17 December 2008
I don't want to write tonight.
In the camera, I could see it again as my teenage self: not from a polished, well-planned production, but from the breathless angles of adolescent passion. The framing brought a smile to my lips, auto-focus unable to keep pace with the frenzy as new eyes try desperately to devour where they should savor.
31 March 2008
And sometimes I know, your heart is full of little arrows.
Monday:
We took our seats; I adjusted the camera. His eyes looked through it, obviously uncomfortable. He came from a different time, where lives were recorded by typewriters and highly developed imaginations. The irony of our conceptual contrasts was one of the focuses of this documentary: he was a stranger to the nuances of moving photography, I was unable to focus on a line of dialogue. I asked about his first love:
"Ha. Don't ever let an old man tell you he's forgotten his first girl. [He cocks his head to the side and strokes his chin.] Helen Johnson. She was beautiful... long brown hair, the curly type. [His eyes receded into themselves; he's looking through the camera.] She would lie on her back in the grass, and I laid on my side, just running my fingers through her hair and looking at her eyes. She always pretended to not see. [He laughs and looks down at his wringing fingers.] They were so wide. You know, everyone says peoples' eyes are "bottomless" or "deep" or that sort of thing, like they'd drown in them. Hers were... far. Like if I went into them, I'd just leave. Does that make any sense? Anyway, neither of our families were very wealthy, so every dance, she wore the same red plaid dress with red ribbons in her hair. I think she was a little embarrassed, but it never mattered to me. [He smiles wistfully.] Last I heard, she married some businessman and moved to Chicago."
Tuesday:
He's becoming more comfortable with the quiet, third participant in our conversation. I wonder if he has come to terms with his mortality, if he has realized that like those Appalachian projects during the Great Depression, I'm simply culling him for the stories to preserve. Some day, the sum of his existence will be these video tapes, and that's why I want his strongest memories. Our emotions should always live longer than our achievements, and though he has achieved so much, what we want remembered is the mist behind his eyes. I ask him about The War:
"You know, I never told my children about it. [He bites his lower lip and looks down at his hands.] They asked; even Ethel asked. I never had the heart to tell them any more than they could read in books or see in old news reels. They were always raised in times of peace, my kids, so I waited for Vietnam. Their friends began coming home in body bags, and they wanted to know what it was like for them. Their friends, I mean; what it was like for them to experience that. They didn't like my response: "It's better you don't know. Let them rest." [He smiles unconvincingly.] I was never really good with words; there was no way for them to hear someone dying slowly, and even then... How do you put it? The slow death was more of a metaphor. One time, I had to execute a Jap; he had been shot in the gut, and there was no chance of him dying quickly. I couldn't take it any longer; my buddy Cabrera tried to stop me leaving the foxhole, but it didn't matter. I shot the Jap in the forehead. Couldn't sleep that night. [He bites his lip and rubs his forehead.]"
Wednesday:
He tries to not let me see the effects of his osteoarthritis. Sometimes I wonder if his frequent wincing is the grinding of his joints, or the weight of secrets. This project is one of the most difficult I've faced to date: he's not very talkative normally, but perhaps it's more a matter that people around him aren't very receptive to listening. He was rather closed our first session, but as the weeks progressed, smiles appeared. His lips became slightly more loose, and the clouds broke for a laugh. I asked about his first house:
"Ahh... [He laughs.] You could barely call it a house. Two bedrooms for Ethel, I, and the first two children. [His lips form one of a grin of no regret.] It was a constant struggle; the kids would tear it up, and I'd fix it up again. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a room and a half that doubled as a living room and dining room. One winter, when Matthew was nine and John was seven, we went out hunting and shot a bear. I had it stuffed and put into one corner of the living room, next to my chair. The boys played on it, and I used its arms for an end-table. [He laughs and slaps his knee. I can't help but smile at that.] After Ethel gave birth to Sarah, we sold the house and moved to the suburbs. Sometimes I kind of miss the place, you know? It was a real fixer, but it had personality. Ethel and I were newlyweds when we bought it, so there were no problems with it, really, never mind the cracks in the walls. [He grins and sits back in his chair.] You know, there's no point trying to relieve all that, but sometimes it's nice to remember where you come from. [He looks as though he's about to say something, but stops short, cocking his head and eyeing me.]"
