Midweek Fiction
I found this on My phone while browsing through old notes late last night in My hotel room. It’s from November of 2010 and I wrote it while walking to the car after seeing someone eating McDonalds near a stairwell on campus. I don’t write poetry, so you’re free to judge, laugh, mock, etc.
Eating
She ate beneath the stairwell.
Alone and open,
Luke warm food,
Grease, bread, water.
Incomplete.
Almost Midweek Fiction
Here’s another round of fiction. This time from NaNoWriMo last year. It’s completely unedited (the tense is all over the place!). I apologize in advance. I’m not crazy about this one as a whole, but I like some of what I have so I thought I’d put it out there for some feedback. I wanted to post Wednesday (being the true midweek mark), but I got caught up in blah blah blah and I didn’t.
Untitled
He worked third shift until I was twelve. He had two week days off. My mother was a teacher at the middle school. She dropped us off, picked us up, and kept everything together at home. He slept during the day. I woke him up at quarter passed six. My mother planned dinner so that I’d finish in time to wash my hands and wake him. I think he looked forward to it. Not being woken up, but me doing the waking.
Sometimes he would get right out of bed. Other days he’d roll over and I’d clime in the bed next to him. I’d talk, he wouldn’t. Then she would come in a few minutes later to wake him. Sometimes I’d sneak in early just to lay there. It was the only time I saw him. A brief twenty minutes of his morning and my evening. He slept on his right side, facing the window. The curtains were always cracked. It wasn’t night and he didn’t need to think that it was. That was always his argument when my mother suggested he keep the curtains drawn.
His side of the bed was furthest from the door. I’d walk through the room, around the foot of the bed and into the light from the open window before having a chance to wake him. I wanted to see him, but I knew enough not to run or jump on the bed. It wasn’t a happy good morning on a Saturday. It was a call to action and he hated his job. I didn’t know he hated it, or I didn’t know how much he hated it, until much later, until I moved out and got my first post college job.
When he finally woke up enough to speak he’d acknowledge me with a smile and a ruffle of my hair. I’d shadow him in the bedroom. Out of bed, to the dresser, the bathroom, the closet. It was the only time I got to spend with him. He’d ask me questions about my day and I’d answer before he finished speaking. He was never awake all the way. Sometimes I think I annoyed him. Not me, really, but my energy. My eagerness. I had had all day to get ready for this conversation, he had all night. That wasn’t the same.
If he shaves, I watch from the food of the bed. I can’t see all the way in the bathroom. I can’t see more that his legs if he leans over the sink, but I can see him arms when he stands upright to shave. I can tell by the way he moves what he’s doing. His arms don’t move much, but the muscles do. They tense and so does his back. I talk to him while he’s doing it. The whole time. Most I just talk, sometimes I ask questions. He’ll answer with a grunt or an uh-um that will trail off into the mirror. I’ll hold onto his socks until he’s don’t. I hold the socks but I leave his shirts on the bed. One white and one a dark green. Both had no wrinkles.
My mother didn’t wash these shirts. She took them somewhere to be cleaned. It got rid of the yellow armpits. That’s what she said. I don’t think my dad really cared, but she did, so he let it be. Clean and smooth. The white shirt is folded, the green is laid flat on the bed with the hanger still trapped inside. He’ll shave and brush his teeth without his shirt on. If he’s not running late, sometimes he’ll sit beside me on the bed to talk before he finishes getting dressed. That doesn’t usually happen. That’s not happening today.
He comes out of the bathroom and puts on his white shirt. First over his head, then left then right. Then the green shirt, one button at a time starting at the top. He doesn’t do anything in a hurry, but he was always in motion before work. Every day I have about thirty minutes with him. It depends on how long it takes him to get out of bed. If I lay in bed with him, he never has time. I don’t count laying in bed as time because he’s not awake. Then he hurries, but it doesn’t look like it. I can tell because I spend every morning with him.
He’ll ruffle my hair again before he leaves the bedroom. I’ll be right behind him when he leaves. To the kitchen, the living room, the front closet, the shoes, coat, hat, thermos. Right to the door. He’ll hug my mother before he leaves and they’ll kiss. Zachary won’t watch. I roll my eyes, more at Zachary than at them. I’ll do the same thing tomorrow. He’ll ruffle my hair once more before he goes, then Zachary’s, then he’ll hug us both and leave.
