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| Novel, chapter 5 |
| 07.28.04 (10:23 pm) [edit] |
7-28-04
Hello, all
Yesterday, I ate once, but threw it up. Today, I had two small but good meals and they both stayed down. I have an appointment with my doctor tomorrow to discuss my meds & I must say I’m pretty happy with what’s going on. The side-effects are down, my bulimia episodes are decreasing, & my mood is up. Though I said a few days ago that I wasn’t feeling sexual anymore, that’s starting to change, too. Mind you, I’m not nearly back to my old randy self, but it’s getting better.
I had a good, relaxing day today, & haven’t had an anxiety attack in several days. Life seems to be getting better.
Here’s chapter 5 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. Thanks for all the support. Check previous posts for the first chapters.
Thor
Walking Wounded, Chapter 5
DINNER
Nancy walked into the foyer and unloaded her accouterments from the day. She hooked her purse on the hall tree, set her briefcase on the floor by it, shed her coat, which she hung over the purse, doffed her shoes, and began unbuttoning her skirt suit. A scent came to her. She inhaled deeply, and smiled.
“Jimmy,” she called, aiming toward the kitchen, “what are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”
“In here,” he called.
“What are you making?” she asked, entering the kitchen.
“Oh, not much. Just marinated Cornish hen in burgundy sauce, those potatoes that you like and sweet peas with chopped leeks.”
“I think I’m in love.”
“You’d better be. I don’t do this for all my women.” She swatted him playfully, and then came up behind him and hugged him while he stirred the pots.
“How long till dinner?”
“Long enough for you to strip and put on your robe. I’ll draw you a bath after dinner, and, if you’re really good, I’ll rub your feet while we watch some T.V.”
“You’re too good to me Jimmy.”
“Damned right.”
She emerged from the bedroom some minutes later, looking more relaxed in her terry cloth robe. The table was set and the plates, fully dressed, were waiting on opposite sides of a large, round candle, which Jimmy was in the process of lighting. He slipped the lighter back into his pocket, turned to the wall and dimmed the lights. As Nancy moved to take her seat, her smile began to fade. Jimmy stepped behind the chair, and in grand, gallant style, offered it to her. Her expression became blank as her eyes meandered over the table, slowly scanning left and right, then she took the proffered chair, scooting herself in.
“Wait right here,” he said, and went to the kitchen. He returned with a dark green bottle, struggling to pull the cork out smoothly. He poured the wine as the worry lines began to appear on her forehead. He sat down and began eating with enthusiasm. Nancy picked up her fork slowly, deliberately, just as a marionette with a very patient and skilled puppeteer.
“Well, how is it?” he asked after a few bites.
“It’s wonderful,” she said flatly. “Jimmy, it’s delicious.” There was a long pause.
“Jimmy?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean? Everything’s fine. Isn’t it?”
“Jimmy, what’s all this about?”
“All what about? I had some time today, so I decided to spend it pampering you.”
“Jimmy, you never go all-out like this unless I’m feeling terrible or you’re feeling terrible. Now, I had a lousy day, but it was nothing special. So…” she trailed off.
“So?” he responded.
“So, what’s wrong Jimmy? What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”
“Jimmy?” Silence. “Jimmy?” Silence. “[i]Jimmy[/i],” she said, more insistently.
“I got a call from Mike.”
“’Mike and Kathy’ Mike, or your editor Mike? Is Jenny O.K.?”
“Editor Mike. Yeah, Jenny’s fine. Kathy called, they’ll drop her off on their way back next week.”
“So what did Mike have to say?”
“The book has stopped climbing and, in fact, is falling. No best-seller this time.”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy, I really am, but it still wasn’t too bad, was it? I mean, it didn’t do as well as the last one, but they can’t all be best-sellers, can they?”
“No, I guess not. It gets worse, though.”
“Oh?”
“The publisher has declined the paperback option.”
“What? Why?”
“Apparently, they feel my writing is too heady and pretty much only appeals to the National Public Radio crowd, and apparently the NPR listeners are intellectuals who buy their books hardback. In short, I’m not marketable enough for the paperback crowd.”
“Oh, Jimmy, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Is Mike going to try another publishing house for the paperback rights?”
“Yeah, but he seems to think it’s a lost cause.”
“So, what are you gonna do?”
“Start a new book, I guess.”
********* ********* *********
After Jimmy finished the dishes, and Nancy took her bath, they sat down on the couch and cuddled watching T.V.
“Hey, Jimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you umm…” she trailed off.
“What?”
“Have you given any thought to that job?”
“What job, sweetie?”
“The teaching position.” There was a pause.
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Well, the book didn’t do so well…”
“So you want me to grade papers at a community college?”
“It’s not just grading papers. You could really do some good there.”
“Nance, I’ve already got a job. I’m an author. I write books. That’s what I do.”
“But the book’s not doing so well.”
“So I’ll write another one.”
“In what? A year? Two? Another two years waiting for an income?”
“Hey, Wrong Wind wasn’t a best-seller, but I still sold a lot of books.”
“Not enough. What if the next book doesn’t even do this well? And the teaching job dries up then? What then, Jimmy. What then?”
“So you want me to teach the MLA handbook and grade punctuation to 50-year-old divorcees and 20-year-old trade school dropouts? No thank you.”
“Don’t make it sound so dismal. There are some up-and-coming writers out there. Think of yourself as a talent scout, looking for the next Great American Novel.”
“Nancy, I’m trying to [i]write[/i] the next Great American Novel.”
“But that’s not happening right now, is it?” There was an awkward silence.
“Besides, you can still write in the evenings, on weekends…”
“Nancy, that’s a joke, and you know it. You’re asking me to carry two full-time jobs. Nights and weekends are our time together. You’d never let me get away with spending all that time writing. No way.”
“Jimmy…”
“What?”
“We’ve got to do something.”
“Why? What’s wrong with what we’re doing? We’re getting along fine.”
“But we’ve got a 5-year-old daughter, and raising a child costs more everyday.”
“Nancy, do you know what you’re asking? Years ago, when we first moved in together, this was not the deal. You said you’d work, I’d write. That was the deal.”
“That was before Jenny.”
“Jenny doesn’t change anything.”
“Jenny changes everything.”
“Nancy…” he began, but was cut off.
“Jimmy, all I’m saying is just think about it, O.K.? Just think about it.” She rose from the couch.
“You going to the kitchen?”
“No, I’m going to bed. You need something before I go?”
“No, I’m fine. Goodnight.”
“Night Jimmy. I love you.”
“I love you too. Sleep tight.”
“Just think about it Jimmy, okay? And come to bed soon.”
“Okay, I will. Kill the T.V., would you?”
“Sure.” She turned off the set, and then turned to leave the room.
“I love you,” she called over her shoulder.
