Working 1

As a young boy I dreamed of marrying Pretchy Anne,

Buttonquail 
One evening while alone in the backyard of the Grandfather’s house, Carlo caught sight of Pretchy-Anne through the kitchen window. From where he sat with his back against the trunk of one of the many mango trees scattered throughout the property, he could see she was crying.



remain unseen and observe one of the Grandfather’s maids, Pretchy-Anne, through the kitchen window.

His visits to the Grandfather’s house were made less torturous by spying on Pretchy-Anne. It was, he told himself, because he loved her. Besides, he did not care so much for his judgmental cousins who lived in the huge house. Many nights while he lay alone in the dark on his bed, Carlo imagined himself all grown up and married to Pretchy-Anne.


When they were both grown up, of course.


One evening when he was a boy of eleven or twelve, Carlo caught sight of Pretchy-Anne through the kitchen window. Even though she was a year his senior, CarloFrom where he sat on the earth with his back against the trunk of one of the many mango trees scattered throughout his grandfather’s backyard he watched the light from the setting sun play over her face.

saw she was crying.

The light from the setting sun played over her face. Even from across the yard, Carlo could see she was crying.

Pretchy-Anne stood at the kitchen sink, tears streamed down her face as she stood removing buttonquail from a burlap sack brought into the house by her father.

The sultry breeze blew his long bangs

With his back against the trunk of one of the many mango trees in his grandfather’s backyard, he sighed and tried to imagine life as a gro.

and watched Pretchy-Anne from the shade of one of the many leafy mango trees that grew in his grandfather’s back yard and watched Pretchy-Anne imagined he’d grow up and marry Pretchy-Anne. I like to believe the reason the fantasy never amounted to more than a pleasant and wishful dream was because we were cousins.

Of sorts.

My parents and Pretchy-Anne’s parents were very close, and in the Philippines children of such close relations consider one another cousins.



that it was.


never be allowed to reach fruition.



The table in the yard was set with
a thick rattan stick
discrete
squeamish
The slow sweeping cone of his light

***

Buttonquail

On a sultry May afternoon my cousin, Elineta, wed her American lover. That same evening, I stood beneath a leafy mango tree in one corner of the grounds watching in silence as the guests, American and Filipino, filled the Grandfather’s immense yard for the reception.

Although Elineta’s new husband was white like me, I knew we shared nothing in common. Not only did I not grow up in America, but I struggled with the English language. So much so I often kept my mouth shut when rather than risk embarrassment.

I stood watching them
Although my cousin Elineta’s new husband was white, like me, we had nothing in common.

They held my cousin Elineta's wedding reception at the Grandfather's house.

The moment we arrived, I parted from my parents and siblings and sought out Uncle Roland's sister-in-law, Pretchy-Anne. Whenever visiting the Grandfather's house, I would spend most of my day with her. She was my age, twelve, and before tonight she had never judged me, or made me feel different. But that evening I couldn't find her.

Guests, many of whom I didn't know, crowded the large yard. Although there were lots of Filipinos -- friends of the family -- there were also a few Americans, friends of the groom, standing around the long wooden table in the center of the yard, neatly dressed in barong tagalog's.

The table was full. Laid out on banana leaves were two slaughtered hogs, countless chickens, and dishes overflowing with local foods. There was a three-tiered caked surrounded by glass bowls filled with sliced, chilled fruit.

Sampaguita flowers hung in garlands throughout the yard. I breathed in their warm, jasmine-like scent and watched a man on a wooden platform sing a romantic mariachi ballad. Behind him, three men with broad straw hats covering their heads strummed along on guitars.

Everyone seemed to be laughing. Having fun. Dancing.

Maybe if Pretchy-Anne was here, instead of watching the moon skip over the polished flagstones, I'd be dancing alongside it.

Each time I wondered where Pretchy-Anne was, I worried. Everyone I asked replied by shrugging and saying she should be here.

Once again I scanned the crowd. This time I met the gaze of the American serviceman who Elineta had married. We exchanged a long stare, after which the American smiled, brightly, then winked. Like he and I had something in common. Like we shared some fantastic secret. I flashed my most hateful scowl and whirled away.

When I ran across Eric, Pretchy-Anne's older brother, a flood of relief came over me. I asked him, "Where's your sister?"

