a beachtown. he pulled someone from the water earlier that night. i had seen it from the boardwalk, not entirely sure what i was watching, except that he ran in with all of his clothes on so it must have been important. she was drowning, trying to drown, succeeding. and he carried her out, arms behind neck and knees, the way you're supposed to post-rescue. she was small and limp, just a shadow barely covering the width of his chest.
he didn't know that i saw. and i was too scared to keep watching.
later in the beach house, we are sitting around a long dinner table. he is sitting to my right, facing away and i reach out and grab his arm, like getting the attention of a friend. he is cold, the kind of cold you feel when you can't get completely dry. and i can tell by the way he is looking at me that i have left my hand there too long. i stammer for words but they escape me. i smile, still holding his arm i smile- i know you're a hero, even if no one else here does, hoping he can read my mind. he smiles back, or at least i think he smiles back - it's the faintest upturning of lips that it's hard to say for sure.
he turns back to our host, i retract my hand, wanting our interactions to mean so much more than they do.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
the exodus
we are wandering around the complex where we live. it is night, but worse, the brown kind of night. like the desert. like abandonment. we are a pack of survivors.
near the house, there is a man, a beggar - we have often ignored him, or pretended to. tonight, he is yelling like we owe him something. trying to follow us into the house. cursing. we close the front door and it almost hits his nose he is following so close. we can see that he has sores along his face. he is banging on the door. catie, the oldest of us goes to the door and, though we plead with her not to, opens it. it is less because she is kind and more to prove she is the decision maker. her voice is what counts. as soon as the man enters, the sores on his face seem worse. i offer to call an ambulance for him. he says no. catie says no. she feeds him in the kitchen, i sneak into another room and dial 911.
later, we are on a school bus - there are many of us and we are trying to get to safety many towns over. one by one the people on the bus are starting to change - their faces spreading with sores, their eyes going cold, crooked as they are consumed by something distinctly not human. it's spread by direct contact and many of the kids are trying to rub their head on mine as though the goal is to spread as far as possible and they are being driven by this.
i get a hammer from the bus driver, who won't stop until we get there. here is worse than there he somehow knows. i am kicking people in the head, hammering them, using the fork of the hammer to remove chunks of flesh from their face. they are laughing. aside from this, the bus is remarkably well behaved.
we pull over to pick up a hitchhiker. it is raining and i am at the front, standing in the door, thinking about making a break for it. the girl in the front seat, still a girl, looks at me with pity as if to warn i'll never make it out there. when the door opens, i tell this roadside man that we are all full up and shut the door, watching him turn away. the rest of the bus - the survivors - yell to let him on, intending to throw him to the others. better you than me. i reopen the door and call to him. wait, i think we can find room and let him shuffled past me to board. and the driver gives me a look of mild condemnment. he is judging me and i deserve it.
and later, a compound where a giant rhinocerous is running around a school gymnasium. it is both terrifying and the punchline to a joke that no one seems to be able to tell right.
near the house, there is a man, a beggar - we have often ignored him, or pretended to. tonight, he is yelling like we owe him something. trying to follow us into the house. cursing. we close the front door and it almost hits his nose he is following so close. we can see that he has sores along his face. he is banging on the door. catie, the oldest of us goes to the door and, though we plead with her not to, opens it. it is less because she is kind and more to prove she is the decision maker. her voice is what counts. as soon as the man enters, the sores on his face seem worse. i offer to call an ambulance for him. he says no. catie says no. she feeds him in the kitchen, i sneak into another room and dial 911.
later, we are on a school bus - there are many of us and we are trying to get to safety many towns over. one by one the people on the bus are starting to change - their faces spreading with sores, their eyes going cold, crooked as they are consumed by something distinctly not human. it's spread by direct contact and many of the kids are trying to rub their head on mine as though the goal is to spread as far as possible and they are being driven by this.
i get a hammer from the bus driver, who won't stop until we get there. here is worse than there he somehow knows. i am kicking people in the head, hammering them, using the fork of the hammer to remove chunks of flesh from their face. they are laughing. aside from this, the bus is remarkably well behaved.
we pull over to pick up a hitchhiker. it is raining and i am at the front, standing in the door, thinking about making a break for it. the girl in the front seat, still a girl, looks at me with pity as if to warn i'll never make it out there. when the door opens, i tell this roadside man that we are all full up and shut the door, watching him turn away. the rest of the bus - the survivors - yell to let him on, intending to throw him to the others. better you than me. i reopen the door and call to him. wait, i think we can find room and let him shuffled past me to board. and the driver gives me a look of mild condemnment. he is judging me and i deserve it.
and later, a compound where a giant rhinocerous is running around a school gymnasium. it is both terrifying and the punchline to a joke that no one seems to be able to tell right.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
the trade-off
Your life ends in a blinding white gymnasium of a room. I have been there before and know how to part the rain as it falls above only you. Gently, palms down thumbs out like brushing hair from your face. Quick, palms curled like parting curtains.
