After a long absence …

Cold Fort

(working title)

Jason grabbed my shoulder and hauled me to my feet. It had been days since I’d slept and I thought I was close, sitting there next to Blair, the new guy and the others. My eyes had been closed, anyway and I felt relaxed, sitting so close to Balir, her blonde hair merging with mine. “It’s the mother lode,” he yelled, pointing at the window, his face inches from mine. His mouth opened wide when he spoke and I stared at his yellow molars; his breath stank of onions. I cringed and he must have mistaken my expression for fear. “It’s ok, there’s no one out there. It’s like God’s pissing dandruff out there.”

He dragged me across our apartment. As soon as we left the Fire Pit, the January chill struck my bones. There were only a few old heaters hooked up to pirated electricity, but they were the difference in these harsh mountain winters. The temperature outside often dropped below zero and the uncarpeted, scuffed concrete floors sucked all the warmth from my barefoot feet. “Leggo of me,” I mumbled and I tried to loosen myself, but Jason’s grip was tighter than necessary. His mouth was clenched and he was grinding his teeth. “Get off,” I repeated while pushing him. He let go, but stayed close. “Hold on.”

I walked back to the fire pit and grabbed my shoes. Most of the apartment was bare; it wasn’t even an apartment, really, just an old factory on the scary side of town that no one used. Someone paid rent, but none of the utilities were turned on. We stole electricity from somewhere around here, but I didn’t know who ran the wires. I was just happy when the lights flickered on and the one t.v. played old movies. The walls were brick and painted gray and the ceiling was fifteen feet high. It seemed a mile those days when I lay on my mattress, unable to get up, not sleeping and not really awake.

The others looked at me when I crossed the Wall and entered the Pit. They were passing some needles around. Blair smiled at me and asked a question with her green eyes. You in? She smiled even more when I shook my head. Not my scene.

By the time I returned to Jason with miss-matched shoes, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. I saw dandruff rain to the floor from his shoulder-length brown hair. It matched the snow outside. I missed running water. People didn’t bathe enough. “What did you want?” I yawned.

Jason grabbed me and pulled me forward. He thrust my face against the window and I groaned. “Look, man. Look!” He stabbed at the window with his half-gloved hand. His nails were cracked and yellow, the one on his pinky long and smooth. I followed his finger and saw, on the curb, a pile of trash. A futon, some stereo equipment and what had garnered Jason’s current craze. A huge pile of Styrofoam. “See it? It’ll help in here, man. That stuff’s worth its weight, man. It’s awesome.” Jason whirled and I with him, still attached. I batted at his hand but I doubt he even felt it.

Surrounding half of the fire pit was a pile of insulation: blankets and pillows; mattresses stood on their side. There were rugs and sweaters and torn-out car seats, baby’s clothes and jogging shorts and mounds and mounds of socks. There were crumbled up newspapers dating back nine months. Most importantly were towers of Styrofoam. Jason had made a fort of it, lined with blankets and comforters that he moved while the rest of us were sleeping. There must have been hundreds of pieces, some of it the popcorn kind that he’d glued together.

I stared at Jason’s pinky while he salivated. There was a thin layer of cocaine sticking to the edges and I wondered where he got his shit. “You want to add to your fort, Jason?” I asked. When Jason got like this, he didn’t hear much besides the voices already in his head. He nodded and turned.

“It’s going to be incredible.” His eyes were shining and his smile made my face hurt. It was beautiful in a way, how intense he got. I wanted to cry. “It’s going to be my home.”

“You are home, Jason,” I said, thinking of Blair. She was sitting with the others in the Fire Pit, smiling. I swallowed when I saw the new guy’s arm around her thin shoulders. Something went slam-slam in my gut and I felt tears well. “You’re home,” I repeated, trying to convince myself.

“Come on,” he said, dragging me. I craned my neck to see Blair, but the Wall was in the way and soon we were to the massive metal door and then outside to the fire escape. The snow was up to my ankles before I realized and I cursed when my bare arm touched the freezing cold railing. Everything hurt me and I felt a tear leak out. I let it trace down my cheek, into my thin beard. I wanted to see if it would freeze. I focused on the tear, wondering if when we got back into the apartment, it would melt and my blond hairs would weep. I laughed at my melodrama and I thought about telling Jason, but we were already on the street.

Jason looked in both directions. “Come on, man,” he said and hustled me close. “They’re around here, you know.” He double-checked everything and I didn’t have the energy to speak. He acted like my mother; that’s probably why I put up with him when no one else would. I could imagine what it was like better than most, afraid of the people in your head. You didn’t even know you were sick, you just knew what made you feel better. For my mom it was Miller and Pabst, for Jason it was white powders. Surging with emotion, I hugged him. He patted my back, awkward. “Man, come on. They’ll get you for that homo shit.” He squatted in the trash and the Styrofoam blocked him from my sight. Now that I was among it, I could see that there was enough to fill a closet. He started stuffing it all into trash bags, hurrying but careful to damage nothing.

I didn’t notice he’d brought anything. Did he grab it before, I wondered. Did I miss something? I felt a sudden headache and I moaned. I closed my eyes and lifted my fingers to my temple and wished I was somewhere else. I thought about being a bird and flying away and going somewhere warm. Someplace where Blair and I could go and I could take care of her and she could take care of me and maybe Jason could live in the extra bedroom that we’d have. I smiled and laughed and then I felt Jason’s hand on me. I opened my eyes and looked at his green ones and there was concern there, somehow, incredibly.

“You gotta get inside, man. It’s cold,” he said. I looked around and all the Styrofoam was gone. There had been piles of it. It was all gone and I was covered in a thin layer of snow. I was so tired.

“How long have I been out here?”

“I’ve made three trips, man,” Jason said. “I’ve been yelling at you and you’ve been saying you were gonna help me.” He grabbed his head in both hands and shook it. For a second I thought it was going to come off; he looked like a purple lizard and I felt scared for a second before he looked like Jason again. “Come on. Help me get this futon.” Together, both of us lifted it. The frame was cracked and there was a big stain on the mattress, but it looked ok to me. It would go great in the Fire Pit. I wondered if I put it next to Blair, if she would sleep next to me. She did, once, and she even let me hold her for a little while. When she started snoring, I whispered that I loved her and that we’d make beautiful blonde babies. She smiled in her sleep, but the next day she wouldn’t look at me and she spent hours and hours nodding out. I couldn’t get out of bed for a few days after that.

It was hard getting the futon up the fire escape, it was so narrow and the edges of everything hurt so much. It wasn’t until the skin on my arm stuck to the railing that I realized I hadn’t brought a jacket. Even Jason brought one. “No wonder I’m cold,” I said and my teeth were chattering. I hadn’t noticed.

“You’re kind of fucked up, man,” Jason said. He laughed like a hyena.”You scare me when I don’t take care of you.” We hauled the futon to the landing and through the door. I wondered if he was right.

The Styrofoam was piled waist high at the door. “You think someone got all new stuff and threw all their own stuff out? That’d explain all this packing stuff,” I said. Jason nodded though he wasn’t paying attention. He excused himself to the bathroom and I knew he was going to come back sniffling. I thought I’d drag the futon to the Pit to show Blair.

It took me a couple minutes to get it over there, though it didn’t seem like that far. I had to rest a few times. I wondered if I was going to get sick, I was so cold. I was sick a lot as a kid and my mom tried to take care of me, but she was so sick herself that it was hard. Sometimes she couldn’t do it and she’d yell at me to stop being such a baby. And then she would cry herself and yell at the voices and I’d hug her. She left when I was twelve and I lived with my uncle for awhile. But then I got sick myself, not like my mom, but bad and my uncle said he was going to put me in a foster home before I left.

I didn’t like to think about it so I didn’t. I concentrated on dragging the futon across the concrete floor. By the time I got it to the Pit, I was covered in sweat (or maybe melted tears; I laughed at that). I looked for Blair but didn’t see her. One of the older guys, we called him Elmo (cause he was all red), waved at me, his eyes glassy. I let the futon slide to the ground and sat on it, panting. “Where’s. Blair?”

He shrugged and leaned back, eyes closed. I sat on the futon and waited where I was. I could hear Jason moving around, arranging his Wall. He muttered and readjusted things just so. He made trip after trip, returning with another armload each time. I turned to face him. He was stacking the white stuff on top of each other; each time, there was squeaking and my hair stood on end. I couldn’t stop shivering. I thought about lying down and trying to go to sleep, but no, I’d keep my eyes open until Blair got back and I’d show her.

I must have been there for quite some time. I opened my eyes (I didn’t remember closing them) and everybody was back. The cold had left my body, though I felt my heart beating faster as Hell. I put my hand to my forehead and frowned. “Hot,” I said. A few people glanced over at me (Blair smiled) but went back to playing cards and talking about something. All I could hear was a high-pitched waaah waaah waah. Behind me, I could hear some rustling that set my teeth clenching.

While I had been sleeping (spaced out?), Jason had reconstructed his Wall. Almost the entire Pit was encircled and through my fever, I could feel that it was a couple degrees warmer. A grin spread across my face and I shuddered to my feet. The Wall extended to the ceiling in some places. Halfway round, I could see Jason’s face poking through one jigsaw-shaped segment, his eyes twitching and his teeth grinding. He flipped me a thumbs-up before sticking a piece of Styrofoam into the hole. I could hear his voice through the Wall.

