Failed Nano Write Month Try or Better Luck Next Time

1. Leaving
The rough, dry rocks of the mountains jump up boldly like attacking soldiers from the level, grass plains that surround them. The trees rise up the flanks and along the spurs of the majestic forms, and outline by the deep draws and crevasses sharply, but soften the lower slopes like a soft, green, felt blanket. In the foothills of the mountains, where the folds of the felt blanket wrinkle creating an area of darkest green, is a small town, that looks from far away like little white dots as the sun shines and glistens on the metal roofs. During winter the town disappears in a sheet of white snow. All that an anyone can make out of the city is those glistening roofs during the daytime, and the light through windows, and street lights at night. During the summer, the town is less camouflaged and far less recognizable, instead of blending in the town is seen as thought watching a magic act from backstage rather than from the audience perspective.
Michaelson is a ski town. The only income it receives is from out of town guests coming in and using the town for their own pleasure. The town is usually treated poorly by it's guests, and that disregard is transferred year by year from the guests to the townspeople. The people who live in the town harbor that feeling of disrespect and disregard during the winter months, and only put up with it out of a desire to ensure the continuous flow of money to their small town. And like an addict or a fallen woman, dependent on others for welfare, they remember the feelings of degradation throughout the summer months, hating themselves for having put up with it, but also understanding why it is necessary, determined not to deal with it again, desperate to make a fresh start, but powerless to stop the vicious circle of despair as it starts again with each fresh snowfall in the winter.
The town resides in a grey haze that is similar to smoke in its opaqueness, but dissimilar in that it is not the fault of the town. So much haze might be the product of Pittsuburg's industry or the Los Angeles traffic, but Michaelson has no industry, other than the skiing, and therefore as no means with which to support the haze. The grayness that falls softly, but remains heavily in place around the town is the product of geography and not industrial output. Michaelson has the unfortunate luck to be situated in a natural draw or bowl at the base of Mt. Tilipi. This bowl propels the valley's winds into a circular motion, which if the wind did not have a disposition similar to the inhabitants of the nearby town would have made it a tornado. Instead the strong winds merely push the sludge and snow from the lower extremities of the mountain airborne and desposit them above Michaelson. This neverending circle provides heavy snow in the winter, which sadly is not complimentary to the snow at the resort, and heavy haze in the summer. This is a perennial affliction, that like there melancholy, the Michaelsonians are neither able to affect nor dispel.
When he was elected, Mayor Morris Plabum was determined to lift the town up from its poverty and self effecting prevarication. He bought new decorations for Main Street, large gaudy things that were supposed to inspire a more playful and light hearted attitude to the out of towners. He increased the number of policemen on the streets by almost double, and wrote weekly articles in the local section of the Michaelson Sun that were designed to enliven the local soul and refresh the populace. It was a rehabilitation that didn't have much chance of working. The decorations were cheaply made despite their grandiose price tags and fell apart with the second week of snowfall. They were left in place, dilapidated and falling apart, their flashing, mirrored, paper sparkling dully through the haze of day and the dark night bringing a ruined atmosphere to the town. The police force, doubled to the size of eight through the import of four single out of town men, all of whom had spotty records, was still far too insignificant, as well as too underpaid to bring about change, or care about those changes. And the mayor's columns found no readership among the townsfolk who despite not being able to articulate the reason felt the editorials were like the ravings of a mad man spitting against the wind. The town was set in it's ways and enjoyed driving in their rut for at least they knew where the rut was going. The office and the town lost Mayor Plabum the following year despite there still being three years left on the term and twenty-three years of history in the town, his son stayed and continued following the deeply carved ruts left by the decades before.
Michaelson is not a hidden treasure, nor is it listed in any travel agents top ten best bargains, it is instead a stop of last resort for most vacationers. The summer months are unimpressive. Instead of a white blanket of snow slowly melting away leaving new growth and green in it's wake, the snow disappears to display more grey and brown hues which only serve to deepen the depression of the town. The moutains are less impressive on the west side of the state, and the snow less skiable. The town is therefore a victim of it's geography in more ways than one. The natural bowl creates horrific winds that pelt any new growth to dust. The haze and mist orbit naturally and without end around buildings. The western slope of the moutain offers less snow, and poorer ski runs than those deeper in the Rockies. Michaelson was lost when it started and has not been able to find itself since. Now new beginnings or rebirths will save it. No "special, super saving discounts" will attract new life. There was never a peak time of growth, no boon, no advantage to living there, and never will be. Instead the town resembles a zoo in a failing and banrupt city. Visitors come and are unimpressed. The only come back if there is nothing better to do, or becasue they know they can get away with taunting the animals.
The bus stop sits on the corner of Comperson and Storton. It used to be close to the center of town, but like tides, the center has moved in and out and has settled like silt closer toward the mountain now, than the highway. The highway did not move, and so the bus stop is still where it started now as far away from the center of town than it is possible. At night, particlularly in the winter when the snow piles up to the base of the windows, the bus stop is a circle of light and warmth in a cold, dark and desolate world. The large panes of glass shine brilliantly with a yellow light that emanates at all hours of the day and night. This soft glow, amber in hue, is like a beacon call for travelers. Like hungry insects toward a night light, the people of Michaelson find their way to the bus stop, and wait for their salvation to come in the form of a 4 ton Trailways heading down from the mountains and out toward the plains.
At the moment the snow is an inch below the base of the window. The lights from inside shine brilliantly acorss the snow. Inside are three pews that are so old no one seems to remember how they got there. They have been a part of this bus stop since before the bus stop ever came into existence. They stand in the center of the main room, like an alter or a stage for a full thrust theater. Along the walls are several couches which although dramatically newer than the pews appear to be in much worse shape. Cats and dogs have left there marks on the couches by way of small tufts of cotton pulled through the fabric by sharp claws, and chewed worn corners that expose the wood and batting beneath the frayed fabric.
Sitting on the couch closest to the door is a young man who looks small and diminutive and rattier than the miserable looking couch upon which he sits. His small, bony body, that looks angular and harshly thin is accentuated by the roughness of the couch on which he is sitting. He chose that couch since it was closest to the door. After paying for his ticket he thought for a moment of leaving quickly, going home, maybe even waiting outside so that no one would see him waiting for the bus. His body and mind did not have the conviction of his own thoughts however so he only made it to the couch by the door into which he slumped heavily but without a sense of resignation.
Across from the young man in the couch by the door sits a woman holding a baby. She is sitting on the brown couch with the green stripes. together the colors combine to perfectly make a hue that can only be described as sewage. She is wearing a black coat with boots. The baby is wearing a purple, nylon skiing outfit that is two or three sizes too big for it and has the obvioius markings of being either a hand me down or a thrift store purchase. Despite the dour atmosphere the woman is smiling delightfully at the baby and the baby is giggling back at her. Sometimes the woman balances the baby on her knee and bumps the baby up and down. The squeals of delight that the baby makes during this type of play reverberate through the station and besides the glowing lights create the only positivity in an atmosphere of slowly decaying ruin.
The man sitting in the pew is quiet. His head is up, his chin set resolutely, but his feet hammer stacatto beats quickly against the wood floor. It is still chilly in the room so every few minutes he takes a second off from his foot drum beats and briskly rubs the palms of his hands together. This action to an impartial observer would seem more of a habit than a warmth generating exercise if only because he refuses to take off his gloves. His eyes do not glance around him, but stay focused on the window that faces the front of the station, the one that looks out on the highway, the one that will frame the bus when it stops. He might look down when he rubs his palms, but he never looks left or right. Down or straight ahead are the only attitudes his eyes seem to know.
A car pulls up quickly in front of the station and skids to a dramatic stop that leaves it squarely in the view of all four inside. No one gets out of the car, and from across the passenger seat, and through the two darkeded car windows cast in shadows, the driver can not be seen. The horn of the car beeps twice loudly, insistently, and a hand waves at the bus stop beckoning someone to come out. The four people in the bus station sit motionless wondering to whom the driver is asking for.
2. Finger
On the corner of Elm and Blue, less than a mile from the Michaelson Presbyterian church was a blue Ford Pinto, so near the curb that the front right tire was pressed precariously against the concrete making it look like a swollen balloon ready to pop. The car showed the cancer of rust and age on the exposed edges particularly near the wheel wells. The rear left tire was so much smaller than the other wheels that to think it was a spare left on too long would be a natural inclination for anyone who was not a Michaelson native. The townspeople have seen that same tire in that same place on that same car for so many years that it was as much a part of the landscape as the pink granite cross, broken and deteriorating almost in place outside the small city hall. The spare, like the ugly ingot, among the flock of ducklings, sticks out as an affront to moral order, but unlike the ingot, lacks the future aspirations or potential. Through the front windshield, below the foot long streamline crack that grows several inches longer each winter, and only has two more ski seasons until it completes its transpanular journey, sat Phenious Pablum, Finger to his friends.
