Ben hated crowds. Concerts, clubs, bars…he hated them all. If he wanted to get drunk (which these days he so often did) he was very happy to do so from the comfort of his own home. Just him, his Vodka and Tonic (Smirnoff was his poison of choice), a toasted BLT from Java’s (like a freakin’ orgasm in your mouth) and just enough Michael Bay explosions to make the night go down right.
What more could a man ask for?
What more indeed?
Well, considering you actually want to know and not just asking for the sake of rhetoric and also considering the man’s not a gay homo trouser chaser; poom poom would be as good a place to start as any. Hence the late night bar trawling, the big booty cupping, the seven thousand shilling glasses of double Vodka Tonic and yes, another shot of tequila for the lady.
It was her fourth of the night. On a Tuesday. Didn’t she have work in the morning?
“I’m a model.” She said with a slight tilt of the head.
Ben looked her up and down.
Five foot five, big ass, as close to a C cup as a girl can get without actually being one and just the hint of pot belly that spoke of one too many Sunday afternoons at Zanzi’s.
Ben didn’t believe her for a second. He didn’t mind though. It wasn’t like he was planning on taking her to meet the family or anything. Whatever lie worked for her suited him just fine.
Feigned interest…ON.
Ben took a sip of his drink.
“Really? Runway or print?”
Ben had four really tall half sisters and knew a little bit about it. The question was, did What’s-her-name? Not that he was testing her or anything.
Her answer?
“Print. My legs are way too short and my ass way too big for the runway. I just did something for Warid though. You should be seeing it sometime soon.”
Hmmmmm, so maybe she wasn’t lying. And everybody knew that a little self-deprecation went a long way. What’s-her-name was getting more attractive by the second.
Ben’s phone buzzed from the depths of his pocket. Pulling it out Ben stared down at its face. It was Sharon. Again. Making a face Ben pressed, “reject” and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.” Ben answered. Though a tad too quickly.
The girl caught it but said nothing. Instead, she threw her shot back, gulping it down in one go.
A girlfriend, she figured. Or an ex girlfriend. Even more likely. The possibility of an ex fiancé never once crossed her mind. Why should it have? And even if it had, it was none of her business anyway. She had come to drink. And maybe, just maybe depending on just how well the tequila worked, other things as well.
“Your turn.”
Ben blinked.
“What?”
“Finish up your drink so we can get out of here.”
“What? Now?”
“You’re seriously not asking me that are you?”
Ben’s phone began to buzz. He tried to ignore it but after the sixth, seventh, eighth ring Ben couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled out the phone. He wasn’t even surprised.
“Maybe you should just take it. Tell the person that you clearly don’t want to talk to that you don’t want to talk to them.”
“But then that kind of defeats the whole purpose.”
“Take the call Ben. I’m going to go freshen up. I’ll meet you outside.”
What’s-her-name grabbed her bag and headed in the direction of the toilets.
That left Ben with Sharon. Sighing in resignation, Ben pressed, “Accept” and put the phone up to his ear. At the same time heading outside so he would be able to hear her.
“Hey.”
Ben hit the stairs.
“Hi. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
Not that it’s any of your business but I’ve trying to get me a leg mona mi.
“I couldn’t hear it.”
“Where are you?”
Outside.
“Karma.”
“Are you busy tomorrow?”
Uh…duh.
“Pretty. Why?”
“I wanted to see you. I need to tell you something. Do you think you can make the time?”
“Maybe…probably not. Why don’t you just tell me now.”
“It’s not the kind of thing you say over the phone, Ben.”
“We’ve been over this Sharon, I have a life. You can’t keep doing this…”
“I’m having your baby Ben.”
Silence. Wheels, cogs and axels turning…
Fuck.
“Are you sure?”
“How can you even ask me that? After everything we’ve been through. After everything I’ve told you. You know I’ve only been with you.”
Ben sucked in some air.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant are you sure about the pregnancy itself. Not the paternity. As in have you seen your doctor and stuff…that’s what I meant.”
This seemed to placate Sharon somewhat.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I went to the doctor’s today. I’m three weeks.”
Ben rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“But Ben before you freak out, you should know that I’m not expecting you to do anything. I released you of any and all responsibility the day I gave you back the ring. I just thought you should know.”
Ben should have felt relief at this but for some odd reason he didn’t. In fact he felt the exact opposite. This was his kid she was talking about.
“She wasn’t expecting him to do anything?”
“Released of any and all responsibility?”
“She just thought he should know?”
Was she fucking shitting him?
Ben took a breath. He didn’t want to say something he might regret.
“This is my kid Sharon. I’m not about to just sit by and do nothing.”
“You left me Ben.”
“But I didn’t leave our baby.”
Silence.
Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was What’s-her-name.
“There you are. I almost thought that you had left me.”
Ben forced a smile.
“Nope. Still here.”
He held up a finger to tell her to give him a minute. She understood and took a few steps back towards the music.
“Listen, I have to go.”
“Your fuck for the night arrive?”
Pause.
Remember to breathe Ben, remember to breathe…
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow Sharon…bye.”
Ben hung up the phone. Walked over to where What’s-her-name was.
“Ready to go?”
Ben nodded.
“More than.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Let’s go.”
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The “N” Word (N-I-double-guh-errrr) As I Clear My Throat
People kept asking me whether I was ok. Patting me on the head, patting me on the shoulder, grabbing at my hand, smoothing down my shirt…people just wouldn’t stop touching me. A little annoying? Heck, try mucho annoying.
Even more annoying though was the fact that I was ok. Sure, my elbows felt a little raw but it was a couple of skinned elbows. I wasn’t about to cry over that. That would be wussy. And if there’s one thing that an increasingly self-conscious twelve-year old boy can’t stand, it’s being called a wussy. Or a wimp. Or, when no teachers are around, a bitch. Those kinds of things followed you. And with junior high just around the corner, the last thing I wanted to be known as was a bitch.
What I didn’t quite understand though, was why everyone was so concerned in the first place. It was just a word. I mean even Mr. Grimm, the assistant principle, came to make sure I was still in one piece. He even went as far as bringing the school councilor, Mr. Binder, along with him.
I was fine. Really.
After a while though, all of their prodding and walking on eggshell cautiousness got me thinking that maybe I shouldn’t be feeling ok. That maybe there was supposed be something wrong with me.
Sitting in Mr. Grimm’s office, the toupee’d principal asked me to tell him what happened one last time.
Knowing there was no getting out of it, I shrugged and did as I was told.
It was recess and we were playing ball. Half court. Three on three. It was me, Chris Kickline and Shawn Rooney against Shawn Nagy, Nigel Balmat and David Budinas.
Budinas had just made an easy lay up making the score 19-17; us. With only a few minutes left before the bell rang.
For some reason the game had drawn a crowd and every time a basket was made, a shot blocked, a ball bricked or an ankle burnt there would be a shout, a cheer, a boo, an “awww” or a holla from the sidelines.
I checked Budinas the ball. He bounced the ball once, twice then made a break for the basket. I Cut him off and made a swipe for the ball. Anticipating the cuff Budinas crossed and my hand hit nothing but air. Before I could recover he crossed again, turned his back to me and passed the ball to Sean Nagy. As soon as the ball left his hands Budinas made a dash for the baseline. The ball reached him before I did.
19-up.
It was “Make it take It.” and so I was graced with the task of checking Budinas the ball again.
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
That was the warning bell. Two minutes. Just enough time for one more play. I was poised and ready for him. He wasn’t going to get past me this time.
Instead of running the play though, Budinas passed the ball to Nigel Balmat and zigzagged his way up the key toward the basket. I was on him like glue.
“Ball!” Budinas shouted holding up one hand. Balmat lobbed it in his direction. I waited until Budinas went up for the lay up before I made my move.
We left the ground at the same time. Raised our arms at the same time. Our bodies brushed and then…
SLAP!
My palm made contact with the ball, sending it flying across the court.
A roar ripped through the crowd. People were going crazy.
Before my feet hit the ground though I felt a beefy hand grab a fistful of my shirt and tug, sending me sprawling onto the asphalt.
The versions as to what David Budinas actually said vary greatly but in every single one of them it is agreed that whatever he did say, it had ended with a loud and resounding,
“Nigger!”
It was at this word that the entire court became silent. No body moved. No body said a word and then,
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
Recess was over.
“Can I go now?”
I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. In trouble or not, being in the Principle’s office made me a little anxious. Plus I was missing English. We were supposed to get our short stories back; I was dying to see what I got.
“I just need to make sure that you’re okay Lloyd. That this little “incident” will stay exactly that, little.”
“I’m fine Principal Grimm.” I held up my elbows, “I’ve got band aids.”
“I just hope you understand that we do not, under any circumstances, condone the use of the N word here. It is deplorable and we will be having a word with Mr. Budinas’ parents.”
“Honestly Mr. Grimm, I don’t care about Budinas. He’s beefcake and a bully. And the “N” word? As my mom puts it, we’re African, not African American. Our Ancestors were not slaves and so that word has no power over us.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been called a nigger Mr. Grimm. And it won’t be the last. You have nothing to worry about. Now can I go?”
Nodding, Mr. Grimm wrote me a note to explain my tardiness and sent me back to class. I found my story face down on my desk. And just in case you were wondering, I got a 95 Percent.
Even more annoying though was the fact that I was ok. Sure, my elbows felt a little raw but it was a couple of skinned elbows. I wasn’t about to cry over that. That would be wussy. And if there’s one thing that an increasingly self-conscious twelve-year old boy can’t stand, it’s being called a wussy. Or a wimp. Or, when no teachers are around, a bitch. Those kinds of things followed you. And with junior high just around the corner, the last thing I wanted to be known as was a bitch.
What I didn’t quite understand though, was why everyone was so concerned in the first place. It was just a word. I mean even Mr. Grimm, the assistant principle, came to make sure I was still in one piece. He even went as far as bringing the school councilor, Mr. Binder, along with him.
I was fine. Really.
After a while though, all of their prodding and walking on eggshell cautiousness got me thinking that maybe I shouldn’t be feeling ok. That maybe there was supposed be something wrong with me.
Sitting in Mr. Grimm’s office, the toupee’d principal asked me to tell him what happened one last time.
Knowing there was no getting out of it, I shrugged and did as I was told.
It was recess and we were playing ball. Half court. Three on three. It was me, Chris Kickline and Shawn Rooney against Shawn Nagy, Nigel Balmat and David Budinas.
Budinas had just made an easy lay up making the score 19-17; us. With only a few minutes left before the bell rang.
For some reason the game had drawn a crowd and every time a basket was made, a shot blocked, a ball bricked or an ankle burnt there would be a shout, a cheer, a boo, an “awww” or a holla from the sidelines.
I checked Budinas the ball. He bounced the ball once, twice then made a break for the basket. I Cut him off and made a swipe for the ball. Anticipating the cuff Budinas crossed and my hand hit nothing but air. Before I could recover he crossed again, turned his back to me and passed the ball to Sean Nagy. As soon as the ball left his hands Budinas made a dash for the baseline. The ball reached him before I did.
19-up.
It was “Make it take It.” and so I was graced with the task of checking Budinas the ball again.
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
That was the warning bell. Two minutes. Just enough time for one more play. I was poised and ready for him. He wasn’t going to get past me this time.
Instead of running the play though, Budinas passed the ball to Nigel Balmat and zigzagged his way up the key toward the basket. I was on him like glue.
“Ball!” Budinas shouted holding up one hand. Balmat lobbed it in his direction. I waited until Budinas went up for the lay up before I made my move.
We left the ground at the same time. Raised our arms at the same time. Our bodies brushed and then…
SLAP!
My palm made contact with the ball, sending it flying across the court.
A roar ripped through the crowd. People were going crazy.
Before my feet hit the ground though I felt a beefy hand grab a fistful of my shirt and tug, sending me sprawling onto the asphalt.
The versions as to what David Budinas actually said vary greatly but in every single one of them it is agreed that whatever he did say, it had ended with a loud and resounding,
“Nigger!”
It was at this word that the entire court became silent. No body moved. No body said a word and then,
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
Recess was over.
“Can I go now?”
I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. In trouble or not, being in the Principle’s office made me a little anxious. Plus I was missing English. We were supposed to get our short stories back; I was dying to see what I got.
“I just need to make sure that you’re okay Lloyd. That this little “incident” will stay exactly that, little.”
“I’m fine Principal Grimm.” I held up my elbows, “I’ve got band aids.”
“I just hope you understand that we do not, under any circumstances, condone the use of the N word here. It is deplorable and we will be having a word with Mr. Budinas’ parents.”
“Honestly Mr. Grimm, I don’t care about Budinas. He’s beefcake and a bully. And the “N” word? As my mom puts it, we’re African, not African American. Our Ancestors were not slaves and so that word has no power over us.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been called a nigger Mr. Grimm. And it won’t be the last. You have nothing to worry about. Now can I go?”
Nodding, Mr. Grimm wrote me a note to explain my tardiness and sent me back to class. I found my story face down on my desk. And just in case you were wondering, I got a 95 Percent.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
PROLOGUE
My feet gave out from underneath me. I crumpled to the floor, the cold linoleum slapping against the backs and sides of my thighs. Shocking and chilling them at the same time.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit. This couldn’t be happening. Could it? How could it? We had been careful. Really careful. So careful that it had bordered on the ridiculous. We had even been laughed at how careful we had been.
The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. The how of it all just didn’t add up. Unless…
Blink…blink…blink…swallow…
There had been that one night, that last night, the night after we had- correction, the night after he had-
Trying to maintain my composure, I held up the pee stick with one hand and the box it had come in with the other. I had to make sure that I wasn’t seeing things. Or misreading things. You can never be too sure with these things; I‘ve heard stories…
I scanned the box; a pink cross meant “positive”, a blue dash meant “negative”. A brief smile flashed across my lips; that actually made a lot of sense…
And then it sunk in: A pink cross meant “positive” and a blue dash meant “negative”…I was staring at a pink cross.
My hands began to shake. So much so that I almost dropped both the box and the test.
But there was still a chance that I wasn’t, right?
Of course there was. There was absolutely no way to be certain until I went to go see my doctor. These tests gave bum results all the time. There was no need to call the Calvary just yet…
But a part of me wasn’t buying it. It was false optimism and I knew it. A part of me knew, actually knew that that pink cross; that big, pink “Fuck You” cross was the real deal. That my life as I knew it was officially and irrevocably over.
Say hello to mother hood Sharon.
“With Arms Wide Open”
A short story
By L.A. Lutara
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit. This couldn’t be happening. Could it? How could it? We had been careful. Really careful. So careful that it had bordered on the ridiculous. We had even been laughed at how careful we had been.
The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. The how of it all just didn’t add up. Unless…
Blink…blink…blink…swallow…
There had been that one night, that last night, the night after we had- correction, the night after he had-
Trying to maintain my composure, I held up the pee stick with one hand and the box it had come in with the other. I had to make sure that I wasn’t seeing things. Or misreading things. You can never be too sure with these things; I‘ve heard stories…
I scanned the box; a pink cross meant “positive”, a blue dash meant “negative”. A brief smile flashed across my lips; that actually made a lot of sense…
And then it sunk in: A pink cross meant “positive” and a blue dash meant “negative”…I was staring at a pink cross.
My hands began to shake. So much so that I almost dropped both the box and the test.
But there was still a chance that I wasn’t, right?
Of course there was. There was absolutely no way to be certain until I went to go see my doctor. These tests gave bum results all the time. There was no need to call the Calvary just yet…
But a part of me wasn’t buying it. It was false optimism and I knew it. A part of me knew, actually knew that that pink cross; that big, pink “Fuck You” cross was the real deal. That my life as I knew it was officially and irrevocably over.
Say hello to mother hood Sharon.
“With Arms Wide Open”
A short story
By L.A. Lutara
Thursday, December 1, 2011
House of Balloons Part IV: BETRICIA (1st Draft)
She picked up after the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
She sounded groggy, like the sound of the phone had woken her up.
“Hi, were you sleeping?”
Patricia muffled a yawn.
“No, just a little tired. Long night and all. You were there.”
“Yeah, I was.” Ben Agreed. For the most part anyway. “Please come and open for me, I’m at the door.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and then-
“Ok, lemme come.”
She hung up.
Ben stuffed his phone into his pocket. Crossed his arms. Tapped his foot. Uncrossed them again. Shoved his hands into his back pockets. Took them out again. Pulled out his phone. Checked the time. Pulled at his ear. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. Scratched his head. Sniffed his fingers. Wiped them on his jeans- too much hair oil. He thought about leaving but it was too late. Patricia was already at the door. Ben heard the key in the lock. One turn, two turns and the door was open. Patricia stepped back to let him in. Ben gave her a hug. Not too long but long enough. Slipped off his shoes as she locked the door behind him. A quick look around the room though and Ben wished that he had left them on.
The door opened up onto the sitting room but it didn’t look like a lot of sitting had been done there.
There were no chairs for starters. And there were bottles everywhere. Club, Nile, Pilsner, Smirnoff, Uganda Waragi, Johnny Walker, Bond 7…if you could drink it, it was probably there. Standing up right, lying on their sides, broken and strewn across the floor…there were empty take away boxes, oil stained paper plates with the scraps of yesterday’s and the day before’s and the day before that’s suppers, lunches and breakfasts. Torn pages from note books and novels and textbooks and instruction manuals. Candy wrappers and electricity bills and dirty t-shirts and broken DVD’s…the room looked like the inside of a dumpster.
Patricia followed Ben’s gaze.
“I had a party.” She said as a way of explanation.
“What? When was this? And how come you didn’t invite me?”
“About a week ago.”
Ben took another look around the room.
“And you haven’t cleaned up yet?”
Ben knew he sounded judgmental but he didn’t really care. Maybe she needed somebody to get all judgmental on her. Maybe it would do her some good.
“Fuck off Ben. I’ll clean up when I’m good and ready.”
But then…maybe not.
Seeing Ben’s expression Patricia laughed.
“Holy shit, you are such a girl! I’m kidding! You know how lazy I am. I’ll get the lady who cleans to come sometime this week.”
Seeing how a week had already passed with no sign of this lady that cleans, Ben found the prospect of her turning up in the following week highly suspect. Not that he told Patricia that.
“You wanna drink?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Ben nodded. “Water would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
She had that secret smile of hers. He didn’t know what she was up to but Ben hoped it didn’t involve an itsy bitsy face towel and her dripping wet body like the last time.
Ben watched as she walked towards the kitchen. Her hips sashaying.
“Make yourself at home.” she threw over her shoulder.
On ginger feet Ben tip-toed to the bedroom, careful not to step on any broken glass and trying his utmost to avoid as many beer sticky spots on the linoleum floor as possible.
The bedroom wasn’t any better than the sitting room. Clothes and rubbish and three day old food thrown anywhere and everywhere. Not to mention the smell. A nasty cocktail of sweat and booze and sex and latex. With just the right amount of rotting food to make your stomach flop around once or twice before settling.
Ben sat down on the unmade bed and waited. Looked around for Patricia’s laptop but couldn’t spot it.
Patricia walked in a moment later, handing Ben a coffee mug, sitting down next to him and sipping from one of her own. The smell got him before the mug got to his lips. He looked over at her.
“What is this?”
“You asked for a drink so I got you a drink.”
Ben shook his head.
“No…you offered me one and I asked for water. It’s like two o’clock Patricia, how can you start drinking at this time?”
