The bolt cutters bit easily through the plastic. It took two more snips to break a link of the chain.
Becker didn't look at what he was doing any more than he had to. His head whipped shoulder to shoulder, watching for cars and pedestrians and faces in windows. There weren't any nearby. A city bus rolled through an intersection two blocks up, Becker snapped to attention at the sound, then it was gone. The night was dead.
Pumping his elbows, he brought the cutter's jaws together and the chain fell away. The tall blue fixie was free. With a rattle of the frame, the combination lock clattered to the sidewalk, and Becker teetered onto the bike's high seat.
3.16.2012
6.01.2011
30. Mary
Mary clenched the racquet until the rubber grip tape let out a faint squeal. Her knuckles were white. With a careful toss, the ball rose into the air, reached its peak, and fell. The ball hit the floor and bounced, lower and lower until it just rolled, slowly, to a stop. She stood, staring across the empty court, breathing hard. It was late. She needed to go home.
•••
Scraping around the edges of the jar for what was left of the peanut butter, the sound of the serrated knife dragging across the plastic made her skin crawl. When she had collected a decent dollop, she spread it over a slab of bread, trying to make the second sandwich as robust as the first. Even the bread felt heavy. She craved a shower. Instead, at almost two in the morning and still wearing her tennis gear, she stood in the kitchen making sandwiches.
•••
Scraping around the edges of the jar for what was left of the peanut butter, the sound of the serrated knife dragging across the plastic made her skin crawl. When she had collected a decent dollop, she spread it over a slab of bread, trying to make the second sandwich as robust as the first. Even the bread felt heavy. She craved a shower. Instead, at almost two in the morning and still wearing her tennis gear, she stood in the kitchen making sandwiches.
2.18.2011
29. Easton
The cards felt stiff to Easton's shaking hands as he bent up the corners. Across the table, two royal blue chips worth a hundred dollars each rested uneasily in the betting box. The dealer showed a red eight. The other card was face down. Easton's eyes stared at the patterns on the back of it until shapes began to emerge.
"Stand," he said. The dealer nodded, and laid down a card for himself. Five of spades. He flipped over the down card, a six. Nineteen.
"Stand," he said. The dealer nodded, and laid down a card for himself. Five of spades. He flipped over the down card, a six. Nineteen.
2.13.2011
28. Blake
Blake craned his neck up so he could see the mirror. Past the landscape of his body – rolling, bronzed hills that could be mistaken at this angle for a set of unusually regular sand dunes – he saw the reflection of his legs planted on the floor, the same ripples of his torso, and his eyes just barely edging over the twin domes of his chest. Satisfied with his vertiginous appearance, he began his routine of high flies, bringing the forty-pound barbells together over his head and separating them, together and apart, the stainless steel weights coming together with the 'clack' sound of an office executive's desktop toy.
27. Tamara
Tamara tugged on the edges of her thigh–high stockings, although they couldn't possibly slip from their place. The stage seemed like the edge of a tall building; she felt vertigo just picturing herself standing on it. "This is where I wanted to be," she thought. "This is what I've practiced for."
The DJ told the audience her stage name and she tottered into the spotlight, newly christened. She smiled, and breathed heavily, holding her frame erect; back arched, chest out. Standing in front of the crowd did seem like looking over the edge of a great precipice, but it wasn't as intimidating as she had envisioned. They all seemed to look up at her from far away, and the lights were bright, as though she had arisen into the night sky to dance among the stars.
26. Rey
"Pepperoni and green peppers, mushrooms, olives, chives." Esteban hung up the phone and tore a page off his notepad.
"Chives? We don't have chives." Manuel scratched his mustache.
"What the hell is a chive?" Tomas was getting the ingredients ready, flattening out a dough ball and looking over the dishes of toppings.
"It's like a green onion."
"Think they'd just like onions?"
"It's not the same. Just put the other stuff."
Tomas shrugged and went about the process of making the pizza.
Reynald, who did the deliveries, came in the back door and walked behind Tomas, dropping the delivery bag on top of the oven. "Did someone order chives on a pizza?" he asked.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"I was having a cigarette, door was open, I could hear you guys. It's from a System of a Down song, they're probably fucking with you."
Tomas stopped, his hands on the ladle of tomato sauce. "Do I make the pizza?" He looked at Manuel.
Manuel looked hard at Rey. "Are you sure it's a prank?" His mustache blew around with his breath.
"What? I never said it was a prank," Rey said nervously, "just leave the chives off it. It's a deluxe. They probably just want a deluxe."
Manuel nodded. "Make a deluxe, Tomas."
"Deluxe," he said, and spread the tomato sauce in a circle.
"Weird orders tonight," Esteban said. "Someone else asked for a delivery with green peppers on 'half of one quarter,' no kidding."
"Chives? We don't have chives." Manuel scratched his mustache.
"What the hell is a chive?" Tomas was getting the ingredients ready, flattening out a dough ball and looking over the dishes of toppings.
"It's like a green onion."
"Think they'd just like onions?"
"It's not the same. Just put the other stuff."
Tomas shrugged and went about the process of making the pizza.
Reynald, who did the deliveries, came in the back door and walked behind Tomas, dropping the delivery bag on top of the oven. "Did someone order chives on a pizza?" he asked.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"I was having a cigarette, door was open, I could hear you guys. It's from a System of a Down song, they're probably fucking with you."
Tomas stopped, his hands on the ladle of tomato sauce. "Do I make the pizza?" He looked at Manuel.
Manuel looked hard at Rey. "Are you sure it's a prank?" His mustache blew around with his breath.
