Baby the Bartender

I ripped the nail from my thumb, but it doesn’t hurt anymore because I’m three whiskey shots into the night. The music slides off my back, and in this bar, I’m a drop of water falling into a bathtub.

My bathtub, at the apartment, the white bathtub with lion’s feet, it’s painted with blood, and I should really get to cleaning it, but I’ve let my thumb be the excuse.

I can’t touch the top of it. The skin, that skin underneath the nail, the skin that was once attached to the nail, those filaments hang loose like the tentacles of an octopus. They’re white and soft, and when the wind touches it, it feels like fire, but looks like the hair of an angel. My thumb throbs, but I feel nothing. I’ve put my heart in my thumb, and my heart, having been left vacant, feels nothing, and I’m growing used to that. Now, underneath the gauze, with the blood soaking through showing a soft orange, I hold it at chest level, and focus on my breathing.

I’m a Yoga. I’m a Zen master.

This bartender, the one with wavy brown hair and perky tits, she’s this bouncing twenty-one-year-old. She asks, “Another?”

I show her my bandaged thumb with the white gauze wrapped around it, and say, “Guess how this happened.”

This place, dark and smoky and dead like a Sunday night, is the row of letters you can’t make out in an eye exam. A couple dances in a corner. In the shadow, they’re the tortoise to the hare’s music.

The bartender, this girl like the rest, she says, “Show it to me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Baby.”

“Serious?”

She puts the fourth shot on the bar and shakes her head. This shot, it tastes of acid, and I swallow it like the night ahead.

Through the whiskey I say, “After work, come home with me.”

“Will you show it to me?”

And the only time it ever happens, is when it’s easy.

 

Returning from my bathroom she says, “Your bathtub is full of blood.” She laughs, asks, “Should I be worried?”

“Yes.”

My apartment, the little box, is five flights up and overlooks the building next to it. In the sole window, fogged over and cold, are our reflected images soft like peering through water.

In the bed, propped up on her elbows, the bartender named Baby, she asks, “So what happened?”

“I said you needed to guess.”

My apartment, the dark and cold studio, is quiet like a subway station at 3AM. And she’s the train rattling through.

“How can I guess if I don’t even know what your thumb looks like?”

“You know, it’s disgusting that you’re into it.”

She laughs, says, “What’s disgusting is that you like that I’m into it.”

This girl in my bed, her arms propping her up, pointing her perky tits toward me, she’ll do. Really, all this is punishment. Really, all this is building a metaphorical wall. And while I do it, I can cherish every minute as another opportunity to hate myself.

 

The handcuffs locked around the bedposts, her arms held back as if attached to a medieval stretching device, her legs tied to the bedposts with sheets, Baby is suffering the will of herself. Baby, one of the naive young.

“You know, you shouldn’t ever go home with someone you met at a bar.”

“Ooh, talk dirty.”

In the kitchen, the fluorescent lights blinking disco, I grab a cutting knife from the sink. The knife, its blade thick and long, it is covered with dinner from yesterday.

Around the corner, from the bed, I hear, “Don’t keep me waiting – come back!”

“Coming.”

 

The night, it comes in glimpses; I’m left with hazy reflections of what might have been. With the light cascading around corners blowing away shapes, the memories are spheres of midnight.

 

I splash water around the bathtub. The red drains away as the last penny down the funnel. The nail from my other thumb has been ripped away. My thumbs, the self-prescribed medication. They throb to the beat of my heart. Slow and rhythmic. I breath gently, and watch the red disappear.

 

Technorati Tags: flash fiction,short story,creative writing,serial killer,bartender,subway,handcuffs,knife

I'm Coming Home

I left my backpack at the airport. It wouldn’t be such a big loss if it weren’t for the book that was in it. See, this book, it came to me in such a serendipitous way that I couldn’t help but be convinced it meant something to me. Now, leaving me in this way, it’s like your whole life leading up to the moment you die, that moment every event in your life has been leading to, and the way you meet your end is by choking on a peanut.

The airport. Of all places to lose that book. The airport, it’s the world’s disease pool. People coming into contact with other people from other parts of the world that they’d never come in contact with. It’s like an undiscovered tribe in the Amazon being wiped out from the sneeze of some blonde California chick.