Finger looked malnourished but not becasue of the quantity of the food he took into his system, but rather becasue of the quality thanks to his steady sinecure at the Seventh Avenue Stop and Shop. His family used to own the building and the small franchise housed within, and that was perhaps the pivotal reason behind Mayor Pablum's ascension to public office. The former mayor sold the property when he abruptly left town. His wife, Marsha and his son Phenious did not leave with him. The fact that he left his wife and child, but took more than one hundred thousand in pilfered funds from the community says more about the love he had for his family and his community than words ever could.
With an air of resignation, Finger got up from his car and found himself surrounded by the grey haze of the day. The same grey haze that followed him for his entire life. It wasn't a part of his imagination or a manifestation of his mood. It was a part of life for everyone. He was not comforted by the surrounding fog, instead it seemed to drag him down, latch onto him like a tick and suck the life out of him. He always felt that way about the weather in Michaelson, and so was never able to realize the affect the air around him has on his moods or his life. It just was and he was forced to deal with it.
"I wonder if she is there." He said softly as if making a decision, testing the air by breathing in through his mouth. The air tasted heavy to him, like it would drag in and out of his mouth like a chain.
Finger looked up at the second floor apartment in front of him, his hands buried in his pockets. Finger's mouth was open, his head back, his chin up, but not in defiance. An observer looking at Finger would wonder why he was not in bed. His exhaustion was visible even when he struck his commonly awkward poses, something that anyone who knew him was familiar with. Whether standing, sitting, kneeling, squatting, or walking, Finger always looked at least a little out of sorts. People who noticed such things in Michaelson always wondered how a young man could carry on when he was obviously so exhausted. Those people that knew him, knew that Finger was not tired. They rarely ever saw anything out of the ordinary in what he did. Stances that looked misshapen and painful were just a fact of life for Finger, and they were used to it.
Finger took a second to look down the street to his left. He looked all the way to Major Avenue. He does not see anyone. He turned his head to the right in a ponderously slow motion and squinted his eyes so he could see the intersection of Elm with Accent Street, three intersections up. The hill crested there. He did not see anyone that way either. Slowly, Finger turned around and looked behind him, and saw nothing. Instead of smiling, he simply turned dejectedly back toward the apartment and mounted the stairs that run up to the second floor. He knocked irresolutely at the second door on the right, and waited.
"Come in, Sweety." A light, young voice said from inside.
Anyone watching Finger at that moment would probably not have seen the pause and slow inhalation that he took before opening the door. The apartment was well furnished for being on the wrong side of town. Generally most of the homes on the South of Accent Street, which include those on Elm, range from slightly well worn to downright forgotten. The apartment Finger entered was one of the latter. The outside showed peeling paint, and wood that is a few seasons past needing to be replaced. The inside of the apartment told a different story. Surprisingly for the neighborhood, there is carpeting on the floor, blue with a tight knit that always reminded Finger of the tight cornrows of braids that little girls used to wear in school. The furniture, although not overtly expensive looking, was not so well worn as the exterior of the complex. In a complete contrast to most of the homes in the area, and Finger has been inside a few of these home and so has first hand experience, the room was tidy to the point obsession.
He shut the door behind him as the delicately, sweet voice with the slight southern accent said, "I'm waiting for you in the bedroom, Honey."
Finger knew his way and trudged slowly off to his right, through the bedroom door. He walked in and saw Mary in the bed. She was under the covers and the bed was slightly rumpled and the covers were unmade. The rest of the room was the exact opposite. Eveyrthing in the room seemed to have a specific place. There were no clothes on the ground, there were no small pieces of litter in the corners that inhabit so many other bedrooms. Instead the entire bedroom, with the drapes pulled tight and the closet door and bathroom doors closed, looked sterile and stark. Only the cigarette, smoldering in the ashtray on the nightstand showed any trace of chaos or disregard for order. Finger looked at it disdainfully as if it was a personal affront to him.
"What are you doing?" Mary asked from the bed, looking directly at Finger.
Finger said nothing but looked at her as if confused.
"Well come on, I've been waiting for you all day." She said quickly and crawled toward him out of the bed. She was naked. At one time Finger would have been thrilled to see her pale body, large breast and long legs, but not anymore. Now, as she worked at this pants button and zipper he looked at her and felt slightly repulsed by her desires. Almost as if she was a habit he was used to seeing but could no more get rid of than he could slough off his own skin.
"Are you sure this is a good thing to do?" Finger said non-commitally looking down at Mary.
"Of course not." Mary said, sitting on the end of the bed grabbing his pants to pull them down the rest of the way. "That's what makes it exciting." She tugged at them with excitement.
"I don't know." Finger whined a bit the trepidation evident in his voice through the empty apartment.
Mary looked up at Finger with large, expressive eyes. "You can't tell me you don't want to, Phenius. I know you too well." She said and roughly and grabbed his crotch.
She looked up at him knowingly.
He sighed.
"See", she said caressing him. "I knew you wanted to."
"Well, sure I do."
"Then what's the problem?"
"It just feels wrong."
"Well it is wrong in a way, but doesn't it feel good?"
"I guess."
"You guess?" Mary said loudly in direct contrast to Finger's own vocal malaise. "If I didn’t want you so bad I'd probably throw you out the winda for saying something so insulting."
"No, no." He said slowly. "It's not you. You're beautiful. It's just this, all of this." Finger said gesturing heavily with his arms, letting them slap down loudly against his sides in resignation. "The fact that it feels so wrong just out weighs the way it makes me feel."
"It feels so bad that you don't want these anymore." She said holding her breast up to him provacotively. "You can't tell me you don't want these anymore."
"Well, of course I do." Finger said. "Who wouldn't?"
"What about this?" She said placing her hand between her legs.
Finger said nothing.
"Come on. You know you want it, Baby." Mary said embracing Finger and kissing him slowly on the neck. She forced him to hold her and dragged him down on top of her onto the bed.
Finger pulled back to look at her. "This doesn't bother you at all?" He said dejectedly.
She slowly moved her hand to his crotch. "Not a bit." She said languidly. "It never seemed to bother you before."
"Yeah, but we're cousins." Finger tries to say before she covers his mouth with her own and kisses him. He only gets the first two words out.
3. Willa
Willa considers the road as it shoots off in a straight line in front of her like a white ribbon. She knows that Main Street offers a straight shot from where she is all the way to the interstate. Willa knows that if she just keeps pressing the accelerator she will eventually leave the gingerbread covered houses and quaint cottage style homes that border Main Street, behind and eventually hit the ocean of fields that lay like a blanket outside of Michaelson.
"All you have to do is keep going straight." She says to herself. She has always argued with herself it was only since Miles stopped listening to her and stopped caring that she started speaking out loud and her converstaions took on an even more intense tone.
"You really don't have any reason to turn left. He wouldn't care if you didn't come home. He wouldn't notice." The inner voice whispers again reverberating with reason through her mind.
"He would notice the next time he gets out of the hospital." She says outloud.
Miranda who had been sitting comfortably in the silence, watching the houses blurr by in the back seat car window as she say in her car seat, turned when she heard her mother's voice.
"But he doesn't even care if he gets better." The voice says again, persistently now.
"He needs me more than he knows." She counters again aloud.
Miranda turns her head back to the window to watch the blurrs along the road, her three year old eyes taking in the landscape hungrily. She has grown used to these arguments her mother has with no one, and is beginning to realize that there is no reason for her to pay attention.
"He uses you." The voice whispers as Willa passes Creek Side and continues straight toward her turn at River Bend Rd.
"He needs me."
"He wouldn't do this for you."
"He doesn't need to."
"He would leave you."
There was nothing Willa could say in response to that. He probably would have left her. If Willa had been the one to be diagnosed with the brain tumor and not Miles, Miles would have left. He would have left when she had come home from the hospital that first time. Would she have screamed and yelled and been so mean to everyone around him like he had been? Willa wondered. He wouldn't have put up with that. Miles would have left after that. He certainly wouldn't have stayed around to clean up the messes in the bed at night.
"Think of all the times you've been awakened by that foul stench, Miles wouldn't have cleaned up after you." The voice says distinctly.
Willa flinches imperceptibly, she knows that the voice is right, that Miles would have left her after the first time he woke up and jumped out of bed worried that he might have rolled over into someone elses mess. He would have left after the first time he had to clean her up, wiping and cleaning her like a baby. He would not have stayed around, as she had stayed, when he woke up and started rubbing his hands in his own mess and grabbing her arms. He would not have gone through the gamut of emotions she had faced, from, horror, confusion, repulsion to acceptance.
The voice does not need to speak, Willa knows what it would say next. Miles would not have put up with the year of verbal insults, or the three operations each worse than the one before, or stayed through the sleepless nights in the hospital, or tried not to cry at the swelling that makes skin swell like balloons, and scars stare back in an angry red like she had.
