The Christmas Ring: A Children’s Story

photojanssens10large231.jpg

It was near two in the afternoon and Vernon Stroud was whistling. He ambled along the sidewalk gazing upon the ivy growing to overtake a large brick building when he came to an opening in the cast iron fence. The birds quieted and the wind swept the ground in front of him. It occurred to him that the last time he had entered this specific entrance to the park, he was accompanied by the late Mrs. Stroud. Not yet a year had gone by since her passing, and he could still feel her strange vibrations.

Mrs. Stroud, whose first name was Bebe, was quite a nasty woman. Her beady eyes were, at times, difficult to decipher, but she never failed to provide ample body language in the form of abuse to poor Vernon (who weighed no more than one hundred and fifteen pounds, himself). She was quite a portly lady with large cumbersome breasts that tumbled around her as she walked, and her hair, thinning and spotted grey, was always pulled tightly around her skull in the small bob of a ponytail. Vernon had always thought that it would difficult for one to think properly with their hair fixed so tight, but then again, his own hair was near gone, so he had little room for such contemplation. It had been her teeth, however, that struck butchers and bakers alike to hide behind racks of lamb or large loaves of bread upon her arrival. After years of rot, with little hope of dentistry, and a fierce chewing tobacco habit, her teeth had yellowed and the odor was growing daily.

Vernon recalled her now, as he strutted over Gapstow bridge and found a bench overlooking the water. He had packed a meager lunch, a hunk of cheese, a piece of bread, a small salami and an apple. The birds sang and Vernon spoke quietly to himself, “This will be my very first Christmas alone.” He thought this very matter-of-factly, and without any sign of sadness. He pulled a pocketknife from his coat and went to work on his meal. “I’m sure I can manage.” Looking down to his feet, Vernon spotted a lone sparrow hopping towards him. “I’ll just need he proper fixings!” he threw the sparrow a piece of bread, “And of course a few friends to join me. The sparrow cooed and an audience of seven more appeared before Vernon, all whistling and hopping about. Vernon crumbled some bread into tiny pieces and threw them to the birds. “You know why this is my very first Christmas alone?” He asked the birds, still pecking at crumbs. He then decided to explain the whole story of his wife, Mrs. Bebe Stroud, for them while they enjoyed their meal. “Well, there is an attractive young woman with a little dog, who near noon everyday but Sunday…”

He always began the story like this, because for Vernon, the story simply revolved around the event itself, but the truth lies in a gift that Vernon had purchased for his wife on Christmas Eve one year ago. His wife with her harsh beatings and nasty breath had driven Vernon mad, but as he was a good man, he could not run away from her for fear that she would be wrecked with sadness (or she might come after him, Vernon assumed nervously). So, instead, he devised a plan to, push her over the edge, so to speak.He arrived at the jewelry shop on the morning of Christmas Eve with fifty dollars. He asked the clerk to help him find the perfect ring for Bebe.

“What exactly are you looking for?” The clerk inquired, “We have plenty of beautiful stones in plenty of beautiful settings…sure to make any woman look lovely.”

Vernon chuckled softly to himself, “Do you have anything in very poor shape?”

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“Well this is for a woman who has found herself in very poor shape.”

The clerk shot him a quizzical glance, then shrugged and took Vernon to a back room. They passed rows of boxes on metal shelving and bins of uncut stones until they finally reached the back corner of the jeweler’s storage. The clerk, whose name was Sam, reached into a large box, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a small box covered in crushed black velvet.

“I think this may be what you’re looking for,” Sam said, offering Vernon the box. Inside, Vernon could see the perfect stone. It glowed yellow in the light and barely glistened, there were chips along the cutting lines, and through the center lay a deep and readily visible crack. When Vernon asked about the price, Sam shook his head and let him have it for nothing.

“Merry Christmas, Sir.” Sam said with a laugh, “I sure hope it works.”

“I’m sure it will, thank you…and Merry Christmas to you, as well.”

Vernon smiled and shook Sam’s hand, gratefully.

When Vernon arrived home that afternoon, it was with the largest turkey that the butcher could muster (the butcher was simply overjoyed that Vernon had paid him a visit instead of Mrs. Stroud), and also trimmings and dressings set for a king’s feast. Vernon had decided that since he had spent nothing on the gift, that he would spend the entire fifty dollars on Christmas dinner. The next day, the turkey was baked, the trimmings stewed and the dressing thick and heartily prepared. Vernon summoned his wife from her nap and opened a bottle of wine.

“Now, we thank you Lord for all of the…”

His wife did not wait for the grace to end, but instead began to eat quite pig-like, giving very little thought to socially acceptable table manners. He made a toast to new beginnings and carved himself a nice piece of turkey. Vernon, proud of his accomplished job of cooking the feast, rose from his seat to serve his wife. Swatting away the serving spoon full of dressing, she reached her hands into the bowl and dumped a hefty portion on her plate.

“My dear, you must restrain yourself.” Turning to Vernon, she gave him a swift punch to the gut, and he fell over spilling the bowl of dressing into his lap.

“Now look what you did,” his wife said looking down at him and shaking her head.           Vernon struggled up to the table and ate what he could of Christmas dinner.

Afterwards, while Vernon washed the plates and mopped the floor beneath his wife’s chair, he heard Bebe yell for her present from the couch where she lay digesting her food. Vernon reached into his pocket and found the small box and stared at it for a moment, “Well, here we go.”

He walked over to her and she clapped her hands with delight when she saw the small box in his hand. She sat up and opened it. Vernon did not remember anything after this, however, because a swift blow to the head left him unconscious until the next morning. He awoke on the wooden floor to find a lump on his forehead and a very full stomach. He smiled and checked his watch, near noon. He arose swiftly and scuffled over to the balcony. This is where he would see the attractive young woman who walked her little dog in front of his apartment on Becker Avenue near noon, every day but Sunday. Because of God, Vernon assumed.

He gazed at her and sighed. The day was pleasant with a light snow cover and the sun peeking through the clouds above. His wife, meanwhile, was so very upset about the ring she wore on her left hand that she gorged leftover turkey.

Ripping apart a drumstick she swallowed between sobs. She looked at Vernon, the little man that she had married so many years ago and her sorrow turned to rage, she stood up from her chair and walked towards him on the balcony. She bared her yellow teeth and growled softly. She put the drumstick to her mouth and with all her anger, she bit down hard, and ran to Vernon yelling and waving her drumstick in the air. Vernon turned around to see his charging wife, and holding his hands in front of him he let out a tiny yelp. But, when he opened his eyes, Vernon could see through his fingers that she had stopped dead in her tracks and her yelling had become grunting. Her eyes bulged and her face turned wild colors. She wobbled over to Vernon on the balcony, breasts bobbing up and down, and rotting mouth wide open. She grabbed Vernon, shaking him violently, and gave the international sign language for choking. Now, Vernon was not a doctor, in fact, Vernon was not a very learned man at all, but he had read, though he forgot where, about the Heimlich maneuver and the best way to go about it. At first, he hit her as hard as he could on the back, but eventually found it only therapeutic for himself and left his wife still choking. So he grabbed her up in his arms (which he had not done in some time), and began to heave and ho. As the couple was on their balcony while engaging in such activities, they naturally drew a crowd. Soon, people were shouting in the street, and housewives and college students leaned from their windows across the street to see. It was a rather comical spectacle, as Vernon had wholly misinterpreted the directions of the maneuver, and was heaving and hoing with his own chest facing that of his wives. Her breath made him sick, and her face was now a deep shade of purple. In all the excitement, Vernon had not realized that they were steadily moving closer to the railing. All it took was one extra hard heave and they both toppled over and fell for five stories to the icy street below. His wife landed solidly with a smack and thus, provided ample padding for the light Vernon to safely land. He came down upon her with such force, however, that the turkey bone in her throat shot forth out of her mouth and hit him exactly in the same bump from the night before. Just before he was again knocked quite cold, he made out the dull yellow glinting from his wife’s chubby finger. Vernon lay on his dead bride with an even larger bump from the fated turkey bone, and for the first time in quite a while, he rested.

“Yes,” I just bounced right on top of her and came out without a scratch, what do you think about that?” Vernon asked one of his sparrows. He tossed the last piece of bread down to the birds, “Funny thing was,” he chuckled, “I never knew who to thank, the butcher or the jeweler!”

The sparrow looked to Vernon and twisted its tiny head in the way that sparrows do, and then flew away. Vernon dropped his trash into a bin and strolled out of the park whistling, this time, a holiday tune.

