Is like dwelling in the skin of a crash test dummy,
flinging your forehead into the steering wheel of the world,
your plastic salmon fingers on my enamel thigh.
We're like dumb dogs running snout-first
into windowpanes, our tails still taut and waving like
a victory flag -- a salute to Pabst and Chinese takeout.
Now I can write about my first love like a meteor
suspended in air, falling out of my brain's orbit,
dissolving, as I nosedive into my rum and coke the way
a falcon would hunt its prey, ripping its guts out
in an orgasmic, dizzy feast. In my carnal stupor,
I never minded losing it.
8.11.2008
6.29.2008
Flash Powder
-- Police Station Lodger, a Plank for a Bed; Jacob Riis, 1890
My hands are so caked with grime
that he won’t let me clasp them behind
my back; he places them
gingerly on my thighs like I were
modeling engagement rings. It’s
better for the news, he says, but
I don’t want to be the news, slumped
next to the plank I dragged from the
burly gut of Gansevoort Market that
he props up beside me. It still smells
like the blood of some freshly stripped cow
but it’s softer than pavement and it’s better
for the news. Close your eyes, he warns,
or you might go blind. He aims to capture
what’s in the dark – the tarnished concrete
wall; the long wooden mattress; the wrinkled,
throbbing working hands that he admires
as the swift explosion of flash powder shuts my eyes
to open yours.
When he's asleep*
drool slides from his lips
like the trickle of oil from a
sputtering car engine, and I want
to kill him. He’s just a boy in
my bed – an overgrown infant,
snoring and babbling, the crescendo
of nightmare gurgling at the peak
of his throat. I could douse the sheets
with gasoline and watch the flames
devour his frame in a zealous feeding
frenzy; I could wrap my hands
around his throat until his face swells
like a ripened blueberry, bursting
with life. Really
dawdling, awkward self –
dress him in yellows, kiss his
cheeks and clean up his
shit in the morning. Really
as the train station of his mouth
whistles the arrival of a new
locomotive dream.
4.17.2008
Split Pea Soup*
Lenore Robinson could never remember all the ingredients in split pea soup, or the American presidents and capitals, or her parents’ new home address – but she remembered these words infallibly:
“I guess I just felt smothered.”
“I guess I just felt smothered.”
They astounded her, even five years later. She obsessed over them as she hastily chopped a long carrot and gathered the pieces in her shaky hands, tossing them into the pot on the stove. Chopped carrots, celery, onions, split peas, and ham hocks – that was the easy part. She started on the onion.
Those words – “I guess I just felt smothered” – didn’t seem so bad on their own. She may have been okay with it if Brian had said it during dinner, or after their regular round of bad sex, or if he had sent her a nice card with a fifty dollar bill in it, congratulating her on her singleness; she would have even accepted a hammered voicemail from Vegas.
Instead, Lenore had sought him out, deciding one cold February day to borrow her friend’s blue ’95 Mercury Mystique and camp out in the parking lot of the law firm Brian worked at. She wondered how many other wives did things like this as she hunched over in the driver’s seat, touching her nose to the top of the leather steering wheel. She considered starting a concerned wives organization as she waited for five o’clock to roll around and decided on the name Psychotic Housewives Anonymous, because that’s how she felt – completely, pathetically and utterly psychotic.
Her hands continued to shake as she bent over the kitchen counter, tying together sprigs of parsley, thyme, and bay leaves. She always forgot how many sprigs of thyme to use, but three seemed appropriate. Jared would probably notice if she put in more than three and would writhe in his seat and whine about how dad cooked better. For seven years old, he was an exceptional connoisseur or a total brat – either way, he was entirely too much like his father. He was outside now, repeatedly sledding down the slight slope of their back yard, waddling happily in black snow pants and a bulky orange coat. The back patio lay outside the kitchen, and she watched him through the glass doors, the snow violently swirling around his chubby face.
It was colder than this five years ago, Lenore remembered, and Jared was just a toddler, strapped into a safety seat in the back of the car as she watched Brian exit the doors of the law firm, strolling to his SUV. Her body stiffened as she turned the key in the ignition.
“Mommy, Daddy!” Jared had observed loudly and proudly from the back seat.
“Jay Jay, no,” she hushed him, thrusting her arm behind her to smack him on the foot.
“It’s Daddy!” Jared kicked his legs wildly. “Mommy, it’s Daddy!”
“Jared, shut the fuck up,” Lenore had grunted, wrapping her fingers tightly around his pudgy ankle. Jared squealed in pain, but didn’t emit another sound for the rest of the evening.