Willa begins to think along lines her mind has never followed before. She thinks about whether or not Miles would have stayed when two incomes which barely seemed to cover the new mortgage were cut to one by the operation. She thinks about whether or not Miles would have reacted differently when the child they had not been expecting arrived in the same month as a second surgery, the one that was supposed to detach a growing tumor from an optic nerve. The same surgery that left the scar on his face. The surgery that blinded his left eye, the surgery that took over five weeks in bed to completely recover from. Miles would have left after the first hurdle, he would not have stayed in the race, the race that Willa thought was going to sprint, that had quickly turned into a marathon filled with hurdles.
"I can't just leave him." She says outloud, expecting her concitous minds next question.
"He would JUST leave you."
"What about Miranda?" She argues.
"Is she better with him?"
"He loves her."
"Is that why he hits her?"
"That's the cancer."
"And that's a good reason?"
Willa stays quiet. The voice stops too. She looks up and sees the light above her. The light swings in the breeze slowly right above her windshield. It hangs almost precariously from what looks like a small, think black wire. The red light glows through the light fog. She looks down and follows the road. She looks as far as she can. She knows that some point down their it intersects the interstate. She thinks she can almost see that point, she thinks she can see some movement, cars passing quickly, moving along the interstate through the fields, away from Michaelson, away from wherever they are leaving.
Willa looks up at the stop light again. It has turned green. She looks back down the road.
"How many times can they fuck with his brain?" The inner voice says.
She continues to search for the intersection.
"He's not the same person you married."
Willa doesn't argue. She's right. He is different. She loved the man she married, she loved the Miles she met four years ago, she loved the Miles she dated, she loved the Miles she met, this was not the same Miles. This Miles was mean and spiteful, this Miles was loud and disrespectful.
4. Daylo
Daylo looked around him at the brown waving grass that undulated like a receding ocean tide as it brushed and floated back and forth. As he turned in a circle, looking around himself, he saw nothing but grass around him, with the moutains thrusting up harshly to the west. His truck was parked just behind the pumping station behind him. It's cold metal, surrounded by the silver grey chain link fence, a complete anachronism in the pristine, amber field surrounding the skinny man.
Daylo looked down at his boots. He was going to need some new boots soon. Looking at his boots, and the scruffs and scrapes in the rugged, tan leather, reminded him of his Nikes. He looks as his shoes as he walks back to the truck. They are hanging on the bed, tied to the tarp hooks welded to the sides. They are running shoes, probably about six months old. His reserve, reserve pair. They aren't the ones he runs with right now, and aren't the ones he runs in when the weather is bad. This is his pair that he just wears for daily use. Nine months ago these where his running shoes. six months later they were his rainy day shoes, now it was time for him to get a new pair, and shuffle the other two pairs of shoes he had down the line. He would have to throw these away and buy a new pair for daily runs. The fresh pair he has now, the ones that were almost three months old would be rotated down to raining shoes, and he'd wear his raining shoes as daily shoes after that. It is Daylo's circle of life. It never changes. Three months, and then a new pair. The cycle continues. Every three months it happens and it provides him with a certain amount of stability.
He always wears Nikes. Once, a few years ago, De tried a different brand. He tried several different brands. So many people had told him how great that type of shoe was, or how terrific this shoe was. He tried them and he found that they weren't that great. The soles were not as soft. He may have to change his shoes every three months since his Nike's were too soft, but those three months before they gave out, were better than any runs than the other shoes.
Daylo checks his watch and sees with satisfaction that his day will be over by the time he gets back to Michaelson. He leans against the side of the pale blue truck and slips off his right boot by pressing his left one against the heel of the other firmly. His socks are bunched up and full of holes. He wads the sock around his toes and without untying or loosening the running shoes, shoves his foot indelicately into it. He repeats the process with the other foot and ungloriously chunks his boots into the floor of the bed where they pound loudly against the sheet metal like a mallet on a tympani drum.
"Ah!" Daylo lets out an audible sigh of relaxation Daylo rocks back and forth in visible gratification and feels his feet sink into the shoes. After being in the boots all day, the sores and hot spots that the hard leather created on the soles of his feet, begin to dissapte immediately as they hit the pillow like softness of the running shoes. Even nine months old and almost ready for the dumpster, the shoes still have a comfortable, soft inside that make Daylo's feet feel as though he is walking on clouds, and bouncing on small trampolines.
He jumps lightly into the truck, behind the steering wheel, and peels out quickly down the pebble strewn dirt road that winds through the fields of grass. He reaches the interstate after ten minutes of jouncing and bouncing on dirt roads, and takes a sharp left, accelerating onto the smooth black top, his tires leaving trails of burnt umber dirt in his wake.
Roaring down the four lane highway, bordered on his left by an ever approaching and growing diagonal presence of majestic mountains, and on his right by fields, sweeping into a horizon of grey, Daylo hammers his truck toward his home in expectation. He passes very few cars on this road. It is a secondary artery and therefore avoids much of the traffic that runs east and west through Michaelson. Daylo's older truck, which rattled more than it was suppossed to, was at home on the dusty road. The steering wheel, plastic, a refurbished one he had to buy from the junk yard after his accident, was so well worn the knobs on the back side felt less like bumbs than just wavy imperfections. Daylo gripped it excitedly, rubbing his fist back and forth as if he was revving a motorcycle or pulling a handlebar throttle, despite the fact it was ineffectual on a steering wheel.
"Where should I go tonight?" Daylo wondered aloud. He had gotten used to talking to himself in the car. Usually Polly, his golden retriever sat next to him, her head hanging out the window, happy to be a part of the action, and going somewhere.
He thought about the different routes he could take with excitement. There was the run through the woods behind the YMCA. That was a nice workout that wound it's way up the canyons in the foothills. He ran that last week, Friday, he thought, and had finished it in under an hour, a pretty decent time, even for him.
He considered running along the flue. That route was ten miles if he went the whole way, or he could turn around at any time and make it shorter. Usually he didn't turn around early. He always felt a terrific and dooming sense of disappointment that weighed heavily on his conscience like a chain link necklace dragging him down for his failure. Daylo didn't feel like he wanted to run a full ten miles this afternoon, and he didn't want to live with the disapointment of turning around early, so he decided against that route.
That left the track, the downtown route, or , the park. The track was fun for speed work, but not today, too repetitive and it didn't really offer a good finishing point. There wouldn't be a true goal to work toward, nothing to shoot for except for a time standard.
"No thanks." He said out loud, his voice barely audible agaisnt the roar of the wind through his open drivers side window.
The downtown route was always fun. No matter what happened or how boring the day might be, the dowtown route always had enough to see to keep his mind off of running, at least his conscious mind. His sub conscious mind always kept focuses on moving his feet. But late in the week, their were always people hanging out in the doorways of the bars, or on the patios, and he didn't feel like getting the looks. They always gave him looks that made him feel like an aquarium fish, not a regular golfish to be looked at then forgotten, but a strange fish, one to be considered specifically, and intensely, perhaps even mocked. It was a Thursday, that run might have to wait till Monday Daylo thought.
The park would be fun, he might even be able to see some cuties runing the other way. He actually had one Betty stop and compliment him on Polly last month. Hasn't happened since, but he hadn't taken Polly much lately. Polly was good as a girl magnet, but if he wanted to run fast, she had to stay behind. His fast runs left Polly trailing and lagging her tongue out like a truck's mudflap, after less than a mile. She was good for the long runs, but not the fast ones.
"How do I feel today?" Daylo grumbled to himself. Yesterday he had gotten home late. His run was just three miles, fast but easy. Nothing to straining, just getting the day out of his system. That's what most of his runs had become, a cleansing ritual. When he worked at Haversted, he was able to wake up early and run. That was always nice. Brisk mornings, runs through the snow in the dark of the morning, that feeling of elation that lasted throughout the day. But Jules didn't provide that same opportunity. His manager needed him out checking the lines early, before seven just about everyday. That meant getting up a five-thirty just to get to work on time. Afternoon runs weren't more fun, but they did provide that late day sense of calm.
Involuntarily almost, at the thought of Polly, Danitra jumped into his mind like a wild fire. He met her three weeks ago and she had been popping into his mind like that for everyday for those past few weeks. It was because of Polly that he met her in the first place. He had been running when he first saw her, and stopped to stretch. Polly had been sniffing around doing what dogs normally do at parks, when she had walked up, cool and calm, very confident, that was the first thing Daylo had noticed.
"Hey nice dog." She had said looking at Polly.
"Thanks." She stooped down and called Polly to her by slapping her legs. Polly, always eager to meet new people rushed over to be pet.
"What's his name?"
"Her."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No biggy."
"What's her name?"
"Polly."
"For Pollyanna?"
