creative writing for creative writing class ps you probably shouldn't bother reading it

[soy_un_higado]

I, feeling worthless, tilt my glass with six ice cubes (requested preparation) and two and a half shots of scotch (again, requested) with the end toward the ceiling, allowing my throat to burn. I shut my mouth and eyes tight. I cough out the pain of the alcoholic burn. I sigh deeply. On my record player there is a lovely song by Sinatra called “The Blue of Evening” and I let my eyes stay shut while my mouth moves to the words, “In the blue of evening while crickets call and stars are falling, there 'neath the midnight sky you'll come to me.” And the melody soothes me.
Upstairs I hear the princesses moving about hurriedly, preparing my bed, cleaning up my dinner. I realize I haven’t spoken to them in over a week, not even about the weather, which is so often a habit of ours. I cannot think too much over this. With my eyes still closed, I sit back as comfortably as possible in my rose print chair, letting the sounds of the record waft around me.
I am startled awake by the sound of someone shouting out “In the shadows of the night” and I realize my record has begun to skip. Moaning, I get to my feet and shuffle my way over to the player, where I lift off the arm, and remove the record. As I turn, a movement outside a nearby window catches my attention, and I move towards it. Looking out, the sky is a magnificent color against the moon, and the entire world seems incandescent. I notice a branch shaking close to the window, and I open it to poke my head out for a better look. The air is chill but not uncomfortable, and I breathe in heavily to feel the fullness of the night. Looking down, I notice something moving against the wind, walking slowly over the grass. I see it turn its head to me, and after brief eye contact I start, hitting my head against the window pane and falling backwards back into my living room.
The bright dots take what seems like hours to clear from my eyes. I am on a new spot on the floor, away from the window, and “The Blue of Evening” is filling the room once more. I get up, feeling disoriented, but I know. I know I saw you, I swear to it, and I know that you saw me too. You must have known it was me, how else would you have found your way here? I groggily return to the window in search of you again, rubbing the sore spot on my head with much care. The wind is whispering through the trees now, conversing with me, telling me your secrets, your desires. I strain my eyes against the dark, hearing the sound of insects in the distance. I see nothing. Sighing, I close the window, and return to my chair, searching for any remaining scotch in the bottom of my glass. My eyes fix on your picture, staring at me, telling me a thousand stories from a thousand perspectives. As I drift off, you are the last thing I see, and in my dreams the sky splits apart and the world is filled with dazzling light as the stars are falling.

I am the shadow at the back of the bar that notices your every move, and I am no less than enthusiastic about thwarting every one of your sinister plans. I know that you come into this bar, The Bear and Handle, every night at seven pm and drift casually over to the counter. You order the drink of the person directly to your right and you briefly discourse with the bartender about absolutely nothing, every night. I know that you order a coffee after your first drink, a dry gin and tonic next and that more often than not you eventually slip into a conversation with the nearest patron about fine wines. I have never seen you order a fine wine during any visit to this bar, and I am beginning to think you have no real interest in wine, no real interest in drinking.
On Monday you wear the navy blue suit with a fine white trim that runs up the sleeves and down the front and back, Tuesday you wear the all black with sometimes a navy blue collared and some slacks that fit nicely over top your shiny black wing tips. You’ve worn those shoes every single night and they never appear more than a day old. I estimate that you spend your late evenings shining them, laying out your suit and shirt for the next day. In the morning I imagine you eyeing your tie collection, which is the only variable in your dress. You talk as if you are comfortable with every living person, but I see the darkness of your eyes, I understand your deep hatred and I share it with you. Only I, however, am self aware.
You boast of your successes in life, your sports car, your hair stylist, your plush London pad. But I see you leave the underground on your way to the Bear and Handle at quarter till seven every night, and I follow you home to your west end single room cramp that you manage to fit your expensive looking suits and a bed in. I saw you the day you bought your shiny gold watch from a vendor near the trains and I heard you tell the bartender how it was your uncle’s and how he gave it to you on his deathbed telling you how much he loved you. I am your kindred spirit, and yet your enemy as well and now sitting in my two man cell writing this I can only reflect on our many similarities, and the one night that I spoke to you.
