All Too Surreal

by Tim Waggoner

  He looked for Courtney, saw she’d hooked up with Kristie and they were playing tag now, her slow-poke Daddy forgotten for the moment.

  The woman didn’t reply; she just kept smiling. Her granddaughter walked up, backpack slung over her shoulder. The old woman looked down at her. “Ready to go, dear?”

  The girl didn’t respond. Her face was slack, her skin yellow-pale, eyes roiling circles of darkness. He had the impression he could poke his finger into the churning inkwells of her eye sockets if he wished.

  “I think Peanut might like to run a little. Should we let her off the leash for some exercise?”

  “Sure, Grammy, that’d be fun!”

  The girl was normal now. Face animated, eyes a rich brown.

  “Go ahead,” the old woman said.

  The girl unhooked the dachshund from the leash. For a second, Peanut just stood there, not realizing she was free. Then she took off, tiny legs pumping as she flew across the grass. The granddaughter squealed and ran after the dog. Other kids noticed, shouted, laughed and also took up the chase. Peanut wove between their legs, avoiding little hands desperate to grab hold of dog fur. Courtney had joined the pack, was at the head of it.

  “Stop, Doggie! I want to pet you!” she pleaded.

  She got close, reached out, her fingertips brushed fur, but then Peanut put on a burst of speed. She zigged left, and squealing with delight, Courtney followed. Peanut dashed between two parked cars and out into the street.

  Brent shouted something. It might have been “No!” or “Look out!” but it just as easily might have been an inarticulate cry of horror. Tires squealed, there was a sickening, muffled thump! and Peanut came trotting back between the parked cars and onto the sidewalk, looking pleased with herself.

  Horns honking, kids screaming, parents running into the street. Traffic stopped, and drivers got out of their cars, faces frozen in shock.

  Brent ran into the street, knelt beside the wet red thing that had been his daughter, cradled it in his arms.

  The old woman was standing beside him.

  “You lied to me, didn’t you?” she said softly. “You were staring at me when the incident occurred.”

  In his mind, Brent answered yes, but what came out of his mouth instead was the sound of shattering glass.

  On the Skids in Another Dimension

  They bleed light, and it’s killing me.

  I don’t know how to describe it. It’s beyond such limited concepts of pain and pleasure. I suppose it’s a lot like gazing upon God while archangels pour acid in your eyes.

  They aren’t very tall. The tallest I’ve seen is four feet, but most are two, two-and-a-half. Imagine road kill fused with blazing crystal chandeliers and you come close to what they look like.

  I’ve never known anything that tried less hard to exist. They spend their time rolling and tinking about what appears to be a vast landscape made of gray cardboard.

  All flat and nothing, like someone purposely decided to create the ultimate Dull.

  Sometimes two will smack into each other (on accident it appears, but who can tell?) and this will turn into an hour-long smack marathon — smack, smack, smack. I’m not sure if it’s war or sex. Maybe both.

  A crowd invariably gathers. They watch in silence at first, but as the war-fuck continues, they start tinking. Softly at first, then louder. tinktinktinktinkTINKTINKTINK!

  The two combatants/lovers fling themselves against one another with increasing enthusiasm, urged on by their fellows, sending bits of bloody meat and broken glass flying everywhere. I have to be careful not to get too close.

  When it’s over, the crowd quiets and the performers roll/slide their separate ways. When they’re gone, the onlookers come forward to devour the shards and gobbets left behind.

  It’s kind of beautiful, in a sick way.

  This is the only activity I’ve ever observed them engaging in during my eternity here.

  That and bleeding on me. Christ, how they love that.

  I wasn’t much of anyone. I think I had a wife. Or maybe just a string of girlfriends. I suppose I got up every day and went to work like most people, but I don’t really know. Sometimes, when it’s been a long time between war-fucks, I invent different pasts for myself.

