Conversations overheard…things observed…people encountered. Simple translations Georgie, from Suite 210, devised to get through everyday city life after her day out-and-about….
Upon dropping off several resumes with several receptionists in several establishments:
‘I have an amazing posture. I can stick my nose way up high. I sit with my back straight. I am a receptionist. I can make you wait. I am better than you. See. Stand and watch as I answer my phone. Hello? No, not at all? There is no one here. In front of me? Not at all. How was your night? Me? Great? My back feels just fine.’
(In other words…)
………There's something stuck so far up my ass this is the only way I can sit comfortably. Oh, I sniffed around and figured out what it is. My head. I found it after all!
Upon waiting at the intersection:
(I couldn’t care less that you’ve got on your Ipod, I’ll yell it out again,) “Where’s Burrard?”
(In other words…)
………Sorry, could I bother you for a moment of your precious time? I am an idiot, most likely from the valley. Manners? Is that a restaurant? I am trying to find Burrard Street, but the last guy I asked told me to jump in front of the Burrard Street bus instead. Can you believe it!
Upon walking down the street, any street, or alleyway… sidewalk… park…trail…hallway…gated community…change room…food court line-up:
“Spare some change, please? That’s alright. Have a nice day.”
(In other words…)
………Homeless or not, I’m still the nicest person you’ll meet in this city...
Upon treating herself to lunch at a swanky restaurant:
“If one more car alarm goes off, I am going to jump through this window and beat the living shit of--”
(In other words…)
………Oops. I think that’s my car. Hope nobody noticed.
Upon walking by an open window:
“$500 for a phone?! $500 for a phone?! A fucking phone?! 500 dollars for a fucking phone…?! Are you serious!? A phone?! $500 for a phone!!!!”
(In other words…)
………I have no clue. Whatsoever.
Upon bumping into a stranger in a corridor:
“Ummmmmmmmmmm. The office for so-and-so?”
(In other words…)
………The phrases: ‘excuse me’, ‘please’, ‘thank you’, were never taught to me. I am here for a job interview, but I’m stupid. You look like you are here to help the helpless. I mean, obviously. Why else would you be here?
Upon turning down a date at the bus stop:
“Chuck…????”
(In other words…)
………I hate your fucking name.
Ldm.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
Umbrella
Each day was the same. Mike would wake up, leave his apartment and greet the dark sky and endless waging war of rain pelting at the door. He would spend hours in his windowless life planning his escape and he would step back into the dark, into the battering showers, and slosh his way back home. And he would get off the bus, same time each day, fight all those trying to shove their way up as he pushed his way down, hold his breath to avoid the inevitable spray of sneeze-cough-spit n’ snot, step into an ankle high puddle and fight the cold, the hunger, the sleet, and anger, and impatience, and rain mixed with snow. His mood, like everyone else’s, would be horrid.
And all he would think of, all he could imagine is the same thing he’d spend the entire day dreaming of: a dry living room, a few blocks away, the Wylland Estates… He will be warm… He will defrost... He will slosh his way home, shut himself in, turn off the lights, and cower within.
But then exactly ten after six each evening, just at the intersection at Broadway, a man shoves a newspaper in his face and Mike gives him the exact same glare he gave him all those other evenings. One day, he imagines, One day…. It is at this same moment that the woman cuts in front of him with her umbrella, and Mike is forced to, once again, follow her up the way.
Robotic, pre-programmed, frozen and mechanical, he blurts out his spiel.
“Woman,” He screams behind her, “Woman! Have you no shame? No concept that there are other people on this sidewalk? Woman, do hear me? Do you understand you almost knocked me over, almost caused me to slip and hit my head on the concrete? The very concrete you walk on? Have you no awareness? You would just keep on walking and leave me to paint the snow red!”
As always, she pays no attention, although sometimes she spins her umbrella.
“I’ve got a new pair of gloves, lady, don’t force me to dirty them!” And as he says this, he slips on someone’s half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza, extra cheese, slamming to the ground.
“Hey, you asshole, you just stepped on my dinner!”
The man untangles himself from his sheets and points his large finger in Mike’s face.
“You owe me money, Buddy!”
As Mike tries to stand up, pain gushes through his backside. A man’s briefcase smacks him in the back of the head. No one bothers to help, but the woman stands not too far—just ahead, in fact—looking up at the window displays.
“Woman?” She turns and for the first time eye contact has been established, and as he jumps out of the puddle she has already turned and walked forth.
He chases after her, blinded by his own breath. “You saw me fall! You saw it and you didn’t help. How could you not help? How do you just walk away? Answer me, lady? You’ve got some nerve!”
She just ignores him as do all the rest. He catches up to her at the intersection at 1st and stands amongst the crowds, directly in her face, and explains to her what she’s heard previously each day.
“Lady. Do you understand what your umbrella is for? Do you ‘get’ the concept? Because I don’t think you do. Each day I see you, and each day you walk on these sidewalks, taking up all the space, poking people’s face, and hogging all the awnings! What the hell do you need the umbrella for if you walk under the shelters?”
The light changes green and he continues as she marches down the street, her umbrella spinning and bouncing drops of rain onto his face. He follows her still, obsesses, dodging the other pedestrians who dodge the lady and her umbrella.
“Leave the awning for the people with no umbrellas? It’s just common courtesy! Respect for all the other people here who have to share the sidewalk with you and your giant umbrella!”
But she never listens, never cares enough to take heed of his suggestion, nor does she show any sort of remorse, and Mike finds himself a tad crazier each day it rains. At the next intersection, the woman stops short, doesn’t even reach the street. As if to spite him further, she stands under the awning with her umbrella opened and poised directly above, to shield her from something invisible. Others approach and jump into the open pouring rain to pass, and yet still, the woman with the umbrella does not move away.
“Are you clueless?” He begins. “Don’t you see how frustrated these people are? They’re already cold and you are forcing them to get wet! You have an umbrella! That’s all you need, lady…. Make room for others! It’s a simple matter of consideration. Walk off to the side! You need to walk off to the side! What is wrong with you?”
Still, she pays him no attention, but he continues. The light goes from red to green and then back to red, yet they still stand next to one another. This is where they separate, and he pleads with her.
“Simple ordinary standards, mores, if you will, that everyone in society should understand. With umbrellas, there are responsibilities! And you are abusing yours. You are not the only person who exists here!”
The woman sniffs and walks away, leaving an exhausted Mike alone, rain pounding at his head. Defeated again, he watches her go, oblivious and unaware, umbrella high up in the air, under the awnings, forcing others to jump out of the way.
Then Mike notices the smoke, and shortly after, the fire, but still she just carries on, her umbrella in everyone’s face, under the awnings, with no rain to douse the flames.
And then Mike sees the man walk by, the man with a giant grin on his face. The man who reaches into his pocket and lights another cigarette.
Ldm
And all he would think of, all he could imagine is the same thing he’d spend the entire day dreaming of: a dry living room, a few blocks away, the Wylland Estates… He will be warm… He will defrost... He will slosh his way home, shut himself in, turn off the lights, and cower within.
But then exactly ten after six each evening, just at the intersection at Broadway, a man shoves a newspaper in his face and Mike gives him the exact same glare he gave him all those other evenings. One day, he imagines, One day…. It is at this same moment that the woman cuts in front of him with her umbrella, and Mike is forced to, once again, follow her up the way.
Robotic, pre-programmed, frozen and mechanical, he blurts out his spiel.
“Woman,” He screams behind her, “Woman! Have you no shame? No concept that there are other people on this sidewalk? Woman, do hear me? Do you understand you almost knocked me over, almost caused me to slip and hit my head on the concrete? The very concrete you walk on? Have you no awareness? You would just keep on walking and leave me to paint the snow red!”
As always, she pays no attention, although sometimes she spins her umbrella.
“I’ve got a new pair of gloves, lady, don’t force me to dirty them!” And as he says this, he slips on someone’s half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza, extra cheese, slamming to the ground.
“Hey, you asshole, you just stepped on my dinner!”
The man untangles himself from his sheets and points his large finger in Mike’s face.
“You owe me money, Buddy!”
As Mike tries to stand up, pain gushes through his backside. A man’s briefcase smacks him in the back of the head. No one bothers to help, but the woman stands not too far—just ahead, in fact—looking up at the window displays.
“Woman?” She turns and for the first time eye contact has been established, and as he jumps out of the puddle she has already turned and walked forth.
He chases after her, blinded by his own breath. “You saw me fall! You saw it and you didn’t help. How could you not help? How do you just walk away? Answer me, lady? You’ve got some nerve!”
She just ignores him as do all the rest. He catches up to her at the intersection at 1st and stands amongst the crowds, directly in her face, and explains to her what she’s heard previously each day.
“Lady. Do you understand what your umbrella is for? Do you ‘get’ the concept? Because I don’t think you do. Each day I see you, and each day you walk on these sidewalks, taking up all the space, poking people’s face, and hogging all the awnings! What the hell do you need the umbrella for if you walk under the shelters?”
The light changes green and he continues as she marches down the street, her umbrella spinning and bouncing drops of rain onto his face. He follows her still, obsesses, dodging the other pedestrians who dodge the lady and her umbrella.
“Leave the awning for the people with no umbrellas? It’s just common courtesy! Respect for all the other people here who have to share the sidewalk with you and your giant umbrella!”
But she never listens, never cares enough to take heed of his suggestion, nor does she show any sort of remorse, and Mike finds himself a tad crazier each day it rains. At the next intersection, the woman stops short, doesn’t even reach the street. As if to spite him further, she stands under the awning with her umbrella opened and poised directly above, to shield her from something invisible. Others approach and jump into the open pouring rain to pass, and yet still, the woman with the umbrella does not move away.
“Are you clueless?” He begins. “Don’t you see how frustrated these people are? They’re already cold and you are forcing them to get wet! You have an umbrella! That’s all you need, lady…. Make room for others! It’s a simple matter of consideration. Walk off to the side! You need to walk off to the side! What is wrong with you?”