In retrospect, Lenore knew she had been hasty. She brought the soup to a boil, adding a few pinches of salt. Jared couldn’t help loving Brian, and neither could she.
“Mom …”
Jared’s muffled voice seeped through the thick glass door to Lenore’s left. She sighed, pretending to be too engrossed in her soup to hear him. He struck the door with repeated, desperate raps. She stirred the soup carefully.
“Mom, I’m ready to come in; it’s cold. No one else is coming out to play today.”
She glanced towards him. Hot tears leaked down his cheeks, staining his flushed complexion. He raised his hands, which were both clad with thick wool mittens, and shielded his eyes from the ravenous wind before giving his upper lip a shameless wipe, smearing his boogers everywhere. He was disgusting. The water began to boil and Lenore lowered the heat to a simmer, covering the pot and raising her index finger towards Jared, as if to indicate that she’d be ready for him momentarily. His chest heaved in a helpless sigh and he meandered back towards his sled.
He walked like Brian. He talked like Brian. Some days, Lenore even expected him to tell her that he felt smothered – that he had found a new mommy, one with long black hair and legs to the moon.
She didn’t even know her name – the one with long black hair and legs to the moon; the one she walked in on that fateful February night; the one who stared at her over Brian’s shoulder with cold, dark eyes, as he muttered “I guess I just felt smothered.” If Brian weren’t built like a linebacker, Lenore was certain she could have pushed through him and ripped a chunk of hair out of Bitch Cunt’s pretty head.
The phone rang suddenly, shaking Lenore out of her fuming reverie. She reached for the cordless phone on the kitchen counter.
“Hello?”
“Lenore?”
The sound of Brian’s voice made her entire body ache with vertigo. Her face, her chest, her arms and her legs grew instantly hot. She feared her thighs would burn holes in her jeans as she responded, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“Oh, Brian? How’s it going?”
“Oh, not bad.” His voice was deep, authoritative. “How are you?”
"Oh … good. Making your favorite tonight.”
“Huh?”
“Split pea soup.” She leaned against the counter for support, attempting to steady her heartbeat.
“Gotcha. Did you remember the croutons this time?”
“Fuck croutons.”
“Hmm.” Brian paused. “Well, I just wanted to ask you if you ever found my RCA cables. I can’t find them anywhere. It’s not really a big deal; I could pick up some more, but I’m going to be around the area tomorrow night so I thought I’d ask.”
“Doesn’t Moon Legs have some RCA cables you could borrow?” Her voice was shaking embarrassingly now.
“What?”
“Can’t Black Death loan you a few bucks?”
“Lenore, what are you talking about?”
“Why don’t you go whine to Bitch Cunt? I have better things to do with my time than deal with your bullshit, Brian.” Lenore felt strangely empowered. She took the lid off the pot and added a dash of pepper.
“Lenore, are you talking about that again?” Brian sighed. “That was five years ago. I haven’t seen Keely in nearly four years.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot her stupid name. What an ugly name.”
“I’ve moved on, Lenore.” Brian’s voice grew louder. “It’s time for you to move on, too. Get over it. It’s been five damn years now. I just want to pick some things up tomorrow. Can you just be an adult about this?”
“She was so trashy, Brian. I just don’t understand.”
“You left me, Lenore.” His voice cracked. He was breathing heavily. Lenore beamed.
“Fuck you, Brian, and fuck your croutons and your stupid cords.” She hung up.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting a dull glow on the fallen snow. Lenore felt safe, inside, alone. She read in the newspaper earlier that it was going to hover around zero degrees all day –
“Mom, please!”
Jared was pounding urgently on the glass door, his hazel eyes still watery with tears. He hopped up and down anxiously between sobs. “Mom, I want to come in! It’s too cold!” Even through the earmuffs and the chunky scarf Lenore could see Brian gawking at her through Jared’s little eyes, eager to complain about his split pea soup being too spicy. Fuck; she forgot to add garlic. Jared kicked at the foot of the door with his leg, screaming like he did when he was a toddler. He wiped the snot from his nose again. He was really an ugly kid.
Lenore turned off the stove and marched toward the door. She had to make sure it was locked.