Jimmy sat for a long time, then pulled a clipper from his pocket and trimmed his eight fingernails. He looked at his wedding ring and folded his hands together. He walked over to the wall where the framed covers of his books were hanging. He stared at them, one by one, for a very long time. Then he lay down on the couch, looking at them from across the room, staring at them, until he drifted off to sleep.
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| Novel, Chapter 4 |
| 07.26.04 (10:42 pm) [edit] |
7-26-04
Hello, anyone reading
Sorry about my dereliction of posting duties. Here’s what’s happening:
I’m doing much better now. I’m still vomiting about 3 times per week, but the anxiety attacks have decreased greatly. I’m taking Effexor and Buspar, and after a couple of weeks, they started working well together. The anxiety is way down, the mood is up, and I’m feeling much better.
I really appreciate all the posts, emails, & support from you people. My relationships with S & K have grown recently, They’re really great girls. They’ve really been there for me & I hope I have been for them, too.
I don’t know what else to say, things are going much better for me right now. Please post & I’ll post more often, I promise. Here’s chapter 4 of my novel, Walking Wounded.
Thor
Walking Wounded, Chapter 4
WHERE THE FOOTBALL FALLS
Jimmy was getting the sheets and blankets out of the linen closet when he felt the deck of cards hit his foot. He stacked blankets, top and fitted sheets, spare pillow and pillowcase, then the cards on top. Once he had made the foldout couch, he suggested some gin. His mother, Hannah, always liked gin. It had been the family game as long as he could remember.
She and Nancy sat down at the kitchen table and shuffled while Jimmy poured a round of drinks.
“Nancy you’re at 460, Jimmy’s 455, and I’m at 440, which puts us all in striking range.”
“Hey Mom, remember that weekend that we went up to Uncle Bobby’s cabin?” Jimmy asked.
“A late spring storm hit and it took us five days to get down,” Hannah explained to Nancy. “We played gin all weekend. We said to 10,000, but I don’t know how far we got.”
Nancy sat back and watched the glances between mother and son. She loved when they reminisced. Jimmy picked up, evidently collecting nines.
“Uncle Bobby introduced me to Vonnegut that weekend. ‘Cat’s Cradle’, as I recall,” Jimmy said. His mother collected a meld and fitted it to the far left of her hand.
“That was when you got so desperate to read. Everything he could get his hands on, Nancy. He was reading like he was the first to discover English. He had books all around the house. A dozen or more. He would pick up one, read a chapter, then put it down and pick up another.”
“Fruit and books.” Jimmy said. “That’s all I remember.”
“That’s right.” Hannah remembered. “That was the summer that you had that big growth spurt. We brought home a bushel of fruits from the Farmer’s Market it seemed like everyday. He ate like a hog and went through books like a saw through a log. I swear to God, he even had a book that he held and read while he mowed the lawn.”
“That was the last year I played sports. After that, between growing six inches and a couple hits on the field, my ankles and knees hurt all the time, and it just wasn’t worth it.” Jimmy said and discarded a three.
“You got your hands on the ball once,” she said as Nancy laid down an ace.
“Yeah, that should have been a touchdown.” Jimmy smiled.
“No, it wasn’t a touchdown,” Hannah said.
“Wait, what happened?” Nancy asked.
“You should have seen him, Nancy. It was a fumble, Jimmy fell on it, and then realized his head was on the goal line. So he stretched his hands up, held the ball in the end zone, and started yelling ‘Touchdown! Touchdown!’ Of course, it wasn’t.”
“I was robbed. The point is to get the ball across the goal line isn’t it? Well, I did that. It should have been a touchdown.”
“That’s funny, that’s really funny.” Nancy said, and picked up from the deck.
“I was robbed. That should have been a touchdown.” Jimmy said.
“No Jimmy, you weren’t robbed.” Hannah said, and picked up Nancy’s discard.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what you were like that winter?” Mom asked. “You’d be sitting around the house, and anytime anything about football would come on TV, you’d complain about that play endlessly. I told you that it wasn’t just where the football falls that counts, but where you have control of it. Then you started researching rules to find out how much over the goal line you had to be. I swear, you were obsessed.”
“I hardly think the term ‘obsessed’ applies,” Jimmy replied, while picking up the three of clubs.
“No, it does apply. It was like you were trying to find out how little you could do and still make a touchdown. You do the same thing today, to this very day.”
“What are you talking about, Hannah?” Nancy asked, and drew from the deck.
“It’s all he does. All either one of you does. You find out how little you need to get by, and that’s what you do. And that’s why I’m not a Grandma.”
“You’re crazy,” Jimmy said as Nancy discarded six of hearts. “Hannah...” Nancy started.
“No, I m serious. You used to live in that ratty little apartment, decided that you wanted this place, and voila, suddenly you make enough money to become homeowners,” Hannah said. “Now you ve just eased into this quiet, sedate, comfy life. You’ve found out how little you can do to be happy and stopped there.”
“Mom, what’s wrong with being happy?” Jimmy asked.
“Nothing, Jimmy. Being happy’s what it’s all about. But now, it’s time to go a little further,” She said, laying her hand down, and put her last one face down on the discard pile. “I believe that’s gin.”
“What do you mean ‘go further’, Hannah?” Nancy asked.
“Look at her Jimmy,” Hannah said. “She has the same love in her eyes that I had for your father. You love her so much your heart aches. You don’t get to just sit there and rest on your laurels. It’s time to do something. Look at her, Jimmy, she wants you.”
“She’s had a couple tonight, mom.” Jimmy said shyly.
“So what? Liquor is the original aphrodisiac.”
“I don’t want to sit here discussing aphrodisiacs with my mother,” Jimmy said.
“Let her talk, Jimmy,” Nancy said.
“Yeah, be quiet and let me talk. We all want to pretend that we aren’t sexual creatures, but we are. Parents pretend their children are still virgins, children pretend their parents never did it, but the truth is we all do it. Sex is a wonderful thing. So is being a parent. Having something so wonderful come from something so wonderful is an indescribable joy. It’s the joie de vivre. The raison d’etre of the whole human race.”
“Okay, enough French,” Jimmy said.
“And let’s not forget that Nancy’s a few years older than you.” Hannah said.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Nancy cried. “I’m only thirty-one.”
“I don’t mean that you’re old, Nancy. You’re a perfect age to be a mom. I just mean that you shouldn’t wait to long, wait till you two are too set in your ways. You would have beautiful children. What are you waiting for? Jimmy, take your wife upstairs and give me a grandchild.”
“Mom!”
“Nancy, take your husband upstairs.”
“Mom...”
“Go. Now. Please, go. It’s time I got to bed, anyway. Go.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Nancy rose and held her hand out to Jimmy. She glanced at Hannah, and smiled. As she turned, Nancy thought she saw Hannah brushing away a tear.
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| Novel, Chapter 3 |
| 07.21.04 (12:47 am) [edit] |
7-20-04
Hello.
