AUGUST 16, 2017| ISSUE no 221
Literary Magazine
crack the spine
poetry Daniel Pieczkolon Linda Neal
short fiction Daniel Thompson Thomas Christopher
ISSN 2474-9095
flash fiction Mark DiFruscio Grace Fondow
The Book of John, Pt. 1 The Curse of John
John responded to an ad for a singer/ songwriter that we happened to put up in the music store where he worked. He sent us a CD with him playing ‘Interstate Love song’ and an original called ‘Soul Cry’. Our stereotypically longhaired, bass player, Dylan Wayne DeHavelyn, who weighed about 240 pounds and always wore shorts (even in the winter), liked it because Stone Temple Pilots are his favorite band. John was the first and only guy we auditioned. I knew we should have kept looking but Dylan didn’t like looking for band members and reasoned that since John worked at a music store he could get us good deals. “Who cares about deals if he sucks?” “He’s as good as anyone we might find.” “Can’t you hear my soul cryin’ tonight… are you kidding? Anyone can write better lyrics than that.” We had a name for our band, Fuel for Fire, but it doesn’t matter because we didn’t play any shows. I never told him straight out that I didn’t like his songs. Sometimes telling people what you don’t like about them does more harm than good and with stuff as bleak and sentimental as Soul Cry, I was almost certain he couldn’t do any better anyways. So I buried my true feelings behind drumbeats and became a friend to the guy, who away from the mic wasn’t so bad. John does cocaine on occasion, a combination of powdered and crack, something that occurs to him after a few drinks. He says I could use a line right now and repeats it until he gets one, a true eighties man, or eighties child at least. His daddy probably listened to a lot of Hughie Lewis, maybe worked at the local bank. I’m almost positive on this, I remember some conversation to the purpose. One night in particular comes to mind. Sometime in summer, 2000, muddied by drinks spread out over several hours and bars, culminating in a trip to a bathroom deep inside the penetralia of some building or complex of buildings designed to meet a standard, but not to exceed it. A one stall hole in the wall with mirror and sink, though all I really remember is the countertop, dully reflecting the harsh white glare of fluorescents as I metabolized my first ever line of cocaine. The place turned out to be Fast Eddie’s, a Mediterranean restaurant off the Island Highway on the way out of town (no matter which way you’re headed, everybody who comes to Nanaimo is always on their way out of town). I had no recollection of how we got there. John had to remind me what happened. The last thing I remembered was drinking at the Queens. More than I could afford, which meant that John had bought us a few pitchers and then of course he needed a line so here we were. After locating myself in the mirror I pondered my unfamiliar surroundings. The mode by which we arrived and the action of the drug seemed consistent with an abduction type scenario; missing time followed by a revelation similar to the removal of a blindfold, as if I were crossing over into another world, the dark underworld of the Nanaimo drug scene. “It sobers you up,” he said. We had a few more drinks with appys until the bartender began to look at us funny. John paid our bill and we walked the three blocks to his apartment to do more lines. Over the course of the day and days that followed, I began to notice the shadow side. The fiends, night-crawlers and addicts emerging, unbidden, from the throw of streetlights and alleyways to accost passersby in short terse conversations before switching to the subject of drugs as if drugs were an impulse buy and I would somehow become intrigued by their convincing sales pitch. “Nice night isn’t it, would you like to buy some crack?” Their faces already registering a reaction to something they heard or expected me to say like “sure, I’ll just wait here to see if you die or not” without actually saying it. Thinking five moves ahead to what’s in my pocket, what they might be able to get for it, their next score, meal, customer. Presenting your average law-abiding citizen with a new kind of danger to which there is no precedent or at least no logical way of getting out of it. Politeness only encourages them, while rudeness may provoke a fight so the best thing to do is blend in, which brings up a host of other issues. The perverse reversal of destiny, sending emissaries that instead of trying to save my soul, were bent on dissolving it over a series of sleepless nights and drained mornings with all the colour washed out. Offering drugs and fulsome acts of goodwill; generosity that had to be returned and junk that couldn’t. If the universe wanted to see what I would do, why didn’t it offer me something pleasant instead? Where was it when I needed some sweet lovin’ and no, I don’t mean prostitution. Why of all things did arbitrary chance seek to engage me through hookers and drug dealers rather than a solicitous helper, a benevolent friend? Was it to do with some Mephistophelian death deal made during that interval (crack) between worlds, loosing beings who from then on would pursue me through nighttime and now daytime streets? John kept at it long after I found the self-respect to quit. His problem, I think, was that he never learned from his experiences because he didn’t seem to suffer any consequences. He’d lose money and his mom would just send more, not that she was really trying to help or teach him any lessons, but because money wasn’t an issue and she equates money with unconditional love. I don’t know. I don’t know the woman. Maybe he tells her he’s undergone some significant change and has learned from his mistakes. The level of responsibility John maintains illustrated by the fact that he has an illegitimate son in Nanaimo that he never sees. Rather than forfeit all that time and write it off as just a waste or one of life’s little lessons, I decided to capitalize a bit and use it as research, including him in a paper I was writing for class. What I gathered from the results was that people are either as thick as a novel or as flat as a piece of paper. It depends on what’s written. From an anthropological stand point John would be a good subject for a paper, but if his lyrics are any indication he’s not novel material. I have managed however to squeeze a few stories out of him and fabricate a few more, ‘The Curse of John’, ‘Fast Eddies John’ and ‘Inadvertently-Soliciting-Prostitution John’. To begin with, the just plain old John, before he became the subject of fictional accounts, was only in the band for a few months before he got into an argument about song writing with Dylan and our other guitarist Marty. We were in the middle of playing one of John’s songs. Marty, our lead guitarist, was doing an ‘Allen key solo’, where he’d drag the Allen key over the strings and strum a fast pattern. John carried on for a few more bars after the solo and stopped in mid-chorus. “Okay. That was shit.” “Why?” I said. “It sounded like a bunch of noise,” addressing Marty, “what kind of solo was that?” “It’s called an ‘Allen key solo’.” “How is that a solo, or a melodic progression of any kind?” “It just is.” “It’s too obscure for this project, just play…” John diddles out a twangy little solo. Marty mimics it with an exaggerated bend of the strings, “do you mean play any number of redundant and outdated rock guitar solos? Or maybe something that sounds a little too much like someone else?” John’s face turns red. I know Marty doesn’t give a damn what John thinks. If John says that Marty’s playing sounds like noise it’s more of a complement than an insult. Marty and I have been in plenty of bands. We know what we’re doing. We’re only here because of each other, if he goes, I go and vice versa. Thwarted, John shifts his attention to Dylan “and you should stop playing your bass like a guitar.” Dylan snaps back, “why don’t you concentrate on how you play and not worry about anyone else.” “Because these are my songs.” “Yeah, and all your songs sound the same.” “That’s because they have structure. No one goes to a show to see the bass player wank off.” “Well, why don’t you write another three chords about it Rockstar.” The instrument making a deep, meaty sound as it strikes the side of his leg, sending a low end shudder through the room. Habitually taciturn, Dylan didn’t get upset unless he had to, John hadn’t seen this side and now with the bass rig still humming through every live mic in the room, Dylan, or rather, BlackThorn (emphasis on Thor) had just gone into dungeon master mode and was waiting for John to make his move. Marty and I look at each other, all we could do was sit and watch the inevitable dissolution