Brash Blackberry #10

The MGM Grand Las Vegas has 5,690 guest rooms and an optimum casino area. In 20 minutes, the entire structure will fall to the ground and all of the infidels inside of it will perish.

I dial my wife for the last time. "Be safe my dear," I say to her voicemail while she sleeps. "I love you."

As my men move to the assigned locations throughout the sub-levels of the hotel and casino, I feel joyous to be strapped with explosives. We are finally doing our part to serve Allah righteously.

Americans will wake up this morning unsure of how to act, where to go, and who to trust. They will see another symbol of their prosperity destroyed, and we will be heaven.

It will be a good day.

---

We had been planning for years. Jarryd and I conceived the operation more than two years ago, with the backing of several associates overseas. Finally, another chance to strike fear into the hearts of the Americans, who couldn’t care less about our holy war. But they will.

It wasn’t easy. After recruiting the best ex-military American Muslims we could, we feared there would be problems along the way. In war, there are always individuals who are weaker than they appear. Two of our men disobeyed their instructions. One told his wife exactly what we were doing and the other was arrested for getting in a street fight. They were executed quietly.

We picked Vegas as our attack city for several reasons. One, it is icon that represents the status, wealth, and excess of the United States. Two, it is a city of sinners who appropriate too much of their time for gambling, whoring and drinking alcohol. Three, the authorities keep a keen eye on New York, Los Angeles and the other prominent cities while Vegas is always considered less a priority.

Throughout the planning process, we stayed at the hotel many nights. And during our visits, we slowly found every weakness we could. Some employees were bribed, others were given the option to cooperate or have their families murdered. Our structural engineer estimated where our explosives would need to be placed while our explosives expert acquired the materials.

The night before, we scoped the place once more and discussed exactly what would happen. We set the time for 5 a.m., when the most people would be asleep in their rooms. We imagined how the mid-summer air would be filled with dust and the stench of dead bodies. Then we prayed.

---

I called my backer’s global cell from the prison. All I got was an answering machine message that said, “You’re fired. You have failed in your mission, and should take your life before they torture information out of you. May Allah be with you.”

TKO Question #10

TKO Question #10 [Plot Device]:

Write a scene/story that includes someone getting fired from his/her job.

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

* Precious Pear
* Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
* Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 9 & 10)

Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
Classy Cherry (inactive)

Lively Lime #9

Susan knew as soon as she saw him by the sliding doors of the Hilton. She liked his smile, the way he moved his hands. He exuded a sense of calm that she sought in her life. When they entered the same elevator, she knew it was meant to be.

It was her first day in Portland, Maine, the beginning of a vacation where Susan hoped to relax and ease her senses. This California girl had endured enough of the blistering sun and sticky, smoggy air of Los Angeles, and was determined to get as far away as she could. A meager teacher's salary and one year's savings afforded her a destination limited to the continental United States and two weeks of hotel. Any greater distance or longer stay would have left her without any money for meals, so here she was on the East Coast. It would have to do. Anything to be able to avoid sunglasses for awhile and breathe a little easier. Besides, she heard the seafood here was great.

While in the elevator, Susan tightened her grip on her luggage. She could feel her heart beating a little faster, and everything else was silent. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt. No wedding ring, but a Blackberry. There were many other people in that claustrophobic space, and they had many stops to make on the vertical journey. Somewhere around the 15th floor, he turned and looked at her, smiling that same smile that made her want to freeze time and just stare for awhile. She awkwardly gestured, and the connection was made. He grabbed a pen from his pocket, motioned for her hand, and quickly scribbled "Lobby, 1:45. Chris" on her palm. Then he walked out. He was staying on the 32nd floor. Slightly surprised at what just happened, Susan barely noticed when she arrived at her own destination, the 38th floor. When she entered her room, she sat on the springy hotel bed and looked at her hand. Should she meet him? It was almost 1:30. She thought about it for a little while, thinking back to that wonderful smile.

What the heck. Live a little.

When she arrived at the lobby after another long elevator ride, he was waiting for her, looking a little nervous, the face of an innocent person who had just taken a hopeful leap, but still with hints of a smile, as if he had no regrets. He looked incredibly happy to see her. Brief introductions were exchanged, and they decided to take a walk and get something to eat. The city was bustling with people, who all somehow managed to co-exist and thrive with the abundant greenery. Susan felt reinvigorated by the comfortable temperature and fresh air. Every part of her body breathed a sigh of relief, and she even got some goosebumps from this sudden change of environment. But maybe the goosebumps were also partly because of this kind gentleman strolling beside her.

They settled on a restaurant by the shore, and ordered the house specialty: steamer clams. Susan, who had only ever seen clams chopped or minced inside cans, was especially eager to try this new dish. The pair split two dozen clams and each had a cup of clam chowder. He enjoyed his soup with crackers, crushing them while still in their packaging, then spilling the crumbs and pieces into the cup. It was because he liked the feeling of breaking them up through the plastic with his fingers, he explained. Susan understood the concept. She still liked burying her hands in sand or sacks of grain. They continued their conversation in-between prying parts of their delicious meal from the round, grey shells with countless curved grooves. He was here for a summer conference. She explained that she was a teacher. Both were on their first visit to Maine. The two mostly talked about their meal. They were both aspiring foodies, each disappointed at the fact that their palates had never tasted Maine steamer clams. The pile of empty shells grew taller and taller, and before they knew it, they had finished their meal. Susan and Chris immediately vowed to have lunch together again the next day, eager to sample all the varieties of steamer clams and other seafood this coastal restaurant row had to offer.

And that was how two weeks passed. Each day they met and did sightseeing together, mostly walking. They went to parks and gardens, gazing in awe at the technicolor flowers and smelling the soothing scent of pine trees that were everywhere. They sampled all varieties of fish, shrimp, soups, and stews. But the steamer clams, no matter where they went, remained their favorite. Every morning, Chris would present her with a poem about the previous day's travels. She even liked his handwriting. Smooth curves of ink with long tails of g's and y's. The words were bright and full of beautiful adjectives. She bought a little wooden box made of pine to store them. Around the middle of the second week, with just a few days left of Susan's stay, he started holding her hand. He was a person with whom she enjoyed her senses…..sight….taste… smell….touch…..and she was certain a few more weeks would have led to love.

But too quickly, the day came when she had to get on the airplane and return to her suffocating hometown, and she knew that her newly freshened skin would be replaced with soot and clogged pores once more. She dreaded the journey, and only the thought of the students who needed her convinced her to go back. Chris went with her to the airport and hugged her close as she was ready to leave. Susan thought she felt a little drop of a tear on her neck where he leaned his face, but he must have quickly wiped it away. She gave him a little kiss on the cheek and promised keep in touch. He promised to send her more poems. She looked at the smile, now a little sad, if smiles could be sad, and those gentle hands one last time. On the plane, Susan opened her pine box and smelled the inside. She knew it would forever remind her of this trip and of Chris. Neither would ever see each other again.

