It was a beautiful day for a memorial service. David stared out the window. He willed the clouds to roll in. This is a sad day, dammit. 74 and a light offshore breeze is just poor taste. Why don't you cry? He directed his thoughts at the sky with clenched fists, all too aware of the futility of his aggression.
His mother's death had not been a long time coming. One day she was healthy, the next day she was sick, and the next day she was gone. Or so it seemed. He could apply a similar formula to his entire life. One day he was born, the next day he graduated from college, and the next day he turned 36 years old. None of it mattered, or would ever matter again. His mind condensed history into a brief, easy-to-process abstract of a lifetime, and he desperately wanted to read the full text. It was difficult to remember his mother.
Why was it so difficult to remember? Time stretched before him as an impossible, treacherous uphill climb with no indication of a finish line, yet the treacherous, uphill climb behind him now appeared as a casual stroll down the block. So much happened, though! Thirty-six years, and so much if it lost to the careless catalog of time. She was alive, and now she was dead. His memories of those thirty-six years, and the twenty-eight before them, were now nothing more than a greatest hits collection to be paraded in front of yet another group of people who took for granted the stability of a life not yet lost.
Sorting through those captured memories felt like constructing a resume, a detailed yet highly-biased profile designed to convince the world of his mother's perfection. She wasn't perfect, of course, but it becomes necessary to cover one's blemishes when they aren't able to answer for them. There were dozens of pictures in which his mother appeared genuinely unhappy, and he often recalled her as a genuinely unhappy person. Those pictures were shuffled into boxes that quite possibly would never be opened again, and the world would soon forget that Betty Harris rarely displayed her authentic, impromptu, gleaming grin.
Why was she so unhappy? It was the question with an answer he'd never understand, and he felt compelled by protocol to force it out of his mind. The dead were happy to be alive, and it was best to remember them that way. If death is the ultimate sadness, then the trivial sadness of life must be forgotten.
And so the collage was smaller than originally planned. Betty Harris's life became a series of disconnected smiles that somehow constructed a happy person, and no one dare question aloud their significance to the bigger picture. David wanted so badly to question their significance, but who would understand? He missed his mother because she was his mother, and this woman on the looped slide-show was not his mother. Mom was gone and buried for three weeks now, and with her she took any possibility for an accurate biography.
So there God was, providing his own contribution to the charade. 74 and a light offshore breeze, and not a cloud in sight. David prepared himself for the parade of sympathizers and well wishers who would comment on the fitting weather, on how Betty Harris so loved the sun, and how it was God's way of letting them all know she was in a better place. Celebrate her life by forgetting her life. Just pick and choose the parts you like best, David. It's so much easier that way. So long, Betty Harris. It was a great ride.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Left, Right. Right, Left.
I’m trying to keep it all straight in my head.
James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.
Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?
I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.
“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.
“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.
“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.
“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.
My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?
“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?
James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.
Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?
I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.
“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.
“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.
“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.
“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.
My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?
“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?
Like a Damn Child
“It's not that you can't have it, it's just that....I don't want you to have it. Does that sound bad?” Kelly did her best to look as though the answer mattered.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
The Picture House
“I thought it was just great.”
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
The Long Way Home
“And that's exactly why we moved away from Pleasanton. Like my mom always says, 'Pleasanton will always be Pleasanton!', and you know what? She's right. When my first husband and I got divorced and I moved back in with her, mother had some grand idea to set me up with Stevie Detweiller who used to live down the street when we were kids. 'Little Stevie Detweiller is all grown up and handsome as can be, according to Ruth Detweiller, and I told her how beautiful you were, and according to the two of us it's just about a match made in heaven!' According to Ruth Detweiller, her son was about as handsome as he could be, and I guess that was right: he certainly wasn't getting any handsomer. Ha! Can you believe that? Short, bald, beer gut, and some seriously iffy hygiene. But Pleasanton would always be Pleasanton, and to be honest, dear, the pickings were slim, so I married him too.”