Still, she pays him no attention, but he continues. The light goes from red to green and then back to red, yet they still stand next to one another. This is where they separate, and he pleads with her.
“Simple ordinary standards, mores, if you will, that everyone in society should understand. With umbrellas, there are responsibilities! And you are abusing yours. You are not the only person who exists here!”
The woman sniffs and walks away, leaving an exhausted Mike alone, rain pounding at his head. Defeated again, he watches her go, oblivious and unaware, umbrella high up in the air, under the awnings, forcing others to jump out of the way.
Then Mike notices the smoke, and shortly after, the fire, but still she just carries on, her umbrella in everyone’s face, under the awnings, with no rain to douse the flames.
And then Mike sees the man walk by, the man with a giant grin on his face. The man who reaches into his pocket and lights another cigarette.
Ldm
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Up Above, Down Below
Once upon a time, boy met girl in the halls of their apartment building, and girl batted her lashes, and boy held her hand and she allowed herself to be led to his bedroom where they made loud, passionate love for days on end. Girl was, what one may call, a screamer, and she screamed and shrieked at all hours of the day, echoing down the alley, causing bewildered neighbors all around to turn off their taps as they washed the dishes, turn off their vacuums as they cleaned their carpets, turn up the volumes on their televisions, or just lay on their floors listening intently, imagining…longing…wishing.
Not too long after, girl packed her stuff and moved across the hall into boy’s suite, where they would play loud music to disguise the sounds of their love, where he would cushion her face with pillows from his couch, where boy’s roommate would leave the house, cross the street, and sit and drink coffee while all the customers around him spoke with enthusiasm of the couple in the Wyllands Estates that they could—above all traffic, above all conversation and raucous in the café—still hear. Ah. But the boy didn’t mind. The girl was a fantasy and the louder she squealed, the prouder he beamed.
As always, over time, the couple of the hour grew silent. The honeymoon only lasted a few short months and their version of world war one began.
One night the song on my Itunes stopped and was followed by an immediate: “FUCK YOU!”
The passion wheel rolled down the wrong path, hit a bump, and fell right off the wagon, and all of a sudden the swaying stopped altogether, the screams turned to curses, and the pillows flew across the room. No more shrieking of pleasure, this was a head-on assault, heavy and loud enough for a crowd to converge outside, down below; some laughing, some heckling, some throwing advice, ridicule or needles off the alley floor.
“I don’t want to eat that!” She resonated down the block. “What kind of man are you?!”
And SLAM, the dish flew out the balcony door.
Ah yes, once upon a time, boy met girl and girl went mad and shrieked out an army of commands and boy’s knees trembled and he lost his senses, future and will to live.
Night after night, day after day, their war waged on until all the roaches packed up and moved away, the roommate cowered under his bed, and even the landladies were afraid to intervene with arbitrary threats.
“What do you want from me?” The neck in his veins would pop out.
“Peace and quiet, I told you!” She would scream from the top of her lungs.
“Well, you got it!” He would punch at the air with two eager fists.
And she pounded her feet on the floor, “Get away from me!!!”
That particular night I was in deep sleep, dreaming of daisies and tulips and butterflies over grassy fields of a solemn country-side, accompanied by dirt paths all leading to a skinny-dipper’s lake lined with stony walls of heavenly vodka-falls.
Up above, she slammed the door with such force that down below the paintings on my walls all slid to the floor. I traced his steps on my ceiling as he went after her and she screamed and slapped and hit and bounced ‘whatever’ off their walls.
Two minutes later, there was a knock on their door, and as he opened and faced me, she screamed out, “I am not a whore!”
Holding clumps of his own hair in his own hand, boy asked me, “What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering if you liked this painting?”
“It’s pretty.” She came out from behind, mascara and lipstick like a clown who lost his frown.
“I thought you should have it.” I smiled, and I lifted it up high.
The sound of the impact of glass-on-head, then two bodies thudding onto the floor were all anyone heard that night again.
The next day, girl left boy and moved back across the hall.
Ldm
Not too long after, girl packed her stuff and moved across the hall into boy’s suite, where they would play loud music to disguise the sounds of their love, where he would cushion her face with pillows from his couch, where boy’s roommate would leave the house, cross the street, and sit and drink coffee while all the customers around him spoke with enthusiasm of the couple in the Wyllands Estates that they could—above all traffic, above all conversation and raucous in the café—still hear. Ah. But the boy didn’t mind. The girl was a fantasy and the louder she squealed, the prouder he beamed.
As always, over time, the couple of the hour grew silent. The honeymoon only lasted a few short months and their version of world war one began.
One night the song on my Itunes stopped and was followed by an immediate: “FUCK YOU!”
The passion wheel rolled down the wrong path, hit a bump, and fell right off the wagon, and all of a sudden the swaying stopped altogether, the screams turned to curses, and the pillows flew across the room. No more shrieking of pleasure, this was a head-on assault, heavy and loud enough for a crowd to converge outside, down below; some laughing, some heckling, some throwing advice, ridicule or needles off the alley floor.
“I don’t want to eat that!” She resonated down the block. “What kind of man are you?!”
And SLAM, the dish flew out the balcony door.
Ah yes, once upon a time, boy met girl and girl went mad and shrieked out an army of commands and boy’s knees trembled and he lost his senses, future and will to live.
Night after night, day after day, their war waged on until all the roaches packed up and moved away, the roommate cowered under his bed, and even the landladies were afraid to intervene with arbitrary threats.
“What do you want from me?” The neck in his veins would pop out.
“Peace and quiet, I told you!” She would scream from the top of her lungs.
“Well, you got it!” He would punch at the air with two eager fists.
And she pounded her feet on the floor, “Get away from me!!!”
That particular night I was in deep sleep, dreaming of daisies and tulips and butterflies over grassy fields of a solemn country-side, accompanied by dirt paths all leading to a skinny-dipper’s lake lined with stony walls of heavenly vodka-falls.
Up above, she slammed the door with such force that down below the paintings on my walls all slid to the floor. I traced his steps on my ceiling as he went after her and she screamed and slapped and hit and bounced ‘whatever’ off their walls.
Two minutes later, there was a knock on their door, and as he opened and faced me, she screamed out, “I am not a whore!”
Holding clumps of his own hair in his own hand, boy asked me, “What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering if you liked this painting?”
“It’s pretty.” She came out from behind, mascara and lipstick like a clown who lost his frown.
“I thought you should have it.” I smiled, and I lifted it up high.
The sound of the impact of glass-on-head, then two bodies thudding onto the floor were all anyone heard that night again.
The next day, girl left boy and moved back across the hall.
Ldm
Sunday, January 27, 2008
in Solidarity
Up on the fourth floor, in Suite 410, Mrs. Sztebranski napped on the couch, and looking down at her were the three little sibling monkeys she was to be looking after. Eight-year old Danka, her younger brother, Larry, and the youngest of all, five-year old Eddie, all stood snickering and giggling, proud of their achievement. It was Larry, who in his grade one class, learnt that enough cough and cold medicine would prove a fascinating magic potion, and so they drugged their babysitter as soon as their mother hugged and kissed them all goodbye at the front door.
Danka gently reached for the old lady’s hand, and slowly pulled off the object of her desire: Mrs. Sztebranski’s wedding band. The ancient ring was too big for any finger but her middle, and after slipping it on, Danka turned to Larry and started right where she left off the day before. She shoved him hard, pulled his hair, told him she’s Queen and ran straight down the hall towards his room. Caught off guard, screaming and yelling, Larry took the bait and chased his sister, and poor lil’ Eddie, always the one to get stepped on, raised himself off the ground and shrieked, bouncing off the walls.
“Get out of our room!” He screamed as he fell through the door. The two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, Larry a foot higher, ready to take on their older sister, ready for the next chapter in their familiar war. Talented and manipulative for such an early age, Danka stood calmly in the middle of the room and merely raised her finger to her lips, hushing them down both. “Let’s play a game,” She said. “I will be Queen. And you two are my servants.” And before either could answer, Danka suddenly sprung to life and went mad with attack. She swept all the toys off of Larry’s desk, jumped on Eddie’s bed, tossed all the books off his shelves, ripped open the boys’ dresser, dumped all the drawers out onto the floor, threw the pillows at her brothers, pulled the sheets off the beds, dragged the mattresses off their frames, and even tore their posters off the walls, crumpling them onto the floor.
Satisfied, smug and victorious, she looked at the two boys and smiled. “It’s your room, you did this. I was quietly playing with my dolls. Now. Take me to my throne!”
Eddie, dumbfounded, looked up at his older brother for guidance, who looked back down at him, ready to explode.
“The dolls.”
This, as they had talked of and planned secretly in whispers and sleepless nights before, was a form of brotherly code. As Larry suddenly ran out the door, before Danka could react, Eddie tackled her to the floor. The boy was scrawny, but fast and vicious, biting and pulling until Danka stuck her fingers up his nose. Freeing herself, she kicked him away, and crawled toward the hall. Larry, in the meantime, sat in her room, covered in dolls. He bit their heads off, spat them out, and then proceeded to hurl them at his sister who stood screaming at the bedroom door.
A drooling Mrs. Sztebranksi was dreaming of puppies, and had no way of knowing that the monkeys went rabid, jumping all around her, knocking down furniture, crying and yelling, loud as could be. The two boys cornered Danka, but not for long. Mercilessly, she grabbed Eddie by the hair, threw him into Larry, and gave chase to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door. Inside, she breathed relief as she slid to the floor.
“If you want to hide in there,” Larry yelled, “Then go for it! Eddie, get the chair.”
Inside the bathroom, Danka wasn’t sure what the boys were doing, but when she tried she found she couldn’t open the door. To teach their sister a lesson, they jammed a chair under the handle so she couldn’t get out. Standing in the hallway, the two boys celebrated, high-fived their accomplishment and went searching for her diary.
