Tuesday, November 15, 2011

88*

He had already said goodbye to his dog ten times, but he couldn’t help to hug him four more. The hot tears went cold as he shut the back door of the house and for the first time in a week he remembered that it was late December, the day before Christmas Eve, nine days until January. New year, new start.

Forty-five days had passed since the event horizon. Seven days ago everything went black. Six days since keeping the 24-hour rule alive. Five days earlier came the flu and hopefully not something related to the previous “unprotected” evening. Three days from when his clothes stopped fitting and less than 48 hours ago he watched the moon eclipse with the next in line*. Yesterday belongings were packed. Today— it was fucking over.

The text message came within the hour. A request to occupy that which he had vacated. A decade of friendship that hinged on his ability to create opportunities while the lessor waited patiently to take credit, capitalize and conquer that which he did not.

Sloppy seconds

Dogs under the dinner table

Vultures circling above

—-

Knives. alcohol and disguises. Hack, kill and destroy. She didn’t have to worry, no one was paying attention, not even him. Shiva the god of destruction. Party City was out of that costume, but she went as the Devil— Beelzebub, Meryl Streep, Roseanne Barr.

Karaoke was scary and he stood by as she sang her theme song, “Material Girl”. “25 Minutes To Go” was his choice and in hindsight it was fitting. The two words he woke up to felt like a rope around his neck, “No future”. He tried to break it down. “No future with her or not future at all?”

Books, junk mail, used napkins, anything that he could put a pen to had those words on them. He scratched them in to the picnic table in the backyard with a dinner knife and they felt like they were seared into his heart with a hot iron. The words left his lips so many times that they began to lose meaning.

—-

1992, the Kentucky Wildcats NCAA Basketball team lost in the Final Four to the the Duke Blue Devils. Kentucky was up by one point with 2.1 seconds left on the clock. Christian Laetner of Duke caught a cross court pass and hit a turn around jumper at the buzzer to win the game. Ten years old, he watched his Dad, who was a Kentucky Alumni, die a little that day, the same way his Dad heard him dying over the phone that night while throwing up in the driveway. Sick. Not drunk. Annihilated. Hank Williams playing on a broken turn table*.

—-

His new apartment was small, like a prison, an island, exile. You can’t jump off the balcony when you live on the first floor. His friend lived in a high rise and it was tempting, but he didn’t want to die and twins* weren’t worth the pain. The story went that a couple the building over had a lover’s quarrel and one jumped off the balcony to prove a point. Point made.

—-

271 days later he got sick of missing his dog. E-mails, texts, phone calls, coffee, boredom. It reminded him of running in to someone from High School who won the superlative for “Most Likely To Not Be So God Damn Boring Over Coffee” and should be forced to forfeit the award Reggie Bush Style.

He got in to his car to leave and wished it was an ‘82 DeLorean.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

Beyond The Pleasure 2.0

I originally wrote this story for a flash fiction site I contribute to every month. One of the rules of contributing is that your story has to be under 600 words. I decided I wanted to read this piece at a gathering of nerds who like to listen to writers read their stories out loud, so I decided to add some back story to the character of Mother.


If you didn't read the 1.0 version, feel free to do so. It's about half as long as this version.


---

Beyond The Pleasure (2.0)


The last time I fucked my Mother I was 25 years old. My father had warned me years earlier that this would happen, but he was a drunk or an addict or jealous or something. I never saw his addictions in action, just the result. Needless to say, I never thought I would reach climax inside my Mother, but I now know, that she did.


That was 5 years ago.

After spending too many nights hiding under my bed listening to my father shout obscenities at my mother regarding her promiscuity, they finally divorced when I was 8 years old. For years, Mother uttered the same phrases over and over about my father, “substance abuse”, “manic depressive disorder” and even “paranoia”. My father only said one word about Mother and repeated it often: Infiltration.

My parents had joint custody the first year, but after Mother realized that my father never took me back to his apartment on the weekends, opting instead for interstate hotels, she decided to take action. When I was questioned about the weekend living arrangements I just told everyone what my father had always told me “We we’re on vacation.”