My posts have been iregular lately, and so my readership has dropped off. If anyone is still reading, please post & let me know you're there. If you like my blog, please bot it & keep track of me.
I haven't thrown up today, but I haven't eaten today, either. I'm still feeling weird & out of sorts from the medication. My appetite is way down.
I'm very tired & not sure what else to say, please post any questions or things that you still want me to expound upon. Thanks for reading.
Here's chap. 3 of my first novel. On request, I'll post a cast of characters tomorrow.
Thor.
Walking Wounded, Chapter 3
'CAUSE SHE’S ALWAYS GONE TOO LONG
Jimmy smoked. When she was home, he never smoked inside; she hated it. But he smoked inside when she was gone, even though when she got back she’s be able to tell.
She seemed to be gone a lot lately. Trade shows, conventions, and seminars, both organizational and motivational; all networking opportunities. And that’s what she was about these days: networking.
When she was gone, his every day became Sunday. Sleep late, drink coffee, read the paper, try to work, nap, listen to music and smoke, nap, try to work, then stay up very late watching TV, fall asleep in the lazy-boy, and sleeping late again. He stopped showering. He rarely brushed his teeth when alone. He opened the refrigerator. Frequently. He drank milk and juice from the container. His typical meals were: kippers and cream cheese, or peanut-butter-and-jelly: all on crackers. Anything on crackers was a meal. Crumbs accumulated throughout the house.
He kept a pack of cigarettes in both pockets of his thick blue robe, and several lighters. The pockets were huge, though, and there was still plenty of room for pens, remote controls, and his hands. His hands were usually smoking or in those pockets when she was gone.
He could never write new material alone. The best he could do was to use the time for re-writes and polishing. He phoned Anna. Frequently. She heard from him daily, which gave him ambition to work. Anna was whom he wrote for, but Nancy was why.
He rarely spoke when alone, seldom ever spoke to himself. But during his solitude he listened. For days on end he could listen, uninterrupted, to the people in his head. He alone was witness to their lives, and his job was to chronicle their stories for the rest of the world who would otherwise never know these people existed.
He seemed to spend a great deal of time wandering from room to room, searching for something, and wondering what it was he was looking for. He’d know it when he saw it. When he’d find himself in the bedroom, he’d often open one of her drawers, just to get the smell of her.
He paced. He straightened. He fidgeted. He smoked. He played with the growing stubble on his face with the tips of his fingers as he raised the cigarette to his lips. He stared at her portrait from his lazy-boy. He smoked.
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| Novel, Chapter 2 |
| 07.19.04 (11:47 pm) [edit] |
7-19-04
Hello, all
I had an interesting & sweaty weekend. I helped a friend move. She bought her own house. You go, girl.
On the one hand, I’ve thrown up every day since my last entry. On the other hand, I’ve learned that spicy foods, especially Italian, are triggering me like crazy. So, I’m going for a more bland diet right now, & I haven’t thrown up today.
I was almost in a wicked fight last night. They thought it was 5 on 3, but then when two of my buddies came back in and evened up the odds, suddenly a few of them changed their minds and that pretty much defused the situation. There was some chest thumping going on & I think that everything’s clear now, but I’m really going to have to be on the lookout for the next couple of weeks at work.
I’ve been kind of disoriented lately. I think it’s the medication. It’s helping the depression, but hurting in other ways. I feel so spaced out all the time. I don’t feel sexy or sexual in any way. Antidepressants have had effects on me in the past like inability to attain an erection, and the opposite: the never-ending erection. This is neither. I can have an erection, and, afterwards it will go down, but mentally I’m just not into it right now. Maybe that will pass. I think that it’s a combination of the two drugs, Effexor & Buspar. Since its two drugs interacting, it may take a few weeks for side effects to calm down. I hope they’ll calm down.
Anyway, here’s today’s entertainment post, chapter 2 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. As always, thanks for reading & posting.
Thor
Walking Wounded, Chapter 2
CONVERSATION IN THE CORNFIELD
Nancy walked into the coffee shop and scanned the crowd with her eyes. They locked on to her target and her face turned into one of those ‘a-little-too-happy-to- be-real’ smiles. She made her way to the booth where Jimmy was busy using the corner of the table to bend the fork tines into alignment. She took off her coat before sliding onto the opposite bench.
“Hi Jimmy,” she said.
“Hey, Nance. You’re looking good today. Really good.”
“Thanks for noticing,” she said, then fell silent, fidgeting, looking around the room for someone who would bring her a glass of water.
“Sooooo...?” Jimmy started.
“So?”
“So, you look like the cat that ate the canary,” Jimmy laughed.
“Have you ordered yet?” she asked, by way of reply.
“Yeah, just now. I got a cup of joe, and a vanilla cappuccino for you. I didn’t order anything to eat, though. You hungry?”
“No, I had a late lunch. You can get something, though.”
“I’m not hungry, either. So what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I m fine, Jimmy. Its good to see you. You must ve missed me an awful lot since Tuesday night. What s wrong? You look all nervous.”
“Well, uh... Hey, you want to go for a drive?”
“Sure. I ll get the coffee to go.”
Jimmy s eyes followed the curve of her calf as Nancy pressed the pedal, and moved the stickshift of ‘the buckboard’, her primer-gray truck. It always struck him as funny, this woman in a business suit driving a clunker farm truck. Jimmy tapped his pack, and pulled out a cigarette with his lips. He rolled his window down a crack, and, though he knew it irritated her when he smoked in her truck, he lit it.
“I thought you were quitting,” she said.
“Trying. I switched to lights. So, how are you feeling? You’re looking better,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“I’m feeling a lot better. I’ve still got a little tickle in my throat, though,” she said, sipping at the Styrofoam cup. “But I’m feeling a lot better, thanks to your Hot Toddies, no doubt.”
“Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t be smoking in front of you,” he said, rolling down his window, making motions to flick the butt out.
“No, no, its all right. Go ahead and smoke. Its okay.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, of course, I’m fine,” she said, but he threw it out anyway.
A few moments passed as Nancy fiddled with the radio. She finally settled on a Beatles tune as they headed out of town, and to the old back farm roads.
“Hey Nance, is there any particular reason for this joyride? Or are you just looking for an excuse to knock off work early?”
“I’m feeling awfully giddy today,” Nancy said, no longer able to contain her smile.
“‘Giddy’? You’re ‘giddy’?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, giggling.
“Only my grandmother uses that word. That’s up there with ‘flabbergasted’,” he jibed. She was laughing aloud, now.
“What brought on this wave of giddiness, pray tell?”
“It’s like a fuse I lit years ago is about to explode,” she replied, still chuckling.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, and went unanswered.
They stopped in between two huge fields: one wheat, the other corn. Apparently, both were doing well this year. They got out of the truck, and sauntered across the street to the cornfield. Several rows into the field, his image of her became a strobe light of Nancy / cornstalk / Nancy / cornstalk as they walked.
