Precious Pear #11

Something wakes me and I stretch my foot to feel the quickly cooling sheets. How does she keep getting up before me? I turn over and see no body. No good morning. Just her watch on the nightstand. As long as she left her watch, she would be coming back the next day. So we stare face to face and count the seconds until the door shuts. 4,3,2... gone. Two months and she's still as much a mystery to me as the first day we met. Eventually she'll have to give in. Until then, I better learn a few more phrases.

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I met Jason two months ago during my vigorous campaign to not die alone. I was terrified of becoming one of those lonely old women with no friends besides my eighty-seven cats. So even if Jason wasn't perfect, he at least walked on two legs. It's possible my standards have become a bit lax. I was in church at the insistence of my mother- apparently all the "best" single men can be met through divine intervention. Whatever. I promised to go, but I didn't promise to like it. I hid the TV Guide in my hymnal and passed the time planning my inevitably solitary week. One Sunday, I had the unmistakable sensation I was being watched. I'd been caught.

"Dieu peut être très ennuyeux parfois." I felt better disagreeing with God in another language. Besides, I learned from The O'Reilly Factor that the French were Godless cowards, so maybe He wouldn't catch on.

"Oui... La vie est belle"

He had no idea what I was saying.

"Tu es completement debile"

"Mieux vaut en paix un oeuf qu'en guerre un boeuf."

That's how our relationship began. And since then, I've kept insulting him to his face while he regurgitates phrases he must have learned from Olive Garden menus. I worked up the nerve to sleep with him, but I still can't quite stomach the early morning post-coital chit chat. Too personal. I'm too smart for him and I don't care for his sense of humor, but if I have to be unhappy, I'd at least appreciate the company.

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Even if nobody notices I'm gone until the neighbors complain about the rotten smell and constant mewing, I'm determined to leave an undeniable impression on whoever cleans out my house after I die. One of my most prized possessions is a bookcase in the middle of my living room tottering under the weight of nearly eighty identical black notebooks, each filled with the memoirs of a personality that never really existed. Number 29 is a young woman whose lover nobly put himself between a bullet and the British Prime Minister. She subsequently threw herself down the stairs, determined not to go on without him; unfortunately she succeeded only in paralysis and spent the rest of her days bedridden and heartbroken. Number 41 is a 17-year old boy whose years of sexual abuse and acid addiction have convinced him he turns into a falcon at night and feeds upon virgin flesh.

My favorite is number 55. It's about a deeply depressed woman who is tormented by the knowledge that her mother unsuccessfully carried her twin in the womb for five months.

I should have been the other twin. The lucky twin. The twin that was smart enough to hang herself with the umbilical cord before having to put up with this backwards, bullshit world.

That one may or may not have been slightly auto-biographical.

Fictitious friends aside, I still harbor a fantasy that I'll eventually meet a white knight who will fully appreciate my... eccentricities. Like Jason, the funny guy at church who doesn't realize that bitch Isabelle is always insulting him. I wish somebody would fake a language for me someday. Oh well. Time to feed the cats.

Mighty Mango #11

“Mom! Will you tell Ellie to get her stupid friends out of here?”

That was the first thing I heard when I got home: Lisa and Ellie fighting again. When they were born, the idea of having twins seemed vaguely romantic, or science-fictiony, or something. It turns out that having twin daughters is like having twin boils on your ass. It sucks, and there’s two.

“Ellie! It’s seven o’clock. Tell your friends to go home so that Lisa can—oh, Breyer. Hi! I didn’t even hear you come in.”

My wife, Helen. Helen and I went to business school together. Here’s an advice for all the young turks out there: don’t marry anyone you meet in business school. Okay? It seems like a good idea: power couple, make lots of money, Bill-and-Hillary thing, right? Actually, most of the time, you end up marrying yourself, and it turns out that I’m not a very pleasant person.

“Hi Helen.”

And that was it. That was the only thing we said to each other for an hour. And you know what? I don’t even mind. I don’t think she minds, either. My life is not a tale of wistful longing, of lost romance, of wanting. I don’t want anything. I don’t want romance. I just want to keep up the appearances of my marriage and work, because dammit, I like my job. I love it.

So I retired to the bedroom. Getting home at 7pm was sort of a treat, because it meant I could watch “Jeopardy!” (I love Jeopardy!) as it was airing, rather than on the TiVo. So I curled up my feet on the bed, and reached for the remote—

Damnit. God damnit. Where is my fucking TiVo remote?! Probably buried under a pile of… what the fuck is this? Liberté: A first-year French Textbook. Wonderful.

Lately, Ellie's French books have been all over the damn place. I assume they’re Ellie’s books, anyway. They’re… about high school age, I’ve got to imagine. Kids take language classes in high school, yeah? And obviously my daughters aren’t going to take Spanish or something. I guess they could be Lisa’s. She’s… bookish. She has books. I’ve seen her read a book before.

It really pisses me off that they’ve been in here. They’re not supposed to be in my bedroom. I keep private things in here! Well, I don’t, actually. All of my private things are in my office. But I could. I could keep really goddamn private shit in here. I could have naked pictures of their mother in here, spread-eagle.

Thinking that thought weirded me out a little bit.

I’d tell Helen about the books. But the last time I found Liberté lying around and complained to Helen, so she’d talk to the girls, she just looked embarrassed and changed the subject. Helpful, Helen. Meanwhile goddamn Liberté is sitting on the coffee table next to some… tea cups, I guess. Some kind of cup. People drink tea from white cups, yeah? I think my Mom used to do that. Have friends over, drink tea. Whatever.

“Ellie! Lisa! Get in here!”

No one was going to leave a goddamn French book in my room. Not while Breyer Brest Levinson was the king of his household!

