by Ryan Downey
When he awoke the next morning his tongue was out and left nostril raised and he had to wonder if the old adage of one’s face freezing held some merit as it was a minute or two before stiffness subsided. Stiffness withstanding, he really had to pee. Up and at ‘em, he needed his socks for the trek down the hall. They weren’t next to his side of the bed. Odd as that’s exactly where he had dropped them. Under the bed? Not there either. He sifted through a pile of clothes at the end of the bed. All white socks, no black. Then something caught his eye. One of the dresser drawers was slightly ajar. He couldn’t imagine for the life of him what reason there could have been, but he checked all the same. Sure enough, there they were. He pulled them out and made a face not so amusing. He looked over; she was dead to the world. He raised them in the air as if he was about to throw them at her. Rough way to wake up with footwear landing on your face. But he never launched. He just shook his head and made his way through a hallway box maze to the bathroom.
Beyond The Sea
On this night, he had insisted once again. Since the separation there was only one person other than mom whom Dani would allow to read to her. Not even her father, who had spent the three previous nights hitting the lights, closing the doors, and completely lacking the interest anyway.
So he sat on the side of her bed, pages in hand, while mom sat downstairs on the side of the couch, wine in hand. A baby monitor, that had widely surpassed its necessity, allowed her to listen in. She wasn’t the only one. Soon in she heard footsteps overhead and smiled.
A funny thing would happen whenever he assumed reading duties. His deep voice reverberated through the old farmhouse, rallying down hall and stair. Creaks on floorboards gave away the boys emerging from their rooms and forgetting their age, as they would both stand in Dani’s doorway to hear the story. In this case it was a children’s book about, of all things, roadkill and she, or they rather, were hanging on his every word. Enthralled audience sat downstairs too, straining over fireplace crackle and radio rasp. Volume down, she shared the moment with her children. It was as if that old familiar spritely nymph had flown in through Dani’s bedroom window, returning from the land past the second star, the one on the right, to captivate. The only thing missing was his pointy green hat.
“For the sun’s last gift,” he spoke for the woodland village’s raccoon elder nearing the book’s end, “on any given day, is to light the moon and be on its way.”
Dani lay fast asleep and the boys processed back to their rooms as he descended the stairs. Oh, what a good life this must be. To be so admired by the little people. They truly did love him. Job well done. Legs curled up, she poured his as he approached the couch, fully aroused. She was leaning on the couch’s arm as she turned with his drink. Another piece of wood tossed and he sat with his drink to kiss her in a way she hadn’t been kissed in over a decade.
He breathed deep as he pulled away, utilizing container as ottoman, and after sipping his Merlot implored, “Mmm soo… we’re not going to the beach?” She turned her head, frazzled. “I’m sorry.” He fixed her hair, placing it gently behind her ear and brushed her cheek, smiling faintly.
They had been up early enough, too early in fact. She had already been up an hour or two when he got to the house around 7:00AM. The intent was there. Throughout the morning as one thing inevitably led to another, as was often the case with her. It became abundantly clear somewhere between prescription drugs at CVS and “Oh shit, I still haven’t gotten milk for the week” that they weren’t going. By the time they left the post office, the second time, all hope was lost. They had barely walked through the door when her husband called asking to drop the kids off early. Looking pleadingly to him, he asked that they at least still get ice cream. Which she translated to the Dairy Queen drive thru, missing the weight of ‘at least’ and completely missing the point in the first place. Soft serve vanilla dipped in cheap chocolate would have to suffice.
He forgave her as he always did; not that life interfering was a grievous offense. She took his hand and turned the AM station playing old music back up, as La Mer began to play. Wine glasses down, temporarily they slowly swayed in a circular motion. He would lift her arm and laugh like a loon every time, as she would never spin, pretending she had no idea what he was doing. “Tweest!” he would mockingly yell, which in turn would make her laugh. But she stuck to her guns and refused to rotate. Their laughter turned to kissing. Kissing to passionate kissing and before long, passionate necking. His turn as vampire came to a grinding halt when she jumped back suddenly and asked what he was doing. Stunned, he didn’t even know how to answer. She stormed off as the echoes of a singer long dead and no longer listened to trailed closely behind. She said something else as she made her way to the bathroom to inspect the damage.
