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.
Showing posts with label one page fictions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label one page fictions. Show all posts
3.08.2010
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?"
10.15.2009
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.
9.22.2009
13. Bethany and Doug
Bethany knew it was Doug by the way he slowly turned his key in the lock of the front door. He was trying to make the bolt slide silently, and it did not. She might have slept through it if she'd been asleep, but it made little difference. Any of the incriminating sounds produced by Doug's pre-dawn infiltration could have sprung her eyes open with the fear of burglary; as it was, she sat and thought about how much the slow groan of the door hinge followed by the slight hiss of Doug swearing in a whisper sounded like a bow and arrow being drawn and fired. She stepped where the floorboards met the buttresses and moved through the hallway darkness without sound.
Doug had the fridge open, but was looking at the floor. Bethany rested her forearm against the wall and watched her husband, trying to think what he was thinking.
"You been out?" She spoke gently and did not startle him.
"Been out, yeah." He nodded his head. He'd been drinking, she could tell.
"Doing what?" She leaned a little more into the wall, tilted her head against her arm.
He looked at her; she smiled. He cast his eyes down again to the floor. She stood up straighter and took her arm from the wall. Her lips parted slightly. She thought for a long time and said plainly, "How much'd you lose?"
Douglas had been reaching into the fridge for something and he froze. It was as though he'd finally decided what he wanted from in there and the question had undone it. He stood up and closed the fridge. "It wasn't much."
"Just tell me."
"Well," he turned one way, and then the other, seeing little except the outlines of the furniture in the dark and the pale relief of his wife in her white camisole. He sighed, and approximated eye contact. "I guess for us and for cards, not much money is two different things."
"Oh, Douglas." She felt very tired all of a sudden. If it was worth fighting about, she thought, it would be better fought about in the morning.
His wife dissolved backwards into the shadows and Doug looked into the fridge again. The light from inside blew back the darkness and his eyes closed pinhole-tight; everything outside the grasp of the little bulb ceased to exist. Doug took the bottle of milk and shut the door. He stood drinking, unable to see the walls around him, or the floor he stood on.
Doug had the fridge open, but was looking at the floor. Bethany rested her forearm against the wall and watched her husband, trying to think what he was thinking.
"You been out?" She spoke gently and did not startle him.
"Been out, yeah." He nodded his head. He'd been drinking, she could tell.
"Doing what?" She leaned a little more into the wall, tilted her head against her arm.
He looked at her; she smiled. He cast his eyes down again to the floor. She stood up straighter and took her arm from the wall. Her lips parted slightly. She thought for a long time and said plainly, "How much'd you lose?"
Douglas had been reaching into the fridge for something and he froze. It was as though he'd finally decided what he wanted from in there and the question had undone it. He stood up and closed the fridge. "It wasn't much."
"Just tell me."
"Well," he turned one way, and then the other, seeing little except the outlines of the furniture in the dark and the pale relief of his wife in her white camisole. He sighed, and approximated eye contact. "I guess for us and for cards, not much money is two different things."
"Oh, Douglas." She felt very tired all of a sudden. If it was worth fighting about, she thought, it would be better fought about in the morning.
His wife dissolved backwards into the shadows and Doug looked into the fridge again. The light from inside blew back the darkness and his eyes closed pinhole-tight; everything outside the grasp of the little bulb ceased to exist. Doug took the bottle of milk and shut the door. He stood drinking, unable to see the walls around him, or the floor he stood on.
9.14.2009
12. Stephanie
Stephanie laughed, and immediately felt exactly as she would have if she’d punctured the lid on a can of fish that had spoiled inside the tin. She wished she hadn’t done it. Her mother’s eyes lanced her.
“It isn’t funny.” Her voice was quiet and taut.
“I know, I just…” Steph had time to finish, but she didn’t have the words for it.
“You just nothing. Have some respect.”
Stephanie looked at her feet, studied the grout in the tiles of the kitchen floor. She wasn’t sure why she had laughed. Nothing seemed funny; she wasn’t sure how else to react. Her mother turned back to the telephone. As Stephanie walked to her room, she heard her mother’s voice spilling into the hallway, offering cooing susurrus of consolation not meant for her.