Thursday:
Ethel answers the door with the same demure smile with which she always manages to disarm all visitors. He often comments, "off the record" (this he says with a sly grin), that he was cursed with the inability to fall out of love with her. I can see why: despite the outset of age, one can still see the ravishing young woman from the photographs he brings out when she leaves the room. (He checks behind her to make sure he's gone before bringing them out and showing off "his girl".) Even still, she manages the household with a quiet dignity that belies the rough years they spent being young, poor, and desperately in love. When she comes back with a glass of Sprite and some cookies, I ask about him:
"Oh, he's in bed, dear. He's had an awful cough since you left yesterday. The stubborn fool says he's okay, but he obviously has a little bit of a fever. After you live with someone for 68 years, you can practically read their aura. [She smiles in a way that throws caution of crow's feet to the wind. I smile at her uncharacteristically New Age outlook.] He's always been too stubborn for his own good; he told you about our first house, didn't he? I had to pull the hammer out of his hand each night, otherwise he never would have slept. No, no chance of waking him now, dear; I'm sorry. He simply needs to sleep. I'll tell him you came by."
Friday:
I wanted to catch up. An entire day lost in the shooting schedule was serious business. Over the past week, his luster had slowly diminished; not so much dulled, but more like the patina on platinum. The more time I spent with him, the less credence I gave the adage about silver and gold, and believed more in platinum. The arthritis had never reached behind his eyes, and though his forearm was chipped from a glancing gunfire wound, it had not warped his lucidity. Regardless, I had been thinking on him quite a bit today, and had finally worked the courage to ask him the last question, the summation of existence from his own vantage point, the distillation of years of pleasure, pain, and other arguments in between.
Ethel answered the door without her smile and leaned against the door jamb. Her eyes were far: far from the door, far from me, far from the porch and the driveway and the city and the world. She looked up at me and shook her head:
"I'm sorry, dear."
I hugged her, turned around, and walked away. My car went just out of sight before I parked and rested my head against the steering wheel.
We took our seats; I adjusted the camera. His eyes looked through it, obviously uncomfortable. He came from a different time, where lives were recorded by typewriters and highly developed imaginations. The irony of our conceptual contrasts was one of the focuses of this documentary: he was a stranger to the nuances of moving photography, I was unable to focus on a line of dialogue. I asked about his first love:
"Ha. Don't ever let an old man tell you he's forgotten his first girl. [He cocks his head to the side and strokes his chin.] Helen Johnson. She was beautiful... long brown hair, the curly type. [His eyes receded into themselves; he's looking through the camera.] She would lie on her back in the grass, and I laid on my side, just running my fingers through her hair and looking at her eyes. She always pretended to not see. [He laughs and looks down at his wringing fingers.] They were so wide. You know, everyone says peoples' eyes are "bottomless" or "deep" or that sort of thing, like they'd drown in them. Hers were... far. Like if I went into them, I'd just leave. Does that make any sense? Anyway, neither of our families were very wealthy, so every dance, she wore the same red plaid dress with red ribbons in her hair. I think she was a little embarrassed, but it never mattered to me. [He smiles wistfully.] Last I heard, she married some businessman and moved to Chicago."
Tuesday:
He's becoming more comfortable with the quiet, third participant in our conversation. I wonder if he has come to terms with his mortality, if he has realized that like those Appalachian projects during the Great Depression, I'm simply culling him for the stories to preserve. Some day, the sum of his existence will be these video tapes, and that's why I want his strongest memories. Our emotions should always live longer than our achievements, and though he has achieved so much, what we want remembered is the mist behind his eyes. I ask him about The War:
"You know, I never told my children about it. [He bites his lower lip and looks down at his hands.] They asked; even Ethel asked. I never had the heart to tell them any more than they could read in books or see in old news reels. They were always raised in times of peace, my kids, so I waited for Vietnam. Their friends began coming home in body bags, and they wanted to know what it was like for them. Their friends, I mean; what it was like for them to experience that. They didn't like my response: "It's better you don't know. Let them rest." [He smiles unconvincingly.] I was never really good with words; there was no way for them to hear someone dying slowly, and even then... How do you put it? The slow death was more of a metaphor. One time, I had to execute a Jap; he had been shot in the gut, and there was no chance of him dying quickly. I couldn't take it any longer; my buddy Cabrera tried to stop me leaving the foxhole, but it didn't matter. I shot the Jap in the forehead. Couldn't sleep that night. [He bites his lip and rubs his forehead.]"