Man, his hearing was terrible. She couldn’t have said what he first thought. ‘No pantsing fags?’ That couldn’t be it, could it? Never a homophobe and even if he were, there were certainly none around. And even if there were, he hadn’t touched their pants. Few moments past the one that was ruined, it finally dawned on him. Processed through and now he just had to figure out what the hell she meant by it. But yes, he knew precisely what she said. “No planting flags.”
Borrowed Light
It was hot. Even for a summer night. The heat wave that crashed over the city days before raged into its fifth day and the AC in the ambulance provided only temporary relief for the young man who would sweat sitting still in 75° next to a fan. There was a Gatorade vending machine on the second floor. Three weeks prior he wouldn’t have been able to race up those stairs fast enough. But her answers had become shorter and her gazes distant. With each stair he dragged his feet a bit more.
He was halfway down the hallway when he saw her at the desk. She was filling out paperwork. And chatting with the nurse running the desk. She saw him coming, smiled faintly, and lifted her eyebrows a tad before going back to her paperwork. He passed by her without a word.
The lump in his throat was back. Gatorade wouldn’t wash it down. He wasn’t unsure of whether something was going to happen. He’d seen the needle. Now he was just waiting for the shot. And right on cue, the doctor arrived. Dr. Varoujan Boyajian, born and educated near the Great Lakes, was a skilled endocrinologist and one of the top specialists in the area. Which was saying something given the area. He was working later than usual, a habit to which his wife and two preteens were accustomed. His hurry to leave was non-discernable, mostly due to the fact that his office was on the fourth floor.
Lemon-Lime was his favorite. None of the other flavors looked appealing. A little acting would keep the secret well. His finger hovered over purple while the county’s foremost expert in anatomy pointed out his favorite parts of hers. With no need for a second opinion, she quickly forgot she had an audience. The sound of 16 ounces sealed in recyclable plastic falling through the coin-operated refrigerator startled him. So distracted by a flagrant display of peacocking down the hall, he didn’t even remember pushing the button. Overcome by thirst seconds later and now wondering if he was becoming color blind, he picked up his Cool Blue and headed for the back stairwell. Turning around to use his back to trigger the crash bar, he twisted open the lid to his least favorite Gatorade. An odd sight made him frown and pause before shaking his head and descending the stairs. Dr. Boyajian was laughing and crawling around the floor, hands, knees, and all. The two nurses were laughing in amusement too as the good doctor looked and felt around the desk. Taking a swig, he went through the doors, shaking his head, not amused. The door slammed, causing the doctor to pause for a moment, then continue searching. It seemed he had misplaced his lighter.
Unearthed
The room was fuller. Only a few boxes remained, lamps back on end tables, movies back in the entertainment center. Oreos back in the cupboard. His eyes wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Cold and steely. Dry as a bone. But he was betrayed in voice through crack and tone. He loo
ked back at her, belongings in hand, for what he thought would be the last time and in his last address strained to speak one simple command. It lay teetering on the edge of his lips, but never fell.
The old farmhouse was supposed to be up for sale. It wasn’t. She was supposed to be moving. She wasn’t. They stared at each other, she too refusing to make her simple command. The doorknob grasped, cold and steely, he turned it and exited without another word. He knew it was goodbye, but didn’t say it until the door was closed again safely behind him. Two steps out and then it hit him. Wooded pathway got denser with each tear filled step until beams shining through, causing polka dots faded, and his shirt returned to a solid color. The friendly big owl hooed to see if he was ok, but he was too distraught to offer an answer as he felt for keys.
