The red ball.

The one they had at recess.  For kickball.  For general mayhem.  The one that inflated and warmed in the sun.  The one you took to the nuts a couple times.  The one that embedded your braces in your lips.  The one you could really sink your foot into.  Crosshatched and beautiful.  Remember that ball.  That ball is your world.  Everything you ever needed was embodied by that ball.  But you got greedy.  You got monied.  You stopped empathizing with Holden Caufield and realized he was the phoniest, whiny-bitchiest one in the book.  Much rather be friends with Stradlater.  Fuck, even Ackley.  But man, you could kick the shit out of that ball.  And that used to be more important than almost anything.   And then you moved on to drugs and parties and girls and bullshit jobs you hated, hoping in some dark, cobwed infested part of your mind that the kickball was still waiting.  But it is not.

Morgen Bailey's lovely podcast.

Morgen Bailey did a critique of my story, "Green", featured on this blog.



Thanks Morgen!

The drunken pencil.

      A man named John wakes up.  It is Monday morning.  His eyes and throat burn with regret.  There is a film of bourbon sweat on his forehead and upper lip.  His forehead is wrinkled and creased with age.  John is 42 years old.
     John woke up because the alarm woke him up.  He takes a shower because otherwise people will view him with contempt and snicker behind his back.  It doesn't matter what John does for a living.  The only thing that does matter is that he hates it.  He loathes it.  It is a parasite sucking the very hope from his shriveled heart.  Every day John goes to work and every day he smiles and agrees with something which, in his soul, he thinks is repugnant and devoid of value.
     John has car payments to make and his student loans never seem to disappear no matter how often he wishes that they would.
     Sometimes John talks to women.  In fact, he is relatively certain that he could have a girlfriend if he really wanted one.  There is just some block.  Something that prevents him from pursuing the matter.  He is like a bird dog that is too old to hunt.  John is only 42 years old.
     Beer cans collect beside John's stove.  He is ashamed of them, but he also doesn't care.  They make him drunk enough to tolerate the banality of his existence in the world.  Sometimes John thinks about the past.  When he does he usually thinks about third grade.  There was a girl in third grade that John loved more than he has ever loved anyone or anything since.  Her name was Rachel and she had hair that fell in soft waves and curled around her face.
     In third grade, John was the best artist in his class.  Everyone agreed.  He was neat and orderly with his lines, allowing them to fall onto the paper using his hand muscles only to guide their descent.  John flew threw his drawings.  When he was holding a pencil he felt free.
     Throughout the rest of John's educational career he got by on his ability to bullshit and the fact that artists were considered different.  He was allowed certain freedoms that he did not appreciate.  John thinks of this sometimes when he is on his fourth or fifth beer.  Sometimes he even picks up his pencil, but he can never think of anything to draw.

Anthony

My stomach turned as I felt the bat sink into the
softness of Anthony's skull.  I had expected it to be
harder.  It wasn't hard at all.  I thought it would
feel like hitting a wooden block.  It felt more like a
watermelon.  Everything slowed down for a second after
the initial impact.  I watched his legs crumple under
him and he fell like a shadow.  Like all the air had
been let out of him.  He fell in rhythm with the
churning of my stomach.  There was a sickness inside
me.  I felt the echoes of the blow.  Felt them in my
spine.  Anthony lay where he fell.

I looked around me.  Nothing.  No one.  It was dark
and the night was thick with fog.  I reached numb
fingers into Anthony's pockets and found little.  A
few dollars crumpled in the pocket of his jacket.  His
cell phone.  His inhaler.  I took the money and the
phone and then I started to run.  Everything was still
too slow.  My thoughts.  My feet.  I wanted to speed
them up.  I ran for what seemed like hours and then I
slumped against the wall.  I wondered if Anthony was
dead.  When I had first thought of it, after school,
it seemed harmless enough.  I would hit Anthony with
the bat and that would be enough.  He would know that
you shouldn't mess with people you don't know anything
about.  Now that I'd heard the sound.  Now that it was
locked inside me, rattling through my body, it seemed
a lot more complicated.  I turned my head to the
side and the vomit erupted from me.  Even when it was
gone I couldn't stop.  I felt my body trying to push
it all out of me.  Then I realized
that I was crying.

Doris

            Frank was in the backyard tending to the nightcrawlers while the rest of the family cleaned the dishes.  It was three in the kitchen.  Mom, Dad, and me.  Frank was on nightcrawler duty because he called Doris the Whoris a cunt.  Doris was one of our neighbors.  I didn’t know what a cunt was at the time.  Or what a whoris was.  All I knew was Doris liked to wear her red and black bikini all the time.  She liked to drink beer.  She made my Dad blush.  And my mom hated her.

            I was just glad to have a night away from the worms.  Usually it was something Frank and I did together.  He was 16, eight years older than me, and he spoke in a language I didn’t understand.  It was all ‘shit’, ‘pussy’, ‘fuck’, ‘cocksucker’.  I didn’t know what they meant, but I liked the sound of them and I knew better than to ask Mom or Dad.  I didn’t like the word ‘cunt’.  Mom and Dad were yukking it up while I dried the dishes, and I rolled the word around in my mouth, enough to realize I didn’t like the feel of it.  It seemed to be rough on every edge.  I knew it was a dirty thing to call Doris.  So, I was mad.  I liked Doris a lot.