And I’d like to think some things have more importance than that.

That in the end there really was a meaning to everything.

That it didn’t all come down to a peanut.

So, the airport. My bag and me on the bench with the armrests that don’t move so people can’t sleep; instead, you have to find a spot on the thin carpet next to some floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the tarmac and you wake at 3 in the morning to the sound of a 757 gunning for the mobile hallway.

“Welcome to New York. It 3:02 AM and 84 degrees outside.”

And there I was, hugging my backpack, my eyes half open and red, and pretending that I’m dreaming.

“Thank you for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon.”

In my backpack, the one I clenched to my head as a makeshift pillow, was my book. All 368 pages of it (not including the author’s revised forward). From behind my floor-to-ceiling window with the view of the tarmac, I pulled my book from the bag. Worn and ripped it glowed of love. The title, Eric Lived stood bold on the white cover.

It was too early to read. But it was too late to fall asleep. There, on the thin blue carpet, I lay in purgatory as God’s unwanted and the Devil’s rejected.

I wonder if I hopped on a plane to Alaska, would I find a prophetic Eskimo to guide me down my life’s golden path. Because in that airport, I’m walking down a cobble street without any shoes, and there at the end is a man in a white, curled wig and wing-tipped shoes, who waves to me from the past as a mockery of wasted education.

Maybe if I flew to India, I would find a man wearing beads and giant hooped earrings and he would give me my spiritual awakening.

Maybe if I went to Russia I could find a mobster and have him pull meaning from his back pocket.

Maybe at three in the morning in some airport in the United States, as I sleep with my bag under my head, I’ll discover something worth the time leading up to my eventual peanut.

Then I slept. The kind of sleep that happens on an amphetamine high. Maybe because I was high on amphetamine. But this I won’t say for sure. Though I was waking and fidgeting and starting and jerking and

I left my bag at the airport.

And my book. All 368 pages of it (that is, not including the author’s revised forward).

That book, it really was quite important to me.

Now it’s gone. Like the whale in the clouds.

Is it three in the morning in some airport in America all over again?

My name is Tim. I’m five foot nine. I weigh 146 pounds without my shoes on. I’m 25 years old. I have no money, but I like to think I’m rich in my heart and soul. I like to believe I’m not defined by my wallet, but deep down I know that I am. I have brown hair that I wish was blonde, but more than that, I wish I wasn’t losing it. My name is Tim and I’m alone in a cab on my way to a hotel in Middle America. I’m alone in one of the fly-over states. I’m alone and I’ve lost my backpack and my book and I’m scared because leaving the airport I bought a bag of peanuts.

Here, this is my last chance to start over.

“Hi. My name is Tim. What’s your’s?”

 

Technorati Tags: short story,flash fiction,creative writing,peanut,airport,757,amphetamine,book,backpacking,America,Middle America,Fly-over States,disease,Amazon,tribe

Banana In A Sling

Out my window, the sun sets, and as I watch the orange light creep across my wall, I realize that I didn’t pick up my purple wig from the dry cleaners – the shoulder-length one with the green streak on the front. I will try not to let that ruin my night. After all, I just bought new red fish-net stockings and a baby blue skin-tight slip. The slip, it has this figure eight cut into the small of the back; it’s so hot.

From my bed, my eyes half watching the sun sink from the room and half watching the fading memories of last night, I consider rising, but know that if I give my head another couple minutes the pounding will go away. I wish I had a maid who would bring me a Bloody Mary. I’d love to suck on the celery. A Bloody Mary, two shots of espresso, and three nicotine patches, that’s what I need.

I ask, “Maid?” and my throat hurts and no one answers. I say, “Maid.”

“Are you serious?” Through the closed bedroom door, from the living room, I hear, “Let’s see if I ask for your number.” The voice low and horse, it sounds like the Marlboro man.

I didn’t realize any one was in the house much less the Marlboro man. Sitting up in bed, my head pinging, I ask, “Who’s here?” and the door opens.

