Still Frames & Stilettos

Untitled (Unfinished)

2011-05-31T19:29:00.000-07:00

Untitled
Preface
Rae and Conick were a perfect match. As soon as they met there was an innate connection between them. They both came from elite families and floated their way through high school. Their parents’ connections landed them at Harvard. They spent the majority of their freshman year getting high together, on anything they could find. Their roommates hated them, and their professors loved them. No one could spew ten pages of bullshit onto a paper better than them. Whatever it was, politics, British Literature, philosophy, didn’t matter. High, straight, or somewhere in between, it didn’t matter. They lived for the moment, and for each other. They spent all of their free time together. They were not officially dating, or in any kind of relationship. Conick had a girlfriend from back home whom he had not mustered up the courage to break up with yet, and Rae had attachment issues. They remained in what they both saw as a comfortable friend zone. Essentially, they were friends while they were sober, but when they were compromised, anything was fair game. They were rarely sober. To them life was a race, and they were sprinting for the finish line.

1.
“I’m lovin this shit man, it’s like, totally numbing. Where the fuck did you get it?” Rae looked up from her arm at Conick. She eased the needle out of her arm and cradled it like a newborn.
“Some guy at the 76 hooked me up.” He took the needle from Rae. He also treated it with the utmost reverence, taking it from her gently. “Dude looked like Bob fuckin Dylan. I swear to god.” He pulled the skin on his arm as tight as he could and violently thrust the needle in.
“Shit! I can’t get it in there.” His arm was bleeding pretty badly; he seemed not to notice.
“Must have been an ugly motherfucker then.” Rae watched as the blood from his arm flowed onto the floor and bloomed. It made pretty kaleidoscopic figures on the dirty whitish carpet.
“Maybe you should give your arm a break sometime there chief. It looks like a fuckin dartboard.” She laughed more than the joke merited and rolled around on the floor, getting blood on her shirt.
“Thanks for the advice there, Mrs. Guidance counselor. Not all of us can do shit and not get attached. You’re fuckin lucky, a genetic lottery winner. You did that shit with me and Bowley and felt no backlash. I was batshit crazy for a week after that.” He looked at her for a response but clearly was not going to get anything intelligible. “Fuck this” he threw the needle in the trash and sat on the couch. Conick turned on his Mac book and sighed. He had put off his term paper for weeks already and didn’t feel like doing it now. Rae crawled on the floor in front of him. He put his feet on top of her like she was a coffee table, something his room was definitely in need of due to a recent mishap that rendered the old one unusable. It wasn’t until he shifted his legs that she even noticed, but still did not seem to care.
“I should use this shit every time my vag is bleeding. Write that down Conick, once a month you need to get this shit from Bobby Dylan over at the 76. You’re my best friend man. Best…” Conick didn’t know why he expected her to complete her sentence. He looked back to his computer and clicked on the file, Term Paper(revised). He had added “revised” to the file name after he had put his name and course number in the upper left hand corner. He didn’t care about geopolitical consequences of the economic downturn. He was pretty sure his professor didn’t either. He was one of those professors that gave off the vibe that he would rather be playing golf.

The whole room was blooming. The dirty carpet was growing new fresh carpet stems. The crinkled blinds on the window were smoothing out and extending themselves well past the window sill. The couch Conick was sitting on was getting taller. Up went Conick, king of the Jews, on his leather throne, getting higher and higher off the ground. The TV was big enough now to be in a movie theater. Rae lay on the floor and observed the room’s transformation. There was a vague pressure on her stomach, but it was nothing compared to the usual period pains she felt that had been washed away by Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan. That seemed like a good name for this miracle drug. She crawled on all fours like a tiger to the windowsill.
“Huntin down your prey over there?” Conick’s voice was just background noise. Rae was being called to the windowsill. It had beckoned her to come over. It promised to share only its best secrets. She leapt at the windowsill from her hunting stance. Her nose broke and became a leaky blood facet. Rae didn’t notice. Blood pooled on the windowsill as she put two fingers between the blinds and did a scissoring motion four or five times. Finally, she stopped her fingers when they were open and peered out the window. The secrets were about to be hers, at last, it was time. She wouldn’t need to graduate anymore; she didn’t need to worry about passing Chemistry. This was all she needed.
Maybe it was the sunlight, or the loss of blood, but that was it. She snapped out.
“Fuck! Conick. Conick. Conick” She looked around frantically. “What now?” he didn’t look up from his computer screen, he had finally begun to make some progress. He had a few cohesive sentences.
“He’s coming back. I saw him through the window.” She looked down at her hands as she said this.
“Well shit. What did I do?” Conick finally looked up from his computer. “Jesus Christ Rae. What
the fuck, you look like Carrie” She froze, and stared back at him pensively. He was thoroughly confused.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Carrie from the horror movie, or the ugly bitch from Sex & The City?” Her face remained serious for as long as she could manage before a bloody smile came across Rae’s face. The smile turned into laughter, and Conick could not help but join in. That’s how they were when Conick’s roommate got back, just standing there laughing.

