Milena
Shortly after David dumped her for that bimbo he picked up at his mother’s funeral, Milena decided there wasn’t any point in keeping her Mirena intrauterine contraceptive “up there” any longer. She’d had the nasty little pickax-looking gadget inserted more so for David’s convenience and pleasure than her own, and apart from now being pointless it had acquired a sort of snide symbolic stature—an ever present reminder, within the most intimate region of her innermost self, of the all-encompassing sway which that motherfucking shitass (her latest appellation of choice) had held over her.
So she made an appointment and went to the doctor and had the gizmo removed as a Mother May I? giant step toward moving on.
Only, the ground had collapsed beneath her footfall, as it were, and moving on from David had proved to be outside the compass of Milena’s resolve. Lying on her back in bed at night, she found herself staring through closed eyelids for hours on end at an unfathomable, impenetrable blackness; struggling for an answer, straining to understand why:
Why? Why wasn’t I good enough for him?
# # #
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
675
Crystal
Queenie and Crystal are conversing over coffee at the new Starbucks on 152, across from the new Hungry Howie’s pizza franchise, adjacent to the new Hy-Vee grocery store. Crystal is vaguely sipping a venti raspberry mocha. Queenie’s draining a venti chai tea latte as though there were no tomorrow—in great, which is to say grande, cup-compressing draughts.
“Leave some for the fish,” Crystal jokes meekly. She’s been saying pretty much everything meekly since becoming tormented with the memory of the snot bubble that billowed from her nostril and embarrassed her to death in front of her fifth-grade class.
“Fuck the fuckin’ fish,” Queenie quips mid-slurp, “and the sea horses they rode in on.”
Crystal laughs. No one can make her laugh like Queenie can.
Queenie sucks the cup to the point of collapse, slams it down on the table, leans back, says “Ahhhh,” wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then says, “Jesus! That was damn good. I’m gonna go grab me another—”
Crystal smiles, nods, and begins absently tearing an unbleached-paper napkin into more or less uniform strips. Across 152, a man in a blaring pink sweatshirt emerges from Hungry Howie’s with a large pizza box in his hands. Crystal notices the steam wafting from the box, but the sweatshirt does not register. She begins twisting the napkin strips into miniature ropes.
Queenie comes back in her usual flash and drops into her chair. “Doggone, I love these things,” she says, swigging a little less vigorously now on account of the piping hotness.
“Y’coulda fooled me,” Crystal responds meekly.
“So listen, girl,” Queenie begins, ready at last to get down to bidness. “You gotta get over this snot-bubble bullshit. You’re worse than that ‘other monk.’”
“Huh? What other monk?” Crystal asks, baffled. (No one can baffle her quite like Queenie can, either.)
“Good God, Crystal, gimme a break—don’t tell me you ain’t never read no Zen koans?”
“No,” Crystal answers with a flush of unwarranted shame. “I don’t even know what they are.”
“Ach du fuckin’ lieber, liebchen!” Queenie exclaims, amazing Crystal with her unexpected use of German. “I mean, mein Gott in Himmel, they’re little stories that teach you somethin’, only not in so many words.”
“Okay, and—?”
“And you’re just like the second monk in the one about the girl and two monks.”
Queenie pauses and lets Crystal’s curiosity build through two long pulls on her latte, then picks up an untwisted napkin strip and dabs her lips and continues.
“There’s these two monks, see. And they’re walkin’ through this woods. And they come to a river and there’s this beautiful young woman standin’ there, and she don’t know what to do ‘cause she’s afraid she’ll ruin her kimono and her pretty little flip-flops and white split-toe socks if she tries crossin’ that river. And the first monk goes, ‘Hey, what’s up, girl? You afraid you gonna get all wet if you try crossin’ that river?’ And the girl’s all, ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ And he just picks her up and carries her across, just like that. And she’s all, ‘Hey, thanks a million, monk,’ and they all go their separate ways. “But the other monk starts stewin’ over what happened, ‘cause in their thing, you understand, monks ain’t s’posed to touch no women. And finally, after like four or five miles, or whatever, he just can’t hold it in any longer, and he goes, ‘Hey, man, what was up with carryin’ that fine young thing across the river? You wasn’t s’posed to touch her, man.’ And the first monk turns and looks the other monk straight in the eye and says, ‘Listen, Chuck, I put her down back at the river—you been carryin’ her all the way here!’”