"What? I never said it was a prank," Rey said nervously, "just leave the chives off it. It's a deluxe. They probably just want a deluxe."
Manuel nodded. "Make a deluxe, Tomas."
"Deluxe," he said, and spread the tomato sauce in a circle.
"Weird orders tonight," Esteban said. "Someone else asked for a delivery with green peppers on 'half of one quarter,' no kidding."
1.23.2011
25. Bradford Shawe
Attendance was excellent for the evening’s showing at the Trois-Avectoi Art Gallery. The building had once been a textile factory, and it was once again packed to the rafters with suits and dresses, but these recent arrivals of the sartorial sort were wrapped around the most influential buyers in New York City. Regardless, Bradford Shawe, occasional gallerist and second-tier art dealer-at-large, was afflicted with paralyzing dread. None of his artists had shown up in the flesh, leaving his personal representation the only remaining link between the paintings and high society.
1.09.2011
24. Thin Soup
For the last hour, it’s been nothing but wheat and horizon on either side of the road. I’d started off awestruck when the fields opened up. It’s so vast; a golden sea. That was early in the morning, around sunrise. The sight seemed new again, for a little while. The prairies are incredibly something, either beautiful or boring. Maybe I’ve got used to it now. Maybe beauty becomes redundant. Just another thing I’ve seen enough of.
From a convertible, the road feels different. You’re really on it, like you could get out and run. In a hardtop, there’s glass on every side, you're inside a television. I hate TV. I like this.
Carter’s driving fast, but I can’t see the speedometer. “How fast are we?”
“Buck and a half,” he says, without looking away. “What’s the posted limit?”
“The sky,” I say. “Hasn’t been a sign since never.”
From a convertible, the road feels different. You’re really on it, like you could get out and run. In a hardtop, there’s glass on every side, you're inside a television. I hate TV. I like this.
Carter’s driving fast, but I can’t see the speedometer. “How fast are we?”
“Buck and a half,” he says, without looking away. “What’s the posted limit?”
“The sky,” I say. “Hasn’t been a sign since never.”
1.06.2011
23. Witless
Witless let himself in and he was crying. He didn't make no noise right away, but the first part of him I saw was the light from the naphtha lamp shining on his cheeks. I say "what's with you" and he don't say a thing, so I go on tying up my fishing flies like I was doing.
His big long face was drawn so tight that when my wife came in the room, she says right away, "What's the matter, Witless?" and out it comes in bawls.
"It was the most unnatural thing I ever saw," Witless says, finally wiping at the streaks on his face. “Lydia – my Liddie! – stood atop the water, clear as I see you now.” He broke into a sob. “I seen her ghost! Not one hour ago, Irv! Her spirit, my dead wife!”
The way he was, it was a damned sight. I’ve never seen a man break down like that before or since, all gulping for air, babbling and blubbering and making a damned spectacle of himself. “Quit acting a damn fool, Wit,” I tell him, “start at the beginning: where’d you see this?”
“In the glades! Her ghost walks the waterway – oh, Irv, I know you’ll say there ain’t such a thing, but I know what I saw, and –”
“Just tell it like it happened, Wit.”
His big long face was drawn so tight that when my wife came in the room, she says right away, "What's the matter, Witless?" and out it comes in bawls.
"It was the most unnatural thing I ever saw," Witless says, finally wiping at the streaks on his face. “Lydia – my Liddie! – stood atop the water, clear as I see you now.” He broke into a sob. “I seen her ghost! Not one hour ago, Irv! Her spirit, my dead wife!”
The way he was, it was a damned sight. I’ve never seen a man break down like that before or since, all gulping for air, babbling and blubbering and making a damned spectacle of himself. “Quit acting a damn fool, Wit,” I tell him, “start at the beginning: where’d you see this?”
“In the glades! Her ghost walks the waterway – oh, Irv, I know you’ll say there ain’t such a thing, but I know what I saw, and –”
“Just tell it like it happened, Wit.”
8.09.2010
22. Mike
"Is this somebody's case of Amstel Light?" The stranger fished a bottle out of the box by Mike's elbow. "Yours?" Mike shrugged. "Nobody's, then. Pff!" The cap flicked to the side, tumbling end over end like a shell casing. Mike's eyes followed it to the floor. He could have caught it. "Hey," the guy said a moment later, and Mike tuned back in.
"Mike." They shook hands. "I'm just going to apologize right now if I forget, I'm bad with names."
"No problem. Good to meet you anyway."
"Nice shirt."
"Thanks, yeah, it's kind of my favourite. I mean, it's a tiger with a machine gun, how awesome can you get?"
"That's a submachine gun, actually. Not a machine gun."
"Huh? Oh, okay, a sub-mo-sheen." He chuckled and swigged the Amstel.
"A Heckler & Koch MP5-K. You can tell it's a K. It doesn't have the lugged barrel."
"Jesus. Do you know how much the tiger paid for it, too?"
"Mike." They shook hands. "I'm just going to apologize right now if I forget, I'm bad with names."
"No problem. Good to meet you anyway."
"Nice shirt."
"Thanks, yeah, it's kind of my favourite. I mean, it's a tiger with a machine gun, how awesome can you get?"
"That's a submachine gun, actually. Not a machine gun."
"Huh? Oh, okay, a sub-mo-sheen." He chuckled and swigged the Amstel.
"A Heckler & Koch MP5-K. You can tell it's a K. It doesn't have the lugged barrel."
"Jesus. Do you know how much the tiger paid for it, too?"