It was a gloomy November evening, a Wednesday, and you had a tan corduroy suit that you had worn every Wednesday prior to that night for as long as I had been watching you. I guessed at your dark intentions that night, and knew well enough to stay close to you. On your second dry gin and tonic, I approached the bar, and said only “I’ll have a coffee and a shot of your driest gin inside of your busiest tonic, please.” The bartender immediately complied, not noticing the similarities of our orders. If he had, maybe he would have seen the dark gleam in my, and your, eyes. If he had, maybe he would have paused in preparing my order, enough to size up the situation and enough to send me hurtling out of the bar and into the night. As it was, however, I sat down next to you and asked “So how come you come here so often?”
“For the atmosphere,” you said, smiling at me, “what’s your name?”
“That’s not really important, now is it?”
That’s when you really looked at me, looked me over real good. I think you noticed it, then, noticed how identical we were. Me in my shabby brown jacket and wild hair and you in your corduroy with black wing tips (they should have been brown with that tan jacket, honest). Casually I inspected your mood that evening, you were dark and dreary as usual, and it was then that I caught your eye drifting to the dame down at the other end of the bar. “So that’s your intent,” I thought, “and if you’re as batty as I am, you aren’t looking for a dinner and a movie, you’re looking for a quick shot over top a trembling body. I know guys like you. Guys like us.”
I took a long swig of the same disgusting drink that you indulge in almost every single day, and gave you a good long stare.
“Can I help you with something?” You asked me.
“Oh, no, nothing at all. I just thought I recognized you from someplace. Say, how about that lass over by the juke over there? Not too shabby huh?”
“No, not at all. I was thinking about going over and giving her a talk myself, but if you’ve got a fancy then go right on ahead.”
“Oh, don’t bullshit me Pete! I know exactly what you’re up to, you sick fuck!” I whisper this to him, a malevolent grin crossing my face with the feeling of intense knowing, the feeling of spotting, and solving, an impending crime.
“Excuse me? How do you know my name? Where do you get o-, just who the hell are you anyway?”
“Ohhh ho ho! Don’t be shy now, Petey, I know you all too well. I’ve been watching you, we’re a lot alike, you and I. Getting’ kicks out of a little gore, I know what it’s like. Come now! Don’t be shy I say, tell me what you really want with Barbie over there, huh? What do you really want?”
“What in the hell are you talking about? I, I’m going home, this is absolutely disturbing. Charley here’s my night tab, I’ll see you around, all right?”
The bartender stood looking at us with raised eyebrows, he put down the glass he was cleaning off to put Pete’s payment in his apron, and turned to me, “You aren’t givin’ my customers a hard time now are ‘ya buddy? I seen you in this place almost every night now and you ain’t never said a word and now you got Pete all up in arms about sumtin’ and I don’t need to know what it is. Let me tell ‘ya though, you’d be best-“
But I didn’t hear the end. I was out the door, twenty steps behind Pete, and yet looming over him as he walked with much intent in the direction of the underground. He seemed frightened, and I knew he felt me behind him. Trying to be crafty, he ducked into an ally. “Trying to get the jump on me eh, Pete? Takes a criminal to solve a crime, I’d say,” I thought, and then spoke as I turned into the same dark spot “Not so fast Peter my man!”
“Get the hell AWAY from me!” Peter shoved me hard, and I landed on my ass.
“Shouldn’t have done that Pete. No sir. Shouldn’t have done that.”
I pounced on him, he yelled, but I covered his mouth. “You’re in for it now Petey, I’ve had my eye on you for weeks now. Gonna take ol’ lassie home with you huh? Gonna treat her real nice huh? Hell, us scumbags always treat ‘em real nice!”
