Flo’s Flaws

by Denis Kabi

I am a mother. I have a daughter. My daughter troubles me. I have stress because of her worrying conduct. My daughter is called Florence but everybody calls her Flo.

Imagine she’s 27 years old and still lives with her mother – me! Kwani when will she leave and find her own house? Who told her I don’t want a son-in-law and a bunch of grandchildren?

Flo spends the whole day in front of the computer, reading something called Facebook. What the heck is Facebook, eh?

“Will Facebook help you find a job, a husband, make babies?” I ask her. Guess what she says to me – her mother!

“Usiniletee!”

Yes, she screamed that hateful word at me. It cried in pain, boo hoo hoo. Didn’t I look at the ceiling on the night she was conceived? To have a good start in life, I even ensured that she was conceived on a Slumberland mattress. Not a cheap mattress. Unlike some people I know who were conceived on a gunia behind the maize granary. (Such people usually turn out to be underachievers and have low taste.)

Didn’t I gaze at the ceiling of the maternity hospital when I pushed her out, though the doctors had unfortunately to cut me open so that her big head could come out.

“Mama Flo, kwani your daughter doesn’t have a job?” I hear you ask.

No, she doesn’t have a job. She graduated with a Bachelor of Education degree from the University of Nairobi four years ago. But she says she doesn’t want to be employed as a teacher in public schools. Ati public school teachers are paid peanuts and the job is not prestigious. Her friends from university will laugh at her, apparently.

Flo wants to be a radio presenter and has even been sending her CV to various radio stations in Nairobi. She says the job comes with prestige and a hefty salary and not more than three hours of work each day. For four years now none of the radio stations have showed interest in hiring her. She’s depressed.

Si it’s better to work at a prestige-less job and earn peanuts than to stay at home jobless. Ama unaonaje?

Flo solely depends on me to provide her with pocket money – in addition to paying the rent, water bills, electricity bills, buying food, and other household expenses.

“It’s your job as a mother to provide for your child!” she usually reminds me, her tone of voice raised and insulting.

“A child?” I scream in fury. What child? A 27 year old woman is not a child! Anyone with boobs reaching from here to Ruiru is not a child. She should be nursing a child of her own and not claiming to be one!

“Come down, Mama Flo,” I hear you say. “Your blood pressure might rise out of control!”

Okay, okay…I’ve come down. People, will you help me to find a husband for Flo? I’ve almost given up trying to introduce her to decent young men from our neighbourhood.

Look at Kang’ethe. He owns a general goods kiosk on the corner of the street. He usually wakes up early to open the kiosk, sometimes as early as 5:00 a.m.

At 5:00 a.m. Flo is characteristically snoring like a tractor engine. “Gworrrrr… Gworrrrr… Gworrrrr!”

I recently had a chat with the hardworking Kang’ethe and asked him if he wants my daughter to be his wife. He smiled and said he’d be glad to have her as his wife. He even promised to provide her with food, water, clothing, and a roof over her head. He said he thinks the room at the back of his kiosk can accommodate two people – him and Flo.

Kang’ethe has a bicycle and can carry Flo to wherever she wants to go – even to the maternity hospital! Impressive young man, isn’t he?

But when I mentioned Kang’ethe to Flo, guess what she said to me – her mother!

“Usiniletee!”

Yes, she repeated that hateful word at me.

“I don’t want a cheap husband, who runs a cheap kiosk; who rides a cheap bicycle; who wears cheap second-hand clothes; who lives in a cheap single room behind the kiosk; who has a cheap ambition; who has a cheap education,” Flo screamed harshly at me and then continued, “I want a rich husband; one who runs a prosperous business; one who drives an expensive car; one who wears expensive clothes; one who lives in a posh mansion in a posh neighbourhood; one who has big ambitions; one who has a Masters Degree!”

Ai! Kwani, what percentage of Kenyan men have Masters Degrees? Tell me, people. I want to know. I really do!

“Zero point one percent, probably,” I hear you say.

Of that zero point one percent, what percentage are single and itching to get married?

“Zero point one percent, probably,” I hear you say.

If half of the estimated 40 million people inhabiting Kenya are male (and the other half females) and you do the calculations to factor in non-adults, those not driving expensive cars and those other silly goodies young urban women fantasize about, then the calculations will surely lead to zero! It will!

“Why do you say so, Mama Flo?” you ask.

The answer to that question is so simple that it has always been termed as general knowledge. Here is the answer: The elusive Mr. Right is in heaven, seated at the right hand of his Father – God Jehovah!

“Gosh, Mama Flo, why are you being so pessimistic?” I hear you ask in disbelief.

Forgive me, people. Forgive me for being pessimo…what’s that word again? Forget it, I’ll find a dictionary later and look it up.

But do you understand what I am trying to say? I’m 52 years old and am not getting any younger. My only daughter is 27 and she too is rapidly ageing. (Remember her boobs which I mentioned earlier? Well, they’ve started to sag – her nipples are eager to befriend her navel.)

I dread the idea that we’ll both end up living together as two grannies in a Nairobi apartment. That image terrifies me. It constantly haunts me in my sleep. I shiver and sweat in horror.

All I want is for Flo to get out of the house, go find a job, find a husband, get married, have a bunch of children, join a church committee and follow the well-trodden path of being a typical African wife.

That’s all I ask! Nothing more; nothing less!

But does she listen to my advice? No, she doesn’t! This idiotic attempt by modern African women to imitate feminist Western women’s behaviour patterns will completely tear apart the social fabric and value systems of African societies! It will!

Daughters of Africa, now chant these words with me… “I renounce feminism!”

© Denis Kabi, 2009

THE ANSWER IS YES

By Toi Troutman

Racine grabbed her purse and jetted out the front door of her high-rise condo. Once inside the elevator, she saw him walking down the hall. A quick push of the door-close button netted nothing more than a beep and his quickened steps landed him a mere 3 inches in front of her. The smell of his cologne jarred her thoughts and she looked down to her stilettos in search of comfort from her burning desires and memories of that night.

He didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him but the energy between the two was evident even to the old woman from the 14th floor who looked back and forth between them and silently smiled at what she imagined had occurred between the two would-be lovers.

Just as the bell rang for the 1st floor lobby he turned. He was Carl Johnson, a marketing executive from the 9th floor, just 2 doors from Racine, and his smile would melt a mountain of snow. He extended his hand to Racine in a gesture to allow her to exit first. As she passed, a simple brush of her arm against his back made her heart flutter. Looking back at him she mouthed, thank you, but no words were spoken.

Carl exited the elevator and watched as Racine’s heels click clacked across the marble lobby, headed for her taxi. He accelerated his pace to reach the revolving doors in time to touch the metal handle before she could reach it, stopping her. Racine froze and felt her womanhood jump with joy. “Yes, Carl?” she said in a small but seductive tone, looking up into his eyes slowly.

“That’s all you have to say, Racine. Just say yes,” he said with the charm still dripping from his pores, disguised as small beads of sweat from his brisk jog to reach the door.

Did she want to know the question? Probably didn’t matter, since she was saying yes to pretty much anything this man had to offer, but that certainly couldn’t have been the best move for a neighbor, she thought. “If yes is the answer, I guess I should ask what is the question, Carl?” she finally asked as another few tenants rushed out of the building to begin their days in various directions.

Carl moved toward her slowly and suggested they move to the left of the lobby and have a cup of coffee while sitting on one of the plush leather sofas that surrounded the vast lobby. Despite stares from the staff and passersby, he wouldn’t let Racine escape his gaze, or his obvious hold on her attention—not this time.

“I know the other night was awkward,” Carl began, “but I saw you there with your bags, and your briefcase, trying to find your key and after helping you inside, I just couldn’t help myself. There’s something about your way. You just do it for me. I want to see you again. I won’t apologize for kissing you, Racine. You kissed me back.”

Racine fiddled with her hands and unconsciously twisted her ring on the fourth finger of her left hand around and around, making the 4 carat diamond disappear and reappear before answering. “Look, Carl, I still haven’t gotten over my husband’s accident. I know it was a year ago, but I think about him every day. He bought me this condo. He is still with me in so many ways,” she explained, still looking down and obviously afraid to torture herself with another look into Carl’s deep hazel eyes.

Carl grabbed her nervous hands and held them softly in his, kissing her fingertips repeatedly and caressing her palm. “I just want to get to know you. That’s all. No pressure. You’re the woman of my dreams Racine. No disrespect to your husband, but can you just give me a chance to be a friend? I can be a great friend, “he reasoned.

Just then the coffee arrived and the handsome pair sat back and began wordlessly sipping. The energy between them was evident as Racine crossed her legs and shifted in her seat, she imagined what it would have been like if she hadn’t shoved Carl out of her door that night about four weeks ago. She had managed to avoid him by leaving for work early and coming home before Carl got off. On weekends she waited until he left his unit before leaving hers. It was exhausting to say the least, but she continued hoping to never have to face him like she was forced to today. She knew that seeing his face again would bring back the desires she squelched that night and every night since. Hoping to hide the unreasonable guilt of cheating on a dead man.

Finally Carl placed his cup back on the table and broke the silence. “Racine, just give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking. Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen. I promise.” He stared into her eyes, waiting for an answer, after grabbing her chin to raise his face to his.

