Alice lowered the passenger side window to toss their coffee cups into the parking lot trash can.
"Pull ahead a smidge, Liz. I can't reach."
"I can't. Just toss it in," Liz said.
With a grunt, Alice tossed the cups. They separated in mid-air, moving apart. They struck opposite edges of the trash can's rim. One cup bounced up and fell inside. The other cup spun and then tumbled to the pavement.
Without looking over at Liz, Alice let out a sigh. She opened the door and the bottom edge scraped against the curb.
"Hey!" shouted Liz.
Alice turned her head to smirk. Just for a second. When she got out, the car raised up just enough to lift off the curb. She stepped up on the sidewalk and around the trash can to grab her coffee cup. Beside it lay an object that caught her attention.
She scooped up the cup and dropped it in the can without even looking, her whole attention now fixed on the object on the sidewalk.
Liz couldn't see Alice. The car door and trash can combined to obscure her view. "Alice! Let's go. We're gonna be late again!" Liz said.
Alice stood. Her hands cupped in front of her belly, she held the object. She searched her mind to find some familiar thing so she could describe it. Attach meaning to it. But this thing, a carving of some kind both confused and intrigued her at the same time.
Liz's patience ended. "Alice. Get your ass in the car. What are you doing?"
Alice turned her head smoothly. Locking eyes with Liz, she said, "Go on without me."
Furious, Liz unbuckled her seatbelt, slid across the seat and pulled the door shut. Once behind the wheel she threw the car in gear and shouted, "Fine. Good luck finding another job!"
Liz sped along the parking lot until she reached the entrance to the street. She looked back at Alice in the rearview mirror. Alice still held her hands in front of her belly. Whatever she was holding glowed and ghostly green. It cast a green tint over Alice's yellow shirt and white pants. Liz put the car in reverse.
Alice heard the gear drop and the whine of a car moving quickly in reverse. She smiled as she stroked the image carved into the idol. The octopus-like head with tentacle feelers in place of a mouth. Wings folded against the back. Webbed, clawed hands. It was, just, beautiful.
Hit the road, one chapter at a time
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
#18 Excuse Me?
"Just give her a break, Dylan," I said.
"A break? That had to be the most disgusting display of table manners I've ever seen!"
Dylan quickened his pace as we crossed the parking lot. I hurried to stay even with him.
"Look, I know people who talk with food in their mouth is kind of a pet peeve for you..."
Dylan turned and grabbed my coat stopping us both on the spot. He had 5 inches and 25 pounds on me. He knew how to use his size to intimidate when he wanted.
"Her little display in there was rude and obnoxious. Go ahead and tell me she wasn't acting like a pig!"
"Dylan, I..."
"No, you can't. And you know I'm paranoid about choking on food and dying." Dylan paused and leaned in close. "Why am I paranoid about choking, Michael? Why?"
I took a shaky breath before answering. Dylan was getting pretty scary. "Because of the way your mom died."
"That's right. I watched her choke on a simple bite of food. And since they don't teach five-year olds the Heimlich maneuver and sometimes adults pretend stuff like sleeping and dying, I didn't do anything to save her."
He finally let go of me. I rubbed the feeling back into to my right triceps muscle. He started walking toward the car again. The final 30 seconds passed in silence.
"OK. I understand your little sister is only nine. But someone has to teach them about these things. No one in your family deems it important."
"Don't you think covering her mouth with a napkin and shouting, 'Breathe, bitch, breathe!' was over the top? I mean it was a birthday party and she was trying to sing during the cake cutting."
"A break? That had to be the most disgusting display of table manners I've ever seen!"
Dylan quickened his pace as we crossed the parking lot. I hurried to stay even with him.
"Look, I know people who talk with food in their mouth is kind of a pet peeve for you..."
Dylan turned and grabbed my coat stopping us both on the spot. He had 5 inches and 25 pounds on me. He knew how to use his size to intimidate when he wanted.
"Her little display in there was rude and obnoxious. Go ahead and tell me she wasn't acting like a pig!"
"Dylan, I..."
"No, you can't. And you know I'm paranoid about choking on food and dying." Dylan paused and leaned in close. "Why am I paranoid about choking, Michael? Why?"
I took a shaky breath before answering. Dylan was getting pretty scary. "Because of the way your mom died."
"That's right. I watched her choke on a simple bite of food. And since they don't teach five-year olds the Heimlich maneuver and sometimes adults pretend stuff like sleeping and dying, I didn't do anything to save her."
He finally let go of me. I rubbed the feeling back into to my right triceps muscle. He started walking toward the car again. The final 30 seconds passed in silence.
"OK. I understand your little sister is only nine. But someone has to teach them about these things. No one in your family deems it important."
"Don't you think covering her mouth with a napkin and shouting, 'Breathe, bitch, breathe!' was over the top? I mean it was a birthday party and she was trying to sing during the cake cutting."
Monday, January 2, 2012
#17 Dog Walks
The dog knows when it's time for the humans to turn out the lights and go to sleep. She makes her way to the front door and patiently waits for the leash. Most nights I take her out. The darkness is complete on the front yard. The porch light and whatever leaks out the picture window is consumed by the night.
Groups of tall trees border all the homes at the end of the road. No streetlights. Even if every home had their exterior lights on it wouldn't be much help. The houses are too far back from the road and there aren't many of them.
I think about these things when I walk the dog. I never bring a flashlight despite my concerns. Even after I saw him that one October night, standing in the break in the fence at the end of the cul de sac. I always carried a pocketknife, because that should scare any deranged lunatic off. But no lantern.
The first night I saw him I chalked it up to a person waiting for someone. The gap in the fence leads to a path that connects our neighborhood with another one a hundred yards through the woods. The streets don't connect because of some wetlands.
