by Ryan Downey
For once he was relieved they didn’t care how she was doing. If he had to explain why they were no longer together, why they were destined to part, why their all too brief love affair burned out before either was ready, he would be plagued with “I told you so-s” and “I knew she was trouble-s.” Rather than the socially contracted obligatory “I’m so sorry, are you ok-s?.”
As far as they were concerned, he was great. Their holiday party would go unadulterated. How dare a nigger, so sweet and unassuming, have the audacity to walk invitedly into their home anticipating common courtesy. Not even close to the reason of their demise, they went in expecting a certain level of resistance. On both sides. They were met verily. Truth was her prior history provided a lack in range of interactions needed to form healthy structured relationships. That wasn’t the biggest reason either, but it certainly bore more weight than race.
But it wasn’t Hatfields and McCoys. Capulets or Montegues. Respective universes maybe never collided; they were simply closer than comfort allowed. A few outstanding members of an endangered species taking final stands in the name of an ideology that, like rowdy cousin Haley after beer #14, had overstayed its welcome.
Complete cloud cover did nothing to reduce the unseasonable warmth. No threat of snow. Which was bad for the spirited, but good for him, he wasn’t in the mood. The room was kept light by old comedy clips playing on television. Steve Martin dancing around served distraction for the deep impact felt at the recent passing of their dear great Uncle John. Motions and polite conversation got him steps closer to leaving. His guest was faring well, not that he cared. While Jan Lindsay spoke pleasantly with one of his cousins, Noelle, or maybe it was a second cousin, he could never keep track, he chewed carrot sticks and waited impatiently for an acceptable time to excuse themselves. While reaching for the dip, his Aunt Carol seized her chance to corner. After the ceremonial ‘how have you been, how’s work’ she turned to something unexpected. “I didn’t realize you were seeing someone else.” His chewing stopped. “What happened with-“ Like an old Chevy, her sincerity backfired when she realized she couldn’t remember the name of the Pretty Girl he oft brought round. “Gone cold.” He was blunt. More so than he meant to be, but his emotion was mixture of surprise of subject and desire to talk about anything but. Appropriate though, as they were always hot or cold. Jan was warm. Should be, she had four layers on.
“Oh, well,” looking across the room at her son, Nick who replaced Noelle and was enjoying Jan’s company a little too much, “she seems nice.”
Chewing resumed. “Her?” He swallowed and took another bite. “She’s a comet.” Carol was heartily confused and thought she misheard. “I’m sorry?” “Don’t be,” he continued knowing exactly what she meant. “Iron of the sky. Like Tut’s dagger. They come in hot as blazes and fast as lightning. Sometimes out of nowhere. Usually out of nowhere. Beautiful to look at, dangerous to touch, and impossible to catch. They never lose momentum. Some look like stars at first, others – blink and you’ll miss ‘em. Sure she’ll leave at her leisure…” He held a baby carrot between two fingers like a rocket and glided it away from his body far as he could reach, then curved his trajectory and started pulling it back in. “But they’re always guaranteed to circle back.” He tipped the carrot towards her, before biting it and walking away. He severed the aggressive advances of his cousin Nick, who could use a break from chasing tail anyway. Shooed him away and insisted it was time to leave. Time, as he so colorfully illustrated, was of the essence.
Vertigo
His neck was really starting to hurt. His arm had been asleep for near of an hour. But so had she and he needn’t dare move. Her gentle steady breathing passed casually in and out of snore. He heard music as he looked at her, though there was none playing. A beautiful melody from some enchanted land. They were back in full force and it must have worn her out. Eyes fluttering, she breathed heavy stirring awake, put off by brightness of room. Impromptu nap left shade open. Adjusting her hair behind ear so it wouldn’t fall into her face, he kissed her forehead. Covered only in a blanket on a large white couch and though never cold, she pushed herself as close to him as she could as if she were.
