These Are the Things I Make up and Write Down

In Case This Journal Isn't Satisfying Enough

Thu, 14 Jun 2012 23:41:27 GMT

Week in the Head

Clear Spirits

Buds

Also, I draw stuff

(Here's where I post the occasional essay and whatnot)

(for the originally-posted-out-of-order tales in this journal, start here)

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Disappear

Tue, 12 Jun 2012 02:31:06 GMT

previously...

Something I'd never really thought about before was whether my sex voice sounded like my not-sex voice. Noise in these apartments bled through the walls like gauze, and if my grunts and moans were at all familiar-sounding, then my roommates might realize that I had spent most of the late evening enthusiastically fucking my neighbor. This was a problem, inasmuch as it was important to my living situation that they believe I was homosexual. It was a thin disguise, to be sure, but it seemed to work.

I could always pretend I'd been engaged in sodomy in my own room, but then they'd want to meet the guy. Besides, Emma was pretty damned vocal herself, and no amount of biting my shoulder could restrain that.

Jesus my shoulder hurt.

I didn't know what time it was; only that I had to leave for work in a few hours--a prospect that seemed so much more daunting now that I was weighed down by marijuana and sheer physical exhaustion. My body and mind agreed that if there ever was a time to doze off, this was it.

"Dude!"

I really didn't need to hear that sound right now, and so I willed myself not to be there anymore.

"Dude!"

That didn't work. I settled for mumbling, "I don't know anybody by that name."

"Come on," the voice insisted, "wake up!"

"For crying out loud, Em," I moaned, "I'm a man, not a machine."

"My name's not Em."

"My name's not dude."

"Fine," she said, "you call me Em, I'll call you dude."

"Good." I began to drift away again. "I'm glad we had the chance to work this out."

"Dude!"

I tried to ignore her.

"Dude!"

"Em!"

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Okay, now I was awake. Nothing good ever starts with a phrase like that. "Is that why you led me here?"

"No," she said condescendingly, "I lured you here because I wanted to fuck your brains out. But now that we're here, maybe we should talk about us?"

"What about us?"

"Exactly! I don't even know anything about you. It's not like we've ever had a real conversation."

"Oh, yeah?" I replied. "Then what did we talk about the night we met?" That wasn't a rhetorical question; I don't remember a thing about that conversation, and not because I was drunk.

"Um," she muttered, "I was only pretending to pay attention to what you had to say."

"Are you telling me you were only interested in my body?"

"Is that a problem?"

Not really.

Without giving me a chance to respond aloud, she continued, "Most people have sex after the third or fourth date, and here we've had sex four times ..."

"Technically eight."

"And we haven't even had a real date."

"You want to go on a date?"

"Can we?"

I sighed. "You know, there's so many ways this is a bad idea."

"I know, but ..." She breathed.

"But what?"

"I hate this girl shit."

"What are you talking about?"

She brushed one of her cinnamon curls behind her ear and looked at everything in the room that wasn't me. "I've been thinking about you constantly since the last time. You remember, when you propped my up on the dresser and did that thing?"

"I seem to recall being there for that." Mostly because I didn't think I had that in me. Although, to be fair, I was kind of possessed.

"And I'm just thinking about ..." She waved her hand up and down my body, lingering an extra moment just below my waist. "... that. I've been thinking about your cocky smile and your sarcasm and your crooked nose and I just want to know all about you and I'm so sorry I am such an idiot!" She threw herself back onto the mattress and covered her face with a pillow.

I took a few deep breaths. "You're right."

"I know!" her muffled voice groaned. "That is so stupid! I'm sorry!"

I growled. I needed some goddamn sleep.

Suddenly she tore the pillow away and sat straight up. "Really?"

"Really," I replied. "Why not?" Part of my agreement was pure curiosity, but most of it was the desire to bring this conversation to an end.

"It doesn't have to be anything special," she blathered. "We can just have dinner here. I know a great Thai place down the block."

"I don't think we'd actually do a lot of talking if we ate here."

"True," she said.

"Can we iron out the details tomorrow?" I asked.

"Thank you," she sighed happily.

I dozed off, knowing what a disaster this was going to be, but preferring to deal with the fallout later.

However, it took only a minute for her to whisper, "Dude!"

"Dammit! It's..." I squinted at her alarm clock, but it was covered by her sports bra. "... late!"

She didn't seem to care. "Do you think you could do that thing, you know, horizontally?"

"I am so tired, Em."

"Okay then," she giggled, "can I do something to you?"

"For the love of God, no," I groaned.

Her fingernails bit into my inner thigh.

"Yeah, okay."

to be continued...

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Gobsmacked

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 19:09:20 GMT

previously...

"Mitchell?" I asked my roommate within moments of arriving home.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Why is there an ATM in the living room?"

"I'm holding it for a friend."

"Oh," I said, as if that explained everything. Well, almost everything. "Mitchell?"

"Yeah."

"We live on the fourth floor."

"Yes, we do," he confirmed.

"Of a walkup."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at," he said.

"How did this get up here?"

He shrugged. "You know."

Before I could ask what it was that he assumed I knew, he'd wandered away.

"I'm going to bed," I concluded and headed straight to my room. If the world was going to fling crap like that at me like it was some kind of inbred monkey, I was just going to have to put myself in the proper state of mind. With enough marijuana to intoxicate a water buffalo, I crawled out my window.

After the day I'd had, nothing was going to make me happier than this bowl. But just before I touched flame to green, a voice from my neighbor's apartment called out, "Dude, is that you?"

I considered taking a hit before replying, but I wanted to savor every moment with my green, foul-smelling victory. "No."

"Dude," she said, callously disregarding my falsehood, "I've got to show you something."

"I don't got to see it." Unless it was herself clad only in a lacy pushup bra, preferably in cerulean blue, which would brighten up her eyes. That was negotiable.

"Aren't you even curious?"

"No."

"Guess."

I took a deep breath, unfortunately, of regular air, uncontaminated by cannabis. What was it going to take to get some goddamned peace in my life. "Will you leave me alone if I do?"

"Only if you want me to."

"Oh, I want you to."

"We'll see about that." She added, "Go on, guess!"

I folded up my pipe. This was going to take a while. Now what the hell could be so exciting that I had to endure this? I took a stab at it: "Is it...?"

"It's apple butter!"

My mind said, "What?" My mouth also said, "What?"

"Come inside and I'll show you."

"Can you show me out here?"

There was a long pause as she considered her answer. "Please!"

"Fine," I growled, prying open her window."

"I'm in the kitchen!"

Stepping out of her bedroom, I found myself completely disoriented. Her apartment was only two-thirds the size of mine, so why couldn't I find the kitchen? "Marco!" I shouted.

"Polo!" she shouted back.

Following the sound of her voice, I muttered, "How does one get the apple milk to make the apple curd you need to churn to... Oh, my."

I had to conclude that the unlabeled jar in her left hand contained apple butter, because she was sucking on the finger of the other one, and she appeared to be enjoying it. When I opened my mouth, I'd planned on asking her about that, but what I actually said indicated what was really on the forefront of my mind: "You're not wearing your shirt."

She didn't say anything; she just grinned an enormous, smug grin. Below her waist were her unremarkable track pants--the ones I had once torn off so eagerly not long ago--but above the waist she wore only a periwinkle, pushup bra.

Periwinkle. Okay, I was willing to compromise.

I needed to say something right now. It needed to be witty, but not so funny that it would kill this hypnotic stare-down we had going on. I said, "Apple butter?"

She took a moment to finish licking her finger clean before she asked, "Want some?"

With the grace of a zombie, I reached for the jar.

She pulled away and scolded me, "Like this!" She dipped her finger into the jar and held it held it in front of my face.

Without breaking eye contact, I steadied her hand with mine and enjoyed my first taste of the touted apple butter.

"Although," she said, "there may be one way to make it even better." With that, she dunked my pinkie in the jar and licked it.

Using my free hand, I braced myself on the nearest door frame, seeing as my legs were now useless to me.

"Not bad," she purred. "So what to you think?"

I grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her closer, and kissed her ravenously. From that point forward, only one thought in my head had any sort of coherency, and it demanded that she leave that sexy-as-hell bra alone as long as possible. The rest of the clothing in the room, however, was fair game. Sure enough, my pant, shirt, and tie joined her track pants in a pile in the corner. Don't ask me how they got there. I don't even remember how my boots and socks got off of my feet, and those were usually the things that crippled momentum.

The rational part of my mind only surfaced for a moment when it heard her gasp, "Wait." She fumbled around the counter until she opened her silverware drawer and retrieved a condom. A few minutes of frenzied grappling, fumbling, and thrusting later, she caught her breath and asked, "Can we lie down on the floor now?"

I nodded and helped her off the counter.

After we rested and enjoyed some air, we both laughed. She helped herself out of that beautiful, beautiful bra. "What did you think of the apple butter?"

"It made me forget all about getting high."

"You've got some weed?"

"Pretty regularly," I replied.

"Can I have some?"

"I thought you didn't like to smoke because," I started to say before good sense caught up to me. "Yes, you can have some."

to be continued...

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Appropriation

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 13:24:44 GMT

previously...

Tyffanie Grant was only sixteen, but she had spent the past five years selling out pop-music concerts and acting in her all-ages sitcom, Mac and Daddy. She'd always dressed and acted provocatively, yet maintained her virtue. Tonight, she was going to put money on it. Judging by the decorations and the size of this yacht on which I stood, I'd say it was a lot of money.

For a purity ball, I was expecting more white clothing. Even the boys, all athletic and bobbing their heads in unison to the music, wore mostly baby blue shirts tucked into their meticulously pressed khakis--too cool, of course, to dance.

The girls unanimously wore black cocktail dresses with skirts that reached down to their mid-thighs and kept hiking up as they wriggled, writhed, and sweat to the bubblegum blaring out of the unnecessarily large speakers in every corner. To Ms. Grant's credit, none of the tunes were her own.

After hours of this, I barely even noticed my colleague, Gretchen, finishing her photographing orbit of the room and gliding over. "Max, look at this."

"I am looking."

She smacked the back of my head. "Not there."

I turned my attention to the display on her camera. "What am I looking at?"

"Who's that?"

"Phil Ferris," I replied, "the washed-up comedian who plays the titular father in Mac and Daddy."

She smacked me again. "That's for saying tit in a yacht full of teenagers."

"It means title, you idiot."

She shrugged. "I know, I just like hitting you."

"That's nice," I told her. "Can I go back to being a creepy pedophile now?"

This time, when she swung at me, I caught her wrist.

"Do you think you could tell me what's going on without hitting me again?"

"I'm not talking about Phil Ferris," she said, liberating her arm, "I'm talking about the guy behind him."

I squinted. "Looks like a ferret in a sweater vest."

"Yeah, but who is he?"

I scanned the room and caught sight of him swaggering over in this direction, with his loosely knotted tie, well-worn cargo pants, and scruffy blonde hair. I'd never seen him before, but it was obvious to me exactly who I was dealing with: my newly acquired nemesis, who worked for my rival paper and had been snatching exclusive interviews right out from under me.

I said to him, "Allen Dean, I presume."

"Wayne," said someone nearby.

"Say what?" I turned to the voice to see a towering slab of Nordic beef. His blond hair, like Gretchen's, improbably swept over his head in the most stylish manner imaginable. His lips, like Gretchen's, puffed alluringly. His chest, like Gretchen's, threatened the integrity of his button-up shirt. And he brandished a camera, just like Gretchen.

The Aryan repeated, "I'm Wayne."

"I'm Gretchen," she purred, checking him out.

"Knock that off," I hissed at her.

"You must be the lauded Max Fuentes," the ferret said.

"You must be..."

"Not lauded much longer," he added.

"That's a declaration of war, Dean," I told him.

"A bit of a one-sided war, don't you think?"

"This sexual tension is killing me," I said. "Should we make out now, or should we trade a few more barbs?"

He shook his head. "You're funny. But redundant. I'm about to score an exclusive, and all you'll have left to write are captions."

"You're so cute," I told him before cupping my hands to mouth and turning toward the dance floor. "Tyffanie Grant! Come on over!"

A few moments passed, and she emerged from a cloud of giggling teenage girls without a word, just a curious smile.

"If I promised to dance with you and all your friends, you think I could get an exclusive?"

She looked me up and down, grabbed my hand, and said, "Deal."

As she pulled me away, I made sure to blow Allen Dean a kiss.

A half hour and a full notebook later, I rejoined Gretchen, who was standing alone and fanning her face with the hand not occupied with a camera.

"The hormones in there are suffocating," I told her. "If I don't fuck something tonight, I am going to die."

She let out something between a moan and a sigh. "Oh, yeah. It's a good thing I have a boyfriend to go home to." I couldn't tell if the sigh was one of relief or schadenfreude. It didn't matter, because I spent the rest of the evening inebriated to the point of nausea by youthful lust.

When I got home hours later, I tried a cold shower, but I couldn't wash the hormones off of me. It made it worse, actually, as I became aware of how nude I was, and how badly I wanted to share that nudity with someone who richly deserved it.

I tried masturbating, but I kept remembering how young the objects of my fantasies were. Whenever I tried to change the subject, I found myself recalling the skinny, immature limbs of my high-school sweetheart. Whichever way my mind's eye went, it landed on jailbait.

And so I tried climbing onto my fire escape and getting some fresh air laced with tetrahydrocannabinol, but this was the worst idea of them all, because of my neighbor.

I could have fled at that moment, because, facing away from me with her cell to her ear, she had no idea I was there. Yet I was paralyzed by her neck, exposed by a loose ponytail and glowing with sweat, by the damp polyester clinging to her back, and by her workout pants.

Damn. Athletic women: my only weakness.