Powell Porter did not approve of Conick Audrey, or the company he kept. He had filled out the roommate survey with great care, making sure to mention that cleanliness and early hours had a five star value of importance to him. Powell spent a great deal of time wondering how he had been stuck with Conick. Conick spent the majority of his time finding various ways to get high, and to piss off Powell, or so it seemed. He and his worthless friends yelled Prick! at Powell across campus nearly every day. Conick rarely, if ever, went to class. He spent most mornings sleeping something off, depending on the day. What really made Powell angry was that Conick still made superior grades than him, and reminded him constantly of this.
The room was regularly compromised by three or four people being passed out and sprawled on the floor. This particular inconvenience had happened on the day Powell’s parents had come to visit. He had been eager to show them his room, which he had spent nearly three hours making sure, was as well-manicured as the eighteenth green at the masters.
“It’s really not much, just my humble abode,” he chattered on to his parents and laughed a bit to himself as he turned the key in the door. What greeted them was not the neatly organized room he had left. A two liter of Mountain Dew was toppled over and still spilling, the carpet bubbling. Three people, Conick, Rae, and the one whose name Powell had never bothered to learn, were all passed out on the floor. A bottle of Mr. Boston was on the coffee table, nearly empty, placed neatly on a coaster, taunting Powell. The three youths were on the floor in a circle around a half eaten pizza, their faces buried in it, with tomato sauce smeared on their faces, like some bizarre religious ritual.
It had taken Powell months to smooth over that ordeal with his parents, but he still wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he came home. There they were that horrid girl and him, she covered in blood; with copious amounts of what he could only assume was also her blood, on the floor. Her nose looked badly broken. Powell’s Mac book was on the couch, open with a word document up, innocent enough, in direct opposition to the rest of the scene.
“What the hell, Conick? How is this acceptable?” He threw his hands in the air and left them there, suspended in accusation.
“I don’t recall asking for your acceptance Professor Powell.” He gave a mock innocent expression.
“Your goddamn whore friend looks like Carrie.” He adjusted his sweater as he pointed at Rae.
“That’s offensive, she looks like a horse” Rae said, maintaining her composure. She shot a sideways glance at Conick. They both wrinkled their faces in an attempt to maintain their composure. Once they made eye contact it was over. They both burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The joke was lost on Powell.
“You guys are fucked twice past the moon.” Powell sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, trying to act like he didn’t care.
“What exactly does being fucked twice past the moon entail, professor?” Rae choked out in between laughs.
“You idiots better clean this shit up,” Powell said as he settled on HGTV. He made no move to explain his comment.

This carpet contrasts beautifully with the darkly stained wood floors of the kitchen…
“This carpet contrasts beautifully with the large pools of blood on the floor,” Conick mimicked the voice on HGTV as he did his best to get in the way of the TV as he cleaned up the blood on the floor. Rae had a class, leaving the roommates alone.
“Why do you hang out with that girl?” Powell had looked up from his show at the hunched over figure of his roommate, scrubbing blood out of the floor. The direct comment came as a surprise to Conick. He just looked up at his roommate and made no response. “You are aware that you are scrubbing her blood out of the floor right?” Powell continued. Still no response. “She came into your room, presumably did some godforsaken thing, and bled all over everything, then just left for class, leaving you to clean up her mess. This doesn’t bother you at all?” he raised his eyebrows at Conick. Conick looked up at Powell, “What the fuck is your problem?”
“I’m just looking out for you. God knows why, but seriously how does that constitute a fair
friendship?” he looked down questioningly as he picked at the gap between his front two teeth.
“Ya know,” Conick began, “Sometimes, when we’re real fucked, she gives me bj’s. That’s when a girl puts your penis in their mouth. In case you were wondering. I can draw you a diagram if you would like.” He put the sponge in his hand down and took a pen out of his pocket. He looked up at his roommate with an excited look on his face.
“Fuck you Conick. I have a date tonight, what plans do you have, other than not finishing your Political Science paper?” Powell smirked at him. Conick had moved on to the blinds and the windowsill.
“I don’t know, I don’t really have any plans, but I’d still bet on myself at ten to one odds on getting any pussy.” This comment took the air out of the room for an extended few moments.

“I’ll take that bet” Powell said quietly, but just loud enough for Conick to hear him over the TV. Conick had just finished rinsing out the sponge, and set it down on the corner of the sink. He turned around to look at Powell. “You are aware that chloroform is illegal?”
“You do think you’re very clever don’t you?” Powell shot Conick the bird.
“Why yes, I do think I’m rather clever. You know who else thinks I’m clever? Our Political science professor, as I recall he has given me higher marks than you on every assignment thus far. Perhaps I’m remembering it wrong,” he said in his most casual tone.
“Do you want the bet or not? It seems to me that you’re throwing out red herrings, and avoiding my challenge.” Conick couldn’t believe the challenge. In the nearly two semesters they had been roommates, Powell had never brought a girl back to the room. In fact, Conick had never actually seen him speak to a girl.
“Fine then, challenge accepted. I look forward to mocking you when you fail miserably. What are we betting?”
“How about your friend?”
“Rae? What you want to fuck her or something?” His voice had risen considerably, but he was trying to keep it under control.
“Yeah I mean, why not? She’s pretty cute, and I figure she’s usually pretty fucked up, so if you just mention something”
“Fuck you.”
“Ok so not the bitch then. A bit testy, aren’t we? How about fifty bucks?” He pulled out his wallet and waved a fifty in the air.
“Done.” Conick was glaring as they shook hands. Conick talked to himself under his breath as he walked to his bed, “fuckin bastard”

2.
“And how do we know this Rae?” Professor Robbins directed his question at Rae. She had been paying more attention to picking dried blood out of her cuticles than her Biology professor. I can’t believe he even knows my name, she thought to herself. She rarely went to class, and only went to skip out on awkwardness between Conick and Powell. She hated it when they fought, which was essentially all the time.
“I’m sorry professor, I didn’t quite catch what you said, I’m very sorry could you possibly repeat it?” Rae said as she played with the top button of her blouse. Rae had found that most professors at Harvard responded well to this technique. They were mostly horny old men with too many degrees. All she had to do was gently stroke their egos and give them a hand pitching their tent and things usually turned out ok.
“Just this once Rae, how do we know that the earth is warming?” Rae took a moment to measure her response.
“Well I’d say that scientists theorize that the earth is getting warmer due to the recent trend of higher temperatures over the last thirty years or so, and the measurements of the polar ice caps. However, thirty years in the grand scheme of our earth is hardly enough time for us to say that we know the earth is warming. In my opinion, sir.” Rae smiled sweetly at her professor. He just looked at her. “Uh um, well, yes. Very, that’s a very good answer thank you Rae.” He’s no different from the others, folded like he was holding two randoms unsuited. All these Ivy League pricks are the same. Independent women terrify them. Rae looked down at the phone in her lap, one new message from Conick. “Know what we’re doing tonight ha” this was exciting. She texted him back and asked what he had in mind. He wouldn’t reveal his brilliant plan but they agreed to meet at Joe’s when she got out of class. Rae’s professor left her alone for the rest of class, but it still seemed like a century.

