Last night I had a dream. In the dream we were together again, you and me. We were on a bus, heading to the house you used to live in on the hill. You pulled the bell early and said "I feel like walking". You took my hand as we stepped off the bus.
You then turned and said "it's such a lovely night" and it was, it was a lovely night. There was a mild wind that periodically sent a chill down the spine, I'd always liked that feeling and you did too...or so you told me anyway.
We began our long trek up Liberty Hill and we didn't say anything to each other but it didn't feel awkward or strange. It was safe and comfortable, like always. Occasionally you would turn back to me and smile.
When we got to the very top of the hill, before it began to slope back down into the valley, you said "let's rest our feet here for a minute" and exhaled loudly. Then I remembered something you once told me ages ago. You said, "this spot right here, at the top of this hill, this is my favorite spot in the whole wide world". At the time you said this I agreed with you but that was back when we were both kids, basically. That was before I'd been to Paris or Prague or Africa or even New York City. "Yeah, it's a great spot", I said in the dream.
We sat on the curb underneath that old blue house with the peeling paint and looked at the bright city below. Houses and factories and restaurants all lit up, cars speeding from place to place, the bridge rising to let a big old barge pass underneath it. I felt the chill of the wind on my face and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. You leaned against my shoulder and took a deep breath. The water in Lake Union rippled with the breeze.
You then said "look at the billboard down there. By the water. I've never noticed it before. It must be new" and you pointed right to it. It had a picture of a cartoon dog on it and a man holding a dog treat out for him to eat. Then it said "Wild Brand Biscuits. Real salmon, Real Wild." and underneath all that in the corner it said "Treat Me Wild!" in bright red letters. You laughed at the slogan and said "that's kind of silly". And I laughed too. Then you kissed me on the cheek and said "treat me wild, Jack. Will you?" and I kissed you back.
Then I woke up.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Girl Machine
He thought this:
Is she a girl or machine?
How can she resist me?
Spurn my advances, deny my charms.
Where did it veer off course?
My sights were set on the moon but they ended up in limbo?
She laid awake in bed thinking this:
Give up, give up, give up.
Be done with it and this and love.
Is she a girl or machine?
How can she resist me?
Spurn my advances, deny my charms.
Where did it veer off course?
My sights were set on the moon but they ended up in limbo?
She laid awake in bed thinking this:
Give up, give up, give up.
Be done with it and this and love.
The Mask
Donald Johnson was 35 years old. Not an old man by any means but no longer a young man either. Certainly too old to be doing this, he thought.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he took a sharp left turn on to Beverly Street. He slowed to a crawl as he scanned the numbers on the houses for "4728". He finally spotted them on a tiny little stucco job at the end of the block.
He waited for a second, composing himself and honked 3 times, 2 shorts and one long. Just like the woman on the phone instructed him to do. He waited for what felt like an eternity before she finally emerged from the tiny house. As she approached the car he thought to himself that she was prettier than he expected. Which isn't to say she was "pretty" exactly, she was definitely worn and tired looking, a little vacant. But she was born with a natural beauty, that was obvious. Her eyes held a hint of a spark. Maybe, he thought, that's why she got into this business in the first place. He got out and ran around to the other side of the car to open the door for her. She kissed him on the cheek as she wordlessly entered the car, carefully adjusting her short skirt as she sat down on the aging upholstery. The kiss surprised and aroused him. He told himself to not get too worked up yet. He had her for 3 hours and he didn't want to rush into anything.
He pulled out slowly and looked down the rest of Beverly Street, letting his eyes wander aimlessly into the darkness, as if something interesting to do would present itself magically. After it became apparent that no activities would make themselves known easily, he turned to her and said "so...what do you want to do?"
"I don't know", she replied. "It's your money".
Donald sighed and looked up at the upcoming stop sign. He bent his head down. He thought about what he would do on a normal date, maybe in his youth. He paused before asking, "are you hungry?"
"Sure. I could eat"
"Ok. Well, let's eat then...Miss...what's your name?"
