” I sputter. “My mother would love to sit in that booth,” I say. “She loves Ann-Margaret.”
“Bring her in.”
“We haven’t spoken in years.” I feel my hand going toward my pocket, but instead, I pull my leg away from the metal of the stool, let the journal slide. I sip my drink. I put both hands up on the bar and rub at the ink on my fingers. I turn my head. Ann-Margaret is beseeching me from her crooked frame, her faded dress:
Oh, Alex, pick your universe already, sweetheart, she implores.
“Sorry,” he says, and I just nod at first, because I’m not sure if he said sorry or called me a saddie. My hand itches to want to write that down because I can’t disagree.
“Can I buy the next?” Michael asks me.
I want to say so much. I want this moment to be much more than it is, but I say the only words I feel are real.
“Thank you.”
After years of struggling to be a struggling artist, Alexi threw in the towel. Then 2020 hit and he said, what the hell, if the world is ending, might as well live like you're dying! Alexi would like to thank the Divine, his family, Scarlet Leaf, the academy and the new world order for contributing all encouragement, inspiration and fodder for his first published piece. He would also like to acknowledge that being a TEFL teacher has forced him to hone his grasp of the English language not only to convince non-native speakers that he knows something but also to make his literary, fantasy world more accessible to the literate. He hopes you concur. |
Too Distant
30 seconds. That was all Mark needed to reach 15 minutes of fame. That was his life goal, his life's role, as far as he could tell. All those commercials, voice overs, and cameos had to add up to something, especially since he had never made it beyond his brief forays into the world of art and celebrity. It seemed easy, but the 30 seconds had somehow stretched into 30 years, and, at almost 50, it didn't seem likely that that day would ever come. That's why he had been holed up the past 3 years: waiting for that 30 seconds of recorded inspiration and exposure.
He could have remained a recluse indefinitely, since no one else seemed to care or consider him anymore. But he finally had reached his breaking point. It wasn't that he had run out of food. It wasn't the lack of electricity or running water. It wasn't the unpaid bills and the recent eviction notice. It wasn't the darkness, the isolation or the looming sense of failure. Mark had finally realized that he couldn't go on without toilet paper, and he needed some desperately.
In the 3 years since he had descended into isolation, he had only left his apartment for 30 second weekly trash runs to the trash chute 20 feet down the hall. Restricting himself to a self-imposed quarantine was the only way he knew how to deal with the lingering feeling of futility, and not a soul had dared to come near. Even his next door neighbor, who had dutifully continued their arrangement to deliver Mark’s mail to his door, based on the agreement to do so when Mark was out of town, presumed one day Mark would finally emerge from wherever he was and return the favor with the DVDs he promised 3 years ago. Mark was content leaving their exchange indefinitely unsettled.
While Mark had managed to remain undetected for so long, he had begun to reach the limits of reclusive survival. He had already been somewhat of a hoarder and had stashed enough food and water so that he was relatively prepared for his indefinite venture into the life of the unseen. What he failed to anticipate was the soft, gentle comfort of a wipe with plush toilet paper. Even though he questioned the merits of human interaction, he still had a soft spot in his heart for quality bath tissue. Part of him had reached a point where he could have gone on living as such for the rest of his life, bleak as that seemed. When he had run out of toilet paper months ago, he had resorted to newspaper and scrap paper from the mail. Soon after, he winced every time he tried to wipe, sharp corners and harsh edges leaving their mark rather than leaving him clean. Going without, especially when he had been forced to abandon bathing, was just as bad. He had finally reached the limit to how filthy he could feel.
He checked the calendar he had been keeping. It was April 1st. He gently peeled the blinds back. Although his window primarily faced the side of the building next door, if he leaned all the way to the left he could see past the alley into a sliver of life beyond. The sky was blue, the grass in the park behind the building was green. It was surprisingly empty for a Sunday.
Mark rummaged through the pile of clothes in his bedroom and found a coat suitable enough to wear outside, neither completely crusted over nor wreaking of lingering dankness; he didn’t even bother to change out of the sweat suit that served as his perpetual day-and-evening wear. He then rummaged throughout his apartment for loose change, stowing it in his coat pocket. It was his weekly trash run, but after dropping his bag down the chute he continued towards the stairs. He made his first trip down the central stairs in 3 years and with a deep breath of angst opened the door to the outside world. A gentle breeze rustled his gnarled hair and matted beard. He covered his eyes, forgetting how bright the sun was and the necessity of sunglasses at such times. He tried to remember where there was a place to get toilet paper nearby. He figured the Shop Fresh supermarket a few blocks away would be a suitable destination and headed in that direction.
He was surprised to find no one out. One car drove by, its occupants looking startled and avoiding eye contact. He peered into darkened salons, shops and restaurants. They all seemed to relay the same message: "Due to these unprecedented times, we have chosen to close for the safety of our customers." He wondered if some calamity had unfolded while he was in hiding. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a barbershop window and was relieved no one else was out; he looked like a ghost disguised as a dust bunny.
He arrived at the supermarket to find a line of masked, bewildered patrons. He got in line and surveyed the scene.
"Sir, you're too close!" he backed away from the woman in front as she eyed him, nervously adjusting her surgical mask.
"What is this line for?" he asked.
"Cart sanitizing," she answered tersely.
"Oh, ok." Mark got out of line, neither needing a cart nor wanting to enter a new phase of glumness that seemed to possess the other patrons. He entered the store and things seemed relatively normal. As he wandered around, searching for toilet paper, he was surprised to find certain aisles more barren than others. He couldn't figure out what all of the taped x's on the ground were supposed to indicate. This didn't seem a likely place to host an elaborate Easter Egg hunt.
He found what he presumed to be the aisle with toilet paper, but the shelves were bare. An employee happened to be heading down the aisle, eyes fixed ahead, equipped with his personal protection as he leaned on a cart of items to be stocked.
"Excuse me, where is the toilet paper?" Mark asked.
"We're out," the employee replied, forlorn as he continued rolling down the aisle.
"When will you be getting more?" Mark beckoned, the man about to round the corner to head to another aisle.
The man stopped and, without straightening from the cart, turned his head towards Mark. "I have no idea when it will be coming," he replied, ominously. The employee resumed his roll and disappeared from the aisle.
Had something happened while Mark was dealing with his demons? Had he somehow returned to a post-apocalyptic world? He hurried out of the supermarket, continuing in the same direction. He found the Drug Rite pharmacy another few blocks away and went in. It was a small family pharmacy, but he was surprised to find no one inside. The cashier in the front didn't seem to notice him as she was furiously spraying and wiping down the counter, lost in a seeming battle with OCD. The pharmacy was similar to the supermarket: shelves were bare of various staples and comfort foods like canned goods, chips and soft drinks. He found the toilet paper section and was ecstatic to find two six packs of toilet paper. Then he looked at the price.
"20 dollars!" He had only scrounged up a little over 5 dollars in change before heading out. He walked back to the pharmacist. "Is that the only toilet paper you have here?" he asked, still bewildered at what was happening.
"Yes, unfortunately the supply is very limited," she replied, somewhat sympathetic to his plight. "You really should be wearing a mask, though."
He frowned, indignant that somehow he, solely seeking to clean his posterior, was now implicated in this pandemonium he had no idea had been transpiring. He stormed out, trying to figure out where he could find some toilet paper. He wandered the streets looking for hope in a roll, his rear itch intensifying with each step. He rounded a corner and saw a couple walking their dog towards him. They quickly shifted to the opposite side of the street, continuing in the same direction. Was it him? Did he seem too crazed with his hair? Could they smell his coat? He sniffed around his underarm and could detect nothing overly piquant amid the surrounding aromas.
Avoidance be damned, he desperately sought their help. "Um, hello? " he called out to the couple, having started walking into the middle of the street. They had backed away from him, as though he were a homeless zombie about to attack, and he stopped where he was. They froze, startled at the unexpected contact. "Do you know where I can get some toilet paper?"
The woman spoke frantically, but Mark couldn't understand what she was saying through her mask. Her male counterpart detected Mark's confusion and lowered his mask enough to be audible. "Did you try the Shop Fresh?"
"Yes, they're out!" Mark yelled from the middle of the street.
"How about the Drug Rite?"
"I can't afford it."
The man scrunched his face, intent on helping this crazed stranger while leaving as soon as possible. "The Dollar Holler down the street might have some. It's a few blocks that way." The man pointed in the opposite direction Mark was heading.
Mark vaguely recalled passing the dollar store during past outings, never having had much of a reason to enter before. "Thank you!" Mark yelled as the couple nodded, hastily resuming their walk. Mark stared at them briefly, wondering how people with masks made out of skull-adorned fabric could be scared of him. He then hurried in the opposite direction to find the dollar store and relieve himself of his accumulating discomfort. What he failed to anticipate was finding the dollar store in a state similar to the other sites.
"Sir, we're only allowing 10 people in the store at a time. Please wait in line." The woman collecting and wiping carts pointed to the back of the line. He shuffled to the back, counting 22 people as he passed them. As he watched people exit and enter the store, he figured he'd be waiting there at least an hour. Time seemed to slow as people gradually moved forward and more filed to the back. He had no problem keeping his distance given his appearance. When it was finally his turn to enter, he hurried in through the sliding doors.
"Toilet paper?" he asked the cashier.
"Aisle 10." she replied monotonously; he wondered if this was a regular question for her now. He rushed to the aisle and found two rolls of two ply sitting on the bottom shelf. At two dollars a piece, he could easily afford both and puzzled at how something could cost more than a dollar in a dollar store. He quickly snapped out of his analysis when another woman arrived and reached for the rolls.
"Hey, I need a roll!" Mark whined.
"So do I and so does my son!" The woman snapped.
"Please!" his eyes pleaded for sympathy. She had none. As she turned to make her way to the checkout, Mark grabbed the arm that had the rolls and her shopping basket.
"Give it to me or else!" He growled. His mangy appearance finally had merit and, in disgust, she tossed a roll behind her, tearing away her arm as she disappeared down the aisle. He lunged at the roll as it rolled away and clutched it with both hands, hungrily carrying it to the checkout lanes. When he arrived, the woman who had taken the roll was checking out. She gathered her bags and glared at him before turning towards the doors.
"That's it?" asked the cashier, surprised that a seemingly homeless man would be so desperate for toilet paper.
"Yes." he replied.
"That will be 2 dollars and 12 cents." Mark counted out his change as the patrons behind him began to let out exasperated sighs. He handed the change to the cashier, also disappointed as she dropped it from her gloved hands into the respective register slots. She tore off the receipt and thrust it towards him.
"Have a nice day." she said, solemnly.
"You too!" It was the first time Mark had felt cheerful in over 3 years. As he left the store and made his way past the line, he began to feel the lightness of hope. A teenage boy in a hoodie stood at the end of the line, eyeing Mark suspiciously as he passed. Mark smiled and continued on his way. He didn't know how long his roll would last or what he would do next, but he was finally starting to feel like he was emerging from the darkness that had consumed him and entering a newer, cleaner, brighter phase of life.
As he rounded the corner to return to his apartment, a car raced past him down the street and stopped at the end. It was a one-way street and the car was going the wrong way; Mark slowed, wondering if something bad was happening. As he turned to check over his shoulder, the boy who he had passed on his way out raced past him, snatching the roll from his hands. Mark tried to chase after him, but 3 days without eating had left him exhausted. The boy quickly reached the car parked at the end of the street and jumped into the passenger side. It raced away, and Mark thought he saw the woman who had surrendered the roll.
Had Mark not become so immediately frenzied at the situation, he might have been able to at least note the car's license plate. All he felt now was an even greater despair and fear for the future than when he had entered his solitude. He stopped, wondering what he would do, could do, or should do. He felt fragile and hopeless, realizing that he was no better off in the middle of the street as he was back in his apartment. As he meandered through the streets, he saw a police station and figured they might be able to at least track down the suspect if not offer some spare toilet paper. As he approached the steps that led up to the station, an officer emerged from behind the glass doors.
"I'm sorry sir, but only essential personnel are allowed in at this time." He announced through his authoritative, black mask.
"Someone just stole a roll of toilet paper from me!" Mark pleaded. Under other circumstances, the officer might have laughed and returned to his post, offering Mark some snide reassurance that the roll would turn up; given the uncertainty of these times, he at least managed some tact.
"Well sir, do you have a description of who stole it?"
"I'm not really sure. I can't remember his face," he lamented, his mind fading due to nerves and fatigue, "and I only saw the back of the boy in the hoodie before he got in the car."
"Do you have the license plate number?"
"No."
"Did you see who was driving?"
"I'm not sure. I couldn't really see." Mark sighed, exasperated at his plight, uncertain of whether to accuse the woman from the store.
"Well, I'm sorry sir, but unless you want to file a police report there isn't much we can do, especially regarding a roll of toilet paper."
Mark was beginning to wonder if this was all a part of some ill-conceived April fool's prank. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He turned to return to his apartment.
"You know, they probably have some toilet paper at the Shop Fresh!" the officer yelled as he retreated to his original post behind the entrance doors.
"They're out." Mark mumbled to himself. No point explaining the hardship of trying to acquire toilet paper at the present time. He walked the rest of the way back to his apartment feeling even emptier than when he had left. Part of him felt like he was caught in some bizarre hoax and the other part felt like he was still living in a nightmare. The world seemed to have gone mad while he was avoiding the world.
Mark opened the door of his apartment, shuffled over to his sofa and began to cry.
"I'm not even essential!" he wailed. "What am I good for? Do I even matter?" He had finally reached the point he had never imagined reaching. He now had fewer than five dollars to his name and a couple weeks until he would be evicted. What little worth he had had vanished with that roll.
He looked at the window and saw a wall. That was it, his life as cold, stationary and hardened as bricks and mortar. He got up and leaned to the left to look out the window. The sky was now overcast. He couldn't take the darkness anymore and went out to the hall. He went up the stairs to the roof top patio, where he had occasionally gone in years past to get some fresh air and perspective. He opened the door and felt the splatter of a rain drop.
As he walked further onto the patio, he saw a woman standing on the edge, clutching herself. There was a man on the top of the building next door, talking to her across the alley. Mark, stopped, not sure what was happening. Was she trying to jump, too? Could he not even lament and succumb to his own grief in private?
Almost instantly, his despair morphed into rage, jealousy and disgust. He was through with people, with their conniving ways. He wasn't going to be undone by some witless twit in a black dress. What did she have to complain about anyway? As he walked to the edge, he felt his heart pound. How was he going to stop this? He had to say something!
"Enough! Get down from there now!" he shouted, his anger channeling his waning reserves of energy. The woman and her attempted rescuer froze, neither expecting anyone to intrude in this intervention. The woman turned slightly, then slipped backwards off the ledge. While it seemed that she would have safely landed onto the patio, her contact with a safer surface was followed by a crack and crash as she disappeared through the roof.
"Oh my God, oh my God!" shouted her impromptu crisis interventionist, clutching himself hysterically. "What did you do?" he shouted at Mark. Mark looked at the man with an emotionless face. What had he done? The man began to pace hysterically, uncertain of how to now resolve the situation with an alley and a roof between him and this mysterious woman. Mark rushed over. The man took out his phone and frantically dialed for the police.
Mark stared down this bizarrely placed shaft, and vaguely recalled the skylight that was positioned over the stairwells. Some of the apartments had balconies that extended into this stairwell and the woman had miraculously landed on this balcony. As Mark peered down, he saw her frantically banging on the door to the balcony. No one was answering.
"Are you okay?" he shouted. The brief rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Some sun was protruding through the clouds and, as the afflicted woman looked up, all she saw was Mark's long, bedraggled hair illuminated by the light. She had never had much faith in anything before, but it seemed that her guardian angel might have arrived.
"I'm stuck!" she answered. Mark looked around. The balcony was too high to get her down from the stairwell, but the railing around it could help.
"Don't do anything, the police are coming!" shouted the man across the way. For some reason, he waved his arms frantically, as though he would get their attention with Mark turned away from him and the woman out of sight.
Mark had to do something. "Here, if you climb onto the railing, I can pull you up."
"What?" You're going to get me killed!" she shouted. Mark frowned, flustered that now her life was stopping her from taking action.
"Come on, you can do it!" Mark leaned through the hole, his legs wrapped around a vent protruding a few feet away. As his arms dangled, the woman eyed him nervously. For some reason, she feared this fall more than the one that awaited her moments before.
She approached the railing and cautiously lifted one leg onto the railing. The balcony was not high, only 10 feet above the floor below, but there was another railing directly underneath. The known seemed more treacherous than the unknown. She reached up and caught one of Mark's hands, then stepped up with her other foot. She felt herself slipping and flailed, clutching his other hand.
Mark squeezed his body with all his might. "I got you, let's go!"
Sirens had preceded the arrival of emergency personnel as Mark was in the midst of the rescue. A few police officers and 2 EMTs, all masked and gloved, rushed onto the patio and turned towards Mark. The man on the other building couldn't believe what was happening and turned his phone to film, in case anyone needed any damning evidence.
As Mark pulled, an officer arrived and grabbed her arm with both of his. Another arrived to grab her other arm and she seemed to float onto the patio as Mark crumpled backwards to accommodate. He let go and looked up, her dress barely obscuring her genitals. It was the closest he had come to such a heavenly view in a long time.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" It was the officer from the station.
"Yes, yes, I mean, oh my God," she didn't know what to say, and could only stare at Mark in disbelief, "you saved me!"
The man across the way put his phone down, 15 seconds in. He whimpered, defeated that he would not be credited with saving her life. He stifled his tears, wondering if he would ever again get a chance to be a hero.
The officer looked down at Mark, the lowly figure he had encountered before.
"Sir, how did you get here?" The officer thought he was stalking the woman.
"I live here!" he replied indignantly. The officer's eyebrows raised, perplexed at that arrangement.
He looked at the woman. She was miraculously unscathed, no scratches, bruises or any damage. "Ma'am, what happened here? Do you want to file a police report?"
"Well, I was," she drifted off, staring at her now-departing, aspiring crisis counselor, "in a bad place and then I fell through the glass. He saved me!" She beamed. Mark just sat and stared, his eyes slowly creeping up to meet hers.
"Well, sir, congratulations." The officer extended his gloved hand towards Mark and, as Mark took his, he lifted him to his feet.
"Thanks, I guess." He smiled, not knowing exactly how to feel.
The officers exchanged a few words, then spoke to the EMTs. "Ma'am, we're going to take you to the hospital to make sure everything's okay, okay?"
"I feel fine." The sun was shining on them and she was squinting as she wiped away tears.
The officer from the station was doing his best to stay calm in this confusing situation. "Ma'am, it's just procedure. It's for your best." He gently placed a hand on her elbow and gently tugged her away from the glass and towards the door to the patio. Two other officers remained to document the scene as Mark just stared at those departing.
Something compelled him to follow. As the door closed on the officer and EMTs, Mark jumped to his feet and raced to the door. He followed them down the stairs until he reached his floor, another officer hurrying after him. He lingered in the stairwell as he watched them descend.
The officer from the station, realizing that Mark was following them, turned as the group continued down the stairs. "Make sure you follow social distancing." The officer reminded him. Mark couldn't believe it. He had just helped to save a life, and now he was being told to stay away from other people.
"What's your name?" He called to the girl he saved. The group of emergency personnel slowed and looked at each other, confused as to who Mark was addressing.
"Emily!" She yelled as she, the officer and the EMTs disappeared down the stairwell. Mark stared down the empty stairwell and tried to recall what had just happened. Was he a hero? It was hard to feel like one when he still needed some toilet paper.
2.
10 days passed. After his rescue, Mark had discovered some crackers and tuna stowed away in the bottom of his bathroom closet. How and why they had ended up there, he had no idea. His final rations only lasted him a week. With his leftover change, he debated whether to get food or to try and get some toilet paper, too. Without food, he really didn't need toilet paper; without food, toilet paper was the least of his worries.
His stomach finally had enough. He was lean, mean and needed something to eat. He scrounged through is clothes pile once again, settling on some crispy jeans and a long-ago worn flannel. He peered out his window to check the weather. It was another, surprisingly sunny day; at least Mother nature was still cheerful.
As he was putting on his coat, there was a knock on the door. He winced. His eviction notice was nearing its limit. He supposed it was the apartment manager with the police. He didn't know what he was going to do. Maybe he could plead for their mercy so he could at least get something to eat. Perhaps starvation yielded more sympathy than toilet paper theft.
As he put his arms through his coat, he peered through the fisheye. There was a well-dressed woman with a mask and a microphone and a man with a mask and a camera. Another well-dressed woman with a police officer were spaced apart further away down the hall. He stepped back. Was he being set up? Mark opened the door and they stepped back.
"Oh, sorry, wrong apartment." said the woman, turning to flee from Mark's haggard state.
"No, Donna. I think he's the guy. From the video." replied the camera guy.
"From the video?" asked Mark. He wasn't sure whether he should clarify if they were the eviction team; it was a conversation he didn't need to start.
"Oh, yeah." said the woman, wincing at the stale dankness emanating from Mark's darkened hovel. He closed the door and she seemed somewhat relieved. "Alright Jake, are we ready to roll?"
"Yup, ready when you are." Jake, the camera guy, steadied his camera on his shoulder.
"We are here with the mysterious rooftop hero from last week's daring rescue. Sir, could you just tell us your name?"
"Um, Mark Kram."
"Mark, what was going through your mind in that moment when you decided, and this is with social distancing in the back of your mind I'm sure, when you decided to reach through a broken skylight and rescue Emily Yemil, your fellow tenant?"
Everyone stared. Should he tell them that he had reached a point of oblivion only moments before and had contemplated the same fate as Emily, only to then find himself enraged that he couldn't even find peace in that moment? How could he then explain his subconscious drive to help Emily who, in their brief time together, had captured his heart? "Well, I don't know, I just thought I should do something."
"Well Mark, that was certainly an impressive thing to do. Were you concerned at all given the health advisories regarding the recent pandemic?"
"Pandemic? I don't know what you're talking about." He wasn't sure how he could explain the disconnect resulting from intentionally isolating himself from the world for the past 3 years. Donna and Jake just looked at each other, puzzled.
"Mark, had you known Emily before your heroic rescue?"
"No, unfortunately."
"Well Mark, your act of kindness has certainly inspired a lot of people during these challenging times. Mark is there anything you'd like to say for people who want to know how they can help others?"
Mark deliberated for a few seconds. "No, I'm just hungry and need toilet paper."
"Well, that certainly is the concern of many of us these days." Everyone chuckled except Mark. "Mark, thank you for your service. And, to commemorate this event, we are here with Mayor Royam and Officer Reciffo to present this civic honor."
Donna stepped aside as the Mayor stepped forward, careful to maintain six feet of separation. "I know we can't shake hands to congratulate you, but we just wanted to present you with this certificate of appreciation to recognize your heroic act. We also have a 100 dollar gift card for Shop Fresh since we were told you are among those struggling during these times."
Mark's eyes widened in amazement. This was almost as good as winning the lottery. He could eat! They might even have toilet paper! He was so happy he reached to hug the Mayor, who froze, not wanting to break the social distancing protocol. Mark stopped, recognizing the apparently overzealous awkwardness and gladly took the envelope containing the gift certificate and gift card from the Mayor's grabber.
"Wow, thank you so much!" he beamed.
Donna stepped in so she could wrap up the story and move onto something more interesting. "Mayor is there anything you'd like to share to inspire the struggling citizens today?"
The Mayor, tactful and unfazed by Mark's oblivion, stepped a little closer while trying to be distant enough. "Sorry, just trying to be distant," she laughed, "I just want to congratulate Mark on his acts and remind everyone that we're all in this together. Whatever you can do, whenever you can do it, just do it. Thank you, to everyone, for your service."
"Thank you Mayor. And there you have it, we can all still be heroes in these difficult times. From news you can use, I'm Donna Annod.
"Got it. You're good." said Jake as he stared through the camera before lowering it.
Relieved of recognizing this unexpected, reclusive hero, everyone turned to leave. Mark was curious to know why this had happened.
"Why is everyone so distant?" He asked as the news team and the Mayor were walking away.
"The virus?" offered Jake, figuring that was sensible enough.
