1) Wacky Washington
2) Happy Harrison
3) Jolly Jefferson
4) Magical Madison
Congrats to all! (I'm sorry! I wrote MM when I was calculating then miswrote it here first, but it's indeed Madison). This was a close final vote as a mere .25 separated each ranking.
Feel free to post your identities in comments if you want to share, otherwise, it's up to you!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Magical Madison #6
I have a confession to make. I eat food off the floor.
I've done it for just about as long as I can remember. I think it started when I was a kid and my sisters (Kate and Sarah) and I would drop food on the floor and then all lunge for it, screaming "10 second rule!"
We had a competition to see who would eat the grossest thing that had fallen on the floor. I was the oldest of the three of us and always had to outdo my little sisters.
I remember one time I dropped a slice of pepperoni pizza, face down, out in the backyard and I yelled “10 second rule!” and my sisters looked at me in awe when I picked it up and actually ate it, pieces of grass sticking to the cheese and all.
We took it even further than that when we changed it to “10 second rule…from when I saw it!” and began eating food off the floor that we didn’t know when it had been dropped! When that one started out, at least it was usually at home, and we knew it had been dropped by one of us, even if we didn’t know when.
But then it moved beyond that. I once ate a pretzel poolside at our grandmother’s community pool in Florida that had been sitting on the ground for god knows how long. We had no idea who dropped it and my sisters never expected me to eat it. It was a little damp and stale, but I wasn’t sorry I ate it. Each time I did something crazy like that, I earned the respect of my little sisters.
Anyhow, in my family, with our French Socialist roots, it was always “waste not, want not.” We weren’t allowed to leave the dinner table until we finished our dinner and if we didn’t finish it, we were served it the next morning for breakfast and if we didn't eat it then, we got it for lunch, and so on. So we all knew to finish our meals when they were served to us and not to waste a drop.
Even though we grew up poor, my French mother, though she was a Socialist, always told us one day we could have as much money as we wanted. We could work hard and achieve whatever we wanted. She called it the “American dream” and said we could be anything we wanted to, including President of the United States. I thought that was bullshit.
It was no surprise that after my sisters and I all moved away and went off to college and then work, we started out by keeping in touch over things like the “10 second rule.” I would eat something particularly gross in places where no one could see me and then call my little sisters on conference call to tell them about it.
My sisters and I had been extremely close growing up. We had so much more than just the “10 second rule” game. That was just one of the many games we played with together. But in later years, we drifted. We rarely talked.
In fact, one of my sisters had moved to New York City, where I was living, and things had gotten so bad between us that when I saw her on the street one day, I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be talking on it and walked right past her (a habit I had gotten into whenever I saw people I knew on the street who I didn’t want to talk to). I don’t think she even saw me, or maybe she was doing the same thing I was.
So this one day, when I was at work in the handicap bathroom stall (I always use the handicap stall), I saw a yellow skittle sitting there on the floor. And even though I estranged from my sisters, I had an extremely strong urge to lean over, pick it up and eat it, and then call my sisters to tell them what I’d done.
I didn’t. That was pretty disgusting, even for me. So life went on. And the skittle remained.
A month or so passed and I got engaged to my long-time boyfriend and so badly wanted to call my sisters to tell them, and to ask them to be in the wedding.
So I ate the skittle. I called them, “Kate, Sar, you guys will not believe what I ate today!”
I've done it for just about as long as I can remember. I think it started when I was a kid and my sisters (Kate and Sarah) and I would drop food on the floor and then all lunge for it, screaming "10 second rule!"
We had a competition to see who would eat the grossest thing that had fallen on the floor. I was the oldest of the three of us and always had to outdo my little sisters.
I remember one time I dropped a slice of pepperoni pizza, face down, out in the backyard and I yelled “10 second rule!” and my sisters looked at me in awe when I picked it up and actually ate it, pieces of grass sticking to the cheese and all.
We took it even further than that when we changed it to “10 second rule…from when I saw it!” and began eating food off the floor that we didn’t know when it had been dropped! When that one started out, at least it was usually at home, and we knew it had been dropped by one of us, even if we didn’t know when.
But then it moved beyond that. I once ate a pretzel poolside at our grandmother’s community pool in Florida that had been sitting on the ground for god knows how long. We had no idea who dropped it and my sisters never expected me to eat it. It was a little damp and stale, but I wasn’t sorry I ate it. Each time I did something crazy like that, I earned the respect of my little sisters.
Anyhow, in my family, with our French Socialist roots, it was always “waste not, want not.” We weren’t allowed to leave the dinner table until we finished our dinner and if we didn’t finish it, we were served it the next morning for breakfast and if we didn't eat it then, we got it for lunch, and so on. So we all knew to finish our meals when they were served to us and not to waste a drop.
Even though we grew up poor, my French mother, though she was a Socialist, always told us one day we could have as much money as we wanted. We could work hard and achieve whatever we wanted. She called it the “American dream” and said we could be anything we wanted to, including President of the United States. I thought that was bullshit.
It was no surprise that after my sisters and I all moved away and went off to college and then work, we started out by keeping in touch over things like the “10 second rule.” I would eat something particularly gross in places where no one could see me and then call my little sisters on conference call to tell them about it.
My sisters and I had been extremely close growing up. We had so much more than just the “10 second rule” game. That was just one of the many games we played with together. But in later years, we drifted. We rarely talked.
In fact, one of my sisters had moved to New York City, where I was living, and things had gotten so bad between us that when I saw her on the street one day, I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to be talking on it and walked right past her (a habit I had gotten into whenever I saw people I knew on the street who I didn’t want to talk to). I don’t think she even saw me, or maybe she was doing the same thing I was.
So this one day, when I was at work in the handicap bathroom stall (I always use the handicap stall), I saw a yellow skittle sitting there on the floor. And even though I estranged from my sisters, I had an extremely strong urge to lean over, pick it up and eat it, and then call my sisters to tell them what I’d done.
I didn’t. That was pretty disgusting, even for me. So life went on. And the skittle remained.
A month or so passed and I got engaged to my long-time boyfriend and so badly wanted to call my sisters to tell them, and to ask them to be in the wedding.
So I ate the skittle. I called them, “Kate, Sar, you guys will not believe what I ate today!”
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Happy Harrison #6
She was better than this. And that was the point. She was better than the coffee she drank or the journals she read, she was better than her practice and the patients she saw there, she was better than America and its silly Americans. That was the point, and ironically it was all because she secretly believed in the much touted "American Dream." An intellectual, an academic, a connoisseur, even a healer; whether she liked it or not, once a month on payday she was also a capitalist. Born in Latvia and educated in The Czech Republic and France, she was better here in New York than she had been anywhere else. That was the point.
The Dream wasn't getting Sofija anywhere at the moment, however. Her service was unable to send a car for at least another 45 minutes, the last dozen cabs to pass had had fares, and the city was getting douched as if a monsoon was hitting the island. She wanted to make it to the office early today, but now there was not even a chance of being less than an hour late. She fumbled to hold her umbrella while she extracted her blackberry from her purse. The office was open and her first session was supposed to start in 30 minutes. And there were already messages. One of the office assistants droning through a pointless morning report: "Hi, it's me. Do you know when Dr. Maguire will be here because Stephanie's not here yet and she didn't finish showing me how to login to that new thingy with the insurance system and your first patient in really really early it's that weird guy Tim who's always early remember and he's here now and it's really creeping me out you know so when do you get here? Oh no, did this thing beep yet? Hi, it's me!"
Sofija was reluctant to miss her session with Tim. If she allowed herself a favorite patient, it would have been him. She didn't necessarily understand him or even like him, but she found him fascinating. Tim was a tiny yet overweight man in his early fifties who reminded her of Milton from Office Space. He was always early, always paced around the outer office, and was always red in the face. He lived with his mother and collected all manner of candy wrappers. By the thousands. The facet of his personality that most intrigued Sofija, though, was that every single time she saw him, for at least a few minutes, they had to talk about the skittle on the bathroom floor where he worked. Most of the time, it was a brief conversation, but it could get pretty lengthy especially when Tim wanted to list the pros and cons of actually breaking down and eating that oh-so-tempting morsel. In ten months he had never succumbed. She wondered how long this would go on.
Suddenly she dropped her purse. It bounced over the curb and into inches and inches of water rushing down the street. Sofija hurriedly scooped it up from the street but it too late. The entire bag and its contents were soaked and now it weighed twice as much. Fuck this. She ran back into her building.
The concierge was beautiful blond woman named Melinda. She likely could have modeled ten years ago if she had any work ethic to speak of. Every time Sofija passed through the lobby, this woman refused to make eye contact. She just gabbed away on her cell phone, looking every which way except at the patrons she was supposed to mind. She even refused to sign for packages when they came. Sofija wondered how Melinda stayed employed and she was positive there was no one on the other end of those phone conversations. She knew the type well. Some of her own patients even admitted to her that they, too, faked phone calls in order to avoid public contact. She doubted any of them were as narcissistic as this useless bitch, though. As she passed back through the lobby this time, she took a good long stare at Melinda and noted with impish glee the crows feet forming and the tiny wrinkles across the bridge of Melinda's nose. You may tell the boys you're 29, Honey, but I'm putting my money on 42.
Right as Sofija was getting off the elevator on her floor, her blackberry chimed with the arrival of another new voicemail message. Sighing, she listened to it. "Hi, it's me again! Listen, Dr. Maguire is here now and that's great but he says he doesn't know anything about any of the computers here and I think he's lying but anyway Stephanie's still not here I hope she doesn't call out sick after I covered for her all those weekends last month but anyway I guess you can show me how to login when you get here when did you say that was again? Yeah, and that Tim guy is being really weird today he keeps telling me that 'he did it, he did it' and he wants to celebrate with you or something is it your birthday today because you really should have told me although I thought we just celebrated that in December ..."
When she got into her aparment, she changed into dry slacks and shoes before grabbing the two-pound bag of skittles she had been saving for this occassion and shoving it into a new dry purse.
The Dream wasn't getting Sofija anywhere at the moment, however. Her service was unable to send a car for at least another 45 minutes, the last dozen cabs to pass had had fares, and the city was getting douched as if a monsoon was hitting the island. She wanted to make it to the office early today, but now there was not even a chance of being less than an hour late. She fumbled to hold her umbrella while she extracted her blackberry from her purse. The office was open and her first session was supposed to start in 30 minutes. And there were already messages. One of the office assistants droning through a pointless morning report: "Hi, it's me. Do you know when Dr. Maguire will be here because Stephanie's not here yet and she didn't finish showing me how to login to that new thingy with the insurance system and your first patient in really really early it's that weird guy Tim who's always early remember and he's here now and it's really creeping me out you know so when do you get here? Oh no, did this thing beep yet? Hi, it's me!"
Sofija was reluctant to miss her session with Tim. If she allowed herself a favorite patient, it would have been him. She didn't necessarily understand him or even like him, but she found him fascinating. Tim was a tiny yet overweight man in his early fifties who reminded her of Milton from Office Space. He was always early, always paced around the outer office, and was always red in the face. He lived with his mother and collected all manner of candy wrappers. By the thousands. The facet of his personality that most intrigued Sofija, though, was that every single time she saw him, for at least a few minutes, they had to talk about the skittle on the bathroom floor where he worked. Most of the time, it was a brief conversation, but it could get pretty lengthy especially when Tim wanted to list the pros and cons of actually breaking down and eating that oh-so-tempting morsel. In ten months he had never succumbed. She wondered how long this would go on.
Suddenly she dropped her purse. It bounced over the curb and into inches and inches of water rushing down the street. Sofija hurriedly scooped it up from the street but it too late. The entire bag and its contents were soaked and now it weighed twice as much. Fuck this. She ran back into her building.
The concierge was beautiful blond woman named Melinda. She likely could have modeled ten years ago if she had any work ethic to speak of. Every time Sofija passed through the lobby, this woman refused to make eye contact. She just gabbed away on her cell phone, looking every which way except at the patrons she was supposed to mind. She even refused to sign for packages when they came. Sofija wondered how Melinda stayed employed and she was positive there was no one on the other end of those phone conversations. She knew the type well. Some of her own patients even admitted to her that they, too, faked phone calls in order to avoid public contact. She doubted any of them were as narcissistic as this useless bitch, though. As she passed back through the lobby this time, she took a good long stare at Melinda and noted with impish glee the crows feet forming and the tiny wrinkles across the bridge of Melinda's nose. You may tell the boys you're 29, Honey, but I'm putting my money on 42.
Right as Sofija was getting off the elevator on her floor, her blackberry chimed with the arrival of another new voicemail message. Sighing, she listened to it. "Hi, it's me again! Listen, Dr. Maguire is here now and that's great but he says he doesn't know anything about any of the computers here and I think he's lying but anyway Stephanie's still not here I hope she doesn't call out sick after I covered for her all those weekends last month but anyway I guess you can show me how to login when you get here when did you say that was again? Yeah, and that Tim guy is being really weird today he keeps telling me that 'he did it, he did it' and he wants to celebrate with you or something is it your birthday today because you really should have told me although I thought we just celebrated that in December ..."
When she got into her aparment, she changed into dry slacks and shoes before grabbing the two-pound bag of skittles she had been saving for this occassion and shoving it into a new dry purse.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Jolly Jefferson #6
June 1, 2007
I’m sitting on the plane, waiting to go to
My friends all think I’m nuts. They say the Americans are all decadent pigs and that I will become obese and opposed to taxes. Of course I laughed along and pretended to agree. But deep down, I smiled to myself. I was so excited to be getting this promotion. The company is showing a lot of faith in me.
Sure, I have heard that women only make 75 cents on the dollar in the
The flight attendant says it’s time to put you away, diary, so I’ll write more when I arrive.
August 8, 2007
I’ve met a man! Luke is fabulous. He treats me well, takes me to all the best places and my God the sex! I’d write details but I understand they may be illegal in 37 states. More details to follow, but Luke’s on his way over to pick me up.
October 12, 2007
I noticed the strangest thing at work last week. On the floor of the third floor women’s room is a small yellow candy. I believe it’s called a Skittle. It’s been there for a week. I don’t know why the cleaning crew hasn’t cleaned it up, but despite being in there every night, the Skittle remains.
The truly odd thing is, every time I go to use the bathroom, I think about picking it up and eating it. It clearly has some magical clean-up avoidance power. Maybe it’s there for me and me alone.
Maybe I’m having these weird thoughts because things haven’t been going well with Luke. We’re fighting more and more, and while the make-up sex is still fantastic, it seems to be the bulk of what we’re having. And that’s no way to have a relationship.
December 1, 2007
I think my friends are right. I’m becoming more withdrawn. I don’t want to talk to people any more. I don’t go out unless I have to. I’ve been ducking phone calls from friends back home. And when I see someone coming over to talk to me, I grab my cell and pretend to be speaking to someone. Even with Luke. Especially with Luke.
The Skittle is still there on the bathroom floor. It’s been two and a half months and still it sits there, as if mocking me. Each day I get closer to picking it up and eating it.
March 21, 2008
So much for the American dream. I’ve been here nine months and nothing is going my way. The fling with Luke ended last month, I’ve just been too scared to write it down here, as if writing it down makes it more real. Honestly, it had been over for weeks. We just let it run on inertia, finding various excuses not to see each other.
Finally, he convinced me to go out for drinks. It may have had something to do with the fact that when I saw him and pretended to be on the phone, the thing rang in my hand. I was so mortified. I agreed to drinks and we ended it.
I can’t wait for the next three months to pass. I just want to go home. I want to see my friends again. I want to forget about Luke.
That damned Skittle is still there. I like to pretend its something else. Some magic pill that I can take and forget about everything that’s happened here. Like in
The only thing that keeps me from popping it in my mouth is the fact it’s been sitting next to a toilet for six months and while I want to forget all this, I don’t have a death wish.
May 30, 2008
I’m sitting on the plane again, ready to go home. I’m a changed woman. But things are better than they were two months ago. I got over Luke, got back into work. Started talking to my friends again, in eager anticipation of my inevitable return.
The strangest thing happened yesterday. I was packing up my office and I headed to the third floor bathroom. I’d brought a rubber glove I used to clean in my apartment and a little plastic baggie. I planned to grab that Skittle and bring it with me. It had gone through a lot, and so had I. I’m sure it had been pissed on and lord knows I felt like I had. But somehow, we’d managed to endure together.
I wanted the Skittle as a symbol of my year in
But when I went to pick it up, it was gone!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wacky Washington #6
I was having an ordinary day, at first.
Work was completely boring, as usual. I know, how banal a comment is that? However, I’m entitled. It’s just a part-time gig to help pay for school. My future career goal isn’t to stay in McDonald’s forever. Who would want that?
Customers were in a hurry, as usual, and ordered the same bullshit to eat, as usual. I leaned on the counter, my chin on my hand.
“Can I take your order, please?” I repeated like a good capitalist drone. I was entirely sick of it. I almost leapt to volunteer to restock the shelves when my manager asked.
