Wait, wait. Things have changed, yet again.
This blog is now referred to as
(cue fanfare)
THE OLDER BURNING PARTY
The new blog
(which is located here)
is now
MERRY BURNING PARTY
The web addresses for these are easy to remember:
olderburningparty.blogspot.com is for the...you guessed it, the older blog, which you are currently viewing
while
merryburningparty.blogspot.com has become my NEW blog.
I switched the names, that's all, and I switched the addresses to go with it; streamlining and all that stuff. All the cool kids are doing it.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hitting The Fan
New blog:
Don't worry, I have a link.
Wait, you want it? Are you sure?
It's not any good, I promise. Are you sure? Positive? Are you sure that you're sure? Are you sure that you're sure that you're sure?
I can go on like this for a while.
www.neonhighlighter.blogspot.com
Don't worry, I have a link.
Wait, you want it? Are you sure?
It's not any good, I promise. Are you sure? Positive? Are you sure that you're sure? Are you sure that you're sure that you're sure?
I can go on like this for a while.
www.neonhighlighter.blogspot.com
Monday, March 30, 2009
Things Brought In With The Tide
He stood on the beach and watched the waves drag filth onto the shore.
He’d left his sunglasses in the car and had to rely on an old St. Louis baseball cap to shield his eyes. It didn’t work very well. He squinted into the sunset and tried to ignore the waves lapping at his toes and wetting the bottoms of his jeans. He’d been here for some time, long after everyone else had left. He hadn’t yet found a reason to leave. The water was cold and made him shiver.
Seaweed lay in intricate patterns along the wet sand, sometimes accented by the smooth, pale limbs of deserted driftwood. He saw trash in places. It was comforting, to him, to think that so many things loose and lost at sea could be returned by something as precise and mechanical as the tide. It was chance aided by structure. It made sense. It showed him that there was still some kind of order to things.
He turned his head and saw his shadow stretched out long behind him, cast onto the dunes and hardy reeds that grew there. He didn’t see much else. This beach was quiet and very much alone.
He knelt and lifted a shell out of the sand, turned it over in his hands, felt the grit rough upon his fingers. The shell was almost blue and little patterns ran across it, patterns that looked like waves seen from a plane flying above the ocean. He threw the shell out to sea. After a time, it too would be returned to the shore, perhaps whole, perhaps as grains of fine blue sand.
He’d been here long enough. Standing back from the encroaching waves, he walked up the beach, the sun at his back, his shadow now before him and disfigured against the sloping dunes. He found the path again with little effort; it wasn’t too dark, yet.
He stopped when he reached the parking lot. She sat on the hood of his car, Indian style, leaning against the front pane. The rest of the lot was empty. She was the only other person there.
“Hey, Harrison,” she said. She extended her legs and slid off the car before standing by the driver’s door, her left arm at her side, her right one across her stomach to hold the other at the elbow. Her hair was in a ponytail and her face was red from the sun. She had put her other clothes on over her bathing suit.
He didn’t respond, at first, because she wasn’t supposed to be there. He stood where the sandy path met the concrete of the parking lot, running things over in his mind, thinking but not really thinking at all. If he listened closely he could hear waves on the shore. If he turned around, it would take him only a few seconds to run into the water, and then he could swim out as far as he was able, swim until he was loose and lost in the middle of the ocean with nothing to do but be caught in the tugging of a tide that would eventually carry him back to shore.
She shifted on her feet and hugged both arms to her chest. He looked at her, his eyes still squinted, though whether from the hours spent on the shore or the gradually falling darkness he didn’t know. He realized his hands were in his pockets, and that made him notice the chill in the air. A breeze blew up off the shore and he saw her shiver.
There was nothing for him to say. He walked to her and put his arms around her, held her close, rested his chin on her head as her arms hooked together around his back. They stood like that as the sun disappeared into the ocean and the waves continued to return the things that had been lost at sea.
He’d left his sunglasses in the car and had to rely on an old St. Louis baseball cap to shield his eyes. It didn’t work very well. He squinted into the sunset and tried to ignore the waves lapping at his toes and wetting the bottoms of his jeans. He’d been here for some time, long after everyone else had left. He hadn’t yet found a reason to leave. The water was cold and made him shiver.
Seaweed lay in intricate patterns along the wet sand, sometimes accented by the smooth, pale limbs of deserted driftwood. He saw trash in places. It was comforting, to him, to think that so many things loose and lost at sea could be returned by something as precise and mechanical as the tide. It was chance aided by structure. It made sense. It showed him that there was still some kind of order to things.
He turned his head and saw his shadow stretched out long behind him, cast onto the dunes and hardy reeds that grew there. He didn’t see much else. This beach was quiet and very much alone.
He knelt and lifted a shell out of the sand, turned it over in his hands, felt the grit rough upon his fingers. The shell was almost blue and little patterns ran across it, patterns that looked like waves seen from a plane flying above the ocean. He threw the shell out to sea. After a time, it too would be returned to the shore, perhaps whole, perhaps as grains of fine blue sand.
He’d been here long enough. Standing back from the encroaching waves, he walked up the beach, the sun at his back, his shadow now before him and disfigured against the sloping dunes. He found the path again with little effort; it wasn’t too dark, yet.
He stopped when he reached the parking lot. She sat on the hood of his car, Indian style, leaning against the front pane. The rest of the lot was empty. She was the only other person there.
“Hey, Harrison,” she said. She extended her legs and slid off the car before standing by the driver’s door, her left arm at her side, her right one across her stomach to hold the other at the elbow. Her hair was in a ponytail and her face was red from the sun. She had put her other clothes on over her bathing suit.
He didn’t respond, at first, because she wasn’t supposed to be there. He stood where the sandy path met the concrete of the parking lot, running things over in his mind, thinking but not really thinking at all. If he listened closely he could hear waves on the shore. If he turned around, it would take him only a few seconds to run into the water, and then he could swim out as far as he was able, swim until he was loose and lost in the middle of the ocean with nothing to do but be caught in the tugging of a tide that would eventually carry him back to shore.
She shifted on her feet and hugged both arms to her chest. He looked at her, his eyes still squinted, though whether from the hours spent on the shore or the gradually falling darkness he didn’t know. He realized his hands were in his pockets, and that made him notice the chill in the air. A breeze blew up off the shore and he saw her shiver.
There was nothing for him to say. He walked to her and put his arms around her, held her close, rested his chin on her head as her arms hooked together around his back. They stood like that as the sun disappeared into the ocean and the waves continued to return the things that had been lost at sea.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Expectation
I'm open to other title suggestions; I threw "Expectation" on it just so there would actually be one.
Let me know what you think about the piece.
Expectation
I have my hands around Halle’s waist and she is kissing me, hard. We are standing in her room and I’m not thinking or rationalizing or processing. I haven’t been drinking—I’ve hardly touched a drink since Jacob’s party a while ago when he had drunk too much and spent most of the night passed out half-naked on his own floor as everyone else danced to alcohol and music.
Halle bites my lip and my heart jumps as my hands clench on her back and in her hair. Her hair is thick and smells wonderful, and if I were artistic I’d describe it like a field of auburn flowers or something creative like that, but the words are lost on me and I’m not thinking straight.
She sighs, moans, sets my nerves on fire, and I cup her face in my hands and kiss her harder. She fills my head and my thoughts and though my eyes are closed I see her face perfectly, her gem-flecked eyes and slender nose. My leg presses against her bed and I lean us onto it.
