0 - Why Do I Tease? [Forward]
1 - The Days Afterwards [70% Complete]
2 - Drowsy Nights [Complete]
3 - Merci [Due for an overhaul, 20% Complete]
4 - PARTY IN THE USA [Due for an overhaul, 90% Complete]
5 - You Were Such a Habit To Call [Complete]
6 - An Interview [30% Complete]
7 - Travel [20% Complete]
0 - Why Do I Tease?
The fact that the only thing I have any talent with is writing kind of depresses me. I'm amateurish at best, and it's a dying art. Not a lot of people have the attention span, interest, or time to really devote towards reading and writing these days. More over, I have trouble writing. I'm always disappointed with the results and I can never seem to really IMPRESS the people I want to. It's always "oh that was okay" or "go finish it". I'm not as compelling as I'd like to be, and the only thing I really have going for myself is probably that I have a decent style developed for my age.
It's hard for me, too, because all of my friends are great and skilled creatives, both here and elsewhere. Musicians, fellow writers, artists, actors. I'm not jealous of their ability or relative success, rather just defeated by how insignificant my offerings are. I don't always enjoy the writing process, and to be honest, I don't enjoy much at all these days other than listening to music. I try to play video games and find myself with less attention span than ever. I talk to friends and just stumble or prove myself stupid. Movies keep piling onto me beckoning a watch, always eluding my to do list. TV shows suck. And I find myself one of those that I critique in having an inability to desire to read.
But, on my best of days, when I write something truly decent, I get that rush of effort justification and pride. I love showing my work to others and learning from my mistakes, and I love having something, anything at all, to try and impress people with. I'm vain and selfish and I need this meager talent of mine to try and show people that I'm worth keeping around. But I also love the idea of telling stories. Creative processes, as opposed to the technical process, always fascinate me, and I try my hardest to come up with a good tale now and then.
Beyond that though, I've agitated to many people with my insecurities and silly musings to not ever put anything out. Even with the scores more of supporters, I'd like to take a second to thank these people for their time and companionship in these regards. Aidan, Brandon, Caleb, Devan, and Kamal. You guys rock. Thanks for the back and forth with my work. I genuinely and humbly appreciate it so much.
So why do I tease? Because I care. I care about not disappointing my captive audience. Mostly, though, I tease because I'm still trying to prove myself to you guys, and care way too irrationally about what you think of me.
What you'll find here is some little short stories I've written. Some are done right now, some aren't, some need some fixing up. I wouldn't actually recommend reading any of them yet. I mean I GUESS YOU CAN IF YOU WANT. Some of these have been posted here before, but not an awful lot of them, and for different reasons.
1 - The Days Afterwards
I like this one a lot but I've never been able to finish it. I'm just about done now though, I've got it under control now.
Spoiler:
Rough asphalt, worn throughout the years from negligent driving, was the only thing that connected them to their past at this time. The roads were about as smooth as the Himalayas, but they did their job; they kept the drivers afloat on that day. In the front seat of the compact, maroon-colored coupé the first couple sat: he was the driver, a short but handsome man of his early thirties, with a beatnik sense of fashion and hair; she was the passenger, a tall, tanned, and pregnant woman of her late twenties who dressed conservatively and spoke liberally. A pair of designer shades shielded her eyes from the midday sun. Both were calm and content, sitting in the vinyl seats of the coupé in spite of the rough roads, with her occasionally starting a quickly abandoned conversation with him.
In the back was another couple: He was the kid, a freshman at the local liberal arts college, who was currently in clothes that could only be described as mismatched and the work of a colorblind man, a tie-dye snapback on the top of his head to essentially explain him as a person; she was the junior, and as her title would suggest, a junior at the same college, who was dressed in the vein of a hipster, large Ray Ban glasses and multiple piercings included. Like their eccentric relationship itself, the two spent their ride throwing candy hearts at one another, laughing quietly and saying little, in the name of Valentine’s Day. Throwing candy hearts was just something they did on Valentine’s Day.
As they travelled westward from nowhere to another ghost town on that Valentine’s Day the two couples remained in silence. They needed the break, all four of them. Nearly half the distance there, they decided to stop at the side of the road. Considering they were completely alone, as they always were, the four stopped to take a break. First to get out was the senior couple, and the driver’s first words were, “How do you feel, Ally?” She smiled, and nodded, and they simply stretched before they sat down on the hood of their car and cuddled together.
In the other corner was the kid, whose first words after exiting the car were, “I need to take a piss.” Sprinting off into the golden field of dead crops to the right of the roadside, he came back moments later much more relaxed. During that time, the junior was fiddling with her phone, and fixing the fringe of her flaxen hair, which she always kept shoulder length and evenly parted. Leaning against the right door of backside of the coupé, she waited for her man by visiting her favorite blogs and listening to her favorite music of the week. When they were reunited, they stood for a while, and slowly, but simultaneously, slid down the side of the car onto the ground. The couples sat like this for a time, peacefully watching the setting sun, look out into the decrepit fields, and then to the distant trees that made an evergreen skyline.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” the kid spoke up. Despite his cheerful words, his voice spoke to the contrary, somberly and tiredly.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, kid.” the passenger spoke up, giving a half-hearted smile that few couldn’t see through.
“I’m in college, and you still call me a kid.” the kid grumbled.
The passenger laughed, this time with some sincerity. “Would you rather deadbeat loser?”
Stifling a laugh, the kid sighed.
When the sun fell down, the four returned to their respective seats, and after picking up the troves of candy hearts that lied on the tacky gray carpeting of the six year old coupé. After a few minutes of silent driving, the driver flicked on his headlights. No one was on the road, and it was mating season for deer and buck, so he decided to play it safe. No longer content with the silence, the junior spoke up and asked, “Can you turn on the radio?” Her voice was sore; she was recovering from strep throat, and while she couldn’t speak very well herself at the moment, she wanted noise.
Sympathetic to her chronic illness, the driver spoke softly, “Yeah, what station do you want?”
“One-o-two-point-six.”
The kid giggled a little bit. “Wasn’t that your temperature earlier?”
She laughed, too, and then coughed a bit.
It was a jet-black and moonless night when they arrived at the local hotel outside of the town. A large neon sign of a white and green silhouette of a home with a red neon fireplace and large blue letters spelling, “Getaway Lodge” stood proudly at the prow of the hotel parking lot, but its name did little to comfort the travelers. It was exactly what the name stated it was for them: a getaway home.
Room 3-12 would be their home for the time being, or at least until things blew over. Two queen-sized beds were arranged for the couples, finely made but plainly adorned. A nightstand separated the beds, and held a lamp and an analog phone. In the drawer was a phone book, chock full of local addresses and numbers, none of which mattered to the companions. Collapsing on the bed, the kid and the junior fainted from sleep deprivation, as the past few nights were restless in more ways than one. The older couple settled in more elegantly, though only marginally. All of them were exhausted from the days beforehand.
Two hours of sleep, however, seemed enough for the driver. During the middle of the night, he found himself the victim of poor sleep and haunting dreams. He dreamt of small bodies scrambled around the passenger. Bloodied and grasping for breath, he saw the bodies twist their misshapen heads, their blood shot eyes staring at him. One by one, each of them briefly screamed out to him, and then died. The passenger was crying the whole time, asking “Why?”
To the two of them, it was a good question. “Why?” For him, immediately he wondered why he had such a dream. If prophecy had anything to do with it… The driver couldn’t stand it. His life would be over. Could his dream be prophetic? Maybe, he thought, though it hardly makes sense. Clairvoyance was hardly his strong suit.
All of this was too much for him. He wasn’t crying now; he was all cried out. He was emotionally fatigued to the point of breaking. He was too sore to muster the tears. She wasn’t, however. She never directly told him that, but from the way she looked at him back in the days beforehand he knew.
**** this. He was over thinking things. Taking out a joint, the man placed it in his mouth and took out a lighter. Before he lit, however, he had a change of heart. “She hates it when I smoke,” He quietly snickered to himself, placing the blunt back into his flannel jacket pocket. “She really hates it when I smoke.” Leaning on the balcony outside their room, the man closed his eyes, letting the wind brush against his face.
“What are we doing?” The man found himself asking. No response came: just as he expected.
**** all of this.
As morning tumbled into the sky, everyone had gathered themselves from the clutches of slumber, sitting around drinking piss poor coffee as prepared by the driver. The ragtag group reconvened at this point, coming to the show stopping discussion of what to do with themselves during their tenure in Hell.
“We shouldn’t stray to far from each other. None of us are really familiar with the area.”
“Or, maybe that’s why we should split up. Divide and conquer.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“You’re just stupid.”
“Honestly, I just want to rest for awhile.”
“Rest sound good. I’m down with sleeping in.”
“Sleeping is boring. Let’s go explore!”
“Explore? You do remember why we’re here?”
“Well, why don’t we just try to make the best of it?”
“I’m just going to nap while you guys work things out.”
Ideas were pitched anonymously. Though everyone distinctly said something, and their voices were hardly similar, any observer to the conversation would be baffled as to who said what.
Finally, they decided that the women would stay behind, considering the passenger’s pregnancy and the junior’s illness, while the men would travel abroad the town, seeing what very little sights there were to see. Everyone seemed to agree to this plan in his or her current condition. Saying their goodbyes, and promising to meet up again at a later time, the four officially split until the afternoon.
Leaving the hotel took longer than expected for the two, due to the overcrowded elevators and stairs under maintenance. So by the time they left, the kid was noticeably excited.
“That place was way too ****** stuffy.” the kid moaned, as they walked to the driver’s coupé.
Passively uninterested, the driver simply replied, “Yeah? Is that right?”
“Absolutely. That elevator was cramped as hell. What’s with the tourism here?”
“I doubt it’s that bad, but with the stairs out of commission, anyone who was staying here and wanted to leave was corralled into the elevator.”
“Jesus. Maybe they should get another. Or let us use the service elevator.”
“Heh.”
Both had changed from their yesterday attire. Snapback no longer included, the kid was now much more presentable, with a steady attire of a black zip-up hoodie, a dark green tee shirt underneath, and denim skinny jeans. On the other hand, the driver was dressed in a white dress shirt, his flannel jacket on top of it, and boot cut jeans. Neither bothered to deal with their hair; the kid always kept his head hid in a hat, and when he didn’t have a hat, his hair was either in the hands of someone else, or tousled and unkempt; the drive always kept his hair short around the sides, and slightly longer on the top. He’d run a comb through it once in the morning and then say, “**** it, my hair will never look nice,” as a part of his daily routine.