Being in the back by myself was a relief. No whiny kids, or lazy parents, or fat people asking for another free refill. Sure, I had to haul boxes and stack them on shelves until my arms hurt, but that was better than putting up with all that crap.
I had to take a leak, so I headed to the bathroom. There was a yellow Skittle lying on the floor by the toilet. At least, it looked like a Skittle. I had this compunction to pick it up.
I know that probably sounds gross to you. But I’ve been reared since birth to not waste food. My friends all know that if they can’t finish a meal at a restaurant, they can give it to me. I seem to have a hollow leg, and burn food fast. My girlfriend always comments on how much body heat I give off, so I have this theory that I burn my calories that way. Nothing else explains why I weigh only one-seventy, yet eat more than my two-hundred-fifty pound brother.
So I’m all OCD, staring at this Skittle on the floor, thinking I should eat it. Off the bathroom floor. I grossed myself out. And, because it was by the toilet, I didn’t even want to pick it up. What if someone hit it with pee splashback? Gross!
(I’ve also got this thing about keeping things clean. I have to wipe off counters, fix crooked pictures, and I vacuum like three times a day.)
I went back to restocking shelves, and the Skittle kept running through my thoughts. How on earth would someone lose one of those in the bathroom? Why couldn’t they have the common courtesy to clean it up? Why the hell did I still want to eat it?
I grabbed dinner before the end of my shift, enjoying a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and a Coke. Then I had to pee again. That stupid Skittle was still there, and it was like three hours since I’d been in there last. I don’t even like yellow Skittles. I prefer red ones, or orange.
But I ate it.
Look, don’t judge me. I can’t help the way my twisted mind works. It goes in circles sometimes, stuck on random shit like Skittles on the floor, fingerprints on walls, or if my sideburns are even or not. It’s messed up. The only way to stop thinking about the Skittle was to eat it.
Turns out, it wasn’t a Skittle at all.
It tasted funny in my mouth, kind of acrid and pasty. I smacked my tongue around in my mouth a couple times and spit in the sink.
“Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,” I said. I stared in the mirror, and I swear to God, I saw my eyelids dilate and then shrink back up, only not at the same time. One eye would widen to almost black, while the other tightened to a pinprick, and then they alternated in a weird rhythm. I shook my head and left the bathroom.
Luckily, my shift was over, so I headed home. I was going to grab a quick shower and change my clothes before heading over to my girlfriend’s place. Her cousins from Germany were visiting, and they were having a big family reunion barbecue. I couldn’t get out of work, but I could at least put in an appearance.
I brushed my teeth furiously once I got home, trying to remove the memory of that weird flavour. I drank a bottle of water and then jumped in the shower. I scrubbed furiously, running my tongue under the water, spitting and smacking my lips. I didn’t want to think about whatever that non-Skittle had been.
I got dressed and drove over to Molly’s house. You could hear the noisy party in the backyard. Her relatives were all pretty much social people, and loved to drink and eat and just have a good time. I’ve always enjoyed their family get-togethers. I could smell hot dogs and hamburgers and chicken.
I went into the backyard, waving at some uncles and cousins I recognized. I found Molly up on the deck by the pool.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” She kissed me and pulled me by the hand. “I was just talking about you. I want you to meet my cousin Petra, I haven’t seen her since I was twelve but we’ve been pen pals my whole life.”
Molly dragged me over towards the patio furniture. A tall blonde girl stood up. She looked like a model, tall and thin and blonde. She smiled.
“Petra, this is my boyfriend Steve, the guy I’ve been writing to you about,” Molly told her, still holding my hand.
“You write about me?” I said.
“I love you,” I heard, but Molly’s mouth didn’t move. She just smiled at me and said, “Of course, silly! Why wouldn’t I?”
I blinked and stared at her. “Pardon? What was that?”
“Of course I write letters about you.”
“No, before that. What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Molly stared back at me. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry, long day at work. I’m being rude,” I turned to her cousin and shook hands, letting go of Molly’s to do so. “Nice to meet you, Petra.”
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Petra smiled back. Her voice was accented, but she spoke English very well. As our hands touch, I thought I heard “Gudentag.”
“Is that German for hello?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Gudentag. That’s ‘hello,’ right?”
“Yes. Well, more accurately, ‘good day.’ And it is almost night-time now.”
“Petra speaks five languages,” Molly chimed in.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. I hope to be an interpreter some day.”
“Like at the U.N.” Molly added. “Petra’s very interested in politics. She’s a Communist.”
“Really? I didn’t think there were any of those, anymore.”
“I’m not exactly a Communist. I studied socialism at school, and I’m interested in some leftist movements, but more as an academic.” She smiled.
“Brains and beauty, she got the good genes in the family,” Molly giggled. “I was telling Petra that, after the party, we’d take her out to some night clubs, see some of our friends. That cool?”
“Sounds great.” I shrugged.
We took a cab downtown. Somehow I ended up with the middle seat, between both girls. It was a hot summer evening, and I was wearing shorts. Both Molly and Petra had short skirts. Occasionally one or the other would accidentally brush her leg against mine. And I kept hearing things.
“It’s so beautiful here.”
“Steve’s acting funny.”
“I wonder what kind of music they’ll play?”
“Should be a fun night…”
But no one was talking. I wondered if I was going crazy.
The cabbie let us off on the corner we wanted, and we walked down the street to Molly’s favourite club, The Wax. People were already lining up outside. We got in line. Molly and Petra both linked arms with me, as if I was their escort or something.
“I would love to live in this country. My friends back home would be shocked, but I’d much rather take that modeling contract and be famous, than go back to school.”
“What modeling contract?” I asked Petra.
“Pardon?” She said, surprised. “Who told you about that?”
At that moment, Molly let go of my arm and started waving at someone.
“Hey, Cheryl! Hello!”
I looked down the sidewalk and saw our friend Cheryl. She waved absently at us, holding up a finger. She got out a cell phone and started talking on it, continuing to walk by.
“Crap, I needed to ask her about something,” Molly pouted. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls this week.”
“I’ll go get her,” I said. I hurried off down the sidewalk and grabbed Cheryl by the elbow.
“I sooooo don’t want to talk to them, I hope they just leave me alone…” I heard her say. But by then Cheryl was looking at me in surprise, and her mouth wasn’t moving.
“Steve?”
“Never mind,” I said. We were only a few feet from Molly, who had jogged to catch up. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Cheryl’s number. Her phone started to ring in her hand.
“Bitch!” Molly said. “Ignore me, will you?”
“What the hell was that Skittle?” I said.
Work was completely boring, as usual. I know, how banal a comment is that? However, I’m entitled. It’s just a part-time gig to help pay for school. My future career goal isn’t to stay in McDonald’s forever. Who would want that?
Customers were in a hurry, as usual, and ordered the same bullshit to eat, as usual. I leaned on the counter, my chin on my hand.
“Can I take your order, please?” I repeated like a good capitalist drone. I was entirely sick of it. I almost leapt to volunteer to restock the shelves when my manager asked.
Being in the back by myself was a relief. No whiny kids, or lazy parents, or fat people asking for another free refill. Sure, I had to haul boxes and stack them on shelves until my arms hurt, but that was better than putting up with all that crap.
I had to take a leak, so I headed to the bathroom. There was a yellow Skittle lying on the floor by the toilet. At least, it looked like a Skittle. I had this compunction to pick it up.
I know that probably sounds gross to you. But I’ve been reared since birth to not waste food. My friends all know that if they can’t finish a meal at a restaurant, they can give it to me. I seem to have a hollow leg, and burn food fast. My girlfriend always comments on how much body heat I give off, so I have this theory that I burn my calories that way. Nothing else explains why I weigh only one-seventy, yet eat more than my two-hundred-fifty pound brother.
So I’m all OCD, staring at this Skittle on the floor, thinking I should eat it. Off the bathroom floor. I grossed myself out. And, because it was by the toilet, I didn’t even want to pick it up. What if someone hit it with pee splashback? Gross!
(I’ve also got this thing about keeping things clean. I have to wipe off counters, fix crooked pictures, and I vacuum like three times a day.)
I went back to restocking shelves, and the Skittle kept running through my thoughts. How on earth would someone lose one of those in the bathroom? Why couldn’t they have the common courtesy to clean it up? Why the hell did I still want to eat it?
I grabbed dinner before the end of my shift, enjoying a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and a Coke. Then I had to pee again. That stupid Skittle was still there, and it was like three hours since I’d been in there last. I don’t even like yellow Skittles. I prefer red ones, or orange.
But I ate it.
Look, don’t judge me. I can’t help the way my twisted mind works. It goes in circles sometimes, stuck on random shit like Skittles on the floor, fingerprints on walls, or if my sideburns are even or not. It’s messed up. The only way to stop thinking about the Skittle was to eat it.
Turns out, it wasn’t a Skittle at all.
It tasted funny in my mouth, kind of acrid and pasty. I smacked my tongue around in my mouth a couple times and spit in the sink.
“Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,” I said. I stared in the mirror, and I swear to God, I saw my eyelids dilate and then shrink back up, only not at the same time. One eye would widen to almost black, while the other tightened to a pinprick, and then they alternated in a weird rhythm. I shook my head and left the bathroom.
Luckily, my shift was over, so I headed home. I was going to grab a quick shower and change my clothes before heading over to my girlfriend’s place. Her cousins from Germany were visiting, and they were having a big family reunion barbecue. I couldn’t get out of work, but I could at least put in an appearance.
I brushed my teeth furiously once I got home, trying to remove the memory of that weird flavour. I drank a bottle of water and then jumped in the shower. I scrubbed furiously, running my tongue under the water, spitting and smacking my lips. I didn’t want to think about whatever that non-Skittle had been.
I got dressed and drove over to Molly’s house. You could hear the noisy party in the backyard. Her relatives were all pretty much social people, and loved to drink and eat and just have a good time. I’ve always enjoyed their family get-togethers. I could smell hot dogs and hamburgers and chicken.
I went into the backyard, waving at some uncles and cousins I recognized. I found Molly up on the deck by the pool.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” She kissed me and pulled me by the hand. “I was just talking about you. I want you to meet my cousin Petra, I haven’t seen her since I was twelve but we’ve been pen pals my whole life.”
Molly dragged me over towards the patio furniture. A tall blonde girl stood up. She looked like a model, tall and thin and blonde. She smiled.
“Petra, this is my boyfriend Steve, the guy I’ve been writing to you about,” Molly told her, still holding my hand.
“You write about me?” I said.
“I love you,” I heard, but Molly’s mouth didn’t move. She just smiled at me and said, “Of course, silly! Why wouldn’t I?”
I blinked and stared at her. “Pardon? What was that?”
“Of course I write letters about you.”
“No, before that. What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Molly stared back at me. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry, long day at work. I’m being rude,” I turned to her cousin and shook hands, letting go of Molly’s to do so. “Nice to meet you, Petra.”
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Petra smiled back. Her voice was accented, but she spoke English very well. As our hands touch, I thought I heard “Gudentag.”
“Is that German for hello?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Gudentag. That’s ‘hello,’ right?”
“Yes. Well, more accurately, ‘good day.’ And it is almost night-time now.”
“Petra speaks five languages,” Molly chimed in.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. I hope to be an interpreter some day.”
“Like at the U.N.” Molly added. “Petra’s very interested in politics. She’s a Communist.”
“Really? I didn’t think there were any of those, anymore.”
“I’m not exactly a Communist. I studied socialism at school, and I’m interested in some leftist movements, but more as an academic.” She smiled.
“Brains and beauty, she got the good genes in the family,” Molly giggled. “I was telling Petra that, after the party, we’d take her out to some night clubs, see some of our friends. That cool?”
“Sounds great.” I shrugged.
We took a cab downtown. Somehow I ended up with the middle seat, between both girls. It was a hot summer evening, and I was wearing shorts. Both Molly and Petra had short skirts. Occasionally one or the other would accidentally brush her leg against mine. And I kept hearing things.
“It’s so beautiful here.”
“Steve’s acting funny.”
“I wonder what kind of music they’ll play?”
“Should be a fun night…”
But no one was talking. I wondered if I was going crazy.
The cabbie let us off on the corner we wanted, and we walked down the street to Molly’s favourite club, The Wax. People were already lining up outside. We got in line. Molly and Petra both linked arms with me, as if I was their escort or something.
“I would love to live in this country. My friends back home would be shocked, but I’d much rather take that modeling contract and be famous, than go back to school.”
“What modeling contract?” I asked Petra.
“Pardon?” She said, surprised. “Who told you about that?”
At that moment, Molly let go of my arm and started waving at someone.
“Hey, Cheryl! Hello!”
I looked down the sidewalk and saw our friend Cheryl. She waved absently at us, holding up a finger. She got out a cell phone and started talking on it, continuing to walk by.
“Crap, I needed to ask her about something,” Molly pouted. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls this week.”
“I’ll go get her,” I said. I hurried off down the sidewalk and grabbed Cheryl by the elbow.
“I sooooo don’t want to talk to them, I hope they just leave me alone…” I heard her say. But by then Cheryl was looking at me in surprise, and her mouth wasn’t moving.
“Steve?”
“Never mind,” I said. We were only a few feet from Molly, who had jogged to catch up. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Cheryl’s number. Her phone started to ring in her hand.
“Bitch!” Molly said. “Ignore me, will you?”
“What the hell was that Skittle?” I said.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Results of Vote #5/TKO #6
Loud Lincoln
Joyous Johnson
received the most votes this week, which means they were removed from the game. The remaining five players have survived to the last week!
TKO #6
In 1500 words or less, write a story or scene that includes the people as characters who created these postsecret cards. You may explain why each wrote them, write their stories, etc. They may be separate scenes or combined. The only limitation I intend this prompt to put on you is you must in someway referencing the creators of the three cards. I will check the word limit too!
Post due at noon on Sunday. Nobody will be eliminated as a result of this vote. The remaining five players will be ranked and there will be one more week after this (and the rankings will be added together).
Click on the postcards to view the larger size.
Joyous Johnson
received the most votes this week, which means they were removed from the game. The remaining five players have survived to the last week!
TKO #6
In 1500 words or less, write a story or scene that includes the people as characters who created these postsecret cards. You may explain why each wrote them, write their stories, etc. They may be separate scenes or combined. The only limitation I intend this prompt to put on you is you must in someway referencing the creators of the three cards. I will check the word limit too!
Post due at noon on Sunday. Nobody will be eliminated as a result of this vote. The remaining five players will be ranked and there will be one more week after this (and the rankings will be added together).
Click on the postcards to view the larger size.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Joyous Johnson #5
She sighed as she walked toward the door. A psychic? Really? She hadn’t told anyone where she was going – she told her boss it was a doctor’s appointment, she told her friends it was a lunch date – but, really, no one could have mocked her nearly so much as she was inwardly mocking herself at the moment. What was she doing?
She paused momentarily but eventually decided to steel herself and knock on the door.
An old man with kind eyes answered, “Yes?”
She looked at him. “I’m here . . . I have an appointment?” She ended what should have been a declaration with a question. Amazing. Not only was she seeing a psychic, but in a matter of minutes, she had gone to someone with a graduate education to some sort of a Valley Girl.
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Well . . . it’s just . . . I need to know what’s going to happen.”
“Why would you want to know a thing like that?”
“There’s this weight. Well, no, not a weight. More of a constant preoccupation. I’m tired of waiting for my life to start, so I’ve started to convince myself that it’s ending instead. I’m convinced that every day is my last, that every moment is just one step closer to a gloomy and impending doom. I can’t sleep. I don’t eat. Every minor ache and pain convinces me that, somehow, I have a mysterious illness that I just haven’t discovered yet. I just . . . I need to know what’s going to happen so that I can stop worrying constantly.” She looked at him, expectantly. The eyes she had moments before seen as kind now just looked bored. He looked disappointed in her, as if he was expecting some sort of a better reason.
She was confused. He started to close the door. “Wait, no, don’t do that,” she pleaded with more desperation in her voice than before. “You don’t understand. I’ve gotta know. The only way that I can remotely enjoy the present is to know that there’s a future, and know that there’s some good there – that it’s not just a bleak road to impending death. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t, I really, really, can’t. I’ve always been impatient, and I know that. I know that you have to work some in life before you really get to live, but what if that’s it? What if we’re all just working, putting living off another day, until someone takes that other day away? What if I never get to do all the things I’m planning for? What if life is really just working my crappy job, telling myself that I don’t even have time to date, and doting on my cats? Is this it? Am I ever going to find someone? Am I ever going to see the world? Am I going to do something so that the world will be a better place than it was when I found it?” She took a breath. “Look. I don’t care if you believe me, or if you want to help me, or if you think I’m crazy. Just tell me, ok? Tell me so that I can get back to everything and forget that I was ever here.”