If I’m allowed, I’ll wait for him to pull out of the driveway. Sometimes I’ll watch, sometimes I’ll just listen. Usually I just listen now. I know the sounds. His feet, heavy on their own and even heavier in his boots, smack the pavement, then the grass, then the asphalt. Then the car door clicks to open and there is a delay. First he sets his bag on the passenger seat, then he checks for his wallet. Then he sits.
The car clunks. It’s old.
Another long delay while he positions himself in the seat. Then the slam of the door. A few moments later the car starts. There’s a rattle and a dull whine from the engine. It quiets, clunks into gear, and backs out of the driveway. The wheels squeak as he turns on to the road. Another clunk and he’s gone.
If I got up early, when the house was still dark, I could hear him come home. All the same sounds in reverse order. The only new sound is the keys in the door. A jingle, the sound of the pins falling to meet the key, a click, the pins forced off the key, then the door. Once he was in the house I had trouble hearing anything. He was silent. I didn’t know how he did. I asked my mother once how he was so quiet. She didn’t answer me.
I always wanted to know.
I didn’t usually wake up that early though. Not on the school days at least. I woke up early on the weekend so my mother would make breakfast. I looked forward to that. She would make it if I slept in, but it would happen faster if I didn’t and she was always happy when I came down the stairs first. She was probably happy when Zachary came down the stairs first too. He never woke up very early though. Never.
She would only turn on one light in the kitchen and one in the living room. The one by the end of the couch. That’s where she would read. The kitchen would be bright. All the lights on. She won’t be cooking, the lights will be on.
Even if she doesn’t make something special, she’ll make something for me. A bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. A scrambled egg and toast. Sometimes egg in a frame, where the egg is in the middle of a piece of bread, lightly toasted in a pan. Sometimes yogurt. It didn’t really matter. I was up before Zachary which means I got breakfast and the TV.
My mother would read and I would get the remote. He’d argue with me when he got up, but I could usually make it through my breakfast and one full show. I would. My mother would read, but she’d watch, too. She’d watch me. She’d watch me watching TV and I’d watch TV while watching her out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t know why she watches me. Whenever I catch her doing it she’s smiling with her eyes but not her mouth. If she saw me she’d continue reading. One of the few times with just the two of us. Not the only but one of the few.
I don’t sit next to her. I lay on the couch with my feet on her leg to keep them warm. I’ll have a blanket from my bed because I’ll know it’s early. I’ll watch cartoons on the couch and she’ll read. I’ll laugh and she’ll watch me, I’ll hide the remote under the blanket so Zachary can’t get it. I’ll fall back asleep.
A is for Air-quotes
Note: This post is being written through a lens of vodka. It’s supposed to help Me forget about My student loan payments that are just now coming due as well as Her student loan payments that We now have to take over from Her parents who’ve been amazingly generous for paying on them and it’s not working. But one drink equals $10,000, so I’ve only got a handful to go.
With Him being nearly 8 years old (this March) We’ve seen Our share of phases. He’s been through the “say ‘holy shit’ repeatedly because I know I shouldn’t” phase. He’s well into the “can I tell you a joke [that's so bad you won't want to laugh but you'll force yourself to because you don't know what else to do]?” phase. And He’s working on eye rolling while already being well on His way to tackling the fine art of sarcasm. We’ve laughed Our way through all of it (with the exception of some of the eye rolling and sarcasm because We’re hypocritical . . . and if you’re going to do it, do it right!) because there’s not much else you can do about it.
So We’re doing the same with the air-quotes. Air-quotes for everything. The best thing about these is that He uses them incorrectly. The way he says it works, the placement doesn’t.
“Do you need to go to the ‘sto-ore’?”
“Don’t forget you ‘wal-let’.”
“Can I have some “mon-ney’?”
And He does the quotes in some sort of slow rhythm with the words, like he actually knows what He’s doing. And He doesn’t. So then we try and tell Him how to properly use air quotes but how the hell do you explain that? So We’re all at the table trying to eat with one hand while air-quoting with the other two saying things like “you only use them when . . . come on, Hun, help me out, when . . .” and “yeah, you have to say something like . . .” Then We can’t think of anything so we just say you have to use them when it’s funny. But that’s what He’s doing because somehow “wal-let” is funny to a 7 year old.