“So, kid, for as long as we’ve known each other, I’ve never known where you came from. Mind telling me?” The driver passively asked; his interest was sincere, yet his voice seemed uninterested.
“California. Mendocino area. I don’t really know where, because we moved almost immediately afterwards.” turning his head to the driver, the kid then asked, “How about you?”
“I was born back in town, at the municipal hospital. Never left, didn’t want to stay.”
Seeing as the hotel was only two miles away from the shopping district of the town the two had walked the distance. Not to cold, but with a distinct nip, it was not perhaps the best idea, but after such a long time sitting down yesterday and the days beforehand, the two wanted the exercise. More importantly, and probably not to their realization, they wanted the time.
“So…” trying to begin his thought sounding as inoffensive as he could, the kid spoke the words, “How are you guys?”
“She’s… well, she’s good. She’s been in some pain, but nothing you wouldn’t expect from the pregnancy.” with a smile on his face, the driver was happy to respond to the kid. “I think she’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, but how are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of everything. It feels as though those eight and a half months went by so quick, but I know they didn’t. Nothing about this has gone quickly, no matter how I feel now. I’m scared and I’m hopeful, but I don’t know how I feel about this.”
It was quiet for a while after he had finished. Finally the driver spoke up, only to repeat the kid. “How are you and her holding up?”
“We’re either doing really well, or we’re not holding up at all. I guess it’s fairer to say we never were holding up, but after the operation, she’s been different.”
“Is it even an operation?”
“It was for her, but for some people, it’s just some pills.”
Anger flashed across the driver’s face, but that anger died quickly, and quickly turned to sympathy. Whether it was sympathy for the kid, the junior, or himself, one could not tell. He did, however, tell the kid, “They’re not just ‘some pills’. They’re a little more than that.”
“Maybe.” these words were plain and indecipherable, much like the kid’s facial expression at that time. It was tired and despondent, but clearly thoughtful and confused.
Sighing, the driver apologized. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
The kid cut him off, however. “It’s fine. You have every reason.”
It was quiet now. Neither wanted to speak further, and each respected each other’s privacy of thought. Coincidentally, the two had just reached the town plaza, so conversation was no longer necessary.
Casually and guilefully, the kid asked the driver, “Do you have cash?”
The driver took out his wallet to check. Moments later, he confirmed, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“No, I meant for me, asshole.”
“You knucklehead.”
“I’m pretty sure my head is not made of knuckles.”
“Wise ass.”
“My ass doesn’t think, either.”
Banter was exchanged for a moment, good in nature, playful in style, terrible in humor. With the approaching scenery, it was hard to be somber, especially after the several hundred dead plants the duo had just passed. Of course, there were buildings on the side of the road here and there, but for the most part, it was just barren fields, cover crops, buffer plants, and lifeless trees. One could ask for much better, but one would be stupid to hope for anything else this time of the year. Instead of such sights, brick, limestone, wood, metal, and glass, while dull in color, were vibrant with life and greeted the travelers readily, certainly more so than the surrounding trees. The roads here were smoother, though still mistreated and hardly maintained. People dotted and checkered the streets, not in troves, but in fair numbers.
“Where should we head first?”
“Anywhere’s good.”
Despite such nonchalance, the two gravitated towards restaurants. No breakfast had been served in their own home, as the junior was the only one with any cooking prowess, and she wouldn’t risk plaguing everyone just for some toast. They eventually found themselves in a local diner, where they both ordered omelets; the kid ordered a vegetarian omelet, and the driver ordered one with peppers, onions, and sausage. Both ordered coffee, though the kid ordered his black with two spoonfuls of sugar, and the driver ordered his with milk and no sugar, as they usually did in the days beforehand.
If one were to ask the two girls of the group if they’re musical interest was similar, they’d probably answer simultaneously answer ‘no’. Whereas the passenger mostly listened to pop radio and didn’t care much about genre or even musician, the junior was an audiophile, a junkie of sound. She was also rather pretentious when it came to her taste in music, and more importantly, others tastes. Common ground could be found between the two; the passenger was open, if not passive towards most of the things the junior found, and the junior respected the fact that the passenger had a good ear for music, and the fact that she could sing well. Though often hard for her to admit, the junior was not a skilled vocalist, though she was a classically trained pianist and a self-taught guitarist, drummer, and mandolin player.
At that time, the two were listening to a radio station centered on alternative rock. It was an independent station, a rarity among the typical music stations that surrounded the area, so the song choices tended to be more frivolous and out there, but this particular station hardly made its goal to be as inaccessible as possible. Instead, the music acted as a good midpoint for the two of them. The songs were inoffensive and hardly complex, but clearly made with intention, which suited both women.
Smiling, but desperately trying to make conversation, the junior spoke up, and asked, “So, how’s Mac holding up?”
“Hmm. I can never tell. Mackenzie’s always so…”
In an attempt to finish her thoughts, the junior added, “Short?”
Trying to scowl at the junior for mocking her man, the passenger instead burst into laughter. “I was going to say hard to figure out.”
“That too. He’s always, like, ‘roar look at me. I’m mister macho man, no emotions required’.”
“Hardly.”
“Well, he is around me.”
She tapped the junior’s nose. “You’re not his girlfriend.”
“Pff. Then how’s he around you?”
The humor dropped, and a more earnest atmosphere replaced it. “Well… I’m not sure. He’ll tell you what he’s thinking and feeling often enough, but if you only looked at him, you’d hardly be able to tell. Whenever he’s depressed, he usually just looks… I don’t know how to say it… blank, maybe? Or maybe he’s never depressed. I can’t tell.”
The two women both sat at the edge of the elder couple’s bed. You could tell it was theirs because they bothered to make it. Both of them held drinks in their hands. In the junior’s hands was a cup of coffee, and in the passenger’s was a glass of water. Neither of them took a sip, and neither dared to face each other for a time.
“How’s Daniel?” the passenger asked with sincere curiosity.
Shaking her head, the junior told the passenger, “I don’t know. And really, I wonder if I even care how he’s doing at all.”
“Of course you do,” in protest of such a statement, the passenger replied to the junior with, “Of course you do, or else you wouldn’t have held out so long.”
“We weren’t ever really together, you know that. There was… something, but let’s face it, what we had wasn’t… it wasn’t… love.”
The passenger had the face of astonishment, with lit up eyes and shocked wrinkles, but she had known it longer than either of her younger companions. She asked, “Is that why…”
“Don’t. Just, don’t bring it up.”
Her usual evasiveness wasn’t there; whenever the junior wanted to avoid answering something, she’d shift her eyes and say something else. In this matter, however, the junior looked her companion dead in the eyes and told her so. This wasn’t enough for the passenger. Answers were needed in her eyes. Justification. It wasn’t fair to the passenger, it really wasn’t… Yet, she gave up. She knew all to well this would only end badly.
Bitterly, the passenger said, “Fine.”
As she said this, the song that was currently playing just happened to finish. “I didn’t really like that song.” the passenger spoke up.
“Yeah, me neither.”
The next few days went by quietly, full of self-imposed personal privacy, agreed upon silence, and seclusion from the world. Each of the four took their turns walking to and from the town, with exception to the passenger. She remained behind, late into her pregnancy as it were, and the driver was paranoid that something would happen just as she started to wander around outside. Though they argued about this at one point, she eventually gave way, and she agreed to stay indoors during their tenure away from home.
“It’s not a vacation,” he would say.
“It’s as close as we’re going to get to one for a long time.” she would say. And then went on like this for an hour, until she finally caved.
A few days after their arrival, the junior and the kid decided to take a walk in the town, to get away from their seniors’ volatile situation. They walked around, made pleasant small chat, on things like the weather and music, and ignored the high tensions between themselves. Hollow smiles were spread across their faces, a façade for their own benefits. Too many things had happened before they came to this new town; too many things were left undone during their stay. No resolution to the days beforehand had come, and this frustrated both of them. And yet, neither would say a word. Neither would speak their minds, unable to speak their minds, but unwilling to wait for the other to speak first.
As they walked, the duo passed a children’s toy store. Plastic dreams lined the right store window, advertising the latest crazes for children. On the left store window, toddler and infantile toys and trinkets were on display, everything from cribs and changing tables to shakers and teething rings. For the junior, this was the tipping point.
“We made the right choice,” she said, looking the kid straight in the eyes.
He turned to her, and after a moment, he told her, “I know.”
She started into the kid’s eyes, and asked him, “What else could we have done?”
“I don’t know.” the kid could be nothing but honest with her.
“We made the right choice,” the junior repeated, trying to convince herself that what she had done was all she could have done.
“I think so.” his confidence in the choice, however, waned.
“Danny, we made the right choice. Didn’t we?” the junior asked, her eyes welling up. She grabbed the kid by his shoulders.
“El…”
“Don’t ‘El’ me! I’m serious! Daniel, did we make the right choice?”
“Elliot, I…”
The kid shuttered as his words refused to come out of his mouth.
“What? What do ‘you’ think?”
The kid exploded. “Elliot, I don’t know! Goddamn it, I don’t know! It was your choice; it was always your choice! I can’t be your judge! I- I can’t be your judge, Elliot.”
Pedestrians stared at them, ignoring what they were saying. Staring is all they could do; people were too preoccupied with their own lives to stop and talk the two through things. But staring is something they could make time for. Judgment was always something pedestrians and strangers could make time for, something they could always impart when they saw people acting out. And the junior and the kid were absolutely acting out.
They fought for a time. They spoke much without ever saying anything.
When the two finally settled down, they sat together on a red bench in front of the toy store. “Elliot, I told you from the beginning that this was your choice. I can’t tell you if what you did was right for you.”
“Was it right for you?”
The kid could say nothing.
“Was it?”
He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“We didn’t think about this nearly as much as we should’ve.” she unenthusiastically laughed as she said this.
The awkward laugh was reflected in the kid. “No, I guess we didn’t.”
The two stared up into the sky, as pedestrians continued to pass and judge the couple on the red bench.
“I hate this.” he smiled.
“Believe me, I hate it even more than you.” she laughed.
The only thing between the two now was space. They had never been this close, not even as they became the beast. They held hands, and stared at the sky. They were still and they were silent.
They returned to their hotel in good time, traveling in peace until the very end.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as they stepped into the lobby and out of the reaches of the world.