Susan took a deep breath before opening the door of her classroom. 15 little children jumped up and cheered in slightly unintelligible but certainly jubilant voices that vibrated loud and clear. Miss Susan was back. "Hello, everyone", she signed. "I'm glad to see you all again." And so began another semester at the Los Angeles Children's School for the Deaf.

Playful Peach #9

The first time it happened I was 5. It was one of those days at the beach where the sun is directly above your head, beating down on your shoulders. I was standing facing the ocean (as my dad taught me) and letting my feet sink deep into the sand. I saw something shiny in front of me that forced my squinting gaze to look down into the sand. That was all it took, one moment of going from bright light to dark and my body began to convulse. I didn’t know what to do so I cried out for my mother as my head hit the sand and I shook so hard it felt like my brain was a small fish in a fishbowl violently shook back and forth. The last thing I remember is looking up at the bright light of the sun before the world went dark.

It didn’t happen again until I was 15. After the first incident my mother became totally paranoid. She acted like my seizure was caused by having too much fun in the first five years of my life and that it wouldn’t occur again if she never left my side. I never went outside unsupervised and I spent most of my time indoors. It was then that I discovered my love for writing. At first I wrote about everything I saw, about my family, the animals I saw, the thoughts I had. But, soon the writing progressed and I started to write poetry. By the time I was 13 I had my first poem on the internet and by the time I was 15 I had my first poem in a literary magazine. But, my real big break occurred a few days before my 16th birthday when I got asked to read my poems at a real life poetry event. I was nervous and excited at once and begged my mother to let me go. She was still a little afraid of me having another attack, but that was 10 years ago and nothing had happened since. I begged and pleaded until she finally caved in. Getting ready that night I wore the sleekest black outfit I owned and completed the ensamble with black barret. When it came my time to read I walked to the front praying that I wouldn’t trip. I perched my body on the stool and looked at the lights ahead of me. Blinded by their glare I glanced quickly down at my poem and suddenly began to feel dizzy. The same shaky feeling that I had when I was 5 was back, but worse this time. I felt my heart pumping fast and knew that I was going to fall. As I laid there shaking I was so disappointed with my body for ruining my big moment.

The last time it happened I was 32. Both of the other attacks seemed largely unrelated to me and I never told my mother about the lights for fear that she would keep me in a dark room forever. I did my time at home under the careful gaze of my mother until I was able to get out of the house. I went to college and studied English planning to be a poet. Somewhere along the way that dream was lost and while I did get my degree in English I ended up being an investment banker in New York City. I lived a fast-paced life always on the go. I never thought of the night at the poetry reading or the day at the beach, my seizures were blips in the larger scheme of my life. All of that changed when I got into the elevator that night. I was leaving work late (like always) and I got into the elevator prepared to go home for a few hours of rest before coming back the office early in the morning. As I was riding the elevator down the lights went out. This startled me, but since the elevator kept going down I was that concerned. But, as the doors opened my eyes were flooded with light. In that moment I was back on the beach again, sand sinking inbetween my toes. In that moment I was back on stage, a confused teenager trying to make it big. But in that moment I was also shaking, my body flailing about. I knew no one was in the building (I was always the last one out) and that no one would be there to move my head from being crushed in the elevator door.

Lucky Lemon #9

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply as I stepped outside. The morning dew hadn’t quite subsided and I shuddered against the morning cool. Morning mug in hand, I sipped my cappuccino and watched the cars drive by. It was peaceful, the first quiet in a few weeks.

---

Stuffed in a suit, the aging weatherman reported the weather news of the decade. “Those who live in areas at low sea levels should work their way to higher ground. The storms will only last a few days but the downpour will be torrential along with high gusting winds and some damaging hail. Experts expect massive amounts of flooding. Again, I cannot stress the importance of getting to higher grounds. Crews have been working day and night building sandbag walls along the edges of the river to contain the flooding, but are only expected to minimize the damage. Experts recommend boarding up windows and doorways as soon as possible.” His non-regional dialect rambled on, but I stopped paying attention and threw on the grungiest clothes I could find.

I’d spent years playing near the bank of the dank and dirty river. As a little girl, my mother had taken a job at a grain elevator nearby its shores. The area fascinated me, as it was so different from my suburban home. Rough and seeming to exist only in grey and brown tones, the elevators were giants reaching far into the sky. Down below in the parking lot scurried the inner city’s scavengers: pigeons, rats, mice, and a fascinating array of insects. They’d feed on the grain dropped by the roaring trucks that made their way in to relieve themselves of their load. Now here I was, trying to save this part of town. Trying to save the grain that was food to many, not just those scavengers.

A thick pair of work gloves on my hands, I helped them build a wall of sand. One bag on top of another, each a new glimmer of hope that someone might live or a home might survive. Standing on the shores of the familiar river, I am astonished that the shells aren’t everywhere. I am reminded that there was a time this whole place was covered in water, not just this muddy stream. I remember my mother telling me that where we lived was once covered in water. I wondered if there were mermaids there, and if my family was descended from a royal family of them, like Ariel. Each shell was unlike those we’d found on our trip to Florida. She told me they were everywhere, not just here on the coast. At home that night, I spent hours digging holes in our yard, trying to find just one.

Way past dinner and even a little past my bedtime, my trowel hit something hard. I reached down and wrestled it out of the earth. Seeing it was just a small rock, I tossed it aside. As it flew through the air, I noticed a faint sparkle. Nabbing it out of the grass, I saw the imprint. An anti-seashell. The place where a shell once was, was now sitting in my tiny palm. I clenched it in my hands, desperate not to lose it, and ran inside. I showed it to her beaming. “It’s a fossil,” she explained, leaning over to tell me about the history of “some dumb rock”.

Back on my front porch, I can feel it’s going to rain. A large thunderstorm is headed toward our house, and I smile as two little hands tug at me. I look into my daughter’s eyes as she holds that same fossil up to me. It is the little things in life that inspire me. They forge together the words on my pages, not I. Like so many before me, I am simply the scribe, moved by the earth so that man may understand her. I am simply that. A poet, and nothing more.

Killer Kiwi #9

Rick absolutely could not roll the R.

“Come on,” I said. “You put your tongue right here-“ I pointed to the roof of my mouth – “and it’s like a car motor. Rrrrrrrr.”

Rick shook his head. “I can’t do it, Paula.”

“El ferrocarril corre muy rapido,” I said, overdoing the Rs. “El ferrocarril tiene barriles de cigarros.”

“Forget it. Let’s work on something else.”

I had been helping Rick, who lived in my building, improve his accent one day a week for a month. He was off to the Peace Corps soon, in Belize, and while he had studied college Spanish for three years, he still had a crappy, hillbilly, white-boy accent that made gracias sound more like grassy ass. I couldn’t understand how any teacher had let him get away with it.

“I have great grammar,” he shrugged. “I write essays like a motherfucker. I just sound like I’m from Kentucky.”

“You are from Kentucky.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I don’t want them to hate me and think I’m some weirdo Southern gringo who doesn’t care enough to speak their language right. That’s why you have to fix me, Paula.”

So we worked. I made him listen to Juanes and Luis Miguel records and sing along. I made him listen to the booktape of Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal in his car. But more than anything, I made him repeat sentences. One for each vowel, each sound that he couldn’t get right. Over and over. A: La muchacha me da unas manzanas. E: El bebe quiere comer setenta y tres chupetes.

