“Zoe from Checkout” – short fiction

Ken from Footwear finally snaps, shoots up a display of Nikes, puts a cluster of hollow-point rounds through a cardboard standee of Lebron. I’m kinda glad when that stupid headband is lopped off by gunfire. Always hated that thing.

Ken targets some Adidas cross trainers next. Once the magazine empties and the slide of his pistol locks back, he extracts a K-Bar from a sheath on his belt, hacks away at a rack of low-cut, poly/cotton, moisture-wicking socks with it. 

We should’ve seen this coming. There were signs if I stop to think about it. 

Like how he’s eaten fried chicken, like six pieces of it, every day for as long as he’s worked here. Years. He’ll put a drumstick in his mouth, work it around and around, and then when he finally pulls it out, that sucker is stripped clean. 

Or like how he’ll talk about lawn mowers non-stop with anybody who’ll listen. An Exmark is better than a Scag is better than a John Deere, but not better than a Snapper, and so on.

If those aren’t signs of madness, I don’t know what is.

On the security monitors in the manager’s office, just off the break room, Ken arranges Filas in a pile, sets fire to it with a Bic. Then he starts dancing around it, whooping, clapping his hand over his mouth repeatedly. Insanity and racism make strange bedfellows.

We – the employees of The Sports Emporium – huddle together in the cramped office, amid the tattered catalogs of sporting equipment stacked on the desk and softball team Polaroids thumb-tacked haphazardly to the corkboard, while involuntarily huffing the stink of recently smoked Kools roiling off Stump from Fitness and the miasmic cloud of cotton candy body spray that seems to encase Brock from Apparel at all times. Uncomfortable as the office is, none of us can tear ourselves away from the bedlam we’re witnessing on the monitors. Not even when One-Arm Ray, the manager, starts biting his fingernails and pa-tooey-ing jagged little crescent moons on to the desk.

“I think we should call the cops,” Brock says. She adjusts a bra strap, puts her hands into the back pockets of her skin-tight jeans.

Butch from Loss and Prevention says, “In a minute.” He sips coffee from a thermal Wawa mug that has BUTCH Sharpied on the side in ginormous black letters. “I wanna see where this goes.” None of us say anything because we wanna see where this goes, too. 

Jen from Team Sports pops her gum, pulls handfuls of thick, lustrous black hair into a ponytail. Hair that smells like Pantene and tickles like silk. “Guys,” she says, “we open in fifteen minutes.” Everybody ignores her. 

“Y’know,” says Bob from Hunting, Fishing, and Camping, whose fifty-six-year-old nipples are always hard, “I could take him out if we still sold shotguns.” Everybody ignores Bob, too. There was an incident a couple years back, when we still sold shotguns, before Bob worked here, when a customer loaded a shell into a pump-action Mossberg 12-gauge and went to fire it, but it jammed. After that, corporate threw up its hands, declared that The Sports Emporium would never again sell firearms. They could’ve put safety measures in place, but why take the chance, was their reasoning. 

beep-beep-beep! beep-beep-beep! issues from somewhere. Jen turns and looks at me, smiles. She points at my wrist, says, “Watch, sweetness.” She looks me up and down, winks at me. I blush, silence my Timex, leave the office to look for my purse, which has my insulin in it. I scour the break room, can’t find my purse anywhere.

Oh, no. 

I was late coming in, so I threw my purse under my register, booked it to the time clock. 

I pop my head back into the office, scan the monitors. On one of them, I spot the grainy image of my purse – the worn, royal blue Kate Spade that Mom got for me – nestled snugly under the register, holding my insulin, my life blood, in its soft, satiny interior. 

Well, shit. I gotta go out there.

I don’t tell anybody, don’t ask anybody to “cover me.” What would they cover me with, anyway? I slip out of the break room, step on to the sales floor.

In my head, Mom tells me to stay put, asks how can I be so careless.

Like she should talk.

#          

Mom, an angular stick figure of a woman, had diabetes, too. Same deal as me, a type 1 diabetic. She was horrible about taking her insulin, though.

Mom was as vain as she was acidic. She’d never be caught dead in sweatpants and/or without makeup. And if she saw somebody else like that, she’d always make a snide comment about them. 

Mom was a bit of a bitch. 

One time she dropped me off at school, and my friend Carla rushed to the car to greet me. Carla was cute enough, but Mom talked constantly about how Carla could be cuter. “If she just, y’know, gussied herself up a little more,” Mom would say, “she’d be so cute.” 

Carla who was a bit overweight, whose blonde hair was always wild and frizzy. Carla who loved a good pair of sweatpants or oversized mom jeans. Carla, always smiling – beaming – because she was just fine with how she looked. It’s why I’m friends with her: she’s the polar opposite of Mom.

Mom was a bit of a snob.

A side effect of taking insulin is that it makes you gain weight. This can happen especially if you don’t maintain a proper diet, which Mom did not. 

Mom’s thing was chocolate. She loved chocolate. She was a connoisseur. Halloween night, she’d root around in my pillowcase of goodies after trick-or-treating. “Zoe, my love,” she’d say, holding up a tiny Mr. Goodbar or a mini-Kit Kat, “Hershey is trash. You want good chocolate, you get Godiva or Ghirardelli. Or a nice piece of Dove.” She kept bags and bags of Dove Promises dark chocolates in the house, and she’d plow through them. But I’d still find oodles of discarded Hershey candy wrappers in the garbage can. Candy that I hadn’t eaten. Candy that Dad hadn’t eaten because Dad’s never had a sweet tooth. 

Then when I’d indulge in a piece of candy or two, Mom would dog me about taking my insulin and then dog Dad for dogging her for not taking hers. When she did take it, she’d eat like a bird, just enough to avoid full-on hypoglycemia, then be moody as fuck because her blood sugar was all out of whack.

Mom was a bit of a hypocrite.

Eventually, Mom developed neuropathy in her feet. She started walking very slowly because her feet often went numb. She went everywhere early so she could take her time, concentrate on her steps. 

Dad and I had no idea it was neuropathy because Mom insisted the metformin made her tired, sluggish. I bought that even though metformin never really made me sluggish. I thought maybe it just affected people differently. 

Mom was a bit of a bullshit artist.

One night the power went out at our house. When it came back on, the clocks were all screwed up, so Mom was in a tizzy about making it to work on time. She fumbled around the house, bumping into things because of her feet. Dad tried to slow her down, tried to get her to call work to let them know she was gonna be late. Mom, a shuffling tornado in a bespoke pantsuit, said something about an important meeting, can’t be late. “So fuck off, Sam,” she said to Dad.

Mom was a bit of a drama queen.

Mom hurried to the Malvern train station, purse swinging from her shoulder, laptop bag clutched in a manicured hand. When she got there, she dashed across the parking lot, hustled up the steps to the platform. 

Thing is, Mom wasn’t good at hustling because of her numb feet. She stumbled, fell backward, tumbled down the unforgiving concrete steps, and hit her head. Limbs twisted at the foot of the staircase, perfectly coifed hair spilled out Carla-wild around her head, Mom suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and died. A few other commuters, coffee-stained mouths agape, stared helplessly.

Mom was a bit of a tragedy.

But I’m not gonna be.

#

From just outside the break room, I scope out the area.

There’s about fifty yards of store between me and the checkout lanes. About twenty yards from there is Ken, in all his off-his-meds, sneaker-torching glory.   

I creep up to the fitting rooms, hide next to the counter where Brock once hit on a married guy who looked like Nick Nolte. After she had sex with him in one of the fitting rooms, “Nick Nolte” wound up as a hash mark on a piece of paper that Brock taped to the countertop. I glance at the tally: fourteen. So far. Stump is one of those hash marks, too, but he’ll never admit it.

A quick peek at Ken – he’s strapped on a pair of rollerblades and is doing circles around the smoldering Filas – and I dart across to the apparel racks, where Butch once caught a kid smoking a joint in the middle of a rack of Columbia parkas. Butch kicked the kid out, but not before confiscating the joint, which he shared with me and Jen later that day, after our shift. It was the first time I ever got high. And the first time I ever made out with a girl.

From there I scamper on hands and knees to the collectibles area, with the baseball cards and Philly sports team pennants and limited-edition bobbleheads and other miscellaneous tchotchkes of sports fandom. It’s where I was given the shortest, most informal interview ever, where I spoke about my customer service qualifications while One-Arm Ray looked me up and down three times and glanced at my boobs five times and said, “Uh-huh. You’re hired. When can you start?”

 In the home stretch, near the checkout lanes, I flatten out on my belly, army-crawl past the end cap of Big League Chew, Bubble Tape, Hubba Bubba, Dubble Bubble, Bubble Yum, and watermelon-flavored Bubblicious. Even now, as I reach my station, I can hear the phantom primeval screams of kids who are denied those sugary chewing gums. Even now, as I quietly lift my purse out of the cubbyhole underneath the terminal and check to make sure my insulin is in there, I can hear the ghosts of prickly parents shout back, “Haven’t you gotten enough already today? We’re going home, you don’t need any more sugar!”

Relieved to the point where I’m not thinking about anything other than the fact that I’m relieved, I stand up, purse in hand, and walk back to the break room. 

From behind me: “Zoe!”

It’s Ken. Crap.

I freeze, clutch my purse, hope if I stay perfectly still, he won’t see me like that T-Rex in Jurassic Park

“Hey, Zoe!” he says. “Where is everybody?” His voice is steady. Calm, even. 

I turn, slap on a smile. “Hey, Ken! Whatcha doin’ out here?” I point a thumb in the direction of the break room. “We’re about to have our team meeting.”

Ken stops rollerblading, looks at his watch. “Oh right. We open soon.”

I nod. “Yep.”

Ken, knife in hand, standing in a cloud of smoke, considers the destroyed Nikes, the bullet-ridden Adidas, the melted Filas. “I should prob’ly clean this up, huh?”

I shrug. “Might not be a bad idea.” Gesture to the standee. “Leave Lebron how he is, though. I hate that stupid headband.”

Ken goggles. “Thank you! So do I!”

The fire alarm blares, and tepid water rains down from the sprinklers. 

In my head, Mom tuts, says, “Well now your hair and makeup are ruined.”

Mom was a bit of a nutbag. 

She would’ve loved Ken.

END

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“Wanna Go for a Ride?” – short fiction

There was this chick I ran cross country with in high school. Amber. She had buck teeth and the nicest legs I ever seen. 

Ballsiest chick I ever knew. Wildest, too.

One time we’re at this end-of-summer party, right? One of our teammate’s parents had it at their house. There was this huge pond in the backyard. Thing had a diving platform. Musta been a hunnert feet high. 

Amber gets there and immediately strips down to a green string bikini. Which was like, holy shit. Most skin I ever saw on a high school chick. And remember, this was back in, what, ‘96? None of the other chicks I went to school with did that shit. 

But Amber stripped down like it was nothin’.

And then she goes up the diving platform and executes a perfect dive right into the wooder. Shit was Olympic, man. Didn’t even ask how deep the goddamn pond was. 

But that’s how she was with everything. She just dove, man. 

#

I was smitten with this chick. So much so that I made a move on her at cross country practice one day.

We were out on a run, and I stuck kinda close to her. Ran just a little ahead of her. I stop and start dickin’ with my eye, pretending like there was something in it, and Amber stopped to see what was wrong. I asked her to look in my eye, and when she did, I kissed her. Just went for it. She kissed me back, and I tasted vodka on her. Like she had a couple swigs before practice. Then she said she had a boyfriend and ran off.  

She didn’t say shit to me for the rest of practice. She didn’t say shit to me until right before practice the next day.

There was a bathroom right by the track where we warmed up, right. I sometimes got changed in there because I just wanted a few minutes to myself. Well, I’d just gotten changed when the door opens, and, boom, Amber’s standin’ there. Lookin’ all hot in a pair of running shorts and a tank top. Before I could say anything, she started kissing me.

One thing led to another and, well, I lost my virginity that day. Right there in one of the stalls, man. It was crazy. Fuckin’ Amber just pushed me into one and that was it. 

Now, Amber was as mysterious as she was wild. I mean, she’d been at my school a year maybe, something like that. And nobody knew fuckin’ shit about her.

But I’d heard stories about her. Rumors. Like, I heard she was with two dudes at the same time, and they Eiffel Towered her. Shit like that. I didn’t know what to believe. 

But that day, in that stall, it seemed like anything was possible. I mean, it did not seem like her first rodeo. Or her second, know what I mean? That girl knew exactly what she was doin’. 

It didn’t last long, of course. And, full disclosure, Amber was disappointed. She straight up asked me if I was a virgin. And the second I said I was, she was fuckin’ out. Just pulled on her shorts and walked out the door. Didn’t say shit to me the rest of practice. Didn’t say shit to me the rest of the week. And P.S., I tasted vodka on her again.

Anyway, I kept my distance, too. I was freaked out by the whole thing. I mean, we didn’t use protection or anything, y’know? It definitely messed with my head.

Then a week later, after practice, she comes up to me as I’m about to get in my car. And she’s just like, “Oh, hey. Is this your car? Can I drive it?” 

And I was like, “No, you can’t, I gotta get home.” So she asks me to give her a ride home, which I did.

So we’re driving, and we’re god knows where in Charlestown, right, and she starts messing with my junk.

Well, my heart starts jackhammering, and I didn’t know what to do. And then her head was, y’know, in my crotch. 

I pulled over real quick, and, uh, full disclosure, what Amber was doing, that didn’t last long, either, if you know what I mean. And then get this. She’s like, “Now can I drive your car?” 

At that point I was all dopey, so I was like, Fuck it, sure, why not.

#

Back then I drove a Subaru Justy. Ever heard of it? Well, I’m not surprised. Most people haven’t. They don’t even make ‘em anymore. It was a weird little car. Four-door hatchback. All-wheel drive. Mine was a five-speed manual. Still one of the best cars I ever owned. 

I didn’t even ask if she could drive a stick. Back then, not a lotta kids could. Not the kids I knew, anyway. This chick, though? She gets behind the wheel, and the car was like another limb for her. Smoothest driving I ever seen. And the scariest.

She was red-lining the thing, taking turns at speed, it was nuts. 

I look over and see her doing something weird with the clutch. Turns out she was double-clutching. I didn’t even know what that was. 

So we’re racing through Charlestown, right? Just tearing ass down every backroad. 

I’ll never forget it – I was holding on for dear life, and that Smashing Pumpkins song “Zero” came on the radio. And just as I’m fuckin’ praying we don’t get killed, Amber starts singing along, and screams, “WANNA GO FOR A RIDE?!” at the top of her fucking lungs.

At that point, we were careening down some road, kinda near the old Devault meat packing plant, but farther out, on some side road. And we come to this long-ass driveway, and Amber jerks the e-brake and cranks the wheel, and we start drifting. Like, actually drifting. Like Fast and Furious shit.

We get halfway down the driveway, and Amber stops the car. She takes off her seat belt and her shorts and gets on top of me. And, well, that time lasted a bit longer but not by much.

She tells me she lied; she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Then she puts her shorts back on and gets out and walks up the driveway toward this big-ass house. I mean, this thing was fucking huge. Ever seen one of those mansions on the Main Line? Like in Bryn Mawr or Ardmore? This thing was twice the size of one of those. 

I watched Amber walk toward it, and then I got my shit together and drove home. The whole thing was like a crazy-ass dream.

#

So I get home, right, and then I have to deal with my mom, who’s a massive drunk. She’s sprawled on the living room couch, clothes all wrinkled and shit. Bottle of Red Dog in her hand. Remember that shit? Red Dog? My mom loved that shit. Kept at least a case in reserve at all times. I see her, and she has, like, eight or nine dead soldiers on the floor in front of her.

I was home later than usual, and somehow she noticed. Even though she was drunk. She starts in with me – where were you, I was starting to worry, why didn’t ya call, all that mom shit. 

I told her practice went late, and I gave somebody a ride home. She asks who, and I tell her Amber, a girl I run with. 

Well, I might as well told her I gave the fucking pope a ride home. She starts in with more questions, and I downplay the whole thing. You know, “Just some girl, she’s nobody.” Shit like that.

I change the subject, ask her where’s Dad, and she says he’s at work. 

Dad was always at work back then. Always on some job. He’s still a bit of a workaholic but nothing like he used to be. 

Anyway, I sat with Mom for a little bit. Just long enough for her to get drowsy and nod off, which didn’t take long. It never did.

I went to the kitchen to find somethin’ to eat, and the phone rings. I pick it up, expecting it to be Dad, saying he was gonna be late. But it was Amber.

She sounded out of it, slurring her words. Of course I knew what that meant: she was drunk. She said everything I heard was true. Then she trailed off, said she left her underwear in my car. I asked her if she was okay, and she said she was. She says she doesn’t have a boyfriend, and I’m like, “Yeah, you told me.”

Then she asks about the English homework. Then my mom starts calling to me from the other room, asking who’s on the phone. It was like being in a mental institution. You know, just two crazy people crying out for attention. I told Amber I had to go, and right before I hang up she tells me she loves my car. I’m like, “Great, see you tomorrow,” and I hang up.

#

The next day at school, Amber comes up to me and starts talking to me. Really talking to me. I’ve barely talked to this chick, and suddenly I’m her best friend. 

She’s asking me about school and my family and all this. I didn’t tell her much about my mom because I couldn’t. I mean, that’s a whole thing, y’know? Just didn’t wanna get into it.

And before you know it, boom, we’re dating. Just like that. She’s cold, then she’s hot. It was heady shit.

One day she takes me to her house, right, and we do it in the pool house. Like Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Afterward, she takes me to her room and pulls out this scrapbook. It’s full of articles about rally car races. And then she shows me an article about how this dude named Bobby Halsey died in a rally car crash.

And then she starts crying like crazy. Like, her whole body was shaking. And I’m trying to calm her down, and then she’s like, “I miss him so much.” And that’s when I put it together. 

Bobby Halsey was her dad. 

Anyway, once she calmed down, she told me he was seconds from the finish line, and he was hit by another driver who’d lost control of his car. Her dad’s car flipped and rolled, like, thirteen times. And get this: Amber and her mom were rightThere. Saw the whole fuckin’ thing.

This happened, I don’t know, a few months before they moved to the area. They were all set to move to Charlestown right after the race, and then he died, and they moved anyway. Hence the humongous fuckin’ house they lived in. Apparently rally car drivers make bank.

She said things got bad after he died, but she didn’t elaborate. And I didn’t ask. 

And by the way, that’s how she knew how to drive like a fuckin’ bat outta hell. Her dad started teaching her when she was, like, ten or something.

She swears me to secrecy on all this. Nobody knows but her, her mom, and me.

For a while, we were great. In love, I’d say. I mean, if you can call a high school relationship love. I loved her. I will say that. And I did say that. Thing is, I didn’t tell her until right before we broke up. Timing, right? Life always gets in the way of timing.

#

The whole time Amber and I dated, she tasted like alcohol at some point or another. During school, after school, on the weekends. I kissed her and tasted vodka. Not always, mind you, but a lotta the time. I found out she was filling a wooder bottle with vodka and drinking during school.

Now, I tried to ignore this. I mean, my mom was an alcoholic, right? I was used to ignoring it. I was annoyed, but I could ignore it. Until I couldn’t. Not with Amber. That’s when I told her about my mom. And when I say “told,” I mean I took her to meet my mom.

But I didn’t tell my mom I was bringing Amber over. Which was on purpose. I wanted Amber to see my mom in her natural habitat. Like Jane Goodall with the apes and shit.

Which, looking back, was really unfair to my mom. I mean, she was a person, not a scared straight program. I should’ve been more, y’know, cognizant of that. Anyway, I take Amber to my house, and my mom is neck-deep in Red Dog empties.

I kept it as innocent as I could. Just a kid bringing home his girlfriend to meet Mom, right? All Leave It to Beaver and shit.

Mom was startled by it, though. But she was sweet as could be. Funny, even.

And Amber loved my mom. She loved that my mom let it all hang out, y’know? And of course my mom told some embarrassing stories about me, which I expected. I figured that was the price of admission. 

Afterward I drive Amber home, and she’s talking about how great my mom is, how sweet, how funny. And I’m like, “Yeah, but she’s a drunk.” And I follow that up with how she’s like that every night and how embarrassing it is. 

Amber got real quiet after that. And then she said something I’ll never forget. She goes, “Maybe she’s in pain.” And without thinking about it, I go, “Is that why you drink?” That’s when Amber started crying. And then she told me about Drew Drabich.

#

Drew was a typical cliché high school bad guy. He was one of those popular kids who was dicky to the unpopular kids. I was in his gunsights for a while. I mean, shit, a lotta kids were. But this douchebag had a real hard-on for Amber. He loved to pester the shit outta her. 

Amber had buck teeth and her last name was Halsey, right? Well, fuckin’ Drew called her “Horsey.” And of course this got major laughs from the other shitstains I went to school with, which only encouraged him to do it more. 

Well, that night in my car, the night she met my mom, she told me after her dad died, she lost her shit. Partied like crazy. 

There was this spot near my high school, this rock quarry the kids called “Dead Man’s.” It was where kids went to drink. Amber goes there one Friday night and gets totally shitfaced. And she hooks up with Drew. But somewhere in there, she passes out. Somewhere in the woods. When she comes to, Drew and his asshole brother, Nick, are, uh, double-teaming her. 

She tried to push them away, but she was still really drunk and out of it so she wasn’t able to. Then they finished and just left her there.

She felt shitty and gross, but she didn’t tell anyone. Shortly thereafter, the rumor about Amber being double-teamed surfaced. And then Drew started in with the “Horsey” bullshit, which is when Amber started bringing booze to school. Just to get through the day. Amber said the really shitty thing was that if they’d just asked her to do what they did, she would’ve done it. She was like, “I’m no prude.” 

She tells me all this, and I don’t know what to say. I mean, after a story like that, what can you say? I just told Amber I was sorry and that I had no idea. 

Then, like a fuckin’ asshole, I blurted out that the drinking had to stop. If she wanted to be with me, it had to stop. I said I understood why she did it, but I couldn’t deal with one alcoholic let alone two. Then I told her I loved her. I loved her and I needed it to stop. In other words, I made it all about me. 

And Amber gave me an earful for it. She was like, “Weren’t you listening? I was raped.” 

Now, that should’ve stopped me in my tracks. I should’ve shut the fuck up and just been there for her. But instead, I bulldozed right on, like the fuckin’ prick I was. 

I told her we should go to the cops and file a report and maybe then she wouldn’t feel like drinking. And then to top that off, I told her she should’ve gone to the cops in the first place and why didn’t she think of that. And that is when she told me to go fuck myself and got outta the car. 

I should’ve gone after her. Apologized. Groveled. Told her again that I loved her. But I didn’t. I drove home, and when I got there, my mom was waiting up for me. 

She was at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her. She wasn’t sober, but she was soberer than she usually was. And as soon as she saw me, man, she laced into me. Why didn’t I tell her I was bringing Amber over, she would’ve “made herself up,” how could I not tell her, blah blah blah blah blah. And without thinking again, I was like, “I wanted her to see what an embarrassment you are.” 

She didn’t have a fuckin’ thing to say to that. And then I told her to grow the fuck up and stop drinking. And then I stomped off to my room. 

Next morning, Dad wakes me up, tells me to meet him downstairs. He gives me a lecture about how I upset Mom and I shouldn’t talk to adults like that and all this. And I told him that if she wants me to talk to her like an adult, she should fucking act like one. And I left him sitting there.

Then I got ready as fast as I could and went to school. 

At that point, I already have a headache. I hadn’t slept well the night before and then I had to deal with my dad, which only made things worse because I love my dad, okay? I adore the guy. He doesn’t bother anybody, doesn’t make a fuss. He just keeps his head down, goes to work, and that’s that. And I know dealing with my mom’s bullshit wasn’t easy for him. It couldn’t’ve been. It was probably ten times worse for him than it was for me. But he never showed it. Fuckin’ guy is a rock. Still is. So busting his balls about Mom’s bullshit felt terrible. I didn’t feel bad about Mom, but I did feel bad about Dad. 

So all that’s in the back of my head, right? I get to my locker, and it’s just before first period and who shows up but Amber. And she is wasted off her fuckin’ ass, man. Just sloppy drunk. 

And she’s got her hands all over me and trying to make out with me and telling me she loves me and all this. And people are staring, man. Like the world stopped and all eyes were on us. And I’m trying to calm her down, trying to handle the situation when guess who pipes up. Fuckin’ Drew Drabich. That motherfucker.

He was like, “Gabe’s having problems with his horsey.” Well, just as I’m about to say something, Amber goes off on him, calling him a piece of shit, an asshole, all this.

So I grab her arm and literally drag her into a bathroom. I try to calm her down, but she starts crying. I hold her and hold her, but she keeps crying. Then the first period bell rings. But we just ignored it and stayed in the bathroom, and I wanted the world to fuck right off, man.

#

After all that shit, I gave Amber an ultimatum. I told her she had one week to get her shit together or that was it. Not exactly the picture of compassion, I know. But what could I do. It was a lot to take. I’ll admit, I should’ve played it differently. But hindsight and all that, right? 

Anyway, Amber, to her credit, stayed off the sauce for a few days. But that was it. Then she was right back on. So we broke up.

Ironically, my mom stopped drinking around the same time. She went to AA and everything. Got rid of all the Red Dog. So things started looking up. At home, anyway.

And get this, Mom even joined a gym, which surprised the shit outta me. You ever see those stickers on gym equipment? You know, like, “Consult your doctor before starting an exercise program”? Well, she never consulted a doctor. Instead, she hit the gym hard and then had a massive heart attack. Literally dropped dead on a treadmill. 

And then I lost my shit. I started drinking. I went to school drunk. I quit cross country, my grades dropped. Typical downward spiral. 

One day I’m in class, and Drew Drabich is like, “You lost your horsey, and then you lost your mommy.” And then the motherfucker starts laughing.

Well, I fuckin’ lost it. I clocked the motherfucker and then kicked him when he was down. Teacher broke it up, and then I got suspended. 