Wednesday:
He tries to not let me see the effects of his osteoarthritis. Sometimes I wonder if his frequent wincing is the grinding of his joints, or the weight of secrets. This project is one of the most difficult I've faced to date: he's not very talkative normally, but perhaps it's more a matter that people around him aren't very receptive to listening. He was rather closed our first session, but as the weeks progressed, smiles appeared. His lips became slightly more loose, and the clouds broke for a laugh. I asked about his first house:
"Ahh... [He laughs.] You could barely call it a house. Two bedrooms for Ethel, I, and the first two children. [His lips form one of a grin of no regret.] It was a constant struggle; the kids would tear it up, and I'd fix it up again. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a room and a half that doubled as a living room and dining room. One winter, when Matthew was nine and John was seven, we went out hunting and shot a bear. I had it stuffed and put into one corner of the living room, next to my chair. The boys played on it, and I used its arms for an end-table. [He laughs and slaps his knee. I can't help but smile at that.] After Ethel gave birth to Sarah, we sold the house and moved to the suburbs. Sometimes I kind of miss the place, you know? It was a real fixer, but it had personality. Ethel and I were newlyweds when we bought it, so there were no problems with it, really, never mind the cracks in the walls. [He grins and sits back in his chair.] You know, there's no point trying to relieve all that, but sometimes it's nice to remember where you come from. [He looks as though he's about to say something, but stops short, cocking his head and eyeing me.]"
Thursday:
Ethel answers the door with the same demure smile with which she always manages to disarm all visitors. He often comments, "off the record" (this he says with a sly grin), that he was cursed with the inability to fall out of love with her. I can see why: despite the outset of age, one can still see the ravishing young woman from the photographs he brings out when she leaves the room. (He checks behind her to make sure he's gone before bringing them out and showing off "his girl".) Even still, she manages the household with a quiet dignity that belies the rough years they spent being young, poor, and desperately in love. When she comes back with a glass of Sprite and some cookies, I ask about him:
"Oh, he's in bed, dear. He's had an awful cough since you left yesterday. The stubborn fool says he's okay, but he obviously has a little bit of a fever. After you live with someone for 68 years, you can practically read their aura. [She smiles in a way that throws caution of crow's feet to the wind. I smile at her uncharacteristically New Age outlook.] He's always been too stubborn for his own good; he told you about our first house, didn't he? I had to pull the hammer out of his hand each night, otherwise he never would have slept. No, no chance of waking him now, dear; I'm sorry. He simply needs to sleep. I'll tell him you came by."
Friday:
I wanted to catch up. An entire day lost in the shooting schedule was serious business. Over the past week, his luster had slowly diminished; not so much dulled, but more like the patina on platinum. The more time I spent with him, the less credence I gave the adage about silver and gold, and believed more in platinum. The arthritis had never reached behind his eyes, and though his forearm was chipped from a glancing gunfire wound, it had not warped his lucidity. Regardless, I had been thinking on him quite a bit today, and had finally worked the courage to ask him the last question, the summation of existence from his own vantage point, the distillation of years of pleasure, pain, and other arguments in between.
Ethel answered the door without her smile and leaned against the door jamb. Her eyes were far: far from the door, far from me, far from the porch and the driveway and the city and the world. She looked up at me and shook her head:
"I'm sorry, dear."
I hugged her, turned around, and walked away. My car went just out of sight before I parked and rested my head against the steering wheel.
30 March 2008
I wish I could pretend you make me try.
[Has this seen the light of day? Late 2005 / early 2006]
In a spacious apartment in a downtown warehouse, oxygen and hydrogen molecules flirted recklessly with a mahogany bookshelf. Eyeing the spines sitting ever-so-haughtily on the shelves, they weighed their options carefully: Achebe or Zola? Leather or paperback? Would their compatriots think less of them if they settled for pulp fictions? Such were the concerns of these particular molecules, and they continued this ritual daily, completely ignorant of the similar dilemma facing their brothers in arms a few rooms away, lusting for the fine Henckels in the kitchen.
The apartment was alive with a subdued sexuality on string theory scale; the cushions of the leather sofa flitted along the polished hardwood floor in a way Mozart could only hope for in the lyrical interplay of oboes in his requiem. The rooms more than flowed: they vibrated on a universal frequency set to affluence, distinction, and culture. If there was a situation in which the lifestyle could be portrayed in only two words upon risk of death, we'd be left with "well-manicured", in a tone of unshakable confidence that impresses captains of industry and cowboys in one fell swoop.
The apartment is a panther, waiting patiently in the shadows: sleek, glossed eyes, waiting for prey. A dangerously patient smile with the self-realization to know it is both an allegory and a metaphor.
Anyone who has laboriously ingested one of the undeservedly pretentious literary works of our time can tell you that, when it comes to metaphors, coincidental light is a beacon, calling lazy students of English literature searching in vain for another five hundred characters to finish an essay. This is a fact not lost on the shaft of morning light peaking through the oddly tasteful Venetian blinds too hung over to face dereliction of duty charges. Latchkey children of the sun played on the fresh carpet, read the assorted magazines on the coffee table, and marveled at the small, black piece of lacy cloth on the floor. This is new, they thought, pausing briefly to contemplate their host's uncharacteristic sloppiness.