“Why don’t you come through?” he asked. I searched the Wall. “Come on through, man. Help me over here.”

“How?” I asked. I couldn’t see any way. I looked back at the Pit for Blair, hoping to see her. The others were there, but she wasn’t. Elmo saw me and he waved. When he smiled, I wasn’t able to see any teeth. I shuddered. “Should I come around?”

“No,” he said. Sweat was pouring down my forehead and I shook my head as his voice went in and out. He sounded like how I imagined God would sound. “Just come through. Look down,” he/HE said.

I followed the base of the Wall and saw a little opening, about knee high. I got down on all fours and stuck in my head. The floor was lined with blankets soft as silk. I crawled into the gap, into a dim tunnel. After a body’s length, the space opened and I was able to sit upright. There was a small room, lined in blankets with a small floor lamp. Two tunnels went off in different directions. I heard Jason’s voice call again. I wasn’t sure which way to go but when he called again, “Come on, man. Time’s wasting,” I turned and set off on all fours. I thought I could hear Blair’s laugh.

It seemed like I crawled for hours. The tunnel rarely stayed straight for long and would twist and turn in new directions, sometimes uphill or downhill. I wondered at that. Sometimes I could almost stand up, other times I had to move on my belly. I would have thought that the thin blankets wouldn’t be proof against the cold floor, but I felt comfortable for the first time in ages. Soon, I reached an area that emptied out to a circle. The floor was lined almost a foot high and I came out two feet off the ground. I was confused as I tumbled onto the blankets. I looked up and couldn’t see the ceiling. Blair and Jason were there and then they weren’t. Closing my eyes, I thought I felt a hand on my forehead.

“He’s burning up,” I thought I heard Blair say. When I opened my eyes, instead of Blair’s green eyes all I could was a field of flowers poking from the blanket-lined ground. I turned my head and laughed at the grass I was lying in. Blue skies were above me and white clouds.

“The others got him,” Jason said, though I couldn’t see him anywhere. There was just me and flowers and the sky above and I felt so happy. I had missed my mother and I missed the sun.

It felt nice to go back to sleep. It had been a long time.

 

 

 

I need a title

(Comment with your title suggestions. Winner gets an ice cream cone!)

Barry Saunders sat in his normal seat at the bar and drank watred-down diner coffee as he watched his new favorite waitress, Simone. He’d finished his regular Friday night meal of steak and potatoes (not as good as his mother used to make, but certainly a step up from his own cooking) and was waiting for 8 o’clock so he could go home and watch one of those ‘lawyer shows’, as he called them; Barry knew they had specific names, but they were all kind of the same. There was the actor who used to be a movie star and now seemed to be slumming it. There was some weird person who used their brains to solve crimes. And there were many, many disproportianatley attractive people who in real life would never be cops or lawyers. They were all the same and all kind of terrible, but that’s what Friday was for. But in the meantime, he liked to stare at Simone.

She was young, just out of high school, and had the kind of soft brown curls and cheerleader’s body he’d obsessed about when a youth himself. She wasn’t classically pretty, and he’d overheard some other customers making snide comments about her snub nose and teeth that badly needed braces. Whenever she passed him, however, Barry would try a feeble sort of smile. He knew what an image he made: his hair was thin and brittle, his nose was long, his chin non-existent and he was fighting a losing battle with middle age. Barry fostered no delusions that a young girl such as Simone would have any interest in him. Maybe if he had money, or maybe if he was interesting and charming, like his friend Dan. “Just swing for the fences, Barry,” he’d say. “Nothing’s easier than a college girl. Know your Psychology and Philosophy 101, watch some MTV and you’re in.” He’d wink and Barry would stutter.

“MTV?” That was years ago. MTV was apparently out, but other things were in. As  culture cycled in and out and Barry stayed still in polyester suits, Dan would regale him of stories that made Barry more and more uncomfortable as the years went by. But as he watched Simone from across the room, watched her high, tight breasts and her little ass, he’d get a dirty, itchy feeling in his heart and his stomach and his groin and he wondered if he could do the same. As Simone glided closer, stopping to chat to other patrons and fill coffee cups, Barry’s breath quickened and he felt his heart start throbbing. She slipped behind the counter and he closed his eyes and turned his head in anticipation. In the middle of a smile, his face froze in a kind of grimace.

“Need more coffee, hun?” Simone’s voice was deep and throaty. In the past two months since she’d started working (every Friday night and Saturday/Sunday mornings), Barry was continually surprised by that voice. It belonged to a movie star from the 1950s, glamorous and at home with her sexuality, not wearing it like a toy as kids these days did. With his eyes closed, he could imagine her as a woman grown and not feel like the dirty man he felt otherwise. “Mr. Saunders?” she asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

“No thanks, Simone. I’m fine,” Barry said as he opened his eyes. He tried to smile while he drank her image in, storing it. She had a heart-shaped face, with freckles lightly dusted on her cheeks and large brown eyes. “Bout time for me to go home, I think. Falling asleep sitting here.” He tried to keep his voice even and the excitement he felt hidden. Simone nodded and slid him a bill before smiling and gliding away. He watched her go, still unable to smile. Barry frowned and picked the check up. he laughed at the message written. Nothing special, just a thanks and her name; nothing different than a million other young waitresses would write, but for some reason it was more special. “You’re welcome,” he said to himself, staring at the heart she used over the I. He left a 50% tip on his way out the door.

Home was a rented apartment above a pizza place a few blocks away. On most nights, Barry would walk past art students, gay men and urban professionals, sometimes the line less distinct than others. All were better dressed and healthier looking than Barry. Sometimes there was mockery, which perplexed him. This night was cold and wet and Barry was thankful that the normal tension was absent.

Outside of his building huddled three Arabic men smoking cigarettes; two owned the pizza place and nodded at Barry as he went by. Occasionally a pizza find its way outside his door- normally a little burned or irregularly cut or with strange toppings. He never asked for them and never said no when one was offered, he just appreciated the kindness. Barry nodded and muttered a hello as he entered the small, unnumbered door just next to the pizza place. He’d normally chat a little as they were some of the closest he had to actual friends, but tonight was not the night. There was a flyer stuck in the handle and a small bundle of mail stuffed in the slot. He grabbed them all, smiled and waved again to the pizza men, unlocked the door and went inside.

The stairwell was poorly lit and unventilated. There were thirty steps, almost vertically placed and carpeted in a kind of green shag. The apartment had come mostly furnished, for which Barry had been grateful. Manuevering up those steps with his few boxes of possessions had been murderous and if he’d had a dresser, it would have been impossible. He moved himself, of course, and couldn’t afford movers. Luckily, the queen-sized bed came with the place. He turned over the stained portion, bought new sheets and never thought about it again.

His apartment, while only one room, was actually quite big. The floor were wood and there was even a large, non-working fireplace on one wall filled with candle stubs left by the last resident. A motley assortment of furniture lined the painted-red walls – a purple armoire, a green easy chair, a desk obviously stolen from an elementary school. One corner of the room had a sink and stove and small refiridgerator. Next to it were swinging doors that made barry feel like he was in a Western every time he had to piss or take a shower in the stall-sized space. The three large windows that faced the street let in quite a bit of noise, so unless it was during the day, he kept them shuttered.

Barry dropped into the easy chair with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. He could still see Simone in his mind. He thought he’d killed that part of him two decades ago, after Rachel. This is it?, he’d thought, after the third time they’d made love. This is what I’ve been obsessing about? It seemed … boring. Rachel, as uninspired as he was, called it quits after that. Since then, Barry had never really thought about a woman. Until Simone started working at the diner. There was something about her that set a fire underneath his skin. The world was brighter when he was near her. Just thinking about her hair and her eyes and her breasts …

Anything would be better than torturing himself, Barry decided. He looked about his spare apartment for something to take his mind off things. He turned off his t.v. after a moment. Even knowing he’d made the right decision, the best part of living with his parents had been cable and he missed it. He picked up the book next to his bed where he’d dropped it a month ago. After two pages, he stopped. And sighed. He was still too excited to concentrate on anything. He leafed through his mail – all bills. He shuddered, threw them to one side and looked at the flyer he’d picked up from his door. It was yellow and made from a strange, heavy paper. The writing was strange, a kind of lilting cursive that blended in with the coloring and at the same time shifted and squirmed. It gave Barry a headache as he read it. “Cyprus Swan Escorts. Let us guide you home.” There was a phone number right above an indelible water mark in the right hand corner. Barry squinted to make out the mark and blushed when he realized what he was looking at. A man and a woman embracing. Or was it two women? Was it just one woman? She looked like she had curly hair and large eyes …

The phone was ringing before Barry had realized he was dialing. He thought about his meager bank account, the unpaid bills he’d tossed just moments ago (he knew there was at least one and possibly two 2^nd notices), his upcoming rent and the loan he’d borrowed from his mother. He looked at his cell phone in his hand and was about to turn it off when he heard a click. “Hello?” asked a female voice. She sounded like she just woke up. She sounded like her hair was long and voluminous and her eyes shrouded secrets. Barry’s voice closed up and something inside him bent a little bit. “Hello?” the voice asked again.