Her hands slide underneath my shirt and ease it off my body, nails digging lightly into my skin as shivers dance down my sides. I pull her shirt up and off, and as it hides her face I kiss her neck and run my hands across her chest to the straps of her bra, gently tugging the material off her shoulders. She tosses her head and sighs again as I kiss her ear and then her shoulder. Her skin is soft and fragrant and glowing in the window-fractured moonlight.
I reach my arms behind her and wrestle with the clasp of her bra, and before I have it she pushes me to the side and onto my back and straddles my waist. She pulls her hair out of her face and gives me a stare that brings all the blood rushing from my head to my crotch. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, Halle reaches her arms to her back and unclasps her bra, tossing it to the floor as a slow, sly smile slides to her lips. Her breasts are full and round and beautiful and I gasp as she drags her hands down my chest to my waist, undoing my belt. She leans forward and kisses me again as her hands unzip my pants and slide into my clothes.
***
Jacob’s house was a wild mess of people. I stood by the fridge and laughed to myself as Jacob all but jumped up and down next to me.
“Dude, look at how many people are here!” he choked. “This is unbelievable! This is insane! This is the best fucking party I’ve ever thrown—Jesus Christ, holy shit, knock me over and fuck me—I can’t believe this!” A girl was standing on a table behind Jacob, her shirt magicked away by the real-world alchemy of 80-proof vodka and masculine attention.
I nodded and sipped my beer. “Yeah, Jake. You nailed this one.” I patted him on the back and started to navigate toward the couches.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing my sleeve. “You’re not going to toast me on this one? C’mon!”
I rolled my eyes and lifted my bottle, and then grabbed another out of the cooler. “Now, Jake, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a talk with the pretty young lady who, for some reason, is by herself on the couch.” I grinned.
Jacob followed my gaze and slapped me on the back. “Fucking get that, man! I don’t know her name; she’s friends of a friend, or something. God, there are so many fucking people here!” Jacob stumbled back into the kitchen, yelling about parties and getting fucking-shit-faced-wasted.
I hadn’t completely realized how full his house was—sometimes I’d forget just how many goddamn friends we had. Nodding to those I knew as I squirmed through the crowd, I forced my way to the couch. Why the fuck isn’t this girl with someone, I thought as I got closer. My eyes and a few beers hadn’t deceived me: she was as attractive from four feet away as she was from across the room. I suppose that would make sense. What’s it called when a girl is ugly up close? Is there a term for that?
“Hey,” I said, sitting down next to her. She turned and smiled. “Want a beer? This is my best friend’s house, his party and all. Thought I’d make the rounds and say hello. I don’t think we’ve met, my name’s Trey.” I stuck out my hand, realized I still had the beer that I was offering her clutched in it, and set it next to her.
“Thanks,” she said, snagging the bottle and twisting off the cap. “Hell of a party.” Her eyes were blue, her lips red.
“So, who’d you come here with?” I asked.
“Some friends from class. My best friend knows Jacob, your friend. She left a bit ago with a guy—” she waved her hand dismissively “—and my other friends are somewhere out there.” She paused as the song changed and the living room cheered in approval. Her skirt was short and rode up her legs. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
I’ll have this in a few minutes, I thought.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it, her eyes visibly sizing me up. “Thanks for the beer. I saw you looking at me earlier and wondered if you were coming over.” She put a hand on my leg, lightly. “Wanna get out of here?”
Or now.
“Absolutely.” I stood and drained my bottle, and she followed as I navigated the crowd. I looked for Jacob as we approached the door. He was standing on the table with the dancing girl, two cups clutched in his hands, and, seeing me, crowed something unintelligible, chugged one of the cups, and pointed. The group of people standing around him cheered and handed him a refill. I waved and slipped out the door.
Within moments she and I were in my car and I was driving too fast, trying to shake off my buzz and maintain conversation during the brief ride to my apartment.
Minutes later we were in my room and her clothes were on the floor and my clothes were thrown about somewhere and I asked her name because I hadn’t caught it before, and she panted, “Morgan, it’s Morgan.” She was the best I’d experienced, and I told her as much in between the second and third time.
I met Halle the next day.
***
I’m looking at Halle and I wonder how I get girls, what draws them to me—God knows I’ve had my fair share of them. I might not be the pinnacle of heartthrob, but I have some charming aspects and apparently adequate good looks, so I won’t complain. I enjoyed high school, and I had too many fun times in college, if that’s even possible. A sense of humor and a dose of confidence obviously get one far in life, or at least into more beds than I can remember.
What does she see in me? I’m an overeager mess when I talk to her, and I have been since we met—my confidence is buried beneath an unfamiliar weight of genuine interest, fascination. She’s beautiful, yes, but so are all the others. Something unique to her has me caught, and I’d be lying if I said it was familiar.
I pull my shirt on, and when my head pops out of the collar Halle is looking at me from the manger of her bed, sheets clinging to her body, outlining her curves and tracing her figure. It’s all cliché, yes, I know it, but she’s beautiful and her covered nakedness illuminates this fact in a way that I never really expected, in a way I had never really noticed with anyone else.
“Leaving so soon?” she asks me, propping her head up with an arm. Her hair frames her face, wraps around it gently, embracing.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’ve got some errands to run and a doctor’s appointment. I needed to stop by the bank, too, at some point. And it’s after noon already. So…yeah.” I smile weakly.
“Okay,” she says. “C’mere, give me a kiss.”
I crawl onto the bed and kiss her, a whispered exchange of breath, and then I pull away and turn to the door, slipping my shoes on as I fumble with the handle. “I’ll call you,” I tell her, and she nods and smiles and then I leave.
***
I dropped Morgan off at her apartment sometime the next morning. As she got out of the car, she handed me a slip of paper with her number, saying, “If you’re ever bored and want to have some fun, give me a call.” She winked and smiled and closed the door and I drove off, crumbling the paper and tossing it in the back. I wasn’t going to call and she knew it, expected it. That’s the way these things went.
I glanced in the rearview mirror as I sat at a red light, saw the dark circles under my eyes, and smiled. Jesus, what a night. My short brown hair was slightly mussed, but I—rather, we—had showered that morning and I suppose I smelled okay. I decided to stop by Jacob’s place to see how he was.
After parking my car on his street, I meandered up to the house, kicking aside beer cans and red and blue cups. Someone’s shirt—male or female, I couldn’t tell—was thrown over the puff of bushes by Jacob’s front door, and trash littered the small porch. The door was unlocked and I walked inside.
Jacob lay on the floor of his kitchen, very much asleep and surrounded by a night’s worth of drunken revelry. I was honestly surprised that his house was still in one piece, let alone that he himself was. Bottles and cups were strewn about, most of them empty. Some kid was collapsed over Jacob’s couch. I wondered who else was in the house.
I toed Jacob in the side. “Hey. Jake. Get up, man.” He snorted and turned over, crumpling cups and soaking his clothes in spilt alcohol. “Jacob! Get up, it’s—” I peered at my watch “—1:30. Let’s go.” I filled a cup with water and trickled it over his face. He sputtered, coughed, sat up.
Looking around wildly for a moment and trying to get his bearings—I’m sure the eye-level view of chair legs had him confused—he finally saw me and blinked his eyes. “Hey. Trey. What—” He coughed. “What time is it?”
“1:30. Party’s been over for a while.” I helped him to his feet and he wavered as he stood.
He rubbed his forehead and blew out a sigh. “Goddamn. That was insane. I think. Things got crazy after you—oh shit! You left! The girl, uh, I don’t know her name, how was that?”