In a spacious apartment in a downtown warehouse, oxygen and hydrogen molecules flirted recklessly with a mahogany bookshelf. Eyeing the spines sitting ever-so-haughtily on the shelves, they weighed their options carefully: Achebe or Zola? Leather or paperback? Would their compatriots think less of them if they settled for pulp fictions? Such were the concerns of these particular molecules, and they continued this ritual daily, completely ignorant of the similar dilemma facing their brothers in arms a few rooms away, lusting for the fine Henckels in the kitchen.
The apartment was alive with a subdued sexuality on string theory scale; the cushions of the leather sofa flitted along the polished hardwood floor in a way Mozart could only hope for in the lyrical interplay of oboes in his requiem. The rooms more than flowed: they vibrated on a universal frequency set to affluence, distinction, and culture. If there was a situation in which the lifestyle could be portrayed in only two words upon risk of death, we'd be left with "well-manicured", in a tone of unshakable confidence that impresses captains of industry and cowboys in one fell swoop.
The apartment is a panther, waiting patiently in the shadows: sleek, glossed eyes, waiting for prey. A dangerously patient smile with the self-realization to know it is both an allegory and a metaphor.
Anyone who has laboriously ingested one of the undeservedly pretentious literary works of our time can tell you that, when it comes to metaphors, coincidental light is a beacon, calling lazy students of English literature searching in vain for another five hundred characters to finish an essay. This is a fact not lost on the shaft of morning light peaking through the oddly tasteful Venetian blinds too hung over to face dereliction of duty charges. Latchkey children of the sun played on the fresh carpet, read the assorted magazines on the coffee table, and marveled at the small, black piece of lacy cloth on the floor. This is new, they thought, pausing briefly to contemplate their host's uncharacteristic sloppiness.
16 March 2008
Tell me what sin replaces love.
As had always been my tradition, the summer mornings at the vacation home were dedicated to the appreciation of the million sparkling points of light on the water in the morning. Long ago, Andrea had weighed the romance of enjoying the sunrise with her husband against the two extra hours of sleep she would spend between an admittedly comfortable mattress and a perfectly-heated duvet. I could never hold it against her; only my years in the military lent the discipline to leave the various nuptial beds we had made. Never mind that she simply wouldn't understand that a morning run and a short meditation on the whispers of the waves was the reason I never drank coffee on holiday.
Running through the night, allowing myself to slip into a low-level autism... it was wonderful. Before the sunrise, the night almost appears to change color; where the cape's lack of light pollution kept the space between the stars a matte black, the hour before sunrise was when it became ultraviolet, the purple-blue color of our daughter's new car. I smiled at the seagulls, my blasé morning companions, flying in formation in ways that always uncannily resembled the way my fellow officers ran in flocks.
My heart was unstoppable at the finishing point, and with a smile, the locationing watch confirmed my glee: an extra mile, with only seven minutes over my last time. Andrea shook her head and laughed when I pulled it from the box, grinning the way she said reminded her of when we were in college. The results were saved, and I cleared my head, preparing for the sit.
The absolute silence was perfect; the low tide and I were communing at a cosmic level. My vision felt like a camera zooming in while being pulled back: the edges were slowly blurring and sucking toward me as the ocean slowly slipped into oblivion, constantly moving away. An itch on the back of my brain... something simply wasn't right this morning.
That is when I saw him. A quiet man in a business suit, standing with one hand clasped over his other arm's wrist, watching the gulls swoop low onto the water. I could no longer concentrate, so I simply watched him from the corner of my eye. Medium height, medium build; his suit maintained the graceful cut of a man whose employer treated humans as business cards. In one hand, he held a black attaché case as though it were as weightless to him as the arm itself. What struck me was the general sense of violence in his posture: though he would have found much more companionship in the city, calling a client from a corner office and marveling at his ability to fast-track, he was here, holding a briefcase, on a New England beach.
He turned and began walking toward me. Not the walk of a boxer, not the walk of a rough man; the walk of a man who was aware of dire consequences were he to fail at any particular mission. As he raised his hand to draw my attention, the elusive detail nagging at my consciousness was laid bare: a pair of handcuffs, one end around his wrist, the other welded to the briefcase.
"Mr. Scherragio." His voice held a confidence that belied a certain meticulous personality, and with it, the realization that he had been observing my morning ritual for God knows how long.
"Do I know you?" I squinted my eyes and cocked my head, hands on my hips.
"No." He smiled a crude display of crooked teeth, revealing a cut through his upper lip previously unnoticed. He reached into his interior breast pocket, retrieving a small camera, and managing to take a picture of me before I could object.