of this band that we didn’t really like anyway. While they finalized the break up by saying a few more terrible things to each other, I went to the rec room to do butterfly presses and avoid the brewing hostility. No one was complaining about me. I was friends with all of them and the songs were too easy for me to screw up. Although we never jammed together again, this was only to be the beginning of our association. John, having signed the contract for the jam space we were occupying, got hold of the remaining money and went back to Alberta after spending it on drugs. While John was in Alberta, Marty and his fiancé, Carla, were breaking up. She began talking to John on MSN messenger and they decided, without consulting Marty, that John should move in with them. Within a week, John had his old job back and was sleeping with Carla in her and Marty’s old bedroom while Marty slept on the couch like a castaway on a friend ship lost in a lover’s Bermuda triangle. I was having roommate issues of my own at the time, so I couldn’t offer him a place to stay. During their month-long cohabitation, Marty lived in tight vectors between the university, liquor store and the woods around the apartment. Luckily it was May, so he could spend as much time outside as possible. He wasn’t despondent, just tired and hungry, living as he did pretty much like a hobo, except he had a couch to sleep on. Whatever he and Carla used to do and then what John and Carla did, he came to hate; the music, the people, the places, even the food. Eating was becoming a problem, he couldn’t afford to eat out all the time and when he came ‘home’ he had to smell what they’d eaten and it made him sick. They’d ask if he wanted the leftovers, he’d say no then eat it anyway, along with whatever else they had in the house. Stealing was okay, but accepting charity or a friendly gesture was not. In June John and Carla got a place across the street and Marty floated for a bit. Coasting on the momentum and clemency of summer, opening up the wide doors of rented rooms, jam spaces and friends’ couches, playing parties to sleep on the floor, etc. There was no news from the ‘twits’, Marty’s collective name for John and Carla, until around September when we got a big update. A few months into his arrangement with Carla, John financed a guitar from work and left to see his folks in Alberta, when he returned a few weeks late and later, Max, the owner, refused to give him his job back because he was behind on the payments and generally unreliable. John said he’d already paid and wouldn’t pay any more. The altercation moved to the back entrance where Max threw him down a flight of stairs. Marty heard the news and applied for the job, anticipating that John would come around and maybe he, Marty, could throw him down the stairs again, but when John found out that Marty had taken his job, John tried to tell everyone how Marty had been abusive towards Carla. How he’d stepped in and threw him out of the house. No one believed him of course and Marty vowed to get revenge. John’s doing Good for John these days, Johnny B. Goode, he woke up at nine-thirty thinking that no one could possibly do a better job of being John than him. People tell John he can’t do things, but John says he can. He’s the kind of guy that won’t let what he can’t do stand in his way. He’s the kind of guy that doesn’t believe it when they tell him he’s not Goode, though usually it’s behind his back. He’s the kind of guy that smiles and doesn’t stop to think why. His vocabulary limited to monosyllables and affective ape-like facial expressions. He may be someone you know, the guy you’re dating, have dated, will date; always looking for an upgrade, an addition to his prolific list of stats. The remnants of John’s breakfast slides into the big plastic garbage bag atop gobs of waxed paper, parchment, more plastic, no compost, no recycling, nothing that looks like an organic vegetable. It’s Carla’s day off from the café. She’s wearing her robe, hair in disarray, gazing at John as he meanders through an even more simplified rendition of Nicklebacks’, “How You Remind Me,” singing with conviction, a-and this is h-how, you-ou re-mind meee. “I love that song. Did you play it for me?” “Of course. Did I wake you up?” “I love to wake up to the sound of your guitar.” They kiss with the guitar still resonating between them. “Check this one out. I’ve been working on it for the last few days,” playing three bars of a power ballad before starting in on the words. You make me feel like I am real. I can’t stop thinking about the way. I wake up beside you everyday. You know I’m here to stay. I start to sing. I’d never trade that for—anything⎯ your face is love⎯ and I’m in love⎯ “That’s beautiful, is that for me?” “Of course it is baby. I love you.” They kiss again, Carla falling sideways onto his lap. “No, no, you’re going to crush the guitar.” Carla gets up, pouting, “what, is the guitar more important than me?” “Of course not, but how am I supposed to write songs as beautiful as you without it?” “That’s so sweet,” one of only a few words that those truly in love can use in all sincerity without hearing what it sounds like to others. “I’d love to stay here with you all day, but I gotta go to the gym.” “Miss me,” she says. “Me too.” John gets in the car, John goes to the bar, John plays the guitar. Screw loosening strains of ‘Slipknot’ rattle through the Civics’ steel shell, raising androgens to warm-up levels, John alternately tensing and releasing his grip on the wheel as he steers through morning traffic. Last week he was benching 220 pounds, today he plans on boosting it up to 240. Sweat is excreted. Adrenaline floodgates open and mix with blood. He inhales as he lifts and exhales easing the weights back down. “And this is how you remind me…” but he’s not thinking of Carla now. A busty, well-sculpted blonde is working out on a rowing machine in front of him. He continues, hoping she will notice his effort and skill, “nine… ten,” finishing his set and sitting the next one out. The girl wipes her head with a hand towel and leaves without looking in his direction. John counts a rest, a full rep and toddles off after her. Just long enough for it to be considered following and not a legitimate attempt at establishing contact, scanning the vending machines, water fountain and other loci of break time congregation, making a show of looking disinterested, which includes actually drinking. After a few minutes he feels it in the plumbing and ducks into the men’s room. He can’t resist taking a look in the mirror, searching for signs of improvement, proof that hard work pays off, if not at work than at least when he plays. At the cafeteria he orders chicken on rye with salad. He usually refuses vegetables unless they’re indistinguishable beneath sauce or dressing, but there’s a sign above the counter that says, ‘you are what you eat,’ and in small print ‘size matters, eat salad instead of fries.’ John makes a mental note to eat more vegetables. On his way back he sees the blonde sipping from the fountain by the door. Wait till she gets a load of me, he thinks, sucking in his gut and pushing out his chest. The words leave his mouth before he has a chance to think, “I saw you working out. Those are great abs, not to mention buns. We should get together some time and do a real work out.” While most people might glance at a girl, entertain some thoughts, maybe say something lame or even heartfelt, John just does what comes natural. That’s what the tapes tell him to do. Be active instead of passive. Don’t over think it. Don’t be afraid to say what’s on your mind. “Um, I don’t think so. Instead of working on your pecs maybe you should work on your approach.” John remains stoic despite the hasty rejection. She just doesn’t know me well enough. She doesn’t know what she wants. He isn’t desperate or even looking to have an illicit encounter. He merely likes to be seen as sexy and wanted by every girl. John finishes with a cool down on the treadmill and heads to work. His role in society is crucial; he is bringing food to the people. Sometimes they give him tips. It’s eight pm, near the end of his shift and he’s looking forward to settling down on the couch with Carla to watch a movie, make out and have sex before the movie is over. Navigating the streets from memory he’s got five minutes to find the house and give the people what they want, otherwise it’s free. There aren’t many places in town he can’t find. He does his little sprint to the door, straightens his red hat and coat and rings the bell. Ten seconds. He’s about to ring again when the door opens, revealing, by degrees, half a face, a shoulder, soft and hairless, then a firm, perky breast, angling steadily inward until it is