Amber tried to reach out, but I wasn’t havin’ that. I just drank my fuckin’ ass off. I just kept sliding down, farther and farther. I barely graduated. 

But Drew Drabich, boy. He never said fuckin’ shit to me or Amber after that. I’d call that a silver lining. Maybe the only one.

#

My dad’s the one who finally pulled me out of the tailspin. He came at it subtle, though. He didn’t take me to an AA meeting or give me some dramatic talking-to. No intervention-type shit. 

He just asked me to help him make an armoire. Custom job for some Main Liner in Wayne. Cherry construction, intricate inlays, the whole bit. This thing took us a few weeks to complete.

And when it was done, he asked me to help him with some cabinets. Then a kitchen remodel. Pretty soon I was matching his rhythm. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. 

I didn’t have time or energy to drink or think about Mom or Amber or what a fuckin’ train wreck I was. I just worked.

Come to think of it, that’s probably why Dad worked so much. I mean, all that work, he didn’t have time to think about Mom and her drinking. Which ain’t the healthiest way to deal with an alcoholic, but. I don’t blame him. People cope how they cope, man. 

And that’s how I dealt with my bullshit. I worked it off. It’s also how I became a carpenter.

I heard Amber went on to bigger and better. She went to UPenn, got a full ride on a cross country scholarship. Which is ironic, considering she of all people could’ve afforded the tuition. But whatever. She earned that shit.

I’m glad she pulled her shit together, y’know? I am. I’m not regretful of what happened or how it happened. 

I’ve thought about reaching out over the years, but what’s the point. I mean, my life went one way and hers went another, and that’s it. Nothing else to say. Besides, I can’t imagine we’d have much to talk about. I think she became a lawyer or something. 

Which leads me to the conundrum I’m currently in. If I don’t want to talk to her, then why did I show up to my twenty-year high school reunion in the hopes that I’ll see her? 

I’m a walking contradiction, I guess. Then again, who isn’t. 

**********************************

A sagging royal blue banner stretches from wall to wall in one corner of the Fox & Hound. “WELCOME CLASS OF ’97,” it proclaims in white block letters. 

The dude I’m sitting next to at the bar holds up a hand. He’s a corporate America drone, gingham-shirted and khaki-clad. “Hold up.” He leans forward, and his loosened tie hangs limply, grazes the edge of the glazed wood bar top. A wooderlogged slice of orange bobs in his half-drunk beer. “You haven’t seen this broad in twenty years?”

I shake my head no.

“And she’s here tonight?”

I shrug.

“Well is she?”

I scan the section of the bar where my twenty-year high school reunion is being held. “Nah, doesn’t look it,” I say. “What I get for being sentimental. Anyway.” I slug the rest of my beer, slap some cash on the bar. “I got your drinks. See y‘round.”

#

I weave my way through the reunion. Only way out is through. 

Nobody recognizes me. Not even Drew Drabich, who ain’t exactly lookin’ his best. Then again, neither am I. 

Hair long gone to seed, the remnants shaved clean off. Half-moons under my eyes. Crow’s feet. Varnish stains on the sleeves of my beige Carhartt, on the toes of my boots. Didn’t even bother to dress up. 

I push through the front door. A crisp, late-November wind kicks up in the parking lot, blows dead leaves in front of me. They crunch under my boots. 

Sepia light from the lot lamps reflects off the hood of my truck. I open the door, step on the running board.

“A truck?” a voice says. “Doesn’t suit you, Zoshak.”

I turn toward the voice. It’s Amber.  

She’s filled out a bit. Gained five pounds maybe. Has a few wrinkles, nothing crazy. Looks a few years older than when I last saw her. 

She looks fucking great, is how she looks.

My mouth is dry as the leaves that whisk across the lot. “Hey.” I smile. Or try to. Doesn’t feel like a proper smile.

She walks toward me, drags a finger along the side of my truck. “Not very sporty.”

“Purely utilitarian,” I say. 

She stops right in front of me. Smiles. She still has the buck teeth. Which look even better on her now. “So it’s a useful piece of shit.”

I grin. “Yeah.” Motion to the bar. “Here for the reunion?”

“Nah,” she says. “Reunions are obsolete. I have Facebook. Which, by the way, you aren’t on.”

I shrug. “No reason to be.”

She shakes her head, grins. “Still hiding.”

I shrug again. “So, um, what are you driving these days?”

She jerks her head at a blue Subaru parked diagonally from my truck. I walked right past it on the way to my truck.

“A WRX.” I smile. “Nice.” It’s got a hood scoop, alloy wheels, the works. And a child seat in the back. “It’s no Justy, though.”

She smiles. “That it isn’t.” She puts her hands in the pockets of her puffy black parka. “My husband said I was nuts for getting it. He’s not a car guy, though. He drives an Accord.”  

I nod. Stare at the Subaru. She puts a hand on my arm. Opens her mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

Her mouth closes.

“When you told me all that stuff way back when. About Drew and his brother. I, uh. I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t.” I lick my lips, exhale. “I was a dick, and you deserved better. That’s all.”

She kisses me. Just like that. Pulls me close and kisses me. Full on the mouth. Tongue and all. She tastes like…I don’t know what. But not alcohol. Not vodka. Just…Amber, I guess.

She pulls away, but still holds me close. “You were a dick,” she says. “And I’m not gonna lie, that shit hurt. But I don’t hold it against you. I mean, you kinda helped me stop drinking.” 

“Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, you were kinda like a mirror,” she says. “I saw what a mess you were, and it freaked me out. And I quit drinking. Like, for good.”

“Yeah.” I look at the ground. “I was in a bad place.”

“We both were,” she says. “But we were kids. We didn’t know what we were doing. So, you know, what happened,” she shrugs, “I can’t be too mad about it.” She pauses. “This why you came out of hiding? To apologize?

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it is.” 

She hugs me. Presses every inch of herself against me. I hold her tight. 

She lets go, steps back. “What are you doing right now?”

“You’re lookin’ at it.”

She smiles, jerks a thumb at the Subaru. “Wanna go for a ride?”

END

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“Lower Slower” – short fiction

An intro to you

You burn bridges. Piss in the wind. Tug on Superman’s cape. 

Caution is not your friend.

You’ve broken three teeth. Seen the dentist five times this year. He pretends like he’s worried about you but is secretly thrilled because you’ve helped finance a much-needed kitchen renovation, thus causing his wife to finally shut up about it. 

You’ve fractured your collarbone once, your hand twice. The doctors and nurses at the ER know you by name, wrinkle their noses at your odor, at the booze burped up by your pores. They’ve long since written you off as a lost cause. There’s one nurse who’s hasn’t, who instead gently mops your face with a cold, wet wad of paper towels. She calls you “sweetie,” slips pamphlets for AA into your pockets. You don’t find them until you’ve sobered up. 

Then you chuck ‘em.

#

Your new favorite pastime

A fist mashes your nose. The crunch reverberates in your head. Galaxies of bright pinpricks flash in your vision. You taste blood.

The fist pulls back, slams into your gut. You crumple. Now you taste bile. 

A boot plows into your sternum. There’s a pain you haven’t felt before. Maybe a cracked rib. Maybe a broken one.

A bouncer breaks up the fight, throws you out of the bar. You’re in a heap on the sidewalk. You grip a signpost, pull yourself up.

You stagger home. Pain shuts out everything but itself.

You grin, thankful for that much.

#

Why you are the way you are          

Sleep isn’t easy. Ironic because you come from a family of heavy sleepers.

They’re such heavy sleepers that they didn’t hear the smoke alarms go off and burned to death in a house fire. A house fire you caused.

It was a freak accident, but still. You’ll never smoke a cigarette again.

One father. One mother. One sister. One brother. That’s the cost of your carelessness.

You see their faces in your dreams. They’re reduced to melted wax, runny and dripping. It’s like this more often than not.

You wake up. Dark bags hang from your eyes like sad change purses. You age ten years in two. 

#

Angie! Annnnnn-gie. And Ted.

A piercing shrill cleaves the world in half. You bolt out of bed. Your head’s a junk drawer full of jagged glass and rusty nails. Your stomach’s a gas station toilet brimming with the ghosts of bad decisions.

You trace the source of the noise to the kitchen downstairs. A chubby young woman waves at a smoke alarm with a spatula. She’s completely naked. An intricate tattoo of a trout decorates her entire left ass cheek.

She doesn’t notice you as you lift a decorative wooden oar off the wall. The paddle has a lighthouse painted on it. One of the many beach-themed tchotchkes, courtesy of your mother, that festoon the walls of your parents’ – now your – beach house.

You walk up behind the woman, lift the oar, smash the alarm with it. Quiet is restored as bits of white plastic rain down. 

The woman jumps, turns, looks at you, a crinkly joint between her lips. Her face is carved from alabaster, every line and curve copied from an angelic blueprint. She pinches the joint from her mouth, says she wanted to surprise you with breakfast. She holds out the spliff, asks if you want a hit.

You whisper, “Who are you?”

Squinting, she replaces the joint between her lips, takes a long drag, holds it. She says, “Seriously?”

You nod, prop the oar against a wall.

The woman exhales, grins through the smoke. “I’m the girl whose ass you fucked last night.”

Your stomach burbles an urgent message in Morse: O-U-T-B-O-U-N-D. Then it explodes into your throat. You double over, blow chunks on her feet.

Calm as can be, the woman goes over to the sink. She jabs the joint in the corner of her mouth, puts one puke-covered foot in the sink. She hoses it down with the sprayer, then does the other. Her flexibility is remarkable.

She takes a smoking pan off the stove. Presumably what set off the alarm. She drops it into the sink. Clang!

She marches up the stairs, stops halfway. She slaps her trout, says, “That’s the last time you take a trip down thisHershey highway.”

She continues her ascension as you hork directly onto the kitchen floor.

The doorbell rings.

You go to the front door, open it.

A police officer stands there. His nametag says, BENDIS. His badge says, DEWEY BEACH POLICE DEPARTMENT. He starts to say your name but stops halfway. His eyes are trained on your midsection. You look down. Your shriveled schwanz dangles in the open air.

He tells you you’re under arrest for assault and public drunkenness. 

You barf on his shiny black shoes, spatter the cuffs of his pants. He says he’ll let that go if you put on some clothes.

You turn to find something to wear and run into the young woman from before. She’s fully clothed now. Her tank top and short skirt fit her like a bologna skin.

Officer Bendis says, “Angie?”

“Hey, Ted.” She continues past him then stops. She turns, says, “If you’re gonna arrest this asshole, put him in a cell with somebody mean. I shouldn’t be the only one who gets fucked in the ass today.” She goes to leave but stops again. She glares at you, says to Bendis, “By the way, if you’re in the market for some weed, you’ll find a bag of it on the kitchen counter. Bye.”

“Sorry, kid,” Bendis says, “that one I can’t ignore.”

You spew vomit down the front of Bendis’s uniform.

He sighs.

#

Chitty-Chitty-Chitwood, Esq.

You’re summoned to court.    

Your lawyer is some pasty, overworked, underpaid, wispy-pated business card dispenser of a public defender named Byron Chitwood. He drinks lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup with playing cards on the side, calls you “pal,” smells of peanuts and knockoff Drakkar Noir. 

You like him instantly.

He explains your irrational behavior to the judge. Cites your dead parents, your dead brother, your dead sister. Explains the house fire that you inadvertently caused, that you suffer from survivor’s guilt and quite possibly post-traumatic stress disorder. The guy you assaulted, the one who has a bit of a black eye, nothing more, drops the charges.

The judge, no fan of you or your behavior, still fines you a thousand bucks, sentences you to a hundred hours of community service. Just because she can.

#

Things to do in Lower Slower when you can’t sleep         

Unable to sleep that night, you drive northwest, into the farmland that blankets much of Lower Slower. 

You find an abandoned trailer park. It’s all cracked windows, faded siding, overgrown everything. 

You get out of your car, wander around in the dark. Don’t even try to be quiet. An animal – cat? gopher? raccoon? – darts from underneath a powder blue doublewide, crashes through the brush, scurries inside a cinderblock…something or other. A well?

You enter the doublewide the animal abandoned. Tufts of pink insulation like cotton candy vomited out of broken ceiling tiles nearly touch the threadbare carpet. The hot mustiness of the place makes your skin as comfortable as a scratchy wool overcoat. Booze sweat soaks your clothes within minutes.

You crash around the place. Punch out the remaining window. There’s a pain in your arm. Probably a cut. You put a finger to it. It comes away wet. 

Soon after, in the jaundiced glow of your car’s dome light, you inspect your wound. It’s a cut, alright. About three inches long. Deep. Pouring blood. Barely missed the vein it runs alongside of.

Pity.

#

A nurse. A Hope. A blowjob.           

At the emergency room, there’s a girl. Young woman. Old enough to drink, young enough not to handle it well. Far be it for you to judge, though.

She’s dressed in jean cutoffs, a white tank top. Scuffed low-top Chucks. Everything but the sneakers looks painted on. She’s not wearing a bra, not that those bee stings need one. A sleeve of colorful tats covers her right arm from shoulder to mid-forearm. Her bleached-blonde hair shows brown at the roots. You wonder if maybe she’s from that busted trailer park. You wonder if maybe she was the one who destroyed it. Is she trash or does she trash? 

She argues with one of the nurses. The one who’s nice to you.

The nurse sees you staring. She takes the girl’s tatted arm, leads her into a treatment room across from the curtained bed you occupy. Closes the door behind them.

Moments later, they emerge. The girl stomps off toward the exit. The nurse watches, sighs.

She walks over to you, manages the type of forced smile one gives a stranger in passing. She gently takes your lacerated arm, lays it on a bedside table. “My daughter,” she says. “Quite the handful.”

You receive eighteen stitches. 

**********************

In the ER parking lot, the tattooed girl sits on the hood of a car. Smokes a cigarette. A pack of P-Funks lay on the hood beside her.

You focus on the cherry. Glowing. Eating the tobacco and paper behind it as she inhales.

It still gets you. Still makes you see the house. The house in flames. Your family trapped inside. Somebody with an official-sounding title – medical examiner? fire investigator? – said they most likely asphyxiated before the flames got them. Were they dreaming they were drowning before they died? That somebody was choking them? Did they dream it was you? Because, in a way, it was.

She offers you the pack. You shake your head no, open your car door.

She takes a drag, says, “You’re the asshole who starts bar fights, right?”

You stare.

“I’ve seen you around,” she says. “My mom said you killed your family.”

You stare.

“It’s the pain, right? That’s why you do it. Fight, I mean,” she says. “One pain dulls the other.”

You stare. 

“I totally get that.” She drops her cigarette on the macadam. It makes you flinch. She grinds it out with the toe of her Chuck. “I’ll hit you if you want.” 

You shrug, close the car door. Step toward her.

She hits you. Right in the jaw. Closed fist. Knuckles sharp. Not a ton of power behind it. But enough to hurt.

Your hands clench. She stares. Dares you with a look.

Your right hand loosens, grabs her crotch. Squeezes. She makes a sound like “Eeet!”

She punches you again. Harder this time. In the stomach this time. You double over. Reach for a nearby car for balance. You straighten up. Suck wind. 

She kisses you. You taste cigarettes. Smell stale beer, plumeria. 

She pushes you in between her car and another. Drops to her knees. Gives you the world’s sloppiest blowjob. Grabs your freshly stitched arm, digs her nails in. You remember a time long ago when you would’ve worried about popping stitches. That time has passed.

In less than a minute, so has the blowjob. She kisses you again, spits your come into your mouth. It’s salty, has the consistency of a vigorous loogie. You swallow.

You zip up. Say, “Seeya.” 

“I’m Hope,” she says.

You get in the car. Drive away. Glance at your arm. A tiny archipelago of red soaks through the bandage. You can see it even in the low light from the dashboard.

Bitch drew blood.

“Hope.”

Hardly.

#

A green vest under an orange sun

The neon green safety vest is way too big, keeps slipping off your left shoulder. You correct it, and it slips off your right.

One of the Rehoboth Beach Public Works guys gave it to you when you showed up at City Hall, said you were there for community service. The guy, name of Vince, then took you and six other young-ish looking people out to Route 1 to clean up the median. 

You trudge through the grass, pick up stray food wrappers and beer cans with a chintzy mechanical claw. The refuse goes into a big black trash bag that’s clutched in your other hand. The bag flutters in the humid, late August breeze, as difficult to control as your life is.

A few of your fellow miscreants whisper to themselves, look in your direction while trying not to look like they’re looking in your direction. You’re well-used to this kind of thing by now. Let them have their fun.

You shotgunned three cans of Natty Ice before you left home. Chased those with two shots of El Toro. The buzz keeping your insanity at bay is wearing off, and you’re starting to feel itchy. A little sunburned, too. The skin on your bare arms is red and tight. Figure your neck is probably the same. 

A flattened McDonald’s French fry box waves to you from a tuft of overgrown grass. You reach for it with your claw. Snag it. You go to put it in your bag when a half-full can of Bud Light hits you in the head. Some of the beer spills out on to your shirt. Such a waste.

A bunch of cackling frat bros cruise by on the southbound side in a Jeep Wrangler with the top down and the doors off. They point and laugh at you. Before you can consider the consequences of your actions – your default mode – you launch your claw like a javelin at the driver. It pings him squarely in the side of the head, bounces back onto the median.

Douche Bag slams his brakes, skids to a stop. The cars behind him do the same. A stroke of luck: there aren’t any fender benders. Douche Bag gets out of the car, stomps toward you. He wears a white ball cap backwards, aviators, board shorts, flip-flops. No shirt. A tattoo of a flaming soccer ball adorns his left delt. 

You can’t help but grin, clench your fists.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’, asswipe?” It’s Vince, the DPW guy. He was trailing you and the others in a DPW truck, keeping a watchful eye. Now he’s out of the truck, stomping over the median toward you. You open your mouth to respond. Vince breezes right by you, gets in Douche Bag’s face. “Fuckin’ throwin’ beer cans at my guys, fuckface? We’re on the job, cocksucker!” 

Douche Bag fires back about calling his dad, his lawyer, suing, blah blah blah pampered white kid shit. 

Vince, several inches shorter than Douche Bag, doesn’t back down. “Get the fuck outta here, fuckstick! I don’t care who your cocksuckin’ daddy is!” He pushes Douche Bag. “C’mon, shitstain, take a poke at me! Know how many cops I know? Have you and your dickwipe friends locked up for assault!” Douche Bag’s friends pull him back to the Jeep, and they leave. Vince gives them the stink eye as they leave, wags his head, turns around. Retrieves your claw from the grass as he walks over to you. 

You pick up the can of Bud, give it a shake. Still a few swallows left. You hold the can at your side, wait for the other shoe to drop. 

“You okay, pardner?” Vince says.

You’re not used to this question. Don’t know how to respond.

“Y’alright?”

After a moment, you nod.

“Fuckin’ little pricks,” he says, handing you the claw. “You’re out here rightin’ wrongs, and they’re addin’ to it. Little fucks.”

Without thinking about it, you tip the can to your lips, guzzle the remains. Still a tad on the cold side, even.

Vince laughs. “Man, that’s some hot shit! I wudn’t here, betchu woulda fucked those guys up, huh? I seen you ballin’ your fists.”

You shrug. “Least this way I got some beer out of it.”

He laughs harder this time, claps you on the shoulder. “C’mon and getchu some water, man. You lookin’ pretty red.”

You both walk over to the truck, your fellow miscreants watching you for a few moments before they get back to work. There’s a big orange Igloo lashed to the truck bed with heavy-duty bungee cords. Vince takes a paper cone from a plastic sleeve, fills it with water from the spigot on the side of the cooler, hands it to you. 

You slug it, fill it again, slug it. Do it several more times. The water’s cold, clean. You had no clue you were so thirsty.

“Say, man, whatchu doin’ tonight?”

Getting fucked up. Getting in fights. Getting arrested.

“No plans,” you say.

“You feel like comin’ out with me and m’buddies?”

This is how you make a friend.

#

Hard to Starboard

A Wednesday night in late August means the bars in Dewey ain’t gonna be packed. Some action, sure, but there’s plenty of room to breathe, move around.

Optimal if you want to get into a fight. Which you do. Kinda.

Kinda, because in all the time you’ve lived here, nobody’s ever wanted to hang out with you. Certainly nobody’s ever invited you out with them. As much as you don’t give a shit about anything, you aren’t exactly looking to ruin the good time of somebody who’s trying to be nice to you. 

Thus, instead of getting obliterated before going out, you have only a few beers. Four, to be exact. No chasers. Then you head to the Starboard.

It’s only a little after eight, so there’s a decent crowd, but nothing crazy. Shouldn’t get much worse, either. Some cover band is playing “Livin’ on a Prayer” on a black riser in a corner of the bar when you walk in. Was that riser always there? Have you ever seen a band play there before? It occurs to you that you’ve never been here without being ossified drunk. There are probably tons of little things you don’t remember about the place. 

But that bouncer, the one with the ‘roid muscles and the goatee, the one keeping a sharp eye on you, him you remember.

You ignore him, go to the bar to order a drink, and there’s another thing you don’t remember: Hope bartends here. She has her back to you as she dumps some ice in a plastic cup. Pours in vodka, Red Bull. Finished, she turns around, spots you.

She stares, blushes, but it’s instantaneous at best. She quickly recovers, hands off the drink to a customer, takes cash off the bar, puts it in the register.

She turns back to you. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” you say. 

“Um, getcha somethin’?”

“Bud Light.”

She turns to fish a can out of a fridge. You dig in the pocket of your shorts, come out with some cash. She puts the can on the bar top, and you give her the cash. Far more than you owe, even after tip.

“Need change?”

You shake your head no, take a pull off your beer.

“You sure?”

You manage a grin. “Yeah.”

She grins back. “Thanks.” She puts the money in the register. “So, uh, is there gonna be trouble tonight?”

“Meeting some people here,” you shrug, “so.”

She smiles. The skin under her eyes crinkles. Her face looks young. Her eyes don’t. “Tryin’ to behave?”

You shrug again.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Just look at each other. As if you’re having a staring contest. There’s a hand on your shoulder. You tense up. 

“Wassup, bud?”

You relax. It’s Vince. And a bunch of his friends. Lots of tats. A few missing teeth. A few wedding rings. A few shaved heads. But shaved because they’ve lost their hair. Because they’re all older than you. Maybe early to mid-thirties. You get the impression Vince invited you out because he thinks you’re around their age. Because you look as old as them, if not older.

Drinks are ordered, introductions made. 

Vince tells his buddies about the thing on the highway. 

Hope hovers nearby, keeps glancing at you as she makes drinks.

Vince says, “And this little pussy had a tat of a fuckin’ soccer ball on his arm.” 

Hope looks up, says, “A soccer ball?”

“Yeah!” Vince says. “And the shit was on fire! What kinda ink is that?”

One of his friends pipes up: “Kind dudn’t know soccer ain’t a real sport.”

Everybody laughs. Even you. Even though you played soccer in high school.

Another one of the guys: “Wait, Hope, didn’t ya date that dude?”

She nods. “Drew. Total fuckin’ asshole. Slapped me around one time. Broke up after that.”

As if on cue, Mr. Soccer Ball Tat and His Merry Band of Douche Bags walk into the Starboard right then. 

Others might call this fate. You call it dumb fucking luck.

Drew sees you and Vince, and you and Vince see him. But, wisely, Drew and his friends go to the other side of the bar and order drinks. He still has that white hat on, but he’s wearing a shirt now. A shirt that’s conveniently missing its sleeves. That future regret of a tattoo begs pathetically for attention, screaming, “I’m white, but I’m cool!” to anybody who’ll listen.

Another bartender tries to serve him. He waves her off, motions for Hope, who’s still facing you.

“Looks like fuckface needs ya,” Vince says.

Hope turns, glares at Drew. Shakes her head no. Turns back to you. “This is gonna sound shitty, but whaddaya think about me using you to get under his skin?”

Drama’s the last thing you need. But that doesn’t mean it’s the last thing you want. Drama is a distraction, after all.

You shrug. 

“Make out with me real quick?”

“Sure,” you say.

She leans across the bar, takes your head in her hands. Kisses you. Hard. Tongue and all. Doesn’t hold back. You put a hand on her shoulder, pull her toward you. This goes on for several moments. Finished, she turns around, reaches into the fridge, pulls out a cold one, pops it, hands it to you. “Thanks for that. This one’s on me.”

You finish your beer, take a long swig from the new one. Keep your eye on Drew the whole time. Much to your chagrin, he doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t even nibble.

But he looks plenty pissed. Which makes you smile. Right at him.

#

Painful wish fulfillment

You get your wish on the Forgotten Mile. 

After leaving the Starboard, your first thought is to head home, to revel in the remarkable fact that you had a good night for once. You had fun hanging out with Vince and his buddies. You left the bar out of your own volition instead of being thrown out. The bouncer even gave you a small nod on your way out, as if to say, “Thanks for not being a dick. Maybe come back again?” To top it all off, Hope gave you her number. For once, things fell into place instead of falling apart. It was an unexpected – if not welcome – change of pace.  

But then you figure you’ll try to squeeze a little more joy out of the day. A drop. That a nice walk might be a good way to end the day. So you stroll toward the Forgotten Mile. That stretch of Route 1 between Dewey and Rehoboth that nobody really gives a shit about.

Suits you perfectly.

You make it almost to the Bay Road Package liquor store when something hits you in the back of the head. Something heavy and very hard. You go to your hands and knees, and beer sprays from a busted can. Wets your face, your hair.       

Running footsteps sound to your right. Then somebody kicks you in the face. Force of it flips you onto your back.

The shitheads who ambushed you come into focus. It’s Drew and his Merry Band of Douche Bags. There’s Fatty, Dopey, Shorty, and No Neck.

Those scenes in the movies where a gang of dudes surrounds one guy, but they come at him one at a time instead of all at once? This ain’t like that. Drew and his Douche Bags come at you as a group, hit you from every direction. These coddled motherfuckers really know how to cause pain when they want to. 

