Showing posts with label Published Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Published Fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Infinite
Subbed to Weirdyear 10/08/09: Accepted 10/09/09
Note: Congratulations! Your piece titled Infinite has been accepted into
WEIRDYEAR and will be published on our front page on 10/23/09.
Infinite
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
Note: Congratulations! Your piece titled Infinite has been accepted into
WEIRDYEAR and will be published on our front page on 10/23/09.
Infinite
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
Thirty-six minutes. That's how long I held my breath underwater, burrowing beneath a sheet of white sand in search of the giant razor clam. My lungs burned, but having been drawn to the sea, I knew I was on the cusp of a major discovery.
I almost exploded with joy the instant I spotted it. Mounting the hard tapered shell, I used the crowbar I'd brought to pry the enormous mollusk open, then wedged my head between the shell's edges to keep them from snapping shut. My eyes adjusted and seeing the glowing pink and soft, moist and meaty inside of the clam increased my excitement immensely. Despite not breathing, the smell of the sea tickled my nostrils. The steady hollow lapping of distant waves breaking along the nearby beach roared in my ears.
With considerable grunting and force and manipulation, I squeezed my arms past my ears and into the clam's cave-like entrance, pushing my palms upward to stretch the lips of the shell wider and wider until I finally heard a popping noise. My shoulders had penetrated the opening.
Like a tadpole, I squirmed, pressing my face toward the loosened hinges at the back of the shell while keeping my arms close against my sides until finally my torso, followed by my legs, were completely inside the cavernous chamber.
The two shells snapped shut behind me and in the pulsing darkness I tucked myself into a fetal position. Like a pillow shaping a head, the clam's soft meaty walls molded around me.
I felt myself withering, my being rapidly transforming.
My skin was shedding its hair, growing smooth and transparent. My organs were drying out. My limbs grew shorter and shorter, the digits fusing into stumps of veiny flesh. I was slowly vanishing, becoming something that never existed.
In that instant I was reminded of all the animated attempts I'd seen on television to recreate the big bang. I was floating through a blinding light, filled with the sensation of weightlessness, shattering into a million pieces to dust over everything.
Then I knew . . .
I knew that I was no longer the recognizable me that I'd been. Although tiny and insignificant, I was at the same time enormous and infinite.
Parts of me floated down like aimless motes. My essence covered the crackling autumn leaves. Other pieces of me were swept away by the breeze to swirl in the fragrance of tilting wildflowers. I became the tiniest part of the stars in the heavens, the sand on the beaches, the soil in the earth, the flares of the sun. I became microbe and mammoth, ant hill and mountain, snow and ice and rain and heat. I became sorrow and joy, achievement and failure, love and hate.
And if you look closely in the mirror, you will see that I have all at once become a part of you and me and he and she and them and each and everyone of us.
Home Movies
Subbed to A Twist of Noir on 10/8/09 - Accepted on 10/9/09
Note: Wow! That is one weird, fucked-up family you've got there. The family
that preys together, indeed. So noir I can't even see. Excellent story. I hope to see more of your stories in the future here at ATON.
Home Movies
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
This afternoon we buried my brother Damon's first wife. After we dropped his kids off at Game World, we returned to our father's home -- the home my brother and I grew up in -- and Damon handed the tape over to our father. Then he went into the living room where, after fixing himself a strong drink, he collapsed on the sofa and began to cry.
I headed straight to the kitchen. Standing in front of the sink, I tried to scrub the soil out from beneath my fingernails. It didn't come out. If Julia, my fiance, noticed the grime caking my nails she would ask questions that I wasn't ready to answer.
My father, whose gnarled fingers were still gripping the tape my brother had given him, hobbled in after me and asked how everything went. I shrugged. "Damon damn near lost it," I said.
"He's too sensitive," my father said. He then asked how Damon's kids were taking the loss of their mother.
I turned the water off and wiped my hands on a dishtowel hanging in front of the sink. "They'll both be fine. Especially Corey. He's got our genes."
My father smiled. "I never was worried about him." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's set up the old movies."
I pointed at the tape in his hand. "Don't you want to watch that?"
"Not yet," he said. "Not until I'm sure Damon can handle seeing it."
In the living room, I pulled the screen down and set the old movie projector up. Damon, who was still weeping, shook his head. "I can't watch these tonight."
"Oh," my father said, smiling but stern. "But you will, Son. You will."
I shook my head at my brother's behavior. Damon must have noticed, because he said, "Just wait until you and Julia get married. Then we'll see how tough you are."
"That's enough," our father said. "Enough."
He stooped forward and sifted through the box of old films. "Ah, this is a good one." He held up one of the round steel casings and said, "How about we watch beautiful, shy Louise?" Louise was our father's third wife.
"Connie's on the same film," I said. She was his fourth wife. Not so shy, but just as beautiful as Louise.
My father laughed. "Then Louise and Connie it is."
I threaded the film into the projector. "Dim the lights, Damon," I said.
"I'm not watching," Damon repeated. He started to get up off the sofa.
"Sit down!" my father shouted. Damon sat.
I hit the lights, flicked the switch on the projector and the jittery home movie began to play against the screen.
In the film it was a Christmas morning past. A very young woman -- Louise -- stood grinning in front of a decorated tree. When the camera zoomed in on her, she raised a palm and shook her head. The camera held its distance. Louise, who still stared into the lens, bit her lower lip and clutched her pink terrycloth robe closed. Then she stooped and, using her free hand, began to gather up all the torn wrapping paper and unraveled ribbons that littered the carpet. She stuffed them into a paper Safeway bag.
The camera swept right. It passed the old console stereo our father still owned. It steadied at the foot of the winding stairway to examine a very young Damon and me as we sat on the carpet and ripped open packages of toys. In a high pile off to one side of us, brand new clothing remained untouched in boxes with cellophane windows.
The pull-down screen in front of us went snowy bright. A brief burst of static was followed by crisp images of a new day.
The same shy Louise who earlier in the film had been tidying up the living room on a Christmas morning, now stood very still against a green billowing tent. She posed smiling as if for a photograph and not a moving picture. The camera slowly withdrew to reveal a low orange sun and a serrated line of pines above the tent.
The tent then spun in place as the camera slowly circled it. For a few moments the image projected on the living room wall alternated between my father's scuffed boot toes, lifting and dipping, kicking up clouds of red dust, and beds of dead pine needles that covered the ground.
A white screen. Static again. As the reel continued to turn, the projector clicked, clicked, clicked.
Suddenly, the fractured image of someone running.
It was soon clear that the woman racing through the tree-dense forest, pine branches clutching her arms, was Louise. Each glance over her shoulder revealed an expression of mounting terror. She stumbled. Once. Again. On her third fall, she stretched out her arms to keep her face from slamming against the ground. Struggling back to her feet, she began to run again.
She veered right, momentarily disappearing behind a stand of shivering trees. Seconds later the camera swooped around the same corner.
Once again, static replaced the images on the screen.
"Do I have to watch this shit?" Damon said in the dark.
Nobody replied and I heard him begin to weep again. I almost moved to the couch to try and comfort him, but the old film started to play again.
We watched in silence as the camera moved in close to an ant bed boiling over. It followed a line of red ants as they marched across cracked earth and dead, curled leaves. In their soldierly file, the line of ants mounted the manicured fingernails of bent fingers, then trooped over a pale hand, and continued up the length of a long, slender arm.
Dipping even closer, the camera fixed long and steady on the woman's face; her wide-sprung mouth and eyes. You could hardly recognize her as Louise.
Like spring drizzle, static filled the screen again. The static gave way to a montage of a campsite, which came quickly in snapshot fashion to reveal:
Note: Wow! That is one weird, fucked-up family you've got there. The family
that preys together, indeed. So noir I can't even see. Excellent story. I hope to see more of your stories in the future here at ATON.
Home Movies
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
This afternoon we buried my brother Damon's first wife. After we dropped his kids off at Game World, we returned to our father's home -- the home my brother and I grew up in -- and Damon handed the tape over to our father. Then he went into the living room where, after fixing himself a strong drink, he collapsed on the sofa and began to cry.
I headed straight to the kitchen. Standing in front of the sink, I tried to scrub the soil out from beneath my fingernails. It didn't come out. If Julia, my fiance, noticed the grime caking my nails she would ask questions that I wasn't ready to answer.
My father, whose gnarled fingers were still gripping the tape my brother had given him, hobbled in after me and asked how everything went. I shrugged. "Damon damn near lost it," I said.
"He's too sensitive," my father said. He then asked how Damon's kids were taking the loss of their mother.
I turned the water off and wiped my hands on a dishtowel hanging in front of the sink. "They'll both be fine. Especially Corey. He's got our genes."
My father smiled. "I never was worried about him." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's set up the old movies."
I pointed at the tape in his hand. "Don't you want to watch that?"
"Not yet," he said. "Not until I'm sure Damon can handle seeing it."
In the living room, I pulled the screen down and set the old movie projector up. Damon, who was still weeping, shook his head. "I can't watch these tonight."
"Oh," my father said, smiling but stern. "But you will, Son. You will."
I shook my head at my brother's behavior. Damon must have noticed, because he said, "Just wait until you and Julia get married. Then we'll see how tough you are."
"That's enough," our father said. "Enough."
He stooped forward and sifted through the box of old films. "Ah, this is a good one." He held up one of the round steel casings and said, "How about we watch beautiful, shy Louise?" Louise was our father's third wife.
"Connie's on the same film," I said. She was his fourth wife. Not so shy, but just as beautiful as Louise.
My father laughed. "Then Louise and Connie it is."
I threaded the film into the projector. "Dim the lights, Damon," I said.
"I'm not watching," Damon repeated. He started to get up off the sofa.
"Sit down!" my father shouted. Damon sat.
I hit the lights, flicked the switch on the projector and the jittery home movie began to play against the screen.
In the film it was a Christmas morning past. A very young woman -- Louise -- stood grinning in front of a decorated tree. When the camera zoomed in on her, she raised a palm and shook her head. The camera held its distance. Louise, who still stared into the lens, bit her lower lip and clutched her pink terrycloth robe closed. Then she stooped and, using her free hand, began to gather up all the torn wrapping paper and unraveled ribbons that littered the carpet. She stuffed them into a paper Safeway bag.
The camera swept right. It passed the old console stereo our father still owned. It steadied at the foot of the winding stairway to examine a very young Damon and me as we sat on the carpet and ripped open packages of toys. In a high pile off to one side of us, brand new clothing remained untouched in boxes with cellophane windows.
The pull-down screen in front of us went snowy bright. A brief burst of static was followed by crisp images of a new day.
The same shy Louise who earlier in the film had been tidying up the living room on a Christmas morning, now stood very still against a green billowing tent. She posed smiling as if for a photograph and not a moving picture. The camera slowly withdrew to reveal a low orange sun and a serrated line of pines above the tent.
The tent then spun in place as the camera slowly circled it. For a few moments the image projected on the living room wall alternated between my father's scuffed boot toes, lifting and dipping, kicking up clouds of red dust, and beds of dead pine needles that covered the ground.
A white screen. Static again. As the reel continued to turn, the projector clicked, clicked, clicked.
Suddenly, the fractured image of someone running.
It was soon clear that the woman racing through the tree-dense forest, pine branches clutching her arms, was Louise. Each glance over her shoulder revealed an expression of mounting terror. She stumbled. Once. Again. On her third fall, she stretched out her arms to keep her face from slamming against the ground. Struggling back to her feet, she began to run again.
She veered right, momentarily disappearing behind a stand of shivering trees. Seconds later the camera swooped around the same corner.
Once again, static replaced the images on the screen.
"Do I have to watch this shit?" Damon said in the dark.
Nobody replied and I heard him begin to weep again. I almost moved to the couch to try and comfort him, but the old film started to play again.
We watched in silence as the camera moved in close to an ant bed boiling over. It followed a line of red ants as they marched across cracked earth and dead, curled leaves. In their soldierly file, the line of ants mounted the manicured fingernails of bent fingers, then trooped over a pale hand, and continued up the length of a long, slender arm.
Dipping even closer, the camera fixed long and steady on the woman's face; her wide-sprung mouth and eyes. You could hardly recognize her as Louise.
Like spring drizzle, static filled the screen again. The static gave way to a montage of a campsite, which came quickly in snapshot fashion to reveal:
Blue jays, a pair, preening their wings while perched on a low branch of a pine tree.
A large moth flitting around, then briefly landing on the trunk of a tree before winging away again.
Damon smiling for the camera, his braces flashing in the low light. He brought five wiggling fingers dripping with blood close to the lens.
A blue-bodied dragonfly carefully balanced on the bent tip of a high blade of grass.
The green tent, its folds writhing in the breeze. Then, through the tent's flap door where a flashlight laying on the canvas floor, its beam on, swung left and right, casting its glowing cone against the tent walls.
Me filling the screen, leaning back with my hands on the earth behind me, my legs dangling in a freshly dug hole.
Me and my brother standing knee-deep in a fast moving river, casting our lines against the current.
A spitted trout smoldering over a pulsing fire. Around the fire, me and my brother laughing.
