On the seventh day, he decided there was no sense to any of what he saw.
On Monday, he caught a glimpse of the girl, standing on the sidewalk outside his window, while just across the street a few people still streamed out of stores and waited for buses. She was not waiting for the bus. When it arrived, she did not get on it.
She’d moved into the apartment below his just a few days before. Her name began with a P. Peggy or Penny or Petra or Perry. He didn’t know her last name. He didn’t know how old she was, probably in college. She didn’t live with anyone. She appeared to be waiting for someone. After ten minutes, close to that, she rounded a corner and didn’t appear again for the rest of the night.
On Tuesday, she was out there again, only this time, in the rain. She stood across the street in what seemed to be a small pocket of the storm, no umbrella, but wearing an open black rain coat that came down to her knees. Several feet above her head, a neon sign blinked La dromat. The raindrops struck his window pane, and he tried to decipher a rhythm, letting the sound shift between two tones as time passed, a pattern developing. Now he began to think he could hear a melody, very soft, and he wasn’t sure if it was in his mind or if it was really out there. It could have been the woman who lived on the very bottom floor. Sometimes he could hear her playing her piano, pounding the keys, her feet stomping the pedals, working herself into a frenzy until it was all he heard. This was the same woman whose apartment always reeked of dead fish and something else. The odors would seep underneath the door and out into the hall, like exorcised spirits. If it weren’t for the music every evening, he’d think these smells could have been coming from her rotting corpse, that’s how little he saw of her. Not like Peggy or Penny or Petra or Perry who stood outside his window every single night but not for any particular reason, as far as he could tell.
He lied. It was not every night. On Wednesday, the girl was nowhere to be seen.
But on Thursday she was back, this time with a group of kids. They sat on the black metal bench across the street from him, the one with green vines snaking along its edges. He realized he’d come to expect her presence and here she was, back again. He still didn’t understand why. He was waiting for her to show him something. He wanted to know who or what she was waiting for.
Then came Friday. He watched as a red convertible raced through the neighborhood, barely stopping to let her in the passenger side. A man with dark hair like hers sat in the driver’s seat. The vehicle sat there by the side of the road for hours. He went to go to the bathroom, got a glass of water, turned on the TV, watched two programs before going back to the window. The car was still there.
Finally, about four hours later, the car pulled out and drove away.
Saturday it rained again but this time she wasn‘t there. Like on Wednesday, he waited up all night, but she didn’t show.
He had little hope for Sunday by this point. If a person isn’t there when you’ve come to expect them to be, just once, you can accept that. If it starts to happen more than once, you begin to lose your faith in them.
Sometimes he wondered what she would think if she observed him every night the way he observed her. Maybe she could catch his yellow outline in the bright light of his window. Maybe she knew he was there.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A story I saved under the file name "Tiger Apartment Cousins"
Here's a version of my novel from 2006. I was testing out different beginnings.
Michael
There was a dispute over who the apartment complex belonged to, who had the higher claim. The truth was, it was owned and maintained by two old geezers who hadn’t set foot on the property in twenty years. They rented the place out to their grandchildren---the oldest, Michael, got the top apartment, his cousin Jaclyn got the bottom and her younger brother Julian shared the middle floor with his best friend from high school.
The building sat back from the Portland Bay; on inviting days Michael could look out his window and watch a variety of different people coming and going, doing a variety of different things---walking the boulevard, sailing boats, selling lemonade, having picnics, or just driving by. During the winter, kids would trudge across the sidewalks with sleds, slide down the sloping hills toward the water, never quite reaching it, only making it to the edge of the bushes which descended into a jungle-like tangle of trees and branches that led down toward the abandoned train tracks; just beyond that was the bay. The location was an experience in and of itself. And then there were his neighbors.
Michael was twenty-six, liked to think himself mature, liked to think he’d moved beyond the childishness of adolescence. He’d graduated from college four years ago with an English major and the desire to be a published writer before he hit thirty. He wanted to make a difference in the world, he wanted people to read what he had to say and be better for it. The only thing he really needed was peace and quiet in the evenings so that he could spend that time at his computer.
His cousins had a different idea of what life was all about. They were the spawn of his permissive aunt and uncle, they’d been raised among wild children like themselves in a city where everything you could possibly want was right there in front of you---you just had to grab for it. Seize and attack. They grew up thinking that the only way to end a week was to throw a huge party, get drunk, nail down everything that moved. Julian would join his sister on the first floor, and he’d bring his roommate Nick, along with half the city or more. They’d turn up the music so that Michael couldn’t hear the shouting, grunting and crashing so much, but Busta Rhymes or whomever the hell they listened to still blared through the thin boards of his floor, interrupting his train of thought, making him momentarily think the characters in his book were sex-crazed gangsters in the ghetto. It would seep into his writing and would result in pages of wasted time. If he happened to be writing long-hand, it would be wasted trees.
So the weekends when they sought their entertainment elsewhere----out in the forests of Portland----should have been a blessing.
When they were gone, and the building was empty, and there was nothing but the sound of clicking computer keys, if that, Michael would realize that it wasn’t noise that was the problem. It did distract him, and got him writing pages in the wrong direction, but at least writing the wrong stuff was still writing something. When his writer’s block snuck up on him in the quiet of his home, he would push himself away from the computer screen, and say to himself that it was time for a break. Many times he found himself hunting down his cousins, looking for some action and a little inspiration. After all, he couldn’t very well expect to write stuff that spoke to people if he didn’t get out and at least try to live a little. He’d pay a visit to various dives he recalled them mentioning to his face or within earshot. But his luck was bad. They almost always managed to allude him--not being at the places where he searched for them, or if they were there, they blended in well with the surroundings.
And then one night he found them in the dark tavern of Lucifer’s Oven, a pizza parlor in town. They were hiding out in the attached game room. Julian and Nick looked up from their air hockey match, surprised to see him there, but more than willing to take on a challenge. He could play a good game too.