“I don’t know. But I don’t care. It’s over. And that’s good enough for now.”
The absence of their younger companions gave time for the passenger and the driver to work out their issues. It was better that they didn’t, though, in the passenger’s mind, and she made that known. She needed a break, and the driver approved with no resistance. They sat alone in their hotel room, cuddling on their queen-sized hotel bed. The driver sits against the wooden frame, and the passenger rests her head on his lap. He strokes her hair, and she keeps her eyes closed.
Curtains closed and lights out, they wanted nothing more than the comfort of each other. This is the most sincere and serene moment they’ve had in months. No, not months: years. For a single moment the couple was at peace with each other.
But he had to open his mouth.
“Allison, can we talk for a second?” his voice was shaken, but mostly composed.
She didn’t notice it, though. “Sure, what’s up?” her voice, on the other hand, was serene, with the radiance of a girl on the top of a perfect pyramid of cheerleaders.
“A few nights ago, I had a dream.”
And then that pyramid crashed, the girls toppling over one another, until the top landed on the field, her leg twisted and mangled. The passenger would have none of this. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to yourself. Stop.”
There it was. There was the cut. She wouldn’t have any of it.
“It wasn’t anything, I don’t think,” he starts, trying to soften any blows he might deal to her.
“Mackenzie, don’t. We don’t need this.” She told him, trying to shut down this entirely unpleasant line of thought.
The driver wouldn’t be shut down. “I saw them.”
“Them?” a shock ran throughout her body. ‘Them’. She feared that they were exactly what she thought they were.
“Goddamn it! No, no, no, Mackenzie, no! Don’t say that.”
She started beating his arm, as he looked dead on into her eyes and took the punishment. The punches stopped and all that remained was horror and tears. The couple had never felt such fear for life in their whole lives together in the days beforehand. This couldn’t be ignored.
“Mack, holy- I-I- No! This isn’t like before. We’re good, Mack. We’re not gonna- They’re not gonna… No. We’re okay. You can’t think like that! I know you’re scared but this time is different. I’ve been through eight months of morning sickness, emotional turmoil, ridiculous pain, paparazzi hounding, parental moaning and groaning, and overeating for this kid to be a success. We are not going out like that. No. This is happening, and this kid is going to be the love of our life, and we’re going to live and breathe for it, and nothing in the world is going to go wrong.”
And it was in that moment she started having contractions.
There is no real way to describe with any justice what came next unless you’ve lived through it yourself. They waited for a time to see whether or not the contractions were real or not. She had already been through several false alarms, and hospitals are notoriously picky about when they’ll take a woman giving birth. After a few minutes and some relaxing pastimes like watching reruns of Friends and as the pain got to be far too much, they left for the hospital. On the way there, the driver and passenger took their typical positions, with only a cryptic text to their companions to give them any inclining as to the urgency of what was happening.
They arrived just in time for the pain. The passenger was ushered in with the speed and intent of a raging bull, but the grace of a glass sculpture by the driver. A brief check-in at the reception desk seemed to take an eternity.
In the back was another couple: He was the kid, a freshman at the local liberal arts college, who was currently in clothes that could only be described as mismatched and the work of a colorblind man, a tie-dye snapback on the top of his head to essentially explain him as a person; she was the junior, and as her title would suggest, a junior at the same college, who was dressed in the vein of a hipster, large Ray Ban glasses and multiple piercings included. Like their eccentric relationship itself, the two spent their ride throwing candy hearts at one another, laughing quietly and saying little, in the name of Valentine’s Day. Throwing candy hearts was just something they did on Valentine’s Day.
As they travelled westward from nowhere to another ghost town on that Valentine’s Day the two couples remained in silence. They needed the break, all four of them. Nearly half the distance there, they decided to stop at the side of the road. Considering they were completely alone, as they always were, the four stopped to take a break. First to get out was the senior couple, and the driver’s first words were, “How do you feel, Ally?” She smiled, and nodded, and they simply stretched before they sat down on the hood of their car and cuddled together.
In the other corner was the kid, whose first words after exiting the car were, “I need to take a piss.” Sprinting off into the golden field of dead crops to the right of the roadside, he came back moments later much more relaxed. During that time, the junior was fiddling with her phone, and fixing the fringe of her flaxen hair, which she always kept shoulder length and evenly parted. Leaning against the right door of backside of the coupé, she waited for her man by visiting her favorite blogs and listening to her favorite music of the week. When they were reunited, they stood for a while, and slowly, but simultaneously, slid down the side of the car onto the ground. The couples sat like this for a time, peacefully watching the setting sun, look out into the decrepit fields, and then to the distant trees that made an evergreen skyline.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” the kid spoke up. Despite his cheerful words, his voice spoke to the contrary, somberly and tiredly.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, kid.” the passenger spoke up, giving a half-hearted smile that few couldn’t see through.
“I’m in college, and you still call me a kid.” the kid grumbled.
The passenger laughed, this time with some sincerity. “Would you rather deadbeat loser?”
Stifling a laugh, the kid sighed.
When the sun fell down, the four returned to their respective seats, and after picking up the troves of candy hearts that lied on the tacky gray carpeting of the six year old coupé. After a few minutes of silent driving, the driver flicked on his headlights. No one was on the road, and it was mating season for deer and buck, so he decided to play it safe. No longer content with the silence, the junior spoke up and asked, “Can you turn on the radio?” Her voice was sore; she was recovering from strep throat, and while she couldn’t speak very well herself at the moment, she wanted noise.
Sympathetic to her chronic illness, the driver spoke softly, “Yeah, what station do you want?”
“One-o-two-point-six.”
The kid giggled a little bit. “Wasn’t that your temperature earlier?”
She laughed, too, and then coughed a bit.
It was a jet-black and moonless night when they arrived at the local hotel outside of the town. A large neon sign of a white and green silhouette of a home with a red neon fireplace and large blue letters spelling, “Getaway Lodge” stood proudly at the prow of the hotel parking lot, but its name did little to comfort the travelers. It was exactly what the name stated it was for them: a getaway home.
Room 3-12 would be their home for the time being, or at least until things blew over. Two queen-sized beds were arranged for the couples, finely made but plainly adorned. A nightstand separated the beds, and held a lamp and an analog phone. In the drawer was a phone book, chock full of local addresses and numbers, none of which mattered to the companions. Collapsing on the bed, the kid and the junior fainted from sleep deprivation, as the past few nights were restless in more ways than one. The older couple settled in more elegantly, though only marginally. All of them were exhausted from the days beforehand.
Two hours of sleep, however, seemed enough for the driver. During the middle of the night, he found himself the victim of poor sleep and haunting dreams. He dreamt of small bodies scrambled around the passenger. Bloodied and grasping for breath, he saw the bodies twist their misshapen heads, their blood shot eyes staring at him. One by one, each of them briefly screamed out to him, and then died. The passenger was crying the whole time, asking “Why?”
To the two of them, it was a good question. “Why?” For him, immediately he wondered why he had such a dream. If prophecy had anything to do with it… The driver couldn’t stand it. His life would be over. Could his dream be prophetic? Maybe, he thought, though it hardly makes sense. Clairvoyance was hardly his strong suit.
All of this was too much for him. He wasn’t crying now; he was all cried out. He was emotionally fatigued to the point of breaking. He was too sore to muster the tears. She wasn’t, however. She never directly told him that, but from the way she looked at him back in the days beforehand he knew.
**** this. He was over thinking things. Taking out a joint, the man placed it in his mouth and took out a lighter. Before he lit, however, he had a change of heart. “She hates it when I smoke,” He quietly snickered to himself, placing the blunt back into his flannel jacket pocket. “She really hates it when I smoke.” Leaning on the balcony outside their room, the man closed his eyes, letting the wind brush against his face.
“What are we doing?” The man found himself asking. No response came: just as he expected.
**** all of this.
As morning tumbled into the sky, everyone had gathered themselves from the clutches of slumber, sitting around drinking piss poor coffee as prepared by the driver. The ragtag group reconvened at this point, coming to the show stopping discussion of what to do with themselves during their tenure in Hell.
“We shouldn’t stray to far from each other. None of us are really familiar with the area.”
“Or, maybe that’s why we should split up. Divide and conquer.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“You’re just stupid.”
“Honestly, I just want to rest for awhile.”
“Rest sound good. I’m down with sleeping in.”
“Sleeping is boring. Let’s go explore!”
“Explore? You do remember why we’re here?”
“Well, why don’t we just try to make the best of it?”
“I’m just going to nap while you guys work things out.”
Ideas were pitched anonymously. Though everyone distinctly said something, and their voices were hardly similar, any observer to the conversation would be baffled as to who said what.
Finally, they decided that the women would stay behind, considering the passenger’s pregnancy and the junior’s illness, while the men would travel abroad the town, seeing what very little sights there were to see. Everyone seemed to agree to this plan in his or her current condition. Saying their goodbyes, and promising to meet up again at a later time, the four officially split until the afternoon.
Leaving the hotel took longer than expected for the two, due to the overcrowded elevators and stairs under maintenance. So by the time they left, the kid was noticeably excited.
“That place was way too ****** stuffy.” the kid moaned, as they walked to the driver’s coupé.
Passively uninterested, the driver simply replied, “Yeah? Is that right?”
“Absolutely. That elevator was cramped as hell. What’s with the tourism here?”
“I doubt it’s that bad, but with the stairs out of commission, anyone who was staying here and wanted to leave was corralled into the elevator.”
“Jesus. Maybe they should get another. Or let us use the service elevator.”
“Heh.”
Both had changed from their yesterday attire. Snapback no longer included, the kid was now much more presentable, with a steady attire of a black zip-up hoodie, a dark green tee shirt underneath, and denim skinny jeans. On the other hand, the driver was dressed in a white dress shirt, his flannel jacket on top of it, and boot cut jeans. Neither bothered to deal with their hair; the kid always kept his head hid in a hat, and when he didn’t have a hat, his hair was either in the hands of someone else, or tousled and unkempt; the drive always kept his hair short around the sides, and slightly longer on the top. He’d run a comb through it once in the morning and then say, “**** it, my hair will never look nice,” as a part of his daily routine.
“So, kid, for as long as we’ve known each other, I’ve never known where you came from. Mind telling me?” The driver passively asked; his interest was sincere, yet his voice seemed uninterested.
“California. Mendocino area. I don’t really know where, because we moved almost immediately afterwards.” turning his head to the driver, the kid then asked, “How about you?”