There was an invisible force that drew them that day and Racine closed her eyes in an effort to make the man and the force disappear. It wasn’t working. She felt the heat of his gaze and it warmed her soul. Eyes still closed, she felt it. She felt the warmth of his soft lips touching hers. She kept her eyes closed. Closed them even tighter. She didn’t fight the feelings rushing through her lonely body. They shared a warm and passionate peck, this time no tongue.

Racine opened her eyes and pulled back her face, now grabbing and holding his hands which still gently cupped her chin. “Carl, I haven’t been with anyone, or talked to anyone, or entertained anyone since James died and I just don’t know if I’m ready,” she said aloud, while inside she thought that her body was more than ready to be held by a strong and warm touch of a man.

“Dinner. Dinner, Racine. Can I feed you?” he asked, staring intently into her eyes as he prayed for a favorable response. He has been respectfully watching Racine from afar for months. Desiring her. Longing for her, but not necessarily in a lustful way. They had spoken many times since the two had both lived in the building for more than six years now and had actually become comfortable acquaintances. Carl added, “I knew James. He was a good man. Out of respect for him, I would do nothing to you that would hurt you. Know that. I just want to get to know you,” he assured her, stroking her dirty-blonde hair. It was the color of Vanessa Williams’ hair, somewhere between brown and blonde. “Remember, you said yes, Carl.”

They laughed. Releasing her hands from his, Racine took a gulp of her coffee, perhaps for courage, perhaps to rush away again and leave her neighbor longing. He wasn’t sure. Neither was she. The silence lingered through two more sips; Carl still watching her every move, wantonly watching.

Placing her cup back on the table for the final time, she grabbed her purse, smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt and stood. Carl stood after her. Opening his mouth to speak, Racine reached into him with two fingers, covering his soft lips and uttered only one word. “Yes, Carl.”

With that she whisked through the lobby, through the revolving doors and headed to her waiting taxi for a long day at the office with anticipation of the nights ahead.

#

She pulled out a picture of James, on her way to the office, and held it; as if seeking his approval, like she had done many times since ‘that night’. This time, she didn’t feel the knots and the sick feeling in her stomach. She felt at ease. This was a good thing.

#

Racine buzzed for her secretary and said, “Hi Liz. I need some beauty appointments. Set me up for a massage, a hair appointment, a facial and a pedicure.” She smiled warmly at her assistant, something she didn’t do often. As her assistant left the room, no doubt puzzled, she picked up her phone and called her girlfriend, Shay, to see if they could move up their shopping trip. She wanted to be home well before seven when Carl would be coming back to the 9th floor after work.

Preparing for her beauty day and beautiful night, she stroked the wedding photo of her and James and planted a kiss on one finger, gently touching James’ image. She said simply, “Thank you baby. I love you. Thank you for letting me know that it’s okay.” This time, it was okay. Carl would be her friend, starting tonight. She removed her ring from her wedding finger and placed it in a felt bag, tucking it inside her purse.

Christmas is less than a month away.  The buying, the carol-singing, the decorating, suddenly all of these things are the most important and I’m filled with what some sage has termed, “the spirit of the season.”

But I pause.  I stop and I reflect and look at those carols.

They are songs to be sung at Christmastime.

They bring good cheer and warmth to an otherwise cold and hostile world.

They are taken from their resting places (where we stuffed them January 1) and sung with cheerful voices.

So, because they are well-loved, because they are part of the most-loved holiday of the year, I want to look at them.  I want to do more than sing the words or hum the tunes.  I want to look into them and understand why.

Why they are so well-loved.

Why they are shared by all mankind.

Why they help us understand the Christ of whom they speak.

Pause with me, will you?

Get a mug of spiced cider and put on your favorite Christmas album.  Curl up in your most comfortable chair and let’s sing them and share them and love them.

And maybe, while we do, we’ll find something more.

I will be sharing a new story inspired by a classic Christmas carol several times a week between now and Christmas.  I look forward to sharing my thoughts and stories with you.

Two nonfiction books I read this month also took me on journeys. First, I read However Tall the Mountain, by Awista Ayub. Ayub, an Afghan American, founded an exchange program for Afghan girls, and her book tells of her efforts, and of the lives of eight girls who played soccer through her program. It’s the girls’ stories that will grab you, as well as the author’s candid, unvarnished description of her experiences and theirs.

Then, I picked up Marek Bennett’s Nicaragua: Comics Travel Journal. Marek will be discussing this book at Gibson’s in January. While However Tall the Mountain touches less on the physical journey and more on the mental and emotional distance the girls traverse, Marek’s book is a travel journal, all about his trip to San Ramon, Nicaragua on a comics exchange.

I enjoy his storytelling through drawings. Like Awista Ayub, Marek is admirably forthright about the good as well as the bad, and their honesty makes both of these books good reads. I’d be suspicious of stories of Americans riding into a developing nation and changing lives exactly according to plan with no worries or unpleasant experiences.

Speaking of honestly assessing the good and the bad, last week I read Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. If you’ve ever had someone tell you, when you were dealing with something really difficult and upsetting, that it might be a “blessing in disguise,” or pointed out a “silver lining,” or worse, suggested that if only you stay positive, things would turn around, this is the book for you. Ehrenreich, whose writing is clear and persuasive and always backed up with excellent research, not only points out the inanity of such “bright-sidedness,” but also illuminates the dangers of accepting positive thinking as the cure all for everything from health to economic well being.

I was particularly disgusted with the examples of ministers preaching a sort of motivational speaker version of Christianity.  A recent Atlantic article explores the connection between the prosperity gospel and the housing bubble and subprime mortgage disaster. Ehrenreich traces the historical roots of prosperity preaching and its development alongside “positive psychology,” and shows that in the spiritual and the secular, America has become a nation that prizes blind optimism over critical thinking.

She visits motivational speakers at conferences, career coaches and preachers, psychologists and medical professionals. I found the passages exposing the shaky scientific evidence of positive thinking’s impact on health and well being particularly interesting. And I got vicariously angry reading about Ehrenreich’s experiences as a cancer patient. Angry and exhausted from advocating for herself and dealing with cancer, she was told she needed help so she could be more positive. She points out that this “blame the victim” psychology only makes people who are genuinely angry or grieving over an illness feel like they are partly the cause of their own misery.

As I read, I realized that one reason I struggled with The Artist’s Way last winter is that I didn’t believe that changing my attitude would bring me success, so the book made me feel like a failure. My “morning pages” didn’t open up untapped creative veins. And I wasn’t willing to undertake some of Cameron’s advice about imagining your way to a new life, because I would rather be happy with reality. In fairness, The Artist’s Way isn’t only positive thinking, but the stuff that made me rebel as I tried to follow the book is all based in the same psychology Ehrenreich critiques in Bright-sided.

The Teenager just made an elite soccer club in our area — on his second try.  He worked hard to earn a spot this year. Reading Bright-sided made me squirm a bit as I realized we’ve told him, each time he’s faced a disappointment such as being cut or sitting on the bench, to keep working hard, but also to have a positive attitude. We never actually counseled that his goals would be realized through positive thinking, but we definitely encouraged it.

We’ve always struggled with this; all parents do. How much do you encourage your kids to “dream big” and when should you point out that much of the world’s game is rigged, and that for the average person, the odds are not very high that fame and fortune await? Only in the last year did it dawn on us to just tell him that in some cases, he probably never had a chance, because a coach already knew who he wanted on a team, or something else kept him off a squad — size, position, or even just random bad luck. Not to mention not very well-connected parents.

I discussed the book a bit at the dinner table, and pointed out that I hoped both kids could see that sometimes, it’s not whether you’re good enough, or hope hard enough for things to go your way, but that other factors entirely beyond your control might keep you from achieving something you really want.  We talked about not giving up, figuring out what incremental steps might get you to your goal, accepting responsibility and working hard, but also accepting that life isn’t always fair.

Sometimes chance or politics get in the way, and all the positive thinking in the world can’t help. Critical thinking might, as could a little rabble rousing on behalf of a just cause. Conscious acceptance that despite the odds, you want to keep trying is fine, too, maybe even brave or admirable.

I got the “duh mom” reaction so I guess my kids are less susceptible to being “bright-sided” than I feared. I suspect that their early exposure to a mother fired up by social justice issues helped them understand at a far tenderer age than I that what Bono sings is true, “Where you live should not decide whether you live or whether you die.” They also saw through Habitat’s work that sometimes a change in circumstances can make all the difference. Plentiful access to reading material can help people go places, I’d say . . . .

I finished four other books this month: Haiku the Sacred Art, by Margaret McGhee; All That Work and Still No Boys, by Kathryn Ma; and two poetry collections by poets who will be at Gibson’s in December for The Gift of Poetry — an evening featuring many poets from NH. I read Jim Schely’s As When, In Season and Jennifer Militello’s Flinch of Song.

McGhee’s book arrived in the mail and I tried to figure out why for a couple of days before I came across one of my own poems in her text and realized “Ah ha! This is my contributor’s copy!” It’s an interesting look at poetry writing as a meditative, spiritual experience. Haiku is still one of my favorite forms, and this book helped me remember why.