"Nope, becasue she is the color of pollen."
"That's so sweet." She said. Daylo noticed that when she smiled her whole face played a part. Her smile was not just her mouth, but it was her eyes, her forehead, her eyebrows, her cheeks, everything contributed and made the entire production more vibrant.
"She's great."
"You run here a lot don't you?" She said after a second or two. "I'm sorry, my name is Danitra." Daylo mentailly perked up his ears when he heard this. How did she know this? Did he know her? He hadn't met many people who were black, she was definitely black, he would probably remember meeting someone like her? She was pretty good looking, he would remember her.
"I do." He said eventually. "What about you?"
"Quite a bit." She said, and then jumped in. "Do you run with a group?" Why was she asking that? Daylo's mind raced. If she know's I run here a bunch she should know I only run here with Polly.
"Nope, just with Polly." He said, knowing what he was suppossed to ask next. "What about you?" He complied.
"Sometimes my friend comes with me, but she doesn't run, just walks."
"Are you starting or finishing?" Daylo asked finding himself sounding more confident than usual when talking to women.
"Starting."
"Want to run with us?"
"Sure." She said, she looked happy that she had massaged the conversation effectively.
"Great."
"I'm Danitra." She said extending her hand. Polly followed her as she stood up, her tail still wagging.
"Daylo."
"Daylo?"
"Yeah, actually is Deleo, but I everyone calls me Deleo."
"Nice to meet you."
"You too." Daylo said. He looked down at her legs, sizing her up, wondering how slow he would have to go for his new partner. They were shapely legs, muscular, she looked like someone who had run a lot in her youth.
"Ready to go?"
"What's your pace?"
"Whatever you want."
"How fast do you usually go?" She said sounding confident.
"Most of the time as fast as she can go." He said looking at Polly.
"Well, lets see how fast she goes."
It had been a less than auspicious beginning to a running date that went on for most days of that week, the next and Daylo hoped this one too.
The first week he had been impressed with her running. She was a great runner, almost as good as he was. Daylo hadn't needed to slow down. When they met without Polly there she had kept up with Daylo even at his fastest pace, although she hadn't been able to keep the pace past the second mile. Her speed made Daylo think of Marcus. He was the only other person who had been able to keep up with him on runs. He and Marcus used to go to races in the city and see how many people they could beat. Usuallly the 5 Ks were competitive and having a friend around to train with and race with had made them only more fun and more competitive.
Over the second week he and Denitra had grown more accostomed with one another. They talked alot more, still ran fast, but talked alot more. He found out that when she was in school she had been a competitive runner too. They shared their stories and talked about how they both wished they could have gone on to college to perhaps continue to compete.
It wasn't until this week, Monday to be exact that Daylo had started looking at Denitra in slightly different ways. He stopped looking at her legs in terms of how fast she might run the next few miles but instead in terms of how they turned him on. He stopped looking at her hair, her face and her form when she runs and strated looking at her in terms of her skin, her eyes, and her breasts. Daylo was having a hard time with it. He had never felt attracted to a running partner and that alone was strange, not to mention the fact that he had never been attracted to black women before.
"Hope she shows up." He said outloud to the empty truck cab as he turned onto Market street and saw his grandfather's at the end of the block. There was a gold and pale yellow lump in the front yard of the old but emaculately maintained, three story house. He knew that if she was outside, his grandfather was in the rocker on the porch, wathcing her, waiting for him with her. Daylo smiled when he saw the lump turn her eyes toward his truck and begin thumping her tail on the ground. A few more seconds and she would jump up and race toward the truck. He was right.
"Got off early." Daylos grandfather says as Daylo steps down from the truck and walks toward the house. Polly is already following him closelyjumping up and down, her eyes bright with expectation.
"How are you Sweety!" Daylo says and bends down to scratch her harshly. He grabs her ears and ruffles her hair briskly. Polly continues to wag her tail swiftly.
"Why'd you get off so early?"
"Got in early." Daylo says loudly up at the porch. He starts walking toward his grandfather, Polly jumping along behind him.
"Back when I was your age we got in early and worked late."
"That's what you always say." Daylo loved cutting his grandfather's complaints off by agreeing with him. "What have you been up to?"
"Nothing really, just watching the TV and watching your damn dog."
"Good to see you haven't slowed down." Daylo responded with a grin that wasn't returned.
"You going to go for your run?"
"Thinking about it."
"Well take your hound. It'll give me a few minutes peace."
Daylo smiled. His grandfather was gruff, but in a pleasing almost overly sarcastic way. "We don't want your life to be too peaceful, you might think you've died and gone to heaven."
"Nope, not as long as you and that mutt are around." His grandfather said with a gleaming eye as he got up and went into the house. Daylo and Polly followed him closely.
"Are you going to run with that Nigra girl?" His grandfather asked. Daylo turned around quickly. "Didn't think I knew about that did you."
Daylo just shrugged his shoulders.
"Michaelson saw you running with you the past few days.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
His grandfather kept looking at him, shaking his head. He didn't say anything, but just left the room, still shaking his head.
Daylo left the house with Polly in tow, not at as happy as he had been when he arrived.
5. Mica
Mica stood motionless looking at the desk in front of her. Jessica looked at her expectantly.
Mica stared at the wall of her cubicle intensely. The threads of the grey, wall, made of fabric, sewn together tightly like a sweater, the type that do not allow push pins to be inserted but instead require a pin shaped like and S, a pin specifically made for cubes. The fabric walls of the cube were usually softly soothing to Mica. She was sure that they were suppossed to provide that sense of calm, it was possibly an insanely researched and investigated element of her cube by the manufacturer. In happier times she enjoyed looking at the walls and thinking of a research scientist doing a study on what colors, which thread patterns, and which gauge of thread was he most calming, but at the same time illicited the most amount of dedication to work. She loved to imagine the depth of work that went into her surroundings. She would sit and stare at her phone for hours and think about a mathmetician measuring the angle of the ear piece and the speaker. She thought about the ergonomics of her stapler and her tape dispenser. She went so far as to dream about who decided the length of her pen and pencil and why it was the length that it was.
The walls offered her no comfort now. Now the walls felt too close, too harsh and too confining. The threaded texture was a pattern that looked like a prison to her, like a net. She could feel the walls causing her to lose her breath. Her chest was constricting. She looked around and caught Jessica's eyes. She tried to soften her gaze and give a small smile, but felt that she did not do it convincingly. She tried to think of somethig to say. Her mind whirled and turned, question bumping into one another like an atom. "What will Jessica think? She'll never believe me again. What can I do? I want to just hang up and cry. Can Jessica see tears in my eyes? Say something, say something. Mica's mind whirled quickly in a tornado of thoughts and feelings that she tried desperately to mask."
She forced a slight grin that showed calmness and furrowed her brow just enough to inpart disapointment and perhaps a little bit of confusion.
"Oh, well if he isn't in, that's cool, I'll try again later, thanks bye." Mica said desperately hoping that Jessica didn't hear the speaker on the other end of the line repeat what she said before the phone was securely on the cradle, and the connection terminated.
"He wasn't there?" Jessica said quickly, with a look of slight disbelieve, cutting off Mica before she could say anything in defense.
"Nope, he wasn't there." Mica said, hoping that would be enough for now, but knowing that it would not be.
"But it's ten in the morning?" Jessica said. Mica saw skepticim in her eyes.
"I know weird huh?" Mica turned back to her desk and looked around for a paper, a pencil, a report, anything to make her look busy and to influence a quick, quiet, and hopefully positive exit by Jessica.
"It's probably a pretty busy time of the morning for them, I'm surprised he isn't thiere."
Mica felt herself tense. She stopped herself and willed a calmness that wouldn't come. She repremanded herself internally. "I should have pretended he was too busy to come to the phone. That would have sounded more convincing."
"Yeah, I'll have to ask him later tonight why he wasn't there." Mica tried but sounds pathetic and fake even to herself.
"You better hope he aint steppin out on you."
"Naw." Mica tries to laugh.
"It happens girl, it happens more than you know."
"Whatever." Mica flips her wrist trying not to look worried.
Jessica leaned over on the cubicle opening in an attitude that inparted a desire and an inclination to stay for a long while. Mica realized she was not going to leave. She felt and overwhelming desire to get away from her.
"Oh, well, I'll try again later, and then we'll make plans." She stood up and started walking toward the hallway. "Maybe well go surprise him next week. It'll be on me."
"You know I hate those places."
"It'll be on me."
"It's not the price, at least not all of it. Their coffee sucks."
Mica tried to move past her but was stopped by her asking, "Where are you going?"
"What a girl can't go to the bathroom without the third degree. You don't believe I have to go to the bathroom either?"
"Chill, chill, just asking." Jessica said with her hands up as she turned to leave. Mica followed her trying to placate her slightly wounded friendship but peeled off at the door to the ladies room not remembering any thing she said just said, nor feeling she had been successful.