They skulked in. “What, Dad?”

“Who left this book in here?”

Silence.

“I know one of you did. Whose is this?”

“I take Finnish in school,” said Lisa.

“You do? That’s cool,” said Ellie.

“Shut up. I like it!” Lisa was, I think, overreacting. But it was hard to—

“I’m serious! I want to take Finnish.”

“You can’t,” said Ellie, sardonically. “It overlaps with cheerleading practice.”

“Oh.”

Why is this drama bomb going off in my bedroom?

“I don’t care who wants to take Finnish,” I said. “Who is actually taking French?”

Silence.

“Whatever. Get out.” Boils on your butt. Having twin girls is exactly like having boils on your butt. Boils that lie about their French books.

Sigh.


Tomorrow was Sunday. Which meant, inevitably, that sometime tonight Helen was going to ask me to go. Which meant, inevitably, that I was going to say yes. I’ve tried getting out of this a lot of ways. Staying late at work doesn’t work because she leaves a note in the foyer before I go to bed. Falling asleep early doesn’t work because she wakes me up to ask.

I’m not against God, per se. I just don’t… feel like going to church. Is that shallow? Well, whatever. I don’t. I want to sleep in. On the rare Sundays that I don’t have to go into work at all, I like to sleep in, wake up, eat some toast, watch my recorded copy of Meet the Press, and relax. Hearing about how I’m supposed to love blah blah and whatever is fine, but I just don’t… get it.

But I can’t say no. If I tell her no it will become an issue. A fight. Some goddamned thing, that we’ll have to talk over and truthfully, I’ve measured this stuff, the talking and fighting takes more time than church. Which is pretty unfair. She gets to make me go to church by fighting with me for longer than church would take.

Knock on the door. “Breyer?”

The fact that we knock on our own bedroom door should really tell you something.

“Yeah. Come in.” I quickly turned up the TV volume so I could appear to be paying really close attention.

“Are you coming to church tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Pause. Helen’s standing there with the door open, I’m pretending to listen to Rear Admiral Dipshit on television miss a basic Kafka question. And there’s this weird moment where I feel like I should say something, but truthfully, I don’t want to talk to her that much. What am I supposed to ask? Hey, Helen. How was raising the girls today? Oh, yeah? Blah blah blah and whatever? Great, great.

“Well, thanks, Breyer.” And she walks away.

And I fall asleep like that. About half an hour after Law and Order. Helen got in bed beside me sometime during the night, because when we wake up, she’s there.

I sit through church. On the way there, Ellie compliments Lisa’s shoes, which she manages to take offense to. Ellie’s wearing these sort of strappy sandal things which, honestly, look goddamn uncomfortable to me, but that’s how all of Ellie’s shoes look. I think 16 is too young to be wearing even a short heel, but all of that’s Helen’s department.

But Lisa is just wearing flat-footed slippers that look like ballerina shoes to me. Comfortable. Drab. Boring. But comfortable. I think there’s probably a subtext here, but damned if I have ten minutes to sit down and puzzle it out.

Don’t think I’m a monster. I’m not. I do care about my girls. I just don’t know them. And I don’t think they want me to know them. It hasn’t always been this way—me sitting in church, hoping the Colts win their game this afternoon. I used to work shorter hours, come home earlier. I did love Helen. We got married, after all. I didn’t have to do that.

But who knows? You drift apart in a marriage. I tried to commiserate with “the guys,” but none of them really understood. Helen was… I don’t know. I lost her, somehow, somewhere along the way. I don’t remember a point. Did I do something? I don’t know. But I lost her. And then the girls were born, and they were hers. Twin girls. I was never a part of any of the decisions.

Worked later. More money. More satisfying, to work. Get to contribute to something. Do I miss the old images I’d have, of fantasies of old age, hopes for a hammock together and a glass of lemonade on a summer afternoon? Yeah. Shit, yeah, I miss all that stuff. But things aren’t so bad. My girls are growing up smart. Smarter than me. Lisa’s smarter, anyway.

We arrived at the Episcopal Church about ten minutes before services started. The crowd was still milling around a bit.

“Breyer? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Helen. “This is Marie-Élise Rousseau.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Breyer.” We shook hands, and I sat down. The minister came in, and services started.

“Today’s reading is from the Book of Ruth.”

Playful Peach #11

“Welcome to Camp Refuge, a place that you will soon learn to call home!” the camp director bellowed while standing in front of the crowd of gaunt teenagers sitting cross-legged in a meadow surrounded by tall trees. Three boys stood out in the crowd of young women all frail and pale, all looking miserable. The boys sat together bound by their common gender. They couldn’t believe this place pretended it was a camp (as if they were going to actually have fun here), but they also couldn’t believe they had the girls disease.

Ethan was the perfect child all his life. His father was an Episcopalian minister and every Sunday since he was 8 Ethan sang in the choir. He had the voice of an angel people in the congregation would say. His angelic voice was matched by his perfectly kept blonde hair and shining blue eyes. He was, based on all outward appearances, the perfect child. However, when he got into middle school something changed in Ethan. He looked distracted in church, like his mind was somewhere else. Then, he started losing weight. It started out small; he lost a few pounds here and there. His parents ignored it believing that he was just going through a phase. He was a healthy boy, he said his prayers and ate dinner with them every night. What they didn’t notice was what he did after dinner. The first person to acknowledge his condition was his dentist, who suggested that Ethan’s parents put him in therapy. They didn’t know how to handle their son having this problem and life at home was a nightmare for Ethan. His mother constantly left meatloaf in his room or hid protein bars under his pillow. It was around this time that his parents decided to send him to Camp Refuge.