“I think it was, like, this mental image of one of those horse-drawn carts from the olden days, you know? And it, like, losing a wheel or going off the road or whatever.” Stephanie took a sip of grape Fanta, trying not to slurp from the can in case her friend could hear. She took in the other half of the conversation through the plastic pink cellphone and emphatically, though her friend could not see the gesture, rolled her eyes like a pair of volume knobs being twisted to maximum. “I know! My mom just doesn’t understand at all. Like, what’s so great about being what's probably the most crappiest, y'know, way to be, anyways? They’d be so mad if I got that way, but for my sister it’s all, like, good job. If it was me, they’d kill me for sure.” She sat down and looked in the mirror. She looked at the things on her desk, reached for something and stopped, bit her lip. “Yeah no, well, that’s okay because he pulled out.” She sipped at the Fanta again and, finding it empty, threw the can in the garbage.
“It isn’t funny.” Her voice was quiet and taut.
“I know, I just…” Steph had time to finish, but she didn’t have the words for it.
“You just nothing. Have some respect.”
Stephanie looked at her feet, studied the grout in the tiles of the kitchen floor. She wasn’t sure why she had laughed. Nothing seemed funny; she wasn’t sure how else to react. Her mother turned back to the telephone. As Stephanie walked to her room, she heard her mother’s voice spilling into the hallway, offering cooing susurrus of consolation not meant for her.
“I think it was, like, this mental image of one of those horse-drawn carts from the olden days, you know? And it, like, losing a wheel or going off the road or whatever.” Stephanie took a sip of grape Fanta, trying not to slurp from the can in case her friend could hear. She took in the other half of the conversation through the plastic pink cellphone and emphatically, though her friend could not see the gesture, rolled her eyes like a pair of volume knobs being twisted to maximum. “I know! My mom just doesn’t understand at all. Like, what’s so great about being what's probably the most crappiest, y'know, way to be, anyways? They’d be so mad if I got that way, but for my sister it’s all, like, good job. If it was me, they’d kill me for sure.” She sat down and looked in the mirror. She looked at the things on her desk, reached for something and stopped, bit her lip. “Yeah no, well, that’s okay because he pulled out.” She sipped at the Fanta again and, finding it empty, threw the can in the garbage.
9.13.2009
11. Mickey
The static buildup made a spark jump from the guitar into the patch cord as Mickey plugged in. The pop was as loud as a gunshot. 'Electric frustration,' he thought to himself. 'Builds up when it's not connected to anything. Guess I can relate to that.'
Mickey strummed a few barre chords and decided the guitar wasn't too badly out of tune. He took a swig from his beer and set it down on the amplifier, then turned to the mic. He scanned the rows of empty tables, the few patrons lingering by the bar with their eyes fixed on television screens. He checked his watch; the show was scheduled to start. He looked to the bartender, who gave him a shrug and went back to filling a glass. Mickey turned to his bandmates and twirled a finger in the air.
The first time they'd played a real show, Mickey had screamed 'Are you ready to rock?' and meant it completely. This time, he leaned into the mic, said "We're Downtown Meltdown" with indifference in his voice, and started strumming the same song they always opened with.
Meandering through the lyrics, Mickey realized he'd switched the order of the verses without meaning to. 'Nobody'll notice except for the band anyhow,' he thought. They'd had better nights than this and they all knew it. Irv was probably thinking about his new kid at home more than the drumming, and Ryan was sitting out of most jam sessions these days. He was pretty focused on his job. Mickey didn't think it would last a whole lot longer.
How did it get from there to this?, he wondered. When they started, the three of them would play in the garage until three in the morning was a distant memory. All of them were writing songs, or at least parts of ideas for songs, and somehow a debut album never materialized. The first few shows were packed with their friends, beer was on the house, and it was easy enough to take a girl home most every night they had a set.
"This next song, it's a new song," Mickey said, his eyes panning the room. "It's called, 'All You People.'" He tossed his head back so that the snort of a bitter laugh wouldn't reach the microphone. He turned back, smiling, and nodded to Irv. He nodded back. Mickey thought he looked tired.
They went through it, and in the middle, some new people walked in. They were young, Mickey couldn't place their ages, but the group looked about as old as their fans had when the band first got together. Mid-twenties somewhere. The group stayed for a minute or two and went out to find a different bar. 'What the hell,' Mickey thought, and played very hard on the guitar solo that ended the song. He leaned into the mic and said, "Thank you, everyone. That was our last show. You've been great."
