A LUCKY NIGHT

A LUCKY NIGHT

             It amazes me how different the café looks this evening, filled with writers gossiping in various corners as we wait for the readings to begin. Can this be the same bookstore from this afternoon? I saw less than ten people earlier and now there must be close to one hundred fighting each other for the comfy recliners while the losers of that battle are stuck with plastic folding chairs. 
             I don’t take a seat as I feel too much energy pulsing through my veins, this being my first reading. Ray didn’t blink an eye when I told him I wanted to do this on my birthday, but he did narrow his eyes a bit as it occurred to him I meant to do it alone. I don’t need the pressure of him critiquing my every word, my performance, every damned movement I make. 
             A small commotion a few feet away gains my attention and I see an overweight gentleman apologizing repeatedly to a walking stereotype Emo-chick with short wild blue hair and a metal spike through the bridge of her nose. I gather from a few strident comments from the short girl that the man stole her slice of plastic real estate while she wandered about the place trying to look artistic. She continues to berate him long after he yields all claims to the chair and I feel bad, his eyes catching mine as he nearly hyperventilates trying to escape her wrath.   
             I tug on the man’s soiled black tee shirt, which is emblazoned with the logo of a rock and roll band I am not familiar with. Pulling him back against the railing that separates the books from the café, I put my hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him. I don’t know if it works, but the emo-bitch leaves him be as the moderator begins yawning on and on about the solemn duty of poets to blah, blah, blah. 
             I can’t concentrate and I feel sweat on my forehead as the line of names dwindles, closing in on my doom or my first attempt to read at a poetry slam, whichever you prefer. The queue is listed on a screen of sorts behind the makeshift podium. As I begin scanning the crowd in search of a path to the stage I might take to avoid bumping and crashing into people as much as possible, the moderator reads off the next name from the list. 
             “That’s me. It’s time,” the man says to nobody. I think he is trying to gather enough courage to do it, though I don’t know if he is succeeding for the moderator calls his name again before he even moves an inch. I want to rub his shoulder or pat him on the back for encouragement, but before I can contemplate what such an action might mean, he launches himself into the mass of bodies and bulls his way to the podium. 
             Without introduction or preamble or so much as a joke, he launches into his reading, which catches me by surprise. His voice is deep and resonant, which gives me a little tickle in my belly until I hear the words. 

“I have never known a woman. 

Or man for that matter. 

I don’t even know if I am gay or straight. 

My energies are spent in a lab, finding cures to save people that matter.

Me? I am of no consequence. 

I am the fat kid you spit on, the nerd you ignore.  

And I ask you…can you spare a hug?”

             He bolts from the stage, with the same lack of ceremony as his entrance. There is complete silence in the room, with all remaining still until the moderator gathers his senses to read the next name. Mine. However, I have no interest in reading as the man pushes his way close to me, eyes probing mine for a reaction. I make a nod at him and quickly look away. A nod? I want to crawl into a stack of books, but he is still looking at me and I manage to stop being rude, meeting his eyes once again. 

             “Hi,” I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes. 
             “Is that your name they are calling?”
             “Yes,” I say, looking away once again. 
             He takes in a deep breath, a small whistling sound escaping his lips and with the tip of his fingers, gentle pushes towards the podium. “Go read. Don’t chicken out now, you will regret it later on.” 
             Closing my eyes, I take a step into the crowd, letting my action be an answer to his encouragement. I feel eyes devouring me, many sets filled with hunger, suspicion, anticipation and other emotions I can’t decipher. As I take my place on the stage, my mind is a complete blank. I can’t remember a word of what I wrote this afternoon. As panic rises in my belly, I blurt out the following declaration---

             I stand for marriage equality and yield my time to have you ponder this: twenty years from now, when this issue is settled, do you want to look back on this time to remember you were on the wrong side of history?