 

2010
11/28
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS








Write comment

Admire, Perhaps, Abernathy

First of all, I should mention that her name was not Abernathy.  Instead it was something completely different, a name that seemed to say, yes, I am a name that directly reflects the tragedy of personage I tend to be linked to, in this case, the brunette, maybe twenty five, skinny and littered with attractive freckles upon her nose.

I was in the middle of a draft beer, or nearing the finish, wondering where my future as an opportunist might lead when I first met her.  I doodled in the margins of some ridiculous novel about two men and one woman as they most tend to be (and have no fear, this is not so different, sans the fact that there are really only two in this story, a man, who is of course, myself, and a woman who is Abernathy, or for that matter, the tragedy of personage) until I noticed a commotion at the doorway of a famous thrifting shop from the table set for one outside of The Commodore, a mostly unknown diner that was not nearly the caliber of celebrity of the thrifting shop that seemed to be the catalyst for all of the commotion.

Two men dressed in proper blue black attire, that is the kind with a walkie-talkie attached to the shoulder and a mag light at the waist to insinuate authority, though without the necessary water pistol or .38 J.P. Sauer (that’s what the Nazi’s used) that denote policemanship, simply security for the celebrity that was the thrifting shop, were pulling a bag away from a brunette, and I’m sure you can guess whether or not she had attractive freckles upon her nose.

For some reason, overcome, I finished my beer and struck the King of Hearts into my book and wandered from my table toward the noise.

The first of the men was speaking into his walkie-talkie and pointing his flash light at the young woman.  The second was pulling the bag away from her, a black oversized bag that seemed more suited for long periods of backpacking through some Colorado county than her supposed thrifting.

She, at the opposing end, a woman (girl), who weighed, possibly, one hundred five (certainly no more than one hundred fifteen), against a man with a gut that could have weighed the same.  She had the look of an inmate or of a Burmese tiger (I had seen one in the geographic not long ago) and he the face of a fat man, dimpled and forced, an older version of a fat child’s disenchantment as the ice cream truck pulls just out of reach.

On the ground in front of me was a flyer for a local art gallery, a broken pen and cigarette butts, no good use for any of them, but in my right pocket I felt my metal flip lighter and smoothed my thumb against it.

One look at the spectacle (I should note that I was not the only one taking in the scene, a crowd gathered, not only on the outside of the celebrity shop, but also from the inside of the store, a mix like an hourglass, the sand sifting at the point of the handbag’s straps) and I pulled the lighter from my pocket, aimed to the window of the shop’s door, and threw the damn thing as hard as I could past the head of the fat man.

The window burst and the sound was triumphant, the musical had come to an end; Climax! I shouted, and the guard lost the bag, holding his arms over his head to block the surely oncoming sand, the other on the ground now threw his flash light in my direction, I missed it and it hit a parked car, not staying to see the damage, I ran, as did Abernathy, south down the street past widows and street musicians, turning at a corner, we ran next to one another.

She, a smile like car headlights, me, a wave of cardiovascular despair, it was seven blocks before we slowed.

Hello, she said, between short breaths, Would you like to catch a drink?

We made it to another place that was overlooked, a bar down a series of steps, up to a door painted green with bars over its small window.

She ordered two beers, I paid for them, and she set one in front of me.  The music was train wrecked blues and the tables were oil slicks in the Pacific ocean, blue green mixed paint that might have been psychedelic thirty or so years ago.  I asked her what was so special in the bag.  She asked me what I did for a living.  I’m a writer, I said, and we left it to that.

I focused on something near the back wall; a suicide of a piano and a rotted bench.  Abernathy told me she needed the bathroom.  I drummed a few keys and waited.  Two men threw words under their chins and glared at me from the bar, the scattered notes coming from the untuned strings were distracting them.

I went back to the oil slicks, two more beers, and I waited.  It became apparent she was not coming back.  What a sinister Irish farewell.

It was over two months later that Abernathy returned to my line of sight, October plaguing, she had a worn black pea coat against the rain but no umbrella, her hair hung wet against her neck.  She exited a bookstore, one of the fashionable ones without any used or returnable books, and I called to her.  She put her finger to her lips and gave me the headlight smile.

I nearly called Abernathy to her, but that wasn’t her name, so I didn’t, but she came over to me anyway.  Once again, she asked if I would like a drink, only this time at her home near the village.

When we got there, we were not the only ones.  The room was out of Tennessee Williams head, not like Salinger, not like Plath, and certainly not like Fitzgerald, it was sparse screaming ‘Stella’ from the moment we arrived.  One of the three people in the apartment introduced himself as Rick, he was twenty, maybe twenty one with a full beard that seemed to flow from his scalp instead of his face; he was dressed in plaid and denim.  He waved to me as if we were old friends.

Two girls sat next to one another, arms entwined, neither with shirts on, nor brassieres, nor anything covering their full breasts and gave me blank stares, the kind that come from lesbians finished with their due amount of insult from a hateful society and embracing (literally) the flesh of their choice.  They looked like pale ghosts.

Abernathy took a bottle from the floor and handed it to me pulling the cap from its neck, and then passed out clothing, books and assorted groceries from out of the black bag.  Rick began to read immediately.  He nodded his thanks.  The two lesbians let go of each other and took a loaf of bread, peanut butter and honey and began to make sandwiches (to my surprise offering the first to me).  Abernathy sat in the middle of the room and pat the floor next to her.  Scanning, I saw that the only furniture in the room was the small couch that Rick seemed to be fully occupying, and so I sat.

This is Rick, from Mexico (He didn’t look Mexican), and that’s Lona and Mira.

I smiled to each of them.

I was speaking of you not a week ago, you and the guards, and so I knew I would see you again.

Mira said: Thank you.

I said: Don’t worry about it.

Abernathy said: Read us a story.

So I did.

I read a story that I had recently completed about one man and two women and they acted as if they liked it, but stoically.  I suggested that since Rick had finished the bottle of whiskey that I may go buy another, the girls laughed, Rick grinned (barely visible from under the smoke of his beard), and Abernathy told me that they didn’t pay for anything.

My emotion clearly disjunct, she said, We don’t pay for anything, it defeats the purpose of living, but we only take what needs to be taken.

I asked if whiskey needed to be taken and she let her bangs drift in front of her face, Of course it does, this time perhaps only a moon sliver smile.  I said, Well, then I should be the one to do it.

Down the street and to the left was a grocer (Jubilee?) and it was Abernathy and I and that black backpacking bag.  We moved like water, an osmosis of thievery, and put three bottles, one of whiskey, one of vodka and one of gin in the bag and I picked up three limes and paid for them (though Abernathy was very displeased) to put the owner and clerks off of our trail.

When we returned to the apartment up four flights of stairs (the elevator was out), then twisted like razor wire around invisible corners, we were back in the studio.  The lesbians were asleep and Rick was still reading, though I forget what, maybe something about two men and one woman.  Abernathy gently woke the sleepers and we began to drink heavily.  The first two bottles fast, the whiskey slow and I kissed her.

We kissed several times and she tasted like freshly baked scones with cinnamon.  Then she pulled away from me.

It isn’t that I don’t find you attractive, she said, In fact I find you overly attractive, or drastically or tragically or some other irritating adverb, it’s just, you see, that you speak in too many appositives.

She pushed me to the floor and laid her head upon mine.

And you bought the limes.

I promise, I recall saying in my defense, That I will never buy another thing for as long as I live, and that, I hope, I will never again fill my words with appositives, only my writing.  She fell asleep, I wondered if that much would suffice.  I was sure I would dream about it.

When we awoke in the morning, it was only Abernathy and I (I hope the lesbians put shirts over themselves before they left as it was growing colder outside in the mornings, they might catch chill and that would certainly be noticeable, like railroad spikes coming out of their chests) and she told me Rick must have gone for breakfast.  I asked her if I could stay, she said yes.  I asked her if I could stay indefinitely, she said no, none of us can stay indefinitely.  I asked her if she and I could stay together indefinitely, headlights.  I suppose that meant yes, but who could tell behind those freckles that spoke independently, small voices each more intriguing than the next, to each other quoting Byron and Yeats, they spoke in sonnet form or haiku.  They embraced, were married, were fathers, mothers and children.  They were priests, scientists and socialites, they each lived in mansions and had guest homes with painted fences and English Ivy climbing the gutters and servant’s quarters near the stables, and if you listened very carefully you could hear them whisper over the vast landscape: So This Is It!