Schley and Militello are both very talented wordsmiths. Flinch of Song is brainy and rich, the poems are full of mystery and have an incantatory quality. Militello’s subject matter is mainly the internal world, but her poems are full of external images. This creates a wild (and beautiful) ride for the reader — you never quite know where you are, as you grasp at what’s real and what’s imaginary. These poems are mind blowing, and I’m in awe of Militello’s powers.

Schley’s book also explores relationships and the creative process (including a section of odes to the muses). My favorites in this volume are “Daughter,” “My Father’s Whistle,”  and “Devotional,” which are moving tributes to the beauty of small moments in a life.

I also enjoyed “Autumn Equinox” — Schley manages to convey what Frost called a “lovers’ quarrel with the world,” in this case, the poet’s distress over war, but he does it with such subtle skill, and in such a lovely poem, that it doesn’t hit you over the head with the “issue.” War poems are hard to do well, and this one is marvelous. Schley’s talent is in weaving a quiet spell, while Militello’s fiery work is like a blast from a wizard’s wand. Both were a treat.

Ma’s book won the Iowa Short Fiction Prize. It’s a collection of ten stories featuring Chinese American characters. A Gibson’s customer recommended it.  Ma’s writing is strong, original, and detailed. Her stories are tight, complex, and well drawn. That said, they are mostly depressing; some of the stories offer more redemption or transformation for the characters than others. My favorites were “Second Child,”  “The Scottish Play,” “For Sale By Owner,” and “Mrs. Zhao and Mrs. Wu.”

I’m about halfway through  The Fortune Cookie Chronicles — thanks, Mom! I’m fascinated by Jennifer 8 Lee’s curiosity — she seems to be a fellow traveler on the life learning road — and I admire the way she pursues her questions about Chinese food (the All American version) all over the globe. Lee comes across as warm and funny, and her book is interesting and well written. It made me curious, although not quite brave enough to ask, where the proprietors of my family’s favorite Chinese restaurant are from, what brought them here, and what they think of American Chinese food.

We ordered Chinese food on Thanksgiving Eve — I’d been cooking and baking all day, and it was a treat. Now it’s the day after Thanksgiving. Fueled up on our traditional turkey eggs, turkey salad, and turkey soup (okay, and some leftover pie), I’m entering the final laps of NaNoWriMo — you can watch the counter on my bookconscious page turn over to the “Winner” badge when I cross 50,000 words (probably Sunday or Monday).

As always, I have a pile of books waiting for me. My neighbor lent me a couple of novels, and I still have books Jan passed on to me, as well as a stack of books by authors I’ve scheduled to come to Gibson’s. I’m ready for winter, with plenty to read squirreled away!

Derrick

Ever had one of those days where the whole day goes everyone’s way. But somehow everyone does better than you. I’ve been in the Office for 5 months. So far I have someone to haze new friends, and better yet I think the new intern likes me. I beat chuck to her which is a good thought and that future will never happen because of me. Aren’t I just the worst?

This morning Savannah and I had breakfast at waffle house. Yes we went to Stockton and no, I didn’t get laid. Really this was just a “friends” kind of thing. You would think its perfect, no it’s not; in my case at least. Stockton is an hour away from home; you will not expect me to put my cock on her shoulder while I do the Forty Trick on her. My god she’s so cute, if only she was a 5.

When we got back to NF it was 11 o’clock. I was unusually late, Savannah was on time and Chuck was gone. It was odd I’d see him around the office talking to the women and the other interns but no he was gone. I got to my desk and Mike is staring at his monitor shocked.

Me “what’s up man what are you- holy shit“

Yes on face book the news feed displayed something so horrible, so disgusting, and so vile, not even Quagmire from family guy would have sex with it if it were a hot lady. It said Chuck Delahunt is in a relationship and then followed with the heart sign.

Me “Holy fuck, seriously? This guy has a girlfriend.”

Mike “Yeah that what is says.”

Me “Seriously, what the fuck.”

Mike “Dude, don’t worry about it.”

Joseph “He guys what’s- what the fuck?”

Me “exactly”

Mike “Dude what is the problem?”

The problem I thought that a person we thought of as a loser has a girlfriend. Now that I think about it, doesn’t matter, she’s ugly enough to be put down.

Joseph “The problem at hand is that he can get laid before us.”

Mike “I don’t care, I’m not a virgin.”

Me “Yeah same here.”

I just realized that Joseph may be still a virgin. I’m guessing a guy like Chuck getting laid first before him may hurt him a little.

Me “Wait you’re still a virgin, huh?

Joseph “Y-Yeah”

Me “dude are you 22?”

Joseph “Gonna be in 5 months.”

Mike “We gotta get you laid.”

Me “Yeah, so we are going to a titty bar tonight.”

Joseph “Fuck that”

Me “What?”

Joseph “You heard me, fuck that?”

Me “Why? A cooch is a cooch.”

Joseph “If it’s from a stripper or a hooker, it’s a death sentence for your dick.”

He made a good point score one to Joseph. Luckily I got laid in college at a party, using the Forty Ounce trick. Basically get a girl drunk enough for you to be able to fuck her, in my case, fucker while she is passed out. But don’t pass any judgment; think about this way, if she doesn’t scream rape is not rape. Technically it is, but that stuff is between me and my college roommate.

Me “You have a fuck buddy?”

Joseph “no.”

Me “Can you get one?”

Joseph “Oh maybe.”

Me “can you get one for me.”

Joseph “No”

In mid conversation I pick up a great Idea to have some fun with Chuck’s relationship.

Me “Hey guys, how much do you want to bet when Chuck says ‘I love you’ to her?”

Mike “2 days”

Joseph “1 week”

Me “I think I’ll take up 2 days. He Freddy, Carl!”

Carl “Yeah?”

Me “How much when Chuck says ‘I love you’ to his girl?”

Carl “2 days.”

Freddy “I’m not betting in this.”

Me “Alright I have 3 people for 2 days and 1 guy for one week, awesome. We are betting for 10 bucks because I said so”

Then I start thinking about more bets, what about when he loses her. That is a really fun thing to talk about. I would pay money to see that and record it for personal pleasure. Ever see a grown man cry? It’s fucking hilarious.

Chuck:

Okay you guys might think what everyone’s problem with Chuck is. He is an awful person. When we haze we just call each other gay or we hide each other person’s stuff. How he does it is he does things that personally hurt us. He is trying to have fun, but he somehow has no regard for how we feel. We all know this, he doesn’t because we don’t tell him and he thinks we are all pals. Really the reason why is that we need someone to hate on. It’s the way of the world, like Nazis to the Jews but in our case is a million time less extreme. Plus he tries too hard, we would feel sorry but he does too much and this adds to our reasons to make fun of him. Aren’t we the worst?

The following story is based on actual events.  Several events actually.  During the fifteen years I was a paramedic I saw some of the most touching, awful, horrible and sickening things that can happen to a human being.  People always ask me, “What is the worst thing you ever saw?”  To wit I answer, I won’t tell you the worst, but the coolest thing I ever did was deliver four babies in my ambulance over the course of my career.

I decided that there is no longer room in my head for the ‘worst’ thing I ever saw.  So this story is an amalgam of stories and characters from over the years.  I hope you enjoy it.

1

…911 what’s you emergency?

… There’s been a horrible accident…

…What’s the exact location?

…La Bajada.  A car’s rolled down the hill.  Looks like it hit a deer…

2

                Chris was enjoying a burrito at the Santo Domingo station.  Deep fried, greasy, just like he liked it.  “Cholesterol, be damned!” he thought.

                Tonight marked Chris’ fifteenth year with the Santa Fe county fire department.  Tonight was also his first night with the ‘FNG’, Carlos.  Carlos has just graduated from Paramedic school and was itching for some action.  This particular attitude had Chris on his last nerve.  Carlos was staring at his pager.

“Come on, motherfucker, go off!” Carlos urged the pager.  “We’re bored to fucking death!”

“Easy there big fella,” Chris said “If it’s gonna…” He trailed off as the pager on his belt started to beep.

“Medic-thirteen, engine-thirteen respond to La Bajada Hill, south bound lane single car rollover.”

                Chris looked longingly at his quarter-eaten burrito as Carlos whooped like a drunken cowboy.   He walked over to the counter to pay as he watched Carlos sprint toward their ambulance.

                Carlos was bouncing up and down on his seat as Chris swung up to the driver’s seat.  Purposefully Chris pretended not to be able to find the keys.   Carlos started drumming his hands on his thighs mouthing, come on, come on.  Chris removed the keys clipped to his epaulet and just smiled.

“Medic-thirteen, enroute”, Carlos screamed into the radio.  Chris cringed.

                Chris sighed as he pulled the ambulance out of the parking lot toward the interstate.  He had all day been contemplating his retirement.  Seven years at the Albuquerque Fire Department and seven with the county.  Twenty-two years meant he had ten months to go for a full pension.  Twenty-two years of drunks, psychos, heart attacks and just plain old sick people.  Not to mention rookie Paramedics like this one.  Twenty-two years of being awoken from dead sleep to peal some drunk off the road.  ‘I see dead people’, he thought and snickered to himself.  Carlos was still bouncing in his seat like a bull rider holding on for eight seconds.