“Easy,” Patricia shrugged taking another sip from her mug, “I never stopped.”
Ben sighed. Set his mug down on the ground next to a lavender pair of lace knickers.
“I don’t like you when you drink, Patricia.”
Patricia smirked.
“You’re like the only one. I hear I’m pretty loose when I drink. You should definitely take advantage, other guys do.”
Ben shook his head again.
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
Another sip from her mug. This one long. She then bent over to pick up Ben’s abandoned mug and up ended it into hers.
“I try my best not to. Plausible deniability and all of that. Blame it on the alcohol and all of that.”
“Did you come home with anyone last night?”
That gave her a pause.
Patricia looked down at her mug. Stared into it. Held it with both hands as she would if it had tea or coffee in it and it was a cold, cold night.
“You said you wanted to talk to me Patricia. Talk.”
Patricia didn’t answer. Instead she swirled the drink in her hand, splashing a little onto her interlocked fingers but not really caring.
“Patricia,”
Patricia looked up. There were tears in her eyes. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She didn’t have to say anything though; Ben knew the answer to his question.
She had.
She had come home with someone. Queue slight flutter of the heart. His name was Barry. Twin brother Larry. They were from Glasgow. Though Larry lived in Lisbon and Barry lived in Barstow. They worked with Invisible Children. Well Barry did at least and were down from Gulu for the weekend. Barry was blonde with the kind of eyes that you could get lost in, as the saying goes. Green with specks of gold and brown. He looked like a fucking movie star. And he fucked like one too.
Not that Patricia told Ben any of this. There was no reason why she had to. Like she had bluntly pointed out the night before, Ben wasn’t her boyfriend. Not even close. Nor was he her brother, her cousin or any other person she may be accountable to.
But still, Ben persisted.
“You did, didn’t you?”
Because even though Ben already knew the answer, he wanted to hear her say it. He needed to hear her say it. And he didn’t even know why. Maybe hearing the actual words would make it real. More real in any case. Not merely something imagined.
Sniffling, Patricia detached one hand from the waist of her mug, wiped her eyes with the heel of her free palm and stood up.
“You know what? This was a mistake. I think you should leave.”
Ben scoffed and stood up as well.
“Sure, kick me out as soon as things get a little too real for you.”
Patricia snapped.
“What the fuck do you want from me Ben? What the do you want me to say? That I fucked some guy that I just met? Well guess what, I did. And he was rough too. But that’s ok because someone like me would like it rough. Isn’t it? Even if the condom did break and now I’m scared shitless cos’ I think I might have caught something. Or given him something. Who the fuck knows with the kind of life I lead, right…? Right? Are you happy now?”
Patricia stormed towards the kitchen. She needed another drink. Where did she leave that bottle?
Ben followed her.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And you know what really pisses me off?”
Patricia banged cupboards and drawers and refrigerator and freezer doors…no dice.
“You trying to make me look like the fucked up one yet the truth is you’re just as fucked up as I am.”
Where the fuck was that bottle? She was sure there had been some left. And she had left it right here. Right fucking here.
“Patricia, what are you talking about?”
“I saw you Ben. I fucking saw you. You and that dick riding bitch Sharon. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“We danced and talked and drank Patricia. That’s it. I don’t know what you think you saw but-“
“You LEFT with her.”
“Uh…yeah, because Joey had a car and I didn’t. He gave us a lift.”
“So are you saying you didn’t go home with her?”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. Shit.
“Nothing happened Patricia. It was late and we didn’t want to put Joey through too much trouble. It was easier for her to just sleep over and leave in the morning.”
Although failing to find what she had been looking for, Patricia did manage to find a close second. Two fingers of Gilbey’s at the bottom of a dust coated half stashed behind the gas cooker. It looked like it had been there a while. Not that Patricia cared. Pulling it out, she unscrewed the cap and upended it into her mug.
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
She took a sip.
Ben eyed Patricia precariously.
“Do you really think you need to be drinking that?”
“Fuck off Ben.”
“Why do you have such a hard time trusting people Patricia?”
Another sip.
“Because people always give me reasons not to.”
“Have I?”
“Last night you did.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to try and put last night on me? You’re the one who bailed on us Patricia. You’re the one who went and fucked some guy you just met. Not me. And your words by the way, not mine. And as much as you want to believe the worst of me yet I’ve never given you any reason to, I did not sleep with Sharon.”
Wait. What? Patricia had been certain that Ben had but now…she wasn’t so sure.
“Why should I believe you Ben? We both know she’s a whole lot hotter than me.”
Ben sighed. He was tired. He had a monstrous hangover and he wanted to go home.
“Because I like you Patricia. Do you really not know that…? Though to be quite honest, right now, I kind of wish I didn’t.”
Patricia didn’t say anything. Ben started rubbing his neck again.
“I thought I could do this Patricia, I really did. But you’re right, this…was a mistake. I should leave.”
Ben turned to go.
“Ben…wait.”
Ben stopped.
Setting down her mug Patricia walked up to him. Slipped her hands into his. She believed him. She did. And now that she did she knew that it would be a mistake to let him leave.
“I’m sorry ok…? I fucked up. I’m fucked up. I know that. Can’t we just forget about last night? Forget about this…and start over? Go grab a cup of coffee like a couple of normal people? No booze, no loud music, no late nights…just us?”
Ben had that sad look in his eyes again. That mixture of resignation and regret.
Leaning in he kissed her on the lips. She tasted of booze and morning breath. Of angst and agony.
The kiss was light and sexless. Like he was kissing his sister. After a moment Ben broke it, pulling back.
“No Patricia, we can’t. You made sure of that.”
She held his gaze…
…and let go.
What could she do?
Ben leaned in again and kissed her on the forehead.
Goodbye…
Slipping on his shoes he opened the door.
Patricia watched him, hoping that he would look back. If even just for a second.
He didn’t.
Patricia watched as Ben walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him.
Crumpling to the floor, Patricia burst into tears.
Patricia stayed there like that on the floor for sometime. That sticky, brownish-red once creamish-white dustbin of a floor. Ben’s words replaying in her head again and again. Her own as well. She was fucked up, wasn’t she? Mucho fucked up. And who would want to be with some one like that? Ben sure as hell hadn’t. Well, he had but she had somehow managed to screw that up. Just like she always did. That was her MO. Find something good and screw it up. But something had to give. Something had to change. Right…now. No mucking about.
Patricia had no idea how long she stayed there like that but it felt like hours. It felt like minutes. It felt like a fleeting memory. It felt like she had never known anything else…
But however long it had been (or however short) when she did manage to put her feet underneath her she felt the better for it. She felt lighter. She felt charged. She felt like she had just woken up from a dream that had lasted two life times and she had two life times worth of living to do.
Patricia looked around. What she saw appalled her. It was like she was seeing the room for the very first time. She lived in a pigsty. The realization shocked her. No wonder Ben had been so quick to leave. Any false move and someone ran the risk of either slicing their face open or catching TB. Hell, probably both. And with that, Patricia made a decision.
She started with the bottles. It took a while but after shuttling back and forth between what was supposed to be the sitting room and the kitchen, Patricia managed to fill two crates and one rather hefty Tusky’s bag full of bottles.
Then on came the slippers and out came the broom. Sliced open foot was not something she looked forward to hence the protective gear.
Between the shards of broken bottle, German scripted papers, useless DVD’s, (she managed to save a few foot stamped UMEME bills) Soaked, dried and re-soaked text books and countless other scraps of trash, Patricia managed to fill two more Tusky bags.
Next came the sticky sticky. Blue basin, White Nomi, red rag and a hard half hour of bending, scrubbing and chipped nail polish.
Patricia couldn’t remember the last time she had done so much work. And it oddly felt good. After doing a little filing, some piling and quite a bit of shelving (she hadn’t realized she had quite so many books and DVD’s), Patricia took a step back to examine her handy work. It looked like a different house. At least the living room did anyway. The room looked like it could actually be lived in. All it needed was some chairs. There were those wicker ones with the African print cushions that she had seen some time back…she would have to find out how much those were. Hopefully not too much.
Patricia smiled to herself. There was hope for her yet. Grabbing her towel from the bedroom she headed for the bathroom. The bathroom would definitely have to be next. It was in a state she dared not think about.
After returning from her shower (God bless the man who had invented it) Patricia found the legend “4 missed calls” scrawled across the screen of her phone. Her heart skipped. Maybe it was Ben. Maybe he had a change of heart. If she could get him back here, back to the flat so he could see what she had done, she would be able to change his mind for sure. But it wasn’t Ben. It was a number she didn’t recognize. Patricia had become wary of those but thinking “What the hell.” She decided to call back.
It was Larry. The twin. How had he gotten her number? She had given it to him. Didn’t she remember? Uh, no, but that was ok. What was up? Barry was on his way back to Gulu but he, Larry, was still in town for a couple of days. He was going to grab a drink and needed some company. Was she doing anything?
She shouldn’t. She knew that. She should change into sweats, make herself a cup of coffee and open that Sookie Stackhouse novel she had been telling herself she was going to read for the past three months. That would be the wise thing to do. The sagacious thing to do…
But it was Larry. The twin. How could she pass up on that much beautiful? That would be bordering on the criminal. And what was the big deal anyway? A drink was just a drink, right…?
Right.
Patricia’s eyes scanned her row of hangers. She was already thinking of what to wear. Back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth…got it.
Patricia breathed into the phone.
“Give me half an hour.”
“Hello?”
She sounded groggy, like the sound of the phone had woken her up.
“Hi, were you sleeping?”
Patricia muffled a yawn.
“No, just a little tired. Long night and all. You were there.”
“Yeah, I was.” Ben Agreed. For the most part anyway. “Please come and open for me, I’m at the door.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and then-
“Ok, lemme come.”
She hung up.
Ben stuffed his phone into his pocket. Crossed his arms. Tapped his foot. Uncrossed them again. Shoved his hands into his back pockets. Took them out again. Pulled out his phone. Checked the time. Pulled at his ear. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. Scratched his head. Sniffed his fingers. Wiped them on his jeans- too much hair oil. He thought about leaving but it was too late. Patricia was already at the door. Ben heard the key in the lock. One turn, two turns and the door was open. Patricia stepped back to let him in. Ben gave her a hug. Not too long but long enough. Slipped off his shoes as she locked the door behind him. A quick look around the room though and Ben wished that he had left them on.
The door opened up onto the sitting room but it didn’t look like a lot of sitting had been done there.
There were no chairs for starters. And there were bottles everywhere. Club, Nile, Pilsner, Smirnoff, Uganda Waragi, Johnny Walker, Bond 7…if you could drink it, it was probably there. Standing up right, lying on their sides, broken and strewn across the floor…there were empty take away boxes, oil stained paper plates with the scraps of yesterday’s and the day before’s and the day before that’s suppers, lunches and breakfasts. Torn pages from note books and novels and textbooks and instruction manuals. Candy wrappers and electricity bills and dirty t-shirts and broken DVD’s…the room looked like the inside of a dumpster.
Patricia followed Ben’s gaze.
“I had a party.” She said as a way of explanation.
“What? When was this? And how come you didn’t invite me?”
“About a week ago.”
Ben took another look around the room.
“And you haven’t cleaned up yet?”
Ben knew he sounded judgmental but he didn’t really care. Maybe she needed somebody to get all judgmental on her. Maybe it would do her some good.
“Fuck off Ben. I’ll clean up when I’m good and ready.”
But then…maybe not.
Seeing Ben’s expression Patricia laughed.
“Holy shit, you are such a girl! I’m kidding! You know how lazy I am. I’ll get the lady who cleans to come sometime this week.”
Seeing how a week had already passed with no sign of this lady that cleans, Ben found the prospect of her turning up in the following week highly suspect. Not that he told Patricia that.
“You wanna drink?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Ben nodded. “Water would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
She had that secret smile of hers. He didn’t know what she was up to but Ben hoped it didn’t involve an itsy bitsy face towel and her dripping wet body like the last time.
Ben watched as she walked towards the kitchen. Her hips sashaying.
“Make yourself at home.” she threw over her shoulder.
On ginger feet Ben tip-toed to the bedroom, careful not to step on any broken glass and trying his utmost to avoid as many beer sticky spots on the linoleum floor as possible.
The bedroom wasn’t any better than the sitting room. Clothes and rubbish and three day old food thrown anywhere and everywhere. Not to mention the smell. A nasty cocktail of sweat and booze and sex and latex. With just the right amount of rotting food to make your stomach flop around once or twice before settling.
Ben sat down on the unmade bed and waited. Looked around for Patricia’s laptop but couldn’t spot it.
Patricia walked in a moment later, handing Ben a coffee mug, sitting down next to him and sipping from one of her own. The smell got him before the mug got to his lips. He looked over at her.
“What is this?”
“You asked for a drink so I got you a drink.”
Ben shook his head.
“No…you offered me one and I asked for water. It’s like two o’clock Patricia, how can you start drinking at this time?”
“Easy,” Patricia shrugged taking another sip from her mug, “I never stopped.”
Ben sighed. Set his mug down on the ground next to a lavender pair of lace knickers.
“I don’t like you when you drink, Patricia.”
Patricia smirked.
“You’re like the only one. I hear I’m pretty loose when I drink. You should definitely take advantage, other guys do.”
Ben shook his head again.
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
Another sip from her mug. This one long. She then bent over to pick up Ben’s abandoned mug and up ended it into hers.
“I try my best not to. Plausible deniability and all of that. Blame it on the alcohol and all of that.”
“Did you come home with anyone last night?”
That gave her a pause.
Patricia looked down at her mug. Stared into it. Held it with both hands as she would if it had tea or coffee in it and it was a cold, cold night.
“You said you wanted to talk to me Patricia. Talk.”
Patricia didn’t answer. Instead she swirled the drink in her hand, splashing a little onto her interlocked fingers but not really caring.
“Patricia,”
Patricia looked up. There were tears in her eyes. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She didn’t have to say anything though; Ben knew the answer to his question.
She had.
She had come home with someone. Queue slight flutter of the heart. His name was Barry. Twin brother Larry. They were from Glasgow. Though Larry lived in Lisbon and Barry lived in Barstow. They worked with Invisible Children. Well Barry did at least and were down from Gulu for the weekend. Barry was blonde with the kind of eyes that you could get lost in, as the saying goes. Green with specks of gold and brown. He looked like a fucking movie star. And he fucked like one too.
Not that Patricia told Ben any of this. There was no reason why she had to. Like she had bluntly pointed out the night before, Ben wasn’t her boyfriend. Not even close. Nor was he her brother, her cousin or any other person she may be accountable to.
But still, Ben persisted.
“You did, didn’t you?”
Because even though Ben already knew the answer, he wanted to hear her say it. He needed to hear her say it. And he didn’t even know why. Maybe hearing the actual words would make it real. More real in any case. Not merely something imagined.
Sniffling, Patricia detached one hand from the waist of her mug, wiped her eyes with the heel of her free palm and stood up.
“You know what? This was a mistake. I think you should leave.”
Ben scoffed and stood up as well.
“Sure, kick me out as soon as things get a little too real for you.”
Patricia snapped.
“What the fuck do you want from me Ben? What the do you want me to say? That I fucked some guy that I just met? Well guess what, I did. And he was rough too. But that’s ok because someone like me would like it rough. Isn’t it? Even if the condom did break and now I’m scared shitless cos’ I think I might have caught something. Or given him something. Who the fuck knows with the kind of life I lead, right…? Right? Are you happy now?”
Patricia stormed towards the kitchen. She needed another drink. Where did she leave that bottle?
Ben followed her.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And you know what really pisses me off?”
Patricia banged cupboards and drawers and refrigerator and freezer doors…no dice.
“You trying to make me look like the fucked up one yet the truth is you’re just as fucked up as I am.”
Where the fuck was that bottle? She was sure there had been some left. And she had left it right here. Right fucking here.
“Patricia, what are you talking about?”
“I saw you Ben. I fucking saw you. You and that dick riding bitch Sharon. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“We danced and talked and drank Patricia. That’s it. I don’t know what you think you saw but-“
“You LEFT with her.”
“Uh…yeah, because Joey had a car and I didn’t. He gave us a lift.”
“So are you saying you didn’t go home with her?”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. Shit.
“Nothing happened Patricia. It was late and we didn’t want to put Joey through too much trouble. It was easier for her to just sleep over and leave in the morning.”
Although failing to find what she had been looking for, Patricia did manage to find a close second. Two fingers of Gilbey’s at the bottom of a dust coated half stashed behind the gas cooker. It looked like it had been there a while. Not that Patricia cared. Pulling it out, she unscrewed the cap and upended it into her mug.
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
She took a sip.
Ben eyed Patricia precariously.
“Do you really think you need to be drinking that?”
“Fuck off Ben.”
“Why do you have such a hard time trusting people Patricia?”
Another sip.
“Because people always give me reasons not to.”
“Have I?”
“Last night you did.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to try and put last night on me? You’re the one who bailed on us Patricia. You’re the one who went and fucked some guy you just met. Not me. And your words by the way, not mine. And as much as you want to believe the worst of me yet I’ve never given you any reason to, I did not sleep with Sharon.”
Wait. What? Patricia had been certain that Ben had but now…she wasn’t so sure.
“Why should I believe you Ben? We both know she’s a whole lot hotter than me.”
Ben sighed. He was tired. He had a monstrous hangover and he wanted to go home.
“Because I like you Patricia. Do you really not know that…? Though to be quite honest, right now, I kind of wish I didn’t.”
Patricia didn’t say anything. Ben started rubbing his neck again.
“I thought I could do this Patricia, I really did. But you’re right, this…was a mistake. I should leave.”
Ben turned to go.
“Ben…wait.”
Ben stopped.
Setting down her mug Patricia walked up to him. Slipped her hands into his. She believed him. She did. And now that she did she knew that it would be a mistake to let him leave.
“I’m sorry ok…? I fucked up. I’m fucked up. I know that. Can’t we just forget about last night? Forget about this…and start over? Go grab a cup of coffee like a couple of normal people? No booze, no loud music, no late nights…just us?”
Ben had that sad look in his eyes again. That mixture of resignation and regret.
Leaning in he kissed her on the lips. She tasted of booze and morning breath. Of angst and agony.
The kiss was light and sexless. Like he was kissing his sister. After a moment Ben broke it, pulling back.
“No Patricia, we can’t. You made sure of that.”
She held his gaze…
…and let go.
What could she do?
Ben leaned in again and kissed her on the forehead.
Goodbye…
Slipping on his shoes he opened the door.
Patricia watched him, hoping that he would look back. If even just for a second.
He didn’t.
Patricia watched as Ben walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him.
Crumpling to the floor, Patricia burst into tears.
Patricia stayed there like that on the floor for sometime. That sticky, brownish-red once creamish-white dustbin of a floor. Ben’s words replaying in her head again and again. Her own as well. She was fucked up, wasn’t she? Mucho fucked up. And who would want to be with some one like that? Ben sure as hell hadn’t. Well, he had but she had somehow managed to screw that up. Just like she always did. That was her MO. Find something good and screw it up. But something had to give. Something had to change. Right…now. No mucking about.
Patricia had no idea how long she stayed there like that but it felt like hours. It felt like minutes. It felt like a fleeting memory. It felt like she had never known anything else…
But however long it had been (or however short) when she did manage to put her feet underneath her she felt the better for it. She felt lighter. She felt charged. She felt like she had just woken up from a dream that had lasted two life times and she had two life times worth of living to do.