You do your best to fend them off. Even get off a few shots. You’re pretty sure you break Fatty’s nose, and you deliver a devastating blow to No Neck’s balls, and you yank the little hoop earring out of Drew’s left lobe, but that’s about all the damage you’re able to do.

You, on the other hand, are worse for wear. You feel your nose break, your eye socket cave in. There’s a sharp pain in the back of your head that makes your vision go bright and then dark. A kick in the ribs causes another sharp pain, and it very quickly becomes harder and harder to breathe.

One of the assholes pulls you to the curb, puts your arm over it. Fatty jumps, brings his whole marbled self down on your arm, which of course snaps. You scream until you wheeze. Your tear-blurred eyes deliver disheartening news: the bone didn’t puncture the skin, but boy oh boy, it came fucking close

Your screaming makes the jagoffs pause. Panting and groaning from their own injuries, they look down at you. You try to look up at them, but your eyesight is not working like it’s supposed to.

One of the shitheads – Dopey? – says, “Dude, is his eyeball out?”

“Fuck,” Drew says. “I think it is.”

Shorty: “Uh, could this guy die?”

You hear the gears in these imbeciles’ heads grinding together as they come to the realization that, if you do die, they could all be looking down the barrel of a homicide charge and, as a result, life in prison, where their asses will be made to gape wide on the daily when the inmates run train after train on their soft, privileged asses. 

“Fuck, man,” Drew says. “Let’s get outta here.”

They beat feet. Leave you there bleeding and broken.

Then it’s quiet. After a few moments, you try to get up.

Fail.

Try again.

Fail.

Once more.

Make it to your knees. You see double of everything. Try closing the one eye that wasn’t punched in. 

And there’s the pain in your chest. Worse now. Breathing is quite the chore.

You shuffle forward a few feet, cradle your broken arm. Remarkably, your legs still function rather well. 

You wheeze, shuffle, wheeze, shuffle. Then you fall over, barely catch yourself with your good arm. You lay on the sidewalk, stare up at a streetlight. 

You knew it’d end badly one day, but you never thought you’d be laid out alone on a sidewalk. You figure this is penance. Penance for being so irresponsible, for not cherishing what you had when you had it. And, really, this is what you wanted all along. What you wished for. Whether it’s on a sidewalk or in a bar or in your own living room, what’s it matter? The end’s still the end.

Fuck, maybe you’ll see your dead family soon enough. But you doubt it. You ain’t that lucky. 

There are lights. They strobe from somewhere above you. Red lights. Your vision has really taken a turn for the weird. 

There are voices, too. One that’s especially familiar. A woman. “Oh, fuck, I know this guy,” she says. “C’mon, let’s get him inside.”

There’s a trundling of metal, something rolling toward you. You look over. It’s a stretcher being wheeled out of an ambulance. Look back at the streetlight.

The woman’s face hovers over yours. Angelic, perfect. Have you died? “Hey, remember me?” she says. “I’m here to help.”

Angie. Angelface Angie.

“How?” you wheeze.

She and her partner lift you gently, place you on the stretcher. “Anonymous 911 call,” she says.

You’d bet everything you own that Drew or one of his flunkies made that call. A little something to keep in their back pocket so that, in the event you do die, they could say they did something to keep you from doing so.

They get you situated in the ambo, and Angie starts working on you, trying her best to get you stable. There’s not a lot she can do, though. You are in a bad way. She tapes some gauze over your bad eye, splints your arm.

Angie calls to her partner as he drives the rig. “Hey,” she says, “radio ahead and tell ‘em we need a medevac ASAP. This guy needs to go to Christiana. Probably gonna need a chest tube, too. Pretty sure his lung is punctured. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he has some internal bleeding.”

“Copy that,” her partner says.

You start to close your good eye, succumb to oblivion. 

Angie lays a hand on your forehead. “Hey, don’t go to sleep. Stay with me.”

“Sorry…” You muster a breath. “For being….” And another.

“Save your breath. Make it up to me later.”

#

A moment of clarity at 2,000 feet

Soon you make it to the hospital, where the docs pop in a chest tube, reinflate your lung, prep you for flight. A bit later you’re in the air heading north. 

Laying there in the helicopter cabin with nothing else to do but lay there, your mind does the one thing you don’t want it to do: it revisits the past. Really zeroes in on it. It’s why you started in with the drinking and fighting in the first place – you were trying to shut all that crap out. But now, being well and truly sober, all that crap creeps back in. Specifically, the night of the, ahem, incident.

It was the day after Christmas, and you were in PA, visiting. You’d been out of college all of, what, a year or two? You were living in Northern Virginia at the time and came home for the holidays. Your brother, Kevin, and sister, Lexi, were home from college. 

After dinner that night, Mom, Dad, Kevin, and Lexi had the bright idea to play a board game. Monopoly. 

You said you were gonna pass and meet up with your friends. But your dad, he guilted you into staying. He was always so goddamn good at laying a guilt trip on you. 

So you sat at the table with the stupid game, played with your stupid family. Thing about Monopoly is, it can go on for hours. Literal fucking hours. Which it did. Game went for a little more than three hours that night. You know because you kept glancing at your watch over and over, all the while lamenting that your precious time was being eaten up with that dumb game.

Thinking back, it isn’t a particularly good memory. It’s not like you enjoyed yourself. Meanwhile, Kevin and Lexi were smiling and laughing. They did enjoy themselves. They liked and valued spending time together as a family. But that wasn’t your thing. You liked to be out in the world. Anywhere but stuck at home with them. So, really, you don’t remember much about what you talked about or what any of them were up to because you never cared enough to pay attention.

When the game finally ended – your mom won – you glanced again at your watch. It was a little before 11:00. You still had time to go out. Not a lot of time, not as much as you’d like. But better than nothing.

You helped pack up the game, and everybody headed to bed. You couldn’t believe that Kevin and Lexi didn’t have anywhere else to be. Or wanted to be anywhere else. They were fulfilled. They were perfectly at ease going to bed after spending significant time with their family. But ain’t no way you were gonna let the night end on that note.

Everybody went upstairs, and you went to put on your coat. Just then, your dad said, “Got somewhere important to be, huh? You were lookin’ at your watch every two seconds.” 

You didn’t know what to say, so you just shrugged.

“Why are you always running away from us?” he said. “Are we that bad?” 

You didn’t ever feel violent toward your family, but in that moment, you very much wanted to punch your dad in the face. Why’d he call you out like that? Why couldn’t he just let things be? 

The worst thing was that his last question was rhetorical – yes, they were that bad. Yes, they were a burden. But admitting that would make you the asshole, and you didn’t want to be the asshole. And being reminded that you were an asshole only added to your indignance. “No, of course not,” you spat. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

He chuckled, shrugged. “Yeah, guess it was kinda stupid, huh?” He paused. “Anyway, I’m going up.” He started to ascend the staircase. “Have fun and be careful.”

Good and irritated at that point, you went outside. Got high. Smoked a few cigarettes. For some reason you can’t possibly explain, you threw the final butt into a shrub, the bottom of which was ringed with a skirt of dead, dry leaves. Even though you ground out the others on the driveway. Then you got in your car, went out to meet your friends. Came home later to a world on fire. Your world.

Laid up in that helicopter now, you wonder if maybe you meant to burn the house down. Maybe your resentment ran that deep. It’s a notion that makes you want to throw yourself out of the helicopter, because otherwise that thought is gonna torture you ad infinitum. And only death will stop it.

You thought you were gonna die on the sidewalk, maybe even in the ambo. But you didn’t. And now that they reinflated your lung and are making every effort to ensure that you get medical attention as quickly as possible, you’re pretty sure you’re gonna live. 

Shame.

#

An outro to you

You recover. Takes a while. Everything hurts. 

During physical therapy, your mind drifts. That heavy, sad feeling you carried around all that time turns into anger. It’s that anger that causes you to see the future. A possible future, anyway.

You get out of the hospital, decide to up your game. 

You learn fighting styles from different disciplines. Kickboxing. Kung Fu. Muay Thai. Pick up a little something from each. 

You go on the same as you always did, carry on with dumb shit like drinking and fighting. Only this time you’re able to inflict more pain. Take on groups of dumb assholes who aim to ambush you.

You put the moves on Hope, start dating her. 

When Drew and his Douche Bags come for you again, you let Drew take a swing at you, lean into it, take it right behind your left temple, where the bone is the hardest. It hurts, yeah, but Drew breaks his hand on your head, then you break several of the fingers on his other hand and his arm. 

And then you cripple his jagoff buddies, send them to the hospital, too. And you do it in front of a crowd of people who can testify that, yes, you were acting in self-defense. Certainly makes things easy for ol’ Chitwood.

This is your anger-fueled daydream. This is what keeps you going: the thought of hurting others rather than hurting yourself. Hurting them badly.

In other words, you learn nothing. You can’t learn to forgive Drew and his Douche Bags because you can’t learn to forgive yourself. Shit, maybe you never will.

During this stupid little reverie, your physical therapist makes a comment about your name, how it’s not one you hear every day. “What made your parents pick that?” she says.

You’re named Trenton, after New Jersey’s capitol, where your parents met. A city that used to be worth something. 

Apropos for a person who used to be worth something. 

END

Posted in fiction | Tagged | Comments Off on “Lower Slower” – short fiction

“The Mom with the Abs, the Stripper with the Braces” – short fiction

The mom with the abs uses a Zodiac to stalk the dolphins. 

After her kids are in bed, after her husband gives her an insufficient cornholing, she drags the inflatable boat to the beach. Puts the oars in the locks, paddles out beyond the breakers, into the open water of the Atlantic. Water splashes and beads on her obsidian wetsuit, shimmers in the moonlight.  

She gets aways from shore, readies her speargun. She sets it aside, strips off her wetsuit. A breeze sweeps over the Zodiac. Her nipples stand up and salute. She prefers to do her killing in the nude. Makes it that much easier to masturbate after.

Then she waits. Waits for that telltale ripple in the water. She needs one to crest. Just one. There’s a flutter near the port bow. She slowly hefts the speargun, aims. Waits until that beautiful dark arc – dorsal fin and all – breaks the water. Then her finger mashes the trigger. 

THWIP!

The harpoon hits home. Cue the high-pitched keening from the porpoise.

She’s never actually done anything with her kills. Never wanted to. She simply ‘poons the porpoises, listens to their death cries as her fingers deliver a sharp orgasm.

#

The stripper with the braces finishes her shift at Sapphire, drives into the Nevada desert. She keeps an eye on the clock, edges the speedometer to seventy-five. Eighty. Eight-five. Ninety. One-oh-five. Can’t keep the babysitter waiting too long.

A cockeyed, sun-bleached mile marker appears on her right. She mashes the brake pedal. Squeals to a stop. She opens her car door, takes off her shoes.

Her bare feet carry her over the cool desert floor. She steps quickly, gingerly, to avoid the even cooler sand underneath. 

Meyer’s waiting where he’s always waiting. At the base of a cactus. 

Where she buried him.

She kneels, digs with her hands. Goes about a foot down. Her fingers graze a plastic bag, something long and hard inside. 

A humerus. An arm bone. The part between the elbow and the shoulder.

The humerus was once under the ground with the rest of Meyer. But then one day she found it a few feet from where Meyer was buried. A bit of meat still clinging to it, all rotted and stringy. She figured an animal must’ve gotten to it somehow. 

In tears, she took it home, gently carved away the meat chunk with a paring knife. Then she soaked the bone in a plastic bucket of soapy water. She found that Dawn worked best for this sort of thing. After that, she put the humerus in a hydrogen peroxide bath for a few hours. When she pulled it out, that bad boy was white as paper.

She took it back to Meyer’s grave, fully intending to put it back underground. Then she noticed the shape of it. 

Now: the stripper with the braces removes her jeans, lies on the ground. Balls the jeans up, puts them under her head. She unwraps the humerus, lays it on her torso so that the smooth knob of the ball joint grazes her belly button ring. From the plastic bag, she removes a small packet – an alcohol wipe. She wipes the top half of the bone, particularly the ball joint, waves it around to dry.

She moves her underwear to the side, puts the ball joint inside her. Like dozens of times before, it pops right in. 

Moving it in and out, she thinks about Meyer. Her parents. The colony. Then Meyer again. It’s a Möbius strip of things lost.

Grief, she’s learned, is a puppet master best not underestimated. It can get you to do some weird shit.

She rubs a hand over her stomach, her augmented breasts. Beneath her shirt, right between her breasts, is where a tattoo of a heart used to reside. It was delicate. Had a certain Victorian flair to it. The middle of the heart said MEYER DAVID in calligraphic script. That is, before she had it lasered the fuck off. She quickly learned that guys don’t tend to be generous tippers when they see that kind of ink on a stripper.

She comes until she cries.

#

The mom with the abs executes the Plow. The Tripod Headstand with Lotus Legs. The Scorpion Handstand. The Destroyer of the Universe.

The Destroyer, that’s her favorite. Took her months to master it. Longer than the Scorpion, even.

The other women in the mom’s yoga class worship her. They invite her to join their book clubs, join them at Twist for a juice. The mom with the abs declines. Always declines. She took up yoga to focus her mind, her body. Not to make friends. 

The instructor, Autumn, approaches the mom with the abs when class concludes. The mom rolls up her mat, secures it with webbed straps. “Hey,” Autumn says. “Great work today. You sure you don’t wanna teach a class? The other ladies are looking at you half the time anyway.”

The mom with the abs smiles politely, shakes her head no. “Nah, I’m okay,” she says. “Thanks, though.”

This has happened almost every class for the past few weeks. Autumn is horrible at taking a hint. Or maybe she’s just really hopeful. The mom with the abs can’t tell which. 

In truth, the mom with the abs doesn’t like exercise classes. Can’t stand the pre- and post-class chatting. The class does get her out of her head, though. Which is the point. Which is why her therapist suggested yoga in the first place. 

And mastering the Destroyer of the Universe, well, the mom with the abs loves laying claim to that. Makes her feel like she’s in control. If only for a little while.

#

The stripper with the braces loves going to the orthodontist. When she had the braces put on, she had no idea she’d enjoy it so much. 

Dr. Andy isn’t much to look at. His blond hair is thinning, inching away from his forehead. He has a pinchable amount of paunch around the middle. He wears ridiculous ties, many of which clash with his shirts. Today he’s wearing a yellow and brown-checked tie with a pink shirt. The stripper with the braces wonders whether he’s color blind.

His touch, though. He hovers over her, inches from her face, his hands lightly undoing the elastic around the bracket on each tooth. He slips the wire out, replaces it with another. He softly hums “Bang a Gong” by T. Rex as it emanates from the speakers embedded in the ceiling. He’s so gentle. So precise.

And his smell. The stripper can’t exactly pinpoint it, and she’s dying to ask him what it is. There’s a bit of Old Spice in there. But it’s not the cologne. It’s not that heavy. A deodorant maybe? There’s something else, too. A body wash, something. But she can only smell it when he’s this close to her. He smells like Meyer. 

Her nipples harden. She hopes Dr. Andy doesn’t notice. But she also kinda hopes he does.

Dr. Andy slips on the replacement elastics, works the little plier doodads with the precision of a fine-scale modeler. She imagines him in a cramped little room in a basement, bent over a beat-up card table, gently sliding decals onto the body of a model airplane, still humming “Bang a Gong.”

She looks at his eyes, hopes to catch his gaze. In her line of work, her eyes are just as important as her breasts. She’s learned to say full sentences with a ten-second stare. Dr. Andy’s eyes are a greyish blue, a teensy fleck of black in the left one. But those eyes stay trained on the stripper’s braces, the work at hand. 

Which only makes her want him more. She figures there’s a good chance she isn’t the only stripper whose teeth he’s fixed. There’s a good chance he isn’t one for strip clubs, period. She’s never seen him at Sapphire. And she’s looked. Many, many times.

#

The mom with the abs works three days a week at the Candy Kitchen in Rehoboth Beach. Dishes out bags of nonpareils. Boxes of saltwater taffy. Blocks of fudge. 

Her kids love smelling her clothes when she comes home from work. They press their little button noses to her taut stomach, breathe deeply of her official Candy Kitchen polo shirt. “Momma Yum-Yum,” they call her.

She hates sugar. Well, that’s not exactly true. She doesn’t hate it. She loves it, truth be told. But it makes her too jittery. And then there’s the crash, which she loathes. 

She’s done cocaine more than a few times in her life. Each time felt AMAZING. For about twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Then she bottomed out. Felt like shit. Sugar has a similar effect. Though less intense. So no sugar for the mom with the abs. Made it easy to get those abs.  

The Candy Kitchen gig was her therapist’s idea, too. Another distraction. “It’ll keep your mind on the present,” the therapist said. “The here and now.”

Yet with every sack of gummies she scoops, every parcel of chocolate-covered potato chips she rings up, the past lingers in her mind like dust in an attic – it coats everything, weighs it down, suffocates.

It makes her want to slam her hand in a car door. 

#

The stripper with the braces wants to cry when she sees her son, Braeden. Especially when Braeden lays his head in her lap. It’s exactly what Meyer used to do.

One day, the stripper with the braces made a list of the things Meyer and Braeden have in common. It went like this:

  • Eyes (brown like really watery mud)
  • Curly, dirty blond hair
  • Loves playing with my hair
  • Fusses when I play with his
  • Sore loser (i’m trying to break that habit)
  • Doesn’t like mac and cheese (don’t get this. never will.)
  • Freakishly strong even though he’s scrawny
  • Oddly obsessed with Johnny Cash music
  • Horrible liar (but knows it – he hardly ever lies)
  • Loves playing pretend

The stripper with the braces felt weird about the last one. Braeden’s version of pretend is not Meyer’s version. It’s Meyer’s version that causes the stripper’s eyes to well up. She hopes Braeden never likes Meyer’s version.

#

The mom with the abs kills dolphins so she won’t have an affair. 

Once, she asked her husband, Glenn, to slap her across the face while having sex. Glenn pretended he didn’t hear her. She said it again, louder, annunciated every syllable. He still kept pumping away, didn’t raise a hand. She said, “Fucking hit me, asshole!” He slapped her, but gently. Playfully, even. Didn’t even hurt. Not wanting to push the issue, though, she acted as if she liked it. Glenn smiled, relieved.

The very next day she went out and fucked some random guy who she knew would hit her. The guy had a reputation around town. Liked to fight. Stank like booze. Trent something. 

He took her home, fucked her brains out. When she asked for it, he hit her. Hard. Didn’t hesitate. Belted her right across the face. She saw stars. Then he choked her. She nearly passed out. 

The mom with the abs never came as hard as she did that night. But she felt so guilty afterward, swore off extramarital sex.

But she still wanted pain. And what better way to get that than to kill something beautiful. 

#

After she gets out of the shower, the stripper with the braces drops her towel, stares at herself in a full-length mirror. Her eyes wander over the blonde-framed face and bombshell body that have earned her stupid good money. 

She knows full well that looks don’t last forever. Even now, in only her late twenties, she can see the natal beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Barely noticeable, but still noticeable.

She gets regular offers to do porn – which she’s never pursued, though she has thought about it – and while she still gets offers to do schoolgirl and babysitter porn, the offers to do MILF porn have begun to filter in more and more. Even though MILF porn is a thing, MILF strippers kinda aren’t. That is, unless the MILF strippers in question are in their very early twenties.

So. The clock is ticking. And she knows it. 

Later in the morning, she’s laid back in the dental chair in Dr. Andy’s office. He’s wearing a cobalt-blue shirt with a Kelly-green tie. Hums along to “Jailbreak” by Thin Lizzy as he does his usual maintenance routine on her braces.

He finishes, brings the chair back up to sitting position. Her nipples are hard once again, and for a moment, she’s dumbstruck. 

In her head, leading up to this moment, she rehearsed different ways to ask Dr. Andy about a career in dentistry while also kinda-sorta flirting with him. In her head, she tried the whole demure damsel in distress routine. But it didn’t feel quite right.

Dr. Andy strips off his nitrile gloves, and she says, “Um, do you think, um, you could. I mean, would you mind.”

He looks down at her, waiting for her to finish.

A voice in her head: Oh come on, bitch. He’s just another dude with a dick. Work that shit!

She stands up – back straight, tits thrust out – and looks him dead in the eye, says, “So look, I like you, and I wanna take you to lunch. My treat. Any place you want. You wanna have lunch with me?”

He fumfers around, says something about having to check his schedule.

“Stop it. Get over yourself and come to lunch with me.” She smiles, puts a hand on his upper arm. “I need some career advice.”

He flashes a nervous little grin. “Okay.”

The voice in her head: Yes, bitch! That is how you do it!

#

The mom with the abs almost runs into one of her kills on the beach. Literally.

She’s out for her morning run and nearly collides with a group of people standing around near the surf. This is because she always keeps her eyes on the ground while she runs on the beach. Has to. What with the uneven ground and washed-up bits of oceanic flotsam that could easily turn an ankle.

It’s the weeping that gets her attention. She looks up, spots the mullers, darts right, narrowly misses the throng. But then trips over a horseshoe crab shell. She goes down, rolls on the sand. Comes to a stop. Stands, brushes herself off. Finds that, thankfully, nothing’s broken or sprained.

That’s when she sees the dolphin. 

Chunks of its flesh are torn away. One flipper is missing. A tiny crab climbs out of its blowhole. The dorsal fin is jagged like something’s been chewing on it. The harpoon still sticks out of the animal’s flank, has slimy strings of seaweed tangled around it. 

The bystanders form a crescent around the dolphin. Shake their heads. Tut. Wonder aloud to themselves how anybody could do such a thing. One of them is on the phone with somebody – the police? animal control? – while another weeps.

The mom with the abs knows she should be disgusted. Upset. Creeped out. Something. Staring at the deal animal, at the aftermath of her handiwork, she feels something quite the opposite, though. A tingling. An intense, pleasurable tingling in her abdomen, which courses down, settles between her legs. 

She turns, sprints toward home where she proceeds to lock herself in the bathroom and rub one out.

#

The stripper with the braces has a hard time studying. Because Dr. Andy is helping her study, and that makes it hard to focus. 

The stripper with the braces never finished high school. Long story short: when she had Braeden, she had to drop out. And now that she’s decided to become a dental hygienist, she needs to go back to school. But in order to do that, she has to get her GED. And she managed to convince Dr. Andy to help her study for the exam. 

They sit at Dr. Andy’s kitchen table, the test materials arranged neatly in front of them. He insisted on doing it at his house because he wanted a “distraction-free environment.” Even though Johnny Cash is playing softly in the background. But it’s only because music always helped him study. It’s how he made it through college. And dental school.

Much to the stripper’s chagrin, though, he wants to help her study. Gun to her head, she’d admit that, yeah, she wanted his help studying, but those weren’t her true intentions. Her true intentions were to put the moves on him. But he’s wholly focused on test prep, dodging her hints like a deadbeat dodges the IRS – with complete and absurd dedication.

They review some simple algebra equations, and the stripper puts her hand on Dr. Andy’s leg. Upper thigh, to be precise.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. 

The stripper begins rubbing his leg. Gets really close to his dick.

He looks up from the study materials, stares her dead in the eye. “Do you want your GED?”

The stripper’s lips part, but no words come out.

“Do you want,” he says. “Your GED.”

She slowly removes her hand from his leg. “Yes.”

“And you really want to become a hygienist?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you need to focus, and stop with this seduction crap.”

Again her lips part, but only her breath passes between them.

“I’m not one of your marks at the club, okay? I’m a no-nonsense guy who’s in a position to help you attain your goal. Which I’m more than happy to do. And until you are well on the road to becoming a hygienist, I have no interest in dating you.”

She flinches.

“It’s not personal. And I’m not judging you. Or what you do. It’s just that I’ve dated exotic dancers” – exotic dancers, she notes, not strippers – “before, and it always ends in disaster. There’s too much drama, too much nonsense. But you seem different than the others. Like you truly want something more. So I’m helping because I want to help. Not because I want to get in your pants. So if you’re looking for a fling or…whatever, tell me now. Because I don’t have time to waste on more nonsense.” He stares. “What’s it gonna be.”

It’s the kind of brutal honesty Meyer used to hit her with. While it hurts to hear, it’s a good hurt. The kind that gets her wet. “I want your help,” she says. “And no more bullshit, I swear.”

He nods, turns his attention back to the study materials.

“Um,” she says, “okay if I take a quick pee break, though?”

He grins. “Sure.”

She goes to the bathroom, hikes up her skirt – worn for easy access in the hopes that Dr. Andy would take the bait – and masturbates furiously. Comes in record time. 

She doesn’t think of Meyer once.

#

The mom with the abs doesn’t regret it when she calls Autumn a cunt.

It’s after yoga one day, and Autumn once again badgers the mom to teach a class. “Just a one-and-done fill-in kinda thing,” Autumn says. She adds that she has to drive up to Philly to take her mom for a chemo treatment because her dad has some prior engagement blah blah blah blah. 

The mom with the abs tunes out. She’s been doing that a lot recently. She’s itchy, ill at ease. She hasn’t been able to go on the hunt lately, what with the Dewey and Rehoboth cops patrolling the beach at night. They started doing that immediately after her dead prey washed up on shore. With her being temporarily out of business, so to speak, she hasn’t been sleeping well and has been a bit off, to put it mildly. 

The mom’s eyes track around the room, completely avoiding Autumn’s. She says she’d love to but can’t. Makes excuses about having to work, her kids, stuff at home.

Nothing works, and Autumn continues to bore in, saying it’d be a huge help, and she’d give the mom a month’s worth of free classes in return, and “please please please, just this once, everybody looks up to you,” and “the other girls would love it, it’s totally easy. Please? Please?

“Bitch, I said I can’t do it, and I can’t do it!” the mom says. “This is your problem, so fuck off, and take care of it yourself! Fucking whiny cunt.” She grabs her stuff and storms toward the door, past the small cadre of women who’ve abruptly stopped chatting and watch as the mom with the abs marches out of the yoga studio.