He looked her in the eyes as if he was trying to call her bluff. Finally, after what seemed like years of silence, he quietly said, “Look, if you calm down, you’ll be happy. If you don’t, you won’t. So go home, calm down, and enjoy it. If you don’t stop to do that, life will never be more than a journey toward death.” With that, he closed the door, and she was left as she began, standing lonely and confused on a front porch off the side of the highway.
She paused momentarily but eventually decided to steel herself and knock on the door.
An old man with kind eyes answered, “Yes?”
She looked at him. “I’m here . . . I have an appointment?” She ended what should have been a declaration with a question. Amazing. Not only was she seeing a psychic, but in a matter of minutes, she had gone to someone with a graduate education to some sort of a Valley Girl.
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Well . . . it’s just . . . I need to know what’s going to happen.”
“Why would you want to know a thing like that?”
“There’s this weight. Well, no, not a weight. More of a constant preoccupation. I’m tired of waiting for my life to start, so I’ve started to convince myself that it’s ending instead. I’m convinced that every day is my last, that every moment is just one step closer to a gloomy and impending doom. I can’t sleep. I don’t eat. Every minor ache and pain convinces me that, somehow, I have a mysterious illness that I just haven’t discovered yet. I just . . . I need to know what’s going to happen so that I can stop worrying constantly.” She looked at him, expectantly. The eyes she had moments before seen as kind now just looked bored. He looked disappointed in her, as if he was expecting some sort of a better reason.
She was confused. He started to close the door. “Wait, no, don’t do that,” she pleaded with more desperation in her voice than before. “You don’t understand. I’ve gotta know. The only way that I can remotely enjoy the present is to know that there’s a future, and know that there’s some good there – that it’s not just a bleak road to impending death. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t, I really, really, can’t. I’ve always been impatient, and I know that. I know that you have to work some in life before you really get to live, but what if that’s it? What if we’re all just working, putting living off another day, until someone takes that other day away? What if I never get to do all the things I’m planning for? What if life is really just working my crappy job, telling myself that I don’t even have time to date, and doting on my cats? Is this it? Am I ever going to find someone? Am I ever going to see the world? Am I going to do something so that the world will be a better place than it was when I found it?” She took a breath. “Look. I don’t care if you believe me, or if you want to help me, or if you think I’m crazy. Just tell me, ok? Tell me so that I can get back to everything and forget that I was ever here.”
He looked her in the eyes as if he was trying to call her bluff. Finally, after what seemed like years of silence, he quietly said, “Look, if you calm down, you’ll be happy. If you don’t, you won’t. So go home, calm down, and enjoy it. If you don’t stop to do that, life will never be more than a journey toward death.” With that, he closed the door, and she was left as she began, standing lonely and confused on a front porch off the side of the highway.
Magical Madison #5
I hate doctors. I’ve hated them since I was 5-years-old. It was a doctor who told my mom she had breast cancer and a doctor who told her she was dying.
A year later, she died.
I had just turned 17, and although it was an awkward conversation to have with my father, he had told me I had to start going to the gynecologist. I pretended it was because I was of an age where girls just did that sort of thing, since they were becoming sexually active (which, thankfully my dad didn’t ask about), but I knew the real reason.
We both knew the real reason, but we weren’t about to talk about it. We rarely talked about her. Or the “c” word. I was at high risk.
Since I was 12, I gave myself monthly “breast exams” but I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt for lumps. I had lumpy boobs, I always felt lumps; I didn’t know what a cancer lump felt like.
So I went to the doctor. She was nice enough, but I knew she held my future in her hands. Going to the gynecologist was bad enough in and of itself, but regardless of the cold instruments or the doctor’s hands or any other uncomfortable moments of the process, I was the most scared during the breast exam.
I took a deep breath as her fingertips glided over my small breasts. I was sure she could feel my heart beating through my chest. Despite the over air-conditioned office, I was sweating.
At the end of the breast exam, I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to tell me I had cancerous lump. “You’re all good, I’ll see you in six months.” She said.
I’ve never been so relieved in my life.
A year later, she died.
I had just turned 17, and although it was an awkward conversation to have with my father, he had told me I had to start going to the gynecologist. I pretended it was because I was of an age where girls just did that sort of thing, since they were becoming sexually active (which, thankfully my dad didn’t ask about), but I knew the real reason.
We both knew the real reason, but we weren’t about to talk about it. We rarely talked about her. Or the “c” word. I was at high risk.
Since I was 12, I gave myself monthly “breast exams” but I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt for lumps. I had lumpy boobs, I always felt lumps; I didn’t know what a cancer lump felt like.
So I went to the doctor. She was nice enough, but I knew she held my future in her hands. Going to the gynecologist was bad enough in and of itself, but regardless of the cold instruments or the doctor’s hands or any other uncomfortable moments of the process, I was the most scared during the breast exam.
I took a deep breath as her fingertips glided over my small breasts. I was sure she could feel my heart beating through my chest. Despite the over air-conditioned office, I was sweating.
At the end of the breast exam, I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to tell me I had cancerous lump. “You’re all good, I’ll see you in six months.” She said.
I’ve never been so relieved in my life.
Jolly Jefferson #5
Madam Zerina sat in her shop, behind a beaded curtain. A neon palm glowed in the window, her name spelled out in glowing red gas. It was clichéd as hell, but the tourists expected something and so she gave it to them. Personally, the buzz of the neon annoyed her, but it was a necessity that had to be dealt with. Since she had moved to the new location, business had tripled.
A bell rang as the door opened and a cold breeze blew in. With it, came a man wrapped in a thick coat and scarf. He took his outer garments off and hung them on a coat rack that was there for this purpose. He then parted the beads and took a seat across from Madam Zerina.
“Welcome. How may I help you today?” Madam Zerina asked.
“You’re the psychic, you tell me,” the man said. She held back a sigh. It was going to be one of those.
“Very well.” She reached for the Tarot deck that was wrapped in a large red handkerchief on the table in front of her. She unwrapped them and offered them to the man. “Shuffle them.”
The man took the cards and handled them with an ease that spoke of long nights over a card table. His hands were surprisingly delicate, dealing with the oversized cards with facility. After seven shuffles, he handed them back.
Madam Zerina dealt seven cards, face down in a semi-circle, then set the deck aside. She flipped the first card. The Tower. But the card was upside down. “You’re feeling trapped.”
He nodded. She flipped the next card.
The Three of Wands, facing up. “You’ve come to ask about a business proposition. You wish to know if it will be successful.”
The man nodded again. “I’m impressed. And will I?”
Madam Zerina flipped the next card. This was the Six of Wands, also facing up. “It will take work, but yes, you will be successful.”
“And what will this success bring?”
She flipped the fourth card, the Devil. It was reversed. “Release, or enlightenment.”
“What sort of work will it take?”
She flipped the next card in the series. The Chariot, another of the major arcana, also facing up. “Perseverance. And a long journey.”
“I’ve been on a long journey. And I’ve persevered. Am I nearing the end of my journey?” Something in his voice gave Madam Zerina pause. Something wasn’t right. She felt something odd as she reached out toward the table.
She flipped the sixth card. The Six of Cups, reversed. “I see only disappointment.” She sounded genuinely sad.
Her sadness was reflected in the eyes of the man sitting across from her. “And what is my next step?”
She reached a shaking hand out toward the final card. But she didn’t need to flip it. She already knew what it would show. Sure enough, the card was Death, face up. She closed her eyes. Many people thought the card meant change, and indeed it could. But it could also be taken literally.
When she opened her eyes, the man was no longer sitting across from her. Instead, he was standing at her back. Looking down at the final card, she knew it was her own fortune she was seeing. She felt a soft cord drop around her neck and tighten. A minute later, she was dead.
The man let her body slump over the table. He went back into the parlor and redonned his coat and scarf. She was not the one he was seeking. She certainly had the gift, but she was not one of the seven. He had found four. It appeared he had a long trip before finding the final three. But he would continue and he would succeed. He would complete his quest. And win his freedom.
A bell rang as the door opened and a cold breeze blew in. With it, came a man wrapped in a thick coat and scarf. He took his outer garments off and hung them on a coat rack that was there for this purpose. He then parted the beads and took a seat across from Madam Zerina.
“Welcome. How may I help you today?” Madam Zerina asked.
“You’re the psychic, you tell me,” the man said. She held back a sigh. It was going to be one of those.
“Very well.” She reached for the Tarot deck that was wrapped in a large red handkerchief on the table in front of her. She unwrapped them and offered them to the man. “Shuffle them.”
The man took the cards and handled them with an ease that spoke of long nights over a card table. His hands were surprisingly delicate, dealing with the oversized cards with facility. After seven shuffles, he handed them back.
Madam Zerina dealt seven cards, face down in a semi-circle, then set the deck aside. She flipped the first card. The Tower. But the card was upside down. “You’re feeling trapped.”
He nodded. She flipped the next card.
The Three of Wands, facing up. “You’ve come to ask about a business proposition. You wish to know if it will be successful.”
The man nodded again. “I’m impressed. And will I?”
Madam Zerina flipped the next card. This was the Six of Wands, also facing up. “It will take work, but yes, you will be successful.”
“And what will this success bring?”
She flipped the fourth card, the Devil. It was reversed. “Release, or enlightenment.”
“What sort of work will it take?”
She flipped the next card in the series. The Chariot, another of the major arcana, also facing up. “Perseverance. And a long journey.”
“I’ve been on a long journey. And I’ve persevered. Am I nearing the end of my journey?” Something in his voice gave Madam Zerina pause. Something wasn’t right. She felt something odd as she reached out toward the table.
She flipped the sixth card. The Six of Cups, reversed. “I see only disappointment.” She sounded genuinely sad.
Her sadness was reflected in the eyes of the man sitting across from her. “And what is my next step?”
She reached a shaking hand out toward the final card. But she didn’t need to flip it. She already knew what it would show. Sure enough, the card was Death, face up. She closed her eyes. Many people thought the card meant change, and indeed it could. But it could also be taken literally.
When she opened her eyes, the man was no longer sitting across from her. Instead, he was standing at her back. Looking down at the final card, she knew it was her own fortune she was seeing. She felt a soft cord drop around her neck and tighten. A minute later, she was dead.
The man let her body slump over the table. He went back into the parlor and redonned his coat and scarf. She was not the one he was seeking. She certainly had the gift, but she was not one of the seven. He had found four. It appeared he had a long trip before finding the final three. But he would continue and he would succeed. He would complete his quest. And win his freedom.
Loud Lincoln #5
I held the can of numbered sticks in my hand as the cricket chirped
“Not only think, but wish and know the answer, even if you can’t articulate it yet.
Close your eyes with the knowing, and shake three sticks out. You’ll here the plink of the stick on the metal”
I thought, I hoped, I dreamed and I thought I knew the answer.
Shake-plink one
Shake-plink two
Shake-plink three
I opened my eyes and stared into the large copper dented bowl. Three ink red sticks, each with a Chinese character, created a simple lattice. The cricket was still there, which was a good thing, I hoped.
The incense burned my eyes, and everything in the small room smell of some sent of it. Bright red designs with gold hung from long curtains covering the room. It was dark, lit only by a few candles and the old woman was squinting to read the characters on the sticks. She wrote them down with a calligraphers paint brush, and took out a small battered book and wrote something else-this time with a Bick pen, certainly out of place in this small room in China Town. The notebook flipped, again with her arthritic fingers, she wrote down more words as my anticipation grew. Finally I had the last of my fortune, written on an old piece of paper and sealed in a puritanically white business envelope.
I gave her $25 dollars, and slowly navigated my way back to campus. I had certainly choose the right college, Loma had an ocean view. When I had finally got home it was sunset, and the waves hit the waters lulling back and forth. Finally I got up the courage and I opened it.
Out fell the cricket, and he hopped away chirping.
“nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."
What a bum fortune
I watched the sun set, and the waves ravage the cliffs far away.
“Not only think, but wish and know the answer, even if you can’t articulate it yet.
Close your eyes with the knowing, and shake three sticks out. You’ll here the plink of the stick on the metal”
I thought, I hoped, I dreamed and I thought I knew the answer.
Shake-plink one
Shake-plink two
Shake-plink three
I opened my eyes and stared into the large copper dented bowl. Three ink red sticks, each with a Chinese character, created a simple lattice. The cricket was still there, which was a good thing, I hoped.
The incense burned my eyes, and everything in the small room smell of some sent of it. Bright red designs with gold hung from long curtains covering the room. It was dark, lit only by a few candles and the old woman was squinting to read the characters on the sticks. She wrote them down with a calligraphers paint brush, and took out a small battered book and wrote something else-this time with a Bick pen, certainly out of place in this small room in China Town. The notebook flipped, again with her arthritic fingers, she wrote down more words as my anticipation grew. Finally I had the last of my fortune, written on an old piece of paper and sealed in a puritanically white business envelope.
I gave her $25 dollars, and slowly navigated my way back to campus. I had certainly choose the right college, Loma had an ocean view. When I had finally got home it was sunset, and the waves hit the waters lulling back and forth. Finally I got up the courage and I opened it.
Out fell the cricket, and he hopped away chirping.
“nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."
What a bum fortune
I watched the sun set, and the waves ravage the cliffs far away.
Merry Monroe #5
After Emilie's grandfather passed away from Alzheimer's, two years after her grandmother had passed from the same disease, talk at every Thanksgiving and Christmas after had always crept towards the same morose conclusion: "All of us, sitting at this table, have a pretty solid chance of getting Alzheimer's ourselves." The husbands and wives of the biological kids andgrand kids shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. "It's too premature to worry about that; you can't do anything, why worry?" they would think, but not dare to say. They couldn't even be sure they had the genes, science in the mid-1980s had just been starting to piece together all the biological and environmental components that might have caused her Nonno to sit blank-faced in a wheelchair at the nursing home for the last 6 years of his life.
This was a family that was obsessed with memory and forgetfulness; every lost key chain an omen from the future of their impending fate. Emilie was too young, in her mid-twenties to be particularly concerned with her forgetful habits; the disease wouldn't be hitting her yet. She spent those holidays sitting at the Adult Table nursing a glass of red - for the pleasant buzz it would give her by night's end - not the special chemicals that her Uncle Giorgio told his brothers and sisters were in red wine that would keep them from becoming like Nonno and Nonna. He walked in the front door that year for Christmas dinner, his arms straining from the weight of two brown bags filled with six bottles each. "To our health!" they toasted, while snacking on green olives and mozzarella balls before dinner, and again before the soup course, and the salad, and the pasta, and the fish, and then again before dessert - no one daring to skip the promise of possible prevention for the comfort of demitasse of espresso.
As the grandchildren, Emilie included, started getting married and starting families of their own, the huge holiday gatherings punctuated by hints for how to incorporate the latest antioxidants into their diets were less common. Emilie, her brother Carlo and their parents would have a calmer Christmas together, and each would spend Thanksgiving with their respective in-laws, Emilie's parents switching year-to-year as to which child's in-laws they would show up to. The talk of how to prevent the unpreventable disease quieted until the year Emilie turned 50. Two weeks before Christmas, after aparticularly bad fall off a ladder he had no business climbing, Emilie's father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
That Christmas, as Emilie, and her sister-in-law, Claire, helped her mother with measuring out heaping spoonfuls of cookie dough on greased sheets, her mother asked her if she was going to get "the test."
"What test?" Emilie feigned confusion; she knew precisely what her mother was referring to.
"You know, the DNA test, to see if you have the genes Dad and Nonna and Nonno have."
She sighed. "Maybe, I don't know, I haven't thought about it." She had, of course, but wanted terribly to change the subject. Her mother wouldn't let her:
"Well, I think you should. It's just better to know."
"Why? So I could do absolutely nothing about it? Drink extra coffee? Add pomegranates to my salads? What's the point?"
"Well, they might have a cure soon, and then you'd be first in line."
"You've been talking about this cure for years, Mom, I'll wait until - - if - - it ever happens."
Her mother quieted down. She didn't want to think about how her daughter was probably right - there wouldn't be a cure, at least in time for her sweet husband. But she wanted Emilie -and Carlo- to take the test so that maybe, just maybe, she could find out that it was her genes that passed to their kids; her genes that weren't all twisted and tangled in a helix of inevitable confusion and nursing homes and adult diapers.
January 2008, a few weeks after the conversation with her mom in the kitchen before Christmas, Emilie started Googling DNA testing services. "Just for research, I really don't want to know, I just wonder how expensive it would be, hypothetically," she told her husband Mark as her peered over her shoulder.
"Why wouldn't you want to know? I mean, even if you had the genes, it just means it's more likely, it doesn't mean you're absolutely going to get it."
"I don't know. I want to be able to live my life without thinking that every time I forget the eggs in the trunk of car it's not the sign of impending doom." Her keyboard strokes started getting a little louder, her knuckles getting a little tighter. "And it just seems weird, everyone praying that oh I hope I didn't get Dad's genes. It just doesn't seem right, like I shouldn't be hoping for that, I love him, you know?"