“This better be fuckin good. I was dying in Biology and you wouldn’t give it up” Rae blew on her coffee and pulled her hood tight to her face. “And why the fuck are we sitting outside it’s December for chrissake.” Conick just smiled across the table and laughed, emitting a wave of visible breath as he did.
“Oh it’s good, trust me on this one Rae Rae” he took a sip of his coffee.
“I swear to god I’m going to chuck your fuckin coffee at that spandex wearing, frisbee playing chode over there if you don’t tell me right fucking now. I hope I’m being very clear Conick Audrey.” Her face was serious. She was legitimately frustrated.
“I can’t believe you brought my last name into this, or that lovely athletic gentleman over there for that matter. That was just uncalled for. But I suppose I might be able to forgive you if you accompany me this evening while I spy on Powell’s date.” He looked over at Rae, gauging her response.
“You’re shitting me right? This is some kind of joke.”
“No ma’am. This is legit. Powell has a date and I heard him on the phone, I know exactly where he’s taking her. I agree, it’s almost too good to be true. “
“Conick fucking Audrey. You have come through in the clutch. And here I thought I would have nothing to do on my Tuesday night, and you come up with this gem. Well done, sir. Well done” She raised her Styrofoam coffee cup and they bumped glasses, “To a night worth forgetting, for Powell’s date of course.”

Conick and Rae’s laughter melted into the general din of campus. As the sun went down, the campus coffee shops and restaurants closed their doors and drew the blinds. Even the most committed frisbee throwers began to fade into dormitories and dining halls. Darkness fell across the campus, and two lone figures were making their way across it.

“Fuck it’s like five degrees out here where are we going? I’m not really a fan of this secrecy. All it has resulted in for me thus far is me being miserably fucking cold.” She gave him her best attempt at a scowl.
“Relax, we’re going to the Lonnie’s.” He raised his arms in defeat. “I’ve told you where we’re going now, please don’t hurt me.”
“Wait, we’re going to Lonnie’s? The drive in? Who takes their date to a drive in… in December?” “Apparently Powell does.”
“Ten to one she’s a cow. Straight up moo moo.”
“What is it with women and their ridiculous judgmental attitude towards other women?” He looked at Rae; her face was the picture of innocence, but she was far from it. She wore dark liquid eye liner, and had heavily coated eyelashes. Her choppy short blond hair had black streaks in it that almost looked natural. Her ultra skinny jeans left little up to the imagination. Her draping top was low cut, exposing her ripped black bra and her black tattoo in scrawled writing. Conick never admitted to knowing what her tattoo said, because he had only seen her naked during their drugged out sexual experiences which they avoided talking about all together.
“Sir, if I may, I’m merely suggesting that due to the beacon of douchiness that is your roommate, that anyone who is willing to spend gratuitous amounts of time with him alone, not sedated, is probably pretty desperate, and in turn, fat. How’s that for justification, asshole?” Her cigarette bobbed in the side of her mouth as she spoke. She took a long drag and threw the cigarette butt on the grass, not bothering to stomp it out.
“Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“I can’t believe you said moo moo.”
“Fuck you Conick Audreeeeeeyy” she said, greatly elongating his last name.

Conick Audrey was very sensitive about his name. He was all too aware of how pretentious it sounded and hated his parents for saddling him with it. As a child it upset him that he never met anyone else with his name. His parents assured him that he was a “special” child and deserved a special name. Special, he thought to himself on numerous occasions. I have such original parents. What child on god’s green earth had not been told he was special? At least those other kids didn’t have dumb fucking names. He had kept these feelings inside for most of his life until two days before his high school graduation when it finally boiled over. His entire family was in town, a gathering of Audreys, all of them more proud than him to carry the name. He was standing by the kitchen table which was abounding with finger foods, all with toothpicks shoved into them. Pricks for pricks he thought. Conick had to be stationed by the table so that everyone could come and congratulate him. One by one the Audreys came up and praised his achievement. All four years of high school all you did was complain about me. You sent e-mails to my parents about how “concerned” you were about their son who made only B’s and C’s. He was so bright but wasted his time with his friends smoking pot. Conick shook each judging hand as they came up to the kitchen table. At least if their hand is shaking mine they can’t pound the gavel. He took the cards from them; each neatly licked and pressed, with freshly cut checks enclosed. He said his “thank yous” and “good to see yous” with the air of a practiced veteran. After over an hour of doing this his Uncle Kenneth came up. Conick hated his mother’s brother. He was the worst of the Audreys and was not even technically an Audrey, he was just a Smith, but he made every effort to associate himself with Audreys. Conick hated every clearly visible pore on his always red face. He was a slob, his stomach hung out of his extra large polos, exposing curly stomach hair. He had blonde hair, which was receded badly. It remained growing in a circle around his head. His head looked like a stadium; the hair was the seats, and his dome the playing field. The liver spots were the players. Everything that came from his constantly chapped lips was a joke, none of which Conick particularly cared for. He was the type of person who got his jollies from making jokes at other’s expense. When Conick was six years old his Uncle Kenneth told him a joke, “Ok Conick, a black guy walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder. The bartender says wow that’s really something where’d you get it? And the parrot says, Africa!” Conick had stood in silence as his Uncle laughed until he coughed, and hacked up phlegm into a dirty paper towel he took out of his pocket. “You’re too young; eventually you’ll come to appreciate a good nigger joke.” He had not.
He gave his uncle his most saccharine smile as he approached the kitchen table.
“You made it didn’t cha? With a little help from your uncle right?” He poked Conick in what he surely saw as a jesting manner. “Just kidding, kiddo.” He always uses stupid colloquialisms. He pulled a crinkled five dollar bill out of his wallet and put his wallet in the pocket of his clearly undersized khaki shorts.
“Here’s a little something for making the Audrey family proud. Great name Audrey, you did it proud.” Conick took the five dollar bill gingerly, as if it might break.
“Personally, I’d rather my name be Phuckhead if it meant I wasn’t related to you anymore.” his mother dropped her wine glass and it shattered, cutting up Conick’s sandaled feet. He did not look down as his feet bled onto the carpet. “With a P-H of course, so it wouldn’t be naughty, just a good solid
American name, I think.” he kept a straight face as he stuck out his hand towards his uncle. “Thanks Uncle Kenneth, good to see you” his mother had remained remarkably quiet, in shock.
“You raised a real winner here Vivian” his Uncle Kenneth directed his statement at Conick’s mother, ignoring him.