The heat trapped in the blanket began to escape when she moved and he pulled the blanket up to keep it in. This weekend was just what they needed to get back in rhythm with one another. Then she shifted so her back was flat to his chest. Head rest over his left shoulder, face turned towards his neck. He wrapped his arms around her stomach, cheek to cheek with his sweet embraceable, as she folded hers over her blanket-covered breasts. Here it came. The part where he couldn’t be satisfied. The part where he talked too much.
Pressing luck and ruining moments were two of his absolute specialties. All she wanted to do was wake up in his arms. In peace. Even laying on the couch they couldn’t hold a cease fire. When he asked what she was doing the following weekend, she didn’t answer right away. When she finally did, it wasn’t the answer for which he was looking. He got dizzy. It felt like his legs were being pulled down into the depths, while he was to stay barely afloat. As she brought up Jan, he brought up Alex. Sick to his stomach, he couldn’t even look down at her. She was too flush and dizzy to look up at him lest she fall right off the couch. Such a dizzying height.
They had climbed up there for a reason. Way up on that couch. The same reason aviophobes fly and thalassophobes swim. Because it takes three days to get from New York to LA by train. And because it takes a splash to get wet. The paralyzation began with the feeling he had when it was obvious whomever the Flyers were playing had sped down the ice and were about to score. He took a sharp turn back to the feeling he used to get so many years ago in school when the teacher would instruct the room to put their books away and there was a test for which he had forgotten to study. Quickly followed by the feeling one gets when being diagnosed with a terminal disease.
It broke after an eternity. He didn’t want to wait in vain any longer. Now on opposite sides of the room, corner-to-corner, toe-to-toe, neither was yet ready to stop running from the inescapable. And it was set so that he was to take the heat. Good game played, burned again.
Cosmic Variance
Her neck was really starting to hurt. She had ditched the landscapes she was familiar with to check out some modern art. Which, the more years passed, the less sense it made to her. Neck would crane no longer attempting to see the beauty in this one. Back to killing time with Cole, Church. Church, ahh. She forgot to go that morning. All the hassle to get ready for this premiere exclusive luncheon gala kicking off in 20 and it slipped her mind it was Sunday.
Just as well. Mass had lost its charm in recent months.
She wasn’t even sure why she was there. The artists would be ok. French impressionists, Monet, Cobot, Cezanne. It’s that crowd. That bougie aristocracy that knows better than anyone how to suck the air clean out of the room. When hands reached high noon, the vacuum would be so tight someone couldn’t rip a fart without their ass imploding. She had to get out of there. Her ass was way too fine to have old lady lipstick and old man mouth corner lip crust all over it. Too much flare in this star to waste another second pretending she knew which ‘t’s’ to pronounce or avoiding the bleeding worship of sycophants. Out she went.
Out to a beautiful day, this lonely star, struck with view, pulled out her camera. Past the roundabout and right down the street, her viewfinder offered all kinds of options. And with stunning detail. Had she been a sniper she could have picked off any target. Had she looked three centimeters to the right she would have seen him.
Less than a mile away, Meg Kelly was taking her smoke break. She always appealed to him. Her bitter disposition and misanthropic leanings made him wish she wasn’t a lesbian. He swung by Il Saggiatore, not for the calamari or mozz sticks, but to see if his old friend could hook him up with some painkillers. As always, she didn’t disappoint, in company or supply.
“It’s bullshit
, dude.” Slamming a handshake heartier than most of the men he knew could, she passed off 120 mg of Vicodin. “Like, you can’t give me five days?” Her landlord was hitting her with a late fee for overdue rent. Slow week at the restaurant, the money he slipped her would make rent whole and fee covered. Jets remained uncool.
As she ranted and raved he leaned back beneath “E Pur Si Muove,” one of dozens of nonsensical Italian signs posted around the building, he lit a cigarette she bummed him. Added bonus in the sale. “No discount for dykes?” She punched him in the arm. Hard. “Ah,” he rubbed it with his free hand. “Who taught you that word?” He breathed in through his teeth. “You did, ya dumb bitch.” She laughed. “Who taught you to hit, Muhammad Ali?” “I wish,” she took another drag. “I’d knock your ass out.”
Listening pleasantly to threat, he stared up the street at the museum. A distant twinkling light made him look twice before he was startled back into coherence.