Standing in my room, five-foot-nothing and skinny with a buzz cut and a diamond nose stud, is not the Marlboro man. He says, “I thought you were never gonna get up.”

“Who’re you?”

“The guy who roofied you.”

“What?”

“The guy who roofied you.”

And I would ask ‘What?’ again, but instead, I sit lost in his statement.

“Just thought I’d be honest.”

“What?”

“Honest.”

Me, with the sheets pulled to my neck, my hair screaming Medusa, I ask, “You roofied me?”

“Right; so, I just said that.” Shaking his head, he says, “Jesus,” and leaves the room.

Pulling myself from the bed, my legs tied up in the sheets, my head hazy and gray, I find myself face-first on my hard-wood floor.

My head clears.

And I realize he’s not in my room and I’m alone and I don’t know what’s happening but I need to call the police and put some pants on because I’m wearing just my panties and I stand up but it’s hard because my right leg is asleep and I hear, “What are you doing?” and behind me is a lamp and I grab it and turn and hold it in front of me like some kind of saber.

He enters the room. In his hand, like my red, beating heart, is a Bloody Mary. He stands there in the doorway, the condensation building on the glass, his eyes big and cautious, and me on the other side of the room with my lamp held out, the shade my paper shield.

I ask, “What’re you doing here?”

“I roofied you –”

“Get out!”

“Come on,” he extends the Bloody Mary to me, “The hair of the dog.”

I extend the lamp toward him, and by doing so, hit the switch. The bulb, bright through the top of the shade, acts as a spotlight on this five-foot-nothing roofier. “I’m gonna – call the police!”

“But I stayed up all night.”

“What?”

“Thinking; you threw me for a loop.”

Here, safe behind my lamp, all I can think is that I’m not wearing any pants.

He says, “Not exactly what I expected, you know what I mean?” Slowly and evenly, he puts the Bloody Mary on the dresser near him. “Last night you put me through, like a – a transcendental awakening, or something. Like at first I was so angry, you know? Like I really wanted to do some bad shit, but then I got to thinking. And, then, I was sitting in the corner, you were snoring, and I don’t know; that was at, like, six in the morning, or something.” 

“Jesus, what’re you talking about? Get outta my apartment.”

“What’d’a mean? You have a penis!”

And all I can think is that I’m not wearing any pants. 

“So, it occurred to me that everything happens for a reason, and, yeah, so here we are.”

“You’re fucking nuts.”

He stands there at the door, his eyes quizzical, and says, “Right; so, this isn’t going how I thought.” He says, “I’ll just leave you my card.” From his back pocket, he produces a silver business card holder. It shines in the yellow light from my make-shift saber. He places the card on the dresser next to the crying Bloody Mary. “If you want to call.”

“You are so fucked up; get the fuck outta my place.”

And with a nod, he leaves. I hear the front door open and close.

My head pounds. I put the lamp down and go straight for the Bloody Mary. Sitting on my bed, the drink half gone, I see my new slip hanging from the closet door. Baby blue with a hot figure eight cut into the back. My head pounding, I try to figure out what to do, and consider that the baby blue slip will go nicely with my red heals. The drink finished, I put it on the night stand. I try to consider what to do, but can’t come up with anything.

I’ll pick up my purple wig tomorrow.

 

Technorati Tags: flash fiction,short stories,creative writing,roofie,transvestite,bloody mary

Eric Lived

I can’t sleep.

The blow-up mattress halfway deflated, the window open with the winter air kissing my face, the blinking of midnight on the VCR, and my open eyes occupying this room surrounded by walls. I can’t sleep. The kind of insomnia that you believe will go away if you just follow your nighttime habits. Take a steaming shower, brush the teeth, drink a glass of milk, strip to boxers, and crawl into warm covers, which are all – I’m convinced – habits of the slowly dying.

From the freezer I grab the vodka. Half gone and cold, I pour a shot into my red coffee mug and I take it and I pour another and I take it and the sun says, “Good morning.”