"She'll be here later," Eric said. He blew out a mouthful of smoke and stomped his cigarette out on the ground. Although Eric was only thirteen, nobody seemed to mind that he smoked.

"But why hasn't she already come?" I asked.

"She got woke up late last night. To prepare quail."

"Quail?" I had never heard of quail. "What's that?"

Eric laughed. "Birds, of course. We hunted last night."

"Who?"

"Me and Roland."

Eric and I drifted away from the crowd. He lit another cigarette. We sat at a wooden bench along the fence, under an awning of mango laden branches.

It was dark enough now that the lights in the yard cast trembling glows. The star-shaped lanterns made of colored cellophane flashed brightly over the faces of the guests.

Still curious about quail, I asked Eric, "I don't understand. What do you do? Do you flush the birds from bushes?"

Eric shook his head and laughed again. Then he explained how he and Uncle Roland sometimes hunted quail in the surrounding countryside late at night.

While Eric swept the ground with a flashlight, Uncle Roland, armed with a narrow bamboo switch, lurked near the cone of moving light. The instant the light found a startled quail, Uncle Roland brought his weapon whooshing down on top of the bird's head. Then he quickly stooped, wrapped his fingers around the stunned bird and stuffed it into a drawstring pouch that hung from the waist of his pants.

Eric tossed his glowing cigarette butt onto the grass and then wiggled his fingers to describe the way the live quail fluttered while trapped inside the bag against Uncle Roland's thigh.

Last night they caught seven quail. It was very late when they finally got home. Roland had mounted the wooden stairs and woke Pretchy-Anne. He told her to come down to the kitchen to kill, pluck, and clean the birds, so they could freeze the birds for later eating.

"She cried the whole time she stood at the sink," Eric said, contorting his face to mock her expression. "She hates cleaning quail. She complains about being forced to do things she doesn't want to do, just because it's what the family, or anyone else, expects."

Eric stood. He patted his shirt pocket for another cigarette. "I gotta go," he said, lighting the cigarette. I watched him cross the yard, the red glow from the tip of his cigarette moving from hand to mouth in the faint light.

Sitting alone, hearing the music, smelling the food, I thought of Pretchy-Anne. Not long ago she'd told me that when she grew up she wanted, like Elineta, to marry an American. She wanted so badly to leave this dreadful country. I sometimes made-believe that I was that American whom Pretchy would marry. But was I even an American? I was white, true. Anyone could see that. But both my parents were Filipino. What did that make me? I had no idea if I could honestly claim as my country this place or that. Or, for that matter, anyplace at all.

The thought of Pretchy cleaning the birds came back to me. As I concentrated on the image of the frightened quail, I heard someone behind me say, "Oh, there you are."

It was Pretchy-Anne.

I got up off the bench, smiling, and led her across the yard to the table where the food still steamed and threw off odors that made your stomach growl in delight. As I loaded food onto a paper plate for Pretchy-Anne, I couldn't help but notice how gorgeous a girl she was. Her long creame-colored gown covered her feet. Her hair, for once, was not tied back with a rubber band, or scrunchie, or claw clip. In the warm and fragrant evening breeze the ends of her hair rose and dropped, rose and dropped.

With our plates held in front of us, we crossed the courtyard and sat back down on the same wooden bench beneath the same slightly trembling mango leaves where she'd found me. It was dark now, completely, and under the stars the music still played and couples still danced.

For a while Pretchy-Anne and I sat without speaking. Picking at our food with our fingers. Finally, to have something to talk about, I brought up the quail she'd been forced to clean.

Raising her face to grimace, Pretchy-Anne said killing things -- anything -- disgusted her. She went on to say that she probably wouldn't have minded cleaning the birds if they had already been dead. Like fish from the market, or frogs gigged in the muddy paddies and immediately gutted. But with the quail she actually had to use her bare hands to grab the birds around the neck and twist until the quail dangled limp and dead. Along with their frightened squawks and their pleading eyes the killing of the quail, Pretchy-Anne said, broke her heart.

As light from the flashing cellophane lanterns struck her face, I couldn't help but notice Pretchy-Anne looked strangely different tonight. Makeup. She wore makeup. I'd never seen her in makeup before. The red lipstick and the stuff she thickened her lashes with made her look older than twelve, made her look like a woman, which in a way, I guess, she was.