My mind, already on fire, ceded control to my body, which maneuvered my feet right up to her. The fingers of my right hand slid over her hip so they could tug loose the knot that held her drawstring together. The rest of them stroked her stomach and crept under the hem of her shirt.

She told her phone, "I'm going to have to call you back, Mom."

Fifteen minutes later, give or take, I rolled onto my back and wheezed, "Sorry."

She also rolled onto her back and attempted, with limited success, to slow down her breathing. "Why?" she panted. "Fair's fair, after all."

to be continued...

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Cesspool

Sun, 10 Jun 2012 16:49:19 GMT

previously...

The door to the holding cell opened, and the officer on the other side told me, "You're free to go, Max."

With a yawn, I asked him. "Hey, Jason. What's going on?"

"You know, the usual."

"Really? Because the last time I was in, they told me you and the family went to Florida for the week."

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Not much of a vacation when you got to stay with your in-laws, if you know what I mean."

"Not personally, but I've heard things."

"Lucky." He shook his head. "You know the way out. Stay out of trouble."

We smirked at each other.

When I got to the check-out desk, I said to the uniform sitting behind it. "Hey, Roger."

"Hey, Max," he replied. "Says here you were trespassing backstage at the Staplebitch concert."

I shrugged.

"My daughter loves that band."

"Your daughter has lousy taste in music."

"That's what I keep telling her," he said, "but you know kids."

"Not personally, but I've heard things."

He handed me my belongings, I signed for them, and he told me, "See you next time, buddy."

Upon exiting the building, I was greeted by my colleague and photographer, Gretchen, leaning on a lamppost, playing with her fingernails. Her voluptuous hair was tied up into a stringy ponytail, her pin-up-girl figure was hidden under too-large jeans and a T-shirt, her bright eyes were bloodshot and framed by the ugliest pair of glasses I'd ever seen, her lips were pale, and her smile was absent. I'd recognized her only by the sound of her gum-chewing.

"Gretchen," I told her, "you look like shit."

"You look like the shit that shit shits," she replied.

I took a moment to comprehend what she had just said. Failing that, I closed my eyes and exhaled.

"We done?" she asked.

I nodded.

She strode off, and I turned on my phone to see what the world had been up to in my absence. "You have one new message," the ethereal voice inside informed me.

"And I bet you a dollar I'm going to hate it," I mumbled in reply.

"Max," the message growled, "this is Myron. You know, your editor? The one who keeps having to bail you out of jail? That Myron? I expect to see you in my office within a half-hour of you getting you out, and I expect you to have an interview for me with the notoriously difficult-to-interview it-band of the moment with the stupid name. If not, I will murder you, chop up your body, and throw it in a compost heap."

Seeing as I'd failed to get said interview, I figured I should try to make a run for it.

"If you failed to get said interview, and you try to make a run for it," the message continued, "I will hunt you down then murder you, chop up your body, and throw it in a compost heap."

Scratch that.

My phone went off while I was a dead man walking to the train, and I went ahead and answered it, given that I was too numb to give a fuck anymore.

"Am I talking to Max Fuentes?" it asked.

"Who wants to know?" I replied.

"I need you to confirm or deny the veracity of a recent news-related rumor."

"And what rumor would that be?"

"That an exclusive, all-access, behind-the-scenes story about Staplebitch is not running in your paper this weekend."

I'd never heard the voice before, but the cockiness of my arch-nemesis could not be mistaken. For starters, it rivaled mine. "Allen Dean," I moaned.

"I also need you to confirm that I scooped you. Again."

It didn't even occur to me to ask how he got my number, because I was too busy informing him, "Dean, I am going to fucking kill you."

He laughed and hung up.

I sighed, "Myron is going to fucking kill me."

Forty-five minutes later, however, my editor sentenced me to a fate worse than death. I blinked. "You want me to do what?"

"Not you," said my editor as he pointed a finger at my colleague and photographer, Gretchen, who had somehow gone home, showered, washed and blew out her hair, dressed, and applied most of her makeup, since I last saw her not all that long ago; "both of you."

"I'm clear on who's involved, Chief, but it's what you want us to do that I don't quite understand."

"Go to a purity ball," he repeated. "And you should probably stop calling me Chief. You're already skating on thin shit."

Gretchen snorted. "Max isn't exactly pure, you know."

"Well," Myron continued, "it's not your purity in question, but you're still attending."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm not going to do that."

"Since when did this become a democracy?"

"Since 1788," I replied, "when the Constitution was ratified. Mind you, it excluded blacks, women, and poor people, but we've since made improvements."

During the course of this back and forth, Gretchen produced a vial of mascara from God knows where.

"Max," Myron said as he absently produced a mirror and held it up for her, "if you don't shut up and do as you're told, I'm going to physically kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

"I'd pay money to see that," Gretchen muttered.

"You're young," he told me, "but I could take you."

"You're probably right," I admitted. "So, I totally forgot with all the banter, what was our assignment?"

to be continued...

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Scared Money Never Wins

Sat, 09 Jun 2012 23:26:59 GMT

previously...

"Request denied," Sean told me as he slid off the stool at the International Bar.

I appealed his ruling. "Why?"

"Because, as is the case every morning," he explained, "I must report to my place of employment."

"So?"

"The hour at which I must do this is rapidly approaching."

"Again, so?"

He sighed. "Excluding you, and perhaps some chemically enhanced rock musicians, the mammalian biology requires a number of hours to rest and reset its physiology. A more economical way of describing this function is..." He pantomimed quotation marks, probably because he knew how much I hated that. "... 'sleep.'"

I wasn't sure how this applied to him. Given the way he interacted with people in general, as well as the fact that his fashion was as robotic as his vocabulary, I'd always suspected he was not a mammal at all, but rather a really badly disguised alien that didn't actually need to sleep. Regardless, I chose to play along with his subterfuge; I was desperate. "Call in sick to work," I said. "Spend a few extra hours in bed."

"The flaw in your logic is that I would find myself wracked with boredom upon awakening."

"Watch some TV."

"I derive the same amount of pleasure from television as you."

I derived the same amount of pleasure from television as someone getting beaten in the face with a sanitation worker's shovel, so that was out. "Don't you have any hobbies you've been meaning to get to?"

"Excelling at my family's business is the closest approximation I have to a hobby," he replied, "inasmuch as it is the only pastime for which I've shown any talent."

"I don't know what to say to that."

"Then say nothing." He gave me a moment before sitting back down and asking, "What is it you seek to avoid at home by further socializing?"

I sighed and signaled Dan the Bartender. "I think I need another beer."

There was one in front of me almost instantly. "You really look like you do," Dan replied.

I poured it down my throat and said, "I think I need another beer."

Dan handed me another bottle.

I turned back to Sean. "Where was I?"

"Your fear."

"Right." I sighed, "Every time I go home, I run into my neighbor, and she calls me Dude. And that word cuts into me like a..." Okay, so where the hell did my wit go just now? "Like a sharp thing that hurts a lot."

"What qualifies this as more dire than other verbal indignities you tend to endure on a regular basis?"

"Because," I tried to reply. "Because... To be honest..." I said before turning back to Dan the Bartender. "I think I need another beer." Upon my order being delivered, I spat out, "Because it makes me feel awkward."

"Why, pray tell, would it be awkward?" he asked. "You have, after all, seen her in the nude and have performed unspeakable acts upon her body..."

"Enthusiastically, I'll have you know."

"You have performed unspeakable acts upon her body with great vigor..."

"Vigor's a good word for it," I sighed.

Undeterred, Sean continued, "and you fled from her without so much as a simple telephone call, and now you're hiding in the closet--figuratively, of course--only to discover that your most recent sexual conquest..."

"Not my most recent," I mumbled.

"I'd forgotten you were a slut."

"I'm not sorry."

"Be that as it may," he continued, "one of your more recent sexual conquests sleeps in a bed not more than four feet away from yours, and you have yet to learn her surname."

"When you put it that way," I said, "it sounds kind of filthy."

Sean laughed. "I find it astounding that I'm sitting next to the most preposterous thing ever to grace this bar. And, if you'll recall, it had been recently patronized by a man in a gorilla suit."

Dan the bartender shook his head and chuckled, "Silly gorilla-suit guy."

Inspiration struck me. "This is a message from the heavens!"

"The gorilla?"

"No," I replied, "Sex. I quit having it."

"I doubt your conviction."

"I believe me, and that's all that matters."

"This is the most ill-conceived idea I've been party to in quite some time," he told me.

"It makes perfect sense," I said. "I am tired of being led around by my penis. When I think about it, I've made so many bad decisions in pursuit of sex, and what do I get out of it?"

"Orgasms," he replied.

"Well, it's not worth it," I declared.

"There is little doubt in my mind that you'll find yourself fornicating at some point in the near future. As a matter of fact," he told me, "I'm willing to entertain a wager in regard to your poorly thought-out declaration."

"Really."

"I'm prepared to stake one dollar on this."

"That's not exactly a fair bet," I said. "You'll only have pay up if I die before you."

He sighed. "Very well. If, by this time next year, you haven't engaged in sexual congress of any sort, I will pay out the dollar you will have earned."

"That's not a lot of money."

"My father would say, 'It's the principle of the thing.'"

I shook his hand. "Better make sure you have enough money in that bank account in a year." I added, "And can we keep congress out of this? They just fuck everything up."

He ignored me. "Double if your partner in said acts is your neighbor."

"Hell, I'll go triple on that."

"Double is sufficient."

"Sucker," I mumbled.

"Sucker," he mumbled.

to be continued...

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Coda

Fri, 08 Jun 2012 16:08:55 GMT

previously...

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She led us down the hall, away from the library's study room, and whispered, "What's up?"

"Where have you been?" I asked. "I've been calling you all week."

She sighed.

I was only eighteen, and my experience with breakups was limited. On one hand, I had my one-and-only personal breakup, which had consisted of me walking in on my girlfriend being groped by my oldest friend. On the other hand, I had movies and TV, in which such breakups were merely the prelude to the actual romance. On a third hand, I had the ongoing histrionics of my high-school friends, all of which were pretty stupid, and none of which plumbed the emotional depths I thought I'd had with the girl I'd once loved. The idea of a couple splitting up with minimal drama was one of those things I knew existed but had never witnessed--like a blue whale or a quark.

And yet I recognized that sigh.

"Oh, Bupkis," she said.

"My name is Max." If I was correct about where this conversation was going, she had given up all rights to affectionate nicknames.

"Don't ruin this."

"Ruin what?" I asked. "You're the one who's dumping me."

She flinched. "Bupkis..."

"Max."

"I want to remember how much fun we had together," she replied, "not how it ended."

"Why does it have to end?"

"For starters, you're a freshman, and I'm not."

"So?"

"We have different priorities."

"I don't have any priorities."

"There's that," she said. "And the fact that I'm going to grad school next year."

"We could do long distance."

"Really?" She closed her eyes. "Are you really thinking that far ahead with someone you've only been sleeping with for three weeks."

"But we're so good together!"

"Which is why we need to wrap this up," she told me. "Before it gets complicated."

"But complicated is good, right?"

She averted her eyes. "Not for me it isn't."

"I don't get you," I mumbled.

"There's that too."

Neither of us looked at each other or said anything for a long time, until she concluded, "Look, I have a final tomorrow. Can we talk about this later?"

"Do you really want to talk about this later?"

She shook her head.

I then uttered what was probably the smartest thing I'd said since the moment I'd walked into the building. "Then don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

My mind, stalled and adrift, ceded control of my body to my feet, which shuffled me through the exit doors of the library and to a bench just outside. The December chill tried to remind me that I'd forgotten my jacket, but I wasn't paying attention.

If the loss of my high-school sweetheart was the back story to my personal narrative, then what was I to the woman I just walked away from? Just another chapter? Was that what she was to me?

In the midst of this identity crisis, I barely noticed the figure who appeared beside me. "Can I sit here?"

I nodded.

My new neighbor settled down with a peripheral rustle of wool and a whiff of cigarette smoke. "Aren't you cold?"

I shrugged, turned to the owner of the voice, and blinked at a pair of sharp eyes, a set of smiling lips, and a hint of soft curves that squirmed at the touch of the frozen concrete slab we shared.

You know, you can cram a lot of chapters into a novel.

"Hi," I said to her. "I'm Max."

comments

Leviathan

Tue, 29 May 2012 13:39:23 GMT

The first thing she remembered about that day was how annoyed she was that she had to come onto campus during the summer. The asshole still lived on campus, even though he was, like her, a senior in a month and a half. Besides, she'd heard he was rich, so if he really felt like isolating himself, he could live anywhere. Whatever. It was one of those stupid fucking things he did to make himself seem cool and unique--kind of like that stupid fucking sweater of his.

Lisa's relationship with the asshole had cooled by that point, so they could actually take a small amount of comfort in each other. Maybe it was because their mutual presence brought to mind her boyfriend--his best friend. Maybe it was because she couldn't trust him to be alone with his own thoughts, and vice versa. What mattered was that it was Fourth of July weekend, her boyfriend was back home in Idaho, she was bored, she was hungry, and she was going to drag his skinny ass over to May's Cafe for a greasy omelet.

When he didn't answer the door, something she couldn't put a finger on thought it was a little weird. He was always home, except when he was at her place. Sure he was entitled to go to the restroom or buy cigarettes or something, but not if it inconvenienced her. She knocked again out of spite, and, for a second there, she thought she'd heard something. She knocked one more time, and there it was--a dull moan. She tried the knob, but it was locked. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she pulled out her men's wallet and removed a key.

