Category: fiction

A Crooked Path

Well, how was he here? How?

He’d been feeling really good, like AAA bond good, a comparison that he’d picked up from his late stepfather (stepfather, yes, but the only person who’d ever successfully plugged in as a father). (Don’t even get him started on the two previous impostors, which included his biological father.) (He was still getting over his stepfather’s death (from brain cancer after a long illness) two years ago.)

First, he’d finally got out of debt, which was good. His veteran’s disability amply covered his nut. Moving closer to Mom helped, too. He’d hooked up with a good support group and therapist, and was on the right meds. Things were so looking up. He’d found a nice little apartment for him and his cat (Sam, just Sam, a sweet young black cat) (not far from Mom’s house, where he could go do his laundry). (And socialize!) (And eat, yeah.)

Where had the hole come from, then?

Yeah, the shower, yeah.

The shower clogged. He’d told his landlady ’bout it, but she was eighty, and forgot. He waited, though, but he couldn’t use the shower, so he couldn’t shower, so he didn’t shower, waiting for it to be fixed. He was just going through clothes, though. Changing clothes every day (he’s not a friggin’ animal), he wasn’t able to go over to Mom’s house to do his laundry because he’d not been able to take showers, and now he smelled bad (geez, his hair was getting matted) (and his beard was a mess).

Without being able to shower (and do laundry) and without clean clothes, he’d quit going out. He missed his support group meetings and then had run out of meds. He couldn’t get out to get more meds because he was filthy and embarrassed. (And he was running out of food and household goods, and losing weight.)

Christ, it’d taken just two months, two months from being triple A good to being in a shithole of despair.

What was that whole thing about, for the want of a nail?

 

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OBG

They called him OBG, because he’s the old guy who goes to the bathroom at least once an hour.

How old? They struggled with that; they were young. How young? In their early to mid-twenties, that period before things cease functioning (peckers, prostates, lungs, heart) and start dropping (breasts, butts, faces, and arches).

(They knew, intellectually, but still (and really, on the periphery of their awareness) that they were conditioned with a sense of the ideal and normal. They knew that others had body failures before they were twenty (they’d seen it on the web), but none (of those types) came to their coffee shop or university classes, and none (that they knew) were ever seen. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. Although, to be fair, they were self-aware enough to know that they were experiencing health privilege (although it wasn’t thought of that way). (Hey, you were either healthy, or you weren’t.) They were unaware (as the young and healthy often are) of the many changes quietly being made beyond their control in their young, healthy bodies.)

OBG knew (from his casual observance) (hell, it wasn’t hard) that they’d noticed his habits. With that shrugging air of one who’d lived and survive, he dismissed whatever they thought. Into the bathroom he went, first blowing his nose (damn sinuses) (he hated blowing his nose in public) (just didn’t want to bother others), and then stretching (because that fucking sciatic nerve was getting inflamed again and despised sitting in those chairs too long). (Yeah, he shouldn’t sit in those chairs so long, reading his Kindle and browsing the net, habits that he’d started when he’d retired, ten years before, which, in turn were begun by habits he cultivated in his twenties, when he was in school, like these servers who watched.) (Do you see the circle that he sees, the circles of behavior and culture, and how linked they are, like the Olympic logo?)

Then, because he was there, he went ahead and sat down and pissed (not that he had to go, but he was there, so…), flushed, and washed his hands. In all, four minutes of his life had passed, but it all adds up, you know?

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The Piss Club

It’s their informal name for themselves, The Piss Club, an expression adopted from the humaverse because the floof think it’s so funny. (Do humans really think that animals are so interested in that aspect of their business? See how funny it is?)

The Piss Club’s formal name eludes translation from floofish. For humans (and the animals involved), The Piss Club is about ensuring that animals (or their allies) are present whenever humans do their business. In homes with pets, this is generally easily accomplished. Public facilities can be handled via rats, birds, flies, mice, spiders, etc.

Those places are not the problem, and it’s not about humans doing their business. It’s about verifying what they are.

No, the problem is those private places where pets don’t reside, where spiders and insects are stalked and killed, and mice are treated like vermin. Those places are the problem, because those people might be the beings that The Piss Club are supposed to on guard against. Masquerading as humans, those beings could destroy Earth; it is their stated intention, and they are here on Earth.

And, while floofs (except for dinosaurs) usually originated on other worlds (or other universes, in frequent cases) (funny how two beings, say two cats, can look so much alike and yet be from different universes) and arrived on Earth to expand their influence (and study other cultures and life forms), they’ve grown fond of those crazy creatures called humans, and would like to keep them around. Because, as the floofs have found, humans don’t exist anywhere else in any other universe (unlike dinosaurs, which seem to be everywhere), making humans very unique creatures.

That’s why The Piss Club watches.

2

The Missing Piece

A piece was missing. The scowl hardening in his mind crossed boundaries, cementing his face into a likeness of dark irritation. A piece was missing! He’d tried every damn piece that he could find. None fit. None.

Well, that just ruined the jigsaw puzzle. Ruined it. It could never be finished. That meant it was ruined.

