While I doubt this will do him any justice, here goes nothing.
You done did it again. Good one. You know, she probably ain’t gonna want to be talkin’ to you anymore, not if you keep dumping yer damn beer all over her shirt like you have been. That’s the second time in what, ten minutes? I mean, look at the poor girl. All she’s trying to do is dance a little bit in front of you and you keep flailing that cup over her blonde-topped head like it’s a lighter and you’re at a damn Skynyrd concert. And she does is look back up to you like Boy You Better Be Careful You’re Cute And All But This Outfit Is Brand-Spankin New. And sure, you’re nervous, self conscious, probably feel like everyone in the joint is staring right at you—this being your first college party and all, and no one ever gave you the walk-through on how to go about dancing with these college girls. They’re a whole different breed, huh? Hell, you just be lucky she don’t know about your little secret, you know, that baby peeter of yours—not yet at least— how it just kinda hangs there limp like a piece’a bologna, unsure about what it’s even doing there.
In all these years, you haven’t used it for a damn thing worthwhile. Though, maybe she the kinda girl to find it endearing. You know, cute or somethin’. She must feel it down there against her, I mean, she’s pushing up, waxing you like you’re a new car or somethin’, and you’re just standing there behind her, not sure what to do with the beer in your hand, tryin’a figure out how to drink it or if you should even bother trying. You know full well every time you bring it to your mouth you run the risk of spilling more onto her pretty little head. And every time she turns up to you, giving you that look, you look right back down and go I’m Sorry Really I Didn’t Mean To and she’s wondering if you’re even worth her time. But now all you can think about is fresh-cut pink bologna and how good that would taste right about now. Maybe some home-good mayonnaise. Momma’s potato bread. Either potato chips or chocolate-dipped pretzels. Some sweet tea from the white-flowered pitcher in the fridge. A different taste than the one you got now. A better taste.
But you best be waking up soon now, boss, stop thinkin so much about what you can’t have no more. Tonight might actually be the night you become somethin’ of a man—at least that’s what hope is tellin’ you.
You are an author. You have a deadline, an editor, a family to support, and fans lets not forget them. There is a blank word document that you need to fill with words. Those words need meaning, add commas, and periods. Make it seven pages, that would be enough. Make it meaningful, it needs to appeal to people, to all kinds of people. You make it about adulthood because everyone relates to that. The words start really flowing, there are significant details, characters, and even a setting. Then the genius idea strikes you, make the setting a metaphor, make it one big metaphor. Yeah that would stick with people. Goodbye.
Well- It happened once, maybe twice. You seriously wouldn't believe it even if I told the whole truth. Wait! You were there. So you saw it all, right? That weird guy giving the speech to the entire student body. Did you see his hair? It was like a flock of seagulls haircut with a trash-stache crawling across his face. It was a nasty sight. You probably remember everything he said. I think he was genuine. Not sure, but he was a good guy. He deserves more credit. I know he won't get it. You saw him. He stuttered and looked awkward. You know him, right? Is he actually a nice guy? This is one of those times that I will never recieve a legitimate answer, isn't it? Wait! Are you yelling at me? You really think I'm "pretentious?" I was just stating my mind. It's your fault for listening.
You had been waiting for months to finally drink legally. No more fake ids, no more lies to tell your month. You are finally twenty-one and able to drink whatever you want. You decide that your first drink would be the most expensive drink they have, the Volcano. You are celebrating after all, time to go big. But someone at the bar in front of you orders one and winces as he took his first sip. Before you were used to beers and the occasional wine cooler that your best friend buys for you. But this volcano drink looks too deadly to try. The man complains of his mouth being on fire and you order a glass of beer instead. The familiar taste calms you down and you smile, as no one will arrest you for underage drinking again. But as you pay for your license, he doesn’t believe that you are twenty-one. He looks at it and then back at you confused. He calls for his manager and you start to panic. You open through your wallet looking to see if it was really your license and not some fake one. But you find nothing, just an empty wallet. The man with the Volcano looks at you suspiciously and shakes his head. You try not to worry yet the fear kicks in when the manager walks in with your license in hand.