But that was the only night I thought he was waiting for a friend. Every other time I saw him he stood in a different spot. His head always lay canted to one side like he yearned to hear a distant conversation. The closest I ever really got to him was about fifty yards. I waved but he didn't wave back. I even questioned if it was a man because he had what looked like smeared, red lipstick around his open mouth.
The dog acts weird, too. At first she wags her tail and is kinda playful. Then she whimpers a little and gets real close to my leg. She does her business and she pulls me back toward the house. She usually jumps all over people, familiar or otherwise.
I called the police to report him, but that didn't get them much too excited. I guess it was because the guy hadn't butchered anyone yet.
I'm writing this now in the basement. I have the dog and my shotgun at my side. My wife and children happened to be at my in-laws for a couple days. Glad they weren't here when I flipped the light on and saw him on the back deck. I nearly lost it when I saw all the small details. The police didn't sound that interested even when I held out the phone so they could hear him banging on the glass and moaning.
Glass just broke upstairs. Probably the sliding glass door leading in from the sun-room. I just clicked off the safety. Be back.
Groups of tall trees border all the homes at the end of the road. No streetlights. Even if every home had their exterior lights on it wouldn't be much help. The houses are too far back from the road and there aren't many of them.
I think about these things when I walk the dog. I never bring a flashlight despite my concerns. Even after I saw him that one October night, standing in the break in the fence at the end of the cul de sac. I always carried a pocketknife, because that should scare any deranged lunatic off. But no lantern.
The first night I saw him I chalked it up to a person waiting for someone. The gap in the fence leads to a path that connects our neighborhood with another one a hundred yards through the woods. The streets don't connect because of some wetlands.
But that was the only night I thought he was waiting for a friend. Every other time I saw him he stood in a different spot. His head always lay canted to one side like he yearned to hear a distant conversation. The closest I ever really got to him was about fifty yards. I waved but he didn't wave back. I even questioned if it was a man because he had what looked like smeared, red lipstick around his open mouth.
The dog acts weird, too. At first she wags her tail and is kinda playful. Then she whimpers a little and gets real close to my leg. She does her business and she pulls me back toward the house. She usually jumps all over people, familiar or otherwise.
I called the police to report him, but that didn't get them much too excited. I guess it was because the guy hadn't butchered anyone yet.
I'm writing this now in the basement. I have the dog and my shotgun at my side. My wife and children happened to be at my in-laws for a couple days. Glad they weren't here when I flipped the light on and saw him on the back deck. I nearly lost it when I saw all the small details. The police didn't sound that interested even when I held out the phone so they could hear him banging on the glass and moaning.
Glass just broke upstairs. Probably the sliding glass door leading in from the sun-room. I just clicked off the safety. Be back.
#16 The Right Seat
I don't enjoy air travel. Especially long flights. I get these cramps in my legs and I just want to jump up and run around. It can become such a distraction that I can't think about anything else. It probably looks crazy to anyone watching me.
I once talked to a shrink about it. He thought I might be claustrophobic or agoraphobic or something but I don't have that same anxiety in any other tight spaces. And I'm not afraid to fly. I'm perfectly OK with it. It's the lack of freedom. Just knowing that we can't pull over so I can take a quick walk. And walking to the john and back to my seat doesn't qualify. I tried that but after five trips they think you're a terrorist no matter what you look like.
So I was in the middle of a long transatlantic flight home and I start to fidget. It got so bad, the woman across the aisle asked me if I needed help.
"No. I'm OK, really. I just get these leg cramps and, uh, I don't know." I winced in discomfort.
"I think it's probably more than that," she said. "I have the same problem, you know?"
She described how she felt on long flights. Even short ones. I forgot all about my problems while I intently listened to her.
"I have my medication right here with me. As you can see I'm as calm as a cucumber. I have plenty of these. Want a couple?"
She offered the bottle across the aisle. I accepted it and read the label carefully. I had never heard of the drug, but I didn't have any of the conditions that the warning label mentioned.
"Go ahead," she said, "I won't tell anybody."
"Oh, alright," I said, and popped a couple of the pills. I handed the bottle back to her.
When I next awoke, I found myself sitting on the dirt floor of a small building. Shackles connected my wrists and ankles to the walls. The anxiety returned and I felt the need to jump up and run.
I once talked to a shrink about it. He thought I might be claustrophobic or agoraphobic or something but I don't have that same anxiety in any other tight spaces. And I'm not afraid to fly. I'm perfectly OK with it. It's the lack of freedom. Just knowing that we can't pull over so I can take a quick walk. And walking to the john and back to my seat doesn't qualify. I tried that but after five trips they think you're a terrorist no matter what you look like.
So I was in the middle of a long transatlantic flight home and I start to fidget. It got so bad, the woman across the aisle asked me if I needed help.
"No. I'm OK, really. I just get these leg cramps and, uh, I don't know." I winced in discomfort.
"I think it's probably more than that," she said. "I have the same problem, you know?"
She described how she felt on long flights. Even short ones. I forgot all about my problems while I intently listened to her.
"I have my medication right here with me. As you can see I'm as calm as a cucumber. I have plenty of these. Want a couple?"
She offered the bottle across the aisle. I accepted it and read the label carefully. I had never heard of the drug, but I didn't have any of the conditions that the warning label mentioned.
"Go ahead," she said, "I won't tell anybody."
"Oh, alright," I said, and popped a couple of the pills. I handed the bottle back to her.
When I next awoke, I found myself sitting on the dirt floor of a small building. Shackles connected my wrists and ankles to the walls. The anxiety returned and I felt the need to jump up and run.
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