When Social Services asked to inspect my father’s apartment he refused. It was only when they threatened to give Mother full custody that he finally complied. His apartment looked like Special Agent Fox Mulder had moved in. Books on alien invasion we’re scattered on the floor, black and white pictures of UFOs lined the living rooms walls and an over-sized push-pin dotted map of the northern region of Kentucky hung over his desk. The only thing missing was a poster that read “The Truth Is Out There”. I’m sure it was illuminated on the bathroom wall with a black light.

I didn’t see my father much after the inspection. He would come by the house from time to time and Mother would let us have an hour together. We attempted to throw a football around in the backyard once, but he just kept explaining to me how a football was actually based on an early alien spaceship design that us humans called angular dynamics (and my friends wonder why I don’t play Fantasy Football).

When I was 15 my father convinced Mother to let me go to the movies with him. I thought my father might have actually come back to reality when he produced two tickets to the matinee showing of Independence Day. Unfortunately, he ruined the summer blockbuster by inserting in his own commentary throughout the film. His ultimate buzz-kill came when the mother-ship destroyed the White House. He sternly grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear an H.G. Wells misquote:

“The joke of today is the crisis of tomorrow”.

When the credits rolled he asked if I had learned anything. To his disappointment, my response was “Yeah dude, the Fresh Prince is a fucking bad ass”.

Mother was waiting at the front door when my father dropped me off. Without saying goodbye he just rolled down his window and backed out of the driveway yelling at the top of his lungs “We are not alone, my boy! We are not alone...”.

A random phone call days after my birthday and around the holidays were the only communication my father and I had from then on. Mother became more protective and seemingly more caring. We had never had the best relationship as I was growing up. She was cold and calculated, but she took care of me and that was more than I could say for my father.

As I approached adulthood, My relationship with Mother transitioned, we had become close, she was now a friend that I confided in about the typical High School bullshit, mainly sex and alcohol. Mother encouraged me to embrace my carnal nature and to experiment. She was more like a rebellious big sister who was DTF.

We started having parties at the house my senior year of high School and she provided the alcohol. Friends stayed over every weekend and our residence was dubbed the “Animal House”.

After months of weekend partying one of my friends drunkenly brought up the subject of how hot Mother was.

“Dude, your mom is so fucking hot.”

Fighting the urge to break his face, I too had noticed that Mother was aging quite well. Upon closer examination of family photo albums, it appeared as though she hadn’t aged since her wedding day. She was actually hotter than any of the girls in our class. All of my friends wanted to fuck her.

The last week of summer before we we’re all forced to grow up and go to college we had an “End of the World” party. It was fitting because we were the class of ‘99. Cans of PBR, bottles of Jager and enough blow to make Tony Montana want to say “hello” to all of my friends, decorated every surface of the “Animal House”. Mother had orchestrated this debauchery.

The night was filled with hours of beer pong, underage sex and more bumps than an R. Kelly concert. As the party was coming to a close, people were passing out left and right just after puking their guts out like the infected from 28 Days Later, everyone except Mother and I, that is. We had held our own, but seemed un-infected by the consumption of the evening.

While cleaning up beer cans and broken glass I walked into the kitchen and Mother was standing behind the Island. She gave me a look that I had only seen from girls at school that wanted my premature ejaculation on their bed sheets. Mother was “eye-fucking” me.

“You know I love you son?” She said.

“Of course I do.”

“Give Mother a kiss.”

When I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek she turned her head and slid her tongue in to my mouth. I wanted it. I needed it. My dick got hard. She pulled on my belt and unzipped my pants.

I went to college the next day.

That was 12 years ago.

It had been 10 years since I had seen my father, he looked good in a suit. The viewing was on a Sunday and we buried him the next morning. They said mental illness was the cause of death, which is the nice way of saying he stabbed himself repeatedly in the stomach with a letter opener.

I hadn’t seen Mother since the previous holidays and we had never spoken about what happened at the “End of the World” party. Everything had been normal, but she consoled me that night with a bottle of wine and motherly love that I hadn’t experienced in more than a decade.

My father surprised me the next morning with a letter in my mailbox. The correspondence had been dated in his own hand writing the date he had decided to take a closer look at his intestines. The letter read:

Son,

You were adopted. She can’t reproduce. You’ll be dead by 60. They’ll say it’s gastric cancer, but you’ve been infiltrated.

Dad