In my kitchen, the walls white and bare, I say to myself, “I have a plan and it begins today. I’m going to spend the rest of my money on a last minute plane ticket to Thailand. I’m going to go there and order two prostitutes. An older one and a young one. Variation. When I’m satisfied with that I’m going to get a hut on the beach and a bottle of Thai liquor. Something authentic. I’m going to drink it. All. Then get another. And do it over and over. Then on the beach, after I’ve wandered out, and wherever I’ve fallen, I’ll wake in just a swimsuit. Hung over, I’ll be depressed remembering how selfish I am and that all this was just running away from everything. Now, enter the Internet. I’ll find some volunteer group and I’ll join. Build houses and outhouses and help people. But then I’ll get anxious and bored. I’ll look for other alcoholics to get drunk with but I’ll just end up by myself. Then one night I’ll get mugged. I’ll say, ‘Take whatever you want.’ And they’ll take much more than that. I’ll almost die. And maybe that’s the whole point of everything anyway. To almost die and therefore understand what living is all about. It’ll be a year later, and I’ll fly home to New York. And I’ll be right back where I am now wondering if everything was worth it. Day by day I get older and I’m not figuring anything out and all I know is I’m completely unsatisfied.”

Floating from the other room, through the closed door dressed in party pictures, is my roommate’s alarm. It’s 6:00AM. And from that room I hear:

New York, my home, my last stop on this set of tracks, and out the window, with the city silhouetted, the sun wakes with a somber purple. In front of me sits a half eaten bowl of cereal. The little O’s life rafts in the water. And into the surface of the wooden kitchen table, which is cluttered and wobbly, I etch “Eric Lived” with my butter knife.

I think of the plane, over the ocean, flying as one of the angels over the world, and that maybe I will sleep. And dream. Soft and gently. With the world small below, arching toward home. And as I ask the stewardess to bring me a vodka tonic to bring on the dreams, I’ll consider that this is my life, and it’s coming to me syllable by syllable.

With the note to my roommate etched on the table, I grab my backpack, and go.

 

Technorati Tags: short story,short stories,flash fiction,travel,Thailand,vodka,ben folds,jesusland,new york,airplane

Pink Dot

This hotel room, with its patterned bedspread and carpet, its plastic wrapped cups and soap, its King size bed that will sleep one, is exactly like all the others except for the pink dot on the door. The pink dot I drew with my super-sized Sharpie marker.

It rides the door below the peep hole like a belly button. Part of me is convinced it looks like a pink balloon. The kind five-year-old girls carry in parks in suburbia. Another part of me is convinced it’s Chicken Pocks. With my nimble fingers, I go ahead and itch the door just in case. After all, the door can’t itch itself.

Some people think I’m weird. I think I’m considerate.

Now, the pink dot that’s on the mirror, the one I have to stare at as I wash my hands, I don’t know how that got there. I must have put it there, but I don’t remember. That one, it’s much bigger than the belly button on the door.

Then there’s the two that ride the wall above the headboard. I think I’d remember drawing two giant pink dots on the wall, but I don’t.

I imagine I was pretty happy when I did those because I gave them a partner. And everyone likes partners. That is, except for me. Don’t get confused. I DON’T LIKE partners. I’m what you’d call an ISOLATIONIST.

Finally, there’s a pink dot on the wall where the television was before I moved it to the closet. That pink dot makes me nervous because in the center of it is a black dot. It sits there in the center like a cornea. It watches me like a polka-dotted version of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyessy.

Hal said, “I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

Some people think I’m irrational. I think I’m saving humanity.

That pink dot on the door, the one that rides it like a belly button, a part of me is convinced it’s a jaw breaker. The kind Mom’s say will rot your teeth. Another part of me is convinced it’s the highlight on the chin of a 1950’s cartoon.

Don’t get me wrong. I DON’T LIKE cartoons.

Me, here, in this room, I’m living a clown’s dream. I realized this when I noticed all the pink dots on my face. Those pink dots staring back at me in the mirror, they’re like a texture to my personality. And I never realized my personality was so feminine.

There, on the bathroom counter, long and white with its pink cap, is the sharpie marker. The cap sits on the back of the marker with the tip exposed drying like a pink flower on a summer windowsill.

Me and the marker’s tip, we have so much in common.