at its fully open, accessible position, yielding a comely young woman dressed in pale blue jeans with the waistline cut off and frayed, “hiiii, can I help you?” “You ordered a pizza?” “Yes, come in,” smiling, it seems, genuinely. John enters and stands erect. She’s got a fan of blue and purple bills and is brushing them lightly across her chest, “go on put down those heavy pizzas. Don’t you want to touch me?” John plops the pizzas down on the counter. The girl puts the money on top of the boxes and unbuttons her pants, rolling them down around her ankles, then peels off her underwear and strolls up to John, breasts brushing his red delivery coat. John swells like a hotdog in a rotisserie. “Whoa, hey. I’m John.” “Shut up and kiss me.” John dispenses with the formalities and proceeds to roll his tongue around in the stranger’s mouth. “Check it out, I’ve got the perfect prank to get even with John,” says Marty. Marty and I are sitting on a bench in the park behind my house smoking a joint. An expectorating silence settles, “I’m listening.” “Say, for instance, I tell an escort to go to your house, while we phone in a fake pizza order. Say John goes to the door and presents her with a steaming hot pizza… she’s half naked and says, for example,” Marty, affecting a higher feminine tone, “oh, come in. I’ve got the money for ya’ honey.” Marty executes a kind of ‘sexy dance’ with the pretend money, waving it in front of his chest. “Ha ha. That’s funny… but why would we do that?” “Do you think he’d be able to say no? He’ll get fired for sure and Carla will know that he’d been with another chick.” “Do you know how much that would cost!?” “I’ll pay, besides it couldn’t be more than a couple hundred dollars. It’ll be perfect because he doesn’t know where you live.” “Yeah, but that’s like an ounce and a half,” I protest, economically. “This is going to be better than any weed man. I’ll have her leave the blinds open so we can take pictures… to show Carla.” “Oh, you mean like a P.I., or a peeping Tom, or what?” “No. For revenge.” “Ooooh, ahh.” “Good. Then give me your cell phone,” says Marty, snatching up the phone from my not unrelenting grip. He calls and arranges a meeting with the escort at my house. “OK, it’s all done. They estimated about four-hundred dollars for the time we need and the required action.” “That was fast.” “I called earlier I just needed to confirm the time. John will be starting work about now,” says Marty consulting his watch, making silent cerebral calculations. “Can you spot me a hundred and fifty bucks?” Incredulously, “no, I can’t give you a hundred and fifty dollars.” “C’mon I’ll pay you back.” “What do you have in the way of proof that your plan will even work? What if he doesn’t like this girl, what if he says no. Ever think of that?” “Uh… no. That would never happen. John’ll always go for the easy lay, no matter what. Especially if its what he thinks is an ideal situation. Which it is, really, as long as he doesn’t suspect some kind of trick, he’ll most definitely go along with it. He will never chose duty over pleasure. He’s like an over-stimulated rat,” making mouse masticating sounds. “Besides this isn’t some cheap Haliburton ho, we’re taking about. She’s a student.” “Did you see her?” “I saw her photo online, she’s good.” “Right, doctored photo.” “She’s an actress. It’s a promo shot. Anyway I inquired over a week ago. I’ve put a lot of planning into this and I’ve got the money, just not all of it, all I need is to use your place.” “You’ve been planning it all week and yet you wait until now to tell me?” “I’m getting to it alright. It’s complex. The main thing is time. The more time he spends in the house the later he is with the rest of the orders. All we need is fifteen minutes. Then it’s free right? So first I call in. I make a big scene with all kinds of substitutions. I ask about where they source their cheese. Is it gluten free? No, well can I get whole wheat? No. Fine, then I make it seem like I’m going to have a fit if it’s late like, I WANT MY PIZZA HOT AND IF ITS NOT HERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES I WON’T PAY. Then we’ll run back up here and watch through these binoculars.” He pulls a pair of binoculars out of his jacket. “Oh boy. What happened to taking pictures?” “Well, yeah. That too,” pulling a black nylon case out of his overstuffed hobos backpack. “I got this a few days ago. I think it’s a good one. I got it from this fiend downtown.” It’s a pretty expensive-looking camera and likely to have a heavy karmic load coming along with it too, not to mention whatever pictures are on it. “Hmm,” shrugging off any apparent interest or concern. Affronted, Marty tries to promote the idea that this is supposed to be a fun thing to do and not just a stab at his ex and her new beau, “something we can look back on in fifteen years and more importantly it’s something we can do together, as buds. Besides afterwards we get pizza and beer,” giving a quick jab of conviction, like this gesture of machismo solidarity and enthusiasm with serve to convince me. “I can’t believe you don’t want to do this.” We’re outside the house smoking a joint when the girl arrives in a taxi. Pretty, brunette, about twenty years old. She strolls up and introduces herself as Brandy. “Hi. I’m Marty, and this is David,” offering her the spent roach. “No thanks,” with a skeptical shake of the head. Not a good way to start things off. “Sorry, no. It’s done,” I say, snatching it out of Marty’s hand and dropping it on the ground. Marty blinks and flashes me a quick, but perceptible, what do I do now? Realizing that after planning the whole thing, he doesn’t know what to say, how to explain or provide instruction to this girl whom I can actually feel go cold from three feet away. “C’mon in the house,” he offers. “It’s o’kay,” I say. “We’ll explain inside.” Marty and I enter first, followed by Brandy, glancing inquisitively around the clean, but empty kitchen/foyer. “Well, I don’t know what you guys have in mind, but I don’t do two at a time and it’s three hundred for play, four hundred for sex with a condom.” Marty clasping his hands in supplication, “don’t worry Brandy, we’d like to start off by explaining why we’ve brought you here. There’s this guy named John. He’s a pizza delivery guy. We’d like you to answer the door and seduce him so he forgets about the rest of his deliveries.” She waits until her laughter subsides, “let me get this straight. You want me to pretend that I live here, and seduce your friend the pizza boy?” I look at Marty like I told you this wasn’t a good idea, “yeah. Forget it.” I say, “It’s a stupid idea.” “You got the cash?” she asks. Marty holds out the $400. She takes the money and stuffs it in her jeans pocket with not much room to spare. “So you boys aren’t looking for anything?” “Well, um not really. We just want you to distract him,” says Marty. She looks nervous. Marty stammers on, “we’d like to y’know, but we gotta pay rent.” “Yeah, you are very beautiful,” I say. “So when is this guy supposed to show up?” she says. “We haven’t called yet. There’re still a few details we need to go over. Here have a seat,” Marty leads her into the living room and waits for her to sit on the couch before taking a seat himself on the wicker deck chair opposite. “You’re an actress, right?” At this point both her face and demeanor become observably more animated and engaged, “yeah, I’ve been in a few plays and a commercial. I was in a magazine…” “Great. Feel free to improvise. What I need you to do is…” Marty proceeds to tell her his entire plan, making stuff up as he goes along. He tells her to fake cry and gives her a motivation, “you’re in the midst of a moral dilemma. You feel guilty for cheating on your boyfriend with the pizza boy. He’s away and you’re stuck at home. A lonely housewife.” The girl nods taking his directorial consultation in earnest. Marty sits down beside her on the couch, leans in for a kiss, fondles her breast, “Like this,” he says. “Should I be undressed?” she asks. “Undressed, yeah.” “Marty,” I say. “Shouldn’t we be getting on with it? I’mean the real deal.” “Right. I’ll call him now,” he says, allowing time for the swelling in his pants to go down. “Ah-ha! I’ve got it,” ambling toward the phone, “what kind of pizza do you like Brandy.” “Where’s it from?” “Beaufort.” A pause, “I don’t really like their pizza.” “Sorry, but it has to be…” “Mediterranean.” “You got it.” “You guys have cable here?” she asks. “Yeah, remote’s on the table,” I say. She picks up the remote and sifts through the channels, while Marty dials Beaufort. “All done,” he says hanging up. “He’ll be here in half an hour. One Mediterranean comin’ up… and a chef special,” Marty whispers, “that’s for us.” “Mmm hmm,” she says, switching