--
** *******
* * * *
* *
* ** * ******* ***** **** * ***** ** ** *******
* ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * *** **** * *** * *
* * ** * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * **** * * * **** * * *
===============================================
InterText Vol. 6, No. 1 / January-February 1996
===============================================
Contents
FirstText: Old Fish, Teeming Pond.................Jason Snell
Short Fiction
At the Dead Mother's Bend....................Mark Steven Long
Decisions.........................................Craig Boyko
This is the Optative of Unfulfillable Wish.......Kyle Cassidy
The Greatest Vampire.........................Gary Cadwallader
Twenty-One....................................Wendy J. Cholbi
....................................................................
Editor Assistant Editor
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
jsnell@intertext.com geoff@intertext.com
....................................................................
Assistant Editor Send correspondence to
Susan Grossman editors@intertext.com
susan@intertext.com or intertext@intertext.com
....................................................................
InterText Vol. 6, No. 1. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1996, Jason Snell.
Individual stories Copyright 1996 their original authors.
InterText is created using Apple Macintosh computers and then
published in ASCII/Setext, Adobe PostScript, Adobe Acrobat PDF
and HTML (World Wide Web) formats. For more information about
InterText, send a message to intertext@intertext.com with the
word "info" in the subject line. For writers' guidelines, place
the word "guidelines" in the subject line.
....................................................................
FirstText: Old Fish, Big Pond! by Jason Snell
=================================================
After five years of editing InterText, after having written
twenty-seven of these FirstText columns, I'm constantly in
danger of repeating myself when I welcome you to a new edition
of this magazine.
It can get to be a little bit like listening to your doddering
old Uncle Phil as you sit on the couch waiting for Christmas
dinner. "Uh-huh, right, that's when the Zero came out of the sky
and shot you down in the Pacific," you say, having heard this
particular World War II story dozens of times while still
doubting its authenticity. Every Christmas, Uncle Phil tells the
same story, like it or not.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm becoming a bit like Uncle Phil. Not
just because of my column topics -- I mean, if I had expected to
write twenty-seven of these columns, I would have never thought
of writing a "from the editor" column to begin with! -- but
because of the length of time we've been doing InterText.
When we started publishing this magazine, there were probably
two other online fiction magazines. ("Uh-huh, right, that's when
Athene got shot out of the sky, and with only Quanta> and
DargonZine left standing, you and Geoff entered the fray.") Now
I'd guess that there are at least 50 entities that call
themselves online magazines and print fiction, either
exclusively or as part of a package with poetry, journalism, or
opinion writing. Some of them are nothing but glorified home
pages on the World Wide Web, others are online arms of
paper-based magazines, and still others fit the same format that
InterText does -- a traditional fiction magazine, sans paper.
What does InterText have on these other magazines? On one level,
it's sheer age. We've been here seemingly forever, watching our
small community of magazines turn into a flood of more than 700
electronic periodicals, according to John Labovitz's E-Zine
List. We've stuck around. It's also quality -- we seem to be
pickier about what we accept and more careful with the text of
our stories than some, though not all, other publications.
But these days, it's hard to get heard over the din of the World
Wide Web. When there were only a couple magazines out there on
the Net, it was easy to find InterText. But now it's pretty
hard, and getting harder. How can we stand out from the crowd,
and get interested readers to discover the brand of fiction that
we provide every two months?
That's a tough one.
For one thing, I think there needs to be a central clearinghouse
for online magazines like InterText -- ones that publish
fiction on a regular basis. Readers need a place to go to find
detailed information about what kinds of stories different
magazines publish, so they can match their tastes to the
appropriate publication. Another need is for someone (or several
someones) with time and guts to rate the quality of as many
online magazines as possible, so busy Net users who don't have
the time to separate magazines with good editorial filters from
online vanity presses can find the best source for reading
online.
Not quite the same solution, but one that's still pretty useful,
is Jeff Carlson's eScene
the online fiction anthology. Carlson's goal is to make eScene
the first stop for readers on the Net -- a collection of the
best stories printed online in a given year. Last year, eScene
only received submissions from a handful of magazines (I'm proud
to say that stories from InterText figured prominently in that
collection), but this year's eScene> has received nearly a
hundred story submissions from many of the publications swimming
in the Net. If eScene can gain cache from the Net literati,
perhaps it can serve as a jumping-off point for readers.
But most importantly for magazines like InterText, a thriving
future on the Net requires word of mouth from our readers. If
you enjoy reading InterText, pass the magazine's URL on to your
friends. Or e-mail them a copy. A virtual magazine with a budget
approaching $0 and three people, all of whom have "day jobs,"
can't be a marketing juggernaut. We'd love to spend all our time
promoting InterText, but we can't. That's where we have to
depend on you.
Our next issue will mark our fifth anniversary on the Internet,
and our thirtieth issue. Be sure to be here -- and tell your
friends. With your support, we hope to be here for at least
thirty more.
At the Dead Mother's Bend by Mark Steven Long
=================================================
...................................................................
Some say certain moments define our lives... and perhaps itıs
our lives which define the moments.
...................................................................
Peeto stared at the line of twisted steel bordering the outer
edge of Ottawa River Road, which veered left without warning to
avoid the gentle, treacherous river beyond. The more he looked
at the hideous steel, the more he saw the river.
Only two weeks ago, a woman in her early twenties had driven the
car into the guardrail and was killed instantly. Her little boy,
safely strapped into his car seat, suffered only a bruise and
instant orphanage. To spare the next of kin, it was decided the
woman had lost control of her car trying to round the sharp
curve in the road. By that time, the local kids were already
calling it the Dead Mother's Bend.
The city repair crews went on strike the very next day, leaving
the guardrail unrepaired. The next car to miss the curve would
go through the rail and into the river. Peeto was certain of it,
and he had to see it happen.
He rubbed his crotch and looked up the road, where it came away
from a quiet intersection and skirted quickly past the school
playground. From that direction, the road took its abrupt turn
into a sudden glut of trees, ensuring no driver could see around
the bend.
Peeto looked over to the playground and fixed on a sagging,
rusted mass of pipes that were the monkey bars. They were the
same bars he'd climbed and fallen off of when he was seven. He
remembered leaning over to look at the ground, then losing his
balance. It was his most vivid memory: that split second in the
air when the trees whisked past and the sky fled as the ground
charged at him. The impact broke his arm. He was always reliving
it in his mind. To fly, to fall.
The years built up inside him as he leaped down stairways, rode
his bicycle over the tops of earthen dikes, contemplated the
high dive at the city swimming pool. Once, Brian and Jeeter
Dowell had grabbed him after school and dangled him by his feet
out of a second-floor classroom window. Peeto couldn't cry with
fear like they'd wanted, even though he was afraid they would
beat him up.
Sometimes, his upper arm still ached where it had been broken,
even though he was now in his teens. He'd started spending
nights sitting on the bed and hitting his arm to make it hurt.
Closing his eyes, he would see the blurred trees, the uprising
ground. Grabbing, hitting, twisting his arm could revive only
the vaguest tinglings of crunched bone.
Peeto couldn't imagine wanting anything else from his life,
though he knew he was supposed to. He wore long sleeves to hide
the marks.
Tires squealed in the distance. He looked up the road, bouncing
on the balls of his feet in anticipation. First he saw a blob of
moving color that quickly refined itself into a battered blue
Chevy Nova. The motor howled in a hideous bass voice. This was
the one -- he knew it was. It was going like a bat out of hell.
Or a bat into hell. It was magnificent.
The car raged past him. Peeto barely glimpsed the driver, who
turned the wheel too late. The car smashed easily through the
twisted and bent guardrail and hurtled over the edge of the
earth and into space. Peeto felt his entire life within him in
the few seconds the car hung in the air. The evening sun
reflected off the driver's window, exalted the car's polished
surface. The Nova spun slowly to one side before drifting
downward, as if almost looking back, before it splashed into the
river and sank.
Peeto fell to his knees and couldn't get up, he was quivering so
much. The police would simply assume the boy was shaken by what
he'd witnessed, and he would let them think it. Now he knew
beyond all doubt that he would do this himself some day: he
would fly, and fall, and die.
Mark Steven Long (msl@oup-usa.org)
------------------------------------
Mark Steven Long is a writer and editor from New York City. He
has been published in National Lampoon, Reed, Fiction Forum, and
elsewhere. His story "The Nutbob Stories" was nominated for a
Pushcart Prize in 1993. This is his first electronically
published fiction.
Decisions by Craig Boyko
============================
...................................................................
If we think of ourselves as moral persons, why do we always do
the wrong things for the right reasons?
...................................................................
One
-----
I noticed her as soon as I was through the door, as if she was
emitting some sort of signal. Not to me -- maybe not to anyone
in particular. Something in the way she sat, the way she sipped
from her glass, the way she watched the whole room in the mirror
set behind the rows of glasses and bottles perched against the
bar.
I stood there in the entryway, letting the rainwater drip from
my coat, just watching her. Expecting her to turn around and
smile at me.
Which was idiotic.
I sat about three stools away from her. I didn't want to
frighten her, or even draw her attention. Gaining attention
isn't necessarily a benefit.
I ordered a bourbon from the bartender, and he grunted. He
finished wiping a glass, set it down next to the others, and
walked down the length of the bar. I put a five on the bar and
looked into the mirror.
The woman three seats down was leisurely oscillating a swizzle
stick around the edge of her glass. Watching her fingers as they
moved. Uninterested. Bored.
She was wearing a blue dress that showed a lot of back, leg, and
cleavage. Her wavy blonde hair fell a few inches below her
shoulders. Her skin was bluish-green in the bar light. Her
expression made me think she was waiting for someone but had
given up, knowing they wouldn't show.
Before I was conscious of moving, I found myself sitting down
next to her. And immediately felt out of place and awkward; the
stools were too close. My leg was almost brushing her thigh. And
most of the bar was empty. No reason for my voluntary proximity.
Tactfully, she didn't look up -- rule of the city, the bar --
though I saw her shift in the mirror.
The bartender placed my glass in front of me. I thanked him,
looked at the counter, then pointed to where I'd left my five.
"That's, um, mine." He nodded, shrugged, and went to pick it up.
Feeling stupid, I told him to keep the change. He nodded, like
he knew I would say that. Like I should have, for making him
walk to get the bill.
I looked at her in the mirror, and she was looking down at her
fingers, lazily circling the glass, which was half-empty.
"Could I buy you a drink?" I said, hearing my voice as if it was
coming from the other side of the bar, or maybe out on the
street.
She looked up, first in the mirror, then at me. She looked
amused, curious, nervous. Then smiled. White teeth, pink tongue.
"You could buy me a drink, yes."
I waved to the bartender. "Unless, of course," she said, "that
binds some sort of agreement."
I looked at her. She tilted her head, her hand moving from the
glass to the counter.
"Pardon?" I said.
"I said, unless that drink binds some sort of agreement.
Socially. Or sexually."
I looked at her, feeling my cheeks get warm. Not understanding
her, not liking the way she was gazing at me.
"No," I said eventually, looking at her, then her mirror image.
Smiling past the rows of burgundy bottles. "I don't think so...
I'm not sure what you mean..." Hating my voice, its high
resonance inside my skull.
She shrugged, the whole dress shifting on her body like a second
skin ready to be shed.
"No, I guess not," she said. "Sure, you can buy me a drink." And
she turned back to her glass, and sipped from it. "But maybe I
should finish this first," she added, clicking the glass on the
bar.
The bartender stopped in front of me, waiting. "Sorry," I said,
smiling. "A little later."
I looked at her in the mirror, and cradled my own glass, now
empty, in my palms.
She sipped her drink. "That was a line, right?" she asked, her
voice as uninflected as if she was asking how far it was to the
next subway station. "Asking to buy me a drink. It had to be. Or
just an... icebreaker?"
"Yeah. One of those."
She smiled and put down her glass. "Good."
She stood up, and I could only look at the blue fabric of the
dress, speculate as to what lay beneath it. My cheeks burned and
my throat was sore. I wondered dimly what the hell I was doing
there. Avoiding the run, probably.
"I think I'll pass on that drink, though," I heard her say. I
mumbled acceptance.
"Let's go somewhere," she said. "Maybe you can make it up
later."
The rain had stopped. Though it had been raining before, she had
no coat. Her hair wasn't wet like mine, which made me wonder how
long she'd been in the Winder. Shit, I supposed, some people
never left. She caught my sleeve with a manicured finger and
turned down the street, not bothering to see if I was following.
As she went, the street lights each provided her a private
spotlight. It was hypnagogic.
Reminded me of Mae.
She led me around another corner and down a block, her heels
clicking on the cracked sidewalk. I followed her mindlessly,
like a confused stray dog. I thought then, fleetingly, about
turning and leaving.
Then she turned into a dark niche, an unlit, unmarked opening. I
stood behind her there, feeling the night air against my cheeks
as it dried my hair. She tapped a keypad beside the door, and it
lit up green. I followed her in, closing the door carefully
behind me. She hadn't paid any attention to me since we'd left
the Winder.
She walked down a hallway lit by dim incandescents, past
unmarked doors with filthy glazed inset windows. Like a
miniature version of a high school hallway.