Julian and Nick were eyeing each other across the air hockey table with the looks of two killers. Jaclyn sat at a table off to the side, focusing on her soda and what was left of a large pizza. This room was far less crowded than the main dining area and most of the noise came from a television suspended from the ceiling, set back in a distant corner. It was tuned to a sports channel. The restaurant had an orange and black motif---orange and black walls, orange and black booths. The owners apparently took offense with the traditional red and green décor that was the trademark of Italian eateries. They were Pagans, Michael had heard, and rumor had it they slaughtered animals out back and served them up on a pizza twenty minutes later.
“You’re up next,” Julian called to Michael. He sneered at his opponent. “Winner takes him on.”
Watching Julian and Nick right then reminded him of being younger and watching the way Julian and Jaclyn would play together as children, and the way they’d fight, and tell jokes he didn’t understand, leave him out, dooming him to a life of always observing, wondering what it would have been like if he’d had brothers and sisters himself.
Michael joined Jaclyn at her booth. Together they watched the two boys battling it out several feet away. Jaclyn had never been real friendly to him, but she didn’t turn Michael away and she was certainly a lot nicer to him at that moment than he had any right to expect. She should have been hostile and defensive. Lately he hadn’t treated her very well at all. But maybe it was just a good cover. She presented him with a calm air. She smiled at him. Behind his back, she’d probably sink her teeth in deep, tear him limb from limb for the benefit of the others. He reminded himself that her mood could change. He felt a tension between them like a wild animal ready to attack.
“Hey Jack,” her brother shouted across the room.
She turned to look at him.
“Come over here,” he said.
“I’m talking to someone,” she told him, her voice abrupt and hard like the sound of balls and hockey pucks knocking against each other. She realized they hadn’t been talking, that she had essentially lied to the kid, so she asked Michael about his novel. “How’s it going?”
“Horrible.” Michael rested his elbow on the table, lowered his face in his hand. “Just horrible. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She didn’t say anything more, just watched him from across the table. She began to knock at the formica with her knuckles. He looked down at her hands, noticed the glinting bracelet she wore around her left wrist. Tiger Tiger, it read.
“Nice,” he said, reaching over to touch it.
She met his eyes. “Thanks.”
He let go and turned away.
“This guy gave it to me,” she went on, “long time ago. His name was Jude.”
Julian started to shout, gloating over his alleged victory. “Mike,” he called out. “Get over here.”
Nick was sullen, a defeated look on his face and in his voice. “Come on, Jules, let’s go. You’ve proven yourself enough for one night.”
“Hell no.” At any moment, Julian could lunge forward, attack.
“You go on home,” Michael said to Nick. “They can get a ride with me.”
Nick just looked at him for a moment. He shrugged. “Fine.” He clapped Julian on the back. Jaclyn stood up as Nick headed out. “Bye Angel face,” he called out to her. “Take care of your brother for
me.”
“I always do,” she said. She watched him go, then snuck up on Julian, seized hold of his arms, pulling him to her. “Congratulations.” She kissed his cheek. He gave Michael an uncomfortable half-smile, as if to say, Can you believe this? “Thanks,” he said. She whispered something that made him laugh. He met Michael’s eyes. “Get out of the way, Jack,” he said to her, “you’re breathing on me.”
She let go of him. “Sorry. I’m going. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave.”
“No, it’s all right. I was going to have a smoke anyway.” She reached into the pocket of her brown leather coat and pulled out a pack of menthols. “Have fun, boys.”
Julian gripped the edge of the air hockey table where he stood across from Michael. He leaned forward, his head down. Jaclyn touched his shoulder one last time but he didn’t acknowledge her. She left them alone, with a handful of customers milling about the room.
”Little angry at your sister for missing your big victory?” Michael spoke up the minute she was gone.
“What?” Julian looked up. “No, I don’t care about that.” They started to hit back and forth, a steady motion. “It’s not me she was avoiding, it was him.” He scored a goal, smiled up at Michael.
“Him? You mean Nick?”
“Yeah. They don’t get along.”
The kid had convinced himself but he hadn’t convinced Michael, who wanted to point out to Julian that it wasn‘t Nick she was avoiding now. And it wasn’t because she disliked her brother. Julian was being a real pain. “Nick seemed to get along with her fine.”
“Subtext, friend,” the boy said, though they were not friends, never would be friends if things kept up the way they were going and if Julian’s ironic tone had any say in the matter. Julian was also irritated. He wanted to stick with air hockey. Michael had no interest in the game in front of them, only in the twenty questions his little cousin was trying so hard to dodge.
“I don’t get it, why’d she come here with you guys in the first place?”
Julian stopped what he was doing. Michael already had. “A little curious tonight, aren’t we? I asked her to come, all right? Besides, she likes to keep her eye on us. Just to make sure Nick doesn’t corrupt me, I guess. Now let’s play the game.”
Jaclyn was waiting outside for them, her back to the front of the brick restaurant, puffing on smoke or cold air, Michael wasn’t sure. Her head tilted to the left; she leaned over and glanced into the window beside her, watched the people in the dining room for a moment, then turned to face forward. “Hey. You guys ready to go?”
“Yeah,” Julian said. “Unless you want to go back inside and take me on yourself. I kicked his ass. I kicked both their asses. I’ll kick yours.”
She pushed herself away from the building, dropped her cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of her black boot. “You know, I’m getting sick of your little attitude, Jules.”
They walked to Michael’s car, the silence between the brother and sister having reached its height.
None of them spoke until Michael was seated in the driver’s seat and the other two had climbed in back.
Michael glanced up and caught their eyes in the rearview mirror.
Julian turned his attention to his seat belt. His sister nudged him with her elbow. He forced a smile.
“All set?” Michael asked. He looked away, his eyes darting to the floor.
He pulled away from the curb and they started down the dark bending road, the silvery waterfront glistening off to their right, two voices drifting from the back; it wasn’t long before he tuned them out all together and focused on the path home.
Jaclyn’s words broke his concentration several minutes later as he approached the Promenade. “You know, Mike, you don’t have to go right back up to your own apartment. Why don’t you have a drink with us before you go on to bed.”