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Kate
Kate studied the gun on the table. She picked it up, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and disengaged the safety. She'd done this every five minutes for the last two hours, worried she missed some important step that would render the pistol inoperable when she really needed it. What worried her more was that she didn't know anything about guns. It had been given to her by an ex-boyfriend when she lived in an inner city neighborhood, and despite her protests he insisted she keep it. She hated guns, hated this gun, but somehow this gun had traveled with her through every new stage of her tumultuous journey through adulthood. It was the most stable thing in her life, and now she depended on it more than ever. It had never been fired.
Kate wondered if she should fire the gun, just to make sure. Maybe she'd fire it at the wall or at the stained bottle of balsamic vinegar on the kitchen counter. It didn't really matter what she shot, Kate supposed, but there was always the risk that someone would hear. If the gun did manage to fire, it would probably fire again, and if someone who wasn't supposed to hear heard it, Kate would just have to trust herself enough to shoot straight. She was waiting for someone, and she just had to stay alive long enough for him to get there. She didn't know for sure whether he was coming, but a promise was a promise. Once he was there she wouldn't need the gun anymore.
Suddenly Kate's attention was drawn to the shrill shriek emanating from the tiny black and white TV in the living room. It had been the only way to get news, and some stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman had solemnly remained at his post like the captain of the Titanic, providing unverifiable updates about casualty counts and safe zones to an unverifiable audience. Kate had spent the last five days in earshot of the television, but she'd long since stopped listening to the words. It was just comforting to know that someone else was out there. She sometimes laughed as she glanced at the TV and saw the anchorman backlit by a waving American flag graphic accompanied by patriotic hymns. Every captain needs a band to play him out, she thought.
The stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman was gone now, replaced by a test pattern and those familiar loud beeps. Why those were considered preferable to silence she'd never know. She hadn't heard him sign off, and she wondered if he'd even had time to sign off. The TV station was operated out of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and she couldn't imagine it being ignored for long. She pushed the thought out of her mind, picked up the pistol, aimed for the balsamic vinegar, and pulled the trigger.
It was so much louder than she'd imagined. She dropped the gun and immediately covered her ears. When she looked up, the kitchen was in a sorry state. Black liquid covered a good portion of the available surface area, and the shattered tile behind the stove now adorned the floor like an experimental mosaic. She didn't care about the mess. She only cared that the gun had done what it was supposed to do. Now she'd have to wait to see if she'd need to fire it again. She decided it best not to sit in the eye-line of the window. She picked up the gun and huddled against the wall of the dining room. She wondered if she should turn the TV off, as the incessant beeps were compounding the headache given to her by the sound of the gun, but she found them strangely comforting. Lifeless or not, they connected her to the world she knew.
She began to regret the decision to shoot the bottle of balsamic vinegar. The stuff smelled awful, and any thoughts she'd had of how novel an exploding bottle would look as a bullet passed through it were mulled when she'd dropped the gun in anguish. She'd missed the whole thing. She felt miserable, truly miserable for the first time since this whole thing began. She hated the gun more than ever. She held it tighter.
As she waited she began to relax. No one had heard the gun, and if they had they probably didn't want to find out who fired it. She heard gunfire and shouts in the distance, and it's entirely possible her shot had blended in with the others. She hadn't been outside in five days. She had no idea what was going out there, but all she knew was that she needed to stay the hell away from it. From the TV she'd gleaned that millions were dead, and that was, at best, a rough estimate. Her parents were probably dead, her friends were probably dead, and for all she knew he was probably dead, and she was wasting her time waiting for him. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.
She crawled through the dining room and into the living room for a better view of her surroundings. She was thankful her parents had installed that sunroom years before, as it provided a panoramic view of the hillside. In the distance she could see that the trees were burning, and the line of multi-million dollar homes that adorned the top of the ridge were now skeletal and black. Fire, ash, and orange were all she could see. She crawled back to the center of the living room and settled in next to the television. She placed the gun next to her head. She was exhausted, and the test pattern beeps lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of blackness, pure, perfect blackness, and it was the best sleep she'd had in years.