What she was doing with that key was a long story, but the short version was this: before she came to college here, she ran with a pack of hoodlums. The alpha hooligan, a sneaky son of a bitch and aspiring criminal mastermind named Fuentes, taught her dozens of tips and tricks for breaking the law, none of which she'd forgotten. High up on the list was never to let a good skeleton key go to waste. Lucky for her, her boyfriend was an RA, and that meant he had access to every room in this dorm. She made herself a copy, not because she'd been planning on stealing anything, but rather to honor her heritage.

Besides, you never know what that kind of thing might come in handy. And that day, it was really fucking handy.

Inside, the asshole was lying on his back with his eyes half-open and a little stream of drool trickling down his cheek. It didn't even take her a second to figure out what was going on.

"No!" she whispered. "No, no, no!"

Breathing deeply, she tried to figure out what needed to happen next. "Think," she muttered, "what would Fuentes do?" He'd figure out what it was that was killing the person in question. That was easy. The asshole was overdosing on something. The next thing would need to get a little more specific. Something about the drool shouted opium, so she'd go with that. Next up was the delivery. It wasn't a needle, because there wasn't one lying around anywhere, and he wouldn't have had enough time to stash it. She was pretty sure that wasn't possible to smoke that much heroin, and besides, there was no smell. Snorting was out, or there would have been blood coming out of his nose. That left his stomach, and that she could do something about.

She crawled into bed next to him and listened to his chest to make sure he was still breathing. Satisfied, she stuck two fingers in his throat. He gagged, and, just before he threw up, she rolled him over so his head was hanging over the floor. She let him finish, and then repeated the procedure, just in case. When she was sure he was done, she wiped her hand on his stupid sweater and sat him up.

"Hey fuckface!" she yelled.

"Uh?" he mumbled.

Oh, thank God. "Yeah, you, fuckface!"

"'Appen?"

"You tell me, you rock-stupid motherfucker!"

He shook his head imperceptibly. "No."

"No, you're not going to tell me?"

"Don't," he coughed. "Stop."

"This is getting us nowhere. Phone." Because, honestly, she'd forgotten that hers was in her back pocket.

"Sweat," he sighed, "er."

It was right where he said it'd be. She called 911 and told them, "I have someone here that OD'd on something."

"I need you to calm down, ma'am, and tell me where you are."

"This is my calm voice!"

After a bit of back and forth, she stayed on the line while at the same time trying to stop him from nodding off. Just when she thought she couldn't keep it up anymore, the EMTs showed up and did whatever it was that EMTs do, and in no time, he was gone.

They had a lot of questions too: "Do you know what he took? Does he have a history of mental illness? Is he your boyfriend?" Shit like that. She answered the best she could--"No. I think so. Are you fucking kidding me?"--until they left her alone.

She held it in as long as she could, but really, that wasn't very long at all. She collapsed onto his bed and sobbed like a goddamned baby. Eventually, she pulled her shit together and remembered the phone in her hands. Sniffing, she sat up and scrolled through his contacts. A part of her was disappointed when L went by with no mention of her. That part, as much as she hated it, pushed her back down onto the mattress, where she cried some more.

Finally she returned to the phone and scrolled down to where it said "Mother." She hit send and waited.

On the other side of the phone, an exasperated voice sighed, "What is it this time, Sean?"

"Mrs. McCoy?"

"My name's not fucking McCoy."

"What the fuck is it then?" Lisa didn't know why she asked that question.

"Yoshida."

"That your first or last name?"

"Look," the voice snapped, "stop wasting my fucking time and tell me why you're calling me on my son's fucking phone."

"I think he tried to kill himself."

The other end went silent.

"Hello?"

"Goddammit!" the voice bellowed. "What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry."

"I can't keep dropping what I'm doing every time he pulls shit like this?"

"The fuck?"

"Are you with him right now?"

"No," Lisa replied.

"Well, where the fuck is he?"

"Hospital."

"Are you there with him?"

"No," Lisa told her, "I--"

"Well get the fuck over there and keep an eye on my son until I get there!"

"Okay?"

The call ended, and she stared at the phone for what was probably five minutes before she finally shook her head and muttered, "Asshole doesn't fall far from the bigger asshole, does it?"

to be continued...

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A Taste

Mon, 21 May 2012 21:59:00 GMT

Her broken-in jeans and threadbare shirt, through which he could make out a dark bra, clashed delightfully with his antiseptic decor. "Fancy," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, "fancy."

"Must be nice being rich."

"Indeed it is."

She glanced around the apartment and asked, "Somebody actually lives here?"

He slung his jacket onto his easy chair, threw himself onto its matching slate gray sofa, loosened his tie, and kicked off his wingtips. "I fully intend to ignore your vague insult."

"Nothing vague about it," she told him. "Thanks for letting me stay over."

"Think nothing of it. It's a long cab ride to your place of residence."

"I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language around me."

"Request denied."

She grunted.

He pointed to a hallway. "The bedroom is through there. As I am, if anything, a gentleman, I will sleep out here."

"And if I don't want you to sleep out here?"

"Then you are welcome to use the sofa."

"You are such a doofus." She rolled her eyes. "Got anything to drink here?"

"If you'll recall, I've been sober longer than you've known of me."

"People have been known to change," she said. "You did."

"Not as much as you think." He popped out his gold-plated cufflinks, tossed them into an empty ashtray, and rolled up his sleeves. "Besides, alcohol was responsible for these."

It had been years since she'd seen the scars that ran down the underside of his forearms, and their presence almost seemed to comfort her. "You think it was the liquor that did that?"

"I've chosen to believe so."

"Fair enough," she sighed. "Mind if I have one?"

"Perhaps I should have been more clear regarding the absence of potables in this place."

"I brought my own." Sure enough, there was a stainless-steel flask in her purse. "Got any place to put this?"

"There are highball glasses in the cabinet near the refrigerator."

"I thought you told me you still don't drink."

He shrugged. "I pretend."

"You are so weird." After pouring herself a few fingers of whiskey, she leaned on the counter, as casually as if it belonged to her, and took a long swallow, locking stares with him. They said nothing for what could have been hours until she asked, "Miss it?"

"Every day."

"Still? It's been, what, seven years?"

"In my defense, I enjoyed alcohol a great deal."

"Fair enough." She studied him for a moment. "Remember what it tastes like?"

He frowned in concentration. "No," he replied sadly.

She strutted over to him, taking her time doing so. "Want a reminder?"

"Perhaps I should have been more clear regarding my sobriety."

Propping her knee on the sofa next to him and steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder, she took a deep drink of the whiskey. Her lips brushed against his, and instantly he recognized the sour sting of the rye. He leaned hungrily toward her, but she backed away.

Without a word, she dipped a finger in the glass, traced her lip with it, and kissed him again. Eager for the flavor of the drink and of her, he licked and nibbled, causing her to moan.

"More," he whispered when she pulled away again.

But when she raised the glass, he snatched it from her hand and placed it on the end table behind him, not caring that there was no coaster. Her hand, now free, stroked his cheek, drawing him in.

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. "More," he told her again.

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Walking on Eggshells

Thu, 17 May 2012 15:39:24 GMT

previously...

The coolest thing about police interrogation rooms anywhere in the country is that they all look exactly like they do in the movies or on TV. There's variety, of course--some have shackles, while others don't, and their sizes differ, but that's really it; they're all decorated with a metal table and plastic aluminum chairs, and they're all lit by unflattering fluorescents. Through the two-way mirror--also a prerequisite--I watched a uniformed policeman enter, legal pad in hand. Tradition dictates that he should have had a file folder as well, but this was the twenty-first century, and paper costs money and trees.

"So your friend in the other room told us the whole story," he said.

"Are we really going to do this?" I asked him.

"Do what?"

"Well, there's no Good Cop with you, and you don't strike me as a Bad Cop, so I guess that makes you Mildly Irritated Cop."

"Shouldn't you be taking this a little more seriously?" he asked.

"Look, Officer..." I squinted at his name-tag. "... Reynolds. Do you know how many times I've done this?"

"A hundred and two."

"Seriously?"

His expression told me nothing.

"That's really cool." I reached into the pocket of my trademark brown leather pea coat and pulled out my notebook and pen, which, for some reason, they hadn't confiscated. "Can I write that down?"

"Be my guest." He clicked his own pen so he could record the upcoming conversation. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Because some guy in a trucker hat got punched in the face."

"And the girl..."

"Don't call her a girl to her face," I interrupted. "She hates that."

"... woman with you, a Lisa Green, states that you were punched in the stomach."

"True."

"Did you happen to see who did it?"

"I did not," I replied. "I'm assuming it was the same guy." It wasn't.

"That seems unlikely."

"The bar was kind of crowded, and my attention was already occupied."

"By what?"

I smirked. "By the ladies. The attention-getting ladies, if you catch my drift."

If he had, he didn't let on. Definitely Irritated Cop. "Why did you volunteer to come in to sign an affidavit then?"

"I didn't," I replied. "My friend did."

"She gave us a description of a white male, age eighteen to thirty-five, dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket."

"That could be anybody."

He rolled his eyes. "The victim said he didn't know who assaulted him either, so he's not pressing charges." That was probably because he didn't want to admit that a diminutive woman knocked him out with one punch. "That said, between you and me, were you the one who did it?"

I snorted. "If I had, my knuckles would be broken, and he wouldn't have suffered a concussion. I'm a wimp, Officer."

"I see." He jotted that down. "So you think it was your companion?"

"She hits like a girl." Well, a cave girl. Especially when somebody knocks the wind out of me.

"I thought you said she didn't like to be called a girl."

"There's no reason that statement has to leave the room, is there?"

He shook his head.

"Then she hits like a girl."

"Is that a no?"

"That is a 'I can't tell you for certain.'"

He stood and said, "Mr. Fuentes, we don't want to take up anymore of your time." What he meant was that he didn't want me to take up anymore of his time, but calling him on that was a good way to get pepper-spray in my face. "You can go ahead and check out and go your own way."

"Do I need to sign anything?"

"Only whatever Roger gives you when you check out."

"Roger?" I both grinned and frowned. "Is he ever not at that desk?"

"Not as far as I know." Heading for the door, he recommended, "Stay out of trouble, Mr. Fuentes."

That wasn't likely. "Have a nice evening, Officer!"

He grunted.

After I'd been processed, I exited the building, only to be greeted by Lisa, who was leaning against a lamppost, lighting a joint.

"You've got balls of solid steel," I told her, "going into a police station with an eighth of weed in your sock."

"Being here with you after all these years," she replied, "inspired me to act out."

I chuckled. "Why don't we head back to the Village and find ourselves bar without fisticuffs on tap."

She held out her arm, and I wrapped mine around it. "Let's."

A quick train ride later, we wandered the narrow, vibrant streets of my favorite neighborhood in which to drink a lot. While contemplating a well-worn pub, a douchebag in a gray, three-piece suit, a black shirt, a white tie, and a camel-hair overcoat rounded the corner, thus lowering the tone. Something about the way he studied us with his expensive, horn-rimmed glasses and looked away as if we weren't there made me want to break my knuckles on his nose. It didn't help that he was informing his cell phone, "Our business partnership goes into full effect at the start of the next quarter. I suggest that, between then and now, you grant Mr. Franklin sole contact with my company, inasmuch as you can't be trusted to ..."

All of the color drained from Lisa's face. "Wait a fucking minute! I know that asshole's voice!" She then squeaked, "Sean?"

The douchebag turned back around, this time with his eyes wider than I'd ever seen anybody's get. "Fuck me in the ear!" he replied before dropping his phone and running like hell.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked, intending the question for anyone who might be listening.

"Take me home," Lisa replied.

"What... ?" I repeated.

"Take me home now."

Since she was my best friend in the history of the entire world, I obeyed, but not before picking up the discarded cell and pocketing it. I loved myself a good mystery.

to be continued...

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Sated

Fri, 04 May 2012 11:59:00 GMT

previously...

Most pornography is produced by males for a male audience, and therefore it tends to favor male fantasies. Whether we dream of being all powerful or powerless, one thing is for certain--the pleasure is all about us. For example, if a woman suddenly finds herself consumed by an unexpected, libidinous frenzy, porn would dictate that she begin by performing furious fellatio on her partner.

It turns out this is not the case at all. She came four times before I came once. Between that and the weed, she fell immediately to sleep.

Being objectified sexually was something most men didn't really mind, and, Lord knows, I've had a lot of sex with a lot of women who really didn't know much about me. In this real-life porno, however, something seemed off. I existed only to scratch Emma's itch.

I remained in her bed for quite a while, wondering what the hell had just happened, until I finally decided that any thinking could be done better in my own bedroom. All I had to do was find my clothes.

My khakis and underwear were easy; they were dangling, inside-out, from my left ankle. The reason they were hanging there was the same reason I only needed to locate my right boot and sock. My tie, still knotted around my neck, was clenched in her fist. I tugged gently, but it didn't give. I tugged harder, but it still wouldn't give. I yanked, and that caused her to roll over in the other direction, taking my neck with it. Slipping it over my head, I twisted and arched and squirmed my way to freedom.

The condom plopped into her wastebasket before I untangled pulled my pants and pulled them up. I located my missing boot on top of her bureau, my shirt in her half-open closet, and my sock in the tiny hallway outside of her room.

After dressing, I wondered if I should take my boots off to tiptoe over her hardwood floors to her window, but a long, deep snore from the bed informed me that I'd be okay. All the same, I'd prefer a few moments to myself to get my thoughts together, so I crept as softly as I could for the exit.

And then, just before I made it to safety, she began muttering. I froze. My ears strained, until they heard, "Just bark if you need me."

I retrieved my belt from the fire escape and returned home.

Work the next day was tedious, which was just fine with me. Had anything exciting happened, like, say, former child star Julian Glass getting arrested for DUI as he had twice already this month, and had I been stuck standing outside the courthouse with all of the other alleged journalists, our tape recorders and notebooks in hand, I likely would have snapped.