"Honey, do what you want to do, of course. But I think your Dad's hoping the same thing - he wouldn't be offended with you thinking that, you know that, right?"
"Yeah. I know." Emilie picked up a chocolate-covered coffee bean from the small blue dessert bowl resting on the table and ate it with a loud crunch.
A week after that, Emilie found herself in a doctor's office, flipping through the pages of an US Weekly. She hadn't planned this, but she had read every article and watched every news bulletin on the 5 o'clock news that had mentioned the words Alzheimer's or dementia. Every since her father's diagnosis, she was obsessed with finding out more, and the more she read, the more she realized that it would be foolish to avoid knowing for too much longer. She was probably too young to get it still, but the promise of drug trials keeping symptoms from ever even showing up in the first place was too promising.
That morning, when she found her car keys without any trouble, she thought "Maybe I don't even need to go today - my brain is on fire." She still went, though, wanting to avoid the inevitable phone call from her mother that night that would be asking about how it went. She regretted telling her mother that she had finally decided she wanted the test, knowing that with that declaration, there would be no turning back.
When her name was called by the pretty receptionist, she put her magazine down and walked into the doctor's office, and noisily crinkled the paper on the plastic table as she sat. She waited and stared at the door, knowing that the next person to walk through that door would tell her the truth she had spent so long trying to avoid.
This was a family that was obsessed with memory and forgetfulness; every lost key chain an omen from the future of their impending fate. Emilie was too young, in her mid-twenties to be particularly concerned with her forgetful habits; the disease wouldn't be hitting her yet. She spent those holidays sitting at the Adult Table nursing a glass of red - for the pleasant buzz it would give her by night's end - not the special chemicals that her Uncle Giorgio told his brothers and sisters were in red wine that would keep them from becoming like Nonno and Nonna. He walked in the front door that year for Christmas dinner, his arms straining from the weight of two brown bags filled with six bottles each. "To our health!" they toasted, while snacking on green olives and mozzarella balls before dinner, and again before the soup course, and the salad, and the pasta, and the fish, and then again before dessert - no one daring to skip the promise of possible prevention for the comfort of demitasse of espresso.
As the grandchildren, Emilie included, started getting married and starting families of their own, the huge holiday gatherings punctuated by hints for how to incorporate the latest antioxidants into their diets were less common. Emilie, her brother Carlo and their parents would have a calmer Christmas together, and each would spend Thanksgiving with their respective in-laws, Emilie's parents switching year-to-year as to which child's in-laws they would show up to. The talk of how to prevent the unpreventable disease quieted until the year Emilie turned 50. Two weeks before Christmas, after aparticularly bad fall off a ladder he had no business climbing, Emilie's father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
That Christmas, as Emilie, and her sister-in-law, Claire, helped her mother with measuring out heaping spoonfuls of cookie dough on greased sheets, her mother asked her if she was going to get "the test."
"What test?" Emilie feigned confusion; she knew precisely what her mother was referring to.
"You know, the DNA test, to see if you have the genes Dad and Nonna and Nonno have."
She sighed. "Maybe, I don't know, I haven't thought about it." She had, of course, but wanted terribly to change the subject. Her mother wouldn't let her:
"Well, I think you should. It's just better to know."
"Why? So I could do absolutely nothing about it? Drink extra coffee? Add pomegranates to my salads? What's the point?"
"Well, they might have a cure soon, and then you'd be first in line."
"You've been talking about this cure for years, Mom, I'll wait until - - if - - it ever happens."
Her mother quieted down. She didn't want to think about how her daughter was probably right - there wouldn't be a cure, at least in time for her sweet husband. But she wanted Emilie -and Carlo- to take the test so that maybe, just maybe, she could find out that it was her genes that passed to their kids; her genes that weren't all twisted and tangled in a helix of inevitable confusion and nursing homes and adult diapers.
January 2008, a few weeks after the conversation with her mom in the kitchen before Christmas, Emilie started Googling DNA testing services. "Just for research, I really don't want to know, I just wonder how expensive it would be, hypothetically," she told her husband Mark as her peered over her shoulder.
"Why wouldn't you want to know? I mean, even if you had the genes, it just means it's more likely, it doesn't mean you're absolutely going to get it."
"I don't know. I want to be able to live my life without thinking that every time I forget the eggs in the trunk of car it's not the sign of impending doom." Her keyboard strokes started getting a little louder, her knuckles getting a little tighter. "And it just seems weird, everyone praying that oh I hope I didn't get Dad's genes. It just doesn't seem right, like I shouldn't be hoping for that, I love him, you know?"
"Honey, do what you want to do, of course. But I think your Dad's hoping the same thing - he wouldn't be offended with you thinking that, you know that, right?"
"Yeah. I know." Emilie picked up a chocolate-covered coffee bean from the small blue dessert bowl resting on the table and ate it with a loud crunch.
A week after that, Emilie found herself in a doctor's office, flipping through the pages of an US Weekly. She hadn't planned this, but she had read every article and watched every news bulletin on the 5 o'clock news that had mentioned the words Alzheimer's or dementia. Every since her father's diagnosis, she was obsessed with finding out more, and the more she read, the more she realized that it would be foolish to avoid knowing for too much longer. She was probably too young to get it still, but the promise of drug trials keeping symptoms from ever even showing up in the first place was too promising.
That morning, when she found her car keys without any trouble, she thought "Maybe I don't even need to go today - my brain is on fire." She still went, though, wanting to avoid the inevitable phone call from her mother that night that would be asking about how it went. She regretted telling her mother that she had finally decided she wanted the test, knowing that with that declaration, there would be no turning back.
When her name was called by the pretty receptionist, she put her magazine down and walked into the doctor's office, and noisily crinkled the paper on the plastic table as she sat. She waited and stared at the door, knowing that the next person to walk through that door would tell her the truth she had spent so long trying to avoid.
Happy Harrison #5
"Can you tell me again why am I doing this?"
"Beats me, sir. Your next appointment is here."
"Thanks, send them in."
I’ve been told I’m nuts and I’m beginning to believe it. There is no reason to go through this process. I mean, we’re not even entirely sure it will have any bearing on how we land when we’re born. I guess I joined an exclusive club when I rented this office space and started these interviews. Not that it’s necessarily a club other souls care to get into. It’s a lot of effort and most people I know just aren’t willing to go through it.
Cheryl buzzed in my two thirty.
"Bud and Carol Janzlewki?"
"That’s us, haha. How ya doin’, pal?"
"Well. Very well. You know, since I have ever been born or had any life experiences or suffered in any way. You know."
A pause.
"Come again?"
"I’m sorry. You’re not from Cleveland, are you? I’ve already seen two couples from Cleveland in the last week and …" What else could I say?
"Nah, we’re the Janzlewskis of Pittsburgh. Benedict and Carol. You can call me Bud. Everybody does."
"I’m sure they do. Look, I’ll be honest, folks, I don’t know how this will work out. I’m sure you’re excited because it’s a novel opportunity, but what I’m discovering is that there is a reason no one does things this way. Maybe I didn’t have a clue what things are like down there or something, but it has become clear to me that I don’t have any sort of proper criterion for choosing to whom I’ll be born. And ultimately, I still haven’t received any response from Higher Up concerning my request to license this whole venture, so this conversation could be moot."
They shared a heart-breakingly pathetic glance at each other.
"Alright." I sighed. "Bud, Carol, let’s just make this simple. Why don’t you tell me … uh, why don’t you tell me how you see my life with you unfolding."
"Well, Pal, uh—you see, we do pretty well. We’re not terribly well off or anything, but we do alright."
"Sssh, Bud!" Carol cut in. "Don’t talk about money right off the bat!"
"Well Hon, he’s got to know the truth. I mean, we can’t send you to Princeton or nothing, but look, Pal, I want you to know we intend to rearrange our entire lives to make a safe and happy life for you."
"That’s the first thing everyone usually tells me."
"No, I’m serious. Carol here is in real estate, and she’s had her eye on this little acreage down in Fayette County. It’s not too far from the city and good schools and whatnot. You won’t want for anything and I think you’ll like it out there. It’s quiet and peaceful and the big subdivision developers haven’t got their hands on the area yet."
"Okay, I’m not sure I follow you yet, Bud."
"I know you haven’t seen it yet, but Earth, the earth is a neat place, Pal. I want you to see how beautiful it is before it gets warmed up too much or spoiled or blown up. I don’t see much scenery up here and I guess you can always see God day in and day out, but there’s just something amazing you’ve got to see about the world down there. While you’re growing up, we plan to take you all over the place, as much as we can, anyway. Mountains, deserts, oceans, forests. It’s beautiful."
"That’s good to know, Bud, but this place here is a realm of timeless peace and beauty. Nirvana. And as you said, the Almighty Whomever’s office is always a hop, skip and a jump away. All this beauty aside, to my understanding, there’s also quite a bit to be desired down there, as well. What do you propose to do about that?"
Carol spoke up, "It seems to me that you are looking for something different, something exceptional in life. And maybe we can and maybe we can’t offer you that. When we saw your ad, though, it spoke to me. Saying, here is a soul with some baggage. And I thought to myself, ‘I bet all he needs is some love’."
At this point I wish I had some eyes so I could roll them. "Baggage?"
"Yes, Nick. Can I call you Nick? That’s what we’d name you."
"For the moment. Let me tell you about my ‘baggage’, Carol. Two blocks from here is the offices of the Bureau of the Martyrs. I have to pass by every day on my way here. And while I’m not really allowed to talk to those who’ve been down there already, I overhear all sorts of conversations from those waiting in line to receive their benefits. ‘I got filled with arrows in the Amazon while trying to proselytize the natives and I have yet to see my crown.’ And ‘You think that’s bad, I blew myself up in a nightclub and only to find out that not only do I not get seventy-two virgins, my visa to paradise has been suspended until further notice. Can you believe that?’ And then there’s the poor sap who has been reincarnated 4,378 times and only just made his way back up to humanity after spending a couple of millennia repeatedly going back as some protozoan."
The Janzlewskis just blinked at me. "Well I don’t know about all that, Nick. We’re Christians."
"Great. Who knows, maybe I am, too. J. Christ and Associates have offices two floors up, but I’ve never met any of them."
"Well one of the first things we’ll do after you’re born is have you baptized."
"I’m sure J. is a fine gentleman, but I don’t really think I’d fit in with that crowd. They seem a stuffy bunch. Anyway, thanks for coming in. Bud, Carol, it’s been lovely meeting with you, but I don’t think it’s going to work out. Thank you. Cheryl will show you out."
"But we didn’t tell you about the dog! Or piano lessons, or the pool! It’s above ground, but it’s really nice, I swear!"
"Thank you, folks; that will be all. Cheryl?"
Cheryl rather forcefully showed the Janslewski out of the office. Bud had gone pale and Carol was getting hysterical, "But I’ve been taking all these fertility drugs! And praying so hard!"
After a moment or two, Cheryl poked her head back through my door.
"Your three o’clock is here early. Want to see them?"
"God, Cheryl, I don’t know if I can. Uh, what do they look like?"
"Kind of like hippies. Cute, though."
"They aren’t from Pittsburgh, are they?"
"No, Saint Louis."
"Hmmn. The U.S. seems a little overrepresented this week."
"You threw that fit after meeting with that lovely couple from Mumbai last Thursday, remember?"
"Honestly, no. Never mind. Send them in. What’s the name?"
"Harrison."
"Beats me, sir. Your next appointment is here."
"Thanks, send them in."
I’ve been told I’m nuts and I’m beginning to believe it. There is no reason to go through this process. I mean, we’re not even entirely sure it will have any bearing on how we land when we’re born. I guess I joined an exclusive club when I rented this office space and started these interviews. Not that it’s necessarily a club other souls care to get into. It’s a lot of effort and most people I know just aren’t willing to go through it.
Cheryl buzzed in my two thirty.
"Bud and Carol Janzlewki?"
"That’s us, haha. How ya doin’, pal?"
"Well. Very well. You know, since I have ever been born or had any life experiences or suffered in any way. You know."
A pause.
"Come again?"
"I’m sorry. You’re not from Cleveland, are you? I’ve already seen two couples from Cleveland in the last week and …" What else could I say?
"Nah, we’re the Janzlewskis of Pittsburgh. Benedict and Carol. You can call me Bud. Everybody does."
"I’m sure they do. Look, I’ll be honest, folks, I don’t know how this will work out. I’m sure you’re excited because it’s a novel opportunity, but what I’m discovering is that there is a reason no one does things this way. Maybe I didn’t have a clue what things are like down there or something, but it has become clear to me that I don’t have any sort of proper criterion for choosing to whom I’ll be born. And ultimately, I still haven’t received any response from Higher Up concerning my request to license this whole venture, so this conversation could be moot."
They shared a heart-breakingly pathetic glance at each other.
"Alright." I sighed. "Bud, Carol, let’s just make this simple. Why don’t you tell me … uh, why don’t you tell me how you see my life with you unfolding."
"Well, Pal, uh—you see, we do pretty well. We’re not terribly well off or anything, but we do alright."
"Sssh, Bud!" Carol cut in. "Don’t talk about money right off the bat!"
"Well Hon, he’s got to know the truth. I mean, we can’t send you to Princeton or nothing, but look, Pal, I want you to know we intend to rearrange our entire lives to make a safe and happy life for you."
"That’s the first thing everyone usually tells me."
"No, I’m serious. Carol here is in real estate, and she’s had her eye on this little acreage down in Fayette County. It’s not too far from the city and good schools and whatnot. You won’t want for anything and I think you’ll like it out there. It’s quiet and peaceful and the big subdivision developers haven’t got their hands on the area yet."
"Okay, I’m not sure I follow you yet, Bud."
"I know you haven’t seen it yet, but Earth, the earth is a neat place, Pal. I want you to see how beautiful it is before it gets warmed up too much or spoiled or blown up. I don’t see much scenery up here and I guess you can always see God day in and day out, but there’s just something amazing you’ve got to see about the world down there. While you’re growing up, we plan to take you all over the place, as much as we can, anyway. Mountains, deserts, oceans, forests. It’s beautiful."
"That’s good to know, Bud, but this place here is a realm of timeless peace and beauty. Nirvana. And as you said, the Almighty Whomever’s office is always a hop, skip and a jump away. All this beauty aside, to my understanding, there’s also quite a bit to be desired down there, as well. What do you propose to do about that?"
Carol spoke up, "It seems to me that you are looking for something different, something exceptional in life. And maybe we can and maybe we can’t offer you that. When we saw your ad, though, it spoke to me. Saying, here is a soul with some baggage. And I thought to myself, ‘I bet all he needs is some love’."
At this point I wish I had some eyes so I could roll them. "Baggage?"
"Yes, Nick. Can I call you Nick? That’s what we’d name you."
"For the moment. Let me tell you about my ‘baggage’, Carol. Two blocks from here is the offices of the Bureau of the Martyrs. I have to pass by every day on my way here. And while I’m not really allowed to talk to those who’ve been down there already, I overhear all sorts of conversations from those waiting in line to receive their benefits. ‘I got filled with arrows in the Amazon while trying to proselytize the natives and I have yet to see my crown.’ And ‘You think that’s bad, I blew myself up in a nightclub and only to find out that not only do I not get seventy-two virgins, my visa to paradise has been suspended until further notice. Can you believe that?’ And then there’s the poor sap who has been reincarnated 4,378 times and only just made his way back up to humanity after spending a couple of millennia repeatedly going back as some protozoan."
The Janzlewskis just blinked at me. "Well I don’t know about all that, Nick. We’re Christians."
"Great. Who knows, maybe I am, too. J. Christ and Associates have offices two floors up, but I’ve never met any of them."
"Well one of the first things we’ll do after you’re born is have you baptized."
"I’m sure J. is a fine gentleman, but I don’t really think I’d fit in with that crowd. They seem a stuffy bunch. Anyway, thanks for coming in. Bud, Carol, it’s been lovely meeting with you, but I don’t think it’s going to work out. Thank you. Cheryl will show you out."
"But we didn’t tell you about the dog! Or piano lessons, or the pool! It’s above ground, but it’s really nice, I swear!"
"Thank you, folks; that will be all. Cheryl?"
Cheryl rather forcefully showed the Janslewski out of the office. Bud had gone pale and Carol was getting hysterical, "But I’ve been taking all these fertility drugs! And praying so hard!"
After a moment or two, Cheryl poked her head back through my door.
"Your three o’clock is here early. Want to see them?"
"God, Cheryl, I don’t know if I can. Uh, what do they look like?"
"Kind of like hippies. Cute, though."
"They aren’t from Pittsburgh, are they?"
"No, Saint Louis."
"Hmmn. The U.S. seems a little overrepresented this week."
"You threw that fit after meeting with that lovely couple from Mumbai last Thursday, remember?"
"Honestly, no. Never mind. Send them in. What’s the name?"
"Harrison."
Wacky Washington #5
“You’re going to what?”