Me and Damon again, covering disturbed earth with armfuls of branches and dried leaves.
The film paused, the screen went white, the reel spun. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Suddenly the scene that projected onto the screen was of the driveway of my father's suburban home. The same home we sat in now. A different woman filled the screen. Connie. Our father's fourth wife. It was a gusty day. Dry leaves caught in whirlwinds. Trees in the yard bowing. Connie's fiery red hair whipping across her grinning face as she leaned back against my father's sky blue Ford Mustang.
Damon looked over at me and snidely said, "Connie sure looks a lot like Julia, don't you think?"
I didn't reply.
"So when you guys getting married?" Damon asked.
Remaining silent, I heard my father giggle. I stared at the screen, watching Connie raise an arm. And as she shoved her hair out of her eyes and waved to the camera, it struck me that Damon was right. Julia did look an awful lot like Connie.
Momma's Collection
Momma's Collection
Momma kept souls in mayonnaise jars. The kitchen cabinets and bedroom closets were stacked high with hundreds of tightly capped containers, each filled with a colorful, swirling mist.
During harvest moons, I accompanied Momma to the graveyards. While I hunkered behind a headstone, she stalked quietly, searching for misplaced souls. I remember clearly the yellow bob of Momma's flashlight, and the whoosh, whoosh of her swooping net.
After Momma died a psychic from Scobee purchased the entire collection.
Older now, and looking to capture souls like Momma did, I can't help wondering how she disposed of all that mayonnaise.
Momma kept souls in mayonnaise jars. The kitchen cabinets and bedroom closets were stacked high with hundreds of tightly capped containers, each filled with a colorful, swirling mist.
During harvest moons, I accompanied Momma to the graveyards. While I hunkered behind a headstone, she stalked quietly, searching for misplaced souls. I remember clearly the yellow bob of Momma's flashlight, and the whoosh, whoosh of her swooping net.
After Momma died a psychic from Scobee purchased the entire collection.
Older now, and looking to capture souls like Momma did, I can't help wondering how she disposed of all that mayonnaise.
Like Braveheart
Like Braveheart
If I had on a yellow dress I'd get myself up off this filthy, gum-stained floor and race past the lockers. At the end of the corridor I'd whirl around and scream out their names. Gus and Kip and Justin and all the others. Once they turned I'd raise the finger. Then I'd spin around, bend over and lift the back of my dress just like those Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Everyone watching would laugh, making those boys feel very small. But then if I was wearing a dress, it would lend truth to their insensitive taunts -- wouldn't it?
If I had on a yellow dress I'd get myself up off this filthy, gum-stained floor and race past the lockers. At the end of the corridor I'd whirl around and scream out their names. Gus and Kip and Justin and all the others. Once they turned I'd raise the finger. Then I'd spin around, bend over and lift the back of my dress just like those Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Everyone watching would laugh, making those boys feel very small. But then if I was wearing a dress, it would lend truth to their insensitive taunts -- wouldn't it?
Laundry
Laundry:
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
I am slumped in a scoop-shaped chair in a Seventh Avenue laundry-mat, near the entrance. A plastic cupful of quarters rests squeezed between my thighs. Ahead of me, trapped in the glass face of an industrial-sized dryer, the reflection of someone I no longer know gazes back. Beyond the reflection my clothes clink round and round and round.
Before yesterday, it was Marcie who laundered my soiled clothes. Every Sunday. It didn't matter that I'd walked out on her three months earlier. In fact, Saturday evenings she continued to phone, asking me if after church I would still be stopping by, so that she could clean and press my laundry.
I still went to church, right? Marcie needed to know.
The laundry-mat's front door opens and a blast of cold rain blows onto my face. A woman enters with a basket balanced on her hip. She hurries by without looking down, hurries to the rear of the building, where the washing machines stand side-by-side like regimented soldiers.
Why are things so different now that we no longer live together? Is it because the nothing quarrels we once had have ceased? Or perhaps, it's because neither of us make mention of past mistakes.
Harmony. That's what separation has led to. Harmony.
The door blows open and shut. I swipe drops of rain off my face with the back of my hand. I tug my knit cap low, then tuck my hands deep into the pockets of my camouflage hunting jacket.
Taco Bell. Rumbling inside me, like my laundry tumbles in the dryer. Until yesterday, Marcie prepared my meals.
Three or four times a week Marcie insisted I come home for dinner. After meeting me at the door and leading me to the dining room, she'd pull out the seat at the head of the table. A seat I rarely sat at when I still lived there. Steam rose warm off the heaped plates. My favorite foods sat on her finest china. Dinnerware so precious to Marcie, I'd never been allowed to touch them until after I'd left.
She'd sit across from me at the table, rest her tilted head in the palm of her hand and gaze. Afterward, while Marcie cleared the table, I settled back and enjoyed a cigarette.
“Can you stay a while?” Marcie always asked while she stood at the sink.
I'd nod. Then, after stubbing my cigarette out in the clay ashtray, she'd usher me to the sofa.
She'd excuse herself, disappear into the bedroom we once shared. A few minutes later she'd be back in the living room, smiling, her beautiful body visible beneath her transparent gown.
“A little jazz?” she'd say. And after my nod she would dance across the room to the stereo. The needle she'd place in the groove of an old Motown favorite – something from our past, something we'd both loved – and then the lights she'd dim.
While she sat on one end of the sofa, I sat on the other. With my eyes shut I let the haunting horns of Miles or Kenny or Chuck take me away.
When a heavyset woman removes her clothes from the dryer next to mine, the smell of fabric softener drifts my way. I hold the fragrance in my nostrils, savor its warmth and sweetness. The woman tosses her clothes into a wire cart and wheels the cart over to a green table. While she folds and stacks her clothes, the woman glances at me and says,
“Is it the rain? The rain gets me down, too.”
I shift my seat and buck my shoulders. She continues to smile brightly, but doesn't say anything else.
After I moved out, Marcie still wanted me to sleep over. Not every night, of course. Just when the feeling was right. It felt almost perfect lying with Marcie on top of the covers, neither of us uttering a word. Like young lovers, I'd suggestively brush my knuckles against her thighs. Her breaths would deepen. Then I'd pull her close against me and not let go until daylight seeped into the room through the edges of the yellow curtains.
“I still love you,” Marcie would whisper.
“And I love you more than ever,” I'd whisper back.
When I would wake in the morning I'd be greeted by a freshly laundered shirt and a breakfast fried the way I like it. In the doorway, before kissing her goodbye, we'd linger in each other's arms.
Strolling to my car, I'd glance over my shoulder and see her waiting in the doorway, a piece of my soiled clothing held in her hands, close to her nostrils.
My dryer stops spinning. I stand with my plastic cup, the coins jangling, and shuffle over to the dryer and feed more quarters into the slot.
When it roars back to life, I once again return to slump in the chair beside the door.
Marcie didn't call yesterday. It was the first Saturday since I'd left that the phone didn't ring.
All last night I tossed awake in bed. This morning I raised the phone receiver from its cradle and dialed my old home number.
When she picked up, I said, “Should I bring my laundry?”
She didn't answer.
I held the receiver close to my ear. “Marcie?”
“It's time to let go,” she said.
Still gripping the receiver, I collapsed onto the small chair next to the wall and rested my chin on my chest.
“Marcie?” I said.
“We--” I could tell she was struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “--We need to move on.”
“But I love you, Marcie.”
“Do you?”
“More than ever.”
She grew silent.
“Who,” I asked, “will do my laundry?”
After another long silence, Marcie said, “I need time to think. Can I call you in a couple hours?”
The laundry-mat's front door opens again. A man appearing spent, used up, comes inside holding a basket full of laundry in front of him. His box of Tide slides off the top of his load and hits the floor. The man curses and kicks the box.
I'd left her a message when she didn't call back, told her exactly where I'd be. That was nearly six loads ago. I stare at my sorry self in the glass and shake my cupful of quarters, wondering how much longer until my coins are exhausted.
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
I am slumped in a scoop-shaped chair in a Seventh Avenue laundry-mat, near the entrance. A plastic cupful of quarters rests squeezed between my thighs. Ahead of me, trapped in the glass face of an industrial-sized dryer, the reflection of someone I no longer know gazes back. Beyond the reflection my clothes clink round and round and round.
Before yesterday, it was Marcie who laundered my soiled clothes. Every Sunday. It didn't matter that I'd walked out on her three months earlier. In fact, Saturday evenings she continued to phone, asking me if after church I would still be stopping by, so that she could clean and press my laundry.
I still went to church, right? Marcie needed to know.
The laundry-mat's front door opens and a blast of cold rain blows onto my face. A woman enters with a basket balanced on her hip. She hurries by without looking down, hurries to the rear of the building, where the washing machines stand side-by-side like regimented soldiers.
Why are things so different now that we no longer live together? Is it because the nothing quarrels we once had have ceased? Or perhaps, it's because neither of us make mention of past mistakes.
Harmony. That's what separation has led to. Harmony.
The door blows open and shut. I swipe drops of rain off my face with the back of my hand. I tug my knit cap low, then tuck my hands deep into the pockets of my camouflage hunting jacket.
Taco Bell. Rumbling inside me, like my laundry tumbles in the dryer. Until yesterday, Marcie prepared my meals.
Three or four times a week Marcie insisted I come home for dinner. After meeting me at the door and leading me to the dining room, she'd pull out the seat at the head of the table. A seat I rarely sat at when I still lived there. Steam rose warm off the heaped plates. My favorite foods sat on her finest china. Dinnerware so precious to Marcie, I'd never been allowed to touch them until after I'd left.
She'd sit across from me at the table, rest her tilted head in the palm of her hand and gaze. Afterward, while Marcie cleared the table, I settled back and enjoyed a cigarette.
“Can you stay a while?” Marcie always asked while she stood at the sink.
I'd nod. Then, after stubbing my cigarette out in the clay ashtray, she'd usher me to the sofa.
She'd excuse herself, disappear into the bedroom we once shared. A few minutes later she'd be back in the living room, smiling, her beautiful body visible beneath her transparent gown.
“A little jazz?” she'd say. And after my nod she would dance across the room to the stereo. The needle she'd place in the groove of an old Motown favorite – something from our past, something we'd both loved – and then the lights she'd dim.
While she sat on one end of the sofa, I sat on the other. With my eyes shut I let the haunting horns of Miles or Kenny or Chuck take me away.
When a heavyset woman removes her clothes from the dryer next to mine, the smell of fabric softener drifts my way. I hold the fragrance in my nostrils, savor its warmth and sweetness. The woman tosses her clothes into a wire cart and wheels the cart over to a green table. While she folds and stacks her clothes, the woman glances at me and says,
“Is it the rain? The rain gets me down, too.”
I shift my seat and buck my shoulders. She continues to smile brightly, but doesn't say anything else.
After I moved out, Marcie still wanted me to sleep over. Not every night, of course. Just when the feeling was right. It felt almost perfect lying with Marcie on top of the covers, neither of us uttering a word. Like young lovers, I'd suggestively brush my knuckles against her thighs. Her breaths would deepen. Then I'd pull her close against me and not let go until daylight seeped into the room through the edges of the yellow curtains.
“I still love you,” Marcie would whisper.
“And I love you more than ever,” I'd whisper back.
When I would wake in the morning I'd be greeted by a freshly laundered shirt and a breakfast fried the way I like it. In the doorway, before kissing her goodbye, we'd linger in each other's arms.
Strolling to my car, I'd glance over my shoulder and see her waiting in the doorway, a piece of my soiled clothing held in her hands, close to her nostrils.
My dryer stops spinning. I stand with my plastic cup, the coins jangling, and shuffle over to the dryer and feed more quarters into the slot.
When it roars back to life, I once again return to slump in the chair beside the door.
Marcie didn't call yesterday. It was the first Saturday since I'd left that the phone didn't ring.
All last night I tossed awake in bed. This morning I raised the phone receiver from its cradle and dialed my old home number.
When she picked up, I said, “Should I bring my laundry?”
She didn't answer.
I held the receiver close to my ear. “Marcie?”
“It's time to let go,” she said.
Still gripping the receiver, I collapsed onto the small chair next to the wall and rested my chin on my chest.
“Marcie?” I said.
“We--” I could tell she was struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “--We need to move on.”
“But I love you, Marcie.”
“Do you?”
“More than ever.”
She grew silent.
“Who,” I asked, “will do my laundry?”
After another long silence, Marcie said, “I need time to think. Can I call you in a couple hours?”
The laundry-mat's front door opens again. A man appearing spent, used up, comes inside holding a basket full of laundry in front of him. His box of Tide slides off the top of his load and hits the floor. The man curses and kicks the box.
I'd left her a message when she didn't call back, told her exactly where I'd be. That was nearly six loads ago. I stare at my sorry self in the glass and shake my cupful of quarters, wondering how much longer until my coins are exhausted.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Fairytale
The music box's lid opens and through the faint light that spills over me I see Jaslene, standing in front of me with her eyes closed, breathing in the box's mahogany fragrance. But her breaths are not breaths of joy. They are breaths of sadness.