He clenched his fists. That’s why he despised buying used puzzles. They set you up for the chance, like this, that you would fail. (Well, it wasn’t him that failed — the piece was missing, so he didn’t fail), but it subverted any pleasure he could achieve, stealing the tangible joy of solving a puzzle. That wasn’t to be this time, which wasn’t fair. In fact, it was cruel.)

Vignettes of how this travesty may have come about began quiet visits. The people who’d donated the puzzle had lost the piece. They found it later, after giving the puzzle away. “Oh, look,” the husband said, picking a piece up off of the floor. “We missed a piece.” He looked around. “One of the cats must have been playing with it.” (Of course a cat had been involved.)

“Oh, no,” his wife said, hand to mouth. Reality sank into place. They’d taken the puzzle to the Goodwill over a month before. Maybe two. Nothing could be done now.

He would hunt them down. All he needed to do is get their DNA — probably some on the puzzle pieces, wasn’t there? — and access to a DNA database that had their DNA (hmm…that might be trickier, but he would find a way), and then —

“Found it.” His wife applied the piece with a flourish, pressing it down until it clicked solidly into place.

“How? Where was it?” Disbelief waxing like a warm sun, he stared at the piece. He’d literally tried every piece in the box, taking them out one by one, trying each piece, and then putting the eliminated pieces into a bowl. There was no way…

Well, there was one way. He eyed her. “Did you hide it?”

She giggled. “I’ll never tell.”

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Easy

“Do I have a flat head?” he asked.

The question was from the proverbial blue left field. It certainly had naught to do with what was going on (which was going to the store) (for groceries) (snacks, if they were honest) (he was driving), or what they’d been talking about (movies) (Parasite and Uncut Gems).

“No,” she said. “You have a perfect head. It’s a perfect shape and size. I’ve always admired the shape of your head.”

He nodded, then said something about worrying about it, which was why he was combing his hair differently (she hadn’t noticed). She half-listened, instead thinking how easy it’d been for her to lie.

But that’s what was learned, during forty years of keeping a marriage alive.

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Oh

oh, you pain me

and you give me joy

and, oh, you make me so happy that I can’t believe my luck

oh, you make me so angry that I could spit nails

and oh so sad that I cry hot tears in the car

and have secret conversations with you in my head

(that’s what makes them secret)

oh, your beauty and intelligence amazes me

and your kindness and sweetness inspires me

and no one could ever have a better friend

but oh, your obstinance and rigidity frustrates me

and oh, how your complaints wear me out

and your drinking and habits enervate me

which shows the truth:

love can’t be spelled without oh

 

 

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Again

Remembering the past doesn’t do much good.

That’s what they tell me. The past is dead. Water under the bridge.

But we still spend a lot of time there, arguing about what happened in that particular moment (ah yes, I remember it well), trying to pick out the jigsaw pieces of memory that shows how we got here. (You’d think that weird shape would be easy to find, but the pieces are harder to place than you would have believed.)

Remembering the past can be entertaining. Like, remember how your football team used to win? Remember how skinny and good-looking you used to be? Thank god for photos, or no one would ever believe it, right?

Then sometimes, you pause, glancing up to see yourself coming in through a door in the future, then hold your breath as you look back to see who you were and squint at your self-image to know who you now are.

Then the present — which was the future and has now become the past — crowds in with needs about what you were going or where you were doing — oh, look how mixed up I am! — and then rights your direction until memory calls you away again.

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The Favor

The young, slender woman with short dark hair said, “Excuse me.”

Looking up from his Apple laptop, the man raised his bushy eyebrows. Seeing the woman, he adjusted his thick glasses and smiled. He noticed her when she sat. Yes, she was attractive, and looked fit, but she reminded him of his daughter. She would’ve been about the same age, had she lived. “Yes?”

“Can you do me a favor? I need to use the restroom. Would you mind watching my bag for me?”

“That bag?” The man pointed at the green bag on the table. “Is that the bag?”

“Yes, that’s the very one.”

“Okay, I’ll watch it. But what should I be watching it to do? Does it do tricks?”

The woman laughed. “Yes, sometimes it dances. I’ve seen it but nobody else has ever seen it, so you’d be really helping me if you watched my bag.”

“Well, a dancing bag, I certainly will keep an eye on it. I’ll keep an eagle eye on it. I’ll turn on my laptop’s video and record it, in case it starts dancing.”

Laughing again, the woman said, “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

She headed to the restroom with the man watching, smiling after her. Beginning to return to his computer, he caught movement. Looking up, he gasped.

Her green bag was doing a jig on the table. As he gawked, the bag completed a spin move, then fell back and hopped up. As it danced more, he glanced around for signs of hidden cameras or other witnesses.

The restroom door opened. The bag flopped onto the table into its original position.

“Thank you,” the woman said, returning. “Did my bag dance for you?”

“Yes,” the man said. “It did dance. I wish I had recorded it. Your bag stood up and danced.”

Beginning to sit, the woman stared at him. As she said, “What,” he said, “Is this a joke? Am I on one of those prank shows like Candid Camera?” 