My mind jumped up then, my vigilant guard dog, through the mist
of bourbon. I wondered where she was taking me, why I was here,
who she was, who I was... but only for a moment. These things
didn't matter; nothing did. Not really.
Music became louder, and I became aware of it. A deep bass
rhythm, a synthetic treble, digitally altered vocals. She turned
around and smiled at me, reassuring yet disconcertingly vapid.
She led me through a door at the end of the hallway, and lights
exploded. Rainbow psychedelics everywhere, in my eyes and
gnawing away at my nerves. The music was huge, inexorable, and
too loud, but at the level where my mind refused to register it.
It was a tiny room, a microcosmic bar. And there was a counter,
a matte black ledge set against the far wall, dainty leather
stools lined against it. There were four tables, each with four
prosaic wood chairs, no more than ten people in the entire
place.
She sat down on a leather stool; I sat beside her. The
bartender, a tall blond kid probably just over half my age, came
immediately, ignored me, bent over beside her.
"How's life?" he said, smiling perfect white teeth, and licking
at a stray blond hair.
"Much the same, Dog."
"You seen Kleiv around lately?"
"No. Bill overdue?"
"Bet your ass."
"Get us a couple glasses from the special bottle, Dog."
The kid looked at me for the first time, a blank stare, then
stood up and laughed. "You got it." He picked up a white towel
and walked into a back room, behind a padded door.
"What is this place?" I asked her.
"A little elite club."
"What's it called?"
"Doesn't have a name. Doesn't have much, really. Just a place to
go."
The blond kid put down two plastic cups in front of us. I didn't
see an actual glass anywhere around us. I sniffed at the
contents of the cup, and smelled oranges and alcohol. I looked
at her, and she shrugged, then drank it all down. I did the
same.
It tasted awful, and put a sting at the back of my throat like a
lead stone. I coughed and wheezed, and she only laughed
silently, along with the kid.
"What the hell was that?" I asked as I dropped the cup back onto
the counter. The kid swept them both up and returned to the back
room.
"Special potion. Part vodka, part orange extract. Part
aphrodisiac, part truth serum."
I remember laughing at that and slapping my palms down on the
counter, then looking up at her through dry eyes. "Why, are you
going to ask me some questions?"
"Possibly."
"Who's the kid?" I asked, gesturing towards the dark room.
"Rude Dog. You know, a working kid." She looked at me then for a
long frozen moment, her face a wooden block. "Do you want to go
to bed?" she asked, without a smile or a single movement.
I looked at her face, her body, then her eyes. "Yes," I said,
realizing that the drink might actually have included either or
both of the last two ingredients.
She stood up, brushing the front of her blue dress as if from
habit, then looked away. "Well, come on then."
I jumped up, too quickly. She didn't notice. She walked away,
the same gait as before, back out to the hallway. I followed as
she stopped at the fourth door, opened it, and went in.
There was an oval queen-sized bed covered in a green wrinkled
sheet and a pillow. The tiny table beside the bed held a lamp
without shade and a flickering 50-watt bulb. There were three
chairs, none of which matched -- kind of like the ones in Rude
Dog's bar. A minuscule fridge, with a tarnished and scratched
veneer, stood near the corner.
It reminded me, without warning, of a room Mae and I were in
once, for about a month.
"Sit down," she said. "If you like."
I did, and she did. I looked at her as she smoothed her dress.
"So what are we here for?"
She crossed her legs, looked at the lamp. "That's up to you.
Maybe to talk."
"Oh. So you're going ask me questions now?"
"Perhaps. What's your name?"
"Mute. Like silence."
"First or last?"
"Only, I guess." I waited then, for a few seconds, for her to
volunteer her own name. "What's yours?"
"Whatever you want it to be."
I laughed then, but found no humor in my voice or the situation.
"This is, isn't it? Like a business proposition going down?"
"No," she said, all seriousness. "I don't do that."
"So what's your name?"
"Giovanna."
"That's a nice name."
She shrugged, her dress moved. "I picked it out myself."
"So who the hell are you?" I asked, only vaguely feeling my lips
make out the words.
"I came looking for you."
"No, you didn't. We ran into each other at the Winder." She
smiled then, and it meant something. Betrayal. Upper hand.
"You go there a lot, don't you, Mute?"
I said nothing. Her voice was like a computer, an ATM, an
airport loudspeaker. Professional and fluid.
"You weren't there last night, though. I had to wait until two.
But tonight you walked right up to me. I couldn't have asked for
better."
"What... you were stalking me or something?"
"Like that. In a sense. But not in a bad way. A big sister kind
of way. I'm just checking up on you."
"Checking up on me. I don't even know who you are."
"But I know you. At least, the statistics. I read your bio.
You're interesting, Mute."
My guard dog barked again, somewhere in my cerebrum, but it was
drowned out by a porous sponge, a black fog just behind my eyes.
Drink she gave me was drugged, I decided dully. As if in
response to my bleak, perplexed look, she spoke gingerly. "I'm
here for Mr. Krell."
My limbs petrified and my mind became sand. My eyes glossed over
with oil, my pores contracted and fell asleep. I blacked out.
Mae was asleep.
We were supposed to go out. I told her to go back to bed -- it
was too cold. The windows were rain-streaked and dirty, the
floor was strewn with clothes and cleaning rags and small coins.
The rain chattered against the corrugated roof. The electric
heater clicked and surged, warming my legs and the bed sheets.
Mae breathed. I smoked a cigarette, tracing the fissures in the
ceiling plaster with my eyes. I watched Mae breathe. Her body
was warm against my thigh. Her skin white and smooth, her hair
dark against her cheek. She said something through sleep. "No,"
I said. It's too cold to go out. Sleep."
The metallic rain. The cigarette smoke, undulating lazily. Mae's
rhythmic breathing, warm and sweet.
"Wake up," she said.
"No, too cold out -- "
"Oh, come on. wake up."
Black well, spiraling somnolently.
"I didn't hit you with that hard a dose." Pin-prick light. Red
hot pain flare. "Wake _up_."
Electric light, intense and immaculate. White tiles. Cool
plastic or leather against my back. Throbbing pain against my
cheek.
"Well, you opened your eyes. That's something."
"You hit me..." My voice, but it came from the bottom of the
well, through a cotton muffler.
"I slapped you," said the voice, from beyond my vision. "To wake
you up. Now you're up. Any questions?"
"Who are you?" My voice was like mud.
"You forget already? Giovanna. I picked you up at the bar. Come
on, you've only been out a couple hours."
I struggled then, my guard dog at full wariness. But my head was
a stone slab, my arms bound down by unseen straps, cool and
padded.
And her face came into view. Smiling perfect white teeth and
perfect pink tongue. Perfect pool eyes, deep blue, cold and
serene. A wave of blond hair at the edge of her mouth.
"Right, Mute? We're old friends."
"No," I said. "I don't know you."
"Perhaps not," she said, and her face was gone. Click of heels
on linoleum. "But you remember my employer."
I stared at the ceiling tiles.
"Sure you do, Mute. Mr. Krell."
I told the nauseous fear in my mind to shut up. Krell. The run.
Skipping town. Leaving Mae. The run...
"He'll be here any minute. I'm sure you two will have lots to
talk about." Her face was back, leering and satisfied. "Won't
you?"
And then she moved, sharp and extreme, and the pain exploded in
my head. The black returned.
Spots like fireworks, soft and dim. From a dull pulse, hollow
and warm, comes a room. In the room, seven, nine, thirteen men,
dressed in bloody white lab coats. Scalpels in hand, gleaming
virginal silver.
White, white, white everywhere. Chlorine bleach odor. Anesthetic
tubes and rods, tools and drills, knives and forks.
Me on the white leather table, candles protruding from my chest
and eyes. The candelabra. The meal. The lab coat men bend over,
candle light flickering fluorescent. Sparkling knives, blood-red
cheeks, insane grins.
Dig in.
Bloody ganglia. Wires spew forth from my skull and my rib cage,
green and red and blue and yellow. LCD and LED, blinking
sporadically. Tiny circuitry pops out of my eyes and my hands
and my chest, and the bloody men tie knots in the wires, swing
them around, cut and paste, solder and caulk.
They are fixing me, fixing my system, rewiring nerves. I scream,
but the walls are soundproof.
Walls crumble to ruins, and the bloody incisions disappear into
rivers, tributaries, blue-gray macadam and cement. The night
lights up neon, and the hum of business is a lover's song.
The run.
"Hey, Mr. Krell, how's things?"
Suited Mr. Krell, impeccable in his dark gray jacket. Mr. Krell,
smoking his cigars and watching with icy eyes.
The run.
"Things are good. The operation was successful."
"Of course it was. I got a tough body."
"You do now."
The run. The job. Mr. Krell, smoking his cigars. Rewired. Faster
and better. New system. Doped up. Ready to run.
The job. First mission.
Surprise. Disbelief.
"I own you, Mr. Mute."
Skipping town.
I came to quickly, chemically. Some strong smell out of my
vision jump-starting my mind and consciousness. I was back
again, under the harsh white fluorescents and the square tiles.
Testing the arm straps, struggling futilely, I groaned.
"Welcome back to the world of the living, Mute." Woman's voice.
"Giovanna?" I said.
"Indeed, Mute. You've got a visitor, dear."
Krell. "So good to see you again, Mr. Mute."
I said nothing, wishing it all away. My mind leaped and grasped
for the tenuous strands of the memory of Mae, the dream.... I
wanted it all back.
"You don't say hello to a former employer, Mr. Mute? And, I like
to think, a former friend."
"We were never friends," I said, and hated myself for it.
Because we had been, almost, if only a flash on carbon paper.
And then his face was hovering over mine, the same as before.
Close-cropped black hair, undoubtedly slicked back with his
short red comb that he kept in the front pocket of his Armani
jacket. Ice-blue eyes. Jutted nose, bony cheeks, faintest trace
of day-old stubble. And his pout, infamous and capricious,
always hiding his teeth, which were yellow and straight.
"I'm hurt you would say that, Mr. Mute," he said, his lips
moving the minimum required to produce the words.
"Sure you're hurt," I said. "You must be real hurt. What exactly
do you do with defectors, Krell?"
His face was gone again. "We try to get them back on the team,
of course. Or, if that doesn't work, we do whatever the
circumstances necessitate."
"You gonna kill me?"
"Oh, I doubt that. I've put too much money into that metabolic
miracle that you call a body. See, I've made an investment in
you, Mute." I cringed as he laughed. "And you turned tail and
ran."
There was dense pause, with only the hum of the fluorescents
revealing any passage of time.
"Yeah. I hauled ass. You didn't rewire my morals. I had no idea
what you had in mind before."
The laugh again, much shorter, more sarcastic. "See, Mute, we
had a deal. We've been in this business a long time, you've seen
the way the game is played. What did you think? I'd put millions
into that body of yours just so you could _steal_ shit for me?
You went into this with your eyes closed. Now you have to try
conscious reentry."
"You want me to come back," I said languidly.
His face was back, hanging over me, but from the other side.
"What the hell else would I want? You're mine, Mute. My machine.
I made what you are."
"Bullshit."
His face was gone. I strained to lift my head, to look around
the room, but my head was strapped firmly in place. All I could
see was the juncture of the wall behind me and the ceiling tile.
"It isn't bullshit. Maybe someday, after you've repaid your debt
to me, maybe then you could leave and pretend to live a normal
life. But now you are in no position to negotiate."
"So it's a threat. Go on the juice, or I never leave this room."
Krell sighed, and that startled me; it was a sound I had never
heard before. "I hate to threaten old friends, Mute. But yes.
Neither of us has a choice."
"Right, Krell. Money's involved. So screw me and screw
everybody, because you made an _investment_."
Long silence.
"Miss Giovanni? Please return Mr. Mute to his unconscious state.
I'd like to give him a chance to think about this. I always
prefer to sleep on any key decisions."
Crisp tapping of heels on linoleum. And then she was back, with
her blue eyes and blond hair and pink tongue. She lifted her arm
over my face, and in her hand was a small black box, like an
electric razor. Two cylindrical chrome contacts at the top.
"All too enjoyable, Mr. Krell," she said, and the black box
disappeared beneath my chin.
"Oh, and one thing," came Krell's voice. "Something to ruminate
over. You'll be pleasantly surprised to know that your former
companion, Miss Mae Cole, is under our care and supervision.
Good night, Mute."
A fist of electric pain, followed by a pool of blackness.
No dreams came. Consciousness returned eventually. Thoughts
coalesced in my blood, stream of consciousness metastasized.
I didn't wake up. I thought.
I thought about the operation, about Krell and his run. I was a
drug dealer. I had been before Krell, and I was doing it then,
on the lam, for money to live. I guess you always go back to the
basics.
Krell knew my supplier. Probably owned my supplier. Back then,
in Nanking, business was a solid, esoteric plexus. It had rules,
axioms, conduct and etiquette, unspoken protocol. An
impenetrable clan, and like anything, you knew your clan
members. The guys at the top watched the guys at the bottom.
Krell happened to pick me out of the genus.
Being good at what I did got me into this shit. Of course, being
inadequate might have gotten me a hollow-tip through the skull
years ago. I remember his office, the place they made the offer.