The notes of Enya's 'Fairytale' begin to play. Balanced on one foot, I begin to dance, to spin with the same slow grace of pine tips blowing in the wind. I am frozen in an Arabesque pose and my free-flowing blue taffeta dress reflects back from the oval mirror, which fills the inside of the music box's lid.
Jaslene sits on the stool in front of her desk and for a moment gazes at me, her green eyes drowning in pain and heartbreak. Then she slumps forward, laying her head on the desk and begins to cry in the middle of the afternoon.
The melody, soft and small and sweet, continues, and gradually mounts into an orchestral rainbow. I continue to dance.
Opening her eyes, staring past me, staring at her own glassy-eyed reflection in the mirror, Jaslene drags out a single word, whispers -- Fairytale.
Round and round and round and round. I continue to turn in time with the music.
She leans forward to pinch one of the music box's tiny pearl handles. A drawer slides out, and from the red velvet lining, Jaslene removes the gold band Rod had given her on the day before he departed, several months earlier. In the dim light the gold band still gleams when Jaslene turns it between her fingers.
In time with the lovely music, the round, abalone base beneath my toe-curled foot revolves, circling the inside of the box while I continue to twirl.
"Fairytale," Jaslene says again. She curls her fingers around the gold band and brings her fisted hand to her lips. The soft notes fill the room, and I dance. I always dance.
Jaslene slides off the stool, runs the fingers of her free hand through her black hair, and then she makes her way to the rain-beaded window. Each time the glass she stares out of clouds up, Jaslene raises a palm to squeak the window clear.
I dance, a hundred or more revolutions take place in the time Jaslene stands staring out the window at the gray grainy sky.
"The music," Jaslene had said when Rod had given her the music box. "I know this music."
Rod laughed. "It's from Harry Potter. Remember? You cried when you first heard it."
Her eyes had glazed up then. "We were just kids," she'd said. "How can you remember such silly things?" She had reached forward to brush an imaginary fleck of lint from the shoulder of Rod's crisp khaki uniform.
Rod had smiled, replying, "Every moment spent with you is memorable." Then his arm had moved around her waist, his palm settling in the small of her back. He added softly, sincerely, "The music is as sensitive and beautiful as you are."
Using his one free hand to pat his shirt pockets, Rod smiled, dug out the gold band and slipped it into Jaslene's hand. She clutched the ring and closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, Jaslene stared directly at me, her expression joyful as I danced, whirling to the music of a fairytale.
"Everything's perfect," Jaslene had said. "Just like in a fairtytale."
Rod had nodded. "Just like a fairytale."
Now, Jaslene turns from the window. I continue to dance -- round and round and round and round. Clutching her gold band, Jaslene moves to the bed and sits on the edge with her hands in her lap. A moment later she reaches for Rod's photograph on the nightstand, traces his grinning image with a fingertip.
Her sobs mount. I continue to whirl. She draws Rod's picture close her, and then she collapses on the bed.
In her grief, I can do nothing more than dance, spin round and round and round in the soft light, turning to the tender notes of a fairytale.
The notes of Enya's 'Fairytale' begin to play. Balanced on one foot, I begin to dance, to spin with the same slow grace of pine tips blowing in the wind. I am frozen in an Arabesque pose and my free-flowing blue taffeta dress reflects back from the oval mirror, which fills the inside of the music box's lid.
Jaslene sits on the stool in front of her desk and for a moment gazes at me, her green eyes drowning in pain and heartbreak. Then she slumps forward, laying her head on the desk and begins to cry in the middle of the afternoon.
The melody, soft and small and sweet, continues, and gradually mounts into an orchestral rainbow. I continue to dance.
Opening her eyes, staring past me, staring at her own glassy-eyed reflection in the mirror, Jaslene drags out a single word, whispers -- Fairytale.
Round and round and round and round. I continue to turn in time with the music.
She leans forward to pinch one of the music box's tiny pearl handles. A drawer slides out, and from the red velvet lining, Jaslene removes the gold band Rod had given her on the day before he departed, several months earlier. In the dim light the gold band still gleams when Jaslene turns it between her fingers.
In time with the lovely music, the round, abalone base beneath my toe-curled foot revolves, circling the inside of the box while I continue to twirl.
"Fairytale," Jaslene says again. She curls her fingers around the gold band and brings her fisted hand to her lips. The soft notes fill the room, and I dance. I always dance.
Jaslene slides off the stool, runs the fingers of her free hand through her black hair, and then she makes her way to the rain-beaded window. Each time the glass she stares out of clouds up, Jaslene raises a palm to squeak the window clear.
I dance, a hundred or more revolutions take place in the time Jaslene stands staring out the window at the gray grainy sky.
"The music," Jaslene had said when Rod had given her the music box. "I know this music."
Rod laughed. "It's from Harry Potter. Remember? You cried when you first heard it."
Her eyes had glazed up then. "We were just kids," she'd said. "How can you remember such silly things?" She had reached forward to brush an imaginary fleck of lint from the shoulder of Rod's crisp khaki uniform.
Rod had smiled, replying, "Every moment spent with you is memorable." Then his arm had moved around her waist, his palm settling in the small of her back. He added softly, sincerely, "The music is as sensitive and beautiful as you are."
Using his one free hand to pat his shirt pockets, Rod smiled, dug out the gold band and slipped it into Jaslene's hand. She clutched the ring and closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, Jaslene stared directly at me, her expression joyful as I danced, whirling to the music of a fairytale.
"Everything's perfect," Jaslene had said. "Just like in a fairtytale."
Rod had nodded. "Just like a fairytale."
Now, Jaslene turns from the window. I continue to dance -- round and round and round and round. Clutching her gold band, Jaslene moves to the bed and sits on the edge with her hands in her lap. A moment later she reaches for Rod's photograph on the nightstand, traces his grinning image with a fingertip.
Her sobs mount. I continue to whirl. She draws Rod's picture close her, and then she collapses on the bed.
In her grief, I can do nothing more than dance, spin round and round and round in the soft light, turning to the tender notes of a fairytale.
The Slaughtered Elephant
Each time his bare feet hit the hard earth of the open savanna, the boy's ankles are covered with swirling, rust-colored dust. Sweat pours off his face, thick hot air bolts through his lungs. He races against gusts strong enough to pluck small animals. Here, whether stampeding across baked earth alongside the wildebeests, or bounding with the antelope, the boy is free from expectation.
There are no difficult choices to make, just the simplicity of basic survival. He would rather be faced with being taken down by a pride of lions than to have to choose again.
But the moment the boy spots his mother just beyond the swale of high grass, his bliss shatters. The truth of what must happen sends his spirits pummeling. Always it comes to this end, him having to choose, having to make a decision, having to lose one important faction of his world in order to save another. Some nights he finds himself traveling the galaxies, other times swimming the dark depths of the ocean. But it happens also on elevators, bridges, anywhere at all. No matter where he runs to, though, he cannot hide. His fears and insecurities find him and force him to make a choice.
Today, when he sees his mother, she is sitting at a wooden table with three men. The table is shaded under a rustling canvas canopy. Taut ropes secure the canopy to two dead acacia trees. The boy, still running, cannot help but feel the hatred as he watches one of the men lean over his mother's shoulder. The other two men, one on either side of her, are close beside her as well.
Against the drone of the wind, the boy hears his mother's clear laughter and a haunting chill vibrates through his entire body. He focuses on the silk ribbon of her hat, snapping in the wind, and then the hem of her regal gown, whipping near the earth. Each time his mother raises her hand to sip her tea, faint rays of sunlight reflect off her dainty teacup.
She laughs again, loudly. The men with her laugh, too. Their teacups clink, the sound simultaneously distant and extremely clear.
As he nears the wooden table where his mother sits, the stench of rotting flesh carried by the wind invades the boy's nostrils. Despite this stink of death, the savanna teems with life: African Crown cranes strut boldly through dry flowing grass, honking at one another. Antelopes, paused from their grazing, lean from their high cover to study their surroundings.
Out of breath, he must stop running. Breathing hard, he cups his knees with his hands. The sound of wing beats causes him to raise his face skyward. Vultures soar overhead, circling the root of the rotting smell -- an elephant carcass. Distorted by the heat shimmer, the grotesque birds swoop from the sky to rip apart the flesh of the slaughtered elephant.
He does not understand what he is seeing. Or does he?
Standing motionless on the savanna soil, the boy feels the girt of earth against his curled toes. Once again he hears laughter carry from the wooden table where his mother sits.
Soon after, as always, a long shadow slips over him. The boy whirls, stares through the glare and sees his father.
A familiar sense of foreboding tingles through the boy. How many times has this happened before?
The wind passes over the boy's father's old-man weathered face, a film of glistening sweat covers his naked body. He adjusts his grip on the spear he carries. His dove-gray eyes plead for his son's understanding.
The boy closes his eyes and draws long, deep breaths. He does not want to choose today. He wants to remain wild, like the hyenas and the big cats, running free on the savanna, where all life ends meaningful.
His father's cold hand stretches across the space between them and falls on the boy's right shoulder. "It is because I am from one world," his father says, "and your mother is from another."
Fear. The boy remembers his mother's fears -- the nights long ago when he and his mother roamed the dark streets together; he, clinging to her long swishing gown. Long nights spent either searching for his father, or trying to escape him. Recalling the pain and confusion, the oby remains motionless on the savanna until he feels the smooth wooden handle of his father's spear being pressed against his palms. Sweat drips off his hair and runs down the side of face. He hears his father say, "Like this, like this." He feels his father's hand take hold his fingers and guide them around the wooden handle of the spear.
There was a time when he would have done anything for the sound of that voice; a time when he would have given his life for the touch of his father's hand. And there was a time when he did take a life for his father's affection.
Now his father crouches beside him and turns the boy so that his left shoulder juts in the direction of the table where his mother laughs with her men. The men she is with are always different, yet always there. Always. The boy allows his father to raise his limp arms, position them rigid, and lock them at the elbows.
"Remember that day, don't you?" his father says. "I came home, found you alone. Remember what we found out, together? Remember what we had to do?"
The boy opens his eyes and sees a clothesline tied between two trees. Damp clothes pinned to the line flap and writhe in the wind. Like vibrant ghosts, the deep colors of the fabric rise and fall, rise and fall. Two sheets part and the boy's mother appears from between them. Behind her, a faceless man.
Now his mother raises her face from the table and scans the savanna. She knows they are here again. The men with her move away from the table. She stands, leaving her teacup on the table, and begins to trudge through the wavering hot air toward the boy and his father. Halfway across the grass, she stops to mourn the slaughtered elephant.
The boy tightens his grip on his father's spear. He lunges forward without moving his feet, thrusting the spear, hearing the stone spearhead slice the air. he knows what he must do. He knows the instant the spearhead pierces his mother's flesh the elephant will rise again.
There are no difficult choices to make, just the simplicity of basic survival. He would rather be faced with being taken down by a pride of lions than to have to choose again.
But the moment the boy spots his mother just beyond the swale of high grass, his bliss shatters. The truth of what must happen sends his spirits pummeling. Always it comes to this end, him having to choose, having to make a decision, having to lose one important faction of his world in order to save another. Some nights he finds himself traveling the galaxies, other times swimming the dark depths of the ocean. But it happens also on elevators, bridges, anywhere at all. No matter where he runs to, though, he cannot hide. His fears and insecurities find him and force him to make a choice.
Today, when he sees his mother, she is sitting at a wooden table with three men. The table is shaded under a rustling canvas canopy. Taut ropes secure the canopy to two dead acacia trees. The boy, still running, cannot help but feel the hatred as he watches one of the men lean over his mother's shoulder. The other two men, one on either side of her, are close beside her as well.
Against the drone of the wind, the boy hears his mother's clear laughter and a haunting chill vibrates through his entire body. He focuses on the silk ribbon of her hat, snapping in the wind, and then the hem of her regal gown, whipping near the earth. Each time his mother raises her hand to sip her tea, faint rays of sunlight reflect off her dainty teacup.
She laughs again, loudly. The men with her laugh, too. Their teacups clink, the sound simultaneously distant and extremely clear.
As he nears the wooden table where his mother sits, the stench of rotting flesh carried by the wind invades the boy's nostrils. Despite this stink of death, the savanna teems with life: African Crown cranes strut boldly through dry flowing grass, honking at one another. Antelopes, paused from their grazing, lean from their high cover to study their surroundings.
Out of breath, he must stop running. Breathing hard, he cups his knees with his hands. The sound of wing beats causes him to raise his face skyward. Vultures soar overhead, circling the root of the rotting smell -- an elephant carcass. Distorted by the heat shimmer, the grotesque birds swoop from the sky to rip apart the flesh of the slaughtered elephant.
He does not understand what he is seeing. Or does he?
Standing motionless on the savanna soil, the boy feels the girt of earth against his curled toes. Once again he hears laughter carry from the wooden table where his mother sits.
Soon after, as always, a long shadow slips over him. The boy whirls, stares through the glare and sees his father.
A familiar sense of foreboding tingles through the boy. How many times has this happened before?
