Enjoy previews of unpublished works. Explore tidbits I have been working on for years or new challenges in development and creation. I look forward to your feedback. all that is written here is fiction. All works copy written under Sammy Shu
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Raw Sugar
The year that I died a lot of really great stuff happened. The Beatles had their last public appearance; I think it was on some record companies’ rooftop. Things are hazy now. John Lennon and Yoko Ono got married, although I’m not sure how cool that was. The Who did a rock opera that year called Tommy. In June Hee Haw started showing in TV’s all over America and the first men walked on the moon, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, his nick name was Buzz, I have no idea why.
I remember watching the moment on a tiny little black and white television with all of my friends. We were drinkin beer and yelling like it was the god damn world series. I couldn’t believe we were walking on the moon. I’ve been there several times myself. It’s actually a lonely desolate place, but on that day it was a miraculous wonderland.
Ten days later, at five pm on a Tuesday night on July 29th 1969 I was dead. I was pretty pissed at the time, mostly because I had plans to go to Woodstock. My bags were packed it was less than a month away and I was looking forward to it more than I had been looking forward to that monumental moon landing. I went anyway, but it just wasn’t the same.
I’d only been dead for a little more than fifteen days and had no idea how to navigate. Invariably, just as a great song would start I’d be home looking at my wife sleeping in our bed or standing in my kids doorway. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Two days later a hurricane hit my home town in Mississippi and killed my mom and dad. I saw them for a moment before they were gone and it was okay I guess. There’s not a lot of emotion here, it’s much more cerebral. They left, I stayed. A lot of people stayed from the hurricane. So when Becky and the kids moved I was glad. Crowds make me nervous.
It’s 2010 now and I have been dead for forty one year’s. My kids are grown and have kids of their own. My wife is dead. She died in 1985 of ovarian cancer. I watched that travesty up close and personal. I held her hand and I knew she was aware. When she died she looked at me and said “I knew, this whole time I knew.” And then she was gone.
I really didn’t understand that one. I thought she would stick around for a talk or something, but nope she just vanished. By the way, there is no bright light, no group of loved ones hanging around, well for me there wasn’t. I guess for Becky I was there, but anyway it’s not like the crap the feed you growing up. It’s hollow and sad. You can’t communicate with anyone because it’s as if we are all speaking a different language or on a different sound wave. I don’t exactly feel lonely. Like I said, it’s not about the emotions of it.
The day my first grandchild was born I was pleased, but I missed the feelings I knew I would have felt had I been alive. I wonder why I’m still here. My wife is dead and gone. My kids are all safe, my grandkids seem okay and really I don’t feel any solid connection to them.
In forty years I have seen just about everything. Don’t misunderstand, I had no control for quite some time. The crazy way time seemed to jump drove me a little haywire, the first ten years or so, but after that was all ironed out I did some traveling. I was aware that I would always bounce back to my old home, I still do sometimes, but back then I couldn’t get more than a state or two away without the inevitable doorway stalking of my wife and kiddos. Boy was I glad when that stopped.
In 1979 I met John Wayne, he hung about for a while and for fun I followed him around when I could. He spoke to me but I never understood him. He was young when I met him. Not like he was when he was alive. I met a lot of famous people after that but I’ll never forget John Wayne.
In 1987 I was sitting in the living room of an old friend and I saw a television show called the Simpsons. My friend was excited about it and as he sucked down his beer it reminded me of that night long ago when we had watched a grainy screen as two men stepped foot on the moon. My friend died six months later. He would be happy to know that show is still playing and folks around the world love it as much as he did. I never saw him again. I was hanging out in a movie theatre the day he vamoosed. I was watching Lethal Weapon, good movie. That was a good year for movies Steakout, RoboCop and The Untouchables were a few other great ones I caught in ’87.
Over the next twenty years I polished my look, traveled the planet and beyond and learned a few languages. After all, an eternity has to produce a few kernels of knowledge and mine were piling up. I learned early on that how you look is based on how you see yourself. In the beginning every time I looked in a mirror I saw myself with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Yes, to answer the most obvious question, I can see my reflection, although if I were standing next to you, you would see only you. Occasionally, I have caught people in public bathrooms taking a quick second glance, like they think they see. But I haven’t been caught yet. That would be interesting.
I like TV; I watch it whenever I can. I especially like the ghost shows, there are quite a few of them right now. They have everything wrong; still they are fun to watch.
The thing about me is, I was a normal guy. I liked baseball, but not so much that I ignored the wife. I loved that broad and when she popped out those beautiful babies, I loved her more. We went dancing once a week and when her mom or mine couldn’t watch the kids I would put on the Frankie records and twirl her around the living room till she was dizzy with my love.
I cooked, a fact that we kept secret from my buddies. Becky was always good about keeping my less manly qualities a secret. Today I would be considered metro sexual. Back then they would have labeled me queer, beat the shit out of me on principal and chucked me in a ditch. That was then. The thing was, she cared more about that stuff than I did.
I cried once at an old movie, not the kind of cry baby cryin guys do now, but a tear came outta the corner of my eye. Becky started coughing like she was chokin to death, to distract. My buddies were playin poker in the same room and I chose to sit with my lady and watch the movie. Anyway that was Becky. She was made for back then, I guess I wasn’t. Sometimes I think that is the reason I’m still here, to let time catch up to me. Sometimes I forget to think about it.
The thing that frustrates me more and more as time passes is the fact that I cannot remember how I died. In the beginning when I was bent out of shape over Woodstock and checking on the kids every five seconds I was mostly just pissed and confused. As time passed, it occurred to me that I could remember everything about that day, until I stood up to turn off the television. I remember that part perfectly. Becky asleep on my shoulder, lifting her sweet face to plant a kiss on her perfect cheek. I rose to turn off the television and then …nothing.
I began to wonder sometime around 1991 if that was the issue. Coming to grips with my death could be the reason I was still hanging onto the mortal coil. Problem was, I couldn’t get any information. Anyone who knew me was dead or way past the time where they would chat casually about my death. Essentially I was S.O.L.
This was my mental state when I glided into my favorite coffee shop to see what was going on in the world today. As soon as wireless internet and coffeehouses united, I had a resource for all things educational. I could hang around for hours listening to music or read files. I could literally slip into their virtual world and play inside their games. They still couldn’t see me, but I could see it all as clear and real as I could interact with this would, which let’s face it, isn’t that great.
I would notice that if I spent too long in a system I had a hard time coming out. Also, it’s important to realize that if a system is shutting down, I have to get out or I’m stuck until the computer comes alive again. I know the entire proper vernacular for this stuff, booting up, hard drives, system failure, I just liked the me from before, so I still talk like him as much as I can. So I say the computer sleeps and comes alive instead of boots up and shuts down.
It’s the tiny things that keep you connected. Like carrying a pack of smokes rolled up in your tee-shirt sleeve. I don’t do that anymore, I did for a long time after I missed the smoking. One day I just noticed they were gone. I still miss me sometimes and when I’m fighting the boredom by cruising around on a make believe dragon, I consider my life with Becky and I think about the sadness that should bring me. The fact that I have very little connection to my feelings, I can’t speak to specter or human and I don’t remember how I died, were all things looming just under the surface when Sugar Darlin walked into Special Grounds.
Her name really is Sugar Darlin. Her mamma was a Texan and her daddy a New Orleans riverboat captain. Mostly showing the tourist what their missing by not living in the crime ridden, mosquito infested south. Those two crazy lovebirds fell in love on that river boat and Sugars mamma never left. According to Sugar, her mamma still rides shotgun on her daddy’s tours. ‘Ride with the Darlin of New Orleans’. That was the slogan. And I suppose they did well ‘cause when Sugar left town to head north, she sure didn’t leave empty handed.
The day I met Sugar I was listening to a band called Death Cab for Cutie. A terrible name, still good tunes all the same. I was wrist deep in a young girl’s laptop when the door opened and I smelled cotton candy. Strong, as if there was a stand twirling the stuff up right in front of me. I followed the smell with my eyes and there she was with barely any clothes covering her bronzed skin and heels that made her calf muscles look like hardened steel underneath silk.
Her hair was ironically, the exact color of raw sugar and hung shoulder length in sassy pig tales. I could not take my eyes off of this beautiful creature and when she looked at me with huge, startled, blazing green eyes it took me a moment to realize she was actually seeing me. For the first time in forty one years I was being seen and suddenly I was very worried about my appearance.
I knew I must be changing between ages, outfits and features, because her eyes actually got wider and she stood with a hand reaching out as if she were waiting for someone to take her by it and lead her to the nearest loony bin. I finally settled on a look, my usual short hair, clean cut, jeans and tee-shirt, about the same time she seemed to get control over her emotions. I was a fairly good looking guy before I died, so except for smoothing out my crow’s feet, I did very little to actually change my appearance.
Over the years I had tried brown eyes and blonde hair, blonde hair with my own blue eyes. I’d made my eyes darker my hair darker, longer, even did a buzz cut once. Nothing ever felt as right as my own light blue eyes and drab brown hair. So that’s what Sugar saw as I finally settled into me. I did however give myself a boost in the body department and had she not been so shocked, she told me later, she would have giggled as she watched my chest and biceps enlarge like a Popeye cartoon.
An interesting side note to my life these days; I have lost a few senses. One of the ones I miss the most is smell. I haven’t smelled anything in over four decades. And now, the first thing I smell is cotton candy. This is the devils joke on man. My other lost sense is taste and all I want in this moment is to run to this girl and lick her skin to see if she tastes anything like she smells.
I visualize this. Years of solitude have given me patience and a kind of thoughtfulness I never had in life. I see myself run to her, grab her, because surely if I can smell her, I can touch her. Sure she’ll be scared, but do I care? And what if she tastes like cotton candy? Oh my god in sweet heaven! What if she does? So I lick her or bite her or fuck it all, I just eat her up. Could I? Would she have the consistency of cotton candy? What if I get carried away and bite her and it’s all muscle and blood and skin. Yuck. I don’t think I could handle eating a cotton candy flavored girl. Plus, I’m really not hungry so why risk it. Or am I?
Amidst all of my mind prattle, Sugar has managed to remove herself from blocking the door and has taken several steps in my direction, clearly misreading my expressions, she is not aware I am considering eating her.
She says in a clear voice so southern I expect chimes to ring and a colored woman to start yelling that suppa is ready. “What ARE you doing?” There is a distinct rise in pitch with the word are and I smile at the natural accusation it causes the sentence to take on.
The girl whose computer I’m fondling hears it too and responds with equal snark. “I’m listening to music, what’s it to you?”
Sugar shook her head in dismissal of the girl and waved me toward her. I dislodged my hand, left from Death Cab, and headed toward the cutie. Sometimes I can make myself laugh.
*
I immediately began considering ramifications if this girl really could see me. Not for me really so much, but most definitely for her. What would it be like to see a ghost hanging out in a coffee shop? If you did, could you manage to talk to that ghost without ending up in a strait jacket or bouncing around some rubber walled room in a Belleview like sanitarium? These were the thoughts rattling around my nonexistent skull as I followed the long legged, tan beauty to the back of the crowded shop.
Before I could calculate a plan she had taken matters into her own hands and swiveled into a small chair facing the back wall. The little nook was next to a large bookcase overstocked with board games and paperback novels. Her back to the door, she waited her legs crossed at the ankles, as I scootched around obstacles and stood facing her and the rest of the bustling room.