She was making fun of him. It was only nine o’clock. He usually stayed up till midnight writing, or not writing. He could do either quite well, it seemed. Sometimes he watched the eleven o’clock news, but he never went to bed before twelve. She was watching him as he caught her eye in the mirror, just a quick look on his part but enough to understand what she was thinking. “Sure,” he said.
He parked in the empty driveway of the complex; the locks clicked as he shut off the engine. Jaclyn and Julian had already cleared the back seat, both sliding out the same door, the brother pushing at his sister as he followed behind. Now they stood in place, waiting, staring at each other, their hands shoved into their pockets. Michael almost slammed into them as he emerged from the vehicle. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He walked on ahead, they remained a few steps back. He heard Julian ask his sister if she had any beer left over in the refrigerator from the last party. She told him that he and his pig friend had swilled down the last of it, he’d have to settle for soda. He told her he was sick of soda, that he knew she had the real stuff hiding in back behind the heads of lettuce and expired milk, that she just was treating him like a child; he reminded her that he was nineteen, only two years away from twenty-one anyway. She said she’d check for him, just to be sure, but she really didn’t think she had anything.
Then she agreed to let him look for himself, when they got inside.
Michael unlocked the front door and waited for them to catch up.
Jaclyn‘s apartment was classy, despite what happened there once or twice a week. It looked like a small house. When she opened the door at the top of the first indoor staircase, he stepped right into the living room. There was a plasma screen TV in the front corner of the large room, to the left of a fireplace and at an angle. There was also a white leather couch and a glass coffee table that managed, from day to day, to remain in one piece, much to his amazement. He was always shocked by the cleanliness of the place whenever he visited, except on those occasions when he showed up in the middle of a party to complain about the noise. On those nights, everything was in disarray, which made the contrast between those evenings and this one so much more striking.
Jaclyn walked on ahead, through the living room, through the doorway to the right of the fireplace, and into the kitchen. A long porcelain counter protruded from the wall next to the kitchen entrance halfway to the other side of the room, with two stools in front of it. He could see one side of her body over the counter top as she opened the refrigerator. The most distant room, just beyond the kitchen, was hers.
Her bedroom light was off, the door partway shut.
“What do you know?” Jaclyn brought over a can of Budweiser and set it on the counter in front of her brother.
Michael reached to place a hand on Julian’s. “Don‘t go crazy.”
Julian cracked open his beer, made a face. “So long as you don’t tell anyone about this, I‘m not worried.”
Michael shrugged.
Julian hesitated. When his sister left to get something in the living room, he leaned close to his cousin, whispered, “If by some strange occurrence I actually happen to get drunk and pass out on the floor…you’ll make sure I get up to my apartment. Right?”
Michael turned, looked him over. “Why?”
“No big deal,” Julian insisted. “I just don’t want to wake up with a hangover and Jack nagging me about it.”
Michael tapped the counter with his knuckles. “Yeah. Sure kid. Whatever.”
Michael
There was a dispute over who the apartment complex belonged to, who had the higher claim. The truth was, it was owned and maintained by two old geezers who hadn’t set foot on the property in twenty years. They rented the place out to their grandchildren---the oldest, Michael, got the top apartment, his cousin Jaclyn got the bottom and her younger brother Julian shared the middle floor with his best friend from high school.
The building sat back from the Portland Bay; on inviting days Michael could look out his window and watch a variety of different people coming and going, doing a variety of different things---walking the boulevard, sailing boats, selling lemonade, having picnics, or just driving by. During the winter, kids would trudge across the sidewalks with sleds, slide down the sloping hills toward the water, never quite reaching it, only making it to the edge of the bushes which descended into a jungle-like tangle of trees and branches that led down toward the abandoned train tracks; just beyond that was the bay. The location was an experience in and of itself. And then there were his neighbors.
Michael was twenty-six, liked to think himself mature, liked to think he’d moved beyond the childishness of adolescence. He’d graduated from college four years ago with an English major and the desire to be a published writer before he hit thirty. He wanted to make a difference in the world, he wanted people to read what he had to say and be better for it. The only thing he really needed was peace and quiet in the evenings so that he could spend that time at his computer.
His cousins had a different idea of what life was all about. They were the spawn of his permissive aunt and uncle, they’d been raised among wild children like themselves in a city where everything you could possibly want was right there in front of you---you just had to grab for it. Seize and attack. They grew up thinking that the only way to end a week was to throw a huge party, get drunk, nail down everything that moved. Julian would join his sister on the first floor, and he’d bring his roommate Nick, along with half the city or more. They’d turn up the music so that Michael couldn’t hear the shouting, grunting and crashing so much, but Busta Rhymes or whomever the hell they listened to still blared through the thin boards of his floor, interrupting his train of thought, making him momentarily think the characters in his book were sex-crazed gangsters in the ghetto. It would seep into his writing and would result in pages of wasted time. If he happened to be writing long-hand, it would be wasted trees.
So the weekends when they sought their entertainment elsewhere----out in the forests of Portland----should have been a blessing.
When they were gone, and the building was empty, and there was nothing but the sound of clicking computer keys, if that, Michael would realize that it wasn’t noise that was the problem. It did distract him, and got him writing pages in the wrong direction, but at least writing the wrong stuff was still writing something. When his writer’s block snuck up on him in the quiet of his home, he would push himself away from the computer screen, and say to himself that it was time for a break. Many times he found himself hunting down his cousins, looking for some action and a little inspiration. After all, he couldn’t very well expect to write stuff that spoke to people if he didn’t get out and at least try to live a little. He’d pay a visit to various dives he recalled them mentioning to his face or within earshot. But his luck was bad. They almost always managed to allude him--not being at the places where he searched for them, or if they were there, they blended in well with the surroundings.
And then one night he found them in the dark tavern of Lucifer’s Oven, a pizza parlor in town. They were hiding out in the attached game room. Julian and Nick looked up from their air hockey match, surprised to see him there, but more than willing to take on a challenge. He could play a good game too.
