92. Sweets on the First Night
June 30, 2008
Setting down the last grocery store banana box on the linoleum floor, Bee’s mom said, “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.” They hugged briefly.
“Thanks, Mom. For helping.”
“I just want you to know I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“You can come home any night you want, even a weeknight, and do laundry and eat dinner. And I’ll drive you to school the next morning. And you can bring friends with you, too.”
“Okay, thanks Mom.”
“Really, come home often. And don’t do drugs or have sex. And if you do, be safe. But don’t.”
“Okay.”
“And if you cross Newcastle, look both ways. And if you need money, call me.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
“Well. I guess you need to unpack.”
Bee looked around the tiny dorm room. There were several days before classes started. “Eventually,” she said. “You can stay longer if you want.”
“No, I’ll go.” Bee’s mom picked up her purse, and then she stopped. “Don’t leave drinks unattended. You know that date rape is a very real thing.”
“Mom!”
“You have to take these things seriously, Bee.”
“Okay Mom.”
“Okay. Bye, sweetie.”
“Bye Mom.” Read the rest of this entry »
91. Peter Parker was from Oregon
June 29, 2008
My uncle was murdered when I was a teenager. After the memorial, I went hiking in the Cascades to sort it all out.
The woods smelled clean. The views were amazing. As night fell, I reached a flat space that looked good for camping. I took off my pack and sat, sweating, on a big rock. After a few minutes’ rest, I pitched my tent and started cooking dinner.
As I was eating, I felt a sudden, searing pain on my thigh. I took of my pants quickly. Sure enough, a strange-looking spider fell away and ran into the bushes. I covered my oozing wound as well as I could with cream and gauze. Then I tried to sleep it off.
The next morning, my wound looked as angry as ever, but it seemed it wouldn’t kill me. At least it hadn’t been a Brown Recluse. I took down my tent and rolled it up. I put the tent bundle in my pack. I noticed my camp was full of ripe huckleberries. I ate a few.
As I headed up the day’s mountain, I felt much more nimble than I usually do. Also, when I tripped over a root, I caught myself by squirting this sticky white junk out of my wrists.
I had become a dude who can do things spiders do.
Sometimes I wonder: should I have felt an urgency? A need to use my new abilities for justice or revenge?
Even if I should have, I didn’t. Sure, there were villains back in the city. But if I took that route, the work would never be done. I’d always let people down.
The sun was golden and mild. I forded a crystal-clear river.
Better to just enjoy myself. Ben would understand.
image: stop.down on flickr
90. They Were Hungry
June 28, 2008
After the barbecue, everyone sat around on the back deck drinking Mexican beers and Lynchburg lemonades. Those who smoked pot or cigarettes lit up, and the glowing cherries winked in and out in the gathering gloom. A Queen LP was on the turntable inside, the speakers pointed outward at the circle of friends. Freddy Mercury sang his heart out about lover boys and bicycles.
The large deck where they all sat was made of wood, slightly rotting and dilapidated but sturdy. Beyond the deck was Michael’s spacious yard, which in the gathering darkness was becoming less and less visible. Beyond that were the woods. Earlier in the evening, when they had served dinner, food had been laid out in Pyrex cake pans and dinner plates on the patchy lawn; there on the lawn the remnants now sat: a pound or so of cold, oily asada, still fragrant with the aromas of cumin and chili. Two marinated drumsticks, fruit juice redistributing itself within their cooked flesh, sitting in a baking dish next to a scattering of split and wrinkled hot dogs. Piles of drying lime slices, shredded cheese, pico de gallo, napkins, grilled peppers, forks, grilled mushrooms, and yellow pineapple and corn on the cob with carmelized brown spots and red flecks of spice clinging to their yellow skin.
Full, the group of friends reclined on the deck, making easy conversation.
“I feel like a cat is going to come and eat all this,” someone said, laughing lazily.
“Yeah, or a raccoon.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.”
But a woman named Amanda, too comfortable and drunk to make conversation, watched the barbecue spread while they talked. Soon something did come out of the shadows, crawling low to the ground. But it was no raccoon, and it wasn’t a cat. It was the right size for a cat, but it had no fur.
The thing ventured into the light of a nearby tiki torch, and Amanda gasped. It looked like a big, brown insect. It was like a beetle, but with almost intelligent eyes. Those eyes were even more disturbing than its size. The thing grabbed the whole pound of asada in its mandibles and started masticating with a sick, wet sound.