2.17.2008
Get a Grip, You Crazy Bitch
Angie would have been thrilled to find a picture of a naked, malnourished Nigerian baby when she opened the newest issue of National Geographic magazine. That's what National Geographic is supposed to feature – famished infants, mouths gaping, sprawled over their desperate mothers' laps; South African giraffes, necking under a blazing sun; some camels lounging around the Giza pyramid complex. It was not supposed to contain this chart – this American map that highlighted areas of the country where the population of single women trumped the population of single men, and vice versa. Red dots indicated the areas where single women reigned; blue dots signified a surplus of male bachelors. The New York City area was covered with a giant red blemish – the largest female cesspool, with nearly 200,000 more single women than single men. Los Angeles housed the biggest blue dot of all – and Angie Zimmerman.
She made a note to herself to write a letter to the editor later that night, criticizing the chart for its misrepresentation. The blue blotch over L.A. might actually encourage women to migrate, under a twisted impression that they could meet a man and fall in love. The person responsible for the chart should have really added a disclaimer: Existence and size of dots does not necessarily reflect the population's sanity, integrity, or overall quality. In fact, bigger blue dots probably mean that asshole men are spreading their seeds rapidly, impregnating impressionable women with their asshole kids.
She felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She couldn't be pregnant. Joel probably wasn't even capable of making sperm, with the amount of pot he smoked on a daily basis. That's what he told her, at least, the one time he forgot to pull out. She never actually read up on the effects of marijuana on sperm count, but maybe next month's National Geographic would be kind enough to conduct a study and publish the results on giant centerfold. He also told her, after sucking on a blunt the size of a roll of dimes, that "sometimes if you worry that you're pregnant, you won't have your period." She wasn't sure why Joel seemed so keen on the female pregnancy thing, but his relaxed attitude about her fears reassured her, most of the time. She couldn't be pregnant. Angie was 23 and uncommitted – and she should have had 40,000 studs wrapped around her finger, according to the magazine mocking her from the table. Instead she had Joel – a drug-hungry 22-year-old college dropout consumed by the delusions common in the L.A. scene; he didn't own a video camera, but he was certain he was the next David Lynch. He had plenty of other women, and she had plenty of other responsibilities as an accountant; it worked out for both of them.
She slouched in her chair outside Urth Café on Melrose Avenue, gazing down her midsection. The high waist of her black Anna Sui capris pants cut into the flesh of her heaving stomach. She worried that it was cutting off her baby's circulation. Get a grip, you crazy bitch.
With these self-censuring thoughts, Angie threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and ambled off the patio, taking long strides towards the directions of Joel's apartment, where she should have been 20 minutes ago for their bi-weekly midday romp.
―
"I think I'm pregnant," she blurted as Joel opened his door for her, exposing a dingy living room littered with Dead Kennedys posters and PBR cans.
"Angie." His expression hardened. "Shut up."
She did. He reached for her waist with a skinny, tattoo-laden arm and pulled her close, kissing her gently on her forehead. He smelled like cheap bar soap, and whenever Angie noticed it she pictured him immediately as a six-year-old, gnawing on his soap in the bathtub while screaming for his mommy. He had a young face, with big cheeks and wide eyes. His dirty blond hair was pulled behind his ears, leaving his long, scruffy sideburns to highlight a face burdened with piercings. There was a new one, Angie noticed.
"You look like a bull," she mentioned, pulling away slightly and staring curiously at the large piece of metal protruding from both nostrils.
"You look like a lady who just got off work," he retorted, licking the bridge of her nose. She winced.
"Good observation," she responded, writhing away from him.
"So what’s goin’ on, m’lady?” He inquired, pursing his lips and nudging his piercing with them so he resembled a chimpanzee oohing at the sight of an apple. Angie half expected him to jump on his couch and wildly clap his gangly arms at any moment.
“What does your upper lip smell like?” she asked.
“What? Do you want some Doritos?” He picked up a bag that was lying on his couch, though the majority of it had already emptied between the cushions and onto the floor. He thrust the bag under her nose and the sudden whiff of cheddar made her gag. She wondered what she would smell like when she left here – sex, beer, or Doritos. Sometimes the scent of cheap beer followed her out, chasing her suede high heeled boots all the way home.
She stared into the vacant Doritos bag, a handful of broken chips staring dejectedly up at her. The ever-present knot in her stomach inflated. If she was pregnant, she shouldn’t be eating Doritos. She should be in bed, eating nuts and berries and drinking whole milk. She should be married, waiting for her husband to come home and put a cold washcloth over her head and say “I’ll take care of everything, honey. I got a raise today.” She should be taking multivitamins and resting or picking out cribs and bottles at JCPenney. Of all places, she should not be here.
She felt herself becoming faint. Joel slowly withdrew the greasy bag from her face, muttering “Guess not” before pushing his lip ring back and forth with his tongue. “What’s eating at you?”