Crystal looks up from her rope-making and Queenie leans forward till their noses nearly touch.
“Crystal,” Queenie says, letting her stentorian voice slip to a loud whisper, “It’s time to stop carryin’ your fuckass bubble around. You need to go ahead and put that bitch down, girl. Ain’t nobody else give a scheisse.”
# # #
Queenie and Crystal are conversing over coffee at the new Starbucks on 152, across from the new Hungry Howie’s pizza franchise, adjacent to the new Hy-Vee grocery store. Crystal is vaguely sipping a venti raspberry mocha. Queenie’s draining a venti chai tea latte as though there were no tomorrow—in great, which is to say grande, cup-compressing draughts.
“Leave some for the fish,” Crystal jokes meekly. She’s been saying pretty much everything meekly since becoming tormented with the memory of the snot bubble that billowed from her nostril and embarrassed her to death in front of her fifth-grade class.
“Fuck the fuckin’ fish,” Queenie quips mid-slurp, “and the sea horses they rode in on.”
Crystal laughs. No one can make her laugh like Queenie can.
Queenie sucks the cup to the point of collapse, slams it down on the table, leans back, says “Ahhhh,” wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then says, “Jesus! That was damn good. I’m gonna go grab me another—”
Crystal smiles, nods, and begins absently tearing an unbleached-paper napkin into more or less uniform strips. Across 152, a man in a blaring pink sweatshirt emerges from Hungry Howie’s with a large pizza box in his hands. Crystal notices the steam wafting from the box, but the sweatshirt does not register. She begins twisting the napkin strips into miniature ropes.
Queenie comes back in her usual flash and drops into her chair. “Doggone, I love these things,” she says, swigging a little less vigorously now on account of the piping hotness.
“Y’coulda fooled me,” Crystal responds meekly.
“So listen, girl,” Queenie begins, ready at last to get down to bidness. “You gotta get over this snot-bubble bullshit. You’re worse than that ‘other monk.’”
“Huh? What other monk?” Crystal asks, baffled. (No one can baffle her quite like Queenie can, either.)
“Good God, Crystal, gimme a break—don’t tell me you ain’t never read no Zen koans?”
“No,” Crystal answers with a flush of unwarranted shame. “I don’t even know what they are.”
“Ach du fuckin’ lieber, liebchen!” Queenie exclaims, amazing Crystal with her unexpected use of German. “I mean, mein Gott in Himmel, they’re little stories that teach you somethin’, only not in so many words.”
“Okay, and—?”
“And you’re just like the second monk in the one about the girl and two monks.”
Queenie pauses and lets Crystal’s curiosity build through two long pulls on her latte, then picks up an untwisted napkin strip and dabs her lips and continues.
“There’s these two monks, see. And they’re walkin’ through this woods. And they come to a river and there’s this beautiful young woman standin’ there, and she don’t know what to do ‘cause she’s afraid she’ll ruin her kimono and her pretty little flip-flops and white split-toe socks if she tries crossin’ that river. And the first monk goes, ‘Hey, what’s up, girl? You afraid you gonna get all wet if you try crossin’ that river?’ And the girl’s all, ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ And he just picks her up and carries her across, just like that. And she’s all, ‘Hey, thanks a million, monk,’ and they all go their separate ways. “But the other monk starts stewin’ over what happened, ‘cause in their thing, you understand, monks ain’t s’posed to touch no women. And finally, after like four or five miles, or whatever, he just can’t hold it in any longer, and he goes, ‘Hey, man, what was up with carryin’ that fine young thing across the river? You wasn’t s’posed to touch her, man.’ And the first monk turns and looks the other monk straight in the eye and says, ‘Listen, Chuck, I put her down back at the river—you been carryin’ her all the way here!’”
Crystal looks up from her rope-making and Queenie leans forward till their noses nearly touch.