While the mom would admit that she overreacted, she can’t help but grin as she makes her way home. Felt good to be shitty to an innocent.

#

The stripper with the braces calls her sister, Shelley.

On the other side of the country, just as she’s finishing up the dinner dishes, the mom with the abs hears her cell phone ring. She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, picks up the phone, flips it open. “TINA,” the screen declares. The mom with the abs sighs, takes the call.

“Hey, Shell,” says the stripper with the braces. “It’s me.”

“Yeah, I know,” says the mom with the abs. “What’s up?” 

“So Thanksgiving is next week,” Tina says.

“I’m aware,” Shelley says. “You still coming here?”

“That’s what I called about, actually. Would it be okay if I, um, brought somebody? Besides Braeden, I mean.”

“What, like a date?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Uh,” Shelley looks out the window, at the dark ocean beyond the pane, imagines her would-be prey gliding just beneath its surface, their slick grey hides displacing water like oil, “yeah, sure.”

There’s a pause. Shelley knows Tina’s waiting for her to ask a follow-up question. She doesn’t want to, though. Doesn’t want to go where that road leads. But she capitulates. “So how long have you known this guy?” she says.

Shelley can hear Tina beaming through the phone before she says, “I’ve known him for a while, but we just started seeing each other. He’s my, um, orthodontist.”

“Oh! Cool.” Shelley hopes she sounds excited. Because she isn’t.

“Yeah, he, um.”

Please don’t say it, Shelley thinks. Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.

“He reminds me a lot of Meyer.”

Shelley closes her eyes, purses her lips. She desperately wants to shut the memory out.

But she never can.

#

The roughhewn walls of the house baffle sound the way a megaphone does. Shelley can hear every sound that comes from Tina’s room. Which, yes, includes Tina’s moans when she and Meyer have sex. 

Tonight, though, the bed squeaks, but it isn’t accompanied by moans. “No,” Tina says. “Stop. Meyer, please. Stop. Not without a cond—” Tina’s voice is garbled.

Meyer grunts. “Ow!” A slap. “Stay still!”

Shelley gets out of bed, runs to Tina’s door, rattles the knob. It’s locked. So she kicks it in. The flimsy doorframe makes it easy. The door flies open, bangs against the wall. 

Meyer’s on top of Tina, his hand clamped over her mouth. His shirttail barely covers his ass. He moans, shudders, his buttocks flexing. Tina’s bare legs are spread, her socks still on her feet. Tina looks at Shelley, her eyes wide. Meyer looks at Shelley, too. But he’s just plain frozen.

Shelley leaps at Meyer, barrels into him at full speed, knocks him off Tina. 

Meyer stumbles, stumbles, falls toward the window, crashes through the thin pane of glass. There’s a soft thud outside, and then nothing. Crickets. An owl hoots.

Tina, her bottom half bare as the day she was born, minus the socks, hurries to the window. Shelley joins her, peers down.

Meyer lies on the ground below, his limbs twisted. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. 

“Baby?” Tina says. “Baby?!” She runs out of the room, fast as her naked legs can carry her. Shelley glimpses a glossy, milky line running down the inside of Tina’s thigh. 

Shelley follows, scrambles downstairs, out the front door after Tina.

Tina kneels next to Meyer, shakes him. His head rests at a disquieting angle. “Baby!” she says. “Baby, wake up!” She puts her head to his chest. “Oh shit.” Shakes him some more. “Baby!”

Shelley kneels, too. Takes Meyer’s limp wrist in her hand. She drops it, puts two fingers against Meyer’s throat, just under his jaw. Nothing. She pulls her hand away.

Tina looks at her sister. 

Shelley licks her dry lips. “He’s dead.”

Tina begins to cry, pushes Shelley. “Why’d you do that?!”

“He was raping you!”

“No, he wasn’t! We were,” Tina sniffs, “whaddaya call it. Roleplaying.”

“That was not roleplaying,” Shelley says. “You. I mean. I heard you slap him.”

“Not hard!” Tina cries harder, throws her arms around Meyer’s body. Cries into his torn, dirty shirt. 

“We need to get rid of the body,” Shelley says. “I mean, if the elders find out. We. Mom and Dad. We’ll be shunned.” She doesn’t fear God, but she does fear the elders. Luckily, their parents, the elders, and the other adults in the colony are out of town at a Bible retreat.

Still sobbing, Tina nods. She knows that Shelley’s right. Hates that Shelley’s right. Hates Shelley, period.

They find a tarp, roll up Meyer’s body in it, muscle it into the bed of their father’s pickup. They both sweat and grunt. Tina cries. But perseveres.

Shelley finds two shovels, places them in the bed next to Meyer’s body.

Then they drive into the desert to bury their sin.

#

Even now, as Tina prattles on about the many shining attributes of Dr. Andy, Shelley can see the desert. Hear the sand grind under her sneakers. 

Whiff her own sweaty funk as she pierces the ground with the metal spade of a shovel. Wince at the burning in her muscles as she scoops out mound after mound of gritty earth. 

Hear her and Tina’s grunts as they pull Meyer’s wrapped body out of the truck bed, drag it to the hole, heave it in.

Smell the evacuated piss and shit from Meyer’s body waft up when it hits the bottom of the grave.

Feel Tina’s tears soak into the shoulder of her shirt as Shelley holds her close, not even bothering to tell her it’ll be okay because it won’t.

Taste the tepid but clean water they drink from a bottle of Poland Spring passed between them on the ride back to the colony.

“Shell?” Tina says. “You still there?”

Shelley opens her eyes. “Yeah, I’m here.” But she isn’t. Because she’s a million miles away, thinking about a past she desperately wants to kill. A past that Tina desperately wants to resurrect. It’s exactly what turned their lives upside-down.

#

Months after Meyer dies, Shelley one day uses the bathroom while Tina’s taking a shower.

“What are you doing?!” Tina says from behind the clear plastic shower curtain. “Get outta here!”

“Calm down, I just gotta pee.”

“So hold it! Or go outside!”

“What’s your problem?” Shelley says. “We do this all the ti—” She stops, notices Tina’s posture. Tina’s got her back to Shelley and is crossing her arms over her midsection. Shelley pulls back the curtain, turns the water off. “Tina, turn around.”

“What are you doing, freak? Turn the water back on!”

Gently, Shelley puts a hand on Tina’s shoulder. “C’mon, just.” 

Tina hangs her head, slowly turns. Lets her arms drop to her sides. Rivulets of water run down her body, cresting at the slight convex bump of her stomach before continuing downward. Her boobs, which were a medium A-cup at best, have swelled to a small B.

“Oh my god,” Shelley says. “Is it Meyer’s?”

Tina, gaze still pointed downward, nods. 

“You gotta get rid of it,” Shelley says. 

Tina begins to cry softly. “I can’t, Shell.” She sniffs, looks down at her belly, rubs it in a slow, circular motion. “It’s all I have left of him.”

“Once people find out, though.”

Tina nods, sniffles. “I know.”

After that, they keep Tina’s secret as best they can. But there’s only so much overalls and oversized sweaters can hide. Soon, their parents find out.

They give Tina an earful, of course. Deride her as a jezebel, a whore. Tell her that she and her child will be granted a special place in hell. Then they demand to know who the father is. 

Tina lies her ass off, says Meyer found out she was pregnant and took off. It breaks Tina’s heart to disgrace his memory like that since he would’ve never abandoned her, but she figures it’s better than the truth. But the lie only makes things worse. After all, when Meyer initially “disappeared,” Tina claimed not to know what happened to him or where he went. So not only is she a jezebel, she’s a liar besides.

As pissed as her parents are, they don’t tell anybody. Not their friends and certainly not the elders. Instead, they tell Tina to leave and never come back.

Shelley sees this coming a mile away. She gives them a prepared speech about sticking together as a family, the power of forgiveness, how Jesus would never turn Tina away. When none of this makes a dent in their parents’ resolve, Shelley antes up with an ultimatum: shun Tina, and Shelley walks, too. Either lose both children or neither. 

Much to Shelley’s surprise and chagrin, their parents, without hesitation, tell her, Fine, go. “And take your whore sister with you,” their mom says.

Shelley and Tina leave. Take a bus to the only major city nearby: Vegas. Check into some shitty motel a few blocks from the Strip. The next day, Shelley begins brainstorming job ideas. Her first thought? A titty bar near their motel. “We can’t do that,” Tina says. “God wouldn’t—”

“God hasn’t done a fucking thing to help us,” Shelley says. “So God doesn’t get to have an opinion. Besides, youdon’t have to do anything. I’m gonna work there. You just rest and get ready to deliver that baby.” Shelley doesn’t add that there ain’t no way a titty bar is gonna hire a nine-months-pregnant girl, anyway. 

Though she isn’t thrilled with her plan, Shelley sucks it up and goes to work at the titty bar. It can be gross and demeaning, sure, but there’s one enormous silver lining: the money’s ridiculously good. It’s so good that by the time Braeden is born, they have enough money to move into a decent apartment. 

Tina is nursing Braeden late one night when Shelley comes home from work. She drops her purse on the floor, plops down on the couch next to Tina, exhales heavily. She takes Braeden’s tiny foot in her hand, rubs his little toes with her thumb as Tina nurses him.   

“How was work?” Tina says.

Shelley gives her standard response: “It is what it is.”

She smells like the other strippers she works with, that strawberry-smelling crap they spray themselves with. Her face and sinewy arms are bedaubed with specks of body glitter from using the same poles and stage as the other dancers. Her heavy makeup is still caked on. 

She used to beeline right to the bathroom to clean up after work. To scrub herself of all remnants of the club, which she couldn’t wait to get off her body. Lately, though, she collapses on the couch first. Then eats dinner. Then showers. Maybe.

Shelley’s exhausted, and Tina knows it. Looking at her sister covered in things she loathes but still not complaining while all Tina has to do is sit home and take care of her son, Tina curses herself for ever resenting Shelley.  

“I made that chicken and broccoli casserole that Mom makes,” Tina says. “There’s a plate for you in the fridge.”

“Really?” Shelley says. “You hate that stuff.”

Tina shrugs. “It’s not so bad. Besides, it’s your favorite,” she says. “And from now on, you tell me what you want for dinner, and I’ll make it.” A pause. “At least until I can find a job.”

Shelley grins. “Can’t argue with that.” She sits back, shuts her eyes. “Any idea where you wanna work?”

“Um, is the club hiring?”

#

Tina continues to ramble while Shelley pads into the living room, opens the sliding glass door. She steps out on to the deck, which overlooks the beach. 

A stiff breeze whips her hair across her face. She pulls her sweater tight around her. Her eyes roam over the beach to the water beyond. A Dewey Beach Police truck slowly rolls across the sand. Its side-mounted searchlight sweeps the beach, the ocean. Still searching for the maritime assassin. 

Even with her, ahem, “hobby” on hold, she’s kept it together for the most part. Especially after the Autumn incident, which, surprisingly, helped quite a bit. But now, with Tina yapping about this Meyer analogue, that all-too-familiar itchiness digs its claws in, squeezes hard.

Shelley turns away, steps back inside. Eyes a small box on the kitchen table. Her eyes trace the sunshiny Candy Kitchen logo on the box top. Inside is a little less than a pound of chocolate fudge. She brought it home for her kids. Not something she does often. She just thought they’d enjoy a little treat. And she never allows them to have much at a time anyway. Only a small cube for each of them after dinner.

She finishes her call with Tina, hangs up. Sits down at the kitchen table. Lays her cell phone next to the fudge box. She puts her elbows on the tabletop, massages her forehead. She stops, pulls the box toward her, opens it slowly.

The smell wafts up. Thick. Sweet. Luscious. So much more noticeable when it isn’t competing with the hundreds of other scents at the store.

A white, flimsy plastic knife lies next to the dark confection. Shelley licks her lips. Cuts off a tiny sliver. Tweezes it between her thumb and forefinger. She pinches it flat, pops it in her mouth before she can think twice.

She holds it in her mouth. Lets it melt. Savors it as the chocolate coats her tongue and teeth. “Fuck that’s good,” she exhales. She cuts another piece, eats it. Then another. And another. A fifth, a sixth. 

The sugar zips along the entire tangled roadmap of her nervous system. Makes her body feels like one big sparkler. Or, better yet, a fuse. The sugar makes every single moment a hold-your-breath-cuz-hear-come-the-fireworks! sizzle of excitement. And like a fuse, there’s gonna be the inevitable snuff-out. Only this’ll be less of an explosion and more of an implosion. She should go do something to try to offset it. Go for a run. Practice yoga. Fuck Glenn, maybe.

Instead, she gets up, leaves the house. Goes to find Trent what’s-his-name, who’ll be more than happy to murder her vagina while whacking the dark thoughts out of her head. 

She walks up Houston Street toward Route 1. Stops when a wild rabbit crosses her path. It stops, too, and sits on its hindlegs in the gravel driveway of a ranch-style cottage.

Dewey and Rehoboth are full of rabbits. They’re all over the fuckin’ place. 

She lunges at it, and it hops away, but its efforts to escape prove futile. Not even a rabbit is faster than the mom with the abs. Especially when she’s all hopped up on sugar.

She snatches it up, cradles it. The rabbit thrashes a bit, then calms down. The mom with the abs strokes its ears, its back. 

And then she begins strangling it. The rabbit emits an ear-stabbing cry as it struggles to stay alive, much like the dolphins did. 

Her nipples go rock-hard, and her crotch gets very warm very quickly. When her sinewy hands crush the rabbit’s tiny windpipe and the keening stops suddenly, she comes.

She returns home all drowsy and sex-drunk. Dead rabbit still in hand. Not knowing what else to do with it, she puts it in a plastic bag, pops it in the freezer.

With the present on ice, she’s able to freeze out the past. She sleeps better than she has in months.

END

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“Thanksgiving ’96: An Oral History” – short fiction

It was an idea that had been bandied about the Lavell household for years: why not spend one Thanksgiving with the pilgrims? It was matriarch Paula Lavell’s brainchild, one of her bucket list items. She suggested the idea to the family many times only to be rebuffed. In a family of six, Paula was outnumbered five to one. But in November 1996, Paula’s husband, Brad, finally gave in, and, amid protestations that they were still outvoted four to two, the two parents forced their four sons on a journey to Plymouth, Massachusetts, for a Thanksgiving that none of them would ever forget. Not that they wouldn’t try.

Tuesday, November 26; George Washington Bridge, NY – The Slurpee Cup Incident

Paula Lavell (mother): I always wanted to have Thanksgiving with the pilgrims. Just sounded fun to me. Also, I didn’t feel like cooking. Have you ever cooked for six people? This one wants corn, this one doesn’t. This one likes mashed potatoes, this one doesn’t. I keep my cooking knives dull for a reason: less temptation. [crosses herself] Forgive me, Jesus.

Bradford “Brad” Lavell, Sr. (father): She said, “Thanksgiving with the pilgrims,” and I heard, “You’ll have to do all the driving while I sit and stare out the window.” But what was I gonna do? Say no?

Bradford “B.J.”/“Beej” Lavell, Jr. (age 18): Dad totally could’ve said no. He could’ve prevented the whole thing. But noooo, those two idiots always have each other’s backs. They’re like Hitler and Goebbels. Not sure which is which, though. [pauses] Although Mom seems more like Hitler.

Cain “Cay” Lavell (age 16): There were at least two keg parties I missed out on. Two that I know about. I did get to piss in Beej’s face, though. That was awesome. Asshole had that coming.

Abel Lavell (age 15): Dude, it sucked. I mean, except when Cay pissed in Beej’s face. That was hilarious. Asshole had that coming.

Abraham “Abe” Lavell (age 10): Cay’s wing-wang is small, like mine. I like pilgrims. 

Bradford, Sr.: I really didn’t want to do the trip in one shot, but Paula insisted. She said it’d only take six hours. Only. Like six isn’t a lot. Goddamn thing took us eight hours. “Take the GW,” she said. “It’ll be faster,” she said.

Cain: The drive wasn’t so bad. It would’ve been better if Beej shared his Calvin and Hobbes books with us.

Bradford, Jr.: Look, man. You know what it’s like to have three younger brothers? It’s like having three malignant tumors: they keep growing and cause you nothing but pain and irritation. [pauses] Actually, no, it’s not like that because you can surgically remove tumors. My brothers are inoperable. And you know how many times I’ve had to rescue one of my books from the bathroom after Cay or Abel take them in there while they’re shitting? You can’t do that with somebody else’s books, man. You just can’t.

Cain: Beej is such a pussy.

Abel: Beej is such a little bitch. No wonder him and Abe get along so well; Abe’s a little bitch, too.

Abraham: Beej let me read Yukon Ho! It’s the one Cay always takes in the bathroom when he makes a Beej. That’s what Cay calls it when he poops: “making a Beej.” 

Paula: Alright, so the GW was jammed. Who knew?

Bradford, Sr.: Thanksgiving week is historically the biggest travel week OF THE ENTIRE YEAR. How could you notknow that? I should’ve given her an earful about that. But know what happened the last time I blew up at Paula? She brought it up SIXTEEN YEARS LATER. 

Bradford, Jr.: Mom’s totally passive aggressive. I swear she gave Cay all those juice boxes because she was annoyed that I wasn’t sharing my books. She knew what she was doing.

Cain: I ate a thing of chips, two things of pretzels, and half a thing of Goldfish. Washed all that down with, like, four apple juices. 

Abel: Cay is such a fat ass. Don’t tell him I said that, though. Last time I called him that he gave me a contusion on my arm. I didn’t even know what a contusion was before he gave me one.

Paula: What’s a road trip without at least a dozen bathroom stops? So of course Cain had to pee when we were stuck on the GW. [smiles, shakes her head] That kid loves his apple juice.

Cain: Shit is so good.

Bradford, Jr.: So Mom’s like, “B.J., can you hold that Slurpee cup for him?”

Abraham: I’m glad I was done with my Slurpee. Mom got it for me when we stopped to go to the bathroom in New Jersey. She said it was my treat for being good. Nobody else got one. 

Abel: Abe is such a little bitch.

Cain: Abe is such. A little. Bitch.

Abraham: Blue raspberry’s my favorite.

Bradford, Jr.: I was like, “No, I’m not gonna hold the piss cup for that fat ass.” Dad guilted me into it, though. He said I was the only one he trusted to do it. Like holding a piss cup is the equivalent of brain surgery.

Bradford, Sr.: There is no finer weapon in the war that is parenting than the guilt trip. I can get that kid to do anything. [pauses] Honestly, though, one of the others would’ve cocked it up royally. A couple months ago, Cain was driving my car, and the taillight went out. So I told him to change the bulb. Which is the easiest thing in the world to do. You go in through the trunk, take out the bulb, pop in another. Takes two minutes. Well, the kid actually ripped. The taillight. Off the car to get to the bulb. And he did it with his bare hands. I didn’t even know that was possible. Anyway, that’s why I only trust B.J.

Bradford, Jr.: So I’m holding the piss cup, and Cay pulls his dick out, and…nothing happens.

Cain: Yeah, so, I’m pee shy. Mom says it happens to everyone.

Bradford, Jr.: Not everybody is pee shy. I could piss in front of a stadium of people. 

Bradford, Sr.: I don’t know where Cain got the pee shyness from. None of his brothers are pee shy. In fact, one time, B.J. peed in front of a stadium of people. I was there. During a soccer game, he had to pee and there wasn’t time to go to the bathroom, so he ran off the field during a play and pissed right there on the sidelines. Crowd went nuts. The ref also yellow-flagged him, which was a bullshit call. I mean, c’mon, kid had to go.

Bradford, Jr.: Anyway, I didn’t look at Cay. Nobody did. And Cay is straining and straining. And then he starts laughing. 

Cain: I was just looking down at my dick and at Beej’s dumb face and Beej holding the Slurpee cup, and I got the giggles. Happens when I’m nervous.

Bradford, Jr.: And what happens when you laugh? You relax. So, fuckin’ Cay starts pissing, but the fat fuck is also laughing, and his aim isn’t great anyway, so the piss goes all over the place. Goes on the windows, on the seats, and, yes, on. My. Face.

Abel: [laughing] Asshole had that coming.

Bradford, Jr.: I swear that motherfucker did that on purpose.

Cain: I didn’t do it on purpose. [pauses] I mean, okay, maybe a little. [laughs]

Bradford, Jr.: Even went in my mouth.

Cain: I didn’t mean for it to go in Beej’s mouth, though. [pauses] I mean, okay, maybe a little. [laughs]

Abraham: It smelled like apple juice. I wonder if it tasted like apple juice.

Paula: I really tried not to laugh. It’s like when one of them farts – I always try not to laugh. [laughs] But it’s no use. [laughs] Maybe it’s like a form of Stockholm Syndrome – I’ve been around farts and toilet humor so much that now I think it’s endearing. [laughs, crosses herself] Forgive me, Jesus.

Bradford, Sr.: Nobody was laughing when B.J. started puking, though. [shakes head] This always happens. We go on a road trip, B.J. ends up puking. We went to D.C., he puked. We went to the Outer Banks, he puked. We went to Rhode Island, he puked. We went to Rehoboth Beach, he puked.

Bradford, Jr.: I have a sensitive stomach. Also, PISS WENT IN MY MOUTH.

Abel: Asshole puked on me. Shit had chili and hot dogs in it. [pauses] And fries. Some of ‘em were whole.

Bradford, Sr.: We’d stopped at a hot dog place in Jersey for lunch. I asked him if it tasted as good coming out as it did going in. [laughs]

Bradford, Jr.: Dad’s such a tool. [pauses] But it actually didn’t taste that bad.

Abel: Doesn’t Beej chew his food? How was that shit whole when it came out?

Bradford, Jr.: I really did try to get as much of it in the Slurpee cup as I could. But some went on Abel. Sue me. Serves that little prick for laughing when Cay pissed on me.

Paula: And then Abraham started throwing up. He said it was the smell.

Abraham: It smelled like hot dogs. I like hamburgers.

Cain: [laughing] I was laughing so hard, dude. I can’t believe I got the window open in time. 

Bradford, Sr.: I look in the sideview mirror, and all I see is Abe’s little head poke out the window, and the kid just pukes all over the side of the van. Just a fan of puke, like his head was a spray nozzle.

Paula: Needless to say, we got the van washed and Abel washed as soon as we got off the GW. 

Bradford, Jr.: Fuckin’ Cay.

Abel: Fuckin’ Beej.

Abraham: Hot dogs are gross.

Cain: [laughing, trying to catch his breath]

Wednesday, November 27; Plymouth, MA – “Thanksgiving” with the Pilgrims

Paula: We didn’t technically have Thanksgiving with the pilgrims; we had Thanksgiving with the pilgrims the daybefore Thanksgiving. But you know, potato, potahto. 

Bradford, Jr.: So it was a fake Thanksgiving with fake pilgrims. And the only one of us who didn’t have fake enthusiasm was Mom.

Bradford, Sr.: I went along with it because marriage is in for a penny, in for a pound, but Jesus Christ, even I was like, “Really? This is something you just have to do?” ‘Course I didn’t say that. Also, don’t tell Paula I took the Lord’s name in vain. She hates that.

Abel: We go to this, like, visitor center-type place. And there’s this big room that has all these picnic tables in it.

Cain: But they were long-ass picnic tables. And I’m like, “Oh fuck, we have to sit with other people?” What if I need to fart or some shit? I’m a fast eater. I need to be able to blast one out.

Paula: Oh, it was so fun. The tables were roughhewn wood, really long, very rustic. And each place setting was just a tin plate and a knife. Just like the first Thanksgiving.

Bradford, Jr.: It was nothing like the first Thanksgiving. You want to recreate the first Thanksgiving, have a buncha pilgrims kidnap a buncha Indians and sell them as slaves while infecting them with diseases and stealing their land, then you have the first Thanksgiving. And you know some of those pilgrims raped the shit out of the Indians. White settlers loved to rape. Just rape, rape, rape. And then after all that raping and killing and enslaving, sure, they all hung out and ate turkey together. 

Paula: It was so quaint!

Bradford, Jr.: I swear, I gotta be adopted or switched at birth or something. No way I came from such dopey people. [crosses arms over chest, pauses] I mean, who names a kid B.J.? Might as well skip the foreplay and just name me Dickgargler or Penistaster.

Abraham: The plates were cold. I put one against my face.

Cain: And no forks. No forks! How do you expect me to eat without a fork? We’re not having fuckin’ hamburgers and hot dogs. 

Abraham: I’m so glad they didn’t serve hot dogs.

Cain: And I like to slop on the gravy, know what I mean? Can’t have fuckin’ gravy running all over my hands and arms and shit.

Abel: Cay is such a fat ass. Anyway, we sit down, and then all these douche bags in pilgrim clothes come marching out. And they start talking to us, telling us about pilgrim life. Like those assholes know.

Cain: Goddamn right I asked them about the forks.

Bradford, Jr.: The guy who talked to us was this really tubby guy who looked like he ate a whole turkey before he came out. This dude waddles over to us, and Cay asks about the fork. As well he should’ve. I mean, c’mon, cut the shit and give us some forks.

Paula: [hand on chest, beaming] Oh, it was so funny. The pilgrim said a fork was about yay-high [stands, holds hand about chest-height] and used for pitching hay. [laughs] So funny.

Abel: It was so gay, dude.

Bradford, Jr.: If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s actors who get lost in the part. And that tub of liquified bologna was in deep.

Bradford, Sr.: It was kinda funny, I guess. But it was funnier when he busted Cay’s chops about his weight. He said something like, “Oh, he looks like a well-fed lad!” [laughs]. Cay didn’t really appreciate that, though.

Cain: Fat pilgrim fuck.

Abel: It was funny as shit, dude.

Bradford, Jr.: So then I asked the guy how many Indian women he raped.

Abraham: Mom said Sodomites do rape. I don’t remember that from Sunday School.

Bradford, Sr.: I’m not a violent man. I’m really not. But I could’ve strangled B.J. when he said that.