She bit her lip as Nadia spoke, her voice full of incredulity.
“I’m going to ask him to pray for me and the baby.”
“Why? That doesn’t make any sense. He’s just a kid.”
“He’s only four years younger. And besides, he knows things. He always has.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you. You’re not going to believe me anyway…”
“Tamara, I’m sorry. I’ll listen.”
She shrugged, biting her lip again. “Okay. This is what I know.”
****
He’d almost never been to church before. A wedding once, and a baptism, but otherwise he was totally ignorant of what it was like. Evening services were probably the best environment for him, with their laidback approach. But he only came because we asked him to.
The youth group was meeting for the last time before summer vacation, we were watching the NBA finals on the big screen in the sanctuary after the service was over and everyone else had gone home. Some of us were playing capture the flag in the rest of the church. We had popcorn and chips and soda for the sleepover.
I had finished my last year of high school. He was in my youngest brother’s class. The weird thing was, he was my friend first, because of school plays and student government events. Maybe that’s why he came and sat beside me in the sanctuary after the game was over, instead of playing capture the flag with the others.
“So, how did you like your first church service?” I asked.
He smiled softly. “I liked it. The air is funny here.”
I looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“The air?”
“It hums.” He shrugged, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them. “I can’t say that I’m surprised that it feels so right to be here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ever since last year, I knew something was happening.”
“What happened last year?”
“Do you remember the election assembly? It was before I got involved in school, I was just a grade nine who didn’t care. But then something happened at the assembly. Everyone walked across the stage to give their speeches.”
“Right, I remember that. It was nerve-wracking.”
“Some of the people on stage looked different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah. This might sound silly, but have you ever seen a movie with actors you don’t know?” I nodded, wondering where he was going. “Well, you still can figure out in a few minutes who the movie is about, right? Who’s a star and who’s an extra, even if you’ve never seen them?”
“I guess so. Maybe it’s a trick of the lighting and make-up and camera angles.”
“Well, probably, but that’s not what I mean. I just mean, you know who’s important for the movie, right? And who’s just extra. Well, something about the people on the stage said they were important. Not extras. So I voted for them.”
“And?”
“And you won. All of the ones I voted for won. And this year you all dragged me into your fun little world. Funny, huh?”
I didn’t think about it for a really long time. I went off to university and only saw him when I came back to visit at church, or once in awhile if he was over hanging out with my brothers. We were friends, but we drifted a bit because I was away, that’s life.
One time when I came back, one of the ladies from choir was pregnant, and was sharing the big news with friends after church. I was standing with him and my brother while she went around with this big smile.
“She’s having a boy,” he whispered to me.
“How do you know? This is the first she’s told anyone about being pregnant.”
“She just is.”
And she did.
****
“Wait, so what?” Nadia said. “He had a lucky guess.”
She bit her lip again and sighed. “Sure, and it’s a fifty-fifty shot. But I’ve heard him do that on five other occasions. He’s always right.”
“So based on that, you’re going to go ask him to pray for you? Like he can work miracles or something?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You don’t hang out with him. You haven’t seen his face in church, or watched how he helps kids at school when they have problems. He makes people feel good about themselves, and keeps them from being sad. There’s something about him.”
“I still think you’re crazy.”
“Look, you’re the only person I’ve told that I’m pregnant. My husband Chris doesn’t even know yet. I’m not telling anyone but him for the first three months, just in case something goes wrong. I don’t want to jinx it. I’m only telling you as a control.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe in him. You don’t. If you’re the only person who knows that I’m pregnant, it will be like a test, to see if he can really do the things I think he can do.”
“Whatever. I still…”
“Think it’s crazy. I know.”
****
Tamara found him after church, standing under the trees out front.
“Hi!” He smiled.
She gave him a big hug.
“Listen, can I ask you a favour?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Don’t ask me why, okay? But could you pray for me? I’ll tell you why later. I just want you to pray for me, okay?”
“Of course.” He nodded. She hugged him again, and started to walk away.
She only got a few steps.
“It’s a girl, in case you’re wondering.”
She smiled to herself and went home.
Nine months later Victoria was born.
She bit her lip as Nadia spoke, her voice full of incredulity.
“I’m going to ask him to pray for me and the baby.”
“Why? That doesn’t make any sense. He’s just a kid.”
“He’s only four years younger. And besides, he knows things. He always has.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you. You’re not going to believe me anyway…”
“Tamara, I’m sorry. I’ll listen.”
She shrugged, biting her lip again. “Okay. This is what I know.”
****
He’d almost never been to church before. A wedding once, and a baptism, but otherwise he was totally ignorant of what it was like. Evening services were probably the best environment for him, with their laidback approach. But he only came because we asked him to.
The youth group was meeting for the last time before summer vacation, we were watching the NBA finals on the big screen in the sanctuary after the service was over and everyone else had gone home. Some of us were playing capture the flag in the rest of the church. We had popcorn and chips and soda for the sleepover.
I had finished my last year of high school. He was in my youngest brother’s class. The weird thing was, he was my friend first, because of school plays and student government events. Maybe that’s why he came and sat beside me in the sanctuary after the game was over, instead of playing capture the flag with the others.
“So, how did you like your first church service?” I asked.
He smiled softly. “I liked it. The air is funny here.”
I looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“The air?”
“It hums.” He shrugged, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them. “I can’t say that I’m surprised that it feels so right to be here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ever since last year, I knew something was happening.”
“What happened last year?”
“Do you remember the election assembly? It was before I got involved in school, I was just a grade nine who didn’t care. But then something happened at the assembly. Everyone walked across the stage to give their speeches.”
“Right, I remember that. It was nerve-wracking.”
“Some of the people on stage looked different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah. This might sound silly, but have you ever seen a movie with actors you don’t know?” I nodded, wondering where he was going. “Well, you still can figure out in a few minutes who the movie is about, right? Who’s a star and who’s an extra, even if you’ve never seen them?”
“I guess so. Maybe it’s a trick of the lighting and make-up and camera angles.”
“Well, probably, but that’s not what I mean. I just mean, you know who’s important for the movie, right? And who’s just extra. Well, something about the people on the stage said they were important. Not extras. So I voted for them.”
“And?”
“And you won. All of the ones I voted for won. And this year you all dragged me into your fun little world. Funny, huh?”
I didn’t think about it for a really long time. I went off to university and only saw him when I came back to visit at church, or once in awhile if he was over hanging out with my brothers. We were friends, but we drifted a bit because I was away, that’s life.
One time when I came back, one of the ladies from choir was pregnant, and was sharing the big news with friends after church. I was standing with him and my brother while she went around with this big smile.
“She’s having a boy,” he whispered to me.
“How do you know? This is the first she’s told anyone about being pregnant.”
“She just is.”
And she did.
****
“Wait, so what?” Nadia said. “He had a lucky guess.”
She bit her lip again and sighed. “Sure, and it’s a fifty-fifty shot. But I’ve heard him do that on five other occasions. He’s always right.”
“So based on that, you’re going to go ask him to pray for you? Like he can work miracles or something?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You don’t hang out with him. You haven’t seen his face in church, or watched how he helps kids at school when they have problems. He makes people feel good about themselves, and keeps them from being sad. There’s something about him.”
“I still think you’re crazy.”
“Look, you’re the only person I’ve told that I’m pregnant. My husband Chris doesn’t even know yet. I’m not telling anyone but him for the first three months, just in case something goes wrong. I don’t want to jinx it. I’m only telling you as a control.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe in him. You don’t. If you’re the only person who knows that I’m pregnant, it will be like a test, to see if he can really do the things I think he can do.”
“Whatever. I still…”
“Think it’s crazy. I know.”
****
Tamara found him after church, standing under the trees out front.
“Hi!” He smiled.
She gave him a big hug.
“Listen, can I ask you a favour?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Don’t ask me why, okay? But could you pray for me? I’ll tell you why later. I just want you to pray for me, okay?”
“Of course.” He nodded. She hugged him again, and started to walk away.
She only got a few steps.
“It’s a girl, in case you’re wondering.”
She smiled to herself and went home.
Nine months later Victoria was born.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Vote #4 Results/TKO #5
Playful Pierce is eliminated due to inactivity.
Talented Taylor received the most votes so s/he is removed.
TKO #5:
[Personal] Write about an experience where you visit someone that knows something about your future.
Of course, fiction is always allowed. Due Friday at 11:59pm (Pacific).
This is the final week that 2 will be removed and the last five will remain for the final ranking.
Talented Taylor received the most votes so s/he is removed.
TKO #5:
[Personal] Write about an experience where you visit someone that knows something about your future.
Of course, fiction is always allowed. Due Friday at 11:59pm (Pacific).
This is the final week that 2 will be removed and the last five will remain for the final ranking.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Merry Monroe #4
We listened to Jill Bolte Taylor being interviewed on NPR on the way to the wake. Charlie's father didn't die of a stroke, but the interview still thickened the air with just enough unease that we hadn't spoken a word since Exit 33, two miles back. We listened the the fuzzy AM station and I began to fall asleep, my neck jerking up explosively at the moment before real sleep set in. I must have found a comfortable nook in the corner between the headrest, window and seatbelt anchor; I woke up to the sound of gravel crunching under the slowing tires.
"U Pick-'Em : $1/pint" was scrawled on piece of cardboard taped to a whitewashed stake in the grass on the side of the road.
"Blueberries?" I asked.
"Yeah, I don't want to get to the funeral home too early." We weren't making particularly good time , but I didn't want to get there early, either, so I went along with the logic.
There was a little card table near a curve of the road with a white-blond boy sitting, wearing denim overalls, with no shirt on, and in my sleepy haze I wondered if I was dreaming some sort of Mark Twain world where young boys actually wear denim overalls. As we got out of the car, I realized he was playing Sudoku and listening to an ipod and my quaint little vision was ruined.
"Hey, buddy, can we pick some berries?"
The boy looked at Charlie, then at me, then at Charlie again. "Um..."
Funeral blacks, not ideal for July blueberry picking. The dust from the road had already dulled our shoes.
"Shit - I meant shoot." Charlie looked around the farm. He turned to me, "I really don't know what to do."
I didn't know what to say. He wasn't the spontaneous type. I knew this wasn't about blueberries - I knew I couldn't recommend getting back into the car and actually going to the wake.
"We have a peacock petting zoo, you want me to take you?" The boy could sense our desperation.
"Petting zoo?"
"Yeah." the kid said, rolling his eyes with a smile, "My dad set it up last year. You can't really pet them, but I guess he didn't know what else to call it."
"Let's go pet some peacocks." Charlie looked at me, nodded, and we walked down the road, my ankles unsteady in my black pumps.
The "Petting Zoo" was remarkably full - home-town tourists, I thought. Maybe these were the people who were taking all the "stay-cations" I kept reading about in articles about how the economy and gas prices were affecting family's summer trip planning. We walked up to the peacock pen, sticking out among the shorts and polo shirts the other adults were sporting. There were three peacocks in the wire pen; it was roomy, almost as big as our studio apartment back in Manhattan. There were one or two families sticking their hands through the wire, feeding the birds seed that was sold out of what looked like the old gumball machines we grew up with at supermarkets.
"Can I have a dime?" Charlie asked me. I've never seen this man so much as smile at the Golden Retriever puppies our neighbors have; I wasn't expecting him to feed these huge, beedy-eyed birds by hand. But I fished through my purse and handed him a dime.
"We really shouldn't be too too late, you know?"
"I know, just - - - , just give me a minute, 'kay?"
I left him alone and sat down at one of the picnic tables. I played with my Blackberry, office emails piling up in spite of my out-of-office reply. Charlie and I have been together for 5 years; he's mentioned his father exactly once, a throwaway comment about how his dad hated tupperware when we were at Pottery Barn furnishing our first apartment. Other than that, silence. I didn't push it, I was pathologically adverse to conflict. When he heard from his brother than his father had passed last Friday, he hung up the phone and quietly told me he needed me to take off the next Monday and Tuesday. He didn't seem upset, just distant. I didn't know what to do, so I just left him alone.
Fifteen minutes later, he came over to me, "Okay, let's go." Just like that. And so we walked out of the peacock petting pen, down the little road, waved at the boy and got back into our car.
We got back on the highway and drove silently to the funeral home. I am not good at this "supportive girlfiend" bit, I realized.
We pulled into the funeral home and saw the placard in the lobby "Charles G. Sinclair, Room 3." They had the same name. I never knew this, a girlfriend should know her boyfriend's father's name, especially if he's a Jr. "You never told me you got your name from him."
"Yea, I would have gone by my middle name if it wasn't Gaelen," he said quickly.
We walked into Room 3 and were greeted by a room that was almost completely empty, except for the closed casket in the front of the room. An elderly lady was in the corner looking at both of the small flower arrangements. She turned around, smiled faintly, "Are you family?"
Charlie didn't reply right away, so I said "Yes, family" quietly. I couldn't believe no one showed up to this man's funeral. Not even Charlie's brothers and sisters (I knew he had at least three). Maybe they came earlier in the afternoon? Charlie sat in the back row of empty chairs, farthest away from the casket. I held his hand.
Two minutes later, he squeezed my hand, "Let's go."
"Um, are you sure you, you know, don't want to...." I gestured at the casket.
"No."
So as quickly as we came, we left.
"One more stop, babe," Charlie said as soon as we got into the car.
"Yeah, of course." We had taken two full days off, no point in rushing home for no reason.
We drove a few minutes through the neighborhood, making a few turns until Charlie pulled the car into a driveway of a little Bungalow. "Is this your house?" "Yea, but I only lived here for maybe six months; we moved here at the end of high school. But I still have the key." He flashed the little brass key on his key chain in my direction. He opened the door and I followed him into the house.
The house was spotless. I didn't know if a family member had come in and cleaned after the death, but I couldn't imagine why someone would do that and then skip the wake. Charlie walked up the stairs, calling behind him, "I'll be right back."
I sat at the kitchen table and flipped through a TV guide that was sitting on the window sill. It was from January, three months back. A smiling picture of Kelly Ripa and her husband (Mark Something?) was on the glossy cover. I heard banging and shuffling coming from upstairs.
He came into the kitchen holding an old cardboard box with the name "Chuck" scrawled on the front in a magic marker. He caught me looking at the name, "Nickname from when I was a kid," he said. Another thing I didn't know.
He set the box on the table. I sat across from him, flipping through the TV Guide, not really reading any of the words on the color-blocked pages. Lots of repeats on NBC in January, I thought to myself.
He started pulling out old envelopes, ten or so tied together with thick twine. After about a dozen of these bundles, he cast the box, still filled with paper to the floor and untied the first bundle. The handwriting on the front was the same on all of them, a heart dotting the "i" on Sinclair. "Charlie, what are those?" I aksed him quietly.
"Letters from my mom." Charlie got up and started looking through the cabinets and pulled out a wine bottle from underneath the sink.
"Your mom?"
"My mom left when I was a baby."
"But she wrote you letters?"
"Yeah, Mikey found them six years ago when he was helping Dad replace the windows in the attic. He said Dad flipped out and told him never to snoop around again. He told the rest of us, but we never wanted to actually spend time with Dad in order to sneak up there. She must have sent one like every week."
"I still don't get why she would write you letters instead of coming back. Or why he would keep them if he wasn't going to let you read them."
"Well, here's to finding out." He placed a glass of wine on the table in front of me and we began to read.
"U Pick-'Em : $1/pint" was scrawled on piece of cardboard taped to a whitewashed stake in the grass on the side of the road.
"Blueberries?" I asked.
"Yeah, I don't want to get to the funeral home too early." We weren't making particularly good time , but I didn't want to get there early, either, so I went along with the logic.
There was a little card table near a curve of the road with a white-blond boy sitting, wearing denim overalls, with no shirt on, and in my sleepy haze I wondered if I was dreaming some sort of Mark Twain world where young boys actually wear denim overalls. As we got out of the car, I realized he was playing Sudoku and listening to an ipod and my quaint little vision was ruined.
"Hey, buddy, can we pick some berries?"
The boy looked at Charlie, then at me, then at Charlie again. "Um..."
Funeral blacks, not ideal for July blueberry picking. The dust from the road had already dulled our shoes.
"Shit - I meant shoot." Charlie looked around the farm. He turned to me, "I really don't know what to do."
I didn't know what to say. He wasn't the spontaneous type. I knew this wasn't about blueberries - I knew I couldn't recommend getting back into the car and actually going to the wake.
"We have a peacock petting zoo, you want me to take you?" The boy could sense our desperation.
"Petting zoo?"
"Yeah." the kid said, rolling his eyes with a smile, "My dad set it up last year. You can't really pet them, but I guess he didn't know what else to call it."
"Let's go pet some peacocks." Charlie looked at me, nodded, and we walked down the road, my ankles unsteady in my black pumps.
