CHAPTER 10
[They stood in the wide entryway for a brief moment, coronal silhouettes.
Kin peeked over the edge of the carriage, and pushed a silent puff of air past his lips.
They walked into the garage.
-Motherfucker. Stupid motherfucker!
-What? I told you.
-Yeah, you told me. And that makes it better somehow?
-We still have 120. We'll get two with 120. I called before I left.
-So he's going to meet us?
-Yeah, in like an hour. In the sump.
-OK.
They dropped their Marlboro red boxes on the narrow concrete shelf that jutted out where the plasterboard wall ended.
This was Kin's older brother Ray, and his friend Sarge from over on Brown.
Ray flipped the top of a Zippo open with one hand, dropped it down to his side, then scraped it up along his pant leg so that it lit. Then he closed the top and did it again.
Sarge pulled a shuriken out of the soft, camel-brown wall and stepped back five or six feet. He released it quickly, the action mostly from his wrist, and the shuriken entered the wall with a powdery thud.
-To Oz?
-To Oz.
They collected their cigarettes from the shelf and walked back outside, bringing the garage door down behind them.
And it was once again dark.]
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
CHAPTER 9
-Not the moors again.
-Yup.
-Fuck.
-Tell me about it. I always think you're going to turn into Kate Bush or something.
-Or Emily Bronte?
-Yeah, or Emily Bronte. You know, raven tressed, storm tossed, consumptive...
-What is consumption, anyway? TB?
-Christ, I'm not sure really. But yeah, I think it's TB. Personally I like it.
-You like it?
-Not the disease-- the name. The idea of being consumed by a disease.
-Well, you're a sick fuck.
-And thank you kindly, ma'am.
-Not the moors again.
-Yup.
-Fuck.
-Tell me about it. I always think you're going to turn into Kate Bush or something.
-Or Emily Bronte?
-Yeah, or Emily Bronte. You know, raven tressed, storm tossed, consumptive...
-What is consumption, anyway? TB?
-Christ, I'm not sure really. But yeah, I think it's TB. Personally I like it.
-You like it?
-Not the disease-- the name. The idea of being consumed by a disease.
-Well, you're a sick fuck.
-And thank you kindly, ma'am.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
CHAPTER 8
His name was not really Kin, but she thought it fit, and it rhymed with hers.
Her name was Gin, but not like the juniper-berry drink. She'd say
-Gin, same as “gun” except with an I instead of a U.
She liked how the vowels would masquerade as pronouns. It felt confrontational, even if she was the only one who ever noticed. Especially if she was the only one who noticed...
His name was not really Kin, but she thought it fit, and it rhymed with hers.
Her name was Gin, but not like the juniper-berry drink. She'd say
-Gin, same as “gun” except with an I instead of a U.
She liked how the vowels would masquerade as pronouns. It felt confrontational, even if she was the only one who ever noticed. Especially if she was the only one who noticed...
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
CHAPTER 7
-We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.
-No, we're in the car.
-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors.
-We are in the car.
-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.
-No.
And then she returned.
-We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.
-No, we're in the car.
-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors.
-We are in the car.
-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.
-No.
And then she returned.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
CHAPTER 6
[There was a baby carriage in the back of the garage, dark blue and canopied, with 5” wheels and a wobbly suspension. It was empty by then, but for years it had been filled with bundles of old newspapers, wrapped portrait and landscape in twine.
They huddled together bottomless in that carriage in the dark garage. Inside the house his father drank Champale and groped his mother's tits at the kitchen table. His mother practiced a Chopin nocturne on her knee in an effort not to notice.
-It looks like a little apple.
The garage door opened and bathed every corner in late afternoon light, and they didn't dare move an inch.]
[There was a baby carriage in the back of the garage, dark blue and canopied, with 5” wheels and a wobbly suspension. It was empty by then, but for years it had been filled with bundles of old newspapers, wrapped portrait and landscape in twine.
They huddled together bottomless in that carriage in the dark garage. Inside the house his father drank Champale and groped his mother's tits at the kitchen table. His mother practiced a Chopin nocturne on her knee in an effort not to notice.
-It looks like a little apple.
The garage door opened and bathed every corner in late afternoon light, and they didn't dare move an inch.]
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
CHAPTER 4
-Crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies...
She tried to keep her mind busy.
Then she saw him reach. He was probably in his late 30s. Underdressed for the weather.
He was reaching to pluck something from an aluminum display tree adjacent to the Fudge Stripes. A Hot Wheels car. He ran a finger over the clear plastic shell, and raised the package up slightly to look at the undercarriage.
She dropped the bottle of soda, and a quick surge ran through her upper back. She waited for everything to turn red, she waited for the densified concrete floor to open and swallow her whole. But instead she just cried, low and quiet and shuddery.
-Crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies...
She tried to keep her mind busy.
Then she saw him reach. He was probably in his late 30s. Underdressed for the weather.