Every inch of the news floor sensed my frustration and confusion, and all stayed away, except for Bill, who didn't know the meaning of the word couth. He said, "You look like someone beat the hell out of you last night. And you look like you kind of enjoyed it."

I enjoyed it a lot, actually.

That evening, I knocked on her door the instant I'd made it to our floor. When she didn't answer, I tried again fifteen minutes later, and again after another twenty minutes. After the fourth attempt, I gave up and headed to my room.

During the immeasurable amount of time lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, I'd completely forgotten that my favorite way to alleviate boredom and stress was smoking weed. When that factoid came back to me, I headed immediately to the fire escape, reaching for my pipe and matches; I mean, if there ever was a time for getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

On second thought, if there was ever a time for not getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

I had nearly made it outside when a barely audible shuffle rattled from the wall. My legs propelled me to her door, upon which my knuckles rapped.

She answered immediately, my tie in her hand-- exactly where I'd left it. "Here for this?"

"Yeah."

We both alternated between looking at each other, looking at the floor, and looking at the ceiling. Finally, I coughed out, "We should talk."

She sighed and beckoned me inside.

We shared a long, anxious moment until she spoke up. "I don't know where to start."

"I'll go," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I have serious, serious opinions... beliefs, actually... about taking advantage of someone under the influence of... you know... anything."

"I know!" she moaned. "I'm so sorry!"

"I know!" I moaned. "I'm..." I frowned. "Did you just apologize to me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I came here to apologize to you."

"For what?"

"For taking advantage of you."

She laughed. "Dude, wasn't I the one who tore all your clothes off?"

"Yeah, but you were under the influence."

"So were you."

"I'm a professional," I told her. "You smoke, and you turn into this lust-crazed monster. That's what I took advantage of."

She paced back and forth, to compose her thoughts. "You're saying I was so strung out that I would have fucked anything, and you just happened to be there?"

"I wouldn't have phrased it quite like that."

She sighed. "Dude, if it were anyone else, I probably would have just run away and played with my toys."

"Really."

"Maybe not anyone else, but you catch my drift."

"Oh." I asked, "So what does that mean, exactly?"

"Dude," she replied, "let's not turn this into a thing. Let's just chalk it up to a bad night."

"I don't know if I'd call that bad."

She grinned a crooked grin and pushed a cinnamon curl behind her ear. "How about 'poor judgment'?"

"Close enough." We simultaneously sighed, letting the air out of our shoulders. "I should probably go then," I said.

"Yeah, dude," she replied, "you probably should."

to be continued...

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In Your Wheelhouse

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 12:36:35 GMT

The crappy punk band was about three quarters of the way through its crappy set when Rafaela caught a glimpse of Noah's face in the crowd. He looked exactly the same as he did the last time she had seen him--the only difference being a pair of cheap, plastic sunglasses. She couldn't tell if he had seen her, but just the presence of that gelled, spiky hair, pierced septum, slight overbite, and dog collar padlocked around his neck came across as kind of a blessing.

When Rafaela was working, she didn't like to draw too much attention to herself, so she shoved the cheaply tattooed idiot next to her and slipped away through the ensuing, good-natured brawl that followed. Her goal was the men's room, wherein she pushed open the doors to all five stalls, apologizing whenever the occasion called for it. The one she was looking for turned out to be the one farthest from the entrance. It looked exactly the same as it did in the photos she had received in the mail last week--the only difference being that the medical examiner had removed Noah's body.

The pictures, the coroner's report, and the general vibe in the room all smelled like suicide, but another odor drifted subtly underneath it all. It reminded her of a teenager burning patchouli oil to cover up the scent of weed. Why would Noah still be hanging around if he was so desperate to leave in the first place? Who the hell sent Rafaela those photos? And why?

After grabbing a beer from the bar, she wandered back into the audience to get her thoughts together--no small feat given that crappy, crappy band. How long was this fucking set going to last? And whose idea was it to name themselves Cunt-Punch?

She put the bottle to her lips and dropped it when a hand slapped her between the shoulder blades--a hand so cold that it froze her skin through her army-surplus jacket, argyle sweater, T-shirt, and bra strap. "How's it goin', Raf?" said what she assumed was the hand's owner.

She frowned, turned, and asked Noah, "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"I am dead."

"Literally?"

Noah grinned. "Cool, right?"

Her mind contemplated the growing welt on her back. "But you're physically here."

"Yes and no." He shrugged. "Let's just say I got skills I didn't have when I was breathing."

"Like?"

"Like, for starters, I'm standing here when I'm lying on a slab with more smack in my veins than blood."

"I see your point."

"And," he added, "I just turned you invisible just by touching you."

"Seriously?" Just to be sure, she snapped her fingers in the face of the nearest idiot. She frowned again. "I can still see my hand, Noah."

"It's just a glamour, dumbass," he sneered. "You've done it before."

"Once," she said, "and it took four of us and hours to prep."

"Skills!"

Impressed, Rafaela tilted her head. "So what's this about then?"

"Aside from showing off the skills?"

Rafaela nodded.

"I brought you here to kill you!"

She concentrated long and hard on this before she spoke again. "Why?"

"Because that was the deal," he replied. "I'm supposed to take out the old coven and some solitaries here and there. But I thought I'd start with you. Student killing the master and all."

"That's really interesting," she told him truthfully. "Who wants me dead?"

"Aside from me?"

Rafaela nodded.

"That would be telling, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would."

"She told me not to."

"Even though I'm going to be dead soon?" While she was at it, she had to clarify, "I'm assuming that means really dead, and not dead like you."

He clapped his hands. "You really learn fast, don't you?"

"You never did."

"Fuck you, Raf!" he roared before he spit on her face.

Her nose exploded as if it had been smashed by a brick. She staggered backward, and the audience unconsciously parted for her.

"I'm just getting started, you fucking airhead!" He snatched a glass out of the hand of an idiot and dipped his middle finger inside. While the idiot in question just shrugged off the loss, Noah turned his head toward the stage, and then back at Rafaela. "Cunt-Punch, huh?" He snapped his fingers, causing her to grab her crotch.

"Fuck!" she cried out.

"You like that?"

"No," she groaned.

"Then you're gonna hate this." When poured the rest of the liquid onto the back of his hands a weight began crushing Rafaela, forcing her knees to buckle and give out. "How's that feel?"

Through her teeth, she replied, "Really bad..."

He laughed. "Told you I had skills!"

"Yes, you did," she wheezed. "Pulular."

"What?"

Rafaela cleared her throat. "I said, Pulular!"

With that, the crowd swarmed around Noah, giving her a chance to pull herself to her feet and try to work something out. Her agony, the mystery of Noah's current condition, her concern over whether or not she'd need plastic surgery, that crappy band being on its fifth crappy encore, and her inherent flakiness made it extremely difficult to focus, but she wasn’t particularly worried. She’d been doing this kind of thing for almost twenty years, so inspiration was bound to stroll into her mind anytime. To help it along, she did a quick inventory on the contents of her pockets--a plastic lighter, chips of amber in a medicine bottle, a butterfly knife, a brass cigarette case filled with sticks of incense, a small grimoire, a kazoo, a candle, and a cell phone.

Rafaela reached the bar and leaned on it, squeezing her eyes shut. "Okay," she panted, "this is kind of a big deal." After a long, slow, deep breath, unscrewed the lid from a salt shaker and spilled it on the counter. With her left hand, she scribbled a sigil into it, and with her right, she dug through her jacket.

By this point, Noah had extracted himself from the crowd and was headed for her, looking smug--annoyed, but smug. Rafaela lit some incense, traced the shape of the sigil with the smoke, and whispered.

Noah said, "Don't you think you're going to--"

Rafaela twirled the knife open and slammed the blade into the middle of the salt.

His shoulders fell. "Son of a bitch! You did not just ward me out of here!"

"I did."

"Motherfucker!" he hissed as he stormed over to the exit. Just before he left, he called out, "I'll be right outside, waiting for you."

"I know," she moaned impatiently. "Just go."

The glamour wouldn't last long without Noah around, so she extinguished the incense, pried her athamé out of the counter, and wiped off the salt. Sure enough, the bartender blinked. "Whoa! Didn't see you there!"

"Of course you didn't," she muttered. And since she was going to have to hang around and work out a solution to Noah problem, she asked, "Could I get a bottle of Sheisse Haus, please?"

"Sure," the bartender replied, but when he saw the condition of her face, he jumped. "Holy shit! What the fuck happened to you?"

"Punk rock," Rafaela replied.

_____
*This is a bit of world-building for a fantasy novel my wife and I are writing.*

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The Straw that Stirs the Drink

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 03:10:57 GMT

This is based on a piece by the amazingly talented comedychick.

* * * * *

It's easy to forget that every prostitute is someone's daughter.

"There's not much historical data about Victorian-era sex-workers, you know," said the librarian who'd just returned from the back office.

"I'm amazed you could find anything at all," the young man replied. An eight-by-ten-inch paperback flopped onto the counter in front of him, and he frowned at the title. "Folklore and Legends on the Eve of the Edwardian?"

She nodded.

"Are you sure you have the right Mary Lewis?"

"She's the aunt of Martin Lewis, the father of your grandmother."

He pointed at the book. "All that is in here."

"I was able to cross-reference all of the genealogical information you provided with the woman in this particular tale." She picked up the book and flipped it to the table of contents. "Page 106: 'The Water Nymph of Tower Bridge.'"

"You're kidding me."

She shook her head. "Why don't you have a read?"

That's how he came to be in London, standing under the Tower Bridge at dusk. He wrote a name on a slip of paper, rolled it into a tiny glass bottle, threw it as far as he could into the water, called out the name, and waited. The next day, he wrote the same name on a slip of paper, rolled it into a bottle, threw it, called out, and waited. On the third day, after the name was called out once more, a silhouette rose from the river without a sound.

"I have never been summoned before," the shadow said. "Why have you done this?"

"I have a question for you, Prudence," he told her.

"Perhaps you could accompany me into the water, and I will provide all the answers you need."

"Why don't you come out here?"

"If it pleases you." As the woman emerged onto the banks, he noted with disappointment that she didn't have a tail, just legs. However, because he was focused on something more precious to him than her nudity, he didn't see glistening scales dissolved into skin with every step she took.

"Do you remember a woman named Mary Lewis?"

"No," she replied.

"According to her, you met over a hundred years ago."

"That is a very long time ago," she said. "And I have been introduced to a great many people."

"She was standing on this spot, shortly after this bridge was built."

"Ah, yes. I do recall meeting someone then. She called herself a 'lady of the night.'" Prudence cocked her head with curiosity. "And what is your interest in Mary Lewis?"

"She's my great-great-great-aunt," he explained. "When I found out she had an encounter with a water nymph, I did some research. According to some legends, you are the spirits of dead prostitutes--"

"I assure you," she spat, "I have never sold my body to anyone!" Her anger then drifted away. "A fate such as mine is reserved for those who have stolen the love of another. Many of that profession are guilty of this."

"That brings me to my question," he said. "Is she with you now?"

After considering this for a few moments, she asked, "Would you like me to take you to her?"

"I know exactly what you're doing, Prudence," he snapped, "and it's not going to work."

A tiny smile grew on her face as she moved toward him. "How can you resist me, standing naked before you?"

He backed away. "Is she with you or not?"

"I have not encountered her," she replied. "How is it she died?"

"She threw herself off of this bridge."

"Then she is not," she said. "To swim with us, one must die at the hand of another."

His shoulders fell with a sigh.

"Why is it so very important that Mary Lewis be immortal?"

"This may seem weird to you," he started, but he stopped and chuckled. "I'm telling a mermaid that something might be weird.

"Anyway, the more I learn about her, the more I can feel her loneliness and despair. I've been almost..." He hesitated, searching for the proper word; "... possessed with this desire to console her."

"I see," she said. "And would this consolation be for her sake, or for yours?"

He didn't react.

She held out her hand. "I can give you all the comfort you seek if you just follow me."

"Prudence, don't."

"I've yet to meet a man who can dismiss me as you do. What makes you special?" She leaned in closely to read his eyes. She concluded, "You are one of us."

"I thought you said you weren't a prostitute," he replied. "You were pretty adamant about it."

"You take the love of men from their betrothed."

He snorted. "My johns are senators, ambassadors, businessmen, ministers; they don't love me. They just want to do something filthy to a boy."

"You smell of love," she told him.

"It's not good enough."

"I know."

He waited before asking, "Will I become one of you?"

"You cannot," she replied. "And you should not wish it. Like you, I've stolen the warmth of countless men, yet I am still cold. Unlike you, I will be cold forever."

Hope then fled him, taking with it the facade of strength he had been wearing for most of his life. He fell to his knees.

A tear tumbled down her cheek and over her lip. "You can do something I cannot," she told him. "You can vanquish this solitude."

"How?" he croaked.

"You could follow your ancestor," she said. "You could fall from this very bridge and die, as anonymous meat and bone. Or you could take my hand, and you will fall asleep in the arms of love, and you will never again be alone."

It's easy to forget that every prostitute is someone's son.

comments

Sticks & Stones

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 14:49:24 GMT

She stared at the ceiling. It was easy last night to avoid thinking about the afternoon phone call, but here, hours before the alarm would go off, there would be no avoiding it. Maybe if she reached over and played with the boy snoring next to her, she could put it off a little while...

She sighed. Now that the phone call had taken root in her mind, she wouldn't be able to focus, and, given the boy's condition, she'd have to do most of the work. Fuck.

"Lisa Green?" the man at the other end of the line had asked yesterday afternoon.

"Speaking," she'd told him.

"This is Steve Hartmann? From CUNY? In New York?"

