Her Story
She began her story in a prolific voice. She ended on a devastatingly tragic note. “The history of human speech is really the history of voice,” she began, “and the history of voice is really the history of everything. It resounds in the unfolding of a singing universe, echoes in a cockle shell of varying scale, a rotating octave out of which it blares forcefully—palpable, operatic, beastly. It extends out of the beginning of things that carry their own ends in finite and numbered breaths, the dying dragon, the hero’s song. If we cannot hear it, I’ve always thought anyway, one might as well not be born.”
I read straight through. I laid the last disturbing page on the table. Exhausted, worn out, I closed my eyes. How terrible, violation and silence: violence. How wicked. The writing vivid—beautifully rendered evil—“The Story of a Girl.” I didn’t see it coming till they held her down. Over and over they thrust their arms down her throat, their hands, knuckles and wrists elongated, fingers thick and groping. They wrenched out the one thing that, by nature, seemed wholly her own.
“Down her throat they plunged, grabbing hold, first one till he tired, then the next, each one trying harder than the last to dislodge it. Cold to her tears, glad at her humiliations, eager for her gurgling cries—the more she struggled the more they punched and twisted and banged.”
And then it gave. One of them finally drew it out of her, blood dripping, roots dangling. I continued reading, turning page after page. I could see him and he looked like he’d gone mad. Light glimmered in his cupped hands like song itself. He lingered there, hovered above her body which had gone limp. Her mouth moved but she made no sound. I saw his face, saw all their faces. My heart banged. Never had I seen anything as sad, her face, her hair matted, her eyes running the color of blood. Beauty made to feel ugly, joy murdered, goodness left for dead. I touched my cheek. It was her cheek.
I knew them all. I’d seen the four of them before. They had raised an ugliness in me then, but that seemed inconsequential compared to the gaping pit that, then and there, alone in my room, opened in my chest. I was shaking— impotent rage. The image of her face, the way he bent over her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear, folding the light of her voice in the dark hollow of his hands.
*
That's when it hit, out of nowhere. The thought. Cold sweat running down a tall slender glass, sudsy. I could smell it. Her story had twisted my thinking. The taste of a drink infiltrated my body. Craving reared its head, bared its teeth. Inside my body an unnameable tangle of wire sought relief. (I thought I’d gotten past this thing.) I stood, walked into the kitchen, ran some water, splashed my face. With intention, I drew deep breaths, turned, leaned back against the counter. Why are you here? The question presented itself as it had before. To drink?
It took a minute, but I stood my ground and soon it came clear. It was only a story! How could I? I snickered, turned, and set some water on the stove for tea, grabbed a cup out of the cupboard. And just as I had nearly returned to myself fully, a ruckus grew outside. A jumbling rattle clanked and pinged. I turned to the window. Walking round the table, I peered out. Rank unbelief nailed my feet to the floor then. Impossible, I thought. It could not be. Them.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Hello It's Me
THE CALL
I was caught off guard when I heard her voice on the phone. “How are you, Michael?” she said. “It’s Glea.”
I knew her voice, but hearing it felt alien. It sounded to me like a voice one would avoid if they could; a voice belonging to a neighbor who’s been crouching in your garden every evening at dusk, watching as you walk around your kitchen in your underwear; the person who you knew had poisoned your cat, though you could not prove it, and who called because they knew you knew but couldn't say anything about it. I couldn’t tell right then which of us was being creepy.
I responded with shortness. “Glea.”
Glea Carroll of the McNally Agency had been a great support when I was marketable. She stayed in constant contact, putting me in touch with publishers and editors, people she said she knew I’d click with. As my agent Glea facilitated many good things for me. But self interest clung to her like the smell of something burning. I was never crazy about that part of her, and now that I was no longer a hot commodity I discovered my instincts about her had been justified.
“Michael, I know I haven’t called. But I have been thinking about you.” She must have detected the blank recognition, the plain lack of response in my voice.
“I’ve been thinking about you too,” I said finally.
“I realize it’s been some time.” She spoke in clear, distinct tones.
Damn, I thought. I hoped like hell she didn’t feel sorry for me. I wanted to savor my resentment. Across the room the cat began hacking and then puked on some papers I’d laid down when the phone rang. “Goddamit,” I growled through crooked teeth.
“Is this not a good time?” Glea asked. “Should I not have called?”
“No. It’s fine,” I told her, “my cat. How have you been?”
“I’m well,” she said. Glea , always proper, never said "I'm fine," or "I'm good."