6.12.2010
21. Boots
"The Plymouth Gran Fury is back, and it runs like a rocket. Get yours from the Chrysler dealership in Buchanan, at Highway 24 and Main, but hurry -- they're going fast." Then the foley guy tipped the switch that played our sound reel, an engine roar and a five-second jingle that Robin's brother had whipped up on the piano years ago. Oh, Robin owned the Chrysler dealership. That jingle was on every ad, this included. All told, it was fifteen seconds tip to tail, and in the next month there were seven of those Plymoths driven off the lot. Robin was thrilled. Shook my hand like he was shaking good luck out of it. Took maybe ten minutes to write the spot, all told. That was in my first week at the Wianoke local radio station, second or third day there.
4.03.2010
20. Marcela & Kurt
Marcela looked towards the window at Kurt’s back. He leaned in the frame of light pouring through; a silhouette, a part of the room’s darkness. He lit a cigarette and translucent smoke trails curled around his head and face.
“Look at that snow fall,” he mumbled. His eyes shifted back and forth as though reading. A circle of fog appeared when he exhaled the smoke, as if it had frozen to the glass. He noticed his reflection around it; it appeared he did not have a mouth.
She looked at the black figure, the shape of him. Muscles clung to bone. It was easy to tell which of his tattoos were old, looking at the distorted shapes. Once, he had been much heavier. The skin had moved and shrank. He'd probably always been fit. The snow drove against the window, attacking him. If he were only a step forward, he would freeze in minutes.
“Come back to me,” she said. Warm.
The room had bare walls; uneven, cracked paint with amorphous areas of bleary, yellowy colour; a ceiling with water damage to match. The bed was a twisted metal frame. Marcela waited in the warm sheets, clutching the blanket over her chest, her past-shoulder-length hair a black escarole on the white cloth.
Kurt said nothing, but turned around and put his back to the window. He breathed through his teeth as his skin touched the cold glass. Something stopped him as he raised the cigarette: a smear of red on the filter's edge, and a flap of skin, thin like an onion's. He licked his cracked lips and drew on the smoke again. Embers cast a hellish glow over the angles of his face. Dropping his jaw, the tumbling cloud fell out of his mouth, and Marcela imagined the souls of the dead. He threw the cigarette. Sparks rolled out like fingertips from an opening hand.
"Alright." He smiled wryly, his teeth like the walls and ceiling. Slowly he journeyed back towards the bed, almost tiptoeing, poised on the ball of his foot like a dancer. Close, he stopped, and bent down, his heels still raised. Marcela became anxious. Kurt reached under the bed. She listened for the click of the number wheels, and the suitcase's latch being opened. It was. He shuffled the gear around and she became excited, almost giddy, and at the same time angry that he had waited so long.
The lighter flicked and flicked and the flame reached up with a palm around the crystal ball. Vapors made the inside muddy. The flame disappeared. The light disappeared. The smoke disappeared. Marcela held it inside her until it was ready to burst out, and exhaled a glittering, crystalline cloud. She felt like an angel set on fire. She heard a soft moan and wasn't sure if she had made it or if Kurt had. Soon, he fell into the bed.
He put his hand in her hair, gripped and released it; she felt the tension in her scalp. As he moved back, he ran the long fingernail of his little digit over her ear and cheekbone, and the white line it traced raised up in redness. He slid into the envelope of open sheets and the sensation of skin contact leapt over her like a thousand fleas. She shook herself out of the reverie and they became a chaotic tangle of limbs, a harmony of tongues and lips and fingertips, hands, ribs, breasts, stomachs, and something that was real, real close to being the kind of love she had believed in when she was a child, before she knew this.
“Look at that snow fall,” he mumbled. His eyes shifted back and forth as though reading. A circle of fog appeared when he exhaled the smoke, as if it had frozen to the glass. He noticed his reflection around it; it appeared he did not have a mouth.
She looked at the black figure, the shape of him. Muscles clung to bone. It was easy to tell which of his tattoos were old, looking at the distorted shapes. Once, he had been much heavier. The skin had moved and shrank. He'd probably always been fit. The snow drove against the window, attacking him. If he were only a step forward, he would freeze in minutes.
“Come back to me,” she said. Warm.
The room had bare walls; uneven, cracked paint with amorphous areas of bleary, yellowy colour; a ceiling with water damage to match. The bed was a twisted metal frame. Marcela waited in the warm sheets, clutching the blanket over her chest, her past-shoulder-length hair a black escarole on the white cloth.
Kurt said nothing, but turned around and put his back to the window. He breathed through his teeth as his skin touched the cold glass. Something stopped him as he raised the cigarette: a smear of red on the filter's edge, and a flap of skin, thin like an onion's. He licked his cracked lips and drew on the smoke again. Embers cast a hellish glow over the angles of his face. Dropping his jaw, the tumbling cloud fell out of his mouth, and Marcela imagined the souls of the dead. He threw the cigarette. Sparks rolled out like fingertips from an opening hand.
"Alright." He smiled wryly, his teeth like the walls and ceiling. Slowly he journeyed back towards the bed, almost tiptoeing, poised on the ball of his foot like a dancer. Close, he stopped, and bent down, his heels still raised. Marcela became anxious. Kurt reached under the bed. She listened for the click of the number wheels, and the suitcase's latch being opened. It was. He shuffled the gear around and she became excited, almost giddy, and at the same time angry that he had waited so long.
The lighter flicked and flicked and the flame reached up with a palm around the crystal ball. Vapors made the inside muddy. The flame disappeared. The light disappeared. The smoke disappeared. Marcela held it inside her until it was ready to burst out, and exhaled a glittering, crystalline cloud. She felt like an angel set on fire. She heard a soft moan and wasn't sure if she had made it or if Kurt had. Soon, he fell into the bed.