“Like me,” I’d say. “Listen. Watch my mouth.” And he would, scrunching up his face in concentration, his eyes on my lips.

We had a breakthrough with O. Dos poetas toman ocho conchas en el elevador. In the space of twenty minutes, he stopped saying it with a W behind it – ohhW – and really heard me open up the sound, make it short and clean. O. I felt like Henry Higgins. He said it again carefully. DOs pOetas tOman OchO cOnchas en el elevadOr. Not perfect, but so, so much better. MejOr.

And a few weeks later, it was time for him to leave. Rick came to my apartment one last time, holding a bottle of wine and a paper bag.

“This is for you,” he said, handing me the bottle. “Also, I have a confession.” He looked embarrassed, almost ashamed. I raised my eyebrows.

“Paula”, he said. “Me ayudaste mucho. Pero la verdad es que mi acento no fue tan malo como dije.”

My eyes began to widen. This wasn’t the hesitant new accent we had been cultivating. This was much better.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “I liked you. I like you. A lot. I always did, the whole time I’ve lived here. When I found out I’d be using my Spanish overseas I thought it was a chance to spend time with you. This was the best story I could think of.”

I put my hands over my face. “Oh God, Rick,” I said. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn't want to be that guy. That’s why I’m making this embarrassing scene right before I make my big exit.”

I shook my head. “What did you get out of it?”

“Two months of Tuesdays with you,” he said. “And I got to watch your lips the whole time. You even told me to. That was nice.”

I sighed, then pulled him away from the door, toward the elevator. “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I feel tricked. I also feel…kind of good, knowing I’m worth faking a shitty accent for.”

Rick pushed the elevator button. “I didn’t give you your other present. I thought, if you weren’t too mad, you could look at it and, you know, remember me. If you wanted.” He handed me the paper bag.

I peeked inside. A small pile of seashells. I looked back at him and couldn’t help grinning.

He pointed at us, then the bag, then the elevator. “Dos poetas toman ocho conchas en el elevador,” he said, perfectly.

“I’ll walk you down,” I said. I took his arm by the crook, tilted my head up, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. His eyes brightened. “Un besO para dOs añOs muy lejOs de aqui,” I said. He kissed my hand, and looked like he had more to say, but said nothing.

When he was gone, I looked back at my bag of shells. Ocho conchas, y yo, una poeta sola. Oyendo el sonido del oceano, pensando en el futuro misterioso. The Os circled around me, dizzying and open and wide.

Mighty Mango #9

I am a great and well-known poet. Don't be too impressed: it will force me to feign modesty, which I am poor at. Everyone comes to my shows and tells me I am a great poet, because I am. I am a fantastic motherfucking poet. I can rhyme anything.

Have you read those stories about autistic children, who are so good at math they don't need calculators? I think the show, or movie, "Mercury Rising" was about this? Okay. Now imagine that with rhymes. I am so good at rhyming I do not need a rhyming dictionary. Someone gave me one as a present once and we're not friends anymore. "I thought it would help." I hope you strangle in kelp! Rhymeburn!

Sometimes rap stars call me for help.

Sally (not a rap star) called once. Help! I'm on the seashore! What do I sell? SEASHELLS, SALLY!

I actually can rhyme the word orange, but I do not do it in public. It is a parlor trick. I was rhyming "annex the land" with "Mexicans command" before you were born, Holmes!

Yesterday at exactly the point in the day before it is the hottest it will get that day, I was talking to a man on a bench in the park in the city. His name was Tom. He pronounced it "Thom," but I, as a poet, think that is a stupid way to spell a name, so I spell it Tom. I spell it that way in my stories and in my poems, of which there are currently none about Tom, but there will be some. If you want to know why then listen.

Tom was in love with his girl. Bridget. He wanted to propose. He had seen my picture on billboards and things, so he sat down on the park bench next to me and he said: "Mercutio!" (My name is Mercutio. Not a stage name. Even at birth, my parents knew I needed a name that would scream EXCELLENT POET.)

Here is the poem I wrote for him.

Tom, get on an elevator and
push
every
button;

and at first she will be mad but
just
say
"what, hon?"

tell her you want to spend every
hour
with
her

including elevators, so will she marry you?
she'll
say
sure.

and she will kiss you and the other
passengers
will be
mad.

because you pushed every motherfucking button
and that
is
bad.

Pleasant Plum #9

Michael Miller Stone III ceased to be when he was three.

Instead, he became “Mikey”. I had started baby sitting Michael when I was in sixth grade; in fact, he was my first baby sitting job. But Michael Miller Stone the Third didn’t make eye contact with me, and he preferred bright toys instead of my well practiced baby faces. Michael didn’t like hugs, or any physical contact. He still didn’t have any first words when I continued to sit for him in high school.

Michael was diagnosed with autism—and became the “Mikey” I love today. Although, I can’t really tell if he loves me. I think so.

His parents needed help. My Saturday job would be to take Mikey off their hands, so they could feel “normal” again. Both were career driven, and had wanted their son to be the same. Ivy League, private school, violin. Those plans were shattered when Mikey’s name changed. When the executive board would get off track and talk about their children, Mrs. Stone would work very hard to be invisible. That was something absolutely against her character. I guess she didn’t want them to know there would never be a need for violin lessons.

Today, I am taking Mikey to the beach. A treat for him, a death wish for me. Mikey’s autism makes him seek sensations and stimulation. Waves, sand, wind, and gulls make him gleeful. Ocean waves make me terrified. Mikey will never learn to swim. Twelve now, a shade of a mustache is forming; belying a maturity that he probably will never have. But shaving him is too much trouble. In fact, everyday functions are almost too much trouble. He’s potty trained. To make him go number one, the care-taker pores warm water over his genitals so he goes. We are still working out a way to take care of number two. He’s wearing an adult swim diaper under his trunks, just in case.

“Hey look! A girl with a pet retard!” , some poetical beach bum. Mikey’s wrist is linked to mine by a tether. It looks stupid and over-protective, but it’s better than the alternative, which is drowning. Mikey sees a seagull. He points, flaps his hands together, lets out an intelligible screech and catapults toward them dragging me along too. Damn the boy is strong!

Sometimes I wonder if there is a place for Mikey. An autistic adolescent who’s cuteness is no longer a bargaining chip. Sometimes I wonder if there is another reason Mrs. Stone keeps encouraging me to take him to the ocean…..

Mikey could be a genius, but his mind just won’t let him show it. There is so much we don’t know about autism. Why his brain won’t let him connect with people, why his mind won’t let him go anything but full speed.

He sees a huge sea shell and runs pell-mell toward it. I anticipate the run to avoid the jerk in the tether. It’s a huge seashell, one that seems to have lived longer and more robustly than any of the others we’ve seen so far today. However, on the bottom of the thing, is this huge nodule of extra calcite. This growth would have prevented the creature inside from scooting along the ocean floor normally. It should have been any easy snack. And yet the shell and the animal inside continued to grow and thrive. Leaving us this humongous shell.