He asks you if you were indeed the person in the card. You nod your head slowly and grip the end of your dress tightly. Today was supposed to be a perfect day and yet you somehow still got into trouble. The manager tells you not to worry but recognizes your face here before. You were here with your best friend for her twenty-first birthday party. The manager asks you where she is and if you saw her around. You shook your head. Your best friend left as soon as she could and you had been stuck with her dirty apartment downtown. The manager looks into your eyes and said that your best friend stole something from him. Something precious. You shrug it off and drink your beer. Your best friend would never do anything like that. The manager keeps pressing you for information and the man with the Volcano walks up with his badge. You try to act casual and wonder what your best friend gotten into. She never told you anything just left. The man with the Volcano explains that he is a cop, an undercover one that is investigating a murder. The murder of your best friend. You chug the beer down and ask for a volcano. You try to ignore the cop’s and the manager’s questions but you can’t but listen. Apparently your best friend stole the manager’s ring that he was going to give to his girlfriend. You best friend fled out of the bar as fast as she could only to be shot at gunpoint. You drink the volcano and feel it burn your throat. You hope it will keep you from speaking but it doesn’t. You excuse yourself and grab your license before leaving the bar. The cop starts to come after you and you suddenly remembered that you had a ring in your purse, the one your best friend gave you for your birthday. You leave it on the table and walk away, hoping that they would leave you alone. You had been waiting for months to finally drink legally and yet you still got into trouble.
Don’t go home. You know you have to, but Derrick’s giving you that What Are You Chicken look and you know that can’t go home now. You follow him across the room. Setting your feet one in front of the other, straight as you can. It’s not as difficult as the movies make you think. You think the room is ugly, but you don’t tell Derrick. Neon green and hot pink, lots of band names you don’t know. You don’t bother to ask. You walk up to the closet door and wait as Derrick starts throwing things around. Shirts, socks, boxers. You frown, but you don’t say anything. You know what he’s looking for, even if you don’t want to see it.
You wonder why you don’t go home.
“I wanna play cards. You know the game. The one where everyone falls to pieces. Yeah, that one. I played it when I was eight. My brothers killed me. I hated it, you know? I always hated those bastards. But ever since then I been dreaming about it, about that damn game. I wanna play it again. I wanna play it with my brothers. I wanna beat their asses in and laugh in their faces. And I’ll do it, too. Jacob told me I can’t, so I know I’ll do it. He always lies.”
You reach into your backpack, fumbling for something that isn’t there. Your science homework could have been anything. A work sheet, a piece of loose leaf, perhaps, filled with jotted responses to questions from the textbook, An Invitation to Biology. That book could’ve saved you yesterday. But yesterday was a day filled with the distraction of her biology, a girl with fragile curves that could have been compared to those of the glass instruments from class, but without the wafting smell of sulfur. She smelled more intentional, like the perfect combination of lilac and lavender. This smell forced you to forget your books, accidentally on purpose. You shut your locker as she passed, an excuse to walk at her side. When you did, you forgot to realize that your backpack was light because, in her company, everything felt light. And now that your encounter has drifted into yesterday, you can only feel the heavy weight of ignorance and shame as you shuffle through the contents of your bag, pretending to have something you don’t, hoping to find something physical.
I usually keep my right hand at my side or in my pocket because it doesn’t have a place at a open venue like a bar where girls could see the sixth or seventh finger on it and say Oh I Never Saw Extra Fingers You Caught Me By Surprise. But the extra fingers aren’t full digits, more like these half-fingers that grow off the side of my index and pinky fingers, but all of them got their own nails. I keep that hand hidden, but luckily I’m left-handed. And people like lefties and they say to me You Must Be Gifted Because Most Lefties Are Creative Geniuses. And I’ll say something to make them feel like they sort of pity me, like My Other Hand Is Too Mangled. And then that’ll strike up their curiosity because you can’t leave a conversation there like that. So I’ll say something funny like I’m Probably A Modest Genius.