He put his hand in her hair, gripped and released it; she felt the tension in her scalp. As he moved back, he ran the long fingernail of his little digit over her ear and cheekbone, and the white line it traced raised up in redness. He slid into the envelope of open sheets and the sensation of skin contact leapt over her like a thousand fleas. She shook herself out of the reverie and they became a chaotic tangle of limbs, a harmony of tongues and lips and fingertips, hands, ribs, breasts, stomachs, and something that was real, real close to being the kind of love she had believed in when she was a child, before she knew this.
3.08.2010
19. Raleigh
Raleigh smelt rubber. She shook her too-large helmet into place and pulled on the chinstrap to make it fit better. The strap pinched and the helmet was still loose, but she figured that was as good as it would get. Eyes forward, she gripped the wheel, counted to three, and pressed the pedal to the floor. Nothing.
"Hey!" The track operator didn't hear her. "Hey!"
"Cool it," he said, running blackened fingers through his ear-length hair. Raleigh thought she caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm.
She looked down the track and wrinkled her nose. The operator waved down someone else's kart and directed them into the pit, then walked over to where Raleigh waited.
"Take it easy out there, willya?" he half-mumbled as he did something to the engine. "Y'r keyed up a bit much."
The engine sputtered to life. Raleigh didn't know what he meant; she wasn't even sure what he'd said. If he said anything else as he stepped aside, she didn't hear it. Someone roared past and yelled, laughing at her. She saw his face, barely: it was Jason Rousseaux, a boy she knew from school. She started after him, but he was a long way ahead. "Take it easy, huh?" she thought. "I'll show you taking it easy."
The kart rocked around the turn and came wide out of it, making Raleigh lean heftily with the momentum. She took a hand from the wheel to wipe sweat from her eyes. Her hand was sweaty too. Focusing on the back of Jason's kart, she saw she was going a little faster on the straightaways. She was catching up, so she drove harder.
"Nice moves!" she shouted above the engines, bringing her kart alongside Jason's after four laps. He looked at her, then back at the road, then back at her. He said something.
"What?" Raleigh yelled. He said it louder and she still couldn't make out the words. Maybe they'd talk when the racing was done, she thought, get a soda at the shop by the side of the track and rehash some of the turns. Then he brought his kart in tightly, and Raleigh tried to get nearer to him so she could hear better. She steered carefully and kept her eyes on the tires, trying to get them close without touching.
He started to yell, and then they were both spinning and bumping as the karts left the road. Grass flew up in rooster-tails from the tires. When they came to a halt, he was in front of her, facing away. She fumbled with her chinstrap and called his name. His engine growled, and the kart did not move. The tires spun. A spray of dirt stung Raleigh's face.
"Hey!" The track operator didn't hear her. "Hey!"
"Cool it," he said, running blackened fingers through his ear-length hair. Raleigh thought she caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm.
She looked down the track and wrinkled her nose. The operator waved down someone else's kart and directed them into the pit, then walked over to where Raleigh waited.
"Take it easy out there, willya?" he half-mumbled as he did something to the engine. "Y'r keyed up a bit much."
The engine sputtered to life. Raleigh didn't know what he meant; she wasn't even sure what he'd said. If he said anything else as he stepped aside, she didn't hear it. Someone roared past and yelled, laughing at her. She saw his face, barely: it was Jason Rousseaux, a boy she knew from school. She started after him, but he was a long way ahead. "Take it easy, huh?" she thought. "I'll show you taking it easy."
The kart rocked around the turn and came wide out of it, making Raleigh lean heftily with the momentum. She took a hand from the wheel to wipe sweat from her eyes. Her hand was sweaty too. Focusing on the back of Jason's kart, she saw she was going a little faster on the straightaways. She was catching up, so she drove harder.
"Nice moves!" she shouted above the engines, bringing her kart alongside Jason's after four laps. He looked at her, then back at the road, then back at her. He said something.
"What?" Raleigh yelled. He said it louder and she still couldn't make out the words. Maybe they'd talk when the racing was done, she thought, get a soda at the shop by the side of the track and rehash some of the turns. Then he brought his kart in tightly, and Raleigh tried to get nearer to him so she could hear better. She steered carefully and kept her eyes on the tires, trying to get them close without touching.
He started to yell, and then they were both spinning and bumping as the karts left the road. Grass flew up in rooster-tails from the tires. When they came to a halt, he was in front of her, facing away. She fumbled with her chinstrap and called his name. His engine growled, and the kart did not move. The tires spun. A spray of dirt stung Raleigh's face.
3.05.2010
18. Spaul
Spaul plugged in the multieffects panel, the jet flange, the treadplate distortion and the harmonic octaver, daisy-chained the stomp boxes together and set the noise gate at eighty decibels. He checked the guitar tuning and put his foot on the wah pedal. The set began, and Spaul strummed variations of the same chord progression for fifteen minutes straight without changing.
"It's just, it's just that I think we should branch out, you know," Spaul stuttered. Peter held up his hand.
"Spaul, North Korean Board of Tourism is a noisepop electrosynth shoegaze band. If you want to explore other styles, that's your business."
"What's that, you mean I should just play the same chords forever?"
"That's up to you. Forcibly emphasizing a harmonic theme is a tenet of the subgenre. It's a very specific subgenre, Spaul."
Spaul was reluctant to quit the band he'd co-founded. He hadn't co-founded it with Peter.