Patricia looked around. What she saw appalled her. It was like she was seeing the room for the very first time. She lived in a pigsty. The realization shocked her. No wonder Ben had been so quick to leave. Any false move and someone ran the risk of either slicing their face open or catching TB. Hell, probably both. And with that, Patricia made a decision.
She started with the bottles. It took a while but after shuttling back and forth between what was supposed to be the sitting room and the kitchen, Patricia managed to fill two crates and one rather hefty Tusky’s bag full of bottles.
Then on came the slippers and out came the broom. Sliced open foot was not something she looked forward to hence the protective gear.
Between the shards of broken bottle, German scripted papers, useless DVD’s, (she managed to save a few foot stamped UMEME bills) Soaked, dried and re-soaked text books and countless other scraps of trash, Patricia managed to fill two more Tusky bags.
Next came the sticky sticky. Blue basin, White Nomi, red rag and a hard half hour of bending, scrubbing and chipped nail polish.
Patricia couldn’t remember the last time she had done so much work. And it oddly felt good. After doing a little filing, some piling and quite a bit of shelving (she hadn’t realized she had quite so many books and DVD’s), Patricia took a step back to examine her handy work. It looked like a different house. At least the living room did anyway. The room looked like it could actually be lived in. All it needed was some chairs. There were those wicker ones with the African print cushions that she had seen some time back…she would have to find out how much those were. Hopefully not too much.
Patricia smiled to herself. There was hope for her yet. Grabbing her towel from the bedroom she headed for the bathroom. The bathroom would definitely have to be next. It was in a state she dared not think about.
After returning from her shower (God bless the man who had invented it) Patricia found the legend “4 missed calls” scrawled across the screen of her phone. Her heart skipped. Maybe it was Ben. Maybe he had a change of heart. If she could get him back here, back to the flat so he could see what she had done, she would be able to change his mind for sure. But it wasn’t Ben. It was a number she didn’t recognize. Patricia had become wary of those but thinking “What the hell.” She decided to call back.
It was Larry. The twin. How had he gotten her number? She had given it to him. Didn’t she remember? Uh, no, but that was ok. What was up? Barry was on his way back to Gulu but he, Larry, was still in town for a couple of days. He was going to grab a drink and needed some company. Was she doing anything?
She shouldn’t. She knew that. She should change into sweats, make herself a cup of coffee and open that Sookie Stackhouse novel she had been telling herself she was going to read for the past three months. That would be the wise thing to do. The sagacious thing to do…
But it was Larry. The twin. How could she pass up on that much beautiful? That would be bordering on the criminal. And what was the big deal anyway? A drink was just a drink, right…?
Right.
Patricia’s eyes scanned her row of hangers. She was already thinking of what to wear. Back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth…got it.
Patricia breathed into the phone.
“Give me half an hour.”
Thursday, November 24, 2011
House of Balloons Part III: BEN (1st draft)
My throat felt raw. My stomach hollow. My legs, like Jell-O. The room wasn’t spinning but it did kind of feel as if it was at an angle.
Tearing off a few squares of tissue paper, the cheap green kind that I had told Pete not to buy but which he had gone ahead and bought anyway, I wiped my chin and my nose. Threw the soiled paper into the toilet and flushed. I watched as the small green ball swirled around the toilet bowel with the yellowish brown chunky soup looking barf and disappeared.
Placing my palm flat against the wall, I used it to steady myself. Took a second to regain my composure. Deep breaths, Ben. Deep breaths.
It took a minute but the room finally stopped bobbing up and down like a swimming pool floater long enough for me to walk back to the bedroom.
She was sitting up in bed when I got there. She was wearing one of my t-shirts. The black “I’m So UG” one. She had already claimed it as a souvenir. Damned if I was going to let her take it though. Even if she did say that to get it back I would have to undress her myself.
She was poking at my laptop. The Weeknd coming out of its most of the time adequate speakers. As much as it hurt my face to smile I still some how managed to. She liked The Weeknd.
“Well some one drank way too much last night.” She said looking up from the laptop.
“Maybe just a little bit.” I croaked holding up my thumb and index finger, about an inch of space between them.
“Awwww, does someone need a hug?”
Man did she have that sarcasm shit down pat.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. Aimed my gaze in her direction.
“Would you?”
She pointed at the door.
“Shower’s that way. Take one and maybe we’ll talk about.”
“Will you be joining me?”
She tossed my phone into my lap.
“Patricia tried calling you.”
Now that caught me off guard.
“Did you answer it?”
She scoffed.
“What am I, an idiot? No. I think you should call her back though; 6 missed calls.”
6 missed calls? She must really have something to say. After last night though, I’m not sure I wanted to hear what she did have to say. As angry as I was though, I had to call her. I just had to. I picked up the phone.
“Ben?”
I looked over at Sharon. Waited.
“Are you going to tell her?”
I opened up my “Outgoing Calls”. Patricia’s was the last number dialed. I shrugged.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Pressing the “call” button I put the phone up to my ear.
A lot of people call me a shutterbug. On account of the fact that I take pictures of just about everything. It doesn’t really matter of what or of who or of where; somehow I still manage to get the lens to scratch below the surface and unearth something that one might not normally see with the naked eye. Or so I've been told. A little pretentious sounding isn’t it? Though to be quite honest, (and there is not a scrap of arrogance attached to this statement) there is a bearing of truth to that statement.
To me, a picture is not just a picture but a story. And above all, above everything else, I love to tell stories. And since life is just a series of pictures strung together, thousands upon thousands of stories, who am I not to carry a camera around trying to capture as much of it as I can? And who are you Mr. Bouncer Sir to try and deny me that? Huh? Can you answer me that?
I didn’t say any of this to the bouncer, of course. The six foot four, built like a wrestler, bald headed, badass looking, “I eat shit like you for breakfast” muthafucker of a bouncer. Instead I genially lifted the strap over my head and handed the bouncer my camera. After patting me down, finding my wallet and my two years past expiration date phone, the bouncer told me to come and pick my camera when I was leaving.
Welcome to Karma.
What sound does a camera phone make when it’s taking a picture? Don’t know? Well, whatever it is, that’s the sound that Sharon’s phone made as it took our picture. We had finally established (albeit with a whole lot of convincing on my part) that there was nothing going on between me and Patricia and had quickly moved to getting on with our night without her. I mean, if Patricia wasn’t going to give me the time of day (or in this case night), why should I give her any? And the way I saw it, Patricia had already taken enough advantage of me for one night as it was. Granted, I had let her but that didn’t diminish from the fact that she had.
We were still sitted at our spot by the door. Sharon halfway in my lap. Six empty shot glasses on the table in front of us. Our lips centimeters apart. Our conversation playful, even a little flirtatious. Sharon had that look in her eyes. Like she wanted me to kiss her. And God knows I wanted to. But not here. Not now. Not when Patricia could see us. I had managed to convince Sharon that there was nothing going on between Patricia and I (even if just barely) but I’m just not sure whether I had quite managed to convince myself of that.
I sat back. Put some distance between Sharon’s lips and mine. If Sharon read into this any, she didn’t let on but kept on talking. I’m not even sure what she was talking about. Something about orangutans and cheeseburgers. Don’t ask me what the connection was because I have no friggin’ idea.
“Wanna get out of here?”
“Huh?”
“I said do you wanna get out of here?”
I gave Sharon a look.
She laughed.
“Not like that. It’s getting late and you seem to be the get-all-broody kind of drunk. Let’s get you home.”
I smiled. Or at least tried to. She was probably right. I let her know as much.
“Where’s Patricia?”
Sharon shook her head.
“No idea. Though I did see her go outside a little while ago. Let’s go out and I’ll try calling her from there. Joey is over there. Lemme go get him.”
Getting up, Sharon walked over to where Joey was, still cornered by that Barbra chick, although never too far from her DJ boyfriend’s watchful eye.
A minute later Sharon returned with Joey and we headed down stairs.
The scene that met us was an explosive one if there ever was one.
Patricia was outside all right. Surrounded by eight maybe nine boda boda riders tugging and pulling at her. Pointing fingers, faces contorted in anger, voices raised…they were quickly developing into a mob. And she was pointing and cursing right back at them.
Pushing my way through them and getting to Patricia; I hugged her against me and pushing away hands demanded to know what was going on.
She owed them money. All of them? No, three of them. Then why were they all as if they were going to beat her? She was abusing them, denying that she owed them anything.
Patricia pushed against my grip towards the pack of ravenous ruffians.
“Fucking ass holes! I paid you your money; I paid you your money! Why are you trying to cheat me? Ass holes! Fuck you!”
She spat.
I struggled to keep a hold of her because I knew that if I let her go, that would be it.
“Boss, you see? These people just want their money and she’s abusing them for no reason.”
I shook Patricia to get her attention.
“Patricia, shut...the fuck…up! You’re only making things worse.”
She calmed down, if only somewhat.
I turned to the boda boda rider who had positioned himself as their unofficial spokesman.
“How much are they demanding?”
“Twenty K. Ten to him, five to him and five to him.”
He pointed to each of them.
Ignoring Patricia’s protests I pulled out my wallet, took out a twenty thousand shilling note and handed it over. As soon as the money exchanged hands the crowd began to thin. And within a minute Patricia, Joey, Sharon and I were alone.
I let out a relieved sigh, that was close.
Patricia freed herself from my grip.
“You shouldn’t have paid them. They’re just a bunch of idiots trying to fucking cheat me out of a few shillings. And you let them.”
She sounded disgusted with me.
“He was trying to help.” Sharon said, stepping in to defend me. “And he did. You should be thanking him.”
“Thanking him my ass. What he did was stupid.”
She’s drunk, I told myself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.
I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Let’s just get out of here, okay? It’s been a long night.”
I reached for Patricia’s hand. She snatched it away.
“I’m not going anywhere except back inside for another drink.”
I reached for her hand again; this time got it.
“Patricia…let’s go home.”
She looked down at my hand gripping hers and then up at me.
“You’re not my boyfriend Ben. Let go of me.”
I held her gaze…
…And let go.
What could I do?
Smoothing down her dress and finger combing her hair while muttering under her breath, Patricia walked back into the bar.
I watched her go, hoping that she would look back. If even just for a second.
She didn’t.
Sharon placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on Ben, let’s go. Like you said, ‘It’s been a long night’.”
Tearing off a few squares of tissue paper, the cheap green kind that I had told Pete not to buy but which he had gone ahead and bought anyway, I wiped my chin and my nose. Threw the soiled paper into the toilet and flushed. I watched as the small green ball swirled around the toilet bowel with the yellowish brown chunky soup looking barf and disappeared.
Placing my palm flat against the wall, I used it to steady myself. Took a second to regain my composure. Deep breaths, Ben. Deep breaths.
It took a minute but the room finally stopped bobbing up and down like a swimming pool floater long enough for me to walk back to the bedroom.
She was sitting up in bed when I got there. She was wearing one of my t-shirts. The black “I’m So UG” one. She had already claimed it as a souvenir. Damned if I was going to let her take it though. Even if she did say that to get it back I would have to undress her myself.
She was poking at my laptop. The Weeknd coming out of its most of the time adequate speakers. As much as it hurt my face to smile I still some how managed to. She liked The Weeknd.
“Well some one drank way too much last night.” She said looking up from the laptop.
“Maybe just a little bit.” I croaked holding up my thumb and index finger, about an inch of space between them.
“Awwww, does someone need a hug?”
Man did she have that sarcasm shit down pat.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. Aimed my gaze in her direction.
“Would you?”
She pointed at the door.
“Shower’s that way. Take one and maybe we’ll talk about.”
“Will you be joining me?”
She tossed my phone into my lap.
“Patricia tried calling you.”
Now that caught me off guard.
“Did you answer it?”
She scoffed.
“What am I, an idiot? No. I think you should call her back though; 6 missed calls.”
6 missed calls? She must really have something to say. After last night though, I’m not sure I wanted to hear what she did have to say. As angry as I was though, I had to call her. I just had to. I picked up the phone.
“Ben?”
I looked over at Sharon. Waited.
“Are you going to tell her?”
I opened up my “Outgoing Calls”. Patricia’s was the last number dialed. I shrugged.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Pressing the “call” button I put the phone up to my ear.
A lot of people call me a shutterbug. On account of the fact that I take pictures of just about everything. It doesn’t really matter of what or of who or of where; somehow I still manage to get the lens to scratch below the surface and unearth something that one might not normally see with the naked eye. Or so I've been told. A little pretentious sounding isn’t it? Though to be quite honest, (and there is not a scrap of arrogance attached to this statement) there is a bearing of truth to that statement.
To me, a picture is not just a picture but a story. And above all, above everything else, I love to tell stories. And since life is just a series of pictures strung together, thousands upon thousands of stories, who am I not to carry a camera around trying to capture as much of it as I can? And who are you Mr. Bouncer Sir to try and deny me that? Huh? Can you answer me that?
I didn’t say any of this to the bouncer, of course. The six foot four, built like a wrestler, bald headed, badass looking, “I eat shit like you for breakfast” muthafucker of a bouncer. Instead I genially lifted the strap over my head and handed the bouncer my camera. After patting me down, finding my wallet and my two years past expiration date phone, the bouncer told me to come and pick my camera when I was leaving.
Welcome to Karma.
What sound does a camera phone make when it’s taking a picture? Don’t know? Well, whatever it is, that’s the sound that Sharon’s phone made as it took our picture. We had finally established (albeit with a whole lot of convincing on my part) that there was nothing going on between me and Patricia and had quickly moved to getting on with our night without her. I mean, if Patricia wasn’t going to give me the time of day (or in this case night), why should I give her any? And the way I saw it, Patricia had already taken enough advantage of me for one night as it was. Granted, I had let her but that didn’t diminish from the fact that she had.
We were still sitted at our spot by the door. Sharon halfway in my lap. Six empty shot glasses on the table in front of us. Our lips centimeters apart. Our conversation playful, even a little flirtatious. Sharon had that look in her eyes. Like she wanted me to kiss her. And God knows I wanted to. But not here. Not now. Not when Patricia could see us. I had managed to convince Sharon that there was nothing going on between Patricia and I (even if just barely) but I’m just not sure whether I had quite managed to convince myself of that.
I sat back. Put some distance between Sharon’s lips and mine. If Sharon read into this any, she didn’t let on but kept on talking. I’m not even sure what she was talking about. Something about orangutans and cheeseburgers. Don’t ask me what the connection was because I have no friggin’ idea.
“Wanna get out of here?”
“Huh?”
“I said do you wanna get out of here?”
I gave Sharon a look.
She laughed.
“Not like that. It’s getting late and you seem to be the get-all-broody kind of drunk. Let’s get you home.”
I smiled. Or at least tried to. She was probably right. I let her know as much.
“Where’s Patricia?”
Sharon shook her head.
“No idea. Though I did see her go outside a little while ago. Let’s go out and I’ll try calling her from there. Joey is over there. Lemme go get him.”
Getting up, Sharon walked over to where Joey was, still cornered by that Barbra chick, although never too far from her DJ boyfriend’s watchful eye.
A minute later Sharon returned with Joey and we headed down stairs.
The scene that met us was an explosive one if there ever was one.
Patricia was outside all right. Surrounded by eight maybe nine boda boda riders tugging and pulling at her. Pointing fingers, faces contorted in anger, voices raised…they were quickly developing into a mob. And she was pointing and cursing right back at them.
Pushing my way through them and getting to Patricia; I hugged her against me and pushing away hands demanded to know what was going on.
She owed them money. All of them? No, three of them. Then why were they all as if they were going to beat her? She was abusing them, denying that she owed them anything.
Patricia pushed against my grip towards the pack of ravenous ruffians.
“Fucking ass holes! I paid you your money; I paid you your money! Why are you trying to cheat me? Ass holes! Fuck you!”
She spat.
I struggled to keep a hold of her because I knew that if I let her go, that would be it.
“Boss, you see? These people just want their money and she’s abusing them for no reason.”
I shook Patricia to get her attention.
“Patricia, shut...the fuck…up! You’re only making things worse.”
She calmed down, if only somewhat.
I turned to the boda boda rider who had positioned himself as their unofficial spokesman.
“How much are they demanding?”
“Twenty K. Ten to him, five to him and five to him.”
He pointed to each of them.
Ignoring Patricia’s protests I pulled out my wallet, took out a twenty thousand shilling note and handed it over. As soon as the money exchanged hands the crowd began to thin. And within a minute Patricia, Joey, Sharon and I were alone.
I let out a relieved sigh, that was close.
Patricia freed herself from my grip.
“You shouldn’t have paid them. They’re just a bunch of idiots trying to fucking cheat me out of a few shillings. And you let them.”
She sounded disgusted with me.
“He was trying to help.” Sharon said, stepping in to defend me. “And he did. You should be thanking him.”
“Thanking him my ass. What he did was stupid.”
She’s drunk, I told myself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.
I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Let’s just get out of here, okay? It’s been a long night.”
I reached for Patricia’s hand. She snatched it away.
“I’m not going anywhere except back inside for another drink.”
I reached for her hand again; this time got it.
“Patricia…let’s go home.”
She looked down at my hand gripping hers and then up at me.
“You’re not my boyfriend Ben. Let go of me.”
I held her gaze…
…And let go.
What could I do?
Smoothing down her dress and finger combing her hair while muttering under her breath, Patricia walked back into the bar.
I watched her go, hoping that she would look back. If even just for a second.
She didn’t.
Sharon placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on Ben, let’s go. Like you said, ‘It’s been a long night’.”
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
House of Balloons Part II (1st Draft)
Part II
Sharon
Patricia wouldn’t stop going on about him. It was always Ben this and Ben that. Ben said this and Ben did that. And oh yeah, did I tell you how when I met him he had dreadlocks? He looks good now but you should have seen him then. Sure, I was with Stefan at the time and so I couldn’t do anything but now…who knows? She gushed about him so much that when I finally did meet him I was more than a little disappointed. I mean he was cool and all but he wasn’t all that. And sure I could see why she might want to bed him, empty pockets and all, but still, like really?
I met them outside of the entrance of Karma. You know, that bar in Kisimenti that for some reason or another is one of the prime spots in the city for those people who have more of a taste for how should I put it…white meat. Present company excluded of course. I like my meat dark and tough. So why do I go there then? Well, partly because of the music but mostly because it’s close to home. That’s what I tell people anyway.
Patricia and Ben had just come from Dashiki’s art exhibition. Well not just; according to Patricia they had gone out for Ethiopian after the less than stellar exhibition. God knows she sure as hell wasn’t wasting any time in milking the guy for all the thousands of shillings he had.
Initially, I had wanted to go with them, for the exhibition that is, not the Ethiopian (yuck!) but unlike some people (I won’t mention any names), I actually have to work for a living. And so Patricia and I agreed to link up afterwards. Have a night out. Invite a couple of boys along for company as well. But knowing Patricia, the boy she started the night with (i.e. Ben) would not be the same boy she ended it with (random white guy).
I looked Ben over. He was obviously into her. When he looked at her, he had that look in his eyes. You know, the look guys get when they think that maybe, just maybe this was a girl that they could love. Boy was he in for a surprise. And to be quite honest, I kind of felt a little sorry for him. He had no idea what he was in for.