A car jumped the curb. Missed them by a mile, but scared the unholies out of them. “Jesus,” Meg exclaimed. The driver, Patrick Lance, adjusted quickly and plopped back down onto the road in a flash. Unable to focus, Pat caught the sight of a smoking hot redhead in his rearview and couldn’t take his eyes off. “Damn,” Meg pointed her out to him, “I would crash too.” He whistled to himself. The redhead was walking with her significantly shorter boyfriend, Kim Ho and would likely cause more accidents before the day was through. “What the hell is she doing with that Asian midget?” Meg griped. “Asian midget?” He was quick with the draw. “Isn’t that redundant?”
“She could have anyone in the city,” she ignored his quip. “She must see something in him,” he offered. “I’m taller than he is,” she grumbled. “You still with that weather chick?” Right in the sore spot. He shook his head. “Haven’t heard from her in-“ he trailed. “Whatta, ya got termination shock? Haven’t accepted it’s over? Gotta bow out sometime. Shame. Always seemed real with you. I can’t watch her when she’s on TV, makes me sick. Should win an award.” His silence persisted for several moments as he dragged twice. “Or one for the role she played with me.” Meg laughed. “They don’t give Oscars for porn, buddy.” She flicked the butt near the fresh tire mark on the curb. He followed suit and lifted his head. “They don’t have to,” he pounded her fist as she turned to go back to work. “Porn has its own awards.”
Persona Non Grata
He couldn’t stand the thought of hearing her defended again. He had told them next to nothing. She had told them everything. And then some. Friends’ opinions mattered so little to him to begin with. Now even less so. Date night would be a much safer idea.
Jem Diamond was a stunning woman. The kind that drove every other man in a pub or club crazy. She was exactly his type. Tattooed. Pierced. Pixie cut, shaved on one side. Short. Smart. Flexible. The kind he could focus on and not be distracted by anyone walking by his table to use the bathroom. She was in the bathroom when he ordered their drinks. He had no idea what she wanted to eat. Or if she was even going to. She might have been one of ‘those.’ In which case she absolutely was not his type.
She didn’t know anyone. What a treat. The city had gotten smaller and smaller over the years. Seldom did he meet anyone who didn’t know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who.
His heart sank upon her return. He had forgotten himself and for the moment forgotten whom he was with. Only an idiot would be disappointed at the sight. She had the biggest eyes. Eyes that clearly adored him. To the point where both the man who sold him the rose now in her hair and the maitre’d who greeted and sat them felt the pressing impulse to comment on the matter. The last time a stranger commented on the woman he was with, it made his night. This time it just upset him.
He wasn’t rude. Not entirely engaging, but not rude. At the very least he needed to be hospitable. She was new here, her first time in the big city and he had to make a good impression. Reputation was a delicate matter for this metropolis.
Everything went well until she inquired about his personal life. She wasn’t especially well read or versed in his end of popular culture, so she knew little of it. On the plus side, it meant he could disclose as he pleased. He wasn’t there to do an interview. On the negative side, unlike his more recent interviewers, she didn’t know which topics to avoid. Like all of them.
The fish was cooked to perfection, the libations were plenty, the atmosphere serene. But in an instant the conversation turned sour. She asked about his closest relations. Hadn’t seen them in months. About his best friends. Down to one. And about his last relationship. Silence. He did his very best to deflect, but it was abundantly apparent the mood had surpassed its life expectancy.
When the question of dessert arose, the answer was clear to all parties involved. The waiter, Faulkner, lived down to his title and didn’t wait for a verbal confirmation that he needed to print the check.
He paid. He felt terrible. He wanted to fix the situation, but it was no use. He would have paid anyway; the guilt merely propelled his hand to wallet.
Once closed out, he held the door for her and they were bum rushed with night air’s sobering chill. She thanked him for a lovely time, told him she had fun, and insisted they do it again sometime. Lies one and all. Cab door opened for her, he administered the customary no one’s getting any post date hug and sent her to her brand new apartment on the other side of town.