I couldn't help but wonder if the little girl with the coltish legs and scabbed knees was still inside this woman? Did the little girl disappear somewhere? Where was the child who screamed with delight each time the pink bubble blooming from between her lips exploded.

When the musicians in straw hats started another ballad, I set my plate down on the bench beside me and asked Pretchy-Anne if she wanted to dance. Without answering, she looked away to the lanterns dangling from tree branches not far from us. She rotated her paper plate in her hands. Then she turned to face me, smiled falsely, and said, "Maybe later, okay?"

Not five minutes had passed when another boy, a Filipino boy who might have been a couple years older than us, strolled up to where we were seated. He came down on his haunches and placed a hand over Pretchy-Anne's. She blushed, bit her lower lip and shook her head. But he persisted. Finally, she handed me her paper plate to hold. Before getting up she clapped her hands together, rubbing them free of crumbs. Then she let the boy lead her onto the grass, where they danced close against one another.

I sat watching Pretchy-Anne dancing on the flagstones. Her eyes were closed, the right side of her face was buried in the boy's chest. I glanced away, skyward to the stars, and couldn't help but wonder if maybe Pretchy-Anne rejected my request to dance because I was different.

Had she just been being kind to me all this time?

Then I closed my eyes and tried again to picture the quail. Tiny, barely alive. Feather-wrapped creatures that laid scattered on the kitchen counter, near the sink. The birds I imagined stared up pleading to Pretchy-Anne with their glassy eyes.

In my mind, tears swelled in Pretchy-Anne's s eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the quails necks and, one by one, put the birds out of their misery.

When I looked back to where she was dancing, I caught Pretchy-Anne staring at me. Her eyes in the moonlight appeared misted. Quickly, she turned her head.

Suddenly, I was clear about what she meant when she told me she wished the quail were dead before having to clean them.

The table in the yard was set with
a thick rattan stick
discrete
squeamish
The slow sweeping cone of his light

***

Buttonquail

They held my cousin Elineta's wedding reception at the Grandfather's house.

The moment we arrived, I parted from my parents and siblings and sought out Uncle Roland's sister-in-law, Pretchy-Anne. Whenever visiting the Grandfather's house, I would spend most of my day with her. She was my age, twelve, and before tonight she had never judged me, or made me feel different. But that evening I couldn't find her.

Guests, many of whom I didn't know, crowded the large yard. Although there were lots of Filipinos -- friends of the family -- there were also a few Americans, friends of the groom, standing around the long wooden table in the center of the yard, neatly dressed in barong tagalog's.

The table was full. Laid out on banana leaves were two slaughtered hogs, countless chickens, and dishes overflowing with local foods. There was a three-tiered caked surrounded by glass bowls filled with sliced, chilled fruit.

Sampaguita flowers hung in garlands throughout the yard. I breathed in their warm, jasmine-like scent and watched a man on a wooden platform sing a romantic mariachi ballad. Behind him, three men with broad straw hats covering their heads strummed along on guitars.

Everyone seemed to be laughing. Having fun. Dancing.

Maybe if Pretchy-Anne was here, instead of watching the moon skip over the polished flagstones, I'd be dancing alongside it.

Each time I wondered where Pretchy-Anne was, I worried. Everyone I asked replied by shrugging and saying she should be here.

Once again I scanned the crowd. This time I met the gaze of the American serviceman who Elineta had married. We exchanged a long stare, after which the American smiled, brightly, then winked. Like he and I had something in common. Like we shared some fantastic secret. I flashed my most hateful scowl and whirled away.

When I ran across Eric, Pretchy-Anne's older brother, a flood of relief came over me. I asked him, "Where's your sister?"

"She'll be here later," Eric said. He blew out a mouthful of smoke and stomped his cigarette out on the ground. Although Eric was only thirteen, nobody seemed to mind that he smoked.

"But why hasn't she already come?" I asked.

"She got woke up late last night. To prepare quail."

"Quail?" I had never heard of quail. "What's that?"

Eric laughed. "Birds, of course. We hunted last night."

"Who?"

"Me and Roland."

Eric and I drifted away from the crowd. He lit another cigarette. We sat at a wooden bench along the fence, under an awning of mango laden branches.

It was dark enough now that the lights in the yard cast trembling glows. The star-shaped lanterns made of colored cellophane flashed brightly over the faces of the guests.