I wished I had packed my travelling bag, because the guest homes seemed very cozy.

Rick returned with eggs and hamburger meat.  They had a hot plate that burned blood orange and used a tuna can to make the eggs and a soup can to prepare the meat.  When they were done we had cylindrical breakfast that was more satisfying than novelty, though mostly I wished to eat nothing if only I could watch her, see the small movements in her jaw, down her throat and into the small package of her belly.

Let’s go to the park, she said, and so we did.

She stretched her arms and legs in a mighty X to the sky, lay back over thinning grass and I impersonated Hamlet after his mighty duel, falling to the ground, dead and poisoned with an epic thump, next to her.  Rick climbed a nearby tree and made binoculars with his hands gazing over the landscape.

Don’t get too close to me, she said, so I didn’t.  Instead I made friends with the ants, one was Horace, the other McMurphy, one Esther, one Rasputin, one Django, and the queen (unavailable for a personal meeting) was Mary Queen of Scotts, reincarnated or moved slightly through invisible power lines and for some reason a bit irritable from what I could hear amongst the workers.

Alright, Abernathy turned to me, You can kiss me again, and so I did. This time, her mouth tasted of maple smoked honey biscuits.

When the sun set, it was time to find food again, but we could not allocate a place that didn’t send a teenager to follow us around the store with a green apron concealing his arousal (from the responsibility) poking out like a bird perch.  So, as a symbol of our revolution, we went hungry; I didn’t mind.

We played cards in candle light and Rick told us stories from Mexico, San Antonio and New Orleans.  I read another story from my notebook and then a poem, Abernathy liked the poem; she said it reminded her of Cummings on methamphetamines, I didn’t see the resemblance, but it didn’t matter.  Someone once told me that the carrot in front of a poet’s dick are the words he uses to illicit sex, but mine had a funny way of rejecting that notion, sending the clever girls running back to the sun beaten roads of the Midwest or some black mining hills south of Dakota.  It is what it is, but she liked it, that was all that mattered to me, so I worked on another while she and Rick played rummy (Abernathy always won in cards).

There was a little whiskey left, so we drank it.  The lesbians arrived soon after they finished their game and I, my poem, it was only four words long: So This Is It!  I didn’t take credit for it, I signed it: Freckles.

The lesbians had a man with them, an old man maybe sixty or seventy or one hundred and eight (hard to discern past the cataracts in his eyes) with them.  He said he had been in a war, now he just smoked pot, so we put some pot in a large paper and smoked it and I thought I wanted to write another poem, but the pot slowed me down and I can only write fast, so I dropped my pen and put my head into Abernathy’s lap.

She leaned over me until her hair tickled my face.  She was like that sometimes, or maybe it was only in my mind, the vibrant headache; a love that fell like her strands of auburn hair over my face like the sprinkling October rain or pin pricks or salt in ocean wind, her love was miniscule though I was constantly affected by it.  I can’t remember, but I think I fell asleep that way, in the shortage of her crossed legs.

The next day we awoke, again alone, and Abernathy took some coffee mugs from the windowsill near the couch and put something that looked like dust into each of them, then with a newspaper wiped out the soup can used previously for hamburger and boiled some water.  She poured it over the dust and we drank it, it tasted how it looked though she assured me it was somehow healthy dust.  She suggested we spend the day looking for something to paint with.

Along the road we came to a group of workers doing some kind of construction and I lifted a can of orange spray paint, dayglo and with a tip that shot straight forward to mark arrows on the ground.  Just for fun, I drew some arrows that led to nothing in particular.

Then we found a can of paint, yellow gold behind a strip of manufactured homes with brick and basements, in the alley where there was a cat with raccoon eyes.

Later we found a large cutout of someone running for local office, a giant life size cutout just inside the doorway of a bank, so we took it, we ran like three headed dogs, but we got it and took it back to the apartment.  We covered it in yellow gold and made it grin dayglo orange and Abernathy said it needed something else, so I took my felt pen from my notebook and we took turns writing, So This Is It! In small, medium and large text all over the yellow man.

I believe she named him, because I could not find the name easily, she called him Orpheus.  In smaller letters near his heel I wrote: Don’t look back.

That night we slept together.  The lesbians were not there.  Rick was not there.  And we slept as lovers do, against our flesh, two knots on a rope, two moths on a streetlamp, two cigarette burns on a tattered blanket in a forgotten basinet.  We slept together as if we would never reappear in daylight, as if our come would, at climax, pull the flesh from our bones and the voice from our throats and the god from our souls.  We slept together and it was only the yellow man who looked upon us.  His judgment was visible in small, medium and large text.

The next morning I awoke, this time truly alone, to the sound of something striking the window.  Struggling, I slipped past the yellow man, over the coffee mug windowsill and pushed the pane open; the stickiness of the old paint causing it trouble.  Below me on the street was Abernathy, hand full of rocks, blew a kiss, headlights, and it was the last time that I saw her.

Her quick feet took her into the subway, my own were rigid against the floor, my movement akin to the yellow man, we stood next to each other and I felt the words in small, medium and large text across my face, abdomen and legs.  My heel ached.  A letter pushed under the door.  It said: Eviction, and though I tried, I simply could not recognize the name on the lease, but no matter, it surely belonged to someone with a terrible tragedy of personage.

*Published in the Superstition Review April 2010

2010
05/11
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS

















Write comment

Vae Victis

It was not yet three o’clock in the afternoon, but the cloud cover made any indication of time very difficult to discern. I stood on a post made of cement and took a deep pull from my cigarette. Every so often I would crane my neck and tilt it a bit to see over the crowd. Someone stood in the center of this mob waving a giant plywood cross from side to side in front of him.
“Justice comes to those who choose to find it—Find it in him Jesus Christ the Lord, may he be by your side at all times to help you give up the drugs of death and the Devil’s broth—You prostitutes, you whores, cover yourselves in public and quit using the gifts God gave you to fornicate and spread your evil disease. This is the fault of the whores, gentlemen. The fault of those who tempt us, keep them in their place and away from the temptation of sin.”
Rhetoric; the crowd had morphed around him in a spirited way, people pushing through the swell to get close enough to take a swing. The preacher kept his cross swaying in front of him, as to fend off the evil spirits, or perhaps employ as a weapon. He began to speak direly of homosexuality. I hopped off of my perch and strolled away. I let my cigarette fall to the ground.
Crossing the mall near the library, the grass felt good beneath the soles of my shoes, so I took them off and pressed my toes into the ground. Late spring gave the impression that weather was a strong point of the city, but not today. I placed my bag next to me and stared into the distance at the group surrounding the preacher, I could hear his voice soft in the background. I lay next to my bag and fell asleep.
“Are you alone?”
I awoke slightly to see two women standing above me clutching handbags close to their chests.
“I suppose so.”
Pulling my hat over my eyes, I felt a wayward slice of sun warm the calf on my right leg.
I awoke again when dripping bits of pain stabbed me in several places on my body. My dreams reflected the pain, issuing images of small creatures covered in thick black hair matted to their entire bodies. These beings were no larger than cats, though very rotund. They attacked endlessly gnawing at my chest and body, pulling the skin from my fingers and the cartilage from my ears. Attempts to bat them away were futile. A burning mountain rose from the ground growing enormous in the middle of a continual field of gravel, spitting hot flame to the sky. The creatures now ripping at muscle tissue, I ran with full force swinging the remains of my arms in every direction hoping to curb the dark army close at my heels, and I flung my body to the flame. I accepted this death and with the fire I was purged.

I awoke in the rain.

I gathered my small bag and rushed to a covered area nearest, the overhang of an old building. The crowd was gone, and I was alone in all directions. I crouched my body, cradling my belongings and made my way to the bar.
While it was raining there were few crowded around the square. The bar itself was mostly outside. There were tables and chairs incongruent drowning on two decks adjacent to the bar, which stood as an island in the center of the place. Large eaves raised from its sides to form makeshift coverings for those gathered around it on wooden benches. I joined.
In moments there was a change, my empty hand was filled, but the object in it felt foreign. It was the same bottle afforded to me many times before, perhaps there was something changed about my hand, or perhaps it was something about the bottle changing the way it wished to be felt. I took the bottle and retrieved a long pull from the neck. Two police officers trotted by on their horses patrolling the street. The air from the animals’ nostrils smoked, and reminded me of the flames from my dream. Looking in, they gave me bad eyes; I looked back to the bottle.
“So where you been man?”
A fat man with cheeks of blubber slobbed slightly out of the corners of his mouth, gathering spit in the creases of his flesh. He wiped it then offered me his hand. I nodded to him leaving my own palm in its rightful place.
“I think I’ve been here.”
“Well Hell man, don’t you know?”
He lowered his hand. I noticed his fat breasts were collecting rain while his underbelly remained dry.
“Yeah, I’ve been here.”
“Well, shit.”
He smiled at me.
Behind my sunglasses I shut my eyes and struggled to smile back. When I opened them again, the man was gone, over to the other side of the bar, and I could hear him speak, “So where you been man?”
I finished the bottle and left.