She awoke suddenly, grabbed the gun and sat up straight, pointing it into the darkness. Her head hurt again, and the overpowering stench of balsamic vinegar blanketed what had just that morning smelled of burnt musk. It was night, and the blanket of city lights that usually masked the infinite abyss had been replaced by a thick, orange glow. It was eerily silent. The beeps had stopped. The TV was still on, but the broadcast had ended. She didn't like the way it felt. The low battery LED-light blinked unceremoniously towards the bottom of the TV. She had no idea what she'd ever need the batteries for again, but her old compulsions forced her to rotate the volume knob counter-clockwise until she heard the familiar, satisfying click. The light faded. She ejected the clip, checked to make sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She was bored.
She sometimes felt stupid waiting for him. If he wasn't coming, she could easily use the gun on herself and that would be that. It's not like she wanted to live in what was to be left of the world, anyway. She also knew she wasn't going to pull any of that Romeo & Juliet crap either, offing herself just seconds before he arrived. Despite the circumstances, she'd defiantly convinced herself she wasn't living in a tragedy, and she would wait as long as she had to for him to show up.
She stood up for the first time in 18 hours. Her body ached and she twisted and turned to loosen up. Her foot immediately fell asleep. She and the gun hobbled their way down the hallway and into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and laughed. She looked awful. Her hair was matted and her face looked as though it hadn't been washed in days. It hadn't been washed in days. She grabbed the gun and walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the three-quarters-full bottle of water from the counter. It smelled awful in there. She headed back down the hall and into what was once her bedroom and began to search through the drawers. She found a dried up stick of mascara, some far too rosy blush, and some glittery blue eye shadow. She sighed. It was better than nothing, but she really wished she'd remembered her own makeup bag.
She headed back into the bathroom. She set the gun down on the back of the toilet and looked in the mirror again. She didn't want to look like that when he got there. She screwed the top off of the water bottle and took three sips. It tasted old and warm. She poured some into her hands and rubbed the dirt off of her face. The dirt streaked down her cheeks, and her attempts to clean them up with toilet paper left her with soggy white patches all over her face. She might have felt frustrated, but it kept her busy. She dipped the mascara brush into the small reservoir of water that had collected in the sink, replaced the cap, and shook vigorously. She applied the clumpy mascara to her eye lashes and was moderately pleased with the results, considering the circumstances.
She opened the blush and looked at it. She never wore blush, but she figured she should use what was available to her. She didn't have a brush. She took the cap off the mascara again and dipped the brush in the water. With her fingers she squeezed the clumps off the brush until the sink was filled with black water, and then she ran the brush along the inside of the blush container. The mascara brush felt rough against her cheeks and she couldn't tell if the red she was seeing was from the blush or the irritation. She tried to smooth it out with toilet paper, but it still made her look kind of juvenile. She decided to skip the eye shadow.
She picked up the gun, walked into her parent's room and sat down at her mom's vanity. She glanced out the window and into the backyard. The tangerine tree was on fire, and she knew the un-watered grass would provide ample kindling to keep the blaze going. She still felt like she had some time. She opened the top drawer, pulled out one of her mother's old hairbrushes, and began to work through her matted hair. She winced as she encountered tangle after tangle, but she didn't stop until she felt like she had semi-conquered the beast. She looked in the mirror. It wasn't the ideal way to go out, but it would have to do.
Kate took the gun and went back to the living room. She switched the tv on. Still silence. She switched it off. She sat down on the floor, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She sat and looked at it for a while, and she flicked the safety on and off for what seemed like an hour. She looked out the sunroom window at the backyard. The tangerine tree fire had spread to the lemon tree, and it slowly made it's way down the slender trunk. She scanned the hills. The mansions were no longer visible, obscured by a thick, smokey haze. If he was coming, he'd better get there soon.
