Belinda stood at her front door and opened it to let the cat out. As usual Rocky mewled his thanks, and she spoke to the rear view of his fluffy brown raised flag of a tail. “You’re welcome.” It was ridiculous to answer him like that, but she did it every morning now. The words just popped out of her mouth like happy little frogs.
She smiled and started to close the door but the sun was shining just beyond the porch and there were spots of yellow and lavender off to her left that she hadn’t seen yesterday. Five steps across the porch and she was in the sun feeling forty pounds lighter. From here she could see that the dabs of color were newborn flowers, nodding their baby heads at her.
She looked back at the cavity of the still opened front door and saw shadow. Inside that shadow was the silent phone she’d been staring at for the last week. She was shackled so tightly to the need for it to ring that she hadn’t even gone to the store and she’d been out of yogurt for three days.
Had her husband signed the papers? Had her lawyer filed them? Was she officially divorced and free to move on with her life?
She wondered if she could hear the phone from here.
Belinda looked from the flowers to the door and back again. Six more steps to her left and she would be able to bend over and smell those jonquils, maybe get a little pollen on the tip of her nose. Or, she could go back inside and wait.
The phone began to ring when she was bending over the purple iris but she didn’t hear it. She was already six steps into her new life.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Stay Naked - Camilla Basham
I always thought of myself as a girl with high morals, but there are times when a girl has to do what she has to do just to get by. It's been a week since I've had a hot meal, so when Jim told me about this I thought I would check it out. They call it an audition, but really, you just have to undress in front of a room of people and make fake orgasm sounds; seems easy enough. There was a time when I really dreamed of being an actress, before the city chewed me up and spit me out. There is only so much rejection a girl can take before she cracks. So, I stopped taking my parents phone calls from three thousand miles away, because I had run out of lies about how well I was doing and how my big break was just around the corner.
It was about a month ago that I met Jim and he first took me under the bridge. From what I could tell, it seems that an awful lot of people go there, some even seem to have taken up permanent residence there. Jim assured me this is where I would find the answer; that happiness and the answer to all my woes could be pumped into me via his shiny 28G1/2 steel instrument. He had tried pumping happiness into me in other ways, but he always came up short. I remember the first time Jim had me hunker down in the bushes with him and he told me he loved me and unbuttoned my thrift store blouse and guided the fabric over my shoulders until it fell to my elbows. He could have easily lifted it from the sleeve, but he loved losing his train of thought on the tracks that led to my breasts. He lifted my right arm and I felt the rubber snap around it. He raised the happiness to his mouth, pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out. That was the last lucid memory I have of that day.
That day was the beginning of the journey that led me here to this audition. A very rough looking woman with a clipboard motions me to come into the room. Number twenty-nine she calls me. That's all I am to her. Right now, that's all I am to myself. The room is cold and sterile and the lights are bright and blinding. Three fat greasy men each dressed in shirts unbuttoned to their navel; their hairy chests covered in gold chains; sit in director’s chairs, each about to burst from the strain of their fat asses. One of them tells me to get naked, so I do. I had stopped at Rite Aid and bought some cheap cover up on the way here and caked it onto my arms so the bruises wouldn't show through. So far it seems to be working. They tell me to turn around, bend over, and spread my legs. One wants to feel my breasts to see if they are real. I start to feel nauseas. Maybe it's the heroin wearing off or maybe it's my self respect kicking in. I can't be sure. And because I’m not sure, I sign on their dotted line, while one slaps my ass; trading in my dignity for a few bucks. I reach for my clothes and one of the fat guys laughs, "Hey, you belong to us now. Rule number one: you stay naked until we tell you its okay to dress". Just then it becomes clear to me that I've sold my soul.