between an episode of Jerry Springer and a Swollen Members video. “O-kay, all done here. Thanks a lot Brandy.” “Yeah, thanks a lot,” I say. “Sure guys, have yourselves a real nice evening,” she says. Marty leaves some cash on the counter, “I’m gonna leave forty dollars here for the pizza. Given the circumstances I don’t think you’ll need to give him a tip.” Brandy turns and in a confidence-boosting contralto says, “It’s all under control, sweetie, go on.” We leave and run to our bench on the hill furnishing a view of the living room window. The blinds are open as promised, Marty sights in the binoculars. I am just able to see her on the couch starting to get comfortable, unbuttoning her blouse. She gets up and goes to the window, probably looking for us. “See man, John’s finally gonna get what’s comin’ to him,” says Marty, lighting up another joint. It’s burned down halfway when John arrives. Marty leers through the binoculars. I can just barely make out Brandy as she strips off her shirt and bra and goes to answer the door. “Hey, give me those,” I object. “Just a minute. Hardly anything is happening yet.” “Bullshit, you cheap son of a bitch, I paid a hundred and fifty bucks,” reaching for the binoculars. Marty leans away using his height to his advantage, “It was my idea.” John enters. Brandy pulls off her pants then her underwear and hastily discards them. “Whoa,” Marty ogles. I jump and knock the binoculars out of his hands. “Hey, those are expensive fucking binoculars, jerk,” Marty searches for the binoculars under the flame of his lighter while I stand motionless hitting from the joint. He gets up presently, “lucky they’re not broken,” he says peering at the house again. Lucky for whom? I mumble to quietly to myself. I don’t even care about the stupid binoculars anymore. The peach schmaltz of Brandy’s perfume catches in John’s throat and sinuses limiting his senses to one. She pulls his shirt over his head and unzips his fly leaving him flailing, blind. His pants fall around his knees as they shuffle towards the couch, making out to the unromantic antics of Jerry’s guests in the background. John succeeds in removing his pants without lifting his lips from her face and now struggles to take off his underwear in similar fashion. Finally free of encumbrances he hoists her legs over his shoulders while tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth like beat the clock. She remains impassive throughout making only minimalist efforts to accommodate him. John’s protracted breathing and jerky indecisive lovemaking leave a lot to be desired. He sighs, his jaw drops and it’s over. With business-like composure Brandy slides off the couch and crosses the room to the window. “Oh no! She just closed the blinds?” says Marty. “What? Now we won’t know what the hell’s going on. They could be ripping me off!” I say with genuine concern. “Nah, don’t worry about it. If anything’s missing we’ll call the agency.” “It’ll be a little too late then won’t it?” “We’ll hide in the bushes across the street and go in as soon as John leaves. She won’t have time to steal anything.” “He’d better get outta there quick. I don’t trust him either.” “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” says Brandy. John follows her with his eyes as she crosses the floor in front of him, “Uh, ok…” John is at even more of a loss for words than usual. Brandy collects her clothes, surreptitiously sweeping John’s underwear in with hers and exits down the dark, narrow hallway. The show segues into a commercial. John shifts uneasily. Pangs of alarm go off. How long has he been here? Duty calls. After a fruitless search for his underwear he puts on his shirt, pants, shoes and tracks Brandy to the end of the hall where a light shines from under the bedroom door. “Um, Hel-lo. Sorry, but I have to be going now… Did you see my shorts, maybe you grabbed them with yours?” The sound of weeping becomes audible. “Are you o-kay?” The weeping continues. “Hel-lo?” he knocks once. “Everything o’kay in there?” “Be out in a second.” The door opens, Brandy exits fully dressed. John retreats keeping a respectful distance, “did you happen to see my underwear?” “No, were you wearing any?” “Well, yeah.” “Did you look on the floor?” distractedly grabbing her purse and looking for things to throw in it. “I already did.” “Sorry, hun. What do I owe you for the pizza?” “Oh, the pizza. Oh shit. I gotta go.” “Here. Here’s twenty bucks,” Brandy grabs a twenty off of the counter and shoves it into John’s pants, feeling around inside. John clears his throat quietly, dispelling a subsequent erection. “It was fun sweetie,” Brandy opens the door. John backs slowly onto the porch. “Can I call you?” “Just stop by. Anytime.” “What’s your name?” “Brandy.” John leans in for a kiss, her face framed in the doorway. She puckers her lips and shuts the door. Marty and I are crouched in a ditch across the street watching John as he joggles back to the car, wincing, casting wary sidelong glances over his shoulder every few steps. Changing the set of his face to one of pure business before getting in the car and taking off with all four cylinders screaming. “What a bunch of bullshit,” I say, storming back to the house. Marty stops me on the stairs, “ole’ Johnny must have got quite a shock, eh man?” “Yeah, good for him,” I say, swinging the door open. We investigate every room hoping to discover her in some stage of undress, but no deal. All we find is the balled up briefs on my bedroom floor. “Shit man, I guess she went out the window,” says Marty. “Well there you go,” I say kicking the underwear at him. “What did you want to do, show them to Carla?” “Nah, you can have ‘em.” I pick up the underwear with a fork and throw both fork and underwear in the garbage. “Hey, I got a plan,” he says. “No no no. Not interested. No more plans. Just leave. I’m pissed.” “Wait, let’s phone the pizza place and complain that the pizza is cold. You can pretend you’re a dissatisfied customer.” “O-kay,” feeling the need to vent on someone I don’t know. A man answers, I jump down his throat before he has a chance to finish his spiel. “Yeah, I finally got my fucking pizza two minutes ago and it’s barely fucking edible. It’s all cold and limp. I don’t think it is the size I ordered either. What the fuck are you going to do about it?” The voice tries console me, the irate customer, “I’m terribly sorry sir, I can send another one, what is the address?” “2709 fucking Rock City road.” “Okay, our delivery person will be there in twenty minutes, can I have your name?” “Gawain, Lucius Gawain.” “O-kay, and your phone number.” “213 4456.” “A-and what was it exactly that you ordered.” “My God man, don’t you already have this down?” “W-well our delivery person has all the bills, after the pizzas go out we don’t have any records…” “Large anchovy, green pepper, onion and ham,” slamming the phone down. “Ha-ha! Good luck, John’s going to be driving around Rock City looking for a place that probably doesn’t even exist.” Marty’s in the living room eating pizza and watching Jerry’s final thoughts, “What did you tell them?” “To deliver it to some imaginary address on Rock City.” “Ha-ha. Good one.” I take a look at the pizza, pepperoni, mushrooms sniff-sniff and onions. “Got any booze? Let’s celebrate. I’ve finally got my revenge,” Marty says from a reclined position on the couch. I don’t know what to do. Eat the pizza or mash it in his face. “Hey, I just got another idea,” he says. “Of course you do,” I say, abandoning Marty to the pizza, while I go to my room and hit silently from the pipe. Marty can be heard over sounds of smack down action, breaking glass and gunfire, “this time I’ll call up and say I didn’t get my pizza at all.” A few seconds later I hear him affecting a fake Hindu accent, claiming damages to his property, something about a fountain pen or an ursula gander? He orders a large Hawaiian and has it sent to another phoney address. Meanwhile Beaufort pizza has received several calls from people saying they had not yet received their pizza. John’s boss, an otherwise mellow 20-something folk singer, lays into him the best he can as soon as he gets back from his Brandy encounter, “John, we‘ve had quite a few complaints tonight. I’m gonna have to let you go and if you’re not back here in an hour, you’re not gonna get paid for tonight.” He never finds 2709 Rock City and doesn’t get paid for the night. Carla is curled up on the couch when John wanders in later than usual. He leans over to kiss her. She bends forward. A silent alarm imperceptible even to her at first rings somewhere far away, getting closer until it fills the room. Something’s up, something’s not right… and who just walked in the door? Following her nose she sniffs him out. “Why do you smell