When I finally arrived home, the air was damp in my small apartment. I should clean, I thought. The fridge had a half empty bottle of port wine; I filled a glass and stared at the counter tops in my kitchen. Ants were in a frenzy over a plate crusted with red sauce. There next to them sat the cleaning fluid with a nozzle attached. I began to spray the ants, then I sprayed more—I kept spraying and spraying until the plate was covered in a thick sludge. The ants squirmed their last. “Væ Victis,” I spouted, “Sleep well my comrades.” The floor beneath me stuck to my right shoe. I untied it and left it there, abandoning it for the comfort of my mattress lying on the floor next to the stack of luggage and torn books. The luggage was for a trip I planned to take, perhaps. The books were shit. They frustrated me with their uselessness and deserved to be desecrated in a disgusting manner. This is not to say that I do not have equally good books atop a table across from my bed, kept in stable condition, ready for repeated consumption. But at times when reading, it would take two pages, or sometimes thirty for my brain to realize their worth and then I would discard them.
The radio was droning, repeating the same tape front to back, back to front; I had left it on since this morning; it played a good noise though, so I left it looping. The entirety of this room is pasted with paper; clippings and such I found important at the time, it is my nesting instinct. I felt safe and warm as I lay into bed, and I fell into the abandoned thoughts of self-gratification. The preacher swims through my mind, the fat man, the two women, and I realize that it has been a good day, one full of tranquility and little foresight.
I took two pills and retreated from life; the frenzied ants seemed so much calmer now

2010
04/30
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS







Write comment

Flash Cards and Pinky Fingers

The television set swells the living room with the sound of falling anvils and hysterical laughing so loud I can barely sleep through it. The twins fight in the hall, outside my door.

“Give it back!”

“I got it, so its mine, not yours, cause you don’t have one, so’s its all mine.”
“Is not, you just found it under my bed, so its—
“Its mine fairs fair.”
I could hear my mother intervene.
“Boys, give me that—Oh!”
“It’s mine mamma, he stoled it from under my—
“What in the world was that doing under your…is it dead?”

I put Monday, or any other day, at the top of my notepad, then threw it on the floor and lost myself in the fluff of my pillows.

“Lucy, wake up, it’s already past noon! You’re gonna sleep the whole day away!”

My mother appeared through the slit of my left eye.

“Oooh, look at the ridge…someone’s trying to climb it.”

Rolling over, I struggled against the light to see the face of the mountain a couple of miles away through my bedroom window; there was a person about halfway up. My mother frowned at the room around her through crossed arms, “You know, you really should pick up this mess, papers and clothes everywhere.”
I slammed my head back into the bed, “Tell me if that climber falls.”

“Lucy, honestly.”

I could feel her eyes; I pulled the dirty brown afghan up close to my ears. “You certainly are a lazy twelve year old,” she sighed, “All of this around you and you just sleep all day.”

All this heat melting the rocks and killing the trees and everywhere cow shit and rattlesnakes and scorpions and junk. What crap. The door creaked closed and I sat up again.  Outside, I could see the climber, almost to the top.  Grabbing my notebook, I put a little asterisk: Why in the world would someone want to do something like that? Underneath, I drew a snake biting an elephant.

The twins ate hot dogs at the kitchen table while my mother quizzed them with math flash cards.

“OK, Devan, what’s this one?”

She has a candy sweet something about her voice that she uses whenever she pulls out those flash cards. This card read two times seven.

“Twenty-seven.” He says through a mouth packed with bread and processed meat.

“Well, I guess they aren’t going to be brain surgeons.”

“Lucy, they’re only five. Now Dexter, what’s this one.” She holds up another card, four times two.

“Twenty-seven.” He replies without looking up.

“Oh, I give up…look, sweetie, that climber is just lying up there, he hasn’t moved since he reached the top.”

“Cool,” I got myself a hot dog and spread relish over the top.

“I wonder—

“Wonder what? He’s probably just tired.”

“Well, maybe your Dad should go up there.”

“If they got themselves up there they should probably know how to get down,” I took a big bite out of my dog, “Unless they’re some kind of idiot.”

“Oh, Lucy…still, I hope they’re alright.”

She put the cards down on the table and stared out the window. The sun beat down on the valley and reflected off of some of the red rock, rays of light shooting back up to the sky.

“Isn’t it nice outside?” She said to herself.

Sometimes, I think she just says stuff like that to convince herself that she likes it here. This was my grandpa’s ranch, but he died three years ago and gave it to her. I guess it sort of reminds her of him. She didn’t change it much, the outside has cracking white paint and rusted nails, and a front porch with those stupid rocking chairs that don’t have any seats in them—but the inside is alright. There are a bunch of leather easy chairs and big thick rugs with blotches of white in them to look like cowhide. And there are some dead animals on the walls (We had to get rid of the ones that gave the twins nightmares, like the spotted owl and javelina head) and some paintings of the mountains, usually during a sunset or sunrise or something, done in watercolor. It was just the kind of thing you expect to find out here, but it belonged to my grandpa and now it belongs to her.

The door swung open and my father came in, sweating everywhere.

“It’s a hot one today.” He said, shutting the door behind him.

It’s his job to watch the cows and sheep for the week. My grandpa has workers, who still help with the animals, but it was their week off, and only my father and an old Indian named Joe were feeding them and keeping them in line. My father wore blue jeans and some old cowboy boots that belonged to my grandpa. They were too big for him, and kind of made him look funny.

“Honey,” My mother looked over his sunburned face, “That climber hasn’t moved in almost two hours. I thought that if you were done with your work today…you could go and see what was the matter.”

Looking down at the oversized boots he said, “Well, look sweetheart, I still have a little bit to do with the—

“I’ll go,” I said, taking a gulp of milk.

“Really?” My father gave me a funny look.

“Well, Lucy, I don’t know if—

“Let her, sweetheart, it’ll be good for her.”

I knew he didn’t care if it was good for me or not, just that he was tired and could care less about he climber.

“Yeah, really.”

I finished lunch and got ready for my trip, they made me wear this really stupid floppy, pink hat that my mother wears when she works outside. It was too big and sort of covered my head and shoulders like a messed up umbrella. I had one of the twins’ Batman thermoses and a first aid kit in my backpack along with a little map that my father drew so that I could find the trail; and I had my notebook. The map was a bunch of squiggly lines doodled across a piece of construction paper—now I know where the twins get it. I squinted at the outline of the mountain from the porch, but couldn’t see the climber; the sun was far too bright behind me. I could only see the shape of the ridge rising massively from the ground.

“Watch out for snakes, Lucy!” the door slammed shut behind me. The sundial on the front porch had a shadow over the five.

The mountain range makes a crescent shape around my Grandpa’s ranch and a valley in the center of the moon will take you straight to the top. Trekking over the red earth, kicking stones at the cacti, watching for snake holes and occasionally taking a gulp of kool-aid out of the thermos, I felt the ground beneath me get steeper and my breath got heavy. I was right at the tree line, where the valley edges up for about half a mile to the top of the ridge, but to get there you have to find the trail, otherwise you get stuck in all of these trees. They weren’t so much trees, though, as they were scraggly white branches. The spring made them bloom, but the summer burned them dead, baking them into sharp thorns that can put deep scratches on your arms and tear your shirt wide open; and they’re thick, and they are everywhere. I pulled out the map, and could see the squiggly lines point toward the East edge of the ridge where the trail was supposed to lead me up to the climber.  The sun lessened its glare on the mountain, and I could again see the place occupied by whoever it was. But they were gone.

“See,” I thought to myself, “Stupid climber.” I sat down and dug into my backpack, pulling out my notebook.

Why did I come? Just to get out of the house, away from the twins, away from my mother—my mother and those flash cards, she never did that for me. ‘You were already too advanced for those cards, Lucy,’ she would say in that candy wrapper voice; I don’t care about those things anyway, they’re just for kids, just like the dumb twins.