For just a second, her heart and lungs had just stopped. "Hi?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your CV and letters of recommendation. Do you think it would be possible to schedule an interview sometime this coming Thursday or Friday?"

"Yes."

"I know it's short notice," he'd apologized.

"I can be there."

"But we need to fill the position next semester."

"I can make it work."

"And you live in Montreal, and most of the applicants live in the area, but you are extremely qualified, and we'd really like to meet you in person."

Ordinarily, she'd pick that time to shout to get this guy's attention, but this was someone whose good graces were crucial to her future. She decided to wait until he finished.

She was glad she did, because he had good news: "We're aware of the hardship this will be, so we'd like to reimburse you for your airfare." And bad news: "But due to budget cuts, you're on your own for sleeping accommodations."

"I'll see you Friday."

Clearly, she hadn't thought this out. She couldn't really afford to get a motel--the flight would come close to maxing out her credit card. She could always stay at a friend's place, but she didn't have any friends in New York. She did know people there, but one she didn't want to see again, and the other didn't want to see her again.

Fuck.

As quietly as she could, she rolled out of bed into a her jeans, pulled on a pair of heavy socks, shrugged on a parka, and tiptoed to her balcony. She stopped when, for a just second, and for the first time she could remember, she thought the weight in her jacket pocket was a half-empty pack of cigarettes with a lighter stuffed into it. And for just a second, she was so relieved that she didn't have to ride out the sting of this bitch-slap of a day alone. And then she realized it was only a phone.

Not long after Steve Hartmann had called her, she'd met her boyfriend at that franchise coffee bar, just like they always did after classes, squirming in her seat.

Her grin echoed in his face as he sat down and asked, "What's got you all worked up, babe?"

"I'm going to New York!"

He'd frowned. "When?"

"This weekend!" She shrugged. "Well, Friday."

"But..."

She always found his confusion adorable. Even more adorable was how easy it was to make him that way.

"But," he continued, "we're going to that dinner party at Gabe and Marilyn's this weekend."

"They'll understand."

"I don't understand."

She'd fought off the urge to keep herself from squealing like a little girl, because that's something Lisa Green never did. "CUNY!"

His eyes widened in disbelief.

"It's only an interview," she clarified, "but they practically begged me to come in. That's a great sign, don't you think?"

"What if they make an offer?"

"I'll pretend to play hardball, but I'm going to take what they can give me."

"Oh."

It was then that she recognized that the disbelief wasn't the kind of giddy excitement she deserved.

"What do you mean, Oh?"

"Aren't we going to discuss this?"

"We already discussed this," she reminded him.

He didn't reply.

"You told me I should go for it. That I needed to go for it. You know how much this means to me."

"I don't know if I'm ready to deal with this," he breathed. "This changes everything."

"You said..."

"It was easy to say that when I didn't think you'd get the job."

She set her jaw and took a deep breath through her nose. "Brody, that has to be the coldest way anybody has ever dumped me."

"Wait a minute," he said. "I never said anything about dumping you!"

"You did just now."

"We can't end this because of that!" he pleaded. "We're going to move in together!"

"You just saved yourself some trouble then."

"Come on, babe! I'm sorry!"

"So am I." She stood up and whipped her jacket off the back of her chair.

"But I love you."

She loved him too, but, Jesus. Did he really think that? She had to get out of there.

"Don't go, Lisa."

But she did.

Now, as the cold air burned her lungs, she asked herself if she'd overreacted. The answer was easy; she had. Still, this simplified things. Five and a half months was hardly enough of a relationship to bear the burden of long-distance--or even a mutual move. And it sure as hell wasn't long enough put up with that kind of shit coming out of his mouth. Besides, he hadn't called at all over the past nine hours. He was probably waiting for her to apologize. He didn't know her at all.

Still, she felt like such an asshole.

Goddammit. How the hell was she supposed to dazzle the folks in New York with this Brody-shaped hole sucking her in?

She took her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. Four thirty. Her alarm wouldn't go off for another hour and a half. The best way to pass the time would be to get her mind off of things she couldn't fix right now, and the only idea she had to do that would be to go inside and fuck the boy in her bed.

to be continued...

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Landlord and Savior

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 19:08:41 GMT

Does the cliché "diamond in the rough" have an opposite? If it does, it would describe the living room in which I sat. Outside, meticulously maintained brownstones walled off the neighborhood from the rest of Brooklyn. Birds sang, squirrels scurried, and young, white people walked large dogs and larger strollers up and down bright sidewalks.

Yet this apartment rotted like a cavity within an otherwise healthy set of teeth.

But hey: rent-control.

"Why are you looking at this place?" asked Pat, whose name was on the lease. "You could probably afford something in Manhattan."

That was a good question, but it wasn't addressed at me. Pat had double-booked this morning's interview for the roommate share, which would have been awkward had my current hangover not made me too sluggish to give a damn. I should have given several, considering the competition.

The soft-spoken vice president of a prestigious insurance firm sitting next to me replied with a cocky grin, "You know why divorce costs so much?"

"Nope," Pat replied.

"Because it's worth it."

"No frickin' kidding," Pat chuckled. "Want to see the room?"

Mr. Right nodded. I stood up in agreement, mostly because I was on the verge of dozing off.

Pat led the way down a short hallway, opened a door, and gestured. The first thing I noticed when I peeked inside was the soon-to-be-former tenant piled up in the fetal position inside of a sleeping bag. He groaned and waved his hand just a little.

"Hi," I said, "I'm Max."

He grunted.

"Raymond," said my rival.

The tenant grunted.

"That's Sergio," Pat told me. "He's moving out later."

"Pleasure to meet you, Sergio," I said.

Sergio grunted.

As we headed back to the living room, Pat asked, "And what do you do for a living, Max?"

"I don't know yet."

"I see," said Pat.

I may have been only twenty-three and fresh out of school, but I'd heard that phrase spoken with that tone enough times to know exactly he meant. I couldn't afford to scratch this apartment off my list, because it was the last item on it. The good news is, I had no objection to cheating. The better news sat on the bookshelf beside me.

"The Rise of the Son" was a fictional account of the End Times, written by a convicted tax-evader, noted serial adulterer, and beloved pastor named Jimmy Prewitt. A few years ago, while deep in an ironic phase, I'd picked up a copy, because I thought it would be hilarious. It turned out to be spiteful and self-righteous. Right now, it was my salvation. Pointing, I squealed, "I love that book!"

"Really?" Pat grinned. "I've never met anyone who's even heard of it."

"Well," I replied, "you know how the media is when it comes to Jesus."

"No frickin' kidding." He shook his head. "What's your favorite part?"

"That the Surgeon General turned out to be the real False Prophet. I didn't see that coming." I jerked my head toward Raymond with a convincing gasp. "Oh no! I probably spoiled it for you!"

"I wasn't planning on reading it anyway."

"I see," said Pat.

I tried not to smirk.

A few minutes later, Pat escorted us to the door, but signaled for me to hang back. Just as Raymond stepped outside, though, a pair of EMTs shoved their way in. They charged past us a few moments later carrying Sergio, still curled up in the fetal position in his sleeping bag.

Pat didn't blink. He whispered to me, "When can you move in?"

"Um," I replied.

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Counterintuitive

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 20:49:12 GMT

previously...

I don’t know why I even bother. I mean, I should have known when I took a goddamn train to goddamn Boston and tracked down the ex-girlfriend of Lane goddamn Sheridan to uncover that massive bombshell from his past, that goddamn Allen goddamn Dean would have beaten me to it. Yeah, so he’s only done it once before, but, given that he was my brand new nemesis, it was inevitable, wasn't it? I was getting old--almost twenty-eight. Over the goddamn hill.

And I don't even know why I bothered to schlep this goddamn lawn chair all the over from the goddamn Cloisters and up four goddamn floors and to my goddamn fire escape because I knew full well that the moment I turned my goddamn back, my goddamn neighbor was just going to sit on it. And I would try to goddamn converse with her, even though she was just going to call me Dude, like she had ever since I've goddamn known her. And it was only a matter of goddamn time before she blew my goddamn cover with my goddamn roommates and outed me as a goddamned heterosexual.

I sat in my prize, determined not to let her win. I had no idea where she was, but I knew she was watching me, and that this chair was comfy. Unfortunately, a sizzling jones then set in, and I needed to get high right goddamn now.

I stood and mourned the upcoming loss of my seat. Oh well, I sighed, my funeral. It took only a moment to gather up my pot-smoking and return to the outside, but that was all she needed. The inevitability of it all did nothing to lessen the sting.

"Dude," she said.

I gritted my teeth, and choked out a polite offer, "Weed?"

She shook her head.

I was used to that too. Still, just before I put my pipe to my lips, I told her, "Your funeral."

She sat up in the chair. "That doesn't even make sense. How is it my funeral if I'm not doing something that could make me cough and die?"

I took my hit and held it, wondering how exactly it was that I'd set her off--so I'd know how to do it again.

"Why would you even say that?" she persisted.

I exhaled. "It was just something to say," I replied. "I didn't even think about it."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "That was really weird of me," she said. "Sorry."

"That was pretty weird."

"You know what?" she continued, extending her hand. "Fucking day I've had, I don't care."

I handed her the pipe and a book of matches, asking, "Are you sure you can handle this? You had a lot of fear before."

She snatched the paraphernalia away. "Dude, don't." A flick of a match later, her beautiful chest rose as smoke filled her lungs. Her equally beautiful face grimaced as she tried to keep it to herself.

A smirk crept across my cheek.

She exhaled in a fit of coughs, and when she recovered, she snickered, "What are you laughing at?"

I shrugged.

"It's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny." I reached for my stuff, but she yanked it away from me.

"Mine!"

"Mine!" I replied.

"Yours when I'm done."

She took another hit, and another. I found that my irritation at watching my marijuana disappear, bud by bud, into this woman's mouth was tempered by the fact that it was one hell of a mouth. Finally she returned the half-exhausted pipe and a third of the book of matches she'd started with.

"Are you sure you're finished?"

She giggled.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Oh, my god," she moaned, "I needed that."

"Cannabis has that effect on people."

She sighed as I helped myself to the remains of my bowl, and I asked her when I exhaled, "You want to tell me about the fucking day you had?"

Her eyes shot open. "Oh, no."

"You want me to tell you about the fucking day I had?"

She sat up in the chair, gripping the armrests like she was on a plane hitting severe turbulence. "You want to go inside."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"I just shared an assload of weed with you."

"Dude," she insisted.

"Okay, what the hell is going on?"

She giggled.

I laughed with her, but I had no idea why. "Better now?"

Still giggling, she got to her feet and shook her head.

"You are one strange cat," I told her.

She started to glide toward me.

I backed away, until the only thing standing between me and a four-story fall was a flimsy, cast-iron railing. "Now just wait a minute."

She giggled again; her face was less than an inch from mine. I tried to turn away, but she followed my gaze in every direction. "I warned you," she said.

My blood pressure rose. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"I just remembered why I don't get high," she whispered into my ear before nibbling on it.

"Ah."

"This is your last chance to get away."

"You're not making a very good case for that."

I felt a quick tug, and my belt clattered onto the fire escape. "Your funeral," she said.

to be continued...

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Bupkis

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 17:33:34 GMT

"This is what I don't get," the clerk said. "You are standing there, telling me that you can get me anything I want, in exchange for two cases of beer." He added, "And, because that's not hilarious enough, you want to pay for the beer?"

"I'm not sure what's so hilarious about this."

"If you could get anything," he said, "then why don't you just get your own beer?"

"Were you a philosophy major when you dropped out of school?" I asked the clerk.

"I graduated, jackhole," he replied.

"I see that worked well for you," I replied back.

"Insulting the guy with the stuff you want isn't helping, you know."

"Respecting the guy with the stuff I want wasn't helping me either," I told him, "so I guess that leaves me at square one."

"You got balls," he said, "I'll give you that. You just marched in here and told me you were eighteen without giving me any bullshit about a lost ID or even a fake."

"That would mean a lot more to me if it came with a liquor purchase."

"Well, it doesn't."

"What does?"

"A valid driver's license or state ID with your real date of birth of more than twenty-one years ago," he told me.

"Then we're at an impasse."

"No," he clarified, "You're at an impasse, and the chick behind you who's probably not a minor is also at an impasse. Me, I'm right where I belong."

I smirked and raised an eyebrow. "I was right! You really were a philosophy major!"

"Get the hell out of my store."

"If I do what you want, will you let me buy the beer?" I asked, just in case.

His voice went up a couple of extremely frustrated octaves. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Only a little bit," I admitted as I obeyed and whispered a quick apology to the chick behind me, immediately averting my eyes from hers, which were stunning, amber, and hidden behind thick-framed glasses.

Shrouded in frustration, I'd made it nearly a block and a half before a voice called out from behind me, "Hey, Bupkis!"

Since I didn't remotely look Polish, I ignored it and returned to pondering my line of attack for the next gas station.

"Bupkis!"

I looked around for a Mr. Bupkis and realized that I was the only person on the street--other than the owner of that voice, of course.

"Why are you yelling Bupkis at me?" I shouted back at the shadowy figure strutting up to me.

"Because your name is Bupkis," the figure replied, stepping into the light.

"Why?" was pretty much all I could choke out at that point. That was because I finally got a decent look at the woman who had been behind me in line, with her black, boyish haircut revealing a neck that sloped from her jaw all the way to the collar of her jean jacket, which both concealed and hinted at the snug T-shirt beneath, with a hem that didn't quite make it to the waist of her just-as-snug jeans.

"Because that's all your incredible ballsiness got you," she replied.

"My name's actually--"

"Don't tell me," she interrupted with a grin. "Bupkis is cuter."

I blushed.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Mac." After a moment of silence, she added, "Mackenzie, in case you were wondering, but I'll be fucked if I'm going through life with a cutesy Scottish surname like that."

