by Ryan Downey
With a final drag, he extinguished it with his foot. One would be enough. It would be years before he’d go from casual smoker to casual chain smoker. Not that he had the option, she told him it was her last then discarded the pack. Only issue he had, apart from the fact that he wasn’t going to ask anyway, was that he noticed another pack resting snuggly in her purse. Naturally, he counted it towards her being conservative with her wares or to her forgetful tendencies. Besides, they hadn’t even gone out yet. Her husband, loser that he was, foolish enough to get the hell out, was for the most part out of the way and she was fair game. In this land of beginning again all bets were on and grey skies could turn blue at any moment. She had no intention of wasting time residing in the past. He felt his back pockets and started looking all around. His lighter was gone. When he finally looked up and saw her standing with it between fingers, smiling devilishly, he knew it was on.
Jackson’s glare was piercing. He entered the lobby to find Jackson, as well as several other familiar faces, staring expectantly. How the hell did they hear so fast. They must have been waiting to hear. It’s not like it was a mystery. The way he and she looked at one another alone was more than enough to give them up. But old Jackson, St. Mary’s most veteran janitor, had told him. If he’d told him once, boy. “She’s playing you,” he’d warn. He worried he was right, that her affection was nostrum to healing wounds, but it was clouded by the fact that Jackson was the type of guy who would call someone a liar to sound smart in the off chance he happened to be right. This broken clock made a face and looked at him through the tops of his eyes, snaggled teeth slightly exposed. Not a word was uttered, Jackson just shook his head. He had been warned. But it was too late. He was hooked.
Le Carnivale
She was staring at him. Uncomfortably so. He avoided as best he could, but it was hard to ignore and before long, he found himself staring at her too. They hadn’t known each other long. He had to look down, she being a good deal shorter. They had already eaten, so he really couldn’t suggest a snack. He considered turning on the television, but before he could bring himself to go for the remote, deemed the move cowardly. A connection was going to be forged if it killed him. Save for minimal, obvious shared connections, they did not have a great deal in common. Or perhaps they did and things weren’t as strained as they seemed. His face fell into his hand, elbow securely anchored on the armrest. She mimed. While he found this throwback Marxist tribute charming, it had to be coincidental. Long odds she was a Duck Soup fan.
Show up and go was how most of his first dates began. This waiting period was really throwing his game. Then he noticed pad and pen and lightning struck. Pen in hand, he slid the paper over and drew a circle. Still staring, and she was so very lovely, so why wouldn’t he, he clicked the pen, placed it back down on the pad and slid it forward. Stare finally broken, she clicked the pen and drew a smaller, touching circle, then pushed it back. He smiled. It was repeated several more times. Their common ground would come to cover an immense amount of property and it all started with a mouse.
Before they were done, the scrap pages would feature an impressive doodle menagerie that was destined for the fridge. Hell, maybe even the wall. The boys were roughhousing like lunatics in the other room. A bang was heard and received to zero response. A cry was heard, but still, nothing about it seemed atypical.
“I’m almost ready,” a voice yelled from the upstairs. The two artists looked at each other. “Take your time,” she giggled. It made him laugh too. Danielle K. McNamara was devilishly clever for a 5-year-old. Her eyebrows, definitely a product of her mother’s genes added to her musings. Most of her look seemed to come from her mother. In fact, the only thing apparent of her father was her name. Her mother hadn’t taken it for obvious reasons, but all the children bore it. It was actually somewhat of a miracle she had children with a mick. Given her upbringing.
With this deep and intimate knowledge of so many wonderful animals, he impressed her so. He had, afterall, been taught by the best. They flipped through the pages admiring their work. “Which one’s your favorite?” he asked. As she studied the two-dimensional animals, her mother crossed the loft above the living room from the bathroom to her bedroom. As she kicked past toys not yet packed, she narrowly avoided cascading down the stairs on a discarded skateboard. The glimpse he caught revealed she had been spending the time on hair and makeup, not getting dressed. He caught his breath as her only daughter picked the drawing they made of a mother and baby elephant. It reminded Danielle, Dani as he’d come to call her, of herself and her mom. It reminded him of Dumbo and he agreed it was their magnum opus.