He yelled at me, muffled, but I could still understand, “What the hell are you talking about?”
I laughed, and reaching to my ankle pulled out shiny ol’ Betsy. “Like hell you don’t know my man, like hell you don’t know.”
The bartender was the number one witness, he had followed me outta the bar a minute or two after I had left. Took ‘em a while to find Pete, Pete was good and dry by the time he got to him. I sit in the cell now, but I’m not alone. No, I’ll always have my knowledge, my feeling of righteousness, for after years of rapes, years of murders I finally reversed my fortunes. I killed a killer, that I know, and if it takes a life sentence to do it I’m still glad all the same.

My father was always a courageous man. He always smiled during the most difficult times. He had his own business. It was a construction firm that did house renovations, and he employed about a dozen guys from 18 to 53 years old to work for him. My father was always proud. He was not always successful, but he was always proud.
My mother, on the other hand, was as delicate as a flower. She was grass in the wind, a dune in the desert being constantly recreated against the ferocity of a sand storm at all times. Her physical wellness and mental state wavered as constantly and erratically as a plastic bag moves outside of a convenience store on a windy day. Because of this, or because of a stressful home life, or because her grandmother was insane, my mother left this world leaving behind only a single note for my father that read “you killed me.”
Now, naturally, I didn’t believe that my father had killed my mother. The police had found her in a car two cities over, surrounded by pill bottles and with Bartholomew (her pet poodle) barking wildly in the back seat. My father and I had gone out for steaks that night. He was with me the whole time. Nevertheless, the note spoke for itself. I think it, the note that is, was what initially planted the seed of doubt in my head about my father.
I was fourteen when my mother died. My father was 43. For my eighteenth birthday my father brought me home a ’97 Chevy with A/C, stereo and power windows. I spent the first five minutes in the car opening and closing the windows. This, for me, was a huge success. My father had his business, but our budget at home was tight, as my father was overly generous with his employees’ salaries and benefits. His main electrician ate filet twice a month. We eat potatoes and eggs on Sunday morning, and we get excited about it. When my father drove that car into the driveway (instead of arriving in his friend and employee’s pick up as he usually would) I assumed he had finally gotten sick of car pooling, or that it was on rental and he had to drive out a ways for a new project. But it was for me. My father, the philanthropist, handed me the keys with the largest smile I’d ever seen from him on his face, and told me it was mine as long as I didn’t drink until I was 21. I promised him I wouldn’t. He told me I was a man now. I thanked him. He asked if I would like my favorite food for dinner. I said, yes sir, I would. He smiled, and patted me on my back.
Six weeks later and it was raining while I looked out my bedroom window. I could feel my mother’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. I could feel her glare and I knew her picture was directly behind me, facing me, watching me. Outside, my car sat silent on the street. I watched the water run down the window pane. My father was at a doctor, a head doctor, because he was having difficulties at work. I was waiting for him to come home, and I decided that, in the meantime, I would cook him a nice spaghetti dinner. A nice spaghetti dinner with my extra special sauce. In the kitchen I took out a large pan and a smaller sauce pan. I boiled water. I cracked the dry noodles in half, hearing their muffled, parched snap, and dropped them into the boiling water. In the sauce pan, I mixed up some tomato paste, a bit of cooked beef, a dash of spices labeled “Italian Medley” and my secret ingredient. The front door opened.
My father was looking especially downcast when he came through the front door. I asked him how did it go, and he replied with a weak smile and a gorgeous oration on the benefits of the visit, though I guessed them to be exaggerated. I showed him his dinner on the table, and this brightened his mood greatly. He sat down and began immediately, languishing over the quality of the sauce the whole time.