But Danka would have none of that! She was frantic—she needed to get out! She pulled at the handle, threw herself at the door, even called out to Mrs. Sztebranksi, but with no such luck. She was trapped, but not all was lost. The window over the toilet opened just enough for her to get out, and she felt for the railing with her toes as she promised herself she would not look down. Step by step, inch-by-inch, she held on for dear life as she slowly and carefully moved toward the next window, the cool winter air blowing against her cheek. Somewhere below her she could hear the cars drive by, the trumpeter practice in an apartment nearby, squirrels in the trees, yet still, she would not look down. Danka reached her bedroom window and pressed against the glass. Her eyes and mouth widened when she saw the two boys sitting on her ground.
Eddie rolled around, screeching with delight, kicked his legs up in the air, as his older brother read to him out loud. Entry by entry, day by day, Danka’s diary was finally in their care. And they read and laughed, giggled and screeched, eagerly flipped each page, until finally Eddie looked up to find his only sister, and a look of terror he’ll never forget, standing outside on the windowpane.
Silent and shocked, Larry had no choice but to slide open the window, allowing a determined Danka to fall in. Face first she went, right to her bedroom floor, and when she rose, she held out her hand.
“Oh no! Mrs. Sztebranski’s ring…”
It must have fallen off.
Mrs. Sztebranski’s loud snore echoed down the hall as their three heads hung out the window in solidarity, scanning for the ring somewhere down below.
Eddie was delighted. “I see it! I see it!” He pointed to the ring he claimed was resting in the garden beneath a leaf outside the kitchen window of the bottom suite. Their only problem? Not a single one of them was allowed to walk past their front door. Larry and Danka, watched each other in silent deliberation, then both turned to their youngest sibling, who was immediately on guard.
Danka tripled her chores and gave up dessert, and young lil’ Eddie found himself hanging out the bedroom window, head first, a rope tied around his waist. He was their only hope to retrieve the ring, and as Larry and Danka held on and lowered him, Eddie finally grasped the meaning of that word he’d heard so many times, yelled out by his neighbors and their guests, at those parties that kept him awake so many nights. In Danka’s bedroom, the only thing tougher then lowering her brother was having to help pull him back up. Afterwards, a sweaty and sore Danka cleaned up the entire mess that was left by their storm, her head hanging low.
Returning home, Sheila politely thanked Mrs. Sztebranksi as she went out the door.
“It was no trouble,” the old lady smiled, revealing she left her teeth at home. “In fact, I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages. Those children are jewels.” She turned and carried down the hall. After Sheila watched her go, she turned to the children. They stood at attention, side by side in the hall. Sternly, she eyed each one down. For their sakes, she hoped Mrs. Sztebranksi wouldn’t be too shocked to find out her face was a bright white and red.
The three monkeys giggled and ran off to pick up the crayons they left scattered on the living room floor.
Ldm.
Danka gently reached for the old lady’s hand, and slowly pulled off the object of her desire: Mrs. Sztebranski’s wedding band. The ancient ring was too big for any finger but her middle, and after slipping it on, Danka turned to Larry and started right where she left off the day before. She shoved him hard, pulled his hair, told him she’s Queen and ran straight down the hall towards his room. Caught off guard, screaming and yelling, Larry took the bait and chased his sister, and poor lil’ Eddie, always the one to get stepped on, raised himself off the ground and shrieked, bouncing off the walls.
“Get out of our room!” He screamed as he fell through the door. The two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, Larry a foot higher, ready to take on their older sister, ready for the next chapter in their familiar war. Talented and manipulative for such an early age, Danka stood calmly in the middle of the room and merely raised her finger to her lips, hushing them down both. “Let’s play a game,” She said. “I will be Queen. And you two are my servants.” And before either could answer, Danka suddenly sprung to life and went mad with attack. She swept all the toys off of Larry’s desk, jumped on Eddie’s bed, tossed all the books off his shelves, ripped open the boys’ dresser, dumped all the drawers out onto the floor, threw the pillows at her brothers, pulled the sheets off the beds, dragged the mattresses off their frames, and even tore their posters off the walls, crumpling them onto the floor.
Satisfied, smug and victorious, she looked at the two boys and smiled. “It’s your room, you did this. I was quietly playing with my dolls. Now. Take me to my throne!”
Eddie, dumbfounded, looked up at his older brother for guidance, who looked back down at him, ready to explode.
“The dolls.”
This, as they had talked of and planned secretly in whispers and sleepless nights before, was a form of brotherly code. As Larry suddenly ran out the door, before Danka could react, Eddie tackled her to the floor. The boy was scrawny, but fast and vicious, biting and pulling until Danka stuck her fingers up his nose. Freeing herself, she kicked him away, and crawled toward the hall. Larry, in the meantime, sat in her room, covered in dolls. He bit their heads off, spat them out, and then proceeded to hurl them at his sister who stood screaming at the bedroom door.
A drooling Mrs. Sztebranksi was dreaming of puppies, and had no way of knowing that the monkeys went rabid, jumping all around her, knocking down furniture, crying and yelling, loud as could be. The two boys cornered Danka, but not for long. Mercilessly, she grabbed Eddie by the hair, threw him into Larry, and gave chase to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door. Inside, she breathed relief as she slid to the floor.
“If you want to hide in there,” Larry yelled, “Then go for it! Eddie, get the chair.”
Inside the bathroom, Danka wasn’t sure what the boys were doing, but when she tried she found she couldn’t open the door. To teach their sister a lesson, they jammed a chair under the handle so she couldn’t get out. Standing in the hallway, the two boys celebrated, high-fived their accomplishment and went searching for her diary.
But Danka would have none of that! She was frantic—she needed to get out! She pulled at the handle, threw herself at the door, even called out to Mrs. Sztebranksi, but with no such luck. She was trapped, but not all was lost. The window over the toilet opened just enough for her to get out, and she felt for the railing with her toes as she promised herself she would not look down. Step by step, inch-by-inch, she held on for dear life as she slowly and carefully moved toward the next window, the cool winter air blowing against her cheek. Somewhere below her she could hear the cars drive by, the trumpeter practice in an apartment nearby, squirrels in the trees, yet still, she would not look down. Danka reached her bedroom window and pressed against the glass. Her eyes and mouth widened when she saw the two boys sitting on her ground.
Eddie rolled around, screeching with delight, kicked his legs up in the air, as his older brother read to him out loud. Entry by entry, day by day, Danka’s diary was finally in their care. And they read and laughed, giggled and screeched, eagerly flipped each page, until finally Eddie looked up to find his only sister, and a look of terror he’ll never forget, standing outside on the windowpane.
Silent and shocked, Larry had no choice but to slide open the window, allowing a determined Danka to fall in. Face first she went, right to her bedroom floor, and when she rose, she held out her hand.
“Oh no! Mrs. Sztebranski’s ring…”
It must have fallen off.
Mrs. Sztebranski’s loud snore echoed down the hall as their three heads hung out the window in solidarity, scanning for the ring somewhere down below.
Eddie was delighted. “I see it! I see it!” He pointed to the ring he claimed was resting in the garden beneath a leaf outside the kitchen window of the bottom suite. Their only problem? Not a single one of them was allowed to walk past their front door. Larry and Danka, watched each other in silent deliberation, then both turned to their youngest sibling, who was immediately on guard.
Danka tripled her chores and gave up dessert, and young lil’ Eddie found himself hanging out the bedroom window, head first, a rope tied around his waist. He was their only hope to retrieve the ring, and as Larry and Danka held on and lowered him, Eddie finally grasped the meaning of that word he’d heard so many times, yelled out by his neighbors and their guests, at those parties that kept him awake so many nights. In Danka’s bedroom, the only thing tougher then lowering her brother was having to help pull him back up. Afterwards, a sweaty and sore Danka cleaned up the entire mess that was left by their storm, her head hanging low.
Returning home, Sheila politely thanked Mrs. Sztebranksi as she went out the door.
“It was no trouble,” the old lady smiled, revealing she left her teeth at home. “In fact, I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages. Those children are jewels.” She turned and carried down the hall. After Sheila watched her go, she turned to the children. They stood at attention, side by side in the hall. Sternly, she eyed each one down. For their sakes, she hoped Mrs. Sztebranksi wouldn’t be too shocked to find out her face was a bright white and red.
The three monkeys giggled and ran off to pick up the crayons they left scattered on the living room floor.
Ldm.
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Touch of Red
Where Elaine was, a glass of wine wouldn’t be too far away. She was fortunate enough to have married a man who, shortly after the honeymoon six months ago and as per his sudden job promotion, would often leave her to her own devices while he took luncheons and met business associates here and there, across the country, and sometimes even further away. It was over a glass of fine red Rioya, aged more than a decade, that she had fallen in love with the man. Initially. Upon the first night she had spent in his Suite 719 she had realized that his bottle collection consisted of barely a dozen flavors mixed in with about two dozen empties waiting to be returned. Nonetheless, Elaine’s senses perked up, as she would savor the potential she’d sipped in each and every taste.
Where Elaine found herself, she would never hesitate to refill her glass, and where Elaine found herself was never too far away. Upon that first morning after she had spent that first night with her soon to be fiancé in Suite 719, had she entered into the hallway and immediately took notice of the taller, younger and more handsome neighborly-boy-next-door kissing his wife goodbye. Elaine fumbled with her pockets as the wife marched past; and as the elevator door slammed shut not one thought had occurred to her that the two would still be matching each other’s curiosity, eye for eye.
Ah yes, wherever Elaine found herself, a glass of wine was always nearby. Always refilled and always ready for a good time…
It just happened that on that last sunny afternoon of this past month she'd had maybe a bottle too much. The lipstick smeared and half-finished glass was left clumsily alone—on top of the living room table in Suite 721. And when Stephen’s wife of almost twenty years came home early from work that Thursday afternoon and found her unemployed husband exhausted and asleep, she shocked him into consciousness, curiously intrigued.