On the wall, I write:

These dots on my face, I wonder if they will permanently color my skin. Chicken Pox year round. I can carry a sign, and a cup, and ask for change on some New York City subway. I’ll need to in order to pay for the hotel room.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I DON’T LIKE panhandling. It’s just that I see pink dots swimming on the ceiling like cells reproducing, so I must deduce that I’M LOSING IT.

The one day I run out of hand sanitizer and this happens.

Mountain Overlook

In the mountains, with the snow falling creating a soft, white blanket like love, I drive the mountain curves and try not to fall over the edge. The tires spinning and skipping, I’m a first time ice skater. My partner, somewhere unknown, is not here for me to twirl.

The cold air is my breath, and it floats away from me like memories.

In the backseat sits a book. The author is one of my favorite short story writers. Her sentences sound like lyrics. The kind you dance to alone in your room on a weekday evening in December. This book, it was given to me by a woman in town. She told me, “Read this – I think it’ll help.”

I haven’t gotten to it yet. And it slides across the seats like the bottom of a pendulum connected to God.

Up ahead is a bend. The road, heading up, leads to that bend, and beyond the street, all I can see is blue. I’m pulling up to a drive-in theatre with the sky my double feature.

My tires spinning and gripping, I consider that this wasn’t the best idea. After all, I am from Texas. Snow is as familiar to me as a woman’s menstrual cycle; it’s a natural event I should keep my distance from.

Parked at my double feature, the clouds passing overhead like migrating whales, I watch the valley below, and wonder what my Valentine is doing right now. She’s down there, in that valley somewhere, and I just haven’t met her yet.

The book from my backseat, I grab it and read. My stiff fingers turn the pages as sticks.

That woman from town, the mountain town with the quaint, cabin shops, she told me, “Careful on the roads.” She said, “The snow can be deceiving.”

---

Happy Valentine's Day!

Recently, my friend Mike from Mr. Grudge honored me with an award  from Go! Smell the Flowers! an online blogging community, and an invitation to join. I'm honored that Mike would think of me because he is one of the writers I most look up to in this blogging world. He continually posts fascinating stories based on his life, and I'm continually amazed at his vast experiences and the expertise with which he tells them. Thank you Mike!

In addition, my friend Jodi from Beyond the Cracked Window recently awarded me with the Blogging Mentor badge. Jodi's almost stream-of-consciousness writing sucks you in, and when you're finished, you need to go get a cup of coffee, and then dive in again. She's a prolific writer, and definitely worth the read. Thank you Jodi!

 

 

Technorati Tags: short story,short stories,creative writing,flash fiction,valentine's day,holiday,love,mountain,snow,ice skater,winter

Lonely Road

Alone.

I lost something very important to me today.

On the road, my feet in the dirt, the asphalt burning through my pants, I sit facing the forest. In there, through those trees, it’s dark and isolating and sings to me. The trees, tall and brown under the February clouds, wall me in, and the world is small on this strip of highway.

This strip of highway and me, lost somewhere in my mind.

My stomach, it’s empty, and it yearns for something. There’s a hole burned into the bottom of my stomach, and that hole tugs at my throat, my tongue, my breath.

And, really, I’ve lost a part of myself.

I’m all alone on the road, my blue backpack stolen, and my hands suffocating in my pockets. It’s hot outside and it’s February and nothing makes sense.

My one companion, gone. Me with nothing left.

Alone.

---

When was the last time you were on the road?

 

Technorati Tags: short story,short stories,flash fiction,creative writing,road trip,road,backpacking,companion,February,highway

Vote.

 

Technorati Tags: Barack Obama,Yes We Can

Buried Alive

It’s dark and smells of dirt. Me, the juicy and fat earthworm.

This magic trick, it’s supposed to last ten minutes. Ten minutes and poof and awe and free from my premature grave.

The slight of hand – the trick – the thing behind the thing you see – it’s that the magician never actually is buried alive.

It’s all an illusion.

Until that magician decides to actually bury himself alive. Then it’s headline suicide.

It’s dark and the world is small and none-existent. My breath, as it bounces back to me after hitting the wooden lid, is silent. Down here, ten feet under the wet Earth, the fat, juicy earthworm, I hear nothing, and think I finally made it to Space.