Amanda made a horrified, strangled gasping noise. Hearing her, the thing looked at the crowd of people and actually started. It was clearly seeing them for the first time. It looked left and right for a second, apparently thinking, and then darted quickly into the darkness, bringing along its mouthful of steak. Read the rest of this entry »
89. Into the Trash
June 27, 2008
1.
“Something to drink, miss?”
Sarah looked up from the tiny square napkin on her tiny tray.
“Um, Jack Daniels and Coke please.”
“All right, miss, I’m just going to need to—”
“Here,” Sarah said, handing across her passport.
“OK, there you go, and five dollars, and thank you. Something to drink, sir?”
Sarah mixed her tiny, sweet drink. She wished she had asked for no ice. She drank half of it quickly in tiny, cold sips. The passenger in front of her ratcheted his recliner back. Sarah’s hand lay clenched in her lap, one longish, French-manicured thumbnail biting into her index finger and drawing eensy pinpricks of blood. Flying was always torture. What if she never saw Lee again, or her parents? If the plane crashed, Lee would be left to sort out her stuff. They’d only been dating a year. How he would resent her!
Knowing it was neurotic, she lost herself in this strange daydream. Going through her estate would cause her parents and boyfriend to see her dirty socks and underwear, her botched art projects, her old love letters. Draining the last of her Jack and Coke, she thought about her childhood diaries, vitriolic and unedited and full of one-sided, immature ranting.
She decided not to die without giving them a thorough proofread. Read the rest of this entry »
88. Alexis and Marcel
June 26, 2008
1.
The first time Alexis saw Marcel, Alexis was walking to the breakfast table, wearing a knee-length robe and coarse terry slippers. Her hair was uncombed. It was a Saturday. She’d made herself pancakes and eggs and was carrying the plate in one hand and a mug of hot tea in the other, absently contemplating what to read with breakfast—the Times or Martha. That’s when she noticed the strange, young, brown-haired man at her table, wearing all black, his feet propped nonchalantly on one of her expensive maple chairs. With a little yell, Alexis actually dropped the plate of food on the carpet. The scrambled eggs bounced once and returned, quivering, to the plate. A single drop of brown syrup oozed like an afterthought onto the ecru pile.
The man put one hand over his mouth; other than that, he didn’t change his relaxed posture. His weepy brown eyes looked genuinely apologetic.
Alexis was conscious of the ceramic mug of boiling hot tea. She hefted it like the weapon it was.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded. Read the rest of this entry »
87. The Real Problem with Wishes
June 25, 2008
Sherry had to transfer buses downtown on her way home, and on impulse she walked into a small department store. She made a quick circuit through the store, glancing at cheap cotton tunics and pantsuits and dresses and swimwear. Walking by the purses, she remembered she needed a gray and silver handbag to go with a certain suit she liked to wear to work. Sherry saw just the handbag she needed, in a bin marked “SALE - $15 AND UP,” and she purchased it.
At her kitchen table, Sherry cut out all the tiny tags and threw away the crumpled gray paper and folded white cardboard that filled the purse. Her husband Bill watched as Sherry inspected the purse. It was a normal, twenty-dollar bag, like you can find at any cheap store. Imitation, light-gray leather with a large nickel buckle. A boring, necessary purse, almost depressing in its plainness. Even Bill could see this.
Sherry sighed, and said, “I wish I had an actually nice purse for once.”
Bill saw something he hadn’t noticed before, a black corner peeking out from inside the gray handbag. He reached across the table and picked up the black object. It was a large, stunning, designer clutch purse. Its superior craftsmanship was unmistakable. Bill felt a chill when he pulled it out. The black purse was much larger than the gray one.
Sherry gasped. “I wish… for ten thousand dollars,” she said, catching on.
As soon as she’d said it, she felt the purse grow heavy. Sherry opened the shabby nickel buckle and peered inside. Read the rest of this entry »
86. A Glass of Beer and a Pepper Mill
June 24, 2008
A young man with a messenger bag walked into a tavern next to the bus station. This bar was adjacent to the station for long-haul buses—not merely one of the numerous city bus stops that were sprinkled across the city.
The young man sat down at the bar. He made a great show of weariness, or perhaps was simply very tired. He took off the bag and placed it on the adjacent stool. He sighed heavily.