I know it seems odd that I should avoid objects that I can simply pass through. The reason is simple. Passing through things does not feel great. In fact it sucks. If you can imagine a baseball bat slipping though your skull, you can imagine this. It’s not painful like that would be I suppose, but it certainly leaves an impression. It also takes me a second to shake it off.
I think I mentioned earlier how the TV shows get it all wrong. Well in this case it’s a massive pooch screw. Running through doors and walls would be like listening to nails on a chalk board in surround sound. So this is why I was very careful not to come into contact with anything as I took the place she had allotted me with her gaze.
She smiled, her green eyes snapped with humor as she said “Well sweetie, you sure are a cutie pie. My names Sugar, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, realized her mistake and dropped it, the smile never leaving her face. The smell of cotton candy was so strong now, I felt myself actually salivate.
All of the new sensations were proving a bit huge for me so I simply said. “Names Buck.”
I leaned toward her and sniffed, she giggled. When she did I was struck by the sound enough to realize I was far too close for her comfort and I moved back in an instant. I don’t mean I stepped back or jumped. I just though myself away from her and I was, that quick. Her eyes widened, but not so much this time and I could tell she was already getting accustomed to me and my strangeness. Weird considering she had just laid eyes on me thirty seconds ago, give or take a few.
“Well hi Buck.” She said showing me her pretty smile again.
“Hi” I hadn’t talked to anyone in so long I felt as if I had forgotten how. Back when John was around I talked all the time, but he didn’t understand a word. Maybe if he had I would have been as tongue tied as I was now.
“Monosyllabic, huh?”
“I‘m not a cave man I’m a ghost.” I said stupidly.
“I figured. What are you doing here?” She asked me and I realized, surprised, that she was talking in a completely normal voice.
So I asked her “Why aren’t you afraid to talk to me? Don’t you care that someone may hear you and wonder why you’re talking to yourself?”
Sugar looked at me and seemed to consider my question. As I watched and waited she asked again.
“Why are you here?”
I realized we were both doing the same thing. Sometimes when a person doesn’t know an answer to a question they just ask another question. Already tired of the game, I decided to just say I don’t know and see how it would go over.
“What do you mean? You gotta know.” She pouted and as I watched her face actually became more beautiful. This was the most exciting thing to happen to me in forever and I was acting like a doof. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“Well I don’t.” I shrugged
“Huh.” She muttered “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
I was suddenly embarrassed to tell her how long I’d been dead , maybe because that would make me fifty or sixty years older than her. It seemed important for me to keep that quiet. There were a few things that I never wanted to be considered, pedophile was certainly at the top of that list.
So I focused on the obvious “How come you can see me?” This time I was playing the question game as a diversionary tactic. It worked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think I would have known any different if you didn’t have your hand inside that laptop. What were you doing?” she asked
“Listening to music.” I said simply.
“You can listen to music with your hand?”
Trying to explain abilities associated with this existence would be like trying to explain to a god how to live in a duplex. I decided it wasn’t worth it and just nodded. I was much more focused on the fact that this girl could see me. I wanted to know what made her different.
“Have you had anything like this happen before?” Even as I asked this question I knew the answer, of course she had. She must be one of those people. Why else would she be so calm and focused? Boy, was I ever wrong.
“Nope, not ever.” She said as casually as she was saying everything else. “But I always knew something was up.”
At this point I was flabbergasted. I felt like one of those people on that silly show where they played jokes on some celebrity and at the end, just before the poor sucker was about to commit felony murder, they would say, ha! ha! it was just a joke. I didn’t really steal your car and rape your dog. Isn’t that funny that I made you believe that for a whole day? They don’t show the guy later that night, waking up in a cold sweat or the doctors bills for the anti anxiety meds he had to shove down his throat twice a day, because some asshole decided to bring up the idea that really bad shit could and probably would happen.
While I was considering the possibility that there was a ghostly version of this show, she was telling me about her life. Sugar told me she was a waitress and that she always felt like she was being watched and how her mother had always felt the same way. She said her skin itched when something weird was about to happen and she always knew when it was gonna rain. Not like a bone aching knowing, like you sometimes hear old cranky people say, ‘oh my ass bones creakin today, guess it’s gonna rain.’
“Not like that” she said, she just knew and she’d say “it’s going to rain” and within minutes the sky would open up and it would rain. I found this hard to believe.
All of her talk was getting through to me in smaller ways than it should have because the entire time I was considering that TV show and smelling that damn cotton candy. It wasn’t until her voice rose to something akin to a yell that I became fully attentive.
“Well if you know anything about the world you know things are never the way they seem, so I expect to learn something miraculous almost every day. Most days I am disappointed, but not today. Today Jackpot!” She was looking at me as if I were buried treasure she had just dug up by mistake.
I could smell her breath as she spoke; absurdly it was the same as the rest of her. “Are you made of cotton candy?” I asked and thought myself close to her again.
She laughed, reached out and slapped me on the thigh. I felt the sting of her palm and heard the smack. Her laugh stopped as sudden as it started. I stared at this girl in a sort of shocked haze and I saw the same expression reflected back from her. There were implications to be considered, but that was for later. Now was for exploration.
If I had been alive I would have done things very differently. But I’m not alive and I haven’t been for so long that I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face into the warmth of her neck. She squeaked. A small part of me considered how odd she must look standing in the back of this room with her head tilted to the side, seeming to stare at the back wall. But only a small part, the rest of me was touching, smelling, feeling, as if I had never done any of these things before.
I knew I was mumbling something, but I can’t tell you what it was. I can only express how deep and tangible it felt to have such a tactile experience. At that very moment I cared little how Sugar felt about my groping exploration and the fact that she hadn’t screamed and kicked me in my dick made me hope that it would go on forever. It didn’t. Eventually, god knows how long after the initial contact, she started talking to me quietly, coxing me to let her go, because people were going to notice. She said this several times before I let my grip on her relax and removed my lips from her soft skin.
As I leaned back enough to look into her face, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes, greener than before, now flecked with yellow, pooled, overflowed and refilled as I watched. Sugar Darlin was the prettiest crier I had ever seen. Her skin remained softly tan, without the blotchy redness that usually comes with the act. Her face was reflective not pinched and her mouth was open as if at the apex of a long sigh.
I thought myself away from her so quickly that I slipped inside the book shelf, its molecules immediately began to fight with mine and the chalkboard scratching began. I extricated myself as quickly as possible and in my hast, slammed into Sugars back as she was scurrying to the door. She stumbled forward a few steps almost doing the same for an older gentleman holding the door for his lady friend. He held the door open a moment longer for Sugar and then slipped in between us, letting go. I jumped back, not wanting to become one with the glass and metal structure and watched as Sugar stepped onto the sidewalk, thanked the man for holding the door for her and stared at me through the thick paned window.
She seemed to instinctively realize that I didn’t want to go through that glass. I watched as she stood looking at me, tears drying on her quizzical expression. Sugar was scared. I could tell it wasn’t me she was scared of, it was her. She was thinking things now, considering the options just as I was. Right at that very moment she was asking herself some very pointed questions. I watched as the answers passed over her countenance in waves of grief stricken terror. I knew I had to get to her quick, to help somehow. If what she was considering were true, and let me tell you I hoped it was, she might need me. So I moved and as I did so did she, taking it upon herself to answer the question that hadn’t been asked yet. She reached out and wrapped her hands around the wrist of a passing woman and yanked hard. The woman let out an angry yelp and turned on Sugar, fist balled in a ready to throw down right hook.
Sugar screamed in happiness, “You can see me!?”
“Yeah and now I’m gonna ring your crazy bell bitch.” The fist hooked and as I watched amazed, Sugar ducked under the woman’s arm, grabbed her by wrist and elbow, pivoted in a wide arc sending the woman stumbling in the opposite direction.
Sugar snapped her head in my direction and said “Come on!” And started running. I realized I was on the sidewalk now and I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. No irritating noise hummed in my head and I didn’t feel drained. That last was especially good because even in those high heels Sugar Darlin could run, and I mean fast. She ducked into an alley and slipped into a door. I was nervous for her knowing she was alive now and quite sure I couldn’t do anything to help if she found herself in danger. But then I remembered that right hook and how she side stepped it so nicely.
I can honestly say I have never seen anything like that in real life. In the movies everybody knows some kung fu. Even little old ladies and babies can kick your ass if you look at them wrong. In real life, fights just look like long squirmy hugs with at least one person getting their hair pulled. If there ever is a punch thrown it usually lands solid and causes some crying and blood. A pretty girl in high heels sidestepping a right hook and throwing another woman away like she was no threat at all was simply unheard of.
I felt a feeling in my gut that I hadn’t felt in years and I liked it. I was excited. I felt alive. I have to admit that I was a tad disappointed that she was corporeal. I have admitted this to Sugar already and she forgave me pretty quick for wishing her dead. She said it was only natural and after all, I hadn’t really known her then. It’s true when I was standing outside of that coffee shop watching her prove her own physical existence I didn’t know her at all. Had I, I would have been crying right alongside her.
I realized we were in the back room of a butchers shop and I watched and followed in awe as she slipped by the workers saying hi and swishing her hips without a worry in the world. When we entered the main shop the line of people obscured the view of the street and Sugar slipped into the crowd of people, got herself a paper number, and smirked at me while slipping into the line.
“Do you need meat?” I asked inanely and she raised an eyebrow at me.
I got the point and waited. I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening on the street outside. Had that lady simply decided to move on and let the moment pass or had she given chase and was wondering around in that alley now, trying to decide how to find the crazy chickadee who had so deftly escaped her wrath? As I stood beside Sugar in the long line I decided that the latter was the most absurd. In the mere matter of seconds it took for the non fight to go down surely both parties realized who had the upper hand. So why would a person chase after someone just to get their ass handed to them? It didn’t make sense. My deduction made us standing there in that line seem to make less sense by the second, unless Sugar really did need meat. So I asked again
“Do you need meat?” I knew she couldn’t answer so I went on to explain. “‘Cause if you don’t need meat, we should go somewhere that we can talk. That lady is long gone and ….”
Keep following Basking to find out when this story will be published in completion.
I remember watching the moment on a tiny little black and white television with all of my friends. We were drinkin beer and yelling like it was the god damn world series. I couldn’t believe we were walking on the moon. I’ve been there several times myself. It’s actually a lonely desolate place, but on that day it was a miraculous wonderland.
Ten days later, at five pm on a Tuesday night on July 29th 1969 I was dead. I was pretty pissed at the time, mostly because I had plans to go to Woodstock. My bags were packed it was less than a month away and I was looking forward to it more than I had been looking forward to that monumental moon landing. I went anyway, but it just wasn’t the same.
I’d only been dead for a little more than fifteen days and had no idea how to navigate. Invariably, just as a great song would start I’d be home looking at my wife sleeping in our bed or standing in my kids doorway. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Two days later a hurricane hit my home town in Mississippi and killed my mom and dad. I saw them for a moment before they were gone and it was okay I guess. There’s not a lot of emotion here, it’s much more cerebral. They left, I stayed. A lot of people stayed from the hurricane. So when Becky and the kids moved I was glad. Crowds make me nervous.