“You can do the math, Jake; c’mon, how long have you known me? I’ll fill you in later.” Reporting sexual conquests was best done when neither party had a headache and when each could think clearly. I’d spill over beers and Madden later, as we had since high school.
“Yeah, alright, keep it to yourself. I’ve got an imagination.” Jacob looked around, rubbed his eyes. “Shit, man, I gotta clean.”
“Yeah, already on it,” I said, grabbing some bottles off the ground. Jacob nodded at me gratefully.
We cleaned for a while—I usually helped him with this crap when he threw a party; that’s what I got for knowing him for eight years. There were four people still in his house, two of whom were alive enough to take their cars and leave. Neither of the other two had driven, and before Jacob could ask, I said I’d take them home. “But the rest of the cleaning is yours,” I reminded him.
Couch Boy, as I thought of him, sat in the front seat as Laundry Room zoned out in the back. The ride to Laundry’s house was quiet except for a few slurred directions and one sudden sputter that “My parents are going to kill me!” I dropped him off and laughed to Couch Boy as a middle-aged woman berated him in the front yard. Couch Boy pointed me to his house; turned out he still lived with his parents, too. Freshman at State, as he told me. Cheaper to live at home than pay for a dorm.
I dropped him off and was halfway down the street when I saw that Couch Boy had left his shoes in the floor of my car. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. I was too nice, sometimes.
After parking haphazardly in the driveway, I grabbed his shoes and paced up to the door, considered leaving them on the step, and rang the doorbell. What the hell.
Couch Boy didn’t open the door and neither did his parents, which a part me of had been hoping would, if just for the sake of general awkwardness. Instead there was a girl, probably my age, and she was beautiful. I blinked, puzzled, because surely this was the wrong house. She stared at me expectantly, eyebrows raised, her finger tapping on the door jam.
“Ah, your brother left his shoes—I think that’s your brother—well, these are his shoes, he left them in my car—brother, right?” I rarely tripped over my words, but this girl had me floored and reorganizing my now-disordered thoughts.
She sighed, turned her head inside. “Eric!” she called. “Come get your shoes! And you better wake up more, you’re taking me home.” Eric/Couch Boy leaned into the room—literally leaned, he couldn’t stand very straight—and took his shoes from my hands.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Halle, I can’t take you, I’m—I’m—” he dropped the shoes to the ground, covered his mouth, and stumbled out of view.
“Fuck,” she muttered, then to me: “Thank you for bringing him home.”
She moved to close the door, but I said, quickly and without really thinking, “Hey, I can take you to your place; I’ve been running people home all morning, it’s not a problem.” Good God, what am I doing.
She paused for a second, frowned, her brown eyes flicked toward the sound of retching coming from a bathroom, and she nodded. “Yeah, sure, that’d be great. Thank you. Hang on a sec.” She walked inside, said something to Eric, grabbed a backpack off a chair in the room by the front door, and stepped outside.
“I’m Trey, by the way,” I said, extending my hand.
“Halle. Eric said you’re nice enough. I almost feel bad—I won’t be able to vouch for him when our parents get home.” Her hand was slim and warm; mine was cold, as it always was, much to my annoyance. Shaking someone’s cold hand was almost always awkward, and I knew that. Strike one.
In the car I asked her questions, not feigning interest, as I would do with other girls, as I had done with…Morgan? the night before. Halle answered them, humoring me, I guess. I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain, and it must have been painfully obvious to her.
She was a senior at State—“I graduated from there last year!”
She danced and occasionally acted—“I swam and wrote for the newspaper.”
She was completing a psychology thesis—“I was Journalism, minored in Film Studies.”
She lived with her best friend in an apartment (“which we’re almost at, thank you again”)—“I lived with my friend Jacob during school, but I’ve got my own place now.”
She laughed at my jokes and asked me questions in return, and when I discovered that she loved music and played guitar, I swallowed my Rules For Getting Women and hastily made up some reason to stop the car, somewhere, anywhere, so that I could talk with her more.
“D’you mind if I stop at a Starbucks before your place? I had a long night and all.” Smooth, Trey, she’ll never pick up on that.
“Yeah, go ahead.” There was a moment of storyboard awkwardness before she continued, twisting a finger through her auburn hair and focusing on something out the window. “That’s actually a good idea. I could go for some coffee.”
***
I’ve been to the bank and I’ve bought groceries, and I’ve dropped them off at my house and now I’m sitting on a giant sheet of waxy paper in the cold room of a doctor’s office. I hate these offices because I hate being cold. The sterile atmosphere doesn’t help much, but in the end it’s the fucking cold. I’ve been sitting here for a while—the nurse has already taken my blood pressure and checked out my ears and everything else; I feel like I’m thirteen again, getting a sports’ physical or check-up, and all that is left is for me to turn my head and cough. What thirteen year old didn’t fantasize about the hot nurse? Drop your shorts, Trey, cough, thank you. Now, take off your clothes. Yes, all of them.
Fortunately, I don’t need to turn my head or cough; no, thank you very much; I’m quite all right. Draw my blood and get me out of here.
They’ve pricked me with needles already and are running their comprehensive drug/sickness/well-being tests while I sit here and freeze. Job interviews require more and more these days, so what the hell, I’ll be ahead of the curve and have all this information handy. Can’t hurt, at least.
I’ve started counting the number of blue items in the room and I’ve reached thirty-six when the door opens and my doctor comes back in, a manila folder in his hands.
I notice immediately that he’s no longer chipper. His fingers tap nervously on the outside of the folder, and his wide brow is furrowed. He sits down in his chair and removes his glasses, runs a hand through his thinning, graying hair. He looks tired, and I wonder how he ever could have appeared energetic and happy all of an hour ago. I lick my lips and my foot shakes.
“Mr. Madison,” he begins, before pausing and placing his glasses back on his nose. “Trey. Ah, I’m afraid I have some hard news. You asked us to screen the full range of tests, and…son, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve tested positive for HIV. The ELISA test picked it up first, and it was confirmed by the Western blot. These are highly accurate tests, and—” He stops and looks at me, genuine regret in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, son.”
He stops talking and I try to register what he has told me, try to imagine him sticking out his tongue and honking his nose, “Just kidding, Trey, it’s a joke!” My breath comes fast and shallow and all I can see in my head is Halle, curled up in her bed, her face pale and lovely, enclosed by twin spills of auburn; I see her and I don’t know what to think or how to act or respond because this must be a joke, some sick and unfunny comedy; it’s not funny and I am not laughing and oh, Halle, please God, no.
“What?” I croak.
The doctor, whose name suddenly comes to me
(Thompson, it’s Thompson)
sets the folder on the small counter and puts his glasses next to them, apparently trying to be more human without them, because at this point that will really make a difference. He stands and moves closer, not so close as to intrude but close enough to tell me that “Hey, I’m here for you,” because at this point that will really make a difference, and suddenly my hands are sweaty and no longer cold.
“Trey, we have counseling for this, and I know it’s a lot to take in, a lot to swallow. Have you been sexually active lately, have you—”
I burst out laughing and I’m sure I sound hysterical because of course I’ve had sex recently, I pride myself on my ability to have sex, I’ve fucked so many people in the last year that oh, Jesus Christ, Halle, I’ve had sex with Halle, more than once, we’ve been together for a month, and then all the other names come pouring back into my brain, names I had purposefully forgotten: Morgan, Katie, Anna, Stephanie, more, too many names. Is this really even such a surprise? I’ve been stupid, God I’m stupid, I could have done this to any of them, any of them could have done this to me, and how do I know? Whose fault is this? Surely this is all a mistake—but no, the doctor is serious and for God’s sake, he took off his glasses, they only do that when they’re reporting someone’s death or telling someone they’re crippled or telling stupid kids that they’re going to have AIDS—
Dr. Thompson puts a hand on my shoulder that I don’t feel because my body is numb, and I rest my head in my hands while sitting on the waxy paper in the cold, sterile office, unable to get Halle’s face out of my mind, and she’s looking at me and she’s beautiful and I can’t figure out what I could possibly say to her because there is nothing I can say, there is nothing at all, what’s done is done and I have done it.