My roommate told me this as she'd just happened to be leaving Suite 720—where she by now has spent several afternoons enwrapped within her own scandaloucious affair (sneaky, sneaky)—and was witness to the various thuds and bangs from next door before the door itself swung open. A fully nude and drunk Stephen, whom she had once, at the mailboxes, and just that once, met before, was thrown out of his suite by none other than his angry wife, whom my roommate had never met before.
The wife called him a liar, several times, loud enough for anyone on the seventh floor to hear. While she worked all day, he pleaded, it was customary of him to sit and drink wine in the nude, and secretly try on different shades of red for that added, special flair. The wife threw her own lipstick at him and it bounced off his bare chest, rolled to my roommate’s feet. The door slammed shut. The lock loudly bolted.
The pounding on Suite 721’s door echoed down the halls as my roommate made her way downstairs before her own affair’s ‘other’ returned back home.
Elaine, in the meantime, was no party to this at all. Where Elaine was—two doors down—was passed out on her living room floor. It would not be until late that evening that she would finally learn of what had come undone. Upon leaving Stephen’s apartment, her hands were full with not just the remainder of her clothing, but also with the empty bottles they had (well, mostly her) drunk over bad daytime talk shows and even worse take-out lunch. The whereabouts of the glass did not even occur to her; in fact she didn’t even need it. Drinking out of the bottle was easier for where she lay, snoring away the rest of the day.
Ldm
Where Elaine found herself, she would never hesitate to refill her glass, and where Elaine found herself was never too far away. Upon that first morning after she had spent that first night with her soon to be fiancé in Suite 719, had she entered into the hallway and immediately took notice of the taller, younger and more handsome neighborly-boy-next-door kissing his wife goodbye. Elaine fumbled with her pockets as the wife marched past; and as the elevator door slammed shut not one thought had occurred to her that the two would still be matching each other’s curiosity, eye for eye.
Ah yes, wherever Elaine found herself, a glass of wine was always nearby. Always refilled and always ready for a good time…
It just happened that on that last sunny afternoon of this past month she'd had maybe a bottle too much. The lipstick smeared and half-finished glass was left clumsily alone—on top of the living room table in Suite 721. And when Stephen’s wife of almost twenty years came home early from work that Thursday afternoon and found her unemployed husband exhausted and asleep, she shocked him into consciousness, curiously intrigued.
My roommate told me this as she'd just happened to be leaving Suite 720—where she by now has spent several afternoons enwrapped within her own scandaloucious affair (sneaky, sneaky)—and was witness to the various thuds and bangs from next door before the door itself swung open. A fully nude and drunk Stephen, whom she had once, at the mailboxes, and just that once, met before, was thrown out of his suite by none other than his angry wife, whom my roommate had never met before.
The wife called him a liar, several times, loud enough for anyone on the seventh floor to hear. While she worked all day, he pleaded, it was customary of him to sit and drink wine in the nude, and secretly try on different shades of red for that added, special flair. The wife threw her own lipstick at him and it bounced off his bare chest, rolled to my roommate’s feet. The door slammed shut. The lock loudly bolted.
The pounding on Suite 721’s door echoed down the halls as my roommate made her way downstairs before her own affair’s ‘other’ returned back home.
Elaine, in the meantime, was no party to this at all. Where Elaine was—two doors down—was passed out on her living room floor. It would not be until late that evening that she would finally learn of what had come undone. Upon leaving Stephen’s apartment, her hands were full with not just the remainder of her clothing, but also with the empty bottles they had (well, mostly her) drunk over bad daytime talk shows and even worse take-out lunch. The whereabouts of the glass did not even occur to her; in fact she didn’t even need it. Drinking out of the bottle was easier for where she lay, snoring away the rest of the day.
Ldm
Sunday, December 23, 2007
at the dinner table
A loud knock and the boy heard the door to Suite 667 swing open and Aunt and Uncle—running late, but just in time—allowed for themselves to enter, arms full, smiles feigned. Younger Sister skipped around the corner, cheerfully, throwing herself into a hug and kiss, and, as the couple sneered towards one another, they yelled out greetings to the family and made their way into the dining area.
The young boy dried his hands and took his seat across from Father’s and watched the man’s giant face take in a giant whiff. With a satisfied smirk, Father lifted the cutters high in ceremony, hummed along to the Christmas choir before tearing into the carcass, gleefully, slicing and carving proudly. The boy, too young to understand, took note of the pleasure Father took in the act, thought something odd about the glazed eyes Older Sister possessed as she placed the settings, something surreal—if he knew what surreal meant—about the lights, the trees, the ornaments and awkwardness of the situation in itself.
The table jerked back and forth on its wobbly legs and no one spoke, but Father snared his teeth as he ripped apart the meat. Mother, still in the kitchen—where she’d been standing since the beginning of that week—yelled something that nobody cared to hear. Uncle sat next to his brother and mentioned how ‘wonderful everything looks and how delicious everything smells’. Aunt ignored him, as she did with everyone. She reached for her glass and her left eye twitched as her right eye sparkled and her neck loosened as the husband, with his proud, greasy smile, opened the bottle, making a loud popping sound with his dry and blistered lips. He placed it in its reserved spot—right beside the turkey… The turkey rested on its special plate in the midst of the table, circled about by dried flowers, crushed potatoes, and candles—candles with the momentous task of simultaneously lighting the otherwise darkened room to conceal the boredom and contempt.
“Merry Christmas, Y’all.” Said Aunt to her glass, toasting her reflection.
And Father continued, not pausing once; sweat dripping off his brow. The boy watched in just as much horror as he did in intrigue as the flowers swayed and the red juice spilled from Mother’s untouched and overflowing glass.
Teenage Daughter, the eldest of the three, suddenly stuck her nose up and snarled, and out loud she protested. “Why do you insist on shoving this shit down our throats each and every year?” She turned to the boy and bounced a brussel sprout off his head.
All the boy could do was wail out a shriek so loud and high-pitched that all time might have stopped—save for in that second Father slipped the knife and the blade slid across the palm of his hand. Blood squirted all onto the white plates, all across the table and into his brother’s face. The boy’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped and he shrieked louder, as Mother yelled profanities from the kitchen, waving her arms and stomping her slippers. Sisters jumped, knocked back their chairs, screamed in unison, and the table wobbled some more, enthusiastically, as Father bumped around, and the turkey jerked as Aunt sprung up—holding onto her husband and her husband’s glass but not the table as the leg stopped wobbling, and, with one loud ‘CRACK,’ simply gave out. Everything slid and not one person breathed, but all eyes watched as the turkey rolled across the carpet right back into the kitchen, slowing to a stop in between Mother’s spastic feet.
And when she screamed, louder than ever before, head raised at the ceiling, hands tight, no one knew exactly how to react, not one of them—except for Cat, who from nowhere had sprung, hoisted the turkey with its chops and knew only to run.
Everyone sprung and gave chase to Cat—past all the bedrooms as it ran down the hall. Turkey in mouth, cornered at the front door, it hissed and fled through all their legs as they fell to the floor, and then back around the corner, carrying on under the table and onto the balcony where Aunt was hiding, smoking her joint all on her own.
Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she did nothing to stop Cat from jumping onto the chair and then onto the ledge. One by one, they tripped through the door, stood anxiously as the pet finally spat out the bird, sniffed and pawed like it would at a hairball, spread its legs and licked its groin. Uninterested, Cat lifted its tail and carried off.
No one moved. Father smiled, and Mother sighed, but only the boy understood what would happen next. Aunt lost her wig as the giant black Crow batted her head with its wing, swooped down and around, snapped its beak, lifted, and flew away—painfully, slowly, low to the ground, weighed down and chased by others cawing enthusiastically for their feast.
In Suite 667 not a word was spoken and heads hung low. For the rest of the night, only the aroma mingled with the angel on top of the tree.
Ldm
The young boy dried his hands and took his seat across from Father’s and watched the man’s giant face take in a giant whiff. With a satisfied smirk, Father lifted the cutters high in ceremony, hummed along to the Christmas choir before tearing into the carcass, gleefully, slicing and carving proudly. The boy, too young to understand, took note of the pleasure Father took in the act, thought something odd about the glazed eyes Older Sister possessed as she placed the settings, something surreal—if he knew what surreal meant—about the lights, the trees, the ornaments and awkwardness of the situation in itself.
The table jerked back and forth on its wobbly legs and no one spoke, but Father snared his teeth as he ripped apart the meat. Mother, still in the kitchen—where she’d been standing since the beginning of that week—yelled something that nobody cared to hear. Uncle sat next to his brother and mentioned how ‘wonderful everything looks and how delicious everything smells’. Aunt ignored him, as she did with everyone. She reached for her glass and her left eye twitched as her right eye sparkled and her neck loosened as the husband, with his proud, greasy smile, opened the bottle, making a loud popping sound with his dry and blistered lips. He placed it in its reserved spot—right beside the turkey… The turkey rested on its special plate in the midst of the table, circled about by dried flowers, crushed potatoes, and candles—candles with the momentous task of simultaneously lighting the otherwise darkened room to conceal the boredom and contempt.
“Merry Christmas, Y’all.” Said Aunt to her glass, toasting her reflection.
And Father continued, not pausing once; sweat dripping off his brow. The boy watched in just as much horror as he did in intrigue as the flowers swayed and the red juice spilled from Mother’s untouched and overflowing glass.
Teenage Daughter, the eldest of the three, suddenly stuck her nose up and snarled, and out loud she protested. “Why do you insist on shoving this shit down our throats each and every year?” She turned to the boy and bounced a brussel sprout off his head.
All the boy could do was wail out a shriek so loud and high-pitched that all time might have stopped—save for in that second Father slipped the knife and the blade slid across the palm of his hand. Blood squirted all onto the white plates, all across the table and into his brother’s face. The boy’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped and he shrieked louder, as Mother yelled profanities from the kitchen, waving her arms and stomping her slippers. Sisters jumped, knocked back their chairs, screamed in unison, and the table wobbled some more, enthusiastically, as Father bumped around, and the turkey jerked as Aunt sprung up—holding onto her husband and her husband’s glass but not the table as the leg stopped wobbling, and, with one loud ‘CRACK,’ simply gave out. Everything slid and not one person breathed, but all eyes watched as the turkey rolled across the carpet right back into the kitchen, slowing to a stop in between Mother’s spastic feet.