It’s 2010 now and I have been dead for forty one year’s. My kids are grown and have kids of their own. My wife is dead. She died in 1985 of ovarian cancer. I watched that travesty up close and personal. I held her hand and I knew she was aware. When she died she looked at me and said “I knew, this whole time I knew.” And then she was gone.
I really didn’t understand that one. I thought she would stick around for a talk or something, but nope she just vanished. By the way, there is no bright light, no group of loved ones hanging around, well for me there wasn’t. I guess for Becky I was there, but anyway it’s not like the crap the feed you growing up. It’s hollow and sad. You can’t communicate with anyone because it’s as if we are all speaking a different language or on a different sound wave. I don’t exactly feel lonely. Like I said, it’s not about the emotions of it.
The day my first grandchild was born I was pleased, but I missed the feelings I knew I would have felt had I been alive. I wonder why I’m still here. My wife is dead and gone. My kids are all safe, my grandkids seem okay and really I don’t feel any solid connection to them.
In forty years I have seen just about everything. Don’t misunderstand, I had no control for quite some time. The crazy way time seemed to jump drove me a little haywire, the first ten years or so, but after that was all ironed out I did some traveling. I was aware that I would always bounce back to my old home, I still do sometimes, but back then I couldn’t get more than a state or two away without the inevitable doorway stalking of my wife and kiddos. Boy was I glad when that stopped.
In 1979 I met John Wayne, he hung about for a while and for fun I followed him around when I could. He spoke to me but I never understood him. He was young when I met him. Not like he was when he was alive. I met a lot of famous people after that but I’ll never forget John Wayne.
In 1987 I was sitting in the living room of an old friend and I saw a television show called the Simpsons. My friend was excited about it and as he sucked down his beer it reminded me of that night long ago when we had watched a grainy screen as two men stepped foot on the moon. My friend died six months later. He would be happy to know that show is still playing and folks around the world love it as much as he did. I never saw him again. I was hanging out in a movie theatre the day he vamoosed. I was watching Lethal Weapon, good movie. That was a good year for movies Steakout, RoboCop and The Untouchables were a few other great ones I caught in ’87.
Over the next twenty years I polished my look, traveled the planet and beyond and learned a few languages. After all, an eternity has to produce a few kernels of knowledge and mine were piling up. I learned early on that how you look is based on how you see yourself. In the beginning every time I looked in a mirror I saw myself with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Yes, to answer the most obvious question, I can see my reflection, although if I were standing next to you, you would see only you. Occasionally, I have caught people in public bathrooms taking a quick second glance, like they think they see. But I haven’t been caught yet. That would be interesting.
I like TV; I watch it whenever I can. I especially like the ghost shows, there are quite a few of them right now. They have everything wrong; still they are fun to watch.
The thing about me is, I was a normal guy. I liked baseball, but not so much that I ignored the wife. I loved that broad and when she popped out those beautiful babies, I loved her more. We went dancing once a week and when her mom or mine couldn’t watch the kids I would put on the Frankie records and twirl her around the living room till she was dizzy with my love.
I cooked, a fact that we kept secret from my buddies. Becky was always good about keeping my less manly qualities a secret. Today I would be considered metro sexual. Back then they would have labeled me queer, beat the shit out of me on principal and chucked me in a ditch. That was then. The thing was, she cared more about that stuff than I did.
I cried once at an old movie, not the kind of cry baby cryin guys do now, but a tear came outta the corner of my eye. Becky started coughing like she was chokin to death, to distract. My buddies were playin poker in the same room and I chose to sit with my lady and watch the movie. Anyway that was Becky. She was made for back then, I guess I wasn’t. Sometimes I think that is the reason I’m still here, to let time catch up to me. Sometimes I forget to think about it.
The thing that frustrates me more and more as time passes is the fact that I cannot remember how I died. In the beginning when I was bent out of shape over Woodstock and checking on the kids every five seconds I was mostly just pissed and confused. As time passed, it occurred to me that I could remember everything about that day, until I stood up to turn off the television. I remember that part perfectly. Becky asleep on my shoulder, lifting her sweet face to plant a kiss on her perfect cheek. I rose to turn off the television and then …nothing.
I began to wonder sometime around 1991 if that was the issue. Coming to grips with my death could be the reason I was still hanging onto the mortal coil. Problem was, I couldn’t get any information. Anyone who knew me was dead or way past the time where they would chat casually about my death. Essentially I was S.O.L.
This was my mental state when I glided into my favorite coffee shop to see what was going on in the world today. As soon as wireless internet and coffeehouses united, I had a resource for all things educational. I could hang around for hours listening to music or read files. I could literally slip into their virtual world and play inside their games. They still couldn’t see me, but I could see it all as clear and real as I could interact with this would, which let’s face it, isn’t that great.
I would notice that if I spent too long in a system I had a hard time coming out. Also, it’s important to realize that if a system is shutting down, I have to get out or I’m stuck until the computer comes alive again. I know the entire proper vernacular for this stuff, booting up, hard drives, system failure, I just liked the me from before, so I still talk like him as much as I can. So I say the computer sleeps and comes alive instead of boots up and shuts down.
It’s the tiny things that keep you connected. Like carrying a pack of smokes rolled up in your tee-shirt sleeve. I don’t do that anymore, I did for a long time after I missed the smoking. One day I just noticed they were gone. I still miss me sometimes and when I’m fighting the boredom by cruising around on a make believe dragon, I consider my life with Becky and I think about the sadness that should bring me. The fact that I have very little connection to my feelings, I can’t speak to specter or human and I don’t remember how I died, were all things looming just under the surface when Sugar Darlin walked into Special Grounds.
Her name really is Sugar Darlin. Her mamma was a Texan and her daddy a New Orleans riverboat captain. Mostly showing the tourist what their missing by not living in the crime ridden, mosquito infested south. Those two crazy lovebirds fell in love on that river boat and Sugars mamma never left. According to Sugar, her mamma still rides shotgun on her daddy’s tours. ‘Ride with the Darlin of New Orleans’. That was the slogan. And I suppose they did well ‘cause when Sugar left town to head north, she sure didn’t leave empty handed.
The day I met Sugar I was listening to a band called Death Cab for Cutie. A terrible name, still good tunes all the same. I was wrist deep in a young girl’s laptop when the door opened and I smelled cotton candy. Strong, as if there was a stand twirling the stuff up right in front of me. I followed the smell with my eyes and there she was with barely any clothes covering her bronzed skin and heels that made her calf muscles look like hardened steel underneath silk.
Her hair was ironically, the exact color of raw sugar and hung shoulder length in sassy pig tales. I could not take my eyes off of this beautiful creature and when she looked at me with huge, startled, blazing green eyes it took me a moment to realize she was actually seeing me. For the first time in forty one years I was being seen and suddenly I was very worried about my appearance.
I knew I must be changing between ages, outfits and features, because her eyes actually got wider and she stood with a hand reaching out as if she were waiting for someone to take her by it and lead her to the nearest loony bin. I finally settled on a look, my usual short hair, clean cut, jeans and tee-shirt, about the same time she seemed to get control over her emotions. I was a fairly good looking guy before I died, so except for smoothing out my crow’s feet, I did very little to actually change my appearance.
Over the years I had tried brown eyes and blonde hair, blonde hair with my own blue eyes. I’d made my eyes darker my hair darker, longer, even did a buzz cut once. Nothing ever felt as right as my own light blue eyes and drab brown hair. So that’s what Sugar saw as I finally settled into me. I did however give myself a boost in the body department and had she not been so shocked, she told me later, she would have giggled as she watched my chest and biceps enlarge like a Popeye cartoon.
An interesting side note to my life these days; I have lost a few senses. One of the ones I miss the most is smell. I haven’t smelled anything in over four decades. And now, the first thing I smell is cotton candy. This is the devils joke on man. My other lost sense is taste and all I want in this moment is to run to this girl and lick her skin to see if she tastes anything like she smells.
I visualize this. Years of solitude have given me patience and a kind of thoughtfulness I never had in life. I see myself run to her, grab her, because surely if I can smell her, I can touch her. Sure she’ll be scared, but do I care? And what if she tastes like cotton candy? Oh my god in sweet heaven! What if she does? So I lick her or bite her or fuck it all, I just eat her up. Could I? Would she have the consistency of cotton candy? What if I get carried away and bite her and it’s all muscle and blood and skin. Yuck. I don’t think I could handle eating a cotton candy flavored girl. Plus, I’m really not hungry so why risk it. Or am I?
Amidst all of my mind prattle, Sugar has managed to remove herself from blocking the door and has taken several steps in my direction, clearly misreading my expressions, she is not aware I am considering eating her.
She says in a clear voice so southern I expect chimes to ring and a colored woman to start yelling that suppa is ready. “What ARE you doing?” There is a distinct rise in pitch with the word are and I smile at the natural accusation it causes the sentence to take on.
The girl whose computer I’m fondling hears it too and responds with equal snark. “I’m listening to music, what’s it to you?”
Sugar shook her head in dismissal of the girl and waved me toward her. I dislodged my hand, left from Death Cab, and headed toward the cutie. Sometimes I can make myself laugh.
*
I immediately began considering ramifications if this girl really could see me. Not for me really so much, but most definitely for her. What would it be like to see a ghost hanging out in a coffee shop? If you did, could you manage to talk to that ghost without ending up in a strait jacket or bouncing around some rubber walled room in a Belleview like sanitarium? These were the thoughts rattling around my nonexistent skull as I followed the long legged, tan beauty to the back of the crowded shop.
Before I could calculate a plan she had taken matters into her own hands and swiveled into a small chair facing the back wall. The little nook was next to a large bookcase overstocked with board games and paperback novels. Her back to the door, she waited her legs crossed at the ankles, as I scootched around obstacles and stood facing her and the rest of the bustling room.
I know it seems odd that I should avoid objects that I can simply pass through. The reason is simple. Passing through things does not feel great. In fact it sucks. If you can imagine a baseball bat slipping though your skull, you can imagine this. It’s not painful like that would be I suppose, but it certainly leaves an impression. It also takes me a second to shake it off.
I think I mentioned earlier how the TV shows get it all wrong. Well in this case it’s a massive pooch screw. Running through doors and walls would be like listening to nails on a chalk board in surround sound. So this is why I was very careful not to come into contact with anything as I took the place she had allotted me with her gaze.
She smiled, her green eyes snapped with humor as she said “Well sweetie, you sure are a cutie pie. My names Sugar, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, realized her mistake and dropped it, the smile never leaving her face. The smell of cotton candy was so strong now, I felt myself actually salivate.
All of the new sensations were proving a bit huge for me so I simply said. “Names Buck.”
I leaned toward her and sniffed, she giggled. When she did I was struck by the sound enough to realize I was far too close for her comfort and I moved back in an instant. I don’t mean I stepped back or jumped. I just though myself away from her and I was, that quick. Her eyes widened, but not so much this time and I could tell she was already getting accustomed to me and my strangeness. Weird considering she had just laid eyes on me thirty seconds ago, give or take a few.
“Well hi Buck.” She said showing me her pretty smile again.
“Hi” I hadn’t talked to anyone in so long I felt as if I had forgotten how. Back when John was around I talked all the time, but he didn’t understand a word. Maybe if he had I would have been as tongue tied as I was now.
“Monosyllabic, huh?”