Mikey’s already had enough of the beach. He wants to play in the hotel elevator. He likes the feeling of acceleration-of constantly speeding up and slowing down. Perhaps it’s the same reason he likes the waves.

I pocket the shell before we go. I’ll put it in his room next Saturday. The driftwood, shells, and pieces of multicolored glass run smooth by the ocean, have been brought back by me and all the other caretakers-to give his room a little spunk. He's got a nice shelf to store the little objects that bring him joy.

I think there may be a place for Mikey after all.

At least, I hope so.

Brash Blackberry #9

My head was pounding and palms sweating when I stepped out of the taxi. Naturally, the physical ailments were my fault. While I was at work, my mother called to tell me my uncle David died an hour before. His melanoma had metastasized in his blood. And in response to that news, I took my hidden bottle of Jack Daniels out of my desk and proceeded to drink more than half of it in one sitting.

I fumbled through my wallet and paid the gruff taxi driver, thanking her for the prompt ride to my apartment complex. As I walked in, I saw beautiful woman heading into the elevator. And nothing looks better to a grieving drunk than a space alone with a hot female, even if it’s brief.

As we stepped inside, I got a better look at her. Tight dark blue jeans, a red blouse, and black hair, she looked dazzling and angelic. She pushed the button for 26, the top floor, and I hit 7.

“You look incredibly familiar,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” she said as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Kim.”

And just as she introduced herself, the elevator suddenly stopped on the sixth floor. I grabbed the emergency phone and got an operator. The guy on the other end said they’d get a maintenance person right on it.

My current scenario sounded like a poorly conceived snuff film, like a movie my uncle and I would have rented for a good laugh. But I didn’t want to think about how he was, so I initiated a conversation.

“You know, since we have a moment, we might as well use it,” I said. “I’m Li. Do you live here too?”

“Nope. Just on my way to see a friend,” she said.

I had heard the best place to start in an awkward conversation was to compliment an accessory, so I told her I adored her seashell necklace. She replied by telling me she made it herself.

I was catching an artsy vibe and my suspicions were confirmed when she told me how she was a professional poet. She even had a book you could buy at the store.

“Would you like to see something I’m working on?” she said.

She handed me the notebook she carried with her. I read one of poems scribbled in her book. Something about a beach and a sunset. A little contrived, but I wasn’t about to judge her off of a lousy poem. I lied and told her I liked it.

As soon as I finished reading it, the elevator started up again. When the door opened on my floor, I held my hand over the sensor to keep it open and asked for her number.

“I would, but my phone’s disconnected right now,” she said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

I said good-bye to her and wished her luck with her career. I staggered to my door and hurriedly unlocked it. I grabbed the newspaper that I had already partially read during breakfast and a bottle of Canadian Mist. I sat down on my La-Z-Boy and skimmed today’s news.

Then I saw her – the woman from the elevator. The bottom of the front page. The semi-famous poetess Kim Lai Chen drowned yesterday at Santa Monica State Beach. Authorities weren’t sure if it was suicide or an accident.

My head spun wildly. I’m drunk. What just happened? Who was that? Let me read that again.

I passed out.

When I woke up, my uncle David stood above me with his arms crossed, looking at me with an odd face.

“Hey, you really gotta stop drinking so much on the weekdays,” he said.

Precious Pear #9

Do you know where you are, Alex?

“I’m on the fourteenth floor. My building has fourteen floors. I live on ten.”

Do you understand what we’re about to do?

“On the way up I only stop on even floors. If it stops on an odd floor I walk back to the lobby and start over. On the way down I don’t stop at all. On Tuesdays I take the stairs.”

Alex, I need you to tell me what you remember about last Thursday night.

She was pretty. I liked her jewelry
One watch, black leather strap.
Two earrings, pearl and white gold.
One necklace, a string of eighty six white beads.
Eighty six is good. Eight is even. Six is even. Eight and six together are even. Eight minus six would be even.

Alex? Alex. Are you listening to me? I asked if you remember what you were doing last Thursday night.

Eighty six beads, but only one seashell in the middle.

What exactly is a seashell? If it came from the ocean, could you still technically call it a seashell? Did they all used to be a home for something? I bet they did. But were they shed like a snake’s skin? Or did the animal just die and gradually rot away, leaving the shell behind? Put that way, the necklace was a little more beautiful. I wonder if she knows she’s wearing the only physical proof that some animal ever existed.

“Your necklace used to have a life.”

Alex, you’re not paying attention to me. I need you to answer.

Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe…

I learned to repeat this when I needed to focus.

“I made dinner last Thursday. Chicken alfredo with green peas and garlic bread.”

What did you do after that?

…beware the jabberwock my son the jaws that bite the claws that catch beware the jubjub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch…

I should have learned something more normal sounding. I wonder if Lewis Carroll ever had to answer these questions. I wonder if he ever actually saw a Jubjub bird or if he knew it was made up. I could make up an animal. I’d call it an Akdor. No, I like words with “x” in them. Not many animals have an “x” in the name. Axdor. That’s better.

Stop.

“I watched a movie on TV. Braveheart. For thirty four minutes, then the commercials were too loud so I turned it off and went to bed.”

And after that?

…he took his vorpal sword in hand long time the manxome foe he sought…

“I was woken up and taken here. I’ve been here for ninety-three hours.”

Do you remember ever talking to your neighbor, Mrs. Patel?

…so rested he by the tumtum tree and stood awhile in thought…

“No.”

Thank you, Alex.

**************************************************************************

San Francisco Chronicle
July 9, 2006
Local Woman Found Murdered in Apartment

The body of Vaishali Patel, 84, was discovered in her home Friday morning by local authorities. Cause of death was multiple stab wounds with post-mortem decapitation. Neighbor Alex Thomas, 27, has been arrested for the crime and is undergoing psychiatric evaluation. Thomas was recently released from Langley Porter Psychiatric Institute after a state-ordered stay following a February 10th assault against a family member. There are no further details at this time.

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One, two! One, two!

And through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack.

He left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back.

Tart Tangerine #9

I met her on the beach. We were both reaching for the same seashell. I demurred, letting her have the beautiful alabaster shell. I reached for a sand dollar instead. She smiled shyly at me and thanked me in a quiet voice. She looked so beautiful, lit by the midday sun. I swallowed hard and asked her if she’d like to go to lunch. She said yes.

As we ate, we spoke about seashells. She was a collector from the time she was a young girl. I had recently moved to this seaside community and was looking for something to put in the house that would remind me that I now lived in this semi-tropical paradise. Her sun-kissed skin was all the reminder I needed as we exchanged all the details people share on first dates.

The check came all too soon, and I didn’t want the afternoon to end. Neither did she apparently, because she invited me to a poetry reading at a nearby bookstore. The poet was a local and her poems expressed the simple joys that can be found in a life near and on the sea. During a particularly beautiful poem about the power of a sea-borne storm I felt a delicate hand slide into mine, her slender fingers so gentile on my calloused skin. I squeezed her hand and looked at her sidelong. She smiled back.