The wind passes over the boy's father's old-man weathered face, a film of glistening sweat covers his naked body. He adjusts his grip on the spear he carries. His dove-gray eyes plead for his son's understanding.
The boy closes his eyes and draws long, deep breaths. He does not want to choose today. He wants to remain wild, like the hyenas and the big cats, running free on the savanna, where all life ends meaningful.
His father's cold hand stretches across the space between them and falls on the boy's right shoulder. "It is because I am from one world," his father says, "and your mother is from another."
Fear. The boy remembers his mother's fears -- the nights long ago when he and his mother roamed the dark streets together; he, clinging to her long swishing gown. Long nights spent either searching for his father, or trying to escape him. Recalling the pain and confusion, the oby remains motionless on the savanna until he feels the smooth wooden handle of his father's spear being pressed against his palms. Sweat drips off his hair and runs down the side of face. He hears his father say, "Like this, like this." He feels his father's hand take hold his fingers and guide them around the wooden handle of the spear.
There was a time when he would have done anything for the sound of that voice; a time when he would have given his life for the touch of his father's hand. And there was a time when he did take a life for his father's affection.
Now his father crouches beside him and turns the boy so that his left shoulder juts in the direction of the table where his mother laughs with her men. The men she is with are always different, yet always there. Always. The boy allows his father to raise his limp arms, position them rigid, and lock them at the elbows.
"Remember that day, don't you?" his father says. "I came home, found you alone. Remember what we found out, together? Remember what we had to do?"
The boy opens his eyes and sees a clothesline tied between two trees. Damp clothes pinned to the line flap and writhe in the wind. Like vibrant ghosts, the deep colors of the fabric rise and fall, rise and fall. Two sheets part and the boy's mother appears from between them. Behind her, a faceless man.
Now his mother raises her face from the table and scans the savanna. She knows they are here again. The men with her move away from the table. She stands, leaving her teacup on the table, and begins to trudge through the wavering hot air toward the boy and his father. Halfway across the grass, she stops to mourn the slaughtered elephant.
The boy tightens his grip on his father's spear. He lunges forward without moving his feet, thrusting the spear, hearing the stone spearhead slice the air. he knows what he must do. He knows the instant the spearhead pierces his mother's flesh the elephant will rise again.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Epiphany of Sanbourne 4216
Sanborne 4216 had been watching the Arabs huddled at a table in a dark corner of the tavern. He rolled his shirtsleeve up and set the timer for the implant to blow in three minutes. Then he sat back and continued to observe his supposed targets.
His technicians had not programmed Sanborne 4216 to react emotionally, so he was confused feeling his heartbeat increase when someone began to sing a piercing rendition of Jeff Buckley's ‘Hallelujah.' All throughout his body of flesh and metal, muscle and wire, the circuits began firing and the blood began flowing with unusual quickness.
The motors in his neck ground and whirred as he sought out the source of the gospel. His head swiveled incrementally -- left, left, left, up, up . . .
Then he saw her on the stage. The woman's face was lit up by the blue glow of the lights above her. Beneath a black scarf, her long brown hair hung down past her narrow shoulders. Her eyes were closed.
The tavern had quieted, everyone sat listening to the woman sing ‘Hallelujah.' Sanborne 4216 felt his insides tighten. Impossible. His programming did not allow such feelings. The woman on stage opened her eyes and stared directly at him. Perspiration formed on his forehead. Again, impossible. The woman closed her eyes once more and leaned into the microphone.
He suddenly realized it wasn't the Arabs that Control had sent him in to destroy. Sanborne 4216 got up in a desperate panic, and was halfway to the exit when he heard the sharp click of the implant inside him snap into place.
His technicians had not programmed Sanborne 4216 to react emotionally, so he was confused feeling his heartbeat increase when someone began to sing a piercing rendition of Jeff Buckley's ‘Hallelujah.' All throughout his body of flesh and metal, muscle and wire, the circuits began firing and the blood began flowing with unusual quickness.
The motors in his neck ground and whirred as he sought out the source of the gospel. His head swiveled incrementally -- left, left, left, up, up . . .
Then he saw her on the stage. The woman's face was lit up by the blue glow of the lights above her. Beneath a black scarf, her long brown hair hung down past her narrow shoulders. Her eyes were closed.
The tavern had quieted, everyone sat listening to the woman sing ‘Hallelujah.' Sanborne 4216 felt his insides tighten. Impossible. His programming did not allow such feelings. The woman on stage opened her eyes and stared directly at him. Perspiration formed on his forehead. Again, impossible. The woman closed her eyes once more and leaned into the microphone.
He suddenly realized it wasn't the Arabs that Control had sent him in to destroy. Sanborne 4216 got up in a desperate panic, and was halfway to the exit when he heard the sharp click of the implant inside him snap into place.
Screen Dreams
He enters the train terminal first, crossing the floor with his suitcase. Just in case. Moments later, also lugging a suitcase, she pushes through the front doors, stands beneath the arrivals and departures board and scans the bustle for someone she’s never met.
He spots her, or so he believes it is her, and slowly approaches.
“Taylor?” she asks, when he stops directly in front of her. He does not look like ‘her Taylor.‘ The up-and-down motion of his head causes the skin on his neck to jiggle.
“Marisol?” She is considerably older, he thinks, than her photographs had suggested. She certainly was not demure, or petite. Her hair being neither long, nor black.
They both set their suitcases on the floor to shake hands. Neither of them wears a wedding ring, both have noticed. She perceives his grip to be weak, he considers her hand plump.
After a moment of awkward silence the couple release each other’s hand. She checks her watch. “I can’t stay long,” she says. “You know, the old man might get suspicious.”
Clearing his throat, he replies. “I should be going in a bit, too –.” He smiles, weakly, and she does the same. “– before the wife starts worrying.”
Side by side at a small bar, the couple have a drink. Neither, though, says much. Funny, he thinks, how easily conversation had flowed online. Crazy, she figures, to somehow grasp for affection from someone you’d never really met.
They finish their drinks, both of them slip off their stools and heft their suitcases. Together, almost as a couple would, they walk out the terminal doors. Before going their separate ways, they once again exchange weak smiles.
Taking separate routes home, both he and she are struck by a sad awareness. Their months of netplay had been more of a lie than the world they hoped to escape. And both of them now know — he, while he climbs into a cab, and she, while staring out the bus window — it is impossible to change with such ease the lives they are destined to live.
No longer, he thinks, leaning back on the bench seat and crossing his ankles, can he be called ‘Johnnylonely.” She, with her forehead pressed against the window, thinks about her own screen name ‘Carolneeds.” She’d have to discard that now that things didn’t work out.
These small changes, however, would have to be handled more carefully than the larger change they had hoped to make by meeting tonight. As would the incomplete lives they would continue to live, lives which had led them to search out one another in the first place.A Well Planned Abduction
2:45 in the afternoon and Kiko lifts the corner of the thin, daisy-patterned curtain. An instant later the young girl comes into view. She skips along the sidewalk. Her blue skirt lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, her too-heavy backpack stretching her white button-down blouse taut over the immature curves of her budding breasts.
Kiko knows this girl. In fact, he prides himself on knowing everything about her. Just twelve, the child is called Marcella. 4703 Phoebe Drive, the green house shaded by the three tall magnolias. Her two younger brothers, Edwin and Anthony, call her Tita. Her parents work during the day, her father stooping in the asparagus fields and her mother housekeeping at the Holiday Inn. Until five o’clock each afternoon Marcella and her brothers are home, alone.
But Kiko also knows that on Wednesday evenings Marcella’s parents board a bus, which takes them to the Indian Casino, where they remain until midnight. Wednesday. Two days from now. That’s when Kiko intends to abduct this child.
He watches Marcella skip past his window, watches her continue along the sidewalk on her way to the green house at the end of the block, watches her -- and smiles. He knows everything he needs to know about this girl in order to have her. Everything.
***
Just after nine o’clock on Wednesday evening, Kiko crouches in the shadow of one of the three towering magnolias at 4703 Phoebe Drive. Through a curtainless window, he sees the light. It is a grainy, shifting intensity of color and brightness which flashes from a television inside the house. Now and again one of the younger boys call out to their older sister, call out to Tita Marcella and ask her for something or another.
He waits, patiently. He has, after all, until midnight.
10 PM. Quietly, Kiko emerges from brushy shadows and creeps across the yard to the window. A dry twig cracks underfoot. Kiko freezes. His heart climbs into his throat. Only when he is sure no one is rushing to the window to investigate, does he proceed again, cursing his carelessness.
At the window he peers through the glass. The two boys haven’t spoken a word for over an hour. They must have gone to bed. He spots Marcella. Still awake, she lies on the sofa in front of the blaring television. The child’s attentions are on a book she holds above her face. Her long, black hair falls over her shoulder and her sun browned legs, sticking out from the hem of her pink nightgown, are crossed at the ankles.
Kiko licks his lips and presses his forehead against the glass, which quickly clouds from his hot, hot breaths. When Marcella rises to her elbows and glances toward the window, Kiko drops beneath the sill. Had she seen him? He blots his sticky palms on his pant legs and once again his heart gallops.
For a long time he remains crouched with his back against the home’s aluminum siding. An uncontrollable shiver grips his entire body. Had she seen him? He wonders this again. Does she know he’s been watching? Does she know he’s been waiting? Maintaining a low stoop, Kiko hurries around the house to the backyard, where he finds a window jarred. He is elated. He places his palms beneath the metal frame and begins to raise the window. The window groans. Again Kiko freezes.
After waiting a few minutes he lifts the window the rest of the way up and throws a leg over the sill, climbing into the house. It is Marcella’s parents bedroom. Kiko knows this. The sudden recollection that he knows everything gives him an incredible boost of confidence. He pads across the room to the door, and from the door into the hallway, where he follows the pulsing glow of light coming from the living room.
Trying to control his breathing, trying to calm his anxiety, trying to ease his excitement, Kiko braces himself, his back against the wall and counts backward from ten. Then, when his breathing slows, he pokes his head around the corner.
Nothing. No one. Only a television. Where had she gone?
A wisp of cold air tingles the back of Kiko’s neck. He slowly pulls his head back, turns around and finds himself staring directly in Marcella’s eyes. Green eyes. Green glowing eyes. The child grins.
Kiko opens his mouth to scream, but cannot. The child’s cold hands blanket his white knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Marcella says. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”
The tiniest moan escapes Kiko’s throat.
Marcella opens her mouth, wide, baring large teeth.
With his mouth still open, Kiko’s eyes roll into the back of his head. Every inch of his body begins to quake. From his gaping mouth a charcoal colored vapor begins to curl out. The mist swirls, round and round and Marcella rounds her lips. She draws the stream of dark fog into her mouth and slowly, Kiko shrivels, shrivels, shrivels into a mound of dust.
Marcella presses her lips together. For a long time she stares at the dust on the carpet at her feet before finally smiling. She heads to the kitchen for a foxtail and dustpan.
Whirling around inside Marcella, are the memories and thoughts of Kiko. Marcella giggles, thinking how funny it is that this man, even now inside of her, still believes he knows everything.
Kiko knows this girl. In fact, he prides himself on knowing everything about her. Just twelve, the child is called Marcella. 4703 Phoebe Drive, the green house shaded by the three tall magnolias. Her two younger brothers, Edwin and Anthony, call her Tita. Her parents work during the day, her father stooping in the asparagus fields and her mother housekeeping at the Holiday Inn. Until five o’clock each afternoon Marcella and her brothers are home, alone.
But Kiko also knows that on Wednesday evenings Marcella’s parents board a bus, which takes them to the Indian Casino, where they remain until midnight. Wednesday. Two days from now. That’s when Kiko intends to abduct this child.
He watches Marcella skip past his window, watches her continue along the sidewalk on her way to the green house at the end of the block, watches her -- and smiles. He knows everything he needs to know about this girl in order to have her. Everything.
Just after nine o’clock on Wednesday evening, Kiko crouches in the shadow of one of the three towering magnolias at 4703 Phoebe Drive. Through a curtainless window, he sees the light. It is a grainy, shifting intensity of color and brightness which flashes from a television inside the house. Now and again one of the younger boys call out to their older sister, call out to Tita Marcella and ask her for something or another.
He waits, patiently. He has, after all, until midnight.
10 PM. Quietly, Kiko emerges from brushy shadows and creeps across the yard to the window. A dry twig cracks underfoot. Kiko freezes. His heart climbs into his throat. Only when he is sure no one is rushing to the window to investigate, does he proceed again, cursing his carelessness.
At the window he peers through the glass. The two boys haven’t spoken a word for over an hour. They must have gone to bed. He spots Marcella. Still awake, she lies on the sofa in front of the blaring television. The child’s attentions are on a book she holds above her face. Her long, black hair falls over her shoulder and her sun browned legs, sticking out from the hem of her pink nightgown, are crossed at the ankles.
Kiko licks his lips and presses his forehead against the glass, which quickly clouds from his hot, hot breaths. When Marcella rises to her elbows and glances toward the window, Kiko drops beneath the sill. Had she seen him? He blots his sticky palms on his pant legs and once again his heart gallops.