But this is Our fault in the end. He’s trying to be witty (I think?) and We can’t even tell Him how to do it properly. So I go to Wikipedia for help and I leave with less hope than I started with because they took a simple, obnoxious gesture, and slaughtered it with an explanation. Then they round it out with this: “Air quotes are often used to express satire, sarcasm, irony or euphemism, and are analogous to scare quotes in print.”
So that settles it. We’ll just tell Him to only use them when He’s feeling satirical or ironic. Can’t figure that out? Then don’t abuse the air-quotes, kid. Some things are only for adults. Just like vodka.
Midweek Fiction
This is a bit from My 2010 NaNoWriMo. I like the overall story and I’m spending some time with it, but I’m struggling to get the voice to a comfortable point. It feels like bad noir. It won’t feel that way forever. I edit more each day and I continue to get closer to the tone that I’m looking for. This is not complete.
Midweek Fiction
It was too hot to sleep so he sat on the roof and smoked to distract himself. That’s how he justified it. He doesn’t like smoking. It’s a time filler more than it is an addiction. An activity to accompany a glass of wine at 2AM. A hobby that he picked up after retiring. It was something and it was better than tossing in bed for the next few hours. He lights one after another and shares a bottle with himself. “Beautiful city,” he thinks, wiping his forehead. “Just so damn hot!” This time he speaks, half in his glass and half enraged. It was late spring and not even the heavy bricks of the 1960’s building can resist the heat from the day that radiates from the roof and pulses in waves from the walls over the streets that are doing the same. It does it every spring. One major round of heat before summer. The oppression in the air takes whatever’s left from the day and leaves it exhausted by morning.
He blamed his own exhaustion on the heat rather than his lack of sleep and the only relief for that is water, submersion, but the closest he is to a pool is the wine in his now empty glass, so he pours one after another to compensate. He sits by himself as his wife works another erratic schedule at the hospital as there was nothing inside to draw him in. The nights were his. He didn’t like it, but it had been the same for years, on and off. In fairness to her, it’s been better over the last three or four years, but the nights are still hard and when he can’t sleep he drags himself to the roof with a bottle of wine and the pack of cigarettes he keeps hidden under the lip of the air conditioner mount. It’s self medication through self destruction.
He has no schedule so he sits awake. It was good, and he knew that. He had a busy schedule for over 30 years, from college to career to family. This calm was good but it’s what kept him pacing during the day when she was sleeping and it’s what kept him up when she was gone. He wasn’t the type to retire in the first place. Now 63 years into life and he doesn’t have a single obligation. His grandkids don’t live close with Scott having moved half way across the state and Steph won’t have kids. She can barely find her keys in the morning. But he knows how fast things can change. Leaning on the edge he follows the streets and rooftops out to the lake.
“Just a breeze,” he spoke to the neighboring buildings, “just a small breeze.” He spoke aloud but he swallowed his words as he always did when people weren’t around to listen. Even for Chicago it was hot, but he liked the roof as much then as he did when they bought the unit and he dealt with it. Their condo is on the 10th floor and they are the only residents in the building to have roof access. It was part of the home and it’s what sold them on it.
Back then it was for the party possibilities. He was 28, Carol 24, and kids were a few years off, if ever, but the roof made for great parties. Then the kids came and the roof took on a space of its own. No one seemed to mind the roof paper after a few beers but, with the kids, they sketched out a couple plans and turned the space into something liveable.
That’s where they spent most of their summers and, though it wasn’t of much use in the winter, he built a small gazebo which he lit with a few strings of white lights every Christmas. He never really saw them, but the neighboring high-rises did, so he put them up figuring that it contributed in some way to the overall cheer of the holidays. Even now, with both the kids gone, he hung a few stands or, rather, he left a few up. He told Carol it was because he never got around to it, but really he liked them being there. It was festive in the winter, in the summer it was ambiance, and on these nights it wass a night-light on the roof at 2AM.