“I’m also well,” I responded flatly. “To what do I owe the honor, Glea?”
She hesitated, only momentarily, and then explained why she called. She knew I’d been in a rut since the accident. She thought she had something I might be interested in trying. “You’re not drinking?” she asked at one point.
“No, I’m not drinking,” I said. I was lying. I’d turned into a morning drinker. Mostly wine when I stayed home. Beer if I walked down to play the juke box at the Top Hat where Milna poured drafts and flaunted her huge rack behind the bar. On days when I’d stop caring altogether, often after not sleeping, I’d drive instead of walk. The accident seemed, at those times, remote. Maybe I was remote. The walls of my apartment looked pale to me. “Why do you ask, Glea?”
“I have a contact at Iowa,” she said. “Do you think you’d consider putting together a workshop for them? They’re interested in having you. I can put you in touch.”
In touch was something I hadn’t been in a while. I touched my face. “Teach what to who?” I asked.
“We can work all that out,” she said straight forwardly, as if she had all of it already planned. “You’re a name. Published. And they’re paying.”
The offer was a far cry from television interviews and book signings. I looked across the room and squinted at the stack of bills on the desk. “I could use a change,” I told her. “Iowa. How much and what do I need to do?”
“Let me make some calls,” she said, and we ended it there.
I scribbled her name on one of the refrigerator lists, then grabbed my keys. It was Friday. Milna typically wore a skirt on Fridays. She’d be working till noon.
I was caught off guard when I heard her voice on the phone. “How are you, Michael?” she said. “It’s Glea.”
I knew her voice, but hearing it felt alien. It sounded to me like a voice one would avoid if they could; a voice belonging to a neighbor who’s been crouching in your garden every evening at dusk, watching as you walk around your kitchen in your underwear; the person who you knew had poisoned your cat, though you could not prove it, and who called because they knew you knew but couldn't say anything about it. I couldn’t tell right then which of us was being creepy.
I responded with shortness. “Glea.”
Glea Carroll of the McNally Agency had been a great support when I was marketable. She stayed in constant contact, putting me in touch with publishers and editors, people she said she knew I’d click with. As my agent Glea facilitated many good things for me. But self interest clung to her like the smell of something burning. I was never crazy about that part of her, and now that I was no longer a hot commodity I discovered my instincts about her had been justified.
“Michael, I know I haven’t called. But I have been thinking about you.” She must have detected the blank recognition, the plain lack of response in my voice.
“I’ve been thinking about you too,” I said finally.
“I realize it’s been some time.” She spoke in clear, distinct tones.
Damn, I thought. I hoped like hell she didn’t feel sorry for me. I wanted to savor my resentment. Across the room the cat began hacking and then puked on some papers I’d laid down when the phone rang. “Goddamit,” I growled through crooked teeth.
“Is this not a good time?” Glea asked. “Should I not have called?”
“No. It’s fine,” I told her, “my cat. How have you been?”
“I’m well,” she said. Glea , always proper, never said "I'm fine," or "I'm good."
“I’m also well,” I responded flatly. “To what do I owe the honor, Glea?”
She hesitated, only momentarily, and then explained why she called. She knew I’d been in a rut since the accident. She thought she had something I might be interested in trying. “You’re not drinking?” she asked at one point.
“No, I’m not drinking,” I said. I was lying. I’d turned into a morning drinker. Mostly wine when I stayed home. Beer if I walked down to play the juke box at the Top Hat where Milna poured drafts and flaunted her huge rack behind the bar. On days when I’d stop caring altogether, often after not sleeping, I’d drive instead of walk. The accident seemed, at those times, remote. Maybe I was remote. The walls of my apartment looked pale to me. “Why do you ask, Glea?”
“I have a contact at Iowa,” she said. “Do you think you’d consider putting together a workshop for them? They’re interested in having you. I can put you in touch.”
In touch was something I hadn’t been in a while. I touched my face. “Teach what to who?” I asked.
“We can work all that out,” she said straight forwardly, as if she had all of it already planned. “You’re a name. Published. And they’re paying.”
The offer was a far cry from television interviews and book signings. I looked across the room and squinted at the stack of bills on the desk. “I could use a change,” I told her. “Iowa. How much and what do I need to do?”
“Let me make some calls,” she said, and we ended it there.
I scribbled her name on one of the refrigerator lists, then grabbed my keys. It was Friday. Milna typically wore a skirt on Fridays. She’d be working till noon.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Goat's Head Oops
Goats
I’m not built for this kind of thing anymore, I think, hand pressed hard against my side. The cops had already cleared, leaving a floor full of broken glass and blood to clean up.