                In the distance he could see the flashing red lights of the cops who inevitably get to all accidents first.  Chris laughed to himself again as his most common inside joke popped into his head again.  They get their first so they can pull out their measuring sticks and walk them around the injured.  It was only funny to him it seemed, so he didn’t share it with anyone else.  His dark humor had sent many either walking away disgusted or running to heave in the bathroom.  Carlos’ squeal snapped him from his daydream.

“Almost there, almost there,” His voice two octaves higher than usual, “I can see it!”

“Calm the fuck down,” Chris told him “you embarrass me and I will kick your ass!”

                Carlos rolled his eyes at Chris.  Chris remembered his daughter used to do that to him when she was sixteen.  He wanted to back hand him.  He slowed the ambulance down to make the u-turn across the median.  Slowly he made his way through the traffic and was greeted by an excited gentleman in a fluorescent green vest.

                “Over here! Over here!” he was yelling and he swung a flashlight in exaggerated circles, summoning them toward a tear in the guardrail.  A volunteer fireman, no doubt, Chris thought.  He parked the ambulance close to the tear as to allow the flood lights a better angle at the wreck below.  Carlos jumped out before he had even applied the air break.   Chris could just see him plummeting toward the bottom of the hill.  He unfastened his seatbelt and eased out of the truck shaking his head in disgust.

                “What do we got?” Chris asked the excited gentlemen with the flashlight.

                “One car rollover looks like they hit an animal and veered off the road.”  The man who identified himself as, Chief Chavez, told him.  There’s blood, guts, teeth and eyeballs all the way down the hill.

                “Nice.”  Chris pulled is rappelling harness up to his waist and cinched it.  “Do we have lines down to it yet?”

                “Sure do,” He grinned proudly. “Just finished setting it up.”

                Chris grabbed is first response bags and some oxygen.  He pulled the packs tightly on his back and made his way around the truck.  As he strapped his helmet on he could see the rescue lights down below and could see that Carlos was half way down to the accident on the ropes.  Just to the left of the ropes he could see the remains of the animal the chief spoke of.  Small animal, he thought.

3

It was a mess.  While Chris had seen many hundreds of these in his career, this had to be up on the top five­­­-so far anyway.  The car was completely destroyed.  It had disintegrated as it rolled two hundred yards down the hill into this crumpled heap before him.  The cynic in him spoke loud and clear as it asked him what the rush was, surely no one had survived this.  Only one way to find out he answered the cynic.

                “CHRIS!  CHRIS!” a desperate voice yelled to him from behind the wreck.  What was left of the car was propped up with wood braces put in place by the volunteer firemen.  Precarious at best.  Chris ran toward the voice, sure Carlos had broken his leg while repelling down the hill.

                The scene that greeted him made Chris’ blood run cold. Lit brightly by the scene flood lights was Carlos gripping what appeared to be a man’s arm sticking out from the wreckage and gravel.  The arm, it seemed, was gripping his in return.

4

Where was the rest of him?  How could anyone survive that rollover?  These and thousands of other questions ran through Chris’ mind as he spiked an I.V. bag.  There is no way in hell, his thoughts trailed off as he pulled on some latex gloves.  Chris worked his tourniquet carefully around the topmost part of the arm-the part just above where the rest of-him?-disappeared into the dirt and wreckage.  A vein in the back of the hand appeared sufficient and Chris jammed the biggest I.V. needle he had into it.  The arm jerked powerfully and knocked Carlos to the ground.  Carlos nearly lost his grip, but the hand held fast.

                “What’s the status of this rescue, Chief?” Chris asked the man in the vest.  “We really need to get this thing going.”

                “We’re having trouble finding hydraulic lines long enough to reach down here.  We have extensions coming from City Fire.  They should be here in about ten minutes.”

                “Not fast enough.”  Chris muttered.

                “It’s the best we can do, Chris,” The chief replied.

                “Sorry, Chief, Don’t mind me.  I was just thinking out loud.  The whole thing baffled Chris.  Just an arm, just an arm…

5

                “Talk to him, son.  Let him know we will get him out of there just as fast as we can.” The chief told Carlos.

                “I don’t know what to say.  What do I say?”

                “Just talk to him, it will come to you.”

                Carlos looked down at the arm.  The chin strap of his helmet digging into his neck, with his other hand he released it. 

                “Can you hear me?” He shouted.  “Squeeze once if you can hear me.”

                The hand squeezed.

                “Ok, we’re gonna get you out of there, just hang in there.”  Squeeze twice if you understand.

                The hand squeezed twice.  

Carlos’ confidence in the situation began to swell as the communication progressed.  He established-the hand-was married and had children.  Chris came around into the floodlights.

“The ER wants an update.” He asked Carlos.

“Pulse, one-ten, BP ninety over sixty”

“Good, the extension hoses are almost here.”  Chris turned and left.  Carlos could hear the loose gravel rolling down the hill as Chris jogged away, and the creak of metal.

6

                They had pumped all the I.V. fluid they had into the arm.  Chris decided to slow it down as he worked his way back up the hill to get more.  As he worked his way up the rope, and not for the last time thinking of retirement, he passed the dead animal now to his right and something caught his attention.  Couldn’t be, he thought.  His grip failed and he began to slide downward.  Forgetting what he saw-thought he saw-he struggled for purchase in the loose gravel.

                When he reached the top he was greeted by City Firemen unloading the hydraulic hoses.  He stepped into the back of his ambulance to reload his bag with I.V. fluids.  He remembered then what he saw on the way up.  It couldn’t have been, he thought.  No way!

7

The full moon now illuminated the entire scene below.  Chris could see shadows dancing around the wreck like a ballet of the damned.

Meanwhile, Carlos was running low on conversation material with the arm.  The arm was, however, insistent on communication periodically tugging roughly when the silence went on to long for its liking.  Carlos was losing what little control he came into this situation with.  Then it happened.

“Get him away from there! Pull him away!” Carlos heard a voice say.  As he turned to look where it came from, several things happened at once.

First, he saw three fully dressed out firemen running towards him. Then looking up he saw the wooden poles holding the wreckage up snap out of place and hit two of the three firemen running toward him.  Finally, he saw the wreckage falling towards him.

Chris saw it too and made for the ropes.

Carlos went to get up, run, jump anything to get away from the wreckage. The arm.  He tried to let go but it was holding him fast.  He couldn’t get way, it wouldn’t let go.  The wreckage was halfway to him now.

Chris dove for him in full stride, an NFL style dive right at Carlos’ chest.  The momentum and power of the dive seemed to work.  Carlos seemed to pull free and was rolling down the hill.  Chris dug in and got traction enough to stop the momentum.  He was on all fours staring in awe at the sight before him.  Carlos was screaming.

“Get it off me!  Get it off me!” Carlos was screaming.  “MAKE IT LET GO!”

The arm was still firmly gripping Carlos.

Epilogue

                The Chief was talking to the medical examiner at the top of the hill on the shoulder of the interstate.

                “Yeah, terrible thing, the driver’s body was unrecognizable.  We passed it three or four times going up and down that hill before we realized it was him.  We recovered most of him.  You know chief the only thing we can’t find is his right arm.  Have you seen it?”

Copyright 2009 by Guillermo Yanez all rights reserved.

Short Stories: 24

From the first week in June until the first week in July, Ryan Wales worked part time as a truck driver for Daleboro Trucking. They were the means of delivery for all the necessities needed in McGrath Park during the six weeks the boat show was in town. In conjunction with the annual boat show there was a city run festival that provided the locals and the out-of-towners with everything they needed to make a full day of the event. Ryan’s company delivered all of the lighting, the supplies needed to construct the stages and all of the concession stands, the daily food and drinks and everything else that went into the day to day maintenance of this four week festival. Ryan had picked up the job through a connection his father had with the company. Daleboro Trucking was the company that Ryan’s father used for his furniture factory. Ryan used to work for his father but with a decline in the local economy that had put a halt on their typically prominent sales, his father had to let him go. After being out of work for five months, he finally caught a break, even if it was just temporary. Ryan’s new job wasn’t anything sensational, but it was a paycheck. And that is what was most important. It was during the beginning of his second week on the job that Ryan became friendly with one of the women that occupied space in the park. Her name was Shannon Reisman and she operated a cotton candy booth in what was considered the best spot of any of the concession stands. She was the closest to the main pathway that led to the docks and also happened to be the closet to the bathrooms. Selling cotton candy wasn’t a job most people would take, but Shannon loved her time providing her treats to all the families that lined up. And it too was part time. Her main source of income came from the bakery she worked in. She was a pastry chef in a small shop with just enough room to squeeze in four tables. What the shop lacked in square footage it more than made up for in foot traffic. Every year for the past seven years Shannon volunteered her time at the boat show. Her father used to take her the show ever since she was a kid. He often showed off his own boat at the show. The same boat that he would take Shannon, her sisters and their mother on day trips through the waters with. Once all the girls went off to college they never seemed to have the time anymore to join their father for any of those days that he’d showcase his prized procession. He sold that boat about ten years ago. One day he just seemed to lose all interest in it. Two years after he sold it he died. Ever since then Shannon made sure to find the time to come every year and spend the full month as a part of the festivities.