“Our baby.” She spat the words out violently, her eyes glued to the floor and the used tissue at her feet. The room temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees.
“Angie, you’re a fucking nutjob. You’re not preggo. And if you are, I’ve got plenty of coat hangers.” He turned away from her, taking long strides towards his adjacent kitchen, stepping over piles of clothes and DVD cases. She heard peanut shells crunching under his bare feet as tears built up behind her eyes. “I’m ordering Donatos. You want?”
Her heartbeat intensified. She wondered if her baby had a heartbeat. Her heart pulsated even harder.
“Angie.” He sauntered back into the living room, cordless phone in his hand. “Seriously. Relax. You’re acting like a crazy person.”
Of all places, she should not be here. What if Joel had syphilis? What if he had AIDS? What if his drug addiction was worse than he made it seem? What if he never got a job? What if he was having sex with her and the head of his penis poked her womb and irritated the baby?
“I know it,” she uttered. “A woman just knows, I think. I just know there’s a little life inside of me. I just know.”
Joel glared at her. “Well, I can take care of that.”
He pulled back his arm and propelled it into her abdomen. Pain radiated down her limbs as she doubled over, clutching her stomach with both arms. An ungodly noise escaped from her lips – something between a sob and an elongated grunt. Her whole body throbbed.
“Oh, jeez!” Joel exclaimed, apparently elated by the effects of his punch. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Damn. I’m sorry, baby. I should be a boxer, huh? Or run my own abortion clinic – crazy chicks like you could come in sobbing and I’ll just kick them in the tummy. A dollar a pop.”
“I – I have to …” she trailed off, pushing past him, still doubled over. She darted to the nearest bathroom, flicking on the light switch and shutting the wooden door behind her. The dull bathroom light flickered and yellowed her skin. She braced herself against the counter and tried not to make eye contact with herself in the mirror, lingering on the blue toothpaste stains and mass of blond hair in the sink. How, of all places, did she end up here – hunched over in a maniac’s bathroom, on the verge of sobbing and vomiting, with a baby cowering between her hips? Was it dead? Was it destined to disintegrate inside her body? Would its blood pour out when she peed?
Angie retched, and spun aggressively towards the toilet behind her. As she dropped to her knees, she noticed a brown mass at the bottom of the toilet bowl, about the size of a baseball. Her first reaction was that Joel had forgotten to flush, but she quickly noticed that the thing was floating in the shallow water, and that the protruding part was covered in fur. She threw up violently, coating the furry thing in the coffee-tainted liquid that ejected from her mouth and nose. She noticed that it had wings as she clutched the toilet seat with both hands and trembled. She had seen bats in Joel’s apartment building before, usually at night, soaring down the hallways, desperately seeking solace in a closet or attic. But never here – never drowned in a shallow toilet bowl, stiff with death, eyes shut tight, scowling, floating silently as a woman vomited on its face. Angie wondered if it consciously chose its deathbed, so depressed by the sunlight that it forced its head underwater and fluttered violently until it collapsed. Or was it just taking a bath, neglecting to notice that its lungs were filling with water as it enjoyed the childlike ecstasy of swimming? Either way, it shouldn’t be here. Not in Joel’s dirty bathroom, in Joel’s filthy apartment, decaying as he rolled a cigarette between his stubby fingers.
Angie reached into the toilet and grabbed the bat by its wing. It frowned at her as she pulled it from its coffin, dripping with water and vomit. She rushed out of the bathroom, neglecting to turn the light off or flush the toilet, the rigid bat dangling from her fingertips.
“Hey girl.” Joel was lying on his couch, his long legs draped over the side. “Whatcha got there?” He adjusted himself, resting now on his side so he could face her.
Swiftly, Angie raised her arm over her head and flung the bat down at him. It thumped against Joel’s stomach and ricocheted onto the floor, landing with a thud. It was still frowning.
Joel’s jaw dropped. “Angie, what the fuck? Get a grip, you crazy bitch!”
Angie smiled. “Have a good evening, Joel.”
His expression was fixed into a shocked, cold glare as Angie paraded out. She had to write National Geographic and thank them for convincing her to move out of Los Angeles.
She made a note to herself to write a letter to the editor later that night, criticizing the chart for its misrepresentation. The blue blotch over L.A. might actually encourage women to migrate, under a twisted impression that they could meet a man and fall in love. The person responsible for the chart should have really added a disclaimer: Existence and size of dots does not necessarily reflect the population's sanity, integrity, or overall quality. In fact, bigger blue dots probably mean that asshole men are spreading their seeds rapidly, impregnating impressionable women with their asshole kids.
She felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She couldn't be pregnant. Joel probably wasn't even capable of making sperm, with the amount of pot he smoked on a daily basis. That's what he told her, at least, the one time he forgot to pull out. She never actually read up on the effects of marijuana on sperm count, but maybe next month's National Geographic would be kind enough to conduct a study and publish the results on giant centerfold. He also told her, after sucking on a blunt the size of a roll of dimes, that "sometimes if you worry that you're pregnant, you won't have your period." She wasn't sure why Joel seemed so keen on the female pregnancy thing, but his relaxed attitude about her fears reassured her, most of the time. She couldn't be pregnant. Angie was 23 and uncommitted – and she should have had 40,000 studs wrapped around her finger, according to the magazine mocking her from the table. Instead she had Joel – a drug-hungry 22-year-old college dropout consumed by the delusions common in the L.A. scene; he didn't own a video camera, but he was certain he was the next David Lynch. He had plenty of other women, and she had plenty of other responsibilities as an accountant; it worked out for both of them.
She slouched in her chair outside Urth Café on Melrose Avenue, gazing down her midsection. The high waist of her black Anna Sui capris pants cut into the flesh of her heaving stomach. She worried that it was cutting off her baby's circulation. Get a grip, you crazy bitch.
With these self-censuring thoughts, Angie threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and ambled off the patio, taking long strides towards the directions of Joel's apartment, where she should have been 20 minutes ago for their bi-weekly midday romp.
―
"I think I'm pregnant," she blurted as Joel opened his door for her, exposing a dingy living room littered with Dead Kennedys posters and PBR cans.
"Angie." His expression hardened. "Shut up."
She did. He reached for her waist with a skinny, tattoo-laden arm and pulled her close, kissing her gently on her forehead. He smelled like cheap bar soap, and whenever Angie noticed it she pictured him immediately as a six-year-old, gnawing on his soap in the bathtub while screaming for his mommy. He had a young face, with big cheeks and wide eyes. His dirty blond hair was pulled behind his ears, leaving his long, scruffy sideburns to highlight a face burdened with piercings. There was a new one, Angie noticed.
"You look like a bull," she mentioned, pulling away slightly and staring curiously at the large piece of metal protruding from both nostrils.
"You look like a lady who just got off work," he retorted, licking the bridge of her nose. She winced.
"Good observation," she responded, writhing away from him.
"So what’s goin’ on, m’lady?” He inquired, pursing his lips and nudging his piercing with them so he resembled a chimpanzee oohing at the sight of an apple. Angie half expected him to jump on his couch and wildly clap his gangly arms at any moment.
“What does your upper lip smell like?” she asked.
“What? Do you want some Doritos?” He picked up a bag that was lying on his couch, though the majority of it had already emptied between the cushions and onto the floor. He thrust the bag under her nose and the sudden whiff of cheddar made her gag. She wondered what she would smell like when she left here – sex, beer, or Doritos. Sometimes the scent of cheap beer followed her out, chasing her suede high heeled boots all the way home.
She stared into the vacant Doritos bag, a handful of broken chips staring dejectedly up at her. The ever-present knot in her stomach inflated. If she was pregnant, she shouldn’t be eating Doritos. She should be in bed, eating nuts and berries and drinking whole milk. She should be married, waiting for her husband to come home and put a cold washcloth over her head and say “I’ll take care of everything, honey. I got a raise today.” She should be taking multivitamins and resting or picking out cribs and bottles at JCPenney. Of all places, she should not be here.
She felt herself becoming faint. Joel slowly withdrew the greasy bag from her face, muttering “Guess not” before pushing his lip ring back and forth with his tongue. “What’s eating at you?”
“Our baby.” She spat the words out violently, her eyes glued to the floor and the used tissue at her feet. The room temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees.
“Angie, you’re a fucking nutjob. You’re not preggo. And if you are, I’ve got plenty of coat hangers.” He turned away from her, taking long strides towards his adjacent kitchen, stepping over piles of clothes and DVD cases. She heard peanut shells crunching under his bare feet as tears built up behind her eyes. “I’m ordering Donatos. You want?”
Her heartbeat intensified. She wondered if her baby had a heartbeat. Her heart pulsated even harder.
“Angie.” He sauntered back into the living room, cordless phone in his hand. “Seriously. Relax. You’re acting like a crazy person.”