It was about a month ago that I met Jim and he first took me under the bridge. From what I could tell, it seems that an awful lot of people go there, some even seem to have taken up permanent residence there. Jim assured me this is where I would find the answer; that happiness and the answer to all my woes could be pumped into me via his shiny 28G1/2 steel instrument. He had tried pumping happiness into me in other ways, but he always came up short. I remember the first time Jim had me hunker down in the bushes with him and he told me he loved me and unbuttoned my thrift store blouse and guided the fabric over my shoulders until it fell to my elbows. He could have easily lifted it from the sleeve, but he loved losing his train of thought on the tracks that led to my breasts. He lifted my right arm and I felt the rubber snap around it. He raised the happiness to his mouth, pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out. That was the last lucid memory I have of that day.
That day was the beginning of the journey that led me here to this audition. A very rough looking woman with a clipboard motions me to come into the room. Number twenty-nine she calls me. That's all I am to her. Right now, that's all I am to myself. The room is cold and sterile and the lights are bright and blinding. Three fat greasy men each dressed in shirts unbuttoned to their navel; their hairy chests covered in gold chains; sit in director’s chairs, each about to burst from the strain of their fat asses. One of them tells me to get naked, so I do. I had stopped at Rite Aid and bought some cheap cover up on the way here and caked it onto my arms so the bruises wouldn't show through. So far it seems to be working. They tell me to turn around, bend over, and spread my legs. One wants to feel my breasts to see if they are real. I start to feel nauseas. Maybe it's the heroin wearing off or maybe it's my self respect kicking in. I can't be sure. And because I’m not sure, I sign on their dotted line, while one slaps my ass; trading in my dignity for a few bucks. I reach for my clothes and one of the fat guys laughs, "Hey, you belong to us now. Rule number one: you stay naked until we tell you its okay to dress". Just then it becomes clear to me that I've sold my soul.
Stay Naked - Katie Burke
He would have stayed naked all day, if I’d let him.
“Let’s go out to breakfast,” he said from my living room couch, without looking up from the TV set. I’d come in to move things along, get him out of my apartment, and re-enter reality. There was no room for him here, now that daylight had hit. Normalcy had to be restored.
“OK,” I said, surprised and more than a little thrilled. He never wanted to go to breakfast the next day. The rules of our usual routine, if written, would dictate that I’d drive him home, he’d fall out of my life for a few months, and one of us would call the other, just before the moment when not calling would mean never speaking again.
I don’t mean literally not speaking again. Our passion was inescapable. I should know; I’d tried many times over the years to flee it. “Be strong,” my girlfriends would say, and I would obey, refraining from calling him and dodging his calls to me.
But a few drinks in, one accidental party night a few months later, I’d send a smoke signal. I would need him so entirely in that moment, all reason and sound advice from my friends ceased to matter. All I would need was one more conversation with the one I loved, and if that happened after we indulged our passion – well, then, we could stay naked while we each said what we needed to say.
I did not object to our sexual connection; I only wished the emotional one made more sense, so I could justify the central role that lust played with us. As it was, I had to wonder sometimes: Is it just about the sex?
A question to ponder by day and throw out by night, tossing it off the bed like my shirt after he’d peeled it off me. In moments where the answer didn’t matter, I found my peace with whoever we were to each other. It didn’t matter then if he was using me or if I knew the real him. It mattered that he was there, and that I was there – and he could stay naked on my couch the whole next day, or he could get dressed so we could go to breakfast; either would be fine with me.
“Let’s go out to breakfast,” he said from my living room couch, without looking up from the TV set. I’d come in to move things along, get him out of my apartment, and re-enter reality. There was no room for him here, now that daylight had hit. Normalcy had to be restored.
“OK,” I said, surprised and more than a little thrilled. He never wanted to go to breakfast the next day. The rules of our usual routine, if written, would dictate that I’d drive him home, he’d fall out of my life for a few months, and one of us would call the other, just before the moment when not calling would mean never speaking again.
I don’t mean literally not speaking again. Our passion was inescapable. I should know; I’d tried many times over the years to flee it. “Be strong,” my girlfriends would say, and I would obey, refraining from calling him and dodging his calls to me.
But a few drinks in, one accidental party night a few months later, I’d send a smoke signal. I would need him so entirely in that moment, all reason and sound advice from my friends ceased to matter. All I would need was one more conversation with the one I loved, and if that happened after we indulged our passion – well, then, we could stay naked while we each said what we needed to say.