It's a funny thing, getting a compliment from a kingpin like
Krell. You're scared for your life, just going up there, smoking
his good cigars. And so relieved when you actually get to leave
again that you remember next to nothing that was said.
And with meetings like that, you don't say no. The operation
came and went in a week. Heightened senses, accentuated
responses, intensified reflexes. A fine-tuned biological
machine. On the outside, nothing out of the ordinary, except for
the pink ribbons on my chest, concealed easily enough.
And my new system had to be turned on. My switch is
betaphenacaine, which I keep in durable hypodermic needles,
capped and cased.
And then the run. Krell sat me down in his office, and I was
more confident, so sure of myself, knowing that I was one of his
official hired men now, no reason to fear the results of
unemployment....
I felt a dull aching hate, lying there on the table, strapped
down, pretending to be asleep. Because he didn't even bother to
desensitize me, start me out with two-bit runs. He was too cocky
for that, so positive that I was his faithful possession.
In retrospect, maybe I should have gone along with it all,
played the run, killed that guy, one of Krell's business
competitors. But it would have changed me absolutely, sent me
into an implacable spiral. Killing wasn't something I was ready
to cope with, even if I did it every week with the drugs I sold.
Hardest decision I ever made, ever will. Mae.
I knew then what I know now, what they were capable of. And I
took my chances, leaving Mae, hoping they would never find her
or trace her to me. They did. I endangered her.
I'm an asshole.
Unexpected metallic cold, then piercing electric pain. I opened
my eyes to Giovanna.
"Good morning, Mute. Have a nice sleep?" I only stared. Then she
moved, and instinctively, I moved my head with her. It wasn't
strapped down, and I jumped, expecting my arms to be free as
well. No such luck.
I looked around. Plain white room, like a hospital. Giovanna was
in black jeans and a white t-shirt now. She sat down on one of
two black leather chairs, set in opposite corners along the far
wall. In between them, a gray door that looked plastic; probably
reinforced and bulletproof.
"You've been out two hours. Probably closer to five altogether.
Plenty of time to get your bearings. So now you're supposed to
give me an answer, and there's only one that I'm supposed to
accept."
The tendons in my neck tightened and ached; I let my head fall
back to the padded table. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore
the silence in the room.
"Come on, Mute. See, if you don't accept Mr. Krell's offer, I'm
supposed to let you ponder it a little more. Unconsciously. And
getting there, that's the fun part. I've got all kinds of fun
toys. Fun for me, anyway."
I opened my eyes, and rubbed my teeth together, feeling the
lingering pain beneath my jaw.
"What about you, Giovanna?" I asked.
"What about me?"
"Why are you here? You aren't the traditional muscle Krell
employs. Don't you think you're better than this?"
"Traditional? Like you? A wirehead?" She chuckled. "I'm here
because it's my profession. I'm just a working girl, Mute -- but
let's talk about you. I can let you off the table right now, if
you'd like. Even give you a plug of your drug, if you'd like.
All you got to do is agree to come back home with Mr. Krell.
Doesn't that sound comfy-cozy?"
"You can't," I said. "You give me the juice, and I'm all over
your ass. Doesn't matter how many guns you got, I can be out of
here with your head in a box."
"Not quite. You're forgetting an item Mr. Krell has in his
possession. Miss Cole."
"Jesus. So it's blackmail, then."
"Pleasant business you're in, Mute. Me, I just get to pick up
cute guys at bars, then have my way with them while they're tied
to operating tables."
I didn't want to think of Mae, then. Even if I left, killing Mae
wouldn't help them get me. For all I knew, they didn't even have
her. Probably just using her name as collateral.
"Shit," I said, my voice strained and tired. "Okay."
Giovanna was over me again, without warning. Apparently lost the
heels with the change of wardrobe. "Okay, as in
okay-we-have-a-deal?"
"Okay."
She gave me new clothes, black jeans and t-shirt, which were
both too big. I swore silently, longing for my own clothes: I
had a couple of hypos in the jacket pocket. Then I remembered
she'd offered me a plug, because of Mae, and what they knew she
meant to me.
"So where's my juice?" I asked.
"Oh, funny thing, that. Technically, it's not your juice. An
upper, a lot the same, but it won't make you metaphysical. More
addictive, nicer effect. No comedown, either."
I stared at her, trying to discern her expression. "Fuck it."
She looked amused, and for the first time I noticed the small
gun in her right hand. "I read your bio, Mute. You only swear
when you're _really_ pissed."
"Fuck _you_."
"Not a good idea to antagonize the girl with the gun, Mute."
Krell was waiting in a suite on the twentieth floor of a
grandiose downtown hotel, complete with inch-thick carpeting and
a uniformed elevator operator.
Giovanna motioned me down the hall to his room with the gun,
hidden beneath a leather jacket draped over her arm. She knocked
twice, eyes on me. Krell opened it himself. Cocky son of a
bitch.
I sat down in a chair, looked around the room without moving my
head. It was a wide expanse of green linoleum that ended in an
elevated area, where I saw a king-size bed, a complete
entertainment system, and a mini bar. A complete kitchen was to
my right, and a bathroom to the left. The ceiling was probably
20 feet up; I figured the place took up a quarter of the entire
floor.
Krell picked up a half-full glass from the counter in the
kitchen area and walked back to me. "Cherry whiskey," he said,
sipping from the snifter. I ignored him, and stared out through
the purple-tinted windows, wondering vaguely why anyone would
want to look down on a purple city. "Want some?" he asked.
"No thanks."
"Well, then, down to business." He walked back to the countertop
and picked up a pair of silver tongs. "Miss Giovanna declares
you are going to be cooperative. I assume that's correct, or you
wouldn't be here."
"I am. But not the way you do business. No blackmail."
He plucked an ice cube from a silver bucket and dropped it into
his glass. He turned to me and smiled; he'd gotten a new
gold-plated tooth put in since I last saw him.
"I assume you're referring to Miss Cole." I stared out at the
Shanghai cityscape and said nothing. "You have to understand my
position," Krell continued. "I couldn't have you running around
loose, not until I'd gotten my money's worth. That may sound
materialistic and shallow, but.... Look, I could give you a
speech on what it took to get where I am, but I don't think
that's what you're after. Don't worry, Mute. Miss Cole is safe."
"Where is she?"
"We're looking after her back in Nanking."
"How do I know you have her? How do I know that she's still
alive?"
Krell scratched his stomach through the terry cloth and sipped
his cherry whiskey. "My word, Mute. After all, what good is she
to me, or anyone, dead? I wouldn't do that to an old comrade,
especially one that I hope will become a valuable new comrade."
"Put me on a plane. I see Mae, or screw everything."
"Already set. You leave in an hour."
Two
-----
I was expecting a tenement, a squalid warehouse of rotting
lumber and broken windows, sitting close to the harbor and
reeking of dead fish and discarded canned foods. Instead, I
stood in front of a condominium, surely not older than my shoes.
It was twenty stories tall, had symmetrical windows and
terraces, and a sleek black pebbled siding. It looked exactly
like the kind of place Krell would live in, or possibly own.
"Lives quite the life, huh Mute?"
I looked at Giovanna, and watched her eyes glimmer as she stared
past me at the building.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Mr. Krell's humble abode."
"What are we here for?"
"Waiting. He's coming in on his private jet in a little while.
We're to wait here until then."
"Where's Mae?"
"We wait for Mr. Krell, Mute."
I frowned at her as our eyes met. Her eyes changed, from some
sort of rapt disbelief, to a weary amusement. "I don't make the
rules," she said.
I shook my head and began to walk towards the front of the
building. "I don't understand you."
"Me? There's little to understand. At least, for you."
"I mean, you're the bait, the lure, and the hired thug all in
one. Is Krell hard up these days?"
"I'm good at what I do. Mr. Krell pays for my expertise. Now
shut up, Mute."
We walked up the concrete steps to the double doors at the
front. Giovanna held the gun loosely in my direction as she
punched in a rapid succession of numbers on a small digital
lock. A hypersonic beep, and then the lock clicked. She waved me
inside.
We waited an hour. Krell's home was just a miniature version of
the hotel suite in Shanghai, a miniature version of every place
I ever imagined rich people would live in. Phony and metallic
and cold.
The black jeans were too big, and the shirt made my neck itch. I
picked at it. "Where are my clothes?" I asked Giovanna, who sat
on the other side of the room in an identical chair, and stared
at me listlessly, the gun resting in her perfect denim lap.
"Burned 'em."
"Well, these are really bugging the hell out of me. Am I going
to get to go shopping?"
She moved the gun to the other hand and hesitated. "Your old
clothes are out in the limo, in the trunk."
"Thought you said you burned them."
"Lied," she said, with an evanescent smile. She pulled a
palm-sized cellular phone from her suede jacket, and popped it
open. "I'll get Pedro to bring them up for you."
She made me change in front of her.
"What, you afraid I'll attack you with one of Krell's
toothbrushes?"
"I play safe. Rules of the game."
"Some game," I said, but obeyed. I changed into my old clothes,
comfortable, cold, and slightly damp from being outdoors. I did
so with as little emotion as possible, avoiding Giovanna's gaze,
uneasy about what expression would be on that scalpel-perfect
face.
I sat down and left the rain jacket folded over the arm of the
chair. I wanted to check it for the hypodermics, but such a move
at that point would have given me away. Better to take it easy.
I looked up at Giovanna finally, and she was smiling faintly.
"All done?" she asked.
I said nothing for a moment, only watched her. "You have a
comment?"
She laughed softly, and her smile faded into a bored pout. "You
think you deserve one?"
"Never mind."
"It was a nice exchange of clothing you performed," she said,
her face a mix of apathy and seriousness.
"Thanks." I lifted my left arm in the habitual motion of
checking my watch, which was no longer there. I sighed, and let
my hand drop to the rain coat on the chair's arm. "When the hell
is Krell getting here?" I asked.
"Whenever the hell Krell wants to." I felt the two small
cylindrical needles through the fabric of the coat, safe in the
secret pouch I had sewn in months ago. I smiled, then sighed
again.
"Oh," I said.
I had slipped my hand into the secret pocket, withdrawn one of
the needles and transferred it to my front jeans pocket when
Krell came in. I put both hands into my pockets and attempted a
look of disgusted indifference as he entered and closed the door
behind him.
"Good afternoon, Mute."
"Yeah."
"Cheer up, Mute," Giovanna said. "You and Mr. Krell are friends,
remember?"
"Bullshit," I said.
Krell gave me a benevolent look of disappointment. "But Mute, I
thought we'd put aside our grievances."
"Yeah, my ass. Look, I'll do your runs, however many you think I
owe you. Whatever. But the only reason I'm here is 'cause you're
threatening me with Mae. So let me see her now, make sure she's
okay. Then business."
"Of course, Mute. We needn't be animals." And at that moment, I
felt it, raw and intense, like a poisonous lump in my stomach, a
rancid dart snaking through me until I could almost bite down on
it. The hatred I felt for him, with his smug narcissism and
self-complacency. The way he looked down at everyone like he
could shape their lives to his satisfaction with his omnipotent
hands.
I watched, detached, as Giovanna handed him her phone, and he
dialed.
"I thought I was going to see her," I said, struggling to keep
my voice uninflected.
Krell only smiled in my general direction, and turned his back.
I waited, and he spoke a few soft words into the phone. Giovanna
looked out the window and ran her thumb across her fingernails.
I heard Krell say "Put her on," and then he turned around to me,
smiled again, and handed me the phone. I took it, my arm
strained and full of the poisonous hatred. I smiled dully back
at him, and it felt like fire.
"Mae?" I said into the small black receiver. There was silence
for an eternal moment, a void of electric blackness from the
phone... and then I heard her, soft and timid.
"Mute? Is that you?"
I had difficulty finding my voice, insignificant and sore at the
back of my throat. "Yes. God, are you okay? What are -- "
And then she was crying. A surreal static weeping, muffled and
painful.
"Mae, are you okay? What's the matter? What are they doing -- "
Then the phone was gone, somewhere in Giovanna's hand, and she
was walking back to her chair, one furtive eye still on me. And
there was Krell, smiling down.
And Mae was gone.
"What the fuck are you doing to her?" I heard my voice, but it
wasn't mine. I could hear my thoughts coming from my mouth, but
I made no conscious decision to speak aloud.
"We're doing nothing to her," Krell said without looking at me.
His tone hadn't changed the slightest. "She is perfectly safe
and perfectly well."
"How do I know that? You're going to let me see her right now."
Krell looked at me. "No, I'm sorry, Mute. We've got a deal. No
premature benefits."
I stared at him through burning eyes. "Bullshit! You let me see
her, or we don't have a deal."
"No." Krell's ice-blue eyes were now directly on me, his face
was stone, and his voice matched his eyes. "Miss Cole is our
property until you perform your responsibilities to me, which is
precedent, and..."
I didn't hear him. My ears had gelled over, my hatred thick and
putrid in my veins. I did not notice that my hands were in my
pockets, clenched in trembling fists, my left hand crushing the
hypodermics.
And then I did notice, and thoughtless conviction washed over me
as my thumb popped the cap off one needle and my hand grasped
it. Without hesitation or regard, I plunged the needle into my
thigh and emptied it.
