You Are Here

by Donald Breckenridge

  Janet claimed, “And I’m not interested in digging up any more ghosts from my past.” James was unaware of how aggressive he sounded, “Can’t you do it for me?” “What…” She wanted to change the subject, “Does that arouse you?” “No,” James stammered, “I mean yes of course it does but that’s not why I want you to tell me about her.” She looked perplexed, “But why then?” He drained his glass before saying, “I’d just like to get to know you better.” “Because,” Janet coyly deduced, “you want to sleep with both of us.” The words caught in his throat, “Could you arrange something like that?” Janet said, “why you dirty boy,” as Esther entered the living room, “oh look,” with her bushy tail raised like a swaying periscope, “who decided to crash our little party,” and as the cat walked over to the couch she added, “speaking of threesomes… this kitty just loves them… come here sweetheart.” Esther cautiously smelled the laces on both of his sneakers before leaping onto the cushion between them. Janet ran her right hand through Esther’s thick fur, “I’m afraid that you haven’t been making yourself very clear,” and then caressed her chin with the tips of her fingernails, “how unusual for such a gifted and ambitious writer.” Esther began to purr. James looked down at the scuffed tips of his sneakers, “When were you going to tell me that she called?” “That really isn’t any of your business.” James repeated the question as a demand, “When were you going to tell me that,” that cast a shadow over her bewildered expression, “that you’re planning on seeing her again?” Hunching her shoulders, “I just told you that I’m not interested in digging up any more ghosts from my past.”

  Fourth Thursday in July

  Stephanie picked the phone up before the second ring, “hello,” hoping that Alan was finally confirming for tonight, “oh hi mom.” She studied the overcast sky and considered returning to the apartment to get an umbrella. A Manhattan bound F train pulled up to the platform as she descended the stairs. “Okay,” the alarm clock on the night stand, “actually I was,” indicated that it was one o’clock, “on my way out the door,” therefore it was ten in California where her mother was calling from, “I really don’t have much time.” The clouds gradually revealed patches of blue sky. A crowd stood before the open doors while the people exiting the train shouldered their way past. Her mother had recently moved from Philadelphia to San Diego, where her third husband owned a camera store. The three young Indian boys from the first floor were gathered around an overturned mountain bike. She entered the air-conditioned train just before the doors closed. Stephanie had met her second stepfather only once, at their wedding in ’98, and always had trouble remembering his name. They looked up from the detached chain and waved hello with grease-smeared palms. “I’m taking the day off,” Stephanie cleared her throat, “I’m not feeling very well,” and ended her sentence with a sigh. She crossed the street before Vincent’s Hair Design and then walked towards the corner. “No,” she pulled away the sheet, “it’s not that,” swung her bare legs off the bed, “I’m probably getting my period,” and stood on the hardwood floor, “but I have an appointment in Manhattan that I can’t be late for.” The Chinese man from the liquor store was leaning on a parking meter with a blank expression on his face. The conductor announced the next station stop before the train pulled away from the platform. Holding the phone away from her ear, “well,” away from the laughter on the line, “I’m glad that amuses you,” as she crossed the bedroom. Women in flowing saris were pushing baby strollers down 37th Avenue. A Hispanic man reading the Daily News was dressed in a navy blue security uniform. DEADLY DRIVING LESSON “Why would you call me during the day,” she opened the closet and yanked a black skirt off a hanger, “if you thought I was at work?” The gray cat from the newsstand ducked between the wheels of a parked car. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for you to be doing this?” Stephanie’s passing reflection in the furniture store window was superimposed upon a living room set. Brooklyn Man Dies, Teen Critical As Minivan Jumps Barriers Into Water “No I’m not,” she examined herself in the mirror above the dresser, “I’m not attacking you,” in lacy black panties and a snug pink T-shirt that outlined her yellow bra, “But when did you start drinking again?” The grainy black and white photograph of a minivan being pulled out of New York Bay. A blue haired retiree in a lime green polyester pantsuit weighed a half-pound of cherries outside the Korean grocery. She overheard the voices on her mother’s television while they shared an awkward pause. Madonna Rocks The Garden On Her Drowned World/ Substitute For Love Tour A blind man and the woman clutching his arm were talking about where they were going for lunch while waiting for the light to change. The black and white photograph of Madonna in a plaid mini-skirt and a tight top adorned with thin patent leather straps. “Does everything,” Stephanie turned away from the mirror, “have to be a test with you?” She walked by the table displaying battery operated plastic toys and their cacophony of canned rhythms, sirens and whistles. She pulled the skirt up to her waist, “What am I supposed to say?” Indian women and their children stood outside the grocery store on 74th street, where Stephanie bought henna for her hair, as the smell of fresh basil mingled with tamarind and curry powder hung in the humid air. “Fine…” her blue heels were in the closet, “I’ve been just fine.” The sun emerged from behind the clouds and cast diffused shadows on the sidewalk. She stepped into the shoes, “I’d really like to visit,” and leaned over to buckle the thin ankle straps, “you know that,” around her narrow ankles, “but I am so busy at work.” Woman Hit With Brick, Man Busted The smell of cooking oil and rotting vegetables mingled with car exhaust. The table displaying gilded passages from the Koran and framed color photographs of pilgrims in white robes kneeling towards Mecca. Bronx Girl Was Killed By Cousin—Boy Admits Shooting She walked out of the bedroom, “it’s fine,” with the telephone tucked beneath her ear. A shop window displaying gold filigree jewelry made her think of the earrings she had bought several months ago, the ones with tiny flowers woven to the tails of songbirds, that she rarely wore. A colorful poster of Ganesha, the boy God with the elephant’s head, was taped to a glass door. The F train swept through the 65th street station and the crowds waiting on the local watched it pass.