***
Halle and I sat in the Starbucks, sipping coffee as jazz music played over our heads. She was still drinking hers; mine was gone half an hour ago, but I was okay with that. We’d been there for most of two hours, which I found incredible. She seemed genuinely interested in me, intrigued by what I had to say. More incredible was my desire to talk to her, to figure her out.
“You know,” I said, after a lull in the conversation, “You’re an interesting girl. Anyone ever tell you that before?”
She smiled and laughed, said, “Oh, I am, am I? How is that?”
I shook my head. “Something different, I guess. A better conversationalist, for one. You’re different than other girls I’ve met recently.”
“Recently? So you get around a lot?” She raised her eyebrows in amusement, her eyes never leaving mine, carrying an awareness and an intelligence that I knew was picking me apart from the inside out. I felt okay with that, though it startled me to admit it.
“Not too much,” I said. “I mean, well, you know, every once in a while. Nothing serious.” I felt a flush creeping up my neck. Embarrassment? This girl has me tied into knots four different ways.
“Well,” she said. “I’ll just have to watch myself with you then, won’t I? Provided, of course, that you take me out again sometime.”
The last was neither a question nor a statement; she simply said it, perfectly aware of my response before I had time to consider it. She was running two steps ahead of me and I was stumbling behind, probably drunk and missing an eye, trying my best to keep up.
Before I could say anything, she stood and began walking to the door, and I scrambled to my feet. “Hey, you’re not even going to let me respond?” I called, following her out.
She turned around and walked backward toward my car, the late sun suspended in the trees like a ripe orange, a few beams slipping through the branches to rest in her hair.
“You don’t need to,” she said.
And I suppose I didn’t. Halle got in the car and I stood outside for a moment, my door halfway open, and I realized that I didn’t even know her last name, and then I wondered what my realization of that meant, because with the other girls I had never really cared.
I climbed in and she smiled, and I asked her which way to go.
Let me know what you think about the piece.
Expectation
I have my hands around Halle’s waist and she is kissing me, hard. We are standing in her room and I’m not thinking or rationalizing or processing. I haven’t been drinking—I’ve hardly touched a drink since Jacob’s party a while ago when he had drunk too much and spent most of the night passed out half-naked on his own floor as everyone else danced to alcohol and music.
Halle bites my lip and my heart jumps as my hands clench on her back and in her hair. Her hair is thick and smells wonderful, and if I were artistic I’d describe it like a field of auburn flowers or something creative like that, but the words are lost on me and I’m not thinking straight.
She sighs, moans, sets my nerves on fire, and I cup her face in my hands and kiss her harder. She fills my head and my thoughts and though my eyes are closed I see her face perfectly, her gem-flecked eyes and slender nose. My leg presses against her bed and I lean us onto it.
Her hands slide underneath my shirt and ease it off my body, nails digging lightly into my skin as shivers dance down my sides. I pull her shirt up and off, and as it hides her face I kiss her neck and run my hands across her chest to the straps of her bra, gently tugging the material off her shoulders. She tosses her head and sighs again as I kiss her ear and then her shoulder. Her skin is soft and fragrant and glowing in the window-fractured moonlight.
I reach my arms behind her and wrestle with the clasp of her bra, and before I have it she pushes me to the side and onto my back and straddles my waist. She pulls her hair out of her face and gives me a stare that brings all the blood rushing from my head to my crotch. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, Halle reaches her arms to her back and unclasps her bra, tossing it to the floor as a slow, sly smile slides to her lips. Her breasts are full and round and beautiful and I gasp as she drags her hands down my chest to my waist, undoing my belt. She leans forward and kisses me again as her hands unzip my pants and slide into my clothes.
***
Jacob’s house was a wild mess of people. I stood by the fridge and laughed to myself as Jacob all but jumped up and down next to me.
“Dude, look at how many people are here!” he choked. “This is unbelievable! This is insane! This is the best fucking party I’ve ever thrown—Jesus Christ, holy shit, knock me over and fuck me—I can’t believe this!” A girl was standing on a table behind Jacob, her shirt magicked away by the real-world alchemy of 80-proof vodka and masculine attention.
I nodded and sipped my beer. “Yeah, Jake. You nailed this one.” I patted him on the back and started to navigate toward the couches.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing my sleeve. “You’re not going to toast me on this one? C’mon!”
I rolled my eyes and lifted my bottle, and then grabbed another out of the cooler. “Now, Jake, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a talk with the pretty young lady who, for some reason, is by herself on the couch.” I grinned.
Jacob followed my gaze and slapped me on the back. “Fucking get that, man! I don’t know her name; she’s friends of a friend, or something. God, there are so many fucking people here!” Jacob stumbled back into the kitchen, yelling about parties and getting fucking-shit-faced-wasted.
I hadn’t completely realized how full his house was—sometimes I’d forget just how many goddamn friends we had. Nodding to those I knew as I squirmed through the crowd, I forced my way to the couch. Why the fuck isn’t this girl with someone, I thought as I got closer. My eyes and a few beers hadn’t deceived me: she was as attractive from four feet away as she was from across the room. I suppose that would make sense. What’s it called when a girl is ugly up close? Is there a term for that?
“Hey,” I said, sitting down next to her. She turned and smiled. “Want a beer? This is my best friend’s house, his party and all. Thought I’d make the rounds and say hello. I don’t think we’ve met, my name’s Trey.” I stuck out my hand, realized I still had the beer that I was offering her clutched in it, and set it next to her.
“Thanks,” she said, snagging the bottle and twisting off the cap. “Hell of a party.” Her eyes were blue, her lips red.
“So, who’d you come here with?” I asked.
“Some friends from class. My best friend knows Jacob, your friend. She left a bit ago with a guy—” she waved her hand dismissively “—and my other friends are somewhere out there.” She paused as the song changed and the living room cheered in approval. Her skirt was short and rode up her legs. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
I’ll have this in a few minutes, I thought.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it, her eyes visibly sizing me up. “Thanks for the beer. I saw you looking at me earlier and wondered if you were coming over.” She put a hand on my leg, lightly. “Wanna get out of here?”
Or now.
“Absolutely.” I stood and drained my bottle, and she followed as I navigated the crowd. I looked for Jacob as we approached the door. He was standing on the table with the dancing girl, two cups clutched in his hands, and, seeing me, crowed something unintelligible, chugged one of the cups, and pointed. The group of people standing around him cheered and handed him a refill. I waved and slipped out the door.
Within moments she and I were in my car and I was driving too fast, trying to shake off my buzz and maintain conversation during the brief ride to my apartment.
Minutes later we were in my room and her clothes were on the floor and my clothes were thrown about somewhere and I asked her name because I hadn’t caught it before, and she panted, “Morgan, it’s Morgan.” She was the best I’d experienced, and I told her as much in between the second and third time.
I met Halle the next day.
***
I’m looking at Halle and I wonder how I get girls, what draws them to me—God knows I’ve had my fair share of them. I might not be the pinnacle of heartthrob, but I have some charming aspects and apparently adequate good looks, so I won’t complain. I enjoyed high school, and I had too many fun times in college, if that’s even possible. A sense of humor and a dose of confidence obviously get one far in life, or at least into more beds than I can remember.
