I’m not a bad person. I really do like most animals. I grew up in a house resembling the neighborhood zoo. At some point, at the same time, there were seven people, one dog, two cats, a hamster, a snake, and three fish sharing different corners of space. The bird flew away; he knew better.
Still, I can’t control this daily urge I get to kill the neighbor and her scrappy rat-like mutt. His constant small-dog yapping makes me want kick him across the patio and over the roof, and watch him splatter to the ground just as a bus squashes his stupid little brain. The shrilly clamoring has been going on for months, and I just figured out exactly which apartment it’s coming from. The owner, with her pretentiously coiffed graying blonde locks and god-awful fire engine red lipstick, doesn’t seem to give a shit.
For a few minutes every morning, I’m lost in homicidal thoughts. I want to wring her neck, slap her silly, and torture her until she agrees to better discipline the whiny monster. As for the beast, I keep devising ways I could string up a poisonous bone and slide it down onto the balcony a few floors below. I don’t do it because I know it’s cruel. And, I don’t know how to pull it off yet without getting caught.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Eating Alone - Judy Albietz
As she walked up the front steps of his house, Lindsey could see into Norman’s kitchen, where he sat, his back to the window as he was finishing up his dinner. She had called the investigator a half hour ago at his home office with several questions about the police file. He said, “Come on over…be glad to see you.”
The first day at the law firm Lindsey had met Norman, who briefed her on his investigation for a case she would be handling. After two months of working with him, she knew she could trust the short, pear-shaped, bald man, even though he told lousy jokes, sometimes more than once. When she found out a woman died in her house, she had asked Norman if he could help her. Somehow he got his hands on a copy of the police report on what was called a suicide. Recently she had filled Norman in on how she had flipped out when she saw her old boyfriend, David. Norman laughed when he told her, “Don’t be asking me for advice. I’m paying support to three ex-wives.”
Lindsey paused a second on the porch, looking in at Norman’s wide body precariously perched on a green vinyl dinette chair. On the far side of the matching green formica table the evening news was flashing on a small television. Norman wasn’t even looking down as he dug a forkful of whatever was piled on his plate. Lindsey thought about coming back later, but then remembered what she had in the paper bag in her hand. She rang the doorbell. She watched Norman wipe his mouth while he got out of his chair and moved to open the door. He was still chewing and looking at the TV as he waved her in. “I stopped and picked up a six-pack to go with a pie I baked yesterday. I didn’t want to eat it alone,” she grinned.
The first day at the law firm Lindsey had met Norman, who briefed her on his investigation for a case she would be handling. After two months of working with him, she knew she could trust the short, pear-shaped, bald man, even though he told lousy jokes, sometimes more than once. When she found out a woman died in her house, she had asked Norman if he could help her. Somehow he got his hands on a copy of the police report on what was called a suicide. Recently she had filled Norman in on how she had flipped out when she saw her old boyfriend, David. Norman laughed when he told her, “Don’t be asking me for advice. I’m paying support to three ex-wives.”
Lindsey paused a second on the porch, looking in at Norman’s wide body precariously perched on a green vinyl dinette chair. On the far side of the matching green formica table the evening news was flashing on a small television. Norman wasn’t even looking down as he dug a forkful of whatever was piled on his plate. Lindsey thought about coming back later, but then remembered what she had in the paper bag in her hand. She rang the doorbell. She watched Norman wipe his mouth while he got out of his chair and moved to open the door. He was still chewing and looking at the TV as he waved her in. “I stopped and picked up a six-pack to go with a pie I baked yesterday. I didn’t want to eat it alone,” she grinned.
Eating Alone - John Fetto
Ginny ate in the kitchen by herself while her daughter was out, who knows where. Her food was cold, ham folded between pieces of bread, a little mustard and mayonnaise, some lettuce. With her daughter gone she could eat what she wanted, so after the ham sandwich she wheeled over to the fridge and got out the half gallon tub of chocolate chip ice cream. She set the ice cream on her lap and opened the door wide, wondering where her daughter had hid it. It was behind the milk and the orange juice and she had to stretch up high to grab it, but slowly she worked the redi whip can towards her using a piece of celery. It fell on the floor and she chased it in her wheel chair, finally corning it. She scooped it up, set it on her lap wheeled over to the drawers and took out a large spoon, then wheeled into the living room, turned on the news and wheeled back. They were still going on about the protests at Port Chicago again. Ginny didn’t care. Johnny Carson would be in a few minutes. She shook the can of redi whip and filled the top of the ice cream carton. Then she took her spoon and dipped, trying to scoop up a bit, but it was too hard. So she waited. After a few minutes, Johnny came on, smiling, she dipped the spoon again, some soft ice cream around the sides with generous heaping of whip cream and spooned into her mouth. Her daughter wasn’t around. She could eat what she wanted.
Eating Alone - Darcy Vebber
She watched him from the doorway, leaning against the jamb. Sam sat with his back to her, looking out the window at the city. It was her seat, the place she sat, when she ate at the table. Out the window the light was turning blue and the trees on the hillside were green black against the winter sky.
