Thursday, October 8, 2009
Infinite
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.
Lifting Twenty from my Sister
Casino Heist
When I jumped out in front of the woman, her face got all screwed up. The bag of Chinese hit the asphalt. I hadn't meant to frighten her, and it made me feel kind of bad. I just needed to replace the money I'd snatched from my sister's purse while she was asleep.
Stepping back, the woman raised her arm and wagged a curled finger in front of my masked face. "You should be ashamed of yourself," she said. "You almost stopped my heart."
"Sorry," I said. I hoped she caught the sincerity in my tone. I crouched to pick her bag up. A handful of greasy noodles and a couple soy sauce packets had spilled out. I shoved everything back into the bag, got up and handed it back to the woman. "I just need thirty bucks."
She looked inside the bag, frowned and said, "My dinner's ruined."
After apologizing again, I said, "I'm in a fix. I took some money from my sister and she doesn't know about it yet."
She glared at me for a moment. Then her face softened. "How much do you need?"
The eyeholes on my ski mask had slipped a little. I adjusted the mask and said, "Thirty bucks. I need thirty bucks"
The woman seemed to ponder it a moment before shaking her head and saying, "I don't have that much." She raised her left arm. "I have this watch, though," she said, turning her wrist so I could see the tiny face with Roman numerals. "I'll give you this watch." She brought her wrist to her mouth and started to undo the red leather band with her teeth.
"I don't want the watch," I said. She shrugged and quit unlatching the leather band.
Just then a car turned into the lane. It's headlights fell over us.
The car stopped. The driver cranked his window down. "Everything okay?"
"We're fine," the woman said. "Good luck in there."
Before he drove off, the driver smiled and said thanks. One of his taillights was out and I hoped he didn't get a ticket. He seemed like a nice guy.
"You should take your mask off," the woman said. "People might get suspicious."
"I don't want anyone to be able to identify me," I said.
"I've already seen the two tattoos on your neck," the woman said. "It wouldn't be hard to describe you, anyway." I hadn't thought about the tattoos. The squatting frog I got done in San Diego, the Aztec sun came from a small parlor in Tijuana.
The woman stuck her hand inside her bag and it came out holding a stringy noodle. "What did you use the money for?" she asked. She slurped the noodle and offered me the bag. "Want some? It's pork chow mein. I usually order orange chicken, but tonight the orange chicken looked old." When I didn't answer, she peered past my shoulder and said, "Is that your pickup?"
"Yeah," I said.
A Final Evening Out
A Final Evening Out
by Robert Aquino Dollesin
Melody Campbell came home clutching a pink slip.
Her husband, Artie, looked up from his bowl of soup and said, "We'll get by."
Two months passed. The phone didn't stop ringing. The mailbox filled with bills. Artie and Melody Campbell felt like two cats trapped in a cardboard box. A small and dark and cold box. A box without breathing holes punched in the top.
Finally, one evening the Campbells sat down and examined their finances. After jotting numbers down on paper they stared across the table at each other. Big eyed and wide-mouthed. Neither spoke. In the backyard, their two pugs, Bonny and Clyde, began to howl.
Trying to keep anxiety out of his voice, Artie said, "We gotta tighten our belts." He put his elbows onto the table and rubbed his face with the balls of his palms.
"We'll work through this," Melody said. She fanned the bills out on the table and jabbed at a few of them. She suggested to Artie they could live without the country club and gym. Even the cable television and internet services could be temporarily nixed.
But as the weeks went by, the Campbells realize they hadn't sliced aggressively enough.
Artie told Melody they needed to get rid of Bonny and Clyde. The two pugs were a drain on what little money Artie's security guard job brought in. Melody shook her head. She'd had them since they were puppies. Even longer than she and Artie had been married. Artie threw his hands into the air and said, "Guess even though you're the one who lost your job, I'll get rid of the Mustang my father gave me."
Melody began to cry. Artie asked her where the pink slip for the Mustang was.