"Diane. Just call me Diane"
He took her to a place called "Tony's Diner" across town, by the shopping mall. They shared mozzarella sticks and each had a steak with all the trimmings. He paid, naturally. The conversation came slow and awkwardly. She only spoke when spoken to. She frequently left to use the restroom or smoke a cigarette. Donald just sat there and thought about what it used to be like with Cheryl. She was the first. She was different. She had the biggest green eyes and the thickest dark hair. The way she touched him gave him goosebumps. Just thinking about her made him light up.
The door to the restuarant swung up as "Diane" walked back in. When she sat back down across from him Donald could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath.
"Are we almost done here?", she asked.
"Yeah. Ok. Let's go"
"Where next, sugar?"
"Uh, my house. I guess. If that's ok with you?"
"Like I said, sugar. It's your money. You do whatever you want"
He winced slightly when she said this. He hated being reminded of what exactly he was doing. He did not like "Diane", that was obvious. She was crude and ill-mannered, even for a prostitute, he thought.
They pulled out of the parking lot at exactly midnight. He decided to take the scenic route back to his house and he made this known to her. As with most things he said to her thoughtout the evening she seemed indifferent and perhaps a bit bothered by the interaction. He tried his best to not let it bother him but it did. He imagined what sex with her would be like, how it would be cold and emotionless. He wondered how it work logistically. How would she be able to take him? Who would she be thinking of in order to open her body to him? Would he even be able to stay hard for her? The whole idea began to make him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe he would spice it up the way he usually did but he was really trying to avoid that now. He didn't want to scare her like he scared the others. He wanted it to be painless, maybe even fun. But now with "Diane" he didn't see that as a possibility.
They pulled into his driveway at exactly 12:18AM. He opened the car door for her, even though she didn't deserve it, he thought.
"Where's the bathroom?", she asked as they entered the darkened house.
"Last door on the left at the end of the hall"
He thought that she was probably going to do drugs in there, turn his nice Christian home into an opium den. As he pulled off his jacket and hung it over the arm of an frayed lounge chair he grit his teeth. He wanted nothing to do with this woman. As he looked down at his watch to see exactly how much time with her he had left she emerged from the hall completely nude. Every imperfection she tried to cover with silk or linen or animal print or fishnet or support hose was in full view. She looked innocent, unguarded, younger. He became aroused.
"So...where's your bedroom, sugar?"
"No. No bedroom", he said somewhat sternly. "Just lay down on the couch".
She smiled uncharacteristically and said "whatever floats your boat".
He then excused himself and disappeared into the total blackness of his bedroom. She looked up at his cheap, stackled ceiling. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She felt a headache coming on. She told herself she was going too old for this business. Maybe she could retire next year? Hang it up for good. Go live with her Sister in Missouri.
When she opened her eyes she saw him standing over her with a mask on. An African mask carved from wood. It looked heavy and expensive. She laughed.
"What's so funny?", he asked.
"That mask. It's just...different"
"You want me to take it off? It...helps...me"
"Again, sugar. Whatever floats your boat"
Donald burst into a fit of anger. "DON'T CALL ME SUGAR!", he snapped. "I HAVE A FUCKING NAME AND IT'S DONALD. I TOLD YOU THAT ON THE PHONE".
Diane sat up and stared at him. She didn't know what to say. She watched as he slunk into the kitchen.
"Where are you going? What are you doing in the kitchen?"
When he returned with a knife it became clear.
She screamed as he approached her.
He thought to himself that he hoped the next girl would be more his type. Maybe be warm, loving...so he didn't have to resort to this. He was 35 years old now. Not an old man by any means but no longer a young man either. Certaintly too old to be doing this, he thought.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he took a sharp left turn on to Beverly Street. He slowed to a crawl as he scanned the numbers on the houses for "4728". He finally spotted them on a tiny little stucco job at the end of the block.