I stared my father down. I said, you know mother and I have a lot in common. He didn’t reply, but looked at me sadly. We have so much in common, I said. He continued to look at me. I loved her more than life, you know, he said. I loved her so much. My father’s face suddenly erupted in surprise, and he fell from his chair, gripping his stomach. I said, I don’t know that you did. I said, mother told me you didn’t. I said, we have so much in common, she knew she could trust me more. My father cried out in pain, holding his stomach. I looked at him. He looked up to me, his eyes were wet. My mind was a vast dune in the desert. My sanity was that sand of the sandstorm and I raged all throughout our kitchen, there, with my father looking up at me.

Ok, first thing you need: a good set, and I mean that in more ways than one. You need all the right parts, the bright crashes, the lazy rides, the explosive hats, the thunderous toms, a low, mellow but to the point bass and a snappish snare, one with a kick to really get your audience’s attention. Once you’ve got that set, make sure you’ve got a good set of calf muscles, strong enough to pull you through the longest gigs, and a pair of mighty forearms with good, strong, coordinated wrists attached to them. If you’ve got all that going for you, you’ve made the best scratch on the surface that you could possibly begin with.
Naturally you need a good pair of twigs, too. I would recommend going out to the nearest maple, carving up a pair of sticks and dipping them in lacquer yourself, but most prefer to visit the nearest shop instead. You pick ‘em up, weigh a pair in your hands, put ‘em up to your ear and tap at them, you’ve gotta’ make sure they’re the same pitch. Listen for the resonance of the stick. The dull thud of your fatty tissue on the hard wood and then the low, brief ring of the air around it. The latter is what you’re looking for, and the sticks’ pitch must be exactly the same. There is no reason for this. This will not make you a better player. But for the love of god, if those sticks aren’t the same pitch, then you aren’t going to be able to get anything right.
Next, the tightness of the heads (which of course will be made by the aquarian drum head company because all other drum heads are unimportant and unimpressive). Nothing is more important than the tightness of the heads. If the head is too tight, the whole set will sound irresponsibly sarcastic, and if too loose, you’ll sound like you’re playing a set of trash cans. The best method is to meticulously tune every lug (the metal pieces around the edge of the head) in conjunction with the lug across from it. Do this going all the way around the head, being sure to start out at a reasonable level of tightness, and once you’re sure that all lugs are matched correctly, try out the whole ensemble. If there is even a hint of sarcasm or trash can to the sound, adjust accordingly.
Ok, you’ve got your set, it’s tuned and you’ve got a matching pair of sticks. Now to learn how to play. Put your left stick in your left hand, your right stick in your right, and place the former over the snare and allow the latter to hover above the hi-hat. Create a string of eighth notes with your right stick, allow them to move along for a couple of measures, and then, exhibiting all forms of concentration, place a snare hit on beats two and four of every measure. Master this. Know this well. Never, I repeat, never forget the eighth note hi hats and the two and four snare. You will take this beat to your grave. You will drum this beat on your desk two to three times a minute. You will live and breath this beat, and in doing so, you will become every bit the rock drummer.
Of course, you need to learn to use your feet as well. Let me take that back: it is imperative that you learn to use your feet as well. Take your already mastered right and left hand beat, and let yourself get into the swing of it. Allow it to work alone for a while. Now, with all of your will bent to the task, place your right foot onto the bass drum pedal, and strike the drum on beat one, and then again on beat three. Ease yourself into it. Allow yourself mistakes. Pester yourself, focus yourself, and, eventually, play the most simplistic, the most regular, and the most ordinary beat to ever be played on the drum set.
Once you have this under control, you are free to place your left foot onto the hi-hat pedal. Begin by experimenting with the opened and closed settings. Open, you will experience a shattering crash, like metal splitting open and falling in pieces to the ground. And with the hat closed, you will hear a sound like rocks grinding against one another, but in a way that suggests secrecy, or uncertainty. Try at first to open the hi-hat on beat one, and close it on the “e” of beat one. This will effectively have created for you every ACDC drum beat ever to exist. You can now substitute for that bands drummer. Congratulations.