The "Petting Zoo" was remarkably full - home-town tourists, I thought. Maybe these were the people who were taking all the "stay-cations" I kept reading about in articles about how the economy and gas prices were affecting family's summer trip planning. We walked up to the peacock pen, sticking out among the shorts and polo shirts the other adults were sporting. There were three peacocks in the wire pen; it was roomy, almost as big as our studio apartment back in Manhattan. There were one or two families sticking their hands through the wire, feeding the birds seed that was sold out of what looked like the old gumball machines we grew up with at supermarkets.
"Can I have a dime?" Charlie asked me. I've never seen this man so much as smile at the Golden Retriever puppies our neighbors have; I wasn't expecting him to feed these huge, beedy-eyed birds by hand. But I fished through my purse and handed him a dime.
"We really shouldn't be too too late, you know?"
"I know, just - - - , just give me a minute, 'kay?"
I left him alone and sat down at one of the picnic tables. I played with my Blackberry, office emails piling up in spite of my out-of-office reply. Charlie and I have been together for 5 years; he's mentioned his father exactly once, a throwaway comment about how his dad hated tupperware when we were at Pottery Barn furnishing our first apartment. Other than that, silence. I didn't push it, I was pathologically adverse to conflict. When he heard from his brother than his father had passed last Friday, he hung up the phone and quietly told me he needed me to take off the next Monday and Tuesday. He didn't seem upset, just distant. I didn't know what to do, so I just left him alone.
Fifteen minutes later, he came over to me, "Okay, let's go." Just like that. And so we walked out of the peacock petting pen, down the little road, waved at the boy and got back into our car.
We got back on the highway and drove silently to the funeral home. I am not good at this "supportive girlfiend" bit, I realized.
We pulled into the funeral home and saw the placard in the lobby "Charles G. Sinclair, Room 3." They had the same name. I never knew this, a girlfriend should know her boyfriend's father's name, especially if he's a Jr. "You never told me you got your name from him."
"Yea, I would have gone by my middle name if it wasn't Gaelen," he said quickly.
We walked into Room 3 and were greeted by a room that was almost completely empty, except for the closed casket in the front of the room. An elderly lady was in the corner looking at both of the small flower arrangements. She turned around, smiled faintly, "Are you family?"
Charlie didn't reply right away, so I said "Yes, family" quietly. I couldn't believe no one showed up to this man's funeral. Not even Charlie's brothers and sisters (I knew he had at least three). Maybe they came earlier in the afternoon? Charlie sat in the back row of empty chairs, farthest away from the casket. I held his hand.
Two minutes later, he squeezed my hand, "Let's go."
"Um, are you sure you, you know, don't want to...." I gestured at the casket.
"No."
So as quickly as we came, we left.
"One more stop, babe," Charlie said as soon as we got into the car.
"Yeah, of course." We had taken two full days off, no point in rushing home for no reason.
We drove a few minutes through the neighborhood, making a few turns until Charlie pulled the car into a driveway of a little Bungalow. "Is this your house?" "Yea, but I only lived here for maybe six months; we moved here at the end of high school. But I still have the key." He flashed the little brass key on his key chain in my direction. He opened the door and I followed him into the house.
The house was spotless. I didn't know if a family member had come in and cleaned after the death, but I couldn't imagine why someone would do that and then skip the wake. Charlie walked up the stairs, calling behind him, "I'll be right back."
I sat at the kitchen table and flipped through a TV guide that was sitting on the window sill. It was from January, three months back. A smiling picture of Kelly Ripa and her husband (Mark Something?) was on the glossy cover. I heard banging and shuffling coming from upstairs.
He came into the kitchen holding an old cardboard box with the name "Chuck" scrawled on the front in a magic marker. He caught me looking at the name, "Nickname from when I was a kid," he said. Another thing I didn't know.
He set the box on the table. I sat across from him, flipping through the TV Guide, not really reading any of the words on the color-blocked pages. Lots of repeats on NBC in January, I thought to myself.
He started pulling out old envelopes, ten or so tied together with thick twine. After about a dozen of these bundles, he cast the box, still filled with paper to the floor and untied the first bundle. The handwriting on the front was the same on all of them, a heart dotting the "i" on Sinclair. "Charlie, what are those?" I aksed him quietly.
"Letters from my mom." Charlie got up and started looking through the cabinets and pulled out a wine bottle from underneath the sink.
"Your mom?"
"My mom left when I was a baby."
"But she wrote you letters?"
"Yeah, Mikey found them six years ago when he was helping Dad replace the windows in the attic. He said Dad flipped out and told him never to snoop around again. He told the rest of us, but we never wanted to actually spend time with Dad in order to sneak up there. She must have sent one like every week."
"I still don't get why she would write you letters instead of coming back. Or why he would keep them if he wasn't going to let you read them."
"Well, here's to finding out." He placed a glass of wine on the table in front of me and we began to read.
Happy Harrison #4
Kathleen had been in Amsterdam just over a year. She was a financial analyst doing a lengthy consult with a major European telecom firm. And she was just a little repulsed by the hash bars and all the other Americans she ran into. Maybe it was embarrassment on their behalf. Or maybe it was because she just didn't like getting high anymore. Either way, the idealistic young woman that she had been on arrival now wallowed in a general disgust with humanity.
She had had a rough week and was breaking her rule about doing the tourist thing this evening. Taking in the city a bit should have taken her mind off matters, but the frustration that had been building with her job had recently reached an overwhelming level. The sun had set and a mist was forming as Kathleen came to the canal district. And she realized that she was miserable. Trapped.
There really wasn't any other way to look at what she was doing. Cooking the books. On some level it was liberating to recognize her denial for what it was and to be mortified by it. But she couldn't figure out how to relieve herself of the guilt that was now developing. You just didn't walk away from seven figures, you just didn't. But still. This would ultimately be destructive, and it was illegal after all.
A dime. It almost escaped her attention laying there on the sidewalk until she realized it was out of context. She stopped and peered down at it. Yes, that was indeed an American dime. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary, but it did give her a moment to pause, to look around and reflect. And realize that she was standing directly in front of the Anne Frank house. How odd. It was one of the tourist destinations that she actually had her heart set on seeing months ago but had subsequently become so loath of crowds and lines that she couldn't put herself through the wait to get in.
The building looked so different in the dim wash of street light. With the fog thickening and the lines missing. There was a glow about it. The street was quiet. She looked back and forth and saw that it was even empty. Glancing back up at the building, she pictured herself standing in that upper room that she had still never seen. And a wave of relief washed over her. Finally.
She was not trapped. Not in such a literal way. She felt more than a little silly about herself when she thought of the Franks' fear in that attic of anticipation. How they waited and waited and how their salvation was never complete. And yet that little girl had the capacity to hope. Kathleen was ashamed. She was only trapping herself.
Non-disclosure agreements be damned. She didn't have to say a word to anyone, she didn't have to make any promises, but she had every right to march in on Monday and throw down her letter of resignation. They might sue. But what could they take from her if she un-trapped herself? From her money. From her culture, from her expectations, from her dishonesty.
Kathleen looked down at the shiny little coin. She smiled. And kept walking.
She had had a rough week and was breaking her rule about doing the tourist thing this evening. Taking in the city a bit should have taken her mind off matters, but the frustration that had been building with her job had recently reached an overwhelming level. The sun had set and a mist was forming as Kathleen came to the canal district. And she realized that she was miserable. Trapped.
There really wasn't any other way to look at what she was doing. Cooking the books. On some level it was liberating to recognize her denial for what it was and to be mortified by it. But she couldn't figure out how to relieve herself of the guilt that was now developing. You just didn't walk away from seven figures, you just didn't. But still. This would ultimately be destructive, and it was illegal after all.
A dime. It almost escaped her attention laying there on the sidewalk until she realized it was out of context. She stopped and peered down at it. Yes, that was indeed an American dime. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary, but it did give her a moment to pause, to look around and reflect. And realize that she was standing directly in front of the Anne Frank house. How odd. It was one of the tourist destinations that she actually had her heart set on seeing months ago but had subsequently become so loath of crowds and lines that she couldn't put herself through the wait to get in.
The building looked so different in the dim wash of street light. With the fog thickening and the lines missing. There was a glow about it. The street was quiet. She looked back and forth and saw that it was even empty. Glancing back up at the building, she pictured herself standing in that upper room that she had still never seen. And a wave of relief washed over her. Finally.
She was not trapped. Not in such a literal way. She felt more than a little silly about herself when she thought of the Franks' fear in that attic of anticipation. How they waited and waited and how their salvation was never complete. And yet that little girl had the capacity to hope. Kathleen was ashamed. She was only trapping herself.
Non-disclosure agreements be damned. She didn't have to say a word to anyone, she didn't have to make any promises, but she had every right to march in on Monday and throw down her letter of resignation. They might sue. But what could they take from her if she un-trapped herself? From her money. From her culture, from her expectations, from her dishonesty.
Kathleen looked down at the shiny little coin. She smiled. And kept walking.
Loud Lincoln #4
Here there be dragons.
It’s hot, and I’m tired of working in the afternoon sun. It’s been three days and I’ve found nothing. Nothing at all. The red-orange rock is unyielding as I continue digging in my little twined off square. The Texas Red Rock beds have birthed huge insights into paleontology, but not today, and not for me. Dr. Bakker seems to have the most energy, walking amongst us to check progress, and to give an encouraging pat on the back, or a bottle of water. Digging, sifting, brushing, digging some more. I smell like sweat, the pits and collar of my shirt are red with the crumbled rock of ages clinging to the moisture I produce.
I drift back to the cold winter days that drove me to the attic. The attic was the warmest part of the house (heat rises). There I found some dead uncle’s encyclopedia, and happened upon the entry “Dinosaurs”. The information was from the 50’s, with black and white sketches that would make a modern anatomist scoff. But I was hooked. Brontosaurus and Apatosaurus had separate entries still, years later they were actually found to be the same creature. On cold winter evenings I’d be surrounded by relics of a by gone era, looking even deeper in the pages for a by-gone millennium. Dinosaurs were an obsession, a fantasy, and in the intervening years I studied them fervently, searching for clues in old books that would dispel the mists of time and make these ginormous critters, clearer, realer. My little kid brain couldn’t fathom epochs.
The site I’m working on now is about 2 hours from
I entered Paleontology with a fantasy. Big finds, fantastic creatures, large sums of money. All myths, I might as well be searching for the Loch Ness monster. With Paleontology, you’ve got to have an imagination, have a hope that some day you might find something big. But what we really do is carve dragons out of the earth, make since of them, explain them, whittle them down to words on a page of an academic journal. We take something majestic and knock it down to dry, pretentious babble. Hardly the notion that pulled me into this field. The kid in the attic no longer feels the mysticism of a by gone era. Mostly I grumble good-naturedly about the heat, the dirt, and how long I have until my master’s degree is done.
But sometimes, when it’s cooler-I dream I’m in the attic, looking for dragons.
Talented Taylor #4
Lanie had just turned seven the day before. She was in the back seat of her dad's 1985 Chevy Blazer with her two younger sisters. It was 4th of July weekend and they were going to Austin to visit her parents friends. She was in the seat right behind her dad. It was her seat. She had even written her name and colored a picture of herself on the back of her dad's seat in order to mark it as hers so her sisters wouldn't try to take it. The blue and pink crayon marks were still perfectly visible against the tan leather.
It was hot-- at least 100 degrees. The Blazer had broken down, and they were sitting in it on the side of the road. Lanie was coloring in her Little Mermaid coloring and activity book. She turned to a page with a picture of Ariel and Flounder putting away an alarm clock in the cavern with her human collectables.
"Mommy! Do the Mad Lib with me!"
"Okay, sweetie."
"I need a verb that ends in -ing, a noun, a place, and an item." Lanie filled out the Mad Lib as her mom gave her the words she needed, and then read the completed project out loud.
" Ariel and Flounder were hopping. They were on their way back from visiting Scuttle. Scuttle was a tourist. They were on their way to Ariel's attic. Ariel had found a dime. Scuttle had told her it was used by humans to help them fall asleep at night," Lanie finished the story and looked at the bottom of the page.
"The picture has Ariel with an alarm clock! That's the item you were supposed to say! Scuttle told her it's to help people fall asleep, but it's to help wake us up!" Lanie laughed and temporarily forgot about the heat.
Magical Madison #4
I opened the file with a sigh, the way I always did now.
What did this one do? I thought to myself.
I was jaded. I'd been working at the public defender's office for almost five years now, and this was just another night at arraignments.
Male, 28, criminal possession of marijuana.
Great, another drug case.
Male was found in the attic of an abandoned building in Harlem.
What was he doing there?
Police Officer found 14 dime bags of marijuana with suspect.
No criminal record in New York.
Okay, that's good.
I went in the back to speak to him.
"Hi, I'm Chelsea and I'm going to be your lawyer."
He was nice looking. Well dressed. And when he opened his mouth and began to speak, I knew immediately, he wasn't from around here. A tourist. The southern accent dripped off every word.
I always felt sorry for the tourists who came to New York and got arrested and spent one of their vacation nights in jail.
"So, why don't you tell me what happened here."
He described the story. He and a friend had come to New York City from Birmingham, Alabama and were looking for something fun to do, an introduction to New York. It was their first time in New York. They met a girl on the subway platform. She seemed like a nice girl and she was so friendly and welcoming to them, and they were just tourists. She told them there was a party in Harlem. She told them to meet her on Lenox Avenue. She had been so sweet.
Were all Southerners this naïve? He seemed genuine, but there was something a little off about him. I couldn't put my finger on it.
So she met up with them at the corner as promised. She had a friend with her and the four of them proceeded to this attic in an abandoned building. He asked if they were allowed to be there; she said, "It's cool."
They got upstairs and she said it was where she kept her "stash." She pulled out the marijuana, all nicely divided into little dime bags. She dumped out one of the dime bags and rolled a joint. She passed it along to him. He didn't usually smoke, but this time he decided to. It was really a one-time thing. The drugs weren't even his.
Maybe he really was telling the truth.
"Okay, well we're going to go before the judge soon, so I will try to get you out of here tonight. If they offer you a plea, maybe you should take it, okay?"
He nodded and said, "Yes ma'am."
I started to like him and feel sorry for him. He was just a tourist and the drugs weren't even his. I was starting to think I really had been too quick to judge.
"Docket Ending in 4356" the Court Officer yelled out. That was us.
I argued the case before the Judge and although the prosecutor was recommending jail time, the judge agreed to let him take a plea and get out that night.
After we were done, he thanked me and the judge, and left the courtroom.
Following a long night of arraignments, I headed home. I needed to unwind, so I flipped on the TV. The news was on and I let it play in the background as I went to grab a beer.
"A woman was brutally murdered tonight, found outside the criminal courthouse. The murder follows the same M.O. as a series of twelve murders throughout the country."
I wandered back into the living room, only halfheartedly listening.
“The suspect is a 25-30 year old white male who was last seen exiting the courthouse, here is a police sketch as described by a witness.” I looked up. It was him.
What did this one do? I thought to myself.
I was jaded. I'd been working at the public defender's office for almost five years now, and this was just another night at arraignments.
Male, 28, criminal possession of marijuana.
Great, another drug case.
Male was found in the attic of an abandoned building in Harlem.
What was he doing there?
Police Officer found 14 dime bags of marijuana with suspect.
No criminal record in New York.
Okay, that's good.
I went in the back to speak to him.
"Hi, I'm Chelsea and I'm going to be your lawyer."
He was nice looking. Well dressed. And when he opened his mouth and began to speak, I knew immediately, he wasn't from around here. A tourist. The southern accent dripped off every word.
I always felt sorry for the tourists who came to New York and got arrested and spent one of their vacation nights in jail.
"So, why don't you tell me what happened here."
He described the story. He and a friend had come to New York City from Birmingham, Alabama and were looking for something fun to do, an introduction to New York. It was their first time in New York. They met a girl on the subway platform. She seemed like a nice girl and she was so friendly and welcoming to them, and they were just tourists. She told them there was a party in Harlem. She told them to meet her on Lenox Avenue. She had been so sweet.
Were all Southerners this naïve? He seemed genuine, but there was something a little off about him. I couldn't put my finger on it.
So she met up with them at the corner as promised. She had a friend with her and the four of them proceeded to this attic in an abandoned building. He asked if they were allowed to be there; she said, "It's cool."
They got upstairs and she said it was where she kept her "stash." She pulled out the marijuana, all nicely divided into little dime bags. She dumped out one of the dime bags and rolled a joint. She passed it along to him. He didn't usually smoke, but this time he decided to. It was really a one-time thing. The drugs weren't even his.
Maybe he really was telling the truth.
"Okay, well we're going to go before the judge soon, so I will try to get you out of here tonight. If they offer you a plea, maybe you should take it, okay?"
He nodded and said, "Yes ma'am."
I started to like him and feel sorry for him. He was just a tourist and the drugs weren't even his. I was starting to think I really had been too quick to judge.
"Docket Ending in 4356" the Court Officer yelled out. That was us.