"Virus? Oh." Mark didn't want to reveal too much ignorance.
"Where's this Emily?"
"Last we heard she's in the hospital. She tested positive for the virus." replied Officer Reciffo.
"Which hospital?"
"Faith Regional." the officer nodded.
Mark nodded as well. "And how long was that shot?" he asked Jake.
"Um, I'd say it was about 45 seconds or so. Give or take a few."
Mark's eyes began to widen. His day was getting even better.
"I did it. I did it! I'm free!!" Mark shot his arms up into the air.
Everyone stared at each other, then at Mark. They weren't sure if he was celebrating their departure or Emily's downfall, but no one was interested in asking further. Donna broke the awkward tension. "Hey Mark, great job. If you have any more questions, just contact the station. Action news, ok?" She nodded, then turned, and everyone followed suit.
Mark was so elated he forgot that he was hungry. He did it! He finally did IT! He had finally reached the only milestone he had ever set for himself. Now he was free and could spend his days in contentment, liberated from pursuing the limelight. But what about Emily?
Mark turned to go into his apartment, figuring he might put something else on to go to the hospital. Then he realized that he didn't have any other suitable options and turned again. Did he need anything? Was he going to be allowed inside with all of this unexpected pandemonium?
He hurried down the stairs and the street was still. Everything was beginning to make sense now. It wasn't a post-apocalyptic world. It was just a crazed world on pause. He was so energized he began to jog, his memory returning of the city. Faith Regional was a good 20 minute walk away. He started to slow down, his body retracting from his lack of reserves. He walked briskly and arrived at the hospital, staring up at its looming bleakness.
As he was about to turn down the walkway that led to the emergency room, he was stopped by a security officer.
"Sir, no visitors allowed at this time."
"None? What about Emily?" Apparently, Mark’s recent fame hadn’t reached everyone.
"Sir, you will have to contact the hospital. They will put you in touch with her."
Mark stared, dazed at his stalled luck. Perhaps that was all he would extract from this moment: the culmination of an accumulated 15 minutes of fame and a gift card. No love though. Maybe his new fame would keep the eviction at bay, he hoped.
As he turned to walk back, a car pulled up beside the vacant curb. "Mark, is that you?"
Mark turned and scrunched his face at the familiar face ducking down behind a partially opened passenger window to be seen and to see him. "Leslie?"
"Mark? You don't even say hello to your mother?"
"Mom?" He had overlooked her in the passenger seat? She was just as sour as the last time they had spoken.
"We’ve been trying to track you down. We just saw you on the news. We had no idea where you were." Leslie reported.
"How can a son do that to his mother? Not even talk to her for 3 years?" he was surprised at the tears welling up in her eyes. She had never seemed to care about his presence before his absence.
Mark was beginning to find himself in the same position he had been in 3 years ago when Leslie had left and his mother had continued her campaign to remind him of his life's failures. In an inexplicable sequence of events, she had moved in with Leslie whose presence did little to dampen the angst between her and her son. He wasn’t sure why she had joined Leslie on this trip, but her mask and gloves somewhat dampened the harshness of the scowl that surely lurked beneath.
"What are you doing here anyway?" asked Leslie, turning off the car.
"I came here to see Emily."
"Emily who?" Leslie was surprised that anyone named Emily would be involved with Mark in his present state.
"Emily, Emily," he tried to remember the name they mentioned, "Mealy? Yammy-"
"Yemil? You know Emily Yemil?"
"Well, not really, but that's the name of the girl I saved." He nodded, proud despite their complete lack of significant connection.
"Emily is my half sister! She's supposed to be getting out of the hospital today."
Mark's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Well that's strange -"
Before he could elaborate further, the doors to the emergency room opened and a woman in a wheelchair being pushed by what looked like a woman wrapped in plastic wrap emerged. The security attendant pointed in Leslie and Mark's direction, and the wrapped woman began wheeling the patient to them.
"Emily!" Leslie called out, recognizing and waving. She was too excited and nervous to internalize that Emily was not in the mood for waving or any arm raising.
Mark watched in disbelief as Emily was wheeled towards the street where the car waited. Leslie hurried around the car, putting on gloves and a face mask, as she quickly opened the door. Mark stepped back to accommodate, startled by how quickly Emily had gone from vital and vibrant, albeit less than mentally sound, to pallid and exhausted.
The nurse's aide parked the wheelchair in front of the open back seat and gingerly helped Emily out of the wheelchair and into the back seat. The aide then retrieved some disinfectant wipes stashed in the back of the wheelchair and began furiously wiping it down before beginning the trek back to the hospital. As Leslie began to close the door, Emily turned slightly towards Mark.
"How could you. You gave me the virus! You almost killed me!! I'll never forgive you!!!" Her voice was weak and raspy but direct as Mark stood, startled. What virus? How could he give her a virus? They had barely interacted!
Leslie closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side. Mark moved towards the passenger side, but his mother sat behind a closed door and window.
"Mom? Are you going with them?" He wasn't sure what to do in this situation, not having anticipated encountering his mother as well as his former flame and the most recent object of his affection, now an apparent adversary.
His mother sat shaking her head, not even making eye contact. "I don't want to talk to you. I'm ashamed! You make me sick!" Her moans were muffled by the mask and the glass.
"Sorry for the rush. Let's talk soon, okay?" Leslie added delicately given all that was just exchanged. She slipped into the driver's seat and closed the door. The car started and they were off, disappearing from Mark's life as quickly as they had just entered it.
Mark stood, alone on the sidewalk, uncertain where to go now. He was as alone as when he had started the day, more certain about the fate of that which had been uncertain but unsure about that which was exposed. Having at least fulfilled his life-time goal of 15 minutes of camera time, and whatever fame that suggested, he could at least move onto other things. He could finally emerge from his reclusive refuge and put the past behind him. Then again, amid his own downfall, near demise and his contribution to the woes of others, he wondered how much better things could get.
The only thing that matched the intensity of his present life's frustrations was the discomfort of his backside. He felt the gift card in his pocket and immediately felt his stomach rumble. He would buy some groceries, buy some toilet paper, enjoy what food he could fill himself with, and then contemplate what else was left to do with his life. He turned and headed towards the Shop Fresh and his apartment, the oncoming clouds dappled with the palette of the setting sun. Life wasn't so bad, he mused. He just needed a new direction. More importantly, as he was reminded by each step, he needed some toilet paper.
GOOD MORNING
The knocking was at the top right of my head, just above my forehead and right below my hairline. It was drilling in, trying to break through my skin. The sharp pain I could handle, but I quickly realized that this pain would be accompanied by the spaciness – a day of not being fully “there”. As I lay face up, I grabbed onto the sheets under me to keep from spinning off the bed.
Then came the impending sense of doom. Shutting my eyes even tighter, which only seemed to increase the speed of the spinning, I wracked what was left of my brain for any possible idea of where I might be.
I considered how long I could stay like this. I thought I might be able to go the long haul. Not forever, but I could play the waiting game until this feeling that engulfs me every Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and, sometimes, Monday morning would pass. It might be one of the short ones that could turn into being bearable around one or two in the afternoon. I realized that was unlikely as I felt a balloon expand inside my noggin and press against my skull, desperate for release.
This was going to be a long one. One of those wake up, guzzle water, piss, guzzle water, hunch over the toilet, breathe heavy, wonder whether it is the hangover that is causing me to consider throwing up or the fact that I just pumped a day-and-a-half’s worth of water into my stomach, pace, continue breathing heavy, look out a window and picture myself living life, being functional, being a “person,” pace, get back in bed, and lie on my side until the sun goes down and I could finally feel acceptable being in bed as I would then be in line with the rest of world. One of those days.
I forced my eyes open, but had to close them and start again, much slower this time. I eased them open, with the pain of the light shooting into my eyeballs slightly more bearable. I met the beige, peeling ceiling above me. I’m not quite sure how a ceiling can get dirty, but this one managed to do it. This was my ceiling.
I saw those old glow-in-the-dark stars scattered about, like you might find in a child’s room, which was not entirely inappropriate. They were not put up by me and I was sure they would remain many tenants past me. One wouldn’t normally notice, but I spend a fair amount of my time staring at the ceiling – either stewing or recovering.
I realized I was not alone. I slowly turned my head, slow enough for it not to fall off, and saw a mess of blonde hair as far away from me as possible without falling off the bed. She was wrapped tightly in my covers. She seemed quite cold. I didn’t want to talk to her.
But clearly I got laid. I felt good. This was enough to live on for a few weeks, or a month. Or longer.
I had to get out of that bed, which was placed in the far right corner of my room. I was against the wall. Bracing myself, I slowly sat up, slid down the bed, and reached with my feet for the floor. This was not difficult, as I had no bed frame and not far to travel. There was no worry about squeaking because there were no springs to squeak. This was convenient at the moment, but generally I wished I had the squeak, so when I was fucking I could remind myself, yes, you are fucking.
I made it down the bed, onto the floor, and stood up without making a noise. I was dizzy but proud of my progress. I leaned on my desk just in front of my bed for some support and indeed found a little extra support – some unidentified powder from the night before.
There were two likely options. Smart man’s money was on Adderall, a gift from one of my “ADHD” friends. If I were lucky, it may have been cocaine. From the aggressiveness of the pounding in my head and the heaviness of my breathing, that didn’t seem entirely out of the question.
I found my khaki shorts on the ground and dug into them. Phone. Wallet. Keys. All there. I was glad, but surprised. I pulled out my wallet and removed my student ID.
The powder was scattered and sparse. Residue, really, but desperate times. I scrounged what was on the table with my ID into a single little chode of a line and sniffed it up. The powder did its dance around my brain and I felt good. I was about to give my desk, my unexpected benefactor, a nice little knock of appreciation when I quickly stopped myself, remembering my company.
She really did look cold, with my covers pulled so tightly against her I worried she might rip through them.
I looked in my closet and found an extra blanket. It looked dirty. I give it a whiff. It was musty. I rubbed my palm against it. Soft. It would do.
Carefully, I spread the blanket over her like I was setting up a secret picnic, letting the blanket softly drape over her without making a sound.
I quickly sat down at my desk chair, legs pacing, enjoying a reprieve from the spaciness and trying to use the few moments of sharp mind to think about what could have happened the night before.
It was Friday morning, so the previous night was Thursday night, which meant an “open party.” Anyone, any girl, was welcome. Typically we had our parties, socials, with a specific sorority, which brought its benefits. You knew the pool of who was coming and could plan, do some pre-outreach ahead of the party. You may have had a girl, or a couple, that were reliable. You’d see them on campus and give a nod or a little smile, maybe. But come a few shots of cheap liquor and off-brand soda and you could suddenly reconnect. You could say “Heyyyy!” and give her a hug with hands lingering on the small of her back, just a little too long, to let her know that something may happen. You’d ask her how long she’s been here and nod to music and then dance to that music and then make out to that music, far more aggressively than you ever could outside of the dark lights and safety of a fraternity basement.
But open parties, however, brought with them a sense of endless possibility. Anyone could show up. Your past, your present, your future, your “Introduction to Jewish Studies” group project partner you were able to make smile, slightly, once, during your freshmen year and with whom you haven’t made real eye contact since.
It was Thursday and I, along with the rest of campus, was antsy. Four long, hard days of classes behind me, I had earned the right to unwind. I started drinking steadily starting around 8pm with the brothers in our chapter house basement.
After a few beers, four or five, I felt my face get warmer and my speech become a bit more prolific. I was discussing politics – one of my favorite topics. It was an election year and I had some liberal opinions which was I delivering in an impressive manner to my right-leaning brothers.
I was on my soapbox and it made me feel good. I was defending the poor, the disenfranchised, the struggling against my friends’, my brothers’, stance that entitlements needed cutting, “fucking bums” needed to get motivated, and the system needed to “look out for the middle class.” These prep schoolers lamenting that the world would be a better place if the government would just “fuck off.” That I don’t even know the damage universal healthcare would do. So bad, Tommy. So fucking bad. Do you know that doctors can’t even get rich anymore?
Our discourse came to a halt when I was given “the look” by Chip. We pledged together a few semesters back and I learned quickly that he’d been diagnosed at a young age with an aggressive case of attention deficit disorder, and thus given enough Adderall to make Sarah Palin be able to read “Oh, the Places You’ll Go” all the way through without stumbling.
That look, a raise of the eyebrows from across the room that said we are going to put something funny up our nose and have a good time. Though conservative in politics, Chip was liberal with his stash and knew I rarely needed to be asked twice. We stole away to my room, crushed up a 20mg instant release over my dark brown Bed, Bath, and Beyond table that my poor mother so excitedly gave to me before moving me into the house. We lined them up and snorted them quickly.
With my belly full of cheap beer and brain full of prescription focus medication, I was ready to walk into a house full of my friends and girls.
I was not an awkward guy, but I did not possess the natural ability of many of my friends to score the top-tier girls I might normally jerk off to. I had my moments. I had sex, memories that I lived off for a few months at a time, assuring myself that, yes, I am a sexually active and desirable man, but I needed a little help to get me there. Most people needed help for things.
I walked up to the house speedily, excited, through the dirty kitchen, a bit anxious but still excited, into the living room, where I imagined a family of five used to have their Christmas mornings. The night had already begun. It was 11pm, people were talking and nodding and starting to dance.
The lights were dim, a neon purple, and made people feel like what they were dancing on was not, in fact, a three-year-old ottoman from Ikea. Girls gyrated for the guys, or for their girlfriends, or for themselves, or whatever they felt like believing, being free. We got to watch all the same. Hopefully participate.
I was too sober. I walked over to the long table by a window that was covered with a trash bag to hide our activities. Three pledges were filling shooters.
“Two,” I said, while grabbing a beer from the cooler next to them.
I cracked open the beer and threw it down my gullet, while the pledges mixed me up two shooters. I watched them do it. Orange generic soda, a splash of lemon-lime generic soda, and the lowest quality vodka sold in northern New York. They nervously held them up to me.
“Are these going to be good?” I asked.
They exchanged glances and mumbled something resembling, “Yeah.”
I generally wasn’t mean to the pledges. I wasn’t intimidating by looks or personality and there was always something off to me about yelling at a guy who could kick the shit out of me had I not pledged three semesters before him.
I set down the quarter of my beer that was left and grabbed the shooters. My hands were a little shaky. I turned around to see if there was a partner to join me. There was a group of three girls a couple steps away. Two in short shorts, showing off their impressive legs. The other in skinny jeans. I liked the skinny jeans look for some reason. I felt like I was supposed to be with a girl that might wear skinny jeans to a Thursday night fraternity party.
The jeans were not a sign of modesty. She had on one of those tops where the neckline plunged down the chest and just when you thought it might stop, it kept going, down, down, with the two opposite sides of fabric coming together just above the belly button.
Her tits looked good. Somewhere between a big B and a small C. I didn’t know the exact measurements of tit sizes. She had blonde hair, long, straight, made ready for the night. Green eyes. She was perfect. Not tell your grandkids how perfect their grandmother was the first time you saw her “perfect.” But maybe have a realistic shot at getting laid and feel halfway decent about it “perfect.”
I had never understood the “perfect girl” notion – how seemingly countless people had seen the “perfect” girl and gone through impossible feats just to talk to her. If I saw a girl that I thought was genuinely perfect, talking to her would be the farthest thing from my mind. I’d avoid eye contact at all costs until I was certain she wasn’t looking, and then I would briefly rest my eyes on her beauty. Then I would drink heavily and try to find some stimulants to shove up my nose and then maybe consider giving it a shot.
I made brief eye contact with my perfect girl and as soon as our eyes met, I quickly looked away, back at the pledges. I threw back both of the shooters. They were awful.
“Jesus,” I said as I threw the Dixie cups on the ground. They all got in a crouch-like position as if it were going to take three able-bodied eighteen year olds to pick up two paper cups. I glared at them. I was in the mood to be built up.
“Sorry,” one said. He had a thick neck and wavy blonde hair. His tan from the summer was on its last legs. He had been an all-state lacrosse player and had a high school story about a hot senior that gave him a hand job in the back of their auditorium during a morning assembly his sophomore year. Now, he was being intimidated at by a twenty-year-old, high school tennis B-squader with small shoulders and a slight beer gut.
“I don’t want you to be sorry, I just want you to do it right,” I encouraged him as I lined up three paper cups, “This time I have to drink three of them, so I don’t want them to taste like the last round. It’s not that hard. I know you can do this.” I was speaking to the troops, rallying a losing team at halftime. If I didn’t talk to them, someone else would get them and it would be worse.
They lined up the new drinks. I took the first one and it was better. I took the second one. I held up the third one and asked, “Who’ll join me?”
“I’m in,” my thick-necked friend offered.
“Great,” I replied as I grabbed a red solo cup and poured the shot in. I reached for the bottle of vodka and filled the cup three-quarters of the way up. I put in a small splash of lemon-lime. “Cheers,” I said with a smile. He looked at me questioningly.
“No one should have to take a shot like you gave me…man.” I either didn’t remember his name or never knew it in the first place.
He stared at the drink and looked back up at me. With a villain-like coolness, I said very softly, “Drink the fucking drink.” I realized how idiotic I sounded. I got like this sometimes when I had a strong buzz on. I knew this kid’s night and next morning were about to be ruined. But it was too late – I had to follow through. They had to respect the brothers. Weakness couldn’t be shown.
He held it up and took a gulp, followed by another gulp, and another. I slowly tilted the bottom of the cup up higher and higher, watching his Adam’s apple move faster. It was spilling out of his mouth. When he was finished he looked at me with watery eyes. It was likely the volume of liquid, but I thought I might have broken just a little bit of his spirit. I was half guilty and half proud. Being half proud made me feel that much more guilty.
“Remember this,” I told him. I gave them all a smirk and a nod, before smoothly turning to see if the girl had seen me educate my future brothers. She was still there, her body facing my direction. I was sure she was impressed.
I wasn’t quite drunk enough. I walked with increasing speed through the living room crowd and found the basement door. The bass was thumping loud from the floor below. I walked down the creaky, wooden stairs.
The relatively small basement contained an absurd amount of people. If there was a fire code we sure as fuck didn’t know it. There was another bar with more pledges, making shooters. From midway down the stairs I could gaze upon the sea of people. In the middle, pairs were grinding against each other, sweaty, horny, and not knowing their partner’s name.
Where normally these people would, at best, awkwardly glance at each other when walking down a hallway, these young stallions were pressing their manhood against the girls, who were loving it, feeding it. Moving their hips in a circular motion and making the guys harder. They were not embarrassed of what they were feeling pressed against them but embracing it, knowing that they were sexy. They were causing this physical reaction. They could have it if they wanted to. They had the power.
The outer wall of people stood like preschoolers hesitantly waiting to jump into a game of double-dutch. Hesitant, curious, drinking heavier and faster until they felt ready, were ready to jump in and take part.
The cement walls were covered in black-light paint and gave the basement an air of a rave. Not a real rave, where the suppressed lose themselves and find temporary companionship. This was a rave of privilege. Our drug was the knowledge that we could do something like this on a Thursday night. That there were others in a dorm room lounge or at the campus bowling night. Our drug was not freedom from suppression but a celebration of ourselves for having found each other. Our drug was also drugs.
I found a cooler towards the corner of a basement and lingered around it, throwing back a few more beers. I traded small talk with my friends, my brothers.
“Good turn out tonight.”
“Some are looking good.”
“She’s here?”
“Is she still with her boyfriend?”
“Are they talking or are they fucking?”
“Are they fucking or are they together?”
“Are they really together or just, like, together?”
I had a few more in me and waded around the party. I was bopping around, trying to make eye contact with someone. Nodding my head, swaying my body a bit. Enough to not be standing still, but not enough to be full on dancing by myself.
My vision was getting a little blurry, but it was mainly the dark lights. I was okay. I was wobbling a bit, just like everyone else. I asked someone if they had any blow. No blow? Some Adderall? No? No Adderall? Vyvanse? Ritalin? Something? Caffeine tablets? I heard you can crush them up and you wouldn’t know the difference.
I found something. I was in a room upstairs with three or four of my brothers. We were standing around a bed rubbing our hands together and breathing heavy as someone emptied out a pile onto a mirror on the bed and we all did a line.
I hurried out of the room to find the girl, my girl. I was almost certain we had made eye contact. We made a connection without words. I began to doubt myself. Did we make eye contact? Yes, for sure.
I was in the basement. It had emptied out a bit, but was still crowded enough to not let anyone feel exposed while dancing. I didn’t see her immediately but my heart was racing. I saw her two friends, the ones in the short shorts, but she wasn’t with them.
I ran back upstairs. My friends were still there. They were talking fast, of dreams and plans and girls that were waiting downstairs for them. I felt at home and at ease, we were all feeling this together. Truly together.
I’d been in this room, or rooms like this, doing this, many times before. Me and a few of the boys doing blow, blowski, lines, snow, booger sugar, nose beers, or any other of the multitude of names to distract from the fact that we were doing something that would have been absolutely inconceivable just two years ago.
I convinced whoever was lining them up the first time that I needed another one, just one more. I didn’t get enough the first time. Begrudgingly he took the bag out of his pocket.
“Let me,” I offered and snatched the bag away. I turned my back to the rest of the room and looked for a surface. Nothing. “I’m just gonna do a little bump,” I said. I reached in my pocket, pulled out my keys, and jammed them into the bag. I pulled it out and balanced a little tower on the key of the home to which I’d be returning in a few short months for summer. This was a good-sized one, but I felt everyone looking at me, trying to guess how much I had taken out for myself. I raised my shoulders trying to create as much of a wall as possible.
With the precision that only experience could give, I guided the key to my nostril, and sniffed in quickly. Both my hands clenched hard, my right around my keys, the left around the bag. I felt great and needed to capitalize while the feeling was still fresh.
I ran into the basement, looking for the girl. I knew I was fucked up, but so was everyone. That was the point.
I stumbled around the basement, while only 700 square feet it seemed immense with the crowds.
Then I saw her. She had Chip back up in a corner. She was facing him. His hand was on her ass and it looked like her hand was either on his thigh or his cock.
Then I was talking to Chip. He looked back at me confused. I said something and he told me to, “Fuck off and relax. Take the rest of the night off.”
I turned away from them and looked at the crowd. They had formed either into pairs or into groups of girls that clearly weren’t going to be broken up into pairs. I looked at the staircase, wooden and dirty. I walked toward it and stopped at the cooler of beer at its base.
I plunged my hand in. It was mostly melted water at this point, but I found a beer. I cracked it, downed it, and was already onto my next.
I was thinking maybe Chip really was right as I continued to pour down the second half of the beer. But with each gulp there was the potential for something to happen. Something I would never forget. The potential that this could be the night that something amazing, ridiculous, wild happened. The whole reason I was at this college, with these guys, in this basement in the first place. A story I’d bring up forever. A go-to anecdote. It was the unknown and I wanted to know it. Each drop got me closer and I wanted to get there.
I threw down the empty can. I grabbed another, cracked it, and before it was even fully open it was up to my mouth. I was close to the end of it when my heart stopped. The coke. I have it. Still in my, thankfully, dry left hand. I ran out of the room so fast I never gave it back.
I lunged past the pairs and the huddles and found the basement bathroom. There was a line of two girls.
“Please,” I said. I am not sure whether my face conveyed extreme urgency, was clearly fucked up, or I naturally looked like someone who would have explosive diarrhea at two o’clock in the morning, but they moved aside.
I was bouncing in line. As soon as the creaky door opened I rushed in and looked at the sink. Disgusting. It would do.
I took my shirtsleeve and rubbed it aggressively against the porcelain sink to sterilize it and took out the bag. I remembered that the goddamn basement bathroom door hadn’t been able to lock for the past four months and no one ever got around to fixing it or, more likely, getting it fixed.
The bathroom was fairly small. Balancing on my right leg, I outstretched my left leg backwards to hold the door like a crazed flamingo. I looked at the bag. It had a few lines’ worth, but I didn’t have much time. I dumped it all out on the sink and made a fat one. This would last me. I pulled out my wallet. No bills. Fine.
I held my left nostril and skimmed the surface with my right, pulling up as much as possible with no apparatus to help me. I felt it. I looked down and there was more.