The juice burned with equal passion, and it melded slowly with
my blood and anger.
Krell talked, calmly and coldly.
Memories of Mae, her frightened voice, her soft skin, her
warmth, her soft electric crying... they all reached me at once,
as if a side-effect of the drug that now coursed through my
blood stream.
Five seconds passed.
Having the juice running through me is, put simply, a weird
experience.
It's a common street drug, but a controlled one, so you don't
have to worry about purity. They call it bloom sometimes, or
rapture, or just junk. It's an opiate, your regular domestic
upper. Makes the kids fast, reckless, excited. For me it's
different, because of the operation.
Like splicing a nerve. Like crossing the wire. The juice
heightens my senses. My nerves burn, my eyes crackle, and I can
feel every hair on my body. Then a brief pathos settles over me
in an icy spinal wave, and I'm in the domain. I don't usually
call it the domain, but I don't know what the hell you
_would_ call it.
I feel things I'm not supposed to, like the way my eyelids brush
the fluid from my eyes when I blink, the brush of taste buds
against the roof of my mouth, and the blood rushing through my
veins, and my sweat glands expanding and contracting.
Everything slows down. Technically, of course, I'm speeding up.
I'm twice as fast, my reflexes kick in three times sooner. But
to me, all of that is bullshit, 'cause the world, it just slows
down.
That day, in Krell's posh, frigid apartment, the anger left me.
It mutated and mixed with the juice, I guess, but it just
stopped mattering. And so did Mae, and so did Krell, and so did
everything around me. It was like a switch; once that derm
emptied into my thigh, I was on cruise-control.
I know I jumped up and grabbed Krell around the neck before his
expression could even change, though I don't remember actually
making the effort. I watched vapidly as my hands closed and my
fingers clamped down on his perfect Bermuda-tanned skin. My
thumbs dug into his esophagus and crushed his trachea after what
seemed like eternity. Blood welled over my fingers, and I didn't
bother to look into his dead icescape eyes before letting him
drop to the floor.
I turned and felt the air circulating through the room, cool and
sterilized as it caressed my skin and the hair at the back of my
neck. Giovanna was just getting up, an incredulous yet coyly
professional grimace crawling across her lips.
Before she had moved another inch, I had her pinned on the
floor, her sleek black revolver chill against my palm, the
hammer cocked, and the barrel lightly placed against her perfect
pale forehead.
"Where is Mae?" I heard the words with my ears, but I also felt
my lips form them and the air pass from my lungs into my mouth
and out into the open where it mingled with Giovanna's heavy
breath and the apartment's neutral undulating current.
Her lips began to move, but it was too slow for me. "I don't
want to hurt you, you're kind of cute. Tell me where she is
now!"
"The phone, my front pocket, has a last-call function and a
display. I don't know where she is." Her lips trembled only
slightly, and her eyes remained dry, her face stolid. Pro.
And then the phone was in my left hand, and I was hovering two
feet over her, the gun pointed at her neck. She never even
shivered.
I tapped the green button on the pad that read LAST, and the
small green display lit up with seven numbers, followed by CALL
and a question mark.
I didn't dial it, didn't bother phoning the operator or
information. I knew the number. It was mine.
I was in front of my old building before I knew how I had gotten
there. I looked behind me and saw the limo I had arrived in, and
I knew if I were to open its door I would see the driver's blood
on the seat, but I didn't remember it. I shouldn't get lapses
like that when I'm on the juice.
I turned back to the building and that feeling, stinging and
cellular went through me and through the drug, right to where it
hurt. I'd been here eight years of my life and it doesn't go
away, the gestalt of emotions and memories tying my life wholly
to this spot. Nothing more than a ten-story tenement with tiny
rooms for rent, crawling with bugs and peeling plaster.
And then it happened again. I was in front of the door to my old
apartment, staring dully at the gilt-crusted 303, not recalling
how I came to be there. Lapse.
And then again, but much shorter. The door was collapsed inside
the room and I was walking in. And for an ephemeral moment I
didn't know or care why I was there. Nothing mattered.
I was back home.
There were two of them with mae. I didn't look at their faces as
they turned around slowly, so slowly. I just waited for the
juice to take control of the situation.
A thought occurred to me as I watched them leap to their feet,
so slow they seemed to defy gravity: I should have taken another
hit, just for good measure. And I should have, because one
already had a gun in his hand and the other was reaching.
I went for the quick one, and I had little trouble shoving his
gun into his face. I don't like to kill but the juice told me to
get a move on because Thing 2 behind me would be a pretty good
shot at two feet.
I was and turning around just as the gun in my hand erupted and
the body beneath me shuddered violently, once. And what felt
like minutes later the second gun was fired. I thought for a
moment there was a lapse, since I couldn't remember pulling the
trigger, but then I felt the bullet rip through my left
shoulder.
The drug made every nerve sear, and I could feel every shattered
cell in the bone. I screamed, pure reflex. But so was jumping to
my feet and breaking my attacker's neck with my right hand. He
fell, and it seemed that the apartment had never been so quiet.
The juice stopped dead, and all adrenaline drained away into an
amorphous vacuum in my stomach, surrounded by a raw nausea.
I looked at Mae. Her face was cool and dry, with only the finest
trace of shock. A single black strand of hair touched her pale
cheek.
I looked down and watched as blood from my shoulder dripped down
to the filthy floor where it mingled with dust and the other
men's blood.
I coughed once, looked at Mae.
"Mute," she said, her voice slow and smooth. Then the pain in my
shoulder receded and the world turned black.
Electric light, intense and immaculate. White tiles. I was sure
for a moment that it was all a dream, a sick unconscious joke. I
was back in the white cubicle, Giovanna just out of sight,
filing her nails or polishing her gun. Krell was on his way,
landing in his gray-carpeted luxury jet, coming to talk to me
about the run.
But he was not.
Mae bent over me, her face blank for a long moment. She smiled
sadly, and one perfect tear slid down each pale cheek.
"Mute, you're okay," she whispered, not a question.
"My arm..."
"In a cast. We're at Royal Mercy. The doctors said you'll be
fine... I hardly even saw you come in," she said, and then her
bottom lip quivered.
"You're okay? They... didn't hurt you?"
"No, dammit." She stood up, walked out of my field of view. I
struggled, pushing with my good arm and trying to keep my
balance, trying to sit up. When I did, my back crashed against
the headboard. No strength left in me.
Mae was looking out the window.
I waited. Minutes, hours.
She looked at me. More tears, new ones probably, glistening
against her cheeks. "You don't understand, do you? You can't
just keep doing this to me..."
I wanted to ask what I was doing, but maybe I knew. "What's the
matter?" I asked, finally.
"You don't get it. Nothing ever works..." And I just stared at
her, wanting things to be all right. "There's somebody else,"
she said.
"I know," I said. But I don't think I did.
I like the rain. It's strange, but I find some sort of comfort
in it. I'm getting wet, but I don't much care. Above me to the
left, the rain is hitting a blue neon sign. Making it crackle
and hiss. And that too, for no reason, is comforting.
I walk. The street is crowded, the sun below the gray buildings.
The night life is starting to kick in, people coming out to play
in their bars, clubs, joints. Business crowd. I wonder about
work. About runs. About getting some money, maybe a warm bed to
sleep in.
Across the street, darting into a doorway, I spot Giovanna. Not
in her high-gloss costume. One of the crowd. I almost wave, but
she's gone. Or maybe she was just the rain. Wet hair is hanging
in my eyes.
I need a haircut, or maybe a hat.
Decisions.
Craig Boyko (chlorine@microcity.com)
--------------------------------------
Craig Boyko lives in Canada, and spends most of his time in his
room, which is very dark and doesn't smell at all. Besides being
a necessary biological function, sleeping is his hobby. He is a
senior in high school, and dreams of someone who will fill the
myriad of vacancies that make up his life. That, and fudge.
This is the Optative of Unfulfillable Wish by Kyle Cassidy
==============================================================
...................................................................
"In present and past unreal conditions the prostasis implies
that the supposition cannot or could not be realized because
contrary to a known fact." -- Smythe's Greek Grammar 2303
...................................................................
After graduation I left my apartment and moved across the river
into a house. It is a big, fat house on the hard edge of the
city -- edge enough that the houses here have backyards and hard
enough that they're surrounded by razor wire.
"Welcome to the 'hood," my new landlord had said, the ink not
even dry on the lease. I found him looking at me, grinning with
the disquieting implication that he knew more than he was
letting on. The move itself was five leisurely trips in a
borrowed green pickup truck whose tired radio dribbled
country-and-western music from one melancholy speaker and whose
fan buzzed ceaselessly like a steel bee in a trash can. I had,
at the time, possessed reservations about moving to the city,
but I signed the lease with reckless glee and the witless
assumption that Dr. Pangloss was right and everything was for
the best.
Here everything seems vague, like a picture in a museum you
looked at with no particular interest before finding out that
the artist shot himself in the eye with a ten-gauge shotgun
because he was jilted by the queen of Turkmenistan, and now that
you're interested, you can recall only general shapes. The faces
come and go. This house is a port town, inhabited by nomads who
have other destinations in mind. We are mobbed by transient
sailors who leave Chinese food in the fridge and then depart for
exotic and faraway lands, leaving others as Keepers of the Slime
Molds.
Not all of the faces here are so ethereal -- some have remained
constant. It is, as often as not, friends and relations who
traipse through the house like hobos. None have remained so
stolid as Sir Fickwickwood, the affectionate gray tabby of
unsubstantiated ownership who last night amazed us all by
surviving a three-story fall into the backyard after making a
heroic leap from a nearby rooftop into the window of
David-the-Archeologist -- thwarted by a pane of glass.
Aside from David-the-Archeologist, there is
David-Who-Works-For-the-Discovery-Channel, where he produces
educational films about insects. His room on the third floor is
stuffed with raw videotape footage, most of it silent and much
of it dull, which he watches endlessly: scribbling down counter
numbers and sending out for rough cuts, slowly distilling
hundreds of hours of film, thousands of hours of lives, into 30
minutes that will keep a fourth grader interested. He, like
Gregor Samsa, is slowly turning into a bug.
There is also Marty-the-Other-Archeologist (most places can
barely afford one archeologist; it is a flagrant and vulgar
display of wealth for us to support two): Martine, who was born
in France to wealthy parents and came here to study dilettantism
where it is best practiced. At dinner he informs us that ancient
Greeks measured dry goods and food "by the assload." We think
this is perilously funny and can't stop snickering all evening.
Marty works for a company that produces a popular series of
books instructing readers on how to lie convincingly about their
occupations, ostensibly for the purpose of picking up women. The
volume he is currently writing teaches the layman how to carry
on a conversation as though he were a foreign consul. The guide
gives lists of answers to questions frequently posed to
diplomats by attractive young coeds at parties, names of exotic
countries that one may claim to have been stationed in, the
proper attire, a list of buzzwords that no one understands, and
a smattering of phrases in ludicrous languages. I ask him if he
wants to write books for the rest of his life. He tells me an
idea for an archeology book. It would claim that the Pharaohs
were from outer space; that the Greeks had conquered time and
death, invented the toaster, and discovered electricity; that
crop circles were telegraphs to God fashioned by
superintelligent boll weevils left here as the overlords of
humanity; and a thousand other wild things. "I would be hated by
my colleagues," he says, apparently in a trance, "but my book
would sell millions." And in the end, what is so wrong about
misleading a few million rubes? I realize that he has thought
long and hard about this.
Every afternoon after waking, I make the adventuresome trek into
the backyard, where I sit beneath the rosebush and trudge
through Moby Dick. I plow like a bullock toting its load, I plod
from line to line, furrow to furrow, digging channels in my mind
and filling them with Transcendentalist droppings. This is
perhaps the twentieth time I have attempted to read Moby Dick,
and I am sworn to finish it this time. I have vowed to see
Ahab's beckoning arm as the white whale sounds for the last
time, the Pequod sinking from sight and Ishmael bobbing along
like Job's last servant, clinging to Queequeg's coffin. And what
after this? Perhaps a week of science fiction novels to clear my
brain.
Today the neighborhood children are out back, jumping over a
jagged razor-wire fence into the sanctity of an old woman's
garden, quarantined from all but the youngest and most bored by
these gleaming, lacerating steel ribbons. I divide my time
evenly between the thickness of whale blubber and looking up at
a long string of kids who are laughing and leaping over the
blades as though they are playing on a water slide. A ball lands
in my yard. Gleeful at the opportunity for legitimized fence
scaling, the neighborhood queues up. "Wait," I say, lifting the
ball, "I'll throw it back." Long faces -- no opportunity to test
young limbs against metal and thorns. This urban
army-in-training might defeat the wire, but the rosebush would
claim victims.