You look around. You tap your foot impatiently. THe blonde woman in front of you turns around. You stare back defiantly, daring her to say anything. She turns back around and sighs. Three more people until it's your turn at the deli counter. You watch as the thin man walks off with what looks like cheese and ham. Two more people left. The mom behind you with crazy curly hair yells at her son. You refuse to turn around when the boy starts crying. The worst sound to hear anywhere. Your staring straight ahead and ignoring it when someone walks into you. You turn to yell, realizing that it's a beautiful woman. She smiles with a red face. Your hands unclench and your blood is flowing. She says sorry, keeps walking. You watch her ass as she walks away. You open your mouth to say something but then shut it. She's already gone. Besides, it's finally your turn at the counter.
You first noticed the bump on your leg while shaving. You were not going to shave your legs because it’s winter and you don’t have a boyfriend or any prospects for a boyfriend, but it was much colder outside of the shower and you wanted to stand there longer while the hot water beat down on you. You stuck out your leg and propped it up against the shower wall, which was slippery. You ran the razor up the front of your right leg until it was smooth, and you almost wished you could just stop there because it was beautiful. You put your foot back on the floor and reached around to shave the back, but the blades caught on the bump on your leg and you cried out. There was a little blood, but there was mostly a quarter-sized plateau mid-calf, a little darker than the rest of your skin. You had only shaved one and a half legs, but this scared you and you braved the cold of the bathroom.
You weren't sure how you were supposed to smoke the clove cigarette, so you guessed. Your face turned red from trying so hard not to cough, but you hoped they couldn't tell in the darkness. You felt at home here, or maybe not at home, but there was comfort. You drank the bottle they sent around because this was the first party you were invited to. You didn't like the burn, but with a swelling of pride, you thought about the kids at school, what they would think. You thought about Dave Mittner and the things he called you in Spanish class while the teacher pretended that she didn't notice. You thought how he would realize, if he saw you drinking this stuff, smoking the piney clove, all of which made you enormously and deliciously dizzy sick, how he would realize that you were better than ugly, than disgusting. That you were maybe more like Gabby Furning and you could be pretty, at least in certain lights. That your shoes were clean. That you didn't smell bad. You thought that if only he could see the boys you were with -- men, really, because they were older -- if only he could see the boy with the kind eyes sitting next to you put his hand on your leg and squeeze, once, gently... if he could see that, then you would be okay. You would make it out okay. You settle with thinking that in Spanish class on Monday Dave would still be able to smell some hint of clove smoke, and you weren't sure if the smell of vodka stuck on your skin, but you hoped maybe he'd be able to smell that, too.
You're writing for class, but you don't want to. Everyone has written before you and it seems as though you're the last one to show up to this party, but there still may be more to come because do you really know every person in your class? Why doesn't anyone ever bring brownies to class, you may wonder. You could probably use some water too—a beer, maybe some orange juice. You love orange juice except when you drink so much of it that it burns your stomach. You know, when you drink a lot of orange juice when you're like hungover or something and then you're all Oh Shit Man I Was Just Trying To Get Some Vitamin C And Quench My Thirst And Now Look At This. But it's not really look at this because you can't really see the inside of your stomach. I digress.
You find yourself alone with your thoughts for the hundreth time this week. You've been left alone again, with no way out. The room is quiet, so is the hall. You've found yourself drowning in music but that only helps so much. Your thoughts grow louder as the silence swells. Infinite silence. You're stuck here, surrounded by people who don't know who you are. You've been left out, left alone. You don't care. You've beaten yourself up enough. You stare at a blank page, lost for words. You were supposed to have written something days ago, or maybe a week now. You still have nothing. You're winging it, and the best part is, you really don't care. Your pen hits the paper, fingers fly across keys, and finally everything starts to make sense.
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ReplyDeleteWhile I doubt this will do him any justice, here goes nothing.