“Kaboom,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The fuse you lit. Kaboom. C’mon already, talk,” he said, smiling.
“Well, not ‘Kaboom’ just yet. Soon, though.”
“Nance, how long are you gonna keep me in suspense? I mean, obviously you want to tell me something, it’s big, and you’re about to explode. If you want to prolong the suspense, fine by me, but just don’t have a heart attack before you tell me, or I’ll never know.”
“Okay, okay, here’s the thing: Ever since I started with Kosac Systems, Inc., I’ve taken advantage of certain educational opportunities. Seminars, training sessions, certifications, even if they had nothing to do with my job. I mean, I’ve only got a Bachelor’s, so I figured if I wanted to get promoted, I’d have to get noticed. I used these as networking opportunities. Well, it has just paid off. Big. Really big,” she stopped for dramatic pause. “I got a call from the President. Okay, not The President, but our President, at the home office in Philadelphia. He made me an offer. They’re expanding the office in Des Moines, opening up a second office to handle the new areas and traffic. He wants me to go up, choose the location, rent the office space; I mean build it from the ground up! I get the Des Moines city division!”
Jimmy estimated that her voice had raised nearly two octaves in the last three sentences. There was a long pause. He wasn’t sure that she was finished. He wasn’t certain how he felt, though she was bubbling with excitement. He had never perfected appropriate enthusiasm for other people’s excitement. When he tried to match it, he became noticeably phony. If he responded naturally, it became uncomfortably understated. He opted for an air of barely-contained enthusiasm, and hoped it was appropriate.
“Wow. Wow. That’s fantastic! I don’t know what to say. That’s terrific, fantastic!” Jimmy finally said, and grabbed her arm, halting their progression through the corn. He pulled her to him, between two tall stalks. He hugged her with excitement, enthusiasm, and joy. She held him and felt him breathe. She held him until about nine seconds after it became oddly long for friends.
“I’m so excited,” she said, by way of cover as they broke and began walking again. “It comes with a company car so I can get rid of that damned old truck.”
“I like that damned old truck. It’s a classic,” Jimmy replied defensively.
“You can have it,” Nancy said. “And do you know what else you can have? Death.”
“What? Why?”
“I figure its just too much trouble to drag a fifty gallon tank up to Des Moines for one damned fish. He probably wouldn’t survive the trip, anyway.”
“Death will never die. When that fish’s time comes, he’s just gonna swim into a corner and mean away.” Jimmy said, grinning.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about getting a bigger tank, and I want more than just one mean fish in it,” Nancy said. They fell silent and made their way through the cornfield, listening to the whistling-brushing sound as they walked, a single row of corn passing between them. Jimmy spoke first.
“What if you didn’t take the promotion?”
“Yeah. I talked to Barry about that. He made it pretty clear that if the Prez-slash-CEO gives you ‘The Call’, you go. Period. Besides, why wouldn’t I want to go? I’ve been working a long time to get a break like this.”
“Well, this is your home town. Your family’s here. You don’t know anyone in Des Moines...” he trailed off. “Well, there’s Steve.”
“Yeah, Steve,” she said, unthrilled.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, taken aback.
“Steve was always... temporary,” she replied coyly.
“What do you mean, temporary?”
“Well, first of all, he’s decided that being a paralegal is unfulfilling, so he’s leaving for Law School, which saves me the trouble of breaking up with him.”
“Breaking up with him? You guys have been going out for, what two years?”
“Two years and three months. Two years too long, if you ask me. I’ve always known that I couldn’t settle down with him. Steve is like a male version of me,” she said. “Remember when we went to that gallery opening last summer? What was his name?”
“LeSage,” Jimmy enumerated.
“Right. Remember, we were so impressed with his art? I mean, it was unbelievable the images he makes, and they’re twisted, but so real. Then he made an appearance and we were so disappointed. I mean he was really gifted, but so dull. Then we decided that being talented was so cool that it was okay not to be interesting.” Nancy paused for effect. “Steve is not talented. Or interesting. You’re both,” she stated. They began walking slower.
“Well, thanks,” he said hesitantly.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“I don t know anybody in Des Moines unless you move there.”
“Why would I move there?”
“Because I m going to be there, silly.”
“Nancy, don t play games with me. What are you saying?”
“I m saying that I want you to move to Des Moines with me, you moron. You can polish your novel up there as well as you can down here. And you won t have to pump gas on the side, because I’ll be getting one fat raise. Hell, you could even finish your degree there if you wanted to. No pressure, really. Damn it, Jimmy, I’ve always known that Steve was temporary, because I’ve always thought of you as permanent. I always thought that we’d get around to it eventually, but it seems that we no longer have the luxury of ‘eventually’. I’ve always thought of you as ‘The One’. And do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because, as long as we’ve known each other, with all the guys I’ve dated, you were the only one who ever looked at me with The Look.”
“What look?” he asked, and came to a standstill. As she turned toward him, he was struck by how beautiful her face was, framed on all sides by long, silky corn leaves.
“The Look of Love. Do you even know how you’ve changed my life, Jimmy? You’ve infiltrated every aspect of my life. I think about things differently and laugh at things other people don’t understand, because in my head I’m thinking about what you’d say, with your strange sense of humor. I mean, we’ve never even slept together, but you’ve even invaded my nights. When I was growing up, getting calls in the middle of the night was never a good thing. Someone had died, or was in the hospital, or an accident, or something terrible. That’s how normal people live. They sleep through the night, and two a.m. calls are a bad thing. Then, in college, I learned that two a.m. calls were party calls. When I’d answer the phone and one of the sisters would ask ‘What time is it?’, I learned that you’d better answer ‘Its party time!’. Then, after college, I thought I could return to normal sleep. But not with you, oh, no. Now, a middle of the night call is you, telling me you’ve discovered that one of your characters was molested, or had an affair with another one of your characters. They're so real to you. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that with this job, I’m gonna need my sleep. I can’t afford two a.m. phone calls. If you want to talk to me, don’t call. I want you to just come to bed and put your arms around me and whisper it all in my ear. I’ve been waiting for you to.”
There was an uncomfortable pause while Nancy wondered if she had said the right things, and Jimmy worried that he might say something wrong and wreck it all. They turned and started heading back. Jimmy’s head was bowed, as though weighed down by the sudden rush of blood to his face. He felt, but could not stop the transformation to an expression of pure joy.
“It’s turning into a beautiful sunset,” he said. “It’d look great from the back of your truck, looking over this cornfield.”
“You know what’s in the back of my truck right now?” she asked. “A cooler, with a sixpack of beer,” she said with a wide smile, which only solidified his own beaming face. When they cleared the field, Jimmy hopped in the back of the truck and opened two beers. Nancy turned on the radio, and then joined him.
“What about Death?” he asked her as she nuzzled against him. She put a thoughtful expression on her face.