What does she see in me? I’m an overeager mess when I talk to her, and I have been since we met—my confidence is buried beneath an unfamiliar weight of genuine interest, fascination. She’s beautiful, yes, but so are all the others. Something unique to her has me caught, and I’d be lying if I said it was familiar.
I pull my shirt on, and when my head pops out of the collar Halle is looking at me from the manger of her bed, sheets clinging to her body, outlining her curves and tracing her figure. It’s all cliché, yes, I know it, but she’s beautiful and her covered nakedness illuminates this fact in a way that I never really expected, in a way I had never really noticed with anyone else.
“Leaving so soon?” she asks me, propping her head up with an arm. Her hair frames her face, wraps around it gently, embracing.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’ve got some errands to run and a doctor’s appointment. I needed to stop by the bank, too, at some point. And it’s after noon already. So…yeah.” I smile weakly.
“Okay,” she says. “C’mere, give me a kiss.”
I crawl onto the bed and kiss her, a whispered exchange of breath, and then I pull away and turn to the door, slipping my shoes on as I fumble with the handle. “I’ll call you,” I tell her, and she nods and smiles and then I leave.
***
I dropped Morgan off at her apartment sometime the next morning. As she got out of the car, she handed me a slip of paper with her number, saying, “If you’re ever bored and want to have some fun, give me a call.” She winked and smiled and closed the door and I drove off, crumbling the paper and tossing it in the back. I wasn’t going to call and she knew it, expected it. That’s the way these things went.
I glanced in the rearview mirror as I sat at a red light, saw the dark circles under my eyes, and smiled. Jesus, what a night. My short brown hair was slightly mussed, but I—rather, we—had showered that morning and I suppose I smelled okay. I decided to stop by Jacob’s place to see how he was.
After parking my car on his street, I meandered up to the house, kicking aside beer cans and red and blue cups. Someone’s shirt—male or female, I couldn’t tell—was thrown over the puff of bushes by Jacob’s front door, and trash littered the small porch. The door was unlocked and I walked inside.
Jacob lay on the floor of his kitchen, very much asleep and surrounded by a night’s worth of drunken revelry. I was honestly surprised that his house was still in one piece, let alone that he himself was. Bottles and cups were strewn about, most of them empty. Some kid was collapsed over Jacob’s couch. I wondered who else was in the house.
I toed Jacob in the side. “Hey. Jake. Get up, man.” He snorted and turned over, crumpling cups and soaking his clothes in spilt alcohol. “Jacob! Get up, it’s—” I peered at my watch “—1:30. Let’s go.” I filled a cup with water and trickled it over his face. He sputtered, coughed, sat up.
Looking around wildly for a moment and trying to get his bearings—I’m sure the eye-level view of chair legs had him confused—he finally saw me and blinked his eyes. “Hey. Trey. What—” He coughed. “What time is it?”
“1:30. Party’s been over for a while.” I helped him to his feet and he wavered as he stood.
He rubbed his forehead and blew out a sigh. “Goddamn. That was insane. I think. Things got crazy after you—oh shit! You left! The girl, uh, I don’t know her name, how was that?”
“You can do the math, Jake; c’mon, how long have you known me? I’ll fill you in later.” Reporting sexual conquests was best done when neither party had a headache and when each could think clearly. I’d spill over beers and Madden later, as we had since high school.
“Yeah, alright, keep it to yourself. I’ve got an imagination.” Jacob looked around, rubbed his eyes. “Shit, man, I gotta clean.”
“Yeah, already on it,” I said, grabbing some bottles off the ground. Jacob nodded at me gratefully.
We cleaned for a while—I usually helped him with this crap when he threw a party; that’s what I got for knowing him for eight years. There were four people still in his house, two of whom were alive enough to take their cars and leave. Neither of the other two had driven, and before Jacob could ask, I said I’d take them home. “But the rest of the cleaning is yours,” I reminded him.
Couch Boy, as I thought of him, sat in the front seat as Laundry Room zoned out in the back. The ride to Laundry’s house was quiet except for a few slurred directions and one sudden sputter that “My parents are going to kill me!” I dropped him off and laughed to Couch Boy as a middle-aged woman berated him in the front yard. Couch Boy pointed me to his house; turned out he still lived with his parents, too. Freshman at State, as he told me. Cheaper to live at home than pay for a dorm.
I dropped him off and was halfway down the street when I saw that Couch Boy had left his shoes in the floor of my car. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. I was too nice, sometimes.
After parking haphazardly in the driveway, I grabbed his shoes and paced up to the door, considered leaving them on the step, and rang the doorbell. What the hell.
Couch Boy didn’t open the door and neither did his parents, which a part me of had been hoping would, if just for the sake of general awkwardness. Instead there was a girl, probably my age, and she was beautiful. I blinked, puzzled, because surely this was the wrong house. She stared at me expectantly, eyebrows raised, her finger tapping on the door jam.
“Ah, your brother left his shoes—I think that’s your brother—well, these are his shoes, he left them in my car—brother, right?” I rarely tripped over my words, but this girl had me floored and reorganizing my now-disordered thoughts.
She sighed, turned her head inside. “Eric!” she called. “Come get your shoes! And you better wake up more, you’re taking me home.” Eric/Couch Boy leaned into the room—literally leaned, he couldn’t stand very straight—and took his shoes from my hands.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Halle, I can’t take you, I’m—I’m—” he dropped the shoes to the ground, covered his mouth, and stumbled out of view.
“Fuck,” she muttered, then to me: “Thank you for bringing him home.”
She moved to close the door, but I said, quickly and without really thinking, “Hey, I can take you to your place; I’ve been running people home all morning, it’s not a problem.” Good God, what am I doing.
She paused for a second, frowned, her brown eyes flicked toward the sound of retching coming from a bathroom, and she nodded. “Yeah, sure, that’d be great. Thank you. Hang on a sec.” She walked inside, said something to Eric, grabbed a backpack off a chair in the room by the front door, and stepped outside.
“I’m Trey, by the way,” I said, extending my hand.
“Halle. Eric said you’re nice enough. I almost feel bad—I won’t be able to vouch for him when our parents get home.” Her hand was slim and warm; mine was cold, as it always was, much to my annoyance. Shaking someone’s cold hand was almost always awkward, and I knew that. Strike one.
In the car I asked her questions, not feigning interest, as I would do with other girls, as I had done with…Morgan? the night before. Halle answered them, humoring me, I guess. I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain, and it must have been painfully obvious to her.
She was a senior at State—“I graduated from there last year!”
She danced and occasionally acted—“I swam and wrote for the newspaper.”
She was completing a psychology thesis—“I was Journalism, minored in Film Studies.”
She lived with her best friend in an apartment (“which we’re almost at, thank you again”)—“I lived with my friend Jacob during school, but I’ve got my own place now.”
She laughed at my jokes and asked me questions in return, and when I discovered that she loved music and played guitar, I swallowed my Rules For Getting Women and hastily made up some reason to stop the car, somewhere, anywhere, so that I could talk with her more.
“D’you mind if I stop at a Starbucks before your place? I had a long night and all.” Smooth, Trey, she’ll never pick up on that.
“Yeah, go ahead.” There was a moment of storyboard awkwardness before she continued, twisting a finger through her auburn hair and focusing on something out the window. “That’s actually a good idea. I could go for some coffee.”