“I was born back in town, at the municipal hospital. Never left, didn’t want to stay.”
Seeing as the hotel was only two miles away from the shopping district of the town the two had walked the distance. Not to cold, but with a distinct nip, it was not perhaps the best idea, but after such a long time sitting down yesterday and the days beforehand, the two wanted the exercise. More importantly, and probably not to their realization, they wanted the time.
“So…” trying to begin his thought sounding as inoffensive as he could, the kid spoke the words, “How are you guys?”
“She’s… well, she’s good. She’s been in some pain, but nothing you wouldn’t expect from the pregnancy.” with a smile on his face, the driver was happy to respond to the kid. “I think she’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, but how are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of everything. It feels as though those eight and a half months went by so quick, but I know they didn’t. Nothing about this has gone quickly, no matter how I feel now. I’m scared and I’m hopeful, but I don’t know how I feel about this.”
It was quiet for a while after he had finished. Finally the driver spoke up, only to repeat the kid. “How are you and her holding up?”
“We’re either doing really well, or we’re not holding up at all. I guess it’s fairer to say we never were holding up, but after the operation, she’s been different.”
“Is it even an operation?”
“It was for her, but for some people, it’s just some pills.”
Anger flashed across the driver’s face, but that anger died quickly, and quickly turned to sympathy. Whether it was sympathy for the kid, the junior, or himself, one could not tell. He did, however, tell the kid, “They’re not just ‘some pills’. They’re a little more than that.”
“Maybe.” these words were plain and indecipherable, much like the kid’s facial expression at that time. It was tired and despondent, but clearly thoughtful and confused.
Sighing, the driver apologized. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
The kid cut him off, however. “It’s fine. You have every reason.”
It was quiet now. Neither wanted to speak further, and each respected each other’s privacy of thought. Coincidentally, the two had just reached the town plaza, so conversation was no longer necessary.
Casually and guilefully, the kid asked the driver, “Do you have cash?”
The driver took out his wallet to check. Moments later, he confirmed, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“No, I meant for me, asshole.”
“You knucklehead.”
“I’m pretty sure my head is not made of knuckles.”
“Wise ass.”
“My ass doesn’t think, either.”
Banter was exchanged for a moment, good in nature, playful in style, terrible in humor. With the approaching scenery, it was hard to be somber, especially after the several hundred dead plants the duo had just passed. Of course, there were buildings on the side of the road here and there, but for the most part, it was just barren fields, cover crops, buffer plants, and lifeless trees. One could ask for much better, but one would be stupid to hope for anything else this time of the year. Instead of such sights, brick, limestone, wood, metal, and glass, while dull in color, were vibrant with life and greeted the travelers readily, certainly more so than the surrounding trees. The roads here were smoother, though still mistreated and hardly maintained. People dotted and checkered the streets, not in troves, but in fair numbers.
“Where should we head first?”
“Anywhere’s good.”
Despite such nonchalance, the two gravitated towards restaurants. No breakfast had been served in their own home, as the junior was the only one with any cooking prowess, and she wouldn’t risk plaguing everyone just for some toast. They eventually found themselves in a local diner, where they both ordered omelets; the kid ordered a vegetarian omelet, and the driver ordered one with peppers, onions, and sausage. Both ordered coffee, though the kid ordered his black with two spoonfuls of sugar, and the driver ordered his with milk and no sugar, as they usually did in the days beforehand.
If one were to ask the two girls of the group if they’re musical interest was similar, they’d probably answer simultaneously answer ‘no’. Whereas the passenger mostly listened to pop radio and didn’t care much about genre or even musician, the junior was an audiophile, a junkie of sound. She was also rather pretentious when it came to her taste in music, and more importantly, others tastes. Common ground could be found between the two; the passenger was open, if not passive towards most of the things the junior found, and the junior respected the fact that the passenger had a good ear for music, and the fact that she could sing well. Though often hard for her to admit, the junior was not a skilled vocalist, though she was a classically trained pianist and a self-taught guitarist, drummer, and mandolin player.
At that time, the two were listening to a radio station centered on alternative rock. It was an independent station, a rarity among the typical music stations that surrounded the area, so the song choices tended to be more frivolous and out there, but this particular station hardly made its goal to be as inaccessible as possible. Instead, the music acted as a good midpoint for the two of them. The songs were inoffensive and hardly complex, but clearly made with intention, which suited both women.
Smiling, but desperately trying to make conversation, the junior spoke up, and asked, “So, how’s Mac holding up?”
“Hmm. I can never tell. Mackenzie’s always so…”
In an attempt to finish her thoughts, the junior added, “Short?”
Trying to scowl at the junior for mocking her man, the passenger instead burst into laughter. “I was going to say hard to figure out.”
“That too. He’s always, like, ‘roar look at me. I’m mister macho man, no emotions required’.”
“Hardly.”
“Well, he is around me.”
She tapped the junior’s nose. “You’re not his girlfriend.”
“Pff. Then how’s he around you?”
The humor dropped, and a more earnest atmosphere replaced it. “Well… I’m not sure. He’ll tell you what he’s thinking and feeling often enough, but if you only looked at him, you’d hardly be able to tell. Whenever he’s depressed, he usually just looks… I don’t know how to say it… blank, maybe? Or maybe he’s never depressed. I can’t tell.”
The two women both sat at the edge of the elder couple’s bed. You could tell it was theirs because they bothered to make it. Both of them held drinks in their hands. In the junior’s hands was a cup of coffee, and in the passenger’s was a glass of water. Neither of them took a sip, and neither dared to face each other for a time.
“How’s Daniel?” the passenger asked with sincere curiosity.
Shaking her head, the junior told the passenger, “I don’t know. And really, I wonder if I even care how he’s doing at all.”
“Of course you do,” in protest of such a statement, the passenger replied to the junior with, “Of course you do, or else you wouldn’t have held out so long.”
“We weren’t ever really together, you know that. There was… something, but let’s face it, what we had wasn’t… it wasn’t… love.”
The passenger had the face of astonishment, with lit up eyes and shocked wrinkles, but she had known it longer than either of her younger companions. She asked, “Is that why…”
“Don’t. Just, don’t bring it up.”
Her usual evasiveness wasn’t there; whenever the junior wanted to avoid answering something, she’d shift her eyes and say something else. In this matter, however, the junior looked her companion dead in the eyes and told her so. This wasn’t enough for the passenger. Answers were needed in her eyes. Justification. It wasn’t fair to the passenger, it really wasn’t… Yet, she gave up. She knew all to well this would only end badly.
Bitterly, the passenger said, “Fine.”
As she said this, the song that was currently playing just happened to finish. “I didn’t really like that song.” the passenger spoke up.
“Yeah, me neither.”
The next few days went by quietly, full of self-imposed personal privacy, agreed upon silence, and seclusion from the world. Each of the four took their turns walking to and from the town, with exception to the passenger. She remained behind, late into her pregnancy as it were, and the driver was paranoid that something would happen just as she started to wander around outside. Though they argued about this at one point, she eventually gave way, and she agreed to stay indoors during their tenure away from home.
“It’s not a vacation,” he would say.
“It’s as close as we’re going to get to one for a long time.” she would say. And then went on like this for an hour, until she finally caved.
A few days after their arrival, the junior and the kid decided to take a walk in the town, to get away from their seniors’ volatile situation. They walked around, made pleasant small chat, on things like the weather and music, and ignored the high tensions between themselves. Hollow smiles were spread across their faces, a façade for their own benefits. Too many things had happened before they came to this new town; too many things were left undone during their stay. No resolution to the days beforehand had come, and this frustrated both of them. And yet, neither would say a word. Neither would speak their minds, unable to speak their minds, but unwilling to wait for the other to speak first.
As they walked, the duo passed a children’s toy store. Plastic dreams lined the right store window, advertising the latest crazes for children. On the left store window, toddler and infantile toys and trinkets were on display, everything from cribs and changing tables to shakers and teething rings. For the junior, this was the tipping point.
“We made the right choice,” she said, looking the kid straight in the eyes.
He turned to her, and after a moment, he told her, “I know.”
She started into the kid’s eyes, and asked him, “What else could we have done?”
“I don’t know.” the kid could be nothing but honest with her.
“We made the right choice,” the junior repeated, trying to convince herself that what she had done was all she could have done.
“I think so.” his confidence in the choice, however, waned.
“Danny, we made the right choice. Didn’t we?” the junior asked, her eyes welling up. She grabbed the kid by his shoulders.
“El…”
“Don’t ‘El’ me! I’m serious! Daniel, did we make the right choice?”
“Elliot, I…”
The kid shuttered as his words refused to come out of his mouth.
“What? What do ‘you’ think?”
The kid exploded. “Elliot, I don’t know! Goddamn it, I don’t know! It was your choice; it was always your choice! I can’t be your judge! I- I can’t be your judge, Elliot.”
Pedestrians stared at them, ignoring what they were saying. Staring is all they could do; people were too preoccupied with their own lives to stop and talk the two through things. But staring is something they could make time for. Judgment was always something pedestrians and strangers could make time for, something they could always impart when they saw people acting out. And the junior and the kid were absolutely acting out.
They fought for a time. They spoke much without ever saying anything.
When the two finally settled down, they sat together on a red bench in front of the toy store. “Elliot, I told you from the beginning that this was your choice. I can’t tell you if what you did was right for you.”
“Was it right for you?”
The kid could say nothing.
“Was it?”
He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“We didn’t think about this nearly as much as we should’ve.” she unenthusiastically laughed as she said this.
The awkward laugh was reflected in the kid. “No, I guess we didn’t.”
The two stared up into the sky, as pedestrians continued to pass and judge the couple on the red bench.
“I hate this.” he smiled.
“Believe me, I hate it even more than you.” she laughed.
The only thing between the two now was space. They had never been this close, not even as they became the beast. They held hands, and stared at the sky. They were still and they were silent.
They returned to their hotel in good time, traveling in peace until the very end.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as they stepped into the lobby and out of the reaches of the world.
“I don’t know. But I don’t care. It’s over. And that’s good enough for now.”
The absence of their younger companions gave time for the passenger and the driver to work out their issues. It was better that they didn’t, though, in the passenger’s mind, and she made that known. She needed a break, and the driver approved with no resistance. They sat alone in their hotel room, cuddling on their queen-sized hotel bed. The driver sits against the wooden frame, and the passenger rests her head on his lap. He strokes her hair, and she keeps her eyes closed.