I did not object to our sexual connection; I only wished the emotional one made more sense, so I could justify the central role that lust played with us. As it was, I had to wonder sometimes: Is it just about the sex?
A question to ponder by day and throw out by night, tossing it off the bed like my shirt after he’d peeled it off me. In moments where the answer didn’t matter, I found my peace with whoever we were to each other. It didn’t matter then if he was using me or if I knew the real him. It mattered that he was there, and that I was there – and he could stay naked on my couch the whole next day, or he could get dressed so we could go to breakfast; either would be fine with me.
Stay Naked - Randy Wong
This was a bad morning. Actually, it could very well be the worse morning in Chris Gardino’s life. Chris decided that even though an unusual set of circumstances caused him to be standing completely naked in his front yard, he was grateful for the little things. For instance, it was summer. If it was winter, being locked outside your own house would be a very bad thing. The warm sun helped Chris’ plight. It was not the smartest decision to get his newspaper while totally nude, Chris thought. He was sure that no one was around, so he figured that there was not point in putting on his shorts, so he made quick dash to the front porch to get his newspaper. However, the momentum of his body must have created enough of a wake that caused the door to close behind him. Now, the Gardino’s kept a spare key inside one of those fake rocks that people use, but Chris could not find it. He vaguely recalled that his wife told him that she moved it.
He stood on his front lawn considering his situation. The first thing he did was to curse himself silently for removing all the bushes around his house. He did not like the way they were obstructing the view from the inside. In fact, there was nothing he could use to hide himself except maybe in the Hendersons’ rose bushes, and that was not good because of all the thorns. His cell phone was in the house, so he could not call his wife, so his only choice was to get one of the neighbors to help. Unfortunately, this was a work day, which meant that all the working families were at work or at school. The only person who would be available would someone who was no longer working and close by. That would be Mr. Ken Henderson, the owner of the thorny rose bushes. Chris was sure that he would be home, but he was hoping to find someone else. Chris found Henderson to be a little odd at times. Like the time Henderson was raking the leaves in his yard, and observed the tragic death of one of the neighborhood cats. It was darting across the street to when it was run over by a UPS van. Henderson saw the whole thing happen it front of him. Henderson stared at the cat for a moment, and then muttered that he better grab a shovel, and prompt shoved the deceased animal into a trash bag. He was about to put the carcass into the garbage can until someone told him to notify Animal Control. Chris was never quite sure how Henderson would react to a naked man at his doorway. Chris was still deliberating his next step when he noticed Henderson standing outside on his lawn staring at Chris.
The two men regarded each other silently for a moment. Henderson did not react to Chris’ nudity. He just stared straight ahead into Chris’ face. Chris felt quite uncomfortable and turned his head in embarrassment, like a man refusing to look at another man’s face standing in the adjacent men’s room urinal. Chris turned his body and covered his crotch with both hands. As the silence grew, Chris turned back to look at Henderson who was still standing and staring. Finally, Henderson broke the silence.
“Gardino.”
With his body still turned slightly away, Chris nodded back.
“Henderson.”
Henderson was a much shorter man than Chris by several inches. He took a few steps forward and stood next to Chris.
“So, Gardino … how’s it hanging?’
Chris rolled his eyes and groaned.
Henderson continued on. “Well, at least I know why Mrs. Gardino is so happy every morning!”
Chris turned and gave a sarcastic smile. “Funny. Can you help me out?”
Henderson shrugged. “Sure - whatever you need.”
After another moment of silence, Chris stared at his neighbor in surprise.
“So … can I have your robe?”
Henderson raised his eyebrows and considered. “Oh, this robe here?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. Glad to help a neighbor.”
Henderson took off his robe and handed it to Chris. He was barely able to tie the robe in front, but it was quite short. The length of the robe barely covered Chris’ crotch, which really did not help his situation.
“This robe is too short!”
Henderson pondered the situation. “You know, you could try, um, flipping it upward. Maybe the robe could pin it against your body.”
