His name is Anthony. He makes me laugh especially when he's being stupid. He mostly annoys me though, but I don't know. I think that's one of the reasons why I love him. Does that even make sense? It doesn't, not to me, but I still think it's true. Anyway, not everything that's real necessarily makes sense.
One time he said something really dumb. I think it went along the lines of "You look like a hag in that dress." I had saved up for that dress, possibly a month's worth of allowance, or maybe more.
I wore it at a party I knew he'd be in, thinking he'd say something nice for once. I washed my hair and fixed it up nice and even allowed my mom to finally put make-up on my face, then I snuck into my sister's room to use her "very expensive perfume from her thoughtful and sweet boyfriend," as she put it. She wanted to kill me the next day when she found out that I had used it without her permission. Even more when she found out that I had used a lot. I wanted to make sure it would stay on long enough for him to know that I was wearing it. "God, you're such a little shit," was all she kept saying. And she rolled her eyes whenever I'd be in her way and stuff. Anyway, my dad dropped me off at the party and I saw people at the front of the house acting stupid and drunk. I guessed there was alcohol but when my dad asked about it, I lied and told him that they were naturally dumb and acted that way all the time.
I felt pretty sophisticated when I walked through the door. I held my head up high and straightened my back. The entire place reeked of smoke and sweat and everywhere I looked people were either drinking or trying to dance dirty with each other or falling over themselves. I tried to look for my best friend, Annie, but I couldn't find her. Later, I found out that she had been kissing the host upstairs in his room.
Anyway, I saw him sitting in the den with a couple of his friends after I gave up looking for Annie. I smoothed my hands over my dress and coughed softly. He lifted his head and took one long look at me. I felt my heart rise up to my throat as the corners of his mouth lifted. Then he said, "You look like a hag in that dress," or something to that effect. I tried to say something equally witty and painful, but all that came out was a weak reply. I pretended it didn't get to me by hanging around for a while, but after a couple of minutes, I stood up without excusing myself and went out to look for a telephone. I found one in the kitchen, where a couple of kids were playing the card games I never really liked, and whispered for my dad to pick me up. He had just gotten home from dropping me off.
When I got home, I took off the dress, sat at the foot of my bed and cried for a little while. Then, I folded the dress and put it in the farthest end of my closet, where I could never see it again.
There was this one time, though, when my dog died. I went to school looking terrible and bleary-eyed with grief. He asked me what had happened during lunch and I told him flat-out that I didn't want to talk about it. Then he got very quiet and just sat down beside me while I pretended I wasn't crying. He took my hand under the table and we just sat like that until the break was over.
It's been twelve years. I see him every once in a while, at bars with his co-workers, in church with his family, and sometimes at parties with his girlfriend, who is a pediatric oncologist and a couple years his senior. They're about to get married. In a month, I think. I was invited, but I have to fly out for a seminar on the same week.
I turn on my side every night and face the window. I think about the day his sweaty hand held mine in a painfully sweet and awkward effort to comfort me. My husband reaches out to hold me but I gently shrug him off. "It's hot, honey," is all I say. He kisses the back of my head and in a couple of minutes I hear soft snores coming from the other side of the bed.
You'd think that time would make things different, but it never really does. We just look older, dress better, get jobs, and start going our separate ways. But feelings never really change, and neither do we.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Job
The room was dank and smelled of wet crevices and mould. He rapped on the wall with a closed fist. "Allistair," he called out softly. There was no reply, as expected. He smiled in the dark, a tight smirk that mirrored his thoughts. "Allistair," he murmured again, taking one cautious step forward as his eyes began to adjust. This time, a soft, guttural moan answered him. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, one corner of his lips turning up.
Through the darkness, he could see the shadowy silhouettes of the objects littered on the floor. An old telephone with its receiver displaced, the cord a messy tangle on the carpet. Boxes, an ashtray, magazines and a glimmering pool of something that seemed to be trickling down from-ah, there he was.
The body was on the bed, face-up, with one hand dangling at the footboard. His head was tilted at an odd angle, presumably the source of the crimson river gathering on the carpet.
"Well, I didn't think you'd be awake to see me, but hey there, I'm here to take you back. I'm Witman, from the company."
Another low groan escaped from Allistair's throat.
Witman slid both hands under Allistair's body and proceeded to lift him off the bed. The low groan turned into a full scream, though the other man remained stiff and heavy in Witman's arms.
"Oh for Chrissakes, how am I supposed to even get you outta here if you're screaming in my goddamn ear?" Witman muttered. "I shoulda brought the damn tranquilizer. I keep forgetting, I mean they always remind me, but I keep on goddamn forgetting."
The screaming ceased, but the whimpering returned.
"They always tell me, you gotta do it right this time, but I got a lotta things on my mind, you know. I'm trying to make something outta my life, if you want to know the truth." Witman paused and leaned Allistair's weight on his left knee so he could wipe his forehead, then propped his leg up so he could slip his other hand back under Allistair's body. "Heavy sonuvabitch," he gasped, "I didn't know the company hired your type. Nuts, I have one hell of a job getting things done and I'm like, half of your fuckin' body mass or something."