Seeing as Patricia had meant for this to be a double date kind of thingy I invited Joey to keep me company. God knows how much I hate third wheel status. Although truth be told, that wasn’t the only reason why I called him but I’ll get to that later.
Joey is an old friend. And unlike Patricia, when I say “An old friend” I mean exactly that. No lips or tongues or fingers in private places. Joey and I had gone to Uni together. Had been course mates. He was one of the first friends I made after I moved back from Malawi.
After school Joey had gone the bankers route while I had gone rogue and gone the Self employed private consulters route. Something, I have since been made to understand, most people don’t do until they are well, well into their careers. But then, I was number 3 in my class while Joey had been some where between mediocre and “Did he even really graduate?” Thing is, I was naturally already ahead of the curve; I could afford to skip a few steps. And so Joey was still wearing the shirt and tie of the corporate slave when he came to meet me. Or us. Or whatever.
Neither of them knew that I knew but Patricia and Joey had slept together not too long before. This little reunion was my own delicious little way of finding out how guilty they would act around me. If at all.
Their greetings were marked with uncertain words and hesitant handshakes. I almost laughed. This was going to be one interesting night, I remarked to myself.
Trying to cover up her, what I took to be, discomfort as much as possible, Patricia introduced me to Ben. I could feel her eyes on me as she watched for my reaction. She wanted me to be impressed. I, however, wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. I smiled, wanly, and held out my hand. Ben, taking it said something about it being really nice to meet me. No surprises there. Even after he let go of my hand I could still feel him giving me the twice over with his eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he liked what he saw. I know his eyes must have lingered around my pierced navel, juss like every other guy’s did. Knowing myself, I stopped my line of thinking before it went too far…
Boy, was this going to be an interesting night.
***
Three drinks in and I was finally starting to warm up to him. His was the kind of cool that grew on you. That pulled you in slowly. Without you even realizing it.
Patricia had done what she usually does when she drinks and had more or less bailed on us. Leaving me alone with Ben. Joey was around somewhere but he had his own issues. Some chick named Barbra who just wouldn’t leave him alone. Which could have caused problems considering how her boyfriend was the DJ that night. Thank God it didn’t. I guess he (the DJ boyfriend) knew how she is and had resigned himself to just making sure she didn’t leave with anyone.
Sometimes, I wonder why people put up with so much bullshit. I mean, she’s obviously not that into you dude, why put yourself through all that aggravation? And by “dude” I’m not only referring to the DJ boyfriend but also to Ben. Who, even though it was pretty clear that Patricia was up to her own shit, kept on following her around the bar trying to get her attention. She blew him off every single time. Which, personally, I found kind of messed up. Considering how much she had been going on about him and stuff. But then the thing is, she’s like that. Fickle. Capricious. Especially when she had some liquor in her. Which from what I knew was like most of the time anyway. But then according to Patricia, Ben had known her for as long as, if not longer, than I have. Meaning he knew all of that. Why he stuck around was beyond me. He could have gotten almost any girl he wanted, why Patricia?
I watched as Ben, shoulders slumped; glass in hand, walked back towards me and the table we had commandeered. Before he could say anything, however, I took the glass from his hand, empty if I remember properly, put it on the table and then taking Ben’s hand in mine told him to come and dance with me.
I don’t remember what song was playing but I do remember that it was one that we could dance to. The floor was teeming with moving bodies. Some on beat but many were not. Mostly couples. The funniest to watch were the interracials. The black girl winding with the white guy looking like he was having a mild seizure, arms shaking, feet skittering all over the floor looking like they were about to shoot out from underneath him.
It was Ben who pointed them out, though he made it a point not to point. I knew the girl. Her name was Chantal. Well, not really. Really it was Santa. But then you can’t really have a name like Santa when you’re trying to hook a white guy…you just wouldn’t hear the end of it. And so she had gone with Chantal. I knew the guy too. His name was Devon. From Massachusetts. Med student specializing in tropical diseases. The way he was ploughing through them I wouldn’t be surprised if he had caught a few. He had been with Patricia like the weekend before.
We had fun. Ben and I. I don’t know whether if it was the alcohol or whether he actually enjoyed my company but somehow I managed to get him to stop thinking about Patricia. To stop talking about her as well. And well, just dance. As for Patricia? She was dancing too. And drinking. Every time I got a glimpse of her she had a different bottle in her hand. And a different guy pulling her by the other. If it bothered Ben he sure as hell didn’t let it show. He seemed to be completely focused on me. And to be honest, it didn’t feel half bad. I was starting to get why Patricia claimed to be so enamored with him.
After getting another round of drinks Ben and I found somewhere to sit. A cushioned sofa that had it been in the right corner would have been perfect for making out on but seeing as it wasn’t (in the right corner that is) it was perfect for getting to know each other. And so we talked. A lot. Me more about myself than he about him. It was actually kind of refreshing. Having a guy not trying to paw me up but who seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I told him about where I was from, where I had grown up, why I had grown up there, where I worked, how I knew Patricia…he let me talk until it seemed like my tongue dried up and rolled into the back of my head.
“Can I ask you something?”
That was me. I had told Ben so much and yet I still knew next to nothing about him. Not that my question was particularly illuminating. I was just a little curious. Well, maybe a lot curious.
Ben told me to go ahead, “What’s up?”
I took a sip of my drink. Smirnoff Red Ice. Black was way too strong for my blood. Especially in the heels I was wearing. Placed the bottle back down on the table in front of us.
“What’s up with you and Patricia?”
Ben gave me a look that said, did you really have to go there…? We were having such a good time too.
Instead of answering though, Ben pointed. Yes, actually pointed. I followed his hand. Patricia was winding on top of one of one of the big bass speakers. Where the paid go-go dancers often danced. I watched as some random guy climbed up on top of the speaker and started grinding her from the back.
Ben looked from me to Patricia then back to me…
“What do you think?”
Sharon
Patricia wouldn’t stop going on about him. It was always Ben this and Ben that. Ben said this and Ben did that. And oh yeah, did I tell you how when I met him he had dreadlocks? He looks good now but you should have seen him then. Sure, I was with Stefan at the time and so I couldn’t do anything but now…who knows? She gushed about him so much that when I finally did meet him I was more than a little disappointed. I mean he was cool and all but he wasn’t all that. And sure I could see why she might want to bed him, empty pockets and all, but still, like really?
I met them outside of the entrance of Karma. You know, that bar in Kisimenti that for some reason or another is one of the prime spots in the city for those people who have more of a taste for how should I put it…white meat. Present company excluded of course. I like my meat dark and tough. So why do I go there then? Well, partly because of the music but mostly because it’s close to home. That’s what I tell people anyway.
Patricia and Ben had just come from Dashiki’s art exhibition. Well not just; according to Patricia they had gone out for Ethiopian after the less than stellar exhibition. God knows she sure as hell wasn’t wasting any time in milking the guy for all the thousands of shillings he had.
Initially, I had wanted to go with them, for the exhibition that is, not the Ethiopian (yuck!) but unlike some people (I won’t mention any names), I actually have to work for a living. And so Patricia and I agreed to link up afterwards. Have a night out. Invite a couple of boys along for company as well. But knowing Patricia, the boy she started the night with (i.e. Ben) would not be the same boy she ended it with (random white guy).
I looked Ben over. He was obviously into her. When he looked at her, he had that look in his eyes. You know, the look guys get when they think that maybe, just maybe this was a girl that they could love. Boy was he in for a surprise. And to be quite honest, I kind of felt a little sorry for him. He had no idea what he was in for.
Seeing as Patricia had meant for this to be a double date kind of thingy I invited Joey to keep me company. God knows how much I hate third wheel status. Although truth be told, that wasn’t the only reason why I called him but I’ll get to that later.
Joey is an old friend. And unlike Patricia, when I say “An old friend” I mean exactly that. No lips or tongues or fingers in private places. Joey and I had gone to Uni together. Had been course mates. He was one of the first friends I made after I moved back from Malawi.
After school Joey had gone the bankers route while I had gone rogue and gone the Self employed private consulters route. Something, I have since been made to understand, most people don’t do until they are well, well into their careers. But then, I was number 3 in my class while Joey had been some where between mediocre and “Did he even really graduate?” Thing is, I was naturally already ahead of the curve; I could afford to skip a few steps. And so Joey was still wearing the shirt and tie of the corporate slave when he came to meet me. Or us. Or whatever.
Neither of them knew that I knew but Patricia and Joey had slept together not too long before. This little reunion was my own delicious little way of finding out how guilty they would act around me. If at all.
Their greetings were marked with uncertain words and hesitant handshakes. I almost laughed. This was going to be one interesting night, I remarked to myself.
Trying to cover up her, what I took to be, discomfort as much as possible, Patricia introduced me to Ben. I could feel her eyes on me as she watched for my reaction. She wanted me to be impressed. I, however, wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. I smiled, wanly, and held out my hand. Ben, taking it said something about it being really nice to meet me. No surprises there. Even after he let go of my hand I could still feel him giving me the twice over with his eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he liked what he saw. I know his eyes must have lingered around my pierced navel, juss like every other guy’s did. Knowing myself, I stopped my line of thinking before it went too far…
Boy, was this going to be an interesting night.
***
Three drinks in and I was finally starting to warm up to him. His was the kind of cool that grew on you. That pulled you in slowly. Without you even realizing it.
Patricia had done what she usually does when she drinks and had more or less bailed on us. Leaving me alone with Ben. Joey was around somewhere but he had his own issues. Some chick named Barbra who just wouldn’t leave him alone. Which could have caused problems considering how her boyfriend was the DJ that night. Thank God it didn’t. I guess he (the DJ boyfriend) knew how she is and had resigned himself to just making sure she didn’t leave with anyone.
Sometimes, I wonder why people put up with so much bullshit. I mean, she’s obviously not that into you dude, why put yourself through all that aggravation? And by “dude” I’m not only referring to the DJ boyfriend but also to Ben. Who, even though it was pretty clear that Patricia was up to her own shit, kept on following her around the bar trying to get her attention. She blew him off every single time. Which, personally, I found kind of messed up. Considering how much she had been going on about him and stuff. But then the thing is, she’s like that. Fickle. Capricious. Especially when she had some liquor in her. Which from what I knew was like most of the time anyway. But then according to Patricia, Ben had known her for as long as, if not longer, than I have. Meaning he knew all of that. Why he stuck around was beyond me. He could have gotten almost any girl he wanted, why Patricia?
I watched as Ben, shoulders slumped; glass in hand, walked back towards me and the table we had commandeered. Before he could say anything, however, I took the glass from his hand, empty if I remember properly, put it on the table and then taking Ben’s hand in mine told him to come and dance with me.
I don’t remember what song was playing but I do remember that it was one that we could dance to. The floor was teeming with moving bodies. Some on beat but many were not. Mostly couples. The funniest to watch were the interracials. The black girl winding with the white guy looking like he was having a mild seizure, arms shaking, feet skittering all over the floor looking like they were about to shoot out from underneath him.
It was Ben who pointed them out, though he made it a point not to point. I knew the girl. Her name was Chantal. Well, not really. Really it was Santa. But then you can’t really have a name like Santa when you’re trying to hook a white guy…you just wouldn’t hear the end of it. And so she had gone with Chantal. I knew the guy too. His name was Devon. From Massachusetts. Med student specializing in tropical diseases. The way he was ploughing through them I wouldn’t be surprised if he had caught a few. He had been with Patricia like the weekend before.
We had fun. Ben and I. I don’t know whether if it was the alcohol or whether he actually enjoyed my company but somehow I managed to get him to stop thinking about Patricia. To stop talking about her as well. And well, just dance. As for Patricia? She was dancing too. And drinking. Every time I got a glimpse of her she had a different bottle in her hand. And a different guy pulling her by the other. If it bothered Ben he sure as hell didn’t let it show. He seemed to be completely focused on me. And to be honest, it didn’t feel half bad. I was starting to get why Patricia claimed to be so enamored with him.
After getting another round of drinks Ben and I found somewhere to sit. A cushioned sofa that had it been in the right corner would have been perfect for making out on but seeing as it wasn’t (in the right corner that is) it was perfect for getting to know each other. And so we talked. A lot. Me more about myself than he about him. It was actually kind of refreshing. Having a guy not trying to paw me up but who seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I told him about where I was from, where I had grown up, why I had grown up there, where I worked, how I knew Patricia…he let me talk until it seemed like my tongue dried up and rolled into the back of my head.
“Can I ask you something?”
That was me. I had told Ben so much and yet I still knew next to nothing about him. Not that my question was particularly illuminating. I was just a little curious. Well, maybe a lot curious.
Ben told me to go ahead, “What’s up?”
I took a sip of my drink. Smirnoff Red Ice. Black was way too strong for my blood. Especially in the heels I was wearing. Placed the bottle back down on the table in front of us.
“What’s up with you and Patricia?”
Ben gave me a look that said, did you really have to go there…? We were having such a good time too.
Instead of answering though, Ben pointed. Yes, actually pointed. I followed his hand. Patricia was winding on top of one of one of the big bass speakers. Where the paid go-go dancers often danced. I watched as some random guy climbed up on top of the speaker and started grinding her from the back.
Ben looked from me to Patricia then back to me…
“What do you think?”
Saturday, October 22, 2011
House of Balloons Part I (1st Draft)
PART I
PATRICIA
I’m not beautiful. Never will be. I know that. And anyone who ever tries to tell me otherwise is a liar. Either trying to be emotionally supportive or (which is more often the case) trying to fuck me. And so when Ben told me that he thought that I was beautiful I scoffed and told him that no, I wasn’t and would he please stop trying to flatter me? It wasn’t going to work. Instead of answering though, Ben lifted his camera and took my picture.
Click.
He carried that thing around everywhere. Took pictures of absolutely everything. Believed that life was too precious not to try and capture every moment possible.
“But if you’re so busy trying to capture every moment of life possible, wont you miss out on actually living it?” I had asked him once. But instead of answering my question, Ben had simply raised his camera and taken another picture.
Click.
The camera was a Nikon D1500. His pride and joy. He always bragged about how it was the single most expensive thing he owned. And at 2.3 million shillings that seemed kind of sad. Why? Because that meant no car, no house, no…well, you get what I’m getting at. He didn’t have that much money. And although I wouldn’t say that I’m a gold digger per se, the fact is, I don’t have the patience, the financial freedom or the goodwill to be messin’ around wit’ no broke nigga…
But by God was he cute. Ben, I mean. And charming. And not in the, “I want to turn you into my human pretzel” kind of way either. There was something different about him. Something different about the way he looked at me. Said my name. Took me by the hand and led me through a crowd of people. Placed his hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer to him as we walked down the street in search of a boda-boda back to my place. He was not at all like the other guys. When he looked at me it felt as if he saw me. Really saw me. I was not an object to him. An opportunity to stay up all night trying out all the things he had always wanted to do but no other girl would let him do. I was not the three drinks past drunk girl in the scuffed and muddy heels and slutty dress who was always looking for the next drink and/or the next fuck. To him I was special. To him I was one of a kind. To him I was what he called “A good person”. And to be quite honest; I didn’t get it.
Click.
“Ben, stop it.”
He lowered the camera.
“Stop what?”
“You know I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Well that’s just too bad,” Ben said raising the camera again. “Because Jimmy loves taking it.”
Click.
Jimmy is what he calls his camera. Yes, he named his camera. And yes, I know- a total geek, right?
Now, I know God may not have blessed me with the most angelic of faces but he did bless me with a lot of style, a whole lot of charm and one hell of a body.
“All curves, thick thighs and things poking out in all the right places.” As Roland had once put it; one hand on my ass while the other was busy trying to find its way up under my blouse.
Roland is my ex-boyfriend by the way. He was Italian. Well, I guess he still is considering he’s not pushing up daisies in some Italian cemetery somewhere but still alive and fucking.
Roland liked putting it in my ass. Yup, you heard right. And before you think me out of my mind for letting him, know that I thought the fucker was out of his mind the first time he asked me for it. But you know some things...you get used to. Some things you have to. I wouldn’t have been able to make rent other wise. And so at least the chicken skin was good for something. He kept my wardrobe fresh, my fridge stocked, my bills paid and in return…I let him fuck me in the ass. I would laugh if it wasn’t so sad that it made me want to cry.
He dumped me the day he left for the airport. Said it was for the best. Said that such a relationship was just not sustainable.
Well, it would be if he took me with him, I had argued. The expression that had flashed across his face as I said this made it pretty clear that the idea had not once crossed his mind.
Fucker.
Did I mention that he banged my best friend? Yes, my best friend. Although, to be fair, Claudia was not my best friend because we were particularly close but rather because she lived right next door.
The night before he left too. Slipped out of bed with me and crawled into bed with that bitch. And was still back in time to get some of that good morning sex he was so fucking fond of.
How did I find out? Claudia. She rubbed my nose in it too. This, of course, was after she found out that she was preggers with Roland’s baby. Now, although Roland was a lot of things including an ass fucker and a cheat he, oddly enough, was not one to abandon his seed. He flew Claudia out to Italy virtually days after he found out…
I hope you enjoy your ass pounding as best you can you back stabbing bitch.
Click.
It was getting late. The sun already beginning its descent towards a shimmering and pastel powdered horizon.
There was another click. And then another. Each one now accompanied by a bright flash. Ben, thank God, was not taking pictures of me but of the various canvases that hung on the walls around the gallery.
We were at an art exhibition. “From Fusion 2 Forever” or some shit like that. It was mostly amateurish canvases and lame catch phrase t-shirts. A 3 out of 10 if you asked me. Yup, that bad. To be quite honest, I had only gone because the exhibiting artist was a friend of mine. Well, more of an acquaintance really. Dashiki Jones. Duh-Shee-Kee Jooones. That’s what he called himself anyway. I’m not even sure he if knew what a dashiki was.
In any case, his real name was Semanda Tony. And like me, Dashiki Jones had made a career out of exploiting who we liked to call the chicken skins. Dashiki did it with horrible oil canvases, sloppily done t-shirts and a mop of dirty dreadlocks while I did it with very high heels, an abundance of cocktail dresses and a passing knowledge of the German language. As far as teams go, we were second to none. We had been at it for years. Way before Roland. Even before Stefan. Stefan was Austrian. The reason I had gone out of my way to learn German in the first place. Lots to say there but not much I really want to.
The exhibition had attracted quite a few of our friends of the Caucasian persuasion. But then again, that was kind of the point. I even knew some of them. A few of them had even seen me naked. That, however, did not stop me from introducing Ben to each and every one of them as my boyfriend. Why? Well, why not? I mean the guy is tall, dark and handsome. Plus he has an accent. Who says only men are entitled to having a little arm candy?
As Ben took snapshots of the paintings (I’m guessing more for documentations sake than for any real love of the pieces themselves) I poked through a pile of t-shirts looking for at least one that looked half way decent. It took me a while but I finally found one. It was a black tank top that had the phrase “I Ride Boda-Boda” stenciled across it with a rudimentary picture of a boda-boda rider next to it. Taking the tank top out of the pile I unfolded it and threw it over my head and on top of the tank I was already wearing. I walked over to Ben, tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned struck a pose.
“So what do you think?”
Click.
A moment later Ben handed me the camera.
“I think you look great but don’t take my word for it, take a look for yourself.”
I did. Shrugged. It actually didn’t look that bad. Fit pretty well too. And coupled with the bra I was wearing, made my boobs look especially big. I wanted it. Screw the fact that each shirt was going for at least 20k and that I had less than half of that jingling around the bottom of my purse.