He turned around and put down the guitar. "Thanks," Irv said.
Mickey strummed a few barre chords and decided the guitar wasn't too badly out of tune. He took a swig from his beer and set it down on the amplifier, then turned to the mic. He scanned the rows of empty tables, the few patrons lingering by the bar with their eyes fixed on television screens. He checked his watch; the show was scheduled to start. He looked to the bartender, who gave him a shrug and went back to filling a glass. Mickey turned to his bandmates and twirled a finger in the air.
The first time they'd played a real show, Mickey had screamed 'Are you ready to rock?' and meant it completely. This time, he leaned into the mic, said "We're Downtown Meltdown" with indifference in his voice, and started strumming the same song they always opened with.
Meandering through the lyrics, Mickey realized he'd switched the order of the verses without meaning to. 'Nobody'll notice except for the band anyhow,' he thought. They'd had better nights than this and they all knew it. Irv was probably thinking about his new kid at home more than the drumming, and Ryan was sitting out of most jam sessions these days. He was pretty focused on his job. Mickey didn't think it would last a whole lot longer.
How did it get from there to this?, he wondered. When they started, the three of them would play in the garage until three in the morning was a distant memory. All of them were writing songs, or at least parts of ideas for songs, and somehow a debut album never materialized. The first few shows were packed with their friends, beer was on the house, and it was easy enough to take a girl home most every night they had a set.
"This next song, it's a new song," Mickey said, his eyes panning the room. "It's called, 'All You People.'" He tossed his head back so that the snort of a bitter laugh wouldn't reach the microphone. He turned back, smiling, and nodded to Irv. He nodded back. Mickey thought he looked tired.
They went through it, and in the middle, some new people walked in. They were young, Mickey couldn't place their ages, but the group looked about as old as their fans had when the band first got together. Mid-twenties somewhere. The group stayed for a minute or two and went out to find a different bar. 'What the hell,' Mickey thought, and played very hard on the guitar solo that ended the song. He leaned into the mic and said, "Thank you, everyone. That was our last show. You've been great."
He turned around and put down the guitar. "Thanks," Irv said.
10. Nancy
Nancy microwaved the coffee left over from the day before, fed the cats, fished her keys out of the crumpled receipts and subway transfers piled in her purse, and left for work.
"Fuck fuck FUCK," she shouted through gritted teeth as the traffic light went from yellow to red. She stood on the brake and reached for the mirror, turning it towards herself while reaching for the tube of lipstick in the cupholder.
She was only fifteen minutes late. She stormed towards the corner office without acknowledging her intern, Laura. The first thing she noticed was that, reflected in the immaculately dustless glass frame of her niece's graduation photo, she could see the blinking light of her desk phone. She'd missed a call already; there was a voicemail waiting. Nancy did a one-eighty. "Hell," she grumbled, setting down her half-finished grande vanilla chai frappuccino on a filing cabinet.
"Looks like I'll have to call you back," Laura said as the thumping heels came back around the corner. "Yeah, more parakeeting. Thanks, hun."
"Laura!" The screech drowned out completely the sound of the cellphone clicking shut.
Laura swiveled in her chair. "Yes?"
"I hired you to take my messages! Tell me why there's a call waiting -- do you expect somebody else to be minding the phones? Have you got something more important to do than your job? It shouldn't be too hard to find someone to perform this simple task..."
As her boss continued the tirade, Laura subtly twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand, ensuring that the light from the diamond sparkled all the more belligerently.
"Fuck fuck FUCK," she shouted through gritted teeth as the traffic light went from yellow to red. She stood on the brake and reached for the mirror, turning it towards herself while reaching for the tube of lipstick in the cupholder.
She was only fifteen minutes late. She stormed towards the corner office without acknowledging her intern, Laura. The first thing she noticed was that, reflected in the immaculately dustless glass frame of her niece's graduation photo, she could see the blinking light of her desk phone. She'd missed a call already; there was a voicemail waiting. Nancy did a one-eighty. "Hell," she grumbled, setting down her half-finished grande vanilla chai frappuccino on a filing cabinet.