             I step from the podium and with my head down, return to my place by the railing. The man is clapping for me, which draws many sets of eyes, as he makes the solitary sound in the room. I am saved by the moderator calling off the next name, his voice sounding like a computer. 
             “You are brave, young lady.”
             “I guess. Let’s talk about what you read instead of me drawing a blank and embarrassing myself in front of all these folk.” 
             “This is okay with me. What did you think?” he asks, his voice reaching into my guts and massaging my nerves. 
             Pausing for a moment, I think of my answer, not wanting to further embarrass myself. “I don’t know much about poetry, but I liked what you read, sir.” 
             He laughs at me and it lessens some of the tension building in my stomach. His eyes are kind and his voice is pleasant, I can’t understand why he is such an outcast. There is a thickness in his face and extra skin under his chin, but I like his thick brown hair and broad shoulders. I feel his eyes roaming my skin and I remember in that moment that I am dressed like a streetwalker, ready for clubs and dancing later in the night. My blue skirt covers little and I know he is devouring my chest with his eyes, looking down into my loose fitting white blouse. 
             “Is it true what you read, that you have never been with a woman?” I ask. I still can’t believe it. It can’t be true. Can he be a virgin?
             “Never,” he echoes. 
             “How about you take me out for a drink?” 
             Looking around the room and seeing nobody is listening, he tilts his head as if confused before saying, “With me?” 
             “No, with the blue haired girl. Of course you, sir.” 
             He laughs again, but it rings hollow this time and I can hear and feel his nerves. “What is the occasion?” 
             I let out a little sigh and I see his shoulders tense. He is bordering on panic and I touch his arm, gently. Shivering at my touch, he closes his eyes for a moment. 
             “We don’t need an occasion, silly, but it just so happens that tonight is my birthday.” 
             “Where will we go?” he cuts in. 
             I am beginning to see why the tally is never. Trying to resist rolling my eyes, I force a smile on my face and wait a few moments until the sarcasm is faded from what I will say. “We are less than two miles from Las Vegas Boulevard. I think we can find somewhere to get a drink.” 
             “Ah, ok.”
             “Great, it’s a date then. Let’s go to Hard Rock,” I say, pulling him out of the café and through the double doors leading into the parking lot, stopping at Ray’s ’74 Firebird that I drove to the reading. He lets out a loud whistle of appreciation and stalks around the perimeter of the car, staring at each detail. 
             “Is this yours?” he says. 
             I think for a moment and shrugging my shoulders say, “It is now, I guess.” 
             He looks at me, questions in his light brown eyes, but I wave my hand for him to forget it. 
             “What is at the Hard Rock?” he asks as he settles into the passenger’s seat, which groans and complains under his weight. 
             “I have a room,” I answer, not meaning anything and for once, not flirting, but he pins his back against the seat and stares straight ahead as I turn onto Maryland Parkway. He is silent as I wait for the stoplight at Flamingo and I shake my head in wonder. Really? There is silence as I pull onto Paradise and drive the last stretch to the casino. I need a drink at this point and don’t know what to expect. 
             “You are lucky, I hope you realize,” he says as I park the car. I study his eyes for a moment, trying to decide if he is joking or not. 
             “How so, sir?” 
             “You are the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. You hit the lottery at birth. Perfect hair, flawless skin, eyes a pale baby blue that is tearing away at my insides as I look at you. Can you imagine what your life might be like if you had been born fat and ugly like me?” 
             He eyes fall away from me and I respond before I can stop the words from escaping my mouth, “Maybe if I hadn’t been so perfect looking my father might have refrained from sticking it in me so often.” 
             I jump from the car, tears in my eyes and wait for him at the entrance. I know I have said too much, but it simply came out. I didn’t plan to say that and you can’t un-say a thing once it enters the world. He avoids my eyes as we navigate the crowded halls of Friday night and I wonder for a moment what I am doing. I could be with Mary and Ray and Peter, but I am here…doing…I don’t know. Suddenly, he stops, a few feet from the gate to the center bar. 
             “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.” 
             “It is just a drink, sir.” 
             “But…” he looks around for a moment again, that sinking feeling that he is about to have a panic attack rising in my belly. “I don’t do this. The social thing, drinking, women. You are far too beautiful for me.” 
             “Don’t worry about that. Spend time with me, don’t think,” I say, reaching out and taking his hand in mine. He jumps and laughs, squeaking out a nervous laugh that skips and repeats as he tries to pull away from me. I know I am making his anxiety worse and I release his hand, which serves to calm him a bit. I wait for him to gain control of his breathing before I speak again. “You are right though, it is getting late and I have plans for tonight, will you be able to get home okay?”
             Relief washes over his features and he smiles, which makes it all worth it. “I can find a taxi. It is Vegas, after all.” 
             “Ok, sir, but you owe me a hug,” I say, holding my arms open. He doesn’t fight or argue or hem and haw and instead throws his thick arms around my body, crushing me into his chest. 
             “I can’t thank you enough.” 
             “No need,” I say, kissing him lightly on the cheek. After a few moments, he walks towards the lobby of the casino, swallowed in a sea of humanity. 