“No, it’ s not a joke.” Picking up the green bag, the woman stepped closer to the man. “I thought you might — ” Her voice was low. “I need your help. Please come with me.”

Turning, she walked away, calling back over her shoulder, “Come on, hurry.”

Packing up his laptop, the man muttered, “Okay, okay, I will, I’m coming, but you have some explaining to do.” As he rushed after her, he muttered, “I should’ve never agreed to watch her bag.”

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Warning Shot

It wasn’t as if he was doing this without meditation and forethought. A dangerous situation prevailed. This wasn’t just his opinion. He’d researched studies on the internet and sought validation by experts. It was only then that he formed his plan and executed it.

First, there was the gun, ammunition, and the ability to aim and fire it. Done in a thrice (an expression that he loved). Next he chose his location. Months of research were conducted. He wasn’t a marksman. A moving target wouldn’t work. Distance was also a premium.

It all came together on a bright and quiet Sunday morning. A guy driving a Prius rolled along, left hand holding his cell to his ear, dismissive of the person in the cross walk. Probably didn’t see them, too occupied with his cell phone. What was so damn important that he needed to drive and talk? Infuriating.

So it wasn’t hard to finally convince himself, do it. The blue car cruised toward him (a little over the speed limit, if he was to judge). He didn’t expect the Prius to stop at the sign. The driver nearly didn’t, but an elderly woman in an elderly green Subaru forced the issue (it was like God was helping him).

Stepping up to the Prius’ passenger window, he fired at the driver four times. Spinning around, he tucked the weapon into his pocket and walked away (calmly, at just over normal speed), defying his body’s urging to run.

Around a corner, he went into an alley where his vehicle was parked. Only then, after he’d gotten into the car, started it up, and driven it away, did celebrations begin.

He’d done it. Laughing, he hit his steering wheel. He didn’t know if he’d killed the man (a kill wasn’t required, the message was in the shooting), but he’d definitely hit him at least once.

Oh, the adrenaline, the feeling of exhilaration.

One down. More shootings were probably required before people got the message (most people were so stupid that they needed to be hit over the head). He’d send a letter to newspapers (that would take some doing to cover his tracks), explaining how and what he was doing. Talking on a cell phone while driving was dangerous. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was saving lives by sending a message.

Nodding to himself, he halted his car at the corner stop sign and watched a police car speed by, red and blue lights flashing, siren screaming. Even if caught and convicted, he was sure he’d be pardoned. He was absolutely certain that his President would approve of what he’d done, killing one to save many. Why, he was just like the police.

Smiling again, he decided on a change of plans. He was hungry. 

Time to celebrate.

2

She Thinks

Sitting with friends, laughing while nibbling a scone (blackberry, overbaked, it doesn’t taste that good, and she’s not that hungry, but she bought it because the rest insisted, “Get something,”), celebrating (after the fact) a friend’s birthday, an epiphany strikes her.

Inspired by Barbara’s recounting of her husband’s recent illnesses (he’d gone through surgery but developed an infection), Diana and Belle are speaking about their late husbands. Both died of heart attacks in their mid-sixties.

She thinks about her husband, two years older than her (and in his mid-sixties). Coughing for days, he’d been listless, and getting worse, it seems. He’d always been a health freak — didn’t and doesn’t drink except for an occasional social beverage when they’re out (which she usually finishes for him), and a pescatarian for over forty years (no, almost fifty years, to be more accurate, always important to her). He runs five miles a day four days a week, cycles everywhere, and rows with a club several times per month, activities that he’d needed to curtail when he’d become ill. A cup of coffee a day, he always said with a wink and a grin, is his vice. Yet, he seemed to be getting sicker.

His illness really started over two years before. He’d seen doctors, and everything was great. (“They tell me that I have the arteries of a teenager.) This is when her epiphany is delivered, a thought so striking that it sucks the air out of the room and her lungs. The voices fade. Dizziness topples her.

Others say suddenly, leaning in, touching her hands and shoulders, concern on their faces, “Are you okay?”

She smiles. “Yes, fine, what?” She shakes her head. “I just got distracted. I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

They buy it after a few seconds. When the attention leaves her, she thinks, is her husband slowly killing himself to keep her from being happy?

It’s audacious and ridiculous, but she thinks, it’s keeping with his character. He’s always been something of a passive aggressive, secret saboteur. His mother, sisters, and cousin had told her stories about how he’d undermined friendships (and an engagement). He was always sneaky when he did it. He’d been the same at work throughout his career, a liar, essentially, but very clever about it, damaging relationships when he did, but always as an innocent, and almost always believed.

Now, he’d retired. No family lived nearby. He has few close friends (were any of them close to him?). Could he have turned his attention to his relationship with her?

She thinks, how? (He could be poisoning himself.) Why? (Because that’s who — what — he is.) She thinks, I have no proof. It’s insane for her to even consider it. Yet, the idea remains moored in her thoughts. She thinks with growing shock as the group breaks up and leaves the coffee shop, it’s possible.

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