"Looks like I'll have to call you back," Laura said as the thumping heels came back around the corner. "Yeah, more parakeeting. Thanks, hun."
"Laura!" The screech drowned out completely the sound of the cellphone clicking shut.
Laura swiveled in her chair. "Yes?"
"I hired you to take my messages! Tell me why there's a call waiting -- do you expect somebody else to be minding the phones? Have you got something more important to do than your job? It shouldn't be too hard to find someone to perform this simple task..."
As her boss continued the tirade, Laura subtly twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand, ensuring that the light from the diamond sparkled all the more belligerently.
9.12.2009
9. Blode
Blode didn't have much luck when it came to changing the toner in the Xerox machine.
The amber light traitorously flicked on and off at Blode as his blood pressure increased. It was the fourth time he'd opened the side hatch and tooled around with the mechanism. He was sure he'd done everything right.
"Fucking shitstick cockerel," he muttered.
With great effort, Blode did not kick the machine with a foot that that had proven itself capable of reducing a crackhouse door to splinters in one go. Nor did he punch it with the fist that had floored more than a few pushers, pimps, and low-level thugs. Blode just walked out.
"Betty, if you could get the copier working, my reports need to get Xeroxed for the D.A.," he called across the typing pool. "They're on my desk."
"Sure thing, Sarge," she called back.
Blode left the station and looked at his watch. Three fifteen. Time for a drink.
"Pint of stout and one shot Johnny Black," he barked at the bartender, some new kid who barely looked old enough to be drinking, let alone pouring them. The kid got to work fast enough, at least. "Where's old Saul? Don't tell me he's retired," he asked, and threw back the shot.
"Oh, Saul's gone. He passed away a couple weeks ago."
Blode didn't choke on the whiskey, but he slammed the empty glass down so hard that he broke his pinkie finger.
The amber light traitorously flicked on and off at Blode as his blood pressure increased. It was the fourth time he'd opened the side hatch and tooled around with the mechanism. He was sure he'd done everything right.
"Fucking shitstick cockerel," he muttered.
With great effort, Blode did not kick the machine with a foot that that had proven itself capable of reducing a crackhouse door to splinters in one go. Nor did he punch it with the fist that had floored more than a few pushers, pimps, and low-level thugs. Blode just walked out.
"Betty, if you could get the copier working, my reports need to get Xeroxed for the D.A.," he called across the typing pool. "They're on my desk."
"Sure thing, Sarge," she called back.
Blode left the station and looked at his watch. Three fifteen. Time for a drink.
"Pint of stout and one shot Johnny Black," he barked at the bartender, some new kid who barely looked old enough to be drinking, let alone pouring them. The kid got to work fast enough, at least. "Where's old Saul? Don't tell me he's retired," he asked, and threw back the shot.
"Oh, Saul's gone. He passed away a couple weeks ago."
Blode didn't choke on the whiskey, but he slammed the empty glass down so hard that he broke his pinkie finger.
7. Sophie & Brian
The scar looked like red wax dripping straight down from Sophie's hairline, narrowly missing her eye. She turned towards Brian, and he cringed.
"Long time no see," she said.
He found it difficult to make eye contact.
"Yeah, I uh, I'm glad to see you're up and around."
"Are you kidding? I've been out of the hospital for a month already."
He was silent. She bit her lip, knowing she'd meant that to sound less forceful.
"Look, I don't want you to worry about this," she gestured towards the side of her face, "okay? I'm over it. You don't have to beat yourself up."
Brian made a face like he was trying to force something that wouldn't come. He turned away and expelled the breath he'd been holding in, then tried again with his right hand over his heart. "I think it would be better if..." he trailed off, losing the nerve to admit what she already knew.
Sophie waited, and breathed deeply. She smiled politely. He's such a goddamned actor, she thought. He looked down.
"I can't help blaming myself," Brian said to his feet.
"That's something you'll have to get over."
When he looked up, she was waiting for him. Her gaze locked on to his. She knew exactly how pretty she was, or used to be, and the only penance she asked was that he would carry on like nothing had changed.
"Every time I see it," he began, and looked away. "I hear the squealing tires, the breaking glass..."
"That's a fucking Pearl Jam lyric, Brian." Her voice cracked. She was tempted to hit him. She attempted to calm herself, to keep a grip on the situation. If they shouted it out, she knew he wouldn't call her again. He'd consider it over and try to forget. She had already looked in the mirror and swept her hair over her face in a dozen variations. It didn't work.