Paula: It was like being punched in the throat. Not that I’ve been punched in the throat. I’ve been kicked in the throat, though. When Brad took karate, he showed me a move he learned one night and accidentally kicked me in the throat. And like that night, I definitely had the wind knocked out of me when B.J. said that.

Bradford, Sr.: I could’ve kicked that kid in the throat.

Bradford, Jr.: Listen, Cay’s an asswipe. No love lost there. But he’s my asswipe. And there is noFucking. Way some pre-diabetic, fifth-rate community theater has-been is gonna try to wipe his fat cornhole with my asswipe. So yeah, I asked how many Indian women he raped.

Cain: I can count on one finger how many times Beej was awesome. That was the one time. [pauses] Kinda counts for two, though. [pauses] It’s like if Lex Luthor used his powers for good to save the world and Superman at the same time.

Abel: The pilgrim didn’t know what to say. His face was red as a kickball.

Abraham: This kid in my class, Andrew Renshaw, he stole my peanut butter and jelly at lunch and took a bite of it. Then his face got all red and puffy and he couldn’t breathe. The pilgrim looked like Andrew. [pauses] I wish I had a peanut butter and jelly for Thanksgiving.

Bradford, Jr.: The guy starts sputtering, going, “Uh uh uh.” So I’m like, “When you settled here, how many Indian women did you rape? Did you give them syphilis?” [opens eyes wide, shakes] “Uh uh uh.” [laughs] Thought he was gonna have a stroke. [pauses, grins sardonically] That would’ve been awesome.

Paula: This was one long table, mind you. We were with other people, other families. And people were staring. And my face flushes, and I start apologizing, telling the pilgrim that nobody thinks he raped anybody, only Sodomites rape, all that.

Bradford, Sr.: She could’ve stopped at “I’m sorry.”

Abel: Dude just disappeared, and then they started serving the food.

Cain: Just a turkey leg and some rolls. No gravy, no mashed potatoes, no stuffing, no cranberry sauce. No pumpkin pie, man! It was so lame.

Abraham: I liked it. It reminded me of the Renaissance Faire. [throws up hands] More turkey for thy kingdom! Bring ye wenches! [pauses] There were no wenches, though.

Abel: Abe is such a little bitch. But I guess when you’re young, you like stupid shit like that. I mean, when I was his age, I liked Disney on Ice. [pauses] Actually, I’d much rather see some dipshit in a Goofy costume and ice skates than a bunch of fake-ass pilgrims. And at least there I could get some cotton candy.

Bradford, Jr.: You know, from a purely Machiavellian-puppet-master-kinda standpoint, what Mom did was genius – she got Cay, Abel, and I to agree on something: Thanksgiving with the pilgrims was the lamest, biggest waste of time ever. [pauses] Of course, comparing Mom to Machiavelli is an insult to Machiavelli; Mom didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.

Paula: [smiling] It was worth every penny.

Bradford, Sr.: I can’t believe I paid for that. 

Friday, November 29; Plymouth, MA – Native American Village

Paula: On Black Friday, we went to a real Indian village. They had teepees and everything!

Bradford, Jr.: It was another bullshit spectacle for rube tourists. But the Indians were actually real-deal Indians. It wasn’t a bunch of white assholes in face paint doing that “We smoke-um peace pipe” shit. I wasn’t impressed, per se, but I wasn’t sickened. 

Abraham: How, white man! [claps hand over mouth repeatedly while making a high-pitched whining sound]

Abel: When Mom told us where we were going, I was just like, “Finally! I’ll be able to smoke some weed.”

Cain: We brought our own peace pipe, dude. [pauses] And some of that dank!

Bradford, Sr.: I tried to reason with Paula, I did. I said, “We don’t need to see the Indian village. Let’s get ahead of the traffic, it’s gonna be a long drive, blah blah blah.” I mean, I gotta be back at work on Monday. Let me at least get a couple days when I’m not being dragged all over creation or sitting in traffic. [sighs] As usual, my breath was wasted. [pauses] This is why the husband always dies before the wife.

Bradford, Jr.: If I were the Indians, I would’ve been pissed. I mean, those asshole pilgrims were inside, all warm and toasty. And then those Indians are all stuck outside, freezing their balls off. And the Indians were far less annoying. They didn’t get lost in the part, they didn’t act like they were Mayflower-era Indians. I remember we saw one of ‘em making a canoe. Like, actually making one. This dude took a log and hollowed it out with a hatchet right in front of us. 

Paula: I said, “Did your ancestors teach you this skill?” And the Indian said yes, his uncle taught him. So I asked who his uncle was in the tribe. A medicine man, something like that?

Bradford, Jr.: [shakes head] It was so fuckin’ embarrassing. 

Paula: And the guy said his uncle lives in Attleboro. And he’s a plumber

Bradford, Sr.: Driving home, we saw a billboard for Echohawk Plumbing. The little cartoon Indian on the billboard held a tomahawk in one hand and a u-bend pipe in the other. The billboard said something like, “We even cut pipes!” [chuckles] Thought that was kinda clever.

Bradford, Jr.: Mom was so disappointed. [grins] It was definitely a highlight of the trip.

Abraham: One time Mom had to call the plumber after I clogged the toilet. She told Dad I poop like a man. But she didn’t say it like she was proud. [pauses] But I was proud.

Abel: Everyone was staring at that stupid canoe guy, so I told ‘em me and Cay were gonna explore the adobe huts or some shit. 

Bradford, Jr.: They tried to be all nonchalant about it, like they weren’t gonna go smoke weed. They’re such idiots. But then, so are Mom and Dad, so they let ‘em go off by themselves.

Cain: Beej knew, man. You can’t get shit past that motherfucker. It’s like when I take one of his Calvin and Hobbes books to the shitter. I put it back where I found it, but the dude still knows. It’s like being a dick gives you superpowers.

Abel: Me and Cay went and found a nice spot behind a wigwam at the far end of the village. Some Indian chick was making moccasins in the wigwam and singing some Indian song. Definitely one of the coolest places I’ve ever gotten high.

Cain: It was not a good place to get high.

Abel: I take a couple puffs off my one-hitter, then I give it to Cay. And Cay’s lookin’ around all paranoid and shit. As usual. [pauses] I love him, I really do, but he can be such a buzzkill sometimes. 

Cain: Once I was sure the coast was clear, I smoked. I took a big-ass hit, too. Started coughing like a motherfucker.

Abel: That’s the other thing – he always takes way too big a hit and starts coughing his ass off. Which, normally, I don’t care. If we’re at home or whatever, fine. But in public? [shakes head] Keep it together, man.

Cain: [shakes head] I was so high.

Abel: On top of that, Cay can get really paranoid sometimes. So he starts looking around even more, asking me did Beej follow us, does he know where we are, will he tell Mom and Dad, and I’m like, “Dude, chill. Beej doesn’t know. And even if he did, Beej is a dick, not a narc.” But he just kept freaking out.

Cain: [grins sheepishly] I was so high.

Paula: It was evident the Indians weren’t even trying to act like real Indians, so I lost interest pretty quickly. Which annoyed me. After all, we paid a lot of money to come see this thing, and the least they could do is put on a show. Don’t break the fourth wall, you know?

Bradford, Sr.: [makes air quotes] “We” paid to see this thing, and yet I am the only one who works. [pauses] This is why the husband always dies before the wife.

Bradford, Jr.: After the canoe guy burst Mom’s bubble, she wanted to leave tout suite. So she sent me to find those two idiots. Which wasn’t hard. Stupidity has a very pungent aroma. [pauses] And so does weed.

Abel: So then the singing stops, and the Indian chick comes out and asks what we’re doing. And of course Cay freezes up and looks guilty as shit. So I’m like, “We’re just taking a break from our family. They’re kind of annoying.” But she didn’t look like she heard me.

Cain: She was staring, man. She knew. She knew. I put the one-hitter in my pocket, but I swear she smelled it.

Abel: She’s like, “Is he okay?” And I’m like, “Yeah, he’s fine.” But she wasn’t buyin’ it, and she goes, “You’re high as shit.”

Cain: Abel’s faster than I am. He denied that shit immediately. He got all pissed about it, too, like, “How dare you accuse us of that.” It was crazy. For a second, I actually believed him.

Abel: Last year I played George Gibbs in “Our Town” at school. Didn’t tell my family, though. They start thinking I’m some douche bag theater kid, game over. But that Indian chick called my bluff. She said we better give her our weed, or she’ll tell on us. 

Cain: I was like, Oh shit, if Mom and Dad find out, we. Are. Fucked. I was ready to hand that shit right over.

Abel: Fuckin’ Cay took his hand out of his pocket, and I knew he had the one-hitter in his hand. So I told the Indian chick, I was like, “Go ahead. Who you gonna tell?” Her word against ours, right?

Cain: This chick starts yelling, man. Like, “These guys have weed! They’re high as a kite!” So I was like, Fuck this, we can get more weed. Handed the shit right over.

Abel: Fuckin’ Cay, man. Fuckin’. Cay. If he were hiding Jews in Nazi Germany, those Jews would’ve been fucked.

Cain: She took the weed and the one-hitter and was like, “Reparations, bitches.” Then she threw a pair of moccasins at us.

Abel: [grins] I’m not gonna lie. That reparations shit made me smile.

Bradford, Jr.: I saw the whole thing. Got there just as the Indian woman caught ‘em. I ducked behind another hut to watch. [grins] It was quite a show.

Cain: The Indian chick goes back in her hut, and then Beej shows up, looking all annoyed. [pauses] He knew, man. He knew.

Bradford, Jr.: It took everything I had not to laugh in their dumb, stoned faces.

Abel: Asshole says Mom wants to leave, so I picked up the moccasins, and we followed him back to the canoe dude.

Cain: I was still high as shit, so in my head I was freaking out about seeing Mom and Dad.

Bradford, Jr.: Cay kept looking around and rubbing his hands together. And his eyes were so red. Abel’s, too. I could not wait for Mom and Dad to see them.

Abel: We get back, and Mom was like, “Why are your eyes so red?”

Cain: I almost shit myself.

Abel: I was like, “They have a fire going over there. It was a sweat lodge thing. It was so smoky.”

Bradford, Jr.: And I turn and see smoke coming from one of the huts sort of near where Cay and Abel were.

Cain: Then Abel goes, “We got these for you,” and gives the moccasins to Mom. 

Abel: “Just wanted to thank you for giving us a nice Thanksgiving,” blah blah blah. Total bullshit.

Bradford, Jr.: That devious. Mother. Fucker.

Cain: I don’t know how Abel does it. He’s like the Jedi master of potheads. [does a Yoda impression] Mmm, smoke the trees, you will. [laughs]

Paula: They’re such nice moccasins. Really well-crafted. The bead work on the toes is especially impressive. [smiles] They’re such sweet boys, thinking of me like that. [crosses herself] I’m so blessed.

Bradford, Jr.: They’re such dickbags. [pauses] But I gotta hand it to Abel – that was some grade-A con man shit right there. If I had to give him a report card, my comment would be, “Exceeds expectations.”

Bradford, Sr.: But did I get any moccasins? The founder of the feast? The driver? The guy who, you know, paid for everything? Noooooo, god forbid I get any recognition. [pauses] This is why the husband always dies before the wife.

Abraham: The moccasins smelled like skunks. I wonder if Pepe Le Pew smells like moccasins. 

Saturday, November 30; Malvern, PA – Back at Home

Cain: First thing I did when I got home was take a Beej with the door open. That’s when you know you’re home – when you can shit comfortably with the door open.

Abel: First thing I did when we got home was go down the block to Mike Frank’s house. That kid knows how to get high and not lose his shit. [pauses] Actually, that wasn’t the first thing I did. First thing I did was see Cay take a dump with the door open. Then I left. [shakes head] Disgusting motherfucker.

Abraham: First thing I did was make my Power Ranger guys fight my WWF guys. The Macho Man did way better against the Red Ranger than I thought. Hulk Hogan beat the crap out of the Blue Ranger, though. No surprise there.

Bradford, Jr.: Full disclosure, I also took a shit with the door open when I got home. But I have my own bathroom. [pauses] I’m disgusting, but I’m disgusting in private. Big difference.

Bradford, Sr.: First thing I did was have a Stoli on the rocks. A double. I needed something to wash down the Advil after that drive.

Paula: First thing I did when we got back was I read the brochure for the Victorian Thanksgiving. They do that at the same place as the Indian one. I would love to do that next year.

Bradford, Sr.: I saw that stupid brochure. Saw it right when she picked it up. There is no way in hell I’m paying for that. If she tries to go through with it, I’ll make it my mission to get hurt at work before Thanksgiving. I work at a power plant, you know. I could easily lose a toe or a finger. If I had to choose between sitting in traffic on the GW or losing an appendage, I can live without a toe or a finger.

Bradford, Jr.: I’m not above committing matricide. Or patricide. If it’s between life in prison or spending next Thanksgiving at some stupid Victorian thing, I’m okay with prison. At least there, I know my family can’t get to me. That, I’d be thankful for.

END

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“Luke Skywalker Only Wants to Rock” – short fiction

EXT: TOSCHE STATION CONVENIENCE STORE (Sign in window reads “POWER CONVERTERS 50% OFF”)

INT: Bored LUKE SKYWALKER hunches over checkout counter, absentmindedly flips through an issue of Luscious Landspeeders & Tantalizing Twi’leks.

A bell above the door tinkles, and LUKE looks up. Standing in the doorway, black cape flowing, is DARTH VADER.

VADER: Luke.

LUKE (focused, eyes narrowed): I knew this day would come. (LUKE reaches under the counter, comes up with a lightsaber hilt. He vaults over the counter, activates the lightsaber, assumes a swordfighting stance)

VADER (puts up a hand): No, no, you misunderstand.

LUKE raises an eyebrow.

VADER: We need to talk about…your future.

LUKE: I’ll never join you, I’ll never turn to the dark side!

VADER: That old chestnut. (VADER shakes his head) No, Luke, we need to talk about your “career.” (VADER makes air quotes with fingers)

LUKE (deactivates lightsaber, crosses his arms): Not this again.

VADER: You’re such a talented young man, Luke. Why are you wasting your time in this (VADER gestures to the racks of mass-produced fruit pies, the cooler full of bottles of blue milk and Bantha Brew, the Jawa Java coffee maker)…place?

LUKE: Dad, we’ve talked about this. I’m only working here until my band starts getting some regular gigs. (LUKE rips a flyer off the wall, holds it out) Look, me and the guys are opening for the Max Rebo Band this weekend! At Jabba’s Palace!

VADER: First of all, son, it’s ”the guys and I.” Any self-respecting Sith Lord or Jedi Master knows the difference.

LUKE scoffs, rolls his eyes.

VADER: Secondly, entertaining a two-bit gangster is hardly something to brag about. Not to mention that Jabba will feed you to his Rancor if you bomb.

LUKE (surprised): Really?

VADER: Of course! Maybe if you studied the Force some more, you would be able to sense forthcoming dangers.

LUKE: For the millionth time, Dad, I’m not going to the dark side.

VADER: Pfft! At this point I’d settle for the good side. Anything is better than (VADER gestures to his surroundings) this. 

LUKE: You know what? I’m outta here. I’m gonna go to Tosche Station to—

VADER: You already are at Tosche Station.

LUKE: Fine, then I’m gonna go visit Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru.

VADER: They’re dead.

LUKE: Oh my god, whatever! I’m just gonna go cruise the Jundland Wastes then. Alone!

VADER: Sure you want to do that? The Jundland Wastes are not to be traveled lightly. They’re full of Sand People. You know that.

LUKE (exasperated, fuming, arms held out at his sides): See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re so out of touch, man! They prefer to be called Tusken Raiders. Know what you are? (LUKE narrows his eyes, points at VADER) You’re Tuskenist!

VADER: What? No, I’m not. Some of my best friends are Sand Peop, uh, I mean, Tusken Raiders. 

LUKE: Didn’t you slaughter a whole bunch of Tusken Raiders when you were my age?

VADER (silent for a few moments): That’s, um, not really. I mean, it was a different time and uh. (VADER waves his hands) That’s not important. (VADER wags a finger) Now, Obi-Wan Kenobi, he was a Tuskenist. 

LUKE (emphatically): Ben was a great man.

VADER: You think Obi-Wan would approve of this lifestyle?

LUKE: He’d tell me to reach out with my feelings. And my feelings tell me to rock!

VADER (shaking his head, mumbling to himself): So willful. Just like Padme.

LUKE: What?

VADER: Nothing.

LUKE: Look, it’s my life, and I’ll live it how I want. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to restock the blue milk.

VADER (shoulders hunched, resigned): Fine. (VADER waves a hand) You will be home for dinner, though.

LUKE: (sarcastically, also waving a hand) I will be home for dinner if we don’t have tuna casserole. Again.

VADER (sighing): I’m making chicken parm, actually. 

LUKE: Fine.

VADER nods, exits the store.

EXT. TOSCHE STATION CONVENIENCE STORE

VADER shakes his head, stares out at the dunes, a small group of a womp rats sniping at each other. OBI-WAN KENOBI’S ghost materializes, leans an elbow on VADER’S shoulder.

OBI-WAN: Kids, am I right?

VADER: Was I the same way when you trained me?

OBI-WAN: He hasn’t killed you, so, no, you weren’t the same way. Dummy.

VADER: I can’t win.

OBI-WAN: The dark side never does. (He claps VADER on the shoulder) C’mon, let’s go to Mos Eisley, cut off some ruffian’s arm.

VADER and OBI-WAN walk off into the desert, the twin suns of Tattooine hovering just above the horizon.

END

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“Sammie Lover” – short fiction

Jars of peanut butter are arranged in carefully manicured rows on the shelf in Wegmans. Jif, Skippy, Peter Pan. Creamy, crunchy, extra crunchy.

And then you have the peanut allergy-friendly varieties: cashew, almond, pecan, macadamia.

I put a finger to my lips, let my eyes roam over the labels, take my time. I already know what I want but I don’t want to appear eager or excited. I pick up a jar of creamy Skippy, put it in my basket. It sits next to a package of sliced turkey, a box of tissues, a bunch of bananas. Can’t have it look like I’m here just for the peanut butter.

Farther down the aisle a guy in his 20s peruses the jellies, the jams. Only he taps a foot on the linoleum, gives little sideways glances to see if anybody’s looking. I catch his eye, nod, give him a smile, continue on my way. He looks at his feet, hurries down the aisle in the opposite direction.

 

At Stop & Shop, I roll down the jelly aisle with my cart. I consider the offerings on hand. There’s Smucker’s, Welch’s. Grape, strawberry, fig, apricot. Mass-produced, organic, artisanal. Orange marmalade for the truly discerning.

I go for a jar of Bonne Maman strawberry preserves, with its checkered lid and cursive script on the label. It costs a couple bucks more than the other brands but it’s worth it. I carefully place the jar in the cart, next to a bag of romaine hearts, in the part of the cart where a child would sit if I had a child.

It joins the other items I don’t really need: a 12-pack of toilet paper, a box of instant oatmeal, a carton of pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer, a package of Chips Ahoy. I don’t even eat cookies.

 

I go to CVS, pick up a bottle of Robitussin, some shampoo.

I peruse the two shelves that constitute their bread section. There’s a few loaves of Pepperidge Farm whole wheat, Nature’s Own multigrain, Stroehmann white.

I select a loaf of the Stroehmann, carry it in the crook of my arm like a baby.

 

I get home, put the bags of groceries on the kitchen table. I glance at the LCD display on the microwave: 9:47pm. I used to do my grocery shopping in the morning or during my lunch break. I don’t do that anymore. Too many prying eyes.

I draw the curtains in front of the window by the kitchen sink, draw the curtains in front of the living room window. Don’t need any Peeping Toms.

I take out the bread, the peanut butter, the jelly, arrange them on the counter. I could care less about the other stuff, let it all sit on the table.

I undo the twist tie on the bag of Stroehmann, stick my nose in, take a long whiff. Smiling, I remove one slice, another. I open the toaster oven, gently slide the slices in. The toaster oven is a stainless steel work of art. It can slow cook, reheat, roast, broil, bake, you name it. I only ever use it for toasting. But it gets it right every. Single. Time. Best $250 I ever spent.

While the bread is toasting, I unscrew the top on the jar of Skippy, smell that too. I open the jar of Bonne Maman. The scent of toasting bread suffuses the air. My mouth waters.

I take a plate from the cupboard, a butter knife from the silverware drawer, arrange them on the countertop just so. The toaster dings!, and I remove each slice of bread using my thumb and forefinger. It’s hot but I don’t mind the pain.

I wait a couple of minutes, let the bread cool just a little. I spread a thick coating of Skippy on one slice, a couple gooey dollops of preserves on the other. I put the slice with the peanut butter on top of the slice with the jelly. I don’t bother cutting the sandwich, just pick it up and take a big bite.

Gooseflesh raises on my skin, blood rushes to my face. It’s warm and sticky and messy and I don’t want it to end.

How anybody could hate this is beyond me. Yet, being seen with a PB and J in the wrong place at the wrong time could be the death of you. Literally.

 

Zane says when he was in high school, he told his “friend” that he liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He says that this person went and told another kid who told another kid who told another and on and on until everybody knew Zane’s secret. Pretty soon everybody was calling him “sammie lover.” A few tears leak out of Zane’s eyes, roll past the rims of his glasses. He uses the cuff of his argyle sweater to mop them up.

Blue plastic chairs are arranged in a circle in the basement of a church. Zane’s in good company because each one is occupied by somebody who has endured a situation similar to Zane’s. We tell people we can’t help it, that we were born this way. Most guffaw when they hear that, think it’s a choice.

We thank Zane for sharing, tell him to stay strong.

The meeting ends. I’m gathering up my coat and purse when I feel a light touch on my arm. I look up, see Zane.

He asks me do I remember him from the other night. I’m not good with faces so I tell him no.

He asks me was I at Wegmans the other night, was I there getting peanut butter.

Oh right, I say. You were the guy looking at the jellies?

He lowers his head, nods. He says, Sorry if I seemed a little skittish. He says, That’s how I am in supermarkets anymore.

I put on my coat, sling my purse over my shoulder. Aren’t we all, I say.

 

Zane picks at the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup, tells me I remind him of his sister. He says, The way you walked around Wegmans, like nothing could hurt you. He says, Renee was like that.

I say, Was?

He pushes his glasses up on his nose, says, Yeah, she died a couple years back. He says, She loved peanut butter and jelly.

We’re in a coffee shop down the street from the church. After the meeting, Zane asked if I wanted to get some coffee with him. I said sure, why not.

I offer my condolences, ask him how it happened. I say, If you don’t want to talk about it, I completely understand.

Nah, it’s okay, he says. I can talk about it.

Renee was in a grocery store one day, bought bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Zane says that his parents let them have peanut butter and jelly all the time growing up, that they never treated it like it was weird or repulsive. So neither did he, neither did Renee.

She was a freshman in college, doing her own grocery shopping for the first time. So of course she bought those things at one store, not three. Somebody must’ve spotted her, Zane says, because she was found outside the store, her face disfigured and bloody. Her shopping bag was ripped open, the peanut butter, jelly, bread, and other groceries strewn around her broken body.

I wince, tell Zane his sister sounds braver than I could ever be.

He gives me a thin-lipped smile, sips his coffee. We sit in silence for a few moments, neither of us knowing what to say next. Finally, Zane says, You hear about the rally this weekend?

I shake my head.

He tells me a pro-PB and J rally is going to be held in the city, that there’ll be a parade and then a few PB and J-ers will speak.

I must look wary because he says, Heavy police presence, too. He says, Nobody messes with us. He asks me would I like to go.

I swallow, say, Um. Say, Well.

He removes a pen from his jacket pocket, slips the sleeve off his coffee cup. He flattens the brown ring on the table top, jots his number on it. He slides it across to me. He says, Give me a call if you change your mind.

 

A humongous peanut butter and jelly sandwich dances up to me, hands me a small package wrapped in wax paper. I fold back the paper, catch a glimpse of beige, of purple. I gasp, quickly refold the paper, thrust the sandwich into my purse.

Zane puts a hand on my arm, says, No no, it’s cool. He unwraps his sandwich, takes a big bite, smiles. He says, See?

I look around, see other people doing exactly what Zane is. I take the sandwich back out, remove the paper, bite into it. I say, It’s so. Good.

Zane laughs, takes another bite. He says, Right?

So I changed my mind about the parade. I called Zane, met up with him and his friends.

We stroll through the streets of the city, munching on our sandwiches, smiling, talking, laughing. Several people are dressed as sandwiches, many others are dressed in purple shirts and khaki pants. I see one woman wearing a shirt that shows two cartoon-ish pieces of bread hugging each other, peanut butter and jelly squeezed between them. Letter-shaped clouds above the sandwich spell out PUT ‘EM TOGETHER, NOTHING’S BETTER!

The woman spots Zane, runs over, throws her arms around him. She’s got a sandwich, too.

After they hug, she motions to me, says, And who’s this?

Zane introduces us – the woman’s name is Martha.

Martha says, Haven’t seen you before. She says, This your first rally?

I nod.

Zane cups his hand around Martha’s ear, whispers something to her.

Martha gives me a look as if to say, “You’ll do.”

The crowd starts to slow and then comes to a stop. We’re standing in the middle of the street, flanked on one side by a stage, a microphone stand on top of it.

Martha says, Be right back. She disappears into the crowd.

I turn to Zane, ask him what he said to her. He smiles, polishes off his sandwich, says, You’ll see.

When Martha reappears, she’s up on the stage, behind the mic. Her arms are raised, and she’s waving to the crowd with both hands.

Into the mic she says, Put ‘em together!

Everybody around me shouts, Nothing’s better!

Martha whoops and claps. She thanks everyone for coming out, says that every rally gets us a step closer to equality. She talks a little more about how we, how “sammie lovers,” are people, too and that being out in public is the best way to show we aren’t scared.

She says, So now I’d like to welcome a new face to the stage. She says, This is the first rally she’s attended, and I don’t know about you guys but I’d like to hear what she thinks. She leans into the microphone, says, What do you say?!