            The reason I liked Doris was because she was unlike any woman I had ever met.  She wasn’t what you would call pretty.  She was certainly lumpy.  She was soft and nice, and she always smelled like straw.  She’d always invite me over for a glass of tea when I passed her house.  She even showed me her boobs once which made me feel strange.  She was mad about some complaint from a neighbor.  “For shits sake, they’re just tits!”  And then they were right there and I felt funny and Doris laughed.  “Honey, you blush like that, you’re gonna make me change my ways.”

            My mom didn’t like me to hang out with Doris.  None of the moms in the neighborhood liked it, but we were there all the time.  She was the kind of woman that children feel safe around.  I heard my parents arguing about it one time.  I couldn’t make out the words at first, just the name.  Then I heard my dad shout: “Jesus Christ, Arlene.  You know them boys down the way fucked her up so she can’t have none of her own.  Have a heart.”

            It had never occurred to me that any woman could be incapable of having kids.  I told Frank about it, but he already knew.  I guess everyone knew but me.  I was too young to watch the news.  But after that I was more careful about spending time with Doris.  I walked by more often.  I let her hug me a little longer.  I knew what it felt like to want something you couldn’t have.  I knew that feeling all too well.

Blood -a Response to Clicking Heels by Ryan Novack-

            The blood was thick in his eyes.  Warm.  Slick to the touch…like motor oil.  His Dad’s suede jacket was ruined.  For some reason this affected him more than the smoking wreckage of the mini-van. 

            Was everyone OK?  That was the first thing.  That was everything.  And everyone was.  Battered.  Broken glasses.  A cut knee like a crescent moon.  The twisted metal had shaved half of his head and there was the blood, but it was OK.  His arm burned.  His back was numb.  OK.

            He wished he was dead.  It was stupid.  But he couldn’t help it.  He could still hear the screams.  He knew he would always hear the screams.  See the sparks.  See the center divider rocketing toward his face.  Always live in the slow motion nightmare that had just unfolded without his permission.

            That was the worst part.  Without his fucking permission.  It had all happened so goddamn fast.  And there was one person who could have stopped it.  Fixed it.  And he knew who that person was.  And he knew that everyone else knew who that person was. 

            He was dizzy.  He checked on his friends and then he sat down and started vomiting.  And then there were lights.  So fucking bright.  And police.  And paramedics.  And they were all very kind.  And they spoke in calm voices.  And he hated them for it. 

            And then there was the board.  Strapped down.  News camera in his face.  White spotlight.  He was not a violent person, but he would have given anything to beat that reporter with his camera.  Blood still in his eyes.  And grit.  Broken glass, they said.  He had already rubbed it in. 

            Rub it in.  He knew that everyone would rub it in.  He had no disillusions about the ugliness of the world.  It did not surprise him when he returned to school half-scalped and the first girl he saw said, “So, I heard you tried to kill all your friends this weekend?”

            But we are not there yet.  Cops.  Drinking?  No.  He had never been really drunk.  Not yet.  But, by god, it was coming.  Years of it.  He asked the cop if they would get in trouble for the cigars in the van.  The cop gave him a long sad look he would not understand for twenty years. 

            Is it impossible to lift someone into an ambulance gently?  It must be.  It must always be whack, thud, slam.  More soft voices.  Going to the hospital.  Call your parents.  Oh, god, please don’t call my parents. 

            He was lying on his back when they came to pick him up.  Everyone else had been released with minor injuries.  His were more severe, but not severe enough to keep him in the hospital where he was safe.  There was no talking on the way home.  His mom tried to help him as he stood, hands braced against the sink.  Trying to get all the glass out of his hair and eyes.  Dad put a stop to that.  He spent the night lying in bed, bloody, spinning, wondering if he was alive and hoping he wasn’t.  He would spend many nights like that, years, before he realized that there wasn’t any penance that needed to be paid 

Coffee Shop.

            John woke up groggy, with sandpaper eyes.  His thoughts were scattered and absurd.  He could not remember whether or not he needed to get up.  He was lost in the dream, its tendrils clinging to his arms like limp spider webs.  He was confused.  His confusion made him angry.  His anger made him apathetic.  His apathy made him pull his pillows over his head.  Pulling his pillows over his head made everything dark again and, in the darkness, he felt safe.  He felt as if nothing could harm him.  He also knew that the darkness would not last. 

            John’s thoughts were gaining momentum and it felt as if his chest was being crushed by invisible weight.  John thought with a shy smile that he might be having a heart attack.  In some ways he hoped that it was the case.  It would simplify certain things.  It would create complications for others, but John would be free.  Thinking about this made John feel incredibly selfish.  Feeling selfish made John feel indignant.  Feeling indignant made John thirsty, so he dragged himself out of bed and made a cup of tea to take into the shower. 