I argued the case before the Judge and although the prosecutor was recommending jail time, the judge agreed to let him take a plea and get out that night.
After we were done, he thanked me and the judge, and left the courtroom.
Following a long night of arraignments, I headed home. I needed to unwind, so I flipped on the TV. The news was on and I let it play in the background as I went to grab a beer.
"A woman was brutally murdered tonight, found outside the criminal courthouse. The murder follows the same M.O. as a series of twelve murders throughout the country."
I wandered back into the living room, only halfheartedly listening.
“The suspect is a 25-30 year old white male who was last seen exiting the courthouse, here is a police sketch as described by a witness.” I looked up. It was him.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Jolly Jefferson #4
One spring break, back during college, my buddies convinced me to take a trip to
It was a blast. I honestly don’t remember much of that week. But I do remember Wednesday, because that was the day I woke up early and snuck off for some alone time. There were a couple of sites I wanted to see that wouldn’t interest my buddies. The Van Gough museum, a couple other places.
But the one place I really wanted to see was the Anne Frank house. I knew my buddies couldn’t care less, but this was a piece of history. I’d read the Diary of Anne Frank in high school and been deeply moved by the plight of Jews in
So I hopped a bus and followed the directions until I got to the House. I paid my eight Euros and wandered around.
I read all the material and just reflected on what I had read and what I was seeing. After a while, I started to get angry. Here we were, a bunch of tourists, looking through this house like it was some attraction to be viewed – like the
I couldn’t help thinking of the fear that poor little girl and her family must have felt, hidden up in that attic, worried about every knock on the door. Was that the visit they would be discovered? Were those Nazi soldiers down there, come to take them to the camps?
How could you trust anyone? Sure, the family that was housing you were trustworthy. Because their lives were just as forfeit as yours if they were caught. But what about the neighbors? What if someone had dropped a dime on you? Anyone could betray you, just to make themselves look good. Who knew why people did what they did in those days?
Studies had been done – turns out a lot of people just respond to authority, regardless of what that authority orders them to do. Stanley Milgram did a study of it, back at Stanford in the 60s. With a little coaxing, people could be convinced to apparently electrocute complete strangers. And all because some man in a lab coat, with a clip board, told them to continue an experiment they were being paid $5 to participate in.
Some of the subjects had to be treated psychologically. The realization that they were capable of torture and murder, just because a man in authority told them to press a button was too much for some of them. It broke them. Universities weren’t allowed to conduct those types of experiments any more.
I shook myself as these dark thoughts took over my head. I needed to get out of this house. I needed to get back to the hotel. After all, my friends were probably waiting for me. I wanted to take a night off, but they told me we only had a couple nights left. We just had to see a sex show while we were there. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but what could I do? I didn’t want them to think less of me. God, peer pressure is a bitch.
Joyous Johnson #4
Why is it so fucking hot up here?
She wiped a river of sweat off of her forehead as she ascended from the last step of the ladder into the attic. She doubted that she had been up there since she moved into the house ten years ago. Now that she was moving again, she had to return. That’s life, I guess.
Light shined through a dusty window on dustier boxes. At least it was early. She shuddered to think how hot it would be by noon.
Sighing, she pulled the first box away from the wall, dusted it off, and cut it open. Inside was a stack of brown fake leather albums. This was the problem with moving. Now that she saw the albums, she had to know what was inside – not that she’d throw them away either way – not that it was productive at all – but she just had to know.
The first one was typical – baby pictures, the first day of school, high school prom and graduation. C’mon, she thought, I know it’s in here somewhere… and there it was. As she opened the second album, loose pictures flew everywhere. She had gone through a scrapbooking phase, but, like all of her phases, it was brief. True to form, the first five pages of the scrapbook were neatly decorated with different colored construction paper (still bright, even after fifteen years – I guess that’s one thing to be said for not unpacking between moves), crisp cut letters spelling out various words (“Hollywood”, “California, here we come!”, “Tinseltown”, etc.), and knick-knacks, and after that, she had become too lazy to even glue the pictures to the soft cotton paper. She flipped through the first few pages without really even looking, but then something caught her eye.
She had been a gawky eighteen-year old, fresh out of high school, in California for a month for the first time in her life because her first goal as an emancipated adult was to see the ocean. The first thing she did was go to the pier. She stood amidst all the coin binocular machines, staring out into the seemingly endless blueish gray waves, snapping endless pictures, thinking of nothing, when she suddenly realized there was someone right behind her. “You can see the mountains from here, you know,” he said in a low and gravely voice.
She didn’t even turn around. “Why on earth would you want to see the mountains? You can see mountains anywhere. Why would you even look at the mountains when something so beautiful is right here?”
“Got a dime?” he asked. For the first time since he walked up, she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Great. She had been in California for, at most, three hours, and already here she was, alone on the pier, being hassled for change by some drunk.
“Look, I don’t have much more money than you, ok? I’m certainly not going to waste MY money to buy YOUR booze,” she spoke with the unfounded confidence that only someone who is eighteen can evince.
He laughed. “Honey, I don’t need your money for booze. I just wanted to show you the mountains.” She stood up taller, squared her shoulders, and turned. “I’m going to go down the pier. Please don’t follow me.” As she walked away, all she could hear was a gravely belly laugh. She didn’t turn back.
Two years later, she had lost the boyfriend who convinced her to stay in California, the job she had found there, and the idealism that she came with. She had gained 10 pounds, $15,000 in credit card debt, and hostility toward the general public.
The last evening before she drove back East, she returned to the pier. It didn’t look the same. She didn’t even see the ocean. She was too busy examining the mold on the old wood, scoffing at the tourists, and clutching her purse to her side to avoid being mugged. She stood there, thinking it was too humid to be March, thinking it was too late to keep standing here, when she suddenly realized that someone was behind her. “You know, from here, you can see the mountains.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Don’t get me wrong – the ocean’s nice – but there’s just something refreshing about seeing something new, about being the only person in a crowd of people to notice something. All these people,” he gestured around, “they all came out here to see the ocean. To be famous. To fall in love.” He shook his head. “We’re not those people. I came out here because Kansas was too quiet, and I think too much when it’s quiet. And you – well, whatever reason you came out here for, from the look on your face, I’m guessing it hasn’t worked out. So why not do something new?”
She paused and fumbled through her pockets. “You got a dime?”
He gave her two. “Here – one for today, and one for if you ever see someone who needs to see the mountains.”
She left the next morning. She moved to Atlanta, traded her flipflops for power suits, her love of solitude for the constant companionship of a Blackberry, and her view of the ocean for a concrete jungle.
And after fifteen years, there she sat – thirty-five, cross-legged on a hot dusty attic floor, 2,000 miles away, staring at a half-empty scrapbook with nothing but a dime taped to the page – and all she wanted was to see the mountains.
She wiped a river of sweat off of her forehead as she ascended from the last step of the ladder into the attic. She doubted that she had been up there since she moved into the house ten years ago. Now that she was moving again, she had to return. That’s life, I guess.
Light shined through a dusty window on dustier boxes. At least it was early. She shuddered to think how hot it would be by noon.
Sighing, she pulled the first box away from the wall, dusted it off, and cut it open. Inside was a stack of brown fake leather albums. This was the problem with moving. Now that she saw the albums, she had to know what was inside – not that she’d throw them away either way – not that it was productive at all – but she just had to know.
The first one was typical – baby pictures, the first day of school, high school prom and graduation. C’mon, she thought, I know it’s in here somewhere… and there it was. As she opened the second album, loose pictures flew everywhere. She had gone through a scrapbooking phase, but, like all of her phases, it was brief. True to form, the first five pages of the scrapbook were neatly decorated with different colored construction paper (still bright, even after fifteen years – I guess that’s one thing to be said for not unpacking between moves), crisp cut letters spelling out various words (“Hollywood”, “California, here we come!”, “Tinseltown”, etc.), and knick-knacks, and after that, she had become too lazy to even glue the pictures to the soft cotton paper. She flipped through the first few pages without really even looking, but then something caught her eye.
She had been a gawky eighteen-year old, fresh out of high school, in California for a month for the first time in her life because her first goal as an emancipated adult was to see the ocean. The first thing she did was go to the pier. She stood amidst all the coin binocular machines, staring out into the seemingly endless blueish gray waves, snapping endless pictures, thinking of nothing, when she suddenly realized there was someone right behind her. “You can see the mountains from here, you know,” he said in a low and gravely voice.
She didn’t even turn around. “Why on earth would you want to see the mountains? You can see mountains anywhere. Why would you even look at the mountains when something so beautiful is right here?”
“Got a dime?” he asked. For the first time since he walked up, she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Great. She had been in California for, at most, three hours, and already here she was, alone on the pier, being hassled for change by some drunk.
“Look, I don’t have much more money than you, ok? I’m certainly not going to waste MY money to buy YOUR booze,” she spoke with the unfounded confidence that only someone who is eighteen can evince.
He laughed. “Honey, I don’t need your money for booze. I just wanted to show you the mountains.” She stood up taller, squared her shoulders, and turned. “I’m going to go down the pier. Please don’t follow me.” As she walked away, all she could hear was a gravely belly laugh. She didn’t turn back.
Two years later, she had lost the boyfriend who convinced her to stay in California, the job she had found there, and the idealism that she came with. She had gained 10 pounds, $15,000 in credit card debt, and hostility toward the general public.
The last evening before she drove back East, she returned to the pier. It didn’t look the same. She didn’t even see the ocean. She was too busy examining the mold on the old wood, scoffing at the tourists, and clutching her purse to her side to avoid being mugged. She stood there, thinking it was too humid to be March, thinking it was too late to keep standing here, when she suddenly realized that someone was behind her. “You know, from here, you can see the mountains.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Don’t get me wrong – the ocean’s nice – but there’s just something refreshing about seeing something new, about being the only person in a crowd of people to notice something. All these people,” he gestured around, “they all came out here to see the ocean. To be famous. To fall in love.” He shook his head. “We’re not those people. I came out here because Kansas was too quiet, and I think too much when it’s quiet. And you – well, whatever reason you came out here for, from the look on your face, I’m guessing it hasn’t worked out. So why not do something new?”
She paused and fumbled through her pockets. “You got a dime?”
He gave her two. “Here – one for today, and one for if you ever see someone who needs to see the mountains.”
She left the next morning. She moved to Atlanta, traded her flipflops for power suits, her love of solitude for the constant companionship of a Blackberry, and her view of the ocean for a concrete jungle.
And after fifteen years, there she sat – thirty-five, cross-legged on a hot dusty attic floor, 2,000 miles away, staring at a half-empty scrapbook with nothing but a dime taped to the page – and all she wanted was to see the mountains.
Wacky Washington #4
My wife spent all morning in the attic. I spent all morning worrying about her.
She finally came down around noon, dust smudged across her cheek, bearing a cardboard box. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, moving an errant strand of hair that must have been tickling her skin. Her hands were dusty, which explained the awkward gesture.
“Everything okay, Meggan?” I asked.
She glared at me. “Ask me that one more time, seriously. Please.”
I bit my tongue. I had no idea how to deal with her. “I’m sorry.”
She waved it off, sitting on the couch. I found it odd that she took the time to keep her dusty fingers off her face by using the back of her hand to fix her hair, but paid no attention to her dusty pants on the couch. She was meticulous about the living room.
“What do you have there?”
Meggan opened the box, ignoring me. She pulled out several old photo albums. I had never seen them before.
“Are those from your parents’ place?”
“My mom’s, yeah.” She was flipping through one of the albums, turning pages rapidly. Every once in awhile she would stop and stare at a picture.
I sat down in the armchair, at a ninety-degree angle from the couch, watching her face. Whenever she paused, a small smile would grow in the corner of her mouth. Then her lips would tighten and she would blink really hard. Then she would turn the page.
I leaned forward, trying to see what she was looking at. I craned my neck.
“Is that your cousin?”
Meggan slammed the album shut and glared at me, wiping a tear from her eye. She picked up the album, threw it into the box, and then gathered up the whole thing. She stormed out of the room and I heard our bedroom door slam.
“Great.” I slumped down in my chair.
***
“Mr. Jenkins, I assure you, we’re doing everything we can. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.”
“I appreciate that, Detective, and I’m sorry for wasting your time. It’s just, I really don’t know how to deal with this, and maybe some progress on the case would help, I don’t know, calm her nerves a little.”
“I can totally sympathize. I’ve seen some awful things in this job. Grieving is a difficult process. All I can recommend is maybe helping your wife find a good therapist. Even if we catch this guy, she’s not necessarily going to feel any closure. We have a lot of missing tourists and only one body so far. There’s no evidence to suggest he got your wife’s cousin, too. Just a suspicion. Nothing will change the fact that her cousin is gone. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
“I’m sorry for wasting yours. I just felt like I needed to do something, anything, you know?”
“I understand, sir. You have a good day.”
I hung up the phone and wandered over to the kitchen window. I watched my daughter playing in her sandbox in the backyard. Everything here seemed so quiet and safe, the picture of suburban tranquility. No one would suspect the utter chaos in our lives, the dark grief.
I walked slowly up the stairs to the second floor, and listened outside our bedroom. I couldn’t hear much of anything. I tapped quietly.
“Honey? It’s time for lunch.”
Nothing.
“I made tuna, your favourite.”
Quiet.
“I’m going to go get Molly. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”
I walked slowly back down the steps, looking over my shoulder at the door a couple of times. I shrugged, and called Molly in from the back door. We sat down to tuna salad sandwiches in the kitchen. I made them like my dad: tuna, mayo, relish, celery and green onions. Meggan had always loved his recipe. At her house they had just added mayonnaise.
Molly held her cup of milk in two hands, gulping it. She put the cup on the table, sitting on her knees to do so, and then wiped the milk off her mouth with the back of her hand.
“More, please,” she said, with a soft gasp of air.
“Don’t drink it so fast next time,” I smiled. I poured her another cup.
We went out to the hammock after lunch, under the big maple. I read her a story while she cuddled in my lap. Princesses and dragons fascinated her for about twenty minutes.
“Daddy, is there such thing as real magic?”
“Sure there is. I can show you.”
“You can?” Her eyes went big.
“Sure.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dime. “Watch this.”
I made the coin dance over my fingers and knuckles, in and out. On one rotation, it disappeared. She gasped.
“Where did it go?”
I showed her my open hands, and then looked around the hammock and the grass.
“I guess I dropped it. Oh, no, wait… Here it is!”
Molly was sitting on the hammock. I knelt down in the grass and reached over. I pulled the shiny coin out from behind her ear, making her giggle.
“How did you do that?” Molly laughed. “Do it again!”
“Can you make my cousin reappear?” I heard from behind me.
“Hi, Mommy!”
I turned and saw my wife standing a short distance from us. I smiled softly.
“Wish I could. I haven’t learned that trick yet.”
“Thank you for the sandwiches.”
I shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
She knelt down with me and hugged Molly. Meggan turned and kissed me softly.
“Mommy, are you still sad?”
“Yes, baby. But only a little. Daddy’s magic cheered me up.”
“How’d he do that?” Molly asked, impressed.
“By being the best daddy in the world, and an awfully patient husband.” She smiled.
I wiped my eyes and sniffled.
“You’re such a sap, Sam.” Meggan leaned in and kissed me again.
She finally came down around noon, dust smudged across her cheek, bearing a cardboard box. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, moving an errant strand of hair that must have been tickling her skin. Her hands were dusty, which explained the awkward gesture.
“Everything okay, Meggan?” I asked.
She glared at me. “Ask me that one more time, seriously. Please.”
I bit my tongue. I had no idea how to deal with her. “I’m sorry.”
She waved it off, sitting on the couch. I found it odd that she took the time to keep her dusty fingers off her face by using the back of her hand to fix her hair, but paid no attention to her dusty pants on the couch. She was meticulous about the living room.
“What do you have there?”
Meggan opened the box, ignoring me. She pulled out several old photo albums. I had never seen them before.
“Are those from your parents’ place?”
“My mom’s, yeah.” She was flipping through one of the albums, turning pages rapidly. Every once in awhile she would stop and stare at a picture.
I sat down in the armchair, at a ninety-degree angle from the couch, watching her face. Whenever she paused, a small smile would grow in the corner of her mouth. Then her lips would tighten and she would blink really hard. Then she would turn the page.
I leaned forward, trying to see what she was looking at. I craned my neck.
“Is that your cousin?”
Meggan slammed the album shut and glared at me, wiping a tear from her eye. She picked up the album, threw it into the box, and then gathered up the whole thing. She stormed out of the room and I heard our bedroom door slam.
“Great.” I slumped down in my chair.
***
“Mr. Jenkins, I assure you, we’re doing everything we can. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.”
“I appreciate that, Detective, and I’m sorry for wasting your time. It’s just, I really don’t know how to deal with this, and maybe some progress on the case would help, I don’t know, calm her nerves a little.”