The bartender had wet-looking, gray hair that was cut into a perfect straight line, just below his chin. He had tiny round glasses, just barely tinted gray. He raised his eyebrows and asked the young man what he would like to drink. The bartender had a Southern California accent.
“Budweiser,” the young man said.
The bartender poured the glass of beer. The young man took a sip and looked around at his surroundings. An old woman in a purple cotton dress and a faded pink cap was playing video poker and smoking skinny cigarettes. A boy and girl in high school varsity sweatshirts sat in a booth, busily eating cheese fries, piles of luggage at their feet.
The bartender, who was wiping down the bar, asked how the young man’s day was going.
“My flight was delayed,” said the young man, “so I missed my connection. I just got home, thirty hours late.”
The bartender laughed raspily. It was a strange sound, like the grinding of a pepper mill. The world seemed to slough away layer by layer in the bartender’s rustling laugh, like a pad of tracing paper or a book of soap leaves.
image: mousiekm on flickr
85. The Reservoir
June 23, 2008
I got a pet macaw. I bought the macaw at the pet store and brought it home. I put it in a cage with water and seeds, and I spread newspaper on the floor of the cage. I put in the bells and perches that came with the cage. I placed the cage on a special, tall table in the living room next to the couch and the electric piano.
It was night. After I set up the macaw in his new home, I covered it up. We both went to sleep.
The next morning, I uncovered the cage and started composing the day’s music. I wanted my next album track to be a ballad, and I was working out some simple chord progressions. I was deep in concentration when the bird started talking.
“Meet me at the reservoir!” squawked my macaw. “Reservoir at midnight the fourteenth! Squawk!”
That was tonight. I stopped playing and stared at my bird. He pecked at one of his jingle bells.
“We’ll dump it in the water supply! Squawk! Water supply! Squawk! Midnight the fourteenth!”
Obviously, the macaw was just repeating something it had heard. Why had someone been talking about tainting the water supply in the pet shop, of all places?
Unless, maybe, it was a message just for me.
Just before midnight, I put on my black beanie and my black bodysuit. I grabbed the heavy five-gallon tank and got in the car.
I knew what to do, and I knew where to go. My bird had given me the message.
image: Essjay in NZ on flickr
84. Peanuts
June 22, 2008
Later, Dad tried to defend himself. His excuse was that they shouldn’t be serving peanuts in first class, because there’s no way people will eat such cheap food when they’ve paid so much. I don’t think I buy his excuse.
Dad had an window seat, I was in the aisle next to him, and Mom had a window seat that was one row back and on the opposite side of the plane. We were separated because we’d upgraded from economy at the last minute.
“Watch this, son,” said my dad, picking up a salted legume and winking at me. He flicked the projectile in Mom’s direction.
Mom might have thought it funny to get hit in the head by a salted peanut. I have my doubts about that. I never got a chance to find out how she’d feel about it, though, because the peanut landed right in the mouth of Mom’s snoring seatmate. Mom didn’t even look up.
Her seatmate was a fat man in a suit. He had been sleeping with his head tilted all the way back, his neck rolling over the top of the seat. He had a newspaper section in his lap, folded in eights. Clearly he had been working on the crossword. He was snoring with his mouth open; the peanut went right in. After that, the man started breathing funny and swelling up.
We had to make an emergency landing in the next town with a hospital, even though we were still 800 miles from home, all because my dad flicked a peanut at an allergic man.
image: ♦ Biel’s ® ♦ Gabriel Machado ♦ on flickr
83. Climbing
June 21, 2008
He dreamed he was climbing a mountain. The wind whipped his hair. The sky was a smooth, bright, blue dome. Using only his fingertips, he clung to the firm sandstone and pulled himself upward. Eventually, he reached a ledge, large as a bedroom. The platform of rock was covered in emerald green grass and tiny, blue-gray flowers. He stood and looked out across a stunning vista. It was a carpet of blue and green trees. The tree carpet rolled softly with the topography of the earth beneath the trees’ roots.
When he woke up, he was standing majestically in the gutter, wet leaves clinging to his ankles. He surveyed the city traffic. He smelled urine and cigarette smoke and apples.
He looked down at his palms. There was gravel in his hands and knees, from where he had been crawling along the sidewalk, clinging with all ten fingers.
image: Darren Copley on flickr