“We’ll give him to your sister.” The sky turned pink and orange.
On the radio, Jim Morrison sang. “Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on, now touch me...”
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| Novel, Chapter 1 |
| 07.16.04 (1:23 am) [edit] |
7-15-04
Hello, everyone
I’ve become aware of two things:
First, I’ve slowed down on my posting because I sort of made this pledge to post a new story or article with every post, but I’ve been too busy to type in new stuff, so I haven’t been posting.
Secondly, I’ve noticed that my replies from you folks have been almost exclusively about my posts, not about my stories, so it leads me to believe that you don’t care so much about my stories, so I’ll post more often with fewer stories. Sorry, Kim, I haven’t finished typing in the one I promised you, but I will soon.
Now, the update. I went for about a week without throwing up, which is astonishing. However, the last four days, I’ve thrown up daily, but only once per day, which is still good. My meds still have side effects that are disorienting, but I’m told that will go away in a week or two.
I’ve been so encouraged by you folks, I’m very grateful. Thank you for all the kind words and support. I find that I am loathe to post without a story, so here’s the first chapter of my first novel, Walking Wounded. I hope you like.
Thanks for reading,
Thor
Walking Wounded, Chapter 1
THAT LAST SUMMER
Dear Danny: You were wrong. You were so very, very wrong. I’m not sorry at all that I didn’t go with you. The weirdest things have happened this summer.
I hope you get these letters. I keep up with Grateful Dead dates and try to send a week ahead of them. I just hope you’re checking the general deliveries. Just in case you do get this, here’s a twenty. Just thought I’d ‘miracle’ you a little bit today. In case you didn’t get all the others, this is the third letter I’ve written you. Hey, that’s sixty bucks I’ve blown on your pot-smoking butt. You owe me big.
Anyway, back to you being dead wrong, no pun intended. No, I couldn’t have worked on my book following the Dead. I got a job running a cash register at Billy Karr’s drug store, part-time. That’s just cigarette money. It’s left me a lot of time to spend writing. I’m proud of how it’s going so far. So, what I’m saying is that some good has come out of me staying here this summer instead of following the Dead.
Anna freaked everybody out. She laid a couple of bombshells on the folks. She changed her major from math to business/marketing, meaning she’s not going to be a math teacher like the old man. Since I can’t even balance my checkbook, it looks like no one is following in Dad’s footsteps. He was a trifle upset about that.
BUT THEN... Then she came out to them. I mean, no big shock to anyone paying attention, but to Mom and Dad? When the word lesbian was actually spoken, I swear Mom turned a shade of grey/green/white I was unaware that living flesh could attain. Anna and I were on the couch. She was squeezing my hand so hard I thought it would break. We all talked it out and everybody cried and hugged.
I was pretty proud of Mom by the end of the night. She looks little, but she’s really tough as nails.
I don’t think it bothered Dad nearly as much. I mean, sure, she won’t be giving him any grandkids, but I’m the only one that can carry on the family name, anyway, so I think that’s what he’s most concerned about.
Oh, and she’s a vegetarian now. I guess when she gave up meat, she went all the way.
Okay, there’s something else that happened. This is kind of big. I was riding my bike west of town, just tooling around the old farm roads, putting some miles down. It was just after sunset, and beginning to get dark. I was cruising around a bend in the road when I saw this car pulled off to the side.
It was still running, and the driver’s side door was open. I pulled off my headphones and heard this couple screaming at each other. They were standing in front of the car, in the headlights, screaming at the tops of their lungs. Not just screaming, but serious “hatred-death-bodily-ha rm” screaming. It sounded pretty serious, so I slowed down, went past them a ways, then stopped. It was starting to sound violent.
The guy spotted me, and then started yelling. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” and stuff like that. He started coming toward me, cussing at me, so I got off my bike. I called to her, and asked her if she was okay. She stated yelling for me, “No. Help me. Don’t leave me,” and stuff like that. As this gorilla came towards me, I saw he had a knife. Now, I don’t mind going toe-to-toe with anybody. Hell, even I even duked it out with Tony Sims a couple of times, but I’m not looking to die.
He started swinging this blade, and I got the idea that he’s used this thing before, which bothered me. We started dancing around the bike; I was trying to use it as a shield while he tried to jab at me. Then I thought I should do something before he stabs me, so I tried to grab his hand. Bad move. He cut me, and it hurt, so I kicked him in the nuts. He stopped breathing and grabbed his crotch. I thought that this was working pretty well, so I kicked him in the groin again. He dropped to his knees and threw up.
I went over to the girl to see if she was all right, and the guy got in his car and drove off. I took off my t-shirt and wrapped my hand in it, then got her to straddle the handlebars, like when we were kids, and rode to a phone.
It turned out I was bleeding pretty badly. His knife must have been dirty or something, ‘cause I got a pretty bad infection from it. They had to amputate my pinky finger, and half of the ring finger. Its okay, I still have enough left for a ring if I ever want to get married.
But, the thing is, I feel weird now, like a piece of me is missing. Not just the fingers, but like a part of my soul is gone. I feel like a freak. They made me go to a shrink to make sure I wasn’t too “traumatized”. I’m not suicidal or anything, but I am sort of weirded out. Like when I grab for the soap in the shower and it slips ‘cause I don’t have a full grip. I mean, going away to college is spooky enough, but now I’m, I don’t know, some kind of freak. It’s gonna make picking up girls a lot harder.
But, hey, there’s an upside to all this. You know what’s really strange? Ever since this happened, I feel kind of relieved. This is gonna sound weird, but I don’t really mind missing the fingers so much. Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do? I’ve always wanted to play concert piano, or the violin. I know. I can’t even play ‘Mary had a Little Lamb,’ but, growing up, the kids in school that had complained about piano lessons, I just wanted to punch them. I wished my parents would pay for piano lessons. Now, I guess it’s a good thing the folks saved their money.
The cool thing is, now I can tell people that I was a concert pianist, or violinist, or something like that. Then all I’d have to do is show them my hand and say: “But since the accident...” It ought even up my chances at the college girls.
Back to the girl, Nancy. She and I have been kind of seeing each other since then. She s a few years older; she s this junior exec in an accounting firm, or something like that. She s tried to explain what she does, but it’s way too boring. She wears pantsuits, and has an expense account. She takes me out, like, three or four times a week. I can’t help thinking that it’s guilt about the fingers.
Don’t get me wrong; we’re not exactly dating. I mean, we don’t kiss or hold hands or anything. It’s not really romantic. She just seems really attached to me. I’m not sure if it’s guilt, or loneliness, or what, but it’s like I’m her new best friend, which is all right by me. I like her a lot, we have a good time together, and it does my reputation a lot of good being seen with an older woman. Mom and Dad seem happy that at least one of their children is dating someone of the opposite sex.