Conick and Rae walked in silence for a few minutes.
“That’s a low blow. A real salty bitch move bringin up the name like that, again. That’s like four times today.” His tone was serious, Rae could tell he wasn’t joking. It was a rarity for them to have a conversation that wasn’t sarcasm filled, but she could recognize when he was upset. “My bad dude.” She stuck out her foot to trip him. He tripped over it and face planted into the grass. Rae hovered over him and offered him her hand.
“Come on whiny bitch, I apologized now stop moping and get up.” He took her hand and hoisted himself up.
“Fyyyyinnne I suppose I can let you go this once on that weak ass apology, even though you fuckin tripped me. Come on, what kind of friend insults their friend and THEN trips them on top of that?” He gave her a questioning look.
“Only the best kind of friend Conick, the best kind. ”

As they reached the drive in, the sun had set completely, leaving only its pale reflection in the sky. After a brief argument over money, Conick paid for the tickets and they found a spot on the grass to sit. (If you didn’t have a car you could sit on the grass.)
“So how is darling Emily? Still in the process of saving your soul from eternal damnation?” She shifted uncomfortably in the grass. “She’s fine. She has an A in chemistry” Conick commented blandly as he rubbed his glasses on his shirt sleeve. “An A in Chemistry?! You must be shitting me. I can think of nothing more exciting than that” Rae balled her hands and rested her chin on them. She crossed her legs in the air behind her, “Tell me what it’s like to be in love like that. It sounds magical.”
“Have I ever mentioned how hilarious you are? And so subtle, teach me you ways.”
“Come on man, I’m fuckin serious. It’s pathetic.”
“What is?”
“Your complete and utter failure to break up with your girlfriend who only has the time to talk to you when she’s not sucking Jesus’ dick.”
“I know. I know. I fucking know. I’m aware that I need to break up with Emily. I get the goddamn gist. Ok?” he puts his hand on her leg. His fingers brushed the strings around the large hole in her jeans. “Now may we please spend our evening in a more pleasant manner?” Conick reached into his book bag and retrieved a ziploc. “It’s cold as shit and I for one, would like to forget about it.” As he opened the bag, the movie screen kicked on and glinted off the crinkled bag, illuminating the miniscule writing on the large white pills. Rae just smiles, and extends her hand, her silhouette dark against the lighted screen.

3.
Laura Bryan was too trusting of men. Her husband had left her, penniless in his shadow, still anchored by his debt and his name. All he had left her with was some bags of white powder that surely did not intend to leave behind. Laura was too proud to sell it.

“Don’t you even give a damn about your daughter?” she pointed her finger, with fresh red nail polish not done justice by the dim bulb hanging from the string. The blonde girl in the corner had her hands over her ears. Tears streamed freely down her chubby red cheeks. Her hair was short, above her shoulders, with straight across bangs. She wore pink Osh Kosh overalls, with one strap hanging down, revealing a dirty white t shirt underneath. “That. Ain’t my daughter. I told you that. I know what you been doin’.” The child in the corner pushed her fingers further into her ears. “Rand, that child is your spittin image. It’s yours and you goddamn know it.”
“I don’t know goddamn nothing.” He began walking around the dingy one room apartment and picking things up. Mine. Mine. Mine. Laura shrieked violently, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re gonna leave me to raise her alone?” she pointed to the overall clad girl again. “No. No I ain’t. I’m takin her to the adoption place and leavin her at the doorstep. They gotta take her, some moral code or something they’ve got.” Laura’s eyes grew. “No. you will not do that to my child. Rand dropped everything in his arms, a picture frame shattered on the floor, the girl began to wail audibly.
“And how do you aim to stop me?”

Rae remembered the wind in her hair. She remembered the blue convertible. It had black leather seats and no shoulder belts. She sat in the backseat and listened to the music. And something is happening here but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mister Jones?
She remembered the sound of the road, and watching the white lines go by. His face was blurry, but he was wearing a hat, that she was sure of. She remembered Ms. Palermo and how warm she was. She had picked her up and said something, she could not remember what. She could not recall the day she was picked up. Her mother had surely been wearing her favorite pearls, and her father a tie, or at least that’s how it was in her mind’s eye. That is how she had always known them.

Conick opened the olive green door violently, slamming the metallic door handle against the wall, denting it. They rushed in; the room was a blur of fluorescent light. Rae’s head was pushed against something hard and Conick’s tongue was pushed against the back of her throat. She wriggled her hand from behind Conick’s head and thrust it down his jeans. His body shuddered as her clammy hand grasped his manhood. Up and down. Up and down. Rae went to work. Conick tried to remove her pants but couldn’t find the button. After a few minutes of unsuccessful undressing they stopped for a moment, stumbling to the sinks, rinsing out their eyes and trying to make sense of their floodlighted surroundings. As they looked up, people looked back. These people we’re pale, and their clothes were ripped, their eyes were bloodshot and tired. The mirror folk exchanged looks that said Fuck it. Conick took Rae’s hand and led her to the nearest stall.
Rae’s bare foot gripped the side of the stall, partially from her own effort and partially from the grime already in place. Her other foot was firm on the dirty speckled tile floor, just in front of the base of the toilet. Conick’s hand raked down her back forcefully as he thrust into her. She used his hair to pull him to her hard. She bit down on his lip; she felt the warmth in her mouth and tasted the iron. Something was dripping. Rae could hear it. She ignored it. The room came in and out of focus. She lost track of time. She closed her eyes. As she opened them again she couldn’t see anything, just white, endless white that burned her eyes. She gingerly blinked what felt like a thousand times. As Conick gave a final thrust they both cried out, him from a genuine place and her for his sake.
Rae took in her immediate surroundings. She reached around and felt her back. She was bleeding. She had been dripping blood into the toilet, her blood mixing with the stagnant feces already present. Conick pulled his pants back on and buttoned them. The room spun. Around and around. The red of the blood and the olive green of the stall swirled together, creating a dull brown. Someone, somewhere far away was speaking. Rae. Rae. Hello?
The room was still spinning. It was a different room. Her ceiling fan was spinning so slowly. She could count each rotation. One. Two. Three. Four.