AT THE BOOKSTORE

AT THE BOOKSTORE

            I have struggled to write for the last month and a half. There are times I begin to wonder if I am a writer after all. One day you feel the inspiration and chatter of characters and then, it vanishes, like the spots you see on the highway on hot summer days. I can’t tell you the last time I finished a story. Coming to the bookstore was his idea, as a way of snapping out of this funk, breaking through the dastardly wall of writer’s block or whatever way you wish to describe the malaise I am suffering. He seems to think the mere presence of books is enough to push through the drought. Writing is not so simple. 
            The coffee I bought is almost cold and I don’t have a plot or a scene or a character in mind as of yet. Looking around the place, I see one middle aged gentleman typing like a madman on his laptop. That comprises the entirety of the company that shares this store with me at the moment. And that man hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction. Not that I blame him. I am wearing sweatpants and a plain tee shirt for the express reason of avoiding the attention of men. I am doing my best to limit distractions and excuses. But…I can’t help wondering…what is he writing? 
            I do think writers are natural born spies and as I move closer to where the man sits, I hope he doesn’t notice I am watching his every move. He sits erect, with his chin high. I wonder if he can see the keyboard properly. He is quite handsome for an older man, with flecks of gray in short brown hair and a strong, thick jawline. I like that he is wearing a baby blue button down shirt and grey slacks even in the middle of summer. I am a sucker for a well-dressed man and find myself wondering how much his black leather shoes cost.
            He leans backward and stretches his arms over his head, a hand rubbing at sore neck muscles. His turns toward me and his clear blue eyes bore into mine with a sudden intensity. I want to look away, but his pretty eyelashes and dark pupils transfix me and I rudely and openly stare at him. A small smile washes over his face as he shakes his head, sipping a cup of coffee as he returns my gaze and I desperately do not want to be the one that looks away first. 
            “Hi,” I manage to say. I feel heat in my face and I have to fight the urge to run away from this man for he is reaching into my brain and touching me in places I thought locked to strangers. He does not respond and continues to probe me, not taking his eyes from mine to check me out, which is so very unusual for a man. They always look. But, he doesn’t. My stomach jumps and flips and I know I’m going to look away before he does.
            “Good afternoon,” he says. His voice is a low, pleasant bass that tickles my insides and makes me squirm in the chair. 
            “Are you a writer?” I blurt out before I look away, not being able to take so much as a second more of him penetrating me. He laughs at my question, a slow rolling chuckle that comes from deep in his belly and rises up through his muscular chest. 
            “I am.” 
            Crossing his legs, he leans back in the chair and watches me, grinning and eyes sparkling as if he knows a secret about me. What did he pull from my brain with that damned laser stare of his? The heat continues to increase in my face and I know I am blushing. Images of him ravaging me appear in my mind against my will it seems and I do my best to push them back down into the abyss. 
            “Don’t do that,” he whispers, leaning forward in my direction.
            “Do what?” I ask. How can he know my thoughts? Another image of him dragging me from the café floats across the screen of my brain and I shake my head to erase the picture. 
            “Don’t fight your brain. Let it take you where it wants to go. Get out of the way of your inner writer. Free your mind.” 
            I see him pouncing on me and ripping my shirt away from my chest in a violent manner. “Should I write these thoughts or wait?” 
            “Why wait? Begin writing the moment a thought forms into words.” 
            He could have me right now if he wants. I bet he knows that or feels it. The only question is if he wants to take me. Of course I am wearing sweatpants and have my hair restrained in a pony-tail. I close my eyes and wait for him to decide. Harvest me, savage me, do anything you wish to my body…oh, what am I thinking? Where did these thoughts come from? I came here to write a story and I have been possessed by this man’s eyes. Possessed I say. I might let him take me over the table, right in front of the boy making the coffee. I cannot resist.
I open my eyes and see I am the only person in the café. The boy behind the counter is starting at me and without a word or gesture to him I gather my things and make a hurried exit from the store. I am ready to write again. 

MORNING TENDER

MORNING TENDER

          Ray woke earlier than usual, refreshed as from eight hours sleep, which in reality had been four. He rubbed at his eyes and turned, a fear rising inside his stomach. Still there! He saw the same blonde curls cascading over fluffy blue pillows, the same small hands gripping the comforter. Smiling, he brushed his fingers over her skin, silk velvet under his rough touch.
          With effort, he rose, slipped on his shoes and left the bedroom, the remnants of sleep fading, and the desires of a new day asserting their needs. He thought about breakfast and taking a shower, but instead he lit a cigarette as he walked outside into the morning sun, whose gentle heat began to erase the rain of the previous day. He smoked in silence, while still and quiet, nature seemed to sleep at that early hour, not a bird or car moving, leaving him to his thoughts, alone.
          He dragged his foot along the gravel in distraction. The world entire seemed to stop, his thoughts pounding insistent within his mind.
          “What now?” he asked, to nobody at all, to the blue of the morning sky. The question dissolved into the morning shine, silence enveloping him. With a flick of a wrist, he threw his cigarette into the street and putting his hands into his pockets, went inside.  
          He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. She shifted onto her stomach, her fingers arranging blankets knowingly and looked up at him.
          “Why did you get up?” she asked her voice thick with morning.
          He sat down on the bed, his fingers finder hers, caresses and words exchanged through touch.
          “I needed some air.” 
          “To smoke,” she said, smiling.
          “Yes.”
          “As always. The same every day, nothing changes.”
          “Get off it,” he said, crawling back into bed. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away with her hand.
          “Ray!” 
          “What?”
          “You’re like a little boy, you never learn.” She sighed, but kept smiling.  
          "Sorry mother.”
          “Please,” she said, turning away, pulling the comforter with her.
          He looked at her, her back bare and tender, and reached for her, pulling the blanket over her.
          She sighed again and turned her head to look at him.
          “Go wash your mouth, you smell like an ashtray.”
          “No,” he said, in mocking defiance.
          “Fine, then go back to sleep.”
          He laid his head on the pillow without a response and to his surprise, sleep came once again.


          Black clouds rushed in from the west, shaped to cover the light, rain begins in torrents, scathing the roof tiles, threatening to wash it all away.
          Her face in a cloud, frowning, next to wolves...
          “Did you really think?” a voice whispers, exploding inside his mind. He hears laughter, mad cap shrieking laughter all around him.
          ‘No, no, no,” he whispers.