Still holding off any intruder with my left leg, I plunged my whole face against the surface of the sink and violently sniffed, moving my nostril back and forth against the sink to try and get everything. It was gone. I did it.
Quick mirror check. Jesus. The whole right side of my nose and the better part of my right check bone were sufficiently flowered. I turned on the sink to wash myself off but thought better of it. I licked my hands and then wiped down my face, rubbing my fingers against my gums after every wipe.
I flew out of the bathroom back onto the scene. It was beautiful. The purple lights were intense and illuminated the dwindling number of people remaining just perfectly. You could see their sweat shining and their desires along with it. I wanted a better view.
I ran up the staircase and looked down upon my scene. This was mine. I’d been chosen to be a part of this. They all started to gravitate toward the center of the basement. There were still pairs and huddles, but they were all much closer, knowing they were all in this night together. They danced and they smiled and moved and grabbed and held onto each other in this dirty basement away from the rest of the world. We were dancing on the outskirts of society, knowing as soon as we were ready, society would be there with open arms to greet us.
A girl moved to the cooler. She was blonde, average build, looked like she had a decent chest. I didn’t recognize her. I ran down the stairs.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi,” she said.
We were dancing, each holding the other’s waist with one hand, a beer in the other. I went in. Her mouth tasted fruity and her tongue carried the sugar of a bad shooter.
I grabbed her ass. She started to pull away, playfully, but I pulled her in closer. She turned around and pressed her ass against me. I kept my hand on her waist and moved as she moved. I pulled her blonde hair off her right shoulder and kissed her neck.
I took her by the hand and led her up the stairs for another shooter. I threw up “two” to a pledge. We sucked them down.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
“Home?” she toyed.
“Yeah, I’m at the house,” I told her.
“Whose house?” she asked.
“The chapter house, babe,” I assured her. My stomach sank at “babe,” but she didn’t flinch and I was grateful.
“Ummmm,” she went, “Okay, we can go for a little.”
We went.
I swung open the door to my room, still holding her hand. I felt a force pull back from me. She was hanging on the doorframe, being coy. She wanted me to take charge.
I pulled her hand off the doorframe, pulled her whole body against me, and kissed her. I reached toward the door and swung it closed, pushing her against it as soon as it was shut. I was hard and pressed myself against her, feeling the door rattle behind her. It was old and shook easily. I was sure my brothers could hear me, which I liked.
I stepped back and threw her on the bed. As soon as her back hit my bed I was on top of her, kissing her, and grinding against her. She was wearing a dress, so it was easy to feel her thighs and move up to her ass.
She was trying to move out from under me but I liked being on top so I grabbed her arms with both of my hands and held them down, only taking them off when I sat up to rip off her dress. The room was dark but I could tell from the feel of her that I could be proud of this.
I felt her tits under her bra while I straddled her waist. As she tried to scoot up off her back I reached around, unhooked her bra, and quickly pushed her down.
“Hey, I…” she said, wanting me to shut her up.
I moved in and kissed her more, shoving my hand down her panties and into her. Her body jerked and moved the way I wanted it to. I grabbed her panties and pulled them down her legs.
She began to say something again and I put my hand against her throat as her whole body stiffened. “What do you want?” I nearly growled down at her. She looked up at me. In the slight bit of light from the street lamps outside I could almost make out her eyes. Her brows were furrowed and she was breathing heavy.
“I know what you want,” I said as I shoved myself inside her. Again her body stiffened. I grabbed her tits. She put her hand on my chest and applied pressure. I tore it off me and pressed her hand against my mattress.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” I panted as I was thrusting myself in her.
I felt her scratch the side of my neck, hard. I liked her nails against me, but I again forced her hand down.
“Hold fucking still,” I told her as I kept ramming in back and forth.
I was in a steady motion moving in and out of her. I began moving faster and breathing heavier. My body was fully against hers as I was hammering away. I kept my pace, steadily, and nearly buried my face into my mattress.
My heart was pounding at the same pace as my thrusts. She could have been moaning, I’m sure she was, but I was gone. She may have gotten pleasure, but this was for me. This was a singular activity and her body merely the conduit. I was fucking. I was good. I was a man, a desirable man that girls wanted to fuck.
And then I woke up. In my bed. In pain. And there she was. On the side of my bed closest to the door, curled up, still looking stiff. I’m sure she felt awkward. It’s always fascinating who people can become when drinking. Wild, completely uninhibited. Dancing by yourself in front of a mirror but that mirror is a man you just met that night and are letting fuck you.
I thought of how I must have kept fucking her, pulling her up, and bending her over. I’m sure I pounded on her, getting even harder and her getting even wetter. The clap, clap, clap of me slamming against her.
I was hard. I was leaning against my desk with a fully hard erection, while this poor girl was wrapped up in my covers, my musty blanket, stiff as a board, asleep. Asleep? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t really want to find out.
Quietly, I threw on a pair of gym shorts from the ground. I tucked my erection up into my short’s elastic waistband. I slowly opened the door. It creaked but I couldn’t break stride. I couldn’t dare turn around to see if it woke her. What if it did? Hello! How are you? Remember me? I was inside you last night!
In one motion I moved to the hallway and closed the door. If damage was done I couldn’t see it.
What now? I was self-exiled from my own room.
I went into Chip’s room, which was dark aside from SportsCenter on the flat screen, which never seemed to be turned off. He was still sleeping so I sat on the couch and rested my eyes, drifting back off.
I jumped when I heard a door shut suddenly and rattle – my door. She was gone. I was relieved. I felt badly about how much I was relieved. Though I did feel proud that I had gotten laid. I wondered if anyone knew. I hoped they did. I tried to think of how I could bring it up, but it hurt my head to think.
I went back to my room, my empty, beautiful room and fell face first into my bed, making facedown snow angels. I smelled her perfume and it made me a bit sad. I didn’t miss her. I didn’t even know her, but she left her scent for me.
I checked my phone and realized that it was nearly 10:50am. I had a class at 11am. This fucking class. I thought the whole point of majoring in business was to have no classes on Fridays in order to nurse your hangover and roll into happy hour by 4pm.
I threw on deodorant, changed from gym shorts into another pair of khaki shorts, and a white Polo t-shirt. I looked in the mirror at my hair, which was just short enough to be presentable in public, unwashed, while still holding last night’s grease. I thought better of it and put on my navy blue cap backwards. I tried it forward. Forward was better.
I slung on by backpack, my boat shoes, and ran downstairs. It occurred to me that I didn’t know if I even had my laptop in my backpack. Fuck it, I didn’t need it.
This Friday class took attendance and that’s the only reason I was going. I just needed to slump my hungover body into a chair for a 45-minute seminar, stare at the whiteboard, and pray to God to not be called on to answer a question that I almost certainly did not hear.
I passed through the chapter room to the front door and saw a few pledges asleep on the couches. I looked down on one who slowly opened his eyes, showing a horrifying mix of being at once hungover and also filled with the dread that he might receive a task that required substantially more energy that he had to give at the moment. I put my palms together and rested my head on them, signaling for him to go back to sleep. I saw the relief in his eyes. He attempted to say “thank you” but his dry throat was unable to produce the noise. I gave him a smile and headed out the door.
I looked upon our beautiful porch, complete with a brick walkway that led down our small hill onto the street, which led to campus. I loved this porch. I loved sitting out here and drinking coffee on the rare days when I wasn’t clamoring for every last minute of sleep. I loved starting my nights pregaming on it. I loved ending my nights postgaming on it, drinking the last beer and the occasional cigarette, or a nice joint. I loved studying on it. I didn’t know if it was the minimal altitude that allowed us to be just above those walking on the street below, but it made me feel elevated.
I took a deep breath and thought about the class ahead of me, a lower-level finance seminar that was a basic business school requirement for my eventual degree. I loved the name of what would be on my college diploma: Strategic Business Management. Each word brought with it the assumption that if one were to attain this degree, they must be smart. Specifically, they must be smarter than others. Strategic. Business. Management. Busssssiness.
I felt in my bones that I would end up in a Wall Street firm. If things don’t go exactly to plan, perhaps a high-end New York or DC consultancy. I hated numbers, though. I couldn’t wrap my mind around them. That’s just not the way my brain worked, unless I was a few milligrams deep in amphetamines.
I made my way down the walkway onto the street, lined with my fellow poor souls that were subjected to Friday morning class. The one silver lining was that it was nice out, which meant sundresses. The legs, the very top of tits. It wasn’t much, but it was more than one normally got during class hours.
As much as I enjoyed this season, it also brought me a degree of anxiety. You couldn’t look too directly. You never could, and I never felt like I could completely master this game.
Girls wanted guys to be aggressive, but not too aggressive. They wanted our attention, but only at the right time and the right moment. They wanted the guy to take initiative, but not too much. Only if they wanted it. Otherwise, we were being creepy. How was I supposed to know when that was? What indicator was there for me to know that I could look a girl in the eye when passing her on the street? Where was the line between the moment when I lock eyes with my future wife and when I look at a girl just a little too long and get branded to all of her friends as an awkward freak? God forbid I smile.
The mornings after nights of drinking brought the awful game to a different level. Now the same girl I may have embraced the previous night, kissed on the cheek, and even had a small conversation with might now, headphones in and eyes down, walk right past me. It wasn’t even that I took personal offense, but those few seconds before, when I would spot her in the horizon, I didn’t know what to do. Eye contact and a small smile? Head nod? Head movement of any kind? Something as bold as a full-on wave? What was the appropriate way to say, “We know each other a little bit,” and not, “With this eye contact, I want to pull you off the street and ravage you?”
More often than not, I did nothing. I kept my eyes down and continued moving ahead. I just kept walking.
But I loved the place regardless. Each day brought about a potential newness that I couldn’t have imagined the day before. There were 30,000 people around me, most of whom I’ll never know, but they all had a lifetime’s worth of experiences that brought them to this place at this moment. There was something truly beautiful about it. So why can’t we all look at each other? We always just keep walking.
I remembered talking to a potential pledge about it during rush, where droves of kids fresh out of high school make the journey from their dorms to fraternity row to tour each potential house, hoping they might find the right fit.
He was from Nebraska. Doughy and cheerful, he was clearly a kind-hearted guy, but I knew he was not going to get a bid. But still, he showed up to our open house, so I wanted to give him a conversation.
“You know, it’s the strangest thing,” he said, “I keep smiling at people as I walk to class, and it really throws them off. Like sometimes they look scared, sometimes they look confused, and sometimes they look angry.”
It made me smile that this guy clearly knew his opinion was in the minority, but still thought this observation would be the best use of his three minutes with the only brother who would give him the time of day. I liked him. I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure if I ever walk past him, he’ll let me know.
I reached the business school, entered my classroom, and upon seeing the small 20-person seminar, I knew the next 45 minutes of my life were not going to be fun. I took a seat in the back row, slouched down, and hoped no one would notice me. In this moment of solitude I realized that I reeked of alcohol and pulled my hat down.
As soon as the teaching assistant, whose name I forgot or never knew, began to speak, the door swung open. My friend Jimmy came in, looking about as rough as I was feeling. We were on the same dorm floor freshman year and rushed together. We ended up pledging at the same time, but for different fraternities. We hadn’t hung out for about a year before we both found ourselves in this cursed Friday morning seminar.
He came to the back and slouched down beside me. His odor matched mine. I gave him a smile that asked what he was up to the night before.
“Fuck,” he said.
I laughed. “How was your night?”
“I got fucked up,” said Jimmy.
“Nice, same.”
“I heard.”
My stomach sank and the anxiety came roaring back. I hated when people commented on others getting too drunk. Yeah, I got drunk. Isn’t that why the fuck we were here in the first place?
“What?” I asked, a little too aggressively.
“Oh, dude, nothing. I just heard you were pretty messed up last night. And Nicole has been asking for it for a while now. She’s gonna talk shit and act like a priss for her friends.”
I sat up straight.
“What the fuck did you say?” I grilled him. I was too loud.
The TA’s eyes were locked on me, “Do you need something?”
“No,” I said, startled.
“No?” she asked.
“Who the fuck is Nicole?” I asked Jimmy.
The TA’s eyes were still on us and Jimmy was clearly uncomfortable. Softly he said, “The girl, man.”
My stomach sank farther.
“Is there an issue here?” questioned the TA.
“No,” I muttered.
“No?” she asked again.
I didn’t answer her and focused on Jimmy. “And she said what?”
It was a scene. The class was looking.
Jimmy glanced around at the audience. It was his line. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head.
I started to sweat and my mouth was drying up. I was staring through Jimmy’s face.
“What the fuck, dude?” he finally managed to softly muster.
“I’ll – l’ll be back, “ I said weakly as I got up from my seat, moved past the class, and out the door. The TA said something, maybe to me or maybe not.
I emerged into the hallway and couldn’t remember which way the bathroom was. My stomach was in knots like a boy scout had his hands on it. I raced down the hallway.
My mind was racing. What the fuck did he mean she would talk shit to her friends? Act like a priss? Like what? Like she didn’t…like she didn’t want it?
No, no, no, no…
I found a bathroom and barreled in, instantly lunging for the toilet. I vomited violently. It was loud.
No, no, no, no…
I was on my knees heaving. Nothing more would come out.
No, no, no
She said, “no.”
Did she? Did she say, “No?” No…right? She wanted it. She fucking wanted it, right?
I thought about me on top of her, her furrowed brow. That was supposed to be sexy right? Like, tempting me. She was playing a good girl. It was part of the act. I was just aggressive, the way women want. For a man to be a man and take charge.
More vomit came up unexpectedly and I barely made it into the toilet. I fell to the side of it, lying on the tile floor. She had to have wanted it.
I closed my eyes and thought. I couldn’t move.
She didn’t want it. Jesus fucking Christ she didn’t want it.
I was going to be expelled. Would she talk? She already talked to her friends.
I reassured myself. It was fine. It would be fine. We were drunk, we had sex. That’s what happens in college. We drink and we have stupid sex with each other and sometimes we’re proud and sometimes we regret it and I AM FUCKED.
I moved out of the building and back to the path toward the house. My backpack was still in the classroom. Fuck it.
I was spinning again but this time I couldn’t hold on to my bed to keep me from flying off.
I kept walking. I’ll apologize, I thought. No, no that would mean I was admitting it. Do not admit fault. That was what people said when you got arrested, right? Don’t admit it, talk to a lawyer, they need to prove it. Right. Make them fucking prove it.
I had to talk to her. Her? Nicole. Her name is Nicole. I had to talk to fucking Nicole and get her to admit she wanted it. No, just talk to her like a normal person. Let her know that I am a fine guy! A good guy! I am the good guy. I am good.
I kept walking. Fast, but not running. I wasn’t a criminal, I affirmed, I was not a criminal.
I needed to see her. Right? Confront conflict. But not necessarily admit there is conflict. Innocent until proven guilty. America.
I kept walking. This could really have been just what I thought it was. She loved how I fucked her. And Jimmy was right. She’d been asking for it. She wanted it. She wanted me.
Jimmy is a fucking idiot.
I kept walking. I reached the crosswalk. It was a red light. I needed to get the fuck home. There was a group of girls waiting on the other side. They could have been her friends.
Green light.
I began to cross. I didn’t recognize any of those girls. More and more people behind them, going to their next class.
I kept walking.
And there she was. It was her. Her? Nicole. Her name is Nicole.
FUCK. Was it actually her? I squinted. I had about 30 yards. I kept walking.
It was her. It was my shot. Act like everything was normal. Talk to her. “Last night was fun, huh?”
20 yards. I kept walking.
“Yeah I was really fucked up. You seemed okay though. Sorry I wasn’t in my room when you woke up I was….”
10 yards. I kept walking.
“I had an early class and I didn’t want to wake you…”
Five yards. I kept walking.
“But maybe we could…”
Zero yards.
Eyes down.
I kept walking.
https://www.clayliterary.com/post/raven-issue-ten-09-20-2020
Harrison is from Edinburgh, Scotland, and writes prose and poetry. He has been published in a range of journals and magazines, including Here Comes Everyone, Literary Yard and Collage Collective. He will have a novel published later this year. Links on where to find and purchase his work may be found on his long-running blog: https://harrison-abbott.tumblr.com/. |
BURNT HORIZON
She was making her soup when she saw the soldiers trundling down the hill. She watched from her window. Three young men, around her age. By their blue uniforms she knew they were from her country, but she was still afraid of them. They reached the bottom of the hill and hopped over the fence of her garden. She set aside the soup pot from the stove and she buttoned up her blouse to the top, and flinched when the soldiers knocked on her front door.
Rough inpatient knocking. Her daughter was in the main room; as she passed her the woman told her to be quiet and stay where she was. She opened the door and beheld the soldiers and said good morning. Their faces were red and unshaven and she got an instant whiff of brandy and tobacco. They were holding their rifles across their chests. They queried about the man of the house: was he here? She told him that he was in the army, elsewhere in the nation.
Then they asked her if she was the owner of the animal in her garden. She watched the goat, which was in the pen twenty yards away. It was looking back at her. She told them that yes, that was her goat. They told her that their battalion was in need of animals from the village. They were collecting them from all the houses. The woman asked them if they needed the animals for milk? She had already milked the goat this morning, and she could just give them the pail, if they wanted? And no need to take the goat away.
They told her that the milk was necessary and asked her to retrieve it. When she turned back into the house her daughter was hovering in the corridor. She’d overheard the words at the door; she followed her mother into the kitchen. As the woman got the pail of milk, the girl asked her if the soldiers were going to take her goat away. The woman told her to stay in the kitchen and when she got back to the front door, the soldiers were smoking and one was drinking a bottle.
The drinking man snatched the pail from her. They thanked her and they moved to the pen and unwound the rope at the gate. The daughter came to the front door and stood behind her mother and they watched the soldiers. One of the men cut the rope from the gate, then made a noose at one end of it, then put that around the goat’s neck. He tried to pull the goat out the pen, but the animal resisted. The other men snickered, watching him trying to tug the beast. The woman warned her daughter not to watch, but the girl stayed, clinging to her mother’s knees.
The woman wanted to rescue the goat but she did not know how and was too scared to intervene. The soldier holding the rope lost his patience trying to tug the animal. He let go of the rope and took his rifle and shot the goat in the head. The girl started screaming and she ran back into the house. The goat flopped over and landed quietly in the grass. The mother stood in the doorway and blinked.
The soldiers began arguing over who was going to carry what back up to the battalion camp. They had to carry the goat as well as the pail of her milk. The two other men were annoyed with the man who shot the goat. It was eventually decided that the man who shot her should carry it with one of the others, whilst the other one lugged the pail. They lifted the goat over the fence of the garden with great irritability. None of them looked back at the woman as they left. She watched them toil back up the hill, now in brilliant green with a blue sky above it, their uniformed shapes making black shadows versus the terrain.
#
Her daughter didn’t stop crying the entire day. The goat had been her pet; she’d given it a frivolous name. When her daughter was ill or sad, she usually warmed up some milk and put sugar in it to cheer her. But they had no access to milk anymore. She was furious with the idiotic men herself for taking her animal. But her daughter’s grief was what was needing attention.
The crying began to madden her as it continued into the night. Even when the sounds of the artillery were heard from the fields over the hill, the daughter couldn’t stop whimpering. The mother tried holding her until she fell asleep, and tried to console her with words, yet couldn’t think of any wisdom on how to reverse what the child had witnessed. Finally, she heated up some brandy at the stove, and put some sugar and spice in it. Then told her daughter to drink it. The child stopped crying and she was asleep within a half hour.
The woman knew that she needed to resume making soup so they could eat for the next few days. Initially she was angry, having to do this familiar chore; she wished her girl had a harder mentality, that she wasn’t so weak. She started chopping the vegetables and placing them into the pot; the greenness of the cabbage, white-brown of the potatoes, dazzling orange of the carrots. They were lucky to still have food: she shouldn’t moan.
She thought about having some of the soup after she’d finished it, but she needed to ration the pot because of her daughter. They could have it for breakfast tomorrow. She went into her daughter’s room and lay next to her. She listened to the bombs with their muffled soothing echoes. She held her child. She wondered where her husband was and if he was still alive. She slept and had magical dreams.
#
A physical force awoke her. It was her daughter shaking her body. The child said it was afternoon, and that she’d slept in all this time. The woman never slept this long and was surprised. She promptly went into the kitchen to heat up some soup. For some subconscious reason, she didn’t eat herself. She gave her daughter two portions, then went into the garden.
There was a strange tinge to the light outside alongside the smell of burnt lumber and petrol carried from the fields. The sky was coloured differently as if something had been altered amongst the clouds. But maybe she was thinking obscurely. The war was close but their village was still safe. She should get back to routine.
She spoke to her daughter, who was numb and no longer crying. She asked her if she wanted to go for a walk in the woods, and she shook her head. She asked if she wanted to go and play with the neighbour’s dog? No. She just wanted to stay home. Mother had some groceries to pick up in the village, so she needed to leave the child for a time anyway.
When she went through the village, passing the houses, she sensed a hush across the area. Something was missing. Then she realised what it was: all the animals had been taken away. Almost everybody had a little bundle of animals in their garden pen; some a batch of chickens, others a solitary cow for milk and so forth. But now they were gone. There weren’t even any dogs skipping around.
And when she reached the village square it was just as barren. The café was shut, the shawled old women who sat in the square had vanished. Not the usual gabble of kids playing with the footballs in the corner. The woman went over to the grocery store which thankfully was still open. When she opened the door and the bell tinged the keeper at the counter jumped.
She had known the keeper for a long time. She had never seen him nervous before, and greeted him cautiously. She looked over the shelves of the store and noticed how sparse they were. Then looked at the keeper, who wore an expression of shame and fear. He told her that the people had already come in the morning and taken most of the food, after the soldiers took the animals away.
She gulped, surveying the scanty shelves. There were some onions left, and a trickle of potatoes, and a trio of deformed carrots which nobody else had wanted. But there were still a good host of cabbages left. She put them in her basket. This will be enough for one more pot of soup, she told the keeper, she will just have to make the soup with extra cabbage. The keeper smiled as best as he could.
When she handed the coins over to him, he waved his hand and said no, she needn’t pay. She asked why. He said that he cared about her and that she knew she was the only one keeping her daughter, that her husband was away in the war. When she protested, he cut her out and asked her if she had heard about the battalion? Our battalion? she asked. Yes. The battalion had bad news – they were losing on a vast scale.
During last night’s raid, the bombing had destroyed a great number of the men, and the enemy had advanced on the fields. The keeper told the woman that there would be a huge battle tonight, where the troops would try to defend the terrain. But it would be a lot closer to the village. He warned her to stay inside, sleep in a place with sturdy shelter. She realised why all the people had panicked and bought all the food. It had been foolish to sleep in through the morning. She could have known if only she’d woken up earlier!
She felt afraid for the keeper because she was fond of him and she knew his wife was dead and that he lived alone. There was a mad inclination to ask him if she and her daughter could stay with him tonight, because his house was far sturdier than their tiny cottage … But she dismissed this whim and bade farewell, and retreated through the silent village back to her girl.
She checked on her daughter and asked her if she wanted some more soup. The child said no; she just lay in her bed, staring at nothing. Her mother knew that she couldn’t tell her about the battle that was going to happen tonight. She didn’t know how else to protect her, aside from making more soup. Even though they already had food, there was something reassuring about making some more.
It was an easy distraction for what was coming later in the night. She brought out the other old pot and made a new batch of soup, better than the last one. They would be safe, and they would survive the war, and her husband wasn’t dead and he would return when it was all over.
#
That night the woman slept with her child again and held her hard and the daughter didn’t know why her mother was trembling until the bombings came. It was far louder and the rips and booms were far more frequent than before. The child clung back to her and they could do nothing but shake in each other’s limbs. Through the shutters came small flashes of yellow and there were short intervals which seemed season-long where they would wait for the next bomb to land.
There came a lapse in the din, where nothing happened for minutes, and they both hoped that the battle was over and they didn’t care which side had won. Then came a whoosh and the sky blazed white and a blast came from the village. Their bed shuddered. It was definitely in the village, where the bomb hit. Both of them knew it. They cried; the warmth under the blankets was all they had: the tiredness was too extreme to break them from the only heat they had: they could learn what happened to the village in the morning. They needed sleep. And the bombing lessened and then it stopped and eventually the dawn invaded all.