Julian and Nick were eyeing each other across the air hockey table with the looks of two killers. Jaclyn sat at a table off to the side, focusing on her soda and what was left of a large pizza. This room was far less crowded than the main dining area and most of the noise came from a television suspended from the ceiling, set back in a distant corner. It was tuned to a sports channel. The restaurant had an orange and black motif---orange and black walls, orange and black booths. The owners apparently took offense with the traditional red and green décor that was the trademark of Italian eateries. They were Pagans, Michael had heard, and rumor had it they slaughtered animals out back and served them up on a pizza twenty minutes later.
“You’re up next,” Julian called to Michael. He sneered at his opponent. “Winner takes him on.”
Watching Julian and Nick right then reminded him of being younger and watching the way Julian and Jaclyn would play together as children, and the way they’d fight, and tell jokes he didn’t understand, leave him out, dooming him to a life of always observing, wondering what it would have been like if he’d had brothers and sisters himself.
Michael joined Jaclyn at her booth. Together they watched the two boys battling it out several feet away. Jaclyn had never been real friendly to him, but she didn’t turn Michael away and she was certainly a lot nicer to him at that moment than he had any right to expect. She should have been hostile and defensive. Lately he hadn’t treated her very well at all. But maybe it was just a good cover. She presented him with a calm air. She smiled at him. Behind his back, she’d probably sink her teeth in deep, tear him limb from limb for the benefit of the others. He reminded himself that her mood could change. He felt a tension between them like a wild animal ready to attack.
“Hey Jack,” her brother shouted across the room.
She turned to look at him.
“Come over here,” he said.
“I’m talking to someone,” she told him, her voice abrupt and hard like the sound of balls and hockey pucks knocking against each other. She realized they hadn’t been talking, that she had essentially lied to the kid, so she asked Michael about his novel. “How’s it going?”
“Horrible.” Michael rested his elbow on the table, lowered his face in his hand. “Just horrible. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She didn’t say anything more, just watched him from across the table. She began to knock at the formica with her knuckles. He looked down at her hands, noticed the glinting bracelet she wore around her left wrist. Tiger Tiger, it read.
“Nice,” he said, reaching over to touch it.
She met his eyes. “Thanks.”
He let go and turned away.
“This guy gave it to me,” she went on, “long time ago. His name was Jude.”
Julian started to shout, gloating over his alleged victory. “Mike,” he called out. “Get over here.”
Nick was sullen, a defeated look on his face and in his voice. “Come on, Jules, let’s go. You’ve proven yourself enough for one night.”
“Hell no.” At any moment, Julian could lunge forward, attack.
“You go on home,” Michael said to Nick. “They can get a ride with me.”
Nick just looked at him for a moment. He shrugged. “Fine.” He clapped Julian on the back. Jaclyn stood up as Nick headed out. “Bye Angel face,” he called out to her. “Take care of your brother for
me.”
“I always do,” she said. She watched him go, then snuck up on Julian, seized hold of his arms, pulling him to her. “Congratulations.” She kissed his cheek. He gave Michael an uncomfortable half-smile, as if to say, Can you believe this? “Thanks,” he said. She whispered something that made him laugh. He met Michael’s eyes. “Get out of the way, Jack,” he said to her, “you’re breathing on me.”
She let go of him. “Sorry. I’m going. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave.”
“No, it’s all right. I was going to have a smoke anyway.” She reached into the pocket of her brown leather coat and pulled out a pack of menthols. “Have fun, boys.”
Julian gripped the edge of the air hockey table where he stood across from Michael. He leaned forward, his head down. Jaclyn touched his shoulder one last time but he didn’t acknowledge her. She left them alone, with a handful of customers milling about the room.
”Little angry at your sister for missing your big victory?” Michael spoke up the minute she was gone.
“What?” Julian looked up. “No, I don’t care about that.” They started to hit back and forth, a steady motion. “It’s not me she was avoiding, it was him.” He scored a goal, smiled up at Michael.
“Him? You mean Nick?”
“Yeah. They don’t get along.”
The kid had convinced himself but he hadn’t convinced Michael, who wanted to point out to Julian that it wasn‘t Nick she was avoiding now. And it wasn’t because she disliked her brother. Julian was being a real pain. “Nick seemed to get along with her fine.”
“Subtext, friend,” the boy said, though they were not friends, never would be friends if things kept up the way they were going and if Julian’s ironic tone had any say in the matter. Julian was also irritated. He wanted to stick with air hockey. Michael had no interest in the game in front of them, only in the twenty questions his little cousin was trying so hard to dodge.
“I don’t get it, why’d she come here with you guys in the first place?”
Julian stopped what he was doing. Michael already had. “A little curious tonight, aren’t we? I asked her to come, all right? Besides, she likes to keep her eye on us. Just to make sure Nick doesn’t corrupt me, I guess. Now let’s play the game.”
Jaclyn was waiting outside for them, her back to the front of the brick restaurant, puffing on smoke or cold air, Michael wasn’t sure. Her head tilted to the left; she leaned over and glanced into the window beside her, watched the people in the dining room for a moment, then turned to face forward. “Hey. You guys ready to go?”
“Yeah,” Julian said. “Unless you want to go back inside and take me on yourself. I kicked his ass. I kicked both their asses. I’ll kick yours.”
She pushed herself away from the building, dropped her cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of her black boot. “You know, I’m getting sick of your little attitude, Jules.”
They walked to Michael’s car, the silence between the brother and sister having reached its height.
None of them spoke until Michael was seated in the driver’s seat and the other two had climbed in back.
Michael glanced up and caught their eyes in the rearview mirror.
Julian turned his attention to his seat belt. His sister nudged him with her elbow. He forced a smile.
“All set?” Michael asked. He looked away, his eyes darting to the floor.
He pulled away from the curb and they started down the dark bending road, the silvery waterfront glistening off to their right, two voices drifting from the back; it wasn’t long before he tuned them out all together and focused on the path home.