But these steps are nothing. There is nothing unique, nothing musical, about learning how to play the drums. There is memorization, there is muscle memory, there is poise and posture and structure and math and science but there is no music and there is no creativity in learning to play the drums. The music is what comes later. Much later. After years of mastery, years of practice, of new beats, of music books and playing along to CDs and observation of those much more experienced than yourself, after all of this comes the creativity.
It begins with the ever growing mind ensemble. The dubious orchestra inside your head that is constant, but not always paid attention to. The rise and fall of beats, notes, chords that only come to the forefront of your thoughts when given any thought or importance, when you focus on the tapping on the desk, the way your hands move about your guitar, and I mean really focus, and then you notice that they are doing something you didn’t expect them to, and that is the beginning to the creation process.
Soon you will be able to use these moments, combine them, shape them, and suddenly you will have a song, a story. You will have verses, choruses, breakdowns, introductions, conclusions, dynamics, tempos and accents and all of them will belong to you, and only you, for you have created them.
There is one final step. The band. You go out to the street, and you begin looking for those of the musical persuasion. The guitarist comes first, and you must find someone with enough drive for creativity to fill almost all of the bands melodies, and to be consistent with tempo enough not to drive you crazy. The bassist must be your brother, in every sense of the word with the exception of biological relation. You, the drummer, and the bassist must be consistently on tempo, consistently matching in accents and consistently searching for and discovering one another’s rhythms. It is best to go out for lunch with your bassist at least twice a week. Ask about the bassist’s mother. Ask about his brother. Ask him, how is your father doing and I heard he is visiting in Mexico? Explain to him that you have always liked Becket and does he like Becket too? The bassist and the drummer must be one in the same. Wear the same clothes as your bassist. Share toothbrushes. Go on bike rides together. It is essential that you know one another’s every mannerism and habit, and only in this manner will you be able to create a strong rhythm section for “the band”.
Finally a supporting melody and a voice are required. I recommend a fishing pole with a very long line on it while standing atop a building. Reel in the first two well dressed gentlemen or ladies you find, and throw a piano and a microphone in front of them. Tell them “stay on tempo and learn how to do this in two months time because that’s when we’re having our first show.”
Now you are ready. Turn the power on for your band mates amps, grab your twigs and settle into your throne and smile, because this is music, this is creation, this is the ability to be yourself while at the same time being a guitarist, a bassist, a vocalist and a keyboardist because, separate people or not, the band is a symbiote, and you are just one contribution to the life of a song.

Jerry sipped his coffee and nervously eyed the door to the restaurant. Terry was unimpressed with the conversation so far, but she held on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him, and he remembered what he had been explaining to her.
“Ok, so what I was saying was that I was at The Cathedral last night because I was doing a gig, my band had a show,” Jerry talked a little bit too softly, so that Terry had to strain to hear.
“Oh really?” Terry was feigning interest, “I didn’t know you were in a band.”
Terry had dropped her eyes to her tea and began stirring it lightly, watching the slow, rhythmic motions of the water. Jerry began talking about his band’s music, the amount of shows they played, what he usually wore to the shows, who showed up, all of the usual drivel that can only be expected from people in “bands.” Finishing a thought, Jerry grabbed a quick sip of his coffee, and glanced at the door to the restaurant. His eyes hung there, and his tirade of band information began to drop off, and then the concept was lost completely, falling out of the porous mind of Jerry Carl. Terry watched him, making a point to look visibly annoyed. Jerry jumped.
“Oh, I was saying,” he paused, “A good drum set is really made by the tightness of the head. Sometimes I spend a whole weekend making sure each individual lug on each drum is the same exact tightness. That’s the only way to get the best pitch out of your drum. The only way. Anyway, buying drum sticks is really important too. I usually go early in the morning, because it takes me a while to find two sticks with the same exact pitch.”