#
She awoke far earlier than the day before. The smell of gunpowder was profound through the shutters. She didn’t want her daughter breathing that in, but didn’t want to wake her up. Cautiously she opened her front door and peered out. It was a merry spring day and the birds sang. She left the doorway and looked down into the village houses and couldn’t see anything abnormal. Perhaps they’d been wrong about what they heard last night?
Adopting her coat, she ventured into the village. She wished that any of her neighbours would be out in their gardens. Their next door neighbour, the pretty old woman that let her dog play with her daughter – she thought about going in and asking her how she was. Her house was still there, but was silent. As was the rest of the community. It was bizarre versus the sunlight and the birds.
As she approached the village square the smell of burning intensified. There were plots of debris on the road that grew thicker as she neared. She gave a solitary raven a fright as she entered the square and its squawking echoed across the mayhem that was now the village centre. The bomb had hit the far section, where the grocery store had once been. Now it was a mass of bricks and blackened wood. She walked towards the store, trying to suss where the keeper could be.
She imagined his body under the rubble, and wanted to call out for him but was too coy to make noise. She looked around to see if anybody else was here; it astonished her that the villagers were not outside, here, helping clear this rubble apart. This was the grocery store, the one source of food for the entire village. Why wasn’t there an outcry about this? Where was the community?
Her anger changed into fear. The store keeper was dead. The other army were bombing the village. Was there anybody even still here? She noticed that the raven had teamed up with a pool of others, sitting together atop the church. It was edging into late morning. The battles began in the afternoon. She rushed back home.
The girl was still sleeping when she returned. She woke her up, and made her eat some soup. The girl said she was tired and that she wasn’t hungry but her mother shouted and told her to eat. She was panicking, and it was beginning to make the girl panic as well. The daughter ate her soup and she watched her mother warily, and eventually asked her what was wrong. She told her nothing was wrong, she just wanted to make sure she had some food. The girl asked her why didn’t she have some food with her then? And she did, and she welcomed the sturdy nutrition of root vegetables, the salt coming to her head.
She talked to her girl, which she hadn’t done in days, being so worried about the war. When they had finished eating she stood up to wash the dishes and she looked out of their window and moving images on the hillside grabbed her vision. There were three men in blue uniforms walking down the hill. By their clumsy gait she could tell it was the same trio who had come here two days back and shot the goat.
She needed to hide her daughter. She took her hand and led her into their room, and put a blanket around her. Then told her to hide in the closet. The girl was scared and asked her why. The mother told her not to come out, no matter what she heard. The child asked if the soldiers were coming again. The mother said, yes, but that they would be fine and not to worry. And she shut the closet door on the child and seconds later a thumping came at the front door.
The men who killed her animal stood at the door. Their eyelids were cast over with drink and the smell of their sweat overpowered that of smoke. They spoke to her politely and told her that the army needed food from the village. She nodded and she told them she had some apples, and some sugar, and she had two loaves of bread. She was trying to get them to back away from the door but they kept their stance, suspecting something. One of them leaned into the doorway and sniffed. He asked her what that smell was. She didn’t answer. One of them began to smile.
She told them that she could give them the apples, bread and sugar. She asked them to wait and went back into the house. They barged in after her through the door and she told them that they weren’t allowed in here. One of the men grabbed her by the throat and pushed her into the wall. The others went into the kitchen. They exclaimed as they found the soup pots. Then they commenced crashing about the room.
One of them called for the man in front of her. He released her neck, then thumped her in the stomach. She buckled to the floor, winded. He went into the kitchen. She regained her breath and sat up. They came out of the kitchen, bantering amongst themselves. They were holding either pot of soup, and the other one had taken about everything he could carry from what else she owned. One of the soldiers thanked her for the food as they passed her in the corridor and she was surprised that none of them kicked her as they went. Their cackling faded away as they left her garden.
She went back into her room. Her stomach hurt. She opened the closet and her daughter was there, watching her. She picked her up and held her. They now had no food. But the soldiers hadn’t hurt her daughter. They were both still alive. The girl hadn’t realised what had just happened, and it scared her that her mother was more afraid that she was.
#
They needed to leave the house. The mother could not risk the three soldiers coming back. She didn’t like to think what they could take next. She dressed her daughter in her warmest clothes and bundled some things together in her bag. Blankets, soap, a knife. She put her best boots on. They really had nothing else to take with them. She checked the kitchen and the soldiers had taken everything that could be useful. What wicked, selfish young men.
What she did have was money. Her husband had left it for her in an envelope before he left, and told her only to use it if things got desperate. The money was kept in an envelope which she’d hidden behind their only bookshelf. When she moved the shelf the dust made her cough. Her stomach was still aching from the blow the soldier had given her.
Her daughter kept asking if they were going somewhere. Mother told her to hush up. The envelope was heavy with coins. The weight still didn’t feel reassuring. This was all the money she had. She hid the envelope under her brassiere. She knew that there were stores in the town which was around ten kilometres away. She needed to head there, get some food. Simple plan and doable; it would be taking them away from the battlefield, and as far as she knew the bombing hadn’t yet reached the town.
They left the house and the woman locked the door. The girl had quietened and she wondered why her mother’s grip on her hand was so hard, as if she might try to run away. They saw nobody as they passed through the village. They got into the fields and her mother’s grip lessened, and eventually she let go of her hand as the land spread before them in sublime daylight. But she was still walking fast and looking around the fields, for what, the girl didn’t know, and it was hard to keep up with her.
Whenever there was a snicker of gunfire on the horizon the mother would jolt. The child wouldn’t. She was already too accustomed to gunfire. She wanted to say to her mother that the guns weren’t anywhere near. But her mother’s silence deflected her.
The fields were devoid of cattle and the soil lay in mass dormant brown, confusedly unattended. There were courageous daffodils, snowdrops and tulips by the roadside, unperturbed by the tracks the machines had left on their way to the battlefront. Surreal visions, the untrustworthy sunniness. They walked on.
They had been walking for what must have been hours because the air had cooled. The child had began to complain that her legs were sore and kept asking to stop. The mother’s abdomen was pulsing with agony and it was difficult to retain the same speed. She began to fret that the soldier might have caused some internal damage. The child annoyed her, but at length she agreed that they needed to stop. They came to a little river with a bridge atop it and the sight of water made her weak.
They went down to the river and drank from it making cups with their hands, and rested on the bankside. As the water hit their gullets they felt light headed. The mother felt a sadness erupt in her, because of the war and all that had happened, and she told her daughter that she was sorry for being irritable earlier. They watched the water glisten in the sun and wondered why the world needed war. To witness the river, it seemed as if they were both safe. But they obviously weren’t. They needed food, or else they would starve. They needed to get to the town.
#
They got back on the road and the route turned into the midst of a woodland, the walkway surrounded by heavy trees on the cusp of spring. They were enjoying the spots of green on the tree limbs, and the mother sussed that the town wasn’t so far away now. Then a new, mechanical noise came from down the road in the distance. They slowed, and then saw a vehicle appear, coming towards them, fast.
The mother picked her child up and dove off the road towards the woods. The girl was a lot heavier than she expected, and she slipped down the mound and they crashed into the ditch. The girl got up first and began crying. They could hear the vehicle getting closer. The mother got up and they ran into the trees and she felt as if her stomach was going to burst. They hid behind a tree as the vehicle came roaring into presence.
It was a jeep. They prayed that it would drive on and they would be left alone. But the jeep merely slowed down as it neared their vicinity. And when they looked ahead, the soldiers in the jeep were not wearing blue uniforms, but green. They were from the other nation the mother and daughter were at war with.
The green men stopped the jeep and got out and they were holding guns. The girl was still crying and the mother grabbed her to stop but it was obvious that the men had already seen them. They stood at the roadside and pointed their guns at them and barked in a language neither of them understood. But the message was clear that they needed to come out of the trees and up to the road.
The green soldiers had wide light eyes and their faces seemed a little broader than the blue soldiers. Their guns were different. As the mother and daughter got closer to them they didn’t smell alcohol or tobacco. One of the men had a prominent moustache and he was the sole one who started to shout at them. He did it all in his own language, and used the tip of his pistol to gesticulate.
He didn’t gesticulate very well and the gun made it harder to understand. The woman tried to say to him that they didn’t care about the war and pleaded with them to just let them go. The man kept pointing at her body and then thrusting the rifle. He kept saying words which she guessed were attempted words of her own language, but she just couldn’t comprehend.
The other soldier came towards her daughter and pushed her to the floor and held his rifle to her head. The girl went silent. Her mother wanted to scream but she felt like she had earlier when the soldier winded her. Then the moustache soldier pulled her down to the floor and pointed his pistol at her skull. And she thought with profound freedom that she was about to be executed and she wondered what death would be like and how she had never been this close to it.
The man above her kept yammering vocabulary at her – they sounded vaguely like her own language but nothing quite intelligible. And he began to get angrier and angrier as she still couldn’t understand. Until he said one word, which she caught. The word sounded like her word for ‘Money’, and so she repeated the word “Money?” and he nodded and so he said it again. And she realised what they were after.
“You want money?” she said. And he nodded and she was surprised at the calmness of which she went into her brassiere and lifted out the envelope that contained all the financial aid in her life and handed it over to the green soldier. The soldier ripped the envelope and surveyed the contents, then nodded at the other man, and gesticulated, with his hand, for him to remove the rifle from the girl’s head. He did and the girl stood up and ran to her mother.
The other soldier got back into the jeep. The moustache man put the envelope in his pocket. He said something to the woman and pointed down the road, in the direction of the town.
“No,” he said.
“We shouldn’t go there?” the woman said.
“No,” he said.
She was surprised he said this. Why would he help them? He got back in the jeep and ludicrously she felt compelled to ask them for more information. She felt as if they had done her a kindness in not shooting them. They drove off into the fields and the sound of the engine drawled into nothing. The woman wasn’t sure how she felt that she was still alive. Her daughter’s embrace seemed superficial, as if she were holding a toy.
#
No money and no food and it was approaching evening, bringing the dark. And with the dark came the bombs. The mother, knowing that she couldn’t go to the town anymore, or go back to the village, decided to take her daughter into the woods. Which was madness: but they had no other route. The woman and child had first gone into the woodland, descending and colliding, glad to be free of the green soldiers.
Then the woods kept going, and got thicker and wilder, and eventually, more surreal. The birdsong rose to levels as if the beaks were hollering by their eardrums. And the smell of wild garlic below them thronged their nostrils until they hated it. And the night came and the only luck they had was when they found the river again. They thrust into it and drank and held each other after drinking, glad that hydration had been healed for one more day. They were too exhausted to go on for now.
As they slept, the bombs dabbled in the distance, and the sky flashed with artificial light. It was all still very far away but it certainly muted the woodland birds. The woman and the child slept for hours and through depletion and dreamed of nothing.
In the morning they drank from the river and tried to ignore the smell of gunpowder. But at least they could see the fields in the distance beyond the river, meaning that they were nearly free of the dark mystic woods. Both of them felt a wrenching in their stomachs – they had not eaten since this time yesterday. And yet the mother noticed that daughter was far harder-spirited than she’d thought, perhaps more than she was, adapting to all this as a child.
They crossed the river in bare feet and dried their feet on the grass the far bankside and moved on. The woods cleared and they reached the fields again. Neither of them knew the terrain or the new hills so they supposed they must have come a farther distance than they’d supposed. It was another airy spring day and the warmth of the sun cheered them. There was little about the fields save the deserted young crops. No sign of animals.
They enjoyed the peace but by mid afternoon the hunger was also beginning to kill them. Her mother knew that she could survive maybe three days without food, but it wouldn’t be the same with her daughter. They needed some form of food to keep them alive. Anything. If even they could find some mushrooms, or even if she saw a rabbit, or even if one of these damned cows would reappear. She had the knife to be able to kill something.
Nothing happened until the late afternoon, when their limbs were spent with fatigue and they hadn’t uttered a word in hours, not seeing the point in speaking. They saw a cottage at the end of one of the fields. Neither of them cared anymore who they would find in the cottage. Most likely it would be somebody from their own country, a civilian, who could help them.
The cottage looked quiet as they approached and when they knocked on the front door there was no response after several attempts. The mother tried to turn the front door’s handle and it opened easily, and she called into a small hallway to see if anyone was in. Her daughter asked her if they were allowed to go into somebody else’s house and the mother took her in by the arm. She listened and checked the rooms and there was no life anywhere. There were only three rooms and one of them was the kitchen and she checked the cupboards frantically for any side of food.
She opened a drawer and beheld a sack of carrots. She pulled the sack out and studied it as if to reassure herself it was real. Yes, a bag of carrots, still ripe and not rotten and brilliantly orange. She gave one to her daughter and then they sat on the floor and chomped away at them. They ate without manners and thanked the Lord, for He was still there after all.
#
The cottage had no identity aside from the carrots. There was nothing in the house to suggest any previous owner. But what was left in one of the rooms was a bed, large enough to fit mother and daughter. And they had blankets with them, and food in them. And the fields around the cottage seemed so vastly brown and anonymous that they figured they could sleep safely. And they slept and they dreamed a little. The girl dreamed about rivers and the mother dreamed that her husband had come home because the war was over. They both awoke in a panic around late afternoon after one of them coughed, wondering where they were. But they went back to sleep, and they slept on into the night, even when the volume resumed on the burnt horizon.
They awoke to a shrill noise which was the whooshing of a rocket which landed in the field just beyond that of the cottage. The explosion shook the house and the mother was naïve to think that they could both sleep here in brief eternity. Her daughter was up from the bed and dressed before she was. The woman looked out the window at the fields and there was a streak of dawn in the sky in low purple.
A second bomb blasted into the woods beyond the field, close enough for them to see the trees burst into flame. And then there came a roaring out of these woods and there were moving shapes in the young light. They watched, transfixed, by the window as the moving shapes multiplied and descended down the field. The shapes were men. Soldiers, running. A third bomb crashed into a gabble of the men, who disappeared into a cloud of smoke and earth.
The mother got the carrots and blankets and rushed out the cottage. They got into the garden then ran up onto the trail, the mother clumsily holding the child’s hand.
Behind them the soldiers burst from the cottage fence and ran up towards them. When the soldiers saw them there was a spring of surprise in their expressions. It seemed, in a brief flash, that they were more surprised by the presence of females than they were terrified by the bombs. The mother and daughter ran with them up the fields.
The woman saw that the men were wearing the blue uniforms and she supposed with some patriotic impulse that the best option was to follow where they were going. The soldiers got to the top of the hill and they ran down the other side of it and the woman and the girl pursued.
At the bottom of the hill was a road and beyond that another pocket of woods. Inside the woods was a battalion of green soldiers hidden in the trees. They waited until the blue soldiers had reached the road and then opened fire. They did not see the woman and child alongside the blue soldiers and would not have hesitated if they had.
The mother was shot in the head and the girl saw it as crisply as it could have been seen. As the bodies of the soldiers dropped around her she figured that she should just lie flat. And the din continued and the men were all killed around her until a perverse silence resumed. There was laughter over in the woods. The girl was aware of how warm the morning was. She thought it would be a lot colder to be outside at this time of morning in March. She looked over at her mother’s face.
The dawn ascended in bright bravado. She thought that the green soldiers would come and inspect the massacre to see if anybody was still alive. It seemed that she was the only one doing the inspecting and that all of the people around her were dead. She looked at their lame, twisted expressions and waited for one of the green soldiers to come up and shoot her as well. A part of her wanted them to.
There was a while when she heard the voices of the foreign language in the trees. But then that stopped, and she was left alone lying on the road amidst the dead bodies and the only sound was that of the tinkling birds. The girl sat up by her mother and she sobbed recklessly until her eyelids and her throat wouldn’t work anymore. She wished one of the blue soldiers would wake up so at least she could have a companion to figure out what to do next.
She knew that she had to do something with her mother’s body. She could not leave it lying there amongst all this carnage. But when she tried to lift the body, she couldn’t. She just wasn’t strong enough. The girl wandered past the road. And as she reached the edge, she saw the little patches of daffodils, snowdrops and tulips again above the ditch. The flowers seemed to ping so prettily against the planet, regardless of what was happening.
The girl picked a bunch of the flowers together and made as fine a bouquet as she could and took them over to her mother’s body. She took her mother’s bag off and leaned her body over and didn’t look at the gunshot wound in her head. Then she placed her mother’s hands together over her chest, and she put the bouquet of flowers between them. She thought that maybe she should do the same for all the other people here. But there was a smell of blood in the air and it made her nauseous. She knew that the flies would be coming soon.
She told her mother something none of the dead soldiers heard and she moved off into the country. In the bag she had the carrots, blankets and a knife and that was all she had in existence. But the road was still there. And here was another pleasant spring day burgeoning for her to venture into. She was ashamed that maybe she should stay near her mother. But what would that accomplish?
#
Where could she go? She had no knowledge of where she was. What she saw was a long sunny road surrounded by merry fields and parcels of woodland. She walked down it as long as she could. The terrain became hilly and she grew tired and she stopped and ate one of the carrots in her bag. She tried to visualise how long she could survive on the carrots. The taste gave her a shoot of nutrition.
She walked and walked. She came across a dead sheep in one of the fields. It was tiny, only an infant, and it didn’t look like it had been shot or that it had died violently. Its white fluff bristled in the light breeze. She walked on and she saw a white sack on the roadside and she hoped it might contain some food. When she got to it she found inside a wealth of unopened letters. All in neat envelopes and different styles of handwriting. And she found it a profound shame that none of these people would ever get their letters. She wished she could deliver them.
She continued down the road, came around a bend, and she saw a man lying in the ditch by the road. He was clumsily displaced from a bicycle; one of his legs was tangled in the middle part between the bars. She waited for minutes, scared, to see if he would wake up, but it became clear that he was dead. She went up to the body. He was young and handsome, or at least he used to be. He had nice thick eyebrows. He was a postman – he was wearing the uniform. “They shot the postman!” she thought with disgust. “Why would they do that?”
She pondered about doing something with his body as she had with her mother’s, but there were no flowers on the nearby ditches and she was too afraid to touch the body. She walked on.
The afternoon came and the sky stagnated and the air cooled and she came at length upon a new village she’d never seen before. It was more a hamlet – a small collection of cottages. She watched it on the road to see if any life would occur there. After nothing happened, she went towards it cautiously. The first window of the first cottage was smashed open, and as she veered the corner of the road, there was a burnt motorcycle carcass lying in one of the gardens.
The motorcycle had bashed through the garden fence and the grass blades around it which weren’t singed were ripped up. The cottage in front of the garden was pockmarked with black bullet holes and the plaster was hanging from the walls. One of the other cottages had its front door open silently like some forgettable dream and all of its windows were also smashed through. There were clothes still hanging from the washing lines in its garden.
She jogged away from the hamlet down the road and as she got to the last cottage and past its garden, something yowled at her from her side and she jumped. The thing yowled again and she looked down. It was a cat. It was just a cat, miaowing at her. The cat came towards her and her mind softened and she bent down to it. The cat was brown and black in fur and had a white chin and was very friendly. It let her hold and stroke it. And it was amazing to hold something living. She didn’t know cats well and it was powerful to feel the purring animal coil in her arms.
The cat was very thin. She wondered how long it had been without an owner, left in this bashed hamlet. She wished she had something to feed the cat. But all she had were the carrots and was fairly sure cats didn’t eat those. Still, she played with the animal and it played with her. Cats have beautiful faces and bodies and she wanted to keep this creature, and take it with her. She could surely bring it with her across the land and try and find it something to eat? There would be something else to find further down the road.
She was seriously considering this until an echo came from down said road. It was a jeep, galloping towards them. The cat had already heard the jeep and had leapt from her grasp and ran away. The girl followed it, behind the cottage building, and she saw it dart into the bushes by the back of the garden and she hid down and waited for the jeep to come. It came, and passed, beyond the cottage and into the fields. She waited until its echoes had gone.
Then she called out to the cat. Of course, she realised, she didn’t know its name. She went to the bushes and tried to spot it. She called and called, but it never came back. And now the evening was approaching night. There was a tremendous sadness over losing the cat. She had only known the creature’s friendship for that small time. She took out one of the blankets from her mother’s bag and shawled it around her, and continued down the road.
#
When the night came the wind grew more frequent and then it started to shower in light gasps. She blanket shawl was a decent protection against the rain, and it was actually not too cold. Walking along the road had a methodical mystery to it. She needed to keep going, without having a destination.
At length she came upon a sight in the distant fields. A collection of dreary light came from one spot on the horizon. It was some kind of settlement. By its size it had to be a town. By the sheer distance, she could see the town was too far away to be reached tonight. She was too tired to keep walking. She chose the closest pocket of woodland near the road and went into its moody murkiness.
Surprisingly she could see well enough in the dark and enjoyed the hushed secrecy of the trees. It stopped raining and she sat down for a while and ate one of the carrots. She found a little stream chuckling through the woods and slipped down and drank until her stomach was more than satisfied.
She found a fir tree with broad spanning limbs. A huge evergreen giant. She always loved fir trees and she climbed up it and found a place where she could lie across the thick branches. She lay her blankets down then wrapped them across her and she smelled the lulling sap of the trunk.
When the bombs came on the horizon, she was already in a state of dreamy indifference. It occurred, without her trying that, perched on the branches of the fir tree, she had a fantastic view of the town in the distance. The bombs hammered the town in all fantastic rainbow hues. The girl watched how the explosions sent purples and blues over the near fields. There were faint shapes of buildings which shone red and then disappeared. She had to admit it was all very beautiful. And after an indefinite time it all stopped.
The girl slept.
#
She woke up clumsily out of a pleasant dream and quickly realised she was back in reality which could not be sanctioned by dreamland and she heard men’s voices near her. Voices, masculine and angry, somewhere in the woods. She remembered that she was in some woodland, half way up a tree. She was intensely cold and shivering and she grabbed for her bag to see if her carrots were still there. They were.
The sound of the men grew louder beneath her and as her wits gathered she sensed the direction they were coming from, and then she looked out of the branches and there appeared a group of soldiers. Three of them wore green uniforms and two of them wore blue. The green soldiers held guns and the blue ones held their hands on their heads. It was the green soldiers who were doing all of the speaking.
It was very early morning and the light was pearly and shone on the trees, the buds of the branches begging for sunlight and receiving it. And the rain from the night before left a fecund scent across the woods.
And the green soldiers trundled the blue soldiers into the woods. They made the blue men kneel down and they stood over them talking, and they even lit some cigarettes, to revel in their virile claim for execution. The girl was watching thirty yards away up the tree and none of them knew that she was there. And when one of the green soldiers pulled up his rifle to shoot the first man, the girl screamed.
The scream made them all flinch and all five heads turned up to the tree in astonishment. The girl’s face appeared from the fur tree. A little head, clearly under the age of ten, and all the men remained in their incredulous silence as the girl climbed down the tree. She was holding the bag and she walked towards the men.
None of the men knew what to do. They were all interested to see what the girl would do. She unravelled her bag and brought out the carrots that she had left. To her mind they held the most colourful orange in the world and she held them out to the green soldiers. She said something to them so they might understand. She wished that she knew how to speak their language. What she said was:
“Please take this food and don’t kill the men. Take this food instead as a trade, and don’t kill them.”
The blue soldiers heard what she said and they looked at each other. And the green soldiers watched her face and then looked at each other. They pondered what to do. They collaborated amongst themselves in their rashly-toned language. She correctly guessed that they were discussing whether they were going to shoot her or not. One of the men, she also guessed, wanted to shoot her. But the other two green men didn’t want to.
One of these green men came towards the girl and he thrust the carrots back into her body. He knew a few words of her language and he said:
“You take … You go!”
When she kept standing there he repeated himself and pushed her away.
“Go!”
It was clear that this man was trying to save her life from his colleague soldier who wanted to kill her. And she felt herself walking away with her food. She was too ashamed to look back at the blue soldiers and she could feel their faces watching her, wishing she could come back and try to save them. But the food trade had not worked and she still had something to eat herself.