She found her way to the first stall. She looked longingly at the counch, the one that the women's restroom had but the men's did not. She accidently walked in there once, and it was the absence of the couch that had clued her into it. The couch looked comfortable and would she felt it would have been nice to sit and relax and try to figure out just what was going on. Instead she felt she needed the privacy that the stall provided.
How could he quit without telling her.
"He doesn't work here anymore." That's what the girl at the coffee shop told her. That's what had caused her to almost breakdown in her cube. It was a simple phrase. Just what? One, two, three, four, five words, one of them a contraction. How may syllables,...does it really matter. She thought. It's alot, and it was enough to make me ventilate.
Why?" She asked herself outloud. There was a rustle of noise next to her. She decided she didn't care about the woman next to her. Let her wonder what in the hell was going on.
"He doesn't work here anymore." She thought again.
What does that mean? She wondered. Had he been fired? Did he quit? Maybe he just switched to a different shop. It could be anything, but she was concerned becasue she immediately thought that he left. Why would he leave. Why would that be the first thing she thought of. Was her subconscious aware of something she was trying to supress. Did her subconscious realize that he was going to leave? When did it know that? How long might she have known without really knowing.
She probed her mind searching for something anything, and instead all she felt was the tears in her eyes falling down her cheeks and into her hands. She sat there covering her eyes in her hands and slowly her back and midsection convulsed, silently.
The toilet in the stall next to her flushed. The woman rustled some more and then clicked along the tile floor in her high heeled shoes to the water faucet. She took a long time washing her hands and then disappeared in vanishing footsteps out the door and down the hall.
"You're crying in the toilet." She said outloud aware now of the foolishness of her perdicament.
"Get up, clean yourself off, and go find out what happened." She said.
Mica returned to her cubicle but only after flushing, and washing her hands. She didn't want Jessica to notice that her going to the bathroom was just a time gaining exercise.
"Is Robert there?" She said into the phone just like she had not ten minutes prior.
"He doesn't work here anymore." Mica knew she was going to say that, just like she had heard her say it before, but she had hoped that she wouldn't.
"When did he leave?"
"Uhhhh....two or three days ago."
"Do you know where he went?" Mica struggled to keep her voice from breaking.
"Chicago, I think." The woman said breathlessly. She sounded busy to Mica who didn't care how busy the woman was.
"Is he coming back."
"I don't think so." The woman says her voice gained a tinge of impatience. "Who is this anyway, did you know Robert?"
"Yeah, we're dating." Mica said.
"Oh, well, yeah, he left." The woman said again, stabbing Mica again.
"But we were suppossed to go out this Friday." Mica almost whispered.
"Not anymore." The woman said as she hung up the phone.
Mica stared at the phone in her hand and wondered if she should call the woman back. Was there anything else that she could say. What more is there. Where in the hell was he? Why did he leave?
Her stomach was doing somersaults within her.
She pushed the redial button on the phone and it rang until the same woman picked up.
"Hi, this is the girl who just called."
"Yeah." She said sounding resigned again to a conversation she didn't want to be a part of.
"Do you know where he went?" Mica said quickly.
"He went to Chicago."
"Right, that's what you said." Mica tried desperately to keep her voice calm. "But do you know where? Do you know why?"
"Nope."
Mica thought quickly, trying to think of something to say before the girl hung up again. "Did he leave a forwarding address or a phone number?"
"Well I'm guessing he still has his cell."
"Do you have that number?"
"Look ma'am, this is our busy time...."
"I know, but I really need to talk to him."
"You were dating him right?" The woman said defensively. "Don't you have it?"
"No, I always used this number to get him." Mica pleaded. "I'd really appreciate it if you could just give it to me."
"Well we're not really suppossed to give out employee's phone numbers...."
"Couldn't you please." Mica pleaded again.
"But, I was going to say, since he gave me his phone number and he's not really an employee anymore,..." She paused. "Hold on, here it is."
Mica took down the number desperately, her hand shaking the lead straining against the white, fibrous pad.
"Thanks." Mica said quickly and hung up.
6. Finger
Finger takes the steps to his apartment slowly, laboriously, as if he is timing the amount of energy he has left in his body to coincide with arriving at his door. He drags his feet heavily with each step as if they were held down with lead.
At the top of the steps, Finger looks up toward his apartment door and sees his door ahead of him. There is a pile of grey and black dust near the door. Finger knows what it is, and he knows it is not dust. It may look like dust, but it isn't. He looks at it and his depression engulfs him. Whatever slight amount of positivity left in him drains as soon as he sees the door. He drudges toward the door as slowly as he climbed the steps.
Finger makes it to his door and looks at the grey pile near the door. Now that he is on top of it the dead fly carcasses stand out clearly. Their hollow shells picking up whatever slight movement of air is around, flutter slightly despite the fact that they are dead. Finger put the flies there. They've been adding up for days. He vaccuums them up and then dumps them there, sometimes three or four times a day, dozens and dozens each time.
Finger sighs and his head sinks down so that his chin almost hits his chest. He looks through the window next to the door and sees dozens and dozens of more flies. Some of them upside down, some of them walking along the white base board of the front window. Finger studies them. Some of them are obviously dead, but Finger doesn't let that fool him. He has seen those types of flies before. He's dealt with these flies so much in the past few weeks that he has subdivided the flies into three different categories.
One type is the possum. This is the type he is seeing now. The possum lies on his back and pretends to be dead. He must have vacuumed hundreds of them before he realized what was going on. He vacuumed up days and days worth of dead flies only to be astounded when he emptied the vacuum bag. When he emptied the vacuum bag into the kitchen trash can, flies sprang out quickly like a whirlwind. He had to begin dumping the vacuum bag out the front door after that. That's what the possum fly does. The possum lies there and then escapes when the bag is emptied. The possum is the reason there are three empty bottles of Raid in Finger's trash, and the reason for the policy shift that called for spraying the tube of the vacuum before sucking up the flies.
The second type of fly that Finger lives with is the kamikaze. This fly springs from beneath the sink or from the cabinets bordering it, and heads straight for the light of the window like spaceship surging into hyperspace or warp drive. They bang their heads against the window fruitlessly, like mental patients in a looneybin. Finally, either succumbing to the pain of the head butts, or to a bursting heart due to their furious exertions, they fall to the window baseboard and die. Some lucky ones fall from the window, rebound off of the baseboard and hit the floor still somewhat alive. They crawl a bit, and try to find a place to go, but eventually, they too give up.
The last type of fly is the mutant. This fly does not fly up crazily like the kamikaze, nor does he fly to the base board to lie in pretend stasis until he is sucked into the Raid filled bag of the vacuum. The mutant has no wings and therefore can't fly. When Finger first saw one of the mutants he thought it was just a one time aberration, and not what he finally had to concede was a full fledge species phase shift. The mutant, a fly with no wings, walks heavily on six legs on the counter tops of the kitchen with an attitude of complete disregard for direction or purpose. They are killed by the Raid vacuum or a swat with a magazine.
The mutant, more than the kamikaze or the possum helped Finger figure out just why and where all of the flies where coming from, perhaps not literally, but figuritively, and in theory. Literally, the flies came from under the sink. That's where they started comnig from anyway. There was a small hole under the sink. It used to be a large hole, but a rat had come through it and gnawed on a styrofoam container in Finger's trash. He had called the super the day after finding that. The super had poisoned and plugged the hole. That's when the flies showed up. But there was still a small hole there, a place the super had missed. That's where they were coming from. He took some tape and taped it up, but it didn’t stick. Finger still imagines the little damikazes banging their heads against the inside of the tape, pressing againt it until the stickiness subsided. The tape didn’t last a week.
Not to be outdone by a bunch of hard headed flies, Finger went to the hardware store. He picked up some putty from the cute, but pimply red head who cheerfully waited on him, and impolitely asked what he was going to use if for. After shrugging off the question, it had only taken him a few short minutes to run home and squirt the toothpaste tube of putty into his hole beneath the sink.
It didn't help.
The flies kept coming. They didn't come from under the sink anymore, but they found a way out. That's when Finger started to realize he had an epidemic on his hands, not just a few flies under the sink. After the putty was in place the flies started working thier way out from between the wall and the molding at the base of the wall, behind the couch.
When he saw this Finger walked out around to the side of the aparment. He got on his hands and knees and started looking for a hole or a crack that would be letting flies through. There wasn't one, there was just a long brick wall that bordered his aparmtne.
It was about this time that he started noticing the possums. It was his daily ritual after that first week to spray the Raid Flying Insect killer along the edges of his apartment each morning and then picking the flies up with a paper towel, but there had been too many to do that. He was used to vacuuming once a week, but after not picking up the corpses for a few days, the apartment was becoming unlivable. Not wanting to haul out the dragon of a vacuum everyday he just started leaving it in the middle of the floor. He emptied the canister each day. The flies would tumble out, into the trash and out would fly the possums. How they were surviving both the Raid plus the ride in the vacuum was beyond him. He decided to up the dosage.