“I‘m not a cave man I’m a ghost.” I said stupidly.
“I figured. What are you doing here?” She asked me and I realized, surprised, that she was talking in a completely normal voice.
So I asked her “Why aren’t you afraid to talk to me? Don’t you care that someone may hear you and wonder why you’re talking to yourself?”
Sugar looked at me and seemed to consider my question. As I watched and waited she asked again.
“Why are you here?”
I realized we were both doing the same thing. Sometimes when a person doesn’t know an answer to a question they just ask another question. Already tired of the game, I decided to just say I don’t know and see how it would go over.
“What do you mean? You gotta know.” She pouted and as I watched her face actually became more beautiful. This was the most exciting thing to happen to me in forever and I was acting like a doof. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“Well I don’t.” I shrugged
“Huh.” She muttered “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
I was suddenly embarrassed to tell her how long I’d been dead , maybe because that would make me fifty or sixty years older than her. It seemed important for me to keep that quiet. There were a few things that I never wanted to be considered, pedophile was certainly at the top of that list.
So I focused on the obvious “How come you can see me?” This time I was playing the question game as a diversionary tactic. It worked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think I would have known any different if you didn’t have your hand inside that laptop. What were you doing?” she asked
“Listening to music.” I said simply.
“You can listen to music with your hand?”
Trying to explain abilities associated with this existence would be like trying to explain to a god how to live in a duplex. I decided it wasn’t worth it and just nodded. I was much more focused on the fact that this girl could see me. I wanted to know what made her different.
“Have you had anything like this happen before?” Even as I asked this question I knew the answer, of course she had. She must be one of those people. Why else would she be so calm and focused? Boy, was I ever wrong.
“Nope, not ever.” She said as casually as she was saying everything else. “But I always knew something was up.”
At this point I was flabbergasted. I felt like one of those people on that silly show where they played jokes on some celebrity and at the end, just before the poor sucker was about to commit felony murder, they would say, ha! ha! it was just a joke. I didn’t really steal your car and rape your dog. Isn’t that funny that I made you believe that for a whole day? They don’t show the guy later that night, waking up in a cold sweat or the doctors bills for the anti anxiety meds he had to shove down his throat twice a day, because some asshole decided to bring up the idea that really bad shit could and probably would happen.
While I was considering the possibility that there was a ghostly version of this show, she was telling me about her life. Sugar told me she was a waitress and that she always felt like she was being watched and how her mother had always felt the same way. She said her skin itched when something weird was about to happen and she always knew when it was gonna rain. Not like a bone aching knowing, like you sometimes hear old cranky people say, ‘oh my ass bones creakin today, guess it’s gonna rain.’
“Not like that” she said, she just knew and she’d say “it’s going to rain” and within minutes the sky would open up and it would rain. I found this hard to believe.
All of her talk was getting through to me in smaller ways than it should have because the entire time I was considering that TV show and smelling that damn cotton candy. It wasn’t until her voice rose to something akin to a yell that I became fully attentive.
“Well if you know anything about the world you know things are never the way they seem, so I expect to learn something miraculous almost every day. Most days I am disappointed, but not today. Today Jackpot!” She was looking at me as if I were buried treasure she had just dug up by mistake.
I could smell her breath as she spoke; absurdly it was the same as the rest of her. “Are you made of cotton candy?” I asked and thought myself close to her again.
She laughed, reached out and slapped me on the thigh. I felt the sting of her palm and heard the smack. Her laugh stopped as sudden as it started. I stared at this girl in a sort of shocked haze and I saw the same expression reflected back from her. There were implications to be considered, but that was for later. Now was for exploration.
If I had been alive I would have done things very differently. But I’m not alive and I haven’t been for so long that I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face into the warmth of her neck. She squeaked. A small part of me considered how odd she must look standing in the back of this room with her head tilted to the side, seeming to stare at the back wall. But only a small part, the rest of me was touching, smelling, feeling, as if I had never done any of these things before.
I knew I was mumbling something, but I can’t tell you what it was. I can only express how deep and tangible it felt to have such a tactile experience. At that very moment I cared little how Sugar felt about my groping exploration and the fact that she hadn’t screamed and kicked me in my dick made me hope that it would go on forever. It didn’t. Eventually, god knows how long after the initial contact, she started talking to me quietly, coxing me to let her go, because people were going to notice. She said this several times before I let my grip on her relax and removed my lips from her soft skin.
As I leaned back enough to look into her face, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes, greener than before, now flecked with yellow, pooled, overflowed and refilled as I watched. Sugar Darlin was the prettiest crier I had ever seen. Her skin remained softly tan, without the blotchy redness that usually comes with the act. Her face was reflective not pinched and her mouth was open as if at the apex of a long sigh.
I thought myself away from her so quickly that I slipped inside the book shelf, its molecules immediately began to fight with mine and the chalkboard scratching began. I extricated myself as quickly as possible and in my hast, slammed into Sugars back as she was scurrying to the door. She stumbled forward a few steps almost doing the same for an older gentleman holding the door for his lady friend. He held the door open a moment longer for Sugar and then slipped in between us, letting go. I jumped back, not wanting to become one with the glass and metal structure and watched as Sugar stepped onto the sidewalk, thanked the man for holding the door for her and stared at me through the thick paned window.
She seemed to instinctively realize that I didn’t want to go through that glass. I watched as she stood looking at me, tears drying on her quizzical expression. Sugar was scared. I could tell it wasn’t me she was scared of, it was her. She was thinking things now, considering the options just as I was. Right at that very moment she was asking herself some very pointed questions. I watched as the answers passed over her countenance in waves of grief stricken terror. I knew I had to get to her quick, to help somehow. If what she was considering were true, and let me tell you I hoped it was, she might need me. So I moved and as I did so did she, taking it upon herself to answer the question that hadn’t been asked yet. She reached out and wrapped her hands around the wrist of a passing woman and yanked hard. The woman let out an angry yelp and turned on Sugar, fist balled in a ready to throw down right hook.
Sugar screamed in happiness, “You can see me!?”
“Yeah and now I’m gonna ring your crazy bell bitch.” The fist hooked and as I watched amazed, Sugar ducked under the woman’s arm, grabbed her by wrist and elbow, pivoted in a wide arc sending the woman stumbling in the opposite direction.
Sugar snapped her head in my direction and said “Come on!” And started running. I realized I was on the sidewalk now and I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. No irritating noise hummed in my head and I didn’t feel drained. That last was especially good because even in those high heels Sugar Darlin could run, and I mean fast. She ducked into an alley and slipped into a door. I was nervous for her knowing she was alive now and quite sure I couldn’t do anything to help if she found herself in danger. But then I remembered that right hook and how she side stepped it so nicely.
I can honestly say I have never seen anything like that in real life. In the movies everybody knows some kung fu. Even little old ladies and babies can kick your ass if you look at them wrong. In real life, fights just look like long squirmy hugs with at least one person getting their hair pulled. If there ever is a punch thrown it usually lands solid and causes some crying and blood. A pretty girl in high heels sidestepping a right hook and throwing another woman away like she was no threat at all was simply unheard of.
I felt a feeling in my gut that I hadn’t felt in years and I liked it. I was excited. I felt alive. I have to admit that I was a tad disappointed that she was corporeal. I have admitted this to Sugar already and she forgave me pretty quick for wishing her dead. She said it was only natural and after all, I hadn’t really known her then. It’s true when I was standing outside of that coffee shop watching her prove her own physical existence I didn’t know her at all. Had I, I would have been crying right alongside her.
I realized we were in the back room of a butchers shop and I watched and followed in awe as she slipped by the workers saying hi and swishing her hips without a worry in the world. When we entered the main shop the line of people obscured the view of the street and Sugar slipped into the crowd of people, got herself a paper number, and smirked at me while slipping into the line.
“Do you need meat?” I asked inanely and she raised an eyebrow at me.
I got the point and waited. I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening on the street outside. Had that lady simply decided to move on and let the moment pass or had she given chase and was wondering around in that alley now, trying to decide how to find the crazy chickadee who had so deftly escaped her wrath? As I stood beside Sugar in the long line I decided that the latter was the most absurd. In the mere matter of seconds it took for the non fight to go down surely both parties realized who had the upper hand. So why would a person chase after someone just to get their ass handed to them? It didn’t make sense. My deduction made us standing there in that line seem to make less sense by the second, unless Sugar really did need meat. So I asked again
“Do you need meat?” I knew she couldn’t answer so I went on to explain. “‘Cause if you don’t need meat, we should go somewhere that we can talk. That lady is long gone and ….”
Keep following Basking to find out when this story will be published in completion.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Killer Kidney Stone
The day is blue. The kind of blue day that makes you want to tear off your clothes and skip down the street. The blue that insists you need to feel the sun beating down on every inch of your skin. I can hear the birds singing outside my window. This is a sound that has been known to irritate the hell out of me. But not today, today the sound is glorious and I open my window to hear their songs more clearly.
I grab my clothes as quickly as possible and rush into the bathroom. Today I’m going to have a picnic, throw a Frisbee and watch my dog chase her shadow. I’m looking forward to enjoying the long lost feeling of summertime.
As I reach for my toothbrush I feel a twinge of pain in my side. I’ve felt this pain a few times lately and I’m sure it’s due to my exercise routine. I’ve started focusing on my martial arts lately. I’m pretty sure I’ve done too much. Gotta pay closer attention to that in the future. Not cool to kill yourself while trying to be healthy.
It’s eight o’clock by the time I finish with my morning routine. I head down the stairs. There’s a bounce in my step. It isn’t until the bottom one that I feel the pain again, a little more insistent this time. My husband is in the kitchen making a picnic lunch and I see he is smiling. It occurs to me that maybe I’m a little constipated. These things do happen; I’m feeling a little unwanted pressure.
Oh well, I tell myself, I’ll take my vitamins, drink a bunch of water and the situation will correct itself. I am sure nothing bad can happen on such a sapphire day. Hustle and bustle, we rush around getting everything we need to have a spectacular time. Our bare feet will soon be running through the damp green of the lush emerald grass.
My stomach muscles are starting to clench a little. I’m starting to become concerned that I’ll need a bathroom soon and they don’t have great facilities in the park.
My concerns turn out to be well founded, as I stand staring at the metal bowl cemented into the concrete floor. I brace myself against the wall of the stall, press with my palms to keep me steady and I focus on the job at hand. I quickly realize it’s my bladder that is causing some discomfort. As it lets go, I expect to hear a rush of water.
It was much more like a dripping of a water faucet after you’ve shut it off.
To my dismay this caused no real relief.
Yank up my pants and walk out of the bathroom as my mind whirls with the possibility that my need to go to the bathroom is going to ruin my super cool, pretty blue day. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I would go home, take care of the problem and be back in about twenty minutes. I just needed some privacy and a solid porcelain balancing area.
All would be right with the world soon. I told my husband my plan to run home. He agreed to hang out and play with the dog while I took care of business. Although the prospect of fixing a bowel problem is always distasteful, a very private issue, I will say, it was quick and the least painful part of my day. I’ll leave it at that.