He looked at her with uncertainty. No words came. He felt angry that his life hadn't prepared him for this.
"Want to see a movie?"
"Long time no see," she said.
He found it difficult to make eye contact.
"Yeah, I uh, I'm glad to see you're up and around."
"Are you kidding? I've been out of the hospital for a month already."
He was silent. She bit her lip, knowing she'd meant that to sound less forceful.
"Look, I don't want you to worry about this," she gestured towards the side of her face, "okay? I'm over it. You don't have to beat yourself up."
Brian made a face like he was trying to force something that wouldn't come. He turned away and expelled the breath he'd been holding in, then tried again with his right hand over his heart. "I think it would be better if..." he trailed off, losing the nerve to admit what she already knew.
Sophie waited, and breathed deeply. She smiled politely. He's such a goddamned actor, she thought. He looked down.
"I can't help blaming myself," Brian said to his feet.
"That's something you'll have to get over."
When he looked up, she was waiting for him. Her gaze locked on to his. She knew exactly how pretty she was, or used to be, and the only penance she asked was that he would carry on like nothing had changed.
"Every time I see it," he began, and looked away. "I hear the squealing tires, the breaking glass..."
"That's a fucking Pearl Jam lyric, Brian." Her voice cracked. She was tempted to hit him. She attempted to calm herself, to keep a grip on the situation. If they shouted it out, she knew he wouldn't call her again. He'd consider it over and try to forget. She had already looked in the mirror and swept her hair over her face in a dozen variations. It didn't work.
He looked at her with uncertainty. No words came. He felt angry that his life hadn't prepared him for this.
"Want to see a movie?"
9.11.2009
6. Tasha
Tasha liked Hayden as soon as she set eyes upon him. He always appeared disheveled, and yet composed, as though careless attractiveness were a quality he could not suppress through sheer lack of effort. His manners matched. Tasha could tell Hayden's attention was valuable by how sparingly he laid it out. Eventually she worked up the nerve to approach him, and was relieved to find herself accepted in his presence, not the target of the mysterious, sarcastic scoff he doled out frequently. She had met his unfathomable standards. She felt unique; Hayden was so often alone.
She asked him to have coffee with her and he laconically agreed. They went out. She told him all about herself and he laconically approved, of everything. She told him she found him handsome, and they returned to her dorm room where he laconically made love to her. Afterwards, he began to get dressed. She asked him why. He said something which, though he didn't know it, completely and irrevocably changed the way she perceived him. He might as well have torn off his face.
Once he'd gone, Tasha went out by herself and walked in the snow, inventing obscenities so potent that no words existed with which to express them.
She asked him to have coffee with her and he laconically agreed. They went out. She told him all about herself and he laconically approved, of everything. She told him she found him handsome, and they returned to her dorm room where he laconically made love to her. Afterwards, he began to get dressed. She asked him why. He said something which, though he didn't know it, completely and irrevocably changed the way she perceived him. He might as well have torn off his face.
Once he'd gone, Tasha went out by herself and walked in the snow, inventing obscenities so potent that no words existed with which to express them.
5. Henry & Angie
Henry might have miscalculated.
Some way to put it, Angie thought, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with such single-minded determination that she barely registered what she was putting into it. Her mind was on making the suitcase full, not of things she needed, but simply full, as if its compensatorial overflow could spill into this new emptiness of which she was keenly aware. She packed the red Naugahyde suitcase with shirts and blouses and her toothbrush and a bottle of Aspirin, forgetting socks and toothpaste and the address book which she'd remember only as she attempted to contact the sister with whom she'd planned to stay.
Henry didn't understand this reaction at all. So he'd made a mistake! Didn't he suffer the consequences of that just as much as she did, if not worse? She should feel sorry for him, not angry -- after all, it had been hard work keeping the secret all these years, and he'd done that for her sake, trying to keep her happy. Where was the appreciation for that, he wondered? Right out the window. Henry had trouble articulating these thoughts. If only Angie had remembered -- and he had reminded her that very morning! -- to go to her appointment with the ophthalmologist right after work, he would have had time. Everything should have been normal by the time she got home, but no. It was so like her!