The crowd claps and howls in response.

Martha says, That’s what I thought! She says, Come on up, Justine!

My breath catches in my throat. Zane lightly elbows me, says, You heard the lady.

I swallow, hand my sandwich to Zane.

I get to the stage, take Martha’s place behind the mic. The cheering and clapping die down. I adjust the mic, clear my throat.

I say, Thanks. I say, Um, let’s hear it for Martha!

More clapping, more cheering.

It gets quiet again, and I say, Like Martha said, this is my first rally. I say, And she’s right, you know. I say, Things like this. They’re important. It’s scary to be different but it shouldn’t be. I say, Some of us have lost things just for being who we are, and that sucks.

I pause, look over at Martha, look out at Zane. I say, My parents disowned me when I told them I liked peanut butter and jelly. I say, People say honesty is the best policy. I pause, say, They never tell you that honesty can feel so shitty.

 

It was a couple of years after I graduated college. I’d gotten tired of hiding who I was from my parents so I decided to tell them. Actually though, I wasn’t that direct.

We were in the kitchen one morning, Mom, Dad, and I. They were at the table, having their coffee and reading the paper. I said good morning and without saying another word, started making a PB and J. Mom and Dad didn’t notice anything until I sat down at the table with my sandwich.

Mom looked over, made a face, said, What. Is that?

I said, Peanut butter and jelly.

Mom put down her paper. Dad did, too.

Mom said, Is this for real?

Dad said, How long? He said, When did?

Since sophomore year in college, I said. So for a few years now.

They sat there for a little while, processing. I ate my sandwich, put my plate in the sink. Put away the peanut butter, the jelly, the bread. Took my place back at the table.

Finally, Mom said, Well this is completely unacceptable.

Dad said, You try not liking peanut butter and jelly? He said, Maybe give ham and cheese a chance?

I said, Guys. I said, This is who I am. You need to accept it.

Mom said, Please leave.

I said, Daddy?

He said, Justy. We can’t be seen as. He lowered his voice, said, Sammie lovers.

Tears in my eyes, I got up from the table, looked at each of them in turn. I said, You’re such fucking cowards.

I left and never went back.

 

I finish my story, and the crowd is silent. Then Zane yells, We love you, Justine!

Everybody starts cheering, whistling, shouting my name. My eyes well up, and I move to leave the stage. Martha grabs my arm, spins me around, hugs me. Her eyes wet with tears, she says, Thank you so much for doing this. She says, Stories like yours save people.

She releases me, says into the mic, Let’s hear it again for Justine!

The applause continues as I step off the stage and into more welcoming arms. I’m like a president, a rock star, glad-handing and hugging the members of what feels like my new family.

I make my way to Zane. He hugs me, too. He says, See? He says, Aren’t you glad you came?

I smile, nod, start sobbing. I fall into his arms again.

 

Martha plucks a jar of crunchy Jif off the shelf at Wegmans, tells me she usually goes creamy but likes to change things up every now and again. She puts it in her basket, sits it next to a loaf of raisin bread.

Days after the parade, Martha calls me, asks if I want to run some errands with her, says she could use the company. What she doesn’t tell me is that she wants to go to the grocery store to buy exactly three items.

She moseys down the aisle, selects a jar of Welch’s grape jelly. She holds it out, wiggles it at me, says, I keep it real. She adds it to the basket, proceeds toward the checkout lanes.

I bite my lip, look around.

Martha says, What are you doing?

I say, Uh. Say, Nothing.

As we near the end of the aisle, a man and his teenage son pass us with their cart. The man glances at Martha’s basket, grunts, says, Fuckin’ sammie lovers.

I wince.

Martha smiles, says, That’s right, my good man. She says, It’s a taste sensation. You should try it. She looks him right in the eye, says, You know you want to.

The man grumbles, pushes his cart past us, his son trailing him.

As we approach a checkout line, I say, That was amazing. I say, Does that happen often?

Martha puts the peanut butter, jelly, and bread on the black conveyor belt, says, More often than I would like, yeah. She says, But what am I gonna do? Go to three different stores?

I guffaw, scratch my head, say, Yeah, I guess that would be, uh. Pretty stupid.

She says, We’re here. She looks at me, says, They need to get used to it.

 

Talking heads on TV tell me there’s anti-sammie legislation that’s being voted on in a few days in D.C. They’re saying that, if it passes, it will be illegal to consume a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in public.

I grab my cell phone, call Zane. I ask him if he’s seen the news, ask him if he’s heard this bullshit about anti-sammie laws.

He sighs, says yeah, he heard.

On television, pundits debate the proposed legislation. A couple of them call PB and J “disgusting” and “revolting.”

Zane says, Justine? He says, You there?

I say, Yeah. Say, I need to call Martha.

 

Cops pace back and forth in front of metal barricades. They scan the crowds behind them, eyes alighting on each face before moving on to another.

In front of the Capitol building, protesters have gathered. We, the sammie lovers, are behind one set of barricades. The anti-sammies are behind the other.

Standing flush against the barricade, Martha holds a megaphone in one hand, thrusts a PB and J into the air with the other. The megaphone to her lips, she says, Put ‘em together!

We respond, Nothing’s better!

Across from us, anti-sammies hold signs that say “Ham and Cheese – Sure to Please!” and “Peanut Butter and Jelly – Bad for Your Belly!” They chant, PB and J! They chant, No way!

This continues until a young woman in a pantsuit walks down to where we are. We fall silent, and she says, The bill has been voted down!

We cheer and hug each other. The anti-sammies boo, shake their signs. We wave to the cops, thank them for being there. Some break character, smile and wave.

Our mission accomplished, we disperse.

Zane, Martha, and I walk back to my car. We’re about to cross the street when a full jar of peanut butter slams into Martha’s head. She stumbles, falls down the steps of a nearby Metro station.

She tumbles down a long flight of stairs, comes to rest on a landing.

She isn’t moving. She doesn’t get up.

 

The pastor says that Martha was like a bulldog, that once she had her jaws locked on something, forget it, that was it, she wouldn’t let go. He smiles, says she would’ve taken that as a compliment.

In the distance, a chorus of acidic voices shouts, PB and J! It shouts, No way! They wave signs, make a show of stomping on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They’re standing right outside the cemetery gate.

Whoever threw that jar of peanut butter at Martha’s head, he or she wasn’t caught. The police said the fingerprints from the jar couldn’t be matched to any they had on file. Whoever it was, though, Zane and I are convinced he or she was an anti-sammie.

Now, like a metastatic cancer, the anti-sammies have spread to Martha’s funeral.

The pastor’s eyes dart in the direction of the protesters. He looks at us, offers a small smile, his lips pursed together. He clears his throat, gets on with the ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Soon one of the protesters is on a megaphone prattling on about how peanut butter and jelly is an “aberration,” a “gross misuse of foodstuffs.” He calls us “freaks,” “malcontents.”

I huff, stomp away from Zane and the other mourners.

I go to my car, dump my purse in the front seat. I grab Martha’s megaphone from the backseat. It’s been there since D.C.

Brandishing it like a pistol – held near my hip with my finger on the trigger, I march to the wrought iron gate. I bring the megaphone to my mouth, shout, Put ‘em together! I shout, Nothing’s better!

A voice joins mine, and out of the corner of my eye I see that it’s Zane’s.

Before we know it, everybody else at the funeral joins us, and it’s D.C. all over again – them on one side, us on the other.

A jar of peanut butter comes sailing over the gate. I duck and Zane swoops in and catches it. He says, Thanks! He says, I was almost out!

There’s a commotion among the anti-sammies, and a group of cops converges on a guy with a backpack. They open it, find jars of peanut butter, jars of jelly.

I move closer to the fence, get a better look at the guy with the backpack. He’s the same guy from the grocery store, the one shopping with his son.

We later find out that his prints match those of the ones on the jar that killed Martha.

 

A sea of flickering orange dots stretches out before me. A tear-streaked face hangs above each one.

Perched on a stepstool, I hold a microphone to my lips. It’s sweaty in my hand. I clear my throat, and it booms from the speakers. I say, I didn’t know Martha that well. We only met recently. I say, But I can tell you that she was one of the bravest, most passionate people I’ve ever met.

The candlelight vigil was Zane’s idea. He said it’d give other sammie lovers a chance to mourn, to pay their respects. He organized it but insisted I be the one to speak.

I motion to an enlarged photo of Martha, which Zane, standing beside me, is holding up. In it, Martha holds a PB and J in one hand, gives a thumbs-up with the other. She gives the camera a closed-lipped smile since her cheeks are bulging, ostensibly with masticated sandwich.

Martha wasn’t ashamed of who she was, I say. She never hid, never apologized.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I blink, and they roll down my cheeks. I say, We should all strive to be more like her.

I sniff, say, She was taken from us too soon. I say, And that’s the point. Because even though there are those who would hurt us, who wouldn’t think twice about taking our lives, we cannot back down, we cannot hide. I say, We cannot give them what they want because Martha wouldn’t.

I raise my candle, say, To Martha.

The crowd joins me, raises their candles. In unison, they say, To Martha.

There’s one person who doesn’t say anything, who doesn’t raise a candle. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, has the hood pulled up. His hands are jammed in his pockets.

I glance at Zane, mouth the words You see that?

He shakes his head no.

When I look back toward the hooded stranger, he’s gone.

 

The hooded stranger tells me I ruined his life. He says, It’s all your fault.

With his hood up, I can’t tell who it is. I squint, say, What’s my fault?

The vigil over, Zane and I are at his car packing up the speakers, the leftover candles.

The stranger folds back his hood. It’s the kid from the grocery store, the son of the guy who killed Martha. He says, It’s your fault that my dad’s in jail. He says, My life is ruined ‘cause of you.

Zane puts a hand on my arm, says, Hey. He says, Let’s just go.

I shrug Zane off, level my gaze at the kid, say, Are you fucking serious? I say, Our friend is dead because of your asshole dad! I say, He can rot in prison for the next hundred years for all I care. I say, And believe me, you’re better off without him.

Zane tries again to pull me away, says, C’mon, Justine, it isn’t worth it.

The kid pulls a knife, says, Better listen to your friend.

I yank my arm away from Zane, step toward the kid, say, Oh, what? I say, You gonna pick us off one by one? Follow in Daddy’s footsteps? I say, Is that your deal? Just keep killing us, hope we’ll go away? I say, We’re never going away! I thump my chest, say, C’mon. Take your best shot, champ.

The kid closes the distance between us. He huffs and puffs but doesn’t do a damn thing. He just says, Fuckin’ sammie lover, and walks off.

 

Zane gives me a ride back to my place. He’s silent the whole way.

We’re parked in front of my house, the engine idling. I lean over, give him a kiss on the cheek, say, Thanks for organizing the vigil. I say, I think Martha would’ve liked that.

Staring straight ahead, he says, Mmm.

I poke his arm, smile, say, What’s your problem, grumpy?

His eyes don’t leave the road. He says, You shouldn’t have antagonized Emo Boy back there.

I say, What? I say, He antagonized me.

And you shouldn’t have engaged him, Zane says. He turns to me, says, I mean, what was all that “Take your best shot” crap? He says, You don’t know what these maniacs are capable of. He says, Jesus Christ, Justine, he could’ve killed you! He turns his attention back to the windshield, says, It’s not worth dying for.

I say, Not worth dying for? I say, I would rather be six feet under the cold fucking ground than have to hide who I am. I say, I’m done playing by their rules, I’ve had it. I say, And what’s with you, huh? They kill your friend and you can’t man up and defend her memory? I say, You just gonna keep rolling over for them, keep shying away every time you go to a grocery store to buy peanut butter or jelly? Is that how you want to live?

I get out of the car. I look back at Zane, see him hunched over the steering wheel, say, Martha didn’t die so you could tuck your tail between your legs. I say, And Renee didn’t either.

I slam the door, watch as Zane slowly drives away.

 

The cashier at Stop & Shop makes a face, scans the three items I’ve placed on the conveyor belt: a jar of crunchy Jif, a jar of Welch’s grape jelly, a loaf of raisin bread. A tribute to Martha.

She exchanges looks with the customers standing in line behind me.

I look at her, look at them, look back at her, say, I’m standing right here. I say, At least try to act like human beings.

I tossed and turned most of the night, dozed for maybe an hour or two. After the thing with that dopey kid and then Zane, I just lay in bed, slapping at the rumpled sheets and seething. These people are lucky I don’t stab them.

The cashier forces a smile, bags up my purchases.

I snatch up the bag, turn to the cashier, the morons in line, say, Get a fucking grip.

Striding out of the store and into the fresh air, I smile, feel like I could kick a hole in the sun.

 

When it comes to PB and J, I’m a white bread fan. Always have been. I have to admit though, Martha was on to something with this whole raisin bread thing.

I sink my teeth into the toasted crust, get a nice, big mouthful of crunchy peanut butter, of grape jelly, of raisins and cinnamon.

I’m spread out on a park bench, enjoying the sandwich in the open, as I should be. I found the most crowded park I could, made a big show of taking off my jacket to display my “Put ‘Em Together” t-shirt, which is just like Martha’s. Then I unwrapped my sandwich and dug in. Another tribute to Martha.

People give me looks, wrinkle their noses at me. I wave at them, say hi. Nothing can ruin my mood. It reminds me of that first parade I went to with Zane.

Zane.

I’m about to take another bite of my sandwich but lower it, take my phone out of my purse. I call Zane, get his voicemail.

I say, Hey. Say, It’s me. I swallow hard, tell him I didn’t mean a word of what I said, that I was only angry and upset, that he was the one who got me out of the house, that I would never have done that if not for him, that I have him to thank for getting me out of my shell. I take a breath, say, I’m sorry, Zane, okay? I tell him to meet me in the park if he can, that I’m enjoying a sandwich and that he should really try it. I say, Call me when you get—

The phone is slapped out of my hand.

What the fuck, I say. Who—

I look up, see that idiot kid. He’s still wearing the same hoodie. And he’s joined by two of his friends.

One of them takes the sandwich off my lap, bites into it, spits a chewed lump at me. It hits my nose, rolls down my cheek, my chin. The kid says, Fuckin’ disgusting.

Another one says, Completely unnatural.

I scan the park. It’s suddenly devoid of people. Like they’ve cleared out. On purpose.

What’s unnatural, I say. Is that you’ve ruined a perfectly good sandwich. I add, Douche bags.

The kid in the hoodie slaps me across the face, and it’s hard enough that I fall off the bench and into the grass.

My hand goes to my face, and I kick out hard, catch the kid in the shin. He curses, stumbles sideways. One of his friends grunts, another laughs. I get to my knees, punch one of the cronies in the balls. He grabs his crotch, moans.

The kid in the hoodie recovers, sends a sneakered foot into my ribs. I cough, fall over.

They all take turns kicking me. I cover up as best I can, try to deflect the blows, but eventually one of them boots me in the head. The edges of my vision begin to blacken.

I see Zane sitting across from me in the car last night, telling me that this isn’t worth dying for. I hear myself telling him I’d rather be dead than hide.

Things are getting darker, and the kids aren’t slowing their onslaught, and it’s looking like I’m going to get my wish when I hear Zane shouting. The kicking stops. My attackers flee.

Then Zane is leaning over me, strands of hair hanging in front of his glasses. He puts a hand on my shoulder, says, Hey. He says, You okay?

I take a painful breath, groan, say, Think so.

Zane slowly sits me up. There’s a small, brown paper bag lying next to us in the grass. He says, Funny we had the same idea.

I say, Whaddya mean? I say, Wha’s in the bag?

He says, PB and J. He smiles, says, We can’t hide, right?

I nod, return the smile, say, Right.

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“A Thankless Job” – short fiction

My nipples ache even though I’ve been off the marble for a year. But actually, between cryosleep and FTL travel, it’s been more like four months.

I lay in my rack and rub my boobs to try to alleviate the soreness but my atmosuit makes that difficult. I wish I could take the stupid thing off, really get in there and apply some bag balm, use a pump to get rid of the milk. But it’ll be a while before I can fuck off back to Central. Even then, the pumps on the station aren’t the greatest. The eggheads have perfected traveling through the black but lactation in the black? Forget it.

So I rub them until rivulets of milk pulse out of my nipples, soak the cups of my bra. The soreness abates a little as the visor of my helmet flashes red. The HUD announces, REPORT TO FOB DELTA FOR SITREP AND MISSION BRIEFING.

I groan, peer over at Teller in his rack. I key the mic and hear him snoring lightly.

Lucky bastard.

 

An ever-shifting mass of blobs fills the briefing room at FOB Delta. It’s right in front of me, and when I reach out to touch one of the blobs, everything shifts and I’m standing on a berm overlooking a valley, the blobs smack-dab in the middle of it.

The Major says, This will be your staging area, Sergeant. She circles the mass of blobs with a finger and a big, red O appears around it. She says, Our intelligence confirms that this is the main hive. She says, Take this out, we should be good to go.

I say, This is the closest we can get, ma’am?

The Major’s helmet bobs forward. Unfortunately, she says.

I salute her. Cock ‘em and lock ‘em, Major, I say.

She returns the salute. Cock ‘em and lock ‘em, Sergeant Pennski.

The Major taps her wristscreen with a gloved hand. The hologram dissipates like smoke in a stiff wind.

 

I’m trying to give Teller our orders but he won’t let me. He’s too busy prattling on and on about his wife and kids.

He got a vid from his family while I met with the Major, and he’s catching me up on their comings and goings.

The other grunts call us Penn and Teller, after those goofy magicians from way back in the day. The ones from the old school vids that don’t make you feel like you’re in the room with them. Penn and Teller – we show up, ta-da!, you’re dead.

Only difference is my Teller doesn’t shut the fuck up.

Teller, I say.

He tells me his one kid scored a goal in soccer, the other one aced a math test.

Teller, I say. Shut up a minute.

Sorry, Sarge, he says.

Got our orders, I say. I transmit them to Teller. His eyes track back and forth beneath his helmet’s visor as he reads the briefing, silently mouthing the words.

He says, So that’s it, huh? He says, We get rid of this hive, we go home?

Seems so, I say.

Teller grabs his rifle from the rack on the wall, hefts it. He says, Let’s fuck shit up.

 

Teller and I are on the rocky outcropping above the main hive, lying on our stomachs. Our atmosuits go chameleon, soak up sand and grit from the ground. We’re just another couple of rocks on an alien world.

Looking down at the valley, we see hundreds of blobs slip-sliding over one another, a slick, glossy amoeba. I feel like I’m on a microscope slide. Or a petri dish.

Fuckin’ far, Sarge, Teller says. We can’t get any closer?

I set my rifle’s bipod, lean into the stock. I say, We could but I wanted a challenge.

Teller’s silent.

C’mon, Teller, I say. Use your goddamn head. We’d be right next to them if we could.

Teller arranges the magic wand on its tripod, taps his wristscreen to sync it with his helmet.

I do the same with my rifle. Now I see what it sees.

I say, Range?

Four point seven kliks, he says.

I say, Wind speed?

Point two kph, he says.

I check my rifle’s readings. Confirmed, I say. Ready to rock.

My tits twinge. Just barely but they do. I grunt, pull the trigger.

The hive explodes. But not before Teller’s head does.

 

Teller had a saying: “You better be happy as fuck to go to war.” His voice echoes in my head as I sit in the debriefing room at FOB Delta.

The Major is telling me it wasn’t my fault, there was nothing I could do. She tries to keep elation out of her voice as she tells me that I ended the war, tries to make Teller’s death sound like a somber event that shouldn’t be overshadowed by the end of the war. She isn’t terribly convincing.

The blobs are a telepathic, psychokinetic hive mind. An especially goddamn powerful one. They can smell fear a mile away. Literally. Fear, irritation, anger. Any negative emotion, they feel it and they react. The more of them there are, the stronger their ability, the greater their range. Hence Teller’s saying.

The Major puts a hand on my shoulder, says I’ll probably get a medal. She says she’ll put the recommendation in herself, have the General sign off on it.

That soreness in my breasts, that was irritating for a second. No, a split second. A split second and that was all it took. Why they killed Teller and not me I’ll never know.

The Major gives my shoulder a squeeze, reassures my actions in the field. She says, You did good, Viv. She says, The human race owes you. She says, I owe you.

I nod, give her a thumbs-up.

The Major tells me that I’m to go back to my cube and get my shit wired, that I’m to be on the first transport back to Central.

In my head, Teller says, Bet you’re happy as fuck now, Sarge.

Even in my head he can’t shut the fuck up.

 

I’m naked from the waist up, and a grunt named Williams is latched onto my right nipple, the hairs of his mustache tickling my areola. He suckles and moans, reaches around and grabs my ass.

I told you, Williams, I say. Tits only.

He removes his hand, continues suckling, starts massaging his dick through his pants.

Once I got back to Central, I stripped off my atmosuit, made a beeline for a lactation suite. The pump wasn’t getting the job done so I pinged Williams, knew he’d help me out. That freak.

Then again, I’m letting him do it, so who’s the freak?

We waited until everybody else went to chow, met up in the station barracks. The cold metal of my bunk presses against my shoulder blades as I stand against it, my hands on my hips.

Williams spends some time on the right one, switches to the left.

I look down and Teller’s lips encase my left nipple, bits of brain like chewed raspberries leaking out of his eyes. He nibbles it, says, Now I’m happy as fuck, Sarge.

Williams peeks up at me. He says, Something wrong?

I grind the heels of my hands in my eyes. No, I say. Just keep going.

 

Williams follows me around like a puppy, offers to help me get into my hospital gown. It’s SOP to put on a gown before getting into a cryotube.

We’re onboard the Sentinel, one of the troop transports headed back to the marble. Williams and I are in the slumber bay, rows of cryotubes lined up like syringes.

I put up a hand. I say, Nah, I got it. I manage a tight-lipped grin, say, Thanks though.

I strip off my utilities, stow them with the rest of my gear in a compartment at the foot of the tube. I catch Williams staring at my boobs, licking his lips. I meet his eyes and he looks away.

I put on the gown and wince as the fabric rubs against my chafed nipples. Found out Williams is a bit of a biter.

Williams says, So. He says, When we get back.

I say, When we get back what?

He gives me a look like we’re playing Pictionary, like I should know the answer. And actually, I do.

Listen, I say. That was a one-time thing.

He looks at his feet, shifts from one to the other, a puppy who’s just pissed on the rug and knows it. He says, Well, if you change your mind.

I tell him I got it, I know where to find him if I need him.

He nods, gets into the cryotube next to mine.

I slide into my own, sink into the thick pads, massage my nipples through my gown.

Teller lays the bloody stump of his neck on my shoulder. His disembodied voice says, Williams has some mommy issues, huh? He tweaks my nipple, says, Looks like he found Mommy’s teats.

Fuck off, Teller, I mumble.

The cryotube’s needle tunnels into my spine. I conk out.

 

I expect Williams to be standing there when I climb out of my cryotube, expect him to have slippers in one hand, a bathrobe in the other.

But he isn’t, he doesn’t.

Instead, the Major is posted beside my tube, a matte black box in her hands. She’s wearing a crisp service uniform, has her auburn hair pinned up in the back.

She holds out the box, says, You sure about this?

I hold her gaze.

She nods. I thought as much, she says.

I take the box from her.

Teller’s headless body is behind the Major, thrusts its crotch against her ass.

He says, Think that box would weigh more if I still had my head?

The Major says, Sergeant? She says, Viv? She says, You okay?

I blink, say, Good to go, ma’am. I put the box in the crook of one arm, salute her with the other.

Behind the Major, Teller flips me the bird.

 

Back on the marble, nobody is there to meet me when I debark the Sentinel. I push through throngs of families and friends greeting grunts with open arms, wide smiles, eyes full of tears.

Teller pats a little boy on the head. He says, No family for you, huh, Sarge? He says, Wanna tell everybody why?

I ignore him, catch a tram back to base. From there I get my car, go to my house.

Teller takes a look around when we get inside. Fuckin’ Susie the Happy Homemaker up in here, he says. You sure this is your place?

He scans the photos that are scattered on the kitchen counter. They’re flanked by a pizza box and a bottle of Merlot, both empty. My last meal before I was deployed.

Huh, he says. Guess you do have a family. A husband and a baby boy by the looks of it. He looks at me, says, But where are they now?

I say, SHUT! UP!

I slap myself across the face. Teller disappears.

I open the fridge, grab a bottle of Chardonnay, open it. I take the bottle and my gear to my bedroom. I strip down, take a scalding hot shower while I gulp down the cold wine.

Afterward I wrap a towel around myself, dig through my gear to find my PCD. I ping Williams, ask him if he’s around. I say, I’m here if you want me.

Williams asks where I am. I give him my address.

 

Williams doesn’t touch my boobs. Not once. Doesn’t even ask.

We’re sprawled on the kitchen floor. That’s how far he got before I jumped on him.

He could’ve done whatever he wanted to me, could’ve been as freaky as he wanted but he didn’t, he wasn’t. It was some of the most normal, loving sex I’ve ever had. Surprising.

Williams is asleep, his chest slowly bobbing up and down with each small, even breath. My head rests on his shoulder. I run my hand through his ink-black chest hair, wonder what he’s dreaming about, hope it’s not a nightmare.

I get up, grab a blanket off the couch, drape it over Williams. I retrieve the nearly empty bottle of Chardonnay, polish it off. I take a bottle of Cab Sauv from the rack, uncork it. I take a long pull, see Teller kneeling next to Williams.

He says, Poor Williams. Teller peers up at me, says, You know you’re only using him to delay the inevitable, right? He says, There’s a certain black box that needs your attention, Sarge.

I upend the bottle, chug the rest, throw the empty at Teller. It smashes against the wall, bits of green glass sprinkling the floor. Williams opens his eyes, sits up. He looks at my boobs, but for only a second.

I say, I need to go. I pause, say, You can stay here ‘til I get back. If you want.

Teller reappears, scratches his head, says, Definitely didn’t see that coming.