“Dude, don’t talk like that!” Chris took off the robe and used it to wrap around his waist.
“Could you call my wife and tell her that I need to know where she hid the spare key?”
“Sure thing, Skippy.”
Henderson dialed the number on his cell phone. As the number rang, he nodded back to Chris.
“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
Chris glanced around the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching them. “Yeah, beautiful day. Best morning of my life.”
Henderson smiled and shrugged. “Well, it could be worse, all things considered. It could be winter.”
He stood on his front lawn considering his situation. The first thing he did was to curse himself silently for removing all the bushes around his house. He did not like the way they were obstructing the view from the inside. In fact, there was nothing he could use to hide himself except maybe in the Hendersons’ rose bushes, and that was not good because of all the thorns. His cell phone was in the house, so he could not call his wife, so his only choice was to get one of the neighbors to help. Unfortunately, this was a work day, which meant that all the working families were at work or at school. The only person who would be available would someone who was no longer working and close by. That would be Mr. Ken Henderson, the owner of the thorny rose bushes. Chris was sure that he would be home, but he was hoping to find someone else. Chris found Henderson to be a little odd at times. Like the time Henderson was raking the leaves in his yard, and observed the tragic death of one of the neighborhood cats. It was darting across the street to when it was run over by a UPS van. Henderson saw the whole thing happen it front of him. Henderson stared at the cat for a moment, and then muttered that he better grab a shovel, and prompt shoved the deceased animal into a trash bag. He was about to put the carcass into the garbage can until someone told him to notify Animal Control. Chris was never quite sure how Henderson would react to a naked man at his doorway. Chris was still deliberating his next step when he noticed Henderson standing outside on his lawn staring at Chris.
The two men regarded each other silently for a moment. Henderson did not react to Chris’ nudity. He just stared straight ahead into Chris’ face. Chris felt quite uncomfortable and turned his head in embarrassment, like a man refusing to look at another man’s face standing in the adjacent men’s room urinal. Chris turned his body and covered his crotch with both hands. As the silence grew, Chris turned back to look at Henderson who was still standing and staring. Finally, Henderson broke the silence.
“Gardino.”
With his body still turned slightly away, Chris nodded back.
“Henderson.”
Henderson was a much shorter man than Chris by several inches. He took a few steps forward and stood next to Chris.
“So, Gardino … how’s it hanging?’
Chris rolled his eyes and groaned.
Henderson continued on. “Well, at least I know why Mrs. Gardino is so happy every morning!”
Chris turned and gave a sarcastic smile. “Funny. Can you help me out?”
Henderson shrugged. “Sure - whatever you need.”
After another moment of silence, Chris stared at his neighbor in surprise.
“So … can I have your robe?”
Henderson raised his eyebrows and considered. “Oh, this robe here?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. Glad to help a neighbor.”
Henderson took off his robe and handed it to Chris. He was barely able to tie the robe in front, but it was quite short. The length of the robe barely covered Chris’ crotch, which really did not help his situation.
“This robe is too short!”
Henderson pondered the situation. “You know, you could try, um, flipping it upward. Maybe the robe could pin it against your body.”
“Dude, don’t talk like that!” Chris took off the robe and used it to wrap around his waist.
“Could you call my wife and tell her that I need to know where she hid the spare key?”
“Sure thing, Skippy.”
Henderson dialed the number on his cell phone. As the number rang, he nodded back to Chris.
“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
Chris glanced around the neighborhood to see if anyone was watching them. “Yeah, beautiful day. Best morning of my life.”
Henderson smiled and shrugged. “Well, it could be worse, all things considered. It could be winter.”
Shrimp Rolls - Mark Maynard
When she named her baby boy, Artemis Johnson’s momma figured everyone would call him Artie, but we all called him “Shrimp Rolls” ‘stead.
That’s cause all Shrimp Rolls ever ate was shrimp. He ate it fried in flour and butter, fried in flour and beer, grilled, baked, stewed, boiled and brined in salt and lime. I even once seen him eat a huge platter of ‘em raw right off the deck of the Darla Jean and he didn’t even shuck ‘em. I’ll never forget the crunching sound that made, sounded like the man was eatin’ the thickest ‘tatoe chips ever.