Of all places, she should not be here. What if Joel had syphilis? What if he had AIDS? What if his drug addiction was worse than he made it seem? What if he never got a job? What if he was having sex with her and the head of his penis poked her womb and irritated the baby?
“I know it,” she uttered. “A woman just knows, I think. I just know there’s a little life inside of me. I just know.”
Joel glared at her. “Well, I can take care of that.”
He pulled back his arm and propelled it into her abdomen. Pain radiated down her limbs as she doubled over, clutching her stomach with both arms. An ungodly noise escaped from her lips – something between a sob and an elongated grunt. Her whole body throbbed.
“Oh, jeez!” Joel exclaimed, apparently elated by the effects of his punch. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Damn. I’m sorry, baby. I should be a boxer, huh? Or run my own abortion clinic – crazy chicks like you could come in sobbing and I’ll just kick them in the tummy. A dollar a pop.”
“I – I have to …” she trailed off, pushing past him, still doubled over. She darted to the nearest bathroom, flicking on the light switch and shutting the wooden door behind her. The dull bathroom light flickered and yellowed her skin. She braced herself against the counter and tried not to make eye contact with herself in the mirror, lingering on the blue toothpaste stains and mass of blond hair in the sink. How, of all places, did she end up here – hunched over in a maniac’s bathroom, on the verge of sobbing and vomiting, with a baby cowering between her hips? Was it dead? Was it destined to disintegrate inside her body? Would its blood pour out when she peed?
Angie retched, and spun aggressively towards the toilet behind her. As she dropped to her knees, she noticed a brown mass at the bottom of the toilet bowl, about the size of a baseball. Her first reaction was that Joel had forgotten to flush, but she quickly noticed that the thing was floating in the shallow water, and that the protruding part was covered in fur. She threw up violently, coating the furry thing in the coffee-tainted liquid that ejected from her mouth and nose. She noticed that it had wings as she clutched the toilet seat with both hands and trembled. She had seen bats in Joel’s apartment building before, usually at night, soaring down the hallways, desperately seeking solace in a closet or attic. But never here – never drowned in a shallow toilet bowl, stiff with death, eyes shut tight, scowling, floating silently as a woman vomited on its face. Angie wondered if it consciously chose its deathbed, so depressed by the sunlight that it forced its head underwater and fluttered violently until it collapsed. Or was it just taking a bath, neglecting to notice that its lungs were filling with water as it enjoyed the childlike ecstasy of swimming? Either way, it shouldn’t be here. Not in Joel’s dirty bathroom, in Joel’s filthy apartment, decaying as he rolled a cigarette between his stubby fingers.
Angie reached into the toilet and grabbed the bat by its wing. It frowned at her as she pulled it from its coffin, dripping with water and vomit. She rushed out of the bathroom, neglecting to turn the light off or flush the toilet, the rigid bat dangling from her fingertips.
“Hey girl.” Joel was lying on his couch, his long legs draped over the side. “Whatcha got there?” He adjusted himself, resting now on his side so he could face her.
Swiftly, Angie raised her arm over her head and flung the bat down at him. It thumped against Joel’s stomach and ricocheted onto the floor, landing with a thud. It was still frowning.
Joel’s jaw dropped. “Angie, what the fuck? Get a grip, you crazy bitch!”
Angie smiled. “Have a good evening, Joel.”
His expression was fixed into a shocked, cold glare as Angie paraded out. She had to write National Geographic and thank them for convincing her to move out of Los Angeles.
2.12.2008
Excerpts from Lorrie Moore's "How to Become a Writer"
"Decide that you like college life. In your dorm you meet many nice people. Some are smarter than you. And some, you notice, are dumber than you. You will continue, unfortunately, to view the world in exactly these terms for the rest of your life."
--
"Start dating someone who is funny, someone who has what in high school you called 'a really great sense of humor' and what now your creative writing class calls 'self-contempt giving rise to comic form.' Write down all of his jokes, but don't tell him you are doing this. Make up anagrams of his old girlfriend's name and name all of your socially handicapped characters with them. Tell him his old girlfriend is in all your stories and then watch how funny he can be, see what a really great sense of humor he can have."
--
"At undergraduate cocktail parties, people say, 'Oh, you write? What do you write about?' Your roommate, who has consumed too much wine, too little cheese and no crackers at all, blurts: 'Oh, my god, she always writes about her dumb boyfriend.'
Later on in life you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them. You, however, have not yet reached this stage of literary criticism. You stiffen and say, 'I do not,' the same way you said it when someone in the fourth grade accused you of really liking oboe lessons and your parents really weren't just making you take them."