The green soldiers watched until the girl had disappeared into the trees. But their banter and loud excitement had been stunned by her entry into their scene. From laughing men, they had become furtive boys.
The green soldier who had told the girl to leave shot the blue soldiers dead.
The quick succession of the gunshots echoed around the woods and the girl did not flinch at the sound. She was in the trees and guiltily safe and the green soldiers were not going to murder her. “It is difficult to flinch at echoes,” she thought. “You don’t flinch at echoes. You only listen to them. You only make sure that you hear them and take heed.”
THE END
Buyer’s Market
Perhaps, she thought, it was due to her upbringing. Having lived in the city her entire life, Maxine had become accustomed to the sounds of overhead trains, speeding wheels and marching pedestrians. There was a beautiful duality to the sounds of the city. Rush hour commutes were a hellish mess of noise, but at night the sounds morphed into a soothing and mechanical lullaby, one whose comforting properties Maxine was unaware of until she was without it. Crestwood in comparison was sonically monotone. The days were just as quiet as the nights, and Maxine struggled to find any good sleep without the urban background noise she had become so used to.
But maybe there was another reason for her unease, as the city not only comforted her with its sounds, but molded her into a creature of caution. Crestwood, with its clean sidewalks and neat houses, revealed to Maxine no talons or fangs. No sense of underlying malice or danger. Maxine didn’t trust it; she knew better than to let her guard down. And so she remained on edge, living in a state of ever vigilance. That is until she found the well.
It happened like this: Maxine had just left the house to take Baseball, their pet beagle, for a walk. Now this walk wasn’t for Baseball as much as it was for Maxine. You see, after living together in Crestwood for four months, Maxine and Minori found themselves in a rut of sorts. Minori seemed more than content adapting to the slower paced life that the move brought about. Maxine on the other hand was becoming restless and bored. More so than that, a part of her resented Minori for convincing her to move in the first place, feeling as though she had in some way been coerced into a lifestyle more compatible with her partner than herself. Minori was undoubtedly experiencing her own frustration with Maxine’s refusal to adapt to the new living situation. Since neither of the two were confrontational types, they each took up strange behaviors of avoidance and passive aggression in response to this underlying tension. For Maxine, leaving the house under the guise of walking the dog had become her go to escape when things at home became a bit too much.
On the plus side of things, Baseball had never been healthier. But back to the walk.
The sun was setting, and the sky a calming orange. Neighbors pulled into their driveways, all coming home from the city. Across the street Maxine spotted fireflies dancing around a grassy traffic island. A man carrying groceries out of his trunk noticed Maxine and offered her a polite nod. Maxine returned it and sped past with trepidation.
She found the people of Crestwood, much like the homes that they lived in, to be suspiciously quaint. They appeared to her like beings from another period, and was certain that if she were to be invited into one of their homes she would find them decorated with shag rugs and antiquated teal furniture sets. Inside would be a wife in the kitchen whipping up a Jell-O salad, and children sitting around a television set with decorated wooden panels, intently attempting to discern the nature of the grainy black and white images before them. And sitting in a leather armchair would be a gentle father, cleaning his pipe and commenting on the weather. Maxine shuddered at the imagined scene, and continued onwards.
Once the park was in sight Baseball began to drag Maxine forward. She offered a gentle tug on the leash, and steered him towards the street with the abandoned houses. Lately she had become fond of this detour.
“We’ll go to the park soon,” she assured the beagle. “I just want another look.”
She was referring to one of the houses in particular, a monstrous mess of fading blue panels that stood in the middle of the block. Unlike the other houses on the block, which all gave off the impression that they were at one point impressive pieces of property, this house looked as though it had always been empty. Tall patches of dead grass had overtaken its front lawn, and its driveway had several large cracks running up it, spreading in a vein-like fashion towards a broken garage.
Maxine stopped in front of the house and stared at it, taking note of all of its specific failings as Baseball sniffed around the yard. She didn’t know why she kept coming back to the house. Only that there was some unexplainable nostalgia that emerged from within her whenever she looked at it. Something about the house, with its unwelcoming width and broken frames, seemed strangely familiar to her.
Her attempt to figure out this familiarity was cut short when she heard a muffled voice calling from the house’s direction. Scanning the side of the house and window frames for any movement, she saw only dusty ledges, untrimmed bushes, and broken windows. Just as she was about to convince herself that it was her imagination, she heard the voice again, this time louder. It was a thin voice, definitely female, and seemed to be calling someone’s name. Baseball stopped his scan of the front yard and stood up straight as the voice called out again.
“Baseball,” the voice called. “Baseball, come on!”
This time Maxine recognized the voice. Frail and whispery, yet attempting to convey authority and strength. It was a voice that demanded to be taken seriously despite its soft timbre. She knew this because the voice calling from the house was her own.
“Baseball!” her voice called out again. This time the beagle did move, dashing forward towards the side of the house. Startled by the sudden movement, Maxine lost hold of the leash, and in seconds Baseball had disappeared behind a dense tangle that had overtaken the house’s side. Without hesitation she followed Baseball onto the property. She neared the shrubs blocking the path, and began to step through the tangle. Jagged branches scratched at her exposed arms, causing her to quickly push herself through the shrubs, eventually stumbling into the backyard.
The yard was covered in dry yellow grass, and surrounded by a tall wooden fence littered with the remnants of white paint. A few assorted items were carelessly tossed about: a deflated basketball, a broken wicker chair next to an old umbrella, and every few feet or so a beer bottle snuggled in the grass. In the center of the yard Maxine saw Baseball, his behind facing her and little body panting loudly. And in front of Baseball was the well.
She was drawn to it immediately. It was an old looking thing, formed of moss covered stones carefully arranged in a wide circle. The stones were stacked three feet high, and sat under a crude wooden arch. Towards the top of the arch was a thin beam that may have once held a rope and wheel, yet the wood was far too decayed and rotted for one to really tell. Maxine inched closer to the well, appreciating its design and aesthetic, which reminded her of the wishing wells that often appeared in the European fairytales her older sister read to her when she was young. As she neared closer Baseball turned to her, his mouth open and tongue out, and let out a soft whimper. Maxine had almost forgotten that Baseball was there, and only looked at him briefly before moving closer to the well.
Something about it seemed so anachronistic, yet inviting to her. She stopped in front of the well and looked down at Baseball, who had just finished relieving himself. He made his way back to Maxine, and allowed her to pick up his leash. Maxine did a quick look around the yard for any other people. Someone had to be here, she thought. Yet she saw nobody, no source of the voice that had called Baseball’s name.
Maxine figured that she should leave before anyone did show up, but she wasn’t done with the well yet. She approached the well’s rim and placed her hand on one of the stones, feeling bumpy patches of moss and dirt spread about a smooth surface. She let her fingers linger on the stones a moment, and slowly she began to feel a soft warmth coming off of the stones, as if she had placed her hand on the back of a sleeping infant. Baseball pulled on the leash, attempting to pull Maxine away, but she offered a tug of resistance.
“Stop it,” she said to him softly. He whimpered.
Maxine wondered how deep the well went. She leaned forward to peer inside of the mouth, thinking that she might toss a coin in. But she didn’t see any water inside of the well. What she saw instead, she struggled to make any sense of. Inside of the well was a dark empty void, which began about five feet in, and was completely pitch black despite there being a significant amount of sunlight outside. It was as if at a certain point light simply ceased to exist, as if there was a physical barrier absorbing all light and reflecting none back, like an otherworldly black hole. Maxine stared into this darkness, utterly baffled by its existence.
Baseball barked loudly, but Maxine paid him no attention. She peered deeper into the blackness, and thought of maybe taking out her phone and using its flashlight to try to see more, but feared she might drop it in. Instead, she felt around the well’s mouth for a loose stone, eventually finding a grey pebble. She picked it up and dropped it into the well, hoping to see some sort of change.
The pebble fell for a few feet in visible space before passing through the dark barrier, silently disappearing into nothingness. Maxine was disappointed at first, yet quickly noticed that after the pebble passed through the barrier a swirl of darkness began to emerge from it. Various shades of grey and black moved around each other in unclear patterns. The shapes were hard to make out at first, yet she knew that some scene was playing out before her. She looked at the swirls more intensely, paying attention to the particular movements and nuanced differences in colors, and eventually noticed a rhythm in it all. It was something hard for her to rationally understand, but slowly all of the darkness began to take shape, and the images before her became lucid enough for her to grasp. She was becoming lost in it, absorbed in the play of shadow. Far away she heard Baseball bark again, but it was muffled and distorted, like the lingering words of a dream just passed.
#
2She saw a woman standing by a kitchen counter. Appearance wise, this woman looked exactly like Maxine. She had the same height, the same dark skin, and the same heavy look in the eyes. Yet stylistically, she wasn’t Maxine at all. She was wearing a sleeveless red dress, thin at the bottom with a fashionable V neck at the top, revealing more skin than Maxine was usually comfortable with. Her hair, which should have been dyed a shade of purple and cut short, was now longer and tied up in a braided twist, and her lipstick was a bright red. Maxine often avoided bright colored makeup, as she found natural tones matched her darker complexion better, but looking at the woman before her she had to admit that it looked good. Somehow this woman, this other her, had been able to pull off a style that Maxine thought would never suit her.
Maxine tried to look down at her own body for comparison, and was shocked to find that her own physical appearance had vanished completely. She tried to move her arms around, tried to kick in the air, but saw only the kitchen tiles below her, and the other her in front of her. She had lost her physical form and had become nothing but a pair of floating eyes viewing an unreal scene.
She watched as the other Maxine reached towards a kitchen cabinet to grab a bag of dog food. She pulled the heavy bag out with a grunt, and began to shake it.
“Baseball!” she shouted out, tossing the bag onto the kitchen counter. “Baseball, come on.” Maxine heard the sound of small feet scurrying across a tiled floor, and turned to see Baseball running down a hall towards her. Maxine tried to move out of the dog’s way, but was not fast enough, and closed her eyes in anticipation of a crash. Her heart sank as she noticed the dog pass right through where her feet should have been, moving straight through her and towards the other Maxine who had crouched down to pour the dog food into a nearby dish. After, she picked up a cell phone that was left on the counter and began to make a call.
Maxine watched this all in disbelief. The kitchen in front of her was not her own. Its marble counters looked heavy and expensive, and it's dark wooden cupboards contrasted with the silver of the fridge and dishwasher in a pleasant home magazine sort of way. The size of the space also dwarfed Maxine’s own kitchen significantly, as the room was large enough to form a comfortable square around a large kitchen island. Two entranceways connected to the room, and via a quick peep down one of the connecting halls Maxine could tell that she was not in a house, but an apartment most likely equal in value to Minori and Maxine’s home in Crestwood.
No, this was not her home at all, yet the dog in front of her was so clearly her Baseball, and the woman was so clearly her, yet so clearly not. Maxine felt ill and disoriented, and needed to find something that made sense, something to center herself with. She saw a window situated by the kitchen sink, and thought that perhaps looking out of it might help her figure out her current location.
Clearly neither Baseball nor the other Maxine could see her, so she wasn’t worried at all about whether or not she would have to explain her intrusion. What she was worried about was how exactly she was to move in the first place. With no physical body, she existed as a floating specter. She tried to take a step forward with no results, and instead tried to see if she could move herself in another way. She stared at the window she wished to look out of and, as much as anyone could do without a body, leaned forward. At first nothing happened, but as she continued to push herself in a forward motion eventually she did begin to float towards the window.
As she neared close enough she did a sudden jerk backwards in order to slow down and avoid floating outside of the apartment. When she was close enough she stopped and peered out of the window. The apartment was at least on the 10th floor, and was located in the middle of a large bustling modern city. She did a quick scan of the skyline before her, and soon enough recognizable images became apparent. The skyscrapers she often looked up to whenever she got out of the subway, the public park that her mother used to take her to, and the same boardwalk by the bay that she walked on during her summertime dates in high school. Indeed, this was her city, and somehow some other her was living in it.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” said the other her on the phone. “Don’t move, don’t do a thing. I’ll be right there,” she continued as she stormed out of the kitchen. Maxine could hear the other her shuffling around the room, picking up papers and a purse, followed by the sound of keys jangling. Maxine moved towards one of the hallways, but couldn’t move fast enough to catch up, nearing the bend just in time to see her other slam the front door shut.
She contemplated following her other through the door, but her coordination and control of her current spectral form was still far too underdeveloped. She found that she had to exert an extreme amount of effort just to move a few feet, and even then her movement was slow and imprecise, as though she was controlling a big lumbering tank rather than a human body. That considered, just the thought of following her other out of the apartment, into the hall, and into an elevator, or worse, a flight of stairs, tired her immensely. Besides, she figured that she ought to learn more about the world she had stumbled upon, and see if there was anything around the apartment that could clue her in on what was going on.
For the next half-hour she slowly made her way through the apartment. Connected to the kitchen was a lavishly decorated living room, overtaken with reds, whites, and greys. A large checkered rug took up most of the floor, and resting on the back wall was a home entertainment setup, complete with a flat screen and surround sound system all set within an oak cabinet.
Picture frames were littered about the room neatly, all depicting scenes both familiar and not. Maxine recognized her college graduation photo, as well as a four year old photo of her and her mother on vacation in Seoul. But other pictures revealed to her scenes entirely unfamiliar, most of which featured a man who looked about the same age as Maxine. The man was pale, had a thin frame and even thinner nose, and dressed often in blues and greens. There was one of her laughing with him in front of a Ferris wheel, one of her holding his arm on a park bench, another of the two at the beach smiling with drinks in hand. At first Maxine figured this man was perhaps a roommate of hers, but with each additional photo it became clearer that this man was a romantic partner. Of all the strange things Maxine saw in this other’s life, the fact that somehow there was a version of her out there still dating men struck Maxine as being strangest.
Maxine searched the apartment for more clues about this other life, yet doing so proved to be difficult in her current form. Although she was able to observe things and phase through the walls and doors of the apartment, she could not find any way to actually interact with any objects in this world. This meant that the apartment’s bathroom remained in eternal darkness, as it had only one small window which currently had a curtain over it, and Maxine could not find any way to turn on the room’s light. Similarly the bedroom only had half of a curtain drawn over its window, offering Maxine just enough light to peek at a few objects here and there. There was a writing desk in the corner by a large closet, and several drawers and dressers which Maxine desperately wished that she could ruffle through.
Before leaving the room she floated closer to the desk. It was covered in envelopes and handwritten notes, and from what Maxine could see most of these had to do with bills or some sort of financial contracts, the true nature of which she could not tell at a surface level glance. What she did notice, though, was a calendar next to a digital clock on the desk, which revealed that the day’s date had not changed. Maxine’s mind ran through a dozen science fiction plots before she was certain that wherever she was, she was no longer in her own universe, but another parallel one. How she got here, she did not know. And worst, she had no idea of how to get back.
The sound of keys entering the front door distracted her from the thought, and like an anxious child hoping to avoid getting caught snooping in their parents’ bedroom she quickly maneuvered back towards the living room. Heavy footsteps came her way, and soon enough she was face to face with the mystery man. He was carrying a small backpack and wearing a navy blue suit, and made his way to the kitchen. As he flung his backpack onto the kitchen counter, Baseball emerged to greet him. He bent down and rubbed the dog, and Maxine positioned herself closer to get a better look.
He was a good looking man. Although it had been nearly a decade since she had been with one, she had to admit that he had an appealing quality to him. It wasn’t just his physical features either, but the way he walked, the way he bent down to softly touch Baseball, the fluid way in which he moved back to unzip his backpack and pull out used lunch containers, all revealed an attractive ease to him.
The man made his way to the fridge and opened it. He stared inside for a minute before closing it and heading back to the living room. He then sat down on the sofa and reached for the nearest book on the coffee table before him. The man turned towards a page about a quarter in and began to read. At first Maxine attempted to read over his shoulder in order to find out what the book was about, yet when this proved to be too difficult she instead moved herself towards the coffee table, and simply watched him read. This, she was ashamed to admit, she did with pleasure. She found a voyeuristic joy in watching someone while they thought they were alone. In a strange way it made her feel powerful and strong. As if she was the sole holder of some perverse secret.
She had lost track of time, and didn’t know how long the two of them had been together, him with his book and her with him, before the other her returned. She bursts through the door in a whirlwind of energy, and despite her loud steps her partner remained unmoved. When she entered the room she greeted her partner briefly, forgoing any use of a first name and instead launching into a frantic rant that Maxine could only assume related to the previous phone conversation.
Maxine struggled to follow anything her other was saying. Unknown places and names were used, and her other’s speaking pattern was so chopped and disjointed that she couldn’t tell if the woman was happy, angry, or frustrated, let alone who or what those emotions were directed towards. On top of it all, Maxine’s head began to feel fuzzy and heavy. The room around her started to sway in a strange way, and the lights dimmed as her other rattled on about indiscernible events. Eventually the man put his book back onto the coffee table and spoke for the first time.
“So, are we ordering in tonight?” he asked with a curiously tired voice, and Maxine fell unconscious.
#
When she awoke it was nighttime, and she was sitting in the grass with her back leaned against the well. Baseball sat in front of her, his head lightly resting on his two front paws. As Maxine slowly inched forward and got onto her feet the dog sprung up, disorienting Maxine. She wasn’t too sure where she was, which dog was in front of her, and her legs felt weak and unreal. A spell of dizziness quickly came and passed as Maxine’s senses rebooted, and after a few steps she was able to recall what had happened with clarity. The well, the other her, and the expensive apartment. Was it a dream? Maxine quickly dismissed the notion. Whatever it was, it was real, and it scared Maxine immensely. She suddenly felt that it was urgent that she leave the yard, as if her discovery of the well had somehow put her own life at risk.
She looked down at Baseball, whose tail was wagging with excitement at her return. If there was danger nearby, the dog clearly did not sense it. Still, Maxine felt unsafe. With great caution she picked up Baseball’s leash and hurried towards the side of the house. The thick shrubbery that she once struggled through was soon in site, but Maxine froze upon feeling a tingle along her spine. She sensed someone behind her, watching her quietly, yet was too afraid to turn around to confirm this. For some reason she figured that if she didn’t turn around, if she didn’t see whatever or whoever was watching her, didn’t see the well resting there in the moonlight, she would be safe. All she had to do was not turn around.
“Don’t look,” she repeated to herself quietly.
She didn’t look. Instead she picked up her speed, breaking into a fast dash towards the side of the house. After a few moments of struggling through the bushes she was once again in the front yard of the home. She made her way to the sidewalk and continued to move at a quick pace. The streetlights lit the neighborhood before her with a bluish white glow, and once she made her way back to the populated blocks she saw orange and yellow lights emanating from homes. Families were most likely preparing for dinner, although Maxine really had no idea what time it was.
“Sorry about the park,” she said to Baseball as they turned onto their own block. “Next time.” She spoke out loud to try to break the uneasy stillness present. Although she no longer felt in danger, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Maybe it was the neighbors hiding behind their curtains, or a dangerous vagrant in the bushes, or something else. Something from the well, something that had followed her back to her own world. Soon she saw her own home in site, and Baseball began to walk faster once he recognized it. “Poor thing,” thought Maxine, realizing he must be starving. Maxine made her way to the front steps and took out her house keys.
Now on her home turf, she began to feel more secure, and so before she opened the front door she gathered the courage to turn around and see if anyone was in fact watching her. Taking a deep breath, she jerked back and looked behind her. She saw no vagrants or monsters, no nosey neighbors or strange phantoms. All she saw was the same quiet street as always. But, of course, it wasn’t the same, and in an odd way she felt vindicated by this. Crestwood had revealed something to her. Something bizarre and unreal, justifying her initial vigilance and distrust.
After months of suspicion, she thought, Crestwood was finally making sense.
#
3 Minori was in her usual spot when Maxine and Baseball entered: sitting on the living room couch, her legs crossed and dressed in track pants and a light t-shirt. The T.V was off, and a book rested in-between her thighs. Maxine took this as a bad sign. Minori only ever read when she was angry about something.
Lately, she had become quite the reader.
Upon hearing Maxine approach Minori closed the book and tossed it onto a nearby coffee table. She didn’t look at Maxine as she spoke.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Taking Baseball for a walk.” Maxine had already decided that she would not tell Minori about the well. Not because she feared Minori wouldn’t believe her. She just wanted something for herself.
“It’s 8:45 Maxine. You’ve been walking for three hours?”
“Yes.”
Minori didn’t believe her, but knew that pressing the topic at the current moment wouldn’t do either of them any good. She instead switched topics.
“Have you thought about painting then?” she said with a smile, now looking at Maxine.
“What?” stumbled Maxine, unsure of what Minori was referring to. Then like a splash of cold water it came back. Earlier that day the two of them had been discussing if they should paint Minori’s home office, and if so what color. Despite its banal content the talk had a tense tone to it. At one point Maxine’s phrasings became somewhat combative, which took Minori by surprise. Before she could work up the courage to address it Maxine was reaching for Baseball’s leash, saying that she’d be back shortly.
“Oh, yeah,” said Maxine. “Yeah, painting is fine. Just let me know when I guess.”
Minori looked unmoved by her answer and reached for her book again. “Well, if you’re going to take him for a walk so late, not that I mind of course, he needs the exercise, but if you’re going to do that at least take your phone with you. I was worried.”
“Oh, yeah I’m sorry I just left in such a… yeah sorry. My bad.”
Minori was reading her book again, barely paying attention. “There’s pasta on the stove,” she said after a few moments of silence. “If you want.”
That night Maxine dreamt of the ocean, and being able to breathe underwater. She also dreamt of her mother, and walking with Minori in a shopping mall as a teenager, and also of an old stone well standing alone in a vacant field. As she approached the well a cold greyish hand began to emerge from it, inviting her to come closer and take a look inside. It was the best night of sleep she had gotten since the move.
Three days later and she returned to the well.
It was a Tuesday, and so Maxine was working from her office in the city. She worked in photography, and while she liked to think of it as being an artistic line of work most of her day involved taking stock pictures for various advertisers. Fortunately while the majority of her responsibilities uninterested her, there was just enough excitement every now and then to keep her engaged with the whole affair. As a plus, she got to spend time in the city, away from Crestwood.
Minori on the other hand was a UI designer and worked primarily from home. She had transformed a spare bedroom in their Crestwood home into a cozy office, and recently spent more time there than any other part of the house. Maxine had no idea how she could spend so much time hidden away in a little home office without going mad. Yet Maxine had always been the more restless one of the two. As soon as Maxine felt stuck, or the days felt monotonous, she just had to do something new to shake up the routine.
She was feeling stuck the day she visited the well again. She didn’t mean to do it either; originally she had just been aimlessly driving around the neighborhood after work, hoping she’d suddenly think of something to pick up from the supermarket or maybe get a sudden call from a friend. Really, she was just killing time, hoping something, anything would happen before it got too late and she would have to go back home. And then, without even noticing, she was on the street with the abandoned houses. And like an answer to a question, there was the house.
She got out of the car and did a quick scan of the block to make sure no one was watching, and upon confirmation she moved towards the house’s side and squeezed through the bushes. When she reached the other side she half-expected the yard to be completely vacant, and thought that life would be simpler if she had in fact imagined it all. But there was the well. For a split second her heart skipped a beat, and she considered turning around, but the anxiety passed as soon as it came. Quickly she hurried to the well, got on her knees, and looked inside.
#
The lights were dim, and disorienting sounds assaulted Maxine’s senses. Dozens of voices all talking at once, forks and knives scraping against glass plates, and radio friendly pop-music playing above her. A waiter was rushing towards a table behind Maxine, and made his way right through her. Although she felt no physical sensation from this, the experience itself made her squirm. She scanned the restaurant, looking for a face like her own.
Maxine then saw them in the back sitting in a booth. She was wearing a white button-down tucked into a black pencil dress, and in front of her sat a curly headed woman with thick glasses and a wide smile. Between them was a pitcher of sangria; next to that their unopened menus. A waiter came over and they talked for a brief moment. Her other said something apparently funny and everyone laughed. The waiter then left, and they both reached for their menus. Maxine slowly floated closer.