On the ground a spider darted from rock to rock, his little legs moved so fast. I drew a little spider next to the elephant.

I wish my legs moved that fast. Everyone is faster than me, except for the retarded kids, those kids with weird eyes and little hands who have recess with us. They usually stay on the swings, but sometimes they want to play with everyone else. I’m glad I’m faster than them, I guess.

I drew a retarded person.

“FUCK!”

It came from somewhere behind me, somewhere on the ridge. I heard it right; my father says it all the time. I pushed the floppy hat down on my head, shoved my notebook back into my bag and turned to the mountain running into the trees. I crouched down and crawled underneath the scratchy branches on my hands and knees being careful for the fire ant piles that were everywhere.  The little white fingers caught my backpack and tried to rip my shirt, but I got through, and eventually the path cleared and I could stand again. Dirt covered my clothes and broken twigs were caught up in my hair and hat. I shook them off and wiped my hands over my knees, but my skin was stained by the rusty ground. In front of me there was a small clearing and a little irrigation stream that the ranch used for the livestock. I sat down next to it and took off my shoes and socks. The water was warm. I washed my knees and splashed my face, drenching the front of my shirt. The mountain covered the sun by this time, and I could finally see the mountain face completely. Lying next to the stream I could see the climber coming down the big stair steps cut into the rock.  From here, I could tell that the climber was a man. One of his hands was close to his body and he used the other to guide himself down. He moved very slowly, holding on to tree roots and lowering himself to the ledge by ledge covered in gravel and dirt. I thought he might fall.

“Hey,” I yelled, “You’re gonna fall!”

He was still too far away. He lost his footing and slid hard, landing with an angry ‘thwack’ about ten feet down. I shot up to see where he was, but he had fallen all the way into the dead branches. I told him he was going to fall; I should have told him that only an idiot would climb a mountain if he didn’t know how to get down. He was only a little ways off from the stream now, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.  I took out my thermos; the kool-aid was warm. “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.”  My notebook was bent and all of the pages were messed up from my backpack, so I smoothed it out against a rock and opened it to a fresh page.

I wonder what he looks like up close. He’s probably a lot older. I bet he could buy me cigarettes. Maybe, if I help him, he’ll buy me cigarettes. I wonder if he’s cute, maybe he’s cute, Roy McNeil is cute. I saw him in the pool changing room through a crack in the boy’s restroom door—his little thing was hanging there between his legs, it looked like a pinky finger.

A brown lizard crawled out onto one of the larger rocks; he just laid there absorbing the heat. I drew him perched with his mouth open and his tongue flopped out.  His neck puffed into a red and yellow Adam’s apple when he sucked in the hot air.

A crashing sound erupted from the trees in front of me; it sounded like a wild beast charging, like a javelina. I grabbed my things, and leapt behind the lizard’s rock. The storm grew nearer and I raised my head like an alligator’s out of water over the top of the red stone.

The first thing I could see were massive arms swinging through the dense brush to make way for the man’s head, covered in a stained blue bandana. Plowing through the brush he fell to the ground. His arms and legs were spewing black blood, as he crawled towards the water. I heard his breathing scrape the inside of his throat. He pulled off his shirt and unfastened his belt, taking off his shorts; he rolled into the stream naked.  His thing was much bigger than Roy McNeil’s pinky finger. He lay there for a while without moving, and I watched it wash him clean; thin red streams floated through the water like tails off of a kite. I crept across the desert floor until I was right above his head. His eyes were closed. He had a short black beard and a thin face. His hair was long and swam in the water.

I poked him right in the middle of his forehead, “Hey.”

His eyes opened under thick brown eyebrows the same color as the hair on his chest.

“You’re wearing a funny hat,” he said to me still wheezing softly.

“You said fuck.” I returned, “I’m here to save you.”

“Oh, is that right,” he closed his eyes again and rolled over onto his side away from me, “Well, I think…I’ll be fine.”

His right hand was swelled and his entire body seemed littered with bruises and scrapes.

“I think you’re kind of an idiot.” I sat back on the bank of the stream and put my hands behind me to lean on.

“How old are you?” He turned his head back to me.

“Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Heh,” he laughed softly, “I don’t even have pants on.”

I reached over and threw his shorts to the other side of the stream.  He pulled them over his wet legs.

“I didn’t think anyone was out here.”

“So, how come you went up there if you couldn’t get down?”

His back was to me and his head in his hands.

“Do you have any water?”

I got my backpack from behind the rock and pulled out my thermos.

“The kool-aid is warm.”

He drank the rest, then lay back down dropping his head in the water.  My first aid kit had ten band-aids; I used all of them on his legs.  He didn’t move.  The sun was all the way behind the ridge by now, and the air started to feel nicer.  I turned over my notebook and drew a picture of the man on the brown cardboard.  I drew his mouth open and his arms and legs cut up.  I drew the band-aids, too.

I could see my Grandpa’s house down the valley, the lights were on.  My mother was making dinner, the twins were watching television, and I bet my father and Joe were drinking beer.

“Do you live down there?”

He sat up from the stream and pointed at the house.

“Sometimes.”

“You never said how old you were.”

I still stared at the house, “I’m twelve—I’ll be thirteen in two months.  How old are you?”

“Oh, about forty.”

I turned back, “Liar.”

“Ha, well, you caught me.”

He stood up and walked over the stream.  “I am glad you came up here,” he said pulling his shirt over his head.

“My mom sent me; you were just laying up there.”

“A damn scorpion stung me.” He raised his hand, “That’s when I got up.”

I gave him the first-aid kit and he rubbed antiseptic all over the back of his hand then wrapped it up in his bandana.

“It was too big.”

“What?” I asked.

“The ridge—it was too big.”

“That’s why you couldn’t—

“That’s why.”  He sat down next to me, “So, who are you?”

His name was Charlie and he was twenty-four and had family in Texas and didn’t know that he was trespassing on my Grandpa’s land and he said he was sorry for that; I didn’t mind.  He liked my picture of the lizard and said that it wasn’t so nice to draw retarded people.  I didn’t let him see any more.  The crickets hummed around us and the shade grew darker on the inside of the crescent.

“Well, kiddo, how do we get out of this mess?”

“How good are you at reading maps?” I asked handing over my father’s construction paper.   He flipped it twice then pointed left.  The squigglies made sense to him.  We elbowed through the brush and found the trail.

“See over there,” he pointed, “That’s where I started.”

“Looks steep.”

“Well, one step at a time, little by little.”

“You got to the top.”

“What’s that?”

“You got to the top, so it wasn’t too big for you.”

“Yeah, well it’s not looking so friendly right now.”

I pushed the hat down on my head, the air breezed soft and warm over my face.  The sky was burning orange, outlining the clouds like a neon sign.  Charlie asked me about my school and my brothers and I told him about grandpa and the chairs on the front porch without any seats in them, then he asked about mother.

“She’s doing flashcards or something with the twins.  Or else she’s watching the Family Feud on TV.”

“The Family Feud, huh.”

“Yeah, I think it’s a stupid show.” I dug my hands into my pockets.

“So why did you come all the way up here, just for me?” He asked.

We were getting close to the house; the mountain and the tree line were far behind us.  Charlie stopped.

“Well, kiddo, my camp is over this way.”

I saw a small tent pitched against an oak tree near the dirt road back to the highway.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to get dinner.”

He looked down at me underneath those brown eyebrows.  The darkness sat in his wrinkles and made him look handsome.  “Charlie,” I said, “Find a smaller mountain next time.”

“Little by little, kiddo.  Thanks for the hospitality.”  He smirked and spun around trotting down to his camp.

“Charlie!” I threw down my backpack and dug inside.  I tore out the lizard picture from my notebook and signed it “Lucy.”  Running down to him, I held it up, “Here.”

He looked at my lizard and chuckled.  “Thanks, kiddo.”  He folded it and put it in his pocket.  “Take care.”  He looked as though he weren’t sure if I would or not.  I said OK.

Walking back to the house I pulled off the pink floppy hat and shook my hair out.  The sun was down, but the watercolors still stained the sky.  I could see the kitchen window and could make out my mother holding up those white cards.  Little by little, I thought.  I heard a backfire and turned around.  The tent was gone and dust spit up behind a jeep pulling down the dirt road.