Inside, my abstract housemates are engaged in a long variety of
Sysiphian tasks: doing laundry, guarding the television (which
must be kept on the Discovery Channel at all costs), cooking
packages of frozen food, typing... one is learning Chinese,
another laboring over Sanskrit... these are all very dedicated
if ambiguous people, toiling over self-imposed afflictions of
arduous endeavor with no tangible reward. The archeologists
sgrpeak ancient Greek to one another over dinner -- a more
amazing feat than one would imagine, as ancient Greek is
apparently not a language that lends itself to conversation: the
grammar is so astoundingly complex that it takes a full five
minutes of brain-bursting concentration to properly conjugate
"Please pass the butter." After seven or eight sentences
punctuated by long silent minutes of sweating frustration and
hair pulling, the archeologists crawl away from the table like
whipped dogs and into the relative safety of the living room,
where a new episode of Beavis and Butt-head is on television.
We are all graduated, degreed in something equivocal and useless
and pursuing loftier goals for lack of anything better to do. We
are comfortable in academia and we also realize that once we
leave this succoring bosom, we are largely qualified to perform
no task for which money can be gotten. For this reason, our
diplomas ceremoniously line the bathroom wall. Marty's B.A. from
Rice University is conspicuous for the glob of pizza grease
smack in the middle, which I dropped on it one drunken evening.
There is no idealism here in our house of learned fools -- no
lofty politics guide our conversations, which are just as empty,
though more extravagant, as those we enjoyed when we were
undergraduates.
Claudia walks through the house, trying on a shapeless black
beret in a number of arrangements that make her look, in turn,
like: a New York debutante; Lorenzo de' Medici; an acorn. None
of these please her. The original goal, I am now told, was to
appear "French." Claudia and I have become abstractly involved
and spend much of our time milling about in thrift stores and
trying on one another's clothes. Sometimes Claudia says that I
seem distant, but it is only because I am thinking. I have told
her that. Claudia herself spends much of the day dancing in
rings to music that only she can hear.
I have devised elaborate methods of keeping my food hidden from
transient tenants, all of whom are voracious eaters and
prodigious book-borrowers. Over the past months a veritable
hoard of houseguests has been steadily picking at my stores of
rice and beans and has left me with only skeletal remains of a
once-noble collection of the works of Mark Twain, complete in 31
volumes. They are all looking for something, moving like turtles
with all their worldly possessions upon their backs but lacking
that animal's grace and packing sensibility. They bring with
them the most amazing assortment of broken and useless devices:
telephones that do not dial, umbrellas made of wire and rags,
televisions whose pictures continually jerk to the right in a
sort of drunken vision -- but above all, dishes. Our kitchen
resembles the crockery department at Woolworth's after a minor
earthquake. We possess place settings enough to invite the whole
of Congress to lunch. Perhaps four of these plates match one
another. Most of them spend their time lying in the sink, coated
with hardened spaghetti sauce and miscellaneous bits of crusted
things. Teapots are best filled in the bathtub, where the
spigot, though white with dried soap, is largely unencumbered.
We also have silverware in great abundance. If smelted down, all
these utensils would provide ample raw material to fashion a
cannon and enough ammunition to sink a sizeble navy.
There is someone living in the basement. I've seen him only
once. In the kitchen he scurried past me and down the stairs,
muttering, 'scuse me." I can't even see people anymore;
they have evaporated from my head. But this one I can hear
playing video games with the rapt attention of a Buddhist monk.
Zaps and bangs and squeals can be heard through the floorboards
for twelve or sixteen hours a day. One afternoon I hear him
leave, and I sneak into his room, feeling the constricted glee
of one committing a crime. It is like looking through a dead
person's belongings. Nameless people in creased photographs
lying under old newspapers and cigarette butts. A mammoth
television with a Sega Genesis plugged into it. A bleeding
beanbag chair, a dirty mattress, and a broken copy of Atlas
Shrugged. Indecipherable albums by disco musicians. I back
away in revulsion.
There are sirens all day long here. It is as though the city is
burning down forever, one house at a time. The homeless people
are not affected by the fires -- the whole city could burn to
ashes and they wouldn't lose a thing. If tomorrow Philadelphia
were expunged like another Gomorrah they would be the luckiest
people alive. Amidst the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the
loss of fortunes and houses hard won, the vagabond would suffer
only his daily dose of melancholy. A reprieve from the gods --
when you've nothing to lose, you've nothing to lose. Rain
bothers only those who live above the water.
Claudia: baiting Sir Fickwickwood with the anchovial remnant of
a pizza. The cat is not interested and remains perched on a
wall, awaiting the Second Coming. "We're adults," she says. "We
can let the cat climb up on the table, and we can let him eat
off of our plates."
"I never felt like an adult," I tell her, "until I bought my
first bar of soap. In the Acme, after I had first moved out,
when I realized that I didn't have to get Dove anymore because
**I** was paying for it. It was going to be my bar of soap,
and I could get any bar of soap that I wanted. I could get Lava,
or Irish Spring, I could get Ivory because it floated in the
tub. I'd always wanted a bar of Ivory soap because it floated in
the tub. It seems so practical."
In this pocket world that exists within the razor wire we have a
collective definition of reality: house rules -- codes of
conduct upheld and violated by all alike. Whose turn is it to
buy detergent? Who takes out the garbage? Don't leave the front
door unlocked. Don't park in front of the garage....
All in all, we are good people -- in that belief I am secure. We
are well intentioned, motivated and aimless. We have picked
directions and blindly pursued them because we cannot see
further than what's on TV this afternoon. "Our whole generation
has been brainwashed by MTV!" I shout up the stairs after Marty.
"That's not true!" he calls back, "heh-heh heh heh heh." We are
all cyberpunks, digirati. We are capable of carrying on
meaningless conversations at the speed of light and we can't go
an hour without reading our e-mail.
Claudia hands me a lime freeze frosty. The green ones are the
best and we both know this.
We are sitting in the backyard. As I tilt my head back and pull
on the plastic, a child's balloon hurtles by overhead, far above
the razor wire, a spaceship of sadness and desolation. "Look," I
say to Claudia, pointing, "aliens."
"I can hear a kid crying," she says.
I call constance, who lives three blocks away. "Come on over,"
she says, and I do. At one time Constance was my best friend, my
confidante, my accomplice. It's been a long time since that hazy
and distantly remembered summer when we spent almost every day
together, mostly eating and planning with sumptuous complexity
the location, consistency, and duration of our next meal. Seven
dodecahedrons and one lone cube of hot summer days rolled over
us, banging their hard and lumpy sides down into our world,
clump, clump, clump. In pieces they were completed, their
facets not too terribly distinct from each another -- yet
together they formed a perfect shape.
There were dots of adventure, such as the August when I cut her
lawn for the first time. It had grown to a height of perhaps
four feet, tough and sinewy weeds that the lawn mower would not
even begin to consider devouring. So, dressed in blue denim
cutoff shorts that I still own, carrying a scythe we found in
the shed, I spent five absorbed hours playing either Willa
Cather or Death, garnering a set of monumental blisters, hewing
down cities of straw. Dynasties of entomology crashing before
me, I the tyrant, I the destroyer: Your worlds are dust. Where
was David-Who-Works-For-the-Discovery-Channel that day when I
made homeless a thousand crickets and their myriad children?
Constance is somehow better than when I last saw her. Her hair
has acquired some definition if not purpose. Her clothes have
achieved a mature sense of style. She is sitting on her porch
playing guitar, waiting. I have never been to this house of hers
before, and it is late at night.
"Guess what," she says when I climb the porch stairs. She smiles
and I say the first thing that anybody thinks when an old friend
says "guess what" to you like that.
"You're pregnant."
"I'm pregnant," she says, giggling.
"Is this a Good Thing?"
"This is a Good Thing."
"What are you going to do?"
"The Get-Married, Buy-a-House Thing. The Whole Thing."
"Big wedding and lace?"
"The whole thing. The big thing, and I want you to be there. I
want you to take pictures at my wedding."
"Congratulations." I hug her and it is good to see her again,
but still there is something missing. We are no longer the crazy
kids we once were, though as we go inside I am gratified to see
that she still has the lamp that I made for her out a
dressmakers' dummy. It is wearing a new shade, green and sloping
with tassels hanging from clamshell fluting, and a denim jacket.
Thankfully this is touting a collection of buttons printed with
left-wing slogans. I am glad to see everything that remains.
Constance makes popcorn. We eat it and wipe our fingers on cloth
napkins. I tell her about Claudia.
"Did I meet her?"
"Yes, I think so, maybe that time -- but we weren't, she and I,
not then..."
"Yes, maybe."
There is something we had before that we no longer possess.
Perhaps it is passion, perhaps it is recklessness, or perhaps it
is that now we are aware of our boredom. In 21 years,
Constance's child will lie in the grass with a great friend and
mull over what can be the most important thing in the world only
when you are still 20 years old: What shall we do tomorrow? And
the next day, and the next? And the next 20 years? But today,
Constance and I sit at her dining-room table and we talk about
the things of no importance that are now our lives and although
we talk and smile, we are both only half there, the other half
is buried away in some lost summer. And in the backs of our
heads, a dull, relentless, quiet voice asks us: What is it all
for? We talk and we grasp for the things that are left in the
dark hole that was once our youth. We try to remember what it
was like, and pretend that this is better.
And in the end, some second of our life will be our last. And in
that span of time, the stoic face of Death will look down at us
and ask: What have you done?
Kyle Cassidy (cassidy@rowan.edu)
----------------------------------
Kyle Cassidy lives in Philadelphia with his lovely wife Linda
and her 28-pound cat Thunderbelly. He has been a frequent
contributor to InterText and can be found on the Web at
. He also has a great
collection of fountain pens.
The Greatest Vampire by Gary Cadwallader
============================================
...................................................................
Submitted for your approval: a tale of one relationship dying
while several others, bonded in blood, are being born.
...................................................................
"Great vampires have always been women," my wife said. She
nudged me in the darkness of the auditorium as Luchesa, Queen of
Witches, Greatest of Vampires strode toward the lectern.
"What about Dracula?"
"The real Dracula was mortal," Carla whispered. "But look at
her!" Carla's breath was hot in my ear. "She's magnificent."
And so she was, this Luchesa, who walked like a man but whose
pale body made me ache. She stood tall and was sensuously thin,
white as an albino. She captured her audience with quick
movements and sparkling eyes. Her presence was ethereal.
Her clothes were businesslike. A gray felt suit and peach
blouse. Small gray pumps emphasized shapely legs. Perhaps we
were to imagine her working in a law firm downtown, but I kept
sensing the clothes were a mask.
"Great women have always been vampires," I whispered to Carla,
in a poor attempt at humor.
Carla dug her nails into my palm and looked at me sideways. She
wanted to chew me out, but Luchesa saved me by starting her
presentation.
Luchesa's eyes swept the crowd and locked too long with my own.
I looked away dizzily and saw blood welling up from the floor.
It splashed across my shoes and sopped into my socks. It was
warm against my ankles.
A hallucination! I shook my head. Luchesa still looked at me.
The air was heavy with steam and the smell of human entrails.
"That's a horrible thing to say!" Carla whispered.
"What?" Less than a second had passed and Carla had just
answered me. Luchesa's eyes moved on. I mumbled an apology and
sank into the chair. Was I in the presence of the real thing?
I'd taken it for granted Luchesa was a fake... who wouldn't,
besides Carla?
But my head hurt. Single words from Luchesa's speech came to me
as images in a fog. Freedom: a wolf lunging through the gray
woods, tracks like flower petals in the snow. Ritual: a den of
serpents tangling in sexual frenzy. Blood: a vision of a
Vietnamese child stepping on a popper. A small leg shoots up in
the air, turning end over end and spattering me with a fine red
mist, throwing blood across my lips and face.
I looked at Carla. Tiny droplets of blood, like beads of sweat,
were in her hair. I reeled in the chair, which seemed miles
wide. I bounced off the back and was propelled to the floor.
I'd never been a believer. Not like Carla. I could deny this a
thousand ways. I got food poisoning at Don Choo-Choo's. Some bad
acid from 1973 was coming back to haunt me. I was having a
stroke.
But all excuses fled when I looked at Luchesa. If she wasn't a
full-fledged witch -- or vampire -- then my brother Billy didn't
burn up in a Huey helicopter and I didn't work as a computer
programmer. Nothing was real. My mother was Einstein and
nobody's old man ever drank too much. This woman was bad news.
Carla looked enraptured. She couldn't have missed the fact that
I was hunkered on the floor, but she was hanging on Luchesa's
every word, while a pounding headache kept me from calling out
to her.
Carla had always been a believer. She still thought the Beatles
were getting back together. I tried to tell her one of them was
dead, but that didn't matter. "It won't be on this plane," she
said. We were the couple about whom people said "opposites
attract." People had been saying that for twenty years and it
was still true today. All I wanted was another twenty years with
my crazy wife.
Without Carla, I'm a shark. No feelings, no motivations beyond
the primal, nothing. I need her spiritualism and astrology. I
need her delving into the unknown to fill the emptiness in my
soul. I'm not stupid, I know what people say: "Roger's all
control, and Carla's -- Carla's a flake." We were the perfect
yin and yang of couples. What one lacked, the other had in
abundance. Carla gave me control. Without her I was the vampire.
So there was something familiar in Luchesa, something warlike in
her thin body. She looked like starving children I'd seen in
Vietnam, like fresh corpses beside the road. She had my
attention like nothing had since a cobra had crawled across my
chest while I lay half asleep in the jungle.