“You check the pitch of the drum sticks too?” Terry was getting annoyed now, and she couldn’t help showing it just a little bit. She felt bad. She thought that, for the most part, Jerry was a good guy. He was kind, and he did play the drums… but the way he talked innerved her. She went back to the swirling of her tea, mixing it around and around and side to side and back and forth and circling, circling she raised her eyes to catch him watching the door again.
Again he noticed her glance, and began, “I started off with simple beats, playing along to ACDC CDs and trying out what I saw guys doing at concerts and on videos. But I mean, I guess I didn’t start really making music until I had been playing for a few years. It just takes a long time to really master all of the techniques, I guess, then you can really make some music.”
Jerry picked a straw out from the edge of the table, took off the wrapper, and began tearing it into small pieces. He let the shreds drop carelessly onto the table, and Terry, wide eyed, watched him go through the entire wrapper. Terry was thinking about her bottle of wine and Thursday night TV at home. Terry was thinking about that report due tomorrow. Terry was not amused.
The waitress stopped at their table, and hesitated for a second when she saw the pile of torn shreds from the straw wrapper. She glanced at Jerry and he was already looking at her. He asked could he have some coffee, and with more cream on the table this time? Terry breathed in a little too loudly before asking for a glass of ice water, and that she’d like to see the receipt soon “to know how much she’d spent.” The waitress smiled and went back behind the counter.
Terry, hating the silence more than Jerry’s obsessive retelling of his entire musical experience, started him up, “So, Jerry, tell me more about your band mates.”
“Oh, they’re great. Our guitarist writes all the melodies, and he stays on tempo a reasonable amount of time. Enough to not really bother me. The bassist is a great guy too. We spend a lot of time together, he and I, people always say that a rhythm section can’t be strong if the bassist and drummer aren’t blood brothers practically. Oh, you’ve met our bassist, actually.”
“Have I?”
“Yeah, Bill, from accounting.”
“Who?”
“Bill, from accounting.”
“I heard you, I don’t think I know who that is.”
“No, no, you know him. William. William Stafford. I swear to god I’ve seen you two talk.”
Terry raised her eyebrows and sighed out a question mark that gave no indication of interest or curiosity. She tried to figure out why she had agreed on the date in the first place. Jerry’s tie was never straight. She loved that his tie was perpetually crooked. Jerry had a nice haircut. She really liked that. Jerry’s office was completely disorganized, but somehow he always managed to get his work turned in on time, and it was always immaculate. Plus, he played the drums. What more could a girl want? She forced herself to pay attention.
“… So yeah, that’s basically how we became a full band. You’d like our singer, he’s crazy. It’s great being in a band, let me tell ya’. The music. The music is incredible. It’s like being part of a symbiote. Like you’re just the skin of the song, just a scratch on the surface of the life of the entire ensemble, but at the same time you are completely enveloped by it, completely a part of it.” He takes a long drink from his cup. He puts it back on the table, looks to the door, and then looks around for the waitress, “I wonder where she is with the extra cream.”
“That’s so interesting.”
“Excuse me, what is?”
“Oh, just how you described the music. The being a part of it. I just thought it was interesting how you said that,” she was not being insincere.
“Thank you Terry. Hey, but do you know what? I’ve gotta go. I’ve had a great time though,” Jerry got up and dropped three dollars on the table, “That ought to cover it. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow at work. And I’ll be sure to say hello to William for you.”
Terry managed to force out a quick “bye!” before he made it to the door. He looked back and gave a quick wave, and then exited and walked briskly the other way down the street. Terry was completely shocked. Just when he had stopped being boring. Just when she had decided to start listening again, and he had said something so interesting. The waitress stopped by, “Still want that cream?”
“Huh? Oh, no, thank you,” Terry looked back at her tea. She swirled it slowly now. Around in circles. Around in circles. In circles. It circled.
The waitress held her stare at the table for a moment, and then again went back behind the counter. Terry looked up, saw the receipt, and then noticed that the torn shreds of paper were still on the table.