Daylight slowly crept in, but it wasn't much different than night. The sky was a slightly more dull orange, and a round, almost fully engulfed glowing disc hung above. Kate sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, gripping the pistol tight and shifting her nervous gaze from the growing backyard blaze to the front door. She heard gunshots. They were close.
She ran to the dining room window and crouched towards the lower panels, aiming the gun out the window. She quickly ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She flicked the safety on and off for good measure. She heard more shots, this time from a much bigger gun, and lots of shouting. Her stomach churned. She ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She heard an explosion, and a pillar of smoke rose urgently above the line of trees just beyond her gravel driveway. The gunshots stopped. The shouting stopped.
Kate sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel driveway and the trees beyond. Smoke began wafting from below the treeline, and she held the gun tighter than she'd held anything before. A person was a lot different than a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and she suddenly felt very unsure of herself. She didn't even know how to shoot a gun properly, and the only time she'd fired it she'd dropped it. She assumed she'd miss the first time, and if she dropped the gun, she was dead. She had seven bullets in the clip and one in the chamber. She at least knew that much. What if she needed all of them for just one guy? God help her if there were two. Maybe it would be better to just shoot herself and save them the trouble and the satisfaction. She was frozen.
A figure appeared in the haze. He limped slowly through the smoke, coughing as he struggled up the gravel driveway. Kate had the drop on him, and she raised the pistol and aimed it, her hand steady and her grip tight. She didn't think she'd miss. He dropped to one knee and coughed gingerly, struggled back to his feet and continued towards the house. Kate started to squeeze the trigger and stopped.
The closer he got, the clearer the figure was in the smoke and the haze. She instantly recognized the blonde hair, even through all the ash. He looked like shit, but somehow Kate regarded him as the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. His half-tucked button down shirt was stained with blood, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he attempted to navigate the stairs to the porch. Suddenly, he saw her through the dining room window, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. He smiled, and it was the first time his blue eyes were visible through all the dirt and grime.
She set the gun down on the table and ran to the front door. The doorknob was hot from the heat of the flames, but she ignored the pain and flung the door open. He stood there, looking up at her from halfway down the stairs, as the bloodstain on his shirt spread. He smiled again.
“Hey there,” he said. She smiled.
Kate wondered if she should fire the gun, just to make sure. Maybe she'd fire it at the wall or at the stained bottle of balsamic vinegar on the kitchen counter. It didn't really matter what she shot, Kate supposed, but there was always the risk that someone would hear. If the gun did manage to fire, it would probably fire again, and if someone who wasn't supposed to hear heard it, Kate would just have to trust herself enough to shoot straight. She was waiting for someone, and she just had to stay alive long enough for him to get there. She didn't know for sure whether he was coming, but a promise was a promise. Once he was there she wouldn't need the gun anymore.
Suddenly Kate's attention was drawn to the shrill shriek emanating from the tiny black and white TV in the living room. It had been the only way to get news, and some stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman had solemnly remained at his post like the captain of the Titanic, providing unverifiable updates about casualty counts and safe zones to an unverifiable audience. Kate had spent the last five days in earshot of the television, but she'd long since stopped listening to the words. It was just comforting to know that someone else was out there. She sometimes laughed as she glanced at the TV and saw the anchorman backlit by a waving American flag graphic accompanied by patriotic hymns. Every captain needs a band to play him out, she thought.
The stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman was gone now, replaced by a test pattern and those familiar loud beeps. Why those were considered preferable to silence she'd never know. She hadn't heard him sign off, and she wondered if he'd even had time to sign off. The TV station was operated out of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and she couldn't imagine it being ignored for long. She pushed the thought out of her mind, picked up the pistol, aimed for the balsamic vinegar, and pulled the trigger.