Shrimp Rolls ate so much shrimp at a time that his whole body was these big rolls of fat and blubber. That’s how he got the name. He belly came in sections cause all of that fat couldn’t spill over his belt in just one roll. The downhill belly traffic got all backed up and it wrinkled over on itself like a meaty accordion. His arms had great big rolls on ‘em from his shoulders on down around his elbows and he had fatty bangles around both wrists.
A long time ago, when Shrimp and I signed on as the only crew of the Darla Jean, Shrimp made a deal with Captain Delacroix that Shrimp would get paid half the wages I would for the same work…and all the shrimp he could eat. I think Captain Delacroix thought he got over easy on Shrimp Roll at first, thinking that eventually even a fat man like Shrimp would get sick of eatin’ one thing over and over again. But the Captain was wrong. Shrimp Rolls cost Delacroix more in shrimp than if he’d of been paid like the King of England.
That’s not to say that the Captain didn’t get something out of the deal. Since Shrimp Rolls got paid in crustaceans, he worked like five men, cause every net we hauled in was his dinner. And you ‘aint never lived until you seen a 400 pound man hanging out over the Gulf of Mexico runnin’ shrimp nets out to the end of the outrigger boom. Every time Shrimpy headed out on one side or the other, the Darla Jean would list over towards Shrimp Rolls like one of them rich folks’ sailboats tippin’ in the wind.
That’s cause all Shrimp Rolls ever ate was shrimp. He ate it fried in flour and butter, fried in flour and beer, grilled, baked, stewed, boiled and brined in salt and lime. I even once seen him eat a huge platter of ‘em raw right off the deck of the Darla Jean and he didn’t even shuck ‘em. I’ll never forget the crunching sound that made, sounded like the man was eatin’ the thickest ‘tatoe chips ever.
Shrimp Rolls ate so much shrimp at a time that his whole body was these big rolls of fat and blubber. That’s how he got the name. He belly came in sections cause all of that fat couldn’t spill over his belt in just one roll. The downhill belly traffic got all backed up and it wrinkled over on itself like a meaty accordion. His arms had great big rolls on ‘em from his shoulders on down around his elbows and he had fatty bangles around both wrists.
A long time ago, when Shrimp and I signed on as the only crew of the Darla Jean, Shrimp made a deal with Captain Delacroix that Shrimp would get paid half the wages I would for the same work…and all the shrimp he could eat. I think Captain Delacroix thought he got over easy on Shrimp Roll at first, thinking that eventually even a fat man like Shrimp would get sick of eatin’ one thing over and over again. But the Captain was wrong. Shrimp Rolls cost Delacroix more in shrimp than if he’d of been paid like the King of England.
That’s not to say that the Captain didn’t get something out of the deal. Since Shrimp Rolls got paid in crustaceans, he worked like five men, cause every net we hauled in was his dinner. And you ‘aint never lived until you seen a 400 pound man hanging out over the Gulf of Mexico runnin’ shrimp nets out to the end of the outrigger boom. Every time Shrimpy headed out on one side or the other, the Darla Jean would list over towards Shrimp Rolls like one of them rich folks’ sailboats tippin’ in the wind.
Shrimp Rolls - Melody Cryns
When I was a kid, I loved shrimp – I still do actually. One of my favorite dishes ever was shrimp curry, which my mom would occasionally make, or shrimp cocktails that we’d get down at Fisherman’s wharf in San Francisco in tiny cups – loads of tiny shrimp in a tangy sauce, yummy.
Then there were shrimp rolls – small egg rolls with shrimp in them. Sometimes my mom would buy frozen shrimp rolls and bake them in the oven and we’d eat them as soon as they finished cooking and they were cool enough to bite into. Sometimes, occasionally, we’d eat shrimp rolls at a Chinese restaurant – at least I would eat shrimp rolls. It never occurred to me that other people might not like shrimp rolls – like my brother and sister who thought shrimp was gross. They were truly missing out.