And when she screamed, louder than ever before, head raised at the ceiling, hands tight, no one knew exactly how to react, not one of them—except for Cat, who from nowhere had sprung, hoisted the turkey with its chops and knew only to run.
Everyone sprung and gave chase to Cat—past all the bedrooms as it ran down the hall. Turkey in mouth, cornered at the front door, it hissed and fled through all their legs as they fell to the floor, and then back around the corner, carrying on under the table and onto the balcony where Aunt was hiding, smoking her joint all on her own.
Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she did nothing to stop Cat from jumping onto the chair and then onto the ledge. One by one, they tripped through the door, stood anxiously as the pet finally spat out the bird, sniffed and pawed like it would at a hairball, spread its legs and licked its groin. Uninterested, Cat lifted its tail and carried off.
No one moved. Father smiled, and Mother sighed, but only the boy understood what would happen next. Aunt lost her wig as the giant black Crow batted her head with its wing, swooped down and around, snapped its beak, lifted, and flew away—painfully, slowly, low to the ground, weighed down and chased by others cawing enthusiastically for their feast.
In Suite 667 not a word was spoken and heads hung low. For the rest of the night, only the aroma mingled with the angel on top of the tree.
Ldm
Monday, November 26, 2007
Start Spreading the News
The one man digging for garbage helps the other up and over the bin. They respect each other’s space, relying on the lit windows and alley lights around them. It has been non-stop rain for the past three days—tough to persist with the will or the cart to search through waste. This afternoon had cleared, finally, and they are ready to get to work.
Crap! The man in the tattered green jacket yells out. He flashes a local newspaper before tossing it at the blue recycling container. He tells him once there was a time when he enjoyed unearthing the day-old papers, but as time has gone by, and as more jaded he’s become, he’s lost all faith in anything of no value, no money to be spent, no depth in the print.
The other man, in the dark brown hoodie, responds by pointing to a balcony three stories above from where they dig. No stranger to this lucrative spot in the alley, last week, whilst sorting through garbage and treasure, he’d overheard a conversation from the corner of the deck that swoops around the side. A man and a woman, friends apparently, enjoying a couple beers as the sun had set for the night.
He’d spied on them for a while, catching the empties as they simply tossed them down below. The woman was talking about a guy she had met, down the street, at their local.
He was born in Iraq, she explained. Just moved from Dubai. He is from Iraq and he is just that, a man from Iraq: well spoken, well educated, well dressed. He stressed that there is no actual war. People are dying without justice or cause because there is no real war. There is no reason for the fight.
The bartender, she added, had joined the conversation: What is it? Government strategy?
They want us to believe there is a reason to fight—to remain in power, to remain in control? Over us? The joke is on us.
The Iraqi agreed: They spend years searching through caves where there’s nothing to be found. They turn neighborhoods of innocent people against each other in order to continue. If they can create a way to pursue their agenda, somehow, he’d said, they can then sleep at night.
The man in the brownish hoodie mentions that the man from Iraq had posed no threat to the girl on the balcony, no threat at all. Not the threat the papers have taught.
His friend, in the tattered winter bomber sighs.
“Over 83,000 civilian deaths in just four years.”
He shakes his head.
Like us, they used to have names.
Oye! Says his fellow sponger, throwing an empty box in his face. “They still have names!”
I still have a name.
You’re alive, man. You still have a name.
I’m alive, man, and my life can still change.
“Money runs them oppressors, but fear runs the rest. They sell it to them in those papers each day! These people on those balconies buy it, soak in it, they lap it up each night, each day. Don’t you see them, drooling coffee and sugar onto those adverts at all those Cafes? You and I are lucky, man. We don’t have any money. But we still have our names!”
“You’re a fool!” Spits the man in the green jacket, hoisting himself over and out of the bin, grumbling as he marches down the way.
I could be amongst them. Them, on their comfy balconies, warm blankets and beer. I’m the lucky one? Heated-rooms, warm beds, “I’ll tell you something!” He swings around at his friend.
“We’re luckier than they only. The dead ones. The ones with no names.”
Three stories above, a man whose balcony faces that of the overheard man and woman’s stands in the shadows, rolling his tobacco and listening in.
In Afghanistan, he wonders, our country could be doing the same. Do we know? Are we that lucky? Do you consider yourself lucky for being brainwashed all the same? Nah. We still complain. We still whine about the weather, point fingers, and rage against each other. The only ones lucky are those who we call ‘they’.
“Waste your time crying over spilt milk, man. Waste your time!” The man in the brown hoodie rolls his cart after his friend.
Napping that evening a week ago on his living room couch, the man eavesdropping in the shadows had also overheard his neighbors deliberate on their deck. The thought occurred for him to join in, but he chose to remain in his comfort instead.
Does it ever wear you out? He’d overhead him say. It would wear me out. He continued. Starving children, car bombs…living in an army state. It wears me out just to watch on the TV. Makes me want to toss the set. I can read books in comfort. I can surf the net. If it gets too much I can hop into my car and head away. When the tank is empty, I can return home. I have a home. I have this roof over my head.
She had cracked open another beer.
I have an education, she’d confessed. I’m not on the street. I’m not in a field, or in a tent by a ditch. I could be living in this alley, directly below this balcony. I could be the one breaking into your car. But I don't have that need.
Why should I complain about what I have? Why should I want more?
The man on the couch thought to himself in that moment: ‘Grateful’ is not a word I use in my vocabulary too often. There are babies in this world born into a life expectancy of not much more than just five years. And here I lie, feeling sad and depressed because not only am I alive, but also, because my 30th is in just a few days.
Cry me a river. Oh it’s such a shame.
Ldm
Crap! The man in the tattered green jacket yells out. He flashes a local newspaper before tossing it at the blue recycling container. He tells him once there was a time when he enjoyed unearthing the day-old papers, but as time has gone by, and as more jaded he’s become, he’s lost all faith in anything of no value, no money to be spent, no depth in the print.
The other man, in the dark brown hoodie, responds by pointing to a balcony three stories above from where they dig. No stranger to this lucrative spot in the alley, last week, whilst sorting through garbage and treasure, he’d overheard a conversation from the corner of the deck that swoops around the side. A man and a woman, friends apparently, enjoying a couple beers as the sun had set for the night.
He’d spied on them for a while, catching the empties as they simply tossed them down below. The woman was talking about a guy she had met, down the street, at their local.
He was born in Iraq, she explained. Just moved from Dubai. He is from Iraq and he is just that, a man from Iraq: well spoken, well educated, well dressed. He stressed that there is no actual war. People are dying without justice or cause because there is no real war. There is no reason for the fight.
The bartender, she added, had joined the conversation: What is it? Government strategy?
They want us to believe there is a reason to fight—to remain in power, to remain in control? Over us? The joke is on us.
The Iraqi agreed: They spend years searching through caves where there’s nothing to be found. They turn neighborhoods of innocent people against each other in order to continue. If they can create a way to pursue their agenda, somehow, he’d said, they can then sleep at night.
The man in the brownish hoodie mentions that the man from Iraq had posed no threat to the girl on the balcony, no threat at all. Not the threat the papers have taught.
His friend, in the tattered winter bomber sighs.
“Over 83,000 civilian deaths in just four years.”
He shakes his head.
Like us, they used to have names.
Oye! Says his fellow sponger, throwing an empty box in his face. “They still have names!”
I still have a name.
You’re alive, man. You still have a name.
I’m alive, man, and my life can still change.
“Money runs them oppressors, but fear runs the rest. They sell it to them in those papers each day! These people on those balconies buy it, soak in it, they lap it up each night, each day. Don’t you see them, drooling coffee and sugar onto those adverts at all those Cafes? You and I are lucky, man. We don’t have any money. But we still have our names!”
“You’re a fool!” Spits the man in the green jacket, hoisting himself over and out of the bin, grumbling as he marches down the way.
I could be amongst them. Them, on their comfy balconies, warm blankets and beer. I’m the lucky one? Heated-rooms, warm beds, “I’ll tell you something!” He swings around at his friend.
“We’re luckier than they only. The dead ones. The ones with no names.”
Three stories above, a man whose balcony faces that of the overheard man and woman’s stands in the shadows, rolling his tobacco and listening in.
In Afghanistan, he wonders, our country could be doing the same. Do we know? Are we that lucky? Do you consider yourself lucky for being brainwashed all the same? Nah. We still complain. We still whine about the weather, point fingers, and rage against each other. The only ones lucky are those who we call ‘they’.
“Waste your time crying over spilt milk, man. Waste your time!” The man in the brown hoodie rolls his cart after his friend.
Napping that evening a week ago on his living room couch, the man eavesdropping in the shadows had also overheard his neighbors deliberate on their deck. The thought occurred for him to join in, but he chose to remain in his comfort instead.
Does it ever wear you out? He’d overhead him say. It would wear me out. He continued. Starving children, car bombs…living in an army state. It wears me out just to watch on the TV. Makes me want to toss the set. I can read books in comfort. I can surf the net. If it gets too much I can hop into my car and head away. When the tank is empty, I can return home. I have a home. I have this roof over my head.
She had cracked open another beer.
I have an education, she’d confessed. I’m not on the street. I’m not in a field, or in a tent by a ditch. I could be living in this alley, directly below this balcony. I could be the one breaking into your car. But I don't have that need.
Why should I complain about what I have? Why should I want more?
The man on the couch thought to himself in that moment: ‘Grateful’ is not a word I use in my vocabulary too often. There are babies in this world born into a life expectancy of not much more than just five years. And here I lie, feeling sad and depressed because not only am I alive, but also, because my 30th is in just a few days.