"Hi," I squeaked.

She held a case of Sheisse-Haus Lite to eye level and said, "Pay up, Bupkis."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't buy this shit for myself, that's for damned sure."

I handed over a wad of cash and reached for the case, but she yanked it away. "That just covers the beer," she informed me. "For me getting you the beer, you owe me one or two."

I'm not stupid. I knew what she meant by that. Unfortunately that's not what I heard.

What I heard were eight-month-old sounds, which were echoes of sighs and moans coming from the only comfortable spot in the car graveyard just outside the boundaries of my trailer park back home. What I smelled was weed, which was perfectly normal in this private, hidden location. What I saw was the misshapen lump of a hand underneath a T-shirt, cupping a breast, which was also perfectly normal in this private, hidden location. What I tasted and felt was bile burning the back of my throat, because that breast belonged to my girlfriend, whom I loved hopelessly, and that hand belonged to my oldest friend, whom I loved like a brother.

"Well," I replied in the present, "I was, uh, planning on using it to, uh, bribe this guy in the theater department for..."

"That's fine," she said. "I can't stay up too late tonight anyway. Classes and all." Her eyes never found their way back to mine by the time she turned and wandered away.

That's right. I was Bupkis.

to be continued...

comments

Food Memory

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:45:05 GMT

previously...

While enjoying a cup of black coffee in a semi-classy diner in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I flipped through one of my trademark reporter's notebooks and ran across a ten-digit number. With a shrug, I muttered, "Now's as good a time as any."

"Um," said the voice coming from my cell, "hello?"

"Hi," I told it, "this is Max."

"Max?"

"You gave me your phone number last night?" I reminded the voice. "Need me to narrow it down?"

"I don't give out my phone number a lot, Max," said the woman on the other end with a happy sigh.

"I'm flattered."

"And I never give it out to guys at that bar."

"Why not?"

"Well," she explained, "it's kind of an old man pub, not a meat market."

"I'm not really a big fan of meat markets." Especially when the meat markets are too crowded that particular evening. "However, I've always been a huge fan of that pub, though." This would be a lot more convincing if I could remember that pub's name.

"Then how come I've never seen you there before?" she asked.

"You must have just missed me."

"You're hard to miss," she said.

It was time to get off the subject of geography before my bluff ran dry. "You're referring to my distinctive broken nose."

"It does stand out," she agreed sheepishly.

"It also makes it tough to commit petty crimes."

She chuckled. "So why are you calling, Max?"

"I was hoping you were free tonight."

After a moment, she replied, "As a matter of fact, I am."

"What do you think about me swinging by your place later?"

"You don't even know where I live!"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

She paused again. "Monroe Street. Hoboken."

"That's good to know," I told her. "There are some pretty good takeout places in Hoboken. Got any preferences?"

"Surprise me."

"Sevenish?" I concluded. "I think that gives us plenty of time to get to know each other, and if we want to go out later, we can. If we don't, we don't."

"Eightish?" she replied. "I need to straighten out my apartment."

"Deal."

After I hit the End button, I turned to Gretchen West, the currently scowling photographer from my newspaper with who happened to be sharing my booth. "What?" I asked.

"Don't you ever stop?" she replied.

"Why would I?"

Gretchen shook her head. "What makes you think this woman you just met is just going to sleep with you?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Because she doesn't know better."

"She knows enough to find me attractive," I told her. "Isn't that enough?"

"You are so gross."

A small part of me winced, but that was mostly because I didn't usually endure such condemnation in the bright, green eyes of someone with that smile and décolletage. Her opinion of every other person she'd ever met sparkled invitingly, and so her negativity stung a little. But only a little. Otherwise, I welcomed her contempt, as it was matched by mine. Besides, her assessment reminded me of something important: "Are there any good takeout places in Hoboken?"

Aghast, she asked, "Why would I even consider helping you take advantage of some poor girl?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You are so gross!"

"You said that already," I reminded her.

"That's because I mean it."

On the inside, I smirked. For someone so vain and vacuous, she was getting pretty good at keeping up with my banter. On the outside, however, I completely ignored her. "For obvious reasons, I should probably avoid Italian. There's nothing sexy about slurping."

"You're making me uncomfortable," she told me.

"I should probably avoid Indian food too, because I don't know how her digestive tract might react." I frowned. "Have you ever seen those movies where the characters feed each other erotically? Maybe they could give me some ideas."

"Focus," she demanded.

"I suppose I could pick up some strawberries from a bodega on the way over, but that's not much of a meal, you know?"

She pouted, which was a lot cuter than it was intimidating.

I snapped my fingers. "Something with chopsticks! I can feed it to her sensually! Maybe sushi..."

"Max Fuentes!" Gretchen snapped.

"What?"

Aubry Hitchens, reality TV's It Girl de jour, cleared her throat from the other side of the table. "Are we going to get on with this interview?"

"Right," I admitted. "Totally forgot."

She sneered. "I have a talk show and a magazine shoot later, you know."

"Sorry," I replied. "Important business."

"That was important?"

I grinned. "I'll ask the questions here."

Despite herself, she smiled a tiny smile. "Then get on with it."

"Are there any good takeout places in Hoboken?"

Gretchen groaned, and Aubry frowned. "Is that really your first question?"

"It is now."

"I've never been to Hoboken."

I jotted down Hobo and struck a line through it. To her, I said, "What kind of food do you think of as sexy?"

"Is this part seriously going in the print edition?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't it?"

to be continued...

comments

Inconceivable

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 17:33:14 GMT

The events of which I speak transpired in the year of our lord, two thousand and four, in the final week of the eleventh month, in the city of Bloomington, Indiana. Bloomington isn't much of a metropolis, but the vast number of students at Indiana University certainly try to make it one. The side-effect of this is the sudden decline in the town's population during holiday breaks.

And so, during Thanksgiving week, peace reigns. That night, so long ago, the air was brisk enough to require a light jacket, but not so cold as to prohibit cycling. The hour was late, in that I had finished a long shift at the copy shop whose name I will not mention (it rhymes with "Pinkos"), and the quiet inspired me to push my bike home and relax.

On my right loomed the vast parking lot for the IU Stadium, on my left sat the houses unfortunate enough to be across the street from the stadium, and on my cell phone spoke the man who, unbeknownst to either of us, would one become known as "Best."

We'd been trading vulgar jabs, as usual, through most of the journey, until a police car whispered up behind me and continued on. Given my history, I still flinch whenever I see a representative of the law, but tonight, I tried not to show it. I don't have a firm grasp on the statutes of limitation on said history, so it was best I not draw attention to myself.

"Be cool," I told my friend.

"Why should I be cool?" he replied.

"Heat."

He laughed. "You know I'm not actually there, right?"

"Be," I repeated. "Cool."

"Okay, okay."

"Oh, shit," I muttered, because even the most law-abiding of citizens tenses up when a representative of the law flashes its lights and performs an action-movie U-turn in his or her direction, which this one just did.

It took only a second for it to occur to me that the officer in that car was not after me. It's not like I was carrying around a trunk-load of cocaine; I didn't even have a trunk. The inspiration for this act of vehicular drama must have been quite spectacular, and I was sorry I had to miss it. I mean, this town was dead.

As the cruiser sped away, reflections of its lights receded behind me... except... except they weren't actually receding. My heart leapt.

"Okay," I said, "I think something really entertaining is about to happen nearby."

"You're going to have sex with a bunch of goat farmers?"

"I've been doing that the whole time we've been on the phone," I replied as I looked over my shoulder, just in time to witness the same cruiser executing another U-turn in my direction.

This time, it took almost three whole seconds for it to occur to me that the officer in the car was not after me, even when the siren whooped that singular whoop that heralded an upcoming punishment for a traffic violation. Because that would be ridiculous--so ridiculous in fact, that the officer had to stop his car, jump out, and trot over to my side to get my attention.

"I'll have to call you back," I told my phone. "I just got pulled over."

"What?" he replied. "I thought you were walk--"

I flipped the phone closed and faced the civil servant who was only a little bit out of breath. He asked, "Do you know why I stopped you?"

There are so many things I wanted to say at this moment. The first was, "Speeding?"; the second was, "That may be the dumbest question I've been asked in some time." However, the police packed pepper-spray in this town, so I went with number three: "No."

Before he could respond, a second cruiser came up from behind, passed by, flipped on its lights, turned with even more urgency and panache than the officer who currently held my attention, and came to a screeching halt directly in front of me. The driver swung open the door and stepped out, one boot at a time. The time of night forbade the use of the mirrored sunglasses clipped to his shirt, but in his heart, he was whipping them off with cocky menace. He swaggered up to the other cop, looked me up and down, and muttered something in his ear. Officer One muttered something back, which caused Officer Two to study me more intently.

I would have been more self-conscious, were I not more clean-cut at that moment than I had been at any other point in my life--up to and including my First Communion twenty years before. This left my current state of being squarely between "What" and "The fuck"--so much so that I was completely numb to the third cruiser that whipped around the corner. The fact that its siren was already wailing and its lights were already strobing ferociously meant that someone had dispatched it. For me.

The third cop's assessment of me was much more appropriate given the situation. Frowning, he muttered to the other two, and they muttered right back.

After some intense chatter, Officer One stepped away from the group and asked me, "Do you have any idea--"

"No," I replied.

"Well," he explained, "this time of year, there is a rash of bike thefts while all the students are on vacation."

Officer Two watched my reaction before adding, "And walkin' on the side of the road like that, you look awful suspicious."

"Can we see your ID?" asked Officer One. I complied, and he took it back to his car for further scrutiny.

Officer Two folded his arms. "That really yours?"

"Yes, it is."

"Prove it."

This was a challenge, inasmuch as there was no registration I could pull out of my glove compartment, inasmuch as I had no glove compartment. And yet, somehow, a clear thought jumped into my head just as Officer One returned, license in hand. "If I unlocked this chain," I asked, "would that do it?"

Officer One frowned at Officer Three while Officer Two unfolded his arms so he could fold them again. "Sure," Officer One replied with a shrug.

It took only a moment for them to witness my demonstration, return my ID, thank me for my cooperation, and drive off. The blue and red flashing from their roofs gradually faded into the amber of the streetlights above my head. That night, I learned very important lesson: if I ever want to steal a bicycle in Bloomington, Indiana, I should bring my own lock and chain.

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"What Does Narcissism Have to Do with Me?"

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 12:50:20 GMT

previously...

I could tell you every single detail about the history of this cable channel. I knew the date and time of its first broadcast, and of the content it inflicted upon the world. That date was a long time ago, which, in television years, was a very, very long, long time ago, and the content was educational in nature, twenty-four hours a day. About halfway between that date and now, the executives in charge noted that learning didn't turn much of a profit. And so they set their meager budget to the task of scouring the continent for a half-dozen egos and ids the size of ten ids, transplanted them to a mansion in Long Island, surrounded them with cameras, microphones, liquor, and hot tubs, and set them loose on each other. And, despite the fact that an incalculable number of formerly educational cable channels had walked this path long before this formerly educational cable channel, the result was still gold.

Along with this disappointing story, I also could tell you the names, ages, and hometowns of every single one of these egos and ids. If said ego and id was female, I could tell you her measurements, and whether or not they were fake. And finally, I could tell you the highlights of their hookups, breakups, and fisticuffs.

Yet my soul has remained intact for one reason alone: I have never watched a single minute of this program. Knowing these things was my job, and I was damned good at it.

The champion ego and id of this particular house was Aubrey Hitchens—32DD, with a twenty-six-inch waist and what has been described by many as a "smokin' booty." Currently, this particular booty was strolling down 116th and Amsterdam, across the street from where I stood, my photographer by my side.

"I can handle this," she said.

"What's your plan," I asked, rolling my eyes. "Go up to her, compliment her shoes, trade ab-crunching techniques, and ask if you can take a picture and let me follow up with a few questions?"

"Well, her shoes are really tacky, but I like her purse," she replied without the slightest trace of irony in her voice--or even her soul, really. It's one of the reasons she got under my skin. The other reasons strained the top buttons of her blouse.

"That's not going to work."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"I don't like her purse," I replied.

"Fine, Mr. Bossy Pants," she said. "What's your plan?"

Bossy Pants. That was new. At least she called me Mister. "Just follow my lead," I told her.

"Why would I want to do that?"

I smirked. "You've been my sidekick--"

"Partner."

"--for how long?"

"Four months," she replied.

"And what's my ratio of pulling to not pulling things like this off?"

"After you, Mr. Bossy Pants," she admitted.

I jogged down the street as fast as my charcoal-lined lungs would take me. "Miss Hitchens!" I wheezed. "Can I get you to answer a few questions?"

"You have to talk to my publicist," Aubrey Hitchens snapped without slowing down or looking in my direction.

"Did that," I replied. "She told me there was a fee."

"Then pay the fee."

"Can't afford it."

"Then you don't get an interview," she concluded.

"Can I quote you on that?"

She stopped walking. "Do what?"

"I mean," I told her, "my editor demands a story about you for the weekend edition. He gets what he demands."

"He scares me," Gretchen agreed. "Like when he ordered me to get a candid of you in case we need to fill a hole in tomorrow's paper." Without warning, she squeezed off two shots from her hip. They were probably going to be amazing shots I had to admit. For someone like her, she really was an excellent photographer.

I continued, "I had hoped to talk to you, but I'll just have to write a column speculating as to why a self-proclaimed farm girl from Omaha, Nebraska, would be so vain as to charge that much money for her attention." I removed a notebook from my pocket for effect, not because I had anything to write down. Also for effect, I frowned and turned to Gretchen. "Are there even farms in Omaha?"

"How am I supposed to know that?" she replied.