Night in a Car
The frost hung heavily but my red convertible had no trouble, no trouble. It was warm inside and I scoffed at those less privileged, those less successful, walking to get where they got to go. “Well,” internalized, “I’ve got to get to Kroger, pick me up a bag of ‘ritos and get over to Mary Jane’s. Mary Mary Jane! WHOO!”
A thin layer of ice crept onto the side of the road from the sidewalk, not yet reaching the driving lane. Inside of the red convertible I put on Third Eye Blind, “Out of the Vein” because that album is righteous and I drummed on the steering wheel and I tapped my feet and I sung along. Hazy reflections danced along the side of the road as my headlights illuminated sheets of ice, solitary in their secrecy as they innocently protruded further and further into the road. I turned my music up to stop at a red light, and cracked my window. My music fills up the night. The night is an empty stomach and I am riding the red wine. I will fill the world. I will dance and I will play my music loud and I will go to Mary Jane’s and I will get laid!
She was this gorgeous brunette. Her legs, god how her legs moved! And I could swear her eyes burnt holes right through me, right on through me. We met at this cozy little bar, not the kind of place I normally associate with, and after a couple of rounds of that nasty, also known as Texas Dan’s Black Whiskey, we were dancing, really livin’ up the place and my god could she move those hips! I’ve never seen a girl move like that before but there she was and there was I and we were together and I felt my black heart ripen right there behind her. We were together, on a sandy dance floor in this musty little bar with only a dozen other patrons idling about. That night lasted 26 hours. That night I slept sounder than ever and when I woke up I kept on dreaming.
And, still in that haze, I drove back to the city on a night where flecks of snow drifted maybe too carelessly to the ground, heading in the direction of a Kroger, and then Mary Jane’s for the party. “Here I come Mary Jane. Watch out for me, because here I come, and fast!”
My phone rang.
“’Ello? Julie, my girl! How the hell are ya?”
Julie was the girl I had just been with. Julie was the girl who’s house I was currently driving away from and who’s house I was leaving to stop by Kroger for a pre-party snack before I got to Jane’s and got myself a nice slice of ass pie! I laughed out loud, and on the other end of the line: “What in the fuck is funny Charley? Seriously, what the fuck is so fucking funny about this??” Julie was pissed, and I hadn’t been listening.
“Sorry babe, I didn’t hear what you said, I was just thinking of something that made me laugh, swear to god I was.”
“I asked you again where you said you were going tonight.”
“Julie, babe, I told you, I’ve got this big assignment due and all my files are back at my place on the PC. Sorry babe, I know you love me around and all (chuckles to himself) but I’ve just gotta get this paper in!” I was the tyrant of talk, the king of convo. Julie was upset, but I’d talk her through it. I always did. Whether it was Julie, Mary, Katherine, jesus any girl and I guarantee you I could talk the shit out of her! Peering in the distance through what had now become a dense cover of snow, I saw the Kroger sign looming over the parking lot.
“Ok, well Brent just called me, and he said you told him you were going with him to some party. Some party at some girl’s house. Some girl named Mary Jane?”
You’re damn right I am. “That damn Brent, he’s got the wrong night, that party ain’t for another week, swear to god.”
“God fucking damn’t Charley I know you’re lying you dumb cock sucking piece of shit!”
“Holy Hell babe, what’re you talkin’ about? For crying out loud!”
“I read your phone texts Charley! I fucking know you’ve been with this Mary girl, Charley, I know!”
Jesus. “Babe, I really don’t know what you’re talking about, now, I’m gonna have t- SHIT!”
Pulling into the Kroger parking lot, and the ice had overstepped it’s boundaries. I threw the phone and grabbed the wheel. My mouth opened in a silent scream as I braced myself against my seat. My black leathered seat with red stripes and a custom made C symbol embroidered onto the headrest. I braced myself there as my red chariot spun in a circle once, twice, three times. The Kroger parking lot had lots of cement posts with lights growing from them, and, eventually, my car took the opportunity to brake along side one of them. It was convenient, with the exception of the broken glass, the crushed car and what I would only later find out to be mildly serious injuries. In my haze, I heard the earpiece of my phone, “Charley? Jesus Charley what happened? Hello? This better be for real you son of a bitch, I swear to god!”