Ryan had never been a fan of cotton candy. Ryan, from day one, had particularly terrible teeth. He was always the candidate for cavities and overall poor oral hygiene. His teeth were remarkably white however, but that was just because he spent an abhorrent amount of money on tooth whitening systems. His teeth may have been crooked and filled with tarter and plaque build up, but boy were they as white as shaving cream. Because of his avoidance of anything with sugar, it wasn’t the lure of Shannon’s treats that tempted Ryan. It was rather the instant attraction he felt for her that gave him the excuse he needed to visit her stand. Upon first visit Ryan ordered one large cotton candy just to give himself some legitimacy in his first conversation with Shannon. Shannon was one of those women who had “fall in love with me” written all over their face. It was just so instant with her. Maybe it was her smile. Maybe it was her complexion. Maybe it was the way the waves in her hair draped the sides of her face and swayed by her deep green eyes whenever a breeze over the waters came blowing onto shore. Whatever it was that did it for Ryan, he knew then and there, with one glance, that he needed to know this woman. And so he ordered his cotton candy and started a conversation with her. Shannon, upon first look at Ryan, wasn’t necessarily impressed, but wasn’t turned off either. I guess you could have called it indifference. It was indifference simply because her mindset at that time wasn’t revolving around meeting men. But she was certainly cordial and responsive to Ryan’s questions. He wasn’t obtrusive in any way and didn’t fumble over his words in nervous carelessness. He was calm and levelheaded.

Ryan was impressed with the time Shannon devoted to the boat show festival. He was also impressed with her job as a pastry chef. He had never met anybody with such a delicately artistic job before. It is an entire profession based around the concept that what you are creating are these temporary, intricately detailed structures, perfectly measured and painstakingly designed. They require the same steady hand that the painter paints with and the conductor conducts with and yet such creations never achieve the same longevity; the same sustainability. They are designed, above all else, for the stomach. And with such an art there is the accompaniment of destruction. The fork, the spoon, the knife; these are the tools used to dispose of the art. And the thing is such finality is supposed to happen once the job is done. It was just such a perfect job for a woman such as Shannon. It was elegant and delicate, irresistible and comforting and all wrapped up in pure devotion. The one difference was that unlike her creations, she didn’t crumble so easily. To be honest though he was so smitten with Shannon that it didn’t really matter what she told him her profession was. She could have been a sewer archeologist, perusing the stench of the subterranean systems for remnants of past history and fortune. But it was nice that it was cake that she dealt with. By the end of their first conversation, which lasted the surprising amount of time of one hour, Ryan was head over heels in love.

As it turned out by the second day that Ryan stopped by Shannon’s stand, he once again bought a large cotton candy. He never ate it in front of Shannon because, well, he never ate it ever. He eventually threw it away once he got back home. But the wasted money didn’t stop him from continuing wasting money. It was the ice breaker. That second day Shannon seemed to warm up to Ryan more. She started responding to his questions with more sincerity and started asking questions with more interest in his answers. Physically speaking, she felt about the same as the first day. After talking for about a half an hour, Ryan asked if she would like to meet up for a drink after she was done selling for the day. Shannon was initially reluctant. She didn’t flat out refuse, but she sort of jumbled her words around in an obvious enough way that made Ryan get the idea that she wasn’t interested. Right before the moment where Ryan would have felt like a defeated man, Shannon suggests walking along the route of boats and taking in the sites of the festival. Ryan thought such an idea was perfect. In three hours Ryan would meet her right back in the same spot they were standing in. Ryan left with a schoolboy’s blush across his face.

By the time the boat show ended and the festivities were done for the night, Ryan and Shannon had looked at and walked aboard every boat tied up and had sampled just about every item of food available from the smoked kebob’s of pork and beef and buttered up and parmesan tossed corn on the cob to the jumbo salted soft pretzels and shaved fruit flavored ices. They were tired. They were full. But above all, they were thoroughly delighted by one another. It was at some point during the evening that Shannon began seeing Ryan in a different way. She was certainly not in love with him like Ryan was with her, but she began feeling very comfortable and safe with him. And that was a start. The moment that could have pushed Ryan into such a category was when Shannon dropped her big pretzel, mustard side down, on her white sneakers with its horizontal pink stripes and Ryan, being the smitten gentleman he was, took charge of the mess. He took off one his left shoe and put it right in front of Shannon’s left foot. He told her to take off her mustard covered sneaker and to hand it to him. She did and he told her to put her foot in his shoe in the meantime. She did. It was way too big, but served the purpose. He told her he’d be back in two minutes and that she should just take in the view of the waters and the sounds of the music. He ran over to the bathroom and with a damp paper towel dipped in a sink filled with water mixed with a few bottle caps of ammonia that he found on the side of one of the stalls, he scrubbed her sneaker until it was perfectly clean with no sign of any yellow mustard. In fact it looked better than it did before Shannon dropped the mustard on it. He ran back to Shannon and presented her with the now spotless sneaker. She was impressed. He put it on her foot like a charming prince and with that, she was back in business. Of course the slight scent of ammonia did permeate the air just a bit, but it dissipated in a few minutes. What Ryan did wasn’t anything profound of particularly romantic in any sense of the word, but for some reason Shannon took warmly to it.

By the end of the week, Ryan and Shannon had officially gone out on their first date. Shannon knew of this wonderful family run seafood place that overlooked the ocean and had some of the best, freshest fish and shellfish in the city. And so they spent their first date in the atmosphere of this wonderfully scented and eloquently decorated restaurant. There was no movie afterwards. No concert. No dancing until they dropped. What there was however was conversation along the beach. Just the two of them walking with the waves crashing onto shore, the sky sparkling with starlight and the distant sounds of music and laughter from the many restaurants and bars that overlooked those waters. They talked about their past. About their upbringing. Shannon told stories of her time with her family on her father’s boat and how whenever they would catch any fish for lunch or for dinner, they would all smell terribly of fish for the rest of the day. They would come back home and wait in line as they one by one took a long shower to alleviate the stench. Shannon still recalled, now with laughter, whenever her parents would come back and take their showers together. Back then, she and her sisters thought it was the grossest thing in the world, but now conceded that it was only gross to the child that learned of such activities that went on with their parents. She also talked of the guilt she felt when her father died, knowing that it would have meant a lot to him if she had continued coming to the boat shows. Ryan listened with a caring ear. And then Ryan told of the stories of his own past. About when he was a child his father seemed to have more time for his employees at the factory than he did for anybody in his family. When Ryan’s mother died while Ryan was still in high school, he began working at a plumbing store to help out with the rent at home. In the aftermath of his mother’s death, Ryan had hoped for a bond between him and his father that he never had before. But it never came to pass. When he graduated high school, his father hired him for a job at his factory. Once again Ryan was hopeful that it would bring them closer together. Once more it didn’t. Shannon too listened on with a caring ear.

Such nights as that were spent for the remainder of the month that both Ryan and Shannon worked their part time jobs. During those weeks together, Ryan continued falling in love with Shannon every new day they spent together. She was different from any of the other women he had been with in his life. She seemed to listen better. She seemed to understand him better. And even beyond the beauty she gave him every reason in the world to hang onto every word she uttered. She was fascinating and lived a life filled with just as many regrets and bad decisions as Ryan. That bonded them. And by the end of the month, Shannon too was completely smitten with Ryan. She cared for him greatly. But for Shannon, it wasn’t pure love. And she never forced herself to pretend like it was. And as much as Ryan adored his time with her and as much as he knew that she loved being around him and that he made her feel wonderful, he also knew that it wasn’t love she felt. Everybody learns sooner or later the difference between someone who loves you and someone who loves your company.

Shannon went back to working in the pastry shop full time. Ryan didn’t have such an easy time at first finding a new job. Something more permanent perhaps. But eventually he landed a part time position at a fishing supply store and for the six months he worked there he seemed to enjoy himself. It didn’t really make any sense as to why Ryan and Shannon would stop seeing each other as much as they did for those few weeks over the summer. They still lived in the same area. They still had the time to see one another. But for some reason things work out that way sometimes. But Ryan does make the time once a month to stop in Shannon’s shop. They talk. They catch up. Most of the time Shannon stays on one side of the counter and Ryan on the other. Occasionally they’ll sit down together if one of those four tables is empty. And every time on Ryan’s way out, he orders something to go. He never eats it though. He never did indulge in sweets. But he takes that little white box with its pink horizontal stripes and walks out of the shop with the same schoolboy blush painted across his face as he did the first time they made plans to spend their time together. I guess that little box with its decadence inside reminds him of something that he never could have.

-Schwartz-

On a hot summer afternoon, she crossed over Nth Avenue and headed down Mph Street with an open bottle of wine cooler and the empty one she had already downed before she left home.  She was dehydratd, but the buzz was hitting her hard enough that she could ignore her real thirst for water.  She drank daringly, and frequently,  right out in public as she walked down the sidewalk aside healthy neighbours pushing strollers and walking dogs, and cars passing by her, with drivers slowing down to turn their heads and stare.  She had her sunglasses on, so no one could see her eyes getting hazy.  She kept moving at a steady pace, her heals hammering into the pavement as she stomped them down hard, creating calluses in the soles of her feet. 