After the reading I walked her back to her apartment. She lived on the 20^th floor of a highrise downtown. At the door, I kissed her chastely on the cheek and we made plans to go out again later that week. I walked back to the elevator on cloud nine. I thought I had finally found the person I’d been searching for all these years. She watched me from her place until the elevator door closed. I was enjoying that high that accompanies the beginning of all great love affairs.

That’s when the cable snapped.

TKO Question #9

Write a scene/story where the following three nouns play an important role -- elevator, seashell, and a poet.

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

* Precious Pear
Lively Lime
Mighty Mango
* Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 9 & 10)

Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
* Classy Cherry

Lively Lime #8

(note: this story is a continuation from TKO #5)

Julia said goodbye to her bandmates and caught a cab back home. The dawning sun began to grow brighter, but the January weather still made her shiver as she climbed the front steps of her apartment. She fumbled for her keys, reminding herself there was still some reading left for class that day. After washing the glitter off her face, Julia put her glasses back on and opened her textbook to the page where she clipped her highlighter the night before. As she skimmed the chapters, she thought about the double life she was living, wondering what people from school would think of her if they knew this other side. Part of her really enjoyed the secret.

After finishing, she sat down at her computer with a piping mug of coffee and went to Craigslist.com. She usually only checked the Sales section, and was hoping to find a good deal on some new amps for the band, but for some reason, she wandered towards the left and clicked on "Missed Connections". It was her first time visiting this section of the site.

And then she saw it. Third entry from the top, below "You checked me out on the D train - m4w" and "Pastry chef seeks pizza tosser for delicious fun!" It had been posted about two hours after her band's set finished.

"To the bassist of Goldfish Royals. A law student loves you!"

Julia nearly choked on her coffee.

She clicked the link and read more. "Hi, I caught your show last night, and you guys were amazing! I thought you were especially awesome. The way you played your bass just captivated me. Are you a law student too? I might be crazy, but I swear you sat in front of me in CrimLaw last semester. I'm sorry I never found our your name then. Wow, you look so different onstage…I love your style! You are so beautiful. Please email me back, it'd be great if we could hang out and get to know each other. I know my friends from school would love to hear your music too. I hope you read this. Maybe I'll see you in the halls sometime! - Nathan "

It suddenly became a little difficult to breathe. Julia stared at the screen for a few minutes, trying to convince herself that these words were real. Part of her was extremely flattered. Junior high school flattered, with cartoon hearts floating from her chest and beams of majesty blazing behind her head. But another part of her was nervous. Who is this kid? She strained to remember his face. That fat ex-frat kid who sucks up to the professor? No. The frizzy redhead with bad breath? Wait. That skinny kid with black glasses. He never talked much either. But she remembered being impressed with that answer he gave once about the felony-murder rule. Seemed like an ok guy.

Still, Julia, who hadn't had a date in years, felt as if her cover had been blown. Someone had found out about her alter ego. Her performance clothes were like a superhero cape, and someone was about to expose that average, unimportant, invisible girl and make her become (horrors!) a topic of conversation and gossip at school. How would she deal with all of it? There was something special in keeping her little indie rock band a private sanctuary. She loved her fans, but they were something separate and away from school. Was this Nathan going to take away her escape and flash a spotlight in her eyes now?

She hesitated a little before typing.

"Hi Nathan. We have another gig next Thursday. Same time, same place. Stick around afterwards, we'll talk. Until then, the name's Julia. And I thought that chapter on the Model Penal Code was especially dull."

Julia decided she would wear a little glitter to class that day. It was time for a change.

Lucky Lemon #8

New in CA
Age: 22; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited girl new to the Bay Area, looking for someone to talk to. Boisterous and intelligent, I love to go out or stay in, anything to have a little fun. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for Journey, REO Speedwagon, and anything from a Broadway show. Very independent, I’m looking for someone who cares, but can respect my need for space.

Bored in CA
Age: 24; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited woman from the Bay Area, looking for someone to make a commitment. Boisterous and intelligent, I’m tired of staying in and want to get out to have some fun. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for the songs he sings over the phone. Very independent, I’m scared to death that I’m falling in love and am missing my need for space.

Disillusioned in CA
Age: 26; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited woman from the Bay Area, looking for someone to follow through with his promises. Sarcastic and witty, I’m tired of his lies that he’s coming to be with me. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for Fiona Apple and Ani DiFranco. Very independent, I’m so sorry she found out that it was me.

Separated and Broken Hearted
Age: 26; Seattle
I’m a recently separated woman from Seattle’s suburbs, looking for a man who won’t cheat with my “best friend”. I have a beautiful newborn baby girl, Zoey, who’s my heart and soul. Broken hearted and embittered, I’m looking for someone who understands why I want to forgive him and move on.

Stupid and Alone
Age 27; Seattle
I’m a recently separated man, looking to apologize. She was perfect for me, but I’d always had a thing for her friend. I love her and our daughter Zoey, and would do anything to get them back. Dense and desperate, I can’t believe I thought I’d get away with it.

Tangy Tomato #8

DWF, 60, seeks SM, 55-65, for possible LTR. Must love beagle bassets, scrabble, and swing dancing. Looking for someone who subscribes to the New Yorker, and whose dog gets along with mine.

“So? Mom, what do you think?” I ran to her shaking the newly crafted personal ad I had just written for her. (And already sent in to New York Magazine, without her knowledge).

The divorce had been really hard on her, and she wasn’t putting herself back out there, so I decided that I needed to take action.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed.

She didn’t have the same energy after the custody battles and divorce proceedings.

“Well, like it or not, it’s appearing in New York magazine tomorrow!” I was excited. I had a new project.

The next day, the ad appeared. As did many others, all screaming to be noticed. I never imagined the one I placed for my mom would be.

A few days later, the phone calls started coming in. My mom had agreed to go on a few dates.

After the first date, she came back with stories of how weird the guy was. He had picked her up in his beat up ‘89 Buick Sedan and taken her to Hooters! Of all places! How could he think that was a good first date restaurant? Then he ordered pitchers of beer and wings and didn’t touch a bite. Needless to say, she was not going on a second date with him.

The next phone call seemed more promising, the guy sounded pleasant and this time my mom would only agree to meet for coffee, so as not to have to spend any more time than necessary if he was a disaster. And he was. This date was even worse than the first. He hadn’t even finished his non-fat, decaf, extra foam, no whip, one squirt of vanilla latte, when she politely excused herself.

More calls came in. My mom began avoiding the calls. “Please?” I begged her. I had started taking the calls for her. “I’ve had enough.” She replied.

The next day the phone rang again. “Um . . . hi.” A voice came over the phone. “I’m answering the personal ad you placed. It’s actually not for me, but for my friend.”

“Oh good! It’s not for me, either,” I replied, “I placed the ad for my mom.”

“Our friend Joe has been having a hard time lately. His wife passed away last year and we’re trying to get him back out there. He’s really wonderful but is kind of against this whole ‘personal ad’ thing, so I’m doing it for him.”

He sounded great. Just like my mom. She could survive a dinner with this guy.

“Oh, and I saw she swing dances.” The friend chimed in, “Joe does, too.”