"Because you're from Nebraska."

Her eyes widened in confused shock. "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"No," she reiterated, "I'm not."

"There's no point in denying it," I told her. "We already know the truth."

"I'm not from Nebraska!"

"You shouldn't be so embarrassed," I said. "Nebraska's a fine state."

"I'm from Baltimore!"

"You went to college in Baltimore," I clarified. "You went to high school in Nebraska."

"I went to high school in Connecticut."

"And before that you lived in Nebraska."

"No, I didn't!"

This didn't make any sense. Based on my rudimentary understanding of evolution, the kind of boisterousness, naivety, and delicious curves of someone like Gretchen West could only have developed from the hardworking, honest, God-fearing, German-Nordic genetic stock of the American Heartland. "At least tell me your parents are from Nebraska."

"What the hell is going on?" yelled Aubrey Hitchens.

"Isn't it obvious?" Gretchen replied. "We're blackmailing you."

"And if she can get that," I added, "then it should be obvious."

"You do this," Aubrey Hitchens warned, "you're burning every single bridge between me and your paper."

"We can't afford the tolls anyway," Gretchen told her.

Startled, I blinked and said, "That's... that's really fucking clever."

Her kissable cheeks blushed.

"Who did you steal that from?" I asked.

Those same cheeks flushed with anger.

I returned my attention to Aubrey Hitchens. "What do you say?" I asked. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

to be continued...

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Some Assembly Required

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 16:17:38 GMT

Something I couldn't quite put my finger on told me that the editor of the newspaper I wanted to employ me wasn't yet convinced I was the person he was looking for.

So that editor put his finger on it. "I'm still not convinced you're the person I'm looking for."

"Tell me, Myron," I started.

"You just met me," he replied. "You're not allowed to call me by my first name."

"Can I call you chief?"

"No."

"Name one celebrity who won't talk to your paper," I told him, "and I can have an exclusive piece in your inbox by deadline tomorrow evening."

"Okay, Mister..." He peered skeptically at my resume. "... Max Fuentes. If you can blow my mind with a story about Gerald Davies, you're hired."

"You won't regret it, chief."

I know that I regretted it, because there was no way a twenty-four-year-old, wannabe journalist could get access to a mega-super-blockbuster-action star like Gerald Davies. Still, my favorite things to do were things I couldn't do, so I spent the night and the rest of the next day looking for inspiration in a bottle of cheap scotch and a plastic bag full of weed.

It wasn't there.

Oh well, there was always blackmail. I opened my laptop, consulted a few search engines, and picked up my cell.

"This is Cheryl," said the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hi, Cheryl," I replied with an exaggerated twang, "this is Maxwell Fox from the Internal Revenue Service; I was hoping to ask you a favor." Yes, I was aware that impersonating a federal agent is a serious crime.

"You want a favor from me?" Cheryl asked with hesitation.

"Yep!" I whispered conspiratorially, "I wouldn't ask, but I am in such deep doo-doo." I laughed, "Sorry about that. I've got two little boys, and I think I've forgotten how to swear."

"Tell me about it. My girls have kids of their own, and I still say fudge when I'm really mad. How old are they?"

"Two and four." I plucked from my memory the names of my nephew and his best friend: "Luke and Cody."

Cheryl cooed.

"Can you tell me something?" I asked. "When do they stop putting everything in their mouths? There's always slobber on everything!"

She laughed. "Slobber's the least of your problems. Wait until they start driving."

"They grow up too fast."

"Yes, they do." She sighed. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Fox?"

"Please," I insisted, "call me Maxwell."

"Sure, Maxwell."

"As I said earlier, I'm in a bit of a pickle. It says here your firm handles the account of a Mr. Gerald Davies? The big movie star?"

"That's right."

"Well," I told her, "we're looking over some returns--routine government brick-a-brack; you know government."

"Tell me about it …"

"Well, I was supposed to draw up a little report, and I had all of my information on my little laptop, and it busted. You know computers."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, they told me over and over. They said, 'Maxwell, you better back that file up!' And I said I would, but I plum forgot! And if I go to my meeting this afternoon and I don't have that data, well, I don't have to tell you how much trouble I'd be in."

"What can I do to help?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"The information I need is in Mr. Davies's expense accounts for the last fiscal year."

"Oh, I don't know."

"Cheryl," I pleaded, "they're going to boil my potatoes. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't in such a jam!"

She sighed, "Only if you don't tell anyone about this."

"Oh, God bless you!" I gave her a private e-mail account I'd set up for such an occasion, and she promised she'd send the information right away.

"Anytime, sweetheart!" Just before she hung up, she added, "You just be sure to give little Cody and little Luke a hug for me!"

"Sure thing!" I settled back in my desk, gulping down a mouthful of cold coffee to wash out the taste of Midwestern colloquialisms. A few minutes later, Cheryl came through, and I had in my hands every cent that passed through Gerald Davies's hands last year.

More importantly, I had in my hands my new job.

I made a couple of similarly dishonest phone calls and found the number of his publicist.

"Mark Ryan," the publicist answered.

"My name is Max Fuentes," I told him. "I'm an unemployed journalist, and I'm trying to exploit your client, Gerald Davies, to get a job. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask him a few questions."

I could almost hear him blink in surprise from the other end of the line. "What?"

"Hold on," I said, "I'm nervous. That came out totally wrong. What I meant to say, Mark, was, what can you tell me about the Loving Spoonful, located on 103rd Street and Amsterdam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied after a long pause that indicating that he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Not ringing any bells?" I insisted. "How about the one on Franklin? Or the one on Avenue C? How about Forty-ninth and Ninth?"

"What do you want?"

"What I want is to understand why a multi-millionaire would spend 35 percent of his net income to open up a chain of soup kitchens and then cover his tracks so thoroughly."

He sighed. "His pastor told him that charity doesn't count if he brags about it. It's that simple."

"How does this sound?" I asked. "Banner headline: 'Action star fights homelessness!' Subhead: 'Davies defeats …' Oh, hell, what's another word for poverty that starts with D?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"Never mind," I told him. "The copyeditors write the headlines anyway. They're really good at that alliteration bullshit."

"Your point, Mr. Fuentes?"

"Let me break this down for you, Mark," I said. "I am going to write an expose of your boss's extracurricular activities, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. In fact, you guys come across better if you give my staff a 'no comment.' Hell, I'll save you the trouble and take that down right now."

"Then why the song and dance?"

"Simple," I replied. "In exchange for all this free character-building publicity I'm about to rain down on Mr. Davies, all I ask is that you reconsider your relationship with me and the paper that's about to hire me."

After a moment of silence, he grunted, "Fine."

I grinned. "Pleasure working with you, Mark."

Forty-five minutes later, my phone went off. Before I could even speak into it, Myron Fogle's voice barked at me. "This e-mail you sent me; is this for real?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"I just met you."

"Give it time, then."

"I want to see you in my office tomorrow," he said. "Bring a passport or two forms of ID."

"Thanks, chief!"

Just before I hung up, he added, "And don't call me chief ever again," he said.

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Coprolite

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 14:22:56 GMT

previously...

When her alarm went off at six a.m., her first impulse was to smash it to death with the table lamp. Instead, she held the urge back, picked up the phone, moaned, and shut it off. She rolled out of bed and rested her heels on the hardwood, cold-as-fuck floor and came close to crying out the dirtiest word that came to mind that day, just like she wanted to every morning. And, just like every morning, she swallowed it. This was her own fault for moving to goddamned Canada after growing up in a goddamn desert.

New Mexico. Shit. What did she have to go thinking about that for?

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and restrained the thoughts that wanted desperately to run there, steering them in the direction of the day ahead.

Shit. That didn't help.

She focused on the next ninety minutes.

That did it.

As she shuffled into the bathroom, her hand instinctively swept up a bottle of mood stabilizers and fumbled fruitlessly with the childproof lid. She barely kept herself from hurling it at the wall. After a great deal of concentration, she finally got the pills down her throat, leaving her free to speculate on the person watching her on the other side of the sink. Five years ago, that person would have been hung over. Ten years ago, she would have been crying. Twenty years ago, she would have been whining. This morning, she was calm, naked, and Zen with the events of yesterday.

She shook her head before wrapping her hair in a ponytail, slipping into a pair of track pants, pulling a sports bra over her head, making the necessary adjustments, zipping up a thick hoodie, and lacing up a pair of sneakers. On her way out the door, she leaned over to kiss the boy in her bed on the cheek. She wanted to tear off her clothes and fuck him, but she told herself she couldn't.

"Pete," she whispered, "I need to go to work."

"Why?" he mumbled.

"It's work."

"Oh." He rolled over. "Call me later?"

"If I feel like it."

Poor Pete--her perpetual rebound. She could tell he had been falling for her for a while now. She should probably stop calling him after days like yesterday, but she hated sleeping in a cold bed. Maybe she should just get a goddamn cat, like every other librarian.

It didn't take long to get to the gym, where she wrapped her hands and stretched. Here, in front of the heavy bag, her weight on the balls of her feet, her gloves up to keep from getting hit in the face again, it was okay to give in.

Five years ago, someone who maybe understood her more than anybody in the world--the person she hated most--walked out of her life.

One, two, one, two, one, six. Jab, straight right, jab, straight, right, jab, right uppercut. One, two, one, two, one, Sean.

Ten years ago, the closest friend she ever had up and quit on her.

One, two, three, two, five. Jab, straight right, left hook, straight right, left uppercut. One, two, three, two, Fuentes.

Twenty-five years ago, her mother was gone before they ever had a chance to get to know each other.

One, four, three, four, three, four, three, four, three, six. Jab, right hook, left hook, right hook, left hook, right hook, left hook, right hook, left hook, right uppercut. One, Mom, Mom, Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! DAD!

Yesterday, her boyfriend said something she could only think of as a deal-breaker, leading to a pretty dramatic public breakup.

One, one, four, three, two, seven. Jab, jab, right hook, left hook, straight right, nut-punch. One, one four, three, two, Brody. Okay, so she made up seven.

She bounced back for a second and had to admit that she and love just didn't get along.

Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of some person bouncing around in the reflection of the room. Teeth clenched, sweat and tears stinging her eyes, muscles tight, lightning searing her bones, she looked like someone she used to know.

One more round to go: Six. Right uppercut. Me.

After a long shower, she didn't have to worry about holding anything back anymore--the medication had kicked in, taking care of most of it; the rest had been rinsed away. It had taken a long time for her to stop hating herself so much that the world wanted her gone; simultaneously, it had taken a long time for her to stop loving herself so much that the world wanted only to do her bidding. Now, with her collar straight, her hair swept back, and her makeup alluring-but-subtle, she was just another twenty-seven-year-old on her way to work.

A long day beckoned. She needed to have a talk with her more-likely-than-not-ex-boyfriend, she needed to figure out whether or not to keep stringing Pete along, and she needed to pick up her phone and call the man who'd told her specifically never to "ever fucking dare" ask him for anything ever again and ask him for something. In other words, she needed to clean up a series of messes she'd made. In other words, it was business as usual.

She studied the woman in front of her, through the rouge, the eye-shadow, lipstick, and brushed-out hair. "Yeah," Lisa Green said. "I'm still in there."

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Divine Intervention

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 01:30:17 GMT

previously...

"Whoa!" I shouted to the hairy, naked ass and to the girl whose legs were wrapped around it. "Jesus! What the hell? There is a lock! Right there! To keep this kind of thing from happening! Jesus!"

After recoiling and slamming the door, I stole a quick glance of the bar where she sat, tucking her hair back into a clip with one hand and sipping from a beer with the other.

Forty hours ago, my world was gone. The woman I loved had dumped me with the help of the US Postal service, I had a few days left to vacate my apartment without anywhere to vacate to, and, because these things happen in threes, somebody put a gun to my head and took away my money. Alone and unsure, I'd resigned myself to spending the rest of my life without smiling again.

And now, there she was, catching my gaze and flashing me a raised eyebrow, a smirk, and a shrug so slight that only I would see it. She showed me how to get back to my feet and keep doing what I did best--much the same as I did to her from the moment we first met. She was beautiful, wild, sexy, and totally not my type. She was the most important friend I've ever had. She was my angel.

And it was that look in her eye that inspired me to open the door again and say to the couple, who had by now resumed fornicating, "How do you guys even dothat? Yoga? There's not even enough room in here for a sink!" I wish I was kidding, but it could actually be found around the corner. That reminded me: "And don't forget to wash up. Seriously."

"Get!" the woman yelled in the voice of a bear. "The fuck! Out!"

"Lock. Right here," I replied and slammed the door.

Forty hours ago, I never would have imagined me laughing, but here I was.

Lisa Green shot me an expression and gesture that said, "What the hell is going on over there?"

With my own expression and gesture, I replied, "I'll fill you in later," before stepping over to enter the second restroom.

"Occupied," snarled the unshaven redneck sitting on the toilet.

"I can see that!" I snarled back. "There is a motherfucking lock!"

I returned to the stool beside Lisa, sipped my beer, and told her, "Occupied."

"There's two restrooms, you know," offered Dan the bartender.

"Also occupied," I said. "By three people."

Lisa squinted at me. "Each?"

"Total," I replied.

Dan the bartender asked, "How can anybody even do that? Yoga?"

"And some lube, I'm sure." To Lisa I explained, "They're kind of small."

"Figured that's why the sink's on the outside."

"Do me a favor?" I asked. "Keep an eye out over my shoulder and let me know when someone finished up?"

"That might be sooner than you think," she told me.

"I don't know what that means."

"Was one of the guys a hick with a chin-beard and a trucker hat?"

"He's right behind me," I sighed, "isn't he?"

She nodded.

"Pissed?"

She nodded again.

Facing the man, I told him, "I said I was sorry."