“Hi,” Barry said, his voice cracking. “This is Barry.”

“Hello Barry,” the voice said, laughing. “This is Aphril D., with Cyprus Swan Escorts.”

“Aphril?” Barry asked. “That’s pretty.”

“I know, Barry. It’s my name. Do you need a girl?”

“Y-yes. I mean, I don’t need a girl. But I want one. Yes.”

“What kind of girl?”

“What kinds do you have?” He closed his eyes and thought of Simone.

“Every kind, Barry. But I think you have a specific kind of girl you’re thinking of.”

“Maybe.” He paused and licked his lips. “Yes, I do.”

“I thought so, Barry. Young? But not too young – a woman grown.”

“Yes. Exactly”

“Not tall, right?”

“No. Short.”

“You like curly hair, don’t you Barry? And freckles?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know, Barry.” Every time she spoke his name, Barry’s heart jumped and his eyes twitched. He was dimly aware of what was going on below his belt. It was like fire. “You like a tight body, don’t you?”

“Tight,” he said. “Like a cheerleader.”

The voice laughed. “I think I have just the girl for you. Should I send one of my girls over?” Through a haze of excitement, Barry heard a weird inflection. Something possessive.

“Your girls?”

“Of course. They’re all my girls. They bring the good word.” The voice laughed and, incredibly loud and Barry winced, even while grinning and laughing along. “Enough of that. You want me to send my girl over. I know you do.”

“How … how much?” he asked. His head was pounding and he could barely think. He had to force the words out. “I don’t know if I can afford it,” he said.

There was a silence on the other end of the phone and then some clicking. It sounded like she was looking something up. “I’m sure you can work something out,” the voice said. “My girls know how to get what I require.” She chuckled. “Shall I send her over?”

“Yes. Yes please.”

“She’ll be there soon.” She almost sounded bored, now that Barry had agreed. “It won’t be long, Barry.” The line clicked and Barry stood where he was for long moments before he was able to think clearly and take the phone from his ear. It was several minutes before he realized he was drooling. Several minutes after that before he realized that he was naked. And it wasn’t until seconds before he heard his doorbell ring that he realized he’d never given his address.

Barry rushed to get dressed. His clothes were in odd places – on the windowsill, under the bed, behind his television – and it took some time before he was presentable. He gave up on finding his socks. On the way down, he looked at himself in the mirror. Same old Barry, he thought. If I wasn’t paying, this would never happen. He brushed his hair anyway, noting how flushed he was. He hadn’t been this excited in years. Rushing down the stairs, he thought for a quick second about Simone and his gait slowed. “What am I doing?” he thought while he opened the door. When he looked outside, though, all thought left his mind.

The woman standing in his threshold was wearing a tight green jacket and camel-colored jodhpurs tucked into black boots. Her hair was dark and came down in fierce ringlets. Her head was turned when Barry opened the door and he followed her gaze. The three Arab men were standing there, lit cigarettes dangling in their fingers and mouths. She said something and all three laughed, tears streaming from their eyes. “What was that?” Barry asked.

All eyes turned to Barry and he swallowed. The Arab men all narrowed their eyes and he could see their fists clenching. He started to say something to them, but then he looked at the woman. “We were just talking about the weather,” she said. Her voice was soft and smooth; it sounded like bells. She turned to the men and waved and the three of them broke into grins. Out of the corner of his eye, Barry could see one of them wink. He tore his eyes away from the woman and looked at his two friends. He was discomfited to see they had visible erections. He swallowed and looked back at her. He didn’t want to look at himself. “Shall we go inside, Barry?” He nodded.

She walked in front of him up the narrow steps. Somehow the barren staircase looked voluptuous and sensual. Through a haze, he wondered why he used those words to describe it but could come up with nothing. “What a nice place, Barry,” she said and he mumbled agreement. All the way up to his apartment, his eyes were glued to her behind as she sashayed in no particular hurry. He tried to focus on the way her body moved, but every time he tried, she shimmied in just such a way to deny his eyes.

They were in his room and she was wandering around, looking. She turned on the television and flipped through the few channels. A baseball game was on. “I do like the Orioles,” she said. “Such a beautiful bird.” He agreed and sat down. He felt as if he was going to have a heart attack. He closed his eyes and rubbed his knuckled against his eyelids, trying to clear his head.

It seemed like his eyes were only closed a moment, but his head was swirling so he had no real idea. But when he looked again, her coat was lying on his bed, her jodhpurs a crumpled pile by the windows. All she wore was a lacey white chemise so tight and sheer that he thought he could see everything. When she stretched, arching her back, Barry stopped breathing entirely. He only remembered to breathe when she finished, chuckled and sat on the bed. He closed his eyes and lowered his head as he coughed.

When he could breathe again, Barry spoke. “I don’t normally do this.” He didn’t trust himself to open his eyes. He heard her laugh and even the sound of it made him gasp. “I just, found the flyer. And there’s this woman. She’s …”

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Barry?” There was no amusement in her tone. Barry thought he heard sympathy and understanding and … something else.

“Yes.” He was almost on the verge of crying. He didn’t understand anything. “She’s so beautiful. She’s so young and full of life and so beautiful it hurts.”

“You want her, don’t you?” Barry nodded. “You don’t think you deserve her, do you?” Barry shook his head. “Look at me.”

She was sitting on his bed still, utterly nude. Her skin was the color of honey and milk. Her arms were crossed in front of her small, high breasts. There was a tracing of her at her navel and it thickened as it traveled down before it was obscured by her crossed thighs. Barry could not speak.

“You are very lonely, aren’t you? You don’t need to answer.” She smiled and shifted and it was if he was looking at the sun, because Barry gasped and shut his eyes. “Open your eyes,” she said, her voice calm and patient. “I understand, Barry. I’m here for you.” She leaned back on the bed. “Come here.”

Barry rose and fumbled at his clothing. Before he could take anything off, she laughed and flung her head back. “You have to do something for me, though.”

“Anything,” he said, choked.

“Tell me, would you rather have me or her? Honestly now.” She looked at him and there was something in her eyes that gave Barry pause. Like he was being tested. “Don’t even think of lying.” There was ice and grit in her tone.

Barry thought for long, long moments. His gut was fire and his heart was ice. Everything felt like it was a second away from bursting. He didn’t know the answer. “You,” he gasped as he felt something pop in his chest. “Her.” Pain flooded his body and he started to fall. “Both.”

She smiled and sat up. She leaned forward and touched his chest with a long, delicate finger. He stopped falling and stared as the pain evaporated. He gasped. With her fingernail, she traced a line on his skin and with no visible effort, cut his through his shirt and into his skin. He hissed as blood trickled out.

The woman tilted her head and extended her tongue. She swallowed the few trickles of blood. “You have so much love in your heart, Barry,” she said. “You are so good.”

“I … don’t understand.”

She laughed and Barry felt his head floating. “Tell me something,” she said, grasping him close and shredding his clothes. Her hand found the cut and he felt her fingers working their way inside of him.

“Anything.”

“Tell me you love me.” Her hand was on him and in him and he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

“I love you.” Barry meant it. He meant it with every part of his soul.

“Tell me you exalt me.” Her mouth touched parts of his body that no one had ever touched. He felt tears escaping from his eyes. He wanted to sob and yell and scream all at once.

“I exalt you above all others.”

“Tell me you worship me.” She was on top of him, her hair cascading down, her fingers gouging rents in his flesh and he was alive in joy.

“I worship you my goddess, my love, my everything.”

“I claim you,” she whispered as her lips touched his. As he slid inside of her and as her fingers touched his heart, she whispered again, into his ear. “I claim you in the name of my mistress, the Ruler of Love. You are mine.” She caressed his heart and Barry, unsure if he was moaning in pain and pleasure, closed his eyes. “You are ours. You are love.” She squeezed.

When Barry’s world went black, he felt peace.

Barry woke the next morning. He lay in bed for several moments before walking to the tiny bathroom and showering. There was a small scar on his chest. Curious, he touched it and felt no pain. He shrugged.

He dressed quickly and exited the apartment, stepping over a pizza box. He walked down the stairs and through the door. There was an Arab man outside smoking. He smiled and waved. Barry nodded back and walked down the street to the diner. There were two waitresses working. He walked to his normal seat at the bar.

After a few moments, a waitress came over to him. He looked up from the menu and noticed her curly hair. “Welcome back, Barry,” she said, pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked into Simone’s eyes and searched inside of his soul for anything. He felt so much love in that moment, he could not speak. A smile broke out over Barry’s face and after a few moments, when Simone turned away, puzzled, he continued to smile, love flowing through him. Even his tears, dripping down his face, felt full of love.

I need a title

(Comment with your title suggestions. Winner gets an ice cream cone!)

Barry Saunders sat in his normal seat at the bar and drank watred-down diner coffee as he watched his new favorite waitress, Simone. He’d finished his regular Friday night meal of steak and potatoes (not as good as his mother used to make, but certainly a step up from his own cooking) and was waiting for 8 o’clock so he could go home and watch one of those ‘lawyer shows’, as he called them; Barry knew they had specific names, but they were all kind of the same. There was the actor who used to be a movie star and now seemed to be slumming it. There was some weird person who used their brains to solve crimes. And there were many, many disproportianatley attractive people who in real life would never be cops or lawyers. They were all the same and all kind of terrible, but that’s what Friday was for. But in the meantime, he liked to stare at Simone.