Oh my god. How perfect!

“Um, so should we set up a dinner and swing dancing?” Mom was going to kill me.

“Sure. Tomorrow night?”

“Sounds great!”

I told my mom about Joe and her dinner and swing dancing date with him. She was less than thrilled, but agreed to go.

The next night before her date, she looked beautiful. In her flowy green skirt and matching ballet slippers, with her hair pulled back, she looked so natural and she was smiling!

I felt like the parent. Waiting anxiously up for their child after a big date. I paced nervously in the kitchen as hours passed. She’d be home by now if it hadn’t gone well, right? She’d have to be home by now. It must have gone well!

Later that night, my mom got home. It was the best date she’d been on in years.

Two years later, I stood beside my mom as her maid of honor when she married Joe.

Rare Raspberry #8

*phone rings*


Yeah, Hi I’m calling in regards to an ad I read in the paper. I just have a couple of questions for you.

Sooo you’re saying I can absolutely anything I want for 45 minutes?

And do you have any problems working with props, more specifically live props?

Okay that’s great, and just for the record you are legally considered a midget, right?

Alert Apple #8

I am 43, DWM seeking slim, S/DWF 18-30 who enjoys long walks by moonlight, movies, and reading the Word of God. Non-smoking preferred. I am currently incarcerated, release date 10/06. No kids.

"Kim, do I have to keep reading these?" she asked plaintatively. "Every time we travel, you buy 'Trucker Singles.'"

"Keep going until you pick one," I replied. "You're the one who makes the big deal about not having a boyfriend."

The rest of the team laughed. This joke seriously never gets old. Really, Brandi is such a tease, this is the least she deserves. She's the "tongue slut" -- she makes out with whomever she gets drunk with every Friday night, but then proclaims her intact virginity as a perverse badge of honor.

"Besides," I continued, "we really need to analyze these carefully. I mean, you never know, right?"

"Yeah," Anthony piped up. "'Long walks like moonlight.' You think that is for the best chance to kill you?"

"Yes, I'm wondering about that too," Brandi had returned to studying the columns. "And I don't know if 'no kids' means he doesn't have any or you can't."

Mark seems to go quiet during this game. He just hangs out in the back-most row of seats, nursing his torch for Brandi. He doesn't have a chance, you know.


I am a SM, 52, seeking a SF, 30-50 for LTR. I enjoy country music, dancing, and long talks late into the night. Appearance not important and should not be for you either.

Mark is sitting next to Brandi this time, helping her identify the best candidates to read out loud. She's nestled under his arm. She does that to every boy in the seat next to her on every trip. Poor Mark, he thinks he's scoring but he is just hitting the post. Besides, I have a strict policy -- no intra-team dating. Too much damn drama.

"'Appearance not important?'" Anthony shouts. "He must be a beaut! How many teeth you think he has?"

"Yeah, well, at least he's honest." That's Brandi, always pretending to find something positive.


DWM, 64, seeking S/DF any age to share my country home and grow old with. Let's hang up the keys and discover life.

"Oh, gag me with a forklift." I roll my eyes.

"'Country home', can you describe a double-wide that way?" Anthony is a never-ending fountain of these things.

Brandi tosses "Trucker Singles" aside. "You know, you can't make me read these anymore, now that I actually have a boyfriend. Ha. Ha. Ha."

I glance in the rearview mirror. Mark's draped on her like a cloak. "Really?" I say. "If only he could see you now." If Brandi really has a boyfriend, she's going to need to stop cuddling with every guy in the van on every trip. People will talk, especially debaters.


How many tournaments did you attend?
4 or 5

What, you can't count weekends? Course evaluations are so...meh. It's usually whatever comes off the top of their head. But administration says we have to "value assessment", whatever that means.

What was your favorite part of the course?
Listening to different debates.

Yay. Me too. Not. I think I'm getting burned out. Of course, I feel that way every April.

Is there anything else you would like to tell me about the course?
Mark and I have been dating since October. Love, Brandi.

I love these kids.

Gutsy Guava # 8

In a public forum, nothing is really real anymore.

Supposedly hospitals and airplane terminals page nonexistent people as a way to communicate with employees without inciting panic.

When you sit at the coffee shop on the corner, even if you can’t seem to recall ever really caring how you look you still change your posture to appear more…something.

In a personals ad, the terminology used can be read in at least a hundred different ways. The allies could have used substitution codes of this caliber to outdo the enigma cipher.

When you open a paper to the back section and thumb past all of the many ads for used trucks, yard sale announcements, and antique dealers to the personals section? Anymore you’re not reading English.

Athletic means small breasts.

Outgoing means either insecure, or an abusive pushover.

References to food are veiled limitations on possible date places.

All of this, a string of euphemisms so layered they would put a funeral director to shame.

All of this in the pursuit of love, or some undying bond people need to feel.

All of these feelings, brain chemistry reactions that make sure humans pass their genes on.

Spreading around the world more, and more.

An infinite cycle.

And all it does is create more personals ads, printed on cheap paper that cycles through again.

Every now and then, an ad surfaces that seems to get it, Some kitsch, ironic snippet that doesn’t bother to whore out the individual doing the advertising. A catchy phrase that subtly mocks the institution being used while at the same time, earnestly straining against the bounds of life.

Those ad’s don’t have a target market, or rather will never reach it.

Even reading them in a joking fashion can’t do much to cover up the fact that at it’s base, the self-deprecation in such an utterly self-absorbed exercise is unavoidable.

And so, the cycle goes on.

Pleasant Plum # 8

As he pulled the needle and thread through the ripped sail, he tried not to look down. The sense of vertigo would result in fatal drop. He continued to do his job, triple checking the sails, ties and ropes for signs of fatigue. It was a calm day, and the winds had allowed him to do this repair work. He thought back to when he first saw the ad…

He was walking home late, his boss’s last rant still pounding his eardrums. He could see the lamp lighter’s pole bobbing down the street, illuminating a crumpled newspaper. Jack had caught the old “Daily Express” as it shuffled down the brick street and into the gutter. If nothing else, it would be good toilet paper and save a schilling or two. He would have an evenings entertainment before putting it to another use in water closet.

His apprenticeship at the tannery was not going well. The smell of tanning fluids and sight of the carcasses made him vomit. This disturbing skill had got him the job of moving the animal waste around. At least then he couldn’t ruin anything. He desperately scanned down to the “Help Wanted” section. The pale ink had almost no contrast against the cheap pulp, and he had to squint to decipher the words. He had seen it then. Wanted: Men 16-22 to be deck hands for the East India Company.

It was momentous, a chance to get out of England, to see the colonies and other worlds. Leaving the stink, slime and filth for a slightly dangerous sailing job had seemed an excellent trade. He had shown up at the office the next day, afraid that the age of the “Daily“ had condemned him to a life of sorting pig intestines for sausage.

Young and inexperienced, he had to be literally shown the ropes. What goes where, when, how to make the correct stitches to darn the sails. He had to help do the grunt work; taking inventory of the bland dry goods that were being sent. The Colonists seemed to survive mainly off of pickles and saltines.