"No you didn't."

"Well, I'm saying it now: I'm sorry I interrupted you defecating. Please forgive me." And with that, I returned my attention to Lisa.

"He's still here," she said.

"Still pissed?"

She nodded.

The man asked, "Anybody ever teach you to el knocko?"

I turned back around. "I see what you did there: You transformed an English phrase into a mockery of Spanish by adding an O and the article el to the..."

The next thing that happened was unclear, but I noticed that all of my air had been forcibly, the world burst into a bright shade of pink, and I groped the bar for anything to hold onto. As I sank to my knees, I managed to gasp, "Green, I'm going down."

The environment rushed back in, filling my lungs, and populating the space around me with an audience asking if I was okay. In my opinion, this was a dumb question. I panted for a bit and scanned the room for cute faces. "Any of you ladies a nurse?"

Just about every one of those cute faces frowned.

"Any of you ladies want to learn?"

That's when the crowd parted, and from my vantage point, I watched a pair of scuffed work boots stagger backward. The dungaree-clad knees attached to them buckled, and shortly thereafter, the rest of the redneck crashed to the floor.

Lisa's hand appeared in front of me, and I took it so she could drag me to my feet. "You had that coming."

"It's true," I replied.

It was then that we realized that everyone, including Dan the bartender, was aghast.

"What?" I asked them.

to be continued...

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Get over Yourself

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 01:07:30 GMT

previously...

A lot of people blow off work-related steam by getting drunk or high. My job is getting drunk or high, so I always had to look other places. I didn't really like movies because I had met too many people involved in making those movies. I didn't really like retail therapy because I didn't have any money. I couldn't go dancing because it's too social an activity. Same went for sex.

If there was one thing that always wound me down, it was the uniquely freeform structure of cooking. Not only did the sizzles, aromas, and flavors put me into a meditative trance, but I had something to eat when I was done.

If there was a downside, though, it was that I ended up with a lot of food I didn't know what to do with. Luckily, I had roommates, and one drifted in, buoyed by the scent of my hobby.

"Hey, roomie," Cameron said.

"Hey, roomie," I replied.

"Hangin' out in the kitchen?"

Since I was indeed hanging out in the kitchen, I could safely say, "Yes."

"You cooking?"

"Yes."

"Cool." He bobbed his head and studied every detail of the cramped space except for the large percentage of it occupied by me.

I waited a long time for him to say something, but nothing happened. It was pretty obvious what he wanted, though, so I decided to go ahead and skip the small-talk. "Want some?"

"I couldn't."

"I insist."

"Mitchell and I just ate," he replied. Not really hungry."

Maybe it wasn't that obvious what he wanted. "Oh."

"Roomie, I think we need to talk."

"Nothing good ever begins with that phrase, Cameron."

He took a breath and stared into space, looking for the words he'd need to continue. "You know that Mitchell and I have no problem with you smoking pot on the fire escape, right? We even join you sometimes."

"But...?" I asked, because the situation demanded it.

"But you need to be cool about it," he continued. "Somebody's been complaining to the super."

"Who?"

"The super?" he replied. "That's the guy that--"

"Who's complaining?"

"We don't know."

"I know who it is," I concluded. "It's our neighbor."

"No," he said slowly, "Emma and I talked a long time ago about it, and she's totally okay with us smoking weed."

"She's okay with you smoking weed," I clarified.

"So you're telling me that she dislikes you so much that she'd make all of our lives miserable just to mess with you?"

"Yes."

"That's crazy!"

"No," I told him, "she's crazy."

"You barely even know each other!"

Well, that wasn't entirely true. "Leaving aside the identity of the snitch," I said, eager to change the subject, "does the super know who's doing the smoking?"

"No, but he's getting pretty pissed."

"Well if he doesn't know..."

"Come on, roomie," he whined, "you know he's going to figure it out."

"He never struck me as a perceptive man."

"You've never met the guy."

"In that case," I said, "he'll never suspect it's me."

"I don't want to get evicted."

"What should I do, then?"

"Be," he replied, "cool."

He left me in the kitchen, considerably less cool I was when he'd entered. With a grunt, I spooned some of my lamb rogan josh into a plastic takeout container I'd held onto because I was my father's son, and he was apparently raised in the Great Depression of the 1930s. And the, after thinking long and hard about the implications of the conversation I just had with Cameron, I decided to smoke some pot on the fire escape.

I crawled outside, balanced the container on the railing, and spent the next hour watching the buildings of the city fade from the cool blues and grays of daytime to the reds and ambers of night. The sound and fury of my life dissolved away and blew away in a gentle summer breeze, and I hadn't even had to eat or spark up yet.

Wait. In other words, after all this time out here, the food was getting cold and my pipe was still in my pants. Fantastic. Now the memory loss was becoming a permanent fixture.

I shrugged and reached into my pocket, an action that knocked the container from its perch. In a move that would have impressed even the swiftest of hummingbirds, I lashed out my hand and caught it.

I placed it back on the railing, waited a moment for my heart rate to settle down, and put pipe carefully to my lips. No sooner did I light the match than I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey, dude."

I yelped, spun around, knocked the container over again, caught it, returned it, and hid the pipe behind me.

Emma shook her head and grinned that sexy, crooked grin I still remember from when I first met her. "You know, dude," she told me, "I'm not going to turn you in."

"Why would you think I was thinking that?"

"Because the walls are thin, and you were shouting."

I should have been mortified, but I really wasn't. "I was shouting?"

She shook her head and laughed. "Nice move there, by the way, Johnny Ringo."

"It's the boots," I informed her. "They're what give me ..." Once again, I knocked over the container, and once again, I caught it.

"There's got to be a better place for that."

I put it back and rolled my eyes. "Nonsense. This is the perfect... ah, fuck." Apparently I'd not braced it properly this time, because it tumbled off the edge, and I couldn't to anything to stop it this time.

It ricocheted off the railing below us, and, defying all laws of physics, bounced off the one below that before rebounding off the shoulder of a pedestrian, splattering lamb and yogurt and onions and ginger and cinnamon and lots of other colorful spices all over the sidewalk and said pedestrian.

Hypnotized by shame, I stared at the carnage until that he craned his neck to glare in my direction.

"Um," I said to him. "Sorry?"

He continued to stare, his rage simmering to a boil.

"Do you think maybe you can toss that back--urk!"

The urk happened because Emma had grabbed my collar and yanked me from the edge. Eyes wide and teeth gritted, she hissed, "Do you have any idea who that was?"

"An innocent bystander?"

"The super."

"Oh," I moaned, "fuck."

"You are such an idiot."

I switched to disaster mode. "Here's what we're going to do," I said. "We're going to split up. That way, he can't get both of us."

"Good night, dude."

to be continued...

comments

Disappointment

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 15:24:11 GMT

previously...

The ringtone I'd assigned to Sean McCoy was "Shower in the Dark" by Binary Mystery. The band was chosen because binary must have been his native tongue in the android factory in which I assumed he was assembled; the word mystery referred to the fact that I had no idea what the fuck he was about. The symbolism of the song itself was that it was free for download, and I didn't want to put too much work into a goddamned ringtone.

"Why didn't you shut that shit off, Max," asked my editor, Myron Fogle.

"Because nobody ever calls me."

"I call you."

"Nobody who doesn't ask me to do things that aren't my job calls me."

He frowned as he rifled through negatives in that sentence until he uncovered my point. "Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do."

"If you told me to eat the Chrysler Building?" I asked. "Would that be my job?"

"Yes."

"Checkmate," I admitted.

He sighed, "I don't like this either, Max, but word came from on high."

"Mr. Lloyd?"

Myron flinched, because he was Jewish, and his people were not in the habit of speaking the names of those at the top. And while Mr. Lloyd wasn't God, he was pretty close. "Not quite that high."

"So nobody gets struck by lightning if I pass?"

My editor took a deep breath and removed the reading glasses I was certain he only owned because he needed something to remove to show he was serious. "I really hate to tell you this, because you're a cocky son of a bitch, and the last thing you need is validation."

"It's true."

"You're the only one who can get in there." He explained, "When it comes to journalism, nobody's security is tighter than Hollywood's, yet you get through every time we ask you to."

"I don't do it because you ask," I replied. "I do it because they because they don't want me to do it."

"These guys really don't want you to."

"I'm listening."

"Total media blackout for three square blocks surrounding the entire Brook- Gareth Hotel complex. "Nobody gets in without an invitation, and those involve security checks."

"Catering? Cleaning staff?" I asked. "Being Hispanic does give me an unfair advantage."

He shook his head. "In-house."

I ground my teeth.

"You have thirty-six hours. No interviews--just the names of the people there, the gist of the keynote speech and the identity of the one giving it, and some color. All you'll need to do is get in, get out, and call Bill immediately so he can type it up." He sat down at his desk, returned his glasses to their former position, glanced at his computer, glanced back, and said, "You're still here?"

I called Sean back immediately.

He asked, "I'm curious as to your--"

"Busy," I replied. "I've got to get into this super-secret-media-non-grata-political-fundraising-bullshit and so some stealth reporting and I don't even know how I can get into the building without an invite..."

"I can acquire an invitation."

"Excuse me?"

"You are alluding to the governor's ball at the Brooke-Gareth Hotel tomorrow evening, are you not?"

"You're invited?" I stammered.

"Not presently," he replied. "Typically, I choose to avoid such events inasmuch as they tend toward the stuffy and pretentious." Yes, I was aware of the irony, but I don't think he was. "However, it will be a simple matter of a telephone call to amend my schedule."

And so, the next evening, a tuxedo-clad Sean McCoy strolled up to where I leaned on the outside wall of the Brooke-Gareth hotel and asked, "This is the attire you have chosen for such a prohibitively high-security, high-class gathering?"

"I tucked my shirt in!" I said.

"You may wish to remain by my side for the duration of the evening, lest your goal be ascertained by those who do not want their greased palms exposed."

I watched limo after limo pull up to the front door to be met by enormous, humorless security guards. "You're probably right," I told him.

Naturally I wandered off at the first sign of an hourglass figure in a backless evening gown.

"Hi," I said to the woman who possessed both the figure and the gown, "I'm Max."

"Sara," she replied before she even saw me. When she did, she looked me up and down and smirked. "You're wearing cowboy boots?"

"Yes, I am."

"At a formal, fundraiser?"

"Yes."

"You may be the ballsiest man in this building."

"I wouldn't go that far," I replied. "Senator Bruno Sanchez is standing over there, and he's running in the primary as a fiscal conservative."

She laughed. "Ouch."

"He's not the ballsiest man in the building," I continued. "That would be Councilman Marvin Hechtmann over there, who insists he's the go-to guy for family values. Now, if you want to expand the field to both genders, then the ballsiest person in the room is Senator Vicky Southern, who voted against the last federal jobs bill and has actively been campaigning to repeal it. And when the money from it started rolling in, she signed the checks and went to all the photo ops, and--this is my favorite part--claims that the money came from a different spending package."

With a grin, she shook her head.

I concluded, "On the other hand, I am wearing cowboy boots to a formal fundraiser."

"You know the press isn't invited here tonight."

"What makes you think I'm the press?"

She flashed me a dirty but amused look.

I gave her a card. "You win."

She took a look at it. "I was wrong," she said. "You're not a real journalist if you work at this paper."

"I like you."

"The feeling's mutual."

"Want to get out of here?"

"I can't," she replied. "It's my party."

"You're the governor?"

She laughed. "I'm the social director. I'm the one who brought all this together."

"Oh." I asked her, "You want to find an empty room nearby and fool around?"

"You really are the ballsiest person in the building."

"You didn't answer my question."

"There's an old smoking lounge on the other side of the bar," she replied. "No one knows it's there."

I don't know how long we'd been in there, but I do know that I had my hand up her skirt when Sean turned on the lights.

"Max," he announced, "you need to be aware that..."

Sara jumped off of my lap and began smoothing out her dress while I tucked my shirt back into my pants.

He groaned in frustration. "Is there any point in your life, Max, when you are not..."

Sara said, "Hello, Sean."

His back stiffened. "Sara."

"Are you his plus-one?" she asked me.

I shrugged.

She snorted and walked to his side. "You, of all people, should remember that the media is not, nor has it ever been, invited to gatherings such as this."

"He is merely my companion," he replied. "What he chooses to do with that status is his business."

"Your companion? I was wondering how long it would take for you to realize that about yourself."

"Aspersions about my sexuality? Mature."

After she stormed away, I asked, "What the hell was that about?"

He rolled his eyes. "She's my ex-wife."

"Say no more."

"I had no such intentions." He pointed a thumb at the door. "Regardless, I have come to bring to your attention that the keynote speaker has nearly ascended to the podium. It might interest you to know that she is Andrea Gareth, heiress to this both the Gareth and the Brooke family holdings."

"I need a minute before I can go out there."

"Erection?"

I nodded. Nothing Sean said surprised me anymore. Nothing.

Ninety minutes later, I whipped out my cell phone the moment I stepped out of the media-blackout zone. "Bill, I hope you're ready to type. We might be able to catch the first edition--"

"No rush," Bill replied. "We've been scooped."

I handed Sean the phone. "Take this," I said. "I need to find a quiet place to throw up."

"Evidently you have given Max news of an unpleasant nature," Sean said to Bill. "Please clarify while he vomits."

After several hours' worth of hors d'oeuvres fled my stomach, he handed me back my cell. "A journalist for your rival paper, The New York Caller by the name of Allen Dean had secured, by means which remain unclear, interviews both with the governor and Andrea Gareth, as well as an advanced copy of the speech she eventually delivered."

"Allen who?"

Sean replied, "Unbeknownst to either of us, you appear to have acquired yourself an arch-nemesis."

to be continued...

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