 

I’m spitting out pieces of Teller, trying not to swallow.

Wanda, Teller’s wife, is standing in front of me, her arms crossed. The black box the Major gave me is on the ground, half open, the rest of Teller’s ashes spilling out.

We’re on the front porch of Teller’s house, a robin’s egg-blue rancher nestled in the ‘burbs. I gave Wanda the bad news and handed over the box. She stared at it, stroked it like a beloved pet that was just put to sleep. Then she threw it at me.

Teller is in his dress uniform like I am. Tears of blood are leaking out of his eyes and running down his cheeks.

He crinkles his nose, sniffs. He says, Goddamn am I gonna miss her. He says, Most beautiful woman I ever seen.

Wanda’s eyes are puffy, her hair knotted in places. Stains mottle the front of her sweatshirt. It looks two sizes too big. I assume it’s one of Teller’s.

Teller says, You pissed her off, Sarge. He says, This wouldn’t be the case if you’d looked out for me in the first place. He says, I didn’t mean to rhyme just then. He says, Ha ha.

I pick a flake of ash off my lip, clear my throat, say, You have every right to be angry, ma’am. I say, There isn’t much else to say except that I’m sorry. I say, I know that doesn’t really help though.

Wanda scoffs, shakes her head. She says, You think what you did matters?

I say, I was there, ma’am. I say, With your husband. I say, We saved the world. I say, Your husband saved the world.

She waves her hand at me, says, Oh bullshit. Bill always said it was stupid to try to fight those. She waves her hand again, says, Whatever the hell those things are. She says, He said that fighting them was like fighting cockroaches. There’ll always be more. She picks up the box of Teller, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She says, You can’t fight what isn’t afraid for its life.

Teller kisses his wife’s cheek. He turns to me, says, No offense, but I’m glad it’s you and not me. He says, Great gal. But such a bitch sometimes.

 

I’m standing in the checkout line at the liquor store, a bottle of wine in each hand and a bottle under each arm.

I pile them on the counter, debate whether I should go back and get a couple more.

After the meeting with Wanda, I needed a drink.

Teller props his elbow on the shoulder of the old guy manning the register. He says, Can’t blame ya, Sarge. He says, She drove me to drink a few times, too.

The old man’s name tag says HARV.

Harv eyeballs the chevrons on the arm of my uniform, says, Sergeant, huh? He says, Must be pretty proud of yourself. He cocks an eyebrow, swings his head right and left. He says, You hear that?

I look around. There’s nobody else in the store.

I shake my head.

He shrugs. Anyway, he says. Big hero, winning the war for us marble dwellers. He scans and bags the wine, says, Waste of time and money, you ask me.

Teller wraps his hands around Harv’s neck, says, I’ll hold him. He gestures to the bottles in the bag, says, You break one of those over his dumb fucking head. He says, Nobody’ll blame you.

Beads of sweat pop out on Harv’s forehead. He works a finger into the collar of his yellowed button-down. He swipes a sleeve across his forehead, stares at the register.

He says, Um. He digs a finger into his ear, wiggles it. He says, How you wanna pay?

I hold up my PCD. He nods, and I swipe it across a panel embedded in the counter.

I collect the bag, the bottles clinking together as I carry it out of the store.

I’m just out the door when I hear a crash from behind me. I turn and look through the front window, see Harv throwing bottles against the floor, the walls. He yells and kicks over a display of high-end tequila.

Teller presses his face against the glass, squints at Harv inside. He says, I don’t know, Sarge. He says, Think our friends are fucking with us again?

I shrug, go to my car. I get in, set it to autodrive, twist the cap off one of the bottles, guzzle a quarter of it.

 

I ask Williams what’s up with the breast milk thing, why he likes that.

He says, It’s like being a child molester.

I raise an eyebrow.

He waves his hand, shakes his head. He says, No no, I didn’t mean it like that. He says, You know when a child molester says, “Oh, it’s a sickness”? He says, My thing, it’s like that. He says, I don’t want to like it but I do.

I nod, run my fingers through his damp hair.

He was dozing on the couch when I got home, and I attacked him again. My breasts were sore and engorged so I told Williams to do his thing while we fucked. He hesitated but obliged.

Hate to admit this but I kind of liked it. Kind of a lot.

Teller stood over us, mimed jerking off. He said, Guess you can’t judge the guy anymore, huh, Sarge?

Afterward we lounge on the couch, naked and sweaty. I hold Williams’s hand, kiss the back of it.

I say, We did the right thing, right? I say, With the blobs?

Fuck the blobs, Williams says.

I say, Yeah, but. I tell him about Wanda’s diatribe, about Harv.

He massages my forehead, says, Were they there?

No, I say.

Then what the fuck do they know, he says.

He tenses up, relaxes, tenses up. Gotta go to the bathroom, he says.

I release my grip on him. He gets up, wobbles to the bathroom.

Teller lays next to me on the couch. His gray, naked body shifts against me like loose chicken parts in a sack of water. He says, You in love, Sarge? He kisses my boob, leaves a bloody lip print. Way you were looking at him just now, he says. Way you were playing with his hair and shit? Looked like love to me.

After a bit, Williams stomps back into the room. I catch a wink of silver seconds before he lunges at me with a kitchen knife.

Makes me think of Hal.

 

Hal pleads with me, begs me to breastfeed Jordan. Says it’s healthier, says it strengthens the mother/child bond.

I explain that he’s not wrong, that I just don’t want to do it. Some women are okay with it, actually want to do it. I’m not one of them.

But Jordan could care less whether I like it or not.

We try to give him a bottle but the kid cries and cries when we do. One night, too exhausted to protest, I let Jordan have a go at my boob. He latches right on and quiets down immediately. Just my luck.

Hal still tries to give him a bottle every now and again, just to see if he can, just so I can get a little more sleep. Never works. So I get up, feed Jordan.

Hal doesn’t stay in bed when I feed Jordan though. He gets up with me, says he has trouble sleeping.

I ask him why. He shrugs, says he doesn’t know, thinks maybe his schedule is just thrown off.

Hal stops drinking orange juice. He has a glass every day but then one morning, just like that, he’s done. Says something about it being too acidic. It’s like when I was pregnant – I slept fitfully, found banana bread repulsive even though I’d loved it before I got pregnant. Only Hal isn’t a pregnant woman.

One night Jordan cries to be fed. Hal pats my hand, says he’ll try a bottle. I fall back asleep as he pads down to the kitchen.

I wake up when Jordan stops crying. I get up, scamper down the hall to Jordan’s room, eager to see what miracle Hal has worked to get Jordan to accept a bottle.

Hal’s standing over Jordan’s crib, a milky white bottle in one hand, a bloody paring knife in the other.

I go to the crib and peek over the rails. There’s little Jordan, my baby boy, his throat cut, his blood soaking into the bedding.

I feel a jolt of pain, actual physical pain. It’s Hal, drawing the blade of the knife across my arm. He does it slowly, staring at my arm. He doesn’t blink, barely breathes.

I look at him, tears trickling down my cheeks, and he draws his arm back, prepares to stab me. I run.

I go to my bedroom closet, grab my pistol from the top shelf. I turn around and there’s Hal, knife in hand, blood dripping from the blade and onto the carpet. I raise the weapon, fire two shots into Hal’s head.

The two most important people in my life are dead, but it’s not Hal’s fault. Although I don’t know that at first.

I slump down in my closet, grip my bleeding arm, curse Hal through my tears.

 

Williams swings the knife downward. Same knife that Hal used. I roll off the couch as the blade sinks into Teller.

Teller looks at the hilt sticking out of his grey chest. He says, You kept the murder weapon. He says, Kinda weird, no?

I take the stairs two at a time, go to my bedroom closet, get my backup piece. Again. Shoot a person I care about. Again.

Teller nudges Williams’s leaking body with his foot, says, Same shit, different day, huh, Sarge?

I nod, notice my breasts throbbing from my sprint up the steps. I massage them with one hand, hold the pistol with the other.

There’s a crash outside, a scream, an explosion. These remind me of Hal, too. The same things happened after I killed him.

The blobs started the war but we didn’t know it. We didn’t know it because they made us attack ourselves. They got into the heads of something like five percent of Earth’s male population, made them attack us. Nobody knows why they targeted men. Nobody knows why their telepathy affected each man differently.

Once the eggheads figured out the blobs were behind it, the military tooled up, retaliated. Bet your ass I was in the first wave.

Teller stands by the window, crosses his arms. He says, Guess the blobs are kinda pissed we blew up their pals. He turns to me, says, Wanda was right. He turns back to the window, says, My death meant a whole lotta nothin’.

On the nightstand, my PCD buzzes. I pick it up, and a priority message flashes on the screen in red: ATTENTION – REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO BASE FOR SITREP AND REDEPLOYMENT.

Teller says, Here we go again, huh, Sarge?

I nod, say, Time to fuck shit up.

He gestures to the window, the world beyond it, says, Think they’ll appreciate it this time?

I say, Do they ever?

Teller shakes his head no, says, It’s a thankless job.

I say, But somebody’s gotta do it.

At that, Teller cackles, vanishes.

Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on “A Thankless Job” – short fiction

“Little Lambs” – short fiction

Mom and Dad smile constantly now. That’s what bothers me.

At the dinner table, Mom says, Honey, would you please pass the asparagus?

Dad says, Certainly, dear. The bottom of his face is a great half-moon of exposed choppers as he passes the platter.

Mom accepts it, her pearly whites gleaming.

Billy and I each raise an eyebrow.

Mom uses small, silver tongs to transfer a few spears from the platter to her plate. She says, And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased. She says, Hebrews thirteen sixteen.

Dad closes his eyes, holds up an arm, cranes his head back. He says, Praise be unto Him.

Billy and I have seen this behavior before: Mary and Joseph were the same way.

 

Mom and Dad are arguing about something stupid. This is before they act like Mary and Joseph, when things were crappy but normal.

They’re arguing about something stupid because they’re always arguing about something stupid. It’s Dad’s cooking or Mom’s lack of ambition or Dad’s beer belly or Mom’s chattiness. They’re a nonstop revolving door of meaningless arguments.

Mom and Dad spend so much time arguing or waiting to argue that they aren’t exactly present when they do ordinary things, like tie a necktie or put on make-up.

We’re enjoying a quiet, yet tension-filled ride to Church when Mom looks over at Dad. She tells him his tie is crooked. Dad barks that Mom looks like she applied her make-up with a leaf blower. On and on they go until the car’s tires hit the asphalt of the Church’s parking lot. Once that happens, boom, they’re dead quiet.

Dad parks and turns off the car. He and Mom turn around in their seats, peer at Billy and me in the back.

They stare at us until their scowls soften and become smiles.

Dad says, Sorry, guys.

Mom says, That had nothing to do with you. She says, You’re great.

Dad looks at each one of us in turn. He says, You ready?

We all nod yes.

Dad smiles. Mom does, too. Billy and I follow suit.

Our merry band of pretenders gets out of the car. Grinning like the freshly lobotomized, we enter the Church.

 

During the service, we’re singing “How Great Thou Art.” I glance up at Mom and Dad while I belt out the second verse. You know how your eyelids droop when you’re sleepy? That’s what Mom and Dad’s mouths are doing – they smile, their mouths go slack, they smile, their mouths go slack. They’re so busy smiling, so busy keeping up appearances, they forget to sing.

A Deacon stands at the end of our pew, scanning the crowd. He too is smiling until he spots Mom and Dad. Then, like Mom’s and Dad’s, his mouth goes slack.

 

The service ends. We start toward the exit but are flanked by two Deacons just before we reach it. One puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder, the other puts his hand on Mom’s. A third Deacon comes up behind Billy and me, puts his hands on our shoulders.

One of them, still all smiles, says, We’d like you folks to come with us.

Dad looks at Billy and me. He doesn’t bother smiling. He says, We’ll be right back, guys. He motions to the Deacon at our backs. He says, This man will look after you while we’re gone.

Mom and Dad are led away. So are Billy and I.

 

I’m staring at a poster of a woman helping an old man across the street. They’re smiling at each other. Block letters at the bottom of the poster proclaim, “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. – Colossians 3:17.”

It’s one of several that adorn the walls of the Sunday School classroom.

Hard, wooden chairs, arranged in neat little rows, take up the majority of the room. In the front row, Billy and I occupy two of them.

We’re silent, sitting up straight. And smiling. Always smiling.

After a while, footsteps echo in the hallway, that click clack of dress shoes against linoleum. There’s a pause, and then the door opens.

A handsome, square-jawed man in a dark blue suit and red tie enters. His brown hair is neatly combed, a part running down the left side with laser precision. He’s followed by a leggy, statuesque woman in a pastel blue blouse and black skirt. Her long, blond hair falls perfectly across her shoulders. They each carry a Bible, and both of them are smiling. They look like they actually mean it.

They pull two chairs from the front row and put them in front of us. They sit.

The woman puts a hand on her chest. She says, I’m Mary. She puts her hand on the man’s thigh. She says, And this is Joseph.

Joseph says, What are your names?

Lisa, I say.

Billy, says my brother.

Joseph says, Do you know why we’re here?

Billy and I exchange a glance, shake our heads no.

Mary says, Your parents needed to go on.

Joseph says, A retreat.

Mary nods, says, A retreat. She puts a hand on Joseph’s arm, says, Joseph and I are going to take care of you while they’re gone. She smiles, says, It’ll only be a couple weeks. She says, We’ll have fun!

 

Billy and I get ready for bed. We brush our teeth, wash our faces.

We go to our bedroom. We used to each have our own but Mary and Joseph decided to make some “teensy-weensy adjustments” and turned Billy’s room into a Bible study room.

Although he didn’t say anything, Billy scowled. Mary caught that, said, Tsk. She said, That’s one strike. She pulled out a small notebook, jotted something down.

We get into our beds, pull the covers up. Joseph looks at Mary, says, Forgetting something, aren’t we?

We already brushed our teeth, says Billy.

Mary smiles. She says, No, silly. She puts her palms together in front of her chest and cocks her head.

Billy and I nod, get out of our beds, kneel beside them.

We clasp our hands together, close our eyes, recite a simple prayer. In monotone, we ask God to bless us, our parents, and our dog, Noodle.

We say amen and are about to get back into our beds when Joseph clears his throat and turns to Mary. He says, Guess we aren’t much to be thankful for, are we, Mary?

Billy says, We didn’t ask you to stay here. He says, You were forced on us.

Evidently, he’s still upset about being evicted from his room.

Mary steps forward. She says, Excuse me?

Billy says, Our parents were taken away from us. He says, We didn’t want you here in the first place.

Mary’s still smiling but it’s not her usual smile; she wears a vengeful rictus that an evil clown might have. She pulls out that same small notebook and scribbles something inside it. She says, That’s strike two, mister man.

My back is to Mary and Joseph when I mouth the words, Just do what she says.

We kneel again, thank God for Mary and Joseph.

Our voices are as empty as the prayers themselves.

 

We’re sitting on the couch. It goes Mary, me, Joseph, Billy. Mary has her arm around me, Joseph has his arm around Billy.

My skin is crawling. Judging from the grimace on Billy’s face, probably his is, too.

On the television, there’s some show that recounts Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection. Every talking head and “expert” on the show treats it like it’s undeniable fact.

Billy’s eyelids begin to drop. As they do, his head leans forward. This happens two times. The third time, Joseph catches it and signals to Mary.

She reaches for her notebook, which is sitting on the end table.

I say, This is complete garbage. I say, Where’s the evidence supporting any of this? I say, Am I expected to believe that a man actually died and came back to life?

A sharp gasp from Mary and Joseph.

Billy’s head jerks up, and he smiles at me. And it isn’t for show.

Mary bolts off the couch. She grabs her notebook with one hand, grabs me with the other.

I’m pulled into Billy’s old bedroom and pushed onto a couch that used to be in the living room. Mary yanks a Bible off the shelf, thrusts it into my hands.

She says, This is your evidence. She says, This is all the proof you need. She opens her notebook, scrawls something in an angry hand. She says, That’s two strikes for you, missy.

Mary marches out of the room, locking the door behind her. I stretch out on the couch, open the Bible to the New Testament. I lay the book on my stomach and close my eyes.

I hope Billy appreciates the diversion. I didn’t have even one strike, let alone two. Granted, he has to watch the rest of that stupid show and I don’t.

Thank God for that.

 

Mary, Joseph, Billy, and I are in the foyer to greet my parents when they finally come home.

Mom and Dad stride into the house hand-in-hand. They’re both smiling.

I try to remember the last time I saw them like that, but I come up empty.

Billy and I run to them, throw our arms around them.

Mom says, Praise be unto Him.

Dad says, God’s will be done.

Billy and I disengage, stare at them for a moment. The irritation, the pettiness, the tension, they’re all gone. They look like Mom and Dad, but they’re not them. They’re like Mary and Joseph now.

Billy starts to cry.

Oh, my little lamb, Mom says, hugging Billy. There there, she says.

I glance up at Mary, expect her to take out her notebook, give Billy his third and final strike. Instead she hands it over to Dad.

It’s official: Mary and Joseph’s reign is over. But the nightmare doesn’t seem to be.

 

That poster of the woman helping the old man is staring me in the face. Again.

The Sunday School classroom is emptied out, and I’m sitting in the front row. Again.

Only Billy isn’t beside me this time.

Today’s Church sermon focused on the “Mysterious Acts of God,” how God does things for certain reasons, how those things should not be questioned.

During the Pastor’s spiel, Billy looks at me, arches an eyebrow. I shrug. Luckily, nobody notices.

We’re walking to the car after the service when Billy says, If God can do anything He wants, why does He let wars happen? He says, If He has all this power and doesn’t stop wars from happening, doesn’t that make him a pretty crappy god?

Mom and Dad stop in their tracks. Dad takes Mary’s notebook out of his pocket, makes a note as he shakes his head.

He says, That’s it for you, young man. He takes Billy by the arm and goes back into the Church. Mom and I follow.

Dad finds a Deacon, whispers something to him. The Deacon shakes his head, nods.

A second Deacon joins us. Mom smiles, says, Go with this man, little lamb. She says, Your dad and I have to take care of something.

I’m escorted to the Sunday School classroom, sit there until Mom and Dad come to get me.

They pull chairs from the front row, place them in front of me. Smiling, they sit down.

Dad says, Your brother. He says, He had to go on.

I say, A retreat.

Mom nods, says, A retreat.

I smooth the skirt of my dress. I say, It’ll only be for a couple weeks, right?

Mom and Dad smile, nod.

Running my fingers along the frilly hem, I say, And he’s going to get lobotomized, right? I say, Like you guys were? I point at the poster of the woman helping the old man. I say, Because that’s the only way anybody would actually buy that crap.

Dad takes out the notebook, adds a third strike for me. He says, Such a disappointment, little lamb.

Mom says, You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires. She says, Ephesians four twenty-two.

 

When I see Billy again, he’s sitting in a hotel room. A hotel room that doesn’t have any windows.

A Deacon collects me after Dad puts the final nail in my coffin, so to speak. The Deacon blindfolds me and leads me out of the Sunday School classroom.

As the door shuts behind us, Dad says, Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. He says, Joshua one nine.

The Deacon and I walk down stairs, up stairs, through hallways. I’m so turned around I can’t even guess where we are.

Eventually we stop. I hear a key being fitted into a lock, a deadbolt snapping back. I’m gently led through the doorway, and the blindfold is removed.

My eyes adjust to the soft but abundant light that suffuses the room. And there’s Billy, sitting on the edge of a twin bed. The door shuts behind me, the deadbolt slides home.

Billy runs to me and throws his arms around my waist. I return the gesture, patting his back like Mom used to.

I take in my surroundings. There are two twin beds, a night table, a bathroom. It’s a cozy prison cell.

Billy and I each sit down on a bed. He swings his feet, says, Wonder what’s gonna happen now.

I shrug, say, Good question.

There are two Bibles on the night table. I pick one up, let it fall open to a random page. I look at it and snicker. I say, Beware of false prophets who come disguised as harmless sheep but are really vicious wolves. I say, Matthew seven fifteen.

Seriously, Billy says.

 

Billy and I are sitting on a bed, facing each other. I hold my hands out, palms up, and he holds his hands out over mine, palms down. I smile, slightly jerk my hands, and Billy yanks his away. He rests his hands on top of mine again when we hear the snick! of the deadbolt. Billy looks at the door, and I slap the tops of his hands. He doesn’t notice; he’s busy looking at the door as it swings open.

Two Deacons pass through the doorway, one after the other. They stand to either side of it as the Pastor enters.

The Pastor wears a black suit with a red tie. His gray hair is parted down one side. A Bible is clutched in front of his chest. He’s Joseph, age 60. Only his teeth are whiter and brighter than Joseph’s could ever hope to be.

His mouth a thousand-watt grin, he says, Hello, my little lambs. He says, I have come to offer you absolution.

Billy says, You have something in your teeth.

The Pastor’s tongue slithers out between his glowing ivories and glides along the slick veneers. He does this while maintaining that smile, looking more like a coyote than a man.

Just kidding, says Billy.

I laugh.

The Pastor’s smile falters for a split second, like a neon sign that’s on the fritz. He says, Accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior. He says, Accept Him into your hearts and all will be forgiven.

He closes his eyes and raises the Bible above his head. He says, I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment. He says, First Corinthians one ten.

Tell Lord Jesus to suck it, says Billy.

I laugh again. Amen, I say.

The Pastor shakes his head. He says, Such a disappointment. He says, May God have mercy on your souls.

Yeah yeah, I say.

 

I’m hammering on a cold, steel door with my fists, screaming at the Deacon to bring my brother back.

After our meeting with the Pastor, two Deacons blindfold Billy and me. They load us into a car, take us who knows where. When we arrive at our destination, they walk us into another windowless hotel room.

The Deacons remove the blindfold and let me lay eyes on Billy. They let me get a good look before one of them stabs a syringe into Billy’s neck. The same Deacon picks Billy up as he collapses, carries him away.

The other Deacon follows them out, slams the door behind them. That’s when the hammering begins.

I’m at it another five minutes before I wear myself out. I slump to the floor and start crying. Didn’t expect things to get this dark. Turns out Christians are about as merciful as the Romans who crucified their savior.

 

On a hotel-style room service cart, a stack of banana and blueberry pancakes sits in front of me. I’m powering through it, washing it down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. For a glorified prison, I have to admit that the food is spectacular.

Sitting on the edge of one of the beds, I cut into the fluffy cakes with the edge of my fork. A syrupy bite is millimeters from my mouth when I hear the deadbolt retract.

The door opens and Billy’s standing there. Smiling.

He’s by himself, a Bible clasped in his hands. Blue suit, red tie, hair parted. He’s Joseph, age 10.

I drop my fork. It hits the edge of the plate, bounces off, lands on the carpet.

I say, Billy?

He says, Yes, sister, it is me. He says, I’m saved.

I say, Why are you here?

He says, To spread the good word. He says, And he said to them, Go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to the whole creation. He says, Mark sixteen fifteen.

Good lord, I say.

Billy nods. Exactly, he says.

I stand up, go to him, put my hands on his shoulders. I say, Billy, you don’t really believe that. I say, Do you?

He nods and smiles. I swear his teeth look a shade or two whiter.

I say, And you’re here to, what, convert me? I say, Make me repent?

Billy shakes his head, smiles some more. He says, Why no. He says, I’m here simply to tell you that God is great, that He is risen. He says, That soon you, too, will go forth to tell of the beauty of God’s grace.

Translation: they’re fucking with me. The Pastor, the Deacons, Mom, Dad, all of them. There’s no way out, and they’re rubbing it in my face.

My hands still on Billy’s shoulders, I shake him. Lightly at first, then harder and harder, his head snapping back and forth like it’s on a spring. I stop and he smiles at me. So I slap him across the face.

Still smiling.

Slap him again.

A toothy grin.

Let my hand fly.

He says, But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. He says, Matthew five thirty-nine.

I grab him by the shoulders again, twist him around, march him toward the door, pound on it. I say, Get him out of here! I say, You hear me? I slam my fist against it some more, say, Open this goddamn door NOW!

I flatten my hand, slap it against the steel. Between hitting Billy and the door, my hand is getting sore. I don’t care, keep assaulting the door.

Billy says, Violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls Salvation, and your gates Praise. He says, Isaiah sixty eighteen.

To Billy I say, Oh shut up. To the door I say, Come on!

Billy says, Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. He says, James four seven.

I shove Billy into the door face-first. When he pulls away from it, there’s a few droplets of blood smeared on the steel. His nose is bleeding. To my surprise, my eyes start to water.

I take two handfuls of the back of his suit jacket, bash him against the door. I start to sob full force. To the door I say, Hear that? I say, That’s your errand boy’s nose breaking! I say, Where’s your god now, huh?

I smash Billy into the door twice more before it opens.

A Deacon fills the doorway. He gently lays his hand on Billy’s head. He says, Do not worry, little lamb. He says, Her time has nearly arrived.

Billy turns around, blood dripping out of his nose and onto his lips, his chin. Teeth stained pink, he smiles. He says, You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the sons of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself. He says, Leviticus nineteen eighteen.

The Deacon closes the door, locks it.

I slump against it, cry until I lose my breath, my chest heaving.

 

In a dressing room, a poster hangs where a mirror should be.

It shows a beefy woman in an ill-fitting dress standing in front of a mirror. She looks anxious, worried.

Bold text trumpets, “Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. – Proverbs 31:30”

I turn my attention from the poster to the white nightgown hanging from a hook on the wall. Matching cloth flats lay on the floor below it.

I regard them a little while, wonder if they made Billy wear the same thing or something different. I’m picturing him in a little, white suit – a pint-sized hybrid of Joseph and Colonel Sanders – when there’s a sharp rap on the door.

A Deacon says, Don’t want to keep the Lord waiting, little lamb.

I roll my eyes, mutter, Why not? He’s not going anywhere.

The Deacon says, What was that?

Nothing, I say.