Well, listen. Roll a fat joint and smoke one with Jerry Garcia for me. Take pictures and tell me all the stories this fall. See you in the dorms. Try not to freak out too much when you see my hand. And don’t spend the $20 on dope. At least, not all of it. Get a sandwich or something first, eh?
Your Buddy,
Jimmy
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| The Lord's Prayer |
| 07.10.04 (3:40 pm) [edit] |
7-9-04
Hello, everyone.
Sorry I haven’t posted in almost a week, I’ve been in a funk. I’ve been having 2 or 3 panic attacks per day. I called my doctor, & he prescribed a regimen of Buspar to accompany my Effexor. And, after only a couple of days, it started helping. The downside is that the Buspar makes me a bit nauseated and dizzy, sort of out of sorts, like I’m in a dream.
I had very little to eat on Monday, Tuesday, & Wednesday, but it all came up anyway. Thursday I had two sandwiches, & they stayed down, & today, I had another sandwich, also good. It’s been awhile since I went 2 days in a row without throwing up. I’m encouraged.
I don’t know what else to write, except a note to my regular readers: Since I’m not real tight about posting daily, please bot this blog & stay up with my updates. Also, any questions about my mental history, diagnosis, etc. are always welcome. Please feel free to post, I always respond to my posts. Thanks for reading.
Here’s an article that I wrote for a religious mag. I’m not a Christian & don’t quite buy into all of this, but a freelancer has to write for his audience. Hope you enjoy. If any of you happen to know anyone in the publishing community, I have a novel completed & 2 more in the works. I realize I’m just fishing, but if you don’t cast a line, you never catch the big one.
Thor
A Discourse on The Lord’s Prayer
The word “patter” as in “pitter-patter”, or mumbling background noise comes from the Latin “Pater Noster”, the first words in the prayer “Our Father”. The word patter became used for noise because of the mumbling, repetitive recitation of the rosary by Catholics. After reading the prayer, not just reciting it from memory, I thought that it needed a closer look.
Now, mind you, I’m not a Christian, and the Bible is not my Holy book. However, as most open-minded people throughout history have discovered, wisdom can be found in any religion. If one believes in a God at all, it is a powerful prayer.
It begins with “Our father”. Not “Oh, All-powerful Creator of the Universe”, no. He started with “Hi, Dad”. God is meant to be thought of as accessible, close. Some omniscient creator in the sky is beyond imagination, but “Dad” I can grasp.
“Who art in Heaven”. Though it may not be our parents, we all know someone who has died, grandparents, perhaps, and people tried to comfort us with the assurance that they were in a better place. So this places the aforementioned “Dad” in a place. Now, no matter if you are an evolutionist, creationist, or some combination thereof, the matter in this universe came from SOMEWHERE, so one way or another, God is our great-great-million-times -great grandfather. So, now we have “Hi, Grandad in Heaven”.
“Hallowed be thy name”. You are so special to me, even your name is sacred. Do you know that there was a time when God was given a name that had no vowels so that there was no way to even pronounce the name of God? These were times when to speak the name of God was a capitol offence. Only the high priests could speak God’s name, and then only at certain times under certain conditions.
There is a scene in Monty Python’s Life Of Brian where a man is about to be stoned to death for speaking God’s name. His defense? He said that he didn’t know what the big deal was, his wife made a wonderful meal and he said that it was good enough for Jehovah. The stones came flying.
You are so precious to me that even your name is sacred.
Next, there’s a big chunk that all goes together: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven”. Only in the past few hundred years has the world begun moving away from Kingdoms. Yes, I know about ancient Greece and the origins of Democracy, but for most of human history, those were isolated an ephemeral instances. Widespread democracy is a very new phenomenon.
For most of our history, the King’s word was law. When the King said “off with his head”, they took you out back and the axe fell. I mean right now. When the king said it, things happened, no messing around.
In the first dozen or so books of the Bible, the history is repeated over and over. Here’s how it goes: When they followed God’s law, which is to say, they made God their king, they prospered. When they turned away from God, they were conquered. Now, God’s kingdom is Heaven, but now the prayer is asking for God’s will to be here and now. God as King. Not Caesar, not little tin god megalomaniacs, not fallible emperors, or Councils, or Pharos, or Judges, or Shahs. God as Absolute King, here and now.
“Give us this day our daily bread”. Now, this is a very strange sentence that required a lot of research. At first, this doesn’t seem to fit. It’s the only part that asks for worldly things. Why not daily water? You’ll die of thirst before hunger. There is something else going on here. In Matthew 4:4, Jesus quotes Deuteronomy 8:3 in saying that man does not live by bread alone. Deuteronomy 8:3 says that man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God. So, it’s not literal bread that the prayer is asking for, but for sustenance. Secondly, there is a slight mistranslation. It’s not daily bread, but more closely tomorrow’s bread that the prayer asks for. That’s tomorrow with a capitol “T”, which is to say, the afterlife.
And what is this “sustenance” in Heaven? The power of God, or the Grace of the Holy Spirit, if you will. Give us the strength and power of the Holy Spirit, just as if we were in Heaven.
“And Forgive us our trespasses”. I’ve done wrong in my life, so I’m asking for compassion in the form of blessing. We’ll get back to forgiveness in a minute.
“As we forgive those who trespass against us”. There’s an old saying: Anger is a cargo that only damages the vessel that carries it. Forgiving you helps me. I don’t need to waste time and energy by carrying around things that only cause frustration, like hate, grudges, spite, and the like. So, I forgive you. This also harkens back to God’s will being done. Forgiveness is a Holy, spiritual thing, so, the King’s will be done.
Now comes the big one. “Lead us not into temptation”. Why? What’s wrong with a little temptation? What’s wrong with even giving in to a little temptation? Buddhism addresses this, too as a central theme. The Buddhist take on it is different from one of sin, but the reasons behind it are essentially the same. Keeping with Christian terminology, though, we’ll talk about Sin. Sin isn’t sin because of what you get or do. The problem is what you have to sacrifice in order to get it. Let’s look at this carefully.
I’ll go back to the fable of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. First temptation: Turn rocks into bread. That’s not too hard to manage for a man on a spiritual fast.
Next temptation: Jump off a cliff and the Angels will save you. Well, Jesus could have done that, been spared, but God would have to get involved, and God doesn’t play Truth or Dare.
Then, the big one. Kneel and I’ll make you a king. Now, if one believes in the holiness of Jesus, passing this up would be simple. He would already be a king without Satan. What does Jesus say? “Go away, I don’t need you”.
If only we were all that strong. Because we’re not. We are weak. Very weak. You want proof? Ever hear of a show called Survivor? A group of people are put in relatively primitive conditions, and rather than leaning on each other, coming together, they tear each other down, one by one. Any for what? Money. The network flashes cash and people turn cutthroat. Wolves behave better. How about a show called Fear Factor, where people are put neck deep in spiders, eat raw cow brains and maggots. Why? Money.