For a long time he remains crouched with his back against the home’s aluminum siding. An uncontrollable shiver grips his entire body. Had she seen him? He wonders this again. Does she know he’s been watching? Does she know he’s been waiting? Maintaining a low stoop, Kiko hurries around the house to the backyard, where he finds a window jarred. He is elated. He places his palms beneath the metal frame and begins to raise the window. The window groans. Again Kiko freezes.
After waiting a few minutes he lifts the window the rest of the way up and throws a leg over the sill, climbing into the house. It is Marcella’s parents bedroom. Kiko knows this. The sudden recollection that he knows everything gives him an incredible boost of confidence. He pads across the room to the door, and from the door into the hallway, where he follows the pulsing glow of light coming from the living room.
Trying to control his breathing, trying to calm his anxiety, trying to ease his excitement, Kiko braces himself, his back against the wall and counts backward from ten. Then, when his breathing slows, he pokes his head around the corner.
Nothing. No one. Only a television. Where had she gone?
A wisp of cold air tingles the back of Kiko’s neck. He slowly pulls his head back, turns around and finds himself staring directly in Marcella’s eyes. Green eyes. Green glowing eyes. The child grins.
Kiko opens his mouth to scream, but cannot. The child’s cold hands blanket his white knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Marcella says. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”
The tiniest moan escapes Kiko’s throat.
Marcella opens her mouth, wide, baring large teeth.
With his mouth still open, Kiko’s eyes roll into the back of his head. Every inch of his body begins to quake. From his gaping mouth a charcoal colored vapor begins to curl out. The mist swirls, round and round and Marcella rounds her lips. She draws the stream of dark fog into her mouth and slowly, Kiko shrivels, shrivels, shrivels into a mound of dust.
Marcella presses her lips together. For a long time she stares at the dust on the carpet at her feet before finally smiling. She heads to the kitchen for a foxtail and dustpan.
Whirling around inside Marcella, are the memories and thoughts of Kiko. Marcella giggles, thinking how funny it is that this man, even now inside of her, still believes he knows everything.
Small Differences
Saturday afternoon and Mia's not saying anything. She's sunk back in the passenger seat, head back, arms crossed, blonde hair whipping in the crosswind that streams through our open windows. With her brown eyes hidden behind her Brittney shades, I'm not even sure if she's awake.
Just outside of Fresno I exit the highway and blow past crowded gas stations and fast food joints. About a quarter mile down the road, beyond these rickety apartment buildings, there's this shabby convenience store; windows pasted with cardboard signs that advertise beer and cigarettes. I ease off the gas and swing into the lot, bump through the potholes and nose up to a stop in front of the store.
After I kill the engine, I step out of the car. "Be right back," I say to Mia. "Need anything?"
No reply, just a shift in her seat and a turn of her head. She stares off in the direction of the apartment buildings on the other side of the chain-link fence, and rakes her wind-thrashed hair with her fingers. I head on into the shop. I need to grab a bottle of something, anything, to quell my pounding head.
It's dim inside the shop. There's one customer, some trailer-type woman standing in front of the counter. This foreign music, part chant, part cabaret, spills from some unseen speaker. But the music doesn't drown out the humming freezers and the bottles that rattle inside of them. There's this stink, too. A sick mix of sun-heated bananas, stale cigarettes and spilled beer, which just hangs heavy in every inch of the store. I look out the window, between the cardboard signs, through the buzzing flies, and see Mia baking in the parking lot, her bare feet now propped up on the dash.
"Help you," the Indian clerk says, his voice raspy. His customer, the woman, snaps a glance at me over her shoulder.
All morning since pulling out of Los Angeles, except for one quick fuel and bathroom pause before we hauled up over the Grapevine, I've been bent over the steering wheel. I'm suddenly in no hurry to resume that position.
"I can wait," I say, gesturing toward the woman ahead of me. "Go on and help your customer."
The woman turns back to the counter. The Indian sighs when he sees her lift a paper bag, grasp it by the bottom and spills a boatload of pennies onto the counter. The woman gives me another glance over her shoulder, at the same instant yanking down the frayed hem of her denim shorts. Then she thumbs up the strap of her faded halter top and turns back to face the clerk. "How much for the bread again?" she says.
His hands folded, the clerk studies his customer, seems to contemplate how many pennies she has. After a moment, he answers, "Four dollars and forty-two."
"That sounds like a lot."
I shake my head, watch the Indian raise his arms into the air. He says to the woman, "Okay me you go other place."
With a thin finger the woman begins to push her coins across the counter, one after another, past the loaf of bread. She counts out loud, "one, two, three . . . "
I twist my neck and look out the window again. In the Mustang Mia now has her sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her eyes are shut. Damn, I think, I've loved her since we were kids. I can't stand the thought that this could be it for us. After all these years.
"eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . . "
A couple of mottled, scrappy dogs trot through the parking lot. Noses against the blacktop, they slurp up scraps as they head over to where my car is parked. They sniff at the back tires. One of the dogs lifts a leg and sprays. I can't help but shake my head. It's been one of those days. The dogs bounce away, disappear up the sidewalk.
When I hear the Indian clears his throat, I turn my head back around. He's got a finger tapping against his temple. The woman with all the pennies has stopped counting. She's now looking up, running her fingers through her hair. "You're confusing me," she says. "What was I at?".
Scowling, shaking his head, breathing deeply, the clerk says, "Sixty-one. Sixty-one cents"
She starts again: "sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four . . . "
The whole trip had been a disaster. On Wednesday I'd proposed to Mia, the trip to Los Angeles was supposed to have been a celebration. But I couldn't deal with the idiots, who one after another, hit on Mia. And the way she flaunted herself, well that didn't help either. I'd gone off on her, expressing myself honestly, for her being so flirtatious. She claimed I embarrassed her in public, one time too many.
Last night while having dinner in a Japanese restaurant, Mia handed me back the engagement ring. Under the chandelier, she revealed how she really felt about our upcoming marriage. Yeah, she still loved me. Always had, probably always would. So she claimed, anyway. But she also came straight out and said she couldn't deal with my insecurities, couldn't imagine herself spending the rest of her life with a man who blew up over the smallest things.
Thinking about it later, I concluded Mia was probably right. Changing who I was, well that was something I had no idea how to go about. It'd been a problem I'd had my whole life. Back when I was a kid I'd never got much, so everything I earned I clung to. I'd worked hard to better myself, to break free of the crap life I was born into. Mia knows that. She grew up in it, too. So maybe she's been going through her own little phase of 'life is grand' -- who knows? But that doesn't change the fact that she's a little too flirty at times, nor does it change the fact that I'm a little too jealous.
"I forgot where I was again." The woman in front of me taps her fingers against the wooden counter and stares up at the ceiling.
"Two dollar and six."
Before she continues, she glances at me over her shoulder, apologizing without saying. She's got clouded eyes and a smile that begs for attention - from a dentist.
"Two dollar and six," the Indian says again. He takes up a carton of Marlboros, begins to fish out the red packages and slot the rack above him
The woman tugs again the slipped strap of her halter top. She goes on: "seven, eight,. . ." The coins scrape as they glide across the counter and become part of a growing mountain of pennies. "twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . . "
The bell above the door jangles. Hearing the distinct clip of heels against the tile floor, I know who it is without turning. I catch a strong whiff of Mia's perfume and feel her firm hand settle in the small of my back.
"That's three dollars, right?" the woman at the counter asks the Indian.
"Two ninety-six," he snaps back. I open my mouth and narrow my eyes. I should say something. How can someone cop such a nasty attitude over four lousy pennies. Such a small difference.
The Indian looks past me to Mia and nods with a smile. With one curved hand he scoops a handful of pennies into his other hand, and then drops them into a box beneath the counter. "Two ninety-six," he says again, calmer now, while he fills his fist with a handful of coins.
The woman resumes counting. My skin tingles when through the thin shirt I'm wearing, Mia's fingertips travel up my back. She brings her mouth to my ear, "I was out of line last night," she whispers, "I'm really sorry."
I don't answer. Instead, I count silently with the woman at the counter; seventy-eight, seventy-nine . . . I clear my throat and continue. Eighty-one, eighty-two . . . There are no words, just an inner voice that counts along, breaking all the same.
"I think I was at sixteen," the woman at the counter says. She glances over her shoulder at me at me and Mia, as if she's searching for confirmation. "Wasn't it sixteen?"
"No. It was Four dollars and one," the Indian claims. He bends over the counter. "Four dollars and one. Why you like to cheat me?"
The woman shakes her head. "I'm sure it was four-sixteen, wasn't it?"
Mia whispers into my ear again, her warm breath dusting my lobe. "We have to promise each other that we'll try to deal with our small differences." She presses her palm tight against my back and lowers her head onto my shoulder. The scent of her hair floods my nostrils.
"You're the one cheating me," the woman at the counter says. "I know it was four sixteen."
The clerk snaps his wrist twice, giving the woman the 'go away' gesture. He smirks. "I keep bread. You don't go back here my store." He crouches behind the counter, comes up with the box of pennies and slams the box down beside the bread. He grabs handfuls of pennies off the counter, those that have been counted, those that haven't, and dumps them into the box.
"How much is the bread?" Mia suddenly says, floating past me toward the counter.
The Indian looks up and smiles. "Four forty-two."
Mia's pocketbook snaps open. She places a ten dollar bill in front of the clerk. "I'd like to pay for it," Mia says. Then she adds, glancing back at me. "Oh, and a bottle of aspirin, right?"
The woman at the counter, a foot shorter than Mia, has raised her head to look at her benefactor. She tugs her halter top's slid strap again..
The clerk whirls around, scans a shelf against the wall with a finger, looking for the aspirin.
I clear my throat. "Tell you what, we don't need aspirin. Go ahead and give the ten bucks to this woman."
The woman whips her head around, eyes wide. She tries to stammer out her thanks, but Mia touches her arm and says, "It's our pleasure. We know where you're coming from."
Two steps later Mia's at my side. She takes my elbow and urges me toward the door. When I pull the door open, the air outdoors blows warm across my face. Mia squeezes my hand. Somehow I know I've begun to chip away at the insecurities that have always plagued me.
Before the door closes completely, I can't help but smile when I hear the woman at the counter say, "No, no. I want to keep the ten dollar bill. I'll pay for the bread with these pennies."
Just outside of Fresno I exit the highway and blow past crowded gas stations and fast food joints. About a quarter mile down the road, beyond these rickety apartment buildings, there's this shabby convenience store; windows pasted with cardboard signs that advertise beer and cigarettes. I ease off the gas and swing into the lot, bump through the potholes and nose up to a stop in front of the store.
After I kill the engine, I step out of the car. "Be right back," I say to Mia. "Need anything?"
No reply, just a shift in her seat and a turn of her head. She stares off in the direction of the apartment buildings on the other side of the chain-link fence, and rakes her wind-thrashed hair with her fingers. I head on into the shop. I need to grab a bottle of something, anything, to quell my pounding head.
It's dim inside the shop. There's one customer, some trailer-type woman standing in front of the counter. This foreign music, part chant, part cabaret, spills from some unseen speaker. But the music doesn't drown out the humming freezers and the bottles that rattle inside of them. There's this stink, too. A sick mix of sun-heated bananas, stale cigarettes and spilled beer, which just hangs heavy in every inch of the store. I look out the window, between the cardboard signs, through the buzzing flies, and see Mia baking in the parking lot, her bare feet now propped up on the dash.
"Help you," the Indian clerk says, his voice raspy. His customer, the woman, snaps a glance at me over her shoulder.
All morning since pulling out of Los Angeles, except for one quick fuel and bathroom pause before we hauled up over the Grapevine, I've been bent over the steering wheel. I'm suddenly in no hurry to resume that position.
"I can wait," I say, gesturing toward the woman ahead of me. "Go on and help your customer."
The woman turns back to the counter. The Indian sighs when he sees her lift a paper bag, grasp it by the bottom and spills a boatload of pennies onto the counter. The woman gives me another glance over her shoulder, at the same instant yanking down the frayed hem of her denim shorts. Then she thumbs up the strap of her faded halter top and turns back to face the clerk. "How much for the bread again?" she says.
His hands folded, the clerk studies his customer, seems to contemplate how many pennies she has. After a moment, he answers, "Four dollars and forty-two."
"That sounds like a lot."
I shake my head, watch the Indian raise his arms into the air. He says to the woman, "Okay me you go other place."
With a thin finger the woman begins to push her coins across the counter, one after another, past the loaf of bread. She counts out loud, "one, two, three . . . "
I twist my neck and look out the window again. In the Mustang Mia now has her sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her eyes are shut. Damn, I think, I've loved her since we were kids. I can't stand the thought that this could be it for us. After all these years.
"eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . . "
A couple of mottled, scrappy dogs trot through the parking lot. Noses against the blacktop, they slurp up scraps as they head over to where my car is parked. They sniff at the back tires. One of the dogs lifts a leg and sprays. I can't help but shake my head. It's been one of those days. The dogs bounce away, disappear up the sidewalk.