"Okay," she said. "We'll let Bonny and Clyde go."
Artie got on the phone and called Animal Control. He made arrangements for Bonny and Clyde to be picked up.
Outside, Artie held the clipboard against the side of the big truck and signed the necessary forms. Melody stood off to one side of him, chewing a fingernail. While he waited, the uniformed Animal Control agent played with his keys. He glanced at Melody and said, "Times are tough. Everyone seems to be giving their pets up these days."
Melody said, "What if no one adopts them?"
The agent shrugged. Then he grinned, and slowly dragged a finger across his throat.
Melody burst into tears. She crouched down and hugged her babies, buried her face in their fur. "Can we not do this, Artie?" she begged.
Artie didn't answer. He finished up the forms and handed the clipboard back to the agent. One after another he helped the agent hoist the pugs onto the caged truck. When the dogs were safely behind the bars of the cage, the agent slammed the door shut. Both of the dogs started to whimper and Melody started to cry some more.
Artie stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Honey," he said, trying to comfort her. "We gotta do this."
They stood together on the sidewalk and watched the truck drive off.
During the following weeks Artie began noticing more and more foreclosed signs popping up on the front lawns of homes in the neighborhood. One evening at the dinner table he told Melody, "Sure are a lot of folks losing their homes."
They exchanged worried glances and sat quietly sipping their coffee.
On Friday of that same week, while Artie stood in front of the time clock at the security outfit he worked at, his boss came up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Artie," his boss said. He reached past Artie and snatched his time card off the rack. Then he asked for Artie's badge. "Losing lots of clients right now. Times are tough."
Instead of going straight home, Artie drove his father's Mustang around the neighborhood. He took note of all the boarded up windows, empty homes with lock boxes dangling from doorknobs. He drove through the center of town. Panhandlers hustled at every stop light. Entire families tucked back in the coved entryways of closed shops. Passing the tent city that had popped up at the edge of town, Artie grew frightened. So many people, he thought. He felt sick to his stomach.
Finally, Artie pulled into a lot full of shiny new cars. Four men in ties raced out to greet him.
"I wanna sell the Mustang," he said. All the salesmen rolled their eyes. One of them laughed and said, "Nobody's buying cars, my friend. How about trading it in?"
Artie said, "I don't need a car right now." The man shrugged, made Artie a ridiculous offer. "Take it or leave it," he said.
The offer might get him and Melody through a month, but then what? No. He passed on the offer and the men in ties all shrugged without smiling.
At dinner that night Artie couldn't eat. He pushed his food around his plate. He had to tell Melody about being laid off, but couldn't find the right words.
Melody was saying something. Artie looked up. "What?"
"Aren't you listening, honey? Is something the matter?"
"Yeah," Artie said. Then he raised his voice, "Chicken. Why do we always eat chicken? I'm sick of chicken."
Melody stared at him a moment, then got up from the table and ran into the bedroom. He didn't mean to make her cry.
Without finishing his dinner, Artie went outside and sat on the porch. The neighbors across the street were loading a U-Haul. When he went back inside, Artie found Melody lying face down in the bed. "I didn't mean to jump at you," he said. He ran his fingertips down her arm. He leaned forward and kissed her neck. "I love you," he said.
Melody rolled over and swiped her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong, Artie. What is it?"
He told her.
She closed her eyes and Artie said, "Melody. Let's go out tonight."
"Where?"
Artie answered, "Anywhere. Let's just go out."
***
Artie pulled into the gas station, got out of the Mustang and stared up at the station logo, a fat green hippo. The Hipster Fuel Mart. He shook his head. What a stupid name.
When the numbers on the gas pump window quit spinning, Artie didn't take the nozzle out right away. He kept the trigger depressed, kept jiggling it until he was sure he'd drained every drop from the hose. He tried to remember when he'd first stooped to doing that. It was just after Melody got let go from the factory.