But, contrary to popular belief, it isn’t money that’s the root of all evil, it’s the love of money. It’s how badly you’re willing to humiliate yourself to get it. It’s not the alcohol that’s the problem, it’s praying to the porcelain god at 3 AM. It’s waking up in God knows whose bed. It’s the embarrassing stories that your friends tell you the next day because you were too drunk to remember. It’s not the high that’s the problem, it’s that you’re willing to steal from your mother and use the rent money to buy the drugs. It’s not the payoff that’s the problem, it’s what you’re willing to endure, how much you’re willing to debase yourself for that payoff.
And as far as sex is concerned, it’s the awkwardness of putting your pants back on in the back seat of a car. The disappointment on her face, because, at 17, he’s no Casanova. It’s the whispers in the school hallways and around office water coolers because of the embarrassing things he’s told about her.
Or, how about adultery? Try looking your mistress in the eye as you’re putting your shirt back on to go home. Or looking your spouse in the eye that night. Do they just not know, or are they pretending not to know because lying to yourself is easier than facing the pain.
Compared to that, tell me I’ll have my own kingdom if I kneel for an instant, and I’ll be on my knees before you can say “Jackrabbit Slim”. Because I am human, I am weak, and I do things to humiliate and debase myself in order to give in ti temptation.
Not right now, of course. Now, I sitting here, safe and sound at home, discussing things intellectually, but flash that cash, and I’m eating cow pig intestines on national TV. That’s why the prayer asks to be saved from temptation, to save me from myself.
There is a song from the Police called Synchronicity II that goes: “Every single meeting with his so-called superior is a humiliating kick in the crotch”. How many of us have done this, continue to do this? We sell ourselves, hour by hour, to a tyrant. Why? Again, for money. We don’t need that big house, that new car, that DVD player, but we think we do. We are afraid that love is not enough, so if we don’t provide our spouses with a never-ending string of luxuries, they will leave us. So we kneel before the Almighty Dollar, our king.
If it hurts us as parents to see our children humiliated, how much more so does it hurt God to see us do the same? So, at this point, let’s back up to forgiveness. I forgive you because I feel sympathy for you, because I, too, know the pain and humiliation of doing wrong. Therefor, just as God forgives me, I, in turn, emulate that by forgiving you.
“Deliver us from evil”. What is evil? Evil is the word that we give to the fear of bad things happening. After bad things happen, is it evil that you feel? No, it’s suffering. Evil is just the fear of potential or eminent suffering. So, the prayer is really saying: “god, take away the fear”.
“For thine is the Kingdom”. You have the keys, I’m turning my kingdom over to you.
“And the power and the glory forever”. In early versions of this prayer, this part isn’t there, but it seems like such a nice way to sum up the rest of it, so let’s keep it in. Now, altogether, we have:
“Hello, Grandfather in Heaven. You are precious to me. Your Divine will is so impeccable, I wish that the Earth acted with the same perfection that Heaven does. Forgive me for my wrongs, and I, in turn, forgive others. And don’t let me fall into the abyss of humiliation, but save me from that risk, and fill me with the Holy Spirit. You get all the credit. Amen.”
Now, that’s some prayer.
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| Happy 4rth |
| 07.06.04 (12:41 am) [edit] |
7-5-04
Hello, all.
Hope you had a happy 4rth. I had a family BBQ, ate 2 vegi burgers, potato salad, etc. I had the biggest meal I've had in months. Of course, it came up. Later, I had a few spoonfuls of potato salad & that stayed down.
Today, I ate another vegi burger & that came up. Then I took my daughter & her friend to the drive-in. We saw Siderman 2 & 13 going on 30. Enjoyed them both. But, I ate some snack foods there & they came up, too. I had 2 bad anxiety attacks today. Tomorrow, I see my therapist & I'll talk to him about some medication for the anxiety attacks.
Sorry, no story tonight, I'm too tired to type it in, but my entry for tomorrow will be entertaining, I promise.
Thanks for reading & all the support.
Thor
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| Gambler short story |
| 07.03.04 (9:44 pm) [edit] |
7-3-04
Hello, all.
Sorry about no post the past few days, it’s what happens when you get ungodly busy between quitting one job & starting another. I’ve been working both & it’s been hectic, but I’m back on track now.
To update you on my life: Tuesday, my doc increased my meds & I was nauseated for several days. I didn’t eat, therefore didn’t throw up Tuesday, Wednesday, & Thursday. Friday, I felt a little better & ate a sandwich., which stayed down.
Today, I ate another sandwich, but it came back up shortly thereafter. Later, I had a couple bites of broccoli, rice & cheese, but that came up, too. It wasn’t the nausea from the medication, it was just the bulimia taking control. It’s really starting to hurt in the chest like back in April when I was hospitalized. I’m really tearing myself up inside.
Tomorrow, I’ll have my daughter during the day for a BBQ, then I work that night. I just got a phone call while writing this. I just found out that my ex-wife’s boyfriend proposed tonight. I don’t know how I feel about that.
There are a few things. First, I really, honestly don’t want her back. Secondly, I also don’t want to be replaced in my daughter’s life. Third, it’s been 6 yrs. this month since the divorce, and now she’ll be getting married again. I feel so lost with her getting on with her life, and I’m still nothing but a fucked-up mess, like I’ve been my whole life. I’m 38, and can’t get my shit together for anything. I feel lonesome and pathetic.
Not actually feeling sorry for myself, just feeling lost, and kind of sorry I’m alive. I’m tired of feeling so confused & without direction.
Anyway, here’s tonight’s story, this one’s probably my favorite. If any of you out there know anyone in the publishing industry, send them my way. I have a novel & 2 more I’m working on.
As always, feel free to post, I always respond to my posts. Goodnight & enjoy the story.
Thor
The Gambler
Farley lay in bed, sweating. The hotel room was, as far as he could find, the cheapest in town. He always went to the cheapest hotels, saving his money for the game. This place defined the term “flea bag”.
His room was on the third floor with a picturesque view of the brick wall 17 feet away. If he leaned out the window, he could see the black alley covered in grease from the Vietnamese restaurant. For twenty minutes every day, the alley took on a rainbow sheen as the mid-day sun made its way between the buildings.
His breath came staccato as he tried to take deep breaths, but somehow couldn’t manage it. Even with the window shut, the wafting smell of grease was oppressive. The bed was squeaky, steel springs, circa 1935.
When he first arrived, he had flipped the mattress over to avoid sleeping on a large burn hole. When he saw the stale-brown bloodstains on the other side, he understood why the last tenant had preferred burn-side up. The “clean” bed sheets he had been given were stained, used-to-be-white linen. Two top sheets, no fitted sheet, jailhouse-issue plastic pillow, no pillowcase, and an army surplus army wool blanket. The whole issue you could turn in every three days for another “clean” set, which he hadn’t bothered to do in the nineteen days that he had been there.