When I hear the Indian clears his throat, I turn my head back around. He's got a finger tapping against his temple. The woman with all the pennies has stopped counting. She's now looking up, running her fingers through her hair. "You're confusing me," she says. "What was I at?".
Scowling, shaking his head, breathing deeply, the clerk says, "Sixty-one. Sixty-one cents"
She starts again: "sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four . . . "
The whole trip had been a disaster. On Wednesday I'd proposed to Mia, the trip to Los Angeles was supposed to have been a celebration. But I couldn't deal with the idiots, who one after another, hit on Mia. And the way she flaunted herself, well that didn't help either. I'd gone off on her, expressing myself honestly, for her being so flirtatious. She claimed I embarrassed her in public, one time too many.
Last night while having dinner in a Japanese restaurant, Mia handed me back the engagement ring. Under the chandelier, she revealed how she really felt about our upcoming marriage. Yeah, she still loved me. Always had, probably always would. So she claimed, anyway. But she also came straight out and said she couldn't deal with my insecurities, couldn't imagine herself spending the rest of her life with a man who blew up over the smallest things.
Thinking about it later, I concluded Mia was probably right. Changing who I was, well that was something I had no idea how to go about. It'd been a problem I'd had my whole life. Back when I was a kid I'd never got much, so everything I earned I clung to. I'd worked hard to better myself, to break free of the crap life I was born into. Mia knows that. She grew up in it, too. So maybe she's been going through her own little phase of 'life is grand' -- who knows? But that doesn't change the fact that she's a little too flirty at times, nor does it change the fact that I'm a little too jealous.
"I forgot where I was again." The woman in front of me taps her fingers against the wooden counter and stares up at the ceiling.
"Two dollar and six."
Before she continues, she glances at me over her shoulder, apologizing without saying. She's got clouded eyes and a smile that begs for attention - from a dentist.
"Two dollar and six," the Indian says again. He takes up a carton of Marlboros, begins to fish out the red packages and slot the rack above him
The woman tugs again the slipped strap of her halter top. She goes on: "seven, eight,. . ." The coins scrape as they glide across the counter and become part of a growing mountain of pennies. "twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . . "
The bell above the door jangles. Hearing the distinct clip of heels against the tile floor, I know who it is without turning. I catch a strong whiff of Mia's perfume and feel her firm hand settle in the small of my back.
"That's three dollars, right?" the woman at the counter asks the Indian.
"Two ninety-six," he snaps back. I open my mouth and narrow my eyes. I should say something. How can someone cop such a nasty attitude over four lousy pennies. Such a small difference.
The Indian looks past me to Mia and nods with a smile. With one curved hand he scoops a handful of pennies into his other hand, and then drops them into a box beneath the counter. "Two ninety-six," he says again, calmer now, while he fills his fist with a handful of coins.
The woman resumes counting. My skin tingles when through the thin shirt I'm wearing, Mia's fingertips travel up my back. She brings her mouth to my ear, "I was out of line last night," she whispers, "I'm really sorry."
I don't answer. Instead, I count silently with the woman at the counter; seventy-eight, seventy-nine . . . I clear my throat and continue. Eighty-one, eighty-two . . . There are no words, just an inner voice that counts along, breaking all the same.
"I think I was at sixteen," the woman at the counter says. She glances over her shoulder at me at me and Mia, as if she's searching for confirmation. "Wasn't it sixteen?"
"No. It was Four dollars and one," the Indian claims. He bends over the counter. "Four dollars and one. Why you like to cheat me?"
The woman shakes her head. "I'm sure it was four-sixteen, wasn't it?"
Mia whispers into my ear again, her warm breath dusting my lobe. "We have to promise each other that we'll try to deal with our small differences." She presses her palm tight against my back and lowers her head onto my shoulder. The scent of her hair floods my nostrils.
"You're the one cheating me," the woman at the counter says. "I know it was four sixteen."
The clerk snaps his wrist twice, giving the woman the 'go away' gesture. He smirks. "I keep bread. You don't go back here my store." He crouches behind the counter, comes up with the box of pennies and slams the box down beside the bread. He grabs handfuls of pennies off the counter, those that have been counted, those that haven't, and dumps them into the box.
"How much is the bread?" Mia suddenly says, floating past me toward the counter.
The Indian looks up and smiles. "Four forty-two."
Mia's pocketbook snaps open. She places a ten dollar bill in front of the clerk. "I'd like to pay for it," Mia says. Then she adds, glancing back at me. "Oh, and a bottle of aspirin, right?"
The woman at the counter, a foot shorter than Mia, has raised her head to look at her benefactor. She tugs her halter top's slid strap again..
The clerk whirls around, scans a shelf against the wall with a finger, looking for the aspirin.
I clear my throat. "Tell you what, we don't need aspirin. Go ahead and give the ten bucks to this woman."
The woman whips her head around, eyes wide. She tries to stammer out her thanks, but Mia touches her arm and says, "It's our pleasure. We know where you're coming from."
Two steps later Mia's at my side. She takes my elbow and urges me toward the door. When I pull the door open, the air outdoors blows warm across my face. Mia squeezes my hand. Somehow I know I've begun to chip away at the insecurities that have always plagued me.
Before the door closes completely, I can't help but smile when I hear the woman at the counter say, "No, no. I want to keep the ten dollar bill. I'll pay for the bread with these pennies."
Slots
The wife's name was Lourdes, and she sat leaning forward with
her bony behind perched on the edge of the stool. She cursed
loudly and pounded the glass face of the quarter slot machine.
The husband, Maurice, stood behind her kneading her
shoulders. He said, "Getting late, dear. Maybe we should think
about going back to the room." Maurice had experienced more
than his share of flashing lights and whirring noises. He'd had
enough of the stale smoke and complimentary coffees for one
night.
Lourdes smacked the machine again, this time with the flat
of her palm. She whipped her head around, glared at her husband
and said, "Go away, will you? You've been bringing me lousy
luck all night." She shrugged free of her husband's hands and
twisted back around to give the machine's handle another yank.
She was like this sometimes. Especially when things weren't
going her way. Oftentimes, her already uncaring demeanor
toward Maurice eroded into outright ugliness. Tonight, however,
she was as bad as Maurice could remember, obviously deciding
to settle in for the long haul to try to recover the money she'd
already lost.
"Come on, Lourdes," Maurice pleaded. "Let's go to the
room."
Without turning to face him, Lourdes said, "I'm not walking
away from a machine that's ready to pay." Behind the glass in
front of her the symbols skidded to a stop.
Lourdes gave a tiny, clenched-teeth squeal and slapped the
machine again. She frowned over her shoulder and said, "Why
are you still here?"
Why indeed, Maurice wondered. All these years and she'd
been the same uncaring, insensitive Loudes. A woman who
cared only about herself. He glanced down at his shoes and
sighed. Ten years of marriage to a woman like Lourdes hadn’t
been easy. Although he'd tried to overlook her selfishness, it was
getting to the point where he couldn't ignore the mounting
thoughts of leaving her. But again and again he asked himself,
just how does a man up and leave someone he once loved more
than anything? How do you give up all the invested years? He
may not have been the happiest man in the world, but he figured
he was content. He had a job, owned a home, ate three meals
a day. What more could a man want? Love? Perhaps. But was it
worth the trouble of chasing down such a desire?
Maurice heard an odd, choking noise and raised his head.
Lourdes? Where was she? Her seat in front of the slot machine
was empty. He broke out in a sweat. His hands began to tremble.
It was then he caught a coiling wisp of gray smoke in front of the
machine. Slowly, the smoke streamed through the machine's coin
catch. On the carpet at the foot of the empty stool rested
Lourdes's little red sandals.
He crept forward and placed a palm on the empty cushion.
The seat was warm, the vinyl impression of his wife's butt rose
beneath his hand. What should he do? He combed the crowded
casino for one of the red-blazered attendants. But of course, like
police officers at a crime scene, there were none to be found. He
stared at the line of blinking buttons on the slot machine Lourdes
had been abusing. There was a red button with the word 'HELP'
printed on it. Maurice went to press the button, thinking maybe
that would bring someone over.
With his finger hovering above the 'HELP' button, Maurice
noticed Loude's forty dollars worth of unused credits. Almost
instinctively, he drew his hand away from the button. He thought
a minute, then reached up and grabbed the handle with his
sweaty palm. He glanced around furtively to make sure no one
was paying attention, then he yanked the handle toward him and
watched the wheels spin.
When the wheels came to a halt, Maurice stared long and
hard. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
On the centerline behind the glass, one of Lourdes’s hands
rested between two red cherries. He knew the hand belonged to
Lourdes's, because the fingernails were painted that gaudy purple
she liked. He backed away from the slot machine and stared in
horror as the fingers on the hand began to wiggle, as if to say,
“Hey, look at me.” The purple fingernails tapped the inside of
the glass.
Lourdes?
Maurice took a step closer and rapped his knuckles against
the glass.
With his knees bouncing like crazy, he pulled the handle
again.
This time when the wheels quit spinning, one of Lourdes’s
feet was lined up to the right of a pair of golden bells. While
Maurice stared, a grin grew on his face. The bare foot reared
back and kicked the glass hard. Maurice quickly gave the handle
another tug, and when the wheels rolled to a stop, both of
Lourdes’s brown eyes gazed back at him from behind the glass.
A fat genie sat to the left of the eyes. Without the rest of
Lourdes's bronzed face to complement her eyes, it was apparent
to Maurice just how thick a coat of mascara covered Lourdes’s
lashes. He tilted his head and studied the centerline, letting his
eyes wander from left to right, from right to left, watching his
wife’s eyes blink open and closed in rapid succession. Finally,
Lourdes's eyes narrowed into murderous slits.
Maurice gave the wheel another spin and laughed out loud.
Poor Lourdes. Her eyes grew wide before whirling away. One
flew upward, the other plunged down. The wheel snapped to
a stop and just his luck, staring at Maurice from dead center was
Lourdes’s big mouth. One of her ears, a dangling feather earring
still attached, rested on the right of her big mouth. A lucky
number 7 was bold on the left.
The lips flapped up and down, opening and closing. The toowhite
teeth appeared and disappeared, as did Lourdes’s
quivering tonsils. Maurice was sure she was spewing on about
being inside the machine, but for once in his life he didn’t have
to hear a thing she said. Bringing his mouth close to the glass,
Maurice whispered,
“It's over between us, dear.”
Lourdes's lips continued to flap. Maurice grabbed the handle
but before pulling it, he leaned an ear against the glass.
Lourdes said, “Get me --”
Maurice spun the wheel again.
Foot, cherry, bell. Nose, knee, a lucky number 7. Two ears
and a fisted hand. It went that way a while, always the winning
combination of genies or bells or cherries were ruined by one of
Lourdes’s body parts.
The credits plummeted. It occurred to Maurice that this
machine would never pay off. He punched the cash-out button
and watched the ticket spit out the slot. He closed his eyes and
tried to remember what it was like to be happily married and
intimate. But the only image he got inside his head was one of
Lourdes screaming at him for one reason or another. He slid over
to the stool in front of the next machine and, after feeding the
ticket, he yanked the handle.
And there it was. His luck had changed. Three fat genies all
in a row. A hundred and thirty bucks. Maurice fanned his face
with his fingers. This has to be a sign, he thought. He printed his
winning ticket and got up from the stool. A muffled scream rose
from the slot machine that had swallowed his wife. Should he
call for help? The more he thought about it, the more he could
see it didn’t matter one way or the other. He didn’t feel that same
constraint he’d felt before tonight. He felt suddenly free. He felt
as though life was suddenly endless and limitless.
When he heard Lourdes scream again, Maurice smiled. He
pocketed his winning ticket, twisted the ring off his finger and
dropped it clinking into the ashtray next to the machine.
her bony behind perched on the edge of the stool. She cursed
loudly and pounded the glass face of the quarter slot machine.
The husband, Maurice, stood behind her kneading her
shoulders. He said, "Getting late, dear. Maybe we should think
about going back to the room." Maurice had experienced more
than his share of flashing lights and whirring noises. He'd had
enough of the stale smoke and complimentary coffees for one
night.
Lourdes smacked the machine again, this time with the flat
of her palm. She whipped her head around, glared at her husband
and said, "Go away, will you? You've been bringing me lousy
luck all night." She shrugged free of her husband's hands and
twisted back around to give the machine's handle another yank.
She was like this sometimes. Especially when things weren't
going her way. Oftentimes, her already uncaring demeanor
toward Maurice eroded into outright ugliness. Tonight, however,
she was as bad as Maurice could remember, obviously deciding
to settle in for the long haul to try to recover the money she'd
already lost.
"Come on, Lourdes," Maurice pleaded. "Let's go to the
room."
Without turning to face him, Lourdes said, "I'm not walking
away from a machine that's ready to pay." Behind the glass in
front of her the symbols skidded to a stop.
Lourdes gave a tiny, clenched-teeth squeal and slapped the
machine again. She frowned over her shoulder and said, "Why
are you still here?"