"Yes, I'm Michael Scherragio. Who are you, and to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
His gaze remained on a lit panel on the back of the camera. Suddenly, he flicked the device off, slipped it back into his coat pocket, and pressed his thumb to the broad side of the handcuffs, causing them to deactivate.
"This belongs to you." He tossed the briefcase at my feet before turning around and walking away with the same quiet determination that had carried him to our conversation. I hesitated, eyes running between the receding figure and the briefcase at my feet, not sure what to make of the situation. I was fairly certain I had some cause for concern as to the contents of the briefcase.
It was fairly easy to open; a simple clasp mechanism in two points that deactivated with a startlingly loud clack. My mind and fingers refused to work on the same wavelength, stumbling through the simple action of opening it. The case's interior was stark: two sheets of paper, one with a typed note, the other hand-written, and a manila folder. I opened the folder, and out of it fell three grainy photographs.
It was on viewing the photographs that my heart rushed up my throat; I could barely turn my head quickly enough to avoid vomiting on the briefcase.
Running through the night, allowing myself to slip into a low-level autism... it was wonderful. Before the sunrise, the night almost appears to change color; where the cape's lack of light pollution kept the space between the stars a matte black, the hour before sunrise was when it became ultraviolet, the purple-blue color of our daughter's new car. I smiled at the seagulls, my blasé morning companions, flying in formation in ways that always uncannily resembled the way my fellow officers ran in flocks.
My heart was unstoppable at the finishing point, and with a smile, the locationing watch confirmed my glee: an extra mile, with only seven minutes over my last time. Andrea shook her head and laughed when I pulled it from the box, grinning the way she said reminded her of when we were in college. The results were saved, and I cleared my head, preparing for the sit.
The absolute silence was perfect; the low tide and I were communing at a cosmic level. My vision felt like a camera zooming in while being pulled back: the edges were slowly blurring and sucking toward me as the ocean slowly slipped into oblivion, constantly moving away. An itch on the back of my brain... something simply wasn't right this morning.
That is when I saw him. A quiet man in a business suit, standing with one hand clasped over his other arm's wrist, watching the gulls swoop low onto the water. I could no longer concentrate, so I simply watched him from the corner of my eye. Medium height, medium build; his suit maintained the graceful cut of a man whose employer treated humans as business cards. In one hand, he held a black attaché case as though it were as weightless to him as the arm itself. What struck me was the general sense of violence in his posture: though he would have found much more companionship in the city, calling a client from a corner office and marveling at his ability to fast-track, he was here, holding a briefcase, on a New England beach.
He turned and began walking toward me. Not the walk of a boxer, not the walk of a rough man; the walk of a man who was aware of dire consequences were he to fail at any particular mission. As he raised his hand to draw my attention, the elusive detail nagging at my consciousness was laid bare: a pair of handcuffs, one end around his wrist, the other welded to the briefcase.
"Mr. Scherragio." His voice held a confidence that belied a certain meticulous personality, and with it, the realization that he had been observing my morning ritual for God knows how long.
"Do I know you?" I squinted my eyes and cocked my head, hands on my hips.
"No." He smiled a crude display of crooked teeth, revealing a cut through his upper lip previously unnoticed. He reached into his interior breast pocket, retrieving a small camera, and managing to take a picture of me before I could object.
"Yes, I'm Michael Scherragio. Who are you, and to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
His gaze remained on a lit panel on the back of the camera. Suddenly, he flicked the device off, slipped it back into his coat pocket, and pressed his thumb to the broad side of the handcuffs, causing them to deactivate.
"This belongs to you." He tossed the briefcase at my feet before turning around and walking away with the same quiet determination that had carried him to our conversation. I hesitated, eyes running between the receding figure and the briefcase at my feet, not sure what to make of the situation. I was fairly certain I had some cause for concern as to the contents of the briefcase.
It was fairly easy to open; a simple clasp mechanism in two points that deactivated with a startlingly loud clack. My mind and fingers refused to work on the same wavelength, stumbling through the simple action of opening it. The case's interior was stark: two sheets of paper, one with a typed note, the other hand-written, and a manila folder. I opened the folder, and out of it fell three grainy photographs.
It was on viewing the photographs that my heart rushed up my throat; I could barely turn my head quickly enough to avoid vomiting on the briefcase.
13 March 2008
Now I've got electric blood.
Tom spat into a small cup, watching the tobacco shards swirl tiny black spiral galaxies against the eggshell-white styrofoam. His brow furrowed under the weight of observation; partially over the events of the day, but mostly as he vaguely conceptualized that he would never understand the movement of the rogue strips of chew that manage to slip through his lips. Employing the most base form of denial, his eyes focused on the contents of the cup, feeling Will's eyes burrowing through the top of his skull. Admitting Will existed would be a consent to admitting his part in the atrocities; with a sigh, he let his shoulders fall back, let his eyes meet Will's.