They played another show, and as Spaul counted beats until the breaks where he'd crank up the distortion or turn on the octaver, he watched what Peter did. Writhing with his guitar, making the work of the looping digital echo look like tremendous effort, Peter showboated at the front of the stage, singular notes almost inaudible inside the wall of sound. Spaul pulled the strap over his head and leaned the guitar against the nearest amp, letting the feedback rise to obscene levels as he walked off the stage. It took Peter a couple minutes to realize.
Almost three and a half years later, Spaulding lightly tossed a few bills on the table next to the empty glasses. "I'll get this round," he said, standing up. "Get another if she comes by?"
"To moving up in the world!" One of his friends laughed. "Sure thing, cheers."
The flyer taped above the urinal made Spaulding do a double-take. NKBT.
'Great acronym,' he thought, 'like a dyslexic New Kids on the Block.'
The photo had only one face he recognized. He stared at his former bandmate. The names of the musicians were written below.
"Speter?" He blurted in disbelief. "Speter? That doesn't even make sense!"
"It's just, it's just that I think we should branch out, you know," Spaul stuttered. Peter held up his hand.
"Spaul, North Korean Board of Tourism is a noisepop electrosynth shoegaze band. If you want to explore other styles, that's your business."
"What's that, you mean I should just play the same chords forever?"
"That's up to you. Forcibly emphasizing a harmonic theme is a tenet of the subgenre. It's a very specific subgenre, Spaul."
Spaul was reluctant to quit the band he'd co-founded. He hadn't co-founded it with Peter.
They played another show, and as Spaul counted beats until the breaks where he'd crank up the distortion or turn on the octaver, he watched what Peter did. Writhing with his guitar, making the work of the looping digital echo look like tremendous effort, Peter showboated at the front of the stage, singular notes almost inaudible inside the wall of sound. Spaul pulled the strap over his head and leaned the guitar against the nearest amp, letting the feedback rise to obscene levels as he walked off the stage. It took Peter a couple minutes to realize.
Almost three and a half years later, Spaulding lightly tossed a few bills on the table next to the empty glasses. "I'll get this round," he said, standing up. "Get another if she comes by?"
"To moving up in the world!" One of his friends laughed. "Sure thing, cheers."
The flyer taped above the urinal made Spaulding do a double-take. NKBT.
'Great acronym,' he thought, 'like a dyslexic New Kids on the Block.'
The photo had only one face he recognized. He stared at his former bandmate. The names of the musicians were written below.
"Speter?" He blurted in disbelief. "Speter? That doesn't even make sense!"
1.31.2010
17. Earl
It wasn't a good idea, but Earl didn't know that as he fastened the chinstrap on his helmet and inched the shopping cart over the edge of the ravine.
"Accidental-slash-dental coverage. No, that's not a typo. It's the category of insurance related to incidents of an unintentional sort, resulting in damage to your teeth. I'd say that's about what we're dealing with here, wouldn't you?"
"Yef. I gueff fo." Earl nodded.
The tissue around the stumps in Earl's gums was the colour of turnips. One eyetooth, mostly intact, jutted out at a ridiculous angle. The dentist prodded it with a latex-coated finger. Pain exploded from that spot in a pattern that reminded Earl of spiderwebs, or maybe the stripes on a watermelon. "Yep," the doc said, "that's a mid-root coronal fracture. This one's got to go, too." He picked up a pair of grippers. "Want to do it right away? No sense in waiting."
"Uh-kay." Pain again. Twisting, white-hot rivers that began with the motions of the dentist's wrists and traveled at light speed through Earl's head, straight through his brain and out the other side. "Uhhhh," he said.
"...so that's pretty much why I can do this," and Earl pulled a beer out of the plastic ring pack and opened it against his front teeth.
"What was that, Earl, four years ago?"
"I reckon five." He swigged from his can.
"Think you could bite open a bottle?"
"Accidental-slash-dental coverage. No, that's not a typo. It's the category of insurance related to incidents of an unintentional sort, resulting in damage to your teeth. I'd say that's about what we're dealing with here, wouldn't you?"
"Yef. I gueff fo." Earl nodded.
The tissue around the stumps in Earl's gums was the colour of turnips. One eyetooth, mostly intact, jutted out at a ridiculous angle. The dentist prodded it with a latex-coated finger. Pain exploded from that spot in a pattern that reminded Earl of spiderwebs, or maybe the stripes on a watermelon. "Yep," the doc said, "that's a mid-root coronal fracture. This one's got to go, too." He picked up a pair of grippers. "Want to do it right away? No sense in waiting."
"Uh-kay." Pain again. Twisting, white-hot rivers that began with the motions of the dentist's wrists and traveled at light speed through Earl's head, straight through his brain and out the other side. "Uhhhh," he said.
"...so that's pretty much why I can do this," and Earl pulled a beer out of the plastic ring pack and opened it against his front teeth.
"What was that, Earl, four years ago?"
"I reckon five." He swigged from his can.
"Think you could bite open a bottle?"
16. Arnie
Arnie's old man worked the second shift on the line, standing eight to ten hours a day fixing roll bar after roll bar to one four-door chassis after the next. It wasn't a job with a lot of variety, but he wasn't the sort of man who needed much of that. The job kept him and Arnie and Arnie's mom fed, clothed, and under a roof, and that was enough. Some thousand-odd times each day, the pneumatic drill sped up to however many RPMs and back with a sound like an overgrown kazoo, and it was from a couple decades of that happening, what made Arnie's old man go a bit hard of hearing.
Arnie walked to school and sat up at the front, because he wasn't much of a reader and it helped to keep close up. He was doing a times table and counting up sixes on his fingers when something struck him in the back of the head. He yelped with surprise and forgot his math problem.