          He woke with a start and jumped to his feet, the bed empty beside him. He rushed into the living room: empty, empty and still, empty.
          “No,” he muttered to himself, his teeth clenched together. Motionless and trapped in thought, he stared about the room. 
          Did you really think He heard again, this time it sounded like her voice, insistent and filled with accusations. He spun round, but the room remained empty, stubborn hateful empty. He sat with a thud upon the rug, his face in his hands, too scared to feel tears, trying to hear the voice.  
          He thought of the day he lost her at the zoo. He ran round, tracing the paths walked, the animals seen, which growled at him, watched him, asking and begging strangers to remember her, but to nothing. He sat down at a cafe, exhausted and pulling at his hair. With tears in his eyes he saw her sitting at the bar, talking to a strange man, who wore a pair of jean shorts and a skin tight white tee-shirt. As he walked towards them, trying to calm himself, he heard the voice again.
          “Ray.”
          He looked up and saw her, in a blur, holding a white paper bag, a cup and a newspaper.
          “Where did you go?” he managed to choke out in a scratched hiss.
          “I got breakfast,” she said, placing the bag on the table. She walked to him, quick and light steps and came to a stop, kneeling next to him.
          “What did you get?” He pressed his face into her shoulder.
          “Your favorite,” she said, holding him tight.
          “Cinnamon raisin?” 
          “I got a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted, with extra cream cheese, a coffee and your morning paper,” she said, stroking his hair. He clung to her, his hands linked behind her.
          “What is it?” she asked.
          He remained silent, pulling her closer.
          “Ray.” Her voice sweet and soft in his ear, her breathe against his next warm and tender, her fingers massaging his temples.
          “Don’t leave,” he said.
          “Ray, what is it?” she asked, kissing his forehead.
          “Just don’t leave me, Rose,” he whispered.
          She rocked him slow in her arms, humming low and sweet.
          “I won’t,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Tonight makes two years, Ray.”
          “I know,” he answered. “I know.”
          He kissed her as the sunlight broke through the blinds, bathing the room in yellow warmth.

IN SEARCH OF WIFE

IN SEARCH OF WIFE

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in

possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

           

The time indeed comes in life to select a mate. I might have used the word wife instead, but I did not, so I’ll leave it as it is written. Fortunes are won and squandered, battles fought and lost, but after the savagery ends we need someone to bury the body. I mean, we need loved ones to mourn our passing. I apologize if my thoughts are clouded, for I have not fed in weeks. I mean hours.

            If someone asked me to list the qualities I deem essential in a mate, could I tell you in any sensible way? Is a mate necessary for existence? The answer is no. I can’t eat my mate more than once. How shall I survive?

            A mate is intended to help us forget and tolerate the processed nature of the rest of our existence. Hopefully you enjoy scrabble. Or chess. Or twister. If not, I do believe we might be at an impasse. What shall we do with our time if we don’t agree on board game selections? Perhaps we can hold hands and watch the Olympics. Country first in my household.

            As I ponder this momentous day, let me be clear and transparent with what I expect out of this bargain. Or pact. Whatever you will. You know me already, so we shall not waste time with all that boring nonsense. The important point is I can afford to make you love me, so if that is sufficient, please continue on with the story.

            I do accept that the world moves on and changes as pertains to fashion, behaviors and the very aspects of procuring sustenance. However, things will be very much a throwback to the past in my home. Your home I might say. If you are still with me. If you are, I shall continue.

            I expect every evening to contain culture. There will be a slice of Mozart, a side of the bard served with seared pork loin in a balsamic reduction. Grand Mariner on home-made vanilla bean ice cream, teaching you to play violin as I read you this:

SONNET 21

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use 
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse 
Making a couplement of proud compare, 
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare 
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. 
O' let me, true in love, but truly write, 
And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright 
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: 
   Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
   I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

There is a sonnet for you, my future love. Be a muse or simply be. As you like it, my love. (and does it matter that I play the fool and moan my love in a poor attempt to woo you with art)

Ask me why I don’t read you my own poetry and I shall smile. And continue to smile as I say, “My love, I am no William Shakespeare.”

            I will tell you my passion is Kafka distilled with Kurt Cobain. However, do not attempt to listen to the one while reading the other. It will leave you with a sudden urge to throw yourself from the nearest bridge. Understand? Though I demand culture, I am aware you must be careful not to sit madmen in the same row.

            I shall now tell you the terms I seek in this agreement. The woman shall agree to the following conditions:

1)    There will be no watching of MTV in my (our) home. No knocked up teen or white trash shore is going to pollute the minds of my family.

2)    The dowry must include a milk producing goat.

3)    Offspring naming rights shall be determined by coin-flip to avoid arguments.

Leaving further details only to those that make serious enquiries, I shall continue.

Ending my terminal bachelorhood is not to be taken lightly. I know it shall have repercussions in all aspects of my life, but it cannot be put off any longer. I mean, how can my life have meaning if I do not breed? I see now that sex is meant to procreate and I simply have been doing it all wrong up until this moment. I sincerely apologize for my wayward ways and I pledge to end this travesty in a short an order as possible.

The alternative is silly talk and useless faith in the existence of dragons. There is no magic. Just credit scores and your online presence and our global footprint glued together by the world wide web and some chewing gum. You don’t fight the tide or city hall, God always gets that pound of flesh. So, I shall kneel humbly and ask the world to produce a wife.

All interested applicants shall be sure to ready a checklist so as to ensure suitability for this contest.

Have you read at least ten plays by Shakespreare?