I am conducting a grand orchestra of failure, but don’t know it yet.
The storm only lasts a while I say and you nod not really listening, peeling off wet clothes and leaving them behind you like disappearing breadcrumbs. Nothing lasts too long at the end, I follow, except, y’know, the end.
There is a running tally of all that’s going on, the emails you’re missing, the conversations happening in your absence, a way of keeping track how the world moves without you. And if you have been here before, as I have, you can opt out, take meetings to prove that there is still something left for you to do.
I have an appointment mid-afternoon and i have seen how it plays out – an escape route through the underground. above us, mosquitoes the size of torpedoes frozen in blocks of something more permanent than ice or concrete. It’s safe to come out.
You are scared, or maybe I want to believe that you are and need me somehow because when you kiss me, I let you, I lose track of time. And it doesn’t feel good or bad, doesn’t feel anything and I’m overcome with this profound sadness because in my head I had imagined it better, imagined it more.
And the day moves on and I am looking at the clock, watching the room morph from one stage to another, the lights dimming, nearly extinguished, one eye on where the door would be. You have to make a choice, you tell me and I look at you with a soft sort of outrage, the edges dulled by the disappointment that you can’t realize I already have.
I am conducting a grand orchestra of failure, but don’t know it yet.
The storm only lasts a while I say and you nod not really listening, peeling off wet clothes and leaving them behind you like disappearing breadcrumbs. Nothing lasts too long at the end, I follow, except, y’know, the end.
There is a running tally of all that’s going on, the emails you’re missing, the conversations happening in your absence, a way of keeping track how the world moves without you. And if you have been here before, as I have, you can opt out, take meetings to prove that there is still something left for you to do.
I have an appointment mid-afternoon and i have seen how it plays out – an escape route through the underground. above us, mosquitoes the size of torpedoes frozen in blocks of something more permanent than ice or concrete. It’s safe to come out.
You are scared, or maybe I want to believe that you are and need me somehow because when you kiss me, I let you, I lose track of time. And it doesn’t feel good or bad, doesn’t feel anything and I’m overcome with this profound sadness because in my head I had imagined it better, imagined it more.
And the day moves on and I am looking at the clock, watching the room morph from one stage to another, the lights dimming, nearly extinguished, one eye on where the door would be. You have to make a choice, you tell me and I look at you with a soft sort of outrage, the edges dulled by the disappointment that you can’t realize I already have.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
the shift
A soccer match where I am playing all my elementary school friends all grown up. They are razzing my team before hand but I am tough and confrontational and tell them where im coming from – challenge them to fight.
In the game we score the first goal off a penalty kick when someone is unapologetically pulling my arm down while I have the ball within the 18yard line. Someone else takes the kick before I know whats going on. The second is another direct kick from farther out, when a girl I used to be friends with falls on me and then when I get up, deliberately falls on me again. The ref has been watching these things, I am controlling the game. I take the shot from the right side of the field and it curves into the left corner. No one applauds, we just run back to our positions. I drop back to stopper, I had been playing striker and instruct my team to play defensively. Our left wing is from the other side and she has her bags with her on the field, having to leave early. We put her there because that is where she can do the least damage.
Suddenly the field changes and in order to score a goal, we have to kick it into a large fish tank at the bottom of a hill. One of my teammates goes to the bottom, right by the tank and bounces the ball up to me against the glass. I am at the top of the hill and can barely see where I’m shooting for since theres a wall between me and the goal. It is like a game of tennis where all I can do is return the ball and hope for the best. On the fourth try I get it in and the game is over.
The field is set up between city blocks and there are no spectators, just buildings. I have to ride in a canoe with one of my opponents, a good looking man who I knew as a boy but do not remember. He is rowing and congratulating me. We are talking about music and I invite him to jam later, because this version of me plays guitar.