“Crystal,” Queenie says, letting her stentorian voice slip to a loud whisper, “It’s time to stop carryin’ your fuckass bubble around. You need to go ahead and put that bitch down, girl. Ain’t nobody else give a scheisse.”
# # #
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
274
Barry
Sitting cross-legged on the curb with his sizzling groin and Queenie hovering over him like that, Barry was feeling sheepish for the first time in his life and in no way inclined to argue money. Besides, his sensibilities weren’t wholly self-directed; he recognized and accepted legitimate obligations, and believed he did owe Queenie for the groceries some asswipe walked off with when she dropped her shopping bag and rushed to his rescue.
Whatever the case, had it not been for Queenie’s instant intervention, his motorcycle’s super-hot exhaust pipe might have totally toasted his almonds. And so with no little effort, Barry extracted his wallet from the pocket of his snake-skin jeans. He was shaking a little and hoped Queenie did not interpret this as fear.
“Twenty-three sixty-five, you say?”
He fished out some bills and thrust two tens and a five-spot towards Queenie’s looming form.
Queenie plucked the bucks from Barry’s tremulous fingers. “Danke shön,” she said. Then she reached down and snatched another five from the still-gaping billfold. “Let’s just call it thirty, Chuck. I gotta re-shop that stuff, you understan’, and time’s money.”
Barry watched Queenie stuff the cash in her bra and wondered where this Abyssinian goddess had been all his life. He could feel his whole body blushing as though irradiated by her aura. Slowly, without thinking, he began divesting himself of the trappings of his persona—the bandanna, the earrings, and finally the spurs.
Then, naked as it were before her, he haltingly posed a suddenly imperative question:
“How about ... Starbucks?”
# # #
Sitting cross-legged on the curb with his sizzling groin and Queenie hovering over him like that, Barry was feeling sheepish for the first time in his life and in no way inclined to argue money. Besides, his sensibilities weren’t wholly self-directed; he recognized and accepted legitimate obligations, and believed he did owe Queenie for the groceries some asswipe walked off with when she dropped her shopping bag and rushed to his rescue.
Whatever the case, had it not been for Queenie’s instant intervention, his motorcycle’s super-hot exhaust pipe might have totally toasted his almonds. And so with no little effort, Barry extracted his wallet from the pocket of his snake-skin jeans. He was shaking a little and hoped Queenie did not interpret this as fear.
“Twenty-three sixty-five, you say?”
He fished out some bills and thrust two tens and a five-spot towards Queenie’s looming form.
Queenie plucked the bucks from Barry’s tremulous fingers. “Danke shön,” she said. Then she reached down and snatched another five from the still-gaping billfold. “Let’s just call it thirty, Chuck. I gotta re-shop that stuff, you understan’, and time’s money.”
Barry watched Queenie stuff the cash in her bra and wondered where this Abyssinian goddess had been all his life. He could feel his whole body blushing as though irradiated by her aura. Slowly, without thinking, he began divesting himself of the trappings of his persona—the bandanna, the earrings, and finally the spurs.
Then, naked as it were before her, he haltingly posed a suddenly imperative question:
“How about ... Starbucks?”
# # #
Saturday, August 14, 2010
320
Queenie
Barry loved making a big fat production of backing his big black Harley into a curbside parking spot, slapping down the kickstand with a booted heel, and easing out of the saddle in the über-manly slow-mo manner of the Marlboro Man. He was sure all eyes were on him (where else would they be?), and that he was making bosoms swell with desire and dicks shrivel with envy.
Only, today—today just wasn’t going to be Barry’s day for Marlboro Manly display.
The backing to the curb had gone without a hitch. The slapping of the kickstand had kicked ass per usual. But the dismount did not come off as planned. The spur on Barry’s boot got caught on a fringed-leather saddle bag as he was swinging his right leg rearward, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground, pulling the motorcycle down with him.
“Help!” Barry shrieked, as the engine’s hot exhaust pipe instantly began searing his groin.