Jeremy and Jill were inseparable from birth. Jill was born 2 minutes before Jeremy and that seemed like the longest time they had spent away from one another. They were interested in all the same things as children. Both played youth soccer, both were in the Scouts, both excelled in math and science and loved reading. They were set out to defy the belief that one twin gets to be “good at everything.” That is until the 8th grade science project. They both eagerly entered the statewide science project where they had to invent something to catapult people into the future. The twins spent weeks planning what they would do, but it was the first time they couldn’t do it together since they were in competition against each other. When the day of the fair came Jill was prepared with her project but Jeremy wasn’t. He couldn’t get his invention to work and was distraught. Jill went on to win first place in the contest and competed nationally. Jeremy was utterly defeated, he felt like a huge failure. Even worse, it seemed like no one noticed. Everyone was fixated on Jill and her success. That was when he began losing weight. At first it was only small amounts but then his weight began to rapidly decline. He and Jill were two of seven children in his family and while his parents wanted him to get help, they couldn’t give him the attention he deserved. That was how he ended up sitting in a field at Camp Refuge.

It was always difficult for James to talk to girls. He was socially awkward and a little shy, but he was very handsome. He had chocolate colored eyes and olive skin that matched his dark brown hair. By the time he had reached high school his looks made him strikingly handsome, but he still couldn’t muster up the courage to ask a girl on a date. That is until he met Eve. He was in a bookstore, one of his favorite weekend activities, when he saw her looking in the foreign books section. He picked up a book in French and began to pretend like he was reading it. She looked up at him intrigued and asked him if he spoke French. He lied and said yes which was the right answer because she grinned happily at him. This then launched her into a story about her dream of going to Paris and her incessant babble set James at ease. She made him feel comfortable because she talked so much he didn’t have to. They started dating soon after this meeting and were happy for a while until Eve started getting restless. She told him that she loved him but she needed to go to Paris and explore the world alone. The day after she left James didn’t get out of bed. He lost his appetite and began losing weight, only a little bit at first but soon it started getting more dramatic. He received compliments for his new look (he was a little chubby before) and kept denying himself food. Soon his mother became alarmed and asked him what was going on. He refused to talk to her about anything and in reaction to his silence she sent him to Camp Refuge knowing in her heart that something was wrong with her boy.

“Alright, we are going to split up the boys and girls and go have a little art project” the camp director said, trying to evoke some enthusiasm out of the teens. The three boys shuffled silently to the art shed and were told make a postcard about anything they wanted. The three boys sat down and stared at the construction paper and pens and began to draw out the pain in their lives that brought them there in the first place.

Lively Lime #11

"Angie, you have to help me find a good man. I need a real relationship. I'm not getting any younger….this is getting serious."

Angie watched her friend Madeleine stir her coffee nervously. The two women in their mid-30s were sitting at a sidewalk café on their lunchbreak. They were both lawyers. They both were single. They were both lonely. It was tough finding someone these days. Male lawyers were too overbearing or absent. Males who weren't lawyers usually found them threatening. But these females weren't about to hang up their pantsuits for aprons yet. They just wanted to be happy with someone. The search for a good companion had gone on for years, though, and Madeleine was tired of it.

"It can't be that bad. How have your past few boyfriends been?"

"Terrible. I’ve went through three in just the past 6 months. And they keep getting worse. Nothing serious ever happens. I date them a few times and think they're great at first, but then they turn out to be full of issues that I just can't deal with."

"Such as?"

"Well, you remember Peter? That bad boy stockbroker? Well, he had good job security and a knack for numbers…..seemed like he had so much confidence! But little by little, I felt like his out-there attitude, cool style and bold moves were all a big mask. He just wanted to date me because I was a lawyer…you know, be that flashy money-making power couple. The guy has such self-esteem problems. He's always overcompensating for everything and trying too hard to be super-successful. The slightest criticism and it looks like someone just stuck a knife through him. He never really cared about me. He just cared about my money and my status."

"I wonder what kind of kind of upbringing he had to make him turn out that way…you ever meet his family?"

"Hmmm…no, I never met them. No, wait! Yes, I met his sister once. Oh, she was so nice! Such a great person. Very pretty, with good manners. She's a pediatrician. Peter's fraternal twin, but she carries herself completely differently. Nothing like him..."

”Well, too bad you can’t date her, haha. Well, how about…uh, what's his name? Trevor?"

"Travis. Yea, that one was a total winner. I wanted a break from the bad boy type, and you know, try a nice calm guy for a change. But he turned out to be a total stuck up religious nut. Nice at first, very polite, but when you start talking to him, he starts going on and on about Jesus this and the Lord that, and how this person will be punished by God for doing that and blah blah blah. He wanted to take me out to Mass on a date, and kept trying to convert me. You know, save my soul and all. And if we weren't talking about religion he was talking about how much he loves to watch Animal Planet and PBS. I mean, I'm fairly religious and I'm respectful of faiths, but he was just constantly breathing down my neck about it."

“Oh yuck…that’s kind of creepy, actually. I assume you two broke up?”

“Yea, pretty quickly, actually. One day, after I quickly ditched Travis after Bible study, I ran into John. He was on the track team in college, remember? Hadn’t seen him in years, and he seemed kind of down, so we started talking. We actually got along really well at first. Dating him was fun. We went to see French films, and went to fancy French restaurants. It was pretty romantic, and he was so sophisticated! He talked about traveling to France and how much he loved my name because it was French. But pretty soon I felt like I was just replacing someone else in his heart. I wasn’t the girl for him. And I wondered how much French he really knew. I couldn’t live a lie like that, so we split up....

You see? All these relationships always fall apart. I set myself up for something wonderful, and then just get the rug pulled out from under me. I have the worst luck. There’s no guy out there for me, Angie. I’m destined to be alone.”