ReplyDeleteYou done did it again. Good one. You know, she probably ain’t gonna want to be talkin’ to you anymore, not if you keep dumping yer damn beer all over her shirt like you have been. That’s the second time in what, ten minutes? I mean, look at the poor girl. All she’s trying to do is dance a little bit in front of you and you keep flailing that cup over her blonde-topped head like it’s a lighter and you’re at a damn Skynyrd concert. And she does is look back up to you like Boy You Better Be Careful You’re Cute And All But This Outfit Is Brand-Spankin New. And sure, you’re nervous, self conscious, probably feel like everyone in the joint is staring right at you—this being your first college party and all, and no one ever gave you the walk-through on how to go about dancing with these college girls. They’re a whole different breed, huh? Hell, you just be lucky she don’t know about your little secret, you know, that baby peeter of yours—not yet at least— how it just kinda hangs there limp like a piece’a bologna, unsure about what it’s even doing there.
In all these years, you haven’t used it for a damn thing worthwhile. Though, maybe she the kinda girl to find it endearing. You know, cute or somethin’. She must feel it down there against her, I mean, she’s pushing up, waxing you like you’re a new car or somethin’, and you’re just standing there behind her, not sure what to do with the beer in your hand, tryin’a figure out how to drink it or if you should even bother trying. You know full well every time you bring it to your mouth you run the risk of spilling more onto her pretty little head. And every time she turns up to you, giving you that look, you look right back down and go I’m Sorry Really I Didn’t Mean To and she’s wondering if you’re even worth her time. But now all you can think about is fresh-cut pink bologna and how good that would taste right about now. Maybe some home-good mayonnaise. Momma’s potato bread. Either potato chips or chocolate-dipped pretzels. Some sweet tea from the white-flowered pitcher in the fridge. A different taste than the one you got now. A better taste.
But you best be waking up soon now, boss, stop thinkin so much about what you can’t have no more. Tonight might actually be the night you become somethin’ of a man—at least that’s what hope is tellin’ you.
You are an author. You have a deadline, an editor, a family to support, and fans lets not forget them. There is a blank word document that you need to fill with words. Those words need meaning, add commas, and periods. Make it seven pages, that would be enough. Make it meaningful, it needs to appeal to people, to all kinds of people. You make it about adulthood because everyone relates to that. The words start really flowing, there are significant details, characters, and even a setting. Then the genius idea strikes you, make the setting a metaphor, make it one big metaphor. Yeah that would stick with people.
ReplyDeleteGoodbye.
Well- It happened once, maybe twice. You seriously wouldn't believe it even if I told the whole truth. Wait! You were there. So you saw it all, right? That weird guy giving the speech to the entire student body. Did you see his hair? It was like a flock of seagulls haircut with a trash-stache crawling across his face. It was a nasty sight. You probably remember everything he said. I think he was genuine. Not sure, but he was a good guy. He deserves more credit. I know he won't get it. You saw him. He stuttered and looked awkward. You know him, right? Is he actually a nice guy? This is one of those times that I will never recieve a legitimate answer, isn't it? Wait! Are you yelling at me? You really think I'm "pretentious?" I was just stating my mind. It's your fault for listening.
ReplyDeleteYou had been waiting for months to finally drink legally. No more fake ids, no more lies to tell your month. You are finally twenty-one and able to drink whatever you want. You decide that your first drink would be the most expensive drink they have, the Volcano. You are celebrating after all, time to go big. But someone at the bar in front of you orders one and winces as he took his first sip. Before you were used to beers and the occasional wine cooler that your best friend buys for you. But this volcano drink looks too deadly to try. The man complains of his mouth being on fire and you order a glass of beer instead. The familiar taste calms you down and you smile, as no one will arrest you for underage drinking again. But as you pay for your license, he doesn’t believe that you are twenty-one. He looks at it and then back at you confused. He calls for his manager and you start to panic. You open through your wallet looking to see if it was really your license and not some fake one. But you find nothing, just an empty wallet. The man with the Volcano looks at you suspiciously and shakes his head. You try not to worry yet the fear kicks in when the manager walks in with your license in hand.
