166. Amanda
September 12, 2008
Before Amanda started volunteering at the elementary school, she was insecure and paranoid. But slowly, as she interacted every day with the other volunteers, she became more self-confident and trusting. Before, she had thought everyone liked to destroy one other. She would think people were picking her apart as soon as she left a room, but soon she came to believe that people actually wanted to hold one another together, like glue or compression.
In short, doing good in her community made her feel better about herself. She knew she was a cliché.
She worked all day long on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The reading room smelled like construction paper and glue. It was next to the cafeteria. Around 11:30, the smells of lunch would invade the reading room: canned corn, gravy, pizza. The children would become inattentive and squirmy. During that shift, she would have to do the reading for them.
Amanda forgot her lunch one day, and she went into the cafeteria between tutees. There was chicken soup. She bought a bowl.
“I’d be careful eating that, if I were you,” said the pretty, sharp-nosed woman who took Amanda’s money. Read the rest of this entry »
163. Eggs
September 9, 2008
Amanda is sitting at a wooden table on the moon. The table has a yellow tablecloth that is frayed along one edge. Amanda is waiting to be served a soft boiled egg. She hasn’t seen another person on the moon since she got here, but she has the distinct impression that soon she will be served a boiled egg, in a small pink ceramic cup. She wonders who will bring it.
Amanda is used to being served snacks. Her mother loves to serve snacks. Almost every time Amanda sees her mother these days, her mother gives her a snack. But her mother would never serve anything as pedestrian as a soft boiled egg in a pink ceramic cup. Back on Earth, when Amanda was a child, her mother would give her a single drop of thick, syrupy olive oil after school, or a teaspoon of wild truffle mousse. She would make chestnut puddings, shellfish jellies, blackberry hollandaises, herbed crème brûlée. She was partial to certain viscosities. She thought solids were a copout and liquids were overplayed. She tacitly approved of gases, at least in theory. Soft-boiled eggs were suspicious.
Every year on Thanksgiving, they ate a savory marmalade with flecks of turkey, with thick cranberry yogurt and creamed potatoes. The blobs made their plates look like painters’ palettes. You could paint a sunset with them, or some autumn leaves.
Of course, Amanda got to the moon by flying. She flew up and up, clearing the Earth’s atmosphere. She flew through cold space for days. Eventually she reached the moon. The surface of the moon was very dusty. The table was not difficult to find; it was laid out for her.
She waits, studying her reflection in the back of a spoon.
image: cafemama on flickr
156. Fried Chicken, Octopus, and Pineapple Pizza
September 2, 2008
I heard this story from the valedictorian of my high school class. I’ve never met a more upstanding or trustworthy guy. In high school, he never drank or did any drugs, he never seemed competitive but he was good at everything he tried, and he did a lot of volunteer work. Our senior year, he even starred in the school musical. I thought he was cute and funny, but I never had romantic feelings about him, and at lunchtime I would ask him for advice about guys. After high school, he did very well in political science at a state university, and then he did some entry-level politcal work, eventually making his way to the city council. He’s been on the city council ever since, although sometimes he also teaches history as a substitute.
All in all, he’s not the type to make up stories just to mess with people. He’s well-informed and rarely wrong. There aren’t very many people that I will just believe, hands-down, on any subject, but he’s one person who just exudes truthfulness and accuracy. Read the rest of this entry »
151. Courtesy
August 28, 2008
“Is that a job application?”
“I don’t think I can live on minimum wage anymore.”
“You should be a shift leader. Or work at the fancy grocery store. They have benefits.”
“Holy crap.”
“What.”
“The fancy grocery store opens at eight, but the bakers have to be there at two.”
“Wow. You’d have to go to bed at five.”
“Or just not go to bed. I could sleep when I got home from work. Here’s a courtesy clerk position. I’m going to apply for that.”
“What’s a courtesy clerk?”
“It’s like a bagboy…. They want to know how much I want to make. What should I put?”
“Would you be OK making nine?”
“Um.”
“Ten?”
“I’ll put ten.”
“I think if you put twelve they would not call you because of it, but I don’t think they’d do that for ten.”
*
“O-kay. I’ve brought you both here at once so you can tell me, and each other, why you’re right to be our courtesy clerk. O-kay?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah.”
“O-kay. So, Megan, you put on your application that you’d like to make ten dollars an hour. And Ashley, you said seven. Could you each tell me a little more about that?”
“I said ten because I’d like to make ten. Isn’t seven below minimum wage?”
“Oh, it is? Well minimum wage would be fine then. Hee hee.”
“O-kay. Why don’t you each tell me about a time when you provided or received excellent customer service?”
“Hee hee. Well, once a customer wasn’t happy with the price of something, so I gave it to her for free.”
“I, uh… wow, really? I once remade a man’s beverage four times. In the end, he was satisfied, and he gave a big tip.”
*
At the grocery store, there is free expired food. And health insurance.
image: homemadeoriginals on flickr
149. Tommy
August 26, 2008
Tommy Nook slept with Melissa Merritt for a year before he heard her speak more than one word at a time.