“Awww…hang in there, girl. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. Hey, you’re not the only one looking. We gotta stay strong….don’t worry, I’m always here for you if you want to talk. We’ve made it together all the way through college and law school and butthead law firm partners. We’ll get through this.”

Angie gave Madeleine a hug as they parted ways. When Angie went home, she sat at her computer and visited her guilty pleasure, Postsecret.com. She had never posted a secret, and probably never would, but as she scrolled down and read the confessions of strangers, she stopped at one particular secret. One that hit home.

“My best friend keeps on dating jerks. If only she knew that I loved her."

Tart Tangerine #11

I am a bad person. I have no one else to tell, so I’m telling you. I do something that people just shouldn’t do. When I’m in church, and the people around me are praying, I’m thinking about the TV shows I want to watch that week. Now, I know what you’re thinking, it’s not that big a deal, plenty of people’s minds wander when it’s time for silent prayer. But there’s a difference. I’m not just any person. I’m the pastor. I’m the Shepard of the flock, and while my sheep are asking for God’s help and forgiveness, I wonder which team will be last to reach the goal in the Amazing Race.

Why am I, a man of God, more focused on secular pursuits than on the spiritual? Because I just don’t give a damn anymore. Not since that bastard took my Gloria. Oh I know all the platitudes, believe me. I’ve uttered them often enough to grieving loved ones. “She’s in a better place.” “It’s all part of God’s plan.” “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Bullshit. There’s nothing mysterious about cancer except why some people get it and others don’t. And I don’t believe there’s any rhyme or reason, or anything resembling a plan to it. After all, I’m supposed to be God’s go-to guy – his rep here on Earth. The guiding light for others who have strayed. And instead, my faith has been destroyed. How am I supposed to keep others on the path when I’ve lost all sight of it myself? Some days I can barely bring myself to look up at the Cross. Now I understand why the Catholics don’t let their priests marry. Because nothing shakes your faith like losing a spouse.

I’m jealous of the others. I’ve seen some whose faith has been renewed. They pray all the more urgently that they’ll be rejoined in Heaven. And others, like me, who give up and drift away from the Church. But I can’t leave. I have to be here every Sunday, singing the praises of a God who I don’t even believe in anymore. And the worst part is, I have no one to talk it over with. No one with whom to discuss. No Shepard of my own to lead me back to the path. And so I’ve resorted to this. Sending a postcard to a website one of my parishioners once showed me. God help me.

Speaking of my flock, I sometimes also look out at them as they pray silently, thinking about the various problems they endure. I feel less sympathetic now than I used to. Everything is so different after losing your soulmate. Like the Wilson twins. Debbie and Donna. God I’ve always hated parents who do that to their children. But that’s another story. Poor Debbie. She feels she’s always in Donna’s shadow. Donna was the homecoming queen, Donna got good grades, why can’t you be more like Donna? It’s almost like something out of the Brady Bunch. But what Debbie doesn’t know is that Donna urgently wishes to be her. She hates the pressure that she’s under – to be perfect, to get good grades, to go to college. All she wants in life is to run away and goof off for a while, maybe see Europe.

But her parents would have none of that. Not for Donna. Donna has to go to college, then law school. She’s going to meet a nice young man and become the First Lady someday. She already dates the high school quarterback. But he mistreats her. But Donna can’t tell anyone. Just me. And I’m forbidden from talking as well. So Donna comes by for a weekly cry and all the time Debbie is jealous of the life she wishes she had. If only she knew.

Then, there’s Alex. He’s a young man, about 15, and like all young men at that age, he believes he’s in love. Her name is Zoe and she is an exchange student from France. She speaks English well enough, but prefers to speak in her native French because it makes her feel more at home. Alex doesn’t speak a word of French that he hasn’t heard on television, but he pretends to understand every word she says. I’m sure she knows by now that he’s clueless about what she says, but she is a kind girl and allows him to think he’s getting away with it.

Not that I necessarily blame him. I did similar things when I was courting Gloria. She was in the choir and wanted to be a great opera soprano. So I pretended to like opera. Some of it isn’t half bad, but really, I don’t speak Italian so most of it is lost on me. But it gave me something to talk to Gloria about, so I read up on Carmen and Pagliacci and would discourse extensively on the various benefits and detriments of Placido Domingo’s rendition versus Pavarotti’s. She must have thought me a fool. But she still married me. And God did I love her. I can see the same love in Alex’s eyes every time he looks at Zoe.

Sadly, summer is almost here and then she’ll have to return to France. Perhaps that’ll save him the heartache of having to sit next to her hospital bed some dark day in the future, when some doctor explains apologetically that there’s just no hope. But now, I have to wrap this up. I see from the clock it’s almost time to head out and welcome the flock to this week’s services. I wonder what’ll happen on CSI tomorrow night….

Brash Blackberry #11

I watch her almost every opportunity I get. She doesn’t see me, but I’m right behind her, observing the grace she exudes on the streets of Manhattan. People crowd around her as if she’s an angel who lifts weary spirits. She fills me with hope.

I watch her eat with a friend at Balthazar in Soho. She’s having a salad and bouillabaisse. He’s having goat cheese and onion. I’m eating Frosted Flakes.

Is it wrong for me to watch her as I do?

I watch her as she walks around her apartment nude, blissfully unaware that I can see every part of her. She’s talking on the phone and listening to Wilco as she cleans. I think I’m going to record it this time.

I watch her read the newspaper during church. She hides clippings from the entertainment section inside the songbook, casually singing a few words just to make it look like she’s paying attention. Sometimes she mouths the words “watermelon” and “Hollywood” when someone looks at her. I’m the only one who knows.