He waited for a second, composing himself and honked 3 times, 2 shorts and one long. Just like the woman on the phone instructed him to do. He waited for what felt like an eternity before she finally emerged from the tiny house. As she approached the car he thought to himself that she was prettier than he expected. Which isn't to say she was "pretty" exactly, she was definitely worn and tired looking, a little vacant. But she was born with a natural beauty, that was obvious. Her eyes held a hint of a spark. Maybe, he thought, that's why she got into this business in the first place. He got out and ran around to the other side of the car to open the door for her. She kissed him on the cheek as she wordlessly entered the car, carefully adjusting her short skirt as she sat down on the aging upholstery. The kiss surprised and aroused him. He told himself to not get too worked up yet. He had her for 3 hours and he didn't want to rush into anything.
He pulled out slowly and looked down the rest of Beverly Street, letting his eyes wander aimlessly into the darkness, as if something interesting to do would present itself magically. After it became apparent that no activities would make themselves known easily, he turned to her and said "so...what do you want to do?"
"I don't know", she replied. "It's your money".
Donald sighed and looked up at the upcoming stop sign. He bent his head down. He thought about what he would do on a normal date, maybe in his youth. He paused before asking, "are you hungry?"
"Sure. I could eat"
"Ok. Well, let's eat then...Miss...what's your name?"
"Diane. Just call me Diane"
He took her to a place called "Tony's Diner" across town, by the shopping mall. They shared mozzarella sticks and each had a steak with all the trimmings. He paid, naturally. The conversation came slow and awkwardly. She only spoke when spoken to. She frequently left to use the restroom or smoke a cigarette. Donald just sat there and thought about what it used to be like with Cheryl. She was the first. She was different. She had the biggest green eyes and the thickest dark hair. The way she touched him gave him goosebumps. Just thinking about her made him light up.
The door to the restuarant swung up as "Diane" walked back in. When she sat back down across from him Donald could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath.
"Are we almost done here?", she asked.
"Yeah. Ok. Let's go"
"Where next, sugar?"
"Uh, my house. I guess. If that's ok with you?"
"Like I said, sugar. It's your money. You do whatever you want"
He winced slightly when she said this. He hated being reminded of what exactly he was doing. He did not like "Diane", that was obvious. She was crude and ill-mannered, even for a prostitute, he thought.
They pulled out of the parking lot at exactly midnight. He decided to take the scenic route back to his house and he made this known to her. As with most things he said to her thoughtout the evening she seemed indifferent and perhaps a bit bothered by the interaction. He tried his best to not let it bother him but it did. He imagined what sex with her would be like, how it would be cold and emotionless. He wondered how it work logistically. How would she be able to take him? Who would she be thinking of in order to open her body to him? Would he even be able to stay hard for her? The whole idea began to make him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe he would spice it up the way he usually did but he was really trying to avoid that now. He didn't want to scare her like he scared the others. He wanted it to be painless, maybe even fun. But now with "Diane" he didn't see that as a possibility.
They pulled into his driveway at exactly 12:18AM. He opened the car door for her, even though she didn't deserve it, he thought.
"Where's the bathroom?", she asked as they entered the darkened house.
"Last door on the left at the end of the hall"
He thought that she was probably going to do drugs in there, turn his nice Christian home into an opium den. As he pulled off his jacket and hung it over the arm of an frayed lounge chair he grit his teeth. He wanted nothing to do with this woman. As he looked down at his watch to see exactly how much time with her he had left she emerged from the hall completely nude. Every imperfection she tried to cover with silk or linen or animal print or fishnet or support hose was in full view. She looked innocent, unguarded, younger. He became aroused.
"So...where's your bedroom, sugar?"
"No. No bedroom", he said somewhat sternly. "Just lay down on the couch".
She smiled uncharacteristically and said "whatever floats your boat".
He then excused himself and disappeared into the total blackness of his bedroom. She looked up at his cheap, stackled ceiling. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She felt a headache coming on. She told herself she was going too old for this business. Maybe she could retire next year? Hang it up for good. Go live with her Sister in Missouri.