Listening to music, trying to relax, I lie on the floor staring at the ceiling. Okay, I have discovered it is not a problem with my bowels. The pain is getting worse. My lower back is starting to hurt and my lower right side is starting to burn. I can’t decide what to do. Ambivalent I decide, I am going to go to the park and try to ignore it for a while. Maybe its gas caught way up in my intestine and with exercise it will move and I’ll be better. I may not have mentioned it, but sometimes I have an amazing ability to really believe I know more than I actually do.
I stand up with purpose and proceed down the hall. My legs begin to buckle as I realize there must be an intruder in the house and he had just stabbed me with a very long knife in my right kidney. I look down at my stomach in shock expecting to see the point of the hideous weapon that has caused this spectacular pain. There is nothing. I turn my head and look down the hall behind me. I’m alone. Somehow the monster with the knife has disappeared, because that is the only explanation.
I grab the banister. As quickly as I can, I move down the stairs, away from my perceived intruder, toward the front door. My mouth is getting dry, but I don’t want anything to drink. I’m suddenly tired, but I can’t imagine resting. I want a solution to the rapid onset of pain. I want it now! I stop and try to think.
What’s wrong, what’s wrong? Ok, right side pain, back pain, maybe appendicitis. Maybe I have some sort of blockage.
Then suddenly, I feel like the biggest pussy around. It’s just a little pain. Why am I freaking out? I’ve been through so much, this is no big deal. I’m only so upset because I wanted to play and now I’ll have to sit down and rest a while.
I’m fine, I tell myself. I grab my phone and dial my husband.
I’m going to tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes and ask him if he needs anything. The pounding in my gut is starting to twist a little and when he answers I hear myself gasp, my mouth opens and I say “Hey” I’m trying to sound cheerful and I’m failing. “Can you take me to the doctor? I think I’m in trouble here”
“Oh god, of course.” I can hear panic in his voice and I feel terrible. “I’ll pack up now, Can you drive?” He asks
“Yeah” I say, although I’m not really sure of anything anymore.
Getting back to the park became an exercise in living in the moment. First, get to the front door. Then, stand still long enough to slip the key in the lock. Pain is starting to move in a widening circular pattern and I feel something tearing just to the right of my spine.
I wonder if something has broken open inside me. I lean in closer to the lock and turn the key. The doors locked. Good.
Now get to the car. Its close, as I walk I think, I need to sit. I need to sit. But I don’t, because I know, if I sit I won’t get to the car and if I don’t get to the car I will never feel better. I will sit on the cement, the pain will wrap around me and I’ll never get to the car. So I walk and somehow I arrive. I slide into the seat and it’s an amazing accomplishment.
My legs are starting to shake. I suck in a breath saying aloud. “Suck it up!!! You can do this! It’s only two blocks.” Yelling at myself seems to help.
I sit up straighter, remembering to keep breathing, I maneuver the car out of my driveway and the two blocks the park.
I hear my breathing as the intruder that was hiding in my house continues to stab me in the back; he twists the knife as I drive. I tell him to kiss my ass and I keep driving. When I pull into the parking lot, I see my husband walking toward me. He has all of our things wrapped in a sheet and he’s moving across the field with our cute, fluffy puppy, bounding after him.
I feel a mourning sadness for our lost day. I step from the car prepared to go help him. My feet touch the concrete and I suddenly feel as if I weigh seven hundred pounds and my legs cannot hold me up. My lower back is snapping in half and a mining crew has set up shop in my stomach wall.
I mange a few steps before I kneel on the ground. I stare at him coming toward me. I focus on him, on the fact that I will feel better again. I won’t always be in this much pain. Someone soon will do something to make this go away.
We approach the entrance of the emergency room, the car rolls to a stop. I push open the door and fall from the car. Somehow, against all odds I land on my feet and stumble through the doors, just as they slide open. I focus on the tiny desk and the young man’s face through the opening. He sees me coming.
He asks, “Can I help you?” I make a noise and say something about pain. I watch in amazement as he slides a small white piece of paper at me, with lines and words on it. I’m looking at the words wondering what he would think if, while I’m trying to read that paper my guts fall onto the floor. Would he still insist I read and sign it? I think about telling him I can’t read. Instead I mumble something about someone being with me and resorted to begging, “Please help?”
I watch as a wheelchair moves toward me. I think that maybe sitting down isn’t such a great thing, but since standing up isn’t so great, I sit.
My legs begin to shake and my grip on the arm of the chair tightens. I watch as my hand begins jerking back and forth in a spasm of pain. The miners have moved into my back and instead of using picks, they have begun pushing knife covered bowling balls through my intestines and one of those little fuckers is whittling away at my spine closest to my tail bone.
My rational brain has moved away and I have become solely dependent on the part of myself that needs to survive. I’ve forgotten that I have pride. My sense of self is now encompassed in a shiny red ball of glowing, grinding hurt; it’s the biggest thing, the only thing. Questions are asked and answered. Where does it hurt? Is the pain sudden? How long? When was my last period?
Yes, they’re asking me about my period. Then they are asking other questions that seem equally ridiculous.
I just want to scream, I hear myself start to cry, I can’t believe it. Pain, physical pain, is making me weep like a baby. I look over and my husband and he is pale and he seems as shocked as I am. I wonder briefly if this is maybe harder for him, because he loves me so much and he’s so helpless. My guts are twisted into a new version of torture and I forget how to breathe. I feel tears running down my face and I realize I am wrong. This is not harder for him.
I yell “Mother fucker!” Turrets is a condition you sometimes acquire with extreme pain. I had heard about it. This is my first experience with the syndrome. I do however; begin to realize I am not holding up very well, so I start to talk to myself.
I think I am saying these things in silence in the hollows of my head. I hear myself saying, “I can handle this, I can handle this. Breath, breath,” I chant the words. I focus on them; they’re real to me. I tell myself I’m disappointed in me. I’m being a baby. I tell myself to stop crying. My breath is coming to fast and I’m going to throw up. I’m going to lose it. I think, have I had anything to drink? I can’t remember. My lips feel dry, for some reason I ask for a drink. I see the doctor shake his head. I think that’s good because if he had said yes I would have had to drink. I think I’m going to throw up. Why do I want a drink?
A doctor is coming toward me with a big needle. That needle looks so good and I want to kiss him. I know that would slow up the process, so I don’t try. I just hold up my arm and I say, “I can’t stop shaking” I hear the trembling of my voice. He says that’s ok I’ve done this in a moving cab. I think ‘so what! I don’t care about that, just slide that needle into my arm and make this better!
He does… I don’t even feel the needle. I don’t know if he’s good at his job or I’m in too much pain to know the difference. I can see that he’s trying to make things better, so I love him.
A nurse is next to me now, they are all talking about painkillers and I’m nodding my head. My back is bursting open. I know if I reach back it will be gaping and bloody. My vaginal wall is burning and my lower abs have turned to burning chains pulling against each other in a satanic tug of war.
The nurse is a gentle woman with huge eyes that are very blue. I think maybe I can focus on her blue eyes. I think about my lost blue day and I start to cry. She tells me she has to give me the medication slow to protect my kidneys. I try to smile through my tears, because I know she’s trying to help. I think I want her to be ok, because I’m not ok, and if she’s ok then she can make me ok.
My hands are tingling now, my legs bend and my feet press down on the bed. My body is shaking. I think maybe im being a little over dramatic. I must be imagining this pain, because this just isn’t possible. I shake my head and say. ”I’m ok” I want so bad to believe it.
She asks, “From one to ten, where’s your pain?”
My husband answers for me saying “ten”
I quickly correct him muttering “Eight maybe nine” I’m trying to be tough. As soon as the words leave my lips, I really do feel a little better, but not enough. Eight seems right now, but a really strong eight.
From here things begin to blur. This day has taken its toll and I’ve decided to leave. I hope I feel better soon. But, I can’t stay to find out. Things are too…
I grab my clothes as quickly as possible and rush into the bathroom. Today I’m going to have a picnic, throw a Frisbee and watch my dog chase her shadow. I’m looking forward to enjoying the long lost feeling of summertime.
As I reach for my toothbrush I feel a twinge of pain in my side. I’ve felt this pain a few times lately and I’m sure it’s due to my exercise routine. I’ve started focusing on my martial arts lately. I’m pretty sure I’ve done too much. Gotta pay closer attention to that in the future. Not cool to kill yourself while trying to be healthy.
It’s eight o’clock by the time I finish with my morning routine. I head down the stairs. There’s a bounce in my step. It isn’t until the bottom one that I feel the pain again, a little more insistent this time. My husband is in the kitchen making a picnic lunch and I see he is smiling. It occurs to me that maybe I’m a little constipated. These things do happen; I’m feeling a little unwanted pressure.
Oh well, I tell myself, I’ll take my vitamins, drink a bunch of water and the situation will correct itself. I am sure nothing bad can happen on such a sapphire day. Hustle and bustle, we rush around getting everything we need to have a spectacular time. Our bare feet will soon be running through the damp green of the lush emerald grass.
My stomach muscles are starting to clench a little. I’m starting to become concerned that I’ll need a bathroom soon and they don’t have great facilities in the park.
My concerns turn out to be well founded, as I stand staring at the metal bowl cemented into the concrete floor. I brace myself against the wall of the stall, press with my palms to keep me steady and I focus on the job at hand. I quickly realize it’s my bladder that is causing some discomfort. As it lets go, I expect to hear a rush of water.
It was much more like a dripping of a water faucet after you’ve shut it off.
To my dismay this caused no real relief.
Yank up my pants and walk out of the bathroom as my mind whirls with the possibility that my need to go to the bathroom is going to ruin my super cool, pretty blue day. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I would go home, take care of the problem and be back in about twenty minutes. I just needed some privacy and a solid porcelain balancing area.
All would be right with the world soon. I told my husband my plan to run home. He agreed to hang out and play with the dog while I took care of business. Although the prospect of fixing a bowel problem is always distasteful, a very private issue, I will say, it was quick and the least painful part of my day. I’ll leave it at that.
Listening to music, trying to relax, I lie on the floor staring at the ceiling. Okay, I have discovered it is not a problem with my bowels. The pain is getting worse. My lower back is starting to hurt and my lower right side is starting to burn. I can’t decide what to do. Ambivalent I decide, I am going to go to the park and try to ignore it for a while. Maybe its gas caught way up in my intestine and with exercise it will move and I’ll be better. I may not have mentioned it, but sometimes I have an amazing ability to really believe I know more than I actually do.
I stand up with purpose and proceed down the hall. My legs begin to buckle as I realize there must be an intruder in the house and he had just stabbed me with a very long knife in my right kidney. I look down at my stomach in shock expecting to see the point of the hideous weapon that has caused this spectacular pain. There is nothing. I turn my head and look down the hall behind me. I’m alone. Somehow the monster with the knife has disappeared, because that is the only explanation.
I grab the banister. As quickly as I can, I move down the stairs, away from my perceived intruder, toward the front door. My mouth is getting dry, but I don’t want anything to drink. I’m suddenly tired, but I can’t imagine resting. I want a solution to the rapid onset of pain. I want it now! I stop and try to think.
What’s wrong, what’s wrong? Ok, right side pain, back pain, maybe appendicitis. Maybe I have some sort of blockage.
Then suddenly, I feel like the biggest pussy around. It’s just a little pain. Why am I freaking out? I’ve been through so much, this is no big deal. I’m only so upset because I wanted to play and now I’ll have to sit down and rest a while.
I’m fine, I tell myself. I grab my phone and dial my husband.