  Stephanie really missed Alan; it had been a week since they had seen each other and then it had only been for dinner. They had watched the sun set while sitting at a candlelit table at The River Café drinking Gewürztramminer. She had asked him about the two weeks he spent with his wife and daughter in Martha’s Vineyard and he described it in a few laconic sentences. “You never talk about your wife,” Stephanie had quietly mused. He leaned back in the chair, “I can’t imagine that she is of any interest to you.” “You’re right,” she laughed, “she isn’t.” He smiled, “Then why did you say that?” She raised her glass in a toast, “I was paying you a compliment.”

  Stephanie retrieved her purse from the kitchen table, “I spoke to dad last week and he sounded fine.” She was offered a seat as the train pulled out of the 21st Street/Queensbridge Station. “Listen, mom, I’ll call you later but I really have to go,” she pressed the end button on the phone after adding a curt, “goodbye.” The young man sitting beside her was engrossed in a guide to writing fiction.

  Elements of Plot in a Narrative

  Alan and Stephanie rarely spoke on the phone and infrequently exchanged emails, yet she often found herself obsessing over him. There were times when it felt like she was falling in love with him.

  The plot in a dramatic or narrative work is constituted by its events and actions, as these are rendered and ordered towards achieving particular artistic and emotional effects.

  Or could easily fall in love with him, she knew better of course, and it was only when the distance between them stretched out for weeks and grew insurmountable that it felt like she could be falling in love.

  1. Initial Situation—The Beginning. It is always the first incident that makes a story move.

  Stephanie hadn’t been involved with anyo
ne since her fiancé abruptly ended their five-year relationship the year prior, claiming that he needed to be closer to his family, and moved back to London. She had learned on Christmas day that he was living with another woman, since then she had convinced herself that she would never find anyone with whom she was so compatible and reluctantly endured being alone although it was often very painful.

  2. Conflict or Problem— A goal the main character of the story has to achieve.

  Her relationship with Alan often made her happy and it gave her a confidence that she never knew she possessed.

  3. Complications—Obstacles the main character has to overcome.

  Alan paid her rent, covered her bills, bought her beautiful shoes and lingerie, took her to expensive restaurants and had promised to get her a high paying job. He made no unreasonable demands on her and the sex was usually satisfying, provided he was sober. She was treated like an equal—not like property—or as Karen recently claimed that she had become the occasional plaything of a wealthy alcoholic.

  4. Climax—Highest point of interest in the story.

  And so what if their relationship wasn’t going to last? He had made it clear to her from the very beginning that they had to keep things casual and had even encouraged her to date other men.

  5. Suspense—Point of tension. It arouses the interest of the readers.

  Love doesn’t last either. She now understood that her marriage, assuming it would have happened, would not have survived. Her exfiancé couldn’t face conflicts or challenges, he always fled them, and his cowardice invariably followed.