Is it wrong to know what happens to her before she does?

I watch her sleep in her Queen-sized bed, silently dreaming of a better life. I interpret her tossing and turning as a nightmare, one where she will never meet me – her soul mate.

I watch her translate at the U.N. where she speaks French as if it was her first language. I see the loneliness on her face when she leaves the building, knowing that not even communicating across other languages will fulfill her. She knows someone is out there, waiting silently.

Is it wrong for me to love a woman who can never love me?

I watch her as she dies instantly in a car accident on I-95 in the early morning. A twin brother and sister drove the car that hit her. A Crown Victoria crushed her ribcage to the point where she couldn’t breathe. They were drug traffickers, unworthy to take her life. I would kill them if I could.

I always cry when I watch this part. Sometimes I have to pause it and go to the bathroom to fix my make-up. Every time I watch her die, a part of me dies too. But her death also reminds me that my own will come shortly.

Is it wrong to wish for death?

I watch her like she watches her TV, except what I watch is real and what she views is fictitious. Her favorite shows, “Friends” and “House, M.D.” pass the time away. She finds it suitable to spend her time gazing at a 2-D image without care. I refuse to judge her because I know what I do is similar, but not quite.

We are separated by 600 years, but that doesn’t make me lose hope. Maybe some day my people will be able to actually return to the past instead of watch it at on the teleglobe. Then I could travel back and meet her in person. I would whisk her away to my time and we would live together in harmony, woman and woman.

Is it wrong to imagine my life with her in it?

A feeling in my gut tells me I will never hold her hand, never kiss her rosy cheeks, never let her cry on my shoulder. And she will never do the same for me. But alas, I can hope that one day we will see each other. Somehow, someway, I will find her.

But for now all I can do is watch and pray that she senses my presence, always beside her, with her every step of the way until her lungs collapse.

TKO Question #11

TKO Question #11:

In 1500 words or less, write a story or scene that includes the people as characters who created these postsecret cards. You may explain why each wrote them, write their stories, etc. They may be separate scenes or combined. The only limitation I intend this prompt to put on you is you must in someway referencing the creators of the three cards. If you are longer than the word limit, I will delete your post and email you a copy so that you can revise then re-post.





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Responses

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

Lucky Lemon #10

Lying on the floor of our empty tan living room, I couldn’t discern whether the fan was spinning or was it me that was spinning. After watching a few big burly men lift my furniture into a truck, I’d decided that Jack Daniels was the only man I needed in my life. I was hoping the liquor would make me forget, the truth is it helped me remember. The last time the house was this empty, we’d made love on every surface of the place.

I failed. In every aspect of my life I’d failed. There was a day when I was an up-and-comer. Academically envied by all my peers, my sights set high. When I said yes to the ring and household, my sisters all told me it was a bad idea. I’d never wanted anything more than a home and a family. Greg loved me. We’d been an awkward match from the start; me the head-strong business type, him the leisure-world playboy type. How’d that silly boy wrangle her and manage to tie her down? But I enjoyed furnishing our new home, hosting parties, and raising our children.

How beautiful they were. So tiny and scrawny, so helpless and innocent, my children were gorgeous from the day they were born. Gemma matured in the same manner I did, and soon she was the winner of the relay on field day, gifted student, high school graduate. Her little brother, Aiden, grew up even faster and much more in the shadow of his father. Watching him walk the aisle in that regal navy gown, I sobbed in the stands. I sobbed, almost as hard as the night almost two weeks later when Greg professed his undying love.

----

It’s 6:45am and I am running late. First day on the job, what a great impression. I draped my cardigan over the back of the office chair and slipped on the head set. As I took my seat, I took my first phone call “Anthony, Anthony, St. John and Randolph, this is Julie, how can I help you?” I transferred the call and put the two pictures I’d brought on my empty desk. Thank God Dad’s Attourney’s law firm was in need of a new secretary. Who else would hire a woman who’d been fired from her last job: wife and mother?”

Lively Lime #10

"I'm very sorry, #35. Given the economic climate, tough competitors streamlining their operations, and current trends, we are just unable to keep you aboard. Now, I know this is difficult for you. It's difficult for us too. You've given a good many years of your life to this team. We hope you will keep in touch….

…….Well then, please turn in your mask and weapon. Doris will help you fill out the proper exit paperwork. Best of luck in finding another position. I'm sure there are many other super-villains who would be very happy to hire you."

Great, after over a decade of dodging bullets, storming hideouts, and being punched in the face by teenage do-gooder sidekicks, I can't believe I'm on the henchmen unemployment line.

But here I am, just another sad face in a sea of former foot soldiers, stormtroopers, putty patrollers, and second-tier generic underlings, all victims of the latest wave of downsizing that had swept the bad guy industry. Evil overlords with horns, cloaks, and an entourage of hundreds of nameless minions were no longer in style. Something called "corporations" were a much better way to achieve global domination. Dark, dank, inner sanctums buried within mountains were replaced by trendy Caribbean oceanfront complexes. It wasn't even cool to cackle evilly anymore. We henchmen were just antiques from a bygone era. Now, with our respective lords all filing for bankruptcy and selling off their superweapons on Ebay, where were we to go?

The only skills the majority of us possessed were "taser/raygun/axe semi-proficiency", "running collectively towards impending doom", "unwavering lack of independent thought", "getting distracted by attractive and seemingly helpless females", and "not being able to capture the hero." Interests ranged from the standard "shooting/breaking things" and "pillaging" to "biscuits" and "napping". Not exactly that impressive on a resume. Hey, maybe these abilities couldn't cut it for the majority of people on this earth, but as henchmen, these were the hallmarks of a classic legion of destruction. Two years of henchmen community college plus certification to qualify for a position with one of the many respected super-villains of the world. There's a process. Don't think it's so easy, amateurs. We all took serious pride in our work. There wasn't even a need to unionize. It was that awesome.