Curtains closed and lights out, they wanted nothing more than the comfort of each other. This is the most sincere and serene moment they’ve had in months. No, not months: years. For a single moment the couple was at peace with each other.
But he had to open his mouth.
“Allison, can we talk for a second?” his voice was shaken, but mostly composed.
She didn’t notice it, though. “Sure, what’s up?” her voice, on the other hand, was serene, with the radiance of a girl on the top of a perfect pyramid of cheerleaders.
“A few nights ago, I had a dream.”
And then that pyramid crashed, the girls toppling over one another, until the top landed on the field, her leg twisted and mangled. The passenger would have none of this. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to yourself. Stop.”
There it was. There was the cut. She wouldn’t have any of it.
“It wasn’t anything, I don’t think,” he starts, trying to soften any blows he might deal to her.
“Mackenzie, don’t. We don’t need this.” She told him, trying to shut down this entirely unpleasant line of thought.
The driver wouldn’t be shut down. “I saw them.”
“Them?” a shock ran throughout her body. ‘Them’. She feared that they were exactly what she thought they were.
“Goddamn it! No, no, no, Mackenzie, no! Don’t say that.”
She started beating his arm, as he looked dead on into her eyes and took the punishment. The punches stopped and all that remained was horror and tears. The couple had never felt such fear for life in their whole lives together in the days beforehand. This couldn’t be ignored.
“Mack, holy- I-I- No! This isn’t like before. We’re good, Mack. We’re not gonna- They’re not gonna… No. We’re okay. You can’t think like that! I know you’re scared but this time is different. I’ve been through eight months of morning sickness, emotional turmoil, ridiculous pain, paparazzi hounding, parental moaning and groaning, and overeating for this kid to be a success. We are not going out like that. No. This is happening, and this kid is going to be the love of our life, and we’re going to live and breathe for it, and nothing in the world is going to go wrong.”
And it was in that moment she started having contractions.
There is no real way to describe with any justice what came next unless you’ve lived through it yourself. They waited for a time to see whether or not the contractions were real or not. She had already been through several false alarms, and hospitals are notoriously picky about when they’ll take a woman giving birth. After a few minutes and some relaxing pastimes like watching reruns of Friends and as the pain got to be far too much, they left for the hospital. On the way there, the driver and passenger took their typical positions, with only a cryptic text to their companions to give them any inclining as to the urgency of what was happening.
They arrived just in time for the pain. The passenger was ushered in with the speed and intent of a raging bull, but the grace of a glass sculpture by the driver. A brief check-in at the reception desk seemed to take an eternity.
I made this one for AB camp. Since that disintegrated, here it goes now.
Spoiler:
I was in the park again. I’ve been coming here at three am every day for the past month. The insomnia finally hit again. I’ve gotten really familiar with it now, the park and the insomnia. I want to talk about the park though. The best way to describe my relationship with the park would be like looking into a support group for your disease that you don’t want to join. There’s a maudlin sobriety to it; it’s intoxicating and completely grounding at the same time, a cacophony of heartbreaking and inspiring.
I’d like to say I know the park like I know the back of my hand, but it’s always changing in subtle ways. Take, for example, the grass, which promptly at seven am every Tuesday was met by the dull blades of John Deer. Yes, once a week an illegal immigrant named Hernandez mows the entire fifty-seven acres for pennies. Hernandez just goes on his merry way, chopping the weekly progression of nature, not taking a second glance as to how he’s just destroyed the individuality of each blade, all so some ungrateful tourists and nuclear families can frolic and soak in the environment, trying to prove their lack of a technological reliance.
At night, however, the grass is beautiful, undisturbed, and natural. Individual blades fight for dominance in size over one another, preparing themselves to get the most sunlight, while underneath the soil a molecular war between the roots rages on. They suck in our breath to continue the fight, as the chilly, damp air act as the munitions for their war. It’s a beautiful, chaotic mess, one that always keeps my mind on edge.
Or maybe the sleep deprivation is really getting to me, and I’m just hallucinating.
My favorite place to rest is the stone bench pressed against the dormant fountain. It’s dedicated to some ‘father, carpenter, philanthropist, and friend’ named Irving ‘Irv’ Tyson. A brass plaque painted gold says so. He must have helped with the landscaping or construction of the brightly colored, obnoxiously present children’s playground, thus the whole carpenter and philanthropist title. The implications of ‘father’ are pretty obvious, but ‘friend’ is so utterly vague I can’t even begin to understand why it’s there. Was he the friend of the dedicator, the constructor of the bench, the people who funded the park, the county, the state, the local high school, the other local high school, what? Unnecessary, man-made mysteries are my least favorite thing.
There’s a lot of flora here, but they all come in one of seven colors from the same autumnal pallet; red, orange, pink, brown, green, yellow, and hints of white for the oncoming winter. Chrysanthemum, pine, witch-hazel, red maple, and persimmons dot the landscape, maintained but not arranged, bastardized by Americano sensibilities. In the night, the breeds and colors matter not, because all colors are usurped and forfeited to evening skies. Pumpkins harvested from two towns over are candle-struck and strategically placed to give the impression of Halloween spirit, but ring hollow without the flickering of flames in the dead silence of evening. I hate the fact that they put out the flames at night; who’s going to protect me from the boogiemen now, as I sit alone in the dark, seeking something that I will never find?
And while I hate the people, I’d be lying if I said they weren’t the best part of the afterhours. Every evening some new lost souls seemed to join me. Night shrouds all kinds. One evening, a senile, old woman in a red silk night gown with a brown bag pack with bread crumbs joined me on the bench, fed some owls that had made their home in the trees, and remained silent the entire time. On yet another, a car rolled up to the parking lot, with two classmates inside. John Taylor and Cindy Fry, I think? It was kind of funny, because it was John’s first time, and it ended up with him crying for thirty minutes afterwards and Cindy driving away with his car. Oh, and on another night, I saw two men in black hoodies shake hands and exchange money and Ziplocs. The many sights of an insomniac are priceless, unlike weed apparently. A night or two afterwards, the same two men met each other, but one pulled out a gun, badge, and handcuffs. I was asked the next day to provide testimony, and afterwards, silence.
Other favorites include the divorcee mailman and the clown in a bathrobe. Let’s talk about the mailman first. His name was Martin Smith and his wife, after sleeping with their neighbor, decided to leave him. Martin was thrown into a downward spiral of debauchery and depression, frequenting bars after hours and getting into fistfights, at least according to him. But then his ultimate punishment came in the form of a package he picked up during his daily routine; the sticker had his name and address, and upon opening it, included his divorce papers. He told all this to me one Wednesday while he was drunkenly stumbling through the park looking for a place to sit down.
And then there was Sherman, the clown in a bathrobe. He came in with an oversized red afro and white face paint, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, and starting discussing the sociopolitical climate of the season, especially considering voting week was just around the corner. Then he played on the playground equipment for a hot flash before he puked and doubtlessly returned home.
On that, the simple presence of a parking lot and playground annoy me vomit stains aside. The fluorescent primary colors of cheap plastic Fisher Price carpentry, coupled with the eyesore that is asphalt, cheapen the otherworldliness of the witching hour. They provide the scenery with tackiness and puerility, nothing ever needed. It’s offensive to me, someone who appreciates nature and nature alone. It’s as if someone spit on your muse while you painted your magnum opus. Terrible.
I’ve never seen the fountain running at night and that disappoints me. I frequent the park during the hour of the wolf often enough, but the fact of the matter is that the municipal managerial level will never accept my request to have the fountain running at all times during autumn. It’s perhaps the only man-made thing in this park that I appreciate. I suppose it makes sense, though; wasting water is shameless and offensive to those who can’t access it otherwise, and the pipes do freeze up pretty badly during cold spells. Still, I’d like a companion for my midnight escapades, and water would certainly have some fun stories to share. The sounds of bugs chirping and owls hooting is pleasant enough, and the flora and fauna are a feast for these weary, dulled eyes of mine, but I’d really just like something a bit more tangible for me.
I like college, sure, but this insomnia thing is really screwing things up for me. I’d really like a bit of sleep sometime soon. A bit of sleep would do me wonders…
I’d like to say I know the park like I know the back of my hand, but it’s always changing in subtle ways. Take, for example, the grass, which promptly at seven am every Tuesday was met by the dull blades of John Deer. Yes, once a week an illegal immigrant named Hernandez mows the entire fifty-seven acres for pennies. Hernandez just goes on his merry way, chopping the weekly progression of nature, not taking a second glance as to how he’s just destroyed the individuality of each blade, all so some ungrateful tourists and nuclear families can frolic and soak in the environment, trying to prove their lack of a technological reliance.
At night, however, the grass is beautiful, undisturbed, and natural. Individual blades fight for dominance in size over one another, preparing themselves to get the most sunlight, while underneath the soil a molecular war between the roots rages on. They suck in our breath to continue the fight, as the chilly, damp air act as the munitions for their war. It’s a beautiful, chaotic mess, one that always keeps my mind on edge.
Or maybe the sleep deprivation is really getting to me, and I’m just hallucinating.
My favorite place to rest is the stone bench pressed against the dormant fountain. It’s dedicated to some ‘father, carpenter, philanthropist, and friend’ named Irving ‘Irv’ Tyson. A brass plaque painted gold says so. He must have helped with the landscaping or construction of the brightly colored, obnoxiously present children’s playground, thus the whole carpenter and philanthropist title. The implications of ‘father’ are pretty obvious, but ‘friend’ is so utterly vague I can’t even begin to understand why it’s there. Was he the friend of the dedicator, the constructor of the bench, the people who funded the park, the county, the state, the local high school, the other local high school, what? Unnecessary, man-made mysteries are my least favorite thing.
There’s a lot of flora here, but they all come in one of seven colors from the same autumnal pallet; red, orange, pink, brown, green, yellow, and hints of white for the oncoming winter. Chrysanthemum, pine, witch-hazel, red maple, and persimmons dot the landscape, maintained but not arranged, bastardized by Americano sensibilities. In the night, the breeds and colors matter not, because all colors are usurped and forfeited to evening skies. Pumpkins harvested from two towns over are candle-struck and strategically placed to give the impression of Halloween spirit, but ring hollow without the flickering of flames in the dead silence of evening. I hate the fact that they put out the flames at night; who’s going to protect me from the boogiemen now, as I sit alone in the dark, seeking something that I will never find?