She was young, just out of high school, and had the kind of soft brown curls and cheerleader’s body he’d obsessed about when a youth himself. She wasn’t classically pretty, and he’d overheard some other customers making snide comments about her snub nose and teeth that badly needed braces. Whenever she passed him, however, Barry would try a feeble sort of smile. He knew what an image he made: his hair was thin and brittle, his nose was long, his chin non-existent and he was fighting a losing battle with middle age. Barry fostered no delusions that a young girl such as Simone would have any interest in him. Maybe if he had money, or maybe if he was interesting and charming, like his friend Dan. “Just swing for the fences, Barry,” he’d say. “Nothing’s easier than a college girl. Know your Psychology and Philosophy 101, watch some MTV and you’re in.” He’d wink and Barry would stutter.

“MTV?” That was years ago. MTV was apparently out, but other things were in. As  culture cycled in and out and Barry stayed still in polyester suits, Dan would regale him of stories that made Barry more and more uncomfortable as the years went by. But as he watched Simone from across the room, watched her high, tight breasts and her little ass, he’d get a dirty, itchy feeling in his heart and his stomach and his groin and he wondered if he could do the same. As Simone glided closer, stopping to chat to other patrons and fill coffee cups, Barry’s breath quickened and he felt his heart start throbbing. She slipped behind the counter and he closed his eyes and turned his head in anticipation. In the middle of a smile, his face froze in a kind of grimace.

“Need more coffee, hun?” Simone’s voice was deep and throaty. In the past two months since she’d started working (every Friday night and Saturday/Sunday mornings), Barry was continually surprised by that voice. It belonged to a movie star from the 1950s, glamorous and at home with her sexuality, not wearing it like a toy as kids these days did. With his eyes closed, he could imagine her as a woman grown and not feel like the dirty man he felt otherwise. “Mr. Saunders?” she asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

“No thanks, Simone. I’m fine,” Barry said as he opened his eyes. He tried to smile while he drank her image in, storing it. She had a heart-shaped face, with freckles lightly dusted on her cheeks and large brown eyes. “Bout time for me to go home, I think. Falling asleep sitting here.” He tried to keep his voice even and the excitement he felt hidden. Simone nodded and slid him a bill before smiling and gliding away. He watched her go, still unable to smile. Barry frowned and picked the check up. he laughed at the message written. Nothing special, just a thanks and her name; nothing different than a million other young waitresses would write, but for some reason it was more special. “You’re welcome,” he said to himself, staring at the heart she used over the I. He left a 50% tip on his way out the door.

Home was a rented apartment above a pizza place a few blocks away. On most nights, Barry would walk past art students, gay men and urban professionals, sometimes the line less distinct than others. All were better dressed and healthier looking than Barry. Sometimes there was mockery, which perplexed him. This night was cold and wet and Barry was thankful that the normal tension was absent.

Outside of his building huddled three Arabic men smoking cigarettes; two owned the pizza place and nodded at Barry as he went by. Occasionally a pizza find its way outside his door- normally a little burned or irregularly cut or with strange toppings. He never asked for them and never said no when one was offered, he just appreciated the kindness. Barry nodded and muttered a hello as he entered the small, unnumbered door just next to the pizza place. He’d normally chat a little as they were some of the closest he had to actual friends, but tonight was not the night. There was a flyer stuck in the handle and a small bundle of mail stuffed in the slot. He grabbed them all, smiled and waved again to the pizza men, unlocked the door and went inside.

The stairwell was poorly lit and unventilated. There were thirty steps, almost vertically placed and carpeted in a kind of green shag. The apartment had come mostly furnished, for which Barry had been grateful. Manuevering up those steps with his few boxes of possessions had been murderous and if he’d had a dresser, it would have been impossible. He moved himself, of course, and couldn’t afford movers. Luckily, the queen-sized bed came with the place. He turned over the stained portion, bought new sheets and never thought about it again.

His apartment, while only one room, was actually quite big. The floor were wood and there was even a large, non-working fireplace on one wall filled with candle stubs left by the last resident. A motley assortment of furniture lined the painted-red walls – a purple armoire, a green easy chair, a desk obviously stolen from an elementary school. One corner of the room had a sink and stove and small refiridgerator. Next to it were swinging doors that made barry feel like he was in a Western every time he had to piss or take a shower in the stall-sized space. The three large windows that faced the street let in quite a bit of noise, so unless it was during the day, he kept them shuttered.

Barry dropped into the easy chair with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. He could still see Simone in his mind. He thought he’d killed that part of him two decades ago, after Rachel. This is it?, he’d thought, after the third time they’d made love. This is what I’ve been obsessing about? It seemed … boring. Rachel, as uninspired as he was, called it quits after that. Since then, Barry had never really thought about a woman. Until Simone started working at the diner. There was something about her that set a fire underneath his skin. The world was brighter when he was near her. Just thinking about her hair and her eyes and her breasts …

Anything would be better than torturing himself, Barry decided. He looked about his spare apartment for something to take his mind off things. He turned off his t.v. after a moment. Even knowing he’d made the right decision, the best part of living with his parents had been cable and he missed it. He picked up the book next to his bed where he’d dropped it a month ago. After two pages, he stopped. And sighed. He was still too excited to concentrate on anything. He leafed through his mail – all bills. He shuddered, threw them to one side and looked at the flyer he’d picked up from his door. It was yellow and made from a strange, heavy paper. The writing was strange, a kind of lilting cursive that blended in with the coloring and at the same time shifted and squirmed. It gave Barry a headache as he read it. “Cyprus Swan Escorts. Let us guide you home.” There was a phone number right above an indelible water mark in the right hand corner. Barry squinted to make out the mark and blushed when he realized what he was looking at. A man and a woman embracing. Or was it two women? Was it just one woman? She looked like she had curly hair and large eyes …

The phone was ringing before Barry had realized he was dialing. He thought about his meager bank account, the unpaid bills he’d tossed just moments ago (he knew there was at least one and possibly two 2^nd notices), his upcoming rent and the loan he’d borrowed from his mother. He looked at his cell phone in his hand and was about to turn it off when he heard a click. “Hello?” asked a female voice. She sounded like she just woke up. She sounded like her hair was long and voluminous and her eyes shrouded secrets. Barry’s voice closed up and something inside him bent a little bit. “Hello?” the voice asked again.

“Hi,” Barry said, his voice cracking. “This is Barry.”

“Hello Barry,” the voice said, laughing. “This is Aphril D., with Cyprus Swan Escorts.”

“Aphril?” Barry asked. “That’s pretty.”

“I know, Barry. It’s my name. Do you need a girl?”

“Y-yes. I mean, I don’t need a girl. But I want one. Yes.”

“What kind of girl?”

“What kinds do you have?” He closed his eyes and thought of Simone.

“Every kind, Barry. But I think you have a specific kind of girl you’re thinking of.”

“Maybe.” He paused and licked his lips. “Yes, I do.”

“I thought so, Barry. Young? But not too young – a woman grown.”

“Yes. Exactly”

“Not tall, right?”

“No. Short.”

“You like curly hair, don’t you Barry? And freckles?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know, Barry.” Every time she spoke his name, Barry’s heart jumped and his eyes twitched. He was dimly aware of what was going on below his belt. It was like fire. “You like a tight body, don’t you?”

“Tight,” he said. “Like a cheerleader.”

The voice laughed. “I think I have just the girl for you. Should I send one of my girls over?” Through a haze of excitement, Barry heard a weird inflection. Something possessive.

“Your girls?”

“Of course. They’re all my girls. They bring the good word.” The voice laughed and, incredibly loud and Barry winced, even while grinning and laughing along. “Enough of that. You want me to send my girl over. I know you do.”

“How … how much?” he asked. His head was pounding and he could barely think. He had to force the words out. “I don’t know if I can afford it,” he said.

There was a silence on the other end of the phone and then some clicking. It sounded like she was looking something up. “I’m sure you can work something out,” the voice said. “My girls know how to get what I require.” She chuckled. “Shall I send her over?”

“Yes. Yes please.”

“She’ll be there soon.” She almost sounded bored, now that Barry had agreed. “It won’t be long, Barry.” The line clicked and Barry stood where he was for long moments before he was able to think clearly and take the phone from his ear. It was several minutes before he realized he was drooling. Several minutes after that before he realized that he was naked. And it wasn’t until seconds before he heard his doorbell ring that he realized he’d never given his address.

Barry rushed to get dressed. His clothes were in odd places – on the windowsill, under the bed, behind his television – and it took some time before he was presentable. He gave up on finding his socks. On the way down, he looked at himself in the mirror. Same old Barry, he thought. If I wasn’t paying, this would never happen. He brushed his hair anyway, noting how flushed he was. He hadn’t been this excited in years. Rushing down the stairs, he thought for a quick second about Simone and his gait slowed. “What am I doing?” he thought while he opened the door. When he looked outside, though, all thought left his mind.