This stupid line never seems to move. Some aging minion, wearing an old Bebop and Rocksteady t-shirt, is shouting at the woman in the window. This is worse than the DMV. I remembered that time I had to go renew my license for the flying tank. I would have rather faced those killer bees on that tropical island again than the so-called public servant behind the counter. I wonder if there would ever be a chance to wield such weaponry or face such adventures again.

Finally, my turn.

"Your name?"

"#35"

"No, your birth name."

"……Dexter Flurby."

"Well then, Mr. Flurby. I only have a couple of jobs left available. Of course, there will be no overtime pay or benefits. This is a temp agency, after all."

"Yea yea whatever. Would any of those jobs happen to involve kidnapping princesses or patrolling a mutations experiment lab?"

"Um…not exactly. One is a junior high school gym teacher, and the other is a receptionist at a plastic surgery clinic."


"Sigh.…..I'll take the latter, please."

God, I hate getting fired.

Pleasant Plum #10

First hour is Art class, and I’ve convinced the teacher to let me do pottery. I can’t draw worth shit after all, and I love working with clay. The smooth, calming feel of it through my hands is nice ease into the school day. Hey, it’s better than Calc. right off the bat, that for sure! The clay’s got a texture all its own, smooth and malleable, but once fired, tough, durable, and permanent. Until an accident shatters your creation it’s good to go forever.

The firing period is the most delicate where you have the least control. Screw up the pot, and it will explode inside the kiln, leaving nothing but pieces of a lost idea. Glaze that looks horribly ugly wet can become a vivid metallic raku after the intense temperature of the kiln. It’s like magic: pop it in as an ugly, un-solidified object and it comes out as an almost permanent piece of art.

Another reason I like pottery more than anything else is that the potter’s wheel is stuck in the back of the room by the window. I can watch the leaves fall as my foot pumps the pedal to keep the wheel spinning. It needs a constant rate, to slow and it’ll be uneven, to fast and the clay will fly.

The leaves remind me of a project we had to do, a portrait of a “natural process” art mirroring life and all that bull. It seemed super antithetical to me, it looks to me that life is a gradual process. Art, once your done creating, it’s done. Nothing is supposed to change. If paint fades-it is retouched. If ceramics chip, it’s mended to an original form.

At least my friends seem to change gradually. Jill seems to change her mind constantly about Clark College or Mt. Holyoke. Meredith says she “grows out of her boyfriends”--whatever that means. And it seems that I’m changing too…I need to go to college, I need a degree, I want to graduate. All this seems like sequential steps to a goal. It’s not very definitive. We are searching for a authoritive statement of who we are--and can’t find it.

At the end of first hour we all have to watch Channel One. It’s a High School News show that’s supposed to dumb down current events for our tiny brains, at least that’s probably what the network thinks. Anyway, we get free TV’s in the classroom because of the program.

But today, were not watching Channel One. The Art Teacher, Mrs. O has got it on CNN. My classmates’ faces are slowly turning from boredom to rapture. I want to know what’s going on too, and turn to the TV as I put my new sculpture into the klin. Wolf Biltzer is showing footage of New York City, and I’m told that the smoldering buildings are something called the “Twin Towers”.

In the back of the room, I can hear the muffled explosion as my ceramics burst in the kiln. Moments later another, more important sculpture collapses. Like a tall vase whose walls are too thick, one of the towers collapses on itself, sending a wall of what seemed like powdered clay out towards the cameras.

That memory is set permanent and immobile in the recesses of my brain. It’s an unyielding image in the aftermath and pressure of that year.

I figure that defining moments do occur after all, and that the firing process can be painful--especially for the Class of 2002 in the wake of a September day.

Mighty Mango #10

My name is Holden Caulfield, and I was fired from my job as the catcher in the rye.

No doubt this comes as a great surprise to you. After all, you probably only know me as one of the most famous literary characters from the 20th century. In fact, I am a real person. I am like you. I have hopes and aspirations and become irritated when reclusive authors change my whole life story to make the ending of their book better.

You see, I am not just a real person. I am alive. And I am real. But I am also fictional. One of the great weird things is that people have confused "real" and "fictional" to be antonyms, rather than just two separate things. You are real. I am real and fictional. When I read a book, the characters are fictional, but not real. When they read books, it is about you: real, but not fictional.

J.D. Salinger basically wrecked my life. In the original ending to his book, I get a job at the Park Service and get to be the closest thing to my boyhood dream: a catcher in the rye. I know this, because I lived it. Early drafts. Those were good times. It wasn't exactly like I imagined, because what parents would let their children play on cliffs? But it was pretty good. About as good as you can ever get when your entire storyworld is invented by a recluse who won't let his wife finish college. Yeah, I said it.

Unfortunately, a job at the park service is kind of a letdown ending, and if you want your story to be loved and hated by generations of people, you need some zing. Some zjsaz! So, I ended up in this mental hospital, which is the location from which I am writing this letter.

Of course, due to the pervasive influence of J.D.'s novel, even in my own fictionverse, everyone thinks I am crazy. Brilliant, right? I am, in fact, Holden Caulfield; but because everyone knows Holden Caulfield is a fictional character, they assume I am crazy, so I am in this institution, which is exactly what J.D. wrote. I mean, he didn't do the metaverse thing I'm doing now, because honestly, I don't think he knew about it. But it's weird, ya?