I’m going to tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes and ask him if he needs anything. The pounding in my gut is starting to twist a little and when he answers I hear myself gasp, my mouth opens and I say “Hey” I’m trying to sound cheerful and I’m failing. “Can you take me to the doctor? I think I’m in trouble here”
“Oh god, of course.” I can hear panic in his voice and I feel terrible. “I’ll pack up now, Can you drive?” He asks
“Yeah” I say, although I’m not really sure of anything anymore.
Getting back to the park became an exercise in living in the moment. First, get to the front door. Then, stand still long enough to slip the key in the lock. Pain is starting to move in a widening circular pattern and I feel something tearing just to the right of my spine.
I wonder if something has broken open inside me. I lean in closer to the lock and turn the key. The doors locked. Good.
Now get to the car. Its close, as I walk I think, I need to sit. I need to sit. But I don’t, because I know, if I sit I won’t get to the car and if I don’t get to the car I will never feel better. I will sit on the cement, the pain will wrap around me and I’ll never get to the car. So I walk and somehow I arrive. I slide into the seat and it’s an amazing accomplishment.
My legs are starting to shake. I suck in a breath saying aloud. “Suck it up!!! You can do this! It’s only two blocks.” Yelling at myself seems to help.
I sit up straighter, remembering to keep breathing, I maneuver the car out of my driveway and the two blocks the park.
I hear my breathing as the intruder that was hiding in my house continues to stab me in the back; he twists the knife as I drive. I tell him to kiss my ass and I keep driving. When I pull into the parking lot, I see my husband walking toward me. He has all of our things wrapped in a sheet and he’s moving across the field with our cute, fluffy puppy, bounding after him.
I feel a mourning sadness for our lost day. I step from the car prepared to go help him. My feet touch the concrete and I suddenly feel as if I weigh seven hundred pounds and my legs cannot hold me up. My lower back is snapping in half and a mining crew has set up shop in my stomach wall.
I mange a few steps before I kneel on the ground. I stare at him coming toward me. I focus on him, on the fact that I will feel better again. I won’t always be in this much pain. Someone soon will do something to make this go away.
We approach the entrance of the emergency room, the car rolls to a stop. I push open the door and fall from the car. Somehow, against all odds I land on my feet and stumble through the doors, just as they slide open. I focus on the tiny desk and the young man’s face through the opening. He sees me coming.
He asks, “Can I help you?” I make a noise and say something about pain. I watch in amazement as he slides a small white piece of paper at me, with lines and words on it. I’m looking at the words wondering what he would think if, while I’m trying to read that paper my guts fall onto the floor. Would he still insist I read and sign it? I think about telling him I can’t read. Instead I mumble something about someone being with me and resorted to begging, “Please help?”
I watch as a wheelchair moves toward me. I think that maybe sitting down isn’t such a great thing, but since standing up isn’t so great, I sit.
My legs begin to shake and my grip on the arm of the chair tightens. I watch as my hand begins jerking back and forth in a spasm of pain. The miners have moved into my back and instead of using picks, they have begun pushing knife covered bowling balls through my intestines and one of those little fuckers is whittling away at my spine closest to my tail bone.
My rational brain has moved away and I have become solely dependent on the part of myself that needs to survive. I’ve forgotten that I have pride. My sense of self is now encompassed in a shiny red ball of glowing, grinding hurt; it’s the biggest thing, the only thing. Questions are asked and answered. Where does it hurt? Is the pain sudden? How long? When was my last period?
Yes, they’re asking me about my period. Then they are asking other questions that seem equally ridiculous.
I just want to scream, I hear myself start to cry, I can’t believe it. Pain, physical pain, is making me weep like a baby. I look over and my husband and he is pale and he seems as shocked as I am. I wonder briefly if this is maybe harder for him, because he loves me so much and he’s so helpless. My guts are twisted into a new version of torture and I forget how to breathe. I feel tears running down my face and I realize I am wrong. This is not harder for him.
I yell “Mother fucker!” Turrets is a condition you sometimes acquire with extreme pain. I had heard about it. This is my first experience with the syndrome. I do however; begin to realize I am not holding up very well, so I start to talk to myself.
I think I am saying these things in silence in the hollows of my head. I hear myself saying, “I can handle this, I can handle this. Breath, breath,” I chant the words. I focus on them; they’re real to me. I tell myself I’m disappointed in me. I’m being a baby. I tell myself to stop crying. My breath is coming to fast and I’m going to throw up. I’m going to lose it. I think, have I had anything to drink? I can’t remember. My lips feel dry, for some reason I ask for a drink. I see the doctor shake his head. I think that’s good because if he had said yes I would have had to drink. I think I’m going to throw up. Why do I want a drink?
A doctor is coming toward me with a big needle. That needle looks so good and I want to kiss him. I know that would slow up the process, so I don’t try. I just hold up my arm and I say, “I can’t stop shaking” I hear the trembling of my voice. He says that’s ok I’ve done this in a moving cab. I think ‘so what! I don’t care about that, just slide that needle into my arm and make this better!
He does… I don’t even feel the needle. I don’t know if he’s good at his job or I’m in too much pain to know the difference. I can see that he’s trying to make things better, so I love him.
A nurse is next to me now, they are all talking about painkillers and I’m nodding my head. My back is bursting open. I know if I reach back it will be gaping and bloody. My vaginal wall is burning and my lower abs have turned to burning chains pulling against each other in a satanic tug of war.
The nurse is a gentle woman with huge eyes that are very blue. I think maybe I can focus on her blue eyes. I think about my lost blue day and I start to cry. She tells me she has to give me the medication slow to protect my kidneys. I try to smile through my tears, because I know she’s trying to help. I think I want her to be ok, because I’m not ok, and if she’s ok then she can make me ok.
My hands are tingling now, my legs bend and my feet press down on the bed. My body is shaking. I think maybe im being a little over dramatic. I must be imagining this pain, because this just isn’t possible. I shake my head and say. ”I’m ok” I want so bad to believe it.
She asks, “From one to ten, where’s your pain?”
My husband answers for me saying “ten”
I quickly correct him muttering “Eight maybe nine” I’m trying to be tough. As soon as the words leave my lips, I really do feel a little better, but not enough. Eight seems right now, but a really strong eight.
From here things begin to blur. This day has taken its toll and I’ve decided to leave. I hope I feel better soon. But, I can’t stay to find out. Things are too…
Friday, June 4, 2010
Deadly
How long could I be here, witness to all that I was?
Humid, acrid mist hung in the air that chilled me as I walked into the dimly lit space. So much is gone. As I look around there is a part of me that screams with the loss of it all. I scramble to acquire my losses, I see all of those trying to be what I once was. They are tattooed and layered in black lace; piercings puncture their lips, eyelids, and chins. They will never be me.
A staircase leads to an upper level and as I pass, I know where it leads and a part of me cringes with the memories of all that I have taken part of. But that is the past. The past is the past I once heard someone say. What a stupid statement. It’s just another way to say, now is now or a piece of bread is a piece of bread. At what point are you allowed to just say ‘bullshit, that’s a stupid thing to say’?
Long ago my grandmother told me that if you ate a watermelon seed, a watermelon would grow in your stomach. What a piece of shit lie. I had nightmares for a month. When I ate her it occurred to me that if Karma were in any way real, I would have an old bitch of a woman growing in my stomach in no time. As it was, I consumed her in the style that she deserved, throwing her bones in a fireplace where, despite the many blazes since that glorious day, they still remain.
The bar I was walking into was called the Green Room. I don’t know why and even in my glory days I did not give a shit. The Green Room; a stupid name for a bar with red walls and a glowing backlit ceiling radiating waves of watery light. As far as I could see no green had ever marked a spot in the ostentatious space. Never the less, the Green Room was the name and had been for as long as it had been around and that was a very, very long time.
I wondered if they were aware of me yet. Did they know I had entered into their world? I thought not. Realistically I knew better, but my hope was firmly entrenched in my subconscious just as surely as my need to belong. I shook these feelings away and pressed on, my goal in mind. No mortal or other on earth was going to stop me from discovering what I had come here to discover. Mortal. Funny that the thought was still in my consciousness. Surely I was a mortal, especially now. But what I wanted and what I needed were two very different motivations.
I needed her. She was no longer a trophy as I had once assumed her to be. She was a marvel. A jewel, and even as I thought these things, I felt the silly childish feeling on my tongue as if I had made some declarative utterance. The simple facts were these – I loved her, and I had killed her. Now I would use every ounce of my unearthly power to bring her back, even as she fought me tooth and nail. The irony of my thoughts was never lost on me. Not much is these days. I have lots of time to contemplate my existence and lots of gray matter to work with. In 1925 when I became what I am now my IQ was 165, a genius according to my lying bitch of a grandmother. In the 85 years since, I do not believe I lost any ground, in fact I feel strongly the original number would be greater. If it mattered, or I gave a crap, I would find out. It doesn’t and I don’t.
The only thing I give a shit about is Rya. My sweet Rya; a young, perfect, southern sweetheart with a Piggly Wiggly apron on and lipstick the color of BubbleYumm bubblegum. Her thick, straight, blonde hair hung well below her waist and her sweet smile melted my heart. This was especially startling; because I was completely unaware I had one. That was how I saw her still, in that stupid apron, smiling that sweet smile. I had heard girls from small towns were naïve but holy hell! I was astounded at the ease with which I manipulated that beautiful sassy blonde into allowing me to violate her in ways she had never before imagined. In the end, as she looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes glittering green and gold with unshed tears, I ripped into her neck with no thought to anything other than my need. As her thick sweet blood slid through my teeth, over my tongue, and down my throat I was lost. No blood had ever tasted so sweet. It was glorious nectar that I could not get enough of and I stayed pressed to her neck, my hands deep in her blonde hair as I tried to pull every drop from her dying form. My body pressed to hers as if we were humping teenagers, as the blood flow stopped and I growled in anger at the incongruity of the moment. I knew how much blood flowed from a body and I knew for certain that this girl had not given up her last.
That had been the moment of my undoing. What I didn’t realize then and would only find out years later was she had been bred for me and now that her blood pounded in my veins I was hers. Only hers. Sadly, I rejected this idea and have lived in a sort of purgatory, separating myself from the thing that could make me whole. Why do I do this? Well, it’s simple. I’m a stubborn bastard and I don’t like being tricked.
Humid, acrid mist hung in the air that chilled me as I walked into the dimly lit space. So much is gone. As I look around there is a part of me that screams with the loss of it all. I scramble to acquire my losses, I see all of those trying to be what I once was. They are tattooed and layered in black lace; piercings puncture their lips, eyelids, and chins. They will never be me.
A staircase leads to an upper level and as I pass, I know where it leads and a part of me cringes with the memories of all that I have taken part of. But that is the past. The past is the past I once heard someone say. What a stupid statement. It’s just another way to say, now is now or a piece of bread is a piece of bread. At what point are you allowed to just say ‘bullshit, that’s a stupid thing to say’?
Long ago my grandmother told me that if you ate a watermelon seed, a watermelon would grow in your stomach. What a piece of shit lie. I had nightmares for a month. When I ate her it occurred to me that if Karma were in any way real, I would have an old bitch of a woman growing in my stomach in no time. As it was, I consumed her in the style that she deserved, throwing her bones in a fireplace where, despite the many blazes since that glorious day, they still remain.