The doorbell rang. The babysitter, responsible-enough 15-year-old, Kim Wu, from up the street had arrived. With her, a slew of games and one small, well trained terrier that they loved to chase around the house. And Kepler certainly loved playing the fugitive. The cat, resting comfortably atop the mantle and swinging its tail with no fear of renegade tinder, would remain completely unfazed by her canine guest. He crossed the floor carefully avoiding strewn shoes of mismatch and answered the door. Kim and Kepler entered ceremoniously and he assured Kim in not so many words that once their mother had more than a thong on, they’d be on their way and out of her hair.
Gets Up With Fleas
She lay on his chest. Her left shoulder tucked firmly under his right arm. Her hair frazzled and messy, resting gently over it. Her hand placed over the beat of his heart rustling around in his chest hair. Her breasts wrapped in a skin-toned bra and split evenly on either side of his rib cage allowed his pulse to keep time with hers. The night before, the dulcet songs of High Society echoed through the house, a favorite of theirs to watch together. Macaulay Connor and C.K. Dexter Haven both in ignoble pursuit of the affections of Miss Tracy Lord provided a lulling soundtrack, but would not be heard this evening. Tonight, it was a movie he deemed more appropriate for the holiday. It was tradition for him each year to indulge a few nice cocktails and watch the immortal 1931 classic, Frankenstein. She asked why he didn’t pick a more holiday appropriate film, like Casablanca or Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. He quipped that it was because he preferred a happy ending. The film ended with a toast and the TV was off.
The sweet smell of her hair imbibed him and effectively worked to offset his incredible discomfort. He loved cuddling and her petite feminine frame consumed no space at all. The couch barely provided the real estate suitable for one adult, let alone two. Landscape beyond the deck seen through the sliding glass door had turned picturesque. A big owl flew by briefly blocking the light that showed the room so empty. Before them constellations they had spent the previous night studying between long passionate kisses and puffs of Marlboro Menthol Lights still flickered. On that night the space found disruption from frosty breath above.
Now, the stars and all objects of celestial being had taken their leave. Resting light-years beyond this cover of nimbostratus that tucked them in for the night, was presently releasing a heavy snow on the Tri-state area. In all of Christendom nothing granted more peace and serenity than a crisp winter’s night coated in fresh fallen snow. Ambient noise done away with, the two lovers took full advantage of the silent night, lighting candles, turning the television off, and talking about their dreams.
Some normal, he wanted to win this award or to own a vacation home. Some odd. She wanted to jet ski in the Grand Canyon or swim in a pool full of Jell-O. After, they wrapped themselves around a good book. In this case, a collection of works by New England native Edgar Allen Poe. His arms encompassed her holding the book above, they read a tale of the macabre involving a certain swarthy feline and a thirst for blood. Just then Tabby, her Domestic Shorthair, jumped up on the top of the sofa scaring them even tighter into each other’s arms.
A nervous laugh later and they were fully engaged. It was messy, clunky, and awkward. Her figure was less than Greek. And he may not have been the man some girls thought of as handsome. Neith
er seemed to mind, the only real speed bump occurred when he rolled over and kicked the lit Balsam & Cedar on the end table and breaths held as it steadied. Upon their return to their respective positions he noticed something peculiar. As he put his arm around her shoulders she tensed up defensively. Chalking it up to the moment prior and with no actual resistance, he started up again. But as the candle burned down, he found that while on the surface she was fully engaging, something was off. It was unlike any of his other experiences. Twitches here and spasms there. Unexpected jolts. When he could ignore it no longer, he asked if she was alright. She assured him she was perfectly fine and implored him to continue. It all could have been written off as playful, if not for the troubling realization that by the end she was no longer in the room. Both finished, sang each other’s praises, and readied for bed. Only one would sleep. He considered with each passing cloud as he supported her weight on hairy chest and burdened shoulder whether their sex life would improve. Or if at the very least, subsequent rounds would keep her in the same room. They would not. Dawn broke. She awoke thinking he had only just risen himself and left the room once more.