She stopped right before the booth, and upon closer inspection realized that this other her was not the same other her as the last time. While the other her had hair in a long braid, this one had much shorter twists, some of them dyed a golden color. Several tattoos covered her right forearm, and she wore an assortment of spiked jewelry and studded armbands. This new her gave off a completely different vibe from the other, less lounge and more dive bar. As the curly headed woman reached across the table to touch the new her’s arm while laughing, Maxine realized that she was witnessing a date.
“We’re never coming back here again” said the other Maxine.
“Why come?” asked the woman. The phrasing made the other giggle, and Maxine couldn’t tell if this was a deliberate joke or a slur due to alcohol.
“The staff is too attractive, they’ll steal me away from you.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll bring you back once they get to know you.”
The other Maxine let out a loud cackle and put down her menu. The woman smiled. “They have too many options. What are you getting?” she asked.
“I’m not telling.”
“You’re not telling me?”
“Nope.” The other Maxine leaned back in her seat with a grin. “Not telling. You’ll know when I order it.”
“And why is this a secret?”
“Because,” she said, stressing the syllables, “You’ll just try to make me get something you’re interested in and then we’ll end up sharing plates.”
“What’s wrong with that? That way we both get to taste a different thing.”
“Well I don’t want to eat what you order, and sometimes I don’t want to share a whole plate. Sometimes I want you to eat what you order and for me to eat what I order.”
“Okay okay, no micromanaging meals. Got it.”
Maxine smiled and reached for her glass. “So what are you ordering?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Okay Gwen, but when the waitress comes you’re ordering first.”
The conversation continued in such an inane fashion, but Maxine still watched it unfold with great interest. She found it odd that this other her was so alike, and yet so different from herself. She too hated having others eat off her plate. Still, she could never see herself actually bringing that up during a meal; especially not with such a playful attitude about it. Maxine had a tendency to take things seriously, especially when they involved things her partner did that she found annoying. To be able to address such a complaint without getting worked up or anxious was something she had yet to master.
Why, then, were these other hers so different? At what points, what crossroads or junctures, did she stop being the Maxine that she was and become these other women? What incidents or choices led her to become bolder, living in the city, romantically involved with a men, and on playful dates? The questions clouded her mind, and soon she found that she was losing focus of the conversation before her. Words became harder to follow, and the room began to grow dimmer and blurrier, and soon the entire world slipped away and left her in darkness.
#
When she woke up she was once again sitting on the grass, her back resting on the well. She checked her phone; saw that only an hour had passed. Still, it was enough lost time that Minori might be suspicious, and so while on her way back to the car Maxine tried to think of a good lie to help cover her actions. She decided that the often used “caught up at work” would be easy and plausible, so she went with that. She had just finished working out all of the little details of the narrative when she pulled up to her driveway, certain that the story was foolproof.
When Maxine got home Minori was in her office, looking over emails on her laptop. The two exchanged half-hearted greetings, and Maxine was disappointed to find that Minori didn’t ask her where she had been the past hour. It was as if she didn’t notice, or possibly didn’t care. For the sake of their relationship Maxine chose to believe in the former, and so she decided to use the excuse anyway.
“Sorry I’m late by the way, I got caught up looking over a couple of reshoots,” she shouted from the kitchen.
“That’s fine,” shouted back Minori. And that was that.
Maxine made a vegetable lasagna that night for dinner, but Minori opted for a small salad instead. As Maxine did the dishes Minori snuck upstairs to the bedroom, and by the time Maxine had put the lasagna into the fridge Minori had fallen asleep.
Feeling lonely and frustrated, Maxine snuck into Minori’s office that night and masturbated on top of her work desk. As she was coming, a vision of the well flashed quickly in her mind, like an out of place frame hidden in the reel of a film.
#
4Her trips to the well became more frequent after that.
The routine went as such: Maxine would leave work an hour early, often on a Monday or a Friday since there was often less to do those days. She would drive from the city back to Crestwood, back to the block where the abandoned house was, and then drive a few blocks past that and leave her car by the park to avoid suspicion. She would then walk to the house and squeeze through the side to the backyard, where the well patiently waited.
Every time she entered, she would observe a different version of herself. Interestingly, she soon realized that in these worlds that she was viewing, the only thing different was the fact that she was not the version of herself that she was now. Places, locations, and names were all the same as the world that she knew, but she was always different. Similarly, the time of day always seemed to coincide with the time of day in which she entered the well, and no alternate versions of her ever seemed to live too far from her current area, suggesting some sort of temporal or spatial connection between Maxine and the other hers she was dropping in on.
Concerning the other hers, while all of them were different from each other, these differences sometimes ranged from minor to drastic shifts in lifestyle and living conditions. Not once did Maxine ever drop in on the same her twice, but oftentimes she would visit variations of alternate versions of herself. For example, sometimes she would view a variation of the her she witnessed living in the apartment in the city, yet the other would be dating a different man or sometimes a woman, or be completely single and have more pets or a different pet or no pets at all. Some of the hers lived in other parts of the city, and appeared to have more bohemian artsy lives. They dressed in blacks and wore big boots and had tattoos and took pictures of naked people in studio apartments. Some hers were accomplished individuals, and put on gallery shows full of their photos. Others sold art in the park. Some had office jobs, one was a chef, and one time she dropped in on a her shooting a threesome, behind the camera that is.
Other hers weren’t doing nearly as good. One of them was living with an abusive boyfriend, while another still lived with her parents, and one was even homeless. These windows into lives clearly worse than her own certainly humbled Maxine, and made her feel fortunate to at least be in a place where she felt safe and secure. Yet still, on days when she was fed up with the monotony of her relationship, these views offered her an escape. Sure, things could always be worse, yet there were worlds out there, variations of her existence in which things were also better. And if not better, then at least they were different. And sometimes different is all she was really looking for.
Some differences however were harder to watch than others. For Maxine, these were the worlds that included Minori. In these alternate lives, she has seen her and Minori living in the city, lounging on a couch and laughing together. She’s seen the two of them going for a walk in the park, Maxine walking Baseball and Minori licking an ice cream cone. She’s seen them in Crestwood even, holding a barbecue for their friends, Minori on the grill and Maxine entertaining the guests. She’s even seen an alternate her come home from work only to trip over a tricycle left by the doorway, nearly toppling over. She caught herself however, and right before cursing out loud saw Minori on the couch across from her, and sitting on her lap a toddler reading a book.
Maxine couldn’t handle these sights. Seeing different lives that she could be living worked as a suitable escape from her life with Minori, yet having to think about ways that things with Minori could be different, could potentially even be better, unnerved her so. Whenever she would drop in on these alternate worlds, she would only spend a few moments at maximum before leaving.
Leaving, it turns out, was actually quite an easy process. Sometime during her fourth trip Maxine realized that if she simply unfocused her eyes and stopped paying attention to the world and sounds around her, her entire view would become a dark blur, and eventually her thoughts would slow down and she would enter a light sleep. When she awoke, she always found herself in the usual position sitting against the well. On average she spent around two to three hours in the well every visit, and when she got home she would tell Minori that she had to work late, and Minori would always believe her. Or at least, if she didn’t, she never said anything about it, instead choosing to talk about whatever ongoing project she was working on or what the dinner plans were.
On days she was feeling extra daring, or extra restless, Maxine would take Baseball for another walk late at night, and head to the well. Crestwood at night no longer scared her, and she would march down the dark empty blocks with confidence. She no longer thought about the neighbors and their watchful eyes. She let them be with their quiet secret ways, for now she had her own secret, and understood just how valuable such a thing was.
Maxine liked stepping in on her others at night time. It was then that she saw them during their most intimate moments. Watching tv in bed with a partner, talking to someone on the phone, reading quietly or masturbating in a bathtub. These visits made her feel closer to them. Made her feel less alone. Yet due to the time constraints of not wanting to be out for too long, and wanting to give her others some privacy, she rarely stayed in these moments for more than a few minutes. Sometimes, just dropping by to say hello was enough. When she would come back, she would find Baseball waiting patiently in front of the well, obedient but clearly unsettled. Maxine would rub Baseball’s head to calm him, certain that these midnight expeditions would remain between the two of them. On the walk back home, Maxine would feel a peace inside that she never knew, and would pray that this time, this secret, this well, would remain hers and only hers forever.
#
This went on for 3 months, right through a blistering summer and into the start of fall. Leaves started to turn, and in the air hints of a coming northern chill. Maxine began to wear a light jacket on her late night trips to the well, which had by then become nightly jogs, as Minori began to question taking Baseball out so late. Maxine didn’t mind coming up with new lies to cover up her actions, and for the most part Minori barely seemed to question her lack of presence in the house. Still, once it would get really cold, Maxine figured that it would be harder to explain being out so late. This would especially be true once winter hits. How could she explain an hour long run through a snowstorm? What new excuses or events could she come up with to justify her absence? Or would she have to abstain from the well completely during the colder months? The thought didn’t sit well with her; fortunately, she thought to herself, there was enough time to prepare for this. She was sitting on the couch mulling all of this over when Minori entered the living room and tossed an envelope onto Maxine’s lap.
“What’s this?” she asked, her voice sharp and thin. Maxine was taken aback by her tone, and slowly picked up the envelope.
“Looks like mail.” Said Maxine.
“Wow. Genius, really smart there Max…”
“Okay, okay, what is it? What’s going on?”
“Just open it.” Maxine opened the envelope and took out the piece of paper folded inside. It was a traffic ticket, complete with a picture of the back of Maxine’s car, running a red and license plate on full display.
“Fuck,” whispered Maxine. “I’m sorry”
“Oh yeah? You’re sorry?”
“Look I know I said it wouldn’t happen again…”
“It’s not even about…”
“I didn’t even see this one…”
“Its not about the ticket Max!”
Maxine leaned back and looked closer at Minori. Her hair, usually neatly brushed, was frayed and messy. Her eyes looked deep and piercing, her cheeks rosy. “What’s this about then?” she asked.
“Look at the date.” Maxine looked at the date and time that the photo was taken. Minori continued as Maxine read through the details. “It’s a Friday. A Friday at 4pm. And look at the location of the camera. I know this street, Max. This is the intersection near the supermarket. The one here in town.” She waited for Maxine to respond, hoping that she wouldn’t have to ask the obvious question. Maxine only sat there in cold silence, like a child waiting to hear her punishment. “Maxine, what were you doing near Crestwood at 4pm on a Friday? On a day you told me you had to work late?”
“I was taking a break.”
“Taking a break?”
“Yeah.”
“Taking a break in fucking Crestwood? Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“Why’s that so crazy?” snapped Maxine. “Crestwood is… peaceful, isn’t it Minori?” she asked, pronouncing each word with a sharp edge.
“Who takes a break nearly an hour away from work? What the hell were you doing by the market Max? Meeting someone?”
“No. I was alone.”
“You weren’t with anyone?”
“I was with myself.”
“Oh, okay, cool. So you do this often then? These random trips out of the city in the middle of work days? Pretty uh, pretty routine for you then?” Their voices were getting louder.
“Yeah actually, I like the breaks. It’s really nice to just get away sometimes, you know? Away from work, away from the house, away from… you ought to try it sometime you know?”
“Away from… what Max? Away from me?
“That’s not what I said. Don’t twist-”
“I know what you’re saying Max. You like to get away from the house. I get it, I totally fucking get it. And you know what, I’ve been cool with it, haven’t I? I let you take your little weird dog walks at night, and I don’t say shit about it.”
“Yeah,” said Maxine, annoyed. “You’ve been cool, but…”
“I don’t question your night jogs or even you coming home later, which I knew was bullshit of course, I just didn’t know it was this level of bullshit!”
“It’s not bullshit okay! I just can’t, can you give me a minute to think?”
“Look, I know you regret this house, this move…”
“Oh for fucking God’s sake is this where it’s going again?”
“ I know you are struggling here, and I know that part of that is because of me and my wants. And I have been trying Maxine to be accommodating and helping you adjust as much as possible…”
“I told you I’m not angry at you for the move, it’s just…”
“But when you act like a little…child sometimes…”
“Can you give me a minute to talk? Is it my turn now?”
“And act like you didn’t agree to this too. That you didn’t sign up for this too, cause you did!”
“I know I did!” shouted Maxine, overpowering Minori. “I know I did. And I’ve been adjusting in my own way.”
“Adjusting?” said Minori, almost laughing. “Adjusting how?”
“I told you. I take breaks. I go for walks.”
“Where?”
“Around.”
“Around where Maxine?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Why lie?”
“Because.”
“Because? Because what? Who are you with Maxine?”
“No one. I’m by myself.”
“Bullshit.”
“No. You’re wrong.”
“Then what, Maxine? What? What is it?”
Maxine struggled to think of what to say, struggled to think of a way out of this, but slowly the reality began to sink in. She would either have to reveal the truth, or see whatever was left between her and Minori fade away. A part of her was certain that it was already faded, and was close to walking out of the room and leaving for good. But another, louder part of her said otherwise. It told her to stay. It told her that whatever was there was worth fighting for. And so she offered one last plea before submission.
“Please…,” she squeaked out. “Let me have this Minori. Please.”
Minori stared at her, her face a mix of frustration and bewilderment. Eventually she shook her head slowly, and when she spoke she looked at the floor. “I just can’t trust you then.”
There was a silence for a while. This time, Maxine would be the one to break it.
“Fine,” she said. “Follow me.”
#
5The two didn’t talk as they made their way through the empty streets. The sun was going down, and the sky had a serene orange glow that reminded Maxine of the first day she discovered the well. As they walked Minori was certain that Maxine was leading her to the home of a neighbor, and kept her eyes open for any familiar attractive faces. She was surprised, then, when the two of them stopped in front of an abandoned house, and Maxine started to approach its side.
“Max?” she said.
“Trust me.”
Minori did, and the two entered the backyard. “Isn’t this trespassing?”
“Probably. But look,” said Maxine, pointing at the well. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The well. Go look into it.”
Minori gave Maxine a suspicious look. “You want me to go look into the well?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I promise you Minori, if you look into the well I will explain everything to you. You’re just going to have to take my word on this one.”
“Why are you being so ridiculous? Why can’t you just-”
“Please, you just have to trust me. Please Minori.”
Minori looked at Maxine, and although she felt the whole situation was ridiculous, she decided to play along. “You’re not going to push me in, are you?” Maxine shook her head, and Minori gave an exhausted shrug and walked over to the well. Maxine watched from afar as she approached it and leaned forward to look in.
“I don’t see anything Max. It’s all dark,” she said after a few moments.
“Keep looking. Just keep looking and stay focused.”
“What? Well I…,” she started before her voice trailed off. “Wait a minute, something is happening. I see something.”
“Stay focused.”
“This is… weird.”
Maxine then watched a process that her own body must have gone through dozens of times already, now able to see what it looked like from the outside. Slowly, Minori’s body began to lose color, and the light around her seemed to go right through her, causing her frame to become a greyish shadow. Her clothes, skin, and hair all became clear and translucent, and through ghostly layers Maxine could see Minori’s muscle tissue as her outer layers flickered in and out. Then, the muscles too began to fade away, leaving nothing but organs and a skeletal frame, and then soon her whole body was a ghostly form, each layer of skin and muscle all translucent and flickering in and out of focus. Her being was so faint, so thin that if one were to look into the lot quickly they would see only Maxine standing there, her mouth agape and expression horrified. One would have to look at the well and squint hard to see what was left of Minori, and even then they might convince themselves that what they saw was merely a trick of the light.
Minori’s body eventually stabilized, growing no dimmer or fainter, but staying at a consistent ghostly flicker. Maxine figured that this meant that Minori was now fully in the other world, and sat down on the grass and waited for her to return. As she sat she thought about the well, and for the first time ever found herself questioning its actual nature. Who built it? Was it a creation of the previous home’s owners, or was it here before the house was built? Before Crestwood itself was built? Did its magical properties affect only a select few, or everyone who encountered it? What would happen if the media, if the government knew about it? Physicists and philosophers and theologians would crowd Crestwood, conducting experiments, entering debates; parking would become hellish. She’d have to move then. Even Minori would agree with that. Eventually, though, her mind turned to more serious questions, such as what would happen between her and Minori now. Would Minori understand now that she too knew what was in the well? Or, more importantly, did she even want Minori to understand in the first place.
Almost an hour later and Minori’s body began to flicker in and out of focus more rapidly. In a strange ballet like twirl, Minori’s body turned around and softly floated up, and then downwards, her back gently landing on the stone well. Throughout this motion color returned to her, and her form became solid once again, until she was back to normal, sitting in the grass resting against the well. Maxine watched this all in awe.
“Minori,” she whispered. “Minori.”
Minori’s eyes opened, and her eyes darted around the yard in a panic. It was dark outside, and she was clearly disoriented. Maxine called her name again, and their eyes met. They stared at each other for a while, and as the look of confusion left Minori’s eyes it was soon replaced by one that Maxine recognized as sadness. Without a word Minori stood to her feet, and hurried past Maxine and through the bushes. Maxine, unsure of what to do, stayed sitting there for a few more minutes. When she got home she found Minori asleep in their bed, and so she opted to sleep on the living room couch instead. It seemed like the safer option.
#
Maxine awoke to the smell of coffee. She leaned forward a bit, her leg hanging off of the couch’s edge, and saw Minori sitting on the armchair across from her. Her legs were crossed, and she held a mug gently in her hands. Minori’s eyes were softer, not piercing like they were last night. They weren’t welcoming or forgiving either, but in them Maxine picked up on a sense of understanding, and a willingness to talk. Maxine felt calmer by them.
“Been awake long?” asked Maxine.
“Didn’t sleep much, if I’m being honest.” Even her voice was softer than before. “Mind if I join you?”
Maxine shook her head, and scooched over on the couch as Minori made her way over. They turned to each other again, and Maxine couldn’t help but smile.
“You look tired,” said Minori, and then she patted her lap. Maxine leaned downward and let her head rest comfortably in Minori’s lap, and curled the rest of her body into a cozy fetal position. Minori began to stroke Maxine’s hair back, and Maxine felt like she could melt right there.
“Maxie,” said Minori, “Do you think this was a mistake?”
“Do I think what was a mistake?”
“The house. The marriage. Us. Us here, together in this place?”
“The house? Maybe. The marriage? I don’t know. Us? I don’t think so.” Maxine looked up to Minori. “What about you?”
“I don’t know either.”
“I love you Minori. And I’m pretty sure you love me, but…”
“You’re wondering if that’s enough? That two people love each other?” It was rare for Minori to know exactly what Maxine was thinking. Maxine took it as a sign that Minori was thinking the same thing. “Yeah, I’m wondering if loving you is enough.”
“Well, we love each other. So I guess we should figure this all out huh? I guess there’s stuff we should be talking about.”
“Yeah, I guess there is,” admitted Maxine. There was a moment of silence. Not uncomfortable, awkward silence, no. Something more serene. More comforting.
“Maxie,” said Minori. “You know, if this is going to work out, I mean, if we want it to work out, you know we can never go to that well ever again. You know that, don’t you?”
Maxine paused. She knew it was true. In fact, once she heard Minori say it, she realized that she had always known this truth. She always knew that in the end, it would come between the well and Minori. “Yeah,” she said eventually. “I know.”
“That thing will destroy us Maxie.”
“Yeah,” she said again. “Yeah. It will.”
Minori smiled to herself, and tapped Maxine’s cheek playfully. “Hey, want some coffee?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said Minori. “And then, at some point today, we should talk.”
Maxine nodded in Minori’s lap. “Yeah. We should talk.”
#
Things were different after that morning. The two of them began to talk, which was easier in concept than execution. Having become so accustomed to ignoring their own wants and quieting their dissatisfactions, any attempt to address them in an open and honest way took extreme effort, and often was handled in the clumsiest of ways. Although they both continuously agreed that they were making progress, things weren’t always good. There were fights, screaming and shouting. Winter was particularly rough, and during one week Maxine packed up her things and stayed with a friend in the city. No, it was not easy at all. But in the end, they would talk, and move on. They ended up staying in Crestwood, and by the time spring came around if you were to ask them how they were getting along, they’d say “just fine,” and most of the time they would mean it. And most importantly, neither of them returned to the well.
In fact, over time Maxine slowly began to think about the well less and less, until eventually it was nearly erased from all memory. And whenever she did happen to be reminded of it, it felt more like remembering a dream, and not even her own dream at that, but one that someone else had told her. That was until one spring evening when she happened to ride her bike passed the house.
A moving truck was parked in front of the old thing, and two men were carrying boxes to the front door of the house. Two little girls, neither any older than 10, sat on the house’s front lawn, and parked in the driveway was a red SUV. An older woman wearing jeans and a yellow blouse leaned against the SUV, and turned to see Maxine. Maxine considered speeding up and peddling past the house, but the woman offered a polite wave, and so Maxine slowed down and peddled towards the sidewalk.
As she neared closer she saw that the house itself had changed dramatically. It had been painted a light blue, the tiles and roof and windows were all repaired, and the grass was green. The house looked healthy, and Maxine was surprised to find that seeing the house looking this way made her feel warm inside. Like coming across an old friend, and finding that they were in a better place now than when you last saw them. She was happy for the house, and thought that maybe all of this time all it needed was a little bit of attention and a loving family to fill it up.
Maxine got off of her bike and pulled it up on the sidewalk. “Moving in?” she asked.
“Yep,” said the woman cheerily. “Are you from the neighborhood?”
“Just a few blocks around the corner. How’re you liking Crestwood?”
The woman flashed a nervous smile. “Its… quiet,” she said shyly. “But it's nice. It's our first house you know, we used to be in an apartment and just… I mean look at all this space right? It's funny though, you know you’re actually the first person we’ve seen out and about.”
“Yeah,” said Maxine. “It can be sort of dead around here sometimes. But you get used to it. Me and my partner only moved in a year or so ago too.”
“Oh, I’m Abbey,” said the woman, and she extended her hand. Maxine introduced herself. “Over there are my two little ones, that’s Lacey pulling the flowers out of the ground, and the other is Carol. My husband must be somewhere in the house…” Abbey trailed off as she looked around the yard. “Well anyway, you and your husband ought to come by sometime! We could use some neighborhood friends.”
“Right,” said Maxine. “I’ll pass the invite along to Minori. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to meet you.” Abbey looked confused for a moment, but before she could respond Maxine had interjected. “You know, I remember hearing, from others in the neighborhood, that this house had a well in its backyard.”
“A well?”
“Yeah. Like an old wishing well. Like the ones from old fantasy stories. I had always wanted to see it, you know, just out of curiosity.”
“Huh,” said Abbey, “well there is no well out there right now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the backyard’s totally flat and all. You know, the place was renovated recently, they must have filled the thing in or something.”
“Safety hazard maybe?”
“Yeah, I mean I don’t want to be known in the neighborhood as the lady whose kids fell down a well, right?” Abbey chuckled and Maxine forced a smile. “Well... well or no well, we probably would have taken this place anyway. Between you and me, the deal we got was an absolute steal.”
“Yeah,” said Maxine nodding with disinterest. “Buyers market and all that, right?”
“You know, to be honest, I’m not really too sure what that even means. Real estate was never my thing.”
“Yeah,” said Maxine. “I guess I don’t really know what it means either.” They smiled at each other. “Well I should let you get your move on, it was nice meeting you.”
“Absolutely, don’t be a stranger then.”
Maxine got back on her bike and peddled away. As she did, she wondered about the well. Was it really taken down due to renovations? A part of her didn’t believe it, couldn’t imagine the well letting anyone take it down. No, more likely, she felt that it simply left on its own. Perhaps somewhere out there, in another quiet sleepy neighborhood, in the backyard of another abandoned house, the well appeared. And there it waits, calling out names until someone eventually comes by and looks in. She shuddered at the thought, and planned on sharing it with Minori when she got home, but by the time she put her bike away in the backyard and entered through the back door the thought was gone, replaced instead by the rich smell of the curry that Minori had begun to make for that night’s dinner.
When not writing, Jeff and his dog, Edgar, can be found prowling the woods behind their rural home communing with the denizens of the night.