Conick’s apartment was dark. The sponge he had used to clean the carpet was on the kitchen floor. The TV was playing a Girls Gone Wild commercial for an empty couch. Powell’s door was open, he was asleep, alone. His computer laid on the floor next to his bed, halfheartedly closed, a sliver of pixilated light still escaping. Conick did his best to pad quietly to Powell’s door. He tripped over himself and crashed hard into the hallway wall. Powell did not stir. As he picked himself up Conick felt his pocket. The condom had soaked into his jeans; it was visible, even in the dim light. He extracted it from his pocket and admired it. He held it by two fingers and swung it around. His two fingers whirled rapidly, but the condom circled slowly. He could count the rotations. One. Two. Three. Four. Satisfied with himself, Conick pushed the door to Powell’s room open all the way, it squeaked only slightly. He walked, very deliberately, up to Powell. He hovered over his slumbering roommate and dropped the condom. It landed on his cheek, and slid down, partially covering his mouth. It flapped with each breath Powell drew and released. Conick snickered to himself and stumbled into the hallway. I win. He collapsed onto his bed and into oblivion.

4.
Conick was waterskiing. The lake water was surprisingly clear, almost like the water in Sandals commercials. His uncle Kenneth was driving the boat and giving him a big thumbs up, the sun beating down on his mostly bald head. He was so appalled at the fact that his uncle was driving the boat and he hadn’t previously noticed that he lost his balance. He hit the water hard, it felt like concrete. Then it hit him again, this time even harder. He could hear his nose crack from the blow.
Conick awoke not to the sensation of bobbing in his life jacket in unusually clear lake water, but to Powell hovering over him, his arm reared back to knock Conick off his water-skis again, “Good morning roommate. Hope you slept well. I slept just dandy.”

Generational Gap

2011-03-13T18:16:00.000-07:00

Christmas time in the Midwest is a chilly affair. Even the most unorthodox of family gatherings are confined to the great indoors. Its winter 1970 in West Des Moines, Iowa and the Thompson family has come together for Christmas. The main players in this story are Uncle Harold, aged fifty-five, Paul aged twelve, and Martin aged seventeen.
Uncle Harold is fifty-five years old and kicking. He plays four instruments exceedingly well: the piano, the guitar, the mandolin, and the accordion. At age forty-six he rode his bicycle from Seattle, Washington to New York, New York. He tells all the younger members of the family to remember his name because he has hair, and he’s old “Hair-old” he says whenever any of them will listen.
Paul is twelve and wants nothing more than to play with his friends. He doesn’t pay attention in school and underachieves. His parents don’t expect much from him, his older sister Sunshine is the good kid; she has straight A’s. He thinks “Crazy Uncle Harold” (as the kids refer to him when he’s not around) is endlessly entertaining, and enjoys these family gatherings because he is out of school, and Uncle Harold is sure to do something memorable.
Martin is Paul’s friend who is over to play, as he often is when school is out. Martin is considerably older than Paul and isn’t the best influence on him. Martin has no desire or intent to go to college. “College is just for eggheads or those niggers that they throw scholarship money at” Martin says to Paul all the time.
On this bitterly cold day, about a week before Christmas, Paul and Martin are throwing a browned tennis ball at the concrete basement wall. The adults are dancing to Dean Martin upstairs. “Jesus Christ, it sounds like a gathering of damn apes. Your family is loud as shit man.”
“Shut up, like your family is better. Would you rather hear your dad throwing beer bottles at your mom?” There is silence for a few moments, and Paul wonders if he’s made a mistake in bringing this up.
“Really? Shut up is the best you can come up with? I thought I’d taught you better how adults insult each other Paul. That’s some shit man,” Martin says as he throws the ball at the wall, a little harder than before.
“Where’s that bat ass crazy uncle of yours anyway?”
“He’s upstairs somewhere, probably teaching everyone how to Flamenco or something.” Martin grins as the ball slips through his fingers and hits the paint splattered floor. “Shit.”
“Oh yes. Shit is right,” Paul says as he points to the wall. Martin slinks up to the wall and bends over. “Come on now, say you want it, and maybe I’ll throw it a little softer.” Martin’s head is between his legs and he spits at Paul and his spittle nearly hits him, landing just short.
“Now I’m definitely going to make you shit blood for that.” Paul rears back to throw and just as he does, a glass comes out of nowhere and shatters against the wall, inches from Martin, and glass rains down on him. “What the hell?” Martin sputters and turns around gingerly. Paul hasn’t moved, but turned on the spot to see Uncle Harold sitting on the stairs sipping a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
“You boys wanna play a real game?” He makes no effort to explain why he just threw a glass at his nephew’s bent over friend. Martin and Paul exchange looks. They nod. It’s worth dropping what just happened to play a “game” with Crazy Uncle Harold.
“Sure we’ll play.” Martin speaks for the two of them. By this point Uncle Harold has made his way to the dark corner of the basement underneath the stairs. He makes no response but motions them over.
“See this here; you boys know what this is?”
“We’re not fucking morons,” Martin says to Harold waving his hand in a dismissive motion. Uncle Harold moves with a swiftness not becoming a man of his years and grabs Martin by his shirt collar, lifting him a full three inches off the ground.
“Watch your language. Son.” He then continues on as if it never happened. Looking at Paul he says, “This, as your charming friend so astutely pointed out, is a generator. See these wires here; if you hold on to them while it’s turned on it stings like hell, but it won’t really hurt you. What we’re going to do is see who can hold on the longest. Smart money would be on this one,” he jerks his thumb at Martin, “doesn’t seem like he has many cells to lose.” Martin puts on his best angry face but remains silent; he doesn’t want to miss out on this.
“Ok I think we’re game.” Paul looks at Martin, then back at his Uncle Harold.
“Ok. Let’s do this.” Uncle Harold says as he drags the generator out of the corner and under the dim light bulb hanging from a string. He flips it on and it begins to hum, jumpy at first, but then a steady hum, the metal hull vibrating at a quiet constant. “Ok boys.” He takes a wire in his hand and motions for them to do the same. As they pick up their respective wires, they both drop them immediately. “Shit!” Martin yells. Uncle Harold sends a nasty look his way and motions for the boys to pick them up again.
“You strapping young men don’t want to be embarrassed by this old man do you?” He says in a singsong voice, all the time still holding the wire. Paul picks up his first, and grimaces, but holds on tight. Encouraged by Paul’s admirable effort, Martin picks up his wire and he too grimaces but holds on gamely.
“Now we’ve got a game,” Uncle Harold says as he takes a sip of Pabst with his free hand, and then rests the can on top of the generator. About thirty seconds pass, and Paul gives out, wringing his hand.
“How can you do that? Are your hands completely devoid of nerves?” As Paul wrings his hands Martin gives up as well. Uncle Harold says nothing.
After a few minutes of Paul and Martin nursing their wounds Paul stands up: “Do you need any help moving the generator back Uncle Harold?” No response.
“Ok, well I’ll help if you want, just let me know.” Paul and Martin return to their previous game. Five minutes pass and Paul looks behind him. Wire firmly in hand, Uncle Harold stands next to the generator, his face partly lit by the bulb. Paul turns back to his game. Twenty minutes later, as Paul is bent over by the wall a voice speaks to them from the top of the stairs, “You boys got a lot to learn about manhood.” The basement door closes.