It was so much louder than she'd imagined. She dropped the gun and immediately covered her ears. When she looked up, the kitchen was in a sorry state. Black liquid covered a good portion of the available surface area, and the shattered tile behind the stove now adorned the floor like an experimental mosaic. She didn't care about the mess. She only cared that the gun had done what it was supposed to do. Now she'd have to wait to see if she'd need to fire it again. She decided it best not to sit in the eye-line of the window. She picked up the gun and huddled against the wall of the dining room. She wondered if she should turn the TV off, as the incessant beeps were compounding the headache given to her by the sound of the gun, but she found them strangely comforting. Lifeless or not, they connected her to the world she knew.
She began to regret the decision to shoot the bottle of balsamic vinegar. The stuff smelled awful, and any thoughts she'd had of how novel an exploding bottle would look as a bullet passed through it were mulled when she'd dropped the gun in anguish. She'd missed the whole thing. She felt miserable, truly miserable for the first time since this whole thing began. She hated the gun more than ever. She held it tighter.
As she waited she began to relax. No one had heard the gun, and if they had they probably didn't want to find out who fired it. She heard gunfire and shouts in the distance, and it's entirely possible her shot had blended in with the others. She hadn't been outside in five days. She had no idea what was going out there, but all she knew was that she needed to stay the hell away from it. From the TV she'd gleaned that millions were dead, and that was, at best, a rough estimate. Her parents were probably dead, her friends were probably dead, and for all she knew he was probably dead, and she was wasting her time waiting for him. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.
She crawled through the dining room and into the living room for a better view of her surroundings. She was thankful her parents had installed that sunroom years before, as it provided a panoramic view of the hillside. In the distance she could see that the trees were burning, and the line of multi-million dollar homes that adorned the top of the ridge were now skeletal and black. Fire, ash, and orange were all she could see. She crawled back to the center of the living room and settled in next to the television. She placed the gun next to her head. She was exhausted, and the test pattern beeps lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of blackness, pure, perfect blackness, and it was the best sleep she'd had in years.
She awoke suddenly, grabbed the gun and sat up straight, pointing it into the darkness. Her head hurt again, and the overpowering stench of balsamic vinegar blanketed what had just that morning smelled of burnt musk. It was night, and the blanket of city lights that usually masked the infinite abyss had been replaced by a thick, orange glow. It was eerily silent. The beeps had stopped. The TV was still on, but the broadcast had ended. She didn't like the way it felt. The low battery LED-light blinked unceremoniously towards the bottom of the TV. She had no idea what she'd ever need the batteries for again, but her old compulsions forced her to rotate the volume knob counter-clockwise until she heard the familiar, satisfying click. The light faded. She ejected the clip, checked to make sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She was bored.
She sometimes felt stupid waiting for him. If he wasn't coming, she could easily use the gun on herself and that would be that. It's not like she wanted to live in what was to be left of the world, anyway. She also knew she wasn't going to pull any of that Romeo & Juliet crap either, offing herself just seconds before he arrived. Despite the circumstances, she'd defiantly convinced herself she wasn't living in a tragedy, and she would wait as long as she had to for him to show up.
She stood up for the first time in 18 hours. Her body ached and she twisted and turned to loosen up. Her foot immediately fell asleep. She and the gun hobbled their way down the hallway and into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and laughed. She looked awful. Her hair was matted and her face looked as though it hadn't been washed in days. It hadn't been washed in days. She grabbed the gun and walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the three-quarters-full bottle of water from the counter. It smelled awful in there. She headed back down the hall and into what was once her bedroom and began to search through the drawers. She found a dried up stick of mascara, some far too rosy blush, and some glittery blue eye shadow. She sighed. It was better than nothing, but she really wished she'd remembered her own makeup bag.
She headed back into the bathroom. She set the gun down on the back of the toilet and looked in the mirror again. She didn't want to look like that when he got there. She screwed the top off of the water bottle and took three sips. It tasted old and warm. She poured some into her hands and rubbed the dirt off of her face. The dirt streaked down her cheeks, and her attempts to clean them up with toilet paper left her with soggy white patches all over her face. She might have felt frustrated, but it kept her busy. She dipped the mascara brush into the small reservoir of water that had collected in the sink, replaced the cap, and shook vigorously. She applied the clumpy mascara to her eye lashes and was moderately pleased with the results, considering the circumstances.