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do, Will? Kill him? Leave him dead for someone else to find? God knows what might happen if one of those assholes they call in can identify the bastard. It isn't like we're not all known confederates here.” Tom spat in disgust before realizing how such a simple action can convey more to Will than anything he could say at this point. “I say we simply disappear. I mean, keep an eye on the fucker, but as far as he knows, we're gone.”
“Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him. I'll be good God-damned if I let that son of a bitch take another step on Earth.” Tom cringed; fools can be suffered so much more easily than melodrama. Times like these made it all the more obvious that Will was an ardent admirer of reality television, despite his inability to realize that the only realistic element of the programming was that a script actually did exist. When professional wrestling would no longer hold the masses...
“Right. I understand that, but we've been friends for so long. Why the hell would we have to go that far?” Tom's eyes scanned the faux-adobe stucco of the room, ran along the lush green felt of the poker table at which they sat; almost imagined he could see his pores opening and closing in time with his heart.
“Oh, come on, Tom...” Will had begun one of his overly-moral tirades. “... saw the poor woman...” Tom involuntarily closed his eyes, fighting the memory, trying to convince himself that it was simply a red pulp. “... brutality; a sheer...” Tom's throat seized to keep the vomit down. “... human life. He can't...”
His mind wandered to the man in the other room, sleeping on one of the cots with his back to the door, completely oblivious of his fate. The memories ran through Tom's head like a Kodachrome 8-millimeter reel-to-reel: shared family picnics; Robert, eight years old, bringing him a dead frog; double-dating to their high-school prom. He looked down at his arm again, calmed at the sight of the ink deep in his wrist.
“Fuck it.” He rose to his feet, knocking the chair back, pulling the pistol from the waist of his pants. Will's eyes followed Tom to the door, impassively observing the three flashes lighting the room. Tom's silhouette on the far wall reminded Will of an illustration of the hunchback of Notre Dame he had seen as a child, ringing the bells as part of his daily regime. Later, in the middle of testifying, he would realize that he didn't remember hearing the shots, only seeing Tom's shadow doing the dirty work that he himself could never do.
Tom exited the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. His shirt looked as though Robert had resisted with a can of dull red spray-paint, and tiny droplets collected on his cheeks and rolled down to his chin like sanguine snowballs. For the first time in the 12 years of their friendship, Will realized that he had always been afraid of Tom.
“What do we do?” Will's meek voice disturbed the catatonic trance in which Tom had found himself. He spat his resignation and sighed, eyeing Will with the furious sorrow of a cornered animal.
“We dig.”
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do, Will? Kill him? Leave him dead for someone else to find? God knows what might happen if one of those assholes they call in can identify the bastard. It isn't like we're not all known confederates here.” Tom spat in disgust before realizing how such a simple action can convey more to Will than anything he could say at this point. “I say we simply disappear. I mean, keep an eye on the fucker, but as far as he knows, we're gone.”
“Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him. I'll be good God-damned if I let that son of a bitch take another step on Earth.” Tom cringed; fools can be suffered so much more easily than melodrama. Times like these made it all the more obvious that Will was an ardent admirer of reality television, despite his inability to realize that the only realistic element of the programming was that a script actually did exist. When professional wrestling would no longer hold the masses...
“Right. I understand that, but we've been friends for so long. Why the hell would we have to go that far?” Tom's eyes scanned the faux-adobe stucco of the room, ran along the lush green felt of the poker table at which they sat; almost imagined he could see his pores opening and closing in time with his heart.
“Oh, come on, Tom...” Will had begun one of his overly-moral tirades. “... saw the poor woman...” Tom involuntarily closed his eyes, fighting the memory, trying to convince himself that it was simply a red pulp. “... brutality; a sheer...” Tom's throat seized to keep the vomit down. “... human life. He can't...”
His mind wandered to the man in the other room, sleeping on one of the cots with his back to the door, completely oblivious of his fate. The memories ran through Tom's head like a Kodachrome 8-millimeter reel-to-reel: shared family picnics; Robert, eight years old, bringing him a dead frog; double-dating to their high-school prom. He looked down at his arm again, calmed at the sight of the ink deep in his wrist.
“Fuck it.” He rose to his feet, knocking the chair back, pulling the pistol from the waist of his pants. Will's eyes followed Tom to the door, impassively observing the three flashes lighting the room. Tom's silhouette on the far wall reminded Will of an illustration of the hunchback of Notre Dame he had seen as a child, ringing the bells as part of his daily regime. Later, in the middle of testifying, he would realize that he didn't remember hearing the shots, only seeing Tom's shadow doing the dirty work that he himself could never do.