The sun was getting stronger as it reached the high point of the day; she could feel her cheeks and nose burning.  She wore a black wife-beater and jeans cut-off just above the knees that kept the heat locked in.  Sweat beads ran down her chest in between her humble cleavage as she came up to the city park. 

There were rows of cars parked on each side of the street; parents and children hustling in and out of the park center.  In the distance, she could hear cheering and laughter.  A crowd roaring.  Maybe there was a baseball game going on, or perhaps it was soccer.  She could never tell when the season’s were for what sports, it was nice here most of the time, so it could have been one of many. 

She continued to drink her cooler now in broad daylight, now being cautious only by turning the label in.  She felt no one would approach her, this was an easy town.  Not that it was legal to drink in public, but normally people would pass by as if it were, and continue on with their daily business.  One had to be causing a raucous to be stopped and questioned by the police.   She thought herself quite inconspicuous and considered herself safe. 

The sweat began to dry down her back as she settled herself in the park on a bench behind the shade of an oak tree.  Soon  she felt her shoulders burning from the sun beating down behind her.  “

Too bad my legs won’t tan as easily as my shoulders,” she thought regrettably to herself.  She had no real plan or specific destination on this little excursion, she just knew that when she left that she wanted to observe what was in her immediate surroundings, otherwise she would be cooped up in her ground-level basement suite likely pacing back and forth, wasting the beautiful day away on scrambled thoughts. 

She wished she were doing the same thing in Italy or Argentina, then she could do it every day, and see and hear things that were new to her.  After being in one place for so long, the motivation to seek things outside one’s neighbourhood became more of a chore than it was an adventure. 

Sometimes she and her girlfriends would go hiking in the mountains, or bike riding through the eastside, but moreso now than usual they sat on outdoor patios and drank beers and took shots of tequilla and jagger, bitching about their boyfriends and complaining about weight-gain. 

But that morning she had called no one; she knew most of her friends were working, and her brother was busy with his girlfriend, so she didn’t even bother calling him. 

She missed the days when the two of them were younger, and used to go to punk rock shows together.  Sometimes they would meet on the main drag and go to A’s pub for an appy and a beer, then head over to CC where she would watch him skate the graffiti bowls. 

Now she rarely saw her brother, and he rarely skated anymore.  He used to be so good, he skated since he was ten years old.  Over time, she felt the distance had grown between them in that whenever they did meet there was always so much to catch up on, but they never seemed to inform eachother enough.  Everything was always so heavy, and there were always so many people around. 

In the winter time the only meetings they ever had were when he invited her over, along with a crew of friends and acquaintances  to watch the fights.  Everyone would be drinking, and sometimes duck out early to get up-to-no-good.  She knew he tried to conceal their habits, but she wasn’t naive.  She had been around long enough to know what went on. 

It bothered her that the old scene of semi-wholesome fun was out and replaced with this highly socialized event where they never had any quality time.   But she still loved him and continued to make her appearances, even though things continued to change.  She knew that the changing was out of her control and she chose not to expend energy on it.  She would just go on loving him the same and continue to miss the times they had spent together when they were younger.

-January 1, 2004

What a night. My parents set me up with a date, and against my better judgment, I went. He was a nice enough guy, and he was obviously attracted to me, but he’s not what I’m looking for. Let’s be honest, he wasn’t him. I’ve got to stop comparing all of these poor fools to him; they’ll never match up.  I think my parents are starting to get desperate now. They really want me to find someone and get married. I think they’re worried that I won’t give them grandchildren while they’re alive. There’s a lot of pressure on me right now. I’m constantly reminded that they are not getting any younger, and for that matter, neither am I. It’s times like this that I really wish they had have had a second child. Perhaps then there wouldn’t be so much pressure on me.

-DeAnne Evans

My brother Chris and his new bride Margaret were as happy, good looking and nice a couple as you could hope to see. Chris was tall and slenderly muscled. He had long, laughing hazel eyes and a wicked lopsided grin. His mop of dark hair was usually unruly, in a cute way. Maggie was a red head, creamy skin & wide blue eyes that seemed to reflect the whole sky right back at you.

They weren’t altogether practical, but you couldn’t really hold them responsible. Fortune had smiled on them and they smiled back. Who cared if they lacked money or jobs?

Chris was a musician and Margaret a writer. They eked together a living, he, by playing bar mitzvahs and weddings, she, by writing articles for Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens than Yours.

 Together they were irresistible, a combo of charm, brains, enthusiasm and cheerfulness that would be right at home in a Disney movie. Oh, they had their moments like anyone else I guess.  Chris could be a little lazy and Maggie liked to buy things she couldn’t afford, but who could blame them? We all knew they’d work it out.

They had a cute little apartment off Hill Street. It was a quiet neighborhood.  Chris could bike to his part time bar job at Frankie’s. Maggie stayed up nights writing.

They adopted a puppy, a spaniel/retriever mix, with curly golden hair, long ears and huge, liquid, soft brown eyes. He was irresistible! They named him Mr. Baggins…Mr. B for short.

 Now they had their troubles…sometimes they’d fight a bit, all kids will, and I always thought of Chris and Maggie as kids… I mean he was my baby brother.

Well one day Chris comes home from Frankie’s a bit late… He always came home late, it was a bar after all, but this time it was later than usual, and he was a tad lit. Well to make a long fight short, they quarreled. Maggie didn’t like him drinking and biking home and Chris, bless his heart was not at his most reasonable when drunk. Still, it was nothing, really. I know it. One of those little squabbles you don’t even remember in the course of a year.   Chris woke up late and hung over. Maggie and Mr. Baggins were gone. Now I don’t mean they’d left or anything, they were just out for a walk. Chris felt grumpy and ashamed. But, he was still angry with Maggie for not leavening a note.   By 4:00, he was worried. She’d never been gone this long.

He was leaving the house, when a neighbor came up, dragging behind him a whimpering, dirty Mr. Baggins.  He’d found the dog running hysterically crying through the Streets. Somehow, he’d manage to catch hold of his leash and bring him home.

Well it didn’t take long to find out what had happened. They found her near the dog park, broken and crumpled in the Street. It had been a hit and run, not much to go on.

It’s still hard to talk about that time. Seems like we just froze while things moved around us. There was the body… God! To call Maggie “the body,” but that’s what she was now. We had her cremated and kept her ashes. Chris wanted to take them to Italy with him. He and Maggie had always dreamed of going there…

Chris and Mr. Baggins moved in with me. I knew he shouldn’t be alone, and frankly, I was glad to have him by me.  I’d hear him weeping in the night, with Mr. Baggins making little sounds of comfort.  I think that dog comforted him more than I could… and he comforted Mr. B too.

Maybe it sounds strange, but that dog was nearly as heartbroken as Chris was. For a week, I couldn’t get him to eat. But slowly, slowly they both began to mend. The weather was lovely. That warm caress in the air that spring brings.  Every morning like clockwork, Mr. Baggins and Chris would jog off to the dog park.

That summer Chris went off to Italy, I got emails daily and two calls. It’s a good thing I wasn’t the jealous type, ‘cause I swear he missed Mr. Baggins more than me.

I took Mr. B on his walks, watched him raced around the park like a wild thing. When we‘d get home he’d fall asleep at my feet. When I came home from work, it was as though he hadn’t seen me for a year. He’d jump up and down, wagging his tail and looking at me with eyes full of love. Yet, I swear, since Maggie’s death they always held a deep touch of sorrow.

Chris only stayed away 2 weeks. Just couldn’t stand imagining Maggie there with him.   After a month or so, he got his own apartment. I sure did miss him and Mr. Baggins, but I was glad too. I wanted him to get his life back. I had loved Maggie, probably as much as two sisters can love each other… but I didn’t want Chris to live in the past.

I still saw him and Mr. Baggins often. Every Saturday we’d meet at the dog park to watch Mr. B have a morning frolic, then spend the day together. Go to a movie. Go for a walk. Or sometimes just have a big long meal and usually end up drunk.

It was the sweet time of sorrow. The time when the wound has healed enough, so that you can remember, talk, and even laugh about the past.

Then one Saturday, God I’ll never forget it. I headed over to the park as usual. About a block away, I heard a noise I’ll never forget. If I could sleep, I’m sure it’d be in my dreams. It was a kind of heavy thud, and then a wail. A horrible cry, a howl that was more than animal, but sure not human.

I ran, but I wasn’t even aware I was moving. I don’t know what I thought I’d see, but as soon as I got close, I knew.  Knew that somewhere inside I .had known what I’d see.

There was Chris, my beautiful, beautiful, sweet baby brother, my only family, my best friend. And there he laid, in the street, his body bloody and arching at an unnatural angle, Mr. B by his side. I swear to you, that animal was weeping as hard as I was.

We went through the motions. Got a police report. People at the park had heard the squeal of brakes, but no one had seen anything.

I don’t know how I got through the next few weeks. If Mr. Baggins hadn’t been there, I swear I would have just dried up and died. His big, sad puppy eyes reflected the pain and hurt I felt.