Have you read the complete works of F. Scott Fitzgerald?

What do you think are the five greatest novels of all time?

Compare and contrast Poe and Kafka. Feel free to go crazy during this exercise.

Which Russian is the greatest novelist ever, Tolstoy or Dostoevsky? Give at least two examples of the greatest of each writer.

I say that is enough for the moment. I am sure I have begun the path of this new journey in as transparent a way as possible. The basis of all is this: I mean to acquire a mate by the time the hour strikes Midnight to signal the arrival of my 40^th birthday. The clock is ticking and I am sure there will be many applications for the position. Women that love to read and are schooled in music, art, history, philosophy and politics are very easy to find and I shall not have the least bit of trouble finding an adequate mate.

With any luck, when next we meet, I will have purchased or fed on  found my mate. Enjoy your day even if you have other plans. 

SPECIAL GUEST STORY----Johanna K. P.

I am super excited to present a Guest Story for the readers by Johanna K. P.
Johanna's writing is raw and personal and should be quite a treat for all that follow my stories.

She is super talented and I can't wait for her novel, THE MANICHEANS.

You can follow her work here:  http://themanicheans.blogspot.com/

Without further delay, our Guest Story.

You and I

I woke up from a dream, first looking to my left, and then to my right, just to make sure I was alright. It had been a long night of running away, not really knowing where I was going. My mind told me to just go, so I went, and I left you behind with all the others. I am so sorry, my love.

After days of waiting, the plague finally hit our little town. I was lucky to be alive. I… saw things I wasn’t supposed to witness. It happened all so fast, my love. All too fast.

I loved you with all my heart and soul. I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done, but there was no other way, and you knew this was my only chance at survival. I really had no choice.

I know you understand. I fear it’s too late now anyway. They said that all the victims died within three weeks of inoculation. I couldn’t wait for you to perish in my arms, and then what? Where to next? I hate feeling like this, so torn and tormented; it’s driving me crazy…

I didn’t think I’d write about this, after all these years spent working on my novel for nothing. Now am I really the prophet everybody’s looking for? I had the possibility to tell them the truth, but nobody listened. I found this empty journal on the side of the road…

I miss you so much. You and I, we were the best of friends in the whole wide world. I loved hearing your laugh, because it uplifted me from all the sorrow I had to cope with every day. You’ll go to heaven, if there’s still one somewhere… That tragedy made me rethink the whole story about hell and stuff, you know what I’m talking about. I don’t think that fire is really that dreadful in the end. Seeing everybody you love die hurts much more than a little burn.

Oh honey, I wish you could see what I see. Our small world has really turned upside down. There’s nothing left of the sanity we all pretended to have. They became animals, hunting for human meat because all the livestock is dead. Everything turned to shit. I don’t even know why I’m still standing. I want to cry but I can’t. The river has been completely drained.

I’ve got to go, my love, the journey is not over for me yet. If I make it to the coast, I’ll maybe be able to publish something after all. I heard they were looking for authors to report about the pandemic. Deep down I pray for my words to finally see the light of day, so that I can leave in peace. You know how important writing is for me. I couldn’t live without it. It is the air I breathe and the water I drink. I write out of hope, out of love and out of luck, constantly carrying this pain around… I’ll write even in death, that’s how much I want it.

You and I, we knew what it felt like to put words on paper. You were my muse, my inspiration… you were my all. You gave me a strength that nobody understood. Every night I spent alone writing was worth it, and I don’t regret being the asocial bastard everybody told me I was. Screw them all, they’re all dead now anyway. I never wasted my life the way they did. They enjoyed simple pleasures while I sought deeper joys, and I found them all once I let my imagination take over. They were too self absorbed to understand the true beauty of this world… Every time I open my eyes I see things they were blind to.

Maybe this was supposed to be my time. God put me on this earth because he wanted me to accomplish something, and I believe that my purpose is to write, so I’ll keep going until my feet can’t walk anymore, and my head is too sick to think straight. Until that happens, I’ll follow my dream, because this is who I am. In a time where everything is gone, I finally know I was right all along.

You and I, my love, we fought like warriors and we didn’t lose. You’ll always be with me, because my words will keep you alive. There’s no boundary to our quest anymore, we’ll travel as far as my thoughts can go. My words will be your carriage to eternal life… and we’ll meet again in a place where these words have more meaning than love itself.

You and I, together forever, because I write. 

DISAPPOINTMENT

Disappointment

I

            Ray sat as still as cold stone in the seat of the diner, waiting for her to return from the bathroom. He dared not breathe, nor think of doing anything more than grip the edge of the table tightly with his wet palms, nor did he contemplate leaving, for he knew an important moment was at hand. A lone thought fought to gain entrance to his mind and he knew, knew what she wanted even before he watched her gliding slowly towards him, her blue eyes sad and wet as if from crying. She looked paler than usual, but still looked beautiful to him, the smallest of smiles forming upon her face as she slid into the booth opposite him. 

            “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. A tear dripped out of her eye and she brushed it away with the sleeve of her black dress. 

            “It’s ok, Rose. Tell me how you found me,” Ray said. He remained still, fighting the inner turmoil building in his stomach and rising in his blood. 