Much to Barry’s good fortune, Queenie, a woman of uncommon strength and unhesitating action, happened to be strolling toward the scene of his distress on her way home from the corner bodega. Dropping her sack to the sidewalk, she sprinted the twenty or so yards to the writhing victim of his own excess and yanked the Harley upright as though it were a Huffy.
Barry rolled over and crawled to the curb, sucking air through his teeth against the pulsing pain radiating from his scorched scrotum. “Omigod—it HURTS!” he squealed.
“Serves you right for wearin’ spurs on a goddamn motorcycle, fool!” Queenie scolded. “I saw what happened—and who you tryin’ to be anyhow, the fuckin’ Marlboro Man?”
Barry, feeling sheepish for the first time literally ever, just sucked more air and cupped his crotch with both hands.
“And look here, bitch” Queenie continued, “you owe me twenty-three sixty-five, ‘cause now some asshole’s gone and stole my fuckin’ groceries!”
# # #
Barry loved making a big fat production of backing his big black Harley into a curbside parking spot, slapping down the kickstand with a booted heel, and easing out of the saddle in the über-manly slow-mo manner of the Marlboro Man. He was sure all eyes were on him (where else would they be?), and that he was making bosoms swell with desire and dicks shrivel with envy.
Only, today—today just wasn’t going to be Barry’s day for Marlboro Manly display.
The backing to the curb had gone without a hitch. The slapping of the kickstand had kicked ass per usual. But the dismount did not come off as planned. The spur on Barry’s boot got caught on a fringed-leather saddle bag as he was swinging his right leg rearward, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground, pulling the motorcycle down with him.
“Help!” Barry shrieked, as the engine’s hot exhaust pipe instantly began searing his groin.
Much to Barry’s good fortune, Queenie, a woman of uncommon strength and unhesitating action, happened to be strolling toward the scene of his distress on her way home from the corner bodega. Dropping her sack to the sidewalk, she sprinted the twenty or so yards to the writhing victim of his own excess and yanked the Harley upright as though it were a Huffy.
Barry rolled over and crawled to the curb, sucking air through his teeth against the pulsing pain radiating from his scorched scrotum. “Omigod—it HURTS!” he squealed.
“Serves you right for wearin’ spurs on a goddamn motorcycle, fool!” Queenie scolded. “I saw what happened—and who you tryin’ to be anyhow, the fuckin’ Marlboro Man?”
Barry, feeling sheepish for the first time literally ever, just sucked more air and cupped his crotch with both hands.
“And look here, bitch” Queenie continued, “you owe me twenty-three sixty-five, ‘cause now some asshole’s gone and stole my fuckin’ groceries!”
# # #
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
219
David
It’s early evening as we join David and Rachelle enjoying some quality time together on the over-stuffed sofa in Rachelle’s snug, fifth-floor walk-up. David, who’s just “had his way” with Rachelle, as he likes to put it, is beginning to nod off when Rachelle digs him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Oh my God, David—look at this,” she says, gasping.
She’s referring to the disturbing video then being aired on NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. It’s one of those caught-in-the-act videos captured by a parking-lot surveillance camera at a big-box outlet; in this instance, a Target Superstore in Bentonville, Arkansas.
In the video a young mother is seen leaning into the back seat of a dark-colored Chevrolet Suburban and whacking the daylights out of a child who’s hidden from view by the roof of the vehicle. The woman whacks and whacks and whacks and whacks, her ponytail bobbing and swaying with every blow.
Rachelle’s eyes begin to blur with tears. “That woman should be taken out and shot,” she says.
David, however, is observing the episode from another point of view. He’s transfixed by the fetching rhythm of the child-beater’s bobbing and swaying ponytail, finding it alluring in the extreme. It is, for David, pure poetry in motion. What’s more, he really digs her ass.
# # #
It’s early evening as we join David and Rachelle enjoying some quality time together on the over-stuffed sofa in Rachelle’s snug, fifth-floor walk-up. David, who’s just “had his way” with Rachelle, as he likes to put it, is beginning to nod off when Rachelle digs him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Oh my God, David—look at this,” she says, gasping.
She’s referring to the disturbing video then being aired on NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. It’s one of those caught-in-the-act videos captured by a parking-lot surveillance camera at a big-box outlet; in this instance, a Target Superstore in Bentonville, Arkansas.