Cry me a river. Oh it’s such a shame.
Ldm
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Sally
In the kitchen, Tracy struggles to keep upright, leaning into the counter, tears streaming down her face. She pounds the marble top in frustration and wails into the phone. The dishwasher roars beside her, loudly, water flowing in cycles. Sally wishes there is something she could do, but she knows that is impossible. Pity and sadness evade her, just compassion that she understands the most.
She has little choice but to back away, calmly, quietly.
Just a week ago, the guys in the apartment next door were rushing to make the ferry for that much-anticipated camping trip. They didn’t even notice as she stood in the hall amused by their last-minute frantic packing. Exactly seven days to the minute, they sit behind closed doors in their respective bedrooms wondering what exactly happened. The story repeats itself in their minds, obsessively, both immersed in guilt, completely estranged, yet just feet away from one another. They have been silent since they have returned. No booming music, no loud laughter. No spoken word. The third roommate, the youngest of the three failed to return from that weekend. His belongings remain undisturbed.
Again, Sally goes unnoticed, but she can see his face: A soft reflection beyond the dark wood of his once-was bedroom door.
She wonders if they’ve seen him.
In suite 248, the young man sits as he’s recently become accustomed to, slumped despairingly on the floor, his back against the sofa. All my plants die in this apartment, he thinks to himself, and all day long he stares blankly at the television set in front of him no matter if it had been turned on or not. Sunlight seems scarce, as he never bothers to pull open the blinds. He has spent his days in this position for quite some time now, it seems, mourning the loss of life itself.
All my plants die in this apartment.
It is unfortunate that you waste your days worrying about death, Sally thinks to herself. She wishes she could somehow express this to him, somehow say it in a way he’d hear her. This man was a friend of hers, not too long ago.
The realization that she has somehow wandered across the hall is brought to her by a sudden gentle whisper. Behind her a man and his girlfriend lay in bed, entangled by each other’s arms and legs, half speaking, half embracing the sound of the rain hitting the windowpane. It almost occurs to Sally that the girl is looking directly at her, foolish, as it may seem, as she speaks to her lover.
I dreamt that we were in a park, you and I and a bunch of friends. Somehow I lost sight of you and right away I began to panic. I couldn’t figure out what happened, where you went. You just suddenly disappeared.
He embraces her face lovingly. Perhaps, concern?
I woke up in a stress, she says, her body pressing closer to his. But you were right here, before me, my arms wrapped around your chest. At that moment I felt closer to you than ever.
They begin to kiss.
Usually this room is empty, as Sally passes through this suite often, her final spot behind the wall…just past their bed…
Once they—the children on the third floor—had bored of it and had asked all they needed to know, or once the elders turned the lock, they slid the game underneath the bed and she was freed to go.
When asked, ‘WHO R U?” on the board, the same question they had inquired before, she smirked and replied: I M THE FLY UPON MY DEATH WATCHING U FROM THE GLASS DOOR.
She is allowed her sense of humour. For that she feels something akin to gratitude. Sally does not understand this next part, only knows it from instinct, a progression, perhaps habit.
From where she had been laying on the living room floor, before they had sent out that beckoning call, the same spot and position Sally had woken up from so many times before. From where Sally had suddenly stood up, on command, without a choice, after she’d heard that intrusive sound echoing from down the hall. This is where Sally finally lays down, in that same position he had left her that one rainy afternoon—after his hands had let go of her throat, and before he had pierced the blade himself into his own—before he’d fallen to his knees, slumped over on the carpet next to where her screaming had already gone unheard.
Forgotten, unnoticed, and then unrecognized so many days afterwards.
As she now gently moves back down into that position where the red stain on her gut meets the wet puddle on the carpet, she sees him, suddenly, standing before her—watching with beastly eyes as she falls defenselessly to the floor. This is the last image, the last memory. Her own personal routine she has been cursed to uphold. There she is, on her left side, her head twisted and lifted, her shocked eyes seeing the smile fade from his face. And it becomes all too familiar to her, as Sally remembers. Him. Her beloved-turned-murderer.
Ldm
She has little choice but to back away, calmly, quietly.
Just a week ago, the guys in the apartment next door were rushing to make the ferry for that much-anticipated camping trip. They didn’t even notice as she stood in the hall amused by their last-minute frantic packing. Exactly seven days to the minute, they sit behind closed doors in their respective bedrooms wondering what exactly happened. The story repeats itself in their minds, obsessively, both immersed in guilt, completely estranged, yet just feet away from one another. They have been silent since they have returned. No booming music, no loud laughter. No spoken word. The third roommate, the youngest of the three failed to return from that weekend. His belongings remain undisturbed.
Again, Sally goes unnoticed, but she can see his face: A soft reflection beyond the dark wood of his once-was bedroom door.
She wonders if they’ve seen him.
In suite 248, the young man sits as he’s recently become accustomed to, slumped despairingly on the floor, his back against the sofa. All my plants die in this apartment, he thinks to himself, and all day long he stares blankly at the television set in front of him no matter if it had been turned on or not. Sunlight seems scarce, as he never bothers to pull open the blinds. He has spent his days in this position for quite some time now, it seems, mourning the loss of life itself.
All my plants die in this apartment.
It is unfortunate that you waste your days worrying about death, Sally thinks to herself. She wishes she could somehow express this to him, somehow say it in a way he’d hear her. This man was a friend of hers, not too long ago.
The realization that she has somehow wandered across the hall is brought to her by a sudden gentle whisper. Behind her a man and his girlfriend lay in bed, entangled by each other’s arms and legs, half speaking, half embracing the sound of the rain hitting the windowpane. It almost occurs to Sally that the girl is looking directly at her, foolish, as it may seem, as she speaks to her lover.
I dreamt that we were in a park, you and I and a bunch of friends. Somehow I lost sight of you and right away I began to panic. I couldn’t figure out what happened, where you went. You just suddenly disappeared.
He embraces her face lovingly. Perhaps, concern?
I woke up in a stress, she says, her body pressing closer to his. But you were right here, before me, my arms wrapped around your chest. At that moment I felt closer to you than ever.
They begin to kiss.
Usually this room is empty, as Sally passes through this suite often, her final spot behind the wall…just past their bed…
Once they—the children on the third floor—had bored of it and had asked all they needed to know, or once the elders turned the lock, they slid the game underneath the bed and she was freed to go.
When asked, ‘WHO R U?” on the board, the same question they had inquired before, she smirked and replied: I M THE FLY UPON MY DEATH WATCHING U FROM THE GLASS DOOR.
She is allowed her sense of humour. For that she feels something akin to gratitude. Sally does not understand this next part, only knows it from instinct, a progression, perhaps habit.
From where she had been laying on the living room floor, before they had sent out that beckoning call, the same spot and position Sally had woken up from so many times before. From where Sally had suddenly stood up, on command, without a choice, after she’d heard that intrusive sound echoing from down the hall. This is where Sally finally lays down, in that same position he had left her that one rainy afternoon—after his hands had let go of her throat, and before he had pierced the blade himself into his own—before he’d fallen to his knees, slumped over on the carpet next to where her screaming had already gone unheard.
Forgotten, unnoticed, and then unrecognized so many days afterwards.
As she now gently moves back down into that position where the red stain on her gut meets the wet puddle on the carpet, she sees him, suddenly, standing before her—watching with beastly eyes as she falls defenselessly to the floor. This is the last image, the last memory. Her own personal routine she has been cursed to uphold. There she is, on her left side, her head twisted and lifted, her shocked eyes seeing the smile fade from his face. And it becomes all too familiar to her, as Sally remembers. Him. Her beloved-turned-murderer.
Ldm
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Morning, Sunshine!
At three A.M Thursday morning, in Suite 411, Wendell grins from ear to ear on his couch in total self-adoration. Beaming and smiling, he feels pretty damn good about himself. His stories at the bar that night, always bigger and better or sadder and sorrier than anyone else’s were particularly engaging.
What a charmer, he thinks to himself. What a charmer!
His local just a few short blocks up the drive, he’d forgone the cab in favour of staggering home, stopping only to urinate on a newspaper box. Amused by his own defiance, Wendell declared, “I am not an animal!” after the man who sleeps every night in the bakery’s doorway dared curse something unintelligible his way. Once back in the apartment building, he pounded and kicked at his door when the lock wouldn’t give before finally realizing he had still one more floor to go. He stumbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, snickering loudly, immersed in his own genius mind, grabbed a beer from the fridge, slumped down on the couch in the dark, and spilled all over himself with his first enthusiastic chug. It didn’t matter, though. Wendell raised the bottle for a self-congratulatory toast and began to collect his thoughts from the last few hours he’d spent at the bar.
Ah yes, they really like him there. He knows this well enough to go back at least a couple nights a week, spend the evening, watch the game, listen to the band, engage in thrilling conversations with everyone around him. Whether they expect it or not does not daunt Wendell, as he knows after a few minutes they will be thoroughly entertained by his wit, his passion, his determination to make them laugh or cry or reflect upon their own lives, none of which, of course, would be more interesting than his own. Oh yes, each time he goes he makes a new fan. Tonight he had teased Angie each time she passed by, each time she took his order, each time she refilled his pitcher and the pitchers he bought around him. When she scuffed at his remarks Wendell playfully referred to her as his ‘muse for the night,’ providing him with ample material with her new hairstyle, her ex-boyfriend and the private conversations he’d overheard her having with the other bartenders. A willing victim, as he’s sure Angie’s also his greatest fan. Tonight was especially special. Tonight was the first night of hopefully many to come where he took to the small stage and improvised a bit of stand-up in between the band’s sets. Nobody had asked him to, but he’d taken it upon himself to entertain.
“Brilliant!” Wendell’s inebriated voice fills the room. “Quite brilliant, charmer.”
He hears a cough, suddenly, loud and crisp, as if right behind him. He smells cigarette smoke, as if someone else in the room was smoking. Barely able to even raise his head, he sees he’d left the balcony open, forces himself up and trips through the doorway. There in front of him stands a man in a black leather jacket.