"Angie, please." He tried to sound soothing, but the words came out with exasperation. She passed him wordlessly and went down the hall, dropping some items from the partially-open suitcase. The salesman came down the stairs, stuffing his necktie into his pocket. Henry handed him his shoes.
"Is there," he turned his head at a sound, turned back. "Anything I can do?"
"It's better if you go."
The man nodded. He walked out the door and called back over his shoulder, "Sorry, Henry." He wasn't sure Henry had heard him.
Some way to put it, Angie thought, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with such single-minded determination that she barely registered what she was putting into it. Her mind was on making the suitcase full, not of things she needed, but simply full, as if its compensatorial overflow could spill into this new emptiness of which she was keenly aware. She packed the red Naugahyde suitcase with shirts and blouses and her toothbrush and a bottle of Aspirin, forgetting socks and toothpaste and the address book which she'd remember only as she attempted to contact the sister with whom she'd planned to stay.
Henry didn't understand this reaction at all. So he'd made a mistake! Didn't he suffer the consequences of that just as much as she did, if not worse? She should feel sorry for him, not angry -- after all, it had been hard work keeping the secret all these years, and he'd done that for her sake, trying to keep her happy. Where was the appreciation for that, he wondered? Right out the window. Henry had trouble articulating these thoughts. If only Angie had remembered -- and he had reminded her that very morning! -- to go to her appointment with the ophthalmologist right after work, he would have had time. Everything should have been normal by the time she got home, but no. It was so like her!
"Angie, please." He tried to sound soothing, but the words came out with exasperation. She passed him wordlessly and went down the hall, dropping some items from the partially-open suitcase. The salesman came down the stairs, stuffing his necktie into his pocket. Henry handed him his shoes.
"Is there," he turned his head at a sound, turned back. "Anything I can do?"
"It's better if you go."
The man nodded. He walked out the door and called back over his shoulder, "Sorry, Henry." He wasn't sure Henry had heard him.
4. Russel
Russel was small by any measure of a man except personality. Whether the fault of genetics or just a lean diet during his youth, he'd never grown taller than five foot one, or heavier than one hundred twenty five pounds. He didn't blame anyone for his being short. That was just facts. For feeling small, though, he blamed the whole world.
When he happened upon the bike at an automotive trade show, Russel knew he had to have it. Russ wasn't much of an enginehead -- he went to the trade show mostly just to look and to try a few pick-up lines on booth girls, worth the price of admission in his mind -- but the bike looked exactly what he'd waited his life for. The cowling was sleek, sharp in places like an ancient weapon, contoured exactly as a body lying supine waiting for his to fill the space on top and complete them both. It promised to dissolve him. "Lethal," he mouthed, tracing the shape of the bike with a hand an inch above its sacred surface. He spread a down payment over two credit cards and a post-dated check.
He fell in love with the anonymity of the helmet, relished the impunity with which he snaked around slower vehicles. He could thread a needle at one hundred miles per. Nothing could touch him. Even the expensive sports cars were clumsy by comparison. They were all too big.
A pickup truck with a broken tailgate got the better of Russ as he tried to blaze past it. When it left him behind, the bike sped on riderless for over three hundred yards, as though it had never really needed him after all.
When he happened upon the bike at an automotive trade show, Russel knew he had to have it. Russ wasn't much of an enginehead -- he went to the trade show mostly just to look and to try a few pick-up lines on booth girls, worth the price of admission in his mind -- but the bike looked exactly what he'd waited his life for. The cowling was sleek, sharp in places like an ancient weapon, contoured exactly as a body lying supine waiting for his to fill the space on top and complete them both. It promised to dissolve him. "Lethal," he mouthed, tracing the shape of the bike with a hand an inch above its sacred surface. He spread a down payment over two credit cards and a post-dated check.
He fell in love with the anonymity of the helmet, relished the impunity with which he snaked around slower vehicles. He could thread a needle at one hundred miles per. Nothing could touch him. Even the expensive sports cars were clumsy by comparison. They were all too big.
A pickup truck with a broken tailgate got the better of Russ as he tried to blaze past it. When it left him behind, the bike sped on riderless for over three hundred yards, as though it had never really needed him after all.