Option #4: The Double Flower Pot

2010-12-07T20:04:00.000-08:00

I found a bra. I was a child and I found a bra. We were good friends then. I made a list.
Possible uses for discovery:
1. Baseball holder.
2. Slingshot.
3. Bird feeder.
4. Double flower pot. I tested this one. I presented my grandmother with two perfect dandelions. I know that they were perfect. I inspected them thoroughly. “Where did you find that?” My grandmother was using a harsh tone with me. She never used a harsh tone with me. It was very upsetting. I lied. She did not believe that I found it in the back yard. I did not want to lose my friend. In my brain I quickly jotted down other possible places I found it. I made a list.
Possible Origins of Discovery:
1. Under the deck.
2. Behind the couch cushions.
3. In the birdhouse.
4. In Grandpa’s warehouse. This is where I actually found it. I eventually caved. Grandmother said it was not my fault. I had to wash my hands. Grandmother gave me butterscotch candy.
I have different opinions now. We are still friends. Our friendship is more strained than before. I made a list.
Possible pathways for removal:
1. Flowers.
2. Compliments.
3. Dinner and movies.
4. Money. I’ve discovered that this is most effective. I am quite sure. I am very thorough. It is almost Christmas. I made two lists.
Christmas list (for Grandmother)
1. Ipod.
2. “Lost”
3. New golf clubs.
4. Picture frame.
Christmas list (for Grandpa)
1. To be determined.
Grandpa lives alone now. I live alone as well, but that’s ok, I have lots of friends.

Washing Windows

2010-11-02T13:49:00.001-07:00

Washing windows, no child’s favorite chore,
save me.
The world I sculpted so carefully in my head,
borrowing images from Gulliver’s travels and such
came to life,
in a way that I could not compare
to any cartoonist’s imagination
or my finest Crayola creations.
It was real.
Surely a word I could not then define
And still chase to no end now.
The creek, in my mind, a rushing river
that I so skillfully navigated
in my soap box boat
with my spoon like oar.
CRASH.
Reality trickled down my body,
starting first at the topmost spire
of my cow lick castle
and gently finding its way
past my mossy chompers, and down my neck
passing where an Adam’s apple now lies.
Marshall!
I had spent a great deal of time
Perfecting the art
of the gradual release of my world.
I was not prepared for another interruption.
Reality.
An unfortunately lumpy pillow to lie on,
I much preferred mine.
“I’m coming.” I’d say,
and trot off
to the dungeon, as I called it back then,
an illogical name it seems now.
My mother’s room was not a dungeon
or even below ground.
It branched off the same hallway as mine.
Opening the door,
I braced myself, as always, despite knowing
Exactly what lay behind it.
Mostly machine,
and entirely my mother, or what still remained
of the woman I saw
in the photographs hung
on this intruder’s wall.
Her monitor had fallen,
it lay on the ground.
Its normal harsh beeping
had been postponed
by a twist of fate,
or the wind through the window
I had earlier opened.
The curtains were full of life.
They swayed to the wind’s music,
doing the tango on a blustery day
like today.
The monitor was not.
It was fixed in position,
lifeless and unmoving,
bearing a stunning resemblance
to my maternal figurehead.
I put my mother back together again.
I did not need all the king’s men
or even my father
to put Darth Mother
as I sometimes called her,
back into working order.
Have you washed the windows like I asked?
Yes.
I lied.
Run along now, but don’t leave the house.
Her constant refrain, I was now used to.
I left her alone,
one with her sheets.
I was alone,
one with my world,
the world I created anew
every day.
I grew up
as children do.
Always alone,
but never lacking adventure,
except when interrupted
by a mother,
by a human being,
whose last interruption seems long ago.
I am alone now,
by choice.
I live with my guilt,
a messy roommate.
Several years back,
I made a decision
to visit my home
where I lived with my mother.
As I creaked through the dilapidated house,
I paid close attention
to the movement of the floorboards,
the peeling of the paint.
This place was real.
As real as my mother.
As real as she once was,
as her tombstone is now.
I saw the window
Baring its teeth at me.
Un- washable now.
I looked out at the creek,
nothing but a ditch now,
and I went on a voyage
in my soap box boat
with my spoon like oar.

Measures

2010-10-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

I long to know once again, the people
in my life. It seems that it’s been,
quite some time since I have
known them,
to any measurable degree.

Educational priorities and bridges burned
have led to a lonesome state, in which
I now reside.
I long to need once again, a mirror
to show,
my lines of fault.

I am sleeping with my pen, writing to the
man,
asking questions unacceptable, or so I’m told,
by contemporaries and mothers alike.
I long to know. I long for rain.

A Hipster's Ode to Autumn

2010-10-25T13:32:00.001-07:00

It must be autumn
For all the dreadful writers
Are on front campus

Spewing mess onto the page
It’s romantic! They will say

Their girlfriends will shriek
Gently pat their beanie-d heads
Joys of artsy love

It leaves only one question
Are his pants tighter, or hers?