He ate like a boy, grabbing, buttering, gulping. It was mostly food he’d brought with him, a loaf of white bread, half a package of bologna, a plastic container of supermarket coleslaw that dripped mayo onto the table. She supplied the quart of milk she kept for coffee and the half gallon of orange juice and glasses. The milk was already gone.
His backpack was on the floor next to him, close by his feet as if someone might take it. He leaned over and reached in, searching for something, his eyes still on the view and the red lip of the horizon.
“Can I get you something?” Lisa finally asked.
He looked around, startled. “Jesus, I .. uh …” He didn’t want to say he had forgotten she was there but he had. For one strange moment, his expression was wary, then he smiled his familiar smile. It was his gift, this smile. He invited her to join him. At her own table. He patted the chair seat next to him. “It’s so great to be inside, to be eating at a table like this.”
She hesitated, sorry to have interrupted. She knew all the stories of Sam’s rootless childhood. He had told her what it felt like, when he got to sit at a table, to have a regular bed for himself night after night. Having him in her life made her feel everything more vividly. Roof, floor, heat, light. She felt a little constriction at the base of her throat and potential tears. And always with the pleasure the fear. She batted it away but it wouldn’t go. “What? Ah, hot sauce, right?”
She knew that as a boy he had learned to put hot sauce on everything, to make any strange thing familiar, to give every new food the same burn.
He ate like a boy, grabbing, buttering, gulping. It was mostly food he’d brought with him, a loaf of white bread, half a package of bologna, a plastic container of supermarket coleslaw that dripped mayo onto the table. She supplied the quart of milk she kept for coffee and the half gallon of orange juice and glasses. The milk was already gone.
His backpack was on the floor next to him, close by his feet as if someone might take it. He leaned over and reached in, searching for something, his eyes still on the view and the red lip of the horizon.
“Can I get you something?” Lisa finally asked.
He looked around, startled. “Jesus, I .. uh …” He didn’t want to say he had forgotten she was there but he had. For one strange moment, his expression was wary, then he smiled his familiar smile. It was his gift, this smile. He invited her to join him. At her own table. He patted the chair seat next to him. “It’s so great to be inside, to be eating at a table like this.”
She hesitated, sorry to have interrupted. She knew all the stories of Sam’s rootless childhood. He had told her what it felt like, when he got to sit at a table, to have a regular bed for himself night after night. Having him in her life made her feel everything more vividly. Roof, floor, heat, light. She felt a little constriction at the base of her throat and potential tears. And always with the pleasure the fear. She batted it away but it wouldn’t go. “What? Ah, hot sauce, right?”
She knew that as a boy he had learned to put hot sauce on everything, to make any strange thing familiar, to give every new food the same burn.
Eating Alone - Camilla Basham
All I did was make him a mud pie. How was I supposed to know he’d eat it?
~ Ruthie
My days are pretty busy, Yep, I guess. Searching for the elves that live under the clover in my back yard, playing hotel with Charlie and cooking my world famous mud pies, I have a pretty full schedule for a kid. Some folks might think I’m a little old to be doing this sort of stuff, but really, there’s not much else to do.
Some of my weekends are busier than others, like the time my sister told me I was adopted. I spent days searching for those adoptions papers with my fingers crossed. I never did find them no matter how hard I looked. I would have waved them in the air, packed my Barbie suitcase, grabbed Charlie by the leash, said “Look, no hard feelings.” to my family leaving them each with a kiss and a pat on the head and headed out to the great unknown. Unfortunately, it turns out she was teasing me.
Some days when Mom is busy, I’m left to entertain my grandpa whom we call Pop. He had a stroke years earlier and calls me Ava for some reason, so I call him Frank. He drools a little, but then again so does Charlie, either way the two of them are just as much fun as any kid my age.
I figured we could play restaurant and I’d make him one of my fabulous mud pies with chocolate chips. My Lite Brite pegs could be the chips with the added benefit of being colorful. So, I went to work mixing it all together using my trusted yellow Frisbee as a pie pan. Charlie assisted me.
I presented Pop the work of art. “Sir, a dessert fit for a king.” He held it up to his face smiled and proceeded to tip the Frisbee to his wide opened mouth taking in all the mud and Lite Brite pegs. Make no mistake this made him the coolest playmate ever but at the same time it caused me to be jolted out of my make believe world. “Grow up, Ruthie!” a voice screamed in my head.
I tried to pry it from his hands but he had a death grip on it. “Frank, let go!” mud splattered his chin, dripped down his neck and I heard him gasp for air. “Pop, let go!” Not knowing what else to do, Charlie began humping his leg and panting.
Pop went to the hospital that night. I never made another mud pie and to be honest, I’m not even sure there are elves living in the clover.
~ Ruthie
My days are pretty busy, Yep, I guess. Searching for the elves that live under the clover in my back yard, playing hotel with Charlie and cooking my world famous mud pies, I have a pretty full schedule for a kid. Some folks might think I’m a little old to be doing this sort of stuff, but really, there’s not much else to do.