In the video a young mother is seen leaning into the back seat of a dark-colored Chevrolet Suburban and whacking the daylights out of a child who’s hidden from view by the roof of the vehicle. The woman whacks and whacks and whacks and whacks, her ponytail bobbing and swaying with every blow.
Rachelle’s eyes begin to blur with tears. “That woman should be taken out and shot,” she says.
David, however, is observing the episode from another point of view. He’s transfixed by the fetching rhythm of the child-beater’s bobbing and swaying ponytail, finding it alluring in the extreme. It is, for David, pure poetry in motion. What’s more, he really digs her ass.
# # #
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
332
Barry
Little Barry told his mom he wanted spurs for his seventh birthday, and she replied over my dead body without glancing away from The Price Is Right.
Although Little Barry’s brain struggled to process the reference, Little Barry intuitively understood that his mother’s response was less promising than maybe or we’ll see, and probably amounted to no. But since she hadn’t specifically said no, he decided he’d ask her again later, tomorrow maybe, and slumped off to his bedroom.
Little Barry also intuitively understood that he needn’t bother bringing up pierced earrings, and that his mother loathed the very sight of Big Barry—a fact which thoroughly confused Little Barry, because Little Barry wanted to be just like Big Barry, the coolest dad of all the dads of all the kids he could think of who had at least one.
None of the other kids’ dads rode a motorcycle as big or as loud as Big Barry’s, for example. None of the other dads even had a motorcycle as far as Little Barry was concerned, because he was pretty certain Jimmy’s father’s Vespa didn’t count. And even if it did count, Big Barry’s motorcycle, which Big Barry called his “hog,” was twice as big and about a hundred times as loud. Why, compared with Big Barry’s hog, Jimmy’s father’s Vespa seemed no louder than his mom’s portable sewing machine.
And it pretty much goes without saying that Jimmy’s father did not wear spurs while riding his Vespa. What would have been the point of that?
Safely ensconced in his bedroom, Little Barry extracted from beneath his pillow the red bandana Big Barry had bought him from Piratemerch.com and tied it on his head as best he could. Then he dragged his mother’s Samsonite suitcase out from under his bed where she stored it, set it upright in the middle of the floor, and climbed on. The suitcase made a pretty good motorcycle if Little Barry pretended hard enough, even though it was pink.
# # #
Little Barry told his mom he wanted spurs for his seventh birthday, and she replied over my dead body without glancing away from The Price Is Right.
Although Little Barry’s brain struggled to process the reference, Little Barry intuitively understood that his mother’s response was less promising than maybe or we’ll see, and probably amounted to no. But since she hadn’t specifically said no, he decided he’d ask her again later, tomorrow maybe, and slumped off to his bedroom.
Little Barry also intuitively understood that he needn’t bother bringing up pierced earrings, and that his mother loathed the very sight of Big Barry—a fact which thoroughly confused Little Barry, because Little Barry wanted to be just like Big Barry, the coolest dad of all the dads of all the kids he could think of who had at least one.
None of the other kids’ dads rode a motorcycle as big or as loud as Big Barry’s, for example. None of the other dads even had a motorcycle as far as Little Barry was concerned, because he was pretty certain Jimmy’s father’s Vespa didn’t count. And even if it did count, Big Barry’s motorcycle, which Big Barry called his “hog,” was twice as big and about a hundred times as loud. Why, compared with Big Barry’s hog, Jimmy’s father’s Vespa seemed no louder than his mom’s portable sewing machine.
And it pretty much goes without saying that Jimmy’s father did not wear spurs while riding his Vespa. What would have been the point of that?
Safely ensconced in his bedroom, Little Barry extracted from beneath his pillow the red bandana Big Barry had bought him from Piratemerch.com and tied it on his head as best he could. Then he dragged his mother’s Samsonite suitcase out from under his bed where she stored it, set it upright in the middle of the floor, and climbed on. The suitcase made a pretty good motorcycle if Little Barry pretended hard enough, even though it was pink.
# # #
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