*Now Published in the University of Texas Literary Journal “Analecta #34″

2010
04/30
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS





Write comment

Woman

dont you feel like when you drowned

our baby you did not leave

enough water in the tub,

barely six inches.

your dress was wet then.

i remember it stuck to

your inner thigh like cellophane

around a greased watermelon we

used to throw into the pool

and let the children fight over

who could carry it to the other side

kicking bruises into fresh chins.

his mother died

a year later when

i thought

i knew loss.

2010
01/11
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS





Write comment

En Route

there amongst the breathing trees could

be a hole to the place where

we found the small bone

you rubbed it against

your calf and it

left a chalky film

mostly though it

burned like wicker

and dusted the ground with

ash

we could find the bone

again, perhaps

but the breathing trees

are gone

2010
01/11
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS




Write comment

Overture

And all up towards,

jennifer blue–

again caught short.

And sputtering comes

Like throat coughs stuck to the mirror mid way fall

For who–

Isn’t it thorough enough?

Or has the

Placent thing com

Faster than it reads

2008
03/15
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
Write comment

Hotel Adelsheville: Chapter One

            Let me begin with a description of sorts:  Ang was a town with few amenities, but was a stop for many travelers on their way south to the city. On a hill north of the main street, beyond the small shops and eateries stood erect, a lofty structure, the Hotel Adelsheville.           

It stood fourteen stories tall with small balconies on every room numbering up to one hundred and twenty-two. Doric pillars decorated the front of the building, though their plaster cracked visibly and some of the white pallor had rusted from age along their fine edges. The steps guiding upwards and into the lobby were colored burgundy, though now they held a brownish hue, much like dried blood coagulating on flesh. Outside, the Hotel seemed worn and outdated, there was talk years ago of destroying the building, and the motion was readily received, but for whatever reason, the bill was shuffled away and the Hotel remained.           

            The lobby was finely in shape despite the somewhat shabbiness of the exterior. Large glass and crystal chandeliers hung enormous from the depressions in the ceiling, and the black marble floors reflected their elegance. Maroon tapestries swept across the walls casting a glow and created an air that made them almost hum in a solemn meditation. Large ebony skinned overstuffed chairs greeted one another across cast iron and glass tables, but remained quite contained. The marvel of the lobby, however, was not based in colorful antiques; instead, it was the bookcases. They stretched vastly from one end of the room to the other with two foot gaps between them for the floor to ceiling windows. They stood mighty with four tall ladders attached to reach the top shelf (Our guests, though, were not permitted to climb these—liability issues, I suppose). The books were of subjects varying immensely, from Tolstoy to Salinger, from encyclopedia to atlas, the information available was more than any man could gorge in his own lifetime. The desk, where I spent most of my time, was directly across from the bookshelves and overlooking the easy chairs and general area. It was forged from the same black marble as the floor and rose to my chest. There was at all times to be only one thing to be displayed on this counter, and that was a tiny iron bell that one could dangle side to side should I be somewhere other than my post. My boss, the caretaker, was very serious about this bell, it had been the same bell used to summon since the Hotel was opened in 1895; the bell was not to be anywhere else than this place for all of eternity it would seem.           

            It was an October Morning and quite cold, beads of snow froze against my skin exposed only in the face. The main street was silent, lights flickering only in scarce windows; I was the only soul on the pavement at all. My steps were quick in black leather shoes. I remember not wanting to scuff or wet the shoes as they had belonged to a guest, one whom had left his bag in his room. I did not make a vicious habit of searching through others things, but this bag had been left with us for weeks post departure. There was also a small amount of money that I kept, two oxford button downs, and a tweed jacket. I preferred only the shoes, however, finding that both the shirts and coat were a bit tight in the shoulders. I hurried down the cut cement and scuttled around patches of ice.

            The Hotel was just ahead, though shrouded in a blue mist rising from old ore mines found in the hills. This particular morning, as I weaved towards work, I witnessed a stray dog huddled and quivering against a metal trash can beside the Ang Place Bar. I stopped for a moment to observe the dog. It was yellow in spots, but some of the fur was bunched unnaturally in clumps of dirty black and there were equal spots of mange. His ribs almost pierced his flesh from malnutrition. I bent down, but remembered the fleas and ticks amongst other diseases the dog could be carrying. I stood back up, the dog had yet to move, his snout buried into the dark place between the can and the wall, he could not see me. Thick heavy breaths gave steady rise to its chest. I took my right foot and guided it slowly over the dog, running the sole of my shoe across its coat from its backside to its neck. I angled my toe against the tuft of fur, the dog still, it seemed, unaware of my presence and with most of my weight I forced my foot down and crushed the dog’s spine. It never let out a sound. The only assurance of death was the cessation of deep heavy breaths giving rise to its chest. I took my white rag handkerchief from my left pocket and polished my right shoe. I remember thinking that I had better move fast; I might be late for work.           

            When I arrived in the lobby of Adelsheville, a small man stood waiting at the counter and was reaching for the bell. Hurriedly, I ran across the black marble floor and before he could ring it, I grasped the iron in my hand and prevented the noise from alerting Mr. Cordial, the caretaker, to my tardiness.           

            “Yes, sir, how may I be of assistance?”           

“I think I need a room.”

“Of course, sir, will you be staying with us long?”           

I took out the necessary papers to assign him a room and to make the arrangements for his signature.           

“I’m not sure, where is this place?”           

“You are in the Hotel Adelsheville, Sir, the number one hotel in upstate New York, we have plenty of fine accommodations, suites, doubles, conjoining rooms, which would you prefer?”           

“New York…New York.”           

The man seemed astonished in his own thoughts; I had no use for his foolery, so I assigned him room twenty-seven, and pushed the registry to his hand resting on the counter.           

“Sir, will you need any assistance with your luggage?”           

“Bags, no, I don’t think so.”           

I inserted a pen into a crack between his thumb and forefinger urging him to finish the signature.           

“Very well, if you will just make your mark here on the line them you will find that the elevator on the left will take you straight to your room and if you should need anything else, my name is Jefferson, please do not hesitate to ring me, I shall remain ever close to this desk, and a ring on the phone will keep me at beck and call.”           

I smiled joyously and held a key dangling from a red oval piece of plastic adorning the number twenty-seven.           

“Yes, twenty-seven, thank you.”           

The little man, Mr. Abram Adams according to the registry, took very slow indistinct steps away from the counter, I could not be sure of his motives; everyone has motives. I replaced the registry and stepped to the back office to speak with Mr. Cordial and receive the news for the day.           

“Mr. Cordial and how nice it is to see you this morning.”           

The room was dark, illuminated only by a small desk lamp. There were mountains of paper lining the walls, newspaper clippings and such, and books creating small pillars in front of and beside his wooden antique desk. Mr. Cordial was a very old man, who as far as I knew was forever living in this Hotel. I had never seen him leave, nor arrive. His eyes were impossible to see, mounds of flesh squeezed together as folds over deep sockets. His head was bald with small strings of courageous hair shooting from scattered regions of his skull.  He was seated and hunched with visible scoliosis and wheezing with a long endured case of emphysema; an ashtray full of cigarette butts caught my attention. His mounds rose to gaze upon me and he stared, I believe for quite some time. With no word, Mr. Cordial swung the weight of his arm by shifting his chest and his hand landed with a pop upon the desk. His fingers worked as spider legs pulling his arm across the table towards his spectacles folded neatly in the center of the table. With the same technique he pulled them back to him as an ant might bring a large crumb on its back to feed his queen. Lowering his liver spotted skull to the wood, he unfolded the glasses, put them on over his mounds and studied a piece of paper with muddled cursive pen marks.           

“Mr. Striker, the fourth floor needs repair, there is a tear in the insulation…along with this, the bookcases need polishing, the boiler needs checking and…”           

He moved his gaze back to me, or rather towards the floor.           

“Where did you get those shoes, Mr. Striker?”           

“They were a gift, Sir, a very nice gift, and if there is nothing else, I will begin my duties.”           

He gave a defiant grunt, and I left. When I arrived via elevator on the fourth floor, a sweet cool breeze hit me at the feet. Perhaps the old man was right; the insulation had sprung a leak. How he knew these things was always a mystery, he never moved from the room, and most news, or so I understood, came through me. A dreadful spy network, I conclude, with tiny invisible eyes staring at itchful spots on my body. I chuckled to myself.           