  6. Denouement or Resolution—What happens to the character after overcoming all the obstacles/failing to achieve the desired result and reaching/not reaching his or her goals.

  In retrospect her failed engagement was nothing more than a useful life experience. For Stephanie the time she spent with Alan, however infrequent it may be, was it’s own reward.

  7. Conclusion—The end of the story.

  She removed a quarter from her wallet while walking up the stairs at the West 4th Street station. The crowds gathered around the high chain-link fence were watching the basketball games. She dropped the quarter in the payphone slot while clutching the warm receiver in her left hand and dialed his office number from memory. Cabs sped along 6th Avenue or slowed to abrupt stops to drop off and pick up fares. She asked Alan’s secretary if he was available and then gave her name. Stephanie stated, “I am becoming my mother,” after he said hello. His warm laughter caused her to smile, “Would you ever call your mother,” as she imagined him standing in his office with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, “and apologize for being a bad liar?” A group of teenagers ogled her breasts as they sauntered by. “You know,” Alan closed the door to his office, “I think I have done that,” and sat on the edge of his desk. She turned away from the crowds and faced the silver keypad on the payphone, “How did you do it?” He glanced at the digital desk clock, “I’ll tell you later,” and watched a few seconds pass. She swallowed hard before asking, “Tonight?” Alan sighed wistfully, “I’m afraid I can’t tonight… I have meetings until seven and dinner with a group of potential investors who just might be up for backing some choice property in Williamsburg,” before half-jokingly suggesting that she could drop by later in the afternoon for a quick fuck on his desk. “Sure,” while rolling her eyes, “but what would your secretary say?” Paying no attention to his giddy explanation and simply waiting for him to pause long enough to change the subject. They talked about their upcoming weekend together in East Hampton. He described the house overlooking the bay where they were going to stay as modest and added, “that it’s just far enough away from everything else.” When her quarter ran out she had enough time to tell him that she really missed him before the call was terminated.