Why indeed, Maurice wondered. All these years and she'd
been the same uncaring, insensitive Loudes. A woman who
cared only about herself. He glanced down at his shoes and
sighed. Ten years of marriage to a woman like Lourdes hadn’t
been easy. Although he'd tried to overlook her selfishness, it was
getting to the point where he couldn't ignore the mounting
thoughts of leaving her. But again and again he asked himself,
just how does a man up and leave someone he once loved more
than anything? How do you give up all the invested years? He
may not have been the happiest man in the world, but he figured
he was content. He had a job, owned a home, ate three meals
a day. What more could a man want? Love? Perhaps. But was it
worth the trouble of chasing down such a desire?
Maurice heard an odd, choking noise and raised his head.
Lourdes? Where was she? Her seat in front of the slot machine
was empty. He broke out in a sweat. His hands began to tremble.
It was then he caught a coiling wisp of gray smoke in front of the
machine. Slowly, the smoke streamed through the machine's coin
catch. On the carpet at the foot of the empty stool rested
Lourdes's little red sandals.
He crept forward and placed a palm on the empty cushion.
The seat was warm, the vinyl impression of his wife's butt rose
beneath his hand. What should he do? He combed the crowded
casino for one of the red-blazered attendants. But of course, like
police officers at a crime scene, there were none to be found. He
stared at the line of blinking buttons on the slot machine Lourdes
had been abusing. There was a red button with the word 'HELP'
printed on it. Maurice went to press the button, thinking maybe
that would bring someone over.
With his finger hovering above the 'HELP' button, Maurice
noticed Loude's forty dollars worth of unused credits. Almost
instinctively, he drew his hand away from the button. He thought
a minute, then reached up and grabbed the handle with his
sweaty palm. He glanced around furtively to make sure no one
was paying attention, then he yanked the handle toward him and
watched the wheels spin.
When the wheels came to a halt, Maurice stared long and
hard. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
On the centerline behind the glass, one of Lourdes’s hands
rested between two red cherries. He knew the hand belonged to
Lourdes's, because the fingernails were painted that gaudy purple
she liked. He backed away from the slot machine and stared in
horror as the fingers on the hand began to wiggle, as if to say,
“Hey, look at me.” The purple fingernails tapped the inside of
the glass.
Lourdes?
Maurice took a step closer and rapped his knuckles against
the glass.
With his knees bouncing like crazy, he pulled the handle
again.
This time when the wheels quit spinning, one of Lourdes’s
feet was lined up to the right of a pair of golden bells. While
Maurice stared, a grin grew on his face. The bare foot reared
back and kicked the glass hard. Maurice quickly gave the handle
another tug, and when the wheels rolled to a stop, both of
Lourdes’s brown eyes gazed back at him from behind the glass.
A fat genie sat to the left of the eyes. Without the rest of
Lourdes's bronzed face to complement her eyes, it was apparent
to Maurice just how thick a coat of mascara covered Lourdes’s
lashes. He tilted his head and studied the centerline, letting his
eyes wander from left to right, from right to left, watching his
wife’s eyes blink open and closed in rapid succession. Finally,
Lourdes's eyes narrowed into murderous slits.
Maurice gave the wheel another spin and laughed out loud.
Poor Lourdes. Her eyes grew wide before whirling away. One
flew upward, the other plunged down. The wheel snapped to
a stop and just his luck, staring at Maurice from dead center was
Lourdes’s big mouth. One of her ears, a dangling feather earring
still attached, rested on the right of her big mouth. A lucky
number 7 was bold on the left.
The lips flapped up and down, opening and closing. The toowhite
teeth appeared and disappeared, as did Lourdes’s
quivering tonsils. Maurice was sure she was spewing on about
being inside the machine, but for once in his life he didn’t have
to hear a thing she said. Bringing his mouth close to the glass,
Maurice whispered,
“It's over between us, dear.”
Lourdes's lips continued to flap. Maurice grabbed the handle
but before pulling it, he leaned an ear against the glass.
Lourdes said, “Get me --”
Maurice spun the wheel again.
Foot, cherry, bell. Nose, knee, a lucky number 7. Two ears
and a fisted hand. It went that way a while, always the winning
combination of genies or bells or cherries were ruined by one of
Lourdes’s body parts.
The credits plummeted. It occurred to Maurice that this
machine would never pay off. He punched the cash-out button
and watched the ticket spit out the slot. He closed his eyes and
tried to remember what it was like to be happily married and
intimate. But the only image he got inside his head was one of
Lourdes screaming at him for one reason or another. He slid over
to the stool in front of the next machine and, after feeding the
ticket, he yanked the handle.
And there it was. His luck had changed. Three fat genies all
in a row. A hundred and thirty bucks. Maurice fanned his face
with his fingers. This has to be a sign, he thought. He printed his
winning ticket and got up from the stool. A muffled scream rose
from the slot machine that had swallowed his wife. Should he
call for help? The more he thought about it, the more he could
see it didn’t matter one way or the other. He didn’t feel that same
constraint he’d felt before tonight. He felt suddenly free. He felt
as though life was suddenly endless and limitless.
When he heard Lourdes scream again, Maurice smiled. He
pocketed his winning ticket, twisted the ring off his finger and
dropped it clinking into the ashtray next to the machine.
Under The Aztec Sun
Under the Aztec Sun
As he slowly regained consciousness, Martinez felt he was dreaming. Confined in a small dark space, he was being jostled up and down. It took several minutes for his head to clear, but once it did he was able to identify the steady humming noise as that of an automobile engine. In the dark he tried to stretch his legs, only to realize that someone had him hogtied.
Maria? He pictured his wife, Maria. God, why couldn’t he think straight? Straining to recall what had happened, Martinez drew a blank. He’d been angry with Maria. But angry about what? Each surfacing image was unclear. Like fragments of a faded photograph or puzzling scenes of a movie incorrectly stitched together.
Realizing he was in the trunk of a moving car was easy. Figuring out how he got there was not. He breathed in the hot musty air. Was he inside Maria’s Pinto. Wait. The Pinto was a hatchback. No trunk. By the roughness of the ride he easily determined the driver was speeding down some unpaved road. But headed where?
The bumping suddenly halted, the engine quieted. Martinez heard the driver’s side door being slammed shut. Footsteps crunched over gravel. Someone fumbled with a key. And then the trunk flew open and Martinez closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight. When he opened them again, he recognized the Indian blanket he sometimes spread out on park grass so Maria could sit without staining her clothes. He was in his own trunk. But who was outside? Martinez squinted, but only saw mottled colors floating against a dark silhouette. Maria? No. The silhouette belonged to a man. A large man.
Still unable to make out the shadowy figure, Martinez cleared his parched throat and said, “Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?”
A solemn, low-pitched voice answered, “I’m the man whose life you destroyed.”
The big man slowly eased into focus. Martinez watched him pull a white handkerchief from an inside pocket of his black coat and wipe his pockmarked face. His hair was tucked beneath a tilted fedora. Behind the man, Saguaro cactuses stood apart at irregular distances with their limbs held up like scarecrows guarding an endless stretch of baked red earth.
“I don’t know you,” Martinez said, feeling dampness under his arms. He tried, but was unable to squirm free of his restraints.
Maria. Something about Maria filled his mind. A Taco Bell on Sepulveda. It grew clear. He remembered now that he had caught her coming out of the restaurant with another man. But it wasn’t this man who stood outside the trunk, was it? No. The man with Maria was much younger, much thinner. But who was that man with Maria? More importantly, who was this man in front of him?
The big man turned his back to Martinez and raised an arm. He removed his fedora and swiped a forearm across his forehead. For a long time he stared into the thick emptiness of the desert. When he finally turned around to face Martinez again, the man said, “It was my daughter’s fifteenth birthday.”
Martinez closed his eyes and tried to draw out the memory of this man. Nothing. All he could recollect was Maria. She and her companion had sat down beside each other at a patio table. They laughed and touched fingertips under the shade of a large green-and-white umbrella.
Martinez remembered the hurt he felt when seeing his wife with another man. The physical pain in his chest. The turning in his stomach. The wobbling of his legs. All that rushed back. But the man outside. Martinez had no recollection of him.
“She was all I had,” the big man said. He turned back around to face Martinez and slowly leaned his head into the trunk, so close that Martinez could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath.
“Who are you?” Martinez said.
The man pulled away and said, “I am a man with nothing left to live for."
“Oh, God,” Martinez murmured.
The big man shook his head. “You remember now, don’t you?”
Martinez remembered.
While he’d sat watching from his car, Maria had leaned into her companion. They kissed. Martinez had gripped the steering wheel. His vision blurred. He recalled with clarity how he reached beneath the seat and felt the cold steel of the pistol. Then everything happened quickly. He pointed the weapon out the window and kept squeezing the trigger until the magazine was empty. Maria was on the ground. Her lover, too. But it was the table behind Maria and her lover. That was where he’d seen him. Martinez’s eyes widened. “God. I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.”
The big man closed his eyes and raised his head to face the blistering sun. He breathed in deeply as if he needed his lungs to hold every bit of the desert air. His eyes welled. Red flecks were visible on his pulsing neck and his twitching nose.
Closing his eyes again, Martinez replayed the final moment in the Taco Bell parking lot. The big man was weeping, holding his daughter in his arms. Then when the man spotted Martinez, he had carefully laid his child onto the ground. When the man got to his feet and started across the lot, Martinez squeezed the trigger. But the weapon had been empty. He could still hear the hollow clicks. He had tried to restart his car. Then the big man was upon him. Nothing after that.
“Don’t kill me,” Martinez said.
The big man shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Relieved, Martinez sighed.
Once again the big man raised his face to the sky. “The Aztec sun will take us both.” He then turned and started across the earth. Martinez screamed, but the man continued on until he reached the nearest Saguaro. There he sat and closed his eyes. While Martinez screamed, the big man removed his cap and set it in his lap.
As he slowly regained consciousness, Martinez felt he was dreaming. Confined in a small dark space, he was being jostled up and down. It took several minutes for his head to clear, but once it did he was able to identify the steady humming noise as that of an automobile engine. In the dark he tried to stretch his legs, only to realize that someone had him hogtied.
Maria? He pictured his wife, Maria. God, why couldn’t he think straight? Straining to recall what had happened, Martinez drew a blank. He’d been angry with Maria. But angry about what? Each surfacing image was unclear. Like fragments of a faded photograph or puzzling scenes of a movie incorrectly stitched together.
Realizing he was in the trunk of a moving car was easy. Figuring out how he got there was not. He breathed in the hot musty air. Was he inside Maria’s Pinto. Wait. The Pinto was a hatchback. No trunk. By the roughness of the ride he easily determined the driver was speeding down some unpaved road. But headed where?
The bumping suddenly halted, the engine quieted. Martinez heard the driver’s side door being slammed shut. Footsteps crunched over gravel. Someone fumbled with a key. And then the trunk flew open and Martinez closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight. When he opened them again, he recognized the Indian blanket he sometimes spread out on park grass so Maria could sit without staining her clothes. He was in his own trunk. But who was outside? Martinez squinted, but only saw mottled colors floating against a dark silhouette. Maria? No. The silhouette belonged to a man. A large man.
Still unable to make out the shadowy figure, Martinez cleared his parched throat and said, “Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?”
A solemn, low-pitched voice answered, “I’m the man whose life you destroyed.”
The big man slowly eased into focus. Martinez watched him pull a white handkerchief from an inside pocket of his black coat and wipe his pockmarked face. His hair was tucked beneath a tilted fedora. Behind the man, Saguaro cactuses stood apart at irregular distances with their limbs held up like scarecrows guarding an endless stretch of baked red earth.
“I don’t know you,” Martinez said, feeling dampness under his arms. He tried, but was unable to squirm free of his restraints.
Maria. Something about Maria filled his mind. A Taco Bell on Sepulveda. It grew clear. He remembered now that he had caught her coming out of the restaurant with another man. But it wasn’t this man who stood outside the trunk, was it? No. The man with Maria was much younger, much thinner. But who was that man with Maria? More importantly, who was this man in front of him?
The big man turned his back to Martinez and raised an arm. He removed his fedora and swiped a forearm across his forehead. For a long time he stared into the thick emptiness of the desert. When he finally turned around to face Martinez again, the man said, “It was my daughter’s fifteenth birthday.”
Martinez closed his eyes and tried to draw out the memory of this man. Nothing. All he could recollect was Maria. She and her companion had sat down beside each other at a patio table. They laughed and touched fingertips under the shade of a large green-and-white umbrella.
Martinez remembered the hurt he felt when seeing his wife with another man. The physical pain in his chest. The turning in his stomach. The wobbling of his legs. All that rushed back. But the man outside. Martinez had no recollection of him.
“She was all I had,” the big man said. He turned back around to face Martinez and slowly leaned his head into the trunk, so close that Martinez could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath.
“Who are you?” Martinez said.
The man pulled away and said, “I am a man with nothing left to live for."
“Oh, God,” Martinez murmured.
The big man shook his head. “You remember now, don’t you?”
Martinez remembered.