Sensory deprivation with T-minus ten minutes before the oxygen runs out.

I’m an astronaut and I’m making one final revolution around the Earth and down below are all the people I’ve never met and I wonder if they even exist.

This thing, it’s one big game.

Ten feet above, with his feet planted on the ground, is my Assistant. He believes I’ll appear across the street. He believes that in ten minutes I’ll walk out of that Starbucks with a Grande Latte and a smile.

Me, I’m drowning, and unlike that statue, I can’t hold the Earth on my back.

Down here in the quiet, cold, coffin, I envision the things I’ve lost and never will get back. Me, I’m that character in the Sci-Fi movie who enters half way through the film from that parallel universe where things just weren’t quite right. I’m that dart next to the board stuck awkwardly in the cork.

Me, missing the mark.

But now, in my Space, in my sensory-deprived reprieve, I hear banging. I hear shouting. I hear the Bulldozer.

My Assistant – that impromptu Hero – might be trying to save my life.

And just keep walking down the sidewalk and try not to step on the cracks.

But he can’t be?

And the pictures floating on the coffin lid are golden and smell of rosemary.

And the sounds, like banging in my ears, gasp for oxygen. And that bulldozer, with its shovel of life, doesn’t exist. And I’m a guy draping a handkerchief over my face trying to make myself disappear.

My Assistant, he’s probably saying something like, “Don’t worry folks, it’s all a part of the act.” He saying, "This is all an illusion."

 

Technorati Tags: short story,short stories,flash fiction,creative writing,magician,earthworm,space,sci-fi,magic,earth,coffin,buried

Office King

Someone save me before I decide to save myself.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

This is like trying to build a sand castle in the Sahara. No water = no castle.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII am IM.

; )

On this desk, this white oblong desk, sits a monitor. Its screen black, it hosts a yellow post-it. That note sticks center as a bullseye. Scribbled in green ink like an etching is, “Meet me out back. –K.”

This is story build 4.1.3.

She says, “It’ll be fun like denim.” With her hair in pigtails, her nails pink and bright, her neck disappearing behind beads, she’s a twenty-three year old teenager.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

I have one canteen left, and by sacrificing it, I build a castle wall where little men will stand to guard my dynasty. The water, pouring from my canteen like an island waterfall, sinks into the Sahara sand. My mouth is dry, and my imagination wet.

I’m a water balloon waiting to splash myself on a windshield.

The gray carpet is my yellow brick road, and I follow it through these industrial hallways. I pass cubicle forests. I pass office caves.

“Did you get my e-mail?” Dave, the zit on my back, calls after me, “Kyle?”

I turn to him; my feet caught on a treadmill. He reads the yellow post-it that’s stuck to my forehead.

“Meet me out back. –K.”

Story build 4.1.4.

She says, “Everything just fits way too tight.” The jacket shoulders keep her arms held out; she’s a manikin posing indefinitely, and she says, “I can’t even breathe anymore.”

In the Sahara desert, the sun like E sharp, I wait for the messenger to arrive. Men, as guards to my dynasty, cement sand together with water. Above them, I stand with my arms outstretched, and hug the world as their King.

“Kyle?”

I’m the little somethings that I should’ve typed.

Outside, in the parking lot, behind the building, she stands at her little silver Honda. Her jacket too tight, she says, “I’m a denim Queen.”

From behind me, filtering into the parking lot from the building’s backdoor like cells reproducing, are my co-workers. Lined up like guards, Dave steps forward, and says, “We’re here.”

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

She pushes off her little silver Honda, comes to me, and with her arm outstretched, hands me a white envelope. “I was told to tell you, ‘Get ready to rule.’”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII am IM.

“Whatever that means.”

; )

She asks, “Why do you have a post-it stuck to your forehead?”

---

I’ve been honored with not one, but two awards by a blogger I hold in high regard. J.D. at The Uneasy Supplicant has bestowed the Friendship and Quality Blogger awards to me. J.D., I really appreciate this support, and am very happy to have developed our blogging friendship. Thanks!

Technorati Tags: office,cubicle,king,queen,sahara,desert,castle,guards,denim,IM