He kept spraying the edges of his apartment with Raid, but then before vacuuming he sprayed up the tube of the vacuum, generously coating the inside. The transperant canister was sopping at time as it sucked the raid up. He would go around and suck up the dead flies which were growing in number each day and watch them zip into the canister and get soggy from the Raid inside. No more possums. Every now and then he might miss one, and then he would be able to watch the fly inside the canister buzz around and become like the kamikaze's, bouncing off of the insides of the cannister.
This worked well. The kamikaze's died quickly when the hit the baseboard of the window, or the window itself, both of which were sprayed liberally each morning, and the possums were sucked up and killed in the vacuums killing jar he created. The problem was that the flies didn't stop coming and the mutants showed up.
He called the super. He tried to explain what was happening and the super tried to understand, but it probably wasn't something he was used to hearing, possums, kamikazes, mutants and all.
"You have what?" The super asked.
"Mutant flies."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well remember that rat I had last month?"
"No."
"Well, I called you about a rat last month, and you came in and poisoned it, and you sealed up it's escape route, but I think when you did that you sealed the rat in the wall."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I think that's what's happened. I think the poisoned rat is dead in my wall and the flies are hatching from it."
"Not possible."
"Well, I've tried to figure out where they're coming from and this is really the only answer. I think the poison is mutating the maggots and that's why I have the crazy flies."
"I think you're nuts."
"Pardon?"
"Look, maybe I did come in and take care of a hole beneath your sink, but did you know it's against the law to poison a rat and not leave it some sort of egress. That poison makes rats thirsty, they have to have a way out. That's why I didn't poison it."
"Then what about these flies?" Finger tried again. "They're crazy."
"Tell you what, I'll come down there and spray, and see what else I can do."
"Spray? I've been spraying almost daily."
"Well I don't know what to tell you."
And so Finger had watched as the obese super had lumbered up the stairs to his apartment, grunted as he bent down to look under the sink, made noises as he looked deeper into the cabinet, expressed platitudes about how wrong Finger was about his theory, sprayed a liquid, that smelled diluted, in the same areas that Finger sprayed, and then left with a promise to come check next week. Finger didn't hold out much hope.
But the mutants kept coming, the kamikazees and the possums too. They kept flying out from the baseboards and the cabinets, a seemingly neverending stream of flies. So as a small token of rebellion Finger began piling the flies outside the door to his apartment, hoping that the super would become so embarrassed by the corpses piling up in the hallway that he would have to do something. He didn't. Apparently the super didn't mind fly corpses.
Finger opens the door to his apartment and looks down. There are a couple of mutants squirming on the floor by the door. One or two dead non-mutants, impossible to tell if they are kamikazees or possums are lying nearby. The mutants can be amazingly resilient and motivated. It's atleast 20 feet from the kitchen from whence they emenate to the front door, a marathon course for a non-winged fly. Finger had been seeing them near the door more and more frequently. He guessed there might be a smell, or a little bit of light underneath the wood that attracted them.
Next to him the base board of the window was littered with corpses. Some squirming, some bouncing off of the window, some laying motionless. With hanging shoulder Finger lumbered slowly to the vaccum cleaner in the middle of the room. He looks inside the clear plastic container which he hasn't cleaned out in a few days. Laying at the bottom of the container is a ocean of black dead flies. Finger switched on the vacuum and suddenly the dead flies sprung into horrific movement, swirling and revolving in a destructive and discordant spinning vortex, losing all semblance of individuality, and becoming a mish-mash of grey and black swirls. The low hum and rattle of dust filled the small room uncomfortably.
The Raid can is on the bar by the kitchen. He grabbed the can and the tube attachment that reached like a tail from the vacuum. He sprayed a heavy dose of Raid into the nozzel. He walked toward the window and the front door and started sucking up the flies that he saw, mutant, kamikaze, and possums alike, it made no difference.
He pulled the nozzle toward the kitchen, the vacuum bounched and jounced along behind him like a wayward, tired puppy. There were some corpses on the ground by the sink, writhing slowly on the wood floor. These, Finger knew, were most likely possums waiting, hoping for a chance to escape. He sucked them up quickly. He opened the cabinet below the sink, where he had sprayed liberally that morning, and began to suck the flies up in groups. The nozzle acted like a huge straw, sucking and sipping the flies like draining the last bits of milkshake from a soda fountain glass. The only thing missing, Finger thought, was the deep gutteral sucking sound.
Finger looked in the corners, behind the dishwashing liquid, the garbage sack, and saw no more Flies, dead or otherwise. He stuck the nozzle tip into the small hole in the wall beneath the sink, the portal for the flies birth. It was like a unterus for flies. The nozzle looked like an anteater snout snuffling around hungrily for more flies.
Finger stood up and switched off the vacuum. The fly corpses in the container stoped swirling and settled down to the bottom of the plastic cylinder like silt falling from water. He popped the container from the vacuum and sprayed the inside with a fine mist of Raid. Nothing moved, at least no much. One or two legs kicked or moved almost imperceptibly, but Finger guessed that for the most part they were all dead. Finger walked more swiftly than before, toward the door, opened it and poured the dead flies onto the pile to the right of his door as if he was pouring icing on a cake. He replaced the container in the vacuum and left the vacuum where it was in the middle of the room so he could use it again quickly. He sat down on his couch and lost himself in the TV, sucessfully keeping his quasi-incestual relationship from his mind for another few hours.
7. Willa
The baby was crying. Willa woke up and saw that Miles had moved his bowels in the night.
He was lying in his own filth again. She was surprised that the smell hadn't awakened her like it had before. Was she getting used to it? She wondered. She hoped not. That wasn't something she wanted to get used to. She wanted it to stop. Instead in teh past few weeks it had only gotten worse.
Willa left the room and walked toward Miranda's crying. She too needed to be changed. Willa made quick work of the baby and settled her down to sleep some more. It was only ten to five. Hopefully she would sleep a few more hours.
She went back to her own room and was assualted by the stench. Somehow Miles slept through it.
"So did you, remember?" The voice said to her.
She ignored it and started gently shaking Miles.
"What?" He said harshly.
"I need to make the bed."
"I'm trying to sleep." He said, trying to go back to sleep.
"You messed yourself again."
"What?"
"You..."
"Fuck!" He said loudly.
"Honey, Miranda is trying to sleep." She had found quickly that it was pointless to get mad at him or to yell, he didn't respond to that at all. Whether she was mean or sweet she got the same reaction. Being sweet at the very least kept her own headaches away.
"Fuck her."
"Miles, get up and go change." She tried to sound stern.
"Fuck you." He said back, and didn't move.
"I'm not going to let you just lie there."
"Go to hell."
She sighed loudly as he turned over.
She was too disgusted with her husband, her life, her situation to say anything. What do you say to someone who doesn't have the good sense to get up and clean himself off. She looked at her side of the bed. It was probably clean, she thought. She banished teh thought from her mind and grabbed a blanket from the basket and went back into Miranda's room.
"You can do it?"
"What?" She asked the voice.
"Go get the iron, or the skillet."
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I'm not going to kill him."
"Why not?"
"They'd catch me and then who would take care of Miranda. Then what would my family think. It'd be better just to leave."
The voice was quiet. Willa stood in her living room watiting patiently. She knew why the voice was quiet. What she had just said was sinking in. It wasn't wrong to kill Miles, it was just not practical. Is that what she really thought?
"I told you so."
"I'm not going to kill him."
"You could make it look like an accident."
"With a skillet." She wanted to scream.
"No one would blame you."
"They may not blame me, but they would certainly convict me."
"It wouldn't be hard to make it look like an accident."
"No."
The voice went away, but not for long.
"How?" She asked the voice.
"Smother him with a pillow."
"Too easy to figure that out. Even I know that." Willa said thinking about the TV crime show she saw a few weeks ago that dealt with that same issue. She remembered it well because it was the first time she realized that she was watching these shows with a critical eye to use one of the murders herself. She had been horrified, but also even more intrigued. How many other people in the world to watch these shows to get some help on planning a murder. It wasn't the first time she had substituted her situation into the show, like some sort of perverse analogy of her own life, but it was the first time she caught herself doing it. It was the start of a slew of nights that found her doing the same thing.
"Rinse the floor of the shower with bleach before he gets in." Willa though she could feel the slippery senstaion of bleach on her hand as the voice said it.
"It will still be there when the police show up, traces of it anyway. What do I tell them, I forgot to rinse the tub I was cleaning at four in the morning?"
"He doesn't take his pills, make sure he looses them before the next day you go out, don't come home for a while, he'll have gone mad, with pain and frustration by the time you get home."