Still curious about quail, I asked Eric, "I don't understand. What do you do? Do you flush the birds from bushes?"

Eric shook his head and laughed again. Then he explained how he and Uncle Roland sometimes hunted quail in the surrounding countryside late at night.

While Eric swept the ground with a flashlight, Uncle Roland, armed with a narrow bamboo switch, lurked near the cone of moving light. The instant the light found a startled quail, Uncle Roland brought his weapon whooshing down on top of the bird's head. Then he quickly stooped, wrapped his fingers around the stunned bird and stuffed it into a drawstring pouch that hung from the waist of his pants.

Eric tossed his glowing cigarette butt onto the grass and then wiggled his fingers to describe the way the live quail fluttered while trapped inside the bag against Uncle Roland's thigh.

Last night they caught seven quail. It was very late when they finally got home. Roland had mounted the wooden stairs and woke Pretchy-Anne. He told her to come down to the kitchen to kill, pluck, and clean the birds, so they could freeze the birds for later eating.

"She cried the whole time she stood at the sink," Eric said, contorting his face to mock her expression. "She hates cleaning quail. She complains about being forced to do things she doesn't want to do, just because it's what the family, or anyone else, expects."

Eric stood. He patted his shirt pocket for another cigarette. "I gotta go," he said, lighting the cigarette. I watched him cross the yard, the red glow from the tip of his cigarette moving from hand to mouth in the faint light.

Sitting alone, hearing the music, smelling the food, I thought of Pretchy-Anne. Not long ago she'd told me that when she grew up she wanted, like Elineta, to marry an American. She wanted so badly to leave this dreadful country. I sometimes made-believe that I was that American whom Pretchy would marry. But was I even an American? I was white, true. Anyone could see that. But both my parents were Filipino. What did that make me? I had no idea if I could honestly claim as my country this place or that. Or, for that matter, anyplace at all.

The thought of Pretchy cleaning the birds came back to me. As I concentrated on the image of the frightened quail, I heard someone behind me say, "Oh, there you are."

It was Pretchy-Anne.

I got up off the bench, smiling, and led her across the yard to the table where the food still steamed and threw off odors that made your stomach growl in delight. As I loaded food onto a paper plate for Pretchy-Anne, I couldn't help but notice how gorgeous a girl she was. Her long creame-colored gown covered her feet. Her hair, for once, was not tied back with a rubber band, or scrunchie, or claw clip. In the warm and fragrant evening breeze the ends of her hair rose and dropped, rose and dropped.

With our plates held in front of us, we crossed the courtyard and sat back down on the same wooden bench beneath the same slightly trembling mango leaves where she'd found me. It was dark now, completely, and under the stars the music still played and couples still danced.

For a while Pretchy-Anne and I sat without speaking. Picking at our food with our fingers. Finally, to have something to talk about, I brought up the quail she'd been forced to clean.

Raising her face to grimace, Pretchy-Anne said killing things -- anything -- disgusted her. She went on to say that she probably wouldn't have minded cleaning the birds if they had already been dead. Like fish from the market, or frogs gigged in the muddy paddies and immediately gutted. But with the quail she actually had to use her bare hands to grab the birds around the neck and twist until the quail dangled limp and dead. Along with their frightened squawks and their pleading eyes the killing of the quail, Pretchy-Anne said, broke her heart.

As light from the flashing cellophane lanterns struck her face, I couldn't help but notice Pretchy-Anne looked strangely different tonight. Makeup. She wore makeup. I'd never seen her in makeup before. The red lipstick and the stuff she thickened her lashes with made her look older than twelve, made her look like a woman, which in a way, I guess, she was.

I couldn't help but wonder if the little girl with the coltish legs and scabbed knees was still inside this woman? Did the little girl disappear somewhere? Where was the child who screamed with delight each time the pink bubble blooming from between her lips exploded.

When the musicians in straw hats started another ballad, I set my plate down on the bench beside me and asked Pretchy-Anne if she wanted to dance. Without answering, she looked away to the lanterns dangling from tree branches not far from us. She rotated her paper plate in her hands. Then she turned to face me, smiled falsely, and said, "Maybe later, okay?"

Not five minutes had passed when another boy, a Filipino boy who might have been a couple years older than us, strolled up to where we were seated. He came down on his haunches and placed a hand over Pretchy-Anne's. She blushed, bit her lower lip and shook her head. But he persisted. Finally, she handed me her paper plate to hold. Before getting up she clapped her hands together, rubbing them free of crumbs. Then she let the boy lead her onto the grass, where they danced close against one another.