"I saw that!" said Mrs. Carver. "Now you get up here, and you give me that pea shooter!"
Tanner Edwards stood up slowly and walked over, glowering.
"You're sitting in the corner for the rest of the day, mister." She walked over to Tanner's desk and began moving it towards the wall.
Tanner looked at Arnie like it was Arnie's fault Tanner had shot him. Arnie looked down, at his workbooks, at the numbers. He tried to think of how many times to add sixes together to get forty two. The numbers blinked out as Tanner's fist crashed into the side of his head. Arnie jumped out of his seat and tackled him.
Mrs. Carver turned around, pushed her cat-eye glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and sighed at the fracas.
The principal looked at Arnie, who sat fidgeting, counting the tacks in the fringe of the leather-upholstered armrest. Arnie counted 'one, two, three' in his head, 'one, two, three' so many times he didn't know how many.
"I've called your father," said the principal, "but there's no answer. His work number, as well, to no avail. Hard to get a working man on the line, it would seem. Foreman doesn't think it's fair to use up his break minutes before their time." He touched the corner of his moustache. "Look at me, Arnold." Arnie did as he was told. "Mrs. Carver tells me you hit that Edwards boy. Bloodied up his nose. And I know he hit you first, but that doesn't mean I can just call it settled and done." Arnie looked at the principal's shiny forehead and said nothing. "Now, seeing as you live within six blocks of the schoolhouse, the rules allow that I can send you home as a disciplinary measure in accordance with what's laid out as appropriate for this situation. Can I send you home, Arnold?" The principal leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. Arnie sat up straight. He looked around, then looked at the principal and nodded.
When he walked out the door and far enough on that nobody was watching, he decided he didn't want to go home. He wanted to see his dad, and to sit in the car, and to hear the few words of advice he knew his old man would have about this. "Bullies are like balloons," his old man had said before, "they look real big until you pop 'em." Well, he'd popped Tanner Edwards, now what? Arnie walked along the dirt path towards the automotive factory. He knew where there was a part of the fence to climb over, and the big bay doors that were always open during the day. He knew where to find his old man.
The factory floor hummed with machinery and the sounds of labor. Pounding engines running and stamping sheet metal forms, pneumatic this and that whistling and the staccato shot of spot riveters all came together in a kind of harmony that made Arnie's young heart lift up with joy. He sat down near the door and looked at the grassy field and the sun-filled sky outside, and then to the working men and the enormous machines, the sparks and motion that lay further in, every part of it alive with rhythm, with purpose. He wanted to be a part of it, to make this music every day. That was it, he thought. He was through with school. He'd had enough of school.
Arnie walked to school and sat up at the front, because he wasn't much of a reader and it helped to keep close up. He was doing a times table and counting up sixes on his fingers when something struck him in the back of the head. He yelped with surprise and forgot his math problem.
"I saw that!" said Mrs. Carver. "Now you get up here, and you give me that pea shooter!"
Tanner Edwards stood up slowly and walked over, glowering.
"You're sitting in the corner for the rest of the day, mister." She walked over to Tanner's desk and began moving it towards the wall.
Tanner looked at Arnie like it was Arnie's fault Tanner had shot him. Arnie looked down, at his workbooks, at the numbers. He tried to think of how many times to add sixes together to get forty two. The numbers blinked out as Tanner's fist crashed into the side of his head. Arnie jumped out of his seat and tackled him.
Mrs. Carver turned around, pushed her cat-eye glasses up to the bridge of her nose, and sighed at the fracas.
The principal looked at Arnie, who sat fidgeting, counting the tacks in the fringe of the leather-upholstered armrest. Arnie counted 'one, two, three' in his head, 'one, two, three' so many times he didn't know how many.
"I've called your father," said the principal, "but there's no answer. His work number, as well, to no avail. Hard to get a working man on the line, it would seem. Foreman doesn't think it's fair to use up his break minutes before their time." He touched the corner of his moustache. "Look at me, Arnold." Arnie did as he was told. "Mrs. Carver tells me you hit that Edwards boy. Bloodied up his nose. And I know he hit you first, but that doesn't mean I can just call it settled and done." Arnie looked at the principal's shiny forehead and said nothing. "Now, seeing as you live within six blocks of the schoolhouse, the rules allow that I can send you home as a disciplinary measure in accordance with what's laid out as appropriate for this situation. Can I send you home, Arnold?" The principal leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. Arnie sat up straight. He looked around, then looked at the principal and nodded.
When he walked out the door and far enough on that nobody was watching, he decided he didn't want to go home. He wanted to see his dad, and to sit in the car, and to hear the few words of advice he knew his old man would have about this. "Bullies are like balloons," his old man had said before, "they look real big until you pop 'em." Well, he'd popped Tanner Edwards, now what? Arnie walked along the dirt path towards the automotive factory. He knew where there was a part of the fence to climb over, and the big bay doors that were always open during the day. He knew where to find his old man.
The factory floor hummed with machinery and the sounds of labor. Pounding engines running and stamping sheet metal forms, pneumatic this and that whistling and the staccato shot of spot riveters all came together in a kind of harmony that made Arnie's young heart lift up with joy. He sat down near the door and looked at the grassy field and the sun-filled sky outside, and then to the working men and the enormous machines, the sparks and motion that lay further in, every part of it alive with rhythm, with purpose. He wanted to be a part of it, to make this music every day. That was it, he thought. He was through with school. He'd had enough of school.