The woman standing in his threshold was wearing a tight green jacket and camel-colored jodhpurs tucked into black boots. Her hair was dark and came down in fierce ringlets. Her head was turned when Barry opened the door and he followed her gaze. The three Arab men were standing there, lit cigarettes dangling in their fingers and mouths. She said something and all three laughed, tears streaming from their eyes. “What was that?” Barry asked.

All eyes turned to Barry and he swallowed. The Arab men all narrowed their eyes and he could see their fists clenching. He started to say something to them, but then he looked at the woman. “We were just talking about the weather,” she said. Her voice was soft and smooth; it sounded like bells. She turned to the men and waved and the three of them broke into grins. Out of the corner of his eye, Barry could see one of them wink. He tore his eyes away from the woman and looked at his two friends. He was discomfited to see they had visible erections. He swallowed and looked back at her. He didn’t want to look at himself. “Shall we go inside, Barry?” He nodded.

She walked in front of him up the narrow steps. Somehow the barren staircase looked voluptuous and sensual. Through a haze, he wondered why he used those words to describe it but could come up with nothing. “What a nice place, Barry,” she said and he mumbled agreement. All the way up to his apartment, his eyes were glued to her behind as she sashayed in no particular hurry. He tried to focus on the way her body moved, but every time he tried, she shimmied in just such a way to deny his eyes.

They were in his room and she was wandering around, looking. She turned on the television and flipped through the few channels. A baseball game was on. “I do like the Orioles,” she said. “Such a beautiful bird.” He agreed and sat down. He felt as if he was going to have a heart attack. He closed his eyes and rubbed his knuckled against his eyelids, trying to clear his head.

It seemed like his eyes were only closed a moment, but his head was swirling so he had no real idea. But when he looked again, her coat was lying on his bed, her jodhpurs a crumpled pile by the windows. All she wore was a lacey white chemise so tight and sheer that he thought he could see everything. When she stretched, arching her back, Barry stopped breathing entirely. He only remembered to breathe when she finished, chuckled and sat on the bed. He closed his eyes and lowered his head as he coughed.

When he could breathe again, Barry spoke. “I don’t normally do this.” He didn’t trust himself to open his eyes. He heard her laugh and even the sound of it made him gasp. “I just, found the flyer. And there’s this woman. She’s …”

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Barry?” There was no amusement in her tone. Barry thought he heard sympathy and understanding and … something else.

“Yes.” He was almost on the verge of crying. He didn’t understand anything. “She’s so beautiful. She’s so young and full of life and so beautiful it hurts.”

“You want her, don’t you?” Barry nodded. “You don’t think you deserve her, do you?” Barry shook his head. “Look at me.”

She was sitting on his bed still, utterly nude. Her skin was the color of honey and milk. Her arms were crossed in front of her small, high breasts. There was a tracing of her at her navel and it thickened as it traveled down before it was obscured by her crossed thighs. Barry could not speak.

“You are very lonely, aren’t you? You don’t need to answer.” She smiled and shifted and it was if he was looking at the sun, because Barry gasped and shut his eyes. “Open your eyes,” she said, her voice calm and patient. “I understand, Barry. I’m here for you.” She leaned back on the bed. “Come here.”

Barry rose and fumbled at his clothing. Before he could take anything off, she laughed and flung her head back. “You have to do something for me, though.”

“Anything,” he said, choked.

“Tell me, would you rather have me or her? Honestly now.” She looked at him and there was something in her eyes that gave Barry pause. Like he was being tested. “Don’t even think of lying.” There was ice and grit in her tone.

Barry thought for long, long moments. His gut was fire and his heart was ice. Everything felt like it was a second away from bursting. He didn’t know the answer. “You,” he gasped as he felt something pop in his chest. “Her.” Pain flooded his body and he started to fall. “Both.”

She smiled and sat up. She leaned forward and touched his chest with a long, delicate finger. He stopped falling and stared as the pain evaporated. He gasped. With her fingernail, she traced a line on his skin and with no visible effort, cut his through his shirt and into his skin. He hissed as blood trickled out.

The woman tilted her head and extended her tongue. She swallowed the few trickles of blood. “You have so much love in your heart, Barry,” she said. “You are so good.”

“I … don’t understand.”

She laughed and Barry felt his head floating. “Tell me something,” she said, grasping him close and shredding his clothes. Her hand found the cut and he felt her fingers working their way inside of him.

“Anything.”

“Tell me you love me.” Her hand was on him and in him and he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

“I love you.” Barry meant it. He meant it with every part of his soul.

“Tell me you exalt me.” Her mouth touched parts of his body that no one had ever touched. He felt tears escaping from his eyes. He wanted to sob and yell and scream all at once.

“I exalt you above all others.”

“Tell me you worship me.” She was on top of him, her hair cascading down, her fingers gouging rents in his flesh and he was alive in joy.

“I worship you my goddess, my love, my everything.”

“I claim you,” she whispered as her lips touched his. As he slid inside of her and as her fingers touched his heart, she whispered again, into his ear. “I claim you in the name of my mistress, the Ruler of Love. You are mine.” She caressed his heart and Barry, unsure if he was moaning in pain and pleasure, closed his eyes. “You are ours. You are love.” She squeezed.

When Barry’s world went black, he felt peace.

 

Barry woke the next morning. He lay in bed for several moments before walking to the tiny bathroom and showering. There was a small scar on his chest. Curious, he touched it and felt no pain. He shrugged.

He dressed quickly and exited the apartment, stepping over a pizza box. He walked down the stairs and through the door. There was an Arab man outside smoking. He smiled and waved. Barry nodded back and walked down the street to the diner. There were two waitresses working. He walked to his normal seat at the bar.

After a few moments, a waitress came over to him. He looked up from the menu and noticed her curly hair. “Welcome back, Barry,” she said, pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked into Simone’s eyes and searched inside of his soul for anything. He felt so much love in that moment, he could not speak. A smile broke out over Barry’s face and after a few moments, when Simone turned away, puzzled, he continued to smile, love flowing through him. Even his tears, dripping down his face, felt full of love.    

Absence (or why I haven’t blogged in a week)

Time. There isn’t enough of it. You can try to stretch it in any matter of ways – get up early/stay up late/run everywhere/be efficient! – but the fact is, time is a measurable, quantifiable resource. There’s a pool and you can dip your cup into it at any point (you can’t avoid) but it will be empty before you can blink.

I have work, and I want to do it well. I have a woman, and I need to do right by her. My body has caught up to its own metabolism and I need to keep on top of it before I get unhealthy. I have to read. I have to write. I need Mike’s own down time (I like to fill this with video games – it keeps me sane). I have friends that I like to see more than once in a while because I want to keep them friends.

I have responsibilities.

Some things have to fall by the wayside. I would like to blog more often, all the time. It keeps my pen and my mind sharp (I use only one of these some of the time). But given a choice between blogging and writing, blogging fails every time. If I need to choose something to prioritize, my girlfriend comes before most. My body, my mind, my soul – these come before so many others.

Sleep comes a distant last.

I wish there was a way to freeze time, cut time, stretch it. I’d like to do more, but I settle for doing enough.

Nothing

I wrote this after re-watching a little bit of The Neverending Story, so if it seems derivative, there’s a reason for it.  Sometimes I like writing little pieces that I have no intention of submitting for publication. The act of writing is enough.

NOTHING

         Jackson closed the door: there was nothing in his closet. He looked up at the ceiling and the heavily made up eyes of 80s metal bands and pinup vixens stared down at him. He thought, not for the first time, that the line between the two was more blurry than it should be. He rubbed the irrelevant thought from his mind with the heel of his hand before he opened the closet door again. Still nothing- just like the trunk of his car the day before and the bread box a week ago. Jackson shut the door and rested his cheek against the cool, glass of the hanging mirror. Its smoothness felt nice on his freshly-shaved cheek. He regarded himself in the mirror and frowned: scraggly dark hair, bad skin and thin frame despite hours of weight lifting and careful dieting. It was better than the year before, he thought before he opened the door one final time, just to make sure.

There was a knock at his door and Jackson, without turning, called behind him. “Yeah?” He was expecting company but this was bad timing. There was his closet to consider and the fact that nothing was in it. Within his own head, Jackson wished for the visitor to leave. Any other day he would have been begging the gods for a visit like this. He appreciated the irony if nothing else.

“Jackson?” Stefanie called. “It’s 4:30. We’re supposed to study?” Jackson took his time responding, sighs and smiles fighting a war on his lips. Finally, an artillery shell landed and Jackson let out his breath, stone-faced. There was a long pause and then a harder knock. The handle jiggled and Jackson closed the closet door in a hurry. He turned to face his visitor as she entered, shutting the door behind her with a sharp flick of her wrist. Despite his preoccupation with the … nothing … in his closet, Jackson smiled.

“Good to see you, Stef,” he said. The girl frowned and dropped her backpack from her shoulder. She was small – only coming to Jackson’s shoulder – and thin. She was pretty in a fragile way and dressed casually in a black t-shirt and jeans. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. Jackson had only seen her hair down on a handful of occasions and each was carefully catalogued in his memories. He flipped through the mental picture book and settled upon his favorite while she glanced around his room. It was last year during the Senior Trip to Gunpowder Falls and Stefanie was standing on the tallest of the rocks, surveying the water below. She was wearing a conservative black bathing suit  that displayed only a swatch of golden skin. Jackson watched her unnoticed from the water while she made a quick decision to jump – no one else from the class had gone so high. When she did, in a fluid motion, her unbound hair bounced and framed her face like a halo.