Bars—funny places. If you work in one, you know what the camouflaged stink beneath floorboards and in saturated spots in the bathrooms smells like. You know bars are filthy places. Even now, little flies flit around rows of bottles stacked behind the bar and ignore the blood spattered on the wall. I catch myself asking if flies get addicted to alcohol. Barflies. Ha ha.
I love bars. Always have. I think of this particular one as my church—here twelve years this February coming. I’ve bounced in lots of places. Once picked up a part-time gig in Denver where I had to wear a frilly shirt and bowtie. They had a reel-to-reel instead of a jukebox and played the same shit songs over and over, 80’s shit songs that made me tired. I’m no good when I’m tired. So this place is my church. It’s where I feel like I belong. I’d be cranky all the time in a nightclub or a place where bouncers wear frilly shirts and bowties.
I was thinking that very thing when I heard glass crunching under somebody’s boots and turned to see one of the assholes that had started the whole damned ruckus. The cops had missed him somehow. He must have landed unconscious behind a speaker or under a table. But now he was up, charging me, grunting, half-limping as he came on hard. Only, I did a little sidestep, extended a leg and down he went, glass scattering beneath him and sounding very much like marbles dropped on wood.
I’d noticed his bunch when they walked in. I hate when guys like them come in, guys with something ugly behind their eyes. Borderline types that don’t know when or how to die. Back when I didn’t know shit from shinola I took little notice of things like eyes, but after a couple of brouhahas that ended in a whole lot of stitches, I learned. Today I can separate the goats from the sheep. Goats have eyes that sit dark and blank, a little cloudy so you can’t see if there’s a person inside. This guy: goat for sure.
He was up as quick as he went down, his beard scraggly, graying. I could see he was crazy and suddenly I felt damned tired. Exhausted. Everything slowed around me. His hand reeled up with a blade. I grabbed his arm, two hands. He knocked me back against the bar. I ran the edge of my boot down his shins, better’n ten times, and I was shoving his arm down and away and growing real tired when I felt the blade slip in. It was warm. Didn’t hurt. I’m down on one knee then, bleeding. I can smell the place. It’s dark, filthy, and smells a lot like goat.
I’m not built for this kind of thing anymore, I think, hand pressed hard against my side. The cops had already cleared, leaving a floor full of broken glass and blood to clean up.
Bars—funny places. If you work in one, you know what the camouflaged stink beneath floorboards and in saturated spots in the bathrooms smells like. You know bars are filthy places. Even now, little flies flit around rows of bottles stacked behind the bar and ignore the blood spattered on the wall. I catch myself asking if flies get addicted to alcohol. Barflies. Ha ha.
I love bars. Always have. I think of this particular one as my church—here twelve years this February coming. I’ve bounced in lots of places. Once picked up a part-time gig in Denver where I had to wear a frilly shirt and bowtie. They had a reel-to-reel instead of a jukebox and played the same shit songs over and over, 80’s shit songs that made me tired. I’m no good when I’m tired. So this place is my church. It’s where I feel like I belong. I’d be cranky all the time in a nightclub or a place where bouncers wear frilly shirts and bowties.
I was thinking that very thing when I heard glass crunching under somebody’s boots and turned to see one of the assholes that had started the whole damned ruckus. The cops had missed him somehow. He must have landed unconscious behind a speaker or under a table. But now he was up, charging me, grunting, half-limping as he came on hard. Only, I did a little sidestep, extended a leg and down he went, glass scattering beneath him and sounding very much like marbles dropped on wood.
I’d noticed his bunch when they walked in. I hate when guys like them come in, guys with something ugly behind their eyes. Borderline types that don’t know when or how to die. Back when I didn’t know shit from shinola I took little notice of things like eyes, but after a couple of brouhahas that ended in a whole lot of stitches, I learned. Today I can separate the goats from the sheep. Goats have eyes that sit dark and blank, a little cloudy so you can’t see if there’s a person inside. This guy: goat for sure.
He was up as quick as he went down, his beard scraggly, graying. I could see he was crazy and suddenly I felt damned tired. Exhausted. Everything slowed around me. His hand reeled up with a blade. I grabbed his arm, two hands. He knocked me back against the bar. I ran the edge of my boot down his shins, better’n ten times, and I was shoving his arm down and away and growing real tired when I felt the blade slip in. It was warm. Didn’t hurt. I’m down on one knee then, bleeding. I can smell the place. It’s dark, filthy, and smells a lot like goat.
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