The first time I tried shrimp rolls, I wasn’t even sure what they were – but my mother called any sort of egg roll that had seafood in it “shrimp rolls,” so that’s what it had to be. Mom and Dad took me to a fancy Japanese restaurant in San Francisco called Mingiaya’s for my seventh birthday. We got to eat just like the Japanese people. We had to take our shoes off and wear paper slippers and sit down at low tables that required us to sit on the floor on a light-colored carpet. Dark-haired women wore their hair up and colorful kimonos and they served me a sweet-tasting drink with a paper umbrella in it. I loved the paper umbrella – I’d never seen one in a drink before.
Then the women in kimonos served us food, and the first thing we got on a plane were these small egg-roll like things that Mom called shrimp rolls. They were delicious, salty, and a little juicy. It was then that I decided that I loved shrimp After we ate a lot of good-tasting food (but the shrimp rolls were the best), the dark-haired ladies wearing kimonoas all shuttled over to our table holding a small cake with a lit candle on it, and they sang happy birthday to me in Japanese! It was an exciting moment.
And I always looked important when my Dad would take us to those fancy restaurants down at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco for our birthdays when I’d say to the waiter or waitress, “Shrimp curry please,” or “Shrimp cocktail please.” My brother and sister would make faces because they hated shrimp and the waiter or waitress always looked impressed. Then Jenny, my sister, would start eating the sugar packets, paper and all, when no one was looking. How juvenile.
Then there were shrimp rolls – small egg rolls with shrimp in them. Sometimes my mom would buy frozen shrimp rolls and bake them in the oven and we’d eat them as soon as they finished cooking and they were cool enough to bite into. Sometimes, occasionally, we’d eat shrimp rolls at a Chinese restaurant – at least I would eat shrimp rolls. It never occurred to me that other people might not like shrimp rolls – like my brother and sister who thought shrimp was gross. They were truly missing out.
The first time I tried shrimp rolls, I wasn’t even sure what they were – but my mother called any sort of egg roll that had seafood in it “shrimp rolls,” so that’s what it had to be. Mom and Dad took me to a fancy Japanese restaurant in San Francisco called Mingiaya’s for my seventh birthday. We got to eat just like the Japanese people. We had to take our shoes off and wear paper slippers and sit down at low tables that required us to sit on the floor on a light-colored carpet. Dark-haired women wore their hair up and colorful kimonos and they served me a sweet-tasting drink with a paper umbrella in it. I loved the paper umbrella – I’d never seen one in a drink before.
Then the women in kimonos served us food, and the first thing we got on a plane were these small egg-roll like things that Mom called shrimp rolls. They were delicious, salty, and a little juicy. It was then that I decided that I loved shrimp After we ate a lot of good-tasting food (but the shrimp rolls were the best), the dark-haired ladies wearing kimonoas all shuttled over to our table holding a small cake with a lit candle on it, and they sang happy birthday to me in Japanese! It was an exciting moment.
And I always looked important when my Dad would take us to those fancy restaurants down at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco for our birthdays when I’d say to the waiter or waitress, “Shrimp curry please,” or “Shrimp cocktail please.” My brother and sister would make faces because they hated shrimp and the waiter or waitress always looked impressed. Then Jenny, my sister, would start eating the sugar packets, paper and all, when no one was looking. How juvenile.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Boogeyman - Michael Lisboa
“Why am I awake?” I thought.
I was groggy. I rolled over to check out the green LED display of my alarm clock and been stunned to read 12:34 on it. I’d gone to bed a scant two hours before, yet I felt like I’d been sleeping for hours.
I’d had strange and vibrant dreams. Something about a family portrait when I was younger, except there was a lion in it. Another about sex with a woman with a half-shaved head. And yet a third about urinating for what felt like an hour. This last was no surprise now that I was awake. My bladder felt like a bulging water balloon.
I made my way down the hall to the restroom careful not to wake the kids. It was my weekend with them. Tim, 7 going on 12, and Victoria just turned 3 and blessedly sleeping long, full nights.