There is a bus ride home where we drive through my old neighborhood. Everyone behind me talks about the changes to the streets. I have my headphones on and am actively not participating in the conversation, but no one seems to mind.
In the game we score the first goal off a penalty kick when someone is unapologetically pulling my arm down while I have the ball within the 18yard line. Someone else takes the kick before I know whats going on. The second is another direct kick from farther out, when a girl I used to be friends with falls on me and then when I get up, deliberately falls on me again. The ref has been watching these things, I am controlling the game. I take the shot from the right side of the field and it curves into the left corner. No one applauds, we just run back to our positions. I drop back to stopper, I had been playing striker and instruct my team to play defensively. Our left wing is from the other side and she has her bags with her on the field, having to leave early. We put her there because that is where she can do the least damage.
Suddenly the field changes and in order to score a goal, we have to kick it into a large fish tank at the bottom of a hill. One of my teammates goes to the bottom, right by the tank and bounces the ball up to me against the glass. I am at the top of the hill and can barely see where I’m shooting for since theres a wall between me and the goal. It is like a game of tennis where all I can do is return the ball and hope for the best. On the fourth try I get it in and the game is over.
The field is set up between city blocks and there are no spectators, just buildings. I have to ride in a canoe with one of my opponents, a good looking man who I knew as a boy but do not remember. He is rowing and congratulating me. We are talking about music and I invite him to jam later, because this version of me plays guitar.
There is a bus ride home where we drive through my old neighborhood. Everyone behind me talks about the changes to the streets. I have my headphones on and am actively not participating in the conversation, but no one seems to mind.
Monday, January 4, 2010
the reaction
scene - indoor hotel balcony - early evening
we are sitting at a bar, my friend and i. we are half celebrating, half mourning the success of a scheme, having made a business of diy prayer beads. we have a collection of charms that people have wanted to incorporate into their design, each with a meaning, each with a ghost. we are feeling guilty and trying to talk ourselves, each other, into believing we are doing something good.
there is a man in a suit walking a flight below us. the floor is round and polished and his footsteps echo against them. when the sounds stop we look up and he is there, offering us something we don't want. he is tall. handsome. mysterious. he is everyone we ever locked eyes with on the subway, he is no one we've ever met.
we giggle.
he starts talking to us and we listen for traces of an accent. he is some mix of farm and city grown. he is impossible to place. this is just a way to make some extra money he says really i work in television. me too! i exclaim perhaps too excited and my friend rolls her eyes and turns back to her cocktail.
he asks for my number and stands to the side. i pull a cocktail napkin off a stack and start writing my name, but it doesn't come out right. i pull another and another, each time giving myself a new name, slightly off, slightly wrong. i am panicking. my friend is laughing at me. it has been far longer than it takes to write a name and number.
he thinks we're toying with him, deciding on a fake name or number and he comes over. nevermind bitch! he yells this or something like it, where it stings and the words are immediately forgotten, soaked up into your skin. it feels like failure.
we are sitting at a bar, my friend and i. we are half celebrating, half mourning the success of a scheme, having made a business of diy prayer beads. we have a collection of charms that people have wanted to incorporate into their design, each with a meaning, each with a ghost. we are feeling guilty and trying to talk ourselves, each other, into believing we are doing something good.
there is a man in a suit walking a flight below us. the floor is round and polished and his footsteps echo against them. when the sounds stop we look up and he is there, offering us something we don't want. he is tall. handsome. mysterious. he is everyone we ever locked eyes with on the subway, he is no one we've ever met.
we giggle.
he starts talking to us and we listen for traces of an accent. he is some mix of farm and city grown. he is impossible to place. this is just a way to make some extra money he says really i work in television. me too! i exclaim perhaps too excited and my friend rolls her eyes and turns back to her cocktail.
he asks for my number and stands to the side. i pull a cocktail napkin off a stack and start writing my name, but it doesn't come out right. i pull another and another, each time giving myself a new name, slightly off, slightly wrong. i am panicking. my friend is laughing at me. it has been far longer than it takes to write a name and number.
he thinks we're toying with him, deciding on a fake name or number and he comes over. nevermind bitch! he yells this or something like it, where it stings and the words are immediately forgotten, soaked up into your skin. it feels like failure.
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