Alone
Snickers seemed like a solid choice. He pressed 3B and waited for the coil. Its slow turn always created tension in the gut of the impatient snack junky. Jackson and Nurse Diana Reddy were at it again. Dry leaves unswept, blown in through the automatic double doors, crunched under his feet as the bar leapt from its perch. A spill down the hall was currently going unmopped because a visitor walked by the stand wearing a shirt with the Millennium Falcon on it and Di announced unabashed that she had no idea what that meant. Once explained, she claimed she really didn’t go for that kind of stuff and the janitor who spent countless hours of his life fantasizing about a galaxy far, far away was left with little recourse but to engage in a series of playfully heated comments that inevitably led to an argument as to whether alien life existed in the universe. Jackson, on the pro-life side of course, offered nothing in the way of scientific fact, referencing almost exclusively vague tales of UFO sightings in trailer parks. Dejecting redneck hearsay was her main defense as a woman plucked from the Bible Belt with free time so scarce and precious to her, slim was the chance she would ever spend an afternoon learning about fossilized bacteria on Mars or the giant methane lakes on Titan.
Gold of day was met with blue of night and he had time to kill. She didn’t work that night, he had worked the mid shift. She told him she was coming to pick him up so they could go to a late dinner. At a restaurant she had never been to. She had. Because she was starving. She was. First she had to return something to Macy’s she had bought for herself. She hadn’t. Because it didn’t fit. It didn’t. And that maybe they could go dancing after dinner because she was a really good dancer. She was. And she hadn’t danced in ages. She had. That she was free for the whole evening. She was. Because the kids were at their grandmother’s. They weren’t.
And so the argument down the hall continued until he happened by. Not wanting to get involved, but unable to resist an opportunity to show off, he let out his best Chewbacca impression upon hearing the subject matter. Nurse Reddy had no idea what to make of the outburst so foreign to her uncultured ears. Jackson was equally caught off guard, but impressed at the replication of his favorite Wookie’s infamous gargle and gave into a fit a hysterics. “So what do you think,” he beckoned, “there intelligent life out there?” He stared at Jackson. “Intelligent?” “Yeah man, whatchu think? There aliens out there or we alone?” “Are we alone?” he echoed. “Hmmm.” He grunted and stared for a moment. He didn’t even think to make the ‘there’s no intelligent life here’ comment, a joke so tired it goes to bed after Wheel. He looked aside, breathed in and answered. “Archaeologists have in recent decades discovered tools. Made of rocks and sticks. They’ve only gone a layer of earth or two down. In Brazil. Thailand. Cote d’Ivoire. They have dated the tools going back 700, 800 years. And they are relatively certain if they dig further they will find some dating over 1,000 years. Analysis proved the tools were made by Capuchins. Macaques. Chimpanzees respectively. It seems there are several species of monkey that have not only entered the Stone Age, but have been in it for over a millennium. You ask me, dear friend, if we are alone in the universe.” With devilish smirk and eyebrows arched, he placed his hands on the desk and leaned towards his now captive audience. “We’re not even alone on this planet.” He took a bite of his candy bar and left to wait outside. Jackson, confused by the response, turned back to Nurse Reddy and dragged her back to the trailer park in Dixie.
Valley Of The Kings
He seemed uneasy. Not nervous per se. But something was certainly off. They were holding hands and staring at corpses. Surrounded by them, men and women who had been dead for centuries. She had jumped him in the car. A parking garage provides an appropriate concrete canopy to allow sufficient discretion for such inappropriate acts of public indecency. The skintight dress she was wearing reclaimed its shape in the elevator. They shared wicked grins that peeled across their faces like twin supersonic jets tearing through the sky at halftime. Fire in their eyes, the grins remained until they had checked their tickets and entered the museum.