The bar I was walking into was called the Green Room. I don’t know why and even in my glory days I did not give a shit. The Green Room; a stupid name for a bar with red walls and a glowing backlit ceiling radiating waves of watery light. As far as I could see no green had ever marked a spot in the ostentatious space. Never the less, the Green Room was the name and had been for as long as it had been around and that was a very, very long time.
I wondered if they were aware of me yet. Did they know I had entered into their world? I thought not. Realistically I knew better, but my hope was firmly entrenched in my subconscious just as surely as my need to belong. I shook these feelings away and pressed on, my goal in mind. No mortal or other on earth was going to stop me from discovering what I had come here to discover. Mortal. Funny that the thought was still in my consciousness. Surely I was a mortal, especially now. But what I wanted and what I needed were two very different motivations.
I needed her. She was no longer a trophy as I had once assumed her to be. She was a marvel. A jewel, and even as I thought these things, I felt the silly childish feeling on my tongue as if I had made some declarative utterance. The simple facts were these – I loved her, and I had killed her. Now I would use every ounce of my unearthly power to bring her back, even as she fought me tooth and nail. The irony of my thoughts was never lost on me. Not much is these days. I have lots of time to contemplate my existence and lots of gray matter to work with. In 1925 when I became what I am now my IQ was 165, a genius according to my lying bitch of a grandmother. In the 85 years since, I do not believe I lost any ground, in fact I feel strongly the original number would be greater. If it mattered, or I gave a crap, I would find out. It doesn’t and I don’t.
The only thing I give a shit about is Rya. My sweet Rya; a young, perfect, southern sweetheart with a Piggly Wiggly apron on and lipstick the color of BubbleYumm bubblegum. Her thick, straight, blonde hair hung well below her waist and her sweet smile melted my heart. This was especially startling; because I was completely unaware I had one. That was how I saw her still, in that stupid apron, smiling that sweet smile. I had heard girls from small towns were naïve but holy hell! I was astounded at the ease with which I manipulated that beautiful sassy blonde into allowing me to violate her in ways she had never before imagined. In the end, as she looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes glittering green and gold with unshed tears, I ripped into her neck with no thought to anything other than my need. As her thick sweet blood slid through my teeth, over my tongue, and down my throat I was lost. No blood had ever tasted so sweet. It was glorious nectar that I could not get enough of and I stayed pressed to her neck, my hands deep in her blonde hair as I tried to pull every drop from her dying form. My body pressed to hers as if we were humping teenagers, as the blood flow stopped and I growled in anger at the incongruity of the moment. I knew how much blood flowed from a body and I knew for certain that this girl had not given up her last.
That had been the moment of my undoing. What I didn’t realize then and would only find out years later was she had been bred for me and now that her blood pounded in my veins I was hers. Only hers. Sadly, I rejected this idea and have lived in a sort of purgatory, separating myself from the thing that could make me whole. Why do I do this? Well, it’s simple. I’m a stubborn bastard and I don’t like being tricked.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Trash Can Alley
1601 South 44th Terrace, I can’t believe I still remember that address. Such a dichotomy of feelings emerges when I say that name. “Trash Can Alley.” My mom set us up there when I was almost seven. For a year and a half my brother and I ran the streets of our neighborhood, undaunted by authority. We had no need of things like shoes or shirts, our bare chests and legs, bronzed by the sun, our knees and elbows were scarred from jumping from trees and falling off bicycles. We were what many would consider neglected. This was not true. In our eyes, we were free.
A little over a year before, my mother had come very close to killing my brother, in a blood bath of Lizzy Bordenesk proportions. That day had seared into my young mind, creating a stronger more resilient me. Because of that experience, I no longer cried. That was the day I found out why my Father was gone. It was also the day that I decided I didn’t need to know the truth. I loved my father. I missed him. The truth was, fear had sealed my heart in two separate parts. One beat with longing for the past and a hope for the future. The other had no need to beat, did not desire love or a pat on the back. This part was content in the moment; this was the part of my heart I used now.
My mother worked nights and slept the day away. Most days, when Billy and I woke, we slurped down a glass of water, pulled on a pair of shorts and slipped out of the small duplex without my mother ever the wiser. I don’t really remember if she knew how much we were gone in those days. She only seemed to give a crap if we disturbed her precious sleep. The more I watched my mother beat down Billy, the more I resented her and loved him. This is why when he asked me to do something, even something deceitful, I always did as he asked; no questions, no judgment.
Billy began stealing bikes soon after his tenth birthday. I would cruise the local schools and come back to give him the information on the types of bikes and he would decide if they were worth his time. Soon after he would go back, cut the chains, and come home with his new treasure. After a few days Billy would take the bikes apart and recreate new ones from the parts. As poor as we were, we always had great bikes. Having a cool bicycle on Trash Can Alley was like having an ipod or the best game system in town. We were the hippest kids on the street. After a while, Billy started selling his creations. We didn’t get much, ten bucks a bike was average. The thing is, ten dollars in 1977, on a street like ours, was more money than most kids saw, ever.
Billy bought me a doll. It was a boy doll and it had a penis. I named him Guy. That summer I walked door-to-door, lying my way into the hearts of many naive adults. I was almost eight that year and very clever. My manner was shy, though my mind was sharp. The seed of my plan only hatched when my brother’s friend Pete yelled, “Look at Sally’s stupid doll. He has a dick! What kind of weirdo has a dick doll?” Billy punched Pete hard in the arm and told him to shut his fuckin mouth. Billy never let anyone pick on me, even his friends.
The thing is, Pete was right. I needed to get clothes and diapers for Guy. What kind of mother would I be if I couldn’t cover my baby’s penis? This is why I felt no guilt while gazing into the eyes of many helpful hapless adults, saying; “I’m sorry to bother you, but my mom is pregnant and we have no money for diapers or clothes.” I would look down at my feet then and pretend to be embarrassed before asking, “Do you have anything you could give?”
That summer I got boxes of baby clothes, diapers, and sometimes even money. Once, a man showed me his penis and asked if I would touch it for some money, but I said “No thanks” and he gave me a dollar anyway. By the end of summer, Guy was the best-dressed baby ever and Pete never made fun of him again.
A little over a year before, my mother had come very close to killing my brother, in a blood bath of Lizzy Bordenesk proportions. That day had seared into my young mind, creating a stronger more resilient me. Because of that experience, I no longer cried. That was the day I found out why my Father was gone. It was also the day that I decided I didn’t need to know the truth. I loved my father. I missed him. The truth was, fear had sealed my heart in two separate parts. One beat with longing for the past and a hope for the future. The other had no need to beat, did not desire love or a pat on the back. This part was content in the moment; this was the part of my heart I used now.
My mother worked nights and slept the day away. Most days, when Billy and I woke, we slurped down a glass of water, pulled on a pair of shorts and slipped out of the small duplex without my mother ever the wiser. I don’t really remember if she knew how much we were gone in those days. She only seemed to give a crap if we disturbed her precious sleep. The more I watched my mother beat down Billy, the more I resented her and loved him. This is why when he asked me to do something, even something deceitful, I always did as he asked; no questions, no judgment.
Billy began stealing bikes soon after his tenth birthday. I would cruise the local schools and come back to give him the information on the types of bikes and he would decide if they were worth his time. Soon after he would go back, cut the chains, and come home with his new treasure. After a few days Billy would take the bikes apart and recreate new ones from the parts. As poor as we were, we always had great bikes. Having a cool bicycle on Trash Can Alley was like having an ipod or the best game system in town. We were the hippest kids on the street. After a while, Billy started selling his creations. We didn’t get much, ten bucks a bike was average. The thing is, ten dollars in 1977, on a street like ours, was more money than most kids saw, ever.
Billy bought me a doll. It was a boy doll and it had a penis. I named him Guy. That summer I walked door-to-door, lying my way into the hearts of many naive adults. I was almost eight that year and very clever. My manner was shy, though my mind was sharp. The seed of my plan only hatched when my brother’s friend Pete yelled, “Look at Sally’s stupid doll. He has a dick! What kind of weirdo has a dick doll?” Billy punched Pete hard in the arm and told him to shut his fuckin mouth. Billy never let anyone pick on me, even his friends.
The thing is, Pete was right. I needed to get clothes and diapers for Guy. What kind of mother would I be if I couldn’t cover my baby’s penis? This is why I felt no guilt while gazing into the eyes of many helpful hapless adults, saying; “I’m sorry to bother you, but my mom is pregnant and we have no money for diapers or clothes.” I would look down at my feet then and pretend to be embarrassed before asking, “Do you have anything you could give?”
That summer I got boxes of baby clothes, diapers, and sometimes even money. Once, a man showed me his penis and asked if I would touch it for some money, but I said “No thanks” and he gave me a dollar anyway. By the end of summer, Guy was the best-dressed baby ever and Pete never made fun of him again.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Jack
A wisp of cloud covered the sun making the day appear, just for a moment, as if it were overcast in mist and shade, then it was gone. A blaze of light reasserted the heat with a blast bursting through the window causing her to squint.
Sharon looked at the baseball bat leaning in the corner of the room. This particular bat had been named. It was etched with dark marker, maybe a sharpie, not the sharp tipped ones used for fine detail, but the thick kind. The kind you could see even from a distance. It was named Jack. The J was crooked like the writer had been working with his left hand. It had started slow, yet the rest of the letters had flow like somehow getting past the J made everything right as rain. Her ass hurt. There was a stinging numbness. The kind you get when you’ve been lying in one spot far too long. She tilted her hips and tried to readjust. The stinging became stronger, only now it was accompanied by a throb and tiny needles wedging their way under her skin.
Yesterday Sharron gave up all hope. It wasn’t really a matter of being ready to die or making any kind of decision. It was just a matter of how things were. Sure, if there was a choice, she would swing her legs over the side of the too soft bed. Enjoy the feel of the solid wood floor beneath her bare feet, walk through the door and out into the hot, humid daylight. But that wasn’t on the menu. The lists of choices were small, smaller as every minute ticked by, the sound loud, tick, tick, tick. Yesterday, another day, by her count, that was three now. Three days. The first was maybe the scariest. That was the day she fought. The process reminded her of grieving. Wasn’t it seven stages?
She remembered her mother telling her something like that. It was at her grandfather’s funeral. “It’s ok to be mad as hell honey, it’s part of the process.”
It seemed so silly at the time, she wasn’t mad, what was there to be mad at? She was sad, just sad. Then, her sweet mother had started talking again, after the funeral. She talked and talked, it was what she did. Sharron was accustomed to the constant prattle of her mother’s voice. Over the years she learned to grab the jewels spattered in all the verbal soup and fish them out for later use. It’s okay to be mad. That was a doozey. What were the other stages? Denial, anger, She remembered that the bargaining had started around nightfall of the second day. Who was she bargaining with? Was it God? No. Sharron didn’t believe in God. Hadn’t believed in God sense she found out about the other stupid lies she was told as a child. Why did parents do that? So much faith floating around all centered on the wrong shit.