10.15.2009
15. Seth and Annie
Seth tugged on the strand of skin fraying off of his fingernail, and hissed through his teeth as it bit into the quick. The newly torn fissure yielded a trickle of blood. Seth popped the finger into his mouth and wished he would have just left it alone.
The first six notes of "The Star Spangled Banner" tore from Annie's guitar like bullets from a revolver. The crowd caught fire; Seth looked up with worry lines on his forehead. This wasn't on the setlist. He didn't know the bass line. The audience was already into it. What was he supposed to do?
"Just kidding," Annie laughed into the mic, and dropped the impromptu Hendrix homage. Seth's shoulders rose and fell with an unburdening sigh. He chuckled at himself. What a free spirit that girl was, he thought. There was no one like her.
The songs went on as scheduled, and Seth's hands, programmed by obsessive sessions of practice, plodded along on autopilot. He was proud of his consistency. Note for note, he played precisely what was written, with no deviation whatsoever. Not that anyone noticed.
Annie seemed never to repeat herself exactly. Seth had an ear for this and he would notice the spatchcock revision of a score, especially careful to discern improvisational adaptations from mere mistakes. As he would point out, Annie did not make mistakes. She seemed possessed by a force that made her fingers fly, spewing riffs humbucker-hot when necessary. Sometimes she'd put the tempo just where it felt perfect and find, somewhere in those strings, scales that made harmonies with key changes that would break your heart, break it exactly right. Seth couldn't believe the enormity of the music in those hands. Her arms were so thin.
The highway lights made the tour bus interior a carousel of warm orange glows. They overlapped and faded away. The singer, reclined and serene, looked like her skin was the colour of caramel, then of milk. "Annie?"
"Yeah? Oh, hey Seth."
"That show, it was a great show. You were great, you're always great."
"Yeah, thanks."
"No, I mean it, you're really something else. Something special."
"Mm, thanks for the compliment. And you're a great bassist, you are." She yawned. "Yeah, really... great, Seth. But look, I don't like too many compliments on my playing, you know? They just stop meaning anything. It starts to be just a sound people make. You know what I mean?" She shifted her shoulders, settling back into the seat.
Seth took this for humility. He fought the urge to kneel. "I mean, more than just music." Looking for the right words, the road noise filled the cabin.
Annie opened her eyes and turned. Seth, leaning so far forwards that he barely made contact with his seat, picked at his fingers. She wondered what she should say to him, what she could say.
"You know, Seth," she said, looking up to the roof, "for a bass player, you're very high strung." She smiled in a good-natured way and looked over. Passing lights from outside made shadows spin across Seth's features like a sundial in time-lapse. He looked at his hands, fingers all working over each other, probing irregularities.
"Sss," he muttered, and put a bleeding finger in his mouth.
The first six notes of "The Star Spangled Banner" tore from Annie's guitar like bullets from a revolver. The crowd caught fire; Seth looked up with worry lines on his forehead. This wasn't on the setlist. He didn't know the bass line. The audience was already into it. What was he supposed to do?
"Just kidding," Annie laughed into the mic, and dropped the impromptu Hendrix homage. Seth's shoulders rose and fell with an unburdening sigh. He chuckled at himself. What a free spirit that girl was, he thought. There was no one like her.
The songs went on as scheduled, and Seth's hands, programmed by obsessive sessions of practice, plodded along on autopilot. He was proud of his consistency. Note for note, he played precisely what was written, with no deviation whatsoever. Not that anyone noticed.
Annie seemed never to repeat herself exactly. Seth had an ear for this and he would notice the spatchcock revision of a score, especially careful to discern improvisational adaptations from mere mistakes. As he would point out, Annie did not make mistakes. She seemed possessed by a force that made her fingers fly, spewing riffs humbucker-hot when necessary. Sometimes she'd put the tempo just where it felt perfect and find, somewhere in those strings, scales that made harmonies with key changes that would break your heart, break it exactly right. Seth couldn't believe the enormity of the music in those hands. Her arms were so thin.
The highway lights made the tour bus interior a carousel of warm orange glows. They overlapped and faded away. The singer, reclined and serene, looked like her skin was the colour of caramel, then of milk. "Annie?"
"Yeah? Oh, hey Seth."
"That show, it was a great show. You were great, you're always great."
"Yeah, thanks."
"No, I mean it, you're really something else. Something special."
"Mm, thanks for the compliment. And you're a great bassist, you are." She yawned. "Yeah, really... great, Seth. But look, I don't like too many compliments on my playing, you know? They just stop meaning anything. It starts to be just a sound people make. You know what I mean?" She shifted her shoulders, settling back into the seat.
Seth took this for humility. He fought the urge to kneel. "I mean, more than just music." Looking for the right words, the road noise filled the cabin.
Annie opened her eyes and turned. Seth, leaning so far forwards that he barely made contact with his seat, picked at his fingers. She wondered what she should say to him, what she could say.
"You know, Seth," she said, looking up to the roof, "for a bass player, you're very high strung." She smiled in a good-natured way and looked over. Passing lights from outside made shadows spin across Seth's features like a sundial in time-lapse. He looked at his hands, fingers all working over each other, probing irregularities.
"Sss," he muttered, and put a bleeding finger in his mouth.
14. Old man and grandson
"The only thing that might keep us alive in there was if we got off the first shot. There was a thing they'd say. Shoot first, you're a hero; shoot second, you're a casualty. Those of us that made it, well, being clever counted for a lot. Some of the time, when we came to a bunker from around back, they'd know we were coming. You'd see a little further around the hatch than where you could point the gun, so they'd just turn the big machinegun right around and train it on the door for when we came in. When they did that, we'd stay put. Lob a grenade through. Clear out the whole room."