Jaclyn’s words broke his concentration several minutes later as he approached the Promenade. “You know, Mike, you don’t have to go right back up to your own apartment. Why don’t you have a drink with us before you go on to bed.”
She was making fun of him. It was only nine o’clock. He usually stayed up till midnight writing, or not writing. He could do either quite well, it seemed. Sometimes he watched the eleven o’clock news, but he never went to bed before twelve. She was watching him as he caught her eye in the mirror, just a quick look on his part but enough to understand what she was thinking. “Sure,” he said.
He parked in the empty driveway of the complex; the locks clicked as he shut off the engine. Jaclyn and Julian had already cleared the back seat, both sliding out the same door, the brother pushing at his sister as he followed behind. Now they stood in place, waiting, staring at each other, their hands shoved into their pockets. Michael almost slammed into them as he emerged from the vehicle. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He walked on ahead, they remained a few steps back. He heard Julian ask his sister if she had any beer left over in the refrigerator from the last party. She told him that he and his pig friend had swilled down the last of it, he’d have to settle for soda. He told her he was sick of soda, that he knew she had the real stuff hiding in back behind the heads of lettuce and expired milk, that she just was treating him like a child; he reminded her that he was nineteen, only two years away from twenty-one anyway. She said she’d check for him, just to be sure, but she really didn’t think she had anything.
Then she agreed to let him look for himself, when they got inside.
Michael unlocked the front door and waited for them to catch up.
Jaclyn‘s apartment was classy, despite what happened there once or twice a week. It looked like a small house. When she opened the door at the top of the first indoor staircase, he stepped right into the living room. There was a plasma screen TV in the front corner of the large room, to the left of a fireplace and at an angle. There was also a white leather couch and a glass coffee table that managed, from day to day, to remain in one piece, much to his amazement. He was always shocked by the cleanliness of the place whenever he visited, except on those occasions when he showed up in the middle of a party to complain about the noise. On those nights, everything was in disarray, which made the contrast between those evenings and this one so much more striking.
Jaclyn walked on ahead, through the living room, through the doorway to the right of the fireplace, and into the kitchen. A long porcelain counter protruded from the wall next to the kitchen entrance halfway to the other side of the room, with two stools in front of it. He could see one side of her body over the counter top as she opened the refrigerator. The most distant room, just beyond the kitchen, was hers.
Her bedroom light was off, the door partway shut.
“What do you know?” Jaclyn brought over a can of Budweiser and set it on the counter in front of her brother.
Michael reached to place a hand on Julian’s. “Don‘t go crazy.”
Julian cracked open his beer, made a face. “So long as you don’t tell anyone about this, I‘m not worried.”
Michael shrugged.
Julian hesitated. When his sister left to get something in the living room, he leaned close to his cousin, whispered, “If by some strange occurrence I actually happen to get drunk and pass out on the floor…you’ll make sure I get up to my apartment. Right?”
Michael turned, looked him over. “Why?”
“No big deal,” Julian insisted. “I just don’t want to wake up with a hangover and Jack nagging me about it.”
Michael tapped the counter with his knuckles. “Yeah. Sure kid. Whatever.”
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The One
***Here is a story I initially wrote in 2004. In 2009, I changed the names so that it would fit in with my creative thesis. The original version of the story ended with Julian's friend walking in on him in the bathroom, and it kind of just fizzled out. I knew that more needed to happen and that Julian needed to be more active rather than passive. So in 2009 I changed the ending as well. The final confrontation between Julian and his friend is very similar, but at least Julian tries to take a stand, even if he fails miserably. The very ending is new.***
The One
Julian didn't notice his ex-girlfriend Holly standing by the entrance to the reception hall until they'd already started eating.
At first, he attempted to ignore her. He turned to Diana who'd been talking non-stop over the course of an hour. She was telling Jane and his friend Ben about the last wedding she'd been to; it had been for her sister, and she quickly added that it was nowhere near as nice as this one. Jane smiled politely and pushed away her dish, making some exaggerated comment about how full she was when she'd barely touched a thing on her plate. That was one thing he'd never understood about Ben, how the guy could be so attracted to girls with apparent eating disorders---like the last one, stick thin Corinne. Calling them skeletons was an insult to skeletons. They resembled more the paper decorations Julian's father used to buy for Halloween at party shops, as if that's where his friend shopped for dates. The only thing that made Jane stand out from the rest was her blonde hair. He'd never seen a skeleton with blonde hair before. Julian forced a smile and leaned over to kiss Diana on the cheek. She attempted to kiss him on the mouth, but he turned, and her lips brushed his chin.
"Dance with me," she said, as the band played the opening chords of "YMCA".
He glanced over at the dance floor behind him where a few of the guests were making fools of themselves. At the center of it all was Jane's three-year-old niece. The little girl was shaking her head, her dark braids flying, and then, she began to twirl, the hem of her dress doing the same until she slipped and fell, only to get back up again. "I'll be right back," he said.
His girlfriend nodded, but she looked upset. "All right."
He stood and came around the table. He watched as Ben turned to his new wife and said something that Julian couldn't make out.
By the time Julian had reached the entrance to the hall, Holly was gone. There weren't many people out in the lobby, just a few parents and their disruptive children. One little boy was running back and forth with his arms stretched out as if he were a plane, making noises too, while those around him just laughed. Yeah, it was real funny now that they were out here and no longer bothering the other wedding guests. The boy plowed into a little girl who was minding her own business by the couch, knocking her over backwards. She began to cry. The hotel receptionist looked up from her desk and frowned because all of this was taking place in her hotel, on the day when she had to work and not on somebody else's watch.
Julian escaped to the bathroom. There was nowhere else to go. The kids had besieged the rest of the hotel, and though he'd yet to admit it to himself, he started to get the suspicion that he hadn't really left his friends behind so that he could chase after an old love from his past. He'd wanted to get away from them, and specifically from Diana, who'd begun to wear on him over the last few weeks. He dreaded the moment the two of them left the wedding, the moment they were alone.