like cheap fucking perfume?” “I was delivering to this party on Rock city.” “Bullshit.” “A drunk chick.” “Bullshit.” “Rubbed up against…” “What? She rubbed you?” Carla throws a coffee mug. It misses him by inches and slams into the wall. “Hey, watch it,” says John, making conciliatory gestures with his hands. After an hour of clarifying his convoluted and outright lie of a story he succeeds in convincing her. The jist of it being that nobody knew where the host of the party was or whom the pizzas were for so he had to sell them individually and refuse bribes of all sorts before extricating himself. While they are getting undressed and climbing into bed she whips a vase at the wall behind him. “Where the are your underpants John?” “I must have forgot.” “Bullshit. Get OUT!” John is unable to do much besides get out of the way. She chases him into the foyer, into the hall, downstairs and into the lobby. “Baby, don’t do this.” He sobs, telling her the rest of the story about getting fired, about the mix-ups and the false addresses. She gives up for the night and goes back to the apartment, vowing to break up with him and move out before the week is through. He sneaks upstairs and to his relief finds the door open. She’s in their room with the door shut. He cuts through the kitchen avoiding the hall altogether and sleeps lightly on the couch, naked without a blanket. The next night he does the same, but has his clothes in a neat pile on the floor, a bottle of vodka and a sheet to sleep with. The following days are spent at the music store playing expensive guitars and job-hunting, but Max won’t take him back. For a while it seems that nobody wants John, but after a few reps at a new record of 300 pounds he’s his old self again, determined to write the best song he’s ever written, scratch that, the best song ever. He sits out back the apartment serenading Carla until the lights go off in their room. On the morning of the fifth day Carla’s mother arrives from Ontario to help her move. Mistaking it as a chance at redemption, John finds himself in a physical altercation with both of them. They beat him with kitchen utensils and call the police to take him away. He spends the night in jail and comes into the store the next morning to tell us about it. After several failed attempts at writing a new song he smashes the guitar against the stuccoed side of his quondam apartment building. The only thing he can still be proud of is his make-out session with Brandy. He thinks about her until he can’t think anymore. Anticipating another hot encounter, he returns to 41 Pine Street, knocks and waits patiently. I answer. “What are you doing here?” This is one contingency I hadn’t planned for. I slam the door and lock it before he has time to put the pieces together, but it wouldn’t be a party with out Marty so I tell him to get over here as soon as possible. I just scored an ounce and want to get him high for all the nice things he’s done for me. He says he’ll be over right away
short fiction by Daniel Thompson
Brandt's Cormorant
flash fiction by Mark DiFruscio
My mother dreamt of a lion on the night my brother died. She spoke uncertainly, face painted blue by a murmuring television, describing how the lion strode towards her, silent, taking her hand in its horrendous jaws, gently. “What do you think it means?” she asked. “Leo,” I said, naming my brother’s birth sign. “Oh,” she nodded, hopeful, fragile, illuminated. The lion never visited my dreams. Some sad years later, a cormorant perched on my garage one afternoon. Its mystery: why it should be alone, a social bird like that? I sat on the front steps until it left, keeping company with the black stranger, never visited by one before or since. The cormorant never flew away; he just waddled off, out of sight, padding over the ridge of the roof, unprompted. As if to say, “We have for too long now been estranged from the world.”
poetry by Daniel Pieczkolon
The idea is to just give the impression of the thing, the feeling of it and not actually it, to paint the memory the viewer will have of the piece, as he struggles to describe it— the peaches and pears, sliding off of the plate, falling from the table, spilling out of the picture plane— over espresso in a tungsten-lit café months after he’s seen it. Let the dirty brown overwhelm the staid green and the fiery orange burn through the fallow jasmine. Rub the oils between your fingertips to see if they change color. The objects are still as tragedies, but the painting should prove the impossibility of still life— should elide the syllables of partition, should be the memory it seeks to produce.
How to Impressionism
short fiction by Thomas Christopher
I agonized for weeks over how to ask my mom to take me to the doctor. When I finally approached her, she was in the kitchen making supper. “I think something is wrong with my stuff,” I blurted out. “Stuff? What stuff?” she said. “You know, my stuff.” I nodded toward my crotch. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Is it a rash? Do you have a rash? I have ointment.” “No, it’s not a rash. I’m fine, really. It’s just, well, you know . . . Can we please go see the doctor?” Two days later, I stood naked in front of Dr. Nelson as he examined my genitals. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Uh-huh.” That didn’t sound good. He told me I should be a lot further along at fifteen, but despite the absence of any pubic hair, there was nothing horribly wrong with me. “You just haven’t reached puberty yet,” he said. He looked at my pudgy stomach and my pointy man-boobs and added, “The enlarged breasts should go away as you get older. You could lose a few pounds, though. Are you playing any sports? Maybe you can play tennis. You like tennis?” “No,” I said. “I hate tennis.” “It’s nothing to be worried about,” my mom said on the ride home. We lived in the small town of Willawood, Iowa. “You’re just a little late, that’s all.” “Freakishly late,” I corrected. I reminded my mom not to say anything to my dad, in case she forgot. Then I consoled myself with the fact that I was going to see my first ever girlfriend the next day. I should’ve been excited about Tanya. I was in the envied position of having a girlfriend. But instead it made me even more insecure. The last thing I wanted was for Tanya to find out about my body, that my bottom half was a hairless nine-year-old boy and my top half was a budding teenage girl. Tanya Harris was cute. She had a small face, a flat chin, and puffy chipmunk cheeks, particularly when she smiled. Her upper lip was wavy and her long hair flared out above her ears like little wings. What I noticed most of all was how well she filled out her shirt in only the eighth grade. Most of the boys at middle school, seventh to ninth grade back then, already knew who Tanya was. As my friend Oliver said, “Her cup runneth over.” The first time Tanya called, my mom answered the phone. I was downstairs in the basement, helping my dad build a foosball table, even though I told him I didn’t like foosball. “What are you talking about?” he said. “Everybody likes foosball.” That was his answer to everything we disagreed on. When I told him I didn’t want to play tackle football anymore, he said. “What are you talking about?” He had been a defensive end in college and he taught me how to get in a three-point stance, charge off the line of scrimmage, and swing my arms in a swimming motion to avoid blockers. I was afraid I was going to have to explain how I didn’t take any pleasure in knocking people down. I’ll never forget the expression on my friend Oliver’s face as he lay on the ground looking up at me. Thankfully, the only thing my dad said was, “Will you still watch the Bears games with me?” “Of course,” I said. “You think I want to miss Ditka and McMahon fighting on the sidelines?” My dad was a burly guy, blocky and solid. He had the hairiest arms I had ever seen. They were like gorilla arms. In college, his nickname was Sasquatch, not only because he was hairy, but because when he played football he had a lumbering gait and he would fling his arms in the air like some sort of wild ape-man. I had seen him play in some old film reels he had. In the wood shop, sawdust stuck to his hairy arms so much that after a while he had to brush them off. He was great at building stuff: bookcases, tables, treehouses, decorative benches. His ability made sense. He was an engineer who spent his days figuring out how best to design tub grinders and manure spreaders. I was afraid of the saws, however, all those spinning, pumping, jagged-toothed blades that whined and screamed as they tore through a hunk of wood. Nevertheless, I stacked the pieces he sawed and I held the plywood as he cut it down to the right size. When my mom