Our dirt bikes bring all the boys to the yard. Damn right, they're better than yours.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Out of the blue

I posted this yesterday night, but now I'm adding to it. I just realized that it's the first piece of fiction writing I've done since February, 2005, when my laptop was stolen. Maybe this will become a serial. If anyone cares what happens, that is.
His arms wrapped around her. "I think you're wonderful," he said, brushing a crumb of the saran-wrappedchocolate cake they'd shared from her lips.
"That's a matter of opinion," she said. Her back was to him now, and he noticed for the first time in years that her ears stuck out much farther than most attractive people's ears. Close up, with his wrists interlocked around her waist, he could see that her dandruff was overwhelming what little attractiveness her perpetually dry scalp could muster. The line of hair at nape of her neck was neither straight nor consistent with the layering on the rest of her too-pointed head. A smell, not unlike deep-fried mackeral, wafted from her skin, red and mottled from their overzealous session of far-too-rare lovemaking.
"I'm really tired of this, William," she said, calling him by the name his father used when the old man was mad at him, and breaking his grasp. "You know I've been seeing someone else for almost a month, don't you?"
The thought had never crossed his mind. His eyes watched as she took a few steps deeper into the darkness at the edge of the well-worn path they'd been lost on for hours. His eyes wandered upwards to the long streak of bright white specks not unlike the ones on her head.
"Was it something I did?" he asked, mostly of himself.
"It certainly wasn't. If your would have done something, there might have been something worth saving here," she said, wrinkling her long, crooked nose, and shoving her fingers through her greasy hair. "As it stands, you might as well have been one of the kids working the checkout counter at the grocery store, for all the connection we've made."
Bill couldn't remember having sex with any of the cashier "kids." He also couldn't remember a time when the checkout kids had cried themselves to sleep in his arms. Mind you, he wasn't there when their mothers had died, either. He felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye, and blamed the wind. She saw it.
"Give me a break." She turned to the darkness, and snarfed condescendingly.

Exactly three years and three months earlier, summer exploded over the valleys near Oceantown. If green were a dollar a pound, the trees would be rich, and the lawns, in the dry summer, would have still been comfortably well off. Bill met his sister at the grocery store. With her was Matthew, her "differently-abled" son.
"Eggs, Matthew. Go get mommy the medium eggs."
Matthew, 14, let a string of drool roll off his lip onto his shirt. He could hear and see and repeat, but he couldn't seem to understand. His foam helmet kept his soft head safe from all the complexities of the real world.
"Hey, catface," Bill said to his sister, who, at 200 pounds, was sadly the most attractive woman he'd ever seen naked, even accidentally.
"Billy! What brings a nice boy like you to a shithole like this?" Down the isle, Matthew had knocked over a jar of mayonnaise, and was distracting himself from his eggquest by smearing the mess around with his shoe.
"Groceries," said Bill.
"What?" she half-belched. Her breath smelled of rum, but only because of the icecream she'd slobbered all down her oversized shirt. "Matthew! What are you doing?! I swear, if I have to come over there..."
Matthew, with a fleeting grasp of the concepts of right and wrong, ceased his smearing. He reached down, picked up the lid to the mayonnaise jar, and brought it to Bill.
Bill looked around to see if anyone had heard. He'd never tell anyone, but he found Matthew a little disgusting. He knew there was nothing the boy could do about it, but that didn't change the fact that he got a little twinge in the pit of his stomach when he saw the boy's twisted face and crooked, drool-shined teeth.
"Mom wants to know if you're going to come for supper tonight. She's inviting that woman she keeps talking about from Cartech. She's making a roast. It's too big for just the three of us."
Inside, Bill, wretched. Another weakly veiled setup attempt by his parts-counter mother. Bill knew nothing about cars or parts, and conversations with his mother inevitibly lead to what part so-and-so had accidentally ordered, or how the Chrysler somethingorother was cronically something or other, and that lead to shortages of a 20-cent gasket. And the people she wrked with were equally uninteresting.
He looked in his grocery basket. Spam, white bread, and a jar of mustard. He'd put back the oranges after remembering he'd spent five dollars on a beer last night.
"I'll be there."


Blogger enthrall said...

I'm interested.

Mind you, I thought it was a "continue the story" invite: I'm glad I didn't go with such a gauche impulse.

Bring on the tale, dude that is super. One request? Could the Cartech girl have a bizarrely single-minded passion for typefaces?

3:58 PM

Blogger Dave said...

Mayonaise, beer money, broken cars, retarded children, getting called "catface" -- it's classic Neal!


12:26 AM


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