When she opened her eyes she saw him standing over her with a mask on. An African mask carved from wood. It looked heavy and expensive. She laughed.
"What's so funny?", he asked.
"That mask. It's just...different"
"You want me to take it off? It...helps...me"
"Again, sugar. Whatever floats your boat"
Donald burst into a fit of anger. "DON'T CALL ME SUGAR!", he snapped. "I HAVE A FUCKING NAME AND IT'S DONALD. I TOLD YOU THAT ON THE PHONE".
Diane sat up and stared at him. She didn't know what to say. She watched as he slunk into the kitchen.
"Where are you going? What are you doing in the kitchen?"
When he returned with a knife it became clear.
She screamed as he approached her.
He thought to himself that he hoped the next girl would be more his type. Maybe be warm, loving...so he didn't have to resort to this. He was 35 years old now. Not an old man by any means but no longer a young man either. Certaintly too old to be doing this, he thought.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Aromatics
"What time will they be here?", Bev asked.
"20 minutes!"
She nodded and bent her head down, continuing to cut the green onions into perfect little pieces. She wiped off a bead of sweat forming on her brow.
From the living room her husband shouted, "I don't know why you always knock yourself out for them, Bev. She's an ingrate and he's just a idiot. Pure and simple"
She ignored this and continued to concentrate on cutting the vegetables.
"No", she thought to herself. "Not vegetables. Aromatics. Like the man on TV said".
What she wanted to say to him but couldn't was that it wasn't for them. Or for him. It was for her. It was her chance to feel important. A sprig of mint on top of a bowl of homemade coconut sorbet was her version of a Helen Frankenthaler watercolor. A drizzling of a balsamic reduction over a chicken breast was Jackson Pollack on a plate.
He shuffled in his chair and loosened his tie. He checked his watch for the 10th time in the last five minutes. The sound of a knife on a cutting board reverberated from the kitchen. He sighed. He thought about her for a second, the girl from the office. Everything about her was perfect. The way her purple blouse made her breasts look, how her hair caught the sunlight through the window. He told himself to forget about her and focus on Bev. She was his, not some fantasy. He reminded himself that the chopping he heard was being executed by her. It was tangible and comforting when he thought about it.
"How long until they are here?", she shouted again.
He checked his watch again.
"Any minute now".
The chopping stopped.
"20 minutes!"
She nodded and bent her head down, continuing to cut the green onions into perfect little pieces. She wiped off a bead of sweat forming on her brow.
From the living room her husband shouted, "I don't know why you always knock yourself out for them, Bev. She's an ingrate and he's just a idiot. Pure and simple"
She ignored this and continued to concentrate on cutting the vegetables.
"No", she thought to herself. "Not vegetables. Aromatics. Like the man on TV said".
What she wanted to say to him but couldn't was that it wasn't for them. Or for him. It was for her. It was her chance to feel important. A sprig of mint on top of a bowl of homemade coconut sorbet was her version of a Helen Frankenthaler watercolor. A drizzling of a balsamic reduction over a chicken breast was Jackson Pollack on a plate.
He shuffled in his chair and loosened his tie. He checked his watch for the 10th time in the last five minutes. The sound of a knife on a cutting board reverberated from the kitchen. He sighed. He thought about her for a second, the girl from the office. Everything about her was perfect. The way her purple blouse made her breasts look, how her hair caught the sunlight through the window. He told himself to forget about her and focus on Bev. She was his, not some fantasy. He reminded himself that the chopping he heard was being executed by her. It was tangible and comforting when he thought about it.
"How long until they are here?", she shouted again.
He checked his watch again.
"Any minute now".
The chopping stopped.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Los Angeles
The sun baked the back of his neck through the window. He shifted in his seat slightly.
"Turn up the AC, man", he yelled to Jarred.
"It's up as high as it goes, Ted. Besides, we're almost there", he replied.
As he said this, as if on cue, the ocean met the horizon. Miles and miles of blue expanse hung barely in view above the road.