And while I hate the people, I’d be lying if I said they weren’t the best part of the afterhours. Every evening some new lost souls seemed to join me. Night shrouds all kinds. One evening, a senile, old woman in a red silk night gown with a brown bag pack with bread crumbs joined me on the bench, fed some owls that had made their home in the trees, and remained silent the entire time. On yet another, a car rolled up to the parking lot, with two classmates inside. John Taylor and Cindy Fry, I think? It was kind of funny, because it was John’s first time, and it ended up with him crying for thirty minutes afterwards and Cindy driving away with his car. Oh, and on another night, I saw two men in black hoodies shake hands and exchange money and Ziplocs. The many sights of an insomniac are priceless, unlike weed apparently. A night or two afterwards, the same two men met each other, but one pulled out a gun, badge, and handcuffs. I was asked the next day to provide testimony, and afterwards, silence.
Other favorites include the divorcee mailman and the clown in a bathrobe. Let’s talk about the mailman first. His name was Martin Smith and his wife, after sleeping with their neighbor, decided to leave him. Martin was thrown into a downward spiral of debauchery and depression, frequenting bars after hours and getting into fistfights, at least according to him. But then his ultimate punishment came in the form of a package he picked up during his daily routine; the sticker had his name and address, and upon opening it, included his divorce papers. He told all this to me one Wednesday while he was drunkenly stumbling through the park looking for a place to sit down.
And then there was Sherman, the clown in a bathrobe. He came in with an oversized red afro and white face paint, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, and starting discussing the sociopolitical climate of the season, especially considering voting week was just around the corner. Then he played on the playground equipment for a hot flash before he puked and doubtlessly returned home.
On that, the simple presence of a parking lot and playground annoy me vomit stains aside. The fluorescent primary colors of cheap plastic Fisher Price carpentry, coupled with the eyesore that is asphalt, cheapen the otherworldliness of the witching hour. They provide the scenery with tackiness and puerility, nothing ever needed. It’s offensive to me, someone who appreciates nature and nature alone. It’s as if someone spit on your muse while you painted your magnum opus. Terrible.
I’ve never seen the fountain running at night and that disappoints me. I frequent the park during the hour of the wolf often enough, but the fact of the matter is that the municipal managerial level will never accept my request to have the fountain running at all times during autumn. It’s perhaps the only man-made thing in this park that I appreciate. I suppose it makes sense, though; wasting water is shameless and offensive to those who can’t access it otherwise, and the pipes do freeze up pretty badly during cold spells. Still, I’d like a companion for my midnight escapades, and water would certainly have some fun stories to share. The sounds of bugs chirping and owls hooting is pleasant enough, and the flora and fauna are a feast for these weary, dulled eyes of mine, but I’d really just like something a bit more tangible for me.
I like college, sure, but this insomnia thing is really screwing things up for me. I’d really like a bit of sleep sometime soon. A bit of sleep would do me wonders…
Good concept, lousy initial execution recently picked it back up. Gonna work on a it a good bit later on.
Spoiler:
He tosses his keys up into the air. The jingle of metal on metal sets his morning off on the right foot. He catches the cascading keys that shimmer with the morning sun, deftly snatching them before they could drop below his chest. He smiles. In his other hand is a cup of coffee from the coffee shop he had just left; he always stopped somewhere before classes began, as he simply could not function without caffeine. He opens his car door, and ignites the engine. In a few moments, he’s off to school.
He can’t help but smile. For the first time in awhile, things had been going his way. Most importantly, though, was that she was finally back with him. Rough patches aside, he deeply believed she was the one.
The morning is pale, the sky a gradient of blue and orange, the sun a bright, golden haze behind the clouds. The roads are barren, the way he likes them; he doesn’t do well in crowds, and those principals applied to the road as well. He has bags under his eyes; he had been up all night studying for his calculus exam this morning. He was confident in his grades, but he figured taking extra precautions never hurt anybody.
He arrives at school, grabs his book bag from the backseat of his hand-me-down coupe. He slings it over his shoulder, and heads toward the building. He continues to carry his cup of coffee; it’s not particularly good, but he hasn’t finished. Every drop matters to his caffeine addiction. He greets the assistant principal, who always stands at the door. He greets his various peers as he walks down the hallway.
“Heya. How’s the project going?”
“Mornin'. Good to see you back in school.”
“Nope, sorry, can’t help you with that.”
“Oh **** haha. Sometimes you really just kill me.”
“Hey, it’s been awhile!”
“What’s up? Why so glum?”
He makes inconsequential chatter with some of his friends as he struggles to make it to his locker. He enjoys the company of all these friendly faces, but he needs to get to his locker. He needs to talk to her at least once in the morning. They don’t have any classes together.
He sees her waiting for him at his locker. She isn’t alone though; her friends surround her. She’s crying. He looks at her, his face shocked, and body paralyzed. He had only seen her cry twice; once when she broke her ankle when she was five, and once when an ex hit her.
This isn’t like before, though. She is broken.
He drops his coffee and his backpack as soon as he sees her ex. This is the man who caused her tears twice now. This wasn’t him hitting her because he was angry at her sassy remarks; she could be a real cat. No, her ex had done something to her. And he would not have her crying again.
He charges at the ex, and slams his fist into his nose. “What did you do to her?” He cries. This is the first time anyone had seen him hit anyone.
The ex staggers up, and swings a punch back at him. It’s a miss, and it’s met with a right hook to the jaw. The ex collapses to the floor.
“What the **** did you do to her, you goddamned piece of ****?” He punches the ex’s nose again. His fist is red, from impact, and from blood.
“What did you do to her!? Huh!?” He grabs the boy by his throat, and slams him against a locker. He punches the ex in the face again. No one has yet called for help. This is the first time they had ever seen him do anything other than smile.
“What did you do to her!?” He smashes his head into the ex’s, and leaves a dent in the locker. Both of their foreheads are bleeding. The ex has it worse, though. The ex’s face is blackened from the bruises, reddened by blood, and the metal locker has cut the back of his head open.
He has the ex by his hair, and the ex’s limbs have gone limp. His fist is bleeding, bruised, and his knuckles broken. He crying, and raging, and screaming. And the ex is smiling. Suddenly, the vice principal is behind him, his hand on his shoulder. He breaks down. He drops the ex, and collapses on the ground, crying out, and pounding his fist against the ground. The ex is propped against a locker; he continues to smile.
A circle has formed around the two. Within minutes, paramedics arrive. They take both away. Police officers are waiting outside. After he is bandaged up, and the ex has been shipped off to the hospital, they question him, and detain him. He goes without a word, and without a struggle. He says nothing.
‘His’ name is Robert Sanchez. The ex’s name, Anders Byrne. And her own, Nora Stiles. These are the only names that matter here. There are scores more names and lives but they are superfluous, inconsequential to this story.
He can’t help but smile. For the first time in awhile, things had been going his way. Most importantly, though, was that she was finally back with him. Rough patches aside, he deeply believed she was the one.
The morning is pale, the sky a gradient of blue and orange, the sun a bright, golden haze behind the clouds. The roads are barren, the way he likes them; he doesn’t do well in crowds, and those principals applied to the road as well. He has bags under his eyes; he had been up all night studying for his calculus exam this morning. He was confident in his grades, but he figured taking extra precautions never hurt anybody.
He arrives at school, grabs his book bag from the backseat of his hand-me-down coupe. He slings it over his shoulder, and heads toward the building. He continues to carry his cup of coffee; it’s not particularly good, but he hasn’t finished. Every drop matters to his caffeine addiction. He greets the assistant principal, who always stands at the door. He greets his various peers as he walks down the hallway.
“Heya. How’s the project going?”
“Mornin'. Good to see you back in school.”
“Nope, sorry, can’t help you with that.”
“Oh **** haha. Sometimes you really just kill me.”
“Hey, it’s been awhile!”
“What’s up? Why so glum?”
He makes inconsequential chatter with some of his friends as he struggles to make it to his locker. He enjoys the company of all these friendly faces, but he needs to get to his locker. He needs to talk to her at least once in the morning. They don’t have any classes together.
He sees her waiting for him at his locker. She isn’t alone though; her friends surround her. She’s crying. He looks at her, his face shocked, and body paralyzed. He had only seen her cry twice; once when she broke her ankle when she was five, and once when an ex hit her.
This isn’t like before, though. She is broken.
He drops his coffee and his backpack as soon as he sees her ex. This is the man who caused her tears twice now. This wasn’t him hitting her because he was angry at her sassy remarks; she could be a real cat. No, her ex had done something to her. And he would not have her crying again.
He charges at the ex, and slams his fist into his nose. “What did you do to her?” He cries. This is the first time anyone had seen him hit anyone.
The ex staggers up, and swings a punch back at him. It’s a miss, and it’s met with a right hook to the jaw. The ex collapses to the floor.
“What the **** did you do to her, you goddamned piece of ****?” He punches the ex’s nose again. His fist is red, from impact, and from blood.
“What did you do to her!? Huh!?” He grabs the boy by his throat, and slams him against a locker. He punches the ex in the face again. No one has yet called for help. This is the first time they had ever seen him do anything other than smile.
“What did you do to her!?” He smashes his head into the ex’s, and leaves a dent in the locker. Both of their foreheads are bleeding. The ex has it worse, though. The ex’s face is blackened from the bruises, reddened by blood, and the metal locker has cut the back of his head open.
He has the ex by his hair, and the ex’s limbs have gone limp. His fist is bleeding, bruised, and his knuckles broken. He crying, and raging, and screaming. And the ex is smiling. Suddenly, the vice principal is behind him, his hand on his shoulder. He breaks down. He drops the ex, and collapses on the ground, crying out, and pounding his fist against the ground. The ex is propped against a locker; he continues to smile.
A circle has formed around the two. Within minutes, paramedics arrive. They take both away. Police officers are waiting outside. After he is bandaged up, and the ex has been shipped off to the hospital, they question him, and detain him. He goes without a word, and without a struggle. He says nothing.
‘His’ name is Robert Sanchez. The ex’s name, Anders Byrne. And her own, Nora Stiles. These are the only names that matter here. There are scores more names and lives but they are superfluous, inconsequential to this story.
This ones getting a revamp at some point
Spoiler:
For the past six years I haven’t done anything at all for my birthday. Last year was the closest evening I had to a celebration. Chinese food and a seventh spin of the Notebook for heckling while cuddling with my dog was basically all I needed. It’s not as if the opportunity had never arisen; on the contrary most of my friends had offered to take me out drinking or to a movie or to dinner or dumb **** like that. I just was never interested. Asking me out was definitely sweet of them, but in vain. I’m kind of a homebody.