Recently, she'd begun pushing him to take their relationship to the next level. He couldn't tell her the truth, that the thought of having sex with her made him physically ill. He cared about her and all. Just not enough apparently.
He wondered if it was normal to be so unattracted to the girl you were dating.
He was still thinking about this when the door opened. He watched Holly in the mirror as she came up behind him and paused.
Neither of them spoke at first.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" he said.
"I was going to ask you the same thing."
He continued to stare at her. "I'm not the girl in the guy's bathroom."
"I was out there waiting for you." She sighed, as if this were about to turn into a story, the kind only women told, where you started the day you were born, and, if the listener was lucky, managed to get to the point while you were still alive. He was beginning to remember why he and Holly had not lasted very long. "And those bratty kids just kept looking at me, but making so much noise, you know?" By that point, he'd forgotten what they'd been talking about. He wondered, also, if maybe he'd tuned out half of her speech. He'd always had a tendency of doing that with her. It was coming back to him now. "They'll scream and yell and shove each other around and still be looking at you the whole time. And I'm waiting for you," she said, "to come out of the bathroom so I can talk to you. But you never come out. So I decided, fuck it, and just came in here myself. What were you doing in here that whole time? Hiding out in the men's bathroom is so incredibly gay."
"Shit," was all he could think of to say. A lot was going through his head right then. He figured he'd stumbled across some major insight regarding what separated the male mind from the female one, how Holly could have an experience and find a way to stretch it into an autobiography and all that could come out of his mouth was an expletive.
Off to his right, the bathroom door opened again, and a kid with wide eyes almost obscured by thick glasses came in. He looked at them for a moment without saying anything before rushing to a stall and shutting himself in.
"Come on," Julian said. He turned and grabbed her arm. "Let's get out of here."
"Hell no," she said. She yanked away from him. "I'm not going out into a mob scene. We can talk in here."
"Um, it's not exactly the best place---"
"You're such a coward, Julian. I saw you with that girl at the table. She put up with your shit like I used to? I feel sorry for her. It's times like this when it becomes so clear to me why I dumped you. You know, I should have known when I accepted the invitation that you'd be here. In high school, you never even bothered with Ben. But I guess now that I can't stand the damned sight of you and just want to be able to celebrate a happy occasion with an old friend without any kind of scene, the two of you are conveniently glued to the hip. Is there any place you're not going to pop up? Are you trying to force me into seclusion, like Emily Freaking Dickinson or something?"
He shrugged. He didn't really get the connection. He didn't know much about Emily Dickinson other than the fact that she was some reclusive poet who probably didn't make a habit of following young men into the bathroom just so that she could berate them and make them feel bad about themselves. She probably had more class than that.
"I don't know why I even care," Holly said. "You're either the biggest asshole there ever was, or else you really are gay, and I knew it all along. Hell, if it weren't for me, you'd probably still be a virgin. And this is the thanks I get."
He sighed. "Are you done?"
"Hell yeah, I am."
She was halfway out the door when he caught a glimpse of Diana. She was standing in the lobby, wide-eyed as she stared right back at him. He didn't have time to think. He just reacted. It was as if his body knew what he had to do, even though his brain hadn't caught up with it yet. "Wait." He followed Holly, and came to halt a few feet away from Diana's glowering presence. "It's not what you think," he said.
But his girlfriend's attention was not on him. "Who the hell are you?" she asked Holly.
Julian shrugged. "We screwed around a bit last summer. It was nothing."
Diana continued to glare at Holly. "Were you harassing my boyfriend?"
"I don't want anything to do with your gay boyfriend." Holly brushed past her. "You can have him."
Diana turned and watched her head back to the reception hall. "I can't believe it," she said when Holly was out of sight. She finally turned her attention to Julian. "Are you all right? Was she bothering you?"
He shook his head and headed for the front entrance. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."
"What are you doing out here?"
Julian looked up at his friend.
"Diana asked me to talk to you. She thinks you're mad at her."
Julian slid over on the bench. "It's nothing personal." He really didn't feel like explaining it. And yet he knew that, regardless of how much he didn't want to do it, he would have to tell Diana the truth. It wasn't as if he disliked her as a human being or anything. It was just beneath his dignity to fuck her. Maybe it would be a good idea to tell her the news over the phone. He could text her the message. "Ben, can I ask you something?"
His friend sat down next to him.
"What made you decide to marry Jane?"
Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just knew she was the one."
Right, Julian thought. Everyone always dreamed about the one. He dreamed about the one too. The one girl who wasn't a complete idiot. He'd probably have to wait awhile, but he wasn't holding his breath.
Then again, looking over at his friend and seeing a married man he didn't recognize, he realized that maybe love made idiots out of everyone.
Suddenly he wished he hadn't come. He'd always hated weddings.
The One
Julian didn't notice his ex-girlfriend Holly standing by the entrance to the reception hall until they'd already started eating.
At first, he attempted to ignore her. He turned to Diana who'd been talking non-stop over the course of an hour. She was telling Jane and his friend Ben about the last wedding she'd been to; it had been for her sister, and she quickly added that it was nowhere near as nice as this one. Jane smiled politely and pushed away her dish, making some exaggerated comment about how full she was when she'd barely touched a thing on her plate. That was one thing he'd never understood about Ben, how the guy could be so attracted to girls with apparent eating disorders---like the last one, stick thin Corinne. Calling them skeletons was an insult to skeletons. They resembled more the paper decorations Julian's father used to buy for Halloween at party shops, as if that's where his friend shopped for dates. The only thing that made Jane stand out from the rest was her blonde hair. He'd never seen a skeleton with blonde hair before. Julian forced a smile and leaned over to kiss Diana on the cheek. She attempted to kiss him on the mouth, but he turned, and her lips brushed his chin.
"Dance with me," she said, as the band played the opening chords of "YMCA".
He glanced over at the dance floor behind him where a few of the guests were making fools of themselves. At the center of it all was Jane's three-year-old niece. The little girl was shaking her head, her dark braids flying, and then, she began to twirl, the hem of her dress doing the same until she slipped and fell, only to get back up again. "I'll be right back," he said.