            “I talked to Sean, Ray,” she said. The words seemed to explain all, tell Ray every bit of the story he expected to hear if he asked the next question.  He tried to focus and took a slow deep breath. He held it inside for a few moments, until he felt the pressure in his face.

            “Why?” he asked simply. He felt faint as he exhaled and gasped for air.

            The air felt thick between them and silence took hold for some minutes. She looked away, more tears fighting down her cheek and she put her hand out towards him, which he took quietly and slowly, carefully placing his hand on hers. 

            “I’m pregnant,” Rose finally said. Her words felt like the color of steel upon his ears and he recoiled as if she slapped him. He jerked his hand away from her and pushed himself as far back in the booth as the ragged green cushions allowed. 

            “I can’t breathe,” he said to her, once again gripping the table’s edge for support. 

            “Not the reaction I hoped to receive,” she said, fighting tears again. She balled a hand into a fist and smacked it softly against the table, her eyes closed. Ray looked around the diner; they were alone. The waitress scurried into the kitchen when his looked in her direction. 

            “Give me say ten seconds to process this information. We were only together for one night, so forgive me,” he said.  He felt a flare of anger in his blood.     

            “So you’re a man now, not the writer that can fall in love at first sight?” she said with a sneer twisting her red plump lips. She ran a hand through her blonde curls, all the while her eyes attempted to bore holes into him, seeds of energy trying to imprint on his soul. 

            “Do not mock me. Nothing can break or change what happened between us...” 

            “Save you never speaking to me again,” she interrupted.

            “What do you want from me?” he yelled.  The waitress peaked out of the kitchen at him and again ducked from his gaze. 

            “Marry me,” she said. 

            “Marry you?” he repeated. 

            “Yes.”

            “This isn’t 1965,” he said, regretting it the minute the words were spoken. She crossed her arms and stared at him once more, as if waiting for him to retract his statement. He sighed in frustration and ran a hand over his cropped head. “Do you really want to get married?”

            “Yes,” she said with a glimmer of happiness in her voice. She again wiped tears from her eyes before once more extending her hand to him. 

II

            The man fell silent and slumped into his chair. His eyes seemed to sink into the sockets as if trying to disappear. The girl looked around her, as if waking from a dream. She moved her chair closer to the table and reached her hand towards the man, touching him, as if to wake him from sleep. 

            “Ray?” the girl asked, her blue eyes shining in the bright sun. 

            He focused upon her once more and frowned, his hand rubbing his beard with nervous contemplation.

            “What?” he asked, almost as if he’d forgotten her presence. He looked at her hand upon his and back up to her eyes. 

            “If you want to take a break, do so,” she said.  

            “No,” he responded. “I will tell it to you. I want to be done with this and get it over with before I lose my nerve. It has just been a long time since I heard my name is all.”

            She looked at him, confusion sweeping over the delicate features of her tiny face. She waited for him to continue, not wanting to say anything to make him turn back from the story. 

III

            I didn’t want to see my father and I didn’t want to have a wedding. I wanted to get it over and be married. Let’s get on with the misery I told her as we discussed the plans later in the week. It took me a few days to grasp it all, to accept fate, but once I did I pushed hard to bend Rose to my plans. 

            I refused to speak with my father and let Rose handle what arrangements I told her to make with him, which involved money. 

            “He paid for everything without question or demands,” she said the night before we were to be married. We lay naked together in my bed, smoking and staring at the darkened television screen. 

            “Father of the year.” I said with derision as I felt sleep coming for me. “Wake me in time to shower before the flight.”

            “I will,” she promised. She kissed me on the cheek and shut off the lamp.

            Leaving for the airport before the sun turned hot and before my cell began to buzz with texts messages from everyone she explained the plan to over the last few days, my blood tasted like fear as I read the many panicked attempts to steer me from my choice.  Did they think I’d change my mind?  I’ll always be amazed by how little the people who surround us know the inner truth of our being. 

            I slept on the plane, as if trying to shorten the hours until the ordeal, I mean wedding, could end. We walked in silence through the airport and out into the heat of summer to meet the limousine my father had provided. 

            The heat slammed into my cheek and the sun gouged at my eyes as we waited for our driver to pull closer to the curb. We got into the car without waiting for the driver get out of the car seeing as we had only one shoulder bag each. And as I’ve said, I wanted it to be over. 

            The driver made his way casually through the city, almost as if to give us opportunity to take in the sites. However, neither of us felt inclined and I stared into her eyes for the duration of the trip. 

            After getting the marriage license at the courthouse, the limo finally came to a stop outside The Little White Wedding Chapel on Las Vegas Blvd. I closed my eyes before opening the door, gathered my courage and stepped into the heat of high noon. 

IV

            “What happened?” the girl asked. Ray looked at her and shook his head to gather his thoughts. 

            “When it came time I said I do and she said something along those lines,” Ray said with a grin. 

            “Come on!” she exclaimed, slapping the top of his hand. “You can’t do that to me mid story. I want to hear it all.”

            “I’m not skipping over anything important. We see weddings on television. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.” 

            “Boo!” she said, smiling. Ray hushed her with a sharp glance.

V

The limo took us to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. I think we picked the room based on the availability of a balcony. Rose complained of nausea, so I brought her up to the room. I felt energy pulsing through my veins and a nervous excitement to see something, do something.