            The tea made John feel like maybe he would be able to survive the morning.  It was sweet and warm and everything that the world was not.  The world was cold and gray, literally and figuratively.  The world was filled with droning voices and boring people.  Ugly, belligerent people.  Stupid people.  John hated the world.  But he also didn't care.  He was conflicted, and the hot water pounding on his back only added rhythm to the confliction.  There were snatches and snips of songs in John's mind.  Lyrical turns.  Phrases.  John's mind was a jumble.  Propaganda.  Sitcoms.  Commercial jingles.  John's mind was junk food and chips.  Candy and pretzels.  John was halfway dressed when his self loathing began to ebb.  It was replaced with resignation.  Another day, another dollar.  Ed would say it...as soon as John walked into the coffee shop, he would say it.  And John would smile, but secretly he would want the coffee shop to explode.  Another day, another reason to drink too much.  Another day, another genocide somewhere in the world.  Another day, another emotional pinball machine explosion.

           

            “Another day, another dollar, eh Johnny?”

            Ed was a block of a man.  He was tall and solid right down to his brain.  He was not a bad person.  He was simple.  Many times, in fact, John thought it was he who was the bad person for loathing such a poor, ignorant bastard. 

            “Yeah, Ed.”

            The coffee shop was an institution in West Grove.  It had been there as long as anyone could remember.  It would probably be called a diner by a visitor (if anyone ever visited West Grove).  The name of the coffee shop was Coffee Shop.  Ed was the owner, his great grandfather had been the first oaf to man its cash register.  John was the cook.  Waitresses came and went, fluttering like fall leaves.  They rotated based upon school breaks and graduations.  They were impermanent.  Not so, Ed and John.

           

            John was 20 when he started working at the coffee shop.  That was ten years ago.  The world was a different place then, but the coffee shop was the same.  This is the main thing that John hated and loved about the coffee shop.  It was quiet for a few minutes as John got his area set.  Plate with a big slab of butter…meats organized.  Then John went out to sit at the counter where Ed was waiting with a cup of coffee. 

            “So, how you feelin’ today Johnny?”

            “”Good Ed.  I feel good.  How about you?”

            “Oh, you know.  The kids are home from school so there’s always something going on at the house.  Trevor is gonna be the death of us all, I swear it.  That boy has the hellfire in his eye.  Came home the other night drunker’n a skunk and puking everywhere.  All the time, just smilin’.”

            “Yeah, he’s at that tearing it up age, I guess.”

            “You weren’t like that Johnny.”

            “I was getting up at 5am and standing over a griddle all day.  I was too tired to tear anything up.”

            “Yeah, I reckon that’s right, ain’t it?  Sometimes I forget you never went to school, what with them books you’re always readin’.”

            Both men looked up as the bell above the door tinkled.  It was Henry.  He was always the first customer.  6am.  Right on the button.  The other regulars would be in soon.  John walked back into the kitchen and started on the two eggs and bacon Henry began every day with.  Henry never talked.  Years ago they had fallen into a pattern.  You order the same thing in the same place long enough and people start to catch on.  Henry never had been chatty; now he only spoke in grunts.  One for hello and one for goodbye.  He was a funny old man.  Eighty if he was a day.  Always dressed in a suit.  The pants never quite matched the jacket, but he was clean and dignified.  His face was a mass of wrinkles, haphazard lines cut by something harder than laughter.  John hit the bell and placed the steaming plate onto the counter.  Ed grabbed it on his way around the ketchup boxes and placed it in front of Henry who nodded and picked up a fork.

            You didn’t know Johnny when he was a kid, so let me fill you in a little.  Almost everyone in town knew Johnny.  They knew him for two reasons.  He always had the best grades in his class, and he could throw the holy heck out of a baseball.  But that was about all they knew.  He was quiet, polite, and got in just the right amount of trouble.  He was a tough boy to dislike.  Maybe that’s why certain things went unnoticed.  Like the fact that Johnny always had more bruises than the other kids.  Folks just figured he played every game with the heart he played baseball with.  But there were other things.  Forged notes.  Missed class trips.  His parents never saw a game.  And the town never saw them. Something about Johnny deflected questions. 

            Johnny was popular with girls his whole life.  He was dopey-eyed and handsome in a sloppy way.  He was gentle and kind.  In some ways, Johnny was the pride of West Grove.  No one doubted for a second that he would go to college, throw the heck out of some baseballs, meet a sorority girl, and get married.  Johnny graduated with the highest GPA in West Grove history.  His valedictorian speech was short.  Humble.  Everyone wanted their picture with Johnny afterwards, which was easy since his parents were not there to get in the way.  When Johnny didn’t go to college, the town was shocked.  He’d had plenty of offers.  Then Johnny disappeared.  Then a year later he was back, with a stoop in his shoulders and calling himself John.  He got the job at the coffee shop and a library card and that was that.  Johnny was dead.  Off the face of the earth.  Unless you went to the coffee shop, and even there he was lost in the sizzle of the grill.  Just a balding man named John.