With Arms Wide Open Part 1 (1st Draft)

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.”

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.

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

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.”