His continuous need to readjust his pants once inside was enough to keep him preoccupied. It smelled of dust and decay as they passed pillars that once upheld temples and courts. The museum, like most of kind, ventilated in such a way so as to diminish the odor of history. But the olfactory was alive and buzzing with the taste of a thousand lifetimes and the sands of time would not be swept under the rug so easily. Buried beyond the hall was the unearthed tomb of both pharaoh and peasant.
She was very beautiful. Curls flowed through her recently blonded hair. Her icy blue eyes darted from plaque to plaque reading brief summations of epic tales. Slender fingers extended from weathered hands slid across inscriptions, dates and digs, as if they were written in Braille. She couldn’t get enough. Soaking in facts of history and science was something she took great pleasure in. Never formally educated, she attacked a chance to learn with far more vivacity than any academic. He adored that about her. Whenever he’d make casual mention of something she was unfamiliar with, she was sure to stop him and politely request he explain it. And he was all too glad to do it. So used was he to blank stares whose wearers would pretend to know with forced ‘oh yeah-s’ and ‘I think I remember that-s.’
They stepped carefully and breathed slowly. So as not to invoke some ancient curse by disrupting eternal slumber. The gods had found a new home in the form of a metropolitan museum in the western world and they’d be damned if a couple newlyweds were going to change that. These two weren’t newlyweds of course, but neither God nor man could tell by glancing. He held her closer with each passing exhibit. Wrapped his arms around for an aerial video featuring noted desert landmarks. A helicopter with a camera underneath it blew gentle winds upon a monument to Ramesses II, the nineteenth dynasty of Egypt. Before giant foot stumps, dismembered feet of a forgotten empire remaining in desert sand, his steady breath blew gentle winds upon her neck, until resistance was futile and she turned to kiss him. If mummies had eyes they would have been rolling along with those of the docents, guards and patrons in the immediate surrounding area. It was neither drawn out nor salacious, but certainly enough to make them ‘those people’ in a room full of prudish nerds. In keeping with true form to ‘those people,’ their cares were as lost as the rest of the artifacts buried too deep to make an appearance.
Missing Socks And Making Faces
A state of disorientation festered as longing for her return mixed with straining for content. Fragments muffled though hardwall plaster and closed door. Turns of phrase slipped through void of context. Platitudes common to local vernacular. “It is what it is.” The weightlessness of that phrase bore heavy on his waking consciousness and distracted from other, more valuable clues.
The questions of why her phone rang at 2:14 AM and who was calling a
t such an hour were eclipsed by the reason for her need to answer. What couldn’t wait until tomorrow?
Her responses ceased. Within moments he caught himself not only sitting up, but leaning towards the door. Perhaps she was at the mercy of a bore ass monologuist. “Something she’s used to,” his internal voice was often that of a caustic self-deprecator. Perhaps she hung up and had fallen asleep. Or even fallen asleep mid-sentence. Something he knew her prone to do. Then he heard a door shut.
Sparks of static electricity crackled as he rubbed his bare toes against the bottom of the sheet. Ever the gentleman, he had taken his socks off earlier in the evening before climbing into bed. No reason they couldn’t be civilized. He couldn’t see the time; she was back. The clock blocker sawed wood while he lay mad at himself for dozing off. Madder still when he couldn’t see the time and couldn’t deduce how much of his slapdash stakeout he had missed.
For what it was worth, it made little difference to him. He was just glad she was back. He slid his arm under the space between neck and shoulder and kissed her head. Then he started making faces at her. Not in a malicious way. Just something that amused him when he couldn’t sleep. His brief nap was more costly than whatever he missed from her nocturnal excursion. He was glad he had lest he been tempted to go to the window, crossing that finest of lines from intense eavesdropper to mild stalker. The silly stream of faces halted briefly as she slowly rotated tighter into his grip, then promptly resumed. The catnap ensured that he would be up for at least an hour or two and his thoughts wouldn’t be enough to keep him preoccupied.