The thing is, since I'm not crazy, a mental institution is sort of a weird place. And because I'm fictional, I'm always open to revision. For example, the author of this story (who J.D. wrote into the original story as my older brother) could write: "And Holden Caulfield escaped from the mental hospital. And lo, he won a free trip to the donut factory." And I would.

It wouldn't be me, though. Not me-me. It would be Holden Caulfield; it would be me. This is a difficult sticking point on which I will not labor too long, but suffice it to say that my fictional nature differentiates me from you in this fashion.

Ever since I was in high school--earlier, really--there had been one exact job that I had wanted. While kids in my class talked about being doctors or nurses or accountants, I had something different in mind. Of course, they were all phonies--none of them really wanted to be doctors or nurses or accountants.

Who does? Who sits down at 15 and genuinely believes they want to be an accountant? 15 year olds don't understand a damn thing about accounting. I think they just like the pencils and visors. Actually, I think that's true about real accountants, too.

You might think it's strange that I am aware I'm fictional. But you're aware I'm fictional, and that you are real, so what is so strange about me sharing that knowledge? And you might note that it would be impossible for me to be aware of myself or my former job as saver of Phoebe-standins, since I am a collection of words. But I might just as easily tease you for your corporeal existence.

This is running long. I mostly wanted to let you know that I'd lost my job, but I lost in a time that you never knew. I've had a hundred parallel lives, all before you were born, and just one captured in the page. But I remember them all. The roads J.D. never took, the thoughts he committed to napkins about me--I lived it all. I don't agree with every choice he made, but he didn't have much choice. I wrote about it all in my book, "The Author of the Catcher in the Rye."

Killer Kiwi #10

The first day of my brand-new job I tried to look my best
I overslept a tiny bit, but hey! It’s beauty rest.
I wore my miniskirt and heels in three-inch apple green
I’d be the best receptionist L.A. had ever seen.

They showed me to the marble desk with fancy headset phone
“Don’t let the calls back up,” said Boss (in quite the nasty tone.)
I put the headset on but found it really squashed my hair.
The phone rang while I hit the girls’ room doing Coif Repair.

I would have got the next six calls, except I saw my nails
Receptionists can’t have such chips. It’s all in the details.
Then once the polish dried I saw I lacked a proper tan
I spent an hour scheduling my new sunbathing plan.

The switchboard was all lit up like a pretty Christmas tree
“It’s time to work,” I told myself. “I’ll need some energy.”
I drank three mocha Fraps. Then I was ready. I was wired.
The phone rang and I picked it up. “Hello,” said Boss. “You’re fired.”

Playful Peach # 10

I studied the faces of the people in the subway car with me for the first time ever. I had been riding that train everyday to my “job” for the past two years but I had never really cared to notice anyone else on the train. I say “job” because it is an unpaid internship so it doesn’t count as a real job. But, as I looked at the faces of the people on the train I realized they all had something I don’t: purpose. The mother with two uniformed children flanking her sides and holding her hands showing quite clearly that their whole universe is wrapped up in her existence. They get off at a stop before their mother and she kisses their cheeks and wishes them to have a good day at school. The man sitting across from me in the suit reading his Blackberry (I guess they work on the subway) and even the old lady with her basket of vegetables all have purpose in their stance. Like life is figured out for them. Not me, I am riding the train to a “job” where I am about to get fired. How does anyone get fired from an unpaid internship you may be wondering? Well, trust me, it’s not as hard as it sounds.

I am 28 years old and I have never had a real job. At 24, after 6 years in college I barely graduated from Columbia. The only reason I got admitted is because my entire family is alums and they give a lot of money to the school. I went there because I wanted to continue believing life was a party. There were plenty of rich spoiled bitches (like me) at Columbia for me to pretend to be friends with so that I had someone to pre-game and go to parties with. I am convinced that is why spoiled girls join sororities, so they don’t have to make friends but have “sisters” handed to them. College was one big party with occasional interruptions of classes. After college there was no way in Hell I wanted to change my life and get a job that gave me responsibility. Daddy to the rescue again, he got me a job as an intern in one of his political friends offices. I worked there for a few years pretty much playing on the Internet all day and doing nothing. But, it was to build up my resume right?

I worked at my first internship for two years but then I didn’t want people to get suspicious of my avoiding responsibility so I quit that internship and got daddy to get me a new one in a different political office. The same thing continued, me surfing the web looking up Jimmy Choo’s on Ebay and pretending to work. But then one day I made a huge mistake and fucked it all up.

I was working late one night (and by working I mean I was in a bidding war with a bitch over some Monolo’s) when this guy came in the office. He was attractive, in an expensive suit and looked slightly intoxicated. But, he was being professional and kept on asking for the Senator. I told him that he wasn’t in the office at that time, but I would leave a message for him. The man turned to me and gave me a smile I know all too well. I smiled back thinking maybe I could get this guy to pay my rent this month.

“So, what are you doing here this late?” he said with a sly smile.

“Working, what else would I be doing here?” I lied and put on my best sweet-innocent girl smile.

He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was doing there but the booze haze made him not care. He came close to me and kissed me so hard that I felt like I had been the one drinking Gin all night long. I let him take my clothes off and have his way with me. I got so into it I didn’t even notice that the blinds were open.

Flash! The camera snapped so fast that the photographer was gone before I could turn around. Shit, I thought to myself, Fuck, fuck! My next thought was, who is this guy and is he important? He could barely sit up he was so drunk and he looked pathetic leaning on my desk with his pants still unzipped.

“Who do you think that was?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Who cares? I am the Senators brother, those pictures will be everywhere in less than an hour,” he said, almost proud of himself for what he had done.

I looked at him with eyes wide not fully taking in what had just happened. I was definitely going to be fired, but worse than that I had taken my own bad choices and impacted someone else. For the first time in my life, I felt guilty for being so selfish.