--
"You will read somewhere that all writing has to do with one's genitals. Don't dwell on this. It will make you nervous."
--
"You have broken up with your boyfriend. You now go out with men who, instead of whispering 'I love you,' shout: 'Do it to me, baby.' This is good for your writing."
--
"Start dating someone who is funny, someone who has what in high school you called 'a really great sense of humor' and what now your creative writing class calls 'self-contempt giving rise to comic form.' Write down all of his jokes, but don't tell him you are doing this. Make up anagrams of his old girlfriend's name and name all of your socially handicapped characters with them. Tell him his old girlfriend is in all your stories and then watch how funny he can be, see what a really great sense of humor he can have."
--
"At undergraduate cocktail parties, people say, 'Oh, you write? What do you write about?' Your roommate, who has consumed too much wine, too little cheese and no crackers at all, blurts: 'Oh, my god, she always writes about her dumb boyfriend.'
Later on in life you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them. You, however, have not yet reached this stage of literary criticism. You stiffen and say, 'I do not,' the same way you said it when someone in the fourth grade accused you of really liking oboe lessons and your parents really weren't just making you take them."
--
"You will read somewhere that all writing has to do with one's genitals. Don't dwell on this. It will make you nervous."
--
"You have broken up with your boyfriend. You now go out with men who, instead of whispering 'I love you,' shout: 'Do it to me, baby.' This is good for your writing."
1.22.2008
I'm at the end of my little rope, and I am swinging back and forth about you.
I.
Sometimes I think this cycle never ends
We slide from top to bottom then we turn and climb again
and it seems by the time that I have figured what it's worth,
the squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, Expo '86
Sometimes I think this cycle never ends
We slide from top to bottom then we turn and climb again
and it seems by the time that I have figured what it's worth,
the squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, Expo '86
Short Fiction 1: Employee of the Month
Erica Brennen’s forearms were laden with burn scars – little pink zig-zag ridges traveling up her wrist to the inside of her elbow. Sometimes, if she looked at her left arm from a certain angle, it appeared as if she had “VII” branded onto her. She used to joke that she did it on purpose to commemorate her seventh year as an employee at Delilah’s Diner, but most people squinted their eyebrows apprehensively and mentioned something about how they used to cut when they were younger too.
“Oh, don’t lie, I was a teenager once too,” a woman had said to her earlier – a twenty-something with hair so blindingly red Erica thought Ronald McDonald had stumbled into the store looking for directions.
“Did you work in a restaurant?”
“Pardon?”
“Or a fast food place or something?”
The woman squinted, focusing on Erica’s nametag. “No. I was depressed.”
“Oh. I worked with a lot of deep fryers. When I was fourteen I couldn’t even lift the damn things, not to mention manage six of them at a time! That's how I got all these burn marks. But yeah, sometimes I just tell people I did it on purpose because it looks neat, don’t you think? I probably could have paid to have this done to me, you know? Kids are always getting weird things done to their bodies nowadays.”
“That’s cool. Can I get a chai?”
Erica was used to people not paying attention to her, especially people who wore pea coats and ordered chai tea. It was four AM now, her seventh hour at work, and she scrubbed the table nearest to the window diligently; it was coated in ketchup and spilled salt. Though she put ketchup on almost everything she ate, the smell of it alone nauseated her.
“Erica, can you change the lightbulb above that table too? Then you can go home. Thanks, babe.”
Her manager, Amy, was ten years younger than she and had been working there four years fewer. She had a college degree, long legs, and long strawberry blond hair. Erica always figured that if her own legs weren’t so stubby and her own hair weren’t so brown and short, she would have been the one to get promoted, with or without a bachelor’s degree.
“Sure, hon.”
“Hey.” Amy suddenly appeared across the table. “Thanks for all your hard work. You know everybody really appreciates it.”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s my job. I just do the best I can.” Erica was still scrubbing away at a brown ketchup stain on the edge of the table.
“But really, this place would go to shit without you. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re being taken for granted. You work too hard. You should have a day off, really. How about tomorrow? You can hang out with your family or something.”
Erica paused, growing faint. “Can you excuse me for a second?”
Before Amy had a chance to respond, Erica dashed to the restroom. Inside, she locked the door, leaned against the cold tiled walls and breathed heavily. She felt her heart beat anxiously as she caught a glance of the “Employee of the Month” sign beaming at her from across the room. Her sloppy, sideways smile in the photograph mocked her, her hair matted down to her face with sweat.