***
I’ve been to the bank and I’ve bought groceries, and I’ve dropped them off at my house and now I’m sitting on a giant sheet of waxy paper in the cold room of a doctor’s office. I hate these offices because I hate being cold. The sterile atmosphere doesn’t help much, but in the end it’s the fucking cold. I’ve been sitting here for a while—the nurse has already taken my blood pressure and checked out my ears and everything else; I feel like I’m thirteen again, getting a sports’ physical or check-up, and all that is left is for me to turn my head and cough. What thirteen year old didn’t fantasize about the hot nurse? Drop your shorts, Trey, cough, thank you. Now, take off your clothes. Yes, all of them.
Fortunately, I don’t need to turn my head or cough; no, thank you very much; I’m quite all right. Draw my blood and get me out of here.
They’ve pricked me with needles already and are running their comprehensive drug/sickness/well-being tests while I sit here and freeze. Job interviews require more and more these days, so what the hell, I’ll be ahead of the curve and have all this information handy. Can’t hurt, at least.
I’ve started counting the number of blue items in the room and I’ve reached thirty-six when the door opens and my doctor comes back in, a manila folder in his hands.
I notice immediately that he’s no longer chipper. His fingers tap nervously on the outside of the folder, and his wide brow is furrowed. He sits down in his chair and removes his glasses, runs a hand through his thinning, graying hair. He looks tired, and I wonder how he ever could have appeared energetic and happy all of an hour ago. I lick my lips and my foot shakes.
“Mr. Madison,” he begins, before pausing and placing his glasses back on his nose. “Trey. Ah, I’m afraid I have some hard news. You asked us to screen the full range of tests, and…son, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve tested positive for HIV. The ELISA test picked it up first, and it was confirmed by the Western blot. These are highly accurate tests, and—” He stops and looks at me, genuine regret in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, son.”
He stops talking and I try to register what he has told me, try to imagine him sticking out his tongue and honking his nose, “Just kidding, Trey, it’s a joke!” My breath comes fast and shallow and all I can see in my head is Halle, curled up in her bed, her face pale and lovely, enclosed by twin spills of auburn; I see her and I don’t know what to think or how to act or respond because this must be a joke, some sick and unfunny comedy; it’s not funny and I am not laughing and oh, Halle, please God, no.
“What?” I croak.
The doctor, whose name suddenly comes to me
(Thompson, it’s Thompson)
sets the folder on the small counter and puts his glasses next to them, apparently trying to be more human without them, because at this point that will really make a difference. He stands and moves closer, not so close as to intrude but close enough to tell me that “Hey, I’m here for you,” because at this point that will really make a difference, and suddenly my hands are sweaty and no longer cold.
“Trey, we have counseling for this, and I know it’s a lot to take in, a lot to swallow. Have you been sexually active lately, have you—”
I burst out laughing and I’m sure I sound hysterical because of course I’ve had sex recently, I pride myself on my ability to have sex, I’ve fucked so many people in the last year that oh, Jesus Christ, Halle, I’ve had sex with Halle, more than once, we’ve been together for a month, and then all the other names come pouring back into my brain, names I had purposefully forgotten: Morgan, Katie, Anna, Stephanie, more, too many names. Is this really even such a surprise? I’ve been stupid, God I’m stupid, I could have done this to any of them, any of them could have done this to me, and how do I know? Whose fault is this? Surely this is all a mistake—but no, the doctor is serious and for God’s sake, he took off his glasses, they only do that when they’re reporting someone’s death or telling someone they’re crippled or telling stupid kids that they’re going to have AIDS—
Dr. Thompson puts a hand on my shoulder that I don’t feel because my body is numb, and I rest my head in my hands while sitting on the waxy paper in the cold, sterile office, unable to get Halle’s face out of my mind, and she’s looking at me and she’s beautiful and I can’t figure out what I could possibly say to her because there is nothing I can say, there is nothing at all, what’s done is done and I have done it.
***
Halle and I sat in the Starbucks, sipping coffee as jazz music played over our heads. She was still drinking hers; mine was gone half an hour ago, but I was okay with that. We’d been there for most of two hours, which I found incredible. She seemed genuinely interested in me, intrigued by what I had to say. More incredible was my desire to talk to her, to figure her out.
“You know,” I said, after a lull in the conversation, “You’re an interesting girl. Anyone ever tell you that before?”
She smiled and laughed, said, “Oh, I am, am I? How is that?”
I shook my head. “Something different, I guess. A better conversationalist, for one. You’re different than other girls I’ve met recently.”
“Recently? So you get around a lot?” She raised her eyebrows in amusement, her eyes never leaving mine, carrying an awareness and an intelligence that I knew was picking me apart from the inside out. I felt okay with that, though it startled me to admit it.
“Not too much,” I said. “I mean, well, you know, every once in a while. Nothing serious.” I felt a flush creeping up my neck. Embarrassment? This girl has me tied into knots four different ways.
“Well,” she said. “I’ll just have to watch myself with you then, won’t I? Provided, of course, that you take me out again sometime.”
The last was neither a question nor a statement; she simply said it, perfectly aware of my response before I had time to consider it. She was running two steps ahead of me and I was stumbling behind, probably drunk and missing an eye, trying my best to keep up.
Before I could say anything, she stood and began walking to the door, and I scrambled to my feet. “Hey, you’re not even going to let me respond?” I called, following her out.
She turned around and walked backward toward my car, the late sun suspended in the trees like a ripe orange, a few beams slipping through the branches to rest in her hair.
“You don’t need to,” she said.
And I suppose I didn’t. Halle got in the car and I stood outside for a moment, my door halfway open, and I realized that I didn’t even know her last name, and then I wondered what my realization of that meant, because with the other girls I had never really cared.
I climbed in and she smiled, and I asked her which way to go.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
"Majestic...Heaven" Rewrite
I'd like to come up with a different title. Thoughts?
This version is very different.
UPDATE: Made some additional changes. "Nowhere To Go But Up" for a title?
In the late afternoon, Brandon Abel meandered down the cracked and dirty sidewalk, eyes lingering ahead, hands in the pockets of his worn and faded jeans. The streets were clothed in shade by the towering shapes of the surrounding city. Built so high that they could be seen swaying ever so slightly in the wind, the skyscrapers seemed to disappear into the sky, so tall that there appeared nothing else for them to do but tumble greatly into the earth.
Brandon walked slowly, his eyes passing over the pedestrians and scaling the buildings. He nodded to those who met his gaze, even smiling at some. His youngish face was at ease, although his eyes were distracted. Today was not his favorite day, but it was borne of necessity. Every once in a while he had to crawl out of his admittedly well-furnished hole and make the short jaunt to the office. But at least he was going. There had been days when he’d do all he could to avoid his “real” duties. He’d matured in three years, and the work was no longer a thorn in his side.
Brandon sighed as he reached a cross walk, the large red hand indicating that, yes, it was time to stop. He stood near the front of a large group of people, trying his best to ignore the aimless cell phone chatter and finicky grumbles of the less patient pedestrians. A fat man to Brandon’s right was yelling something nearly indiscernible about lamps and tables into his phone, oddly nimble fingers clutching the small object with a violent grip. A pretty woman to Brandon’s left wrinkled her nose at the man, and Brandon caught her gaze and smiled, rolling his eyes as if to say “How ‘bout this guy?” She leaned closer and whispered something that Brandon didn’t understand. He laughed anyway. Her eyes were blue and striking.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Abel Communications,” Brandon replied.
“The data company? My sister works there. Do you know her? Mary Wallace, tall, dark hair—”
“I probably don’t,” Brandon interrupted, and then, feeling brash, said, “I’m the President, actually.” He extended his hand as her expression grew incredulous.