Melody stuck her head out the window. She said, "Something wrong, Artie?"
He shook his head and smiled. How long since they'd got rid of the two pugs? he wondered. It hadn't been that long ago, had it? Maybe he'd try and get them back for Melody. If they hadn't already been put down. Artie removed the nozzle from his car and slammed it in the cradle. He put his fingertips against the cold steel of his father's Mustang.
Everything would soon be gone, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
Melody said again, "What's wrong, Artie?"
This time Artie didn't reply.
Melody stuck her head back inside the window. She crossed her arms and planted her feet on the dash. Artie stood next to the Mustang with his hands fisted on his hips. He scouted the station islands. Near the garbage he spotted a bucket of water, a red handle poking out of it. He went over to the bucket and grabbed the squeegee. He came back to the Mustang and began to scrubbing the windows. After he'd scoured the front and back windshields, Artie opened the trunk and tossed the squeegee inside. He yanked some paper towels off the dispenser and dried the windows off. Then he opened the driver's side door and slipped behind the wheel.
"What's got into you, Artie?"
Artie turned and glared at Melody without saying anything.
Melody said, "You're scaring me." Artie turned the key in the ignition and gunned the gas pedal, listening to the Mustang roar.
Melody sighed and closed her eyes. She leaned her head back against the headrest and said, "I'm scared, Artie. Really scared."
A big SUV pulled up behind the Mustang. Artie squinted into the side-view mirror. The driver behind the SUVs wheel leaned on the horn and flashed his brights.
"God Dammit!" Artie said. He opened the door and got out of the car. He walked slowly around it, pretending to examine the tires. The driver of the SUV tapped his horn again, stuck his head out the window and shouted, "Come on, buddy. Move up a little so I can get some gas."
With his fists clenched, Artie started toward the SUV.
The driver backed up in a hurry, shifted gears and shot past Artie so fast and close Artie could feel the heat of the big vehicle's engine. It screeched out of the lot and fled up the street.
Melody got out of the Mustang. She shook her head. "Let's go home, Artie."
Artie's body tingled all over. He moved within a couple inches of Melody's face. "Don't you get it?" he said. "In a few days there won't be any home for us to go to."
"You're scaring me," Melody said, wrinkling up her face.
He didn't answer. He whirled around and strode across the parking lot toward the mini-market.
"Artie, where you going?"
When he didn't answer, Melody hopped back into the car, rolled the windows up and locked the doors.
Inside the mini mart, a grinning kid stood behind the counter. Artie pressed his damp palms against his thighs. "I need to use the bathroom."
The kid smacked his gum without replying. He reached under the counter and came up holding a Pennzoil jug with a key attached. He laid the jug down next to some lighters and said, "Round back, man."
Behind the kid were some Marlboros. On sale. Buy one, get one free. Artie used to smoke Marlboros when he was a kid. "Give me one of those Marlboro specials," Artie said.
The kid snatched up two packs of the cigarettes. He slid them across the counter and punched some keys on the register. "Six bucks."
Artie's face twitched. He shook his head. "Sign says four bucks a pack."
"You're getting a deal, man," the kid said.
"But one's supposed to be free. The sign doesn't say, 'buy one, get one at half price.' It says buy one, get one free."
"Six bucks," the kid said again.
Artie took a deep breath. He tried to calm himself. He took his wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open and peeled six one-dollar bills out. He slapped the money onto the counter, smiled, and said, "Go fuck yourself, punk."
The kid shrugged, crossed his arms. He gestured with his chin to the big cardboard hippo next to the entrance. "Complain to the boss, man. I just work here."
Artie stuffed the smokes into his coat pocket. He grabbed the Pennzoil bottle off the counter. On his way out the door, he raised a fist and smashed it into the cardboard hippo's smiling face. The display toppled onto the floor and Artie stomped and stomped and stomped the stupid, finger-snapping animal's smiling face was separated from its fat green body.