The light changed. He sat there. Idling. It was late. Almost 2:30. There was no one behind him. No one else on the road. For blocks, silence. His heart imploded under its own weight and he burst into tears. Gripping the wheel so firmly because he believed he’d float away if he didn’t. He dropped his head upon it creating a brief honk. With nary a soul awake, no one heard it, nor could they hear his tremendous sobbing. Wiping his face consistently, he began uttering a phrase. Over and over again. Like he was rehearsing for a play and trying to get the emphasis just right. I. I. I. The intersection became quite a spectacle. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Too bad no one was there to see it. Want. Want. Want. He was blocks away from his first love’s. To. To. To. She was the last thing on his mind. Be. Be. Be. He had officially moved on. And it was the worst feeling in the world. Him. Him. Him. Returned. He swore he’d never let it happen again. It wasn’t love. Apparently, much to his surprise, it didn’t have to be. I don’t want to be him. “I don’t want to be him. Please, don’t let me be him.” The words played over and over like a broken record. Like a shitty kids’ song trying to teach an obvious lesson. Like a corporate logo written everywhere to drive the point home and numb the employees whose spirits had yet to be broken. His was. He wanted her back. But not just for her. Maybe not for her at all. He had been beaten out fourfold. And on top of that, there was his own interest. Himself. Was this it? Would there be another opportunity? The odds had seemed so stretched that lightning would strike a second time. The odds of a third seemed astronomical. At least in the moment. Had anyone seen him in this moment, their empathy would have been overtaken only by their confusion. “I don’t want to be him. Please don’t let me be him.” Of whom he was speaking? A father? A grandfather? Unlikely. Friend? Colleague? Coworker? Doubtful. Relative? Idol? Fictional character? Perhaps. The last time he was here, distraught over his Sweetheart, the phrase was “I did my best.” It didn’t matter that he did his best. With the mom it didn’t matter who “him” was. It was the feeling, not the intersection. And there wasn’t another car in sight.
Damnatio Memoriae
Michael S. Collins sat idly in a meeting of no real pertinence while his mind was soundly back at home. In his yard to be exact, where his new girlfriend/fiancé stood staring in wonderment at a most unexpected gift. There was never a dull moment for the new couple, but certainly through no fault of his own. Migrating from the Rocky Mountains, through Tornado Alley, up to the Delaware Valley, the gorgeous eyes that had swept him off his feet preyed heavily on his naivety and the poor Christian who was efficiently making his way up the corporate ladder knew no better. Back home a mystery was being solved.
After nearly an hour of carefully moving one giant crate, they finally had it where directed, dead center of the front yard. Passing cars had slowed their pace. Drivers leaned out windows to make heads or tails of the mysterious wooden box. Edge bars cracked out, a few jimmies saw the other sides collapse. They dragged the boards back to the refrigerated truck. Their job was done. The light on the grass made the head guy, Joe Kelly’s shoes, show red.
“Sign here.” Her bare feet shown red as he pointed to the line with the ‘X.’ Her smile stretched from ear to ear as she nodded and signed her name. Kelly stared at the delivery then took back his clipboard, grunting as he turned. With little emotion beyond confused annoyance and irritation from being in the sun for more than a few minutes, he told her to ‘enjoy.’ She put her hands on the metal rim. It was icy cool to the touch. Clear to the bottom, it was the most beautiful sight she ever beheld.
Once again she got less than expected and read the brief message as the container was left sitting in the grass. Thunderous rumbles had erupted when they dropped it, removing the wheels. She could see what looked like a giant monocle with stained glass through the tops of her eyes as she focused to read. Made misty by the name on the envelope, she pushed on.
“Dear Miss Lord,
Many years ago it became apparent that I would never be given the chance to make all your dreams come true. Figured I would settle for at least one. Hope cherry is ok. Don’t stay in too long, you’ll prune.”
The opening reference was lost on her. She giggled with anticipation as she dropped her robe. More modest underwear on the body of a middle-aged mother of four kept any passing early risers from rising early. She hesitated, savoring the moment for about a microsecond before doing a cannonball that would have emptied a normal pool. Slithering rather seductively, she made her way back to the surface. Her arms resting on the side of the pool, she noticed a post scriptum on the reverse fold that she hadn’t prior. She’d spend the whole morning doing laps until all viscosity was compromised. She would read it before tearing it up and burying it in the recycling for her boyfriend/fiancé never to discover. The request, though simple, forever unheeded.