Eyeing his jeans, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re so…young,” she managed.
Brandon sighed and smiled wryly. “Yeah. So I’ve been told.”
The don’t-walk hand twitched and flashed away, the mass of people shoved forward across the street, and Brandon lost the pretty woman in the crowd.
Sidewalk traffic returned to its steady stream, and Brandon focused again on his walk to work. His thoughts clouded over as he gazed up at the wall of skyscrapers.
I should be writing my screenplay. And there was that agent I still need to call back. But I haven’t been back in a while—I really should be doing more for the company, anyway.
Brandon was in a constant state of give and take. His work duties piled up until he could ignore them no longer, and then he had no choice but to walk to the office. Today wasn’t as bad: he was experiencing a small bout of writer’s block, and he hoped the corporate work would clear his head or provide some sort of inspiration. Brandon had always preferred to sit in his upscale apartment and work on screenplays, something he’d been doing since dropping out of film school three years before, but people could change: three years of handling his father’s duties, no matter how half-heartedly, had worn off on Brandon. His father’s death had been terribly hard, and even harder was the additional news that the two men at the door, vice-president Robert Chandler and another, some anonymous employee, had brought. Robert did the talking, calm, emotionless, reporting the weather, and the other man wrung his hands, the sunlight reflecting oddly off his balding head. Brandon remembered that this man’s tie was very, very green, greener than any sort of money, greener than the April weather—bright, insistent, green. Robert’s delivery of the news blurred in Brandon’s memory.
There’s been an accident, Brandon, terrible tragedy, it seems your father had a fall on the slopes outside of town, motorcycle spun out of control, nothing he could do, nothing we could do, the fall claimed his life, so sorry to say it, Brandon, this is very hard for all of us, your father was a great man. But Brandon, Robert had said, the company is in your control now; it’s what your father wanted. Yes, yes, take some time, we understand, of course—his office is waiting whenever you are ready, yes, such a tragedy, Brian was a great man, nowhere to go but up.
Brandon had stood very still, watching Robert and the balding green-tie man walk down the hallway. His thoughts waded through a thick welling of emotions that bubbled and boiled and fought to overwhelm. My father is dead, my father is dead, my father is dead—it repeated wildly, only interrupted by the sudden realization that his father’s massive company was now resting in his own incapable hands. Brandon Abel, twenty-four and still in grad-school, far too young to be in charge of anything, far too young to handle a business about which he knew nothing. But three years of time changed people.
Brandon neared his building, The Tower, his father’s greatest living achievement. Unlike most other buildings in the city, it had been built circular, its rounded base twisting and climbing upward, narrowing as it reached higher. His father had once likened it to a crystal stalagmite with sharper edges. Shining glass spiraled into the sky, reaching twelve stories taller than the giant 120-story Pagestar Industries structure across the state. Brandon paused in front of the main entrance, craning his neck upward as he did most every morning he came by. The curved structure made for such a beautiful reflection, light bouncing off in hundreds of directions at once, bent and spread through the air. The building appeared fragile, in danger of falling at the slightest breeze. His father had known what he was designing; there was no doubt about that. A part of Brandon felt a distinct pride rising—after all, this building was his, now. Still, he often wondered if it would be his hands, his actions, which would bring an end to the company and cause the great Tower to fall.
“Hello, sir,” a voice spoke up. Brandon shifted his gaze and looked toward the wall of doors beckoning him inside, trying to see around the people streaming in and out. Frowning, Brandon searched for the voice until a familiar, mustached face greeted him with a wave. Chad, one of the doormen. Brandon had known him for years—he’d been working for the company since Brandon was a child.
“Hey, Chad. Nice day out.”
“Surely, sir. Back again, I see? It’s been nearly a week, has it not?”
“Yeah, Chad, that sounds about right. I think they’ve been able to hold down the fort without me, wouldn’t you say?”
“Certainly, sir. Glad to see you’re well. I believe Robert was looking for you—I overheard a conversation he had with one of the board members earlier this morning. Just in case you’d like to know.”
Brandon ran a hand through his hair. What did Robert want? “Thanks, Chad. And watch out next time. I don’t want him coming after you.” Robert Chandler was a ruthless man, and Brian Abel had found him to be the perfect vice-president. The two had never been friends, relying instead on their mutual business interests to keep tensions stable.
“Of course, sir.” He smiled. “A bit of information never hurt anyone.”
“Right. Thanks for the tip.”
“Anytime, sir,” Chad called as Brandon entered The Tower.
Once inside, Brandon paused and looked around the lobby. It was huge. He’d forgotten
just how giant this building really was. Completely modern and expansive, the lobby was an enormous cavern made of polished grey marble, steel, and glass. People bustled about and paid Brandon little heed. He didn’t recognize anyone, but that wasn’t a surprise. The few times he’d visited his father over the years, this place had always left him uneasy—the feeling was almost claustrophobic. Brandon had felt the entire weight of The Tower crushing down on his shoulders, and he’d had no idea how his father dealt with it, dealt with the pressures and the people and the constant business decisions he was faced with everyday.
But now it wasn’t so bad. Brandon walked toward the large employee elevator, flashed his ID at the guard (who nodded smartly, a quick “Good afternoon, Mr. Abel” jumping to his lips), and waited for the large doors to open. The few years he’d spent working here—as sporadic as they were—had done a lot for his confidence, that was clear. There were two Brandon Abels: the young man who yearned to be back at school or writing screenplays, and the older, experienced individual who felt more at home every day in the business climate. Stepping into the elevator, Brandon wondered who he was today.
He disliked this job, but perhaps he no longer hated it. That first year had been rough. As if dealing with his father’s death wasn’t enough, Brandon was expected to know the ropes of running the business. He made an effort to learn for the first few months, but soon his desire faded and he would spend more and more time at home, leaving the day-to-day dealings for Robert Chandler to handle. But with time came experience, and Brandon felt far more comfortable now than he did three years ago, or even last year.
But is this what I want? Am I really ready to take this seriously? There’s nowhere to go but up, his father used to say. We go up until we fall.
Brandon sighed as the elevator reached the top floor, the doors opening slowly. Ah, the office, he thought. Dad always knew how to keep things classy.
The uppermost floor of The Tower was reserved for the company’s top players. It had its own lobby in the center of the floor, a large fountain illuminated in the middle. Rich wooden floors and paneling of dark mahogany shone in the exotic lighting, quite the opposite of most corporate offices. Brandon’s father had a taste for elegance, and he had wanted his best employees to work in luxury. He specified that the offices be placed around the circumference of the floor in order to leave a large open space for the atrium. There was a full-service bar on the level somewhere, too.
Quiet one-sided phone conversations spilled out from office doorways, and meeting rooms bustled with subdued activity. All of the office doors were open save for one, the room directly in front of Brandon. He could just see the door through the spray of the fountain, with “B. Abel” inscribed on a gold plate on the wall. Brandon was fairly certain that the gold was real—it was exactly the sort of thing his father would have liked.
Ignoring the other workers on the floor, Brandon walked back to his office and closed the door. He glanced at the sparse settings of the office before plopping into the leather desk chair. It was obvious he spent little time here. Dad used to have this room filled with stuff, Brandon recalled. Pictures, photos, mugs, paperweights. He collected everything. And I’ve got, well, nothing. Brandon ran a finger down the desktop, tracing a line through the fine layer of dust. When I do come, nothing much seems to happen.
I should call Robert, find out what he’s been planning.