“So?” Ben asked, waiting for my verdict.
I smiled up at him.
“I like it.”
I took his hand. Ran my thumb over his knuckles and then the back of his hand.
“Please get it for me?”
Queue eyelash bat.
”I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
The look that Ben gave me told me that we both knew that was a lie but that he liked me enough to let the little fib slide.
I grabbed his other hand and wrapped both of his arms around my waist. I moved closer to him until our fronts were touching.
“Please?”
I knew that if he opened his wallet for this, he would probably open it for something else. And chances are I wouldn’t have to open my legs either.
“You really want it don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I really do.”
Ben held me at arms length.
“Well it does look really good on you.”
I did a little curtsey, “Danke.”, and threw Ben a cheeky grin.
Ben cupped the side of my face with one of his hands. Smiled down at me.
“Alright.”
I studied his face.
“You mean I can get it?”
Ben nodded. His smile seemed a little forced and his eyes a little sad but still he said, “You can get it.”
As I jumped into his arms and thanked him with a peck on the cheek, I couldn’t stop from thinking that I had Ben right where I wanted him.
PATRICIA
I’m not beautiful. Never will be. I know that. And anyone who ever tries to tell me otherwise is a liar. Either trying to be emotionally supportive or (which is more often the case) trying to fuck me. And so when Ben told me that he thought that I was beautiful I scoffed and told him that no, I wasn’t and would he please stop trying to flatter me? It wasn’t going to work. Instead of answering though, Ben lifted his camera and took my picture.
Click.
He carried that thing around everywhere. Took pictures of absolutely everything. Believed that life was too precious not to try and capture every moment possible.
“But if you’re so busy trying to capture every moment of life possible, wont you miss out on actually living it?” I had asked him once. But instead of answering my question, Ben had simply raised his camera and taken another picture.
Click.
The camera was a Nikon D1500. His pride and joy. He always bragged about how it was the single most expensive thing he owned. And at 2.3 million shillings that seemed kind of sad. Why? Because that meant no car, no house, no…well, you get what I’m getting at. He didn’t have that much money. And although I wouldn’t say that I’m a gold digger per se, the fact is, I don’t have the patience, the financial freedom or the goodwill to be messin’ around wit’ no broke nigga…
But by God was he cute. Ben, I mean. And charming. And not in the, “I want to turn you into my human pretzel” kind of way either. There was something different about him. Something different about the way he looked at me. Said my name. Took me by the hand and led me through a crowd of people. Placed his hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer to him as we walked down the street in search of a boda-boda back to my place. He was not at all like the other guys. When he looked at me it felt as if he saw me. Really saw me. I was not an object to him. An opportunity to stay up all night trying out all the things he had always wanted to do but no other girl would let him do. I was not the three drinks past drunk girl in the scuffed and muddy heels and slutty dress who was always looking for the next drink and/or the next fuck. To him I was special. To him I was one of a kind. To him I was what he called “A good person”. And to be quite honest; I didn’t get it.
Click.
“Ben, stop it.”
He lowered the camera.
“Stop what?”
“You know I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Well that’s just too bad,” Ben said raising the camera again. “Because Jimmy loves taking it.”
Click.
Jimmy is what he calls his camera. Yes, he named his camera. And yes, I know- a total geek, right?
Now, I know God may not have blessed me with the most angelic of faces but he did bless me with a lot of style, a whole lot of charm and one hell of a body.
“All curves, thick thighs and things poking out in all the right places.” As Roland had once put it; one hand on my ass while the other was busy trying to find its way up under my blouse.
Roland is my ex-boyfriend by the way. He was Italian. Well, I guess he still is considering he’s not pushing up daisies in some Italian cemetery somewhere but still alive and fucking.
Roland liked putting it in my ass. Yup, you heard right. And before you think me out of my mind for letting him, know that I thought the fucker was out of his mind the first time he asked me for it. But you know some things...you get used to. Some things you have to. I wouldn’t have been able to make rent other wise. And so at least the chicken skin was good for something. He kept my wardrobe fresh, my fridge stocked, my bills paid and in return…I let him fuck me in the ass. I would laugh if it wasn’t so sad that it made me want to cry.
He dumped me the day he left for the airport. Said it was for the best. Said that such a relationship was just not sustainable.
Well, it would be if he took me with him, I had argued. The expression that had flashed across his face as I said this made it pretty clear that the idea had not once crossed his mind.
Fucker.
Did I mention that he banged my best friend? Yes, my best friend. Although, to be fair, Claudia was not my best friend because we were particularly close but rather because she lived right next door.
The night before he left too. Slipped out of bed with me and crawled into bed with that bitch. And was still back in time to get some of that good morning sex he was so fucking fond of.
How did I find out? Claudia. She rubbed my nose in it too. This, of course, was after she found out that she was preggers with Roland’s baby. Now, although Roland was a lot of things including an ass fucker and a cheat he, oddly enough, was not one to abandon his seed. He flew Claudia out to Italy virtually days after he found out…
I hope you enjoy your ass pounding as best you can you back stabbing bitch.
Click.
It was getting late. The sun already beginning its descent towards a shimmering and pastel powdered horizon.
There was another click. And then another. Each one now accompanied by a bright flash. Ben, thank God, was not taking pictures of me but of the various canvases that hung on the walls around the gallery.
We were at an art exhibition. “From Fusion 2 Forever” or some shit like that. It was mostly amateurish canvases and lame catch phrase t-shirts. A 3 out of 10 if you asked me. Yup, that bad. To be quite honest, I had only gone because the exhibiting artist was a friend of mine. Well, more of an acquaintance really. Dashiki Jones. Duh-Shee-Kee Jooones. That’s what he called himself anyway. I’m not even sure he if knew what a dashiki was.
In any case, his real name was Semanda Tony. And like me, Dashiki Jones had made a career out of exploiting who we liked to call the chicken skins. Dashiki did it with horrible oil canvases, sloppily done t-shirts and a mop of dirty dreadlocks while I did it with very high heels, an abundance of cocktail dresses and a passing knowledge of the German language. As far as teams go, we were second to none. We had been at it for years. Way before Roland. Even before Stefan. Stefan was Austrian. The reason I had gone out of my way to learn German in the first place. Lots to say there but not much I really want to.
The exhibition had attracted quite a few of our friends of the Caucasian persuasion. But then again, that was kind of the point. I even knew some of them. A few of them had even seen me naked. That, however, did not stop me from introducing Ben to each and every one of them as my boyfriend. Why? Well, why not? I mean the guy is tall, dark and handsome. Plus he has an accent. Who says only men are entitled to having a little arm candy?
As Ben took snapshots of the paintings (I’m guessing more for documentations sake than for any real love of the pieces themselves) I poked through a pile of t-shirts looking for at least one that looked half way decent. It took me a while but I finally found one. It was a black tank top that had the phrase “I Ride Boda-Boda” stenciled across it with a rudimentary picture of a boda-boda rider next to it. Taking the tank top out of the pile I unfolded it and threw it over my head and on top of the tank I was already wearing. I walked over to Ben, tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned struck a pose.
“So what do you think?”
Click.
A moment later Ben handed me the camera.
“I think you look great but don’t take my word for it, take a look for yourself.”
I did. Shrugged. It actually didn’t look that bad. Fit pretty well too. And coupled with the bra I was wearing, made my boobs look especially big. I wanted it. Screw the fact that each shirt was going for at least 20k and that I had less than half of that jingling around the bottom of my purse.
“So?” Ben asked, waiting for my verdict.
I smiled up at him.
“I like it.”
I took his hand. Ran my thumb over his knuckles and then the back of his hand.
“Please get it for me?”
Queue eyelash bat.
”I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
The look that Ben gave me told me that we both knew that was a lie but that he liked me enough to let the little fib slide.
I grabbed his other hand and wrapped both of his arms around my waist. I moved closer to him until our fronts were touching.
“Please?”
I knew that if he opened his wallet for this, he would probably open it for something else. And chances are I wouldn’t have to open my legs either.
“You really want it don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I really do.”
Ben held me at arms length.
“Well it does look really good on you.”
I did a little curtsey, “Danke.”, and threw Ben a cheeky grin.
Ben cupped the side of my face with one of his hands. Smiled down at me.
“Alright.”
I studied his face.
“You mean I can get it?”
Ben nodded. His smile seemed a little forced and his eyes a little sad but still he said, “You can get it.”
As I jumped into his arms and thanked him with a peck on the cheek, I couldn’t stop from thinking that I had Ben right where I wanted him.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Coolest (prologue) I'M BAAAAAAAACK
“1..2..3...LIFT!”
Jolts of pain surged through every nerve in my body as four sets of arms lifted me off the gurney and onto the examination table. A rabid pair of scissors chomped at my bloodied shirt and within moments my shrapnelled chest was exposed to the four pairs of probing eyes and the four pairs latexed hands charged with the task of doing everything in their power to make sure that I did not die on that table.
“Sir! Sir!” A face filled my vision. Caramel skin. Strong but sensuous features. One brown eye, one green. I knew that face. I loved that face. That face belonged to-
“SIR! can you tell me what happened?”
I tried to turn my head. Tried to put my hands under me so that I could sit up.
“You need to try and relax.”
Another voice. A man's voice. Two strong hands gently but firmly pushing me back down onto the table.
The face reappeared.
“Sir...we need to know what happened.”
The woman leaned closer. The scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. A scent that I knew all too well...
She spoke again. This time her voice a lot lower.
“Lenny, the police are here. They're going to want to know...let me help you.”
My vision began to swim. I was toeing the edge of a cliff. It couldn't be. She was supposed to be in The Sudan...or something. Doctor's Without Borders. But then how...? When did she get back?
I must have voiced my confusion because Rebeka quickly put a latexed finger to my lips to shush me.
Her voice was even lower.
“I'll explain; but not here. Right now there are 5 slugs in your chest and we need to get them out- NOW.”
“Dr. Johnson,”
Rebeka spun around. Her long curls bouncing along after her.
“Do you know this man?”
There was a pause and then,
“Yes sir.”
Another pause.
“Well?” The male voice demanded, “Who is he?”
Rebeka turned to look down at me and then a moment later she turned back to face who I could only assume was her boss.
“He's my-” Rebeka swallowed, “He's my brother.”
Jolts of pain surged through every nerve in my body as four sets of arms lifted me off the gurney and onto the examination table. A rabid pair of scissors chomped at my bloodied shirt and within moments my shrapnelled chest was exposed to the four pairs of probing eyes and the four pairs latexed hands charged with the task of doing everything in their power to make sure that I did not die on that table.
“Sir! Sir!” A face filled my vision. Caramel skin. Strong but sensuous features. One brown eye, one green. I knew that face. I loved that face. That face belonged to-
“SIR! can you tell me what happened?”
I tried to turn my head. Tried to put my hands under me so that I could sit up.
“You need to try and relax.”
Another voice. A man's voice. Two strong hands gently but firmly pushing me back down onto the table.
The face reappeared.
“Sir...we need to know what happened.”
The woman leaned closer. The scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. A scent that I knew all too well...
She spoke again. This time her voice a lot lower.
“Lenny, the police are here. They're going to want to know...let me help you.”
My vision began to swim. I was toeing the edge of a cliff. It couldn't be. She was supposed to be in The Sudan...or something. Doctor's Without Borders. But then how...? When did she get back?
I must have voiced my confusion because Rebeka quickly put a latexed finger to my lips to shush me.
Her voice was even lower.
“I'll explain; but not here. Right now there are 5 slugs in your chest and we need to get them out- NOW.”
“Dr. Johnson,”
Rebeka spun around. Her long curls bouncing along after her.
“Do you know this man?”
There was a pause and then,
“Yes sir.”
Another pause.
“Well?” The male voice demanded, “Who is he?”
Rebeka turned to look down at me and then a moment later she turned back to face who I could only assume was her boss.
“He's my-” Rebeka swallowed, “He's my brother.”
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Morning
I slipped out from between the sheets. Sat on the edge of the bed. Took a second to get my bearings. It was cold. It was also early. Around five in the morning was my guess. What time had we finally gone to sleep? I tried to think back, rack my brain but my mind was a blank. Empty except for one big fat question mark. What the fuck happened?
The early morning air kissed my bare skin, causing it to break out into a rash of goose pimples. A slight chill running down the length of my back, I looked around the still dark room for any article of clothing that might be mine. Shirt, socks…anything. All I could spot were my jeans. No boxers, no belt. I sighed,
“Well at least it’s better than nothing,” I mused to myself and got up to slip them on.
The room smelled of sex and alcohol…and was that reefer? I sniffed at my fingers. Yup, it was definitely reefer. That wasn’t the only thing my fingers smelled of, though. I turned to look back at the bed and there she lay, peaceful, a small smile on her lips. Like heaven itself had come down and kissed her on the forehead. And with that small smile, that little piece of perfection, came a tiny ray of light. It may have been no more than a flash but it was more than enough.
There had been a party…here. Her party. It had been her birthday. Twenty five. She had invited me even though I had thought that she wouldn’t. Even though I’m sure her friends had told her that she shouldn’t.
“And this,” I thought, taking a brief look around already beating myself up about it, “was probably the reason why.”
Fucking old habits man. Add some bottle popping; a little puff passing and the fact that it was her first birthday single in years and you had one hell of a recipe for trouble.
Fuck this was bad. What had I been thinking…? Oh yeah, that’s right, I hadn’t been. I let my guard down. We were friends. And it was her birthday. I should have just told her. Gotten it out of the way. If I had, none of this would have happened. Damn it.
Calm down Lloyd, it’s not a complete disaster. Maybe you can still salvage this. All you have to do is make it out of here before she wakes up. And maybe, just maybe, if she wakes up and you’re not here when she does, she won’t remember a thing.
That’s a big fucking maybe.
And it’s a pretty dick move. But what choice do I have?
Well, you could be a grown up about it. Wait for her to wake up so that you can talk to her about it. Let her know just how serious this is.
I shook my head. I would rather just find the rest of my clothes and take off while I still can. It was getting light out. The clock was ticking.
I turned around in circle. Now where the hell were my clothes?
As if in answer my phone began to ring. I had kept it in the breast pocket of my blazer and somehow, my blazer had wound up under the bed. How the hell it had gotten there beats me. But then, how it got there didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that 1) only one person would be calling me this early and 2) sleeping beauty was no longer sleeping.
Moaning, Samantha made a move to massage her temples with the heels of her palms.
“What is that?” she croaked, rolling onto my side of the bed, expecting to meet the hardness of my body. Finding that I wasn’t there however, Samantha sat up on one elbow and looked around. “And what are you doing over there?”
“I better get that.” I said hurriedly, avoiding both questions and then, probably looking quite strange to her, I got down on all fours so that I could fish my jacket out from under the bed.
Retrieving it, I freed the still ringing phone from its suede & polyester blend holding cell. It was exactly who I thought it would be. And as much as I didn’t want to answer it, I knew I had to. Pressing the ‘answer’ key, I put the phone up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell are you Lloyd? It’s six o’clock in the morning and you’re still not home. We talked about this. You can’t be staying out like this. I don’t like it. And if it was me I’m sure you wouldn’t either. Now, where are you?”
Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of the bed and for the next 67 seconds proceeded to lie through my teeth. I had forgotten how good I was at it. She didn’t suspect a thing. By the time I hung up the phone things were as smooth as the half empty bottle of red wine still sitting on Samantha’s bed side table.
“So, who was that Lloyd? And don’t say something trite like your weed dealer because if you do, I will hit you.”
I sighed. One problem down, one more to go. Only this one wouldn’t be as easy. I couldn’t lie to Samantha. She would see right through me. And even if she couldn’t, I didn’t want to.
I turned to look at her. This wasn’t exactly the way I had wanted to tell her but what to do, right?
“Listen, I’ve got to tell you something. Something I probably should have told you last night but for some reason I just…couldn’t.”
“What is it Lloyd?” Samantha didn’t sound amused.
Moment of truth.
“I’m getting married Samantha…And the person on the phone? That was my fiancé.”
I waited for the explosion. For all hell to break loose. But nothing came. Instead, Samantha simply got up, carefully wrapped the rumpled sheet around her and walked out of the room.
And in my opinion, that was infinitely worse.
Coming next: “The Party & the After Party”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3gVqfgVF3I
The early morning air kissed my bare skin, causing it to break out into a rash of goose pimples. A slight chill running down the length of my back, I looked around the still dark room for any article of clothing that might be mine. Shirt, socks…anything. All I could spot were my jeans. No boxers, no belt. I sighed,
“Well at least it’s better than nothing,” I mused to myself and got up to slip them on.
The room smelled of sex and alcohol…and was that reefer? I sniffed at my fingers. Yup, it was definitely reefer. That wasn’t the only thing my fingers smelled of, though. I turned to look back at the bed and there she lay, peaceful, a small smile on her lips. Like heaven itself had come down and kissed her on the forehead. And with that small smile, that little piece of perfection, came a tiny ray of light. It may have been no more than a flash but it was more than enough.
There had been a party…here. Her party. It had been her birthday. Twenty five. She had invited me even though I had thought that she wouldn’t. Even though I’m sure her friends had told her that she shouldn’t.
“And this,” I thought, taking a brief look around already beating myself up about it, “was probably the reason why.”
Fucking old habits man. Add some bottle popping; a little puff passing and the fact that it was her first birthday single in years and you had one hell of a recipe for trouble.
Fuck this was bad. What had I been thinking…? Oh yeah, that’s right, I hadn’t been. I let my guard down. We were friends. And it was her birthday. I should have just told her. Gotten it out of the way. If I had, none of this would have happened. Damn it.
Calm down Lloyd, it’s not a complete disaster. Maybe you can still salvage this. All you have to do is make it out of here before she wakes up. And maybe, just maybe, if she wakes up and you’re not here when she does, she won’t remember a thing.
That’s a big fucking maybe.
And it’s a pretty dick move. But what choice do I have?
Well, you could be a grown up about it. Wait for her to wake up so that you can talk to her about it. Let her know just how serious this is.
I shook my head. I would rather just find the rest of my clothes and take off while I still can. It was getting light out. The clock was ticking.
I turned around in circle. Now where the hell were my clothes?
As if in answer my phone began to ring. I had kept it in the breast pocket of my blazer and somehow, my blazer had wound up under the bed. How the hell it had gotten there beats me. But then, how it got there didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that 1) only one person would be calling me this early and 2) sleeping beauty was no longer sleeping.
Moaning, Samantha made a move to massage her temples with the heels of her palms.
“What is that?” she croaked, rolling onto my side of the bed, expecting to meet the hardness of my body. Finding that I wasn’t there however, Samantha sat up on one elbow and looked around. “And what are you doing over there?”
“I better get that.” I said hurriedly, avoiding both questions and then, probably looking quite strange to her, I got down on all fours so that I could fish my jacket out from under the bed.
Retrieving it, I freed the still ringing phone from its suede & polyester blend holding cell. It was exactly who I thought it would be. And as much as I didn’t want to answer it, I knew I had to. Pressing the ‘answer’ key, I put the phone up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell are you Lloyd? It’s six o’clock in the morning and you’re still not home. We talked about this. You can’t be staying out like this. I don’t like it. And if it was me I’m sure you wouldn’t either. Now, where are you?”
Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of the bed and for the next 67 seconds proceeded to lie through my teeth. I had forgotten how good I was at it. She didn’t suspect a thing. By the time I hung up the phone things were as smooth as the half empty bottle of red wine still sitting on Samantha’s bed side table.
“So, who was that Lloyd? And don’t say something trite like your weed dealer because if you do, I will hit you.”
I sighed. One problem down, one more to go. Only this one wouldn’t be as easy. I couldn’t lie to Samantha. She would see right through me. And even if she couldn’t, I didn’t want to.
I turned to look at her. This wasn’t exactly the way I had wanted to tell her but what to do, right?
“Listen, I’ve got to tell you something. Something I probably should have told you last night but for some reason I just…couldn’t.”
“What is it Lloyd?” Samantha didn’t sound amused.
Moment of truth.
“I’m getting married Samantha…And the person on the phone? That was my fiancé.”
I waited for the explosion. For all hell to break loose. But nothing came. Instead, Samantha simply got up, carefully wrapped the rumpled sheet around her and walked out of the room.
And in my opinion, that was infinitely worse.
Coming next: “The Party & the After Party”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3gVqfgVF3I
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Ultimatum (Strong, Black & Hot)...OVERRULED
I loved you. So much. But I can’t love you anymore. Not like this. Not when I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.
My heart’s been war ravaged. My faith in love and what it means to love, lost. And in its place, in its place a hole. A hole so deep and so dark and so beyond filling that I wonder, what is left of my humanity? Has this war left me a ghost among the living? An animal among the civilized? What is left that I can place my hope in?
A scrap book of memories. That is what I will carry along with me. Hard bound, hard pressed and hard won. Constantly clutched at but seldom opened. A reminder of what love can be, a marker with which I can pin point and not pass up a chance to have it again...
She offered me an ultimatum. I had to choose. She was not going to share me. She had done that once before, had thought that it could work but it didn’t. In the end, he still had to choose. He didn’t choose her. And so this time she was not going to put herself through something fierce when there was a way to avoid it.
We were having coffee. Me, having my customary iced mocha; her having her habitual strong, black and hot.
“I get it,” she said taking a sip from her steaming cup. “You loved her. And maybe a part of you still does. But the truth is Lloyd, it’s over. It has been for a long time. And although I’m not going to assume to tell you what to do, the fact is, you need to let her go. Move on. Because the only thing holding on to her is doing is blinding you from seeing what’s right in front of you.”
In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile, albeit a small one. I didn’t want her thinking that I was mocking her with the curve of my lips.
She meant her, of course. The thing that was right in front of me. The thing that I couldn’t see. Or maybe subconsciously, simply chose not to see. What she didn’t know, though, was that I did see her. I saw everything about her. And when I saw her, I saw my future. Stretched out before me like a glistening ocean, rolling over the edge of the earth, extending beyond the horizon. And boy, what a future. I mean, the possibilities were…the possibilities were limitless…
Then what’s the problem, Lloyd? Why are you still holding on? What good is it doing you?
Look at her Lloyd. And not just with your eyes; really look at her.
I did.
You have an amazing woman who loves you. Who wants to be with you. Why let a memory, a ghost, a wraith jeopardize all of that…?
I swallowed.
Why indeed? It didn’t really make any sense. But then again, when did matters of the heart ever?
Reaching across the table I placed my hand on top of one of hers. She was right. I was grasping onto something that wasn’t real. Maybe never really was. And because of that I was sabotaging every chance I had at happiness. But not anymore. I saw her. Really saw her.
I took her hand in mine. Squeezed it. Looked her dead her in the eye. I needed her to believe me when I said,
“And I choose you.”
My heart’s been war ravaged. My faith in love and what it means to love, lost. And in its place, in its place a hole. A hole so deep and so dark and so beyond filling that I wonder, what is left of my humanity? Has this war left me a ghost among the living? An animal among the civilized? What is left that I can place my hope in?
A scrap book of memories. That is what I will carry along with me. Hard bound, hard pressed and hard won. Constantly clutched at but seldom opened. A reminder of what love can be, a marker with which I can pin point and not pass up a chance to have it again...
She offered me an ultimatum. I had to choose. She was not going to share me. She had done that once before, had thought that it could work but it didn’t. In the end, he still had to choose. He didn’t choose her. And so this time she was not going to put herself through something fierce when there was a way to avoid it.
We were having coffee. Me, having my customary iced mocha; her having her habitual strong, black and hot.
“I get it,” she said taking a sip from her steaming cup. “You loved her. And maybe a part of you still does. But the truth is Lloyd, it’s over. It has been for a long time. And although I’m not going to assume to tell you what to do, the fact is, you need to let her go. Move on. Because the only thing holding on to her is doing is blinding you from seeing what’s right in front of you.”
In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile, albeit a small one. I didn’t want her thinking that I was mocking her with the curve of my lips.
She meant her, of course. The thing that was right in front of me. The thing that I couldn’t see. Or maybe subconsciously, simply chose not to see. What she didn’t know, though, was that I did see her. I saw everything about her. And when I saw her, I saw my future. Stretched out before me like a glistening ocean, rolling over the edge of the earth, extending beyond the horizon. And boy, what a future. I mean, the possibilities were…the possibilities were limitless…
Then what’s the problem, Lloyd? Why are you still holding on? What good is it doing you?
Look at her Lloyd. And not just with your eyes; really look at her.
I did.
You have an amazing woman who loves you. Who wants to be with you. Why let a memory, a ghost, a wraith jeopardize all of that…?
I swallowed.
Why indeed? It didn’t really make any sense. But then again, when did matters of the heart ever?
Reaching across the table I placed my hand on top of one of hers. She was right. I was grasping onto something that wasn’t real. Maybe never really was. And because of that I was sabotaging every chance I had at happiness. But not anymore. I saw her. Really saw her.
I took her hand in mine. Squeezed it. Looked her dead her in the eye. I needed her to believe me when I said,
“And I choose you.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Famous (?) Last Words
Tonight I lock lips with the Devil. Bid the world farewell. No tears for me mama, no…No tears for me. I’m ready to go. I’m ready to leave all of this behind. All of it…So let’s go.
I strangle a bottle of vodka with one hand and let Death take me by the other.
She said that it would be painless. That it would be as easy as taking off a t-shirt.
Pills…pills were definitely the way to go. Screw that noose around the neck nonsense. Why would someone want to go do something like that? Pills were easy. It would be like going to sleep. Like going to sleep and just never waking up.
It’s getting dark in here. A little chilly as well. Can someone please turn on a light? Get me a blanket maybe. I thought I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Why do I feel so cold? Please. Please, somebody answer me.
Death turns to look at me. Her eyes are soulless white orbs, her mouth a cavern of crumbling tombstone like teeth. She moves her lips. Slowly. With purpose. She wants to make sure that I hear what she is about to say.
Her voice is like the final sound the soul makes as it gives up its earthly anchor. No more than a whisper. As soft as silk on skin.
“Why do you worry?” She asks me. “Why do you worry? I have you Lloyd. Just as you have me. This is merely a part of the journey.
“Squeeze my hand. Go on, squeeze it. Do you feel that? Do you feel how cold that is? I am the chill that you are feeling.
“Now gaze upon my face, go on, try…You can’t, can you? That is because I am the darkness that surrounds you.
“Don’t forget that you asked me for this, Lloyd. Not the other way around. I was more than happy to wait until your number was up. You had a good fifty years left in you. It’s quite a shame. You had so much going for you too…
“Well, no matter. Come on. We’re almost there. No point in trying to turn back now…”
What sound does a heart make when it breaks…?
I can barely keep my eyes open. I feel like someone poured sand down my throat. The sound of the TV is muffled. Like its coming from the next room. Yet it’s only five feet away. And my bones. My bones feel like stone. I can’t move. I’ve been trying to. I can’t even make a fist.
It’s happening, isn’t it? This is what dying feels like. Numbness. And not only of my body but of my brain too. Everything seems to be slowing down. Even forming thoughts is becoming difficult. Words, words that I used to know, that were as normal as breathing now escape me. Faces, faces are becoming harder to recall. Who’s face is this that I keep on seeing? It keeps on coming back, it must mean something to me. Come on, think…who is she?
I can’t breathe. Oxygen eludes me. I’ve forgotten how. How do you breathe? How do you live?
How do you…?
How…do…?
How...?
I strangle a bottle of vodka with one hand and let Death take me by the other.
She said that it would be painless. That it would be as easy as taking off a t-shirt.
Pills…pills were definitely the way to go. Screw that noose around the neck nonsense. Why would someone want to go do something like that? Pills were easy. It would be like going to sleep. Like going to sleep and just never waking up.
It’s getting dark in here. A little chilly as well. Can someone please turn on a light? Get me a blanket maybe. I thought I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Why do I feel so cold? Please. Please, somebody answer me.
Death turns to look at me. Her eyes are soulless white orbs, her mouth a cavern of crumbling tombstone like teeth. She moves her lips. Slowly. With purpose. She wants to make sure that I hear what she is about to say.
Her voice is like the final sound the soul makes as it gives up its earthly anchor. No more than a whisper. As soft as silk on skin.
“Why do you worry?” She asks me. “Why do you worry? I have you Lloyd. Just as you have me. This is merely a part of the journey.
“Squeeze my hand. Go on, squeeze it. Do you feel that? Do you feel how cold that is? I am the chill that you are feeling.
“Now gaze upon my face, go on, try…You can’t, can you? That is because I am the darkness that surrounds you.
“Don’t forget that you asked me for this, Lloyd. Not the other way around. I was more than happy to wait until your number was up. You had a good fifty years left in you. It’s quite a shame. You had so much going for you too…
“Well, no matter. Come on. We’re almost there. No point in trying to turn back now…”
What sound does a heart make when it breaks…?
I can barely keep my eyes open. I feel like someone poured sand down my throat. The sound of the TV is muffled. Like its coming from the next room. Yet it’s only five feet away. And my bones. My bones feel like stone. I can’t move. I’ve been trying to. I can’t even make a fist.
It’s happening, isn’t it? This is what dying feels like. Numbness. And not only of my body but of my brain too. Everything seems to be slowing down. Even forming thoughts is becoming difficult. Words, words that I used to know, that were as normal as breathing now escape me. Faces, faces are becoming harder to recall. Who’s face is this that I keep on seeing? It keeps on coming back, it must mean something to me. Come on, think…who is she?
I can’t breathe. Oxygen eludes me. I’ve forgotten how. How do you breathe? How do you live?
How do you…?
How…do…?
How...?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Daddy Issues (Censored)/ There Will Be Blood
I’m angry. ”Bitter” is what I think they call it. And even though I try my best not to think about him, to mentally block him out, to try and waste as little brain activity on him as possible, 100% eradication…not possible.
He still blames his not being around on my mother. Says that she kept me from him. Claims that he tried everything to be a part of my life. He wrote letters, bought presents, sent cards but not once were his efforts rewarded with anything but a granite like silence. And then once my mother and I left England for the States, that was it. He didn’t know where or even how to start looking for us.
Do I believe him?
Maybe.
Do I care…?
He’s around you know. Has been for more than six months. I haven’t seen him once. Haven’t even gotten as much as a fucking phone call. And you see, this time, there is no excuse. Not when he sits down and has coffee with my uncle. Not when I’m in touch with Peter, Paul, Patrick and Victoria. Not when I’m right here, so close that he could reach out and touch me. No, there aren’t any excuses. Not this time.
I guess I do.
And so what does it all boil down to? What do the signs say…?
I wrote a story about killing my father once. I stabbed him to death with a cleaver knife. Licked the blood off of the blade when I was done…pretty dark stuff, even for me.
Fucking allergies. They have me sniffling and sneezing and goin’ through clean hankies by the minute. White mucus means that your fine right?
He doesn’t want me. Couldn’t give a damn. Is more concerned with trying to get my Mom back than he is with cultivating a relationship with me. There are a lot of things that I could say to that, none of which are nice. I, however, have decided not to be such an exhibitionist on this. Although even as I write of my decision not to be such a drama queen, I at the same time realize that the whole purpose of this is to write out my issues. I’m always talking about how my writing is first and foremost, even before my responsibility to use it for the “betterment of society” (does that sound as pompous as I think it does?), a way for me to vent. A form of therapy. So why deny myself of that…?
Why indeed.
I’m gonna try this again. And this time, there will be blood.
He still blames his not being around on my mother. Says that she kept me from him. Claims that he tried everything to be a part of my life. He wrote letters, bought presents, sent cards but not once were his efforts rewarded with anything but a granite like silence. And then once my mother and I left England for the States, that was it. He didn’t know where or even how to start looking for us.
Do I believe him?
Maybe.
Do I care…?
He’s around you know. Has been for more than six months. I haven’t seen him once. Haven’t even gotten as much as a fucking phone call. And you see, this time, there is no excuse. Not when he sits down and has coffee with my uncle. Not when I’m in touch with Peter, Paul, Patrick and Victoria. Not when I’m right here, so close that he could reach out and touch me. No, there aren’t any excuses. Not this time.
I guess I do.
And so what does it all boil down to? What do the signs say…?
I wrote a story about killing my father once. I stabbed him to death with a cleaver knife. Licked the blood off of the blade when I was done…pretty dark stuff, even for me.
Fucking allergies. They have me sniffling and sneezing and goin’ through clean hankies by the minute. White mucus means that your fine right?
He doesn’t want me. Couldn’t give a damn. Is more concerned with trying to get my Mom back than he is with cultivating a relationship with me. There are a lot of things that I could say to that, none of which are nice. I, however, have decided not to be such an exhibitionist on this. Although even as I write of my decision not to be such a drama queen, I at the same time realize that the whole purpose of this is to write out my issues. I’m always talking about how my writing is first and foremost, even before my responsibility to use it for the “betterment of society” (does that sound as pompous as I think it does?), a way for me to vent. A form of therapy. So why deny myself of that…?
Why indeed.
I’m gonna try this again. And this time, there will be blood.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hangover Dookie
Well I made it through the night. Through the day too. *hankie wiping forehead, hankie cleaning glasses, hankie scrunched into a relatively small white ball and shoved into back pocket*
No fake messages, no heartfelt confessions and no hand wringing apologies made for things said or done under less than perfect circumstances. I should clap for myself. Trust me; you have no idea what kind of damage I could have caused in the state I was in last night. Drunk Lloyd is like a weapon of mass destruction, he could take out an entire city if given the chance. Ask Gulu, she knows. Ask Julie too, she could probably tell you a story or two. Probably call me an asshole as well. But forget that cuz I have no intention of talking about Julie (no matter how many times you bring her up Eva) not now, not ever cuz that, my dear, was a mistake. Pure and simple. And under the harsh glare of the Ugandan sun, a pretty big one. I mean the woman’s like forty! (Like no joke)
The girl in red however, was fun. A major tease. A master in the art of getting a man to catch and release. Which, believe it or not, was actually part of what made her so much fun. It kept things interesting. Kept things popping like a bag of microwave popcorn. Hell, I’m not even sure she told me her name. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she made it a point not to. And so all I really remember about her is the big hair (a weave I’m sure), the plunging neck line of that red blouse of hers (she had quite the bust) and her preferred drink; Gilbey’s w/ ice & a slice of lemon (the girl gulped them down like they were ice teas…) Not that I wasn’t doing any drinking of my own. UG & Tonic baby, you know how we do. That shit loosens me up. Gets my ass on the floor. It sure as hell got my ass on the floor with Miss Plunging Neck Line that night.
The song that comes to mind is that Rihanna & Drizzy joint. You know how it goes. Don’t make me make you sing along…
She was good with her hips. Knew how to move her feet. Knew how to wind fast and how to grind slow…
Fast forward though and I spent most of the following day with my head in someone’s toilet. Bongo’s and Sharon’s to be precise. Had a bit of the squirts as well. Nasty stuff. Especially the time when I didn’t quite make it in time. Alcohol scented dookie on the seat of your lucky boxers isn’t exactly a sexy look. Especially when runny like bird poo. I got some on my jeans as well. And on my t-shirt. Not my finest moment. And the worst part? Having to hand wash my shit stained clothes and then explain to Sharon that I had to borrow some of Bongo’s because mine were all wet. Humiliation unparalleled.
You would think that such an experience would have me vowing never to touch the Devil’s Drink again. *Sardonic smile* not quite…
No fake messages, no heartfelt confessions and no hand wringing apologies made for things said or done under less than perfect circumstances. I should clap for myself. Trust me; you have no idea what kind of damage I could have caused in the state I was in last night. Drunk Lloyd is like a weapon of mass destruction, he could take out an entire city if given the chance. Ask Gulu, she knows. Ask Julie too, she could probably tell you a story or two. Probably call me an asshole as well. But forget that cuz I have no intention of talking about Julie (no matter how many times you bring her up Eva) not now, not ever cuz that, my dear, was a mistake. Pure and simple. And under the harsh glare of the Ugandan sun, a pretty big one. I mean the woman’s like forty! (Like no joke)
The girl in red however, was fun. A major tease. A master in the art of getting a man to catch and release. Which, believe it or not, was actually part of what made her so much fun. It kept things interesting. Kept things popping like a bag of microwave popcorn. Hell, I’m not even sure she told me her name. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she made it a point not to. And so all I really remember about her is the big hair (a weave I’m sure), the plunging neck line of that red blouse of hers (she had quite the bust) and her preferred drink; Gilbey’s w/ ice & a slice of lemon (the girl gulped them down like they were ice teas…) Not that I wasn’t doing any drinking of my own. UG & Tonic baby, you know how we do. That shit loosens me up. Gets my ass on the floor. It sure as hell got my ass on the floor with Miss Plunging Neck Line that night.
The song that comes to mind is that Rihanna & Drizzy joint. You know how it goes. Don’t make me make you sing along…
She was good with her hips. Knew how to move her feet. Knew how to wind fast and how to grind slow…
Fast forward though and I spent most of the following day with my head in someone’s toilet. Bongo’s and Sharon’s to be precise. Had a bit of the squirts as well. Nasty stuff. Especially the time when I didn’t quite make it in time. Alcohol scented dookie on the seat of your lucky boxers isn’t exactly a sexy look. Especially when runny like bird poo. I got some on my jeans as well. And on my t-shirt. Not my finest moment. And the worst part? Having to hand wash my shit stained clothes and then explain to Sharon that I had to borrow some of Bongo’s because mine were all wet. Humiliation unparalleled.
You would think that such an experience would have me vowing never to touch the Devil’s Drink again. *Sardonic smile* not quite…
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Coffee. Wine. Tequila> Keyboard
1:50 am
Two Iced mochas, three swallows of wine and four shots of tequila and there’s only one person I can think about. Which really sux cuz I thought that I was over her. Like really. But I see her once. All dolled up and I’m back to wanting to text her a fake mistake message so that she thinks that I’m texting someone else yet I’m really texting her just to make her think ive got other prospects and my finger juss slipped and I sent the message to her instead. Pretty pathetic right? I’m getting a lil tipsy here. This shit is pretty strong. This shit is pr and and…One person who’s rolling around my mind like a lost marble at the bottom of my rainbow painted chest of toys.