“I can totally sympathize. I’ve seen some awful things in this job. Grieving is a difficult process. All I can recommend is maybe helping your wife find a good therapist. Even if we catch this guy, she’s not necessarily going to feel any closure. We have a lot of missing tourists and only one body so far. There’s no evidence to suggest he got your wife’s cousin, too. Just a suspicion. Nothing will change the fact that her cousin is gone. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
“I’m sorry for wasting yours. I just felt like I needed to do something, anything, you know?”
“I understand, sir. You have a good day.”
I hung up the phone and wandered over to the kitchen window. I watched my daughter playing in her sandbox in the backyard. Everything here seemed so quiet and safe, the picture of suburban tranquility. No one would suspect the utter chaos in our lives, the dark grief.
I walked slowly up the stairs to the second floor, and listened outside our bedroom. I couldn’t hear much of anything. I tapped quietly.
“Honey? It’s time for lunch.”
Nothing.
“I made tuna, your favourite.”
Quiet.
“I’m going to go get Molly. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”
I walked slowly back down the steps, looking over my shoulder at the door a couple of times. I shrugged, and called Molly in from the back door. We sat down to tuna salad sandwiches in the kitchen. I made them like my dad: tuna, mayo, relish, celery and green onions. Meggan had always loved his recipe. At her house they had just added mayonnaise.
Molly held her cup of milk in two hands, gulping it. She put the cup on the table, sitting on her knees to do so, and then wiped the milk off her mouth with the back of her hand.
“More, please,” she said, with a soft gasp of air.
“Don’t drink it so fast next time,” I smiled. I poured her another cup.
We went out to the hammock after lunch, under the big maple. I read her a story while she cuddled in my lap. Princesses and dragons fascinated her for about twenty minutes.
“Daddy, is there such thing as real magic?”
“Sure there is. I can show you.”
“You can?” Her eyes went big.
“Sure.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dime. “Watch this.”
I made the coin dance over my fingers and knuckles, in and out. On one rotation, it disappeared. She gasped.
“Where did it go?”
I showed her my open hands, and then looked around the hammock and the grass.
“I guess I dropped it. Oh, no, wait… Here it is!”
Molly was sitting on the hammock. I knelt down in the grass and reached over. I pulled the shiny coin out from behind her ear, making her giggle.
“How did you do that?” Molly laughed. “Do it again!”
“Can you make my cousin reappear?” I heard from behind me.
“Hi, Mommy!”
I turned and saw my wife standing a short distance from us. I smiled softly.
“Wish I could. I haven’t learned that trick yet.”
“Thank you for the sandwiches.”
I shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
She knelt down with me and hugged Molly. Meggan turned and kissed me softly.
“Mommy, are you still sad?”
“Yes, baby. But only a little. Daddy’s magic cheered me up.”
“How’d he do that?” Molly asked, impressed.
“By being the best daddy in the world, and an awfully patient husband.” She smiled.
I wiped my eyes and sniffled.
“You’re such a sap, Sam.” Meggan leaned in and kissed me again.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
TKO #4
TKO #4 [Fiction]
Write a scene/story where the following three nouns play an important role: tourist, attic, and dime.
Post is due Friday at 11:59pm (Pacific).
Write a scene/story where the following three nouns play an important role: tourist, attic, and dime.
Post is due Friday at 11:59pm (Pacific).
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Results of Vote #3
Brave Buchanan is automatically removed for failure to respond.
Fiesty Fillmore received the most votes. There was a tie, which was broken because Fillmore received less favorite votes in rounds 1 and 2 combined than the player who he was tied with.
Fiesty Fillmore received the most votes. There was a tie, which was broken because Fillmore received less favorite votes in rounds 1 and 2 combined than the player who he was tied with.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Playful Pierce #3
The day after Terry was hospitalized by her boyfriend, Ashley began receiving emails from herself; from the future. The first one read:
Ashley,
It’s me: you. I’m you. Remember that time in 2nd grade when you borrowed one of Dad’s saint statues for show and tell, but dropped it on the way home and cut yourself trying to pick up all the pieces so you lied and said the neighbor’s pit-bull attacked you? We never told anyone else that.
You should know that there’s going to be a pop-quiz in your Cold War History class tomorrow on the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. The professor thinks that nobody does the assigned reading, so she’s going to try to surprise everyone. Be sure to read the footnotes.
-You
Ashley blinked a couple times and glanced at the clock. She was supposed to be getting a call from the boy she met in her political science class, but it was already 11:24. She reached into her bag, pulled out the text for history and cracked the spine open.
* * *
At lunch, Nikki asked how Ashley did on the quiz.
“Not too bad.”
“Better than me I’m sure.” Nikki said. “I’ve never opened that damn book.”
“I had some free time last night.”
“Trent didn’t call?”
Ashley shrugged her shoulders. She noticed Nikki had pizza sauce on the side of her mouth and pointed at it.
“Thanks,” Nikki said, licking the corners of her mouth before beginning on her third slice of pepperoni.
“Have you seen Terry yet?”
Nikki swallowed. “Not yet. I don’t know if I can. I heard she’s pretty messed up.”
“I think he pushed her down the stairs.”
“She was so pretty. And thin.” Nikki opened the container with the cheesecake inside. “He probably hit her before.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, but that kind of stuff always builds up, doesn’t it?” Nikki paused. “Plus, she had that bruise on her cheek a couple weeks ago. Remember?”
Ashley nodded. Terry had said she had slipped in the rain and fell on her face.
“I just can’t believe she stayed.” Nikki stood up and gathered everything on her tray.
“I don’t know. I might.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Ashley dumped the rest of her salad in the trashcan. “If we had been dating a long time and he was really sorry, I think I could forgive someone.” Ashley noticed the bewildered look on Nikki’s face and added, “Once.”
“You’re crazy,” Nikki said.
Ashley waited for Nikki to refill her diet soda before they drove back to the apartment.
* * *
When she got home, Ashley checked her email and found another one from herself:
Hey,
Good job on the quiz. Have fun tonight and don’t worry about waking up early tomorrow. Your poli. sci. professor has the flu and is going to cancel at the last minute.
Later,
-Me
That night, Ashley rented three romantic comedies from the video store down the street and stayed awake until three in the morning watching them.
* * *
Ashley used her free day to visit Terry in the hospital. She had a neck brace and her left leg was in a cast elevated by a sling. Ashley mentally traced the stitching on Terry’s face from just below her right eye to underneath her nose.
“It’ll take about a week before they let me out of here.” Terry said. “They’re going to do the reconstructive stuff after they make sure I can walk.” Terry smiled and Ashley noticed that she was missing two of her lower teeth.
Ashley grimaced.
For a couple minutes neither of them said anything, before the silence was interrupted by a loud smack at the window. Ashley jumped.
“Sorry. I should’ve warned you about Jake.”
Ashley turned her head toward the window. A blackbird appeared on the windowsill before flying back to a tree a couple yards away.
“He keeps trying to get in here. The nurses can’t really do anything about it though.”
“Why do you call him Jake?”
“I named him after that really nice kid in high school. The one on the math club that kept asking me out even though I turned him down every time.” Terry sighed. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”
After a couple minutes, Ashley added, “We had a quiz in history.”
“Cool.”
Ashley watched Jake take off from the tree and collide head-on into the window again. “Crazy bird.”
“That’s the definition, right?” Terry said. “Repeating the same thing but expecting a different result?”
“Something like that.”
* * *
Trent called Ashley’s cellphone on the bus ride home.
“So you’re psychic right?” he asked.
“Who told you?” she said.
“I knew it. Tell me my fortune.”
“You’re going to graduate from college with a lame business degree and sell your soul to the corporate world.”
“As long as I’m rich.”
Ashley laughed.
“But honestly: how did you know?” he asked.
“Know what?”
“Political Science. The one day you don’t show up, class is cancelled.”
Ashley blushed.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” An Indian man across the aisle gave her a puzzled look, so Ashley turned her body to the left and hunched over.
“Random question for you, how do you feel about live music?”
* * *
Ashley picked out a red low-cut shirt and skinny jeans, which she set on her bed. Before jumping in the shower she got online. Her inbox had one message, the last contact she ever made with her future self. The subject line was: Important! It read:
I have a favor to ask you.
Please do not go out with that guy tonight. Call him back and tell him that you’re sick or that there’s a family emergency or that you have a big test that you need to study for—anything to get out of it. It’s not going to work out. Please.
-Us
Before she left, Ashley sent a reply.
* * *
Ashley met Trent at a jazz club on 50th. He was inside waiting for her at a table near the back wearing a pinstriped suit.
“Suddenly I feel very underdressed,” she said, sliding into the booth next to him in view of the stage.
“Papa always told me that jazz is something to dress up for.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.”
“What makes you think there will be a next time?”
Ashley tapped her head. “Psychic, remember?”
“Of course.” Trent waved a hand at the waitress and ordered two martinis, extra dirty. “Your favorite, right?” He tilted his head toward Ashley after the waitress left. “I’m psychic too,” he whispered.
Ashley’s hands tightened their grip on her napkin. “Really?” she squeaked.
“Your friend Nikki and I have a math class together. I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or something.”
“No, it’s cool.” Ashley sighed and plopped the napkin back on the table. She added, “How’d you get into all of this? Was it your dad?”
“Both my parents grew up in the Beat generation. ‘On The Road’ is practically the family bible.”
“I hope you don’t plan on abandoning me in Mexico.”
“In that case,” Trent pointed to the drink the waitress delivered, “You probably shouldn’t take a sip of that.”
Ashley slid the martini away from her, too fast, and a small amount sloshed over the side of the glass.
“I was just kidding.” Trent picked up the drink and took a sip. “See? Clean.”
Ashley forced a laugh.
“How much do you know about jazz anyway?”
“Just the instruments, saxophone, trumpet, piano, I’ve never really heard it live before.” Ashley braved a sip of her drink.
“It’s better live.”
“Why’s that?”
“Improvisation.” Trent fanned his hands out as if he was doing a magic act. “Jazz doesn’t really follow the rules for live music. Nothing’s rehearsed. The musicians just come in and play how they’re feeling. It sounds different each time. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, but it’s always interesting, fresh.”
Ashley nodded and downed the rest of her drink in one large gulp.
* * *
The first thing Ashley did when she got home was check her email. The reply letter she had sent bounced back to her, citing an error for a nonexistent address.
A year later she got an email from the past with two words: Why not?, but by then she already knew the answer.
Ashley,
It’s me: you. I’m you. Remember that time in 2nd grade when you borrowed one of Dad’s saint statues for show and tell, but dropped it on the way home and cut yourself trying to pick up all the pieces so you lied and said the neighbor’s pit-bull attacked you? We never told anyone else that.
You should know that there’s going to be a pop-quiz in your Cold War History class tomorrow on the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. The professor thinks that nobody does the assigned reading, so she’s going to try to surprise everyone. Be sure to read the footnotes.
-You
Ashley blinked a couple times and glanced at the clock. She was supposed to be getting a call from the boy she met in her political science class, but it was already 11:24. She reached into her bag, pulled out the text for history and cracked the spine open.
* * *
At lunch, Nikki asked how Ashley did on the quiz.
“Not too bad.”
“Better than me I’m sure.” Nikki said. “I’ve never opened that damn book.”
“I had some free time last night.”
“Trent didn’t call?”
Ashley shrugged her shoulders. She noticed Nikki had pizza sauce on the side of her mouth and pointed at it.
“Thanks,” Nikki said, licking the corners of her mouth before beginning on her third slice of pepperoni.
“Have you seen Terry yet?”
Nikki swallowed. “Not yet. I don’t know if I can. I heard she’s pretty messed up.”
“I think he pushed her down the stairs.”
“She was so pretty. And thin.” Nikki opened the container with the cheesecake inside. “He probably hit her before.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, but that kind of stuff always builds up, doesn’t it?” Nikki paused. “Plus, she had that bruise on her cheek a couple weeks ago. Remember?”
Ashley nodded. Terry had said she had slipped in the rain and fell on her face.
“I just can’t believe she stayed.” Nikki stood up and gathered everything on her tray.
“I don’t know. I might.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Ashley dumped the rest of her salad in the trashcan. “If we had been dating a long time and he was really sorry, I think I could forgive someone.” Ashley noticed the bewildered look on Nikki’s face and added, “Once.”
“You’re crazy,” Nikki said.
Ashley waited for Nikki to refill her diet soda before they drove back to the apartment.
* * *
When she got home, Ashley checked her email and found another one from herself:
Hey,
Good job on the quiz. Have fun tonight and don’t worry about waking up early tomorrow. Your poli. sci. professor has the flu and is going to cancel at the last minute.
Later,
-Me
That night, Ashley rented three romantic comedies from the video store down the street and stayed awake until three in the morning watching them.
* * *
Ashley used her free day to visit Terry in the hospital. She had a neck brace and her left leg was in a cast elevated by a sling. Ashley mentally traced the stitching on Terry’s face from just below her right eye to underneath her nose.
“It’ll take about a week before they let me out of here.” Terry said. “They’re going to do the reconstructive stuff after they make sure I can walk.” Terry smiled and Ashley noticed that she was missing two of her lower teeth.
Ashley grimaced.
For a couple minutes neither of them said anything, before the silence was interrupted by a loud smack at the window. Ashley jumped.
“Sorry. I should’ve warned you about Jake.”
Ashley turned her head toward the window. A blackbird appeared on the windowsill before flying back to a tree a couple yards away.
“He keeps trying to get in here. The nurses can’t really do anything about it though.”
“Why do you call him Jake?”
“I named him after that really nice kid in high school. The one on the math club that kept asking me out even though I turned him down every time.” Terry sighed. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”
After a couple minutes, Ashley added, “We had a quiz in history.”
“Cool.”
Ashley watched Jake take off from the tree and collide head-on into the window again. “Crazy bird.”
“That’s the definition, right?” Terry said. “Repeating the same thing but expecting a different result?”
“Something like that.”
* * *
Trent called Ashley’s cellphone on the bus ride home.
“So you’re psychic right?” he asked.
“Who told you?” she said.
“I knew it. Tell me my fortune.”
“You’re going to graduate from college with a lame business degree and sell your soul to the corporate world.”
“As long as I’m rich.”
Ashley laughed.
“But honestly: how did you know?” he asked.
“Know what?”
“Political Science. The one day you don’t show up, class is cancelled.”
Ashley blushed.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” An Indian man across the aisle gave her a puzzled look, so Ashley turned her body to the left and hunched over.
“Random question for you, how do you feel about live music?”
* * *
Ashley picked out a red low-cut shirt and skinny jeans, which she set on her bed. Before jumping in the shower she got online. Her inbox had one message, the last contact she ever made with her future self. The subject line was: Important! It read:
I have a favor to ask you.
Please do not go out with that guy tonight. Call him back and tell him that you’re sick or that there’s a family emergency or that you have a big test that you need to study for—anything to get out of it. It’s not going to work out. Please.
-Us
Before she left, Ashley sent a reply.
* * *
Ashley met Trent at a jazz club on 50th. He was inside waiting for her at a table near the back wearing a pinstriped suit.
“Suddenly I feel very underdressed,” she said, sliding into the booth next to him in view of the stage.
“Papa always told me that jazz is something to dress up for.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.”
“What makes you think there will be a next time?”
Ashley tapped her head. “Psychic, remember?”
“Of course.” Trent waved a hand at the waitress and ordered two martinis, extra dirty. “Your favorite, right?” He tilted his head toward Ashley after the waitress left. “I’m psychic too,” he whispered.
Ashley’s hands tightened their grip on her napkin. “Really?” she squeaked.
“Your friend Nikki and I have a math class together. I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or something.”
“No, it’s cool.” Ashley sighed and plopped the napkin back on the table. She added, “How’d you get into all of this? Was it your dad?”
“Both my parents grew up in the Beat generation. ‘On The Road’ is practically the family bible.”
“I hope you don’t plan on abandoning me in Mexico.”
“In that case,” Trent pointed to the drink the waitress delivered, “You probably shouldn’t take a sip of that.”
Ashley slid the martini away from her, too fast, and a small amount sloshed over the side of the glass.
“I was just kidding.” Trent picked up the drink and took a sip. “See? Clean.”
Ashley forced a laugh.
“How much do you know about jazz anyway?”
“Just the instruments, saxophone, trumpet, piano, I’ve never really heard it live before.” Ashley braved a sip of her drink.
“It’s better live.”
“Why’s that?”
“Improvisation.” Trent fanned his hands out as if he was doing a magic act. “Jazz doesn’t really follow the rules for live music. Nothing’s rehearsed. The musicians just come in and play how they’re feeling. It sounds different each time. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, but it’s always interesting, fresh.”
Ashley nodded and downed the rest of her drink in one large gulp.
* * *
The first thing Ashley did when she got home was check her email. The reply letter she had sent bounced back to her, citing an error for a nonexistent address.
A year later she got an email from the past with two words: Why not?, but by then she already knew the answer.
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