Find out what Jeff’s been up to on his website. jeffdosser.com
or follow him on Twitter @JeffDosser
JACKIE AND THE BEAN-SALK TOWERS:
"Three magical beans to be exact, young man. One, two, three! So magical are they, that if
you plant them over-night, by morning they grow right up to the sky," promised the funny
little man. "And because you're such a good boy, they're all yours in trade for that old milking cow." ---
The doors of Hewgley Terrace clanged shut like a cage as Jackie Spriggins stepped into the building’s empty atrium and looked around. Gulping down her fear, Jackie’s eyes crossed the yellowed tile floor, past the tattered corkboard of notes, to the dented steel elevator on the far side of the room.
Okay, I can do this. Jackie hugged her pack and set off for the elevator as her uncertain shadow first advanced then fled as she made her way beneath the spaced halogen glow.
All day she’d tried selling her mother’s computer; pawnshops and the flea market, no one offering even a fraction of what they needed for rent. At the elevator, she unclenched her fist and examined the scribbled note within:
Apartment 803A, Hewgley Terrace.
Stepping into the elevator, Jackie watched as a man saunter through the outer door. He was dressed in stained blue shorts and a baggy white tee. He paused a moment taking a long drag on his cigarette before flicking it aside.
When he looked up, he caught sight of Jackie. His predatory smile glinted like a blade.
“Hey, hold the door.” He stuffed one hand into his pocket and swaggered over.
Frantically, Jackie poked at the number 8 but it wouldn’t stay lit.
“Those buttons tend ta stick,” he called cheerily. “But don’t cha worry, lil’ lady. Ol’ Dave will help.”
A tingle raced up Jackie’s spine. There was no way he was getting in. Jackie jammed her thumb against the button until her knuckle ached. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the door rattled closed.
“Hey, bitch!” He broke into a run. “Wait for me.”
The door closed just as he reached it, his contorted face hot with rage. Jackie collapsed against the wall not caring how dirty it was, just glad to be inside the elevator alone.
As the numbers above the door tracked her progress. the floors ticked off with quiet pings. When it hit 8, the lift jerked to a halt and Jackie stepped out. She stood in a cramped landing, a dented metal trashcan set beneath the elevator’s buttons and a wood-framed memo nailed above it:
All Residents Must Comply with
Oklahoma Housing Authority Rules.
Failure to Comply Will Result in Immediate Eviction.
Address in hand, she strolled down the hall counting off the numbers; 801A with the letters ‘BK’ spray-painted on the door; 802A with a green paper Christmas tree taped below the peephole, it was May; then 803A. A blue steel door like all the others but, unlike the others, 803A sported a camera mounted above it. Jackie confirmed the address then stuffed the note in her pocket. Taking a breath, she balled up her fist and knocked.
The light on the camera turned from red to green as a voice spilled from its speaker:
“Yeah, whaddya want?”
Jackie rocked from side to side squeezing her bag. “Hi. Um…yeah. My name’s Jackie and…well, a guy at the flea market said you might be able to help.”
“Look, kid, go sell your cookies somewhere else. I ain’t interested.”
The light on the camera turned red.
Jackie gulped and glanced down the hall. She couldn’t go home, not empty-handed. What would they do?
“Come on,” Jackie persisted. “I got an iMac Immersion. I really need to sell it and this guy told me you’d be interested.”
From down of the hall, she heard the echoing clatter of feet mounting the steps.
“Please.” She balled a fist and pounded. “You’re my last hope.”
“The light on the camera went green.”
“Do you have the haptic gloves and the VR visor?”
Jackie glanced down the hall. The steps were growing closer.
“Yeah, yeah, the whole set.” She dug into her bag and pulled out the goggles and one glove. She dangled them in front of the lens.
The door at the end of the hall rattled as the one to 803A opened. Jackie sprang through and slammed the door behind her.
The apartment was small, microscopic actually. A kitchenette sat on her left and an unmade bed and the shadowed recesses of a bathroom to the right. Before her, lay a ten by ten space with a sliding glass door overlooking the city.
Two card tables had been shoved against one wall, and a leather couch, once dark brown but now crisscrossed with pale creases, sat opposite them. Atop every horizontal surface in the room were stacked monitors, computers, keyboards, and boxes of parts and overflowing wires. The room was alive with an electronic orgy of yellow, red, and green flashing lights. Jackie’s skin prickled in the stifling heat and the smell of hot circuits.
At the center of it all, like a spider hunched in its web, sat a spindly man in a wheelchair. He wore a bright yellow tee-shirt and a wide, dark frown.
For a long while his magnified eyes considered her from behind a pair of thick, smudged lenses.
“Well,” he said at last, causing Jackie to jump. “You got somethin’ ta sell or ain’t ya?”
“It’s my Mom’s iMac Immersion.” Jackie pulled a white rectangle from her pack and laid it on the table. Then she set the visor and haptic gloves beside it. “It’s a Model 3, but in real good condition.”
The man powered on the cube, slipped one hand into a glove, and with the other, held the visor to his face. Jackie watched not realizing she’d been holding her breath until her lungs began to ache. She let it out with a sigh.
After a minute, he lowered the visor and slipped off the glove. “Sorry, kid. I don’t have much need for Model 3s anymore.” He rolled back his wheelchair and sifted through one of the table’s boxes eventually coming up with a lighter.
“Have you tried the flea market? Sometimes they’ll buy the older rigs.”
Jackie’s eyes grew moist. She bit down on the inside of her cheek; hard. She was not going to cry.
“Yeah. I did.”
He lifted the PC and held it out, but Jackie stepped back refusing to take it.
“Look,” she said. “My Mom can’t find work and if we don’t come up with 500 more dollars the landlord is kicking us out.”
“500?” He laughed, a dry, wheezy, contagious sound that had Jackie covering her mouth.
“Please,” she said again. “There must be something you can do.”
As he studied her, he pinched the end of his nose as if coaxing it to grow. Finally, he wheeled around and crossed the room, stopping at a desk before rattling open its drawer.
“I like you kid,” he said. “You’ve got guts.” He pulled out a baggie and dropped it in his lap. The rubber treads of his wheelchair squealed as he turned and rolled back over.
As he lifted the baggie, Jackie stepped away, her upheld palms flat with refusal. “I’m not selling drugs.”
“Drugs?” He laughed. “This ain’t drugs.” He leaned closer and smiled. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Jackie’s eyes narrowed. The bag held three grains of rice. Only they were silver and didn’t look much look like rice at all other than being about the same size.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Why beans,” he said. “Magic beans. The latest in subcutaneous chip technology.”
Jackie crossed her arms and scowled. “Magic beans?”
“Well, not magic really.” He dumped one of the tiny pills into his palm and held it out for her to see.
“Go ahead, take it.”
Jackie held out her hand and he spilled it into her palm. She rolled the thing between her finger and thumb. It was hard and smooth and glinted in the light. She handed it back.
“I don’t’ see how that’s gonna help pay rent.”
“The bean won’t, but what they can do might.” He sifted through the parts on his desk and retrieved a crushed pack of smokes. He tapped one out and lit up before puffing a gray cloud towards the ceiling.
“Ya see, them beans have been specially coded by yours truly.” He leaned back; his tiny gray teeth exposed in a smile. “When interrogated by any security code, say a car ignition, or a door lock, the beans analyze the frequency and through a process I’d rather not discuss and which you wouldn’t understand, determines the proper security sequence and unlocks whatever it is.”
“Like a cash safe?” Jackie asked.
“Sure, kid, cash safe, car, whatever you want.”
Jackie stepped closer but he pulled the bag away. “There’s one little hitch.”
A smirk formed on Jackie’s lips. Wasn’t there always a hitch?
“And what’s that?” she asked.
“A bean can only be used once. It’ll work again and again on whatever lock you opened, but it can only work on a particular lock.” He held up a finger like a bony exclamation. “And, the code won’t last forever. Most security systems have a rotating sequence which eventually locks the beans out. For high-security systems, that might only be a minute, for less secure locks, like a car, it’ll last until the bean runs outta power.”
“Power huh?” Jackie crossed her arms and scowled. It had sounded pretty good up until he mentioned the power. “Sounds like an excuse for when I get home and they don’t work.”
“Oh, no. They’ll work, at least once. Guaranteed.”
He shoved the iMac across the table and pocketed the beans.
“But maybe you’re right. This is probably somethin’ you wouldn’t be able ta handle.” He turned away and began typing on his computer. “More of a mature audience type of product.”
“I’m mature,” Jackie protested. “I can handle it.”
He looked up considering. “Okay, kid, ya talked me into it.”
He pulled out the baggie and held it out. As Jackie reached for it, he drew it back.
“No refunds,” he said, “and if you get caught with those, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
***
Jack’s mother was very angry. She said, “You fool! He took away your cow and gave you some beans!” She threw the beans out of the window. Jack was very sad and went to sleep without dinner. ---
Jackie rushed into her apartment and tossed her bag to the table. “I sold it, Momma, I got rid of that old PC.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her mother stepped from the kitchen, the tears welling in her eyes. “This will buy us time for me to find a job.”
Jackie was already imagining an after-hours visit to one of the local fast-food chains. The beans would open the door and the safe. She’d heard from her cousin, Billy, that fast food places held thousands in deposits especially on weekends. More than enough to pay rent and a little left over to buy Momma a new PC.
In three quick steps, her mother strode into the living room and dropped into a chair. “Let me see it. Did you get all $500?”
“Better,” Jackie beamed. She unzipped her pack and pulled out the baggie. “They’re magic beans. They’ll open anything.”
Her mother sat at the table her face gone suddenly slack. “This is no time for jokes, Jackie. Let me see the money.”
“No joke,” Jackie said. “The guy guaranteed me they’d work.”
“Guy? What guy?”
“The guy down at Hewgley Terrace. I got his address from one of the people at the flea market.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Her mother’s head dropped into her palms. “Hewgley Terrace is where the State sends sick people to live.”
Her mother sat for a long while. The sound of boiling water and rising steam cascaded from the kitchen. In a soft whisper, she said. “What are we going to do?”
The next morning, Jackie hopped a bus downtown, her pack bumped hard and heavy against her back as she marched up to the Hewgley tower entrance. Riding the elevator up to the eighth floor, she pulled off her pack and removed the crowbar she’d stuffed inside.
Jackie’s heart thundered. The crowbar felt heavy and cool in her sweat slicked palm. As the elevator door rattled open and she stalked towards 803A, her anger began to rise.
If a cripple didn’t have a problem ripping off a kid, she thought, He shouldn’t have a problem taking an ass-kicking from one either.
The door was open. Jackie slowed, pressing her back against the wall as she slid closer and peeked inside. The room was empty. She stepped inside to look around. A half-crushed cardboard box on the countertop was the only thing left. The only indication Larry had been here at all was a single computer chip lying beside a dead cockroach on the floor. The chip was on its back the silver pins jutting into the air, an electronic parody of the dead roach beside it.
As Jackie stood wondering what to do, a voice sent a jolt of fear tingling along her spine.
“Well, if it ain’t miss I’m too important ta hold the elevator, girl.”
She turned to find the perv from the day before standing at the doorway. He shuffled in and closed the door behind him.
“Where’s the crippled guy who lives here?” Jackie asked.
The perv only smiled. He stepped closer.
“I think the question ta ask is how can I make it up to ol’ Dave for bein’ so rude.”
Eying her, Dave salaciously slipped an index finger past his flabby wet lips and eased it slowly out.
“Cuz’ I got ideas on that very subject.”
When he reached for her, Jackie brought the crowbar down on his wrist with a sharp metallic ping. Crying out, Dave stumbled back. Jackie followed, dropping to her knees and skidding to a halt in front of him. She lifted the crowbar and brought its curved point down on the top of Dave’s foot. With a shriek, he hopped back losing his balance and crashing to the floor.
Before he could recover, Jackie closed in, crowbar poised.
“The next one goes right between your pervert eyes,” Jackie snarled. “Now tell me where the cripple went.”
Dave looked up; his blue eyes pale with fear.
“I …” He looked towards the door as if calculating his chances. Jackie swung the crowbar and struck the ground beside Dave’s ear. Its iron knell filled the room.
“I said, where’d he go?”
Darkness flowed across Dave’s crotch and pooled onto the floor.
“I don’t know, I swear.”
Jackie cocked her arm.
“Please…” Dave’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a gulp. “We call him Wheelchair Larry,” Dave said, “That’s all I know.”
“Where does he hang out. Who does he know?”
“I don’t…,” he began, then his eyes brightened. “Wait! A basketball player comes ta see him all the time,” Dave said. “He’d know where Larry went.”
“What basketball player?”
“That guy who retired from the Mavericks,” he said. “They did a big news story on him when he moved to town a couple years ago.” His eyes lifted in thought. “Cody something.” He snapped his fingers. “Cody Sayer, that’s it. He might know where Larry went.”
Jackie grabbed her bag and backed towards the front door. “Don’t follow me or you’ll be very, very sorry.” She stepped out and slammed the door behind her.
***
Jack ran up the road toward the castle and just as he reached it, the door swung open to reveal a horrible lady giant, with one great eye in the middle of her forehead.
As soon as Jack saw her, he turned to run away, but she caught him and dragged him into the castle.
"Don't be in such a hurry, I'm sure a growing boy like you would like a nice, big breakfast," said the great, big, tall woman, "It's been so long since I got to make breakfast for a boy." ---
Two hours later and Jackie was standing outside the Bean-Salk Towers. Everything she needed to know about Cody Sayer she discovered online at the library. An Oklahoma State basketball hero, he’d been drafted by the Dallas Mavericks as a power forward. Three years later, and a traffic accident had claimed his leg. Cody’s NBA career was over. The silver lining in this terrible turn of events was Cody’s odd insurance policy on his knees. Turns out he’d insured them for twelve-million-dollars. Despite the accident, he was rich.
From an article in 918 Magazine, Jackie’d also discovered where he lived. The article was only a year old and focused on Cody’s penthouse in the recently completed Bean-Salk Towers. Jackie pulled the ripped pages from her backpack and studied the tower then referenced the pictures from the column.
All she had to do was stop the guy when he came out and ask where Larry was. Her plan sounded solid until she saw him.
Cody Sayer was a giant of a man. He crouched through the Bean-Salk Towers double doors and walked with an odd lumbering gait to the edge of the circle drive out front. As he moved, he rose on his toes and swung his prosthetic leg forward before planting it heavily on the pavement and stepping again. He wore a pale blue suit with highwater, stove-pipe legs and a black pork-pie hat. A gleaming Mercedes sped from the parking garage and came to a halt at the entrance. The valet, sprang from the car as Cody shoehorned himself in, then sped from the lot.
He’s not gonna tell me a thing, Jackie thought as the Mercedes disappeared into traffic. Not in a million years.
At the back of Jackie’s mind, the thought which had convinced her to trade for the beans in the first place, raised its ugly head: What if the beans actually work? Her head spun with the possibilities.
Jackie strolled into a McDonalds across the street from the towers and checked herself in the bathroom mirror. Her nose was too thin, and her forehead too high. She cocked her head in a side-eye’s assessment. Her features were thin but maybe not so bad. The problem wasn’t her looks but her attire. The Goth look had to go.
There was nothing to be done about her hair but put up in a ponytail it would be fine. The eyeliner, though, had to go. She scrubbed her skin pink then stared into the mirror’s hard glare. The black tights and her fishnet sleeves were next. With everything stuffed into her pack, Jackie considered the girl in the mirror. She still wore her purple, sleeveless top with a ruffled black skirt but Goth girl was gone. Just a regular kid now. Nothing to see here.
The Bean-Salk Tower was an ovoid structure with a great wedge sliced from the section facing the street. On that side, the glass sparkled sky blue while the rest of the tower’s storied walls shimmered like a quicksilver veil.
Taking a breath, Jackie stepped through the building’s front door. She’d half expected to be challenged by a top hat-wearing footman, but the lobby was empty. Jackie’s heart pounded against her ribs as she made her way to the bank of elevators on the far side of the room. She had no plan other than seeing what was inside Cody Sayer’s apartment. Assuming the beans worked.
A sign above the elevators on the left read: Floors 2 – 30.
Above the two on her right: Floors 31-50. That was the one she wanted.
Holding her breath, Jackie pressed the call button.
Nothing happened.
She pressed it again, this time holding it down as she’d done at Hewgley terrace.
Still nothing.
Letting out her breath, Jackie dug into her pocket and retrieved the beans. Taking one out, she held it over the pad. When she did, both doors slid open yet only one held a car, the other looked down on a concrete pit littered with bits of trash and what looked like a Red Bull can. A second later, and the car slid down and jostled into place.
That was weird, Jackie thought as she stepped inside and pressed the button for the fiftieth floor.
When the elevator bumped to a halt and the doors slid back, Jackie stepped into a long hallway with doors at either end. There was no mistaking the basketball player’s home. He had a portrait of himself hanging beside his door. At least Jackie assumed it was him. The work seemed blurry to Jackie’s eyes though she liked the artist’s rain-hazed effect. It showed a single white man rising above a sea of dark-skinned players, all of them in shadow. Only Cody’s arm was in bright relief, an ivory pillar topped by a bright orange ball.
Jackie slipped the first bean into her left pocket and took out another. So far, Larry’s magic beans had worked just as advertised. She didn’t want them mixed up. When she examined the door, she saw there was no keyhole just a black pad embedded above the knob.
She swiped the bean across the lock. With a ‘thunk’ it disengaged and the door swung open.
Now what? Jackie thought.
With a finger, she pressed the door open. Before her, the sky lay framed in pale blue majesty pinned between the framework of the room’s twenty-foot windows. Their crystalline expanse extended from the left end of the massive room to its corner on her right, then continuing halfway along the adjacent wall to where a floating staircase beside the front door ascended like a stairway to heaven.
Jackie was drawn into the room’s opulence as if pulled in by its breath. She drifted through the doorway, past a thin wood table topped with a ceramic vase and crimson flower, down two steps and onto a tan carpet as thick and lustrous as a newly cut lawn. She stepped past a white leather couch and looked out over the city.
Jackie had never seen its like.
She couldn’t imagine such wealth, such beauty. Everything around her shimmered in an otherworldly light. The painting of flowers on the wall, the pile of colorful pillows on the couch, the white obelisk coffee table, the …
Jackie’s eyes returned to the table.
Nothing she’d seen held any place in her world. Except for this. She stepped closer and picked up the spoon. It was a silver spoon with the underside blackened by flame. Beside it, almost lost in the table’s glassy brilliance lay a syringe. She’d almost missed it if not for its orange cap.
“Hello, Baby,” a raspy voice purred from behind her.
Jackie’s heart leapt into her throat. Almost too scared to turn, she forced her head around.
At the top of the stairs, stood the most beautiful woman Jackie had ever seen. Her skin was pale as milk, her blonde tresses framed her face and tumbled to the collar of her ivory robe. As smooth as oiled smoke, she descended the stairs and stood at Jackie’s side. She was tall. Taller than Jackie imagined a woman could be and she drank Jackie in with her nearly pupil-less, blue eyes.
“Aren’t you just a doll?” She reached out and pulled Jackie into a hug.
Her robe was soft as a lamb and Jackie felt the firmness of her breasts beneath, the scent of her made Jackie dizzy, jasmine, and flowers, and the warm breath of summer.
“Come, sit with me.”
She tugged Jackie to the couch and fell clumsily dragging Jackie atop her.
The woman sat up laughing before taking Jackie’s face in her huge, soft palms.
“I wish I had a little girl like you.” As she stroked Jackie’s hair, the woman’s gaze grew unfocused, almost as if she’d forgotten Jackie were there. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Her eyes found Jackie again. “Aren’t little girls always hungry?” She cocked her head and smiled. “Would you like me to make some breakfast?”
It was four in the afternoon. Jackie opened her mouth, but only a frightened croak escaped. She swallowed feeling the hard click at the back of her cottony throat then she tried again.
“Sure.” Jackie forced a smile. “Breakfast would be great.”
The woman took her hand and pulled Jackie across the living room and through a doorway to the kitchen. The giantess twirled across the room, pulling a copper pan from a hook above an immense marble island. She clicked on the stove and blue flames leapt from its silvery surface.
In minutes, she’d scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, humming and dancing to lyrics Jackie couldn’t hear. When everything was ready, she scooped it onto a plate and waved Jackie to a stool at the bar.
As Jackie ate, the giantess lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Slowly, the giantess’ arms fell to her sides. Then like a great puppet whose strings have been cut, her knees began to buckle. She sagged forward at the hips then ever so slowly, she drooped towards the floor as her joints collapsed in slow motion beneath her.
“Are you all right?” Jackie asked.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open and she straightened mumbling something Jackie didn’t understand.
Time for me to leave, Jackie thought. She hadn’t been sure what to do once she’d made it inside the apartment and exacting revenge against Wheelchair Larry didn’t seem quite right now that everything he’d told her was true.
Grabbing her pack, Jackie slipped past the slumping giantess to the front door. With a final glance at the magnificent room, she stepped into the hall. The elevator opened and a giant stepped out.
It was Cody Sayer.
Before he spotted her, Jackie stepped back in and slammed the door behind her.
***
Ah, what's this I smell? The giant said.
Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead
I'll have his bones to grind my bread.
"Nonsense, dear," said his wife, "we haven't had a boy for breakfast in years.”
Jackie rushed into the kitchen and took the giantess’s hand. “Hey, wake up!” She tugged at the woman’s arm until, unbalanced, she was forced to take a step.
The sudden movement restored the giantess at the same instant the front door boomed open. A split second later and the giant called, “Hey, do I smell pizza?”
The woman’s eyes went wide as they bounced from Jackie to the hallway beyond.
“Come on.” The giantess took Jackie’s hand and dragged her to a broom closet and shoved her in. She studied Jackie through the door’s crack with only her nose and one eye peering in.
“Stay here.” The giantess turned and looked over her shoulder. “My husband won’t be pleased if he finds you.” She shut the door plunging Jackie into darkness.
From the living room, Jackie heard the giant call.
“Just a second,” his wife answered.
The door cracked open as she peered in once again.
“And for God’s sake, keep quiet.”
Jackie sat down and waited. She heard their voices from the living room. Held her breath as they stepped into the kitchen. Then their footsteps mounted the stairs and Jackie was left in peace.
After a while, she cracked the door preparing to leave when notes of a song caused Jackie to pause. The voice was muffled yet sweet and soulful. The tune was one she remembered but couldn’t place.
“Then sings my soul, My Savior God to thee, How great thou art, How great thou art…”
Memories carried Jackie back to hard, wood pews. Gram’s and Pap’s flanking her like bookends at church. She been only a child but remembered the musty smell of the hymn books, the silent rustle of clothes as people rose from the benches to sing. But where was it coming from? Jackie pressed an ear to the back wall and the sound seemed to grow.
She felt along the wall and detected a gap in the back. When she pressed her fingers inside, it widened. Jackie worked her fingers into the gap and pushed. With a grinding noise, a panel slid back revealing a door. Light seeped from beneath it and the singing stopped.
Cocking her head, Jackie listened.
There was nothing.
With nothing left to do, Jackie swung the hidden door open and stepped inside. The secret room was windowless, and the walls were covered in spongy gray foam. On one side of the door sat a table and a simple wooden chair. Opposite this was a chrome sink and a toilet. Beside that sat a pillow covered bed.
A boy sat on the bed staring at her. Not just any boy, but a boy who took Jackie’s breath away. His dark skin shone beneath the ceiling’s recessed lights; his close-cropped hair dark against his scalp. He was dressed in a gossamer gown and he stared at Jackie with dark, frightened eyes.
“Who…who are you?” His eyes darted past Jackie, then returned to her face. He kicked his feet to the floor and drew closer. He asked again this time with breathy force. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jackie,” Jackie said. “Who are you?”
“Can you get me out?”
There was something about this boy which frightened her. Not the boy but something about him.
Jackie’s eyes found the collar at his neck. They traced the thin cable snaking across the bed to a hook on the wall. He was a prisoner. A slave.
“Please help,” the boy said.
His name was Ethan. He was eleven years old. He didn’t know how long he’d been there though he told Jackie it felt like weeks. He said the giant came into the room sometimes. Usually, he made Ethan sing. Sometimes he touched Ethan. His eyes grew sad and he wouldn’t say more.
“I want my mom,” Ethan said.