I sat down on the toilet. Many men consider this a sign of weakness for reasons I don’t understand. I consider it a sign of cleanliness. Get closer to your target, make less of a mess. Seems simple enough to me. Immediately after I sat down, I heard a scratching at the bathroom door directly in front of me. Marcus Aurelius, the cat. It would only get worse if I didn’t let him in. He loved rubbing his head against my knees while I sat in there, regardless of what kind of business I was doing and would not be denied.
I leaned forward and cracked the door. I’m not sure about what happened next, so here’s my best recollection: Instead of cat’s paw, something akin to a lobster’s leg loudly onto the white tile of the bathroom floor. Before I could register a reaction, another appeared beside it and then a third. Jesus Christ, how big is that cockroach? I thought. I tried leaning forward to slam the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Whatever belonged to those 3 enormous insectile legs was strong enough not to let itself be crushed between door and jamb. I had however managed to pin in between the two. Sensing my intent, the hardened legs began hurriedly scratching at the floor. Whatever it was wanted to get in or out and I didn’t want to find out until I had my pants somewhere other than around my ankles.
I stood up from the toilet, careful to keep my weight against the door. In retrospect, I’m both aghast and amused that my overriding thought at the time was keep that thing away from your penis, Dan. I had 2 relatively helpless children sleeping 15 feet away and I was worried about my johnson. I’m not sure who would have more to say on that subject, my ex-wife or Freud. Especially considering that once I got up and got my pajama bottoms pulled up with my free hand, my precious manhood was now armored with all the protection that an 1/8 of an inch of 100% cotton could provide.
Sensing an impasse perhaps, the intruding legs had stopped their furious clattering against the tile. I had to know what I was up against. I had thought cockroach before, but really, what cockroach has foot-high legs? Now that I was really awake, I realized my folly and decided I was in dire need of a weapon. The toilet brush seemed ineffectual. The plunger slightly less so. The only other potential blunt instrument within reach was the shower curtain rod. Still leaning against the door (the more I regarded those legs, the more intent I was on not letting that thing move until I was armed), I reached up with my right hand and yanked on the shower rod. It wouldn’t budge. It was probably never going to budge. Two years back, I’d redone the bathroom. As part of that makeover I’d opted for the fancy convex curtain rods one sees in hotels. To mount it, I’d drilled into studs on both ends. To bring it down, I was going to need more force than I could muster from my half-lean against the door. The plunger it was.
I was just able to reach it’s wooden handle with the tips of my fingers. Gingerly at first, then firmly I took in my grasp. I placed it underneath my foot and unscrewed the handle from the rubber sucker at the end. I heard something and looked down to see one of the legs tapping impatiently, like the grotesquely manicured nail of the world’s most horrific DMV employee. Child, you best have brought your birth certificate if you don’t want to get back in that line.
I had been breathing heavily before, but now I panicked. Whatever was on the other side of this door was demonstrating impatience. I had coped with my relative nudity. I had coped with the alien presence. I had even coped with its relative indestructibility against the pressure of the 200 pounds of weight I had thrown against the door. I was not prepared to cope with its peevishness.
At that I threw open the door and swung down toward the... the thing... with all my might. I landed a solid blow to no avail. The plunger handle snapped and went flying. This fight was over before it had begun and the thing knew it. I knew it knew it because it proceeded to tell me so.
“Really, Dan, that’s going to leave a bruise,” it said in a bored, patrician voice. “Did you really get a glimpse of these legs and think you were going to subdue me with... what was that? A toilet plunger.”
I sat back down on the toilet. I was staring at relatively intact (completely intact except for the bump that was rising where I had whacked it) human head resting on foot-long insect’s legs. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but I knew it wasn’t going to matter if I was sitting or standing.
I was groggy. I rolled over to check out the green LED display of my alarm clock and been stunned to read 12:34 on it. I’d gone to bed a scant two hours before, yet I felt like I’d been sleeping for hours.