He brought himself back to the present when Stefanie chose to sit on the uncomfortable metal chair he kept folded against his wall. The only other seat in the bedroom was the neatly-made bed in one corner. With the exception of the magazine pages and the posters plastered to the walls, the room was spartan. There was the bed, the chair, a small dresser that contained eight each of the following: shirts, pants, socks and underwear. There was a small table with a tape deck and a neatly organized pile of tapes (exclusively metal, except for Lionel Richie: Sings About Love) next to the bed. He kept his textbooks, notebooks and backpack under the bed next to his weights, hidden by long, hanging blankets. The blinds covering the single window were white and unremarkable. And then there was the closet.
Stefanie waved her hand in front of Jackson’s face, causing him to blink. “You ok?” she asked. “You told me to come over at noon to study for the test. I know I’m late, but I’m here now. Your creepy roommates were all,” she made a face, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes, “and said you were sick or something. I thought they were just being dicks.” She paused and crinkled her eyes. “But you do look weird.”

“There’s a-,” he said, breaking off and looking to the door behind him. It was closed and unmoving. “My closet, it’s-“ Unable to vocalize what was missing, Jackson shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m tired is all. Let’s go ahead.” He sat down on the bed and smiled at Stefanie.

He reached under the bed for his textbooks. Not finding them, he gave Stefanie a look of apology and slipped off the bed. On his knees, he again searched for his books. Finding only nothing, Jackson lost his balance and fell forward. His hand, braced against nothing, kept on going, far past where the floor should have been. He lifted the blankets and stared. There was nothing there.

“Uh … is there a problem, Jackson?” Jackson rolled over on his back and stared at Stefanie. Even bewildered and flat on his back, he couldn’t help but smile.

“I seem to have misplaced my book.” He attempted to laugh and raised himself to a sitting position, careful to place his back against the tangible bed. “Not really sure where it went.” Stefanie cocked her head to one side and squinted.

“Seriously.”

“We can share my book; I suppose you don’t have the notes, either?” He shook his head. “Fine, we’ll use mine.” She waited until Jackson stood and sat on the bed before bringing her chair over. She rooted through her backpack and brought out a wad of paper with notes scrawled everywhere. There were several stains that appeared to be coffee that obscured much of the writing. She ignored Jackson’s look. “Don’t complain, Mr. Doesn’t-Have-A-Leg-To-Stand-On.”
Jackson laughed and watched while Stefanie attempted to put her notes in order. He leafed through the textbook and read her haphazard notes. Some of them read:

“Ozzy rules!”
“Poison 4-ever”
“I <3 Erik Estrada”

Before he could comment on her ‘notes’, Stefanie interrupted his inspection. “Do you think I could get some water? I doubt your roommates have cleaned anything in their lives, but you seem to have your stuff in order and this’ll take a minute.” She smiled and Jackson, despite everything, couldn’t help but grin in return.

“Be right back,” he said, getting up to leave. It was only a few steps from his door to the kitchen, but he paused at the handle. He thought about his closet and under his bed. He looked back at Stefanie who was staring at posters on the ceiling, a thoughtful smile on her face. She then looked at Jackson out of the corner of her eye. She caught his look and turned away, flushing.

Thoughts of the nothing in his closet and under his bed flown from his mind, Jackson turned the knob. He started to step before he realized that there was nothing there. His hallway and the rest of the house were gone. His foot dangled for a long moment and he stared. Jackson closed the door and turned to face Stefanie. He shrugged.

“There a problem, Jackson?”

“Let me show you something,” he said. He took her hand and  pulled her to  the closet door. He thrilled at the touch; he had been waiting since middle school for this and finally it was happening. She was in his room, they had a mutual interest (Erik Estrada notwithstanding) and they were touching. He sent a thank you to the heavens for Freshman Math at Idlewild Community College even while he cursed some God or another for pairing such a magical day with a mysterious void where there should be no void.

“Ok, it’s a mirror. And?” Stefanie asked their reflections. Jackson noticed they were still holding hands and, unwilling to let go, he opened the door with his free hand. “Ok, I don’t see anything.”

“That’s the point,” he said, twisting around and grabbing the textbook from the bed. He tossed it into the closet and watched as it sailed into nothing and disappeared, swallowed. After a long, long moment, he reached out and shut the door again. He turned to face her confused face. “See?”

Without a word, Stefanie walked over the bedroom door, pulling an unresisting Jackson with her. She yanked it open and looked at nothing. She swung the door shut and walked over to the window, Jackson still in tow. She swept the blinds to one side and looked out. “Where the hell is everything?”

“I have no idea. It was like that this morning.” He looked around the room and, still holding Stefanie’s hand, sat on the bed. She sat down and then fell backward. Unprepared and still holding on, Jackson was pulled down with her. They lay like that for a few moments.

“This is kind of …messed up, Jackson.”

“I know.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I have no idea.” He thought a moment. “But to be honest, I’m kind of happy in a weird way.” He saw her look at him,  mouth open. “I mean, this is like a geek fantasy: get trapped in your bedroom by the girl of your dreams.” He realized what he said and turned to face Stefanie. She had a half-smile.

“I’m the girl of your dreams?” Stefanie propped herself up on one elbow.

Stuttering, Jackson decided to damn the torpedoes and move full speed ahead. “For a long time now,” he said in a soft and (what he hoped was a) seductive voice. He moved closer and, not breathing, gave her the smallest of kisses. Her lips were soft and warm and he could feel her breath as it brushed his skin.

He pulled away and watched her face, her eyes closed. When they opened, her grey eyes resting on his, he started to ask, “Is that ok?” but before he could so much as get the first word out, she grabbed his head with her hands and brought him to her in a savage kiss.

For minutes they squirmed on his narrow bed, hands crawling over each other’s bodies. Jackson couldn’t believe what was happening and inside his mind, he kept a running mantra Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up. His hands delved under her t-shirt and fumbled with the clasps of her bra. “Let me,” she said, pushing him away.
“You get the lights.”

Jackson stumbled to the door. He put his hand on the light switch and turned to face Stefanie. His eyes widened as she lifted her shirt. “Get the light,” she said, smiling as a flush rose in her face. He flicked the switch. Darkness enveloped the room and Jackson could see nothing. “Stefanie?” he called, but could not hear his own voice. He walked forward, or thought he did, and there was no sensation of movement.

Jackson felt panic and if he hadn’t been … nothing, his heart would have pounded, sweat would have come pouring out of him and he would have clenched and unclenched his teeth in a nervous habit none of his dentists had ever been able to break him of. But there was no jaw to clench, no sweat for the air to dry and no ears to hear the pounding of his heart.
There was only nothing. He closed what he hoped were his eyes and waited to wake up.

Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up.

After some time (perhaps a second, perhaps a hundred years (Jackson had no way of knowing and it felt like the same), Jackson opened his eyes. He didn’t feel them move and there was still no light, but some kind of pressure released. “I’m here,” he said. No sound came from his mouth, but his (chest?) lightened and his (testicles?) descended from where they had retreated. “This doesn’t feel like nothing.”

He started (walking?) again, into the nothing. No distance was traveled and everything stayed the same. But there seemed to be some kind of movement anyway and Jackson thought that he detected just the faintest of breezes upon his neck. And did he feel a drop of sweat on what just might be his back? He wasn’t sure. He waved his hand in front of his face. He didn’t feel anything moving, but he thought he saw just a bit of a blur in the inky blackness in front of him. “It wasn’t blackness before,” he said and almost heard. “It was nothing.” He had heard it that time, he was sure of it. And up ahead was what looked like light.

Unable to help himself, Jackson’s legs jumped into a full run. And he could definitely feel his heart pounding now and the delicious pain as his shins hit a definite something. And he thought he could see. He felt a tear run down his cheek as he got closer to the light. Another second and he could touch it. He reached out an arm-

The light flicked back on and Jackson looked at Stefanie as she scrambled under the covers. “I thought you were going to keep the light off.”

“I – it – there was – ,” he tried to say. He was mesmerized by the flashes of white skin as Stefanie squirmed under the covers. “I had second thoughts.” He said as he sat on the bed. The corner of her mouth turned up and she reached out a hand to touch his arm.

“You want to get in?” she asked, smiling. Jackson looked down and thought he could see Stefanie’s legs moving while she lay there. He started to take off his shirt. Stefanie sighed and laid back. Jackson, excited, started to pull back the blankets until he noticed, by the end of his bed, nothing at all moving under the covers where Stefanie’s feet should be.

Moral Complexity and you

Like most people, I spend much of my time avoiding all kinds of ambiguity. I like knowing which way I fall on a given issue. Is killing bad? Yes. Should we have health care? Yes. These are easy issues. But when you dig a little deeper, things become murky. Is killing bad when you’re killing babies? Still yes. Duh. But what if they’re unborn babies? On the face of it, of course. But suddenly you’re talking about abortion, and the line becomes murky and I don’t know where to take a stand. Maybe yes, maybe no. Do I have to answer?