They say time heals all wounds, and I can’t say I think that’s true. Some wounds never heal, but life goes on, no matter how you feel.

One day, Mr. B who was watching me bathe stood up to sniff the water and tumbled in, I laughed.  For the first time in forever I laughed. Mr. Baggins looked embarrassed, but I swear he chuckled a bit too. There are few things as faithful and accepting as a dog.

The next day we went out for our morning walk. The sky was blue and clear, birds were singing. I felt better than I had since Chris died. Suddenly Mr. Baggins took off, running as hard and fast as he could.  Running, pulling my arm almost out of its socket… Dragging me forward. Forward into the wheels of an oncoming car.

 He began taking antidepressants at a very early age.

Two.

Even as a baby, he had been depressed, unable to sleep through the night, often crying for hours, much to the discomfit of his parents.

He refused to bath, or clean himself, defecating each night in his crib.

He would not engage in conversation or even feed himself. Indeed if not for the intervention of the maid, he would doubtless have committed suicide by self starvation.

 They tried everything. Exercise did not help.

He was enrolled in swimming lessons, which at his age involved being tossed into a pool on the theory that the life force would prevail.

Although he was rapidly fished out, his life flashed before his eyes. He was only 18 months at the time so there was not a lot of flashing to be done.

 After a month of lessons, his flashes became little more than a momentary fickler of his retina.

Cognitive therapy was not helpful. The analyst ban him from the couch after his first “accident,” adding the cost of upholstery to his long suffering parent’s bill.

They tried Reichian therapy, rolphing and meditation retreats, but to no avail.

 His first antidepressant was a new drug, side effects might include sleeplessness, lack of bladder control, lack of balance, cognitive disorder, sleep apnea, slurring of speech and inability to operate a motor vehicle or large machinery. He was already suffering from the former. And as his feet could not yet reach the gas pedal, it was impossible to tell about the latter.

 By the time, he was five he had tried every psychotropic drug, singly or in combination. Although his personal habits still showed depressive signs of slovenliness, he never defecated in his bed and rarely soiled his pants. He was cognoscente and would talk for hours, even though his conversation rarely reached into the intellectual. His balance had improved and he could walk.

 His parents breathed a sigh of relief.

Just when they were congratulating themselves on a job well done, a new psychosis began.

He had turned thirteen. All he seemed to think about was sex! They found photos of scantily clad women stashed under his bed. His mother discovered a pair of her underwear beneath his pillow. Something must be done!

He was taken to Dr. Frizchick’s, a strict Freudian, for diagnosis. He was discovered to be suffering from the severest of oedipal complexes. Dr. Frizchick’s recommended an intense course of psychoanalysis.  He was to see the good Dr. three to four times a week for twenty years, then gradually taper down to bi –weekly sessions.

After high school, he left for college. He was forced to stop his thrice weekly sessions

His parents gave him money, on the condition that he see a renowned Jungian. He used the money to go to a fortune teller.

She smelled of patchouli oil and perspiration.

“Ask me a question,” she snapped fanning a dirty pack of tarot cards before him.

“Why are all the famous therapists German?”

She turned over some cards revealing a hangman and some flames.

They knew they were going to have a lot to be guilty for,” she said

“They wanted absolution…. Also to be known for something besides Mozart, sausage and beer.”

Wordlessly she pulled 2 round foil objects about the size of ping-pong balls out of her grimy shawl and handed him one. Mozart’s face grinned shinily up at them.

She unwrapped one, popping it into her mouth. He did the same, “Good.”

She nodded, “Chocolate and marzipan,” she said, opening her mouth and reveling a salivaey mixture. “That will be five dollars, ten if you want a face reading.”

Well, he thought, pulling out his wallet, it’s cheaper than therapy.

 Mr. Frizchick had never given him any candy.

 In college, he joined the swim team. Due to his early training, he swam like a drowning baby. A fast drowning baby.

 He made All American, entered the Olympics and won 12 gold metal He joined the Church of Scientology, loudly and publicly proclaiming the advantages of water and the evils of psychotherapy 

His parents were gratified by his fame but saddened by his public renunciation.

Everything he could have asked for had been there for him, but he shunned it, and turned his back on the grace that touched him. 

And they told her it wouldn’t last, that she wouldn’t put up with it forever.  And that made her happy.  She hoped she could find the will somewhere to make the end happen. 

And he took it for granted that someday it would.  And now he is forlorn and  in despair, at the beginning of his life, over and over again.  He is without her, and he put that on her to deal with too.

Everyday when he wakes up he has forgotten what happened the day before, and the day before that, and so on, and so on.  He let go of his ability to retain the primal instincts he had been given for basic survival – and now everyday he suffers for it greatly. 

He could have had so much with her, but it wasn’t his fault, entirely.  Nobody told him that he had the choice, and nobody told him it would be his choice in the end.  So he blamed it on the world – on the bad hand he had been dealt, long, long ago, before he could even remember. 

They had insisted there was some unknown purpose to their unity - he and she.  They had talked it over, and over; again, and again.  There had to have been some underlying reason, otherwise, why had they been so happy together?  But they had been so young at the time, so innocent and needy.  The crush, the talk, the jealousy, the lying, the substance abuse, and the violence – all matters too deep to be worth less than anything but love.  And all patterns of failure.  Their unity was doomed like a head  noosed with a rope with piercing fibre. 

They were lost.  They took the money and blew it.  They moved in and ate, and fed from hands of tenderness and generosity with no indication of gratitude.  They spread themselves around like an incurable disease. 

Later, he kept putting his guard up against those who needed help, and sabotaged new relationships he could have had with genuine people.  He spoke of those who took advantage of his good nature.  He couldn’t handle showing generativity towards anyone else, and besides that, he never kept his word to those who demonstrated unconditional love and friendship.

Now she had closed the door – everyone has - and he is tortured by the demons he let in.  They taunt him day in and day out, until his mind and body are parallel in a place of torment.  They scratch his face until his skin is raw and bleeds, unitl his eyes are blinded from severe swelling, and his hands disfigured, until he loses all  function of  bodily mechanics.  If only he had accepted the grace he had been given in the beginning:  the beauty and joy of life that had blessed him when he had met her. 

But he pushed it all away, just to prove a point - his point.  And his point had been proven: he could trust no one, especially not himself (but that was a part of the point he had overlooked).  He was destined to die slowly.  His mind became less sound as he lost limbs along the way.  They - his limbs, and his mind- were gone, taken by the teeth from a force he could not control. The teeth clenched into him, without letting go until they took pieces away, one by one.  And now he bleeds, and nobody loves him anymore. 

Then, he burned all his bridges, and went to her, begging. 

“You want to talk about abuse?  I’ll tell you about abuse!  My boss held me hostage; kept me tied up in a chair, didn’t feed me for seven days.  They wouldn’t let me leave, and then they bit my finger off!  I’m starving.  They  tricked me into killing my dog with a boiled bone.  They told me M– was raped by three East Indian men and that’s what set me off into this frenzy.  Meet me at C—— park.  Bring food!”

She couldn’t do it.  She was afraid of him, of what he told her.  She wanted nothing to do with him anymore.  After four short years of separation and divorce, she feared him trying to weasel his way in again. 

“I have a confession to make,” he began, “before we broke up,  me and M– cheated on you.  I told her we shouldn’t, but she wanted something.  O—- is my daughter.  That piece of sh– that she’s with now thinks she’s his, but she’s not.  She’s mine – I’m sorry.  I had to tell you.  I’m going to change my name and leave town.  You’ll never hear from me again.” 

“That f—-er!” she thought.  After all this time he had to bring her back into this twisted drama.  She knew he wanted her to feel bad, to feel like him.  He was good at spreading his misery – that was the only way he knew how to communicate, how to tap in, how to get what he wanted. 

She hated him, but at the same time, she felt sorry for him.  It was the saddest story she had ever heard and seen. 

“Still, no chance” she declared to herself. 

There was no chance he would have any more of her.  He had nothing, she had everything.  She shook his words off her shoulders and took a deep breath.  There was no love leftover because he had sucked it all dry.  She knew he really did need help – in a bad way- but he didn’t want the right kind.  He tried to throw the guilt back in her face, to make her responsible for him all over again, like he had done before. 

“You want to talk about sickness?” he retorted, “You’re the one who has the mental problems, not me! It’s those f—-ers down at the center.  M–’s been sending me dog food there, when she knows d–n well I have no dog!  She’s trying to drive me crazy.  I can’t take it anymore.  I’ve gotta get out of there.  It’s your f—-ing family who’s sick.  R—– picked up a prostitute in T—— R—- in S——, I have proof.  I have pictures, and it happened to be with the mother of my son who lives in H—–.  And I f—-ed B–’s girlfriend on our kitchen floor, and N– wanted to do it, but I had to fight her off.  So huh, we really are family, aren’t we?”  He trailed off with a sick laugh. 

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  It couldn’t all be true, it had to be lies, or some kind of sick way of getting even with her.  But there was no way she was going to let him back into her head again and destroy her - so she threatened him instead. 