Willa didn't say anything.
She walked on towards Miranda's room.
Miranda was asleep, her mouth barely open, her small pants of breathing rasping through her nose and mouth in rythm with the beats of her chest. She was beautiful,Willa thought not for the first time that day. How could something so beautfiul come from two such horrible. people.
8. Daylo
"Are you doing anything tonight?"
"What?" Denitra said. She would have sounded surprised expect that she was losing her breath quickly.
"Are you busy tonight?" He said again.
She didn't answer. He gave her a stride or two to catch her breath and respond but she didn't. They were running on the straight on the far side of the park. There weren't many other runners just the two of them, and one or two others behind them that they had passed as they sprinted. Danitra was holding close to him, but she always started to fall back at this point in the sprint. They had started training for the Thanksgiving Fall Run in Denver and so augmented their runs with a 5K spint on Tuesdays. Daylo was making it in the seventeen fifties, Dantra usually fell away from his pace at the two and a quarter mark and finished in the low eighteens.
"Hey didn't you hear me?"
"Yeah." She huffed back between breaths.
"Well."
"Can't we discuss this later?" She tried.
"Tell you what, winner buys."
"What?" She was brething so hard she didn't get the whole word out.
"You break your record you pick the place and I buy, I get a PB and you buy, deal?"
"Whatever." She said still trying to keep her breathing steady.
Daylo lengthened his stride and tried to steady his breathing which was on the verge of becoming labored after all of the talking. His feet hit the ground lightly. He focused on the path ahead, there was only about a half mile left. He felt Danitra falling away behind him, and felt the idea of her and his offer forming in his head. He wiped it away quickly using the run like a windshield wiper. His legs pumping rhythmically, he wanted to concentrate on nothing but the run and forced himself to worry about Dantira later. "Worry about each thing as it occurs and then worry about nothing else." His grandfthar at said to him a million or more times, and Daylo was used to calling up that mantra to help him concentrate through his daily activities.
He felt the need to glance back to see if Danitra was still there, but stopped himself. She was back there somewhere, probably closer than usual, maybe further, most likely mad that she was not winning just like Daylo would have been if someone he had been running with had just lengthened their stride, started calming their breathing and taken off like a race horse in the final few furlongs.
He rounded the corner at the end of the straight, the last turn before the finish line by the water fountain. The finish line where he had first met Danitra, the finish line where Paully was probably still waiting tied up by the bulletin board with the note attached to her saying "I'm not lost, nor am I abandoned. My owners will be back soon to take me for a run." She would never have been able to keep up, so Daylo left her until the sprint was over and then took her for a cool down jog after the spint. He looked up and saw the orange fur hanging from Paully loosely like a gown. She had seen him. Her tail was wagging excitely. She was always Daylos own personal cheering section.
His lungs were begingin to hurt, burn with the pressure of his sprint. His knees too were starting to hurt. the pounding on the path was beginging to tell. He tried to concentrate on his form. He tried to maintain a straight back, he tried to keep his head up, he tried to focus on his arms and make sure they pumped up and down, adding to, not taking away from his power and speed.
How much longer he wondered. How much longer could he keep it up. How much longer till the end. Less than a hundred meters now. More than fifty. It will be fifty in a few more seconds. How far back is she? Should I look at my watch or will that just depress me. Nothing to do but to drive on, keep going, hope you do it.
He stepped acoss the imaginary line that ran across the path, bisecting the water fountatin. Paully was jumpig wildly against the leash staring at Daylo, close to barking, but so well trained, like a soldier, knowing that barking would bring a series of unitended consequences on her.
17:56. Not a personal best, not even close. His shoulders sunk.
What happens if I don't get a personal best and neither does she? He wondered. I never thought of that. Will she still feel compelled to go out with me? Maybe she didn't want to go out with me at all.
The questions and fears that he had kept hidden during the last part of his run came flooding as if a pipe had burst from holding too much pressure.
Danitra was really moving. Her arms were swinging and her head was down in a inclination of complete and total determination. Did she hope to make it, or was she only trying to put on a good show for him? Had she already seen the loop hole that he just saw? Was she trying to exploit it or avoid it? He hadn't expected to have to race her for the date. He was hoping she would say "Nothing, want to go do something?" not challenge her to a date. Was it pathetic to have to challenge someone to a date? Is it even more pathetic to challenge someone for a date and then lose that challenge to them?
He looked down at his watch when she was only a few steps away. Their eyes had just locked. He could see the question in them. She was hoping to get a new record for herself. She was looking to him for his strength. He glanced at the watch. She could do it. She still had three seconds. He looked up pleadingly, with a smile that showed his anticipation for her to make it.
18:13.
She slowed down quickly, her arms flapping like a huge albatoss laning in an attempt to pump air into her lungs. She settled like a crashed airplane, in the grass near pauly, on her back her chest plunging down and then arching up almost in a spasm. Daylo walked toward her slowly, watching her chest rise and fall, noticing her legs and the tired muscles beneath the skin, and realized how much he wanted to spend more time with her.
"You made it." He said bending over her, looking her in the face.
"How …." She struggled to breath. "How much."
"You beat it by one second."
"What about you?" She asked as she reached out a hand to pet Pually.
"I didn't make it, four seconds shy." He explained.
"Ohh." She said sounding genuinely disappointed for him.
"Man." He said, sitting down next to her.
"What?"
"You must really want to go out with me."
She smiled expansively and turned over toward him.
"Yep", she said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which was as surpiseing to him as a atomic bomb would have been.
"What was all that about?" He said quickly.
"Well, that way you don't have to worry about it at the end of the date you're taking me on tonight."
9. Mica
"Hello, is this Robert?"
"Yep."
"Hi, Robert, this is Christine. I'm calling on behalf of "Half Price Flowers," and I was hoping you would do me favor."
"Who are you with?"
"I'm with "Half Price Flowers," and were running a promotional that has….
"No, that's alright, I'm really not interested."
"Well, if you'd just let me explain, there is absolutely no strings attached, nothing that you have to do."
"No, that's allright."
"It's just free flowers, a dozen long stem red roses, delievered to whomever you want, no strings attached."
"But what I have to give you my credit card number?"
"Nope, like I said this is completely free to you."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm hoping that after I send these flowers to whoever you decided to send them to, that they will be so happy they'll use my business the next time they want flowers."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Not a thing, all you have to do is give me a name and address of the person you want to send them to."
"No credit card, no contract, nothing?"
"Nope."
"Well, okay, I guess that sounds fine, what do I have to do."
"Let's see, I'm going to need a name first and then a short greeting for these dozen long stem red roses. We'll deal with the address and stuff in a minute."
"Okay, could you make it out to Penny."
"Penny?"
"Yeah, and tell her I can't wait to see you again."
"Okay?"
Mica couldn't listen any longer. "Who the hell is Penny?"
"What?"
"Hey Robert, this is Chris, and you've been talking to Christine from the Chirs and Chris Morning show on 95.8 the Wind. That voice you just heard is your girlfriend Mica and I think she and all of our listeners want to know who Penny is."
"Yeah, who is Penny?"
"Mica?"
"Yes."
"Hey Robert, who is Penny." Chirs said again.
"Wait, wait, wait." Robert struggled. "I'm on the radio."
"Yep, I'm sorry I had to fool you Robert, but Mica called us because she was wondering whether or not you still loved her so we made you the subject of our weekly segment called Roses from the Wind." Christine intoned effortlessly.
"Mica who?"
"Mica you're girlfriend." Chirs chimed in.
"I don't know anyone named Mica."
"What?" Mica yelled into the phone.
"Come on Robert, that never works." Chris said. "It's always better just to fess up and get it over with, like a band-aid."
"No seriously, I don't know anyone name Mica."
"What are you saying Robert?" Mica said with tears welling up in her voice.
"Robert are you serious, you don't know Mica?" Christine said.
"This is really, low Robert." Chris said.
"No, no, maybe this is a mistake."
"He's trying to buy time Chirstine. We've seen this before." Chris said.
"Are you Robert," Christine said directly to Robert. "Are you just buying time."
"Look, I'm still trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, but I'm pretty damn sure that I don't know any Mica, and I sure don't have a girlfriend named Mica."
"Robert it's me."
"Who?"
"Mica?"
Chris broke in, "You mean you don't know Mica. She says that you two were dating for the last six months."
"Yeah, she says that you met at the Coffee Bar and have been going out." Christine added.
"Robert." Mica said dolefully.
"Look, I don't have a girlfriend named….."
"Robert it's me Mica, I always got a tall Mochacino, blonde hair,…."
"Mica?"
"Yes, Robert, its' me."
"Mica, what are you doing?"
"So you do know her." Chris said resignedly.
"Yeah, but were not,…..well were not dating." Robert said.
"She isn't your girlfriend?" Christine said.