I sigh, shake my head. I reach for the nightgown, stop, retract my arm.

Another knock on the door, the Deacon’s non-verbal reminder to hurry up. I proclaim that patience is a godly virtue. The Deacon grunts in reply.

Florescent lights shine into my eyes when I look up at the ceiling, search for a possible escape route. There are no removable panels, no way out of any kind. Even if there were removable panels, it’s not like I could reach them. There’s no stool in here, even.

A third knock. This one lighter, more demure. A moment passes, and the door opens. It’s Mary. Mary with her jackal smile and perfect blond hair. She’s holding her hands in front of her, a pair of tailor’s shears clamped between them.

Hello again, little lamb, she says. Having trouble getting dressed?

She takes the scissors in one hand, opens them, closes them. Snip snip, she says.

She turns me so I’m facing the fat lady on the poster. I feel the cold metal of the shears on the back of my neck, the tips of the blades pointing due south.

In a movement so precise it seems practiced, she slices down the back of my dress, slashing through my bra and underwear at the same time. She stretches her arm into the hallway, and a Deacon’s hand appears to take the scissors from hers.

Mary steps in front of me, undresses me like she’s peeling a banana. Goosebumps pop out all over my body and my eyes fill with hot tears. I swallow hard and blink back the tears so she doesn’t see them.

She plucks the nightgown off the hook, pulls it down over my head, fits my arms into the sleeves. She bends down, takes my shoes off, replaces them with the flats.

There, she says, putting her hands on my shoulders. She takes my hand in hers, raises it above my head. She closes her eyes, says, Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. She opens her eyes, flashes that jackal smile, says, Psalm fifty-one ten.

Mary walks out of the room but leaves the door open.

A Deacon appears in the doorway. It’s time, he says.

I step out of the dressing room and into a bright, white hallway. Not sure where it is in relation to the hotel prison because I was blindfolded before I was taken to the dressing room.

A second Deacon materializes at my back. He and the other Deacon each hold out an arm, signaling for me to start walking down the hallway.

My feet swish over the tiled floor, and I keep my steps as small as I can, trying to delay the inevitable. The nightgown hangs off my shoulders and billows out when it catches an errant puff of air. I shiver.

We reach a white door. It looks heavy and is engraved with a pattern that looks like two halves of a gate.

One of the Deacons steps in front of me, puts a hand on the doorknob, twists it. He says, Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. He says, Second Corinthians five seventeen.

The door opens and an impossible luminescence swallows me.

I can’t see my own feet let alone the Deacons. I turn in what I think is the direction of one of them and say, Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. I say, I don’t know who said that, but whoever it was, it was somebody much brighter than you guys. I say, But that’s not saying much.

Then I shut my eyes and laugh. Laugh as the light becomes darkness.

Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on “Little Lambs” – short fiction

“The Newest Thing” – short fiction

When I tell the owner of a five-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath Colonial that she should hang dried squirrel carcasses from all of her lampshades, I’m picturing my husband’s cock in her mouth.

When I say, Murals made out of shaving cream are very in right now, this broad is on all fours and my husband’s tongue is buried in her ass.

I say, Do you have any dead relatives? She nods, and my husband is bound and gagged while this strumpet whips him with a riding crop. I say, You should have one of them exhumed, stuffed, and mounted.

I say, Potential buyers love that kind of thing.

I almost always meet clients alone. Then one day I brought my husband along.

 

I get the call on the way home from Jerry’s colonoscopy.

It’s this woman, Marina, she’s a stager. One of the best. She gives seminars, even. I’ve been to a couple.

Marina says she’s selling her house, that she needs a stager, that I was recommended by a mutual friend.

I’m caught off-guard, I don’t know what to say.

Marina asks if I’m still there.

I’m still here, I say. I ask her why me, why not stage your own house.

A doctor wouldn’t treat her own child, she says. It’s like that.

I ask when she’d like to meet.

She says as soon as possible.

I jump the gun, tell her I can be over right away. But that I have my husband with me.

She’s says that’s fine, that she’ll see me in a bit.

I look over at Jerry, still in a post-anesthetic daze. He waves his hand as if to say, Do what you need to do.

So I do.

 

We get to Marina’s house, and Jerry stays in the car. He’s nodding off and doesn’t seem bothered.

Marina gives me a tour of her house. It’s not what I expected for somebody so successful – it’s modest, dare I say cozy.

We’re strolling through the house, and I don’t know what to tell her. The house looks perfect. She’s done things even I wouldn’t have thought to do.

We finish the tour and are back in the foyer. I’m searching for what to say when there’s a knock at the door. Marina opens it, and Jerry’s standing there.

He gives Marina a smile like he just shit himself.

This is my husband, Jerry, I say. We were on our way back from the hosp—

Won’t you come in, Marina says.

Jerry stumbles through the door. Marina catches him by the arm, smiling and tutting. Oh you poor dear, she says.

Had to use the bathroom, Jerry says. He looks at me, broadcasting an apology from his eyeballs.

I say, Like I said, we were on our way back from the hospital, Jerry had a colo—

Let me show you where the WC is, Marina says.

I squint and cock my head. Did she really just say “WC”? What is this, the 1930s?

Marina slowly leads Jerry down the hallway to the bathroom, one hand on his back and the other on his biceps.

While Jerry is in the bathroom, Marina asks what do I think, what should she do.

I dig around in my purse for my phone. Waggling the phone in the air, I say, Would you mind if I took some pictures? I have some ideas but I’d like to study the spaces before I give any recommendations.

Marina winks and nods. Very professional, she says, smiling.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to document every room. When I return to the foyer, I hear giggles coming from the kitchen.

Jerry and Marina are at the kitchen table, a glass pitcher of iced tea between them. Marina is still laughing, one hand over her mouth while the other grazes Jerry’s hand.

Jerry smiles and takes a sip from a sweating glass. Ah, he says. For a guy who had a fiber optic camera up his ass an hour earlier, he certainly seems fine now.

The look they give me when I walk in makes me feel like I just broke up a party. I’m the narc, and they’re the kids with the keg.

Think I got everything I need, I say.

Jerry reluctantly says goodbye.

I say I’ll be in touch, and we leave.

 

Days go by.

I still don’t have any ideas for Marina’s house. The last thing I need is to give Marina bad advice or no advice and have her blab to people about my inadequacies.

On a whim I decide to drive past her house, thinking that maybe inspiration will hit.

I’m approaching her house, and there’s a maroon Acura parked out front. I didn’t know Marina had a maroon Acura. It looks like Jerry’s car.

Son of a bitch – it is Jerry’s car.

I coast by the house like a shark who can’t stop moving less it dies. When I get to the end of Marina’s street, I make a right.

Get to the end of another street, make a right.

Get to the end of another street, make a right.

Get to the end of yet another street, make a right.

And I’m back on Marina’s street.

I pass the house again, and Jerry’s car is there. Again.

It’s no mirage. I’m not losing my mind. This is really happening.

But maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe I’m imagining the worst.

I stop in front of a house that’s three doors down from Marina’s.

I suck in a deep breath and get out of the car. I walk to Marina’s, and it feels like a dream, like I’m not walking at all. I’m…floating, drifting to her house.

I stand at the end of the driveway. Maybe I don’t want to know what’s happening in there. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe if I stand here long enough I’ll grow roots and wouldn’t that be something.

I slowly move one foot into the driveway. Then I move the other foot. Before I know it I’m on the side of the house, near the dining room window. It looks right into the foyer.

Jerry is standing with his back to the front door. Marina is in front of him, kneeling. She has her fist in front of her mouth, and she’s bobbing forward and back, forward and back.

Oh. My God. She’s blowing him.

Her other arm is hooked around Jerry’s side, her hand sandwiched between Jerry’s ass and the door, doing who knows what.

I back away slowly, hypnotized by Marina’s motion. Forward, back, forward, back.

A voice behind me calls, Can I help you?

I turn and it’s Marina’s neighbor, an elderly woman in an old, violet housecoat.

Just checking the meter, I say. I’m from the electric company.

I’m also in a pantsuit and heels. Think she’ll notice?

The meter is in the back, the neighbor says.

I wish I were that out of it. If I were, I could get back in my car and drive home and pretend like none of this ever happened.

Right, I say to the neighbor.

I manage a tight grin and wave thanks. I venture around the back and am greeted by a deck.

Since Marina’s house is on a bit of a slope, the deck sits about five feet off the ground. So, standing in the pachysandra bed that abuts the thick timbers that comprise the foundation of the deck, I peer over the weatherproofed slats and look through the sliding glass door right into the kitchen.

Marina is bent over the kitchen table, and Jerry is savagely thrusting into her from behind. Their violent movement causes the salt and pepper shakers to shimmy across the table and crash onto the floor.

Marina’s arms flail until her fingers find purchase, latching on to the sides of the table.

Slowly, I recede from the deck floor. I touch the diamond pendant on my necklace, a gift from Jerry for our tenth anniversary.

Then I throw up into the pachysandra.

Head throbbing, I trudge back to my car and get in. I lift a bottle of water from the cup holder, open it, and take a drink. I swish some water and spit it out the window. I close the bottle and replace it in the holder.

I take a deep breath, let it out. After a moment I start the car and drive away.

 

They say you sometimes enter a hypnotic state when you drive, that you don’t “wake up” until you reach your destination. That’s certainly true because I’m parked in my garage, and I swear I don’t remember the drive home from Marina’s. I could’ve run over a gaggle of schoolchildren, and I wouldn’t remember it.

Sitting in my car, my hands still gripping the steering wheel, I stare at the wall of the garage, at Jerry’s workbench full of tools. Marina is bent over it and Jerry, gripping her ass, pounds away, hammers and wrenches rattling.

My cell phone trills. I blink, and Jerry and Marina dissolve into the ether. I pick the phone off the passenger seat and look at the screen. It’s Marina.

I push the green “answer” button and put the phone to my ear.

Marina says, Hello? She says, Janine? She says, Are you there?

I imagine her walking around the house, skirt bunched up around her waist like a swollen belt, trying to track down her underwear.

I’m here, I say.

Well hello, she says. She asks do I have any suggestions for her, do I have time to stop by.

My mouth goes dry.

I don’t say, Drop dead. I don’t say, Fuck off. I don’t say, How does Jerry’s dick taste.

Sure, I say. I’m on my way.

 

And I’m back at Marina’s house.

My car is parked where Jerry’s was, and I’m standing in the foyer.

Marina is smiling so widely that I swear her skin is going to tear.

She claps her hands and holds them in front of her. Her skirt and blouse hang perfectly, and not one hair is out of place on her head. She doesn’t look like a woman who was just fucked on her kitchen table.

So, she says. Any ideas?

I don’t have any. Not one. Marina’s house, like the woman herself, is perfect.

Well, I say. I point at the plantation shutters on her windows. It wouldn’t hurt to paint clown faces on the shutters.

I have no idea where that came from. I’m expecting Marina to call 911, expecting her to tell the operator to send an ambulance because a woman is having a stroke in her home.

She looks at the shutters and cocks her head. Go on, she says.

The problem with most houses today, I say, is that they’re too…perfect. Where’s the character, where’s the charm? Creases form in Marina’s brow, and I touch her arm. Don’t worry, I say, you’re not alone.

Marina’s forehead relaxes, and she smiles. She asks me to wait while she “fetches a pen and paper.” She returns and is jotting furiously in a small spiral-bound notebook. She finishes and says, What else?

I explain about the squirrel carcasses, the shaving cream murals, the taxidermied family members.

She writes all of this down, the pink tip of her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. The same tongue she used on Jerry’s dick.

I exile this thought from my mind and continue giving her my ideas, every one more whacked out than the next. An hour later Marina has filled her notebook and is beaming.

I make a show of taking my cell phone out of my purse and checking the time. I say, I have to run, Marina. Jerry’ll be home soon.

She starts at the mention of Jerry’s name but barely. Thank you so much for coming over, she says. You’ve been so helpful.

She walks me to the front door and opens it. Before I know it, she’s hugging me, pinning my arms to my sides. If she feels as awkward as I do, it doesn’t show.

Marina lets go, and I give her a half smile, waving as I walk to my car. She mouths “thank you” as I get in and key the ignition.

Makes me wonder if all mistresses are this chummy.

 

I’m making snickerdoodles for Jerry when my phone bleats. I’m dumping copious amounts of laxative into the batter as I crane my neck to see a text from Marina.

IT SOLD IN A DAY!!!! it says.

I fumble the bottle of laxative, and it spills on the counter, glug-glug-glug-ing out on to the granite surface.

The phone bleats again – it’s a link to Marina’s house listing.

I right the bottle and grab a wad of paper towels. I dab at the puddle with one hand and operate my phone with the other.

I scroll through the pictures from the listing. She did everything I suggested to the letter. There’s even a waxy figure wearing a funeral suit standing in a corner – a stuffed corpse, I assume.

Congratulations! I write back.

Couldn’t have done it without YOU!! Marina writes. They love it so much they want to buy the whole house as is, furniture and all! Yay!

Who’d the house sell to? The Munsters?

I put the phone down and return to the cookie dough.

I decide there’s probably enough laxative in there to cause Jerry’s colon to prolapse so I give it a final stir and start placing small blobs of dough on a cookie sheet.

Jerry doesn’t know I know. He doesn’t know because I haven’t said anything. I haven’t said anything because…I don’t know why. Call it paralysis. Call it cowardice. Call it temporary insanity. Sometimes things don’t make sense.

So I’m putting laxatives in his food.

And giving Marina bad advice.

What I thought was bad advice.

 

Time passes.

I’m in the bathroom, putting on my makeup. The lingering scent of Jerry’s excrement hangs in the air. An unwelcome side effect of my on-going revenge. The TV is on in my bedroom, tuned to some national morning show.

One of the talking heads says, Up next, stager-to-the-stars Marina Van Camp joins us in studio to talk about the hot new decorating trend, dubbed “freak chic.” We’ll be right back.

I drop my mascara brush, and it skids into the sink. I patter out to the bedroom, stand at the foot of the bed. Commercials for products that I could care less about crawl by, each one dragging by. I’m tapping my foot and fidgeting with the hem of my blouse. Get on with it already!

The picture cuts back to the morning show, and there’s Marina, smiling that ear-to-ear smile, a toothy canyon in the middle of her face.

A wide shot reveals Marina on one couch and the host on the other. The talking head introduces Marina, pronounces her last name “Vahn Cahmp.” Marina’s plucked and coiffed, impeccably attired.

The talking head praises Marina’s style, asks what inspired her to do such a thing.

The problem with most houses today, Marina says, is that they’re too…perfect. Where’s the character, where’s the charm?

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Marina explains how she needed to sell her house, how what she’d done wasn’t working. She says, I had to get weird with it. She says, I had to think outside the box.

The show cuts to a before-and-after split screen of Marina’s house. That trollop takes credit for all my demented ideas, all my horrible suggestions.

A new set of before-and-after photos cycle through. They’re the houses of actors, pro athletes, rock stars – Marina’s clients. The talking head says these photos and many more will be featured in the upcoming issue of People Magazine.

People! Magazine!

My jaw throbs, and I realize I’m grinding my teeth. I take a breath, sit on the edge of the bed.

The talking head thanks Marina for her time, Marina still wearing that face-splitter of a smile, and cuts to commercial.

 

I’m in my car, driving to my nine o’clock: a three-bedroom Tudor. A buzz saw is whining in my head so I turn on the radio to drown it out.

NPR is doing a piece on “freak chic,” and telephonic voices of so-called experts extol Marina’s brilliance. My knuckles go white on the steering wheel, and I click the radio off.

When I get to the appointment, the woman selling the house ushers me inside and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm toward the living room. She tells me she isn’t happy with the room, that it’s too…perfect.

She says, What about a pile of dead computer monitors in the middle of the floor. That’s what that rapper had, she says, and his house sold in an hour.

My lips clamp together, and I smile knowing that it doesn’t look like a smile at all.

As politely as I can, I try to steer this woman away from the dark side. But it doesn’t matter. Marina has already got her hooks in.

Marina the jezebel. Marina the phony.

I say, Have you heard of “demo decorating?”

I make air quotes with my fingers.

The woman tilts her head like a confused dog.

It’s the newest thing, I say. It’s very in right now.

Strolling through the house, I suggest exposing a few wires, punching bowling ball-size holes in the drywall.

We return to where we started by the front door. I say, Are you familiar with the term “controlled burn?”

Again with the air quotes.

The woman shakes her head no.

It’s simple, I say. You burn part of your house.

I gesture toward the rear of her home. I say, The sun porch would make an excellent candidate.

The woman covers her mouth with her hand.

I know, I say. Seems drastic. But if you want an omelet…

 

I don’t send the woman a bill. I don’t follow up. I don’t expect to ever hear from her again.

Then I get a card from her in the mail. I open the envelope and pull out a card. THANK YOU! is sandblasted across the front in glittery print.

I open the card and a check falls out. I read the message scrawled inside: Consider this a bonus! Best advice ever!

I pick the check off the ground. It’s triple my usual rate. If I were a cartoon, this is where my eyes would pogo out of my head.

I hustle to my computer and search for her listing. She followed my directions explicitly – her house is a disaster. The sun porch is reduced to carbonic toothpicks, even.

The kicker: the house sold for double the asking price.

 

I’m in a two-bedroom Cape Cod, and spotlights are assailing my face with incandescence.

I squint, and a woman in a tailored pantsuit asks me is the light too much, would I like it turned down.

I say, Uh.

She turns to a cameraman and says, Ernie, turn down the kliegs a little, will you?

The lights dim. I stop squinting.

The woman, Jillian, smiles. She says, Better?

I nod.

Jillian explains that they’re going to shoot me giving the homeowners some advice on how they should stage their house, then she’ll interview me, then she’ll interview the homeowners, and then that will be it.

Jillian is from a local news affiliate that wants to do a story on me and “demo decorating.”

This comes on the back of an enormous surge in business for me. I have more success and more money than I’ve ever dreamed of. Yet I’m still the bridesmaid, not the bride.

Marina still holds that position.

Even Jillian assumes that Marina is my inspiration, that I’ve spun my aesthetic out of hers, that I’ve taken her idea and evolved it. That stings.

But I give answers when asked questions, smile for the camera.

Smile even though I want to scream.

Smile even though Marina is the architect of my deconstruction.

Smile even though she’s stolen from me. Twice.

Marina’s got fame and fortune.

But Jerry has chronic diarrhea.

Things aren’t all bad.

 

Jerry.

Poor, stupid Jerry.

He finally left. Practically crapped his entrails out before he did. He never suspected the laxatives. He thought the colonoscopy had “rewired” his digestive tract. Like I said, stupid.

We’re sitting at dinner one night, having osso buco, when Jerry gives me the news.

He says that he’s met someone, that he’s leaving me.

Okay, I say. I make a careful incision into the veal, separate fat from meat and meat from bone.

He says, It’s Marina.

I know, I say.

He says, You do?

I take a bite of veal. I say, I’m keeping the house and all the furniture.

Okay, he says. He continues eating. So stupid.

Please leave, I say.

He nods, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and goes.

Anticlimactic, I know.

I slice into the meat again. When I put another morsel in my mouth, it tastes saltier than the others. That’s when I realize that tears have tracked down my cheeks and onto my lips.

 

The news segment gets picked up in the national news, and pretty soon I’m getting calls from all over the country.

I fly to Los Angeles to meet with some film mogul about his house. He has a driver pick me up at the airport, shuttle me to the walled-in compound where he lives.

We pull up to the gate. In front of us is a red Ford sitting next to a small guardhouse. There’s an arm jutting out the driver’s side window. I can’t hear what the owner of the arm is saying but the arm itself looks like it’s having a seizure. There’s a lot of pointing and fist shaking.

The uniformed guard sticks his head out and waves my limo through. As we pull past the Ford and through the gate, I peer at the driver through the tinted windows.

It’s Marina.

The insulated carapace of the limousine baffles all outside sound to a dry whisper but I can still make out her words before the gate closes behind us: “But he’s my client! Mine!”

I smile, and that sucker goes ear to ear.

 

Exposed Tyvek sheeting. Deleted gutters. Chimneys missing bricks like half-finished games of Jenga.

I see all of these in the neighborhoods surrounding mine. Houses seem to be losing parts. Devolving.

A house on my street is stripped down to the studs in one area, completely exposing the master bath. My neighbor, Gretchen, has a towel around her midsection and is winding another around her head as I drive up to the curb and park.

I step out of the car, shield my eyes from the sun with my hand. Gretchen sees me and waves.

She yells, Isn’t this great. She yells, Way better than a skylight.

I nod, ask her what gives.

She says it’s the newest thing. She says Marina suggested it.

“Marina.” As in Madonna or Cher. As in she’s so famous she’s shed her last name like she’s telling people to shed parts of their homes.

I ask Gretchen, is she selling, has she had any offers.

She says she was thinking about it but she likes it so much she’s going to stay where she is.

I nod, wave goodbye, and walk to my house. It’s not until much later that I remember to retrieve my car.

 

There’s a knock at my front door. It’s Jerry.

He tells me Marina dumped him.

I don’t say, Surprise surprise. I don’t say, Who didn’t see that coming. I don’t say, You dumb fuck.

Sorry, I say. I actually say it, it actually comes out of my mouth. And it actually sounds sincere even though it isn’t.

He says he’s sorry, too.

I put up a hand. I say, Don’t.

He says, Is there any chance.

I say, No.

He nods and says, House looks nice.

I say, That it?

My colon cleared up, he says.

Poor, stupid Jerry.

Good for you, I say. Anything else?

He shakes his head and walks away slump-shouldered. And I actually feel bad for him. I actually pity the sad sack.

I don’t say, Fuck you for making me feel bad for you.

I don’t say it even though I should.

 

I’m posted behind a dais in a hotel ballroom.

PowerPoint slides flick by on the screen behind me as I cycle through them with a remote control. They’re before-and-after shots of homes I’ve staged with bits of bulleted text peppered in.

Saying the “after” shots are of homes is a gross overstatement; most of the shots show just slabs of gray concrete sitting in the midst of ornate landscaping.

I say, A house is more of a state of mind than an actual thing. I say, Buyers need to be able to visualize their house, what they want.

Marina is in a hotel across town, on the lecture circuit like I am. She’s probably giving her audience a slightly modified version of what I’m saying. And honestly? We’re both full of shit. Only difference is I know it and she doesn’t.

Marina and I have become animals. Bulldogs pissing on each other.

I do something, she one-ups me. She does something, I one-up her.

She told people to start removing their siding, their drywall. I told them to strip the whole house down to the studs. She told people to erase a few rooms. I told them to get rid of an entire floor. Back and forth we went until there was nothing left but the foundation, that cold slab of concrete on the screen behind me.

We’re the worst kind of cause and effect.

Now we’re preaching to the masses, messiahs competing for market share.

And the masses, they’re lining up, waiting to be saved.

Delivering my litany to the throng of disciples lining the ballroom, I don’t say, Save yourselves. I don’t say, Before it’s too late. I don’t say, Even though it is too late.

I finish my spiel, ask if there are any questions. Nearly every hand in the room reaches for the ceiling.

I point to the center of the room at no one in particular because I can’t tell one hand from the next. I say, Yes, you.

A woman stands, puffs her chest out, and smiles, as if she’s the Chosen One. She says, Why is your house still standing?

Every Jesus needs a Judas. This woman is mine.

Not that I blame her. I mean, she’s right – my house is still there, still has all its parts. And it’s tastefully decorated, if I do say so myself.

I say, I have no intention of selling.

Even as it exits my mouth I know it won’t be enough to appease her.

She says, Seems a little hypocritical, doesn’t it?

I don’t say, All religions do.

I’m a stager, I say. I stage houses that are going to be sold. My house isn’t going to be sold. Next question.

She says, Yes, but.

I say, Next. Question.

She says, Marina’s living in a tent on the concrete foundation of her house. Why aren’t you?

This woman is quite a few rows away from me but I catch a gleam in her eye. It’s the gleam of a brown-noser, a teacher’s pet. A gleam that says “Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, I caught you” in a sing-song voice. It’s the gleam of a weaselly toady.

This woman is a plant. Sent by Marina.

I clench my jaw, release it. I say, Marina is a tramp who fucked my husband on her kitchen table.

That gleam in the woman’s eye? Snuffed out like a flame in a stiff wind.

I say, Marina fucked my husband and stole him from me just like she stole my idea for “freak chic.” I make air quotes with my fingers.

I wrench the microphone from its stand on the dais and step in front of it. I say, I staged Marina’s house way back when. I gave her those bat shit crazy ideas. And it’s all because I caught her fucking my husband on her kitchen table.

I don’t say, Talk about false prophets.

Thank you for coming, I say.

I drop the microphone. Feedback squeals when it hits the stage.

I walk past the rows of occupied chairs, part a flock of fire-code-violating, standing-room-only disciples in the back, and barrel through the double doors. I stop in the cavernous hallway, gather my wits. Then I go to my room, pack up my things, and catch an early flight home.

 

Great swaths of white billow down and around the front yard of my house. Everything is wrapped and draped in them: trees, bushes, the lamppost.

I’m headachy and jet lagged so it takes me a second to realize that I wasn’t home for Halloween – my house has been like this for days. Fucking kids and their toilet paper.

News vans have collected on my street, an amoeba of media. I maneuver my car into the driveway, and TP streamers fwish against the windshield like in a car wash. Reporters, ducking bands of white, converge around the car. They back up just enough to let me out, but after that I’m surrounded by microphones and cameras.

Questions are broadcast at me in a fuzzy cacophony of cocktail party chatter.

I put up a hand. I say, One at a time, please.

One of the reporters says, This feud with Marina, is it over?

I should say, Marina won. I should say, She can have all the idiots willing to listen to her bullshit. I should say, I’m done.

I open my mouth to respond when the reporter points at the flowing sheets above us. He says, And what’s with the toilet paper?

I gently run my hand along some cottony ribbons. I should say, What’s it look like, genius? I should say, Get a clue.

I say, Oh this? It’s the newest thing.

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