  Sometimes I’m a painter who specializes in abstract nudes. Other times, I’m the manager of my own ice cream shop. I make my own ice cream and I give free tastes to all my customers. But in my favorite past, I’m a guy who smiles a lot and takes walks in the woods. That one gets a lot of head-play.

  I don’t know how I got here. When I get tired of walking through my head smiling, I fantasize different scenarios.

  In one, I’m kidnapped by a UFO and brought to the planet Cardboard.

  (I can never fully picture the kind of craft they would use, though. I always get a hazy image of something that looks like a cross between the Chrysler building and a gigantic locust.)

  In another scenario, I’m captured by strange beings who turn out to be humanity’s distant descendants, and I’m whisked away to the future for further study.

  (I hate this one because I can’t stand the idea of us evolving into them. It would be like an evolutionary hit-and-run, with God giving you the finger as he speeds off to have his caddy hosed down).

  In the scariest scenario, I’m not kidnapped or captured, and they’re not aliens or futurians.

  I’m just here, and they’re just here.

  That’s the worst one because I think it’s the truth.

  Here comes one of them, tinking away. I used to run. Now I don’t see much point in it. They always find me, sooner or later.

  So I stand and wait while the thing glitters to a halt. They usually smell ripe, but this one would make a maggot turn up its nose.

  It just sits there, the shards of glass sticking out of its putrid flesh glowing bright white. It starts tinking loudly. They always say something to me before they do it. What, I don’t know.

  Then the tinking stops.

  God help me.

  Rank, filthy light shoots forth from the thing’s glassy-meaty surface and stabs into me. My eyes melt and run down my blistering cheeks. My teeth crumble to dust, leaving nothing but raw, exposed roots. My scalp peels away and my broiling brain sizzles and pops. The foul radiance shoots through my veins, crisping them from the inside out. I try to scream, but my vocal cords are charred black and flake to bits.

  When it leaves, I’m okay again. At least, as okay as I ever get.

  I’ve been thinking of tinking. What it really is.

  I used to think they were laughing at me.

  Then I thought they might be praying. Saying grace before a meal, or, in their case, a really good shit. But then I thought, what if they see me as something more than just a metaphysical toilet? I’m an alien being, one who takes all their dirt and leaves them refreshed. Cleansed.

  What if I’m their God?

  Today something new happened.

  I vomited a rainbow.

  That set off a round of very happy tinking.

  I said what the hell and tried my first war-fuck.

  I lost most of the fingers on my right hand, but it was fun. I can see little jagged bits of meat-glass peeking out from my wounds.

  I’m starting to like it here.

  The Other Woman

  “It’s okay, Honey. Really.” Joanne placed her hand on his chest, rubbed her fingertips in soothing circles on his skin.

  Mark Somerson looked up at the ceiling, smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said this has never happened before.” He could feel his erection — or what there had been of it — wilt completely.

  She snuggled up to him as if they had completed the act and she was contentedly awash in afterglow. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just happy to be with you.” She continued stroking his chest for a few seconds before asking, “It’s not me, is it?”

  He turned to look at her, lightly touched her chin. “Not at all. You’re a beautif
ul, sexy woman.” It was true. Joanne Marsch had a centerfold’s body and — he’d been delight to discover — an irresistible mix of sweetness and naughtiness in bed. She was the kind of woman most men could only dream of having. Certainly the guys at Kaeppner and Spradlin, the insurance company were they both worked, did a lot of fantasizing about her long legs, generous bosom, and waist-length blonde hair. Up until a few weeks ago, Mark had been one of them. Now here he was, in the bedroom of her condo, lying naked next to her with a penis so soft it might as well have been made of Play-Doh.