It takes Wendell a moment or two to register the man who smokes on his balcony just a few feet in front of him. He is stocky, a tad taller than he, perhaps a few years older. The man’s face is hidden in the shadows, and when Wendell’s vision is once again focused he stretches out his right arm and points at the man with the same hand that holds his bottle of beer.
“Who da fuck are you?” Wendell blurts out in a language only another drunk would understand. With his other arm he holds onto the outside wall of his bedroom for balance.
The man restrains his voice, speaking quietly and with ease. “I followed you from the bar.” He exhales, adding, “I’m a fan.”
As he says this he smiles but Wendell can spot condescension through any cloud of smoke. Trying to understand, he takes a swig of beer and even a few seconds to hang over the balcony to look down. His vision is still blurry as he barely can see the ground. He scratches his head and finally turns back to the man.
“I climbed.”
The man steps closer, slowly.
“Climbed? But it’s—“
“Four stories.” He grins. “I’m good.”
Directly in front of him now, Wendell finally recognizes the man. He is the lonely bloke who sat at the far end of the bar, keeping to himself and watching quietly from afar. At one point Wendell saw him laugh, but perhaps he was just coughing, now he wonders as sometimes it’s tough to tell. This man stayed right up to the end, until it was just the two of them and the staff left behind. It was Wendell, though, who stayed last, right up until Angie finally kicked him out by, jokingly of course, threatening to call her motorcycle friends.
And now on Wendell’s balcony the man smiles and beams proudly upon being recognized and Wendell notices the right fist and just barely before it makes contact with his face as the man decks him with such enthusiasm Wendell’s mouth and nose make three distinct crackling sounds and Wendell’s beer goes flying over the edge and shatters as it smashes on the ground and Wendell himself slides to the balcony’s damp astroturf surface where he will wake up a few hours later, wet and cold, dazed and bloodied.
The man takes a long final drag of his cigarette before tossing it over the edge and laughs to himself as he rubs his hands together three times and quietly says, “Job well done.”
He continues laughing as he steps over Wendell into the living room where he stands and pisses in one of Wendell’s fake plants. The man’s name is Todd and it is not usually his style to follow people home, in fact, tonight was a first, but this guy here, the guy laying unconscious on his balcony, the guy who spent all night being obnoxious, harassing and irritating everyone at the bar, including the staff and especially that cute waitress, annoyed him so much that he had no other choice but to stay behind a few hours just to give the guy a real story to tell.
If he even remembers it.
Still laughing, Todd makes himself a sandwich in Wendell’s kitchen with leftover turkey and whatever else he can find in the fridge. He packs it to go with some fruit and grabs a few soft drinks for lunch later that day. For his walk home, he grabs a couple beers and toasts Wendell as he lets himself out.
Ldm
What a charmer, he thinks to himself. What a charmer!
His local just a few short blocks up the drive, he’d forgone the cab in favour of staggering home, stopping only to urinate on a newspaper box. Amused by his own defiance, Wendell declared, “I am not an animal!” after the man who sleeps every night in the bakery’s doorway dared curse something unintelligible his way. Once back in the apartment building, he pounded and kicked at his door when the lock wouldn’t give before finally realizing he had still one more floor to go. He stumbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, snickering loudly, immersed in his own genius mind, grabbed a beer from the fridge, slumped down on the couch in the dark, and spilled all over himself with his first enthusiastic chug. It didn’t matter, though. Wendell raised the bottle for a self-congratulatory toast and began to collect his thoughts from the last few hours he’d spent at the bar.
Ah yes, they really like him there. He knows this well enough to go back at least a couple nights a week, spend the evening, watch the game, listen to the band, engage in thrilling conversations with everyone around him. Whether they expect it or not does not daunt Wendell, as he knows after a few minutes they will be thoroughly entertained by his wit, his passion, his determination to make them laugh or cry or reflect upon their own lives, none of which, of course, would be more interesting than his own. Oh yes, each time he goes he makes a new fan. Tonight he had teased Angie each time she passed by, each time she took his order, each time she refilled his pitcher and the pitchers he bought around him. When she scuffed at his remarks Wendell playfully referred to her as his ‘muse for the night,’ providing him with ample material with her new hairstyle, her ex-boyfriend and the private conversations he’d overheard her having with the other bartenders. A willing victim, as he’s sure Angie’s also his greatest fan. Tonight was especially special. Tonight was the first night of hopefully many to come where he took to the small stage and improvised a bit of stand-up in between the band’s sets. Nobody had asked him to, but he’d taken it upon himself to entertain.
“Brilliant!” Wendell’s inebriated voice fills the room. “Quite brilliant, charmer.”
He hears a cough, suddenly, loud and crisp, as if right behind him. He smells cigarette smoke, as if someone else in the room was smoking. Barely able to even raise his head, he sees he’d left the balcony open, forces himself up and trips through the doorway. There in front of him stands a man in a black leather jacket.
It takes Wendell a moment or two to register the man who smokes on his balcony just a few feet in front of him. He is stocky, a tad taller than he, perhaps a few years older. The man’s face is hidden in the shadows, and when Wendell’s vision is once again focused he stretches out his right arm and points at the man with the same hand that holds his bottle of beer.
“Who da fuck are you?” Wendell blurts out in a language only another drunk would understand. With his other arm he holds onto the outside wall of his bedroom for balance.
The man restrains his voice, speaking quietly and with ease. “I followed you from the bar.” He exhales, adding, “I’m a fan.”
As he says this he smiles but Wendell can spot condescension through any cloud of smoke. Trying to understand, he takes a swig of beer and even a few seconds to hang over the balcony to look down. His vision is still blurry as he barely can see the ground. He scratches his head and finally turns back to the man.
“I climbed.”
The man steps closer, slowly.
“Climbed? But it’s—“
“Four stories.” He grins. “I’m good.”
Directly in front of him now, Wendell finally recognizes the man. He is the lonely bloke who sat at the far end of the bar, keeping to himself and watching quietly from afar. At one point Wendell saw him laugh, but perhaps he was just coughing, now he wonders as sometimes it’s tough to tell. This man stayed right up to the end, until it was just the two of them and the staff left behind. It was Wendell, though, who stayed last, right up until Angie finally kicked him out by, jokingly of course, threatening to call her motorcycle friends.
And now on Wendell’s balcony the man smiles and beams proudly upon being recognized and Wendell notices the right fist and just barely before it makes contact with his face as the man decks him with such enthusiasm Wendell’s mouth and nose make three distinct crackling sounds and Wendell’s beer goes flying over the edge and shatters as it smashes on the ground and Wendell himself slides to the balcony’s damp astroturf surface where he will wake up a few hours later, wet and cold, dazed and bloodied.
The man takes a long final drag of his cigarette before tossing it over the edge and laughs to himself as he rubs his hands together three times and quietly says, “Job well done.”
He continues laughing as he steps over Wendell into the living room where he stands and pisses in one of Wendell’s fake plants. The man’s name is Todd and it is not usually his style to follow people home, in fact, tonight was a first, but this guy here, the guy laying unconscious on his balcony, the guy who spent all night being obnoxious, harassing and irritating everyone at the bar, including the staff and especially that cute waitress, annoyed him so much that he had no other choice but to stay behind a few hours just to give the guy a real story to tell.
If he even remembers it.
Still laughing, Todd makes himself a sandwich in Wendell’s kitchen with leftover turkey and whatever else he can find in the fridge. He packs it to go with some fruit and grabs a few soft drinks for lunch later that day. For his walk home, he grabs a couple beers and toasts Wendell as he lets himself out.
Ldm
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Forward (carry on)
He doesn’t have to leave. He has the choice to stay. Life isn’t bad. The days have gotten quite comfortable, in fact (as have the nights). There would be only success from hereon, without a doubt. He’s made friends, made amends, cleaned up his mess, re-connected both with the spiritual world and his physical facsimile. The job has been cushy, but perhaps an alternative is overdue. He’s been very fortunate. Nevertheless, forward thinking involves forward movement. One becomes stagnant when the routine has been perfected to mock-art. His time at the Wylland Estates has been proper…but now the time has come for a fresh perspective.
He’s rolled up his entire existence into one rucksack and a carry on—having given away most of everything, belongings which carried their own stories from too many years ago. Some were donated to charities, some to the dumpster in the back lot. A few were kept and shipped across the ocean to his new home. It hadn’t ever occurred to him how nice it is to be able to carry your world on your shoulders, like Atlas, but with the delight of your Sunday best and embracing the challenge as opposed to fearing it as punishment.
Suite 138 seems a lot bigger since it’s been emptied. Cleaner. The air not as strangled as before. The memories will always remain in these rooms, reenacting themselves like theatre anytime the mind fancies itself to walk through that hall. His ambitions have yet to unfold, but in the near future they will be established and published within various versions of thought and debate from places the imagination has not yet foretold. Only positive experiences are assured. He will start anew: a different name, a skewed past, an undisclosed age… anything to trick the truth—in the name of adventure, not deception as one might assume. Life is but one melody after the next. Another verse leading into another chorus, an ode to that which has not yet been heard.
He checks the display on his phone…the flight leaves in less than four hours. There’s time yet to get one last latte from his favourite barista down the walk. Pretty soon coffee will be an entirely different experience. Not just sugar and cream, but liqueur, cognac, whipped cream and strong espresso over passionate tertulia to keep him safe from harm!
Flicks the light switch and off he goes to tend to the rest of his life. He leaves the door behind him just a tiny bit ajar. There is no animosity, no sadness. Staying, simply, would mean selling himself short. He is filled with anticipation, renewed aspiration. Admiration for those he will miss the most. This has, after all, been the greatest chapter of his life so far.
And he is grateful.