She opened the blush and looked at it. She never wore blush, but she figured she should use what was available to her. She didn't have a brush. She took the cap off the mascara again and dipped the brush in the water. With her fingers she squeezed the clumps off the brush until the sink was filled with black water, and then she ran the brush along the inside of the blush container. The mascara brush felt rough against her cheeks and she couldn't tell if the red she was seeing was from the blush or the irritation. She tried to smooth it out with toilet paper, but it still made her look kind of juvenile. She decided to skip the eye shadow.
She picked up the gun, walked into her parent's room and sat down at her mom's vanity. She glanced out the window and into the backyard. The tangerine tree was on fire, and she knew the un-watered grass would provide ample kindling to keep the blaze going. She still felt like she had some time. She opened the top drawer, pulled out one of her mother's old hairbrushes, and began to work through her matted hair. She winced as she encountered tangle after tangle, but she didn't stop until she felt like she had semi-conquered the beast. She looked in the mirror. It wasn't the ideal way to go out, but it would have to do.
Kate took the gun and went back to the living room. She switched the tv on. Still silence. She switched it off. She sat down on the floor, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She sat and looked at it for a while, and she flicked the safety on and off for what seemed like an hour. She looked out the sunroom window at the backyard. The tangerine tree fire had spread to the lemon tree, and it slowly made it's way down the slender trunk. She scanned the hills. The mansions were no longer visible, obscured by a thick, smokey haze. If he was coming, he'd better get there soon.
Daylight slowly crept in, but it wasn't much different than night. The sky was a slightly more dull orange, and a round, almost fully engulfed glowing disc hung above. Kate sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, gripping the pistol tight and shifting her nervous gaze from the growing backyard blaze to the front door. She heard gunshots. They were close.
She ran to the dining room window and crouched towards the lower panels, aiming the gun out the window. She quickly ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She flicked the safety on and off for good measure. She heard more shots, this time from a much bigger gun, and lots of shouting. Her stomach churned. She ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She heard an explosion, and a pillar of smoke rose urgently above the line of trees just beyond her gravel driveway. The gunshots stopped. The shouting stopped.
Kate sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel driveway and the trees beyond. Smoke began wafting from below the treeline, and she held the gun tighter than she'd held anything before. A person was a lot different than a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and she suddenly felt very unsure of herself. She didn't even know how to shoot a gun properly, and the only time she'd fired it she'd dropped it. She assumed she'd miss the first time, and if she dropped the gun, she was dead. She had seven bullets in the clip and one in the chamber. She at least knew that much. What if she needed all of them for just one guy? God help her if there were two. Maybe it would be better to just shoot herself and save them the trouble and the satisfaction. She was frozen.
A figure appeared in the haze. He limped slowly through the smoke, coughing as he struggled up the gravel driveway. Kate had the drop on him, and she raised the pistol and aimed it, her hand steady and her grip tight. She didn't think she'd miss. He dropped to one knee and coughed gingerly, struggled back to his feet and continued towards the house. Kate started to squeeze the trigger and stopped.
The closer he got, the clearer the figure was in the smoke and the haze. She instantly recognized the blonde hair, even through all the ash. He looked like shit, but somehow Kate regarded him as the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. His half-tucked button down shirt was stained with blood, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he attempted to navigate the stairs to the porch. Suddenly, he saw her through the dining room window, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. He smiled, and it was the first time his blue eyes were visible through all the dirt and grime.
She set the gun down on the table and ran to the front door. The doorknob was hot from the heat of the flames, but she ignored the pain and flung the door open. He stood there, looking up at her from halfway down the stairs, as the bloodstain on his shirt spread. He smiled again.
“Hey there,” he said. She smiled.
Friday, December 4, 2009
"That Was Going to be My Next Answer"
Honest mistake, really. Could have happened to anyone. At least it's not like your opponent was...oh.
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