The maid, Ingrid Belafon, left her cart in front of one of the suites on the East wing, the door propped open with a wedge of newspaper. I strolled by, swaying from side to side and pulled three soap bars individually wrapped from her cart and slinked by casually. The walls had a green fabric shining dully against warm flickering lights spotted along the hallway after every step or two rising just above my shoulders on both sides. My approach to the window grew increasingly colder, and my feet felt the chill even through the leather. I stopped four feet in front of the massive glass pane and pondered.           

In several steps my mighty self,           

Be cast below in empty strides           

And if the tides decide to steal           

My soul be preserved with formaldehyde.           

My thoughts were wonderfully suicidal, outlining my descent four stories below onto pavement covered in ice and broken glass. My eyes were closed and a sensation gathered in my chest moving downward, downward. I did not hear her coming.           

“Mr. Striker, did you steal my soaps again?”           

“What?” My head spun in a wild jerk towards her heavy Polish accent, I could feel heavy amounts of blood retreating from my lower body and collecting in full force in my face. In rage, perspiration gathered on my forehead, squeezing reluctantly from my pores.  

“What woman, can you possibly want right now? What in God’s name do you want, hmmm?”

I said the last with a defiant sarcasm.           

“No, nothing Mr. Striker, I just remembered putting seventeen…”           

“Seventeen what? You will kindly go back to your duties Mrs. Belafon or you will be promptly find yourself sans occupation, without a job, and I’m sure your next employer will not be as lenient when it comes to hiring filthy infested immigrants!”           

I felt my jugular surge and spit was gathering in the corners of my mouth, my hand raised to the side of my head open-handed. She, this miserable squat woman, was left whiter and more pale than even her most remote Polish ancestry. Her hair was a blond nest of rattails that shook as she attempted in vain to restrain her tears; she made not a sound, but replied only by an unhappy ‘O’ adorning her face.           

“Is that all Mrs. Belafon?”           

In a shy and defeated word, she replied, “Yes, Mr. Striker.”           

She turned her frame like a tilt-a-whirl, rotating on an axis one hundred and eighty degrees before slowly walking back to her cart.           

“Mrs. Belafon, we do not have the luxury of time in this Hotel, now move quickly, or else I will, and be sure that my movement will not be as conducive to job security.”           

I felt better almost instantly when I saw her rotund backside shake as she lumbered, attempting to run, of course, down the forsaken hall. I reached into my pocket and felt the soaps between my forefinger and thumb, then returned to the window. It was near eleven in the morning when I completed my first tasks and all that was left were the bookcases. Returning to my desk, I retrieved the wood polish and a crimson cleaning rag. I found that a young man was standing four feet or so away from the right most shelf, eyeing the biography section.           

“Sir, is there anything that I can help you find?”           

“No, just browsing through.”           

“Well, sir, why don’t you find a nice book and retreat to the lounge just down the hall to the left, have you been staying with us—”           

“No, as soon as my wife arrives, we will check in, thank you.”           

“I will be right here, Sir, fear not, for I am at your service.”           

The man nodded and added an abrupt smile. His eyes were slits when he smiled, he reminded me of Mr. Cordial. In a brown suit and black shoes, he could not have been over twenty-four. I was staring gauntly at the gentleman without catching myself as I sometimes do for several minutes.           

“Is there anything else?” the man asked warily.           

“No, Sir, I will resume my cleaning now.”           

I paused for another moment eyeing the lad, then off. On the first ladder I climbed to the highest rung and began to rub some of the glorious smell from the bottle onto the wood. I would polish, nudge, polish, nudge, all the way to the opposite end of the shelving. It was along the way that I would check my various collections that I had behind the books. On the top shelf I had rearranged the books to house those that were less wide than their compatriots so that I would have a place to put my things. Behind Oscar Wilde’s collection of plays, I kept three jars of cigarette butts that I had gathered from ashtrays in the lounge. Some had been smoked by prominent businessmen, some by women, some by men cheating on their wives, some by women who had taken a man’s life. On each of the butts, I meticulously had written a small epitaph: name, business, eye color. Further down the shelving there were boxes of coins, sewing needles, used silverware, and also nail clippings and hair from some of our more untidy clientele. When I reached the end if the shelf, I retrieved the soaps from my pocket and placed them amongst the other things that I had collected from Mrs. Belafon. I placed them beside a newspaper clipping of her husband’s murder on July 2, 1932, a small glass mirror, and a brooch that her husband had given her just before he left for war in Germany. There were also assorted small things, a piece of linen from her dress, a tuft of hair, and more soap. She had been searching for many of these things for quite some time now, how funny it would be if she were to learn that they had been here all along. The thought brought spinning ecstasy to my brain.

2008
01/17
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS





Write comment

The Christmas Ring: a Children’s Story

  photojanssens10large231.jpg

            It was near two in the afternoon and Vernon Stroud was whistling. He ambled along the sidewalk gazing upon the ivy growing to overtake a large brick building when he came to an opening in the cast iron fence. The birds quieted and the wind swept the ground in front of him. It occurred to him that the last time he had entered this specific entrance to the park, he was accompanied by the late Mrs. Stroud. Not yet a year had gone by since her passing, and he could still feel her strange vibrations.           

Mrs. Stroud, whose first name was Bebe, was quite a nasty woman. Her beady eyes were, at times, difficult to decipher, but she never failed to provide ample body language in the form of abuse to poor Vernon (who weighed no more than one hundred and fifteen pounds, himself). She was quite a portly lady with large cumbersome breasts that tumbled around her as she walked, and her hair, thinning and spotted grey, was always pulled tightly around her skull in the small bob of a ponytail. Vernon had always thought that it would difficult for one to think properly with their hair fixed so tight, but then again, his own hair was near gone, so he had little room for such contemplation. It had been her teeth, however, that struck butchers and bakers alike to hide behind racks of lamb or large loaves of bread upon her arrival. After years of rot, with little hope of dentistry, and a fierce chewing tobacco habit, her teeth had yellowed and the odor was growing daily.           

            Vernon recalled her now, as he strutted over Gapstow bridge and found a bench overlooking the water. He had packed a meager lunch, a hunk of cheese, a piece of bread, a small salami and an apple. The birds sang and Vernon spoke quietly to himself, “This will be my very first Christmas alone.” He thought this very matter-of-factly, and without any sign of sadness. He pulled a pocketknife from his coat and went to work on his meal. “I’m sure I can manage.” Looking down to his feet, Vernon spotted a lone sparrow hopping towards him. “I’ll just need he proper fixings!” he threw the sparrow a piece of bread, “And of course a few friends to join me. The sparrow cooed and an audience of seven more appeared before Vernon, all whistling and hopping about. Vernon crumbled some bread into tiny pieces and threw them to the birds. “You know why this is my very first Christmas alone?” He asked the birds, still pecking at crumbs. He then decided to explain the whole story of his wife, Mrs. Bebe Stroud, for them while they enjoyed their meal. “Well, there is an attractive young woman with a little dog, who near noon everyday but Sunday…”           

            He always began the story like this, because for Vernon, the story simply revolved around the event itself, but the truth lies in a gift that Vernon had purchased for his wife on Christmas Eve one year ago. His wife with her harsh beatings and nasty breath had driven Vernon mad, but as he was a good man, he could not run away from her for fear that she would be wrecked with sadness (or she might come after him, Vernon assumed nervously). So, instead, he devised a plan to, push her over the edge, so to speak.He arrived at the jewelry shop on the morning of Christmas Eve with fifty dollars. He asked the clerk to help him find the perfect ring for Bebe.           

            “What exactly are you looking for?” The clerk inquired, “We have plenty of beautiful stones in plenty of beautiful settings…sure to make any woman look lovely.”           

Vernon chuckled softly to himself, “Do you have anything in very poor shape?”           

“I’m not sure I follow…”           

“Well this is for a woman who has found herself in very poor shape.”           

The clerk shot him a quizzical glance, then shrugged and took Vernon to a back room. They passed rows of boxes on metal shelving and bins of uncut stones until they finally reached the back corner of the jeweler’s storage. The clerk, whose name was Sam, reached into a large box, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a small box covered in crushed black velvet.

“I think this may be what you’re looking for,” Sam said, offering Vernon the box. Inside, Vernon could see the perfect stone. It glowed yellow in the light and barely glistened, there were chips along the cutting lines, and through the center lay a deep and readily visible crack. When Vernon asked about the price, Sam shook his head and let him have it for nothing.           

“Merry Christmas, Sir.” Sam said with a laugh, “I sure hope it works.”           

“I’m sure it will, thank you…and Merry Christmas to you, as well.”