“Really?  Well, I can name off several things I just heard that would constitute your arrest…” she began, systematically, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

What few friends Joseph had made since moving to his aunt’s were all invited to his sixteenth birthday party. It was one of those parties stuck somewhere between adolescence and adulthood: party hats and noise makers sat disheveled in the corner next to a cake exclaiming “Happy 16, Joseph!” while some of the boys had raided their parent’s alcohol cabinets and were in differing states of sobriety. Most had stationed themselves around the television, taking turns playing video games and flipping through outdated porn mags.

“Joseph?” It was his aunt, making her way down the stairs.

“Yeah, Auntie?”

“Could you come upstairs for a moment? You have a guest.”

Joseph didn’t understand why she couldn’t just send his guest downstairs. Yes, he had several guests. He was having a birthday party, after all. He walked upstairs to find a policeman silhouetting the door, dressed as though he were auditioning for the part of a detective in an old film noir movie. A badge peeked from behind his overcoat.

“Joseph? Mind if I have a word real quick?” He smiled at Joseph, then at Joseph’s aunt and uncle, who had taken to standing worriedly in the kitchen door frame. “It will only take a second,” he said to them, “really, I promise you, Joseph isn’t in any sort of trouble.”

“S’ok,” Joseph said to them. They lingered momentarily before retreating further into the house.

“Would you like to have a seat, Joe? Do you mind if I call you Joe?”

Joseph sat. “It’s Joseph,” he said. Joseph’s father had often described him as overly emotional, and sitting here with a detective was making him so now. He blinked back tears, an embarrassing habit that happened whenever he got nervous.

“Joseph – of course. Joseph, I’m Detective Mac Guffin. You can call me Mac, if you’d like. Most people do. Listen, Joe, I know it’s your birthday and I know you’re in the middle of a party – happy birthday by the way – but, well, some of the boys down at the station had got to talking and, well, do you know this woman, Joe?”

He held up a picture of Death. She looked ten, twenty years younger than when he had seen her last. It was hard to place her age. She could be anywhere from mid twenties to early sixties. Inexplicably, her picture made Joseph slightly aroused.

“Why would I know her?” Joseph asked, and commended himself for sounding so calm.

“W-e-e-ll, you wouldn’t, that is to say, not necessarily, of course,” the man said, in a feigned casual tone. He wasn’t a detective, Joseph thought, he was an actor. “It’s just, w-e-e-ll, we have reason to believe that she may have been in… some sort of contact with you. And we just have reason to believe she’s dangerous, that’s all. Not too dangerous, mind you,” he said, misreading Joseph’s look of surprise, “but uh … dangerous enough if you know what I’m saying,” he smiled, then furrowed his brow, a heavy, bushy thing, “but then who is to say what is dangerous enough? We’re still not quite sure what … that … is.”

*     *     *

Joseph lay in bed, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, looking up at glowing, plastic stars adorning his ceiling. Like fish, thoughts swam incoherently through his mind. He strained to keep his eyes open. Joseph no longer welcomed sleep, a place where his father died again and again. He tried to focus his thoughts on Campbell so he could dream instead of her, maybe get a wet dream out of it.

He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of milk and ate a piece of toast. He walked down the hallway and into his dad’s room. He was still asleep. He would wake him in a minute.

His dad awoke with a start and began gasping for air. His back arched so violently Joseph thought his spine would snap. Wild-eyed he looked at Joseph and croaked “Help me!”  before going into convulsions. His skin grew old and wrinkled before melting away. Now he was a corpse, only bone – no muscle, no skin, nothing holding him together – and still he thrashed about painfully. What had just moments before been his dad looked at Joseph with dead, hollow eye-sockets. Its jaw opened and closed in a vain attempt to communicate, hands thrashing wildly about in fear.

His father’s bed cracked and rumbled and fell into the earth, revealing fires burning with rage. Demons, gargoyles, and all manner of evil milled about, cackling wildly and drowning the sound of pain and terror. A pillar of rock shot up through the floor. His dad tried to stop himself from falling down, frantically clawing at whatever he could grab onto before disappearing down the abyss. In the distance, on a golden throne, sat Death, laughing maniacally.

Joseph woke to a blindingly painful lightness. Joseph covered his face and groaned as opsin flooded his eyes.

“Joseph, this is my daughter. Hear her,” said a voice, so forcefully that Joseph momentarily forgot the painfulness of the light and opened his eyes. The first vision he had was of two women, clad in white, serenely floating in the air. Their brightness defied words.

“Joseph, your father can live once again,” said the daughter. “I am Destiny, sister of Death, the one who murdered your father. Go, Joseph, to a place that I shall reveal to you. There, you will find the means to transverse worlds and rescue your father and defeat Death, who now roams freely and plans to unleash the power of her Hell upon your world.”

Horror and science fiction author, Brick Marlin lives in Jeffersonville, Indiana.

His short stories have been featured in a number of print and online magazines, among them, Blood Moon Rising, Necrotic Tissue, MicroHorror and Sand: A Journal Of Strange Tales.

His books include Dark Places of Rest (Sonar 4 Publications, 2009); Saturated and Crimson (Publish America, 2009) and The Darkened Image (Publish America, 2007).

Related article:

[Interview] Brick Marlin, Conversations with Writers, November 27, 2009

The whole world was singing that day in the park, but nobody was listening. No human being, at least. They were all magnificently trained to listen to each other, in their multitude of parallel languages and media outputs, but they had lost the ability to hear even the blaring clamor of a scorching sunset or the relentless whisper of the wind. Human language had come to define their existence. If it could not be expressed in words, then it must not be real. In most cases, it would pass right under the radar of consideration altogether.

But the sound of a tree falling in the woods still resounds, even if no man is there to hear it. So nature continued its elegant discourse, as was its purpose, patiently awaiting the kindred response of man.

I was humming a tranquil melody that mild autumn afternoon when Sophia nonchalantly settled on the park bench next to me. She opened her American History book and immediately gave all her attention to the words on the page. Unaware of my gaze, she made frustrated faces at the black and white print.

Sophia was an intelligent young woman. She worked hard and played fair. But life didn’t seem to respond in kind to her earnest intentions. School was always a struggle for her, with grades that did not reflect the effort she exerted. Solace came in the form of art classes, where she did not feel the same pressure of having her intelligence measured and judged. Instead, she was free to simply let her hands be moved to create her own truth, one that could not truly be measured or judged. She relished these moments and was grateful for the creative outlet.

What Sophia did not appreciate or even realize, however, was that her hands were not moving of their own will, nor was she herself willing them to move in any particular direction. Instead, her hands were listening to the world and speaking its truth in the curves and shades of her sketches. The world was crying out to her through her very own limbs. But she didn’t even know that she was supposed to be listening.

Of all the subjects she studied in school, mathematics was the strangest. It seemed, to her, purely rational and yet so magical at the same time. The laws and formulas and equations all made so much sense. But why? Why should there be any such laws at all? And how did these laws simply exist, without any intervention of man, other than to uncover them for their own personal use? She shook the feeling and continued on reading the next paragraph in her history book. There was no reason to be thinking about math at the moment anyhow.

Sophia had taken an American History class in high school, and also studied the subject in elementary school at one point. But now, in her freshman year of college, she was learning it all over again. The same history, recounted in different words. How many different ways could you say the same thing? Was there a mathematical formula for that?

An unsettling ripple of energy surged through her, and she felt compelled to begin doodling in the margins of her textbook. It started out as an oblong geometric shape, then thin wisps of texture began to form on either side, and in a moment she could name the sketch as the image of a butterfly. It was in that moment, as the neurons in her brain relayed to her consciousness that her hand had just created a butterfly, that I swooped down from the branch of my oak tree and skimmed by her just closely enough to gently brush the perimeter of my left uppermost wing against the blushing flesh of her right cheekbone. She never even caught a glimpse of me before I fluttered off along another whisper of air. But she had felt me. She knew I was there. She believed in my existence.

In the days that followed, Sophia would try to describe her experience in many different ways, with different words and shapes and colors and sounds. And although she would never quite succeed in replicating that moment, she somehow knew that this was not her true aim. There was something more important than trying to define our interaction that day. It was the fact that she knew, and I knew, that the next time I spoke to Sophia, she would listen.

I bought some chicken at the convenience store; the clerk told me the beer and cigarettes would be more pleasurable with chicken juice;

the cigarettes were fine, but when I added the juice to the beer there was a smoking red flavor that murdered the housewives next door, so I threw all of it out;

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

An orgasmic moan wakes him. A porn video plays, one of the dirtier ones that are illegal in some of the lesser countries. A pool of gravy has congealed next to him, a conga line of ants pouring in, pouring out. A nondescript bottle of something, no doubt, alcoholic sits wrapped in the hand of what appears to be a very obese, very naked, very dead man.

Another moan, one that seems to say, ‘hey, it’s six in the morning on a Friday and your neighbors are sleeping. Turn down the porn, you dumb shit.’ He stares stupidly, painfully at the sweaty, ecstatic man on the screen, wondering what he could possibly feel so ecstatic about when he feels like Death herself.

He looks around the room again, trying to place himself. The carcass of a turkey lies dangling from the table, surrounded by remnants of stuffing, yams, potato. In this corner another fat, naked man. By the bathroom there are several, seemingly thrown haphazardly on top of each other. What in God’s name, he wonders, had he done last night?