            “Go down and blow some of your father’s money,” she said to me, kissing me on the cheek. 

            I took her in my arms, squeezing her. I kissed her, parting resistant lips that tasted like strawberries. 

            “I’ll see you in a few hours,” I said to her. 

            I took the elevator to the casino, the loud rock music lifting my spirits. I made for the poker room, hoping for some action to clear my thoughts and provide distraction. 

I played in silence for an hour, drinking the complimentary cocktails the waitress kept forcing on me. I finally won a hand and my tension seemed to abate. The player I beat in the hand asked me what brought me to Vegas and I, out of character, told the table of the wedding. 

“Congratulations,” the man said to me. He was a middle aged man with a thick mustache and beer belly. “You should be enjoying the night with you wife.”

“Thank you,” I said. “She is not feeling well.”

“Sorry to hear that. Tell me, how does it feel to be married?” the man asked. 

I thought about it for a few moments, imagining Rose and her eyes and her pretty pale skin and I felt a flood of happiness. 

“I’m married,” I said to nobody save myself. I threw back the drink in front of me and made my way back to the room. 

                                                                  VI

Ray walked towards the room, excitement filling him, growing within him. He thought for a moment that maybe they could have a real wedding back in the east in a few months. He inserted the card key in the door and entered the room as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake her. 

He could see she was not sleeping, indeed not in bed at all. He heard her voice out on the balcony, so he walked towards her, the words slowly becoming clearer.

“He will never know, I promise you. By the time he learns of the truth, we will be well married. I will make him love me, do not worry.”

There was a pause, one that Ray took for Rose listening to someone on the other end of the line. He could see her standing in a hotel robe, holding the phone to her ear, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Ray struggled to breathe, to comprehend. 

“He will never learn the truth. I’ll tell him I had a miscarriage. I’ll never tell him I had the abortion,” Rose said.

Ray fell to one knee and clutched his chest. He shook his head, as if to erase the statement from his mind. It did no good and he heard the words again, echoing, ringing inside his skull, a sharp piercing pain.   …I’ll never tell him I had the abortion…

Ray felt his consciousness waver for a moment and he gripped the bed for support. His strength was failing him, but enough remained to hear her words.

“I just want my money,” she said before lapsing once more into silence.

Ray forced himself to stand and with great effort. He felt a slow rage entering his body and the sudden desire to push Rose off the balcony. He stood still and silent for a while, listening to her haggle without hearing many of the words. He shook his head in anger and staggered towards the door. He ran down the hallway of the hotel and screamed at the top of his lungs when he was safely in the elevator. 

            “FATHER!!!”

STORY FOR A DOLLAR

STORY FOR A DOLLAR

           

            A young lady wearing pink shorts and a white blouse with a backpack over her shoulders descended the escalator towards the lobby of the casino, running a hand through wavy blonde hair as she looked about her, eyeing the shops and lights. She gripped her phone and stepped into the flow of humanity pushing its way along the walkway, shiny insistent machines lining either side of the yellow floor. Pausing at a display, she looked at designer handbags, and there, eyeing the new dresses of summer, while she kept checking her phone for messages. 

            The people pushed her as she looked in the windows, at the goods, the tattoo parlors, the blaring bars with girls dancing on the stage. The push of energy led her outside the casino, onto the street, where the vendors hawked stolen goods and cheap tee shirts of the city. The heat and light of the early afternoon assaulted her eyes, making her wish for a hat. She pulled sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on before continuing her walk. The sounds attacked her ears, a blend of music and voices as the smells of food and perfume invaded her senses.  She stood for a moment, near a booth offering tacos and two dollar margaritas when she heard the voice.

            “Hey you,” the voice intoned.

            She spun round to face a man seated at a table. She gasped as she saw his scraggy beard that sprouted crazy from his face, long and wild. His long, shiny brown hair set off his fierce brown eyes, which seemed to bore into her pale blue, delicate eyes. She took a step towards him, to escape the traffic. She noticed the sign above his head.

STORY FOR A DOLLAR

            The sign had no other adornment and was hand painted on rough cardboard. She did not understand and looked back at the man trying to take in his crazed appearance. She saw a scar below his left eye run down into his beard and disappear into the untrimmed hair. 

            “I will tell you a story for a dollar,” the man said. His voice rang deep and penetrated the noise of the street. Turning to each side to see if people watched she saw nobody paid them any attention. She took another step and looked at the table in front of her. The man held a tablet computer and watched her. Removing a crumpled dollar from her pocket, she placed it on the table. The man put the tablet down and grasped the dollar, shoving it in his pocket in one motion.

            “What story do you wish to hear?” he asked. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, rolling the arch of her foot upon the sidewalk, she considered his question. 

            “Tell me how you came to be here.” she asked. 

            The man frowned and tapped the screen of his computer for a few moments. He sighed and continued tapping on his tablet, but glanced up at her, his brown eyes once again on hers.

            “I do not wish to tell that story. I can tell you many others, stories of war, love, adventure, but not about myself.That story wouldn’t interest you. Perhaps I can tell you a story about dragons?” 

            “No!” she exclaimed. “I’ve had enough with dragons. I want to hear your story. I paid my dollar and I want to hear!” 