The B Word
He sat thirsty as all hell in a rusted beach chair, here doubling as lawn furniture. Its support comprised of awful Teflon straps, a plaid pattern of faded green and orange with white lines along either side of each individual strap. Surely the product of secondhand acquisition, the chair did little to ease his discomfort in the matter. Strangling it by the neck, he raised the mouth of his Budweiser bottle to his and took a swig. The heatwave made quick work of its refreshing coolness and the second half of his third beer would have to be enjoyed lukewarm. It was, however, still cooler than his slow-burning forehead. Eyes closed, he pressed the bottle’s body to his head, mixing beads of sweat with beads of condensation.
Dooley worked the grill. He was on his thirteenth Budweiser and didn’t notice the shift of temperature. Well done was the only temp for this chef and the best anyone could hope for was that their burger have less charring than their neighbor’s. Friends since high school, Dooley kept tradition alive by continuing to invite the gang over each summer or at least the part of the gang that hadn’t come to despise each other. And the part that hadn’t moved on via milestone. The Beef and Beers that originally served as reunions had long since dissipated. He had a beer gut now. Took years to cultivate and copious effort to maintain. Was going bald. That took no effort whatsoever. A true Irishman, he had a twinkle in his eye and brio in his wrist as he flipped burgers that were done eight minutes ago. What was left of his reddish blonde hair now contained traces of grey.
Dooley’s wife, Crystal Dooley (nee Shepherd) was currently neglecting her sous chef responsibilities, which basically involved moving store bought potato salad from the fridge to the patio table, in exchange for several rounds of baggo. A relatively simple game, baggo involved trying to toss bean bags through a hole cut near the top of opposing boards slanted at roughly a 30° incline. Two teams of two would square off and try to outscore each other before they’re too drunk to bear the weight of the bag.
He watched the Dooleys from his rusted throne. Clanking his rings to the side of the King Of Beers, his free hand pet the dog, Rex. He scratched his head beneath his Corona hat, sweat collecting on the brim. Legs folded, the bottle opener on his flip-flop looked more and more distant as the afternoon wore on.
Crystal looked to have a beer gut now too. A little extra weight behind the beanbag she was hurling and she was dominating the board.
The crowd was substantially denser than it had been the past several years. Due in part to people returning with toddlers t
urned prepubescent. One chased another past his feet as he gently volleyed a rock back and forth. He had come to, in no small way, really hate children and didn’t bother hiding his laugh when one of them, Roger Fredrickson, Rog his parents called him, fell and hurt himself. Concern for Rog’s well being left his inappropriate schadenfreude unnoticed.
But from the infantile and melodramatic squeals breaching eardrums from the boy who was more attention starved than hurt, his gaze was drawn beyond to a nightmarish oasis. There in the outer reaches of the backyard stood she. Pretty Girl.
The bottle dropped from his hand, spilling bubbly suds all over the dry grass. The rusted chair bore no root to hold it down and toppled back as he bolted up. Rage boiled over as he planned his next move. He looked on as they stood casually chatting with the friend of a friend who invited her new boyfriend. And she showed. To his reunion.
He started to charge, then balked. What would he say. Nothing. What, was he going to talk her out of the backyard, berate her until he embarrassed himself into having to leave? So he went the other way. Practically backflipped and was barreling towards the back gate, swatting past bumblebees and other bugs. Then BANG. He jumped. An explosion was the only thing that could have made him turn around. Behind him a blue nebulous cloud bellowed over the picnic table, benches and barbecue grill, lightly dusting the spread. Crystal and Dooley, a couple endured since high school through the same will of not dying alone that beat in the hearts of every other mutant couple there who had stayed together since, were posed before the thick of it, arms outstretched. The moment wasn’t awful enough, there had to be a gender reveal.
Suddenly, two more explosions. One pink. Another blue. Looks like the treatments had worked well. Too well. All began to clap boisterously, except one. Even her. Clapping for the unborn of a couple she didn’t even know. The lone non-clapper lifted the bell shaped fork latch and let himself out through the postern. Bidding a true and hearty Irish goodbye to several dozen people he would never see again.