appeared suddenly in the wood shop, my dad and I stopped and lifted our safety glasses. Whatever it was, it had to be important. My mom hardly ever came into the wood shop. “What’s wrong?” my dad said. My mom didn’t say anything right away. She was a short woman, barely five feet, and shaped like two balloons squished together. She looked straight at me and said, “A girl named Tanya is on the phone for you.” “A girl?” my dad said. “I’ll be damned.” “Girls shouldn’t be calling boys,” my mom said. “What’s the big deal?” my dad said. “It’s 1984, not 54.” Tanya and I met in detention. I was there because I was daydreaming in Mr. Snyder’s algebra class. When he asked me a question, I had no idea what he was talking about, so I said, “That’s mind-boggling.” The class laughed and I guess he thought I was being a smart-ass. In detention, I found a seat behind Tanya. I could’ve sworn she giggled when I sat down. The fabric of her shirt dipped in along the lines of her bra straps and pushed out ridges of flesh that made little furrows against her shirt. I had a tremendous urge to run my finger along the furrows and feel the fabric of her shirt against my fingertip. Then I got the feeling she knew what I was thinking, and she probably thought I was creepy, so I quickly looked at my book. After detention, I was startled when she swiveled in her seat. I was afraid of what she might say, but then she smiled and said, “Hi. I’ve seen you around.” She also said I was cute, and she liked my hair, which was all news to me. I had recently parted my hair down the middle and feathered it back in a desperate attempt to look like Tom Cruise in his recent movie Risky Business. On the phone that first time, Tanya and I didn’t talk about anything monumental. We talked about school mostly and then a lot about our favorite things. Tanya thought that was important. On the show The Newlywed Game, couples never seemed to know what the other person’s favorite things were. I wondered if that meant we were a couple already. A week after I went to see Dr. Nelson about my body, Tanya invited me on a double date of sorts. The two of us, along with her friend Larisa, would all get together at Dave Dorseman’s house, who Larisa was dating. Dave Dorseman was the starting middle linebacker on the ninth grade football team. He was a good guy, unlike Clive Luntz who asked me if I needed a training bra for my “tits,” or Kyle Steponik who said I had a “baby dick.” That Saturday in May, my dad dropped me off at Dave’s house. Of course, I didn’t tell my dad anything about Tanya and Larisa being there. When I arrived in the dimly-lit basement, Tanya bounced off the couch where she and Dave and Larisa were sitting. She ran over to me and tossed her arms around my neck like she hadn’t seen me in weeks. Over Tanya’s shoulder, Dave gave me the thumbs up and then grabbed a bottle of Mountain Dew and took a swig. He had his arm around Larisa. He wore thin nylon jogging shorts and a red mesh tee-shirt, which made me feel over-dressed in my slacks and dress shirt. I also couldn’t help but notice Dave’s package stuffed in his tight jogging shorts. I knew what he had crammed in there. I had seen it dangling from a thick crown of hair in the locker room plenty of times. All four of us settled in to watch a slasher movie on HBO. Less than fifteen minutes into the movie, Dave and Larisa were making out. That put the pressure on me to make a move on Tanya. The problem was, I’d never made a move in my life, and the more I worried about what to do, the less I wanted to do anything. Besides, watching teenage girls get maimed and killed in Slumber Party Massacre wasn’t really putting me in the mood. That didn’t seem to bother Dave and Larisa. They stood up from the couch with their mouths still mashed together. They tipped their heads from side to side to get better angles to ram their tongues in each other’s mouths. When they turned slightly, their mouths glistened from the light of the TV. Larisa’s hand was squirming around in Dave’s jogging shorts until the head of his erection popped out like a jack-in-the-box. I glanced at Tanya who was staring wide-eyed at the top of Dave’s rocket. I was relieved when Dave and Larisa shuffled over to a bed in the back corner of the basement. But when I looked at Tanya again, her eyes were both dreamy and full of hungry desire. I was definitely not feeling the same way. The next thing I knew she lunged over and kissed me. Only she didn’t stop there. She grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me towards her as she fell back on the couch. I crashed on top of her and I suddenly realized I was making out. The thrill of it soon faded. I kept wondering if she could feel my pointy man-boobs against her own boobs and if that was weirding her out and she only kept kissing me because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Plus my erection was bent at a weird angle, so while all this making out was going on, I was actually in pain. When summer break came and driver’s education started, I rode my bike to Tanya’s house after each class. Both of her parents worked. Her dad was a long-haul trucker who I never met, and her mom was a desk clerk at the Motel 6 near the interstate. Her older sister was always gone, so Tanya was home alone every day. But that’s not what I told my mom.We would start out on the couch watching music videos on MTV—Van Halen, Huey Lewis, The Cars, Cyndi Lauper—and talking about how great it was going to be when I got my driver’s license at the end of July. “I really want to go to the old cemetery on Crandon’s Point,” she would say. “Did you know it’s the highest point in the county? I guess the stars are awesome up there. That’s what my sister Tina says. She said you can see like gobs of constellations. She’s really into that. I bet she’ll even get us some schnapps if I do a favor for her. God, won’t that be cool?” After about fifteen or twenty minutes, Tanya would ask if I wanted to go to her room. Her room was always tidy and her double bed neatly made. Hanging from the ceiling next to her dresser was a huge mobile of brightly colored shapes. “I just like shapes,” she said one time. “You mean shape shapes,” I said, “or particular shapes?” “You know, shapes.” “Like geometry?” “Not geometry. I don’t really think of it in a mathy-sciencey way. I don’t really like math or science. It’s boring most of the time. I just wonder sometimes why a cone is shaped like a cone, or why clothes have certain shapes and patterns on them. Where’d they come from? How did those shapes get that way? It’s stupid, I know. Let’s stop talking about it.” I didn’t think it was stupid at all, even though I didn’t entirely understand her. On the wall above the headboard was a poster of rock star Adam Ant. He wore thick black eye-liner and a black leather jacket that was unzipped with no shirt underneath. His lips were curled into either a sneer or a come-on. It was hard to tell. But despite his presence hovering above us, we never got much further than making out. I’d start to worry about my erection trapped uncomfortably in my jeans, wondering if it was going to end up permanently crooked if I didn’t finally let it out. On top of that was the fact I didn’t want to get naked for fear of Tanya being disgusted by what she saw. Hairless Boob Boy came to mind. So I did the only thing I could. I waggled my tongue around in her mouth for what seemed like hours. One time, she suggested we go to her sister’s room in the basement and use her waterbed. Tanya took my hand and led me downstairs. Inside her sister’s wood-paneled, shag-carpeted room, Tanya said, “Let’s put some music on.” She did a skippety-hop over to the stereo and rummaged through a stack of records before she found one. Thank God it was John Cougar and not Boy George or Madonna. When she stood back up, she twirled to face me. She smiled and twisted from side to side, staring at me with that hungry look again, no doubt waiting for me to make the first move. Instead, I acted like nothing was going on and there wasn’t a huge waterbed in the room that we had explicitly come down to use. “Well?” she said. “Yeah?” I said. “Why don’t you get in?” I had never been on a waterbed before. I sat on the edge first and slid my hand over the surface, surprised when it rippled. After I scooted on, the water started bouncing me around like a trampoline. John Cougar was singing, “Sometimes love doesn’t feel like it should.” Somehow I made it to the headboard and laid back against the pillows. I looked at Tanya, who reached behind her back and untucked her shirt. I thought she was going to take it off, and I really wanted her to, but she didn’t. Suddenly, as if embarrassed, she scrambled onto the bed, right between my legs, which