He gingerly worked his way down the rigging, reminiscing about those dry-land days. He gave the solar sails one last tug. The East India Space Trading Company had recognized his brilliance with the pickle inventory, and rewarded him with this voyage. As he looked down at the shrinking globe below him, he saw the world for the first time.

Next stop: the colonies and into the stars.

Mighty Mango #8

WANTED: Boyfriend.

Must like (ironically) Fraggle Rock, Care Bear cartoons, He-Man; must like (non-ironically) early Bowie, Mr. Show with Bob and David, etc. Willing to negotiate on late Bowie.

Must not be picky. Must not be wishy-washy. Must have strong preferences about which you are flexible. Must think my own inconsistencies with my desires is cute and/or mysterious. Must be willing to tell people you think so (not your mom) (mom okay if you tell several others).

Must have been raised Jewish and/or Catholic (no Presbyterians) but must not still be practicing in any sense. Muslims, other turban-centric religions need not apply. No Taoists. Buddhists OK. Confucians will require second round of interviews.

Must like cherries, strawberries, red grapes (no purples!!). Boysenberries absolutely unacceptable. Must be tall but not too tall. Must be strong but not "built." Tan okay. Pale okay. No acne. Must have own car.

Gay friends a plus. Gay parents a big plus. No "recovering gays" unless you went to the camp ironically. Fans of "But I'm a Cheerleader" encouraged to apply.

Must be willing to make up bands when asked what favorite bands are. MUST sound real. No cheating with computerized fake band generation programs.

Must like moonlight walks. Must dislike walks unlit by moonlight (includes sunlight). No bankers. Certain kinds of lawyers acceptable. Record store clerks need not apply unless you took the job before the release of the movie "High Fidelity" (must have proof--paystub, tax forms, etc. acceptable.)

Glasses okay unless they are not prescription. No colored contacts. All manners of shoes acceptable except military boots (army, etc.) and red chucks. Red chucks OK if you will share them with me. (I get them on Saturdays, Tuesdays. Fridays negotiable.)

Must be able to play the guitar and/or piano, enough for at least one song. Must be willing to strum thoughtfully to work through your problems, at least for a few minutes. If piano, must have own piano. Grand okay. No baby grands. Must know own piano mover or be willing to hire one.

Late-90's indie kid haircuts need not apply. Jet black hair okay only if natural. Right now I like 80's haircuts, but open to seeing the possibilities of 70's, etc. New haircuts not encouraged but possibly okay. Must not use more hair product than me in the morning; must not use less. Not willing to share hair products. Hair dryer sharing okay but discouraged. If have extra hair ties from last girlfriend willing to share with me, a plus.

Must like dogs but not have a dog. Must dislike cats but have one or two. Some strange pets okay; inquire in advance. Guidelines: no snakes, lizards; ferrets sort of cool. Must treat the cats well despite your dislike for them (bodes well for our relationship). Cats must have cool names; names that are too cat-like ("Mr. Claws," etc.) unacceptable unless they are pop culture references; then it will depend on coolness of what you are referencing.

Must read The Village Voice, or at least be willing to have it lying around. Must have vaguely dystopian political views; voting acceptable but I will not go with you. Attending protests ironically acceptable. Attending protests non-ironically discouraged. Must feel intensely about one or two minor issues never addressed by any mainstream political movements, so that the issue will never go away and the feelings will never need to be updated. Readers of New York Times okay. Wall Street Journal readers need not apply. USA Today need not apply. Willing to negotiate on LA Times but I will not read it. Subscribers of any newspaper with a "Funnies" section highly encouraged to apply. (Always wanted to tell someone I subscribe to a newspaper "for the funnies.")

Must be in good health. One semi-cool non-gross medical condition acceptable. For examples, see addendum. Practitioners of "Eastern medicine" need not apply; casual acupuncture OK. Ironic acupuncture a big plus. A medicine cabinet like the first scene of "Garden State" a big plus. (Not having any pills in the bottles okay.) Must have seen Garden State and like it, but not too much, and mostly for the soundtrack. Must be enthusiastic about the Iron&Wine song in particular; must like it more than the Postal Service original; must not under any circumstances like the second-to-newest Death Cab album. Not liking any Death Cab albums acceptable, possible big plus.

Teetotalers okay. Hyper-specific beer preferences okay; hyper-specific wine preferences not okay. No hard alcohol drinkers unless doing it over a lost love and/or me.

Must like semi-fictitious personal ads. Must be good at writing them but not better than me. Must keep a journal; paper encouraged; LiveJournal, Xanga unacceptable. Must be willing to read my blog and defend me from comments which do not "get it." Flickr accounts a plus pending review of what you have marked as your favorites. No MySpace accounts. Facebook okay if you are willing to mark your relationship with me as "It's Complicated" and/or "Married".

Must cry at parts of movies not traditionally thought sad. May not cry at "normal" sad parts unless alone (includes w/ me). Must have a stock of good lies to explain puffy eyes if I suddenly come in and ask you if you were crying at the end of "Steel Magnolias." Must not ever watch "Steel Magnolias" unless it is on TV and you fall asleep. Lies must not be so good as to fool me, but it is OK if it takes me a few minutes to figure out you were lying.

Must like playing games that no one has heard of. No Taboo players. Chess encouraged if you don't look like a chess player.

Must be willing to fit none of these requirements and still excite me. Must be able to help me get over my last boyfriend (who fit every single one of these categories). Must make me not want to file these ads anymore.

Must smell good.

Killer Kiwi #8

Missed Connections

N train: When the doors opened at Union Square you rushed in, red minidress, knocking over an old woman trying to get out. I was the bearded man you stepped on making for the last seat, which you beat out a pregnant woman for. I think I’m in love with you. Call soon.

1 train: At South Ferry you wore a tinfoil bonnet and yelled that the Chinese were selling our babies to the aliens. I know! Call me, but from a pay phone, because they’re always listening.

6 train: You were a three person subway mariachi band. You played “La Paloma” con gusto as the train lurched left and right. You made five whole bucks, and my heart stood still. Because a mariachi band needs four! Call, and let my guitarrón join us all in harmony and shiny quarters from tourists. Les espero.

Staten Island Railway: I passed you getting off the train at New Dorp. You’re 15 or so, pissed off look, pack of cheap cigarettes, yelling cuss words. Me too! Let’s get together and stand in the food court for six hours.

E train: You were selling socks, but you left the car too early. I need socks! Come back!

LIRR: I passed you on the platform and you’re wearing my fucking Jets jacket that got stolen last week. My girlfriend bought that for me, you fucking douchebag. Call me up so you can get the ass kicking of your life.

M2 bus: You were a Japanese tourist. I was also a Japanese tourist. You had a Mets cap. I had a Yankees cap. You wore tight jean shorts. I did too. You had a disposable camera. I had a camera phone. You had a FAO Schwarz bag. I had a Bloomingdale’s bag. You had your nose pressed against the window. I only had eyes for you. Call me. There’s someone special and unique for everyone.

Playful Peach #8

“E-Harmony is stealing my money!” she told a classroom of laughing college students.