This year was different though. My friends Hanna and Zoey forced me into a round of drinks at some sleazy new club that had opened up a week before. I relented when they told me they were getting the old gang back together. Us three have been together since middle school, but way back when, we were accompanied by four more. Another chick named Madison and three guys named Brandon, Luke, and Nathan. The **** we pulled as kids was ridiculous, but nothing but fond memories surround them.
So, here we are, in the club, red and purple lights flashing from above, heavy bass beating me on the back of my head, beer shaking in my hands, and all of gang with a date except for Nate, Zoey and I.
Brandon and Luke had apparently been busy in our eight years of absence. Luke is married with a kid on the way, his wife having to stay non-alcoholic for the night. Brandon, on the other hand, was an ad exec and had come with a pretty recent girlfriend named Lisa. I can’t tell you how much we all harassed him for that ad exec thing. Nathan, on the other hand, was as much of a dumbass now as he was when we were kids, when he had an excuse to be one. Within the first fifteen minutes, he was drunker than anyone in the building.
Maddie was a nurse in a county over and she was dating a co-worker named Shaun. He seemed nice enough, a little on the shy side, though. Zoey had recently broken up with her boyfriend for reasons that still elude me despite her having explained them to me fifteen times now. Hanna was with her fiancée Darryl, sweet guy, sporty, and they were on the dance floor grinding for an hour straight after six rounds each.
And then there was me. Haley Kirkwood. A twenty-six going on twenty-seven year old, single, severely underweight waitress working for pennies at an Applebee’s who hadn’t been with anyone for the past… seven years? Not since David Templeton, and that was in my senior year, maybe a freshman in college at best. Those details are a little hazy we were the type to break up and make up within days of each other.
This is why I didn’t leave the home for my birthday. I always feel terribly out of place at these sorts of places. I mean, there I was me, just sitting at the bar, slowly forcing down gin and tonics, brushing off drunk older men trying to get with anything half their age. I watched my friend’s neck and drink and dance and smile and laugh, and I could only half smirk with relief. At least it wasn’t a bust for them.
I was on my fifth drink when Nathan walked over. I’m pretty sure he was on his twelfth shot, but knowing him it could’ve been more. Nathan was a tall dude, six-five maybe, and well built. He was on the tan side, which was kind of weird for us city kids, and had curly black hair that he had never brushed in his twenty-seven years of life. His nose was crooked from a mugging that went south for everyone, and he wore contacts because we had all convinced him glasses were a really bad idea for him. He hadn’t shaved for a while, so he looked shaggy and gruff and kind of stupid, much like his actual person. He was, despite his appearance, a total dork. I had never once in my life seen him be serious, even when he nearly died of hypothermia on a dare to swim in a nearly frozen Hudson. He was into the weirdest things; in middle school it was internet conspiracy theories, and through out high school he went through such diverse phases as Spanish gangster rap, ****** video games, and aspiring member of the paparazzi.
So him drunk was, needless to say, always a good time.
He came over to me and managed to mumble out, “Happy birthday biiiiiitch.” Following that was a hug and a boozy kiss on the forehead. He smelled like ****.
“Heya Nathan.” I smiled back, looking back to my drink as he let down his hold on me.
“Wuzzat?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Pussy.”
“Yeah, I know, just born this way.”
“Lady Gaga sucks ass.”
“Right.”
I took a swig and then he looked at me with eyes of indeterminate color under the fluorescent rays of this overdubbed hell. He looked almost serious, but then he just kinda started heckling me and asked, “Whaz wrong giiiiiiiiirl?”
There wasn’t any real point in hiding anything from him. He’d probably pass out in a few minutes anyway. “I hate clubs.”
He looked almost offended, too. “Why? These places are great! Booze, dancing, music-“
“Music’s too loud, I have two left feet, and I can’t get drunk fast enough to put up with this ****.” I shrugged a bit and turned back to my drink. It was empty. I waved at the bartender and he started to fix me up with another drink.
Nathan, being the great friend that he is, yelled at the bartender, making him drop the drink in progress. “Woah. Woah. Woah. Hold the **** up. Now this- this girl right here. She needs something HARD. Like uh…. Get her uh…. Big Island Iced tea!”
“Long island?” The bartender asked back, stifling a laugh.
“Yeah that too.”
He mixed the drink and gave it to me. “Who’s paying now?”
“Definitely me. That’d be me. This guy. Cuz this here’s a birthday gal.”
“Alright.”
As the bartender was about to head over to another customer, Nathan stopped him again. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Can you like…” he mumbled unintelligibly something about birthdays again, and then looked dead into the man’s eyes.
“What?”
“I said you should put a candle on it for the birthday girl!” I hid my face in my arms, my head lying on the bar, trying to keep myself from dying of laughter.
“No smoking.” He pointed at a sign above him and walked off.
“Gaaaay.”
Nathan focused on me again. “You okay though? Really?”
I nodded half heartedly, and shrugged again. “Yeah, just kinda depressed seeing everyone better off than me on my ****** birthday. I think that’s why I usually stay home.”
“Whaaaaat? What do they have that you don’t?”
“Better jobs, useful degrees-“
“Musicology WILL make a comeback.”
“-Boyfriends, girlfriends, a wife and kid, fun, the ability to be happily drunk.”
“Guuuurl, if you wanted you could get any dude here. And maybe your job sucks but at least you have one at all! I just got laid off from my old *****. Just drink some more and it’ll be all better.” Nathan’s heartfelt attempt at making me feel less ****** didn’t really succeed at that point, but it would only get weirder from there.
“You got laid off?”
“Yeeeeeaaaaah. Economy ‘n ****. Sucks a lot but what’re you gonna do, right? Drink, that’s what!”
“At least let me pay for it then! If you can’t afford it-“
“Nah, nah, it’s all good, soul sister. Got me a credit card.”
“Nathan…”
“Aight, you can buy me one drink, *****.”
“Not what I meant.” We both shake our heads and laugh it off.
Nathan finishes laughing first, and smiles back at me again. “Really though, don’t sweat a thing. You’re gorgeous and totally better than anyone.”
“Dick.”
“I’m serious! You know I totally had a crush on you for like half of high school.”
“No way.”
He hiccups a bit and then goes on. “Yeah way! I got over it when I got with Casey but you were- are so pretty.”
“Dumbass.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Casey anyway?”
“Oh, yeah, we broke up about a month ago.”
“Aww jeez, that’s- wow, I’m really sorry, Nate.”
“It’s cool. I’ll be fine.”
And it was in that moment, whether it be from alcohol or atmosphere, that I first saw Nathan tear up. It was also our first kiss. When the tears started welling up in his eyes, I lunged forward and kissed him. He tasted like strawberry vodka, and I chuckled a little at it. He was a bit stunned, and he slunk back a bit when we finished. And it was in that moment I heard him speak seriously for the first time in my life.
“I will think about this kiss every time for the rest of my life whenever I masturbate.”
It was awkward for the rest of the night for me, but he seemed to just have been brought back to life, and went on his merry way. The night ended a little after, and one by one like empire ants we all stumbled out of the bar and wandered back to our homes.
As much as a dumbass statement as I was, I later realized that was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in months. As I mulled it over even further, it came to me that what he said was nicest thing anyone had said to me in years.
Goddammit, Nathan was such a dumbass.
This year was different though. My friends Hanna and Zoey forced me into a round of drinks at some sleazy new club that had opened up a week before. I relented when they told me they were getting the old gang back together. Us three have been together since middle school, but way back when, we were accompanied by four more. Another chick named Madison and three guys named Brandon, Luke, and Nathan. The **** we pulled as kids was ridiculous, but nothing but fond memories surround them.
So, here we are, in the club, red and purple lights flashing from above, heavy bass beating me on the back of my head, beer shaking in my hands, and all of gang with a date except for Nate, Zoey and I.
Brandon and Luke had apparently been busy in our eight years of absence. Luke is married with a kid on the way, his wife having to stay non-alcoholic for the night. Brandon, on the other hand, was an ad exec and had come with a pretty recent girlfriend named Lisa. I can’t tell you how much we all harassed him for that ad exec thing. Nathan, on the other hand, was as much of a dumbass now as he was when we were kids, when he had an excuse to be one. Within the first fifteen minutes, he was drunker than anyone in the building.
Maddie was a nurse in a county over and she was dating a co-worker named Shaun. He seemed nice enough, a little on the shy side, though. Zoey had recently broken up with her boyfriend for reasons that still elude me despite her having explained them to me fifteen times now. Hanna was with her fiancée Darryl, sweet guy, sporty, and they were on the dance floor grinding for an hour straight after six rounds each.
And then there was me. Haley Kirkwood. A twenty-six going on twenty-seven year old, single, severely underweight waitress working for pennies at an Applebee’s who hadn’t been with anyone for the past… seven years? Not since David Templeton, and that was in my senior year, maybe a freshman in college at best. Those details are a little hazy we were the type to break up and make up within days of each other.
This is why I didn’t leave the home for my birthday. I always feel terribly out of place at these sorts of places. I mean, there I was me, just sitting at the bar, slowly forcing down gin and tonics, brushing off drunk older men trying to get with anything half their age. I watched my friend’s neck and drink and dance and smile and laugh, and I could only half smirk with relief. At least it wasn’t a bust for them.
I was on my fifth drink when Nathan walked over. I’m pretty sure he was on his twelfth shot, but knowing him it could’ve been more. Nathan was a tall dude, six-five maybe, and well built. He was on the tan side, which was kind of weird for us city kids, and had curly black hair that he had never brushed in his twenty-seven years of life. His nose was crooked from a mugging that went south for everyone, and he wore contacts because we had all convinced him glasses were a really bad idea for him. He hadn’t shaved for a while, so he looked shaggy and gruff and kind of stupid, much like his actual person. He was, despite his appearance, a total dork. I had never once in my life seen him be serious, even when he nearly died of hypothermia on a dare to swim in a nearly frozen Hudson. He was into the weirdest things; in middle school it was internet conspiracy theories, and through out high school he went through such diverse phases as Spanish gangster rap, ****** video games, and aspiring member of the paparazzi.
So him drunk was, needless to say, always a good time.