I knew her hallucinations, too. In college, the days were long
and drugs were easy to find. After that was the war, and don't
think we didn't try to fill our emptiness with whatever we could
find.
Was Luchesa making some promise of eternal youth? That would
tempt my Carla. Her disappointment with her own body usually
came as a put-down of mine. I took it quietly; I had a paunch
but didn't mind aging. Carla not only hated it -- she feared it.
"I'm sick," I mumbled and crawled to the aisle across the
unmoving feet of strangers. Carla didn't notice. I saw rows and
rows of glassy, unblinking eyes staring at Luchesa. No one
watched me as I hurried to the door, not daring to look back.
The lights and fresh air of the lobby gave me the strength to
make it to the toilet. I threw up. The white bowl was cool
against my hands. The tiled floor sparkled with the
extraordinary vision given to those with fever. My retching
slowed, then stopped, and my eyesight returned to normal. I
slicked the sweat from my forehead and rose with increasing
strength. That had been a tough attack of... of what?
In the hard fluorescent glare of the men's room, my vampire
theory didn't hold up. Just nonsense. I must have been out of my
mind.
"You okay, buddy?" A hand touched my shoulder. A well-fed,
bearded man with a nose like a red cauliflower was looking at
me. "Your wife sent me in to get you. You okay?"
"Yeah, sure." I patted his sleeve and walked to the door. I felt
his jaundiced eyes following me. "Really," I said. "Just
something I ate."
He grunted. That was something he could understand. His hand
found its way to his ample belly and stroked it absently.
I walked out into a darkened lobby that smelled of cigarette
smoke and orange soda. That didn't seem right at all. I saw the
glow of Carla's white dress among the shadows before I saw her
face.
"Where the hell you been?" she started in on me. "The lecture's
been over for forty-five minutes, and I wanted to go talk with
Luchesa. You've ruined -- "
"Wait -- what do you mean the lecture's over? She just started
five minutes ago."
"You're nuts. Did you fall asleep in there? I swear, if you've
been drinking..."
"No, of course not. I haven't had **time** to get a drink!"
"You've had almost four hours. Don't play stupid! Luchesa talked
for three hours with a break in the middle. And I been waiting
out here for God knows how long! I finally sent the manager in
to check and out you come like nothing happened? Well, listen
mister, I'm pissed!"
"Baby, I was sick." Could I have fallen asleep?
Carla looked skeptical. "You're never sick."
"I know. And I'm freaked out, okay? I don't know what's
happening, but I blacked out or something."
She put her arm around me. "Did you fall down?"
"No. Are you sure it's been that long? I know, of course you
are, sorry -- I did throw up."
"Maybe you passed out."
"No, I'm sure. I threw up, then I came right out. I just lost
four hours somewhere."
"That's crazy."
Carla, the ditz, was calling me crazy. "Is this some kind of
role reversal?" I asked.
She laughed. "Let's get home to bed. I'll drive."
That night we had the greatest sex of our twenty years
together... and then I saw Luchesa outside our second-story
window.
She floated as in a dream and my vision was blurred. It could
have been a dream. Except for the sound. I don't hear sounds in
my dreams.
Luchesa was beside Carla and they were caressing. Luchesa stared
at me with amber, metallic eyes. She bared her fangs and sank
them into Carla's soft neck. I tried to scream a warning but
found myself floundering under waves of shock. Luchesa was
overloading my nervous system with swells of sensation.
Sound and feeling and imbalance struck me, forcing me out of the
bed and onto my knees. I struggled to raise my head and it was
like putting my face into a campfire. The heat seemed to peel my
skin away. And the smell brought a picture to my mind. It was a
picture of small fingers, chopped and placed neatly in a bowl of
vinegar, their bloody nails all pointing at me accusingly.
I looked at Carla and she was sinking into herself. The life was
draining out of her. Her beautiful skin, which had been so hot
and soft moments ago, looked like dried tapioca on concrete.
And Luchesa threw back her head and roared. She was a lion and I
was less worthy than carrion. She slit her own throat with a
sharp thumbnail and pressed Carla's lips to it. And Carla began
to suck.
That sound petrified me. That sucking. That awful adult suckling
that only the terribly hungry can make. And I wet myself with
tears and urine, and I trembled with fever until, mercifully,
Luchesa let me pass from her hypnotism into unconsciousness.
"Darling," my Carla said, "what are you doing on the floor?"
I unwound like an ancient cat, sore and stretching. My head was
bruised, my neck was stiff. I looked at her with bleary vision.
"What happened?"
"You were on the floor."
"No, I mean last night. What happened last night?"
"I slept like a log."
I stood up and nearly fell across the bed. "I had the strangest
dream... about Luchesa." I pulled Carla's robe away from her
neck. No marks.
"Roger, what are you doing, silly?"
"Never mind," I said. "It was just a dream... I guess. But it
was so real."
"And that's how you ended up on the floor?"
"Forget it. Let's get some breakfast."
On weekends, we did a few chores around the house and then went
to a movie. But Carla suggested we drive to St. Louis, maybe
take in the zoo, go to a riverboat. It sounded good to me and I
wanted to get out of the house.
So we drove for five hours and had lunch along the way. It was a
nice, calm trip. I enjoyed the scenery, the river, everything.
That is, until we got there and Carla asked me to buy a
newspaper.
Somehow, she knew exactly what page to turn to. She found the ad
for "Luchesa, Queen of Witches, Greatest of Vampires" on page
twenty-four.
"This is where I want to go," she said.
There was a subtlety about her voice that I found odd. I looked
at her and knew why we'd come to St. Louis. It was the next stop
on the vampire train.
"We can't," I began. "It's impossible," I stammered.
I sputtered like a dying '73 Bel Air. I searched for reasons we
couldn't go. There had to be one that didn't involve the very
things I didn't want to talk about, the supernatural events in
our bedroom. Finally, I just yelled. "I won't have it!"
She looked at me like I was a dog. She challenged me with her
eyes to give her the real reason. But she stayed absolutely
silent and left the next move to me.
"And that's that!"
She slapped me hard across the face. My teeth felt like they
would fall out. And I bit my lip.
"What the hell you do that for?"
She hit me again.
I doubled up my fist and she looked me straight in the eye. I'd
never hit her in twenty years. I wanted to then, but I didn't. I
feared that once I started.... No, no, I couldn't hit her.
"You're so full of shit you squeak," I said, and turned away.
We didn't talk much that afternoon. We found a motel room. We
ate dinner. I watched the clock, waiting for eight, when the
show would start. What was it going to be like this time?
I never found out. Carla sneaked out while I was in the
bathroom. I heard the car starting and knew she'd left me to
wait in the motel.
I spent the next several hours in a state of agitated denial.
Nothing's wrong, I thought, pacing the floor. It didn't really
happen. I passed out, then I had a bad dream. That's all.
Carla's only into this vampire business because she's nuts.
Crazy Carla, the ditz. She even called herself that.
But as the hour grew later, I worked up to full panic. She's
leaving me. With that thought I saw a truth more frightening
than the supernatural. I'm not worried that she's in danger, or
even in love... I'm worried because I don't want to be alone.
I had to do something. I called for a rental car and headed for
the theater.
I don't know what I expected to find on that deserted street.
All the people had gone home, the show was over. Hot wind blew
off the river. The theater was locked up and I was out of places
to look. I began cruising, like a mother looking for her lost
kid. Driving up and down without hope of seeing a sign. But you
have to keep moving because you're so worried.
And I found a restaurant that looked right. Not for Carla maybe,
but it had Luchesa written all over it. A classy place, darkened
and smelling of red wine and redder meat.
They were there.
I think they wanted me to find them. They were in a booth close
to the front. I could see them from the window. I got out of the
car and pressed my face to the glass. None of the diners paid
any attention to me.
Only Luchesa saw me. She smiled. Her canine teeth were razor
sharp. She found Carla's hand and bit a huge, ragged hole in it
between the thumb and first finger. Blood ran down Carla's arm.
Luchesa looked up, lips and teeth bloody, then held Carla's hand
over her wine glass and slowly filled it with blood. I screamed.
I hammered on the glass. No one even looked up.
I scrambled for the door and lost sight of them for a moment. I
rushed in past a maitre d' who grabbed at my shirt. A table
spilled over. People began to scream.
A man cursed me and his wife laughed. I found the booth, but it
was empty. The glass of blood was gone. There were no blood
stains on the tablecloth. It was as if I had dreamed it all.
They threw me out into the street and I fell to my hands and
knees in the gutter. The concrete tore my pants. A rat ran
across my hand. I could smell the river sweating in the
distance. I saw a bum urinating against a trash bin. The wind
screamed in my ear, "She's gone."
I picked myself and limped to the car. Back at the motel, the
few things Carla had brought were gone. She'd left a note:
"Don't try to find me, Roger. I don't love you anymore." It was
on amber motel stationary with a picture of the St. Louis Arch.
I sat on the bed and stared into space for two hours.
Finally, I decided to go after her. I didn't care if she loved
me, that wasn't the point. What I cared about was whether she
was alive or not. Was she some kind of walking dead now?
I went back to the theater and broke in through a side door. I
turned furniture over and tore up the lobby until I found what I
wanted, a pamphlet showing Luchesa's next stop. Indianapolis.
She was headed straight east on I-70. I was going to catch her.
It was past two in the morning by the time I crossed into
Indiana, and I was wondering some pretty strange stuff. Like,
was it legal to kill a vampire? Did they have rights under the
Constitution? Should I even go after Carla? Maybe being a
vampire was her choice and I shouldn't interfere.
I was all mixed up, but I kept driving. One thing was clear to
me: I didn't need a wooden stake to kill Luchesa. She wouldn't
have bothered with all those hypnotic fireworks unless she was
afraid of me. No, a gun would do, or a heavy pipe... maybe I
could even strangle her, as long as I didn't let her get to my
mind.
The stars were painfully bright, and I was alone on the road. A
farmer's light shone off to the left a mile or so ahead. My
headlights outlined corn growing right up to the shoulder. I saw
more stars than I'd seen in years. Under other circumstances, it
would have been a wonderful night.
I rounded a corner at eighty and saw Carla standing in the road.
She had on a white full-length nightgown and her skin was yellow
in my lights.
I pulled the car hard to the left and jammed on the brakes. The
car jumped into the air and flipped over. The car turned over
once -- twice -- and landed upright, facing backwards in the
median.
Carla was gone.
The car wouldn't start and I had a headache that wouldn't quit,
but I seemed unhurt. The doors were jammed shut, but I pulled
myself out through the window even with the broken glass
everywhere.
"There was no reason for that!" I yelled. Damn women had ruined
a perfectly good car. "I'll wring your chicken necks!" And I
waved a fist at the sky.
I thought I heard giggling in the cornfield. It scared the hell
out of me. Ain't going in there, I thought. I'll walk until I
come to a house. Let 'em fight on my terms. And I set off for
the lights I'd seen just down the road.
I came down the farmhouse road into the circle of light and saw
a man on the porch with a shotgun. He was about fifty and
balding. White hair rimmed the sides of his head. He had on red
plastic glasses, an orange checkered bathrobe, and those brown
slippers men used to wear in the fifties. Skinny white ankles
showed under his pink pajamas.
"That your car back a ways," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Those vampires do it?"
I stopped. The shotgun -- a Mossberg, Marine issue -- was
pointed at my chest. This old boy had been in a war, too. One of
his legs was plastic and metal; the foot inside the slipper was
flesh-colored, but smooth as glass.
"They took my wife," I said.
He grunted and hobbled down from the porch. "She's gone, mister.
Come with me." He walked away from the house expecting me to
follow.
I thought he was going to kill me. I thought I didn't care. It
might be a good thing.
He led me to a foul-smelling barn and slid back a heavy door.
The door was big enough to drive a tractor through and I heard
animal noises inside. He flipped a switch and blazing light
blinded me for a moment. This is it, I thought.
"They done this," he said. "There was two. Reckon your wife was
one." He pointed into a horse stall, expecting me to turn my
back on him and have a look.
My heart thumped as I looked inside.
"Jesus!" I screamed, and began to throw up.
We were having coffee in his kitchen when he asked me to do it.
I didn't want to, but it seemed like I owed him. My wife was
part of this, after all.
"Take the gun," he said. "Make it quick if you can."
So I went into that barn that smelled like cats had been using
it for an outhouse, turned out the light, and waited for my
night vision to return. And I stalked his poor nine-year-old
granddaughter like some gook in the bush. Only she couldn't go
anywhere, because he had her chained in the horse stall.
She was still making that awful sound, the same sound I'd heard
the night Luchesa had visited our bedroom. And the last of three
white lambs was dying in her arms as she tore at its neck and
spilled the blood down her throat. The other two mutilated
corpses lay at her bare feet. The chain, bloodied and strained
to its limit, was around her left foot. She had on white cotton
panties and a sleeveless t-shirt, stained red with lamb's blood.
And I murdered that poor little girl. I shot her through the
neck, blast after blast, until what was left of her head came
off. It looked like a slaughterhouse in there.
And I buried the body away from the head, like the old man told
me to, with the body behind the barn and the head across the
highway. I prayed over both mounds. I prayed God would forgive
me for killing a child. I prayed God would forgive Carla for
making the child into a vampire. And I prayed I'd find Luchesa
and kill her, because I knew she'd hurt the child just to slow
me down.