Some of my weekends are busier than others, like the time my sister told me I was adopted. I spent days searching for those adoptions papers with my fingers crossed. I never did find them no matter how hard I looked. I would have waved them in the air, packed my Barbie suitcase, grabbed Charlie by the leash, said “Look, no hard feelings.” to my family leaving them each with a kiss and a pat on the head and headed out to the great unknown. Unfortunately, it turns out she was teasing me.
Some days when Mom is busy, I’m left to entertain my grandpa whom we call Pop. He had a stroke years earlier and calls me Ava for some reason, so I call him Frank. He drools a little, but then again so does Charlie, either way the two of them are just as much fun as any kid my age.
I figured we could play restaurant and I’d make him one of my fabulous mud pies with chocolate chips. My Lite Brite pegs could be the chips with the added benefit of being colorful. So, I went to work mixing it all together using my trusted yellow Frisbee as a pie pan. Charlie assisted me.
I presented Pop the work of art. “Sir, a dessert fit for a king.” He held it up to his face smiled and proceeded to tip the Frisbee to his wide opened mouth taking in all the mud and Lite Brite pegs. Make no mistake this made him the coolest playmate ever but at the same time it caused me to be jolted out of my make believe world. “Grow up, Ruthie!” a voice screamed in my head.
I tried to pry it from his hands but he had a death grip on it. “Frank, let go!” mud splattered his chin, dripped down his neck and I heard him gasp for air. “Pop, let go!” Not knowing what else to do, Charlie began humping his leg and panting.
Pop went to the hospital that night. I never made another mud pie and to be honest, I’m not even sure there are elves living in the clover.
Eating Alone - Anne Wright
The Greyhound stopped at a town on the outskirts of Seattle around the time the sun was setting. Brady, sitting alone in the stiff double upholstered seat was ready to get out and move around. Outside the window he could see a diner, its windows glowing in the early evening, and he thought it looked warm. His feet were cold and his belly was hungry.
He waited until the other passengers disembarked. He sat with his eyes closed and thought about what he would like to eat. Maybe a bloody steak with a side of chili beans. Fries. Chocolate milkshake in a glass with the extra in the metal blender container. A plate of fresh baked cornbread, or rolls with lots of butter. A fat slice of apple pie with a blob of melting vanilla ice cream.
He heard the other passengers talking about their luggage outside the bus and the sound of the compartment thumping open. The driver had announced this stop was forty minutes for unloading. Brady, if he moved fast, could get to the diner before the others. He’d sit at the counter, alone. And maybe think about her and the way she cleared the plates from the table and always brushed the crumbs onto the floor with her tan, firm hands.
He waited until the other passengers disembarked. He sat with his eyes closed and thought about what he would like to eat. Maybe a bloody steak with a side of chili beans. Fries. Chocolate milkshake in a glass with the extra in the metal blender container. A plate of fresh baked cornbread, or rolls with lots of butter. A fat slice of apple pie with a blob of melting vanilla ice cream.
He heard the other passengers talking about their luggage outside the bus and the sound of the compartment thumping open. The driver had announced this stop was forty minutes for unloading. Brady, if he moved fast, could get to the diner before the others. He’d sit at the counter, alone. And maybe think about her and the way she cleared the plates from the table and always brushed the crumbs onto the floor with her tan, firm hands.
Friday, January 29, 2010
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Anne Wright
When Susan saw Bill crumble saltines into his tomato soup, that was the moment she knew that she loved him. And when Bill tasted the beef stew that Susan made he said it reminded him of his Grandmother’s cooking. They loved each other and loved to eat, sometimes naked in the dining room chairs, with cloth napkins in their laps.
It was hard to talk about love sometimes because it wasn’t polite with a full mouth. So they learned to talk with their eyes and the hand that was free of the fork or spoon. Susan’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Bill smiled as he twisted the fettuccini on his fork. Bill’s nostrils flared when Susan licked the chocolate mousse from her lips. Susan brushed back the long blonde hair from her cheeks so it didn’t get buttery as she bit into the fresh French bread he baked each morning, and Bill lifted his hand to slip the kernel of corn from her chin to her mouth. Susan, from where she sat, next to him, fed him bites of wild salmon poached in white wine, capers and garlic, each morsel teasingly smaller until he was begging for just one more taste. Over and over he would twirl his finger in the garlic mashed potatoes and she would lick it off, her rough tongue exciting him. They loved each other more than they loved food.
It was hard to talk about love sometimes because it wasn’t polite with a full mouth. So they learned to talk with their eyes and the hand that was free of the fork or spoon. Susan’s eyes crinkled at the corners when Bill smiled as he twisted the fettuccini on his fork. Bill’s nostrils flared when Susan licked the chocolate mousse from her lips. Susan brushed back the long blonde hair from her cheeks so it didn’t get buttery as she bit into the fresh French bread he baked each morning, and Bill lifted his hand to slip the kernel of corn from her chin to her mouth. Susan, from where she sat, next to him, fed him bites of wild salmon poached in white wine, capers and garlic, each morsel teasingly smaller until he was begging for just one more taste. Over and over he would twirl his finger in the garlic mashed potatoes and she would lick it off, her rough tongue exciting him. They loved each other more than they loved food.
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