“I don’t think it’s working out,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”
The biggest shock was hearing all those words tumble out of her mouth.
*
They met in a radish patch. Their college had organized an optional trip to pick and pickle radishes. Actually, Tommy had organized it. A decades-dead trustee named Mrs. Witherspoon had left an endowment just for feeding students in odd ways. “No pizza parties,” she had specified. “No restaurants. No stockpiles of dried noodles. Fruit-picking, hunting, and food-sculpture outings are appropriate.” Tommy was on the committee whose job it was to interpret Mrs. Witherspoon’s instructions. He organized butter churnings, bean peelings, hot chocolate brew-offs.
A dozen students had elected to go to the farm. Tommy worked next to a freshman with a kerchief on her head. She chattered incessantly. Unsure whether she was speaking to him, Tommy just worked. Occasionally he muttered confirmations or nodded. He dug into the soft earth with his trowel and threw the messy, wet radishes in their communal bucket.
When the talkative freshman paused for air, Tommy took the excuse to stand and stroll around. He wanted to make sure that all the students were participating and having a good time. That’s when he noticed Melissa walking next to him.
He looked over at her. Her eyes were huge and round, even in profile. Bulging, spherical eyes that were almost too big for her head. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and there were smudges of dirt on her temples.
“I’m Tommy,” he said.
“Melissa.”
“Are you, um, having a good time?”
“Sure.”
She stopped walking then, and he turned to look at her. She had a smile on her small mouth, and she raised an eyebrow. Then she walked off, beyond the radishes and cucumbers, into the corn.
*
It made sense that it didn’t work out between them. She was a figment of his imagination.
“How is it even possible that I can see you?” he asked her once.
“Calcification.”
“What does that even mean?” he asked. She only shrugged.
image: T.SC on flickr
tomorrow: plot!
110. At a Supermarket in Japan
July 18, 2008
I’m busy today with my quote real job unquote. So please enjoy this thing, which was first published on the awesome blog sixsentences.
He holds up a packet of chocolate-flavored instant ramen; “We have to get this,” he says. Aloe juice, mushroom cookies, sugary squid jerky: even if all you saw was our basket, you’d know we were foreigners, or children. We reach for the most ready-to-eat tidbits and the gaudiest packages. Meanwhile, old ladies, natives here, buy the big, plain bags of dried sardines. Do they use them for soup? I wish something stranger than us would happen here: a pterodactyl crashing through the front door, or a bear picking up bottles of shampoo between two of its claws.
image: ♥ he@rt ♥ on flickr
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 »
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 »
71. The Hole in the Wall
June 9, 2008
Every time Jennifer went on a weekend business trip, Dan did the same things. He wore underpants or a robe, and often nothing at all. He watched TV and ate take-out crap and drank too much. He passed out on the couch and stopped shaving. This weekend was no exception.
Naked on the couch and suddenly awakened, Dan sat up. It was four in the morning. A half-eaten pizza—slathered with cold, perspiring extra cheese—and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat on the coffee table. The TV played an infomercial for some fat-busting, vibrating strap. His eyes were bloodshot and dehydrated from booze. Sore in a dozen places, he stood up and absently scratched the side of his balls. He smacked his lips. He padded into the kitchen, loaded a tumbler with ice cubes from the grinding fridge-front contraption, and filled the glass with water. He stood stark naked in the kitchen, drinking the water and scolding himself.
I’m getting too old for this.
In the living room, the male announcer extolled the virtues of the his fat jiggler. Act now and you’ll get a free mustache plucker! Ladies, can you afford not to?
Disgusted, Dan went back into the living room and switched off the advertisement. He had started watching Thinner at midnight but hadn’t even stayed awake for the gypsy curse. Now it was almost five AM. Time for bed.
As gloomy slience replaced the TV’s chatter, Dan realized he heard a strange noise coming from the den. Like paper crinkling. Or something crunching.
“What the hell,” he muttered. “Fine.” Might as well take a look. He limped down the hallway, scratching his balls again. That crunching sound got louder.
He eased open the door. Everything looked normal and still. Books lined the shelves. The old Mac tower stood cool and silent next to the black dead rectangle of the monitor.
Crunchcrunchcrunch. There it was again, louder. Now he realized it was definitley not paper crinkling: this was a crunching. Read the rest of this entry »
56. Sugar Mines
May 25, 2008
The world was full of sugar. That’s why the flowers and grasses popped up as cakes and toffees and boxes of grape juice: caves underneath the soil were full of raw, crystalline sugar and rock-hard dried molasses. Materials from these massive underground sugar deposits developed colors and textures when exposed to the sunlight. They washed up as jimmies and sprinkles on the beaches. The natural waterfalls were fountains of cola and butterscotch.
Some of the mountains were full of glitter, too. People melted down the glitter to make things like rainbow blasters and hovercars.
A long time ago, some people tried to mine the sugar caves. This happened around the same time that they discovered that sugar was delicious. The first person to think of mining and exporting the sugar was Wallaby Nightstick. Read the rest of this entry »