While he’d sat watching from his car, Maria had leaned into her companion. They kissed. Martinez had gripped the steering wheel. His vision blurred. He recalled with clarity how he reached beneath the seat and felt the cold steel of the pistol. Then everything happened quickly. He pointed the weapon out the window and kept squeezing the trigger until the magazine was empty. Maria was on the ground. Her lover, too. But it was the table behind Maria and her lover. That was where he’d seen him. Martinez’s eyes widened. “God. I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.”
The big man closed his eyes and raised his head to face the blistering sun. He breathed in deeply as if he needed his lungs to hold every bit of the desert air. His eyes welled. Red flecks were visible on his pulsing neck and his twitching nose.
Closing his eyes again, Martinez replayed the final moment in the Taco Bell parking lot. The big man was weeping, holding his daughter in his arms. Then when the man spotted Martinez, he had carefully laid his child onto the ground. When the man got to his feet and started across the lot, Martinez squeezed the trigger. But the weapon had been empty. He could still hear the hollow clicks. He had tried to restart his car. Then the big man was upon him. Nothing after that.
“Don’t kill me,” Martinez said.
The big man shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Relieved, Martinez sighed.
Once again the big man raised his face to the sky. “The Aztec sun will take us both.” He then turned and started across the earth. Martinez screamed, but the man continued on until he reached the nearest Saguaro. There he sat and closed his eyes. While Martinez screamed, the big man removed his cap and set it in his lap.
Personal Business
Personal Business
Gil. Talk about a pancake. Guy finds out his wife’s getting hammered by a coworker and what’s the first thing he does? He calls me up to ask if he should apologize for neglecting her.
“Sure,” I say. “Buy her some roses, too. Hell, why not go all out and bring home a stone.”
“I’m serious,” Gil says. “She went outside the marriage because I never made time for her.”
So naturally, I want to know -- since he’s got a handle on his wife’s affair -- why he’s wasting his dime on me.
“I want Trixie’s lover offed,” he says.
“I don’t do domestic disputes.” Sure, I’m in the business of leveling the playing field, but I don’t get involved with domestics. Too crazy. Too unpredictable. Too emotional.
“But we’re practically brothers,” Gil says.
“If I do it for you . . . word gets out and next thing you know every jellybean whose wife spins a fling starts wanting a personal favor. It’s not good business to get involved in personal shit.”
Gil, after pausing on the phone for a few moments, says, “I’d do it for you.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Would you?”
“You know I would.”
God damn pancake. Forced my fucking hand. “So you’re saying you’d off yourself for me.
“When Gil doesn’t answer right away, I can almost feel his fear bolting right through the phone line. What’d he think? That I didn’t know?
Charlotte, loafing on the living-room sofa, turns down the volume on the television. Good. She needs to hear this, too.
Gil finally breaks his silence, speaks: “I’m not sure I get what you’re saying.”
I try real hard to keep anger out of my tone. “So I’m what, Gil? A sap? You don‘t think I know you’ve been banging Charlotte?”
Charlotte glances up, wide-eyed. I narrow my eyes, can almost see beads of sweat bubbling up on her forehead.
“It’s not like that. I mean --” But Gil’s brain is spinning faster than he can slap the sentences together.
Charlotte’s still staring. She’s scratching an elbow and blinking a lot.
“I have to get going,” Gil says. In the earpiece, his voice is quavering.
“No.” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, Charlotte wants to say good-bye to you.”
On the sofa, Charlotte stiffens. Her eyes grow even rounder.
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says. “Let’s you and I talk about this.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing. Talking.” I raise my free hand, point to Charlotte, curl my finger to call her over. “Hold on. She’s coming.”
Charlotte shakes her head.“Oh. I guess she doesn’t want to talk right now. Too bad.” Then I tell Gil, whose breathing has grown quick, that Charlotte’s not going to say goodbye after all.”
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says again. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
I wait a minute before answering. Then I say, “You’re right Gil. Let me try your approach.”
Gil doesn’t say anything. Charlotte doesn’t move.
Still holding the phone, I address Charlotte, saying “Babe. Sorry I neglected to find time for you.” I reach inside my coat, withdraw my revolver, thumb the hammer back.
“Not like this,” Charlotte says, real soft. “Please, Ricky, not like this.”
“What’re you doing?” Gil says, his voice in a desperate panic. “What are you doing, Ricardo?”
I squeeze the trigger. Charlotte falls back into the coffee table. Shit crashes everywhere. I breathe in the sulfuric odor and place the revolver on the kitchen counter. Then I raise the receiver to my mouth, say to Gil, “No. Your way didn’t work so well. My way didn‘t either, but what the hell.”
The phone on the other end crashes down into its cradle. I go over to the sofa and sit down, grab the remote and start searching channels. Charlotte’s on top of the collapsed coffee table, a forearm over her face. The bullet entered her throat. Blood is still containing, arterial spray littering the whole damned place.
I check my watch. Gil. What a fucking pancake. He won’t be hard to find. Some pancakes -- they just don’t have the sense to listen. After all, I did try to convince him getting involved with domestic strife was too emotional.
***
BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, and forthcoming in Thug Lit.
Gil. Talk about a pancake. Guy finds out his wife’s getting hammered by a coworker and what’s the first thing he does? He calls me up to ask if he should apologize for neglecting her.
“Sure,” I say. “Buy her some roses, too. Hell, why not go all out and bring home a stone.”
“I’m serious,” Gil says. “She went outside the marriage because I never made time for her.”
So naturally, I want to know -- since he’s got a handle on his wife’s affair -- why he’s wasting his dime on me.
“I want Trixie’s lover offed,” he says.
“I don’t do domestic disputes.” Sure, I’m in the business of leveling the playing field, but I don’t get involved with domestics. Too crazy. Too unpredictable. Too emotional.
“But we’re practically brothers,” Gil says.
“If I do it for you . . . word gets out and next thing you know every jellybean whose wife spins a fling starts wanting a personal favor. It’s not good business to get involved in personal shit.”
Gil, after pausing on the phone for a few moments, says, “I’d do it for you.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Would you?”
“You know I would.”
God damn pancake. Forced my fucking hand. “So you’re saying you’d off yourself for me.
“When Gil doesn’t answer right away, I can almost feel his fear bolting right through the phone line. What’d he think? That I didn’t know?
Charlotte, loafing on the living-room sofa, turns down the volume on the television. Good. She needs to hear this, too.
Gil finally breaks his silence, speaks: “I’m not sure I get what you’re saying.”
I try real hard to keep anger out of my tone. “So I’m what, Gil? A sap? You don‘t think I know you’ve been banging Charlotte?”
Charlotte glances up, wide-eyed. I narrow my eyes, can almost see beads of sweat bubbling up on her forehead.
“It’s not like that. I mean --” But Gil’s brain is spinning faster than he can slap the sentences together.
Charlotte’s still staring. She’s scratching an elbow and blinking a lot.
“I have to get going,” Gil says. In the earpiece, his voice is quavering.
“No.” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, Charlotte wants to say good-bye to you.”
On the sofa, Charlotte stiffens. Her eyes grow even rounder.
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says. “Let’s you and I talk about this.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing. Talking.” I raise my free hand, point to Charlotte, curl my finger to call her over. “Hold on. She’s coming.”
Charlotte shakes her head.“Oh. I guess she doesn’t want to talk right now. Too bad.” Then I tell Gil, whose breathing has grown quick, that Charlotte’s not going to say goodbye after all.”
“Come on, Ricardo,” Gil says again. “Don’t do anything hasty.”
I wait a minute before answering. Then I say, “You’re right Gil. Let me try your approach.”
Gil doesn’t say anything. Charlotte doesn’t move.
Still holding the phone, I address Charlotte, saying “Babe. Sorry I neglected to find time for you.” I reach inside my coat, withdraw my revolver, thumb the hammer back.
“Not like this,” Charlotte says, real soft. “Please, Ricky, not like this.”
“What’re you doing?” Gil says, his voice in a desperate panic. “What are you doing, Ricardo?”
I squeeze the trigger. Charlotte falls back into the coffee table. Shit crashes everywhere. I breathe in the sulfuric odor and place the revolver on the kitchen counter. Then I raise the receiver to my mouth, say to Gil, “No. Your way didn’t work so well. My way didn‘t either, but what the hell.”
The phone on the other end crashes down into its cradle. I go over to the sofa and sit down, grab the remote and start searching channels. Charlotte’s on top of the collapsed coffee table, a forearm over her face. The bullet entered her throat. Blood is still containing, arterial spray littering the whole damned place.
I check my watch. Gil. What a fucking pancake. He won’t be hard to find. Some pancakes -- they just don’t have the sense to listen. After all, I did try to convince him getting involved with domestic strife was too emotional.
***
BIO: Robert Aquino Dollesin was still a kid when he left the Philippines. He now resides in Sacramento, where he writes now and again. Among numerous other venues, some of his work can be found on Storyglossia, Nossa Morte, Big Stupid Review, and forthcoming in Thug Lit.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Height Lines
Sandoval drank alone with the television on. His ex-wife had called earlier to scold him, demanding to know if he was proud of himself for raising their daughter to make a fool of herself on television. He taped the ESPN segment his wife had complained about and watched it over and over.
In the clip, Sherri wore nothing but a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a skimpy green bikini. She moved over the sand with other girls to smack a volleyball back and forth over a net.
Sandoval felt heat on his face watching Sherri leap into the air, her breasts nearly flopping free of the sparse fabric that contained them. He winced each time the camera zoomed in on his daughter’s backside while she unknowingly tugged at the lower lines of her tiny bikini bottom.
After pouring himself another drink, Sandoval rewound the tape and watched it again. When the camera panned a crowd of ogling college boys, he felt his stomach clench and shut the television off.
All around the house were little signs of Sherri’s personality. The crayon sketches held to the refrigerator by Disney character magnets. Her weathered baseball glove tucked on the bottom shelf of the pine bookcase next to the Silverstein book with the worn cover. How many times had Sherri begged him to read those humorous poems out loud? On the laundry room door there were seventeen faded height lines. Sandoval tried remembering each time he stood in front of her and ran the marker over her head. So many changes. And not all good, either. It had not been easy raising his daughter mostly on his own.
Still staring at the height lines on the laundry room door, he realized those seventeen slash marks represented achievements and failures. Both his and his daughter’s. Measurements he’d had to make alone. No, he had no reason to be ashamed. Proud of their accomplishments, he suddenly wondered who Sherri’s mother – absent throughout most of her daughter’s childhood – thought she was attempting to measure Sherri now? Moreover, Sandoval thought, what gave her the right to measure him?
Dakota Street
She solicited him from an upstairs window. He climbed the weathered steps, left his boots baking outside her door. When he tried to describe his loneliness, she shook her head and raised a finger to his lips. His visits grew frequent. Her modest desires and simple dreams enlightened him. Family and friends noted his happiness. “Dakota Street,” he revealed, when pressed for details. But their collective scorn shamed him into abandoning her. With rain came nights of sleepless lamentation. Come spring he returned clutching an armful of roses, only to discover shoes – not his – resting outside her door.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Balloon Swords
They met in a park as children. It was late afternoon. His balloon sword was green, hers red. They stood opposing each other in the center of the grassy park. He charged, thrusting at her heart. She held her red balloon sword by its handle and waved it back and forth in front of her face, trying to defend herself. But using the sun behind him to his advantage, he ducked, blinding her momentarily, and his green sword struck home. Still holding her sword in one hand, she fell backward onto the grass and closed her eyes, resting her free palm on her chest and playing dead.
Years later, each time the battle was replayed without balloons, he would recall the dry heat of that summer afternoon in the park when they were still children. He recollected the chiming of a passing ice cream truck. He remembered the flitting shadow of a bird shading her pale face. And he would wonder, again and again -- how different things might have been if he hadn’t discarded his green balloon sword to drop onto his knees and see if her heart had really been pierced.
Jackpot
Doreen fed the slot machine another nickel, and then she pulled the handle and watched the wheels spin. She clapped as one, two, three genies lined up, all in a row. While the coins cascaded into the tray, Doreen's husband returned. He leaned forward with his mouth against her ear, revealing how much he'd lost at the poker tables. For a moment Doreen sat open-mouthed, unbelieving, and then she scrambled off her stool, fanned her flush face with her fingers and screamed. The woman sitting beside Doreen elbowed her companion, whispering, Seven lousy bucks and that woman's peeing her pants?
Bagged
After I nearly strangled my twin brother Michael for lying to my girlfriend (for telling her he was me), our parents restricted me to the house for a month. Two days before my sentence ended Michael came in from the meadow, his fingers wrapped around the knot of a plastic bag with something snapping inside of it. He crossed the room, sat on the sofa beside me and held his catch in front of his face. I saw clearly the square mouth and hair-thin legs of the green grasshopper as it pounced against the bag’s clear surface again and again in an effort to escape. Michael flicked the bag with a finger, further exciting his victim, and then looked over at me and said, "That girlfriend of yours, Margaret Connelly, sure has a soft handful underneath her blouse." I clenched my fists and drew it back to clobber my brother, but Michael shot the plastic bag up between us, and said, "Careful... a lot can happen with Margaret during the next month."
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