"Well, no." Robert stammered. "Well, I mean we did go out once, and I saw her at the coffee shop a lot, but we never went out."
"Robert, that's not true." Mica pleaded.
"Wait a minute." Christine broke in. "Let me get this straight, how many times did you two go out."
"Once." Robert said. Christine remained silent in the background.
"And you saw her…" Christine conitinuied to lead him.
"At the coffee shop, but we…."
Christine cut him off. "The coffee shop were you work?"
"Right, but we only went out once."
"Once?" Chris said with obvious doubt in his voice. "We've seen situations like this before man, you know where the guy tries to pretend to be ignorant on the radio, it's not the right thing to do man."
"No," Robert pleaded. "I'm serious, we went out once, and well, you know…..we had a good time and all, but that was it, and that was over six months ago."
"And you haven't been out since then." Chris said.
"No."
"Except seeing her in the coffee shop." Christine tried.
"No." Robert answered sounding tired.
"Did you lead her on man?" Chris said.
"No….well, I mean, I always try to be nice to her."
"Maybe leading her on, trying to keep her around just incase." Chris said.
Christine stopped him. "Well, it doesn't matter, they weren't as close as we thought."
"And not as close as Mica thought either." Chris mumbled.
"Regardless," Christine said. "This has just been a major misunderstanding." She paused, perhaps for the listeners. "We're sorry Robert, we didn't mean to accuse you of anything."
"No, no, it's okay, I'm sorry it was all so screwed up." Robert said.
"But Robert." Mica finally spoke up, feeling lost.
"Uhh, Producer Bill, would you maybe uh…"
"Yeah, I'll take care of it." Mica phone was taken off the air.
Mica looked at the radio. Tears were streaming down her face. She hadn't meant to listen to it. Infact she had told herself that the last thing she should do is listen to her call to the radio station, but she found herself listening to it anyway. She looked up. The road wasn't moving. Her car was pulled over to the side of the road. She didn't remember tpulling the car to the side but she must have. She tried valiantly to probe her mind for that moment when she had pulled over.
Why had she placed the call to the radio station last week. She should have just accepted whatever Robert was doing and not forced him into a corner like that. Now everyone in the town would think she was crazy. She knew they were going to play the telephone call today, even though it had been taped last week. Why did she listen to it, why hadn't she just turned off the radio like she had planned. It was worse, so much worse having the problem back in the fore front of her mind than her own personal problem.
Her phone broke into her thoughts.
"Mica?" Jessica said.
"Yeah." Mica replied trying to sound lighthearted.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Was that you on the radio?"
"What?" Mica said trying to sound ignorant, wishing she still was.
"The radio?"
"What are you talking about?" Mica wiped her eyes.
"Nothing." Jessica said. "Where are you?"
"Just heading home."
"I thought we could go out and get some drinks."
"No, that's allright, I'm super busy." Mica said.
"Well, I'm picking you up in thirty minutes anyway."
"I won't be there?"
"You better girl, cause I need someone to drink with me." She hung up quickly not allowing Mica the chance to continue the argument.
Mica closed the phone slowly and wiped the tears from her eyes. She sniffled her nose and looke din the rearview mirror, and pulled into traffic heading home.
10. Finger
"I think we should stop."
"No." She said.
"Really, I'm stopping."
"No you're not."
"I'm not kidding Mary."
"Neither am I."
Finger looked around him. His family was slowly milling around his aunts living room looking at different things, discussing different issues, doing things that families usually do around Thanksgiving.
"Look Mary, what we're doing is wrong."
"I know that."
"Keep your voice down."
"What you think anyone is going to figure out we're fucking cause I said "I know that?" Don't be ridiculous."
Finger's face was bright red. Had anyone heard her say the f-word? Didn't the noise and conversations in the room stop when she said it? Had everyone just started looking at them? He was afraid to turn around.
"They didn't hear anything, idiot."
"Don't call me an idiot." He said.
"Then stop acting like one."
"Whatever." He said cause he had no more arguments. He turned and made his way alone toward the bar where Uncle Mike was making drinks. He was big, not fat, but big. He was wearing a knit shirt, not a button down oxford like all of the other men in the family were wearing but a knit shirt. He usually did that. Finger guessed he liked to show off his physique. Mary hated the way her father always wore shirts that were tight around his chest and almost ripped around his biceps.
"What can I get you?"
"I guess a wine, Uncle Mike." Finger replied.
"You know, we haven't talked in a while." His uncle said as he turned to get a bottle of red wine. "How have you been."
"Fine I guess."
"Whoops, were all out." His uncle said, pouring the dregs from the red wine into the glass on the bar. Finger watched as little specks of red, darker than the wine, swirled dismayingly in the liquid and finally settled on the bottom of the glass.
"Give me a second, I'll open a new one." He said.
Finger looked at the glass. What kind of idiot doesn't know that the dregs aren't suppossed to be given to guests? he wondered, with a vehemence toward his Uncle that he had been hosting for many years. The idiot doesn't even know that he poured a merlot and he's opening a Cabernet.
"Heard from you father?" Uncle Mike always asked this. He was an inlaw and hated Finger's dad as much as anyone else in the town who had followed his political career. He always asked this, Finger figured, to get under his skin.
"Nope." Finger said, watching as Uncle Mike's beefy hand grasped the bottle of red wine and started to screw the cork screw, his hamsized fists working together efficiently and effortlessly like a machine.
"Here you go?" Uncle Mike said pouring the cabernet ontop of the merlot, making the flecks in the glass swirl confusedly in the bottom of the glass.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Finger turned before his uncle could ask him something else. After asking about his father, he usually liked to talk about golf, or the absence of a girl in Finger's life, neither topics that Finger wanted to discuss. Uncle Mike was the kind of person who believed in himself even to the point that it became absurd. According to him, and depending on the time of the year, BJ Singh was the best golfer in the country becasue he could putt so well. The next month BJ was out the window, and Tiger was the "pentulitmate golfer this country has ever seen." The next year it would be a return to the old and the "There was never anyone as good as the Golden Bear." It wouldn't have been so bad, infact he would have been like any other highly polarized and opinionated person in teh world except for hte fact that he tried to justify himself so loftily and with so many different footnotes. Finger had started to discover that Uncle Mikes current beliefs coincided with the newest or most popular best selling books on whatever subject he would talk about.
Mary was over by the kitchen island talking to their grandmother in a lacadasical yet engaging way. How could she sit there and be so non-chalant about what was going on. He hadn't expected to have to argue his point. No, that wasn't true. He realized he had been telling her no for many weeks now, and each time she had argued him out of the idea of quitting the relationship. If anything the more he protested the more degenerative she had become. He had showed up one afternoon just to call the relationship off. She hadn't called him over like she usually had, and when he showed up she was still in bed with her boyfriend, thankfully he was asleep, or passed out. She hadn't let him call it off, instead she had led him down to the car where she insisted that the have sex.
"No, I didn't even bring any protection." This had been his stop gap measure to ensure he didn't get wrangled into bed with her again. The mere idea of sex with her directly after she had just had sex with her boyfriend was appalling to him. The word sloppy seconds flashed through his mind. But she hadn't cared, and seemed instead to revel in teh depravity of making love to him without a condom. Each time she was worse than the time before.
He looked at her. She looked fresh and charming wearing a fall colored ensemble. Her tiny waist, thin figure and pert chest. How could someone who could look so delightfully innocent be so incredibly fucked up in the head. Fingers mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. Where before, before he had been intimate with cousin, he had looked at her in good regards, with admiration and reverence. Now he couldn't think of anything but how much she disgusted him.
She looked over at Finger and saw him considering him. He watched as she terminated the conversation and suantered over to him.
"And just what are you looking at?" She said with a twinkle in her eye that used to enthrall Finger, but now only disgusted him. "Were you checking me out?"
"No."
"Sure you were?"
"No."
"Come on." she said walking toward the stairs. "I want to show you something in my old bedroom upstairs." she whispered.
"No."
"You don't want to come?"
Finger could only shake his head.
"I'll let you do whatever you want." She whispered in his ear."
"No." He said slowly.
"I know how you feel." She said looking directly at Finger. "I know you think I'm disgusting and gross. And you know that feeling you have, that feeling deep in the pit of your stomach that turns and turns like a worm, the one that make you think I am worst than disgusting, something you can't even name?"
She paused. Finger looked at her not sure what she was trying to say.
"Look around you, that's the way everyone in this room will feel about you if you don't come upstairs with me know. I have more leverage against you than you know, and I can make it look real bad for you. I can make what we do look like it's all your fault. Next time you come over I'll show you the collection of pictures I have of you."
Finger was no longer looking at her. He was looking at the swirling flecks in his glass, trying to keep his watering eyes from showing.
"Come on." Mary said and slowly, quietly, grabbed Finger's hand and led him upstairs.

11. Willa
Willa held her