The music blasting from the back speakers changed yet again. This time to a Beach Boy's song.
"Stop changing the fucking songs, Jake".
"Shut the fuck up"
Jarred sighed and said towards the backseat, "this is what we get for bringing a DJ with us".
Ted sat and enjoyed the oohs and ahhs assaulting his ears at an obscene volume.
He opened a box of donuts and shook it around a little bit. The gnawed remains of an apple fritter danced on the cardboard and he debated eating it or not.
"Hey, is there any truth to that whole don't eat less than an hour before swimming thing?"
"What?"
"IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO THAT WHOLE NOT EATING AN HOUR BEFORE YOU GO SWIMMING THING?!", he said louder, to be heard over Brian Wilson.
"No, dude. That's just an old wise tale"
Ted and Jake laughed in unison.
"What?"
"It's old wive's tale. Not old wise tale, man"
Jarred looked flustered.
"Well, whatever it fuck it is...that's what it is"
Sensing his frustration, Ted just dropped the subject before devouring the battered carcass of the last donut. As he swallowed the last bit he began to mentally count the days until they went back home in his head. It still seemed too soon. He could live out here, he thought. He could live perpetually minutes away from the ocean, with the sun on his neck.
When the car came to a stop at the edge of the parking lot Ted didn't even wait for the others. He simply started running to the water like a child might. Jarred laughed at him, quickly grabbed his towel and shorts from the trunk and chased after him.
"Last one in is a rotten piece of shit!", he yelled as he passed Ted.
They both smiled as Ted broke out into a sprint. They both paused at the edge of the beach and threw off their clothes. Ted simply went in wearing his boxers and Jarred put on his swim trunks not so discreetly. Jake came barreling over the hill a few seconds later.
Ted ran in first and dove under the surface of the sea. The first wave hit and turned him all around. He opened his eyes as he found his footing and stood up, much closer to shore than he remembered being. He let out a huge yell and pounded his chest like an ape.
"Nice work, Tarzan", Jake said from the shore.
The sun pounded down on the men as they all eventually found their way into the water. For a split second Ted thought that if this was what the afterlife was, feeling the waters crash into you for all eternity, he could be ok with dying.
He noticed a girl in a black bikini on the shore. He smiled at her before taking a deep breath and diving under before the next big wave hit.
"Turn up the AC, man", he yelled to Jarred.
"It's up as high as it goes, Ted. Besides, we're almost there", he replied.
As he said this, as if on cue, the ocean met the horizon. Miles and miles of blue expanse hung barely in view above the road.
The music blasting from the back speakers changed yet again. This time to a Beach Boy's song.
"Stop changing the fucking songs, Jake".
"Shut the fuck up"
Jarred sighed and said towards the backseat, "this is what we get for bringing a DJ with us".
Ted sat and enjoyed the oohs and ahhs assaulting his ears at an obscene volume.
He opened a box of donuts and shook it around a little bit. The gnawed remains of an apple fritter danced on the cardboard and he debated eating it or not.
"Hey, is there any truth to that whole don't eat less than an hour before swimming thing?"
"What?"
"IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO THAT WHOLE NOT EATING AN HOUR BEFORE YOU GO SWIMMING THING?!", he said louder, to be heard over Brian Wilson.
"No, dude. That's just an old wise tale"
Ted and Jake laughed in unison.
"What?"
"It's old wive's tale. Not old wise tale, man"
Jarred looked flustered.
"Well, whatever it fuck it is...that's what it is"
Sensing his frustration, Ted just dropped the subject before devouring the battered carcass of the last donut. As he swallowed the last bit he began to mentally count the days until they went back home in his head. It still seemed too soon. He could live out here, he thought. He could live perpetually minutes away from the ocean, with the sun on his neck.
When the car came to a stop at the edge of the parking lot Ted didn't even wait for the others. He simply started running to the water like a child might. Jarred laughed at him, quickly grabbed his towel and shorts from the trunk and chased after him.
"Last one in is a rotten piece of shit!", he yelled as he passed Ted.