No life is full of moral and ethical ambiguities and compromises.

One of my favorite movies is Unforgiven. Not because I’m particularly a fan of Westerns or because I love Gene Hackman (for the record, I’m not and I do), but because there isn’t a single character in this movie who can be considered good or evil or moral or immoral. They’re all people living in a world of gray, doing bad things, doing good things and suffering the consequences. The two most likeable characters are a sociopath (Hackman) as a man of the law and quite a nice farmer (Freeman) who decides to kill a man for a bounty.

(Above, Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman, Morgan Freeman and a world of hurt)

Would you rather be a good person who does bad things or a bad person who does good ones?  I don’t know.

Last night I watched the Good Wife, which is moderately entertaining. If you like courtroom drama, Julianna Margulies and/or Josh Charles, this is a show for you (I don’t really care about all three, though Josh Charles is from Baltimore). I watch this with Megan, though it would be more accurate to say she watches it next to me while I do other things. But last night I actually fell into it, but not necessarily for good reasons.

I watched it because instead of there being good guys and bad guys, it seemed like every single person lives in a world of gray. Defending murderers, not because they wanted to, or because they were being paid to, but because that’s what is done when you’re a lawyer. The question of whether or not to continue an affair is decided by logistics, not intent.  It was a world devoid of morals, but filled to the brim with ethics. Which is strange. It felt like these people, while hotter than we are, are more real than most of the characters on television. Their lives aren’t real: they’re more exciting than most of us would want. But the choices they make are … hard.

(This is Julianna Margulies)

 

I think I’m a good person, but sometimes I do bad things. Like steal goat cheese from grocery stores. Or pick fights with customer service representatives because I’m in a bad mood. I’ve made my peace with this.

I’ve met bad people who do good things, and I think that is truly more courageous and more difficult. I don’t know how sustainable it is, but there’s some validity in that biblical saying about one sinner who repents being more joyous than 99 righteous people.

 

I’m not interested in good people who do good things or bad people who do bad things. I want the characters I write to make decisions that are not only inexplicable to them, but also inexplicable to me. It’s easy to make easy decisions when I’m writing all the rules and plucking all the strings. Making difficult decisions shouldn’t be easy. It should be hard, or there would be no value in it.  I don’t want to know these people, my life would be far too interesting if so. But I want to watch these people, read these people and write about these people. They can make my hard decisions for me.

 

New Story – experiment in 2nd person

Ever since I read the fabulous “Bright Lights, Big City”, I’ve been wanting to try 2nd person. Not that I think I can do better – that’s crazy – but because it seems like the right thing to do.

I’m not sure what that means.

Anyway, I wrote a short story based on a conversation Megan and I had about men’s fears of pregnancy. This is not an autobiographical story … just a disclaimer. I’m moderately happy with how this turned out. I submitted it in a contest, though I don’t expect it will win. Just kind of S & G.

The Torch

The ceiling is low and you’re half-crouching while advancing into the dark. Rock dust falls into your hair every time you brush the craggy ceiling. It’s irritating on your skin and mixes with sweat. You’re holding a torch (except sometimes it’s a flashlight) and it illuminates the ground mostly; the dark swallows the feeble light it casts. A draft comes and you can’t tell from which direction the smell of dead air and decay seeps. The temperature is just cool enough that your skin is raised into gooseflesh but not so cold that, with a sweatshirt, sweat fails to drip. You drop it in the dust. When it falls, you notice mouse droppings (you hope they are mice) and what looks like bones. You don’t want to get closer to see, who would? Continuing into the darkness, you cast the occasional look behind as the door – and the light – fades into the distance.

Halfway down the corridor, you hear the noise. You stop and wait for the sound to continue, but it doesn’t. Which way did it come from? Should you go back the way you came? Where did the noise come from and should you be concerned or continue and laugh it off? Either direction looks the same from this point. You remember a joke you heard in middle school. It was about a Polack but it could be about anyone: A Polack (woman/blonde/Mexican/N-word/etc.) is swimming across the English Channel. Halfway across, they get tired and swim back. “Haha,” you said, not entirely sure what a Polack was. It wasn’t so funny, but you laughed because that’s what the grown-ups did when they were told jokes. It seems even less funny now.

Moments go by and you’re still indecisive. Your breathing is the only sound and when you turn, the way in is too far away to be seen and shrouded by the dark besides. This is alarming so you push ahead. This is logical for some reason. And then, of course, you hear the sound again. It sounds even closer. You smell something now, something different, something more than just the smell of emptiness. It smells a little bit like garbage left in the sun, a little like blood that seeps into your mouth when you haven’t flossed and a little like leaves that have been uncovered after a winter’s snow.

The temperature drops and the light you’re holding ebbs and flickers. The darkness seems more menacing now, hungry. You push forward, committed now. Pushing the fear down, you hurry your feet along. You trip, of course and fall to the ground face first. The smell of dung is overwhelming. A trickle of blood seeps from your nose. It’s chalky from the dust. The light you were holding is on the ground, now a torch, now a flashlight.

You reach for the light. It’s close, yet it takes forever for to reach and for the fingers stretching before your eyes to grasp. Just as the fingers brush the handle, you stop. Something is just out of the light’s circle. You can hear breathing and an impatient tapping sound. Tap-tap-tap-taptaptap-taptaptaptaptaptaptap. Trying to ignore it is difficult, so you concentrate on the blood as it drips on the ground. The temperature, now that the light is lost, has fallen and the blood falls through the mist exiting your mouth. The blood falls to the dust and you follow it. Just in front, just at the edge of vision, something steps into the light. Your hand reaches the torch (now a flashlight) of its own volition and you lift it – you need to see even if eyes are still trained on the blood as it spreads in a messy concentric ring. More blood reaches your lips and and and and you taste yourself. You taste your own fear – metallic and warm – and and and …

… you …

… wake up …

The daylight is shining through the windows and you blink in protest.  Your hand over the jackrabbit heart in your chest can be felt through the flannel thump thump thump. You turn and breathe into her face. “Again.” She’s not really awake but she pouts her lips and rolls over, away. She reaches behind her and finds your thigh. “It was bad,” you say. She mutters something intended to be comfort, pats your thigh and starts snoring again immediately. You put an arm around her and get closer, craving her heat. She shivers and you realize how cold you are. “Really bad,” you whisper into her hair.

The cat isn’t in the bed. That’s unusual. You look around, careful to lift only your head so as to not disturb her. She mumbles but doesn’t wake. The room is the same: the bed takes up most of the room, though there are matching wooden night stands on either side. Hers is clear except for a lamp, her glasses and a book with a Harry Potter bookmark. You don’t need to see the title, it’s on pregnancy; they have all been on pregnancy, getting pregnant (mostly these), life after a child. “The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy”, “Dr. Spock”. Etc. Your nightstand is crowded with a pile of paperback Westerns, receipts, change, a gold watch, a matching lamp, a half-eaten Twix, a box filled with condoms and a cell phone that has no battery. The floor on one side is covered with clothes. Hers is immaculate. The food of the bed is shared territory where you tighten, she relaxes. Some of her socks (striped, colored, all kinds) mingle there, maybe a book or two. You make sure your cess-pit stays localized. The foot of the bed is a neutral zone. It works.

The room is small, but has many windows with frilly, gauzy window treatments (her choice) and soft, pink walls (the paint was your choice, deny away). Windows set in three walls lets in plenty of light, light that she is neutral about – she prefers a cave. The rest of the house is hers to decorate; she allows this room to be so. The cat likes this room more – more territory to laze in the sun all day. You suspect that the cat spends most of the day in this room, though it would be difficult to prove. When the two of you are in bed, the cat lays between. You rarely move through the night, but she tosses and turns nonstop. You’ve acclimated, but the cat sometimes abandons the middle, perturbed, and walks over you and nestles by your belly. Every day when you awake, the cat is there. Not today.

You can’t find the cat and are unsettled. “Where’s kitty?” She murmurs something barely recognizable as words. You think about standing and looking until your eyes fall on the book on her nightstand. It’s a new one and she’s barely begun: “Taking control of your fertility”. The unsettled feeling returns – you already have a cat. That’s enough, right? The cat cries and it howls and it needs feeding and its shit needs to be taken care of (by you). She just plays with the cat. They take turns chasing each other. She talks baby talk and the cat purrs back. It’s endearing but at the same time, “What about me?”

Realizing that you’ve spoken out loud into her golden hair that smells of papaya is disconcerting. She dyed it red once before marriage. She dyed it black soon after, but didn’t like it. She hasn’t dyed it since, and at your request, she’s grown it long. She thinks she preferred it short and teases that she should shave it. “You’d still love me?” she asks. You say, “I doubt it,” but you’re lying and you know it and she is pretty sure, too. You’d love her bald, just … long is nice. The logic is clear: the longer, the better. Unnecessary to vocalize this.

You still haven’t located the kitty and your keep on staring at the book. There’s a picture of a baby on the front. It looks like an angry old man, less than amused. As you stare at  the book over her head, you can feel your eyelids getting heavy, back into slumber. You’re still afraid. The long corridor is around you again. The smell is in your nostrils. Something is just outside the circle of light …

She mutters something and you start. You were almost asleep again. You don’t want to go back there. You repeat, “What about me?” You aren’t sure why.

