You Can Never Spit It All Out

by Moore, Ralph Robert

  Another minute of getting fucked face to face, and she wrapped her shapely thighs even more tightly around Dillon's waist. Ran a hand through his hair.

  Rubbed her nipples against his bare chest. Looked up at him, grinning.

  Vinnie came in his pants. Stepped back and forth, so the others wouldn't notice.

  Dillon reached his left hand up. Grabbed the long brown hair swinging behind her happy face. Yanked her head back, painfully. Tilted his eyes down. Gave her a stern look.

  Her pupils rolled back, hips climbing up Dillon's bouncing torso.

  Once she came, Dillon quickened his thrusts, skull falling back, ejaculating deep inside her.

  After that, the party in the green room pretty much broke up. It was late, three in the morning.

  Jessica gave Dillon her phone number in front of Vinnie.

  Jessica, back in her Manhattan apartment, glanced down at the cell phone in her palm.

  Sighed.

  Decided to answer this time.

  "Yeah."

  "Why haven't you been answering my calls? What's going on? I tried to get up to your apartment, but the doorman won't let me."

  She pulled open the door of her side-by-side, bent down to look in. Lifted out the two chef's salads she bought earlier at the corner market. "You know, I think we're played out."

  She heard Vinnie's rage over the phone. "Played out? The fuck does that mean? I still wanna have sex with you!"

  "Well, honestly, I don't want to have sex with you anymore. It was fun, I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, but now it just seems kind of boring."

  "So what, you're fucking Dillon now? Don't tell me that. I'll get so mad I'll smash something."

  "I'm going to hang up. I'm about to eat."

  "I'll take you out to dinner! You want a steak? I know a great place. They give you garlic bread and a baked potato."

  "I'm actually having dinner with Olivia. She'll be here in a few minutes."

  "Olivia? Tony's girlfriend? You gotta be kidding me!"

  "Goodbye, Vinnie. If you keep calling, I'll just put a call block on your number."

  "Hey! Wait a minute! You don't fucking hang up on me! It's over when I say it's over. Not you. You think a woman can break up with a guy? Where the fuck did you grow up? You stay on my arm until I decide to dump you!"

  "Hey, Vinnie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can you hear me?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Fuck you."

  Silence. Then: "You cunt! You–"

  Click.

  Her thumb lifted from the disconnect button.

  So easy.

  She pulled a bottle of wine down from the rack.

  Vinnie stood in line at the ten items or less checkout counter.

  Further up in the line, at the register, a thin guy with eyeglasses started writing a check.

  "I don't freakin' believe this! Hey! Hey! It's the ten items or less line! You can't write checks!"

  The thin guy's eyeglasses turned in Vinnie's direction. Smug look on his face. "Excuse me?"

  "You want me to repeat myself? Really? You can't write a check in this line!"

  "Where does it say that?"

  Vinnie's neck got red. "Where does it say that, wise guy? It says it right up there!" He jerked his thumb up at the hand-lettered sign above the check register.

  A quizzical look from the thin guy. Condescending laugh. "No, it doesn't."

  "No, it doesn't? It doesn't?" Vinnie stepped back and forth in line. Trouble breathing. "You don't know how to read?"

  "Oh, I know exactly how to read. Do you?"

  "What did you say to me?"

  The old guy directly in front of Vinnie turned around, big mole on his cheek. "It doesn't say anything about checks. It used to, but it doesn't anymore."

  "It says–" Vinnie stopped to actually read the sign.

  10 Items or Less. No Credit Cards.

  The thin guy waited until Vinnie looked at him again. Smirked.

  Vinnie jerked his face sideways. Lips pulling back, baring his fangs. "Lucky for you this old guy is between me and you. Freakin' lucky for you."

  The cashier, this female nobody, put her hand on the cash register. "Sir? Do I need to call security?"

  From behind Vinnie, "Shut it!"

  Vinnie whirled around.

  Everyone behind him in line silent, looking away. But he could tell they were suppressing laughs at his expense.

  "Who said that?"

  Everyone ignored him.

  "God's gonna get you, whoever said that."

  Nothing.