Brandon stood and grabbed the phone out of its cradle, pausing for a moment to glance over the list of numbers he had set up nearly two years ago. His infrequent visits to the office didn’t make for easy memorization. He dialed.
“Robert? Come into my office, please. It’s Brandon. Now, Robert. We need to go over some things.” Brandon settled the phone back into its cradle and sat again in his overlarge chair. Turning to face the wall of windows, he let out a heavy sigh.
The view outside was beyond beautiful, the city basking in the warm glow of the now-setting sun, countless windowed surfaces playing the light into infinite directions. Brian Abel had once joked that he could see into God’s living room. Dad sure positioned his office well, Brandon mused, turning his thoughts over. I don’t really have to be here. Surely Dad would understand. He gave me this position because I’m the family, I’m his son; mom died years ago and I’m all there was. Do I still owe it to him to stay?
Then Brandon thought about the actual work he had done, how he had avoided what he could. Is this what Dad had intended? His father had worked impossible hours and had literally built the company from the ground up. He had encouraged Brandon to get whatever degree he wanted from college, but Brandon imagined that Brian Abel always pictured his son inheriting his position. And fate made that happen.
Nothing said Brandon couldn’t continue writing and manage the company simultaneously. He didn’t have to be his father and maintain constant hands-on involvement, but he could do more. Brandon snatched a pen off the desk and twirled it absently through his fingers. Robert would probably appreciate more involvement on my part. The guy’s getting old, anything I did to help would only make his life easier.
Brandon spun around in his chair and reached for the phone to call Robert again when his door opened and the large man stepped inside.
To say Robert Chandler was large was paying the man a disservice: he was huge. He towered over Brandon’s desk, his massive frame filling the majority of the doorway. Robert dominated meetings and competitors with presence alone. Add to that his considerable shrewdness and business savvy, and it was easy to see why Brian Abel had made him vice-president.
Brandon always forgot how intimidating the man was, and each time he was reminded he liked him less and less. Besides, Robert was always attempting to pass decisions along over Brandon’s head, and Brandon was usually fortunate enough to catch them. It was one of the few things he had paid attention to during the last three years—he had never trusted Robert.
“Brandon!” Robert boomed, false pleasure oozing from his voice. “Back to the drawing board, I see. We’ve missed you up here!” He helped himself to a chair, asking after he sat, “Mind if I sit?” Before Brandon could respond, Robert continued. “We’ve had some interesting developments in the last week. If I remember correctly, I had someone email you the discussions from the other day—”
“I never got any emails, Robert,” Brandon interrupted.
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “I could have forgotten to have someone do it. Happens all the time. We’ve been busy. As it is, I had some things I wanted to discuss with you personally, things concerning—” Brandon cut him off again and Robert ground his teeth.
“I had some things to discuss with you, actually, Robert.” Brandon couldn’t let Robert run the conversation. He’d felt uneasy since the large man had entered the room.
“And what might that be, Brandon?”
Decision time, Brandon thought. This is it: I stay on or I leave. If I leave, I’ll have all the money and time I need to create the things I want to create. I can go back to school, I can continue writing. But I’ll be letting my father down: he didn’t want me to leave the company. He put me in this position so I would be in his position. But would it be so wrong for me to leave? I don’t know what I’m doing! How can that be right for the company? How can I continue to trust the judgment of a man who is dead? Brandon paused.
Robert lounged in the large chair his body swallowed whole. “Well, Brandon, what did you have to say?” He inspected his fingernails, not trying to hide the boredom and disdain evident on his arrogant face. Brandon watched Robert and knew the decision he had to make.
“I’ve decided to take a larger role in the day-to-day affairs of the company. My father didn’t want me sitting around on my ass in my home. I’ve wasted enough of his time, my time, and the company’s time. I thought it would be best to tell you in person. From here on out, you can expect to see more of me.”
Robert chuckled and leaned forward. “That is so funny that you’re telling me this, Brandon. Because, just earlier this morning, I was in a meeting with the board.”
Brandon was supposed to attend all of the board meetings; it was one of the few aspects of his job that he had taken somewhat seriously. “And I wasn’t present bec—”
“Because the meeting was about you, Brandon. Oh sure, we were going to get the news out to you, but I never thought that you’d actually be sitting here in your father’s office as I told you!” Robert laughed loudly, the humor never reaching his eyes. “Here’s the irony of the situation: the day that you have some little internal revelation and decide that you’re actually going to do something around here is the day that I manage to convince the board to send you packing. You’re done, Brandon. They’ve voted no-confidence. Effective immediately, you are no longer president of Abel Communications—I am.” He smirked, letting the news sink in.
Brandon’s mind raced. How could this happen? How could they do this? It was his company! His father built this company—they couldn’t kick him out! Brandon felt his face flush as he opened his mouth to speak.
Robert beat him to it, resting his hands behind his head. “And I wouldn’t waste your money trying to appeal the decision. Everyone knows your sub-par work ethic. To say the least. You can’t spend most of your time locked in your home and expect to retain control of the company, Brandon! Your father was an idiot to ever put you in charge. It should always have been me. The day he died I thought it was finally coming around to me. And then I discover that he’d put you in control!”
Brandon jerked to his feet. “Don’t you dare say a word about my father, you stupid fuck. You wouldn’t have this job if it weren’t for him. You owe him your goddamn career!”
Robert rolled his eyes. “How quick you come to his defense after years making a joke of everything he did!” Robert stood and leveled his gaze with Brandon’s. Speaking softly, he said, “And if you ever raise your voice like that at me, boy, you’ll have a lot more trouble on your hands. Your father started the company, but it was always mine. Whose idea was it to break into the Internet business? Mine! Who orchestrated the cell-phone buyouts? I did! And who do you think designed this building you’re standing in now? That’s right, me! Your father was the founder of the company, but I was pulling the strings. Brian proved how fucking stupid he was once he put you in control.”
Brandon shook with anger, fists clenched and heart pounding dully in his ears. He’d never been this furious. Robert could not pull all this out from under! “You’re lying to me, Robert. You’re lying because you think you can now that you’re ‘The Boss.’ Well, you can forget it. You’re not keeping my company. It’s mine. It belongs to my family.”
“Okay, Brandon, whatever you say. But I’ll tell you this: as of this very moment, if you don’t escort yourself out of my office and out of my building, I’ll have you thrown out. And I will do it. So, I’ll ask you one time. Leave.”
Brandon’s mind was a haze. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. How the hell is he doing this? Why didn’t I see this coming? I’ve been an idiot, this is my fault, this is my fault! Oh, Dad, I am so sorry.
There was nothing he could do. Brandon walked from the office, took the elevator to the lobby, and left the building. Once outside, he turned and cast his gaze up to the top of The Tower. He imagined Robert Chandler standing inside the office, looking out the window with a wicked grin stuck to his face, lifting the desk chair and smashing at the glass again and again and again until the window shattered and the chair careened out the window, followed shortly by Robert himself and he was falling, falling, falling to his death. Brandon discarded the fantasy. If Robert thinks I’m just going to sit around and let him take this over, he’s sadly mistaken.
We always go up, Brandon. We go up until we fall. Those were his father’s words. Brandon would make sure Robert lived by them.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Concert Hall
I am an instrument
That lost both its music and its player
I am an instrument
Although I don't know how I can perform
Hello
I miss things that I can no longer remember
Perhaps events from my past
Maybe people
I look through pictures and wonder where I am
I can see myself clearly
But often not
We're out for a ride in the dark of the night
Come along, won't you?
We're not lost
I wonder about the different things that I miss
Remembering those times
Before I forgot
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