First Date

2010-10-03T20:14:00.000-07:00

It was pathetic. It had been over a week and Paul could not seal the deal. He twiddled his thumbs, he cleared his throat, he made casual conversation, and that was all. It had never been a problem for Paul before. He lost the ability to count all of his lady friends on his fingers alone well on the other side of high school graduation, yet for some reason unbeknownst to Paul, this one was different. Her mere presence shattered his legendary self confidence like a mirror hurled from her fourth floor window.

“Today will be different.” Paul mumbled.

The phrase he had uttered to himself the previous three mornings seemed more real today. He could not place a particular reason on his regained self confidence, but it was there nonetheless. He had nothing to fear but fear itself, and that damned glittery lip gloss. As was his custom, Paul blared his favorite hood rat music while en route to her apartment. The excruciating seven minute drive was tamer this morning, with very little traffic, surely a good omen.
His once shiny Volkswagen Jetta came to a creaking halt in her building’s parking lot, and that’s when it became real again. There were no more hypothetical situations to be played out in his head. It was do or die, as his high school football coach would have said.

“Hold up there young fella!” A voice rang out seemingly from nowhere. “You can’t park here.”
“Oh don’t worry, I’ll only just be here a few minutes, I just have to get my friend and it’s off to the ferry for us,” Paul said, trying to sound airy. “Well that’s all fine and dandy, but you’ll have to move to the visitors’ parking lot first.”

It was as if the old man wearing the Rolling Ridge Apartment Complex t-shirt with the word “Security” screen-printed on it was in fact the devil himself. The ferry ride he had spent two hours on the phone booking was leaving in fifteen minutes and they were damned sure going to be on it, or so he thought.
Around the edges of the Hudson River Ferryboat is a one foot high metal screen. It has not always been there. A rash of serious injuries occurred from some hoity-toity folk under the influence of a few too many long island ice teas careening over the edge, and the ferry company decided it was time for a change. Rather than stressing safe bartending, the screen was put up. The screen bears a striking resemblance to the one that Paul was staring at in the backseat of Lt. Marcus Murdoch’s police cruiser. He could not help but marvel at how quickly the whole situation had escalated. He had put his hand on the old security guard’s shoulder, and then “Wham!” he was on the ground. Paul made the crucial mistake of underestimating an underpaid, overworked Vietnam veteran with frequent flashbacks. Paul had become Charlie, and to make matters worse was arrested for assault.

“You know you really could have hurt that poor old man. You do know that right?” Officer Murdoch chastised Paul.

He could not help but let out a chuckle.

“Oh so you find that funny do you? You really are a sick bastard. You’ll be held for a minimum of twenty four hours while I write up the paperwork on this, and you can bet your sweet ass that I’ll get that paperwork done. I took this job to lock up people like you.” Officer Murdoch took full advantage of his captive audience to vent and to rehash his mission statement as a police officer.

Paul could not believe what he was hearing. He didn’t claim to be Gandhi, but he had always felt like he was a pretty decent human being. I guess getting your ass kicked by an old man now qualifies as a heinous crime, Paul thought to himself. Paul and Officer Murdoch sat in silence for the remainder of the trip to the police station, Paul planning what his next move would be, and Officer Murdoch seething.
The holding cell was cold. It was in this shivery state that Paul made a decision.

“I want my phone call.” Paul called out to the guard whose tattooed arm he could barely see around the corner. “Ten minutes.” A gruff and clearly irritated voice said from around the corner.

Ten minutes. He was going to call her. He had ten minutes to plan a conversation with the one woman who had effortlessly disarmed his usual swagger, and he had to make the call from jail. He had taken the first step, and was glad for it; there was no backing out now. The call was to be made. The ten minute wait dragged on. Presidential elections came and went. He watched seasons go by like a child watches trees go by from a car window. He grew old, and a gray beard called his face home. Then the guard came back.

“It’s time, buddy.” Something about the guard’s tone told Paul that they were not in fact buddies at all.

Unlike the wait, the walk to the phone room was pitifully short, and before he knew it the bare phone room was before him. There they were, Paul and the phone. They had a staring contest. Some part of Paul believed it was a contest he could win, a small part that felt more like hope. After begrudgingly forfeiting the staring contest, he sat down on the hard stool and picked up the phone. It shouldn’t have, but for some reason that Paul could not fathom, it seemed like his entire life had led up to this moment. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Paul waited, and then waited some more. She did not answer.

“Hey Paula, it’s me. I can explain why I didn’t show up today. I’m being held at the police station for twenty four hours. I promise I can explain. Please come down here if you have the chance, I swear that it will make sense if you just let me explain. “The message sounded as hollow as Paul felt.

She wasn’t coming. There was not a chance in hell. He was led back to his holding cell, and he lay down on the hard cot.

“Hey buddy.” There was the voice again. Surely he was still asleep. There was no reason for the guard to be speaking to him again; it wasn’t time for him to be released yet. “BUDDY.” The refrain jolted Paul to awareness. “You have a visitor. Let’s go.”
He could not believe it. She had actually come. He was going to get a chance to redeem himself via two telephones and two inch thick glass. A million different thoughts swirled in his head. There was too much to say. He had to choose his words carefully. He went over phrases and sentence patterns that he definitely needed to say, and those that could wait.

“Through that door, you get twenty five minutes.”

Paul was not nervous. It was a miracle. The only girl who had ever made him nervous was visiting him in jail and he wasn’t even sweating it. Perhaps the orange jumpsuit gave him unnatural courage. He opened the door to the conference room and stepped inside. Several things immediately came into Paul’s view: a suit he had seen on display at K-Mart very recently, a comb over, an unnatural dental gap, bent glasses, and a cup of McDonald’s coffee. Paul picked up the phone.

“Hi Paul, I’m your attorney on retainer for upper level management.” The words should not have stung, but they did.