"You'd frag 'em?"
"Would 'n' did. A dozen times." He looked into his teacup and saw the reflection of his face. When he picked it up, the image shattered into ripples.
"What was your best kill?" asked the grandson, who knew only youth.
The old man thoughtfully set down his tea and leaned towards the impetuous boy.
"One German saw the grenade come, and he ran for the door. The explosion took off his arms and head. Threw the rest into the hallway. He looked like a sweater with the sleeves rolled up."
The grandson didn't think much of it at the time, but the words created for him a special part of the season in late September. When the first autumn chills crept in, and the cold mornings gave way to warm afternoons, he would see again and again the specter of this ragged corpse of the man who had not made it to the door.
"You'd frag 'em?"
"Would 'n' did. A dozen times." He looked into his teacup and saw the reflection of his face. When he picked it up, the image shattered into ripples.
"What was your best kill?" asked the grandson, who knew only youth.
The old man thoughtfully set down his tea and leaned towards the impetuous boy.
"One German saw the grenade come, and he ran for the door. The explosion took off his arms and head. Threw the rest into the hallway. He looked like a sweater with the sleeves rolled up."
The grandson didn't think much of it at the time, but the words created for him a special part of the season in late September. When the first autumn chills crept in, and the cold mornings gave way to warm afternoons, he would see again and again the specter of this ragged corpse of the man who had not made it to the door.
10.02.2009
ESL Kids -- Nami, Jinho & Kevin
Kevin was out of options, and he knew it. "Time to say goodbye, Nami," he said, a note of warning in his voice. She wouldn't dare try to stop him, or would she?
"Are you going back to New York?" she asked him, knowing that whatever he said would be a lie. The question was intended to throw him.
"Yes, I am," replied Kevin, hurrying through the last step of the con: exit, stage left. Without the need for any further prevarication, he considered his fraud complete. He turned away from Nami, and solemnly looked to the eyes that had trusted him most. "Goodbye, Jinho," Kevin said. Though his eyes were still, his heart was not. At least the hard part was over. "Goodbye, Nami."
His adrenaline surged. He was thinking of everything he would do after the getaway, counting the riches that awaited him overseas. He noticed nothing unusual as Jinho and Nami said a goodbye even more rehearsed than his own. "Take care, Kevin. We'll miss you." Even a fraction of Kevin's perception would have detected something amiss if he wasn't distracted by his own hubris as he raced through the final goodbye. It was too late. He'd been had.
"I'll miss you too. So long, everyone. I love you all." Kevin made a mental note of a possible flaw in his facade: he could not maintain eye contact when he told the truth. He got into the car, still unaware of how early his plan had unfurled before the eyes of his would-be accomplices, and how masterfully he'd been outplayed.
With an acknowledged equal hand in the crime, Jinho and Nami closed the door together.
Kevin believed he'd finally pulled off the master con, playing these dupes right into his hands. He believed it right up until the parking brake let go.
Jinho watched the coupe careening down the hill. He wondered what Kevin would do, or try; picturing the smug bastard realizing the brakes were cut and the doors were locked for good. Would he have time to break a window? Jinho thought, for only a moment, that he might be as badly off now as his nemesis. Was it wrong to kill a killer? The car broke through the guardrail and took a nosedive. He decided to let karma judge him for this one, he owed that much to Ann. Whether it had changed the path of what was to come, he wouldn't know until it happened. He was still in reverie as he said, "See you, Nami."
She snapped him out of it. "See you again!" She turned with strict professionalism, but he knew it hadn't been all business with her. Yeah, things were on a different path now, all right.
9.24.2009
ESL Kids -- Kevin & Ann
Ann stood alone and solemnly coaxed the first plaintive, uncertain notes from the violin. She had barely begun to address the demons of her own shattered confidence when she was interrupted with a staccato burst of applause. Kevin stood in the doorway. She froze. It couldn't be. How had he found her? He stormed towards the stage, wordless.
She lowered the bow, poised to flee as Kevin raised his hands. Instead of striking her, he clapped again; the sound of impact echoed, dominating the music hall air in a way her strings could not. She tentatively opened her eyes from the instinctive wince. His face was unreadable: his eyes were cold, calculating.
"You are great. When is your violin concert?" Kevin demanded.
"June 15th," said Ann, instantly wishing she had lied. She tried to keep the fear from her voice, but could not refrain from a nervous swallow after speaking the words.
Kevin's facade slipped for a moment and his brows crumpled, stifled rage playing across his features as briefly and brilliantly as Ann upon her Stradivarius. "What's the date today?"
Was this another stratagem? Ann cursed inside her mind. How could she avoid playing into his trap? Why couldn't he just tell her that he'd discovered her infidelity, and have it out right then and there! She knew he didn't have the stomach for confrontation. To Kevin, mendacity was so much more palatable. "June 11th," Ann said sharply, striking back at him with a vocal tone that did not match the pretense. Had she given too much away? She didn't care anymore; there would be no backing out now, and she would have to be ready.
Kevin seemed taken aback, as though he had not expected her to match his fire for fire. She would not be intimidated, not this time. He backpedaled, looking for reconciliation. "Oh! This Friday?"
Ann sensed his weakness, and her opportunity. "Can you come to my concert?" she asked, sweetly as she would have when they were still in love. Behind her eyes, though, was something that had not been there when they first met on that day so long ago; a day too lovely to foreshadow what was to come. It was something Kevin could not see: it was the deceptiveness she had learned from him.
"Sure," he said.
Oh, how the tables would turn.
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