  “Was it because of the pictures?” She nodded toward her dresser, where a group of framed photos were displayed. Photos of Joanne and a handsome, muscular man with wavy black hair and a Marlboro Man mustache. “I’ve been meaning to put them away. Daniel’s been gone for almost a year now —”

  “They don’t bother me.” It had been a little creepy at first, making love to a woman while the image of her dead husband — with Joanne beside him, holding his hand, hugging him, smiling happily — looked on. And it didn’t help that Daniel was male-model handsome. It made Mark more conscious than usual of his thinning hair and the extra twenty pounds he carried on his stocky frame. But he had forgotten about the pictures and his perceived inadequacies when he and Joanne fell into bed and their foreplay intensified.

  He debated whether to tell her the truth; he wasn’t sure how she would take it. Still, he supposed he owed her an explanation. Especially since he doubted, no, knew he could never see her again.

  “On the way over here, we passed a school.”

  She nodded. “Parkhurst Elementary.”

  They had driven separately, each supposedly going to lunch alone. Mark had followed Joanne to her condo, driving through a section of the city he’d never been to before.

  “The playground was empty … I guess afternoon recess hadn’t started yet. I saw a group of swings swaying in the breeze, and I felt an overwhelming urge to be there with Leah, listening to her giggle and shout, ‘Push me, Daddy! Push me highest of all!’”

  Joanne gave him an understanding smile tinged with sadness. “I don’t suppose you imagined the two of you there alone.”

  Mark shook his head. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. Not only had he wanted to be pushing Leah on the swing, he’d wanted her mother to be there too, so that both Sandra and he could share in the joy of the daughter they had created.

  He expected Joanne to draw away from him, but she continued cuddling, now rubbing his leg with her bare foot. “It doesn’t bother me that you still care for your wife. I’d think less of you if you didn’t. I had a dream last night.”

  Mark was surprised by this sudden change of topic. “Oh?”

  “I was at your house, sitting in the family room with you and Sandra while Leah played on the floor. And it was okay I was there. Sandra knew everything, and she approved.” Joanne sighed. “It was nice.”

  It didn’t sound nice to Mark. Why would a woman who had sex with a married man (or almost had) dream of being part of his other life? It didn’t seem normal.

  Mark glanced at the clock radio on her nightstand and saw lunch hour was almost over. They really needed to return to work, or at least he did. Joanne might be able to get away with taking a long lunch since she worked in Personnel, but Mark’s supervisor in Billing was a real hard-ass. Before Mark got up and started to get dressed, he knew he should tell Joanne that he couldn’t see her again, that it was a mistake, that he was sorry but he loved his wife and daughter too much to betray their trust.

  “Joanne —”

  She placed her fingers on his lips. “Shush. You don’t have to apologize anymore. I had a good time.” She brushed her fingertips gently across his mouth, tracing the outline of his lips. “Besides, I’m a firm believer in taking things one step at a time. Today was just the first step for us, Mark.” She smiled and something dark moved behind her eyes. “Wait until you see what I have planned for the next.”

  That evening on his way home from work, Mark was still thinking about his nearly completed liaison with Joanne and trying to sort out some extremely mixed feelings.

  They had met several weeks ago in the employee lounge. Joanne sat at a table, staring out the window, an unopened can of soda before her. Mark came in, smiled and said hello, received a soft “Hi” in return. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm ink that could only laughingly be called coffee and started to leave.

  That’s when he noticed Joanne was crying.

  He didn’t know her, not really. He’d seen her around, of course, lusted in his heart after her like all the other men in the building. But simple human concern wouldn’t let him walk away without at least asking, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I was just … thinking about my husband. It was almost a year ago that —” She broke off, gave a little wave. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  Mark set his coffee on her table, got some napkins from a dispenser next to the microwave, handed them to her. She took them with a grateful smile, wiped her eyes, blew her nose.

  He sat down. “Of course it’s important. Why don’t you tell me about it?” He didn’t see her as a fantasy girl then, but rather as a fellow human being who was hurting, and he wanted to do what he could to help.