Jackie examined the boy’s collar and the cable tethering him to the wall. A pair of bolt cutters would do, but she’d need money to get some.
After telling his story, the boy began to cry. Jackie sat on the bed and held him.
“I’m gonna get you outta here,” Jackie promised, “but I’ve gotta go home first.” She considered calling the cops but could imagine what would happen when some kid with a record accused an NBA superstar of child porn. She lifted his chin and met Ethan’s gaze.
“What can you tell me about this place?” She asked. “Anything will help.”
First, she examined the desk. A black and chrome box, about the size of a toaster, sat on top. Beside it lay a thumb-drive.
“That’s a gift card printer,” Ethan said. “He buys hacked codes from some guy named Larry. I overheard his phone call on how to get it running.”
Ethan shrugged and his eyes grew wet. “I guess he doesn’t mind me overhearing all the bad stuff he does ‘cause he’s gonna kill me pretty soon anyhow.”
Jackie looked up surprised.
“Why would you say that?”
“’cause I’m not the first kid he’s kept in here.” Ethan stood up and pulled the bed from the wall. Hidden by the mattress, she could just make out the painted over impressions of others who’d scratched their names there.
A chill ran up Jackie’s spine imagining what would happen if the giant should suddenly walk in. Despite herself, her eyes drifted back to the toaster-thing. A gift card printer might come in handy, she thought
“Do you know how this thing works?”
Jackie dropped into the chair and slid the thing over. It was heavy for its size, weighing about the same as her dog Milo or one of the geese at Gram and Pop’s farm.
Ethan’s restraint wouldn’t allow him to cross the room, so he pointed out where the giant plugged in the thumb-drive, and how the stack of gold cards fit into the hopper.
Following Ethan’s instructions, Jackie flicked on the power.
“What now?” she asked.
He types into the keypad and hits print.” Ethan said. “That’s about it. The card drops into the tray and he sticks it in his wallet.”
Jackie examined the keypad. Ten digits with two buttons below them: Cancel and Enter/Print.
When she tried to type in a number, it asked for a pass key. Jackie pulled out her last bean and waved it over the top. The display binked and the words:
Enter Gift Amount
Appeared on the screen. When she typed in a number, Jackie saw the display held room for only three digits. She typed in: 999 and hit: Print.
With a whirr of electronic wizardry, one of the cards was swallowed into the machine’s body. A second later, and a whiff of hot plastic filled the room as a card plunked into the tray. It was warm in Jackie’s hand.
“How many can this thing print?” she asked.
Ethan shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. He made me sing all evening once while he ran through bunches. I know the thumb-drive is what holds all the numbers.” He nodded to the one plugged into the machine. “He bought that one the other day, so I’m sure it’s loaded.”
A couple hundred cards? She slipped them into her pocket before stuffing the machine inside her pack. If this thing worked, she and her mom’s problems would be over.
Setting her pack down, Jackie’s noticed a button on the wall. It was hidden by the desk, so she’d missed it earlier.
“Do you know what this is?” She asked.
“What is it?” Ethan leaned over but couldn’t see.
Another secret door? Jackie wondered. With her hand hovering over the button, she thought. Or an alarm.
She pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
In case it was an alarm, Jackie grabbed her pack and made ready to run. Then a grinding sound began in the wall beside her. A section of wall pushed out from above the desk and slid aside. She was staring down the hall towards the elevators.
Jackie hopped onto the desk, then down to the floor just outside the giant’s front door. The picture was the doorway to his secret room. Or more likely, a secret exit for when the cops show up, Jackie thought.
“You’re coming back aren’t you?” Ethan’s dark face shone red as he strained against his tether trying to see out.
“Don’t worry.” Jackie reached inside and pressed the button causing the picture to slip into place. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Jackie wondered how long the giant would be home. She wondered if it would be better to come back when everyone was asleep. Then she thought of Ethan. How many days had he been there? With a shudder, she wondered if the giant would visit him tonight? Maybe for the last time? She pushed the thought away. She’d grab what she needed and return as quick as she could.
***
Down and down he climbed down till at last he got home and told his mother and showed her the gold and said, “Well, Mother, wasn’t I right about the beans? They are really magical, you see.” ---
An hour later, Jackie marched through the front door to find her mother waiting on the couch.
“Where have you been, young lady? Your school counselor was expecting you at four.” Her mother rummaged through a wicker basket on the table and fell back on the couch with a lighter in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Her hand trembled as she lit up.
“When the counselor called and said you’d missed your appointment…Well, I didn’t know what to think.” For several seconds, her mother puffed shakily at the cigarette, blowing wispy fumes towards the ceiling. “I thought, well I thought you’d run away.” She ducked her face into her palms, her shoulders convulsing with silent tears.
Jackie dropped her pack and slipped down next to her mother.
“Don’t worry, Momma. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Fine?” She pulled away and glared through tear-filled eyes. “We’re about to be evicted for God’s sake. We’ll be homeless, Jackie, and you’ve been…what?” She waved her hand causing the smoke to eddy around them. “God only knows what. Drugs, or boys.” She looked up and met Jackie’s stare. “Or both.”
Jackie shook her head. “No Momma, it’s not like that.”
She dug into her pack and retrieved the printer before setting it heavily on the table. Her mother eyed it suspiciously.
“And what’s this?” She asked.
“Free money,” Jackie said.
She plugged in the printer, typed out an amount, and in moments the card dropped with a ‘plink’ into the tray.
“It’s a gift card printer.” Jackie said, “and it’ll print all these cards.” She held up the stack of gold blanks.
Her mother let out a tired sigh. “And where did this amazing contraption come from? The same place you got the magic beans?”
Jackie pressed her lips into an angry pout. “Fine.” She sprang from the couch looking around the room. Then she had a thought. “You stay right here.” She grabbed the card and sprinted out the door.
In twenty minutes, Jackie waltzed back in, her arms loaded with Wal-Mart bags. Her mother simply stared.
One by one, Jackie removed the items in the bags; Oranges, and steaks, a package of AA batteries, a Blue Ray of Harry Potter, and a dozen other things she’d grabbed off the shelves and stuck in her basket.
Her mother lifted an orange and brought it to her nose. She closed her eyes and sniffed.
“I bought it all with this.” Jackie dropped the gold card into her mother’s lap.
Each card.” She waved at the table, “is worth $999.” She took her mother’s hands in hers. “We can make rent. We can buy a computer, You’ll get a job.” She reached out and tumbled the golden stack so they spilled across the table. “We’re rich, Momma, rich.”
Her mother’s hands roamed across the stuffed bags of groceries, across the oranges and steaks as if confirming they were real. Then she reached out for Jackie and pulled her into a hug.
“It’s a miracle,” her mother said, “a miracle.”
“I’ve got one more thing to do before all this is over,” Jackie said.
Something in Jackie’s voice caused her mother’s eyes to grow stern. “You’re caught up in something aren’t you?”
Jackie didn’t know how to answer.
“It’s gangs isn’t it?” Her mother’s hands, like a pair of roving animals, crisscrossed her lap until they’d discovered the cigarette pack. She tapped one out and lit up.
Jackie bit her lip wondering if she should say more. If she did, Momma might call the police and she’d never see Ethan again.
“No, Momma, it’s not gangs.” She looked to the door. “But I have ta go.”
Before her mother could stop her, Jackie was out the door with the new set of bolt cutters stuffed inside her pack. Before she knew it, she was standing beneath the picture at the giant’s front door. She tried sliding the picture back, but it wouldn’t budge.
She glanced at the door with a sigh then dug into her pocket and retrieved the bean. She half hoped the door wouldn’t open. It did. As it had before, the lock gave a loud, thunk, and the door eased back. Jackie stepped in.
The picture frame sky was overhung with the purple-pink glow of sunset as Jackie slunk through the shadows towards the kitchen. Halfway there, she was frozen by the sound of movement within. A split second later and the giantess stepped out with a tray of cheese and crackers in her hands.
The big woman stared a Jackie a long moment before setting down the tray and kneeling down before her.
“I thought you were a dream,” she said. She gave a little huff and shook her head. “But here you are, real as rain. She reached out and put a hand on Jackie’s shoulder as if to verify she was there.
The woman stood rising, rising, rising until she stared down at Jackie, her hand still on her shoulder.
“You’ll have to stay here, little angel.” Her grip firmed on Jackie’s shoulder as she turned her towards the kitchen and nudged her in. “Cody was very displeased when he found out his little printer was gone. The giantess reached up and touched gingerly at her left eye. Jackie could see that beneath the makeup, she sported a bruise. Opening the broom closet, she shoved Jackie in.
“So, you’re gonna stay right there until he gets back.” She checked her watch. “Which should be any minute.”
She shut the door plunging Jackie into darkness. A second later, and Jackie heard the screech of something being dragged across the kitchen floor. The door swung opened and the giantess peered in. Behind her was one of the dining room chairs.
“I just wanted to let you know, I’m very disappointed. After I cooked you breakfast and everything.” She reached in and tugged the backpack from Jackie's grip. “Stealing our card printer.”
When she gave the backpack a shake, the crowbar and bolt cutter rattled metallically within.
“You brought more trouble I see.” She shook her head with a look of sad disapproval. “Well, you know what happens to bad girls.” Jackie heard the giantess jam the chair against the knob to block it.
“Let me out!” Jackie pounded on the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Now be a good girl and maybe Cody will go easy on you.”
Jackie’s breath came in sharp, panicked gasps. What was she going to do? She opened the door to Ethan’s prison and found him standing beside the bed waiting. Unlike the giantess who’d covered her injury with makeup, Ethan’s face showed every mark the giant had laid across him. His left eye was purpled and swollen, and his bottom lip swelled out like a fish.
“I heard what she said?” A tear streaked down his cheek. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Nonsense,” Jackie said. “We’re not licked yet.”
Jackie’s gazed drifted from Ethan’s bed, to the desk, to the chairs, and back. There had to be something she could use. Other than a pair of scissors and some tape in the desk’s top drawer, there was nothing.
The cable shackling Ethan to the wall had a thin plastic coating over steel strands as thick as a phone charger cable. Laying the wooden chair on its side, Jackie smashed off one of the legs. Wedging the cable between the scissor’s shears, she propped one side of the scissors against the floor then hammered on the other side with the chair leg. It took three blows before the scissors shattered at their pivot.
Jackie examined the cable. Only the plastic coating and a couple of steel strands had been cut.
Ethan dropped onto the bed. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he sobbed.
He picked up one of the scissor’s broken sheers and held it to his wrist. Jackie wrapped her fingers around the blade. Felt its icy sting. The sticky heat of blood dribbled into her palm.
“Don’t!” Jackie said, the word came hard and flat. “We’re not done yet.”
Both of them froze. Jackie felt it first, a rhythmic vibration through the floor. They turned towards the picture frame door, towards the sound of their doom, the thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump of the giant’s limping approach.
“Come on,” Jackie ordered. “Help me lift this bed.”
The bed was of heavy oak and it took both of them to hoist one end so its front legs were three feet above the floor. Jackie pulled the cable taut from the wall and looped it around one leg, so the cable suspended the bed above the floor. Luckily, the frayed section lay taut between the wall-hook and the knotted loop around the bed’s leg.
“Now what?” Ethan asked.
“We climb on the bed and jump.”
They heard the apartment door open. It slammed suddenly shut. The giant was home. The sound of voices rattled through the walls.
Holding Ethan’s hand, they crawled up standing at the low end of the bed with the high end before them.
“On the count of three,” Jackie said, “We jump. As high and hard as you can.” She gave Ethan’s hand a squeeze. “You ready? On the count of three.”
“One…”
The sound of bickering voices.
“Two…”
The giantess’ terrified wail: “I locked her in the closet!”
“Three.”
They leapt up and landed at the bed’s raised end. With a sharp twang, the cable parted, and the bed slammed into the floor.
With Ethan’s help, they shoved the bed against the entrance. Jackie grabbed one of the chair legs and handed another to Ethan before they rushed to the giant’s desk. Jackie hit the button and the picture frame swung open. When they slid out and hopped to the floor, Jackie reached in and closed the door behind them. As it did, she could hear the giant smashing down the blockade behind them.
Racing towards the elevator, Jackie pulled up short.
“What’s the matter?” Ethan’s eyes were big as saucers as he looked past her to the giant’s door.
“You go on.” She pointed to the far end of the hall. “Not the elevator, down the stairs.” As her eyes lifted to the ceiling, an idea began to form. “Ethan, I need you to do something on your way to the exit.” She grabbed his shoulders and stared into his frightened eyes. “Can you do that for me?”
He nodded.
“Great.” Jackie pointed to the line of recessed bulbs spaced along the hallway ceiling. “I want you to smash all those on your way down the hall. Okay?”
“What …?” Ethan’s gaze bounded between Jackie and the giant’s door.
“Just do it,” she said, spinning him around and shoving him down the hall. “Go!”
Jackie retraced her steps to the giant’s door smashing the bulbs as she went. They popped with a grinding crunch and a brief flash of brilliance sending glass chittering down her arm in a fine crystalline spray. Halfway to the giant’s door, the picture frame creaked and swung slowly open.
Dropping her club, Jackie sprinted to the elevator. She snuggled behind an ornate trashcan set beneath the call buttons. The only light in the hallway now came from the bulbs above the giant’s front door. As she watched the picture frame bang open, a pale form materialized at the opening, then like a lumbering pale spider emerging from its lair, the giant worked his way out.
“Jackie, come on.” Ethan’s whispered plea echoed down the hall.
The giant looked up as Jackie turned towards the sound. There, silhouetted by the open stairwell, stood Ethan.
“There you are you little fuck.” The giant stumped down the hall, the sound of his thudding progress mirrored in the pounding of Jackie’s heart.
Go on, Jackie thought, willing Ethan to run yet he stood at the doorway refusing to leave.
The giant was soon lost in shadow, but Jackie could sense his progress down the hall. The vibration of his approach through the floor, the grinding crunch of the shattered bulbs beneath his tread.
With a clang, Ethan let the door shut and sank the hallway into shadow.
Then she heard the giant above her. Saw the pale shadow of his arm punch the elevator button on the wall.
“Little shit thinks he can get away from me,” the giant grumbled.
Jackie raised her fist. She felt the hard kernel of the bean within.
As her hand reached the button, the elevator door rattle open… the giant stepped in.
His cry echoed along the long hollow shaft fading, fading, fading to a rackety, metal crash.
A minute later, and the elevator’s rising glow filled the hallway. The car’s inner doors clattered open and Jackie saw the ceiling shattered from above. Wires and broken tiles dangled from the ceiling and from the center of the destruction, a pale arm swayed from the rafters. A drizzle of blood streamed along its ivory fingers and pooled on the floor beneath.
Jackie gawked for only an instant before racing down the hallway after Ethan.
***
Then Jack showed his mother his golden harp, and what with showing that and selling the golden eggs, jack and his mother became very rich, and he married a great princess, and they lived happy ever after. ---
“I figured you loafers were out here goofing off.”
Jackie’s mother shouldered her way through the screen door and let it slap shut behind her. Her hair was pulled into a loose pony and drywall dust-caked her grinning face. On a tray, she balanced a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses of ice.
Jackie and Ethan looked up from the porch swing and smiled.
It was the first time in ages, Jackie’d seen her mother happy.
“We’ve been workin’ real hard, Mrs. Spriggins,” Ethan said. He hiked a thumb towards Jackie. “It was Jackie’s idea ta take a break.”
Jackie silenced him with an accusatory frown. Momma had only to consider the amount of yellow paint spattered across Ethan’s tight curls and ebon skin. If even half as much had landed on the walls, he’d have done a great deal of painting indeed.
With an icy rattle, she set down the tray and poured them all a glass.
It was nice on the front porch of their very own home. Of course, it needed a bit of work, but Momma had never shied from hard labor, and with downtown’s tall buildings a dark sawtooth on the horizon, she was close enough to get work in town.
After hearing Ethan’s story of his mother’s death and father’s drunken abuse, his life as a runaway, and his entrapment by the giant, Momma had allowed him to stay.
“At least through the summer,” she’d told them. “But once school starts, I don’t know what we’ll do. He can’t stay home, and without an ID, there’s no way he could be enrolled.”
Jackie leaned back, the perspiring glass chill in her hand. She wasn’t worried about getting Ethan enrolled now that she’d found Wheelchair Larry. She took a sip and closed her eyes, knowing that with a little care and the proper leverage, Larry would set him up for free.
AFTER THE LAPSE OF A DECADE
With some pound and ticket from the military commissioner of Cyprus, I began my journey with the tides of the Mediterranean toward London.
But the dark bottom of the blue Mediterranean didn’t invoke fear in my little throbbing heart which on the same day, previous year, foresaw the coming of the birthday presents — the day I had turned seventeen. Now that I had turned into a man, there was no one standing beside me but only my shadow which would pass from one wave to another, as my eyes remained wedlock into the heart of the Mediterranean.
It was there I found a heart to tell everything I had in my own heart. And I said everything — or my tears spoke them to the heart of Mediterranean, and I remembered, it was without any remorse because she promised me not to betray me. And her promise was like her vastness, great.
Georgianna, my aunt awaited me, or so I was told. Her existence was unknown to me, though I used to visit our summer estate when it had not ruined by the debts uncle indebted, but the memories concerning those events buried, because I had other memories to care for — about a certain young lady, of whom I had made an acquaintance. I would often think about whether she would remember me. And it was at the deck of the furry, that I gave everything to the heart of many soft splashes, but retained one item — her name, Amelia.
A name that reminded me of the spirt smell, wounds and choking and coughing throats, the whitewashed walls of the hospital, and the redbrick building outside of it, where I was admitted. Where she was a certain miss — a colonial daughter, who breathed not the air of infirmary, but an aristocratic gash; such that it was oppressive and heartbreaking. A name whose delicate body with her red flocks of hair would give an impression of Freesia and Hyacinth as if she was breed in the garden of Hyacinth and Freesia flowers.
The conditions at my aunt's house were choking. It would magnify on one’s temples and forehead, like a magnifying lens, magnifying a picture. This windowless and underground apartment was hoarded with cousins in numbers.
It would queer the pitch for my being a mammal breathing under the glee of sunlight, and tranquility — a matter that I found missing, living among many cousins. It is true they resemble a larva, moving in and out and around the half-broken wooden furniture, but what was worse was that I couldn’t escape without hurting her feelings, or what I thought was the case — made to believe.
I discover they had precocious attendance on cunningness that I found myself lacking at, among other ineptness — a list which my aunt would find glad to discuss with her moppets and tadpoles, except on a particular day.
“Arthur,” Georgiana would shout. “Dear me! you deceitful rascal. Come here and bring a mug of ale that Master Stephen just gave us for dinner. Charlie is waiting — your good, caring cousin.” Yet I was caring, but I was often neglected among the horde. I would give my shelter pound on weekends to her, and yet, I was neglected. These sermons would only incur in the air when the hour was of my rent. A shelter that I began to neglect after spending a year there, at the end of which I found myself at debt to Georgiana, though the accounts in my head were cleared.
As the year passed, and I began to found a home on street in London, I began to spend my nights there, and I felt much at bliss among somnolent cygnets at the park, hidden from watchman’s eye.
Though the first two years made the streets of London, a living torment, where I would sell the newspaper. At the end of the day, it would not sell much. Carrying this heart under the abrupt change she was witnessing, I would sit at noon to shed some tears — and as abandoned by the fate, I would find myself abandoned by the beings around me with their necks shining with pearls and Indian diamonds, and men with the watches of gold, hanging from the chains.
It was not that my eyes didn’t shine, and my hand didn’t scratch, but I was weak at heart and fearful of whiplashing the name of the family, which was now non-existent, unlike the agony of my life.
I started selling the articles at Victoria Garden, a place I earned with fierce struggle.
When I arrived newly, I faced the butcher boy, or him, Simon Hector. He was older than me, and his limbs were up to his shoulders. He, with others, thrust me once and said, “Where’s the pass, boy!” I thought it was surely not a question.
I earn the pass from him. And a place at the Garden after I faithfully supplied with him from the cut of weekly sales.
I was at peace for a while, but it ran out after I saw someone — a face that was contrary to the treacherous and miserable living I was breathing.
It was March, and the wind was filled with cold blisters; but warmth would emanate from the blossoms of sun, surging what was unbalanced. One night, the rain came in a tantrum as if the hordes from the steppes were on their way in the blackness of the night. I ran away from the streaming water, onshore of which there stretched a long bed of grass, neatly cut and filled with Canterbury violet, pink and white bells — stretched to the armpits of the bed of grass that was cut by the sidewalk and shadows of the trees at the time of sunsets. It was there I would sleep — finding myself helpless to the hidden ecstasy that I didn’t know, my eyes were attracted to. I ran and slept through thick stems of the tree, finding cover in the distress and darkness amidst the raging clouds, that were thundering my eardrum.
In the morning, I felt the odor of freshness of the mud in my nostrils, and I waked up. I sit on the bench nearby, that was yet damp, but the scent of damp wood could be seen flowing in the air with many vapors, as the sunlight became brighter.
I open my palms on my damp trousers and felt embarrassed about finding the mud inside my nails.
Amidst the gleaming light, as she spread her wings, as her feather passed and rolled around every stem and leaf, a lady with red curls falling to her shoulders was walking toward me in a white garment, along with a gentleman with hat fixed to his head. Her arm wrapped in finest white muslin was in his, leaning on him delicately.
At first, they didn’t attract my attention. My gaze was fixed on the ground, but her voice was persistent in the air, filled with aged leaves, intermittently broken by a burst of man laughter.
As If I know. And tried to avoid, or had decided that sinking deep in my thoughts was a profitable deed — girdling thoughts about destiny, something my grandmother used to say when I would complain to her about the fall of fortune. “Don’t you make yourself queer” she would assert, going back in the chair, and at the end of her phrase, her body would be sitting straight: "by saying that you don’t have faith in destiny!”
The gentleman must have been standing beside me. Because my ears in gradually slumberous appetite open to his voice with timidness. “Boy!” the gentlemen said and perhaps repetitively. He had a countenance of a physician, but young in every aspect. When my eyes were penetrating in his face, he looked away toward the lady who was away some foot playing with a dog. “Do you hear me, Amelie — do you think this man can be possibly deft?” he cried; and then said with a slow murmur amidst the gnashing breeze, on my face: “some wretch like others street potters possibly," when he didn't receive a reply, referring to me.
“Yes sir?” said I in a pleaded voice as if I was least offended. He twisted his mustache on his face — a face that was as white as a white arrogant swan. He glanced toward her, almost twisting his neck, which anyone would have done.
"Ah, the boy speaks — he's not deft most likely!"
“I have the least idea Edward what you're talking about,” she said after a pause, as her laughter persisted, and even gain triumph when the dog she was playing with, jumped to her lap. It was her, Amelia, who was a daughter of a colonel stationed in Cyprus. It was after a decade ago when I heard her voice. But not that it was something new. At the backdrop of everything, her memory was still but living.
Her voice was like a flying butterfly, flying in a cheese pot. It sucked me into a hole of oblivion. I travelled back in time to find myself once again, ignored, and rejected. But my physical self remained, as the sharpness worn around my eyes and stings began to encircle; my heart rolls in an abnormal rhythm, and against the backdrop of my wet clothes, I submerged into the bench, only to sit straight upon her full appearance.
“Oh Edward, this puppy would love to meet our friends at Edinburgh…” the lady was saying on her way, as her delicate arm slid again in his shoulder, delicately when she neared and stood in front of the screen with gradual inclination.
I become sullen as she turned into a statue with eyes looking straight like immovable gems and face stone within an expression of indifference. I was ignored before and rejected with abhorrence, and once again, I have to endure it.
The man knocks my boot with the stick in his black-gloved hands.
But I couldn’t relieve my stare as if the pupils of my eyes had gnarled in her black eyes, which was carrying a countenance of an unchanging face made of a silicon skin — cold and unchanging, with proudness shedding from her temples, and meanwhile, I felt as if her fingertips had become the shards of ice, unbreakable.
He cursed when I handed the newspaper.
I looked at my broken and soaking shoes, and it reminded me of her white eyelet shoes that were departing.
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