1:58 am
I want more wine but I don’t wanna finish it cuz the powers that be may start to ask questions. The tequila’s done. Did I have that before or after the wine///? I’m not quite sure. But I like the way that this feels. What was I talking about again…? Oh yeah, love. Or the lack there of. Or the loss of love. Ii cant wait for entourage season 8 to start. Its gonna be the last season. Its had apretty good run. 8 seasons aint nothing to laugh at. I remember saying as much to both Nathan and fifi. I kind of have a crush on her btw.fifi I mean. Don’t ask me how…oh god if youre reading this fifi juss know I’m not sober. I do however, mean everything that I’m saying. For the most part anyway.
2:03 am
I still love her. God, how is that even possible? Ive got Adele singing in my ear that she will always love me…how appropriate. It’s a pretty good album. 21 that is. Miriam refered to it as “another one of adele’s breakup albums”. Suitable, considering. Changing the song now…now playing: “I’m gonna find another you”- John Mayer. I’m starting to get drowsy. Do you think posting while drunk is a bad idea???? It should be. Wait, I was thinking that I asked whether posting while drunk was illegal. My bad. Maybe I should find a more up beat song to write to…
2:11 am
Now playing: Lil Freak- usher
More wine. Need more wine...
REPEAT
Gulu’s known for all the freaks it has. And I’m not talking about…
Juss re-read what I juss wrote…think I’ll take things in another direction…
Pro lover- Usher
I was trying to figure out the number of girls ive slept with and I’m all up in the double digits. Not proud of it but it is what it is. I’m starting to slow down. The words are getting harder to come by…this shit is rea;;y starting to take affect. Almost dozxing at the computr. I swear this song would sound so awesome if it was played on a big sound system. Ithas that 90’s feel to it. Its about to end…time to look for another…
2:26 am
Well look at that, its my favorite number…226
Was starting to feel like I was gonna puke so had to get some water in my system. Didn’t take a lot but juss enough to take that queasy feelin away. Well not entirely but juss enough. I feel like texting her. Like right now. I guess its engrained in me. Me not mentioning her name in anything I right. Its an old habit that has been with me since she became a subject of my lil musings…shes actually the one who insisted on it. I asked whether she minded if I wrote about her and she said she didn’t mind as long as I didn’t use her name. well that’s one promise ive managed to keep. The rest…not so much. I’m kind of an unreliable douche bag. If you want something done, DON’T count on me. You’ll juss get disappointed. Huh, I knew getting buzzed got you honest but like this? Like really? I guess it aint that bad though. I’m rambling aren’t i? at least that means the water did what it was supposed to do. Get me from sluggish, I’m gonna false asleep at me desk Lloyd, to typing a mile a minute of absoulute nonsense Lloyd.
Next song
Love song- adele…yet again. I don’t have that much music on this computer. The other ones in the shop and the ipod is shot to shit. It crashes even when I try to play that ipod quiz. 120 gb and its totally useless.
2:34 am
“…I will always love you…”
Fuck. Bitch. Cunt. Straddle. I slept with a prostitute and I liked it and I cant wait to do it again…only that particular one though. She was hot, gave me the girlfriend experience and was cheap as shit. Juss re read the last sentence; contemplating on deleting it (I’m so gonna regret this in the morning) but fuck it…I don’t wanna curse but I feel like my fingers aren’t even my own any more . I’m juss writing…typing…smiling…climbing…fighting…”its really over, u made ur stand, you got me crying, as well as you planned, but when this loneliness is thrugh, I’m gonna find another you…” john mayer. Playlist so don’t ask why I’m listening to the song again. Upbeat, upbeat, upbeat…
I need to piss…
2:41 am
I was half hoping my piss would be the color of the wine ive been drinkn. Red. Now that would be cool…
Searching for another song…
“Light up” drake
I wrote a rhyme to this song once upon a time. It actually wasn’t that bad. Think ive got it some where…juss hold on a sec…
“Uh, I got caught up in entrapment/ don't even know what happened/ thought I had her figured out/ I guess I had her backwards/ pretty little doo-wop/ who was weighed down by the sadness/ couldn't see a pharisee/ even with these glasses/ five foot five/ with a body that could light a fuse/ swagged to the nines/ showed out in the fliest shoes/ Monday to Friday/ she rocked the finest business suits/ one of a kind/ cos' she always kept it humble too/ who knew/ she would be something I would rap about/ like suicidal thoughts/ that I've been forced to grapple out/ or a paralyzing poison/ sending my senses packing south/ or a story for the boys/ who loved the life of whiling out/
uh, I know for sure I didn't/ proverbs always told me to be cautious of these women/ cos' she's in the choir/ don't mean that purity's a given/ and you know this flesh of ours/ is susceptible to sinning/ what?/ you're tired of hearing about my dirty linen?/ just give me sixty seconds/ I'll be finished in a minute/ it didn't take long for the hugging and the kissing/ to become a routine and soon I started slipping/ dipping/ in waters that I knew I really shouldn't/ lines were getting blurred/ but to her/ it didn't make a difference/ until she had suspicions and a reason to believe that/ that I could have got her pregnant and I was going to have her kid/ and at that very moment/ my life flashed before my eyes/ I can tell you homie/ it doesn't only happen when you die/ and something else happened/ she left me to decide/ and as the air that I breathe/ I wish I had declined.”
…Found it.
STILL think it aint that bad. Though it aint that good…playing the song again…
2:50 am
Ok, this getting kinda long…think I’m gonna call this a rap. Have no idea how people are gonna receive this. Guess the fact that I’m even thinking about that means I’m starting to sober up…*pursing of the lips* not necessarily a bad thing btw. Still don’t wanna sleep, still wanna text someone, still wanna make out with someone…stellas the easiestchoice of course but I don’t even think she knows I’m around. Eunice I’m sorry I pulled that dick move on you at GC. I should have come and said hi and not juss given u a fuckin ‘sup nod. You deserved so much more than that. I guess I juss thought that it would be awkward because of who I had with me…and oh there was also the issue of that heavy ass box I was carrying, but fuck that’s juss an excuse, the box thing I mean. Maybe I don’t need to apologize, maybe you don’t even care…
2:57 am
Britney is bi polar. I wish I had some sort of mental disease. Then I could blame all my nonsense on that shit. Fuck, mosquitoes are starting to chew on my ass. I really don’t know if I’m gonna be able to wake up for church in the morning. Saw howie at nakumatt tonight. Was hanging wih angella and eva. Nathan was there too, had juss come from his birthday hang thing…didn’t sound like he had much fun but there u go. On the other hand though, angie’s play was awesome. I loved it. I’m glad I went. Thanx eva for goin with me. And maclynn I’m sorry for not callin like I said I would. I’m an ass. A lil too much name droppin u think?
Tighten up- the black keys….
3:02 am
Dozing…typing with one hand…face is oily, need to wash it but I really don’t think I’m gonna dot dot dot
Fuck.
“I cant go on this way”- Beenie Sigel
I’m done.
Two Iced mochas, three swallows of wine and four shots of tequila and there’s only one person I can think about. Which really sux cuz I thought that I was over her. Like really. But I see her once. All dolled up and I’m back to wanting to text her a fake mistake message so that she thinks that I’m texting someone else yet I’m really texting her just to make her think ive got other prospects and my finger juss slipped and I sent the message to her instead. Pretty pathetic right? I’m getting a lil tipsy here. This shit is pretty strong. This shit is pr and and…One person who’s rolling around my mind like a lost marble at the bottom of my rainbow painted chest of toys.
1:58 am
I want more wine but I don’t wanna finish it cuz the powers that be may start to ask questions. The tequila’s done. Did I have that before or after the wine///? I’m not quite sure. But I like the way that this feels. What was I talking about again…? Oh yeah, love. Or the lack there of. Or the loss of love. Ii cant wait for entourage season 8 to start. Its gonna be the last season. Its had apretty good run. 8 seasons aint nothing to laugh at. I remember saying as much to both Nathan and fifi. I kind of have a crush on her btw.fifi I mean. Don’t ask me how…oh god if youre reading this fifi juss know I’m not sober. I do however, mean everything that I’m saying. For the most part anyway.
2:03 am
I still love her. God, how is that even possible? Ive got Adele singing in my ear that she will always love me…how appropriate. It’s a pretty good album. 21 that is. Miriam refered to it as “another one of adele’s breakup albums”. Suitable, considering. Changing the song now…now playing: “I’m gonna find another you”- John Mayer. I’m starting to get drowsy. Do you think posting while drunk is a bad idea???? It should be. Wait, I was thinking that I asked whether posting while drunk was illegal. My bad. Maybe I should find a more up beat song to write to…
2:11 am
Now playing: Lil Freak- usher
More wine. Need more wine...
REPEAT
Gulu’s known for all the freaks it has. And I’m not talking about…
Juss re-read what I juss wrote…think I’ll take things in another direction…
Pro lover- Usher
I was trying to figure out the number of girls ive slept with and I’m all up in the double digits. Not proud of it but it is what it is. I’m starting to slow down. The words are getting harder to come by…this shit is rea;;y starting to take affect. Almost dozxing at the computr. I swear this song would sound so awesome if it was played on a big sound system. Ithas that 90’s feel to it. Its about to end…time to look for another…
2:26 am
Well look at that, its my favorite number…226
Was starting to feel like I was gonna puke so had to get some water in my system. Didn’t take a lot but juss enough to take that queasy feelin away. Well not entirely but juss enough. I feel like texting her. Like right now. I guess its engrained in me. Me not mentioning her name in anything I right. Its an old habit that has been with me since she became a subject of my lil musings…shes actually the one who insisted on it. I asked whether she minded if I wrote about her and she said she didn’t mind as long as I didn’t use her name. well that’s one promise ive managed to keep. The rest…not so much. I’m kind of an unreliable douche bag. If you want something done, DON’T count on me. You’ll juss get disappointed. Huh, I knew getting buzzed got you honest but like this? Like really? I guess it aint that bad though. I’m rambling aren’t i? at least that means the water did what it was supposed to do. Get me from sluggish, I’m gonna false asleep at me desk Lloyd, to typing a mile a minute of absoulute nonsense Lloyd.
Next song
Love song- adele…yet again. I don’t have that much music on this computer. The other ones in the shop and the ipod is shot to shit. It crashes even when I try to play that ipod quiz. 120 gb and its totally useless.
2:34 am
“…I will always love you…”
Fuck. Bitch. Cunt. Straddle. I slept with a prostitute and I liked it and I cant wait to do it again…only that particular one though. She was hot, gave me the girlfriend experience and was cheap as shit. Juss re read the last sentence; contemplating on deleting it (I’m so gonna regret this in the morning) but fuck it…I don’t wanna curse but I feel like my fingers aren’t even my own any more . I’m juss writing…typing…smiling…climbing…fighting…”its really over, u made ur stand, you got me crying, as well as you planned, but when this loneliness is thrugh, I’m gonna find another you…” john mayer. Playlist so don’t ask why I’m listening to the song again. Upbeat, upbeat, upbeat…
I need to piss…
2:41 am
I was half hoping my piss would be the color of the wine ive been drinkn. Red. Now that would be cool…
Searching for another song…
“Light up” drake
I wrote a rhyme to this song once upon a time. It actually wasn’t that bad. Think ive got it some where…juss hold on a sec…
“Uh, I got caught up in entrapment/ don't even know what happened/ thought I had her figured out/ I guess I had her backwards/ pretty little doo-wop/ who was weighed down by the sadness/ couldn't see a pharisee/ even with these glasses/ five foot five/ with a body that could light a fuse/ swagged to the nines/ showed out in the fliest shoes/ Monday to Friday/ she rocked the finest business suits/ one of a kind/ cos' she always kept it humble too/ who knew/ she would be something I would rap about/ like suicidal thoughts/ that I've been forced to grapple out/ or a paralyzing poison/ sending my senses packing south/ or a story for the boys/ who loved the life of whiling out/
uh, I know for sure I didn't/ proverbs always told me to be cautious of these women/ cos' she's in the choir/ don't mean that purity's a given/ and you know this flesh of ours/ is susceptible to sinning/ what?/ you're tired of hearing about my dirty linen?/ just give me sixty seconds/ I'll be finished in a minute/ it didn't take long for the hugging and the kissing/ to become a routine and soon I started slipping/ dipping/ in waters that I knew I really shouldn't/ lines were getting blurred/ but to her/ it didn't make a difference/ until she had suspicions and a reason to believe that/ that I could have got her pregnant and I was going to have her kid/ and at that very moment/ my life flashed before my eyes/ I can tell you homie/ it doesn't only happen when you die/ and something else happened/ she left me to decide/ and as the air that I breathe/ I wish I had declined.”
…Found it.
STILL think it aint that bad. Though it aint that good…playing the song again…
2:50 am
Ok, this getting kinda long…think I’m gonna call this a rap. Have no idea how people are gonna receive this. Guess the fact that I’m even thinking about that means I’m starting to sober up…*pursing of the lips* not necessarily a bad thing btw. Still don’t wanna sleep, still wanna text someone, still wanna make out with someone…stellas the easiestchoice of course but I don’t even think she knows I’m around. Eunice I’m sorry I pulled that dick move on you at GC. I should have come and said hi and not juss given u a fuckin ‘sup nod. You deserved so much more than that. I guess I juss thought that it would be awkward because of who I had with me…and oh there was also the issue of that heavy ass box I was carrying, but fuck that’s juss an excuse, the box thing I mean. Maybe I don’t need to apologize, maybe you don’t even care…
2:57 am
Britney is bi polar. I wish I had some sort of mental disease. Then I could blame all my nonsense on that shit. Fuck, mosquitoes are starting to chew on my ass. I really don’t know if I’m gonna be able to wake up for church in the morning. Saw howie at nakumatt tonight. Was hanging wih angella and eva. Nathan was there too, had juss come from his birthday hang thing…didn’t sound like he had much fun but there u go. On the other hand though, angie’s play was awesome. I loved it. I’m glad I went. Thanx eva for goin with me. And maclynn I’m sorry for not callin like I said I would. I’m an ass. A lil too much name droppin u think?
Tighten up- the black keys….
3:02 am
Dozing…typing with one hand…face is oily, need to wash it but I really don’t think I’m gonna dot dot dot
Fuck.
“I cant go on this way”- Beenie Sigel
I’m done.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Separation Anxiety (Seduce me-Abuse me-Baby, I'm Yours)
Every day that passes, every sun that sets, every day my pillow welcomes my head home, is another day without you. Another day away from you. Another day where the picture I keep of you in the wallet of my heart becomes a little less recognizable, a little more faded…
I’ve been holding on to a ghost. Clutching at the wind. Holding onto the whisper of something long gone.
Holding onto:
Memories of you that I used to cherish that are becoming harder and harder to recall. Things about you that used to make my heart race that now…illicit nothing. Nothing at all. Jaded. Cold. I look at you and I see the memory of love but not love…no, that ship has sailed…
“You’ve been lost.”
She was leaning over me, a palm resting on each of my thighs. Each of her fingers slightly digging into my flesh. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and sherry. Her cleavage just centimeters away from my lips.
I angled my face away from the swell of her breasts.
“I’ve been away.” I told her. “Just got back today.”
“I’ve missed you.” She said with a slight pout in her voice. It was an act, I knew, but that didn’t matter. I probably would have thought the better of it had I been sober but I wasn’t and so I was easily susceptible to every play at seduction that she made.
She ran one hand along the length of my thigh, setting the flesh beneath the skin of my jeans aflame with excitement.
I wet my lips.
“I’ve missed you too.”
I felt my eyebrows furrow themselves into a slight frown.
Did I really just say that?
“Where are you staying?” she asked. She knew she had me. It was time to reel this baby in.
“The same place as before.” I told her without the slightest hesitation.
What was I doing?
She stood up. Held out a hand. It was time to collect.
“We go?”
I gulped down the three fingers of UG & tonic that remained in my glass. Set the glass down on the table next to me. Stood up. She was almost as tall as me. I slipped a hand around her waist. I could feel my anticipation growing. I could feel my breath quicken. I could feel her eyes on me as she waited for me to say the words…
“We go…”
The above 400 words were made possible by the following;
1. “Dreaming With a Broken Heart” by John Mayer
2. “Closer” by Kings of Leon &
3. “Light Up” by Drake Featuring Jay-Z
I’ve been holding on to a ghost. Clutching at the wind. Holding onto the whisper of something long gone.
Holding onto:
Memories of you that I used to cherish that are becoming harder and harder to recall. Things about you that used to make my heart race that now…illicit nothing. Nothing at all. Jaded. Cold. I look at you and I see the memory of love but not love…no, that ship has sailed…
“You’ve been lost.”
She was leaning over me, a palm resting on each of my thighs. Each of her fingers slightly digging into my flesh. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and sherry. Her cleavage just centimeters away from my lips.
I angled my face away from the swell of her breasts.
“I’ve been away.” I told her. “Just got back today.”
“I’ve missed you.” She said with a slight pout in her voice. It was an act, I knew, but that didn’t matter. I probably would have thought the better of it had I been sober but I wasn’t and so I was easily susceptible to every play at seduction that she made.
She ran one hand along the length of my thigh, setting the flesh beneath the skin of my jeans aflame with excitement.
I wet my lips.
“I’ve missed you too.”
I felt my eyebrows furrow themselves into a slight frown.
Did I really just say that?
“Where are you staying?” she asked. She knew she had me. It was time to reel this baby in.
“The same place as before.” I told her without the slightest hesitation.
What was I doing?
She stood up. Held out a hand. It was time to collect.
“We go?”
I gulped down the three fingers of UG & tonic that remained in my glass. Set the glass down on the table next to me. Stood up. She was almost as tall as me. I slipped a hand around her waist. I could feel my anticipation growing. I could feel my breath quicken. I could feel her eyes on me as she waited for me to say the words…
“We go…”
The above 400 words were made possible by the following;
1. “Dreaming With a Broken Heart” by John Mayer
2. “Closer” by Kings of Leon &
3. “Light Up” by Drake Featuring Jay-Z
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Self-Absorbed. Incoherent. Inconceivable.
I miss music. I miss the rhythm of it. The taste of it. The way it makes my skin feel when I’ve had more than two drinks but less than five. I miss the way it bubbles my blood. Making my chest pump. Making my heart run. I miss the way it leads me by the hand, leading me out to the middle of nowhere and lies down with me there; under the twinkling stars, under the velvet sky, under the cheese wheel moon…
It’s quiet here. Lonely. It’s like swimming in a sea of strange faces. Cold faces. Faces that make me miss you even more. That make me walk from bar to bar in search of you. For just a glimpse, for just a peep of you. A smile, an expression…anything.
And then I find you. Well, not you because well, you’re like 200 miles away but still, a pretty damn good substitute. She has the same eyes. The lips are the same too. She’s a little shorter and has a bit more flesh than you but that doesn’t matter. Not much anyway. Not enough to make me stop anyway.
She is standing by the pool table. Chalking her stick. Her back is to me. Leaning over the table, she readies herself to take the shot.
I bite down on my lip. Close my eyes…
We are somewhere else. A place with no windows and no doors. With no ceiling and no floor. We are everywhere and we are nowhere. We are the first and we are the last. We are bound together…she couldn’t have gotten away even if she had wanted to.
We are naked. I am inside her. Slow….Gentle. Then faster. And faster. And harder. And stronger. She is on top. Or I am. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s both. Or maybe we take turns. I don’t care. All I know is that just when I feel as if I can’t take anymore, just as I tell her that I’m about to come, I grab her by the hair and then…and then…
And then she takes the shot. I hear the cue hit the white, which in turn hits the four, sending it spelunking into the corner left pocket.