I went back to the old man's house. There was a note in the
kitchen along with a K-bar fighting knife and a greasy blue
Colt .45 automatic. There were three thousand dollars wrapped
up in the note.
"Roger,
"You did the right thing. You may not believe it in the morning,
but it was right. Do me one more favor... I can't face my son
and tell him how his daughter died, and it seems I can't do this
myself. The police will be after you when they find the bodies
and your car, so take the shotgun, the money and the rest and
kill those blood-suckers for me. Please. One Marine for another.
"Semper Fi."
I thought about what he wrote for a long time. And then I
silently went upstairs and found him asleep. I slit his throat
with the K-bar -- it seemed like a good way to die. By then it
was dawn and I took his truck and headed for Indianapolis.
I'm gonna find Carla, if the cops don't find me first. And I'll
kill her. Luchesa too. Then I'll do myself. I suppose they'll
say another vet went nuts.
Maybe I am. I killed a nine-year-old girl and an old man I
didn't even know. Now I'm after my wife. If that ain't nuts, I
don't know what is.
Gary Cadwallader (rmcheal@tyrell.net)
---------------------------------------
Gary Cadwallader lives in Blue Springs, Missouri. When not taking
one of his four children to football practice or cheerleading,
he works for a major hospital complex in Kansas City. He is
editor of the Internet 'zine Clique of the Tomb Beetle
.
Twenty-One by Wendy J. Cholbi
=================================
...................................................................
Most people play solitaire with cards. For others, it's not just
a game -- it's a state of mind.
...................................................................
It is my twenty-first birthday. It's also a Friday night. I can
do whatever the hell I want. Everything except paint.
Is there such a thing as artist's block? Writers get blocked,
and they're artists, sort of. Or is there some other reason the
paper stays blank, all the brushes in their holders, tubes of
paint unopened?
I have my back turned to my work table as I deal cards onto the
floor. I made that table myself, particle board on cinder
blocks, and it's just the right height for me to sit at and
paint. It's even and solid and square. I spent a long time
moving the cinder blocks under the wood to balance it and
compensate for the warping of the floorboards.
It's the right height to sit at and play solitaire, too, but
even though it's empty, I am playing on the floor. I feel too
guilty for not painting. The emptiness of the table would accuse
me.
I feel hungry. As I finish the game that I'm losing, I promise
myself that as soon as I win once, I'll eat. I deal myself
another game. Looks bad. No aces in sight and I can only do one
move at first, put the seven of clubs on the eight of diamonds.
I start to flip my way through the deck.
I am a master of solitaire. It is a constant in my life. I use
it to dull my mind when I'm upset, to while away the time when I
can't sleep, to smooth the flow of my subconscious when I'm
frustrated with working on a painting. I also use it to bribe
myself -- I promise myself an uninterrupted round as soon as I
finish a painting. Or after I call my mother. Or I use it to
delay the inevitable, as I am doing now. As soon as I win, I
will look up from the worn cards, survey my shelves, try to find
something edible.
The games are also keeping me from panicking over the naked
sheets of thick paper, thirsty to soak up water and color. I
haven't set brush to paper in two weeks. The last thing I
painted that I was really happy with was about three weeks ago.
It was a crow sitting on a streetlight. I was pleased with the
way I managed to catch the highlights of his feathers, with that
kind of dusty shine crows have. And his one yellow eye, his head
cocked. Last week I turned that painting to face the wall,
because it had begun to seem like he was staring at me
accusingly.
I'm worried that my brain will dry up with my paint, if it
hasn't already.
It's also been two weeks since I've been to the grocery store.
The last two nights I have ordered out -- pizza last night,
Chinese before that. I went to the liquor store today, though.
On my way home from work I stopped and bought a bottle of scotch
with the last of my petty cash to celebrate today. Tony at the
liquor store knows me. I've been buying stuff there since I was
seventeen.
Two aces show up in a row: hearts and spades. Hearts in spades.
I should have spades and spades of hearts. I don't want to think
about that now.
The year I moved out I was seventeen. My parents split up when I
was fourteen, and the day the divorce papers were signed I
resolved to get out as soon as I could. It was the usual
arrangement: I lived with my mom, spent weekends once in a while
at my dad's place. Nobody asked me who I'd rather live with.
They're OK, my parents -- they didn't beat me or anything. My
dad even came to see the student art show my sophomore year.
It's just that the divorce was very messy and anyone could see
that they had more important things to deal with than me. I
checked out my options.
I was working one night a week stocking at a local comic book
store, and they needed part-time work at the main warehouse. So
I worked there after school most of my junior year. They hired
me full-time as soon as I got out for summer, and I never went
back to school. After a month I was making twice minimum wage,
taking orders over the phone. I rented an apartment on the south
side of City Park, a small place, just to get out. After my
first six-month lease was up, I found this place. It's much
better than the last one, on the north side, closer to work,
with lots of windows. I could say to my friends that I had light
to work with now. I told my mom I was barely making the rent
payments, and with the two hundred dollars she gave me I bought
a brown-and-red Ford Fiesta.
The first time I made love with Jason was in the back of that
car. But I'm not thinking about that now, as I lay the four and
the five and the six of hearts on top of the pile. I sold it for
parts three months ago and bought a Chevy Citation with an oil
leak. I repaired the leak myself with duct tape.
Besides, it wasn't making love. It couldn't have been.
The sun is setting. I can tell because the light is getting red.
I can't see the sun when it sets -- the buildings of downtown
Denver are in the way -- but I don't mind. Afternoon light is
best to paint by, and the afternoons will be longer soon, when
daylight savings time starts.
My dad's place, where I used to spend weekends, had great light.
It's in the mountains, and it's very quiet and all that. I used
to wish that they would let me live with him instead of my mom,
but there would have been no way for me to get to school. So I
had to spend weeks at my mom's place, with her and Dave. Dave
always tried to be nice to me, but his idea of being nice was
offering me a beer. I hate beer, and they drink too much.
Besides, I didn't care if he was nice to me. I just wanted him
to leave me alone, so I could play solitaire and think about
what I would paint the next weekend at my dad's. I had a deck of
cards with cats on the backs that I used until I lost the jack
of diamonds. These days, cards take a couple of months to wear
out between my fingers, but I keep a spare deck around just in
case.
When I started drinking, I drank vodka, just like every high
school student. It's cheap. But the first time I went into
Tony's liquor store, I knew if I tried to buy vodka, especially
dressed the way I usually was, in jeans and tennis shoes, he'd
know I was underage. So I put on a pair of costume glasses and
styled my hair in a French twist. My hair was long then.
After Jason left for college I cut my hair. I read somewhere
that a lot of women cut their hair after ending relationships,
but I didn't end it. He did. I cropped it short, not more than
an inch long. I did it myself, standing in front of the bathroom
mirror. I did a pretty good job of it, too, and I've gotten
better, since I have to trim it every month or so.
I wore heels to the liquor store, and a skirt and blouse. I
asked the man, who turned out to be Tony, for his
recommendations on what wine to drink with grilled fish and
rice. He asked me what kind of fish, and I said halibut because
I knew it was a fancy type of fish. He recommended a French dry
white wine from Meursault-Blagny, whatever that means. I only
remember it because I saved the bottle. I put flowers in it once
in a while.
I thanked him, and bought it, and he didn't card me, so the
fifteen dollars I spent on the wine was worth it. The next time
I went into the store, I wore a short skirt and a blouse with
three buttons open and bought some Grand Marnier. After that I
knew I was safe. He's never carded me, even when I've bought
vodka.
When the jack and queen of spades show up in the right order, I
know I've won the game. But I play to the end as I always do,
and then slide the cards together into a pile. I've played so
much solitaire, it's become another art to me. I know a lot of
different games, from clock solitaire to forty thieves, which is
a two-deck version, to portable solitaire that you can play in
one hand. The person who taught me portable solitaire said it
was great for airplanes. I've never been on an airplane.
I still have staples left. Rice, flour, spices, that kind of
thing. Some cans of tomato paste. I put a pan of water on to
boil and measure out rice. I don't sit down to play again
because I know that if I do I will let the water boil down to
nothing rather than interrupt my game. I glance at my painting
corner as I salt the water.
I really should paint something, but I've been telling myself
that for days. My half-finished efforts, except for one, are
stacked behind the table. I hate most of them. I tried painting
my hand holding a deck of cards, I tried painting a group of
people playing poker, and finally I just tried to paint a big
king of spades. When I noticed that it had Jason's nose, I tore
it up.
I wander into my bedroom and throw a couple of dirty shirts into
the clothes basket. I'm normally very neat, it's only during
this dry spell -- that's what I'll call it, it has a nice ring
-- that I've thrown my dirty clothes into the corner instead of
in the basket.
When I was finally ready to show Jason my place, my apartment
that was a studio even though it wasn't a studio apartment, I
thought maybe I should throw some things on the floor. It's
usually very clean, and I didn't want him to think I had cleaned
up for him. We made love -- no, we had sex on my bed, which is
really a mattress on the floor. He didn't stay the night,
because his mother didn't know where he was. He was eight months
younger than me. I had forgotten that people my age still lived
with their parents, still listened to their mothers, still
called if they were going to be out late. So he left me with
kisses, saying he wished he could stay. At three in the morning
I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, because I could smell
him in the sheets. It bothered me. I felt fiercely territorial
about my place. So I got up and took a long shower and changed
the sheets on the bed. I put the dirty ones in a pillowcase to
separate them from the other untainted laundry. Then I felt
better, and I went back to sleep.
The water is boiling, and I dump in the rice. I make a deal with
myself that I can play solitaire, but I will interrupt my game
to get the rice. In payment for this, I am allowed to cheat. I
have devised several ways of doing this. There are rules even
for cheating. Sometimes I give myself permission to go through
the deck more than the specified number of times. Sometimes I
can switch the positions of certain cards. Sometimes I let one
card be wild. Tonight I play that black can go on black and red
can go on red, but only if they're opposite suits.
Jason had this deck of cards that he had drilled a hole through.
That was the first thing that I noticed when I met him. He had a
job at the same warehouse I did, but in a different department.
It was my second summer there, and his first. He was going to
work full time for a year, to earn money before he went to
college.
I came down to the break room for a Coke and he was playing
solitaire on the lunch table. I noticed that he didn't play very
well, and that there was a hole in every single card. The holes
weren't in the middle -- they were a little off center, toward
the top left corner. We were the only two people in the room. I
knew better than to suggest moves to him. I also knew that
everyone probably asked him about the holes in his cards, so I
didn't. I just sat down across from him and drank my Coke.
He was kind of cute, I'll admit that. He wore glasses and had
curly brownish-blond hair. His fingernails looked like they
hadn't been cut in weeks. He didn't look up, even though I knew
that he knew I was there. I knew that the holes in his cards
were a conversation piece with him when he picked up the jack of
diamonds from his pile, and, before playing it, held it up at
arm's length so the light shone through it.
"Don't you ever cut your nails?" I asked him.
He opened his mouth, then shut it and looked at me funny. "What
did you say?"
"I said, 'Don't you ever cut your nails?' They're pretty long,
for a guy." I raised one eyebrow.
"Yeah, so?"
"So, nothing. I was just curious." I tossed my hair back and
drained my Coke. "I gotta get back upstairs. Where do you work,
anyway?"
"The subscription club. It's hectic today, and I just had to
take a break." He spread his hands over his cards and smiled. He
had a nice smile.
"Listen." I lowered my voice. "You must be new around here,
because you don't know how bad it would be if they caught you in
here playing."
"What can they do?" He smirked.
"Fire you."
"No they can't."
"Sure they can. Darth Vader up there," I pointed at the ceiling,
toward the office of William Kozanski, the president, "owns this
company. He can fire anyone he wants to. And he's not very nice
to anyone who plays cards on company time." I was going to catch
it if I was away from my desk much longer.
"Well, I may be new here, but there are two things I know that
you don't. The first thing is that I punched out before I
started this, so I'm playing on my own time. The second thing is
that this is my lucky deck." He tapped a card with his
fingernail.
I rolled my eyes and said, "OK, I give up. Why did you punch a
hole in every card in your deck?"
"It's a bullet hole." He said it very calmly, but he had the
same extra tone in his voice that my dad does when he's playing
a trick on someone. I knew he was making it up.
I raised the other eyebrow and gave him a half smile. "Look, I
really have to get upstairs. I'm going to be in trouble if I
don't. What's your name?"
He looked disappointed. "Jason. What's yours?"
"Miranda."
Three games of solitaire later, two of which I win thanks to my
extra rule, my rice is ready. I like butter on my rice, but all
I have left is margarine. I make a face at the fridge and dump
the rice, butterless, onto a plate to cool. Then I pour myself a
shot of scotch. It smells less like rubbing alcohol than vodka
does, but I pour myself the last of my grape juice for a chaser
anyway. I drink another shot and deal myself a game.
"But aren't you going to college?" He was walking around the
warehouse with me on our morning break. It had taken him about a
week for him to digest the fact that I was nineteen, I lived by
myself, I was a high school dropout, and I was perfectly happy.