“P.S. Give my best to the children.”
PART III
Business Meeting
She was New York. Wasn’t born there. Made it even more so. The chip on her shoulder was that of shaved ice and her heart was a vast expanse. Her mind was overcrowded. Diverse was her heritage, primarily Jewish, but a cultural mix. To say she was beautiful would be a terrible understatement, though beauty is easily lost in a concrete jungle. Far easier to let strangers in than someone who could be close and personal and so she often did. Impossible for her to sit still. Ever moving. Ever changing. A long, unappreciated history with an eye for contemporary fashion and one hand on the pulse of traffic prone public and the other on a dirty martini. Extra olives. Pretention and condescension came naturally to her, but she was not without sensitivity and was caring when it counted. She enjoyed the finer things, but she was no J.A.P. Terror lived in her past and present. But it drove her to be better. To work hard and overcome. To win.
She had come, as so many do, from another city, another place, another time perhaps, to see what all the fuss was about. To be surrounded by the tired. The poor. The huddled masses yearning to breathe free. She found a walk up, small, but in an affluent neighborhood. A tiny drop in an oceanic bucket. Her life was packed away in boxes schlepped up several flights. The only sign of life was the tick tock of an antique.
She had been there once or twice before. Never this far north. Never this specific. Her trips there had been largely touristy and scantly definable. It was too long ago and she was too young to remember. The last time she was there twin brothers guarded the harbor between twin cities. Watchful pillars of peace and industry. The pillars no longer stood.
Work dragged her down to Jersey. Or so work thought. Luckier than most in that area, she’d never been to New Jersey. Never had a reason to go. She had passed through during her move. Seemed as boring a state as any. The most she had seen of it was through an oxymoron known as reality television. Hardly an acceptable source. Her boss decided his staff needed a team building exercise and thanks to someone putting the idea in his head, Mr. Vellutato came up with a great idea. What better place than The Beer Convention held annually at the Atlantic City Convention Center. Dropping her bags at the Sheraton Hotel across the street, she headed over with no intention of driving back to New York later that night. The guard c
hecked her pass and purse and she proceeded through the double doors. The room was massive. For the second largest beer convention in the country, it should be. She passed slowly from vendor to vendor. Her boss was already sampling beers from what had to be one of the most attractive reps in house. Her industry was a man’s world, why wouldn’t the beer industry be as well. Some higher up had no doubtedly selected this young woman, Andrea, to attract clients. Andrea was tall, blonde and buxom, hiding a sharp brain below yellow strands and a good heart behind a substantial amount of cleavage. And boy, was the line growing.
She stopped by, said hello, but was barely noticed. Vellutato was gaze deep in the bosom of the beer industry. Rather than waste another second making her presence known to an employer who had picked her for the same reason, graced with the lucky coincidence that she was also very good at what she does, she pushed on. She was on a mission.
Riddle dragged him over to Jersey. Or so Riddle thought. It took no measurable level of arm-twisting. The words ‘beach,’ ‘beer’ and ‘free passes’ all seemed to mesh magnificently, like three morning birds’ song. The drive had been fueled by high-octane energy drinks and overhauled with classic rock. A last minute back out had left the trio a duo and the two buddies soon forgot their fallen comrade. The ride grinded to a halt an hour or so before nightfall at a rundown motel that kept alive history of quaint inns now overshadowed by towering casinos. They weren’t there for luxury, though they could have easily afforded it had they chosen. The weeds in the parking lot and draft in the lobby did little to dampen their mood.
Pushing through double doors, they entered an alcoholics’ Graceland and much like the proverbial kids in a candy store, they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Riddle, a close friend and frequent client, was an odd sort with stringy hair and a blank stare that would lead anyone to believe he had suffered the long term effects of some horrible paid science experiment gone wrong. But he discovered old, suggestible Riddle to be rather enjoyable company and was all too glad to pass the weekend with him drenched in suds.