I open my eyes. The coppery taste of blood on my tongue. She is looking at me. She knows I’m watching her. She knows the game. She pots another one. Then another one. She’s on a roll. She makes the last one without looking. Calls it, even. The game’s over. She hands over the cue. She doesn’t feel like playing any more.
“One drink.” She says as she walks past me towards the bar.
I glance over at the pool table. All the men are staring after her. And then back at me. A little awestruck maybe? A little jealous maybe…?
Maybe.
I turn to face the bar. She is already waiting.
“One drink? One drink is all I need.” I mutter to myself.
I square my shoulders. Clear my throat. Head in her direction…
The days are hot…sweltering. The nights pretty much the same; Buzzing mosquitoes, sweat slicked sheets and the never ending creak, creak, creak of the bed next door…
Damn paper thin guest house walls.
He gets a different one every night. No tastes, no preferences. Tonight’s is big breasted; cute face. I got a quick look at her as he hustled her into his room.
Would I screw her? In a heartbeat. Maybe even pay for it too. I don’t know. I’ve never had to pay for sex before.
She’s a vocal one, Miss Thursday. Won’t shut the hell up. She keeps giving him instructions. Faster. No, slower. No, now from behind. Wait, I want to be on top. Okay, now hit me…
The creaking stops.
“What?”
“I said, hit me.”
“Are you sure?”
“GOD DAMMIT HIT ME!”…
It’s quiet here. Lonely. It’s like swimming in a sea of strange faces. Cold faces. Faces that make me miss you even more. That make me walk from bar to bar in search of you. For just a glimpse, for just a peep of you. A smile, an expression…anything.
And then I find you. Well, not you because well, you’re like 200 miles away but still, a pretty damn good substitute. She has the same eyes. The lips are the same too. She’s a little shorter and has a bit more flesh than you but that doesn’t matter. Not much anyway. Not enough to make me stop anyway.
She is standing by the pool table. Chalking her stick. Her back is to me. Leaning over the table, she readies herself to take the shot.
I bite down on my lip. Close my eyes…
We are somewhere else. A place with no windows and no doors. With no ceiling and no floor. We are everywhere and we are nowhere. We are the first and we are the last. We are bound together…she couldn’t have gotten away even if she had wanted to.
We are naked. I am inside her. Slow….Gentle. Then faster. And faster. And harder. And stronger. She is on top. Or I am. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s both. Or maybe we take turns. I don’t care. All I know is that just when I feel as if I can’t take anymore, just as I tell her that I’m about to come, I grab her by the hair and then…and then…
And then she takes the shot. I hear the cue hit the white, which in turn hits the four, sending it spelunking into the corner left pocket.
I open my eyes. The coppery taste of blood on my tongue. She is looking at me. She knows I’m watching her. She knows the game. She pots another one. Then another one. She’s on a roll. She makes the last one without looking. Calls it, even. The game’s over. She hands over the cue. She doesn’t feel like playing any more.
“One drink.” She says as she walks past me towards the bar.
I glance over at the pool table. All the men are staring after her. And then back at me. A little awestruck maybe? A little jealous maybe…?
Maybe.
I turn to face the bar. She is already waiting.
“One drink? One drink is all I need.” I mutter to myself.
I square my shoulders. Clear my throat. Head in her direction…
The days are hot…sweltering. The nights pretty much the same; Buzzing mosquitoes, sweat slicked sheets and the never ending creak, creak, creak of the bed next door…
Damn paper thin guest house walls.
He gets a different one every night. No tastes, no preferences. Tonight’s is big breasted; cute face. I got a quick look at her as he hustled her into his room.
Would I screw her? In a heartbeat. Maybe even pay for it too. I don’t know. I’ve never had to pay for sex before.
She’s a vocal one, Miss Thursday. Won’t shut the hell up. She keeps giving him instructions. Faster. No, slower. No, now from behind. Wait, I want to be on top. Okay, now hit me…
The creaking stops.
“What?”
“I said, hit me.”
“Are you sure?”
“GOD DAMMIT HIT ME!”…
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Cellophane (She had me at "I know")
Sixty seconds. That’s all it took. One lousy minute. For her to take what I thought up to that point was a pretty cool party of a life and turn it on its head.
60 seconds…1 minute. The amount of time it took for her to walk into the room, slip off her shoes (they were slip-ons, I remember that. The brown sequined ones I think. I wonder if she still has those) and half amused, half she still didn’t know what to think of me, watch as I vomited my opening line, my grand entrance into the story of her life all over her pretty little toes.
I’ll be the first to admit, it wasn’t the grandest of entrances. It was three words. No riveting monologue. No sweeping of the feet. Three. Simple. Words. And not very good ones at that. They were the first three words that popped into my head. And they weren’t even the traditional,
“How are you?”
Maybe I should have said something else. Thought about it a little more. But then, maybe not. And maybe it’s not too far of a stretch to think that in those 3 simple words she even found me charming. I don’t know. We never really did do a memory lane of that night. I mean, sure we looked at the pictures a couple of times, yes there were pictures, probably lost now but we never really sat down and talked about it. Made an attempt to relive it. Get each other’s side of the story.
After all this time and I still don’t know what her first impression of me was. In those first few minutes, I mean. Before the alcohol and the dancing and the hand holding and the cigarettes and the kissing and the waking up the next morning and the asking me for a t-shirt…before any of it. I still don’t know…
“You’re really tall...”
Yup, that’s what I said. Those were my famous first words. I find it kind of embarrassing actually. Like, was that really the best you could do? Make some obvious observation about her appearance that wasn’t even really a compliment?
And here I thought I was good words…
Red nail polish. That’s something else remember. On her fingers and her toes. Red was her color in those days.
And these days? I really couldn’t tell you. Although if I was to guess, I would have to say that she outgrew the color red quite some time ago.
Gosh, you can’t imagine how much it sucks for me to know that I don’t even know that about her anymore.
Red nail polish. White jeans and this green, short sleeved turtle neck thingy that I really don’t know how to describe. That was my first image of her. The way her clothes clung to your body accentuating how perfect I thought her body was. How perfect I think her body is.
And she was pretty.
My attraction to her was instant. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. The entire night. I’m pretty sure that she noticed. I mean, I wasn’t exactly trying to be discreet about it. But then, maybe she needed the attention that night. In spite of the not so true although more true than not things she had heard about me. Maybe she needed to lock lips with someone. To rub her hips against someone. To lose herself as much as she could with someone, without losing herself completely to that someone. Only she knows.
And her answer? To my unconventional three word introduction? Probably the best answer she could have given anyone in such a situation. Two words that trumped my three to shit. That for some reason I still can’t put a finger on, made her all the more appealing. That in my mind had me.
She pursed her lips. Looked at her friend then looked back at me without turning her head. She had that amused look back on her face…
“I know.”
60 seconds…1 minute. The amount of time it took for her to walk into the room, slip off her shoes (they were slip-ons, I remember that. The brown sequined ones I think. I wonder if she still has those) and half amused, half she still didn’t know what to think of me, watch as I vomited my opening line, my grand entrance into the story of her life all over her pretty little toes.
I’ll be the first to admit, it wasn’t the grandest of entrances. It was three words. No riveting monologue. No sweeping of the feet. Three. Simple. Words. And not very good ones at that. They were the first three words that popped into my head. And they weren’t even the traditional,
“How are you?”
Maybe I should have said something else. Thought about it a little more. But then, maybe not. And maybe it’s not too far of a stretch to think that in those 3 simple words she even found me charming. I don’t know. We never really did do a memory lane of that night. I mean, sure we looked at the pictures a couple of times, yes there were pictures, probably lost now but we never really sat down and talked about it. Made an attempt to relive it. Get each other’s side of the story.
After all this time and I still don’t know what her first impression of me was. In those first few minutes, I mean. Before the alcohol and the dancing and the hand holding and the cigarettes and the kissing and the waking up the next morning and the asking me for a t-shirt…before any of it. I still don’t know…
“You’re really tall...”
Yup, that’s what I said. Those were my famous first words. I find it kind of embarrassing actually. Like, was that really the best you could do? Make some obvious observation about her appearance that wasn’t even really a compliment?
And here I thought I was good words…
Red nail polish. That’s something else remember. On her fingers and her toes. Red was her color in those days.
And these days? I really couldn’t tell you. Although if I was to guess, I would have to say that she outgrew the color red quite some time ago.
Gosh, you can’t imagine how much it sucks for me to know that I don’t even know that about her anymore.
Red nail polish. White jeans and this green, short sleeved turtle neck thingy that I really don’t know how to describe. That was my first image of her. The way her clothes clung to your body accentuating how perfect I thought her body was. How perfect I think her body is.
And she was pretty.
My attraction to her was instant. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. The entire night. I’m pretty sure that she noticed. I mean, I wasn’t exactly trying to be discreet about it. But then, maybe she needed the attention that night. In spite of the not so true although more true than not things she had heard about me. Maybe she needed to lock lips with someone. To rub her hips against someone. To lose herself as much as she could with someone, without losing herself completely to that someone. Only she knows.
And her answer? To my unconventional three word introduction? Probably the best answer she could have given anyone in such a situation. Two words that trumped my three to shit. That for some reason I still can’t put a finger on, made her all the more appealing. That in my mind had me.
She pursed her lips. Looked at her friend then looked back at me without turning her head. She had that amused look back on her face…
“I know.”
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Glass Slipper Memories (snippet) ****Leak!****
Moments like these are rare. Few and far between. As once-in-a-life-time as that perfect sunset on that perfect day; with that perfect girl and that perfect kiss.
So savor it. Squeeze it for all it's worth. Sip at it until there's nothing left. Until there's nothing left but an empty glass and a chewed up straw. Surrounded by empty plates, stolen glances and desperate hands held secretly beneath the restaurant table.
Until it's engraved on that cold slab of stone of yours that someone, somewhere dared to call a heart. Commit it to memory. Every second of it, every detail.
The way the light hits her hair, giving it that orangish-red glow creating the illusion of a halo. Turning her into your own personal angel. If only for an hour, if only for the night.
Remember the curve of her neck as it tauntingly slopes down towards her strapless shoulder, daring you to do something about it but warning you not to.
Hold onto the scent of her skin, as it drifts lazily towards you from across the table; as fragrant as chrysanthemums in late bloom, as wondrous as the wonder that is late spring. Warm and aromatic; working its way under your skin.
And her voice. Oh yes, that unforgettable voice. Mellifluous, tender. Her voice that speaks volumes. That shares secrets. That starts wars. That creates worlds. Her voice that echoes through the corridors of your heart, bouncing off its walls, kissing them; mwah! Like the smudge of her plum tree red lipstick on the nape of your neck.
Forget them not; all these things. As you walk up and down these lonely streets. Searching, searching...The cold winter wind chapping every inch, every centimeter of exposed skin.
Play them and play them again. Enumerate them, write yourself a list, paint yourself a picture, thumb yourself a reminder; whatever helps...whatever gets the job done.
Because one day, maybe not one day soon, maybe one day far off but one day none the less, she will ask you a question. For the exact day, the very hour, the precise moment that your heart leaped from your rib cage and into her lap. And trust me, she'll want to know. She'll have to know. And believe me when I say, your answer will make all the difference in the world.
So savor it. Squeeze it for all it's worth. Sip at it until there's nothing left. Until there's nothing left but an empty glass and a chewed up straw. Surrounded by empty plates, stolen glances and desperate hands held secretly beneath the restaurant table.
Until it's engraved on that cold slab of stone of yours that someone, somewhere dared to call a heart. Commit it to memory. Every second of it, every detail.
The way the light hits her hair, giving it that orangish-red glow creating the illusion of a halo. Turning her into your own personal angel. If only for an hour, if only for the night.
Remember the curve of her neck as it tauntingly slopes down towards her strapless shoulder, daring you to do something about it but warning you not to.
Hold onto the scent of her skin, as it drifts lazily towards you from across the table; as fragrant as chrysanthemums in late bloom, as wondrous as the wonder that is late spring. Warm and aromatic; working its way under your skin.
And her voice. Oh yes, that unforgettable voice. Mellifluous, tender. Her voice that speaks volumes. That shares secrets. That starts wars. That creates worlds. Her voice that echoes through the corridors of your heart, bouncing off its walls, kissing them; mwah! Like the smudge of her plum tree red lipstick on the nape of your neck.
Forget them not; all these things. As you walk up and down these lonely streets. Searching, searching...The cold winter wind chapping every inch, every centimeter of exposed skin.
Play them and play them again. Enumerate them, write yourself a list, paint yourself a picture, thumb yourself a reminder; whatever helps...whatever gets the job done.
Because one day, maybe not one day soon, maybe one day far off but one day none the less, she will ask you a question. For the exact day, the very hour, the precise moment that your heart leaped from your rib cage and into her lap. And trust me, she'll want to know. She'll have to know. And believe me when I say, your answer will make all the difference in the world.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Of Bullets & Breakups
They say that all good things good to an end. That nothing, not even love, lasts forever. I guess it was foolish of me to think that we of all people, as flawed and imperfect for each other as we were, could beat the odds. Go the distance. Run the good race. Cross the finish line. And every other couples cliché you can think of. Boy was I wrong. So wrong, in fact, that it almost cost me my life...
There was blood everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, on my shirt, on my hands...it gushed from my stomach like a fountain and I couldn't get it to stop.
We had another fight. Another argument. About the very same thing we argued about every single time that we had raised voices, broken dishes and punched in walls. False accusations of philandering. We fought about it a lot. Her accusing, me denying. A whole lot more than used to anyway. The one bedroomed box that we had decided to make our home, wearing the scars of our arguments valiantly.
We were both volatile people, impulsive and passionate. Which was probably what made our whirlwind of a relationship so exciting. But as a result, so were our arguments. Often going from a quiet rumble to an explosive eruption within seconds. Spewing lava that destroyed everything and everyone unfortunate to get in its path.
But as volatile as we were, as impulsive as we were, there was always a line. One that we both knew that if either one of us crossed it, there would be no turning back. As angry as we got, our anger was always, without fault, physically aimed at the house. She would smash a glass, I would kick a chair, she would throw a vase, I would punch a wall. Like an unwritten rule, we never physically targeted our assaults at each other.
But that one night, that last night; all that changed. I hit her. SMACK! Across the face. So hard it left a print. Like the sole of a shoe in a square of wet cement. She went sprawling. More from surprise than from the actual force of the blow. She looked stunned. Like she couldn't believe what I had just done. I had just done the unfathomable. Broken our silent agreement. Our unwritten rule. How could I? Although she said nothing, I could see the question creep into her eyes.
“You brought up the one thing I asked you not to.” I said in answer to her unspoken question. My voice was haggard and hollow, the dregs of my suddenly dissipated anger swirling at the bottom of my heart's glass.
She had talked about my father. My father who had died more than 10 years before. His death a result of his sticking his penis in places he had no business sticking it. His death had been a painful one. For him to experience as well as for us as his family to watch. And the scars that he left behind innumerable. A mother, spending every waking moment in a constant battle for her life, a half brother that Ive never met but who I know is out there. And the knowledge that the woman who had destroyed our family was still alive, still breathing and living a productive life while my father was dead, cold in the ground.
She had talked about my father. Said I was toxic, just like my father. That I would end up just like him. Sick and alone. With nothing but the promise of the grave to comfort me...and so I had hit her.
And as she held the side of her face and stared at me in disbelief I was instantly sorry. And not because I was remorseful, either. But because I saw the fire in her eyes and I knew that there was no telling what she might do next.
I looked around the sitting room, tried to locate anything that she might try to use as a weapon. In my distraction I barely registered her walking past me towards the bed room...and then I remembered.
I hurried after her, calling after her. Each time more desperate than the last. I had to get to her before she got to it. But when I reached the doorway to the bed room I knew I was too late. The draw next to the bed had been pulled out. Many of its contents spilled out onto the floor around her feet. She stood facing me, her feet parted like I had taught her to. She pointed the gun at me, like I had taught her to. Removed the safety, just like I had taught her to.
Deep calm breaths, I told myself. Deep. Calm Breaths. I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. To show her that I had no intentions of trying to hurt her.
Now Lloyd, I told myself, talk her down.
I took one step into the room.
“Angella, Honey, you need to put the gun do-”
But Angella, honey, pulled the trigger before I could finish.
BANG!
There was blood everywhere. On the floor, on the bed, on my shirt, on my hands...it gushed from my stomach like a fountain and I couldn't get it to stop.
We had another fight. Another argument. About the very same thing we argued about every single time that we had raised voices, broken dishes and punched in walls. False accusations of philandering. We fought about it a lot. Her accusing, me denying. A whole lot more than used to anyway. The one bedroomed box that we had decided to make our home, wearing the scars of our arguments valiantly.
We were both volatile people, impulsive and passionate. Which was probably what made our whirlwind of a relationship so exciting. But as a result, so were our arguments. Often going from a quiet rumble to an explosive eruption within seconds. Spewing lava that destroyed everything and everyone unfortunate to get in its path.
But as volatile as we were, as impulsive as we were, there was always a line. One that we both knew that if either one of us crossed it, there would be no turning back. As angry as we got, our anger was always, without fault, physically aimed at the house. She would smash a glass, I would kick a chair, she would throw a vase, I would punch a wall. Like an unwritten rule, we never physically targeted our assaults at each other.
But that one night, that last night; all that changed. I hit her. SMACK! Across the face. So hard it left a print. Like the sole of a shoe in a square of wet cement. She went sprawling. More from surprise than from the actual force of the blow. She looked stunned. Like she couldn't believe what I had just done. I had just done the unfathomable. Broken our silent agreement. Our unwritten rule. How could I? Although she said nothing, I could see the question creep into her eyes.
“You brought up the one thing I asked you not to.” I said in answer to her unspoken question. My voice was haggard and hollow, the dregs of my suddenly dissipated anger swirling at the bottom of my heart's glass.
She had talked about my father. My father who had died more than 10 years before. His death a result of his sticking his penis in places he had no business sticking it. His death had been a painful one. For him to experience as well as for us as his family to watch. And the scars that he left behind innumerable. A mother, spending every waking moment in a constant battle for her life, a half brother that Ive never met but who I know is out there. And the knowledge that the woman who had destroyed our family was still alive, still breathing and living a productive life while my father was dead, cold in the ground.
She had talked about my father. Said I was toxic, just like my father. That I would end up just like him. Sick and alone. With nothing but the promise of the grave to comfort me...and so I had hit her.
And as she held the side of her face and stared at me in disbelief I was instantly sorry. And not because I was remorseful, either. But because I saw the fire in her eyes and I knew that there was no telling what she might do next.
I looked around the sitting room, tried to locate anything that she might try to use as a weapon. In my distraction I barely registered her walking past me towards the bed room...and then I remembered.
I hurried after her, calling after her. Each time more desperate than the last. I had to get to her before she got to it. But when I reached the doorway to the bed room I knew I was too late. The draw next to the bed had been pulled out. Many of its contents spilled out onto the floor around her feet. She stood facing me, her feet parted like I had taught her to. She pointed the gun at me, like I had taught her to. Removed the safety, just like I had taught her to.
Deep calm breaths, I told myself. Deep. Calm Breaths. I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. To show her that I had no intentions of trying to hurt her.
Now Lloyd, I told myself, talk her down.
I took one step into the room.
“Angella, Honey, you need to put the gun do-”
But Angella, honey, pulled the trigger before I could finish.
BANG!
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