started the water rolling again. She pressed herself against me and gave me a kiss that made our teeth click. Our bodies surfed on the waves for a moment before Tanya flipped over on her back and pulled me on top of her. I don’t know if it was the waterbed or what, but I was getting incredibly excited. After a while, Tanya interrupted my darting tongue. “Can we please try something different?” she said. She nodded toward her breasts. “You can actually touch them,” she said. I grabbed her left breast and squeezed it as if it was a Nerf ball I was about to heave across the room. Tanya peeled off my hand. “Not so hard,” she said. “Here, maybe this will help.” She unbuttoned the first few buttons of her shirt and then stopped. I didn’t realize that was a cue for me to finish the unbuttoning, so in my ignorance I latched onto her breast again. “Stop,” she said. She sounded annoyed. She undid the rest of her shirt, pulled open one side, and guided my hand inside the cup of her bra. The feeling of my hand on her bare breast was overwhelming, and without even thinking, I started to rub my pelvis against her. She must’ve gotten over her irritation because I felt her hands fidgeting against my waist. I heard her jeans snap open and the muffled zip of her zipper. She grabbed my wrist, and a second later, my fingers rested on the cusp of her panties. They slid slowly underneath until they touched a tuft of soft pubic hair, which instantly thrilled me and then filled me with dread. What would she do if she felt I had nothing down there? I withdrew my hand quickly and shoved it inside her bra again. “Oh,” Tanya said. She gripped me tighter and made a humming sound deep in her throat as she kissed me harder. Soon I was lost in the dizzying roll of the waterbed, the feel of Tanya’s warm breast, and the pressure of her legs squeezing and squeezing me. Then everything went fuzzy-blurry-buzz. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened. When reality finally set in, I couldn’t believe what had happened. I was mortified. I rolled off Tanya, glanced at my crotch, and saw a massive wet spot. I got out of the waterbed as fast as I could and stared at it again as if it wasn’t real. Then I turned away so Tanya couldn’t see me, but obviously, she already had. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Jason?” “Nothing,” I said. “I need to go.” “What happened? Wait. Don’t go.” I ran up the basement stairs, through the kitchen and living room, and out the front door to my bike parked in the driveway. In the sunlight, the wet spot on my jeans looked like a black oil stain. I leapt on my bike and pedaled away from Tanya’s house, hoping that none of the cars that passed me noticed the spot. Before long, I heard someone behind me honk. Then my dad pulled up alongside me. I forgot he was going to pick me up at Tanya’s that day; he wanted help getting some lumber to make my mom a curio cabinet. I didn’t stop, though. I kept pedaling, even faster now. He leaned over and peered out the open window at me. “Hey, slow down,” he said. I didn’t slow down. My dad said, “I went by that girl’s house, but I didn’t see your bike.” I kept going, pedaling and pedaling. “Hey, slow down,” he said. “Stop!” I ignored him. “What’s your problem? Stop, I said.” “That’s okay,” I shouted back. “What do you mean ‘okay’? What’s gotten into you? “I’m fine,” I shouted. “Stop, for Christ’s sake!” My dad sped ahead and turned in front of me. I had plenty of time to brake, but I just kept going. I slammed into the side of the car and fell off my bike. My shoulder hit the asphalt and I rolled against the curb. When I looked up, my dad stood above me with a scowl on his face. “Are you crazy? What did you run into me for? You bent your wheel and dented the car.” He leaned down and looked at me more closely. “You okay?” “I think so.” I sat up and glanced at my shoulder where my shirt had torn. A few red scraps marked my skin. My dad hoisted me to my feet, inspected the wounds, and shook his head. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “A few Band-Aids should do it.” Then he noticed the wet spot on my jeans. “Are you bleeding?” he said. When he reached out to touch it, I quickly turned away. “What happened?” he said. “Nothing,” I said. “Can we go?” He grabbed my fallen bike with one hand and ran his other hand over the dent in the car door. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. He wheeled my wobbling bike to the trunk and put it inside. After we got home and parked in the garage, he said to leave the bike, he would get it repaired tomorrow. I followed him inside to the kitchen, trying to stay behind his bulky body in case my mom was in there, which of course she was. My dad said in a loud voice, “You aren’t going believe what Ben Gould did today at work.” He put his hand on my mom’s shoulders, preventing her from turning from the sink. “Jason?” she said. “You picked up Jason, right, honey?” “I’m here, Mom,” I said as I hurried past her. I ran upstairs to my room to change my jeans and to bandage my shoulder. Tanya called me the next day. Even though I told her I’d have my driver’s license soon and we could finally go to Crandon’s Point, she dumped me. I don’t know if she saw my little “accident” or not. What likely made up her mind was how quickly I bolted from the scene and just left her there. I could still hear her saying, “Don’t go.” It was kind of a jerk-thing to do. She probably thought I didn’t like her. But how could I have stayed and endured the added humiliation of talking about it? Maybe she would have understood. Then what? I was too embarrassed about my man-boobs and hairless-wonder to actually get naked with her and do what I knew she wanted to do. So it was probably for the best that I ran and that she dumped me. The day after Tanya called, my dad said we needed to spend the afternoon looking for a car, which came as a big surprise. He had been telling me for months that I needed my license in hand before I could even think about getting a car. We went to Buckaroo Bob’s Used Cars near the interstate and looked at a Chevette and a Vega. My dad had made it abundantly clear that I was getting a cheap economical car. He didn’t want to pay for a lot of gas or pay very much for a car I was going to wreck anyway. I knew my dad meant well, but after a while, I just wanted to stop. “I don’t want to do this,” I said. “And I don’t want a stupid little car that looks like shit, either.” The only other time I had talked to my dad like that he had grabbed me by the back of the neck and sat me down. He said one word to me, “Respect.” The look in his eyes had frightened me. I think he felt bad about it afterwards because he built new bookshelves for my room. At the used car lot, though, when he put his hand on my shoulder, he only gave it a gentle squeeze. He said to the chubby sales guy in the tight-fitting cowboy shirt, “What do you have with a little more oomph to it.” The sales guy liked how my dad thought. He showed us a Cordoba and a Monte Carlo before I spotted a blue 1971 Ford Galaxie 500, the kind of car a gear-head might turn into a muscle car. I liked it just the way it was. The body had a several rust spots. The chrome on the front fender was scuffed up, and there were some scratches on the driver’s side door. A hubcap was missing, but the sales guy said a new one would be easy to find at a salvage yard. It wasn’t in perfect shape, and that’s what I liked about it. The sales guy popped the hood so I could inspect the engine, although I had no idea what I was looking at. It was the car’s original 351 Cleveland. “What do you say we take it for a spin?” my dad said to me. I already had a driver’s permit, so with my dad along I could test-drive the Galaxie myself. I drove under the interstate overpass and past the Motel 6 where Tanya’s mom worked. My dad wanted to get outside of town. I loved how smooth the Galaxie drove and how the speedometer went to a 120 and how the seats were as big as couches. We cranked open the windows and the wind burst in and swept around us. I felt my hair flatten against my scalp and my shirtsleeve ripple against my arm. When we finally reached a stretch of flat highway along some corn and soybean fields, my dad shouted, “Open this baby up and see what she can do!” I looked over at him. His head was tipped back and a big smile on his face, as if he was sixteen all over again and he was out on his first joyride with his best friend. His elbow was sticking out the open window and the thick hair on his arm waved around in the wind. Then I turned and stared at the open road ahead. I gripped the steering wheel tight and pushed on the accelerator. The Galaxie seemed to awaken suddenly, as if ready, at any moment, to take off and really go.