He came over to me and managed to mumble out, “Happy birthday biiiiiitch.” Following that was a hug and a boozy kiss on the forehead. He smelled like ****.
“Heya Nathan.” I smiled back, looking back to my drink as he let down his hold on me.
“Wuzzat?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Pussy.”
“Yeah, I know, just born this way.”
“Lady Gaga sucks ass.”
“Right.”
I took a swig and then he looked at me with eyes of indeterminate color under the fluorescent rays of this overdubbed hell. He looked almost serious, but then he just kinda started heckling me and asked, “Whaz wrong giiiiiiiiirl?”
There wasn’t any real point in hiding anything from him. He’d probably pass out in a few minutes anyway. “I hate clubs.”
He looked almost offended, too. “Why? These places are great! Booze, dancing, music-“
“Music’s too loud, I have two left feet, and I can’t get drunk fast enough to put up with this ****.” I shrugged a bit and turned back to my drink. It was empty. I waved at the bartender and he started to fix me up with another drink.
Nathan, being the great friend that he is, yelled at the bartender, making him drop the drink in progress. “Woah. Woah. Woah. Hold the **** up. Now this- this girl right here. She needs something HARD. Like uh…. Get her uh…. Big Island Iced tea!”
“Long island?” The bartender asked back, stifling a laugh.
“Yeah that too.”
He mixed the drink and gave it to me. “Who’s paying now?”
“Definitely me. That’d be me. This guy. Cuz this here’s a birthday gal.”
“Alright.”
As the bartender was about to head over to another customer, Nathan stopped him again. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Can you like…” he mumbled unintelligibly something about birthdays again, and then looked dead into the man’s eyes.
“What?”
“I said you should put a candle on it for the birthday girl!” I hid my face in my arms, my head lying on the bar, trying to keep myself from dying of laughter.
“No smoking.” He pointed at a sign above him and walked off.
“Gaaaay.”
Nathan focused on me again. “You okay though? Really?”
I nodded half heartedly, and shrugged again. “Yeah, just kinda depressed seeing everyone better off than me on my ****** birthday. I think that’s why I usually stay home.”
“Whaaaaat? What do they have that you don’t?”
“Better jobs, useful degrees-“
“Musicology WILL make a comeback.”
“-Boyfriends, girlfriends, a wife and kid, fun, the ability to be happily drunk.”
“Guuuurl, if you wanted you could get any dude here. And maybe your job sucks but at least you have one at all! I just got laid off from my old *****. Just drink some more and it’ll be all better.” Nathan’s heartfelt attempt at making me feel less ****** didn’t really succeed at that point, but it would only get weirder from there.
“You got laid off?”
“Yeeeeeaaaaah. Economy ‘n ****. Sucks a lot but what’re you gonna do, right? Drink, that’s what!”
“At least let me pay for it then! If you can’t afford it-“
“Nah, nah, it’s all good, soul sister. Got me a credit card.”
“Nathan…”
“Aight, you can buy me one drink, *****.”
“Not what I meant.” We both shake our heads and laugh it off.
Nathan finishes laughing first, and smiles back at me again. “Really though, don’t sweat a thing. You’re gorgeous and totally better than anyone.”
“Dick.”
“I’m serious! You know I totally had a crush on you for like half of high school.”
“No way.”
He hiccups a bit and then goes on. “Yeah way! I got over it when I got with Casey but you were- are so pretty.”
“Dumbass.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Casey anyway?”
“Oh, yeah, we broke up about a month ago.”
“Aww jeez, that’s- wow, I’m really sorry, Nate.”
“It’s cool. I’ll be fine.”
And it was in that moment, whether it be from alcohol or atmosphere, that I first saw Nathan tear up. It was also our first kiss. When the tears started welling up in his eyes, I lunged forward and kissed him. He tasted like strawberry vodka, and I chuckled a little at it. He was a bit stunned, and he slunk back a bit when we finished. And it was in that moment I heard him speak seriously for the first time in my life.
“I will think about this kiss every time for the rest of my life whenever I masturbate.”
It was awkward for the rest of the night for me, but he seemed to just have been brought back to life, and went on his merry way. The night ended a little after, and one by one like empire ants we all stumbled out of the bar and wandered back to our homes.
As much as a dumbass statement as I was, I later realized that was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in months. As I mulled it over even further, it came to me that what he said was nicest thing anyone had said to me in years.
Goddammit, Nathan was such a dumbass.
Circulated through PMs. Actually kinda happy with this one. I think I might expand on it, but for now it's finished.
Spoiler:
Cigarette smoke and sweat infuse with the stale air of the ten by ten apartment bedroom, suffocating the woman more than she could possibly realize while unconscious, only the windowpane cracked by a stray ex-boyfriend’s punch to provide any sort of room for breathing. Light is all but nonexistent within this room, only a small candle lit to melt the rocks bringing any illumination. Outdated magazines, clothes ranging from weeks to months unwashed, dead electronic devices, and general tchotchke are scattered along the faux-wooden bedroom floor. Semi-torn posters of various old teenage crushes and family photos that only served as a grim reminder of her once life were haphazardly strung along the walls of her room, an embarrassing sight to be noted amongst a treasure trove of shame.
Her bed fairs no better; a baby blue blanket scrunched up into one corner, her hair covered in her recently puked dinner of Mickey D’s and alcohol, her once yellow and pink pillow soaked in her bile, and sheets soaked in urine and sweat only added to the forlorn and harrowing atmosphere of the room. How she could have ever let her room fall into such a poor sight I’ll never know.
A moment of introspection on my part; I can’t tell whether or not her room was the least of her problems, or perhaps the culmination of all others. Unorganized but starkly apparent vices were all on display for any outside party to gaze upon in shock, awe and despair. As bad as her home was, it was hardly anything compared to what was actually happening in her life. Yet, it showed evidently everything that was wrong with it. Demo reels of her ruin.
Standing in the door way is me, a once confidante turned stranger. She lays there, mostly alive but no longer living, a husk of her once self. In the dead of night, this is who she became, but today was too much. Unrestrained abuse of her vices, slipping all the while I stare on. In her defense, she tried; the withdrawal was too much, however, and the only reason she won’t die tonight is because a semi-lucid facet of her had the good sense to call me before she tried all this.
She’s dressed in a lazy grey tank top and her undergarments. Syringe marks along her arm would make for an interesting and macabre connect the dots game, and I can’t help but start to tear up. Lifting her gently into my arms, I carry her like the daughter she’s been to me. ‘How could anyone be this thin?’ I think to myself, brushing the hair in her eyes off her face. She looks so dead.
Her bathroom. Surprisingly, no empty pill bottles are to be found, much to my relief. Pills would only make all of this worse. Flicking the lights on, we enter and I lay her down in her shower. I turn the knob of the shower, not bothering to undress her. Rushing water forces itself out of the rusted faucet, rinsing out her hair and cleaning the vomit off of her face. I press my ear against her breast and hold her wrist, feeling only the faintest of a beat. In my pocket is the closest thing she has to salvation.
I take out my own syringe and bottle, extracting as much as I could eyeball as necessary. Finding a space on her arm she hasn’t already stabbed is hard to find, but I eventually find a good place to slip the needle into her vein. Amazing how someone who used faint during blood drawings has fallen this far down the rabbit hole of needles.
She starts to revive, and begins to frenzy. I press my hand against her ribcage and push her back to the wall of her shower. I stroke her head, her damp hair between my fingers. Soother of beasts I am not, but for her it worked. A half smile breaks onto my face, and as the drops of water beat down her face, I can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s simply the shower. Either way, I hope that she can finally be cleansed.
We sit in the bathroom, letting the steam clear us up, and the water clean her off. An ambulance in the distance approaches ever more ominously, and she’s come to terms with what’s going to happen next. I’m leaning against her sink, and she continues to sit in her shower until a knock at the door appears.
Her bed fairs no better; a baby blue blanket scrunched up into one corner, her hair covered in her recently puked dinner of Mickey D’s and alcohol, her once yellow and pink pillow soaked in her bile, and sheets soaked in urine and sweat only added to the forlorn and harrowing atmosphere of the room. How she could have ever let her room fall into such a poor sight I’ll never know.
A moment of introspection on my part; I can’t tell whether or not her room was the least of her problems, or perhaps the culmination of all others. Unorganized but starkly apparent vices were all on display for any outside party to gaze upon in shock, awe and despair. As bad as her home was, it was hardly anything compared to what was actually happening in her life. Yet, it showed evidently everything that was wrong with it. Demo reels of her ruin.
Standing in the door way is me, a once confidante turned stranger. She lays there, mostly alive but no longer living, a husk of her once self. In the dead of night, this is who she became, but today was too much. Unrestrained abuse of her vices, slipping all the while I stare on. In her defense, she tried; the withdrawal was too much, however, and the only reason she won’t die tonight is because a semi-lucid facet of her had the good sense to call me before she tried all this.
She’s dressed in a lazy grey tank top and her undergarments. Syringe marks along her arm would make for an interesting and macabre connect the dots game, and I can’t help but start to tear up. Lifting her gently into my arms, I carry her like the daughter she’s been to me. ‘How could anyone be this thin?’ I think to myself, brushing the hair in her eyes off her face. She looks so dead.
Her bathroom. Surprisingly, no empty pill bottles are to be found, much to my relief. Pills would only make all of this worse. Flicking the lights on, we enter and I lay her down in her shower. I turn the knob of the shower, not bothering to undress her. Rushing water forces itself out of the rusted faucet, rinsing out her hair and cleaning the vomit off of her face. I press my ear against her breast and hold her wrist, feeling only the faintest of a beat. In my pocket is the closest thing she has to salvation.
I take out my own syringe and bottle, extracting as much as I could eyeball as necessary. Finding a space on her arm she hasn’t already stabbed is hard to find, but I eventually find a good place to slip the needle into her vein. Amazing how someone who used faint during blood drawings has fallen this far down the rabbit hole of needles.
She starts to revive, and begins to frenzy. I press my hand against her ribcage and push her back to the wall of her shower. I stroke her head, her damp hair between my fingers. Soother of beasts I am not, but for her it worked. A half smile breaks onto my face, and as the drops of water beat down her face, I can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s simply the shower. Either way, I hope that she can finally be cleansed.
We sit in the bathroom, letting the steam clear us up, and the water clean her off. An ambulance in the distance approaches ever more ominously, and she’s come to terms with what’s going to happen next. I’m leaning against her sink, and she continues to sit in her shower until a knock at the door appears.