He first met the woman in the room next door on his second day. It was just past noon - first thing in the morning for them. She was sitting on the fire escape, chain smoking, drinking Jack Daniels straight from a pint bottle; the square one, not the flask. She had once been pretty, he could tell, and although not unattractive now, her sullen face belied too many Jack-for-breakfast mornings and her drooping eyes spoke of too many nights in an open-mouthed, drunken haze.
The radio alarm went off. There was no way to set the alarm anymore, it just went off anytime it wanted to. There was no way to turn it off, either, without unplugging it. He found he liked the surprise. It was kind of like rolling a hard 8: you never know when it’ll pop up. The radio no longer got FM, which in most towns meant AM evangelists or the local “beautiful music” station - which was currently playing the elevator version of Eleanore Rigby.
He kept the damned thing because the glowing red digital clock still worked, though, to be honest, time didn’t really mean much to him anymore. The only time that had mattered in years was daytime and nighttime, and he didn’t need a god-damned broke down clock to tell the difference there: he could just stick his head out the window and give his lungs a fresh coating of alley grease.
Night time. That was really the only time that mattered. Nighttime is when the games begin. In any town, he’d start withe bridge bums. They didn’t know anything, they were just tramps, transients. But they knew where the local shanty-town was. Two bucks to the bums for a quart of beer. In shanty-town, they didn’t know where the action was, either, but they knew who knew. They were the permanent ones. They lived here, knew the town. One thing about bottom feeders: they know where the shit falls from. Ten bucks to them for a fifth of vodka.
On to the hook-up man. Gas station attendant, liquor store clerk, bartender, guy from the tire place, whatever. Always a low-flying job, ‘cause he’s too unstable for any kind of career. Perpetually in debt to the pit-boss, but they keep letting him back in ‘cause he brings in fresh meat, like Farley. His payoff? Twenty bucks, maybe fifty. Whatever the stakes were to get into the game.
The game. Farley brought a hand up and combed it through his hair. “The game,” he said aloud. “The game, the game, the fucking game,” palm slapping his forehead every time he said it. On his third night, she had come home at the same time he had, around 4:30. He had a small wad in his pocket. Earlier, he had been up 5 grand. He dropped most of it, but was still up more than 15 hundred, and still reeling from the adrenaline high. His trembling hand fit key to lock just as she came stumbling down the hall.
“Have a good night?” she asked.
“Yeah, I made some cash. And you?”
“I had a pretty good night, too. Yeah, a pretty good night.”
He had heard her through the wall, fumbling around the room. The shoes dropped, one by one, the bed springs squeaked, the light but deep snoring began. He couldn’t sleep, though. In fact, he wasn’t tired at all. The night kept replaying in his mind, fingers drumming against his palm, still rattling dice no longer there.
He had heard of people who get a hand or foot amputated and get phantom pains - still feeling the severed limb. He understood that. On nights like this, he understood, ‘cause he could still feel those dice, rolling around in his hand. The adrenaline was pumping, so he gad decided on a walk.
He stopped at an all-night liquor store, and picked up a bottle of Old Granddad to keep him company. Dawn came, and the city grew louder. Traffic packed and then slowly loosened up, which signaled mid-morning. He thought he’d head beck to the hotel for some shut-eye. The walk made him tired but not sleepy, so he tossed the empty bottle and found a liquor store for another spot of Granddad.
“Will that be all?” the clerk asked.
“Yeah. Uh, no. Give me a pint of Jack, too.” The clerk reached behind him and grabbed a slim bottle.
“No, the square bottle. And two packs of smokes. Marlboro red. Hard pack. And some matches, too.”
The radio turned off as arbitrarily as it had come on, so the only sound left in the room was his other luxury: an eight inch, mint-green oscillating fan that, as it reached its apogee on the right side, gave a pinging sound for just a moment before it began its arc back to the left. He knew that this was the only sound in the room, yet somehow he could still hear the echo of a loud bang, like a door slamming or a dictionary, falling flat.
For weeks the five of them had been meeting on the fire escape for breakfast: The hooker and Jack Daniels, the gambler and his Old Granddad, and, of course, the Marlboro man. He had been having a good run; a little up, a little down. When he’d come home with cash in pocket, she’d end up on her knees, earning her share of his winnings. When he’d come home broke, she’d buy breakfast, and no blowjob.
“Whores,” he thought. “The only commodity you can sell and still keep the product.”
He had come home “up” for three night in a row. 750, then five grand, then eleven-hundred. Not a lot, but enough for him to stick around. And then, there was last night. He had been up last night, way up. Nineteen grand up. Then, in two seconds, it all went sour. The dice that had been magic for him all night suddenly turned on him, hated him. They didn’t just have snake eyes, but fangs, too.
Thinking back, Tony, the pit-boss must have switched on him, but at the time, the fever was in him. He couldn’t stop rolling. No matter how far down he went, he couldn’t stop rolling, because he’d been up, damn it, he was up.
“How much is he in for?” he heard Tony’s boss ask him. The answer turned his fevered sweat ice cold. He heard the snap as the dice crashed together and stopped rattling in his hand. His gaze found a window. It was daytime. It had been daytime for some time.
They gave him three hours to come up with the cash. They put a tail on him in case Farley got the idea of skipping town. The guy waited across the street at the bus stop while Farley shook down his own room. He pulled out everything: the stash that he keeps in his dirty socks, the false bottom in his suitcase, what he keeps taped to the underside of his toilet tank lid, everything. He even found a $50 that a previous tenant had tacked to the bottom of a dresser drawer.
In the end, he was still almost seven grand short. He went to the fire escape for a smoke. She was there, lighting one cigarette with the butt of another.
“How’d you do last night?” she asked.
“Not so good. Really, really not so good.”
“That’s ok, I’ll buy. Back in fifteen minutes,” she said, and groaned her mother’s morning moan as she stood. Her footsteps clumped down the hall. And his body was in action before his brain understood what he was doing.
He searched her place. He didn’t ransack it; just a quick, thorough once-over. He found the cash in her panty drawer. Her lack of imagination astounded him. In a neighborhood like this, it was a miracle she wasn’t robbed everyday. Nine thousand. Perfect. He took what he needed, put the rest back, then headed back to Tony.
It was almost an hour before he got back, and there was a ruckus in the room next door. A man and a woman were shouting. Most of it wasn’t discernable, but “What did you do with it?”, “Where is it?”, and “I don’t know” came through pretty clearly.
There was a slap followed by a loud complaint from the bedsprings. Then again. And again. He shouting grew louder and more hysterical until suddenly a loud bang echoed against the bare walls of his room. Then, everything was very, very quiet.
Except for the rhythmic pinging of the fan. And the echo of the bang. The fan and the echo. The echo. The echo.
The radio sprang to life again, and the room filled with some philharmonic’s version of “Goodnight, Sweetheart”. For the second time that day, Farley’s sweat turned cold.
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