Ldm
He’s rolled up his entire existence into one rucksack and a carry on—having given away most of everything, belongings which carried their own stories from too many years ago. Some were donated to charities, some to the dumpster in the back lot. A few were kept and shipped across the ocean to his new home. It hadn’t ever occurred to him how nice it is to be able to carry your world on your shoulders, like Atlas, but with the delight of your Sunday best and embracing the challenge as opposed to fearing it as punishment.
Suite 138 seems a lot bigger since it’s been emptied. Cleaner. The air not as strangled as before. The memories will always remain in these rooms, reenacting themselves like theatre anytime the mind fancies itself to walk through that hall. His ambitions have yet to unfold, but in the near future they will be established and published within various versions of thought and debate from places the imagination has not yet foretold. Only positive experiences are assured. He will start anew: a different name, a skewed past, an undisclosed age… anything to trick the truth—in the name of adventure, not deception as one might assume. Life is but one melody after the next. Another verse leading into another chorus, an ode to that which has not yet been heard.
He checks the display on his phone…the flight leaves in less than four hours. There’s time yet to get one last latte from his favourite barista down the walk. Pretty soon coffee will be an entirely different experience. Not just sugar and cream, but liqueur, cognac, whipped cream and strong espresso over passionate tertulia to keep him safe from harm!
Flicks the light switch and off he goes to tend to the rest of his life. He leaves the door behind him just a tiny bit ajar. There is no animosity, no sadness. Staying, simply, would mean selling himself short. He is filled with anticipation, renewed aspiration. Admiration for those he will miss the most. This has, after all, been the greatest chapter of his life so far.
And he is grateful.
Ldm
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Next Door
All of them bumps and bones, beautiful boulders, all of them stones. The sleet and slab, the crunch & munch, all of these crackheads near our homes. Scars and scabs, shit and spit, I’ve seen the dance plenty of times before: the swaying, the pulling, the grasping, the scratching—the glare of those red-capped eyes. To me it’s mid-afternoon…to him it’s still the dead of night. I aimed to avoid any type of confrontation with this nontoucher staggering up the centre of the back-alley’s path—his mind, no doubt, choking on the white clouds in the sky. The beamers are all over this city. We’re no strangers to that. Perhaps he’d just been back to back with his bag bride in the underground garage…who knew? The twitching of his tweak he can keep to himself.
White ball white ghost white sugar white tornado, the groaning the moaning the retching the screaming, eyes closed head tilted mouth open, home at long last from his interplanetary mission.
Prior to this I had been irritated to tears by all the crazed aliens in the local grocery store. Never cross Broadway, I keep telling myself, but there are mornings one tends to get lazy. There is a hefty price for that free parking spot.
He dipped suddenly to the concrete, distracted by a pebble, or filter of a cigarette. Henpicking for whatever they might have dropped the night before. I was able to pass unnoticed, relieved no johns had occupied the spot in my absence. I parked and began my struggle with all seven bags to the back door. Mere caution added haste to my steps. There was a diver in my dumpster and I did not want to share. But like a raccoon scrounging in the bushes he grunted his acknowledgment, and with one swooping motion out of the bin he started directly at me.
With bags of food and drink hanging off my wrists, panic crept upwards as the handle to the door would not turn. The lock was stuck and the diver staggered his dance my way. His eyes were fixated on me, his teeth were showing, his hands stretched out front. This was, indeed, the same dope fiend I thought I had left behind. And he was on a mission.
The door gave just in time and I stumbled through with my entire stash. Wanting to be nowhere near the next crack attack, I kicked the door shut to no avail—there is no house fee here. It bounced off his shoulders. The chase was on. He was hefty, strong, a lot bigger than me, purging a lifetime of unforgivable memories, introducing me to his nightmare. I climbed up the three flights, as fast as I could, careful not to drop anything—him right behind me, zombified, tripping on the steps, slamming against the walls.
He followed me to my front door. My heart pounding against my chest, sweat on my chin. I dropped the bags, fumbled with my keys, him just a couple feet away. He then fell straight to the floor and lay there. Motionless. I threw the groceries into my suite and watched for a moment before he finally stirred, lifted himself and began to crawl.
Carpet patrol right at my front door.
He picked himself up with one big heave, leveled himself against the wall. Drool oozed from his mouth. I straightened myself, no longer afraid, prepared to take him on. The binger teetered right past me.
“The devil made me blind.”
Beam me up Scottie.
All of those crumbs on the welcome mat, all of those apple jacks and French fries, the biscuits, the rocks of hell, all the beautiful boulders in the halls. The latest addition to our building had just made his entrance. Meet your new neighbor. Crackhead Bob. Now living directly next door.
Ldm
White ball white ghost white sugar white tornado, the groaning the moaning the retching the screaming, eyes closed head tilted mouth open, home at long last from his interplanetary mission.
Prior to this I had been irritated to tears by all the crazed aliens in the local grocery store. Never cross Broadway, I keep telling myself, but there are mornings one tends to get lazy. There is a hefty price for that free parking spot.
He dipped suddenly to the concrete, distracted by a pebble, or filter of a cigarette. Henpicking for whatever they might have dropped the night before. I was able to pass unnoticed, relieved no johns had occupied the spot in my absence. I parked and began my struggle with all seven bags to the back door. Mere caution added haste to my steps. There was a diver in my dumpster and I did not want to share. But like a raccoon scrounging in the bushes he grunted his acknowledgment, and with one swooping motion out of the bin he started directly at me.
With bags of food and drink hanging off my wrists, panic crept upwards as the handle to the door would not turn. The lock was stuck and the diver staggered his dance my way. His eyes were fixated on me, his teeth were showing, his hands stretched out front. This was, indeed, the same dope fiend I thought I had left behind. And he was on a mission.
The door gave just in time and I stumbled through with my entire stash. Wanting to be nowhere near the next crack attack, I kicked the door shut to no avail—there is no house fee here. It bounced off his shoulders. The chase was on. He was hefty, strong, a lot bigger than me, purging a lifetime of unforgivable memories, introducing me to his nightmare. I climbed up the three flights, as fast as I could, careful not to drop anything—him right behind me, zombified, tripping on the steps, slamming against the walls.
He followed me to my front door. My heart pounding against my chest, sweat on my chin. I dropped the bags, fumbled with my keys, him just a couple feet away. He then fell straight to the floor and lay there. Motionless. I threw the groceries into my suite and watched for a moment before he finally stirred, lifted himself and began to crawl.
Carpet patrol right at my front door.
He picked himself up with one big heave, leveled himself against the wall. Drool oozed from his mouth. I straightened myself, no longer afraid, prepared to take him on. The binger teetered right past me.
“The devil made me blind.”
Beam me up Scottie.
All of those crumbs on the welcome mat, all of those apple jacks and French fries, the biscuits, the rocks of hell, all the beautiful boulders in the halls. The latest addition to our building had just made his entrance. Meet your new neighbor. Crackhead Bob. Now living directly next door.
Ldm
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Just the Luck of the Draw
Just the other night, Jo, a once-was shy girl in her late 20s, decided to bleach her hair platinum so it would resemble the fur of her beloved poodle, Carl. The next morning, she added a bright pink faux-hawk to the mix, and with the leftover dye she gave the unsuspecting pup a similar bright pink pooch-hawk. Together they meandered up the drive and ‘never-minded’ all the people around them. The people were nothing but distraction. Her and Carl were the only two that mattered. Just a girl and her boy walking side by side, water and biscuits in tow, sun in their eyes.
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
Monday, July 30, 2007
how hard had he hit
Such a sad guy here in the shop, lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, quiet and handsome and lonely at his lips, acknowledging rejection with a sigh before he sips. We see him each day crossing from the Estates, as we holler of politics and slam their hands on our plates. We watched as he fell on his face on the walk. We salute as he stands and picks himself up from the block. His heart has been torn his mind has been worn… His passion was loud for the man who had bound his love at the wrists--those feelings--he took them risks! And he wouldn’t dare try to ever deny that there was nothing to gain, even though from Her he must now abstain.
Sheer desperation as he imagines him in the crowds--in the line-ups--at the bicycle mounds. All around there are others, but…they don’t walk the same…they don’t speak his name…they don’t melt the rain. They don’t scorch his flame. The heart is still creaking—full of love and ache; he obsesses of that moment; that hunger one could never fake: that very first kiss which spoke of stories from afar, spinning volumes, burning down your door!
He was served with the book of changes—brought together to reconnect with their minds. Such a short time and meant to inform of so many stages—quite the treasure this excellent find.
Those tiny Ts, the big arms bulging, the tight ripped jeans, the blue eyes indulging and black n’ white and gray all around, nobody came so close to poetry with each muttered sound. And so lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, our sad guy here in our lovely little shop, quiet and handsome and lonely as he sips, suddenly forms a smile with those tenderly chapped lips. As a friend and once lover, as a buddy-turned-brother, his bittersweet pleasure upon conceding that: Love--She is endless… and Love--She’s a treasure… allows his soul to drift—to lift—to infinity, the universe’s indomitable gift.
Ldm
Sheer desperation as he imagines him in the crowds--in the line-ups--at the bicycle mounds. All around there are others, but…they don’t walk the same…they don’t speak his name…they don’t melt the rain. They don’t scorch his flame. The heart is still creaking—full of love and ache; he obsesses of that moment; that hunger one could never fake: that very first kiss which spoke of stories from afar, spinning volumes, burning down your door!
He was served with the book of changes—brought together to reconnect with their minds. Such a short time and meant to inform of so many stages—quite the treasure this excellent find.
Those tiny Ts, the big arms bulging, the tight ripped jeans, the blue eyes indulging and black n’ white and gray all around, nobody came so close to poetry with each muttered sound. And so lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, our sad guy here in our lovely little shop, quiet and handsome and lonely as he sips, suddenly forms a smile with those tenderly chapped lips. As a friend and once lover, as a buddy-turned-brother, his bittersweet pleasure upon conceding that: Love--She is endless… and Love--She’s a treasure… allows his soul to drift—to lift—to infinity, the universe’s indomitable gift.
Ldm
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