I sat watching Pretchy-Anne dancing on the flagstones. Her eyes were closed, the right side of her face was buried in the boy's chest. I glanced away, skyward to the stars, and couldn't help but wonder if maybe Pretchy-Anne rejected my request to dance because I was different.

Had she just been being kind to me all this time?

Then I closed my eyes and tried again to picture the quail. Tiny, barely alive. Feather-wrapped creatures that laid scattered on the kitchen counter, near the sink. The birds I imagined stared up pleading to Pretchy-Anne with their glassy eyes.

In my mind, tears swelled in Pretchy-Anne's s eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the quails necks and, one by one, put the birds out of their misery.

When I looked back to where she was dancing, I caught Pretchy-Anne staring at me. Her eyes in the moonlight appeared misted. Quickly, she turned her head.

Suddenly, I was clear about what she meant when she told me she wished the quail were dead before having to clean them.

***
Whenever I visited the Grandfather with my parents, I sought out Pretchy-Anne. It made no difference to me that she was the daughter of one of the maids. She was my age, and when she looked at me her face never filled with disgust the way my cousins’ faces did. If she wasn’t tasked with helping her mother in the kitchen, Pretchy-Anne and I could spend the entire afternoon tromping the Grandfather’s immense property. We’d shin up trees and share a large crotch of two branches together. On our hands and knees, we’d trap shiny green beetles, face them off against until we got bored, then set them free again. Or else we’d simply pass the sweltering day beneath the shade of a large mango tree, sharing real-life stories.





Oh, it hurt all right. Not so much the fact that Karla confessed to me at the breakfast table, but more the seeping, soiling manner in which she allowed her words to spill. So piercing and unexpected was her revelation that my right hand twitched, toppling the glass of chocolate milk next to the cereal bowl. As the white linen tablecloth slowly went dark with dampness, I could neither speak, nor draw my glare away from her face.

She stood from the table. “You act surprised.” Leaning forward, she almost looked through me as she snatched a fistful of paper napkins. She tried to sop up the spilled milk.

My trembling hand fell over the top of hers, trapping it against the table. Her hand tightened into a ball, then flattened to creep free of my listless grip, leaving me palming a wad of wet napkins.

From across the room the old refrigerator’s insides buckled, its coils hummed louder. I hadn’t noticed until then that even though we were two weeks into a new month, neither of us had bothered to change the calendar on the freezer door. My left knee bounced beneath the table.

When Karla cleared her throat to speak, I glanced from the calendar to her and said, “You didn’t mean what you just said.”

She sighed. When she raised her gaze to the ceiling, the skin on her pale neck went smooth and tight. “You’re making it worse than it is,“ she said. “It’s not like I’ve tramped around, cheating on you with some workplace lover.” And now her voice broke and lifted. “I didn’t get us pregnant, did I? I’m not hooked on drugs or alcohol or gambling, am I?”

After waiting a long time for a reply that never came, she sat back down. She reached across the table and let her fingertips graze mine. “You understand, don‘t you?”

Because I thought I understood, I nodded my head. The three months we’d shared had been meaningful. In the beginning we’d both grasped for one another’s affection. At the same time we’d both agreed to be bound by nothing. The problem with love is inevitably someone in the relationship will do or say something to suggest it can’t possibly last.

Gamefolk

Wanderings

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

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

My sister exploded when she found out I'd taken twenty dollars out of her purse and given it to a stranger. She said she knew the moment she'd agreed to let me stay with her that she'd regret it. She wanted me to go. Just leave her alone. Get out of her life. Quit dragging her down. But the stranger I gave the money to was a woman with three kids who slept in her car at the park. Every evening I'd walk by and see them eating sandwiches at a picnic table. They were down on their luck, that's all. They just needed a break.

Casino Heist

From my pickup truck I watched the woman leave the casino and start across the parking lot. She looked to be about fifty, my mom's age. In her right hand swung a plastic bag with Chinese character's on it. The cloud-filled night sky and the bad lighting in the parking lot made the woman disappear and reappear. When she popped up under a light three rows away, I got out of the pickup and pulled my ski make down over my face.

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

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:

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.