Tom exited the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. His shirt looked as though Robert had resisted with a can of dull red spray-paint, and tiny droplets collected on his cheeks and rolled down to his chin like sanguine snowballs. For the first time in the 12 years of their friendship, Will realized that he had always been afraid of Tom.
“What do we do?” Will's meek voice disturbed the catatonic trance in which Tom had found himself. He spat his resignation and sighed, eyeing Will with the furious sorrow of a cornered animal.
“We dig.”
04 March 2008
I can see flowers, wilting in the sun.
I can't see the pink on the nails of those little bubbly toes, poking through sandals showing off their pedicure, without being revisited by the memories of the summer of Candace.
I had been an ice cube fetus, drifting underwater, relishing the weight of a calculated free-fall, when she appeared by the poolside. I needed to investigate this slender salmon-colored wavy blur standing above me, pink like a pair of shrieking panties under a tartan-plaid schoolgirl's skirt.
It would be years, many long years, before I read about Humbert Humbert, before he and I compared notes on an obsession with sun-tanned Venuses of the Milo persuasion. Of course my arms folded on the concrete of the pool, supporting my chin; of course my eyes only 14, devouring her in pieces like cubes of raw steak. She had That Look that said, Medium Rare. Caution: juicy and pink. It was a feeling only a soul-sold screaming blues guitar solo could describe.
So my back slowly burnt and my front as well; I was a spit-hog and she was turning the skew. Those dark sunglasses, reflecting the stars of the tiny universes in the lenses, spoke for the both of us: This is going to be high school. I smiled; she smiled.
We went our separate ways.
I had been an ice cube fetus, drifting underwater, relishing the weight of a calculated free-fall, when she appeared by the poolside. I needed to investigate this slender salmon-colored wavy blur standing above me, pink like a pair of shrieking panties under a tartan-plaid schoolgirl's skirt.
It would be years, many long years, before I read about Humbert Humbert, before he and I compared notes on an obsession with sun-tanned Venuses of the Milo persuasion. Of course my arms folded on the concrete of the pool, supporting my chin; of course my eyes only 14, devouring her in pieces like cubes of raw steak. She had That Look that said, Medium Rare. Caution: juicy and pink. It was a feeling only a soul-sold screaming blues guitar solo could describe.
So my back slowly burnt and my front as well; I was a spit-hog and she was turning the skew. Those dark sunglasses, reflecting the stars of the tiny universes in the lenses, spoke for the both of us: This is going to be high school. I smiled; she smiled.
We went our separate ways.
12 February 2008
It overtakes me.
If there was one thing I wish could be carried in my heart forever, it would be the way her eyes reflected light. There was never any doubt among us: they were the saddest eyes we had ever seen, not full and bursting like the girls in the black and white movies, but deep pools of suppressed tears that looked a thousand directions in a minute but never allowed any objects to register. Perhaps what I mean to say is that it broke all of our hearts, the way she skipped impassively over the world. The light, though, was what stole my heart. She wasn't content to simply let it reflect her iris, constricting her pupils; she must add to the light with those concentric green flecks that never failed to remind me that no matter how strong I was, she was still the center of the universe.
I had never seen blue eyes with green flecks, and now, in retrospect, I can shamelessly admit that it was an infatuation. She brought those eyes to bear like a 50-caliber machine gun: almost languidly, as though they bore such weight that I would be pinned to the wall if our eyes made contact. They were what made me lay on grenades. I remember one morning, she was lying on her back; the off-white window blinds were no match for the inexorable Sunday morning sun. I had woken moments earlier, and she was squinting, rubbing her eyes with as much a scowl as her upbringing would permit. I leaned in close and pulled her to my chest, out of the sun, and felt such a relief when her features softened, giving way to the untouched creme of her skin that felt like Innocence to my lips. It was an uncharacteristically tender act; one that had never happened before and has never been repeated, as I have harbored a certain shame about showing such deep affection for women after she left.
I had never seen blue eyes with green flecks, and now, in retrospect, I can shamelessly admit that it was an infatuation. She brought those eyes to bear like a 50-caliber machine gun: almost languidly, as though they bore such weight that I would be pinned to the wall if our eyes made contact. They were what made me lay on grenades. I remember one morning, she was lying on her back; the off-white window blinds were no match for the inexorable Sunday morning sun. I had woken moments earlier, and she was squinting, rubbing her eyes with as much a scowl as her upbringing would permit. I leaned in close and pulled her to my chest, out of the sun, and felt such a relief when her features softened, giving way to the untouched creme of her skin that felt like Innocence to my lips. It was an uncharacteristically tender act; one that had never happened before and has never been repeated, as I have harbored a certain shame about showing such deep affection for women after she left.