I’d had strange and vibrant dreams. Something about a family portrait when I was younger, except there was a lion in it. Another about sex with a woman with a half-shaved head. And yet a third about urinating for what felt like an hour. This last was no surprise now that I was awake. My bladder felt like a bulging water balloon.
I made my way down the hall to the restroom careful not to wake the kids. It was my weekend with them. Tim, 7 going on 12, and Victoria just turned 3 and blessedly sleeping long, full nights.
I sat down on the toilet. Many men consider this a sign of weakness for reasons I don’t understand. I consider it a sign of cleanliness. Get closer to your target, make less of a mess. Seems simple enough to me. Immediately after I sat down, I heard a scratching at the bathroom door directly in front of me. Marcus Aurelius, the cat. It would only get worse if I didn’t let him in. He loved rubbing his head against my knees while I sat in there, regardless of what kind of business I was doing and would not be denied.
I leaned forward and cracked the door. I’m not sure about what happened next, so here’s my best recollection: Instead of cat’s paw, something akin to a lobster’s leg loudly onto the white tile of the bathroom floor. Before I could register a reaction, another appeared beside it and then a third. Jesus Christ, how big is that cockroach? I thought. I tried leaning forward to slam the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Whatever belonged to those 3 enormous insectile legs was strong enough not to let itself be crushed between door and jamb. I had however managed to pin in between the two. Sensing my intent, the hardened legs began hurriedly scratching at the floor. Whatever it was wanted to get in or out and I didn’t want to find out until I had my pants somewhere other than around my ankles.
I stood up from the toilet, careful to keep my weight against the door. In retrospect, I’m both aghast and amused that my overriding thought at the time was keep that thing away from your penis, Dan. I had 2 relatively helpless children sleeping 15 feet away and I was worried about my johnson. I’m not sure who would have more to say on that subject, my ex-wife or Freud. Especially considering that once I got up and got my pajama bottoms pulled up with my free hand, my precious manhood was now armored with all the protection that an 1/8 of an inch of 100% cotton could provide.
Sensing an impasse perhaps, the intruding legs had stopped their furious clattering against the tile. I had to know what I was up against. I had thought cockroach before, but really, what cockroach has foot-high legs? Now that I was really awake, I realized my folly and decided I was in dire need of a weapon. The toilet brush seemed ineffectual. The plunger slightly less so. The only other potential blunt instrument within reach was the shower curtain rod. Still leaning against the door (the more I regarded those legs, the more intent I was on not letting that thing move until I was armed), I reached up with my right hand and yanked on the shower rod. It wouldn’t budge. It was probably never going to budge. Two years back, I’d redone the bathroom. As part of that makeover I’d opted for the fancy convex curtain rods one sees in hotels. To mount it, I’d drilled into studs on both ends. To bring it down, I was going to need more force than I could muster from my half-lean against the door. The plunger it was.
I was just able to reach it’s wooden handle with the tips of my fingers. Gingerly at first, then firmly I took in my grasp. I placed it underneath my foot and unscrewed the handle from the rubber sucker at the end. I heard something and looked down to see one of the legs tapping impatiently, like the grotesquely manicured nail of the world’s most horrific DMV employee. Child, you best have brought your birth certificate if you don’t want to get back in that line.
I had been breathing heavily before, but now I panicked. Whatever was on the other side of this door was demonstrating impatience. I had coped with my relative nudity. I had coped with the alien presence. I had even coped with its relative indestructibility against the pressure of the 200 pounds of weight I had thrown against the door. I was not prepared to cope with its peevishness.
At that I threw open the door and swung down toward the... the thing... with all my might. I landed a solid blow to no avail. The plunger handle snapped and went flying. This fight was over before it had begun and the thing knew it. I knew it knew it because it proceeded to tell me so.
“Really, Dan, that’s going to leave a bruise,” it said in a bored, patrician voice. “Did you really get a glimpse of these legs and think you were going to subdue me with... what was that? A toilet plunger.”
I sat back down on the toilet. I was staring at relatively intact (completely intact except for the bump that was rising where I had whacked it) human head resting on foot-long insect’s legs. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but I knew it wasn’t going to matter if I was sitting or standing.
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