Vernon smiled and shook Sam’s hand, gratefully.           

When Vernon arrived home that afternoon, it was with the largest turkey that the butcher could muster (the butcher was simply overjoyed that Vernon had paid him a visit instead of Mrs. Stroud), and also trimmings and dressings set for a king’s feast. Vernon had decided that since he had spent nothing on the gift, that he would spend the entire fifty dollars on Christmas dinner. The next day, the turkey was baked, the trimmings stewed and the dressing thick and heartily prepared. Vernon summoned his wife from her nap and opened a bottle of wine.           

“Now, we thank you Lord for all of the…”           

His wife did not wait for the grace to end, but instead began to eat quite pig-like, giving very little thought to socially acceptable table manners. He made a toast to new beginnings and carved himself a nice piece of turkey. Vernon, proud of his accomplished job of cooking the feast, rose from his seat to serve his wife. Swatting away the serving spoon full of dressing, she reached her hands into the bowl and dumped a hefty portion on her plate.           

“My dear, you must restrain yourself.” Turning to Vernon, she gave him a swift punch to the gut, and he fell over spilling the bowl of dressing into his lap.           

“Now look what you did,” his wife said looking down at him and shaking her head.            Vernon struggled up to the table and ate what he could of Christmas dinner.                        

Afterwards, while Vernon washed the plates and mopped the floor beneath his wife’s chair, he heard Bebe yell for her present from the couch where she lay digesting her food. Vernon reached into his pocket and found the small box and stared at it for a moment, “Well, here we go.”           

He walked over to her and she clapped her hands with delight when she saw the small box in his hand. She sat up and opened it. Vernon did not remember anything after this, however, because a swift blow to the head left him unconscious until the next morning. He awoke on the wooden floor to find a lump on his forehead and a very full stomach. He smiled and checked his watch, near noon. He arose swiftly and scuffled over to the balcony. This is where he would see the attractive young woman who walked her little dog in front of his apartment on Becker Avenue near noon, every day but Sunday. Because of God, Vernon assumed.           

He gazed at her and sighed. The day was pleasant with a light snow cover and the sun peeking through the clouds above. His wife, meanwhile, was so very upset about the ring she wore on her left hand that she gorged leftover turkey. 

Ripping apart a drumstick she swallowed between sobs. She looked at Vernon, the little man that she had married so many years ago and her sorrow turned to rage, she stood up from her chair and walked towards him on the balcony. She bared her yellow teeth and growled softly. She put the drumstick to her mouth and with all her anger, she bit down hard, and ran to Vernon yelling and waving her drumstick in the air. Vernon turned around to see his charging wife, and holding his hands in front of him he let out a tiny yelp. But, when he opened his eyes, Vernon could see through his fingers that she had stopped dead in her tracks and her yelling had become grunting. Her eyes bulged and her face turned wild colors. She wobbled over to Vernon on the balcony, breasts bobbing up and down, and rotting mouth wide open. She grabbed Vernon, shaking him violently, and gave the international sign language for choking. Now, Vernon was not a doctor, in fact, Vernon was not a very learned man at all, but he had read, though he forgot where, about the Heimlich maneuver and the best way to go about it. At first, he hit her as hard as he could on the back, but eventually found it only therapeutic for himself and left his wife still choking. So he grabbed her up in his arms (which he had not done in some time), and began to heave and ho. As the couple was on their balcony while engaging in such activities, they naturally drew a crowd. Soon, people were shouting in the street, and housewives and college students leaned from their windows across the street to see. It was a rather comical spectacle, as Vernon had wholly misinterpreted the directions of the maneuver, and was heaving and hoing with his own chest facing that of his wives. Her breath made him sick, and her face was now a deep shade of purple. In all the excitement, Vernon had not realized that they were steadily moving closer to the railing. All it took was one extra hard heave and they both toppled over and fell for five stories to the icy street below. His wife landed solidly with a smack and thus, provided ample padding for the light Vernon to safely land. He came down upon her with such force, however, that the turkey bone in her throat shot forth out of her mouth and hit him exactly in the same bump from the night before. Just before he was again knocked quite cold, he made out the dull yellow glinting from his wife’s chubby finger. Vernon lay on his dead bride with an even larger bump from the fated turkey bone, and for the first time in quite a while, he rested.           

“Yes,” I just bounced right on top of her and came out without a scratch, what do you think about that?” Vernon asked one of his sparrows. He tossed the last piece of bread down to the birds, “Funny thing was,” he chuckled, “I never knew who to thank, the butcher or the jeweler!”           

The sparrow looked to Vernon and twisted its tiny head in the way that sparrows do, and then flew away. Vernon dropped his trash into a bin and strolled out of the park whistling, this time, a holiday tune.

2007
12/11
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS






Write comment

Waiting to play the piano drunk like a percussion instrument until the fingers begin to bleed a bit

buklook2.jpg                      

            No matter what “dropped on your head as a child” attitude you want to take, that old jackass knew how to write.  I had heard of him maybe two years ago, sitting in Jamie’s bar on Fifth with two prostitutes and a warm glass of beer, from a bartender who hit him a couple times in the face, worked the body a bit, he said.  Came there every once in a while, they spewed from liquid mouths, asked to clean the place for beer and to get some action in the back room.  The prostitutes wouldn’t touch him.  They said he wasn’t their type, whatever that means.             

            “He don’t tip,” the bartender recalled.  The girls nodded.           

            “Hank’s a real asshole,” the pink headed whore quipped.             

            I didn’t think much of the tender and his beasts, but the old man sounded too much like my father to forget.  They spun all kinds of stupid tales about this Hank Chinaski; he only has half a liver, he once backed up traffic drunk and stumbling through Pasadena so bad that it took four days to clear it all out, he wrote a movie, he wrote poetry, mainly though, he was poor, drunk and tiresome.             

            “Where can you find this Chinaski?” I asked the tender.           

            “Somewhere, probly in the streets face down covered in termites.”           

            “I think he’s got a place over on Washington.” the pinky smiled at me moving her chair closer, “I could take you there.”           

            “How much.”           

            “Twenty bucks, and I’ll suck you off on the ride for twenty more.”           

            She opened her legs and flashed her fuzz.  “Show me where the place is.”                       

            I pulled up my pants in front of a broken white townhouse split into two bedrooms, one on top, one on bottom, as the cab pulled away.  There was a brass six nailed to the door,  I slammed hard.  Deep lumbering breaths came from inside and a shadow licked the peep hole. 

            “Chinaski, they told me you could write.”           

            No answer.             

            I sat on the cement for a second rubbing my crotch, she worked me over pretty good.  Cabbie wouldn’t stop fixing his rearview.             

            The gas station across the street sold little cigars and whisky in pint bottles, so I filled a brown bag and came back to the door.  “Chinaski, you want a drink?”           

            The door swung open to the fat old man in a white undershirt and undershorts.       

            “Who the fuck are you.”           

            His face was ruined; a cheese grater could’ve done better than whatever did happen.  His hair, thinned and almost lost, covered a liver spotted skull and his eyes caved under the mounds of skin covering them.  I pulled out a pint and gave it to him, then pulled out another and sucked on it.           

            “Ok.”           

            Inside, the room stank of vomit, only a bed and a desk with paper scattered everywhere under wine bottles and ashes.  “They told me you could write.”           

            “They don’t know shit.”           

            We drank three of the pints, passing them back and forth, like we had passed the pinky whore, sucking it dry and smoking the little cigars to pass the time while we sat in silence. 

            “So you want to be a writer,” he said to me choking on smoke.             

            “No, I don’t want to be.”           

            “So you are a writer.”           

            “Not yet.”           

            He reached for a leaf of paper on the ground and handed it to me.                        

            and as my grey hands                       

            drop a last desperate pen                       

            in some cheap room                       

            they will find me there                       

            and never know                        

            my name                       

            my meaning                       

            nor the treasure                       

            of my escape.            

            He rolled off of the plastic chair and crawled to the box radio smacking it on to the sound of Chopin.  “Let the world sleep kid, and then you sleep with it.”  He spilled the whiskey across his chest and lost consciousness.            

There in front of me, an old man dropping a last desperate lie.

2007
11/19
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
TAGS





Write comment

The Climax

This is a Fictional Blog Site-- Perhaps It Doesn't Exist-- In Case it Does, Feel Free to Post Comments, Replies, or other fiction for consideration Cheers *All work in this blog has been from the mind of Fletcher Cline, No other.
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.