His girlfriend nodded, but she looked upset. "All right."
He stood and came around the table. He watched as Ben turned to his new wife and said something that Julian couldn't make out.
By the time Julian had reached the entrance to the hall, Holly was gone. There weren't many people out in the lobby, just a few parents and their disruptive children. One little boy was running back and forth with his arms stretched out as if he were a plane, making noises too, while those around him just laughed. Yeah, it was real funny now that they were out here and no longer bothering the other wedding guests. The boy plowed into a little girl who was minding her own business by the couch, knocking her over backwards. She began to cry. The hotel receptionist looked up from her desk and frowned because all of this was taking place in her hotel, on the day when she had to work and not on somebody else's watch.
Julian escaped to the bathroom. There was nowhere else to go. The kids had besieged the rest of the hotel, and though he'd yet to admit it to himself, he started to get the suspicion that he hadn't really left his friends behind so that he could chase after an old love from his past. He'd wanted to get away from them, and specifically from Diana, who'd begun to wear on him over the last few weeks. He dreaded the moment the two of them left the wedding, the moment they were alone.
Recently, she'd begun pushing him to take their relationship to the next level. He couldn't tell her the truth, that the thought of having sex with her made him physically ill. He cared about her and all. Just not enough apparently.
He wondered if it was normal to be so unattracted to the girl you were dating.
He was still thinking about this when the door opened. He watched Holly in the mirror as she came up behind him and paused.
Neither of them spoke at first.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" he said.
"I was going to ask you the same thing."
He continued to stare at her. "I'm not the girl in the guy's bathroom."
"I was out there waiting for you." She sighed, as if this were about to turn into a story, the kind only women told, where you started the day you were born, and, if the listener was lucky, managed to get to the point while you were still alive. He was beginning to remember why he and Holly had not lasted very long. "And those bratty kids just kept looking at me, but making so much noise, you know?" By that point, he'd forgotten what they'd been talking about. He wondered, also, if maybe he'd tuned out half of her speech. He'd always had a tendency of doing that with her. It was coming back to him now. "They'll scream and yell and shove each other around and still be looking at you the whole time. And I'm waiting for you," she said, "to come out of the bathroom so I can talk to you. But you never come out. So I decided, fuck it, and just came in here myself. What were you doing in here that whole time? Hiding out in the men's bathroom is so incredibly gay."
"Shit," was all he could think of to say. A lot was going through his head right then. He figured he'd stumbled across some major insight regarding what separated the male mind from the female one, how Holly could have an experience and find a way to stretch it into an autobiography and all that could come out of his mouth was an expletive.
Off to his right, the bathroom door opened again, and a kid with wide eyes almost obscured by thick glasses came in. He looked at them for a moment without saying anything before rushing to a stall and shutting himself in.
"Come on," Julian said. He turned and grabbed her arm. "Let's get out of here."
"Hell no," she said. She yanked away from him. "I'm not going out into a mob scene. We can talk in here."
"Um, it's not exactly the best place---"
"You're such a coward, Julian. I saw you with that girl at the table. She put up with your shit like I used to? I feel sorry for her. It's times like this when it becomes so clear to me why I dumped you. You know, I should have known when I accepted the invitation that you'd be here. In high school, you never even bothered with Ben. But I guess now that I can't stand the damned sight of you and just want to be able to celebrate a happy occasion with an old friend without any kind of scene, the two of you are conveniently glued to the hip. Is there any place you're not going to pop up? Are you trying to force me into seclusion, like Emily Freaking Dickinson or something?"
He shrugged. He didn't really get the connection. He didn't know much about Emily Dickinson other than the fact that she was some reclusive poet who probably didn't make a habit of following young men into the bathroom just so that she could berate them and make them feel bad about themselves. She probably had more class than that.
"I don't know why I even care," Holly said. "You're either the biggest asshole there ever was, or else you really are gay, and I knew it all along. Hell, if it weren't for me, you'd probably still be a virgin. And this is the thanks I get."
He sighed. "Are you done?"
"Hell yeah, I am."
She was halfway out the door when he caught a glimpse of Diana. She was standing in the lobby, wide-eyed as she stared right back at him. He didn't have time to think. He just reacted. It was as if his body knew what he had to do, even though his brain hadn't caught up with it yet. "Wait." He followed Holly, and came to halt a few feet away from Diana's glowering presence. "It's not what you think," he said.
But his girlfriend's attention was not on him. "Who the hell are you?" she asked Holly.
Julian shrugged. "We screwed around a bit last summer. It was nothing."
Diana continued to glare at Holly. "Were you harassing my boyfriend?"
"I don't want anything to do with your gay boyfriend." Holly brushed past her. "You can have him."
Diana turned and watched her head back to the reception hall. "I can't believe it," she said when Holly was out of sight. She finally turned her attention to Julian. "Are you all right? Was she bothering you?"
He shook his head and headed for the front entrance. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."
"What are you doing out here?"
Julian looked up at his friend.
"Diana asked me to talk to you. She thinks you're mad at her."
Julian slid over on the bench. "It's nothing personal." He really didn't feel like explaining it. And yet he knew that, regardless of how much he didn't want to do it, he would have to tell Diana the truth. It wasn't as if he disliked her as a human being or anything. It was just beneath his dignity to fuck her. Maybe it would be a good idea to tell her the news over the phone. He could text her the message. "Ben, can I ask you something?"
His friend sat down next to him.
"What made you decide to marry Jane?"
Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just knew she was the one."
Right, Julian thought. Everyone always dreamed about the one. He dreamed about the one too. The one girl who wasn't a complete idiot. He'd probably have to wait awhile, but he wasn't holding his breath.
Then again, looking over at his friend and seeing a married man he didn't recognize, he realized that maybe love made idiots out of everyone.
Suddenly he wished he hadn't come. He'd always hated weddings.
Monday, February 13, 2012
An Old Writing Exercise From College
This is dinner on every day except Valentine's Day.