  A black man in a white shirt walked from the front glass windows of the store over to the cashier. "Everything okay?"

  The cashier, who was white, smiled at him. "Just the usual looney tunes."

  Vinnie felt his face get red.

  The security guard touched her shoulder. "Maybe I'll just hang around a bit." Made a point of looking directly at Vinnie.

  Vinnie looked away.

  When it was his turn, Vinnie slapped his purchases down on the black rubber conveyer belt. Ground beef. Ground pork. Ground veal. Bread crumbs. Garlic. Dried basil. Dried parsley. Jar of spaghetti sauce. Virgin olive oil. An onion. Loaf of Italian bread. Green bell pepper. Red bell pepper.

  Kept his face down. Inside his head, splintered bones, blood sprayed across the walls.

  A voice, from behind him. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen."

  This time he turned around quick enough to see who was counting his purchases. An old woman in tortoise shell glasses who glared right back at him.

  "Read the sign. Ten items or less. Get outta line, you jerk."

  Vinnie reared up. Voice trembling. He had to enunciate the words from the back of his throat. "You know. What. I wish? For you?"

  The black security guard stepped over, right in Vinnie's face. "You going to behave yourself, sir?"

  Vinnie ignored him.

  "Because if you aren't, I'll yank you out of this line right now."

  Conscious of the guard staring at his profile, he moved his eyes right, right, right, until he met the stare.

  "The sign says ten items or less. And I know you know how to count. But we're gonna let that slide this one time. But in the future, I don't want to see you anywhere near this line if you got more than ten items. Cabish?"

  Vinnie kept staring into the security guard's black face, but said nothing.

  The guard got closer. "While you're looking into my face, is there a specific word you're thinking? Want to try saying it out loud?"

  The cashier told him the cost for his groceries.

  Vinnie pulled out his wallet, but it flapped out of his hands, like a fish. While it twitched on the rubber conveyer belt, he pulled out two twenties.

  As she made change for him, he noticed the name tag pinned on her blue uniform.

  Jessica.

  Outside the store, on the sidewalk, shopping bag clutched with both hands to his chest like schoolbooks, elbows quaking, he bumped past all the strangers.

  My mother's meatballs. My own mother's meatballs.

  He reached in his shopping bag. Pulled out the package of ground pork. Flung it sideways, at the curb. Pulled out the bottle of virgin olive oil. Flung it, against a waste receptacle. Pulled out the jar of spaghetti sauce. Flung it, so it cracked against the bricks of the building he was passing. Blood and mushrooms dripping down.

  And that cunt behind the counter. Jessica. She started it.

  That fucking cunt. That fucking name. Jessica.

  He'd finish it.

  She hurried over to her doorbell, surprised to get a visitor unannounced.

  Rising up on her high heels, she peered through her peephole like her dad had told her to always do. Relieved, she swung her front door open.

  Vinnie put a big grin on his face. "Hey!"

  "Hey, Vinnie." She looked behind him. "Are you by yourself?"

  "Yeah!" He shrugged his big shoulder
s. "Can I come in, or what?"

  "Sure!" She stepped back, bathrobe wrapped around her pajamas. Looked up at him with her puppy dog eyes. "This is a surprise! What are you doing here?"

  He snorted. "What, I can't visit with my boy's girlfriend?"

  "Well, sure. Is everything okay?"

  He shut the door himself. "Let me save you some trouble." Locked it. "Sure, everything's okay. Why do you ask?"

  Olivia went around her living room, tidying up. "I don't know. You never came here by yourself. Does Tony know you're here?"

  He shrugged his big shoulders again. "Hey! I was in the neighborhood. You know?"

  Olivia smiled. "Okay. Sure. Can I get you some wine or something? Some cheese? I have some cheddar."

  He sat down in her animal print easy chair. "You don't need to do anything special for me. We're like family, right? Maybe you could cook me some pasta, though?"

  "Like, this late at night?" She dipped a shoulder. "To be honest with you, I was getting ready for bed. So, like, Tony doesn't know you're here?"

  "Hey, fuck Tony."

  "Vinnie, you know I love you like a brother, but that's my boyfriend you're talking about."