I let my head rest on the wheel. Blood dripped from my hand, and I watched the snow drift carelessly to Earth. To myself, or perhaps not, I spoke, “Jesus. Jesus Julie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
A Trip to the Store
The frost hung heavily, and the night sky looked as if it was about to burst, letting forth a torrent of snow. That night, I had been on my way to get chips from Kroger, chips I would then snack on while on my way to Mary Jane’s, she was throwing a party that night and I had strong intentions of drinking her booze and then settling in for a nice night of drunken promises and clumsy necking. I blurred as I flew over the highway, my red convertible slicing through the night. Smoking a cigarette, I put in Third Eye Blind’s “Out of the Vein” and started to sing along, enjoying the easy melodies and the explicit lyrics to their full extent. “Whooee I am gonna get smashed tonight!” I said to myself alone, avoiding the ice spots on the road.
I polished off two cigs before pulling into the Kroger lot, noticing that my car slid a bit on the way in. “Shit!” I hissed, again addressing only myself, “That could have been really nasty if I had had any sort of speed going. Damn!” I parked the car, lit up another 27 and locked up before heading out into the night air, frigid and unforgiving. I felt it sting my eyes and ears. I felt it creep into my skull and ribs. That cold. That inescapable cold. I flicked the half smoked cigarette onto the sidewalk near the building, and walked in, desiring the heat more than the tobacco.
Kroger was dimly lit and depressing as usual. The clerks all looked grumpy and dissatisfied with themselves, their lives, their jobs. I chuckled inwardly, thinking about my lazy weekend work and my half assed school assignments. “I’ve got it easy,” I thought, “No. I’ve made it easy, I’ve made it nice. Real nice.”
I walked to the alcohol aisle, and a certain bottle caught my attention. It was Kroger’s lame excuse for a liquor, a diluted version of Texas Dan’s Black Whiskey, packed full of high fructose corn syrup that was meant to improve the taste, but only made it seem like you were drinking sugary mud. That liquor though, I thought back, that was the liquor Mary Jane and I had done a couple rounds of that first night we met. God was she smokin’ that night! The way she moved on the dance floor was unbelievable, I knew right away that she’d be great in the sack, in the ol’ pile ‘a hay. And damn was I right. I reached the chip aisle just as my phone rang.
“’Ello? Julie baby! What’s happenin’? Ya miss me already?” Julie was the fine damsel that I had just left back at her parent’s house, couldn’t have left more than an hour ago, and here she was calling me already!
“Charley, where did you say you were going tonight?”
“I told you, babe, I’ve got that paper due tomorrow and all of the files are on my PC at home. I’m at Kroger right now picking up a snack and then I’m gonna head back to finish up!” I reached up and grabbed a bag of jalapeno Doritos, then, thinking about the high risk of bad breath, I settled for some corn chips instead.
“Ok, well, Brent just called me, and he said you were going with him to a party tonight. A girl’s party. A girl named Mary Jane.”
“That damn Brent! He’s got the wrong night, I swear to god! That party isn’t until next Thursday dear, I’ll have to call him a-“
“Oh fuck you Charley! I saw the text messages on your phone! I know you’re cheating on me!”
“Cheating on you? Babe, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Fuck you Charley. Just, ugh.” Click.
“That bitch just hung up on me,” I couldn’t believe it. I looked at the phone for a second longer, furrowed my brow, and began walking to the checkout line. “I bet Mary Jane’s gonna look real fine tonight,” I spoke to no one in particular, “I bet she’ll have a real fine number on, yes sir.”
I paid for my chips, and let my black heart live on a day longer.