"College? What would I want to go to college for? I'm an
artist." I laughed.
"Do you really think you'll be able to make a living doing that?
I mean, what if you end up working here for the rest of your
life?" He didn't need to point at the warehouse. It dominated
us.
"Jason, it doesn't matter if I work here for the rest of my
life. I don't need to make a living from my paintings. All I
need is to be able to do them. I work here so I can pay the
rent, and then I go home and paint. It's simple."
"But how can you stand to know that you'll be working here? I
know I'll only be working here for a year, and most of the time
I still hate this place. I mean," he stopped and faced me,
"until I started talking to you, I ate lunch with my lucky
deck."
I shrugged and smiled at him, and that was when he kissed me.
I tell myself that I wasn't surprised, that I had noticed how he
touched my hand every so often when we talked, that I had seen
him looking at me. I tell myself that I knew all along that he
was interested in me.
But I was surprised. I was surprised and delighted and I felt
warm inside even though he was a lousy kisser and I had to wipe
my chin afterward.
I win one more game of solitaire, using a different rule this
time (all face cards can be put in an empty space, not just
kings), drink another shot of scotch, and finish my grape juice.
The rice is now cool enough to eat, and even without butter it
tastes like the best rice in the world.
I hope I'll be able to sleep now. I don't want to think anymore,
don't want to worry about not being able to paint anymore. Don't
want to remember anymore. It's seven o'clock. I curl up in my
blanket without bothering to take my shorts and t-shirt off and
doze. I do not dream.
When I wake up the clock says it's only two hours later. I feel
defeated. Nothing is right. I can't even sleep through the
night. This is crazy. I'm too hot from being twisted in my
blanket and there's a sour taste in my mouth from the scotch.
I'm hungry again. I feel like I want to cry but I don't.
"You stupid fuck, stupid fuck, stupid fuck." I can't tell if I'm
talking to myself or Jason as I trudge into the kitchen. I have
to get out of here. I know that I probably shouldn't drive, but
I put on my shoes anyway and have one more shot, no chaser,
because I don't care.
He shouldn't have promised me it would work. And I shouldn't
have believed him. He was going to Colorado Springs. Only fifty
miles, but it might as well have been a thousand. We both had
cars but he was usually too busy to come up to Denver for the
weekend. "College isn't like high school," he told me. "Things
don't just stop on Friday after classes." So I drove down to
visit him a few times on weekends. His roommate was really
freaked out about me staying in their room the first time. He
was a little nicer about it later, but he was creepy in general.
And I started noticing that Jason had all these friends, friends
who were going to have careers, friends who were in the same
clubs, friends that had more in common with him than happening
to work in the same warehouse all year with no one else to talk
to. I couldn't talk about the same things as they did. I could
only tell him I had finished a new painting, when I actually
had. It was hard for me to work for awhile after he left, and I
mostly did boring park landscapes. Or I could tell him about
things that were happening at my job, which he didn't care
about. My last resort was to take my clothes off. Then we
wouldn't need to talk at all. But even that didn't work for very
long.
The last time I visited him was in November, for his birthday.
He was twenty. His college friends threw him a party and brought
a keg and they all got drunk. I didn't. I left after he
disappeared with a girl from his drama class. It was a long
drive.
It's a clear night. There seem to be very few cars out tonight.
I check the clock in my car to be sure I read the time right,
and I did. I drive towards Bill's house. Bill manages one of the
branch stores, and there are usually people hanging out at his
house on weekends. Sure enough, there's something going on. It
looks like a party, in fact, even though no one knows it's my
birthday.
The door is wide open with music and people floating in and out.
As I walk into the hallway a man appears from another door in
the hall and points at me, saying, "You, you, I haven't kissed
you yet." He grabs me and kisses me and I let him because I
can't think of a reason not to. Then he walks out onto the front
porch and I hear him saying the same thing to someone else. I
continue into the house, looking for someone I know. There are
people dancing in the living room, mostly high school kids in
leather jackets, and two girls playing with a cat in the
bedroom.
I find Bill pouring drinks in the kitchen. He hands me a glass
with about an inch of brown liquid in the bottom and introduces
me to Eric, Sebastian, Angie, and Willow. Friends of his.
"What's this?" I hold up the glass.
Bill shrugs. "Someone brought it. It's some fruit thing, I
think." It smells like whiskey. I chug it and make a face. One
of the guys claps. The other three continue their conversation
with Bill. They're discussing levels and spells. It blows my
mind that Bill must be thirty and still hangs around with high
school kids and plays Dungeons and Dragons.
"Are you Eric or Sebastian?" I smile at the one who clapped,
who's staring at me appreciatively. He's got round black
sunglasses perched on his head and I can tell his black hair is
a dye job because lighter hair is showing at the roots.
"Sebastian Wolf at your service." He bows deeply and I snatch
the sunglasses.
"Thanks." I put them on and strike a pose to make him laugh.
Sebastian Wolf, yeah right. No one is named Sebastian Wolf. If I
hadn't already been introduced as Miranda I would have said my
name was Moonlight or something.
"I'm going to dance. Coming?" He follows me and we dance in the
living room to loud music with lots of synthesizers and drums. I
lose myself for a while in the movement of my body and the
rhythm shocking up through my feet and legs to the rest of me
and the faint smell of alcohol being sweated out of people. I do
not think about Jason and his college friends. I do not think
about Jason having sex with his college girlfriend and calling
it making love. Someone changes the music to a ballad, still
with synthesizers and drums. I walk to the porch and 'Sebastian'
follows me. There are three or four people standing outside,
smoking or making out. I've only been leaning against the
railing for a few minutes before Bill comes outside trailing
high school kids. "We're going for cigarettes. Want to come?" I
shake my head and wave at them. They pull the other people on
the porch with them.
'Sebastian' edges closer to me and I don't move. I think, I know
what he is going to do and I don't care. I'm mostly right,
except he's not pushy. He puts his arm around me and in a minute
he's kissing me, and in another minute he has me pressed against
the railing while he kisses my neck and tries to slide his hand
underneath my shirt. I hear the noise of the people coming back
from buying cigarettes and I push him away and say, "Do you need
a ride home or something?" I jingle my car keys.
At his place, his roommate is asleep and we watch Star Trek.
When he starts kissing me again, I let him push me back on the
couch and after a while he stands up and takes my hand. I let
him lead me back to his room. He does me the favor of turning
out the lights before we undress.
In the dark I close my eyes and let him fuck me. It is easier
than I thought it would be. I let part of my mind float away and
imagine I am watching myself from the corner of the ceiling. I
want to laugh but I change it into an appropriate noise. I feel
nothing.
When he is finished, he lies on me for a minute and then rolls
off to the side. I am wide awake and looking at the ceiling. My
eyes have become used to the tiny amount of light that seeps in
from below the thick curtains from the street light outside. I'm
cold and I pull the blanket up over me. He helps me and I'm
surprised because I thought he was asleep. He puts his arm over
me and pulls me a little closer. It is a small act, probably
meaningless because he doesn't know me at all, he doesn't even
know my last name, and he certainly doesn't know that I'm a
painter or that it's my birthday or that I never do this kind of
thing but I'm so lonely tonight that I was willing to do
anything to feel close to someone.
And of course it didn't work. I tried to convince myself that I
maybe felt a little bit close to him, and maybe for just a few
seconds while we were physically close I almost believed it, but
then it was over and I realized that all I felt was empty, empty
and hollow and worse than I did before. And him putting his arm
around me has just enough tenderness in it to make me realize
all of this. I will never make love with anyone. I did that and
then it turned out not to be lovemaking at all. It was just sex
and that's what this is now. Foolishly, I start to cry. I am
very quiet but he is right next to me and he must feel me
shaking.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong? Are you OK?" He touches my face and
then pulls the sheet up to dry my cheeks.
"I'm -- I'm OK." I struggle to control my voice. I refuse to
hold on to him and press my face into the hollow of his neck and
say something ridiculous like 'hold me.' I take deep breaths and
finally I'm able to laugh just slightly and say, "I'm just
pretty tired, I guess. I'm sorry."
He doesn't say 'everything's going to be all right.' He doesn't
say 'tell me what's bothering you.' He strokes my hair once or
twice. I am grateful.
His clock says it is 12:03. Goodbye, birthday. I am still
trembling inside even though I know I won't fall apart again in
front of him. I close my eyes because it's true that I am tired.
But I realize that I can't face waking up here, with this person
who calls himself Sebastian Wolf. I know he won't hurt me and
he's nice enough in his way, but I need to be in a place where I
know where the light comes from and the sheets smell familiar.
"Sebastian." I kiss him on the forehead. "I need to go home." I
get up and find some of my clothes.
"Are you sure?" He props himself on one elbow, a dim outline.
"Yeah." I do not lie and say there are things I need to do in
the morning or that my parents are waiting for me.
"I'll let you out." He starts to rummage for his own clothes. He
sees me to the door. That's nice of him, I guess. We don't hug
or kiss or anything. I have the brief thought of shaking his
hand and almost laugh. I say goodbye and turn to walk to my car.
He calls after me softly, "See you around." I don't say
anything.
I get into my Chevy and drive three blocks, so he'll know that I
am gone, before I stop. I let the engine idle as I lean my
forehead against the steering wheel and cry quietly. I cry until
I'm finished, and when I am breathing normally again I shift
into Drive and go home.
I turn on every light in my apartment and take off my clothes
and put them in a pillowcase. Then I take my deck of cards and
rip each one exactly in half. It doesn't matter because I have a
spare deck. I'm just sick of the old one, that's all. Then I'm
on my way to take a shower, but before I get to the bathroom I
see myself walk past the full length mirror in my bedroom. I
watch myself and I do not look at my face. Without thinking
about it I walk to the mirror and turn my back on it. I stand
with my feet a yard apart and bend from the waist until I am
facing the mirror again, one good hard look and then I stand up
straight. I close my eyes and see the negative image of the
tangle of hair between my legs and fix it there.
I kneel deliberately at my painting table, close my eyes once
before I rub my brush in the paint. It comes very easily,
surprising me with the long strokes that flow from my hand. It
is quickly and deeply done. When I am finished, my knees are
numb and there are goosebumps on every inch of my bare skin but
I ignore the cold. I am breathing normally and I look at what I
have painted, and it would probably scare a lot of people. It is
simply painted with broad strokes of red and black and pink and
peach. It looks like Georgia O'Keefe has taken some bad acid.
I get up to clean my brush and my knees explode into feeling. I
decide to take a shower before I paint any more.
When I am warm and clean and dry I put the first painting on the
floor and start another one. This one is mostly peach, and gray
and black. I blend the colors more carefully this time. I work
on the edges. Things have to have edges, but they can't look
like edges. I keep my mind fuzzy and I am pleased when I am
nearly done. It looks very much like a desert landscape, I even
make the background a wash of the palest shade of blue. But a
few more minutes of working with a black and gray spot and I can
tell that it's a navel. I make sure that the rise behind the
woman's body is a slightly darker shade so I can tell it's a man
next to her. I am pleased enough with this one that I sign it
with my tiny curling M in the corner and the date. The stars are
beginning to fade as I turn out all the lights.
It is Saturday morning and I am twenty-one and I sleep naked in
sheets that smell like me.
Wendy J. Cholbi (wjc4f@virginia.edu)
---------------------------------------
Wendy J. Cholbi lives in Charlottesville, Virginia with her
husband. She is a technician in a biology lab by day, a writer
by night. Her absolute favorite thing to do is read. She also
likes to cook, though she cooks more than just plain rice. Her
life is slowly being consumed by the Internet.
FYI
=====
...................................................................
InterText's next issue will be released March 17, 1996.
...................................................................
Back Issues of InterText
--------------------------
Back issues of InterText can be found via anonymous FTP at:
> ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/InterText/
[ftp.etext.org is at IP address 192.131.22.8]
and
> ftp://network.ucsd.edu/intertext/
You may request back issues from us directly, but we must handle
such requests manually, a time-consuming process.
On the World-Wide Web, point your WWW browser to:
> http://www.etext.org/Zines/InterText/
If you have CompuServe, you can access our issues via Internet
FTP (see above) or by entering GO ZMC:DOWNTECH and looking in
the Electronic Publications area of the file library.
On America Online, issues are available in Keyword: PDA, in
Palmtop Paperbacks/Electronic Articles & Newsletters, or via
Internet FTP (see above) at keyword FTP.
On eWorld, issues are available in Keyword SHAREWARE, in
Software Central/Electronic Publications/Additional
Publications, or via Internet FTP (see above).
Submissions to InterText
--------------------------
InterText's stories are made up _entirely_ of electronic
submissions. Send submissions to .
For a copy of our writers' guidelines, send e-mail to
with the word "guidelines" as your
subject.
Subscribe to InterText
------------------------
To subscribe to InterText, send a message to
with a subject of one of the
following:
> ascii
> postscript
> pdf
> notification
For more information about these four options, mail
subscriptions@intertext.com with either a blank subject line or
a subject of "subscribe".
....................................................................
Hey, where I come from only farm animals have nose rings.
..
This issue is wrapped as a setext. For more information send
e-mail to , or contact the InterText staff
directly at editors@intertext.com.
$$