3. Walter
Walter lowered the stock from his shoulder and un-winked his eye. The cordite smoke hung in the windless air like a blot of bird shit on a clean pane of glass.
The buck hadn't died right away; it was still kicking out its last. They do that sometimes, Walter knew, before they shut down entire. Echoes of the shot rumbled distant. The peal of the gun diminished into a murmur of assent, speaking to the heart of the hunter.
Waiting for the throes to stop -- a single kick from one of those hooves can split a man's brain-pan as it were a grapefruit, he'd heard -- Walter did a few things. He took off a glove and scratched his ruddy brown moustache, smelling the leather scent remnant on his trigger finger. He checked his buck-knife to see that it was sharp; it was. The kicking stopped. The animal would still be breathing. Walter decided it was time to take care of it, and began to cross the two hundred or so yards that separated them. Hell of a way to meet somebody, he thought.
He found the deer next to a tree that looked so goddamn much like twelve-point antlers. How in the hell. The doe stretched its neck up, its eyes deep and watery as a woman's, taking in the sight of him. Walter saw the fight go out of the quiet creature. He made it go quick.
The next day, he shaved his moustache.
The buck hadn't died right away; it was still kicking out its last. They do that sometimes, Walter knew, before they shut down entire. Echoes of the shot rumbled distant. The peal of the gun diminished into a murmur of assent, speaking to the heart of the hunter.
Waiting for the throes to stop -- a single kick from one of those hooves can split a man's brain-pan as it were a grapefruit, he'd heard -- Walter did a few things. He took off a glove and scratched his ruddy brown moustache, smelling the leather scent remnant on his trigger finger. He checked his buck-knife to see that it was sharp; it was. The kicking stopped. The animal would still be breathing. Walter decided it was time to take care of it, and began to cross the two hundred or so yards that separated them. Hell of a way to meet somebody, he thought.
He found the deer next to a tree that looked so goddamn much like twelve-point antlers. How in the hell. The doe stretched its neck up, its eyes deep and watery as a woman's, taking in the sight of him. Walter saw the fight go out of the quiet creature. He made it go quick.
The next day, he shaved his moustache.
2. Simon
Simon gazed out into the yard where his labrador was rolling in the overgrown grass. When the dog stood up and shook the loose blades from his long golden coat, Simon lapsed out of his reverie and decided he'd mow the lawn. Today was the day. That lawn was getting mowed.
It had been two or three weeks now, partly because Simon had decided he liked the way the overgrowth looked at night. It reminded him of tumultuous waves on a stormy sea, and at 4 A.M. on a Thursday he'd leaned out an upper-floor window and imagined himself the captain of a Spanish galleon, trading sugar cane from Jamaica for Darjeeling tea. Before that, the reason for not mowing it was because of a slight twinge of tendonitis in his left knee, and he feared that pushing the mower might cause the condition to worsen. Before that, he had decided that gas-powered mowers were environmentally unsound and resolved therefore to get a push-powered one. Simon had forgotten all of this now. Today was the day.
The transformation from ragged green shag to cropped carpet was a surprise to Simon in the same way that haircuts often were. The rumbling engine and the smell of masticated vegetation inspired good feelings in him. When he surveyed his handiwork, a self-satisfied salute keeping the sun from his eyes, he caught a glint of something shining among the clippings. It was distinctly un-grasslike.
It took Simon a moment to piece together what it was. He guessed a ring would bounce off the front door, about that far, if someone were really and truly not coming back. "I'll pick it up later," he thought to himself, and went around to mow the other yard. When he'd finished, he went in, and the dog playfully followed.
It had been two or three weeks now, partly because Simon had decided he liked the way the overgrowth looked at night. It reminded him of tumultuous waves on a stormy sea, and at 4 A.M. on a Thursday he'd leaned out an upper-floor window and imagined himself the captain of a Spanish galleon, trading sugar cane from Jamaica for Darjeeling tea. Before that, the reason for not mowing it was because of a slight twinge of tendonitis in his left knee, and he feared that pushing the mower might cause the condition to worsen. Before that, he had decided that gas-powered mowers were environmentally unsound and resolved therefore to get a push-powered one. Simon had forgotten all of this now. Today was the day.