October 2006. Erica Brennen has been a member of the Delilah’s Diner team for seventeen years. A customer favorite, she enjoys reading, watching baseball, and knitting.
She rushed out of the restroom as quickly as she had rushed in, nearly knocking over Amy as she thrust open the door.
“Erica? Are you okay?”
“Of course, babe. I don’t mind working tomorrow at all. Actually, I can stay today until seven if you need me.”
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of hours for two days. When are you going to sleep?”
“It’s fine, Amy, really. I want to.” She spit the words out quickly as she shuffled back to the table by the window, certain that she had missed a spot.
draft one : work in progress
“Oh, don’t lie, I was a teenager once too,” a woman had said to her earlier – a twenty-something with hair so blindingly red Erica thought Ronald McDonald had stumbled into the store looking for directions.
“Did you work in a restaurant?”
“Pardon?”
“Or a fast food place or something?”
The woman squinted, focusing on Erica’s nametag. “No. I was depressed.”
“Oh. I worked with a lot of deep fryers. When I was fourteen I couldn’t even lift the damn things, not to mention manage six of them at a time! That's how I got all these burn marks. But yeah, sometimes I just tell people I did it on purpose because it looks neat, don’t you think? I probably could have paid to have this done to me, you know? Kids are always getting weird things done to their bodies nowadays.”
“That’s cool. Can I get a chai?”
Erica was used to people not paying attention to her, especially people who wore pea coats and ordered chai tea. It was four AM now, her seventh hour at work, and she scrubbed the table nearest to the window diligently; it was coated in ketchup and spilled salt. Though she put ketchup on almost everything she ate, the smell of it alone nauseated her.
“Erica, can you change the lightbulb above that table too? Then you can go home. Thanks, babe.”
Her manager, Amy, was ten years younger than she and had been working there four years fewer. She had a college degree, long legs, and long strawberry blond hair. Erica always figured that if her own legs weren’t so stubby and her own hair weren’t so brown and short, she would have been the one to get promoted, with or without a bachelor’s degree.
“Sure, hon.”
“Hey.” Amy suddenly appeared across the table. “Thanks for all your hard work. You know everybody really appreciates it.”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s my job. I just do the best I can.” Erica was still scrubbing away at a brown ketchup stain on the edge of the table.
“But really, this place would go to shit without you. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re being taken for granted. You work too hard. You should have a day off, really. How about tomorrow? You can hang out with your family or something.”
Erica paused, growing faint. “Can you excuse me for a second?”
Before Amy had a chance to respond, Erica dashed to the restroom. Inside, she locked the door, leaned against the cold tiled walls and breathed heavily. She felt her heart beat anxiously as she caught a glance of the “Employee of the Month” sign beaming at her from across the room. Her sloppy, sideways smile in the photograph mocked her, her hair matted down to her face with sweat.
October 2006. Erica Brennen has been a member of the Delilah’s Diner team for seventeen years. A customer favorite, she enjoys reading, watching baseball, and knitting.
She rushed out of the restroom as quickly as she had rushed in, nearly knocking over Amy as she thrust open the door.
“Erica? Are you okay?”
“Of course, babe. I don’t mind working tomorrow at all. Actually, I can stay today until seven if you need me.”
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of hours for two days. When are you going to sleep?”
“It’s fine, Amy, really. I want to.” She spit the words out quickly as she shuffled back to the table by the window, certain that she had missed a spot.
draft one : work in progress
11.27.2007
There is a place
that makes you feel so dirty, you’ll cower in a hot
shower stall, knees to your nose collecting tears,
your body tainted with blush. There is a place
before the sadness, vomit splashing back into
your face like a fist.
shower stall, knees to your nose collecting tears,
your body tainted with blush. There is a place
before the sadness, vomit splashing back into
your face like a fist.
8.14.2007
Poem for MiMi the Cat
Today MiMi
sat like a sausage
in front of the fan
Her tail curved
ever so daintily
toward me
The storm scares her
and she listens
attentively
to stories
of going to the store
&& buying milk
The woman on TV
needs closure for
her mother's murder
Dainty paws needs only me
a spot of carpet
and a fan.
- Nicole Karlyn, Ashley Anne Henderson
sat like a sausage
in front of the fan
Her tail curved
ever so daintily
toward me
The storm scares her
and she listens
attentively
to stories
of going to the store
&& buying milk
The woman on TV
needs closure for
her mother's murder
Dainty paws needs only me
a spot of carpet
and a fan.
- Nicole Karlyn, Ashley Anne Henderson
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