“And, not only a little bit, it has been months and months of them taking money and providing me with no matches,” she said doing what she does best, making light of something that actually hurts her deeply.

She knew that no one in her class would be surprised that the Christian site wouldn’t find her a suitable mate. She did teach at a Christian University and was a lifelong member of the Baptist church, but that was where her Christian appeal ended. While she was beautiful, with long wild curly hair and California tanned skin, she was also a Democrat, rabidly Pro-Choice, a divorcee and a Feminist (the hated label for conservative Christian men.) To top it off, while she did teach at a Christian school the subjects she taught were a scandal to her classrooms and to the administration. “Christians can’t be taught about human sexuality, we should all just date Jesus instead.” If it weren’t for the power and money that her father held in the Christian world the dean would have fired her long ago, but even Christians need money.

She thought she didn’t even want a husband/boyfriend/whatever else people thought that she needed. She was happy coming home to her cats and that her books, both of which were better and less hurtful company than men were. And, E-Harmony wasn’t the first site that she had been to, it was just the first Christian site. The first ad she placed was in a small local paper and her creepy Uncle Irving was the only person that answered it. That was the first in a series of award personal ad meetings. She couldn’t figure out why she kept going, maybe she was intent on making herself miserable.

She went to check her special personal ad email that night expecting the usual creepo freaks, but was pleasantly surprised to find a normal sounding person had responded. He lived in the area close to the college where she taught and said that he wanted to meet her for coffee, which she respected. Men that wanted to meet for drinks usually just wanted to have sex and men that wanted to meet for dinner usually wanted to get married the next day, but men that wanted to meet for coffee usually wanted to have good conversation filled with laughter and innocent flirting. She had been on enough personals dates to know the good ones from ones that make you want to gouge your eyes out with a spoon.

She walked into the coffee shop a little bit late on purpose; she didn’t want to look too eager. She looked around and saw one of her students sitting in the coffee house. Damn, he wasn’t here yet, that meant that her “I’m breezy so much so that I am a little late” cover didn’t work. She smiled and walked up to Brent, one of her more attentive students.

“Hey Carrie,” he said, (she made all of her students call her by her first name so she didn’t feel old)

“Hi,” she smiled back hoping to convey that she couldn’t talk for that long.

But, then he started to look a little uncomfortable, which was odd for Brent. He was one of her most confident students, always prepared with the answers. But now his eyes which were usually stern and sparkling, looked down shyly from her gaze.

“What is it?” she asked, a little confused by her students demeanor.

“Um…well…. I am the one you are supposed to be meeting tonight,” he said while looking down at her shoes.

Her face flushed red in a matter of seconds. Either this was a cruel joke and the student was mocking her by showing up for a date, or he really was interested in her and she had yet another unavailable man like her. She was frozen, unsure of what words to say which was odd for her; she usually had too much to say.

“I know what you are thinking, I am too young and you are my professor and it would be wrong” he said, listing all the obvious reasons why she should turn around and run out the door. “But, I think I deserve to be given a shot,” he said, gaining more confidence as the words spilled from his mouth, “I mean, we all laugh when you joke about dying alone with cats, but no one would choose that. I know you are lonely and unhappy and I also know that I could be the one to fill that unhappiness.”

She didn’t know what to do. Brent had always been just a student to her. He was attractive, with brown curly hair and flashing blue-green eyes, but she had never thought about him that way. She was old enough to be his mother, although she wasn’t sure that he knew that. She started to feel like a creepy older woman as she mentally sized him up. Just as she was about to let him down, he spoke.

“Look, I know you probably think this is weird and maybe you could even get fired for this,” (she hadn’t thought of that before but she was now), “but all I am asking you to do is to think about it. I know that I am asking you to risk a lot, but I think we could be something great. You don’t have to make your decision yet, but think about it and if you want to, meet me tomorrow night at the coffee house on 33rd street,” he said, proud of himself that he was able to plead his case so articulately considering that he was shaking all over.

And, before she could speak he was gone, leaving her speechless sitting listening to the jazzy tunes played throughout the coffee house. She didn’t know what she was going to do.

She went home that night to her empty apartment feeling the worst she ever had after one of her personals dates. Certainly no one would approve if she decided to meet Brent. Not her sisters, parents, friends and certainly not the administration at school. While getting fired from her job might actually be a relief, the thought of it was terrifying. But, not being alone anymore was so comforting. She thought of having a warm body to sleep next to and it made her glad.

It was that thought that kept her feet moving the next day and she walked, both afraid and excited, to the coffeehouse on 33rd street.

Classy Cherry #8

Maggie only knew one woman whose taste in men was worse than hers – her mother. Her mother had married the first boy she’d ever kissed and been unhappy since. The only thing her parents ever did together was argue. Despite this, they’d been married for almost thirty-five years. So of course Maggie’s mother never understood why her daughter never dated a man long enough for him to propose. “They couldn’t be that bad,” she’d nag, “I’ve stayed with your father all these years and they can’t all be as pathetic as him.” But somehow Maggie always found something wrong with them.

Her first boyfriend, Todd, asked her out when she was fifteen. He always smelled of his cigarettes and CK One. He’d stuck his rough fingers into her panties before she was even comfortable kissing him. It was years until she let another man touch her again.

There was Rick the charming soccer player. He spent more time looking at other girls than he did at her. She never caught him cheating on her but she always suspected it. Then there was Steven who only ever talked about trucks and beer. She couldn’t remember anything about him now except that he wouldn’t be caught dead driving a Ford and that he was grumpy if his beer was warm. There was Ethan, the beautiful Jewish medical student. Maggie’s mother had loved him because of his title alone. But there wasn’t enough room for both her and his ego in his life. There was the preschool teacher – James? Jack? He had the intellect of a child and he bored her. She really liked Sage for a couple of weeks. He was as exotic as his name but even greedier for her attention.

Her last boyfriend was Michael. She found him wildly attractive – he had short, curly hair and hazel eyes. Only one of his cheeks pinched into a dimple but that never stopped him from smiling. He’d been a poet from the first day they met. He told her how she stirred a passion for life within him that he hadn’t known existed before. Woah. She still got a little breathless thinking about the intensity of those words. When she undressed for him, he looked at her like she was the first naked woman he’d ever seen.

Maggie had loved him for a while. She thought his skin was perfect and she loved it when he made her breakfast in bed. But as always, her superhuman ability to criticize kicked in. She thought he took her for granted. He didn’t pay enough attention to her. He didn’t kiss her often enough.

Michael left her. He said he couldn’t take the pressure and it hurt him too much to never be good enough for her. Her mother actually sobbed when Maggie called her to tell her the news. She reminded her for the millionth time that she’d married her father and that Michael was certainly more tolerable than him. “You’re thirty and you’re still single. You’re not getting any younger.”

When she hung up the phone, Maggie cried too. She missed Michael but she didn’t even want a man anymore. She didn’t want to tolerate anyone; she wanted to love him. But her mother took it as a personal failure that her daughter was an “old maid.” Maggie was staring out the window at the grey sky when she had a fabulous idea. She would take out a personal ad. Woman seeking gay husband.