Wriggling her back against you, she laughs and answers, “What about you?” She falls back sleep and you think, unable to come up with an answer. As you’re pondering, the kitty jumps on the bed. On her side. The kitty is large and fat and orange. It sniffs her. It starts to get comfortable and it falls down. It seems exhausted. It’s hard to be a kitty, apparently. You feel a surge of jealousy when she sighs, content. You fall back, unwrapping from her warm body.

You lie there, feeling miserabl, ignored. Cast aside (cats aside, ha!). It’s obvious, isn’t it? A hand finds your chest. “Where’d you go?” she asks. She shuffles closer. The kitty protests, but it is your warmth she is seeking. She doesn’t wake all the way, but she presses herself in her half-sleep. You smile. Eyes close. Her other hand rests on your thigh; is she comfortable, using your chest as a pillow? You’ve wondered this before, but it must be all right. She does it often enough, she must make do. You cover her hand with your own. You close your eyes.

The corridor is still dark. You’re on your knees, the light in front of you. Something is in the dark ahead. It’s terrifying still. But as you lift the light in your hand, shining into the abyss, the unknown … a smile. It’s not quite as bad as you thought. Because there is someone just behind you, smelling faintly of and papaya. Her hand is touching you, protection against the dark. The light, as you lift it, shines.

Inspiration can come from anywhere

Here’s a picture of a video game I played several years ago over the course of 2-3 weeks:

And here’s a movie I watched a few weeks after I beat the game:

The video game is  called Jade Empire, it’s on the XBox, is about a magical realm not anything at all like China and it is fantastic. The movie is called Coraline and is the best stop-motion movie I’ve seen since The Nightmare Before Christmas. That those two pieces of pop-culture are great is besides the point. The point is that after playing that game and watching that movie, I was inspired enough to write a short story I called Annie’s Fox.

Excerpt from “Annie’s Fox”, published in Shelters of Daylight (http://sdpbookstore.com/shelterofdaylight.htm)

Annie walked back onto the porch and stopped beside her discarded toys. She picked up her three favorites and then, after a moment’s deliberation, the small plastic fox. Then Annie walked into the rain and took the Fox Spirit’s paw in her little hand. They walked down Annie’s street and turned right at the first corner. Expecting to see the normal brick row-houses and a busy street full of cars, Annie was surprised to see a green hill with plain wooden fences lining the dirt path beneath their feet. Brilliant flowers, of a type Annie had never seen lined the path: purples, turquoises and sun-yellows dominated, but every kind was represented. Annie giggled and let go of the Fox Spirit, running to the flowers and smelling them. “They smell like sunshine, Mr. Fox.”

“They do, Annie. But come with me. We have to make an appointment.” He beckoned to her and they walked together up the path, a winding road that gently and gradually went uphill. Giant insects flitted about on brightly colored wings, riding the strong, warm breeze that continually blew. It tossed Annie’s pigtails about and ruffled the Fox Spirit’s fur. Annie looked into the azure sky and saw large birds flying; one flapped down and alighted on the wooden rail to regard them. It had a soft-looking red pelt and burning red eyes that whirled. Annie stopped and pointed.
“That bird wants to be our friend, right Mr. Fox?”

“In a way, Miss Annie. But I wouldn’t try to touch it, little one.”

“Oh, I know that. Mommy says that I shouldn’t touch animals I don’t know. They could have, um, rabies? Is that the word?”

“Yes, Miss Annie. That bird doesn’t have rabies, but you still shouldn’t touch it. It would burn your hand,” it said to Annie as they walked along. Annie looked back at the bird watching them and gasped when it flapped its wings and took flight; underneath its wings, Annie could see sparks shooting out into the flowers, setting them alight.

*   *   *   *   *   *

There are other places I’ve found inspiration. The carousel at the harbor in Baltimore resulted in my story “Gates”, published in Aurora Wolf (http://www.amazon.com/Aurora-Rising-Literary-Journal-Science).

The movie 9 sparked a story about a stuffed animal that protects its charge. “Child and Guardian” just got published in Night Terrors 2 (https://www.createspace.com/3729847).

Inspiration is everywhere. I’m currently writing a short story inspired by “The Road Less Traveled”. I just finished a short story inspired by a conversation Megan and I had about the top ten fears men have about pregnancy. Life is full of stories just waiting to come out.

You just have to keep your eyes/ears/mind open.

We’re not as healthy as we think … Day 7 and Conclusion

Day 7 – Tuesday

7:45 a.m. Wake up, feed the kitty,make breakfast (2 eggs, mushrooms, some onions and green pepper, hot sauce, basil, olive oil and garlic salt)
8:15 a.m. Put on pedometer. Driven to work by Megan (217 steps)
9:00 a.m. – 5:15 p.m. General office day. Multiple trips to the water cooler (7 glasses of water), bathroom, copier. Lunch consisted of home-made chili. ( 2,102 steps)
5:15 p.m. Walk to gym with boss. Take off pedometer (650 steps)
Gym routine – I’m full of energy from the long weekend and my boss (Hattie) goes to the gym a lot. We share pointers. 20 minutes stationary bike, 3 sets of free weights and core work. I have trouble with the core work, which is probably a sign that I need to do some more core work. Vicious cycle. I finish with some pull ups and leave sweat marks. Tremendous.
7:15 p.m. Megan picks me up a block away from the gym (356 steps)
7:55 p.m. We’re home and we cook dinner. Quesadillas. I halve the cheese and throw in green peppers, kidney beans, fake chicken, onions and some egg. (120 steps)
8:15 p.m.  Finish up and get on the couch! (25 steps)

Total: 3,470 steps (-6,530)

Day 1 – 7,310
Day 2 -8,350
Day 3 – 5,616
Day 4 – 2,378
Day 5 – 916
Day 6 – 898
Day 7 – 3,470

Summary: Out of the 70,000 steps needed, I amassed 28, 930. Or, to be more negative, I missed out by over 40,000 steps! That’s ridiculous.

On the plus side, I managed to go to the gym 4/7 days. That’s great, and I wasn’t even making a special effort (it helps when your gym is only a block away from where you work), but the walking is kind of a big deal.

I can only imagine where I would be if I didn’t have the gym. And I know that I walk more than many people; there are two or three people in my office who walk more than I do, and they also take public transportation. Most people drive to and from work and are as lazy as I often am on the weekends.

I’m glad I did this. I am going to be more conscious of my walking from now on. Maybe I can take something from this … and make sure the status of my waistline stays totally quo.

 

We’re not as healthy as we think … Days 5 & 6

Day 5 – Sunday

10:15 a.m. Wake up, feed the kitty. Play Julio Caesar Chavez boxing on the SNES. Ignore food until lunch time.
12:15 p.m. Stand up, order pizza. Proceed to clean the downstairs and make some coffee. People are coming over. Put on pedometer halfway through (116 steps)
12:30 p.m. People start arriving. Take some coats, get some drinks, hand them out. Realize that I’m still in pajamas and change. Hopefully no one notices (128 steps)
1:00 p.m. Game starts. Watch from the couch. Refill water and coffee twice. (127 steps)
1:30 p.m. Pizza is here. Eat three slices, a big thing of chips and dip. Maybe two carrots. Shame tastes delicious. (82 steps)
4:30 p.m. I’ve stood maybe 5 times, once to get Dr. Pepper. Not good. But on the plus side, Go Ravens!  (122 steps)
4:45 p.m. Drive to parents’ house for the second game. Bring leftover chips and soda. (165 steps)
9:30 p.m. Giants are winning. This is incredible. Also incredible? I’ve eaten half a bag of chips and three more cups of soda (60 steps)
10:00 p.m. Drive back home. Play Earthbound on the SNES. Eat cookies. (110 steps)
12:15 a.m. Finish my book on the couch. (6 steps)

Total: 916 steps (-9,084)

Day 6 – Monday

9:15 a.m. Wake up, we have lots to do today. We have off for MLK’s birthday.
1:00 p.m. We meant to leave earlier but … we … didn’t. We watched some television, though. And ate some food. (66 steps)
1:30 p.m. Megan’s dad arrives with new tool. We finally manage to remove her car battery. Off to the Autoshop (200 steps)
2:00 p.m. The battery is good. Fury. Onward to grocery store. (77 steps)
2:30 p.m. Lots of groceries. Lots and lots.  (285 steps)
4:30 p.m. Back home. Megan fell asleep on the couch. Smash brothers is fun on Wii. (20 steps)
6:00 p.m. Megan woke up and we discuss taking a walk.  It’s dark out. We were also going to do yoga, but that doesn’t sound fun. But I can put laundry in. Maybe watch Spaced on Netflix. (62 steps)
9:00 p.m. I’ve moved once to turn my laundry over. Spaced is good. Megan has done … stuff. I don’t know what. (60 steps)
10:00 p.m. Turn laundry over again. Still watching Spaced and playing Civ. Leftovers tasted good. (110 steps)
12:15 a.m. Finish the game, finish Spaced. Stand. Megan went to sleep hours ago. My foot has no feeling. I feel like I misplayed this day. (18 steps)

Total: 898 steps (-9,102 steps)