They both smiled as Ted broke out into a sprint. They both paused at the edge of the beach and threw off their clothes. Ted simply went in wearing his boxers and Jarred put on his swim trunks not so discreetly. Jake came barreling over the hill a few seconds later.
Ted ran in first and dove under the surface of the sea. The first wave hit and turned him all around. He opened his eyes as he found his footing and stood up, much closer to shore than he remembered being. He let out a huge yell and pounded his chest like an ape.
"Nice work, Tarzan", Jake said from the shore.
The sun pounded down on the men as they all eventually found their way into the water. For a split second Ted thought that if this was what the afterlife was, feeling the waters crash into you for all eternity, he could be ok with dying.
He noticed a girl in a black bikini on the shore. He smiled at her before taking a deep breath and diving under before the next big wave hit.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Where
Randy closed his eyes for just a second and she was gone.
That's how it felt anyway.
When he thought about her now he thought about her as an abstraction. A big mess of hair on top of a pale, round face. He thought about her lips on his.
He rode his bike around the outskirts of their shared small town to forget about her but it wasn't enough distance from her memory.
Then one night he found it. He thought he would never even think about it again much less find it. But there it was, staring back at him from the bottom of a tattered box in his garage. It was a video tape. It was simply labeled with a red x but he knew what it really held.
It was a tape of him and her together. They must have only been 18 or 19 in it. He was a virile strapping young man in those days, not the bloated sack he had become. He watched the tape in his living room on mute. He needed to adjust to the nostalgia slowly. He watched the shaky, grainy footage of her dancing on top of a copper colored boulder. She wore an over-sized sweatshirt with the California raisins on it. Her hair was in a ponytail. She looked right into the camera, right at Randy and said something that seemed like "I love you". Randy shut off the tape and made yet another dinner for himself. He broke a heel of bread in half and buttered it before he caught himself thinking about the past again. He thought about Thailand or Vietnam in the Summer and if it would be far enough away to feel like himself again if he went there. He remembered that she always loved Thai food and decided on Russia maybe. Russia seemed like a place he could get lost in.
That night as he tried to sleep and dream of Russia he remembered that on that videotape was a part where they made love and debated if he wanted to watch it or not. He looked over at his alarm clock. 4 AM. He wondered what time it was in Russia and sighed.
That's how it felt anyway.
When he thought about her now he thought about her as an abstraction. A big mess of hair on top of a pale, round face. He thought about her lips on his.
He rode his bike around the outskirts of their shared small town to forget about her but it wasn't enough distance from her memory.
Then one night he found it. He thought he would never even think about it again much less find it. But there it was, staring back at him from the bottom of a tattered box in his garage. It was a video tape. It was simply labeled with a red x but he knew what it really held.
It was a tape of him and her together. They must have only been 18 or 19 in it. He was a virile strapping young man in those days, not the bloated sack he had become. He watched the tape in his living room on mute. He needed to adjust to the nostalgia slowly. He watched the shaky, grainy footage of her dancing on top of a copper colored boulder. She wore an over-sized sweatshirt with the California raisins on it. Her hair was in a ponytail. She looked right into the camera, right at Randy and said something that seemed like "I love you". Randy shut off the tape and made yet another dinner for himself. He broke a heel of bread in half and buttered it before he caught himself thinking about the past again. He thought about Thailand or Vietnam in the Summer and if it would be far enough away to feel like himself again if he went there. He remembered that she always loved Thai food and decided on Russia maybe. Russia seemed like a place he could get lost in.
That night as he tried to sleep and dream of Russia he remembered that on that videotape was a part where they made love and debated if he wanted to watch it or not. He looked over at his alarm clock. 4 AM. He wondered what time it was in Russia and sighed.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Return of 52 Stories...
I will be updating the 52 Stories blog beginning next week for another year full of new stories, glorified poems, etc. Stay tuned for the first of another batch of 52 stories beginning on Tuesday, September 23rd.
Thanks,
Jason
Thanks,
Jason
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