  She began hesitantly at first, but when she saw that he was sincere, that he was actually listening, she told him everything. Of how ten months ago, she and her husband Daniel had been driving their BMW along route 70 on the way back from visiting her mother in Indiana. It had been raining so hard that Daniel could barely see beyond their headlights. She asked him to pull over and wait out the storm, but he insisted on driving through it, windshield wipers flapping at their highest speed, doing little more than smearing water around, Daniel squinting as if he could see past the driving sheets of rain by sheer force of will alone.

  She still wasn’t clear what happened, exactly. Somehow Daniel lost control of the car, their Beemer spun out of control, the world became a dizzying riot of sound and motion, and then the next thing Joanne knew she woke up in a hospital bed, a widow.

  Mark sympathized. He told her how his parents had died in car wreck when he was a teen-ager. They’d been on their way to a family reunion when a semi sideswiped them and drove their car into a bridge abutment. He would’ve died too, had he not weaseled out of going to the reunion by pretending to be sick. He told her of the terrible survivor’s guilt he had lived with for years, the awful sense that life and death were nothing more than slots on a cosmic roulette wheel spun by a cold and indifferent hand.

  It was from this kernel of shared tragedy that their attraction first grew. They began taking their breaks together, going out for lunch, for dinners. Mark made excuses for the latter by telling Sandra he needed to stay late for work or have dinner with the boss, lies cribbed from the cheating husbands he’d seen portrayed in old movies and TV shows. He and Joanne made out in parked cars like a couple of horny teen-agers, groping, fumbling, rubbing against each other. But they avoided actually having sex. Mark couldn’t bring himself to go that far, a shy virgin again at thirty-three.

  Until today, when Joanne had suggested this morning over a quick cup of coffee in the lounge that maybe they could have “lunch” together at her place.

  Mark pulled up to the last intersection before his house, slowed down, hoping the green light would turn red, give him a couple more minutes before he had to face Sandra and Leah. Especially sweet little Leah.

  He got his wish; the light turned crimson. He braked to a stop, switched on the radio, let the music play loud, paid no attention to it. He felt like a man who was just waking up from a long strange dream. How could he have been stupid enough to endanger his marriage for the sake of a little sex on the side? The idea seemed completely alien, like something another man had done and Mark had only heard about in passing.

  The light turned green; Mark had no choice but to go forward.

  When he drew near his house, he felt an urge to hit th
e gas and keep going, to drive around the block a few more times and work up his courage. But he feared that if he didn’t stop now, he might point his car toward the horizon and keep going. He hit his turn signal, slowed, pulled into the driveway, activated the garage door opener.

  Inside the garage, listening to the door ratchet downward, he told himself that he would talk to Joanne tomorrow sometime during the day, at lunch, after work, whenever he could meet with her alone. He’d tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t see her anymore, and that would be that.

  The door closed with a muffled thud. Mark sat for a second longer, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

  “Daddy’s home!” Leah ran up to him, pigtails bobbing, happy round face grinning, threw her arms around his legs, squeezed them tight. At first he didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to soil her with his adulterer’s hands. But he put his briefcase down, picked her up and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Hi, Sweetheart,” Sandra called from the kitchen. The house was filled with the homey smell of dinner cooking. Mark was surprised; usually they ate out on Friday nights. He carried Leah into the kitchen, his daughter chatting happily about making peanut butter and pinecone birdfeeders in daycare.

  Sandra stood at the stove, stirring a steaming pot of pasta. She still had on her work clothes — a tortoise-shell blouse, black slacks, yellow scarf tied loosely around her neck Looking at Sandra, at the woman he’d married, tall, thin almost to the point of being bony, short hair a color somewhere between brown and black, he felt relief. This was where he belonged; this was home.

  He walked over to the stove, shifting Leah to his other arm to keep her away from the steam, and kissed his wife hello. As their lips touched, he thought of how only a few hours ago he’d been kissing Joanne, rolling around in her bed, bodies sliding against one another. But that had only been skin on skin, and while exciting, in the end it had meant as much to him as a handshake with a stranger. This kiss, though lacking in passion, touched him on his deepest, most profound level.