Sharron turned her head away from the corner of the room and stared into the bright light screaming from the window. The warmth flowed over her cheeks for a moment, feeling wonderful, then quickly becoming too hot. She shifted pulling herself to the right, just enough to exit the searing heat ray. Jack sat in the corner quietly. What a stupid name for a bat. She thought suddenly, then wondered, is this mad? Is it anger they're talking about or insanity? Was she insane now? The thought came on a wave of relief. Insanity sounded so good. No more pain, no more bargaining, maybe even a side road from acceptance, even though that bitch had arrived on the scene already. She felt a tickle on her right nostril. The kind that started slow, but once you became aware, really aware it was there, it became all you were aware of. She tried to think of something else something funny, something, something, anything but the damn tickle persisted. It grew until it was a feather dusting across her nose with dander from a big hairy dog, dripping from its tip. Her eyes began to water. She flared her nostrils and moved her head from side to side, that only made the tickle grow stronger. Denial, anger, bargaining acceptance? No, she was missing some, weren’t there seven? Was madness one?
A loud creak above her head startled her. The sound was eerie, a creak and pop of heavy weight on old wood. The kind of sound you would hear in a horror movie. A good, real authentic horror sound, not the kind produced in a room with thirty thousand soundboards and a technician trying to find the right key for aging timber. Her heart began its terror dance so suddenly that her breath caught. The muscles in her legs tensed along with the muscles riding the length of her spine. She arched on the bed thrashing in uncontrolled contortions. Somewhere in the world her mother was talking. The thought came out of nowhere and along with it the realization that the feather jammed in her nose had disapeared. The creaking stopped. Her eyes bulging from their watery sockets stared up at the ceiling. Old cracked beams held the world above her from falling in. She wished the beams would snap. Welcomed the idea that maybe the days would end suddenly with the instability of an old house situated on a fault line. She balked as her rational mind told her the beams were too thick and she had never been a lucky girl.
She laughed. The sound burst from her, even as tears streamed from the corners of her terrified eyes. Three days. The taste of copper lingered in her mouth. That was from the bargaining day. The laughter was causing the copper to fill her mouth again. She pushed the foaming liquid up with her swollen tongue and tilted her head to the side. Warm spit spilled from the corner of her mouth and ticked her ear. Her eyes settled on Jack. Jack, with the golden sheen and the bold black moniker. Jack, leaning in the corner and watching like a freaky voyeur.
“Hijack” Her voice didn’t sound like her any more, maybe, because her tongue and lips were swollen, maybe because her throat was dry… or maybe, it was because she wasn’t her anymore. “Hijack” She laughed again, the irony never lost on her. “I am not a lucky girl”
More creaks and pops from overhead. She thought about her mother again. Her soft brown hair and eyes to match, so much love in those eyes. She pictured her mother smiling and waving goodbye. Had it only been three days ago? Three days, fear then anger or was it madness? Then acceptance…No…No…That was wrong! Why couldn’t she remember? The creaking grew louder and closer. She wanted to call out, to do something, but what?
Day two had been a day of planning, the kind where you know it’s all going to be okay. When it all lines up in your mind like Dominoes. You place them perfectly, excited about the process of it all coming together. No one tells you that after you tip that first one, after you spend hours getting it all just right; they don’t always fall in line. Sometimes, one silly Domino bastard, slips out of place and nothing else goes as planned. That was day two. The copper taste in her mouth bloomed, punctuating the point.
The creak was at the door now and somehow the sun found another cloud. A large shadow filled the doorframe. Day one reasserted its ugly head and a scream tore from her unabated. How had she survived that day? A glint of steel caught what was left of the light in the room and memories of day one washed over her. Her bladder felt suddenly full, as she became aware, it let go and washed her naked thighs with a fresh bath of piss. The scream continued, she could hear it, had no control over the stopping of it. Her conscious mind was moving away, she felt her muscles bunching and cramping from neck to calf. The shadow was no longer a shadow. Now he was a man. A man that she knew, a man she trusted, once upon a time, or maybe, just three days ago. Her feet pulled up and the roped burned into her abraded ankles. Wrists twisting, she felt blood begin to drip down her arms, a gift from day two, the planning day. He stopped beside the bed, his mouth opening and closing like an old marionette, hinged at the jaw. She couldn’t hear what he said, her screams were too loud. He turned from her and moved to the corner of the room. She watched, somehow still screaming, he pivoted on his heels in dancer fashion holding Jack in one meaty paw. The screaming hitched. A warning in her damaged brain, telling her to stop. A warning that if this behavior continued, there would be consequences. Strands of hope laced with terror motivated, she opened her mouth wider and used the last bit of her will to push the scream from her tortured throat. In awed relief, she watched as Jack came arcing toward her, his name drawn in black bold marker and it occurred to her, somewhere in the world her mother was talking.
Sammy Shu
copywrite 2009
Sharon looked at the baseball bat leaning in the corner of the room. This particular bat had been named. It was etched with dark marker, maybe a sharpie, not the sharp tipped ones used for fine detail, but the thick kind. The kind you could see even from a distance. It was named Jack. The J was crooked like the writer had been working with his left hand. It had started slow, yet the rest of the letters had flow like somehow getting past the J made everything right as rain. Her ass hurt. There was a stinging numbness. The kind you get when you’ve been lying in one spot far too long. She tilted her hips and tried to readjust. The stinging became stronger, only now it was accompanied by a throb and tiny needles wedging their way under her skin.
Yesterday Sharron gave up all hope. It wasn’t really a matter of being ready to die or making any kind of decision. It was just a matter of how things were. Sure, if there was a choice, she would swing her legs over the side of the too soft bed. Enjoy the feel of the solid wood floor beneath her bare feet, walk through the door and out into the hot, humid daylight. But that wasn’t on the menu. The lists of choices were small, smaller as every minute ticked by, the sound loud, tick, tick, tick. Yesterday, another day, by her count, that was three now. Three days. The first was maybe the scariest. That was the day she fought. The process reminded her of grieving. Wasn’t it seven stages?
She remembered her mother telling her something like that. It was at her grandfather’s funeral. “It’s ok to be mad as hell honey, it’s part of the process.”
It seemed so silly at the time, she wasn’t mad, what was there to be mad at? She was sad, just sad. Then, her sweet mother had started talking again, after the funeral. She talked and talked, it was what she did. Sharron was accustomed to the constant prattle of her mother’s voice. Over the years she learned to grab the jewels spattered in all the verbal soup and fish them out for later use. It’s okay to be mad. That was a doozey. What were the other stages? Denial, anger, She remembered that the bargaining had started around nightfall of the second day. Who was she bargaining with? Was it God? No. Sharron didn’t believe in God. Hadn’t believed in God sense she found out about the other stupid lies she was told as a child. Why did parents do that? So much faith floating around all centered on the wrong shit.
Sharron turned her head away from the corner of the room and stared into the bright light screaming from the window. The warmth flowed over her cheeks for a moment, feeling wonderful, then quickly becoming too hot. She shifted pulling herself to the right, just enough to exit the searing heat ray. Jack sat in the corner quietly. What a stupid name for a bat. She thought suddenly, then wondered, is this mad? Is it anger they're talking about or insanity? Was she insane now? The thought came on a wave of relief. Insanity sounded so good. No more pain, no more bargaining, maybe even a side road from acceptance, even though that bitch had arrived on the scene already. She felt a tickle on her right nostril. The kind that started slow, but once you became aware, really aware it was there, it became all you were aware of. She tried to think of something else something funny, something, something, anything but the damn tickle persisted. It grew until it was a feather dusting across her nose with dander from a big hairy dog, dripping from its tip. Her eyes began to water. She flared her nostrils and moved her head from side to side, that only made the tickle grow stronger. Denial, anger, bargaining acceptance? No, she was missing some, weren’t there seven? Was madness one?
A loud creak above her head startled her. The sound was eerie, a creak and pop of heavy weight on old wood. The kind of sound you would hear in a horror movie. A good, real authentic horror sound, not the kind produced in a room with thirty thousand soundboards and a technician trying to find the right key for aging timber. Her heart began its terror dance so suddenly that her breath caught. The muscles in her legs tensed along with the muscles riding the length of her spine. She arched on the bed thrashing in uncontrolled contortions. Somewhere in the world her mother was talking. The thought came out of nowhere and along with it the realization that the feather jammed in her nose had disapeared. The creaking stopped. Her eyes bulging from their watery sockets stared up at the ceiling. Old cracked beams held the world above her from falling in. She wished the beams would snap. Welcomed the idea that maybe the days would end suddenly with the instability of an old house situated on a fault line. She balked as her rational mind told her the beams were too thick and she had never been a lucky girl.
She laughed. The sound burst from her, even as tears streamed from the corners of her terrified eyes. Three days. The taste of copper lingered in her mouth. That was from the bargaining day. The laughter was causing the copper to fill her mouth again. She pushed the foaming liquid up with her swollen tongue and tilted her head to the side. Warm spit spilled from the corner of her mouth and ticked her ear. Her eyes settled on Jack. Jack, with the golden sheen and the bold black moniker. Jack, leaning in the corner and watching like a freaky voyeur.
“Hijack” Her voice didn’t sound like her any more, maybe, because her tongue and lips were swollen, maybe because her throat was dry… or maybe, it was because she wasn’t her anymore. “Hijack” She laughed again, the irony never lost on her. “I am not a lucky girl”
More creaks and pops from overhead. She thought about her mother again. Her soft brown hair and eyes to match, so much love in those eyes. She pictured her mother smiling and waving goodbye. Had it only been three days ago? Three days, fear then anger or was it madness? Then acceptance…No…No…That was wrong! Why couldn’t she remember? The creaking grew louder and closer. She wanted to call out, to do something, but what?
Day two had been a day of planning, the kind where you know it’s all going to be okay. When it all lines up in your mind like Dominoes. You place them perfectly, excited about the process of it all coming together. No one tells you that after you tip that first one, after you spend hours getting it all just right; they don’t always fall in line. Sometimes, one silly Domino bastard, slips out of place and nothing else goes as planned. That was day two. The copper taste in her mouth bloomed, punctuating the point.
The creak was at the door now and somehow the sun found another cloud. A large shadow filled the doorframe. Day one reasserted its ugly head and a scream tore from her unabated. How had she survived that day? A glint of steel caught what was left of the light in the room and memories of day one washed over her. Her bladder felt suddenly full, as she became aware, it let go and washed her naked thighs with a fresh bath of piss. The scream continued, she could hear it, had no control over the stopping of it. Her conscious mind was moving away, she felt her muscles bunching and cramping from neck to calf. The shadow was no longer a shadow. Now he was a man. A man that she knew, a man she trusted, once upon a time, or maybe, just three days ago. Her feet pulled up and the roped burned into her abraded ankles. Wrists twisting, she felt blood begin to drip down her arms, a gift from day two, the planning day. He stopped beside the bed, his mouth opening and closing like an old marionette, hinged at the jaw. She couldn’t hear what he said, her screams were too loud. He turned from her and moved to the corner of the room. She watched, somehow still screaming, he pivoted on his heels in dancer fashion holding Jack in one meaty paw. The screaming hitched. A warning in her damaged brain, telling her to stop. A warning that if this behavior continued, there would be consequences. Strands of hope laced with terror motivated, she opened her mouth wider and used the last bit of her will to push the scream from her tortured throat. In awed relief, she watched as Jack came arcing toward her, his name drawn in black bold marker and it occurred to her, somewhere in the world her mother was talking.
Sammy Shu
copywrite 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)