Language is magic. Every sentence spoken is a spell; every speaker, a magician. Those of us who are fortunate remember when words were free! When we could wrap them around our bodies for safety. Words were invitations, not curses.
Not then.
The ones with the blank eyes communicate with points and grunts. They get by, but there is no art to it. No feeling. They are shadows.
The ones who live underground are terrifying. They scuttle between alleys and they scrabble for scraps with torn, bleeding nail-beds.
The “statues” are already dead. They sway to the blues coursing through their bloodstreams. They are human apparitions. You stop seeing them eventually, but at first they can be very unsettling.
Please know, the ones who live under the streets are not the rich who live in bunkers. They still wear white linen and gold. Underground is paradise for them. I am speaking of the ones who live with the rats, not the ones who engineered the disaster.
I am the one who remembers the words. They mean nothing, but they calm me. I say them under my breath while I separate skin from bone.
(Reserved for Mader comments)
ReplyDeleteBeautiful. That last line is a great punch.
DeleteThe man-boy across the table looked far too young to be in this line of work. Too young to be wearing a tailored suit, too young to be in an establishment that served alcohol, and way too young to be in a position where he could dangle this job out to her like a fat, juicy worm on a hook. Yet here she was. Broke again. With the rent due and her mother needing dialysis and a two-year-old needing—everything. And this guy. This fucking guy. Smiling that oily man-baby smile at her like he knew how badly she needed to get him to yes. She'd answered his questions, and he'd nodded at every one, exuding Axe body spray and sleaze. Now he was poking at his phone, frowning, maybe he'd lost one of his Kalshi bets or a shit-ton of bitcoin. Then his lifted his gaze back to her. "Sorry," he said. "I gotta take this."
ReplyDeleteAnd he stalked out. She stared into what was left of her club soda and lime, and said no to the bartender, who'd sidled over and asked if he could get her something. But then he was still kind of hovering, an expression on his face like he was making up his mind. It was a rough face, with scars and a scrabble of beard and someone's initials on the left side of his neck. But she liked the look of it, and she had far more faith in the honesty of it than the preening, sculpted guy who'd just left.
"Mind if I sit a minute?"
She shrugged a shoulder.
He lowered himself to the chair, set paw-like hands on the edge of the table. "This guy"—he cocked his chin toward the door—“you might want to give it a few thinks before getting mixed up with him. He's bad news."
"And you let him conduct business here? Seems like that would be bad news for you."
"Kinda gotta," he said, with a sigh. "We go way back. Just you don't look the type to be at his table."
She sat up straighter. "And what type is that?"
The unbearded part of his face blushed. It was kind of cute. "Oh, you know. The hair. The makeup. Way too much plastic surgery."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment or a warning?"
"Kinda both, I guess. I'm just saying—look. I got no business telling you what to do, but if you need money that bad, I know people, could get you something honest that pays decent."
"Hey, hey, Eddie," the man-boy said as he sidled back in. "You poaching my talent?"
He raised his hands as if in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, bruh. Just having a friendly chat."
"Yeah, okay, friendly chat over."
Eddie nodded and went back behind the bar.
The man-boy smirked at him, then he sat and put his phone face down with great deliberateness.
"Okay, we're done with that. So, your background check came back clean. That's the last step. Now. You gonna run my campaign or not?"
She pressed her lips together. Try as she might, she couldn't get the bartender's words out of her head. "Yeah, about that. No. I'm not."
His eyes flashed. "Fine. Fuck you, then." He shot to his feet. "Fuck you for wasting my time. When I win—and I will win—you'll be sorry you didn't hitch your wagon to my star. And you can pick up your own fucking tab."
Then he grabbed his phone and left.
She sat a moment, composing herself. She left a ten on the table, and a business card on the bar.