The Food Critics
“So, how’s dinner tonight?” she asked.
Her husband waited until he’d finished chewing the fish in his mouth and said, “All right. Did you go grocery shopping at Smaha’s again?”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“Their fish is horrible. I’ve told you a million times, go to Hannafords’.”
“These mashed potatoes are really grainy,” her oldest daughter said. “They taste like…paste.”
“Is paste grainy?” her youngest asked.
“I don’t know what paste tastes like,” the oldest retorted. “I’ve never eaten it like you.”
“Then how do you know the potatoes taste like paste?”
“I can infer it by the way paste looks.”
“How about the carrots. Did I cook them right this time?” the wife asked. Last time, they had not come out well at all.
“The carrots are fine,” her husband said.
“What’s for dessert?“ the youngest asked.
“Lemon pie.”
“Again?” the oldest complained. “We had that last night.”
“And I liked it so much I made it again today,” her mother said.
“A good lemon pie should be considered an art,” her husband said.
Fall 2003
The Food Critics
“So, how’s dinner tonight?” she asked.
Her husband waited until he’d finished chewing the fish in his mouth and said, “All right. Did you go grocery shopping at Smaha’s again?”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“Their fish is horrible. I’ve told you a million times, go to Hannafords’.”
“These mashed potatoes are really grainy,” her oldest daughter said. “They taste like…paste.”
“Is paste grainy?” her youngest asked.
“I don’t know what paste tastes like,” the oldest retorted. “I’ve never eaten it like you.”
“Then how do you know the potatoes taste like paste?”
“I can infer it by the way paste looks.”
“How about the carrots. Did I cook them right this time?” the wife asked. Last time, they had not come out well at all.
“The carrots are fine,” her husband said.
“What’s for dessert?“ the youngest asked.
“Lemon pie.”
“Again?” the oldest complained. “We had that last night.”
“And I liked it so much I made it again today,” her mother said.
“A good lemon pie should be considered an art,” her husband said.
Fall 2003
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Diagnosis *written on 2/1/06*
A twisted love story for Valentine’s Day. I wrote this as part of a writing exercise in college. The goal was to find a way to work as many medical terms as possible into a short scene.
Liberty was like a cancer, he thought. A malignant growth on his ass. But then he would reconsider. An ass tumor was not the slightest bit pleasant to have. Well, he wouldn’t know because he’d never suffered an ass tumor before. But it seemed to him that she was more like a narcotic---an addictive drug; he knew she was nasty, no good for him. His brain was an egg in a frying pan. He understood that. But he admitted there were times when he loved her.
The one thing she had in common with cancer was that she had metastasized and spread throughout him, every inch of his flesh burning and curling along the edges with a bright flame of hatred and love. It had gotten to the point where no doctor with all of their fancy surgical instruments could remove her from him.
She was a scab that he was compelled to pick. The whole tissue of his soul was evidence of her abuse. His spirit didn’t scab, though, it scarred. She’d clamp onto him like a vampire’s jaw and suck up the blood through his veins as if he was some kind of curly straw you got at theme parks. He’d look in the mirror and see the small black bite marks, and like any good son he’d do as mother had taught him, scrubbing away at it with soap and disinfectant, out of habit or desperation more than out of the thought that he was doing any good, or that it would cleanse him of her.
He was standing before his reflection in the bathroom, washing off the speckled spots of blood on his chin when she rang the doorbell. He knew it was Liberty because no other person on this planet would show up at his door before 8 a.m., unless it was an emergency, and then they’d call. Liberty didn’t believe in telephones. It was easy to shut out another’s voice, to place the receiver down, or else hang up. She needed to be in front of him so she could work her medicine. She had to be where she could touch him and then the toxins would transfer from her fingers into him, his own body feeding off her as though she were an IV.
He dropped the razor in the sink. He wasn’t going to open the door if his prognosis depended on it.
Five minutes must have passed with him standing in the bathroom, the sterile atmosphere of it folding around him like a white blanket covering a cadaver. Every half minute, almost to the second, he’d hear the bell ring. His resistance dissolved.
Coming, he said, his voice low. Coming.
Liberty was like a cancer, he thought. A malignant growth on his ass. But then he would reconsider. An ass tumor was not the slightest bit pleasant to have. Well, he wouldn’t know because he’d never suffered an ass tumor before. But it seemed to him that she was more like a narcotic---an addictive drug; he knew she was nasty, no good for him. His brain was an egg in a frying pan. He understood that. But he admitted there were times when he loved her.
The one thing she had in common with cancer was that she had metastasized and spread throughout him, every inch of his flesh burning and curling along the edges with a bright flame of hatred and love. It had gotten to the point where no doctor with all of their fancy surgical instruments could remove her from him.
She was a scab that he was compelled to pick. The whole tissue of his soul was evidence of her abuse. His spirit didn’t scab, though, it scarred. She’d clamp onto him like a vampire’s jaw and suck up the blood through his veins as if he was some kind of curly straw you got at theme parks. He’d look in the mirror and see the small black bite marks, and like any good son he’d do as mother had taught him, scrubbing away at it with soap and disinfectant, out of habit or desperation more than out of the thought that he was doing any good, or that it would cleanse him of her.
He was standing before his reflection in the bathroom, washing off the speckled spots of blood on his chin when she rang the doorbell. He knew it was Liberty because no other person on this planet would show up at his door before 8 a.m., unless it was an emergency, and then they’d call. Liberty didn’t believe in telephones. It was easy to shut out another’s voice, to place the receiver down, or else hang up. She needed to be in front of him so she could work her medicine. She had to be where she could touch him and then the toxins would transfer from her fingers into him, his own body feeding off her as though she were an IV.
He dropped the razor in the sink. He wasn’t going to open the door if his prognosis depended on it.
Five minutes must have passed with him standing in the bathroom, the sterile atmosphere of it folding around him like a white blanket covering a cadaver. Every half minute, almost to the second, he’d hear the bell ring. His resistance dissolved.
Coming, he said, his voice low. Coming.
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