He was reaching to pluck something from an aluminum display tree adjacent to the Fudge Stripes. A Hot Wheels car. He ran a finger over the clear plastic shell, and raised the package up slightly to look at the undercarriage.
She dropped the bottle of soda, and a quick surge ran through her upper back. She waited for everything to turn red, she waited for the densified concrete floor to open and swallow her whole. But instead she just cried, low and quiet and shuddery.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
CHAPTER 3
She turned and walked down the soda aisle. Only a few people there, which was good. She wanted to move. She wanted to move.
There was a little girl dancing lightly from Pepsi to Sprite. The stock clerk had the black dead eyes of a shark or an alcoholic. This would be easy.
As the neck of the bottle pressed against her thenar eminence she grasped and lifted, barely breaking stride.
Done.
She turned and walked down the soda aisle. Only a few people there, which was good. She wanted to move. She wanted to move.
There was a little girl dancing lightly from Pepsi to Sprite. The stock clerk had the black dead eyes of a shark or an alcoholic. This would be easy.
As the neck of the bottle pressed against her thenar eminence she grasped and lifted, barely breaking stride.
Done.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
CHAPTER 2
-Parmesan Goldfish and Mr Pibb.
He reached into his right pocket until his leg was completely straight, and his foot strained against the floorboard.
-Here's 5. You sure you want to?
-Yes.
She grabbed the bill and stepped out of the car onto a two-foot tall orange E. FIRE LANE.
He muttered to himself-- Shit-- and fiddled with the knob on the car stereo...
-Parmesan Goldfish and Mr Pibb.
He reached into his right pocket until his leg was completely straight, and his foot strained against the floorboard.
-Here's 5. You sure you want to?
-Yes.
She grabbed the bill and stepped out of the car onto a two-foot tall orange E. FIRE LANE.
He muttered to himself-- Shit-- and fiddled with the knob on the car stereo...
Monday, November 10, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
KOOKIE, KOOKIE, LEND ME YOUR COMB
I was explaining to Taeko why I didn't have a comb.
“I dropped it in the toilet by accident a few days ago.”
“So. You wash it.”
“No, sorry. Strict rule: If it falls in the toilet, game over.”
“You'd never survive in a war.”
“A war? Is there some global combat imminent that's going to involve dunking my personal-grooming products in the toilet?”
Silence
“Because I think I have a right to know, dammit.”
Additional silence.
“But yeah, if those are the rules of warfare, I'm pretty much a dead man...”
I was explaining to Taeko why I didn't have a comb.
“I dropped it in the toilet by accident a few days ago.”
“So. You wash it.”
“No, sorry. Strict rule: If it falls in the toilet, game over.”
“You'd never survive in a war.”
“A war? Is there some global combat imminent that's going to involve dunking my personal-grooming products in the toilet?”
Silence
“Because I think I have a right to know, dammit.”
Additional silence.
“But yeah, if those are the rules of warfare, I'm pretty much a dead man...”
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
I FOUND THAT ESSENCE RARE
Politics, huh? Well, OK.
I became aware of politics in the 70s. My grandmother was prominent in the local Republican woman’s club. I wrote derogatory grade-school limericks about Gerald Ford. In 7th grade, I stole a copy of The Doonesbury Chronicles from the school library.
In the 80s I felt mildly oppressed by first-round Reagan, and morbidly oppressed by second-round Reagan. The America of 1984-1988 was not my America.
Bush the First held the faintly unpleasant aftertaste of the Reagan years. I crinkled my nose and swallowed hard.
I forgave Clinton his peccadilloes in light of many of his policies, but I didn’t trust a word he said. I spent my time waiting for Cuomo… but Cuomo never came.
Gore seemed to possess a developed sense of fairness and decency, so I was satisfied when he was elected, Tipper notwithstanding. Then Bush the Second stole the consarnit thing, and we were condemned to four years of an Empire of Idiocy, then complicit in it for another four.
Yesterday we woke up. And for the first time in a long time, I can say that I am proud of this country.
Well done, America. Well effing done…
Politics, huh? Well, OK.
I became aware of politics in the 70s. My grandmother was prominent in the local Republican woman’s club. I wrote derogatory grade-school limericks about Gerald Ford. In 7th grade, I stole a copy of The Doonesbury Chronicles from the school library.
In the 80s I felt mildly oppressed by first-round Reagan, and morbidly oppressed by second-round Reagan. The America of 1984-1988 was not my America.
Bush the First held the faintly unpleasant aftertaste of the Reagan years. I crinkled my nose and swallowed hard.
I forgave Clinton his peccadilloes in light of many of his policies, but I didn’t trust a word he said. I spent my time waiting for Cuomo… but Cuomo never came.
Gore seemed to possess a developed sense of fairness and decency, so I was satisfied when he was elected, Tipper notwithstanding. Then Bush the Second stole the consarnit thing, and we were condemned to four years of an Empire of Idiocy, then complicit in it for another four.
Yesterday we woke up. And for the first time in a long time, I can say that I am proud of this country.
Well done, America. Well effing done…
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