  Exclusions Apply—Part 3

  The wooden blinds drawn before the amber streetlight outside her bedroom window, “The last memory,” projected a thin row of horizontal shadows across the bed, “of seeing my father alive,” onto the wall behind them, “was when I was sitting on the edge of his bed watching Nadia Comaneci,” and a portion of the ceiling, “on the parallel bars during the summer Olympics.” They were lying naked beneath a thick down comforter with their arms and legs entwined. Earlier, Janet had been able to appease James with earnest reassurances that his insecurities about any potential infidelities were unfounded and finally convince him that she had no interest in renewing her relationship with Cindy by describing how rapidly that affair had disintegrated. He cleared his throat before asking, “What summer was this?” The resolve in her tone while relating this memory, “the summer of,” countered her mounting suspicions, “July of Seventy-Six,” that the events she had been prompted to relate would be coolly deconstructed and fictionalized in his yet to be written first novel. “That was four years before I was born.” The warmth in her tone, “well,” and the bottle of champagne they had shared while sitting on the couch, “I was seventeen that summer,” fused with the clarity drawn from their intimacy, “and this city was another world then,” had led to his repeated proclamations of love. A pair of headlights slowly crossed the ceiling while he waited for her to continue speaking. Janet looked out the window as the cab she was sitting in sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. “I knew that…” she began again in a dry whisper, “I knew that something was wrong,” and the skyscrapers in mid-town were brown silhouettes in the smog filled distance. He caressed the nape of her neck, “How so?” The humid air blowing through the wide-open rear windows smelled of tar and diesel fumes. “He was really out of it after his last operation,” she cleared her throat, “and was having trouble walking,” while recalling the emptiness that had filled her chest, “and I was really reluctant,” as the cab gradually descended the ramp leading to the northbound lanes of the FDR drive. Cupping his palms over her breasts, “Where was this?” A car horn was muffled by the closed windows and then silence ensued as she placed her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes, “in Turtle Bay.” “Where is that?” A tug pushing a gray barge filled with garbage down the East River moved slowly against the incoming tide while a large flock of seagulls trailed above it. “It’s the neighborhood by the U.N.” The sun broke through a gap in the clouds as a passenger helicopter took off from the roof of the Pan-Am building. “That’s where I grew up.” The cab driver had asked if she’d been following the news about that busload of children that had been kidnapped in Northern California. “Why is it called that?” Janet shook her head before saying that she had only read the headlines and that it sounded really terrible. “There was once a creek there and the Dutch had a turtle farm… I think they make silly pets.” The driver nodded before activating the blinker and merging into the exit lane. “Why is that?” Janet removed the cigarettes from her purse and tapped one out of the pack while claiming that she had enough to worry about and then placed it between her lips with trembling fingers. “You can’t cuddle with a turtle.” The driver watched her in the rearview mirror, as she finally lit the cigarette with a small green disposable lighter, before asking if she was okay. “Not like cats at least,” James kissed her on the forehead before asking, “Where’s Esther?” She exhaled a thin cloud of smoke before saying that she wasn’t sure and then looked away from the reflection of his watery blue eyes as the cab slowly pulled through the intersection. “She is probably sleeping on the couch.” The Saturday afternoon traffic was sparse and they arrived in front of the apartment building before Janet had smoked half of the cigarette. “I’ve never eaten turtle before.” She paid the driver and thanked him for his concern while getting out of the cab. “I hear they taste just like chicken.” She stood on the sidewalk and finished her cigarette. “Why were you reluctant?” The marble lobby, “I had a premonition,” was as cold as a walk-in refrigerator. “I really can’t imagine what New York was like then.” She chewed on her lower lip while waiting for the elevator as the gooseflesh rose on her forearms. “It was a good time to be young.
” The doorman behind the desk glanced up from his comic book and nodded hello. “Do you ever feel guilty about being reluctant?” When the elevator finally arrived, “At times I do,” she stepped into it, “although we were never very close,” and pressed ten before taking the black plastic band out of the front pocket of her blue jeans. The ceiling fan circulated stale air in the narrow mirrored mahogany space. “Why is that?” She ran her fingers through her long brown hair, “My father had always been unavailable,” pulled it back into a pony tail, “even when I was very young,” then tied it back with the elastic band. “Do you want to fuck again,” when the elevator stopped on ten she considered taking it back to the lobby as the doors slowly opened, “Or do you want to talk?” Her silent footfalls, “Do you not want to do this anymore,” moved slowly along the carpeted hallway. She removed the keys from her purse, “I never talk,” and unlocked the door, “about this anymore.” Turning the cold knob in her right hand. “So he was alone after the surgery?” She entered the apartment, “He had fired his nurse,” and soon discovered the wide blood stain, “the day before he did it,” on the damp beige carpet, “and that was the day before I found him,” in front of the bathroom door, “when the neighbors downstairs called me at my aunt’s in Brooklyn Heights.” She pushed open the door and stood there. “You know that we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” Janet recalled the memories that followed, “my father had been in a lot of pain,” and arranged them in sequence once more, “and he had been very depressed about their separation,” like playing a familiar hand of worn cards. She walked to the phone in the living room and called the police. “Where was your mother?” The conversation with the female dispatcher, “in Rome with her new boyfriend,” who kept her on the line until the two police officers arrived, “the way people couldn’t look at me then…”and they just stood there with their backs to the bookshelves and asked a lot of aggressive questions, “like at the wake when my father’s partners talked about how honest he was,” until the ambulance finally arrived. “Had they heard anything?” The coroner got there an hour later. “Who?” They removed her father from the tub and placed him in a black body bag. “The downstairs neighbors.” And when they finally wheeled it out of the bathroom on a gurney, “He slit his wrists in the bathtub,” she fainted, “there wasn’t anything to hear.” “What did you do?” She came to on the couch, “I called the police,” and discovered her aunt standing above her sobbing uncontrollably, “and then I really don’t remember what happened next.” The wind was pressing on the windows as it pushed through the bare trees. She opened her eyes, “I think I’ve blocked it out,” removed her head from his shoulder, “well,” and quietly sighed, “now you know.” James looked closely at her face, “you said that the neighbors called you,” in the faint amber light, “that’s why I asked if they might have heard something.” Janet blinked twice, “they were very close to my parents.” He nodded, “so that’s why.” She turned over on her back, “they used to play bridge together every Wednesday night,” and rested her head on a pillow, “and when he didn’t answer the door they got concerned.” “Did your mother remarry?” She nodded, “twice,” with a smile in her voice.