Hairless-Wonder
Andres makes things out of clay. He has sure hands. Brown and wide. Make you want to put your whole body inside of them. You watch him at the bar as he turns his coaster into a crown. He sets it on your head like a tiny tiara and winks. You feel dizzy. You met him at work. Most people in the service industry are artists and he’s no exception. But he’s the first one you spotted right away. Those hands. On your first day of server training he flew around the corner carrying a tray full of glasses. Thick arm reaching up like a tree trunk. Fingers spread wide like branches holding up a black sky. When he saw you he set down the tray. Fast, like he had never shattered anything in his life. He touched your shoulder. Welcomed you to the restaurant. You usually don’t like it when strangers touch you. But you felt his hand on your body like a patch of sun. All day. The next day when you saw him, your stomach tied itself up and you couldn’t speak. He just laughed and gave you a hug. Hands warm and firm on your back. His neck smelled like wet earth. Your panties were soaked for the rest of the shift. A few days later some of the girls invited you for drinks after work. They talked about Mikey behind the bar. Jason, the events coordinator. Brandon, another new server. But never Andres. Maybe because he’s a busboy he slips under the radar. Or maybe they’ve just never looked at his hands. A week later he found you on your break, smoking a cigarette by the water. You were at the dock farthest from the restaurant, watching the ships deliver loads for semi-trucks. You didn’t think anyone else ventured that far. He sat down next to you without speaking. Pressed his thigh to yours like praying palms. You watched him roll a spliff and imagined his hands on the back of your neck. You forgot about your cigarette until the ash was as long as your pinky. He laughed and his bouncing knee shook your body. The ash fell all over your lap. Now, you grab drinks every week and talk about art. He calls you amiga and talks to you like a friend. But his body is always reaching for yours. Your skin, always holding its breath anticipating his hands. And he, so calm next to you like water midday before the ships dock. Tonight, you ask him about clay while watching his fingers turn dollar bills into sailboats. He always tips the bartender in origami. “Que quieres saber?” He asks. “Why clay?” He looks at you like you just asked why he brushes his teeth. Takes a long gulp of PBR and smiles, lips shiny with beer. “Clay is like a woman. The kind who knows what she wants, tells you how she needs to be touched.” His hands are still for a second. The whole bar is still. Everything unmoving except the sudden river between your thighs. “Oh,” you say, looking down at your lap. He laughs. “When you write, doesn’t the page tell you what it wants to hear?” “I guess sometimes. But I wouldn’t call the page a woman or a man. It’s not a person at all.” “Yeah, clay is more physical. Clay is a body. Tiene piel, tiene músculos. También tiene alma.” “Clay has a soul? Maybe you should be the writer.” “I’m serious amiga. Clay always tells me what it wants to be. It moves inside my hands. Como una mujer.” He touches your arm. Slow and soft. Trails his fingers from elbow to wrist. The kind of tickle that sinks into skin, like chocolate melting on your tongue. You close your eyes and snap your thighs together. He pulls his hand away. “See how you moved. That’s why I love clay. It moves like that when I touch it. Guides my hands.” He cradles your hip in the curve of his palm. Gently pulls you from the bar stool. You don’t usually let a man’s hand sit on the small of your back. But when his fingers kneed into the base of your spine your legs fill with water. On his bed, it’s hard to tell who is doing the undressing. Who is sliding this off that shoulder. Who is pulling this down that thigh. Your bodies move together as if choreographed. He spreads you across the altar of his sheets. Blesses every bit of your body. Names it something new. Elbow, “estrella.” Collar bone, “rayo de sol.” He seals the names into your skin with a soft press of tongue. His lips press yours open and he says your name into the cave of your mouth. Places it on your tongue like a gift. Have you ever felt more present? More in your body? More aware of your skin? The way it shivers. The way it talks. He sees you. Listens. You are clay in his hands. Artist hands. Sure hands. He is introducing you to the woman you’ve been. Becoming.
flash fiction by Grace Fondow
Hands
Dime Size
poetry by Linda Neal
I'm like Bukowski at the typer pretending life is ok but it's only not a paper moon and the dog needs a walk no man is knocking at my door penis at the ready and my pussy is probably shrunk to the diameter of a dime I wish there was a guy at my door with a dime-sized dick like I never liked before but I would invite him in these days into my house at my dining room table into my bed and my hungry pussy especially if he could bake an apple pie or barbeque a rack of ribs
Thomas Christopher Thomas Christopher’s short stories have appeared in The Louisville Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, The MacGuffin, Redivider, and elsewhere. He was awarded an Irving S. Gilmore Emerging Artist Grant and was a finalist for the Matthew Clark Prize in Fiction. He lives in Nashville with his wife and two sons. Mark DiFruscio Mark DiFruscio is currently pursuing his PhD at Oklahoma State University. His writing has appeared in Dime Show Review, After the Pause, pacificREVIEW and Fiction International. Grace Fondow Grace Fondow is a poet and fiction writer from Chicago and received her MFA in Creative Writing from California College of the Arts. She is a co-founder of Daughter’s Tongue Coalition— a group of multicultural women writers who use language and performance to empower the body and create safe spaces for woman identified artists. Linda Neal Linda Neal first wrote poems when she was in high school. She went on to study literature at Pomona College, earn a degree in linguistics and a master’s degree in clinical psychology. Her life at the beach, passion for story and work as a therapist inform her award-winning poetry and prose which has appeared in numerous journals, including California State Poetry Quarterly, Easy Reader, Lummox, ONTHEBUS, Pacific Coast Journal, Peregrine (the Amherst poetry journal), Beecher’s Magazine, Santa Fe Literary Reviewand SLAB. “Dodge & Burn” (Bambaz Press), her poetry memoir, came out in 2014. Daniel Pieczkolon Daniel Pieczkolon lives in Philadelphia, with his girlfriend and their two cats, where he teaches English at Arcadia University. His poems have recently appeared in the Eunoia Review and Right Hand Pointing, and he is the editor of the print-only arts zine Deviant Quarterly. Daniel Thompson Daniel has an M.F.A. from the Vancouver Island University. He is a reader and contributor to the Tongues of Fire reading series and has appeared in such literary magazines as The Malahat Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Clockwise Cat, Grey Sparrow and the Gyroscope Review. He has written several books (novels), all currently seeking publishers.
Contributors
WWW.CRACKTHESPINE.COM
BECOME A MEMBER OF CRACK THE SPINE
CRACK THE SPINE LITERARY MAGAZINE