He looked at his watch. Carol should have been home nearly an hour ago, with the commute. She must be staying late again he though. It was beginning to seem like she worked late every night, like she was slipping back to how she used to be. Last time she didn’t come home till almost 5AM. This wasn’t the retirement everyone talked about and it wasn’t the retirement he heard about at his party. There were supposed to be trips, vacations, dinners out. He hadn’t taken advantage of any of that. There had been excitement, but now he wanted a retirement with her. He knew he’d never get one. Carol loved her job. She was good at what she did and he liked watching her leave with the same energy she’d always had. It gave her life. He liked that, but he hadn’t planned on retiring alone. He also hadn’t planned on smoking. He hadn’t planned on much of anything that happened post retirement.
He took another long sip of wine and flicked the remains of his cigarette off the edge of the building, watching until it put itself out on the fall. He didn’t like being out there when Carol got home. She worried about him wandering around the roof at night and the fact that he had taken up smoking wasn’t something she liked knowing. He brought the wine inside, fully intending to finish it. He was of the mentality that a bottle should never be re-corked. This belief went back to his college days of guarding booze, which meant drinking it. The wine he had now was better than his beverage of choice in college, and no one was going to take it, but he couldn’t let it go of the habit.
He was tall, bordering on lanky, and his walk was marked with long, full strides which gave the illusion that both feet frequently left the ground in unison. His arms, which swung in beat with silence, only added to this image that portrayed him as casual, simple, and ambivalent, though only two traits could accurately be applied. He carried himself well despite his lanky appearance, and his methodic, almost rhythmic movements suited him because they matched his practicality. Even walking into the condo, halfway through a bottle, he moved without breaking stride, without having to correct a single motion.
When a Dog Enters the Scene
My brother and his fiance stayed with Us on Friday night on their way south after a relaxing Christmas, complete with two hospitals and a bit of emergency surgery because who knew fallopian tubes could twist? Seriously? And at Christmas no less? Little bastards. But the tubes are happy again and they stopped to see Us before going home. And yes, this is the same brother who got engaged before Me. The same one who will likely marry before Me. The one who drove home My middle-child status by leaving Me as the only unengaged/unmarried one of the three of us. So naturally he brings not only said fiance, but also one of the most lovable, adorable, friendly little dogs in the world. A cute beagle mix with a great personality and a natural love for Him.
Showoff.
And of course that Him is the same Him who’s been asking for a dog periodically for the last three years. And by periodically I mean almost daily. He’s been so desperate that He actually asked for a battery powered dog for Christmas. I know how sad that is. I know that He needs a dog and that the companionship would be great and that We’d look at each other while watching Him chase the dog in slow motion in the back yard and We’d feel this deep sense of having made the right decision, but no. We don’t do dog. Neither one of Us wants to take the plunge.
Hair. Responsibility. Poop. We’ve been through that already with Him. Why would We want to go through all of it again with something that will never speak gratitude and may eventually wipe its ass on the carpet? Yeah, that’s not as poetic as the slow-motion running in the backyard.
We COULD do it again. COULD. But really We just don’t want to risk getting a dud. A dog that barks hysterically when someone comes over. Or one that pees everywhere. Or sheds like crazy. Or some other flaw that wouldn’t come out until We’d had it six months and had no choice but to keep it. So We’re planning to steal one. Perhaps. Or several of them. We don’t really have it all planned out yet. I’m thinking We just steal all the dogs We like from all the people We know and then We can pick the one We like best. Each dog that is rejected will be expected to find its way home. The bachelor without the limo and the awkward hot-tub meetings.
That, or We need to find a pet trial program somewhere. Or CarFax for dogs. Or a return policy. Something. I don’t take chances with things that can ruin the carpet. Or My mornings with a cup of coffee. Or a vacation. Or My black clothing. I’m not a risk taker (though this year may change that). Especially not when that risk would bring ruining and that ruining would come with a cost. We’d be paying to have Our lives taken over and I’m pretty sure I could find a better use for that money. Or a better way to lose control of My life without spending as much.
But there is that whole chasing My brother’s dog in the backyard, bit. And the laughing and the fun and the bonding and the guilt. And then We look at the photos I took and We both think that maybe a dog wouldn’t be bad. Then We drink and the dog slips out of the picture. I just don’t think We can’t drink forever. But if the choice is grab warm poop through a plastic bag or pour wine over My Cheerios at 6AM, I’ll take option two.
Other Options