            The man stared at her, incredulous, a hand stroking his beard. 

            “Let me see,” he said, tapping again at the screen. 

            “The story is on your IPAD?” she asked.

            “No, no,” he laughed, turning off the tablet. “Checking the market. Sorry to keep you waiting. I will give you a story.” 

            He pointed to a plastic folding chair at the end of the booth and indicated she take a seat. The plastic felt hot against her skin as she sat, keeping her eyes trained the man. After she crossed her legs, she nodded for him to begin. 

            “There was a dragon in love with a princess,” he began. She stamped her foot in indignation and glared at him in anger. “I’m just kidding.”

            I spent my youth amid the splendor of wealth, but safe to say, I did not please my father with the choices I made from such an early time in my life that by my 18^th birthday he made it fact that I couldn’t take possession of the money set out for me until such time that I was married and stayed married. Those are the basic facts. I told my father that I wanted to marry for love, not for his money. I vowed to spurn his money and his judgments of me and moved from the luxury of home to picturesque Warwick.

            “Excuse me,” the girl cut in quickly. “You’re from Warwick?” 

            “Why, have you been there?”

            She looked at him, as if trapped in thought, but otherwise didn’t respond to him. The man shrugged and continued.

            In Warwick, I took a job waiting tables and rented an apartment. I settled in for an ordinary life, far enough from my father so that he might not interfere, but yet close enough to rub my peasant lifestyle in his face. I stayed to myself, working on my stories and otherwise going about the business of living said ordinary life. I dated a few times, but each time the relationship got serious, the truth of my birth and circumstances conspired to bring the connection to a fast end. 

            Indeed, how do you tell someone you are dating that you chose poverty? How do you tell them they can win the lottery by marrying you? Ten years passed in this fashion. Relations with my father grew worse until such time he refused to talk to me until I married.

            I did not see my father some years before I took a trip to NYC to give a reading of my newest short story. I debated not going at all, seeing as I couldn’t afford the trip. How can one justify a trip that costs more than the publisher gave me for the story in the first place? The night before the reading I crashed at my childhood friend’s apartment after getting ripping drunk in Providence. He told me I had to read for my fans. 

            ‘Fuck my fans.’ I muttered in my drunken turpitude. ‘They don’t pay my rent.’

            My friend slapped me and told me I had to go and promised to drive me to NYC personally in the morning. It happened that way too, which disturbs me more than any other thing I’ll tell you in this story. I knew him for 25 years. 

            We made the trip to the city in good time; somehow both avoiding traffic and the need for bathroom breaks even though I drank a good deal of water to help my hangover. I’ll save the details of that afternoon and skip to the good part, the reading. 

            I wasn’t the featured performer that night; I won’t have you think more of me than I am. I climbed the three stairs to the mini-stage, eased myself behind the worn podium and opened my notebook to begin. 

            I felt nerves, nervous, sweat beginning to form under my arms as I stared and got lost in the crowd.  Indeed, it was a crowd. The bar was packed to the rafters and I seemed to recognize most of the faces in the room. They are here for me, I remember thinking. I stood mute for some moments, panic beginning its stealthy run up my legs and spine, its tiny fingers gripping at my throat. I heard voices yelling at me, encouraging me, trying to lead me into voice. 

            I forgot the story I was there to read and when I looked down at my notebook, the words failed to resolve into sentences. 

            ‘Help me.’ I said quietly into the microphone.  Dead silence met me, stares and stone cold dead silence. 

            I felt a pain in my mind as the eyes bore down, waiting, the impatience dripping from their eyes. 

            I opened my mouth, not having the slightest clue of what I was about to say.

            The man stopped and looked at the girl, a visible pain in his eyes. He rubbed his temples and reached under the table, pulling out a bottle of scotch. 

            “I can't give you more story than that for a dollar," the man said so quietly it nearly evaporated in the heat of afternoon. 

            The girl grabbed his hand as he attempted to pour from the bottle in front of him. 

            “Tell me what happened that night,” she said in a voice that felt like a whisper upon his ears.

            At the very moment I began to speak I saw her. I saw her in a blinded rush, blonde curls showering over the pale skin of her face, her thin neck adorned with a small diamond necklace.  The simple fabric of her plain black dress rustled in the air of the bar. Yet, she stood angry, her arms crossed violently across her chest, with one of her small pretty feet slightly in front of the other in an aggressive posture. Her blue eyes yelled at me to continue. I gathered my strength, a bit of liquid courage and spoke.

            I can’t remember a single word of the story I created that night. Yes, I say created, for the words I spoke were newborn and fresh to this world. I spoke in a blinded rush and hurried to find inspiration, which, to thank the gods, came swift and sure to my aid. Words followed upon words and I created on that summer night in NYC.   

            When I finished the crowd met me with a dizzying applause. I walked off the stage in a daze and sat on a bar stool, ready to drink myself into oblivion. After the barkeep set a drink in front of me I could feel a presence next to me and I didn’t need to look to know it was her. She smelled like apricots and I felt her lean in close to me, placing her lips against my ear.

            ‘I want you to read stories to me all the days of my life.’ 

            The room spun around me and my skull threatened to split open at her words.