And, that was what brought me to finally look at other people on the subway that day. Most people would be too ashamed to go back to work and get fired face-to-face and for me it was certainly out of character. But, for the first time I realized that I needed to take responsibility for what I had done. Maybe at 28 I was finally starting to grow up.

Precious Pear #10

The first 17 years don’t matter much, so I’ll just tell you this: Dad was in prison, Mom didn’t come home one day. Maybe she didn’t love me. Maybe she died. Maybe she was too coked up to remember where we lived. But I was almost 18 anyway, so I just kept paying the bills in her name until the money ran out. That’s when I met Henry.

Big Henry owned a garage downtown that people only went to after every other option was exhausted. I tried to keep the electricity turned on by getting rid of Mom’s ’87 wagon. Big Henry was the only one who would let a 17-year-old sell a car that was registered in someone else’s name. That should have been my first clue. But he said I had an honest face and even offered me a part-time job that I was just hungry enough to accept.

By then the debt collectors had figured out Mom was never paying them back and decided they’d settle for the house instead. Big Henry let me stay in a room behind the garage, but made me leave from 10pm to 3am every night. That was the time for his other business. One morning I came back early and saw Maria, his niece, crying while an older man forced something up her denim skirt. She was fourteen. Big Henry caught me watching and pulled me away by the hair.

I earned enough to pay for my room, two meals a day, and thirty dollars spending money each week. I cleaned out the cars people brought in until they were in somewhat respectable selling condition.

Almost every time I saw dangling ignitions or broken windows.
Twice I saw car seats and baby wipes.
Once I saw blood.
But I didn’t see these things, really, if anybody asked.

At 10 pm on my 18th birthday, Big Henry told me not to leave. That it was time for me to begin a position in his other business. I could take home five hundred a week, plus 20% of what I made. I could move into my own apartment. Buy real food. He said all this as he unzipped his pants and rubbed around inside. I’d never actually seen a man naked before, but I couldn’t imagine they were all as hideous as this. The money was tempting, but I’d seen what it did to his other girls. The bruises and the track marks and the soulless eyes.

“No thanks, I’ll just stick with the cars.”

He laughed. “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

“Everything can be negotiated.”

Aparently not.

That was the last I’d seen of Big Henry. When I wouldn’t take the second job, I lost the first one, too. So I was eighteen, unemployed, and homeless. The next five years were a blur of working shitty jobs for even shittier wages and eating the food other people left on their diner plates. Or in the trash, if it was a bad day. Then, 23 years into a miserable and mostly unremarkable life, I found Jesus. Literally. Jesus D. Guerrero, a lawyer and member of the local ACLU. The library was free and always warm, so that’s where I spent most of my non-working hours. He saw me reading a book about prisoners’ rights during times of war and, in a somewhat condescending way, asked me a longwinded and technical question. Both of us were surprised to hear me answer correctly.

Jesus gave me a simple job in his office which led to progressively better jobs and eventually enough money to go to school. I left out the less savory parts of my upbringing and earned a reputation as a go-getter who defied the odds to get what I want in life. Cheesy, but it helped with the scholarships.

This is the story that flashed through my mind as I stared into the sweaty face of the man in front of me. The name and social security number had changed, but there was no mistaking it. Everyone else saw Franklin Armstrong, but I saw Big Henry: the monster pimp. And he saw Little Chrissy: the whore who wouldn’t go down on him.

But he couldn’t say a damn thing.

As much trouble as Franklin might be in, compared to Henry he was an angel. A Girl Scout. The patron saint of Girl Scouts. There were people far less gentle than I who would love to learn the whereabouts of Big Henry.

And his knew it.

It was the slow resignation of realizing, a little too late, you didn’t strap on the parachute.

Fuck justice. Fuck tradition. Just this once.

For eating out of trash cans.
For the things nobody knows you did.
For Maria.

I’ve got you.



All rise for the Honorable Christina Johnson.

The case of the State of Texas v. Franklin D. Armstrong is now in session.

Tart Tangerine #10

So it had all come down to this. He was being fired. Oh, they left him the dignity of resigning, rather than go through the public charade of a vote to remove him. He’d tried to keep the evidence under wraps, but the decision had been unanimous. He’d had to disclose. Those bastards! Hell, he got four of them their jobs, but were they there for him when he needed them? No! Ingrates! He’d never forget this indignity.

Then his advisors started in. Best to just resign. There’d been talk of potential jail time. He couldn’t face that. So instead, he’d faced facts. He’d have to step down. It was painful. He’d worked his whole life to achieve this position, he’d worked hard to do what was necessary to succeed. And to go down over something like this? What was a little espionage? You needed information on the competition if you planned to win at this game! But they just didn’t understand.

It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. He’d put his affairs in order and prepared to leave. He looked around his office one last time. God he was going to miss this room. It had been a good six years. But it should have been more. But there was nothing to be done now. Other people were in charge. In fact, here came his successor now.

This was perhaps the greatest insult. To be replaced by this twit. Oh sure, he’d recommended him for the number two job, but only because he wasn’t a threat to power. And now this guy would be running things. He shuddered inwardly.

As he walked out of the building he was reminded of a line from the movie “The Lion in Winter.”
“As if it matters how a man falls down.”
“When the fall is all that’s left, it matters a great deal.”

And with that dark thought in his mind, he vowed that he wouldn’t let the bastards see him with his head hung low in shame. As he mounted the steps to the helicopter he’d ride for the last time he resolved to give them a final parting shot of him, almost triumphant despite his defeat. So when he reached the top step he turned, flung out his arms, fingers outstretched and thought, not for the first time, “You won’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore.”