The kid behind the counter picked up a telephone and said, "Oh, man. Oh, man. Now you've done it."
Artie reached into the inside of his coat, pretended to be holding a gun. The kid put the phone down and raised his arms in the air. "I didn't see shit," the kid said. "Not a fucking thing."
Shoulder against the glass, Artie pushed out the front door. He glanced back and pointed his finger at the kid. He then went around the corner of the building and unlocked the bathroom door.
Inside the bathroom he leaned against the wall a moment to try and slow his racing heart. When he'd calmed, he stood at the sink and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. Who was this distorted person staring back at him? He brought a glob of phlegm up from his throat and hawked the chunk at his reflection.
Then he saw the two rolls of toilet paper – still wrapped – on the floor next to the toilet. He smiled, picked them up and stuffed them inside his coat.
As he headed back to the Mustang, Artie tossed the Pennzoil bottle into one of the steel garbage cans next to the pumps. Hearing it thud against the bottom made him smile. When he got to the Mustang and found the driver's side door locked, he tapped the window. Melody studied his face through the glass. She shook her head. Artie slowly turned his back to her. He raised his right arm and in one quick motion, smashed the glass with his elbow. He reached in and raised the knob.
Melody screamed.
"Get out," Artie said.
She backed herself up against the passenger's side door.
In a softer tone, Artie said, "Please, Melody. Get out of the car."
For a long time Melody stared at Artie, her lower lip quivering. Finally, with tears in her eyes, Melody said, "I'm going with you. Wherever you go. Whatever it is you're going to do, I'm going with you."
Artie's eyes were wet. He reached into his coat pocket, took one of the Marlboro packs out and tossed them over the console to Melody.
Melody nodded. Still sniffling, she tore the cellophane off the pack and opened the flip-top box. She opened the glove compartment and dug some out some matches.
Artie noticed Melody's shoe prints on the dashboard. He took a roll of the toilet paper he'd stolen out of his coat and handed it to her. "Free," he said. "Didn't cost nothing."
Melody's voice broke. "What happened to us, Artie?"
"Use that toilet paper to wipe your face," Artie said. He started the Mustang and drove the vehicle out of the lot.
They got onto the highway. Artie rolled his window down, broken glass fell away from the frame. The wind felt good on his face. Without taking his gaze off the road, he said to Melody, "Fire up one of those smokes."
Melody took a Marlboro out of the pack. She bent low to screen the wind that was blowing through the Mustang. When she came back up, a puff of smoke streamed from her lips. She handed the cigarette to Artie.
He took a long drag and stared out the windshield. Then Artie laughed and some tears came to his eyes.
"Oh, Artie," Melody said. She reached over and cupped his trembling knee with her hand.
Artie jammed the gas pedal and watched the needle on the speedometer swing: Fifty - sixty -seventy -eighty. The Mustang shook. Everything under the hood rattled. Beneath the pedal, Artie could feel the hard floor.
They heard in the distance the wail of sirens.
Melody squeezed Artie's knee. She brought her hand up and plucked the cigarette from his lips. She sucked in deeply and blew the smoke out. She straightened in her seat and said,
"We ain't gonna let 'em get us, are we Artie?"
Artie leaned back and shook his head.
The Mustang was moving at just under a hundred. The crosswinds whipping in through the open windows thrashed both Artie's and Melody's hair. Paper snapped and whisked inside the Mustang.
Artie looked over at his wife. Melody was smiling, staring straight ahead out the windshield, the cigarette burning red between her tightly pressed lips.
A pebble shot up off the road, pinged against the windshield and webbed the glass.
Melody glanced over her shoulder and saw the two sedans, their lights flashing, their sirens shrieking. The police vehicles came up behind the Mustang. Melody reached across the console and dug her fingernails into Artie's arm, just above the wrist.
He grinned broadly, twisted the radio to full volume, then stomped the accelerator as far as it would go.
Home Movies
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 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.