Movie Reviews

2010-08-04T20:24:00.001-07:00

Scene 1

Robin: Three stars. I don’t feel comfortable giving him any more than three stars. He never even went to Europe for God’s sake. How could we possibly award more than three stars to someone who never went to Europe? We would set an unhealthy precedent for future reviews.
Leonard: With all due respect Robin, I have to disagree, the man was incredibly philanthropic. He started a chapter of Habitat for Humanity, personally traveled to New Orleans to help feed victims of Katrina, and regularly tithed ten percent. In my eyes he is worthy of four stars.
Robin: Leonard….my friend, I am not overlooking the positive aspects of his life, but as I’m sure you are aware, if we give four stars there is little doubt that there will be an abhorrent sequel we will be forced to stomach.
Boss: You’re both missing the point. Robin, I agree with you that three stars should be the ceiling, but not due to his lack of international travel. You have both overlooked his marital problems. He was married three times, and the socially unacceptable number of marriages is not even the largest problem. Come now, you two know this. He cheated on his second wife, and to make matters worse, it was not for another serious relationship, it was with a prostitute, therefore confirming that the affair was simply for sexual gratification. Now with these things and his charity work in mind, the two of you will have to decide between a two and a three. Have your decision on my desk by five. Also, one last thing, Robin, you have a call at the front desk.

Scene 2

Robin: Robin Wilse speaking.
Darlene: Hey hun it’s me.
Robin: Darlene, you never call me at work, is everything alright?
Darlene: Oh ya everything’s fine, I was actually just wondering when you’re going to be getting off?
(Robin took a moment to consider the irony in the question due to the plans he had for the evening)
Robin: ha,..erm I’m not sure, I’ve got a lot on my plate. I have a middle aged cheater with a penchant for charity work, an ancient politician, not to mention the entirety of the school bus crash from last week.
Darlene: So should I just plan on making dinner for the kids and I?
Robin: I’m sorry, but ya I don’t think I’ll be getting home at a very reasonable hour tonight.
Darlene: That’s ok hun. I’ll talk to ya later. Work hard. Love you.
Robin: Love you too.
(Click)

Scene 3

Rick: Hey Wilse! Can you come here for a sec? I’d like your opinion.
Robin: What’s up Rick?
Rick: Well I’ve got this leukemia patient, very sad really, had three kids he raised by himself. The only potential problem is that he was a dealer as a teenager. Does that drop him to a four in your book?
Robin: Actually I would put him at a five and see if he goes through. Worst case scenario he gets dropped and you have to re label him a four. At four he should breeze through no problem.
Rick: That’s kinda what I was thinking, thanks bud. Hey are you gonna make it to the poker game tonight?
Robin: No, sorry I won’t be able to. I’ve got to be home for dinner with the missus and the kids.
Rick: Understandable, maybe next time.

Scene 4

Boss: Leonard, you have another one, just set it on your desk. Should be a pretty easy one, he was a reviewer here.
Leonard: Ok, I’ll get right to work on that.
Leonard did not immediately get to work on his next case file. He took a stroll outside. Tears streamed down Leonard’s face as he lit up a cigarette. He couldn’t stop.

Scene 5

Robin Wilse sobbed quietly in his car as he pulled up to an apartment building he did not live in. He couldn’t stop.

Normalcy

2010-07-16T22:18:00.000-07:00

This is a short story. The protagonist’s name is John, Carrie or Kathleen. John is an everyday working man. John is the type of man that inhabits the supermarkets and used car dealerships of Middle America. John is married and divorced and married again. He has between 1 and 2.5 children, and has a Labrador retriever that is 7 years old. John says he bought the Labrador retriever for the kids, but he actually bought it because it reminds him of the family dog he grew up with. John drives a sport utility vehicle with between 45 and 89 thousand miles on it. John and his family sit in the third pew on the left side of the church every Sunday. He feels guilty about his addiction to pornography, but does not know how to breach the subject with his wife. John works in the customer service department for a phone company. He lost his mother to lung cancer. His father remarried exactly two months later. John has a nephew who has frequent run ins with the law. He wishes he could be more of a father figure in his nephew’s life. John is constantly under stress and has high blood pressure. He is 26 pounds overweight. John sits in his driveway for five minutes every day. John cannot stand the sight of his wife but loathes the thought of divorce. His favorite meal is spaghetti and meatballs. John does not like hospital food, especially the meatballs. John dies between the age of 57 and 68 of a heart attack, a car accident, or natural disaster.
Carrie is insecure. She spends twenty five minutes per day applying makeup. Her parents do not understand her like the boy from her math class does. He tells her that she’s pretty and helps her with math. Carrie has between one and two siblings. Her mother tells her that she listens to her music too loudly and will soon go deaf. She is embarrassed to buy a pregnancy test, so she plans to take it in the store bathroom. She got a math test back. She got a 57%. Carrie loves throwback music like Frank Sinatra and Danny Kaye. Her favorite movie is Mean Girls. She wishes life was as simple as a pop song. Carrie no longer speaks to the boy in her math class. Carrie has between four and seven boy friends in high school. She does not tell any of them about her abortion. Carrie attends Boston College for one semester. She is arrested for public drunkenness and indecent exposure. She often thinks about that boy who sat behind her in math class her freshman year of high school. He was a nice boy. Her job is stressful. On Sunday nights she rents a movie from red box. Carrie does not like the look the bank teller gives her when she turns in her tips. Carrie enjoys espresso, but never gets up early enough to drink it. She is arrested for illegal possession of a narcotic. Carrie spends between seven and fifteen years of her life in prison. Carrie loves cotton candy, but only the kind you can buy at a fair. Carrie dies between the age of twenty nine and forty one of an accidental narcotics overdose, a car accident, or a fire started by a fireworks display gone awry.
Kathleen is a self involved narcissist. She dyes her hair once every two to four months. Every bartender in the city knows her by name. Kathleen’s favorite drink is a sex on the beach. Kathleen is an elementary school teacher. She enjoys vacuuming her apartment in high heels with her shades open. Kathleen has read every Nicholas Sparks novel, and believes that they are all unique in nature. When her students call her “orange lady” she cries. Kathleen has between one and seven living relatives. Occasionally, Kathleen makes her man friends exit her apartment through the doggie door. Her life goal is to be a successful fashion designer. She has tried between four and eight times to quit smoking. Kathleen can play the banjo, but keeps it locked in her closet because it embarrasses her. Her dog is named Kathleen. She enjoys purple Jell-O the best. Kathleen is confused by organized religion. Kathleen dies between the age of seventy eight and eighty nine of lupus, an aneurysm, or breast cancer.
This is a short story. The antagonists are John, Carrie, and Kathleen.