The transformation from ragged green shag to cropped carpet was a surprise to Simon in the same way that haircuts often were. The rumbling engine and the smell of masticated vegetation inspired good feelings in him. When he surveyed his handiwork, a self-satisfied salute keeping the sun from his eyes, he caught a glint of something shining among the clippings. It was distinctly un-grasslike.
It took Simon a moment to piece together what it was. He guessed a ring would bounce off the front door, about that far, if someone were really and truly not coming back. "I'll pick it up later," he thought to himself, and went around to mow the other yard. When he'd finished, he went in, and the dog playfully followed.
1. Joan
Joan raised her head from the Times' Style section and stared with exasperated disbelief at the crimson puddle spreading across the table. Kendal had pried the lid from her sippy-cup. Results were typical. With infantile glee, Kendal laughed and shook the cup while her mother felt the creases deepen around her mouth. At this rate, the lines in Joan's face would have her looking like a marionette by the time her daughter was ready to drive, and after that would come a whole other set of frustrations. It hadn't always been this way. Before Kendal -- a time period which had become as much a matter of historical reference as "before electricity" -- Joan had considered herself free. A prison without doors, however, is still a prison if one does not leave, or so the logic went at the time. Proving that she was, in fact, free entailed quite a bit of dancing, drinking, and repeating; the friends and the nightspots varied over time, but the events were largely interchangeable. Things had turned from that to this in a fashion not unlike the way buildings collapse -- first a little, then the rest. Kendal's juice reached the corner of the paper. As it soaked through, the style page became semi-transparent. The makeup model's face became a palimpsest of words from page eight, her smoothness marred by a chaos of lines.
0. Self-portrait.
He stood by the window. Rain fell.
He removed his forehead from the back of his hand and allowed his eyes to focus on the wet glass. Had it really been so long since he'd written anything? Though his internal narrative had not lost its grandiloquence in fabricating the usual sequences of self-aggrandizement and self-beration, he'd committed nothing to paper.
"Fuckles," he uttered. The word was to be his last.
On the floor below, in three adjacent apartments, circumstances convened such that the following events occurred almost simultaneously with the author's minced oath. Konstantin Philalopolous was making an unauthorized renovation to his bedroom wall in an effort to accommodate the Murphy bed he'd purchased after his live-in girlfriend saw one in a rerun of an old sitcom and caught on to the fad thirty years late. Two doors down, Jeffrey "Meatsteak" Flynn and Doyle "Sack-Dog" Saks, football enthusiasts and latent homosexuals with a combined body-mass index testifying to the unbalanced spectator/participant ratio of their involvement with sporting events, were vicariously celebrating the success of their team in a meaningless preseason game by re-enacting a recent tackle with enough physical force to mask the sensuality of the experience. Both side walls of the olfactorily-disabled Mrs. Ethyl Dorplaster's lonesome apartment crashed in simultaneously, ventilating the space that had previously lacked a favourable oxygen-to-gas ratio just as the widow was attempting to re-light the pilot on her stove and wondering why the match wouldn't strike.
He removed his forehead from the back of his hand and allowed his eyes to focus on the wet glass. Had it really been so long since he'd written anything? Though his internal narrative had not lost its grandiloquence in fabricating the usual sequences of self-aggrandizement and self-beration, he'd committed nothing to paper.
"Fuckles," he uttered. The word was to be his last.
On the floor below, in three adjacent apartments, circumstances convened such that the following events occurred almost simultaneously with the author's minced oath. Konstantin Philalopolous was making an unauthorized renovation to his bedroom wall in an effort to accommodate the Murphy bed he'd purchased after his live-in girlfriend saw one in a rerun of an old sitcom and caught on to the fad thirty years late. Two doors down, Jeffrey "Meatsteak" Flynn and Doyle "Sack-Dog" Saks, football enthusiasts and latent homosexuals with a combined body-mass index testifying to the unbalanced spectator/participant ratio of their involvement with sporting events, were vicariously celebrating the success of their team in a meaningless preseason game by re-enacting a recent tackle with enough physical force to mask the sensuality of the experience. Both side walls of the olfactorily-disabled Mrs. Ethyl Dorplaster's lonesome apartment crashed in simultaneously, ventilating the space that had previously lacked a favourable oxygen-to-gas ratio just as the widow was attempting to re-light the pilot on her stove and wondering why the match wouldn't strike.
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