08 February 2008
Every moment that you're here, I feel ashes on my ear.
I still remember him, standing contrapposto against my grandfather's fence, the one which always left a parting sliver lodged in your fingers. There was never a way to resist touching the jagged wood; they crisscrossed along the road, out of my field of vision and further out of my life. The horses always stayed away from that part of the fence, so we stood imitating David, replacing Connell Reds with Marlboro Reds. Two boys, 15 and in love with the world, in faded jeans waving to passing high school girls.
Of course I remember him. The room around, mostly, and his face and body moved like long-exposure photography. There are no likenesses of him anywhere; simply the faded Wranglers and a tucked-in tartan print button-up shirt, short sleeves no less. We ran off cackling after stealing a couple of his dad's Bud Lights and drunkenly slapped the floor mat trying to cheat at Nintendo Track & Field.
Sometimes I wish I could remember more. He was proud to show off the cuts on his face, but shied away from answers about the bruise on his arm. There was a welt on his jaw that turned the conversation to country music; not the new stuff, but the old time country, the kind on those local access cable channels, where the guitars were slicked with Brylcreem and the basses stood up. I never saw him again after that, and when I asked my grandfather what had happened, he guffawed and changed the subject.
Of course I remember him. The room around, mostly, and his face and body moved like long-exposure photography. There are no likenesses of him anywhere; simply the faded Wranglers and a tucked-in tartan print button-up shirt, short sleeves no less. We ran off cackling after stealing a couple of his dad's Bud Lights and drunkenly slapped the floor mat trying to cheat at Nintendo Track & Field.
Sometimes I wish I could remember more. He was proud to show off the cuts on his face, but shied away from answers about the bruise on his arm. There was a welt on his jaw that turned the conversation to country music; not the new stuff, but the old time country, the kind on those local access cable channels, where the guitars were slicked with Brylcreem and the basses stood up. I never saw him again after that, and when I asked my grandfather what had happened, he guffawed and changed the subject.
25 January 2008
So this is the new year....
According to the records, she had actually been declared "deceased" for just short of two minutes. I had always heard that when people make that sort of transition and live to tell about it, they generally come about gasping, like they had been held down underwater by the ankles like we used to do as children. Not Becca; she simply rested her hand on the leg of the paramedic leaning over her in defeat and smiled that grin that could cure cancer. Those smiles were always when I'd feel so deeply in love with her, because they were equally at home after we made love as they were when we were so poor that we pretended our bubbling stomachs were our first-born twin children.
All this-- the whole "being dead" thing-- I had gathered from the nurse as she adjusted the pillows, checked the drips, so on and so forth. Becca was out: the doctor made an indication to the effect that she wasn't necessarily in a coma, just that she would probably like some sleep. I wanted more than anything to get physical with him while he let loose so many acronyms and medical jargon; I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him like a sieve to get all the little ingots out of the spew. It was as though, even unconscious and dreaming of who knows what, she was there behind me with her arms around my waist and her cheek resting between my shoulder blades. She always had a way of calming me down when situations got too hot.
Soon it was simply her and me, feeling all the more alone because of the machines keeping her alive. I made a game out of figuring out which did what: one was to keep her heart beating, another dripped fluids to keep her numb, and I suppose the others were simply there to annoy me to death with their beeping. I really hoped the heart machine wouldn't fail; sometimes it feels as though my heart wouldn't work if hers didn't as well, and the pressure of keeping two hearts beating in time may just be too much for one little machine. She would have laughed to hear that, but I never minded, because it was followed by a secret little smile she gave to keep from blushing.
All this-- the whole "being dead" thing-- I had gathered from the nurse as she adjusted the pillows, checked the drips, so on and so forth. Becca was out: the doctor made an indication to the effect that she wasn't necessarily in a coma, just that she would probably like some sleep. I wanted more than anything to get physical with him while he let loose so many acronyms and medical jargon; I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him like a sieve to get all the little ingots out of the spew. It was as though, even unconscious and dreaming of who knows what, she was there behind me with her arms around my waist and her cheek resting between my shoulder blades. She always had a way of calming me down when situations got too hot.
Soon it was simply her and me, feeling all the more alone because of the machines keeping her alive. I made a game out of figuring out which did what: one was to keep her heart beating, another dripped fluids to keep her numb, and I suppose the others were simply there to annoy me to death with their beeping. I really hoped the heart machine wouldn't fail; sometimes it feels as though my heart wouldn't work if hers didn't as well, and the pressure of keeping two hearts beating in time may just be too much for one little machine. She would have laughed to hear that, but I never minded, because it was followed by a secret little smile she gave to keep from blushing.
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