  "Never mind your boyfriend. How's your girlfriend doing?"

  "My girlfriend?"

  "Jessica. Didn't you and she have dinner together over her apartment a few nights ago?"

  "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, we did. Vinnie, is everything okay?"

  Still seated, he raised his arm. Pointing. "Kind of early to be putting up your Christmas tree, isn't it?"

  She turned around in her bathrobe, looking at her tree. Turned back. "I always put it up early." Her voice got small. "I like looking at it."

  "Is it fake? It looks fake."

  "Yeah! I got a real one my first year here, but I had a lot of trouble getting it up the stairs, plus it turned out it had cockroaches."

  "Cockroaches!" He got out of his chair. Olivia moved back, towards her kitchen.

  Big grin on his face, he approached the lit-up tree, looking at the different balls and angels hanging from the bright green limbs. Focused on one ball hanging from a branch, glittered pattern on its red curve. "Is this supposed to be Jesus Christ?"

  "No. It's the face of a dog."

  "This tree looks cockroach free. Maybe you should get some fake cockroaches to put on it, so people will think it's a real tree."

  "Probably not."

  "Speaking of cockroaches, you can't find a better girlfriend than Jessica?"

  "Excuse me?"

  He flapped his big hands by his hips, walking forward, towards her. "I don't know. Is there an excuse for you? Why are you hanging out with her?"

  She took a step back, towards her kitchen. "Vinnie, I'm not making any judgments, but I think you'd better leave. Jessica is my friend."

  "You proud of that? You have a cunt for a friend?"

  Her plain face, trying to hide her fear. "Tony's coming over any minute. I think you should leave, okay?"

  He snorted. "Nah. Tony's not coming over. He's over in Brooklyn, weight training. We both know that." He arched his black eyebrows. "Why would you lie to me?"

  "I'm gonna call you a cab, okay?"

  Vinnie shook his head. "Fuck, no. You don't want to call me a cab. I took the subway! Why the fuck would you call me a cab? You want to call 911."

  She backed up into her kitchen. Tear rolling down. "Vinnie, you're my friend, right?"

  "I was gonna cook my mama's meatballs tonight."

  "Okay."

  "But as I was walking home from the market, you know what happened?"

  She backed up some more. Inside her kitchen area now. "No."

  "This. Nigger. Came out of nowhere. Grabbed my shopping bag."

  "You know I don't like that word."

  "So now I can't cook my mama's meatballs."

  "Why don't you relax back out in my living room, and I'll cook you that pasta you wanted?"

  "A little late for that, don't you think? I asked you to do it, and you refused."

  She raised her puppy dog eyes to Vinnie. "Hey, why don't you just go home, Vinnie, okay?"

  He was in her kitchen area now. "So you can tell my boy Tony tomorrow how I showed on your doorstop all fucked up?"

  "We can keep this just between us." Unhappy laugh. "Everybody has a bad day, right?"

  He rubbed his eyes. "I'm having a lot more than a bad day, Olivia."

  "Okay, so, we'll keep this to ourselves."

  "Do you have a landline phone?"

  Her chin shifted. "What?"

  "Do you have a landline phone."

  "What's that? I have a cell phone."

  His big hands rubbed both his temples. "What's that other thing?"

  Olivia stared at him.

  "You dry your hair with it."

  "A hair blower?"

  "Yeah! You got one of those?"

  "In my bathroom. Yeah."

  "Stay here. I mean it."

  He disappeared down her short hallway. Sound of small doors slamming. Hurried back with her hair blower.

  She was in her living room. "You want to take it with you, Vinnie? Seriously. Feel free."

  He let out a genuine laugh. "Why would I want to take your hair blower with me?" Jerked his fingernails towards his head. "With hair this short?"

  "I don't know."

  "Wow. Okay." He glanced down at the hair blower he was still holding. "I gotta get going."

  "Okay."

  Turned to leave.

  Turned back.

  Looked embarrassed. "So, who makes the best meatballs? Jessica or my mama?"

  "I don't think Jessica makes meatballs."

  Drooped his shoulders. "But what if she did?"