ReplyDeleteHe asks you if you were indeed the person in the card. You nod your head slowly and grip the end of your dress tightly. Today was supposed to be a perfect day and yet you somehow still got into trouble. The manager tells you not to worry but recognizes your face here before. You were here with your best friend for her twenty-first birthday party. The manager asks you where she is and if you saw her around. You shook your head. Your best friend left as soon as she could and you had been stuck with her dirty apartment downtown. The manager looks into your eyes and said that your best friend stole something from him. Something precious. You shrug it off and drink your beer. Your best friend would never do anything like that. The manager keeps pressing you for information and the man with the Volcano walks up with his badge. You try to act casual and wonder what your best friend gotten into. She never told you anything just left. The man with the Volcano explains that he is a cop, an undercover one that is investigating a murder. The murder of your best friend. You chug the beer down and ask for a volcano. You try to ignore the cop’s and the manager’s questions but you can’t but listen. Apparently your best friend stole the manager’s ring that he was going to give to his girlfriend. You best friend fled out of the bar as fast as she could only to be shot at gunpoint. You drink the volcano and feel it burn your throat. You hope it will keep you from speaking but it doesn’t. You excuse yourself and grab your license before leaving the bar. The cop starts to come after you and you suddenly remembered that you had a ring in your purse, the one your best friend gave you for your birthday. You leave it on the table and walk away, hoping that they would leave you alone. You had been waiting for months to finally drink legally and yet you still got into trouble.
Don’t go home. You know you have to, but Derrick’s giving you that What Are You Chicken look and you know that can’t go home now. You follow him across the room. Setting your feet one in front of the other, straight as you can. It’s not as difficult as the movies make you think. You think the room is ugly, but you don’t tell Derrick. Neon green and hot pink, lots of band names you don’t know. You don’t bother to ask. You walk up to the closet door and wait as Derrick starts throwing things around. Shirts, socks, boxers. You frown, but you don’t say anything. You know what he’s looking for, even if you don’t want to see it.
ReplyDeleteYou wonder why you don’t go home.
“I wanna play cards. You know the game. The one where everyone falls to pieces. Yeah, that one. I played it when I was eight. My brothers killed me. I hated it, you know? I always hated those bastards. But ever since then I been dreaming about it, about that damn game. I wanna play it again. I wanna play it with my brothers. I wanna beat their asses in and laugh in their faces. And I’ll do it, too. Jacob told me I can’t, so I know I’ll do it. He always lies.”
You reach into your backpack, fumbling for something that isn’t there. Your science homework could have been anything. A work sheet, a piece of loose leaf, perhaps, filled with jotted responses to questions from the textbook, An Invitation to Biology. That book could’ve saved you yesterday. But yesterday was a day filled with the distraction of her biology, a girl with fragile curves that could have been compared to those of the glass instruments from class, but without the wafting smell of sulfur. She smelled more intentional, like the perfect combination of lilac and lavender. This smell forced you to forget your books, accidentally on purpose. You shut your locker as she passed, an excuse to walk at her side. When you did, you forgot to realize that your backpack was light because, in her company, everything felt light. And now that your encounter has drifted into yesterday, you can only feel the heavy weight of ignorance and shame as you shuffle through the contents of your bag, pretending to have something you don’t, hoping to find something physical.
ReplyDeleteI usually keep my right hand at my side or in my pocket because it doesn’t have a place at a open venue like a bar where girls could see the sixth or seventh finger on it and say Oh I Never Saw Extra Fingers You Caught Me By Surprise. But the extra fingers aren’t full digits, more like these half-fingers that grow off the side of my index and pinky fingers, but all of them got their own nails. I keep that hand hidden, but luckily I’m left-handed. And people like lefties and they say to me You Must Be Gifted Because Most Lefties Are Creative Geniuses. And I’ll say something to make them feel like they sort of pity me, like My Other Hand Is Too Mangled. And then that’ll strike up their curiosity because you can’t leave a conversation there like that. So I’ll say something funny like I’m Probably A Modest Genius.