Witman began to teeter under the weight, then finally regained his balance and continued walking out of the room. In the dim light of the corridor, he could finally see how the other man looked like. Allistair was in his late 30's, at least, or in his mid-40's. He had a deep gash running across the side of his head, which had been cleanly shaven. A thick moustache partly covered his upper lip, which was thin, dry, and pale. He had one scar directly below his lower lip, not quite on his chin. His eyes were shut, and his nose was thin and aquiline. He smelled like blood, sweat, and lobster thermidor. Witman remembered his Physics professor as he looked at the heavy bloodied man in his arms and tried to shake off thoughts of centers of mass and trajectories as he ambled out of the empty hotel, Allistair in tow. "Give me a sec, will ya," Witman told Allistair, who was weaving in and out of consciousness. He gently lay him on the ground, then walked over to the '65 Chevrolet Impala waiting for him in the deserted parking lot.
"Ahh, Christ," Witman wheezed, picking up a half-empty bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. He took one long drink, until the last drop, then tossed the plastic bottle into the backseat. "I'm getting too old for this goddamn job." He took a deep breath and surveyed the area, then returned to Allistair, who was now fully unconscious.
Witman picked the body up and summoned the final vestiges of his strength to move towards the car, where he lay Mark Allistair in the backseat with the empty water bottle.
Then, fishing for the matchbox in his pocket, he moved to the greasy, glittering trail of gasoline he had painstakingly set around the hotel earlier. "Damn job," he muttered under his breath as he lit the stick and tossed it to where the trail began. He began to walk away, an easy, loping, artless gait that showed no trace of fear or anxiety. He had done this before. It would all be over in an hour.
"They don't pay me enough, I tell you," he said to an unmoving Allistair, who now lay close to death on the leather carseat. "They don't pay me damn near enough."
Through the darkness, he could see the shadowy silhouettes of the objects littered on the floor. An old telephone with its receiver displaced, the cord a messy tangle on the carpet. Boxes, an ashtray, magazines and a glimmering pool of something that seemed to be trickling down from-ah, there he was.
The body was on the bed, face-up, with one hand dangling at the footboard. His head was tilted at an odd angle, presumably the source of the crimson river gathering on the carpet.
"Well, I didn't think you'd be awake to see me, but hey there, I'm here to take you back. I'm Witman, from the company."
Another low groan escaped from Allistair's throat.
Witman slid both hands under Allistair's body and proceeded to lift him off the bed. The low groan turned into a full scream, though the other man remained stiff and heavy in Witman's arms.
"Oh for Chrissakes, how am I supposed to even get you outta here if you're screaming in my goddamn ear?" Witman muttered. "I shoulda brought the damn tranquilizer. I keep forgetting, I mean they always remind me, but I keep on goddamn forgetting."
The screaming ceased, but the whimpering returned.
"They always tell me, you gotta do it right this time, but I got a lotta things on my mind, you know. I'm trying to make something outta my life, if you want to know the truth." Witman paused and leaned Allistair's weight on his left knee so he could wipe his forehead, then propped his leg up so he could slip his other hand back under Allistair's body. "Heavy sonuvabitch," he gasped, "I didn't know the company hired your type. Nuts, I have one hell of a job getting things done and I'm like, half of your fuckin' body mass or something."
Witman began to teeter under the weight, then finally regained his balance and continued walking out of the room. In the dim light of the corridor, he could finally see how the other man looked like. Allistair was in his late 30's, at least, or in his mid-40's. He had a deep gash running across the side of his head, which had been cleanly shaven. A thick moustache partly covered his upper lip, which was thin, dry, and pale. He had one scar directly below his lower lip, not quite on his chin. His eyes were shut, and his nose was thin and aquiline. He smelled like blood, sweat, and lobster thermidor. Witman remembered his Physics professor as he looked at the heavy bloodied man in his arms and tried to shake off thoughts of centers of mass and trajectories as he ambled out of the empty hotel, Allistair in tow. "Give me a sec, will ya," Witman told Allistair, who was weaving in and out of consciousness. He gently lay him on the ground, then walked over to the '65 Chevrolet Impala waiting for him in the deserted parking lot.
"Ahh, Christ," Witman wheezed, picking up a half-empty bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. He took one long drink, until the last drop, then tossed the plastic bottle into the backseat. "I'm getting too old for this goddamn job." He took a deep breath and surveyed the area, then returned to Allistair, who was now fully unconscious.
Witman picked the body up and summoned the final vestiges of his strength to move towards the car, where he lay Mark Allistair in the backseat with the empty water bottle.
Then, fishing for the matchbox in his pocket, he moved to the greasy, glittering trail of gasoline he had painstakingly set around the hotel earlier. "Damn job," he muttered under his breath as he lit the stick and tossed it to where the trail began. He began to walk away, an easy, loping, artless gait that showed no trace of fear or anxiety. He had done this before. It would all be over in an hour.
"They don't pay me enough, I tell you," he said to an unmoving Allistair, who now lay close to death on the leather carseat. "They don't pay me damn near enough."
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