  "I'd guess your mother would make better meatballs. Jessica isn't Italian, is she?"

  "Hmmm! That's true." He worked his jaw left, right. "So, who makes better meatballs? My mama, or your mama?"

  Olivia stood still, right hand clutching her bathrobe closed over her pajamas. "I'd have to say my mother. What else would you expect me to say, Vinnie?"

  "That your final answer?"

  She wiped her eye. "My mom died of breast cancer. You know that, Vinnie. She was the best mother in the world. Who made the best meatballs? My mother." She jerked her chin up, defiant. "My mother! Every Columbus Day, she'd wake up at four o'clock in the morning to start her tomato sauce, in her bathrobe, while my dad went to the garage, came back, and at the front of our house hung the Italian flag out."

  "You're a filthy little liar. God's gonna punish you for that. I gotta get going."

  Vinnie turned to leave.

  Stopped.

  Turned back.

  Disbelieving grin. Realized he still had the hair blower in his hands. "Did you just call me an Italian faggot?"

  NOBODY I KNEW

  The night Claudia added a mansion on a hill to her tabletop village, thumb and forefinger carefully lowering the columned sculpture, getting it perfectly situated among the tiny green trees, such a lucky man, to live amid that landscaping, was the same night she cooked, for the first time ever, with Bisquick.

  Two square potholders waited on the kitchen table. Using oversized oven mitts, she lifted the dutch oven off the stove's burner, happy at how well the chicken and dumplings had turned out, almost as aromatic as her mother's.

  Plus, one more day at the dog kennel, and it'd be the weekend.

  Swinging her straggly blonde hair, her green eyes looked around for Boyd.

  He came out of nowhere, she was a little drunk so maybe it wasn't completely out of nowhere, holding the knife they use for chopping vegetables, called a Chef's knife, blade still decorated with the Christmas colors of chopped thyme and red bell peppers, and thrust its sharp point against her abdomen. Still holding the handles of the dutch oven in her oversized mitts, she felt the point of the blade pop through her skin, into her stomach.

  Startled, she backed up, knife falling out of her, letting out, like a kid, a loud, "Hey!"


  She didn't want to drop the dutch oven, it was the only dutch oven she had, and she had been really looking forward to trying the recipe, she had thought about it at work, but she did drop it (clank, splash, hot white dumplings over the tops of her bare feet), letting out a cry, thin face scrunched up, running away from Boyd so fast she fell over, scrabbling in a panic across the kitchen's linoleum floor to get away, banging her narrow shoulder hard against the doorway leading into the front hall, climbing to her feet by the front door, not opening it.

  Her face was red, terrified, green eyes filled with tears.

  Boyd followed her, hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

  She pressed her back against the front door, lifting one knee in terror. "Put the knife down!"

  He realized he had picked up the knife. Put it on a small table that, like all the rest of the furnishings, came with the apartment.

  "I'm so sorry!"

  "You stabbed me!" She had her hands over her stomach, sniffling. Her fingers were bloody.

  He let out a sigh, reached down towards her clenched hands. "Let me look."

  "No!" Her terrified eyes looked into his. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Why did you stab me?"

  "I don't know! Sometimes, I don't know, I just get this impulse to stab you."

  He gently peeled her bloody fingers away from her stomach, red lines across her knuckles, her bare feet stepping back and forth in fear, face raised so she wouldn't have to look at the wound.

  Her shoulders shook from trying not to cry anymore. "How's it look?"

  He touched the red cut in her bare stomach with his right index finger. Some more blood leaked out, over the minced thyme on her abdomen, but not a lot. "It doesn't look too bad."

  "Why did you do it?"

  "I told you, I don't know."

  "Are you going to stab me again?" She started sobbing uncontrollably, more blood spilling out.

  "No! Of course not!"

  He helped her, her body hunched, back into the heart of their apartment, her bent over body dropping asterisks of blood across wooden floor, linoleum, carpet, tiles. "Get in the shower and I'll wash you off."

  He put his thumb on the wound while he gingerly wiped the blood off her stomach, then had her hold the wound while he got some duct tape.