You look around. You tap your foot impatiently. THe blonde woman in front of you turns around. You stare back defiantly, daring her to say anything. She turns back around and sighs. Three more people until it's your turn at the deli counter. You watch as the thin man walks off with what looks like cheese and ham. Two more people left.
ReplyDeleteThe mom behind you with crazy curly hair yells at her son. You refuse to turn around when the boy starts crying. The worst sound to hear anywhere. Your staring straight ahead and ignoring it when someone walks into you. You turn to yell, realizing that it's a beautiful woman. She smiles with a red face. Your hands unclench and your blood is flowing. She says sorry, keeps walking. You watch her ass as she walks away. You open your mouth to say something but then shut it. She's already gone. Besides, it's finally your turn at the counter.
You first noticed the bump on your leg while shaving. You were not going to shave
ReplyDeleteyour legs because it’s winter and you don’t have a boyfriend or any prospects for a boyfriend, but it was much colder outside of the shower and you wanted to stand there longer while the hot water beat down on you. You stuck out your leg and propped it up against the shower wall, which was slippery. You ran the razor up the front of your right leg until it was smooth, and you almost wished you could just stop there because it was beautiful. You put your foot back on the floor and reached around to shave the back, but the blades caught on the bump on your leg and you cried out.
There was a little blood, but there was mostly a quarter-sized plateau mid-calf, a little darker than the rest of your skin. You had only shaved one and a half legs, but this scared you and you braved the cold of the bathroom.
You weren't sure how you were supposed to smoke the clove cigarette, so you guessed. Your face turned red from trying so hard not to cough, but you hoped they couldn't tell in the darkness.
ReplyDeleteYou felt at home here, or maybe not at home, but there was comfort.
You drank the bottle they sent around because this was the first party you were invited to. You didn't like the burn, but with a swelling of pride, you thought about the kids at school, what they would think. You thought about Dave Mittner and the things he called you in Spanish class while the teacher pretended that she didn't notice. You thought how he would realize, if he saw you drinking this stuff, smoking the piney clove, all of which made you enormously and deliciously dizzy sick, how he would realize that you were better than ugly, than disgusting. That you were maybe more like Gabby Furning and you could be pretty, at least in certain lights. That your shoes were clean. That you didn't smell bad. You thought that if only he could see the boys you were with -- men, really, because they were older -- if only he could see the boy with the kind eyes sitting next to you put his hand on your leg and squeeze, once, gently... if he could see that, then you would be okay. You would make it out okay.
You settle with thinking that in Spanish class on Monday Dave would still be able to smell some hint of clove smoke, and you weren't sure if the smell of vodka stuck on your skin, but you hoped maybe he'd be able to smell that, too.
You're writing for class, but you don't want to. Everyone has written before you and it seems as though you're the last one to show up to this party, but there still may be more to come because do you really know every person in your class? Why doesn't anyone ever bring brownies to class, you may wonder. You could probably use some water too—a beer, maybe some orange juice. You love orange juice except when you drink so much of it that it burns your stomach. You know, when you drink a lot of orange juice when you're like hungover or something and then you're all Oh Shit Man I Was Just Trying To Get Some Vitamin C And Quench My Thirst And Now Look At This. But it's not really look at this because you can't really see the inside of your stomach. I digress.
ReplyDeleteYou find yourself alone with your thoughts for the hundreth time this week. You've been left alone again, with no way out. The room is quiet, so is the hall. You've found yourself drowning in music but that only helps so much. Your thoughts grow louder as the silence swells. Infinite silence. You're stuck here, surrounded by people who don't know who you are. You've been left out, left alone. You don't care. You've beaten yourself up enough. You stare at a blank page, lost for words. You were supposed to have written something days ago, or maybe a week now. You still have nothing. You're winging it, and the best part is, you really don't care. Your pen hits the paper, fingers fly across keys, and finally everything starts to make sense.
ReplyDelete