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Relief

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Ezra plunged his head down.  After the initial roar of the water and ice settled, the sounds of their voices, of their laughter, faded into the soft rattle of the ice cubes tapping against the walls of the steel sink.

The water was bracing, yet refreshing. He closed his eyes and held himself there as he worked to push everything from his head. It was too much.

A very faint, soft ringing rose up into his head as the body started to react to the time it had gone without a fresh breath. His hands gripped the edge of the sink for a bit of stability. He forced his head down to where his forehead rested gently on the sink floor. Another cold tap of relief greeted him when his skin touched the metal.

He thought about pulling out, taking another breath and plunging back in again, but he didn’t want to break this string of relief. In the water, there was nothing but the water. Outside of the water, at the point where the water now lapped against his neck, the world lay ready to pounce, to kick him again when he was down.

For this moment, for as long as he could hold his breath, he was safe, sober, alone, awake and in some sort of sense, home.

Icon

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Tobias clicked through pages and pages of old photos of Marilyn Monroe.

He couldn’t say for sure if he ‘liked’ her or the photos, or even that he ‘enjoyed’ looking at them, at least not the way others seemed to look at them. It was probably more accurate to say he was drawn to them as an odd curiosity.

Yes, she seemed to be a naturally beautiful woman, a representative of what may seem like an antiquated definition of beauty, rooted in a time where beauty was less prone to artificial maintenance and enhancement.

And he was not a fan per se. He couldn’t recall one of her movies that he may have watched end to end. He didn’t read much about her or follow the random tidbits of information that may pop up about her in the news. The anniversary of her death is likely the most common, along with persistent lore and rumor. He didn’t discuss her or defend her. He just looked.

His intentions were not voyeuristic or base. He didn’t study her form or seek fuel for fantasy. Rather, it was her face that drew him to her.

Her time was different from his, so the information he had access to, the fragmented bits and pieces that he pulled together formed a persona in his head of a sort of sad soul. It was harder to see in movies, because people who are directed represented more of that direction than of their own self, but the photos…

Her eyes drew him in. Matched with her smile, he moved from image to image seeing the joy and the history of the moment, and yet, if he looked closely, there lie a tinge of sadness, perhaps a touch of loneliness behind the glitz and the glamour.

Yes, it could be his own thoughts and ideas projected onto those moments that may taint them to some degree, but while Marilyn offered some of the most compelling examples, he saw it in other places too. Faces tell stories. Smiles hide pain. Glances betray joy.  He’d seen it a thousand times, his grandmother, his sister, the Marquet family photo of 1993.

That was the gift of photos. Even that which we try to hide, and hide well, can be captured, and even if only a hint of it is caught and frozen it can reveal the truth of ourselves.

Claimed

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Billy pulled the bag from the freezer. As he looked down, his brow furrowed.

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself while inspecting the bag further.  He yelled out, “Jason?”

“What?” Jason bumbled down the stairs to the kitchen where Billy stood with a puzzled look plastered on his face and a bag of frozen hot dogs in his hands. “Those are mine.”

“Yeah,” I gathered Billy said. “Am I seeing these right? Do they all say, ‘Exclusive Property of Jason Schwartzman’ on them?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Each one individually?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Billy asked.

“They’re mine.”

“I get that. It’s clearly indicated on each and every hot dog that they’re yours. How did you do that?”

“With a Sharpie®. I started with a plain one, but then I switched to the fine point. That made it much easier?”

“Why?”

“Duh, the fine point is not as thick, so the letters look better.”

“Why did you use a Sharpie® at all?”

“Well, I figured they would work best, they‘re permanent and non-toxic.”

“No. Why did you feel the need to write on the hot dogs at all?”

“They’re mine.”

“Right, fine. They’re yours. I’ll get to that in a second, but wouldn’t it have been easier just to write on the bag?”

“Well…I didn’t want you to get confused.”

“What, in case some hot dogs I might have somewhere decide to infiltrate your bag somehow and we can’t tell them apart?”

“You don’t eat hot dogs.”

“Which makes this even more bizarre.”

“But yet, here you are in the kitchen hold my bag of hot dogs.”

“Do you really think I wanted to eat your hot dogs? I was looking for something else. I saw these and I clearly remember thinking, ‘What the hell?’”

“I don’t see how it’s so bizarre. You write your name on stuff so I don’t get confused. You have a carton of eggs in there you marked as yours.”

“Right, but you have your eggs and I didn’t go through and mark each one the “Exclusive Property of William Jennings Cooper.’”

“Of course, not.”

“You see my point then?”

“Yeah, you prefer ‘Billy.’”

Photo

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He stared at it for a long time.

There before him, his likeness stood frozen for all eternity in a pose that indicated a pinnacle moment, but one he could scarcely remember. It was obviously a clear enough moment for the one who posted it and important enough to them to make them raise it of from the deep-sea of all things past and forgotten to shine under the new light of the modern future.

Was that even him, he wondered.

He didn’t feel he looked like that anymore. He probably didn’t think like that anymore and if he did, he hoped his thinking, and his behavior was a bit more refined.

And what was his obligation to this resurgence of the past? Did he need to explain it? Embrace it? Support it? Deny it? Was there a need to defend this person and these actions – whatever they were? Or was the better choice to ignore it as if it had never come up. Was it really so big a deal as even this amount of consideration?

Still here stared.

That younger face was foreign to him. Those settings, that time seemed connected to him, sort of, but by a very, very thin thread, and so distant that it might have been easy to deny that was him and to make a strong case in support of that. A doppelganger perhaps.
He spent a long time looking at the face, the eyes. Where did that boy go?

Was he a better person now? Did he do enough of the right things between that time and now? And when the current version of himself is forced to recall this time, will he be able to look back on this time and think well of the time that passed? Did he progress? Did he grow? Did he take care of his people? Did he learn enough and do enough to be well prepared to leave the world a tiny bit better than he found it?

Four Magazines

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“Four magazines?”

“Yeah”

“How long did you expect to be in there?”

“I never really know.”

“Really? Never?”

“Well…”

“How old are you? How long have you ever been in there? Even in the worst of circumstances?”

“I never really thought of it. There was that one time I was in there all day. It was awful. I wish I had a magazine or two then.”

“How long were you in there just now?”

“I guess about four…maybe five minutes.”

“That’s not enough time to get through one magazine was it?”

“Nah.”

“But you brought four in.”

“Yeah. Look, I’m not sure what the big deal is. It’s really more of a habit than anything else.”

“A habit?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I just find it curious that you have a ‘habit’ of taking dense reading material in when you know you’re only going to be in there a few minutes.”

“Sometimes it’s longer.”

“Yeah. Probably because you’re in there reading four magazines.”

“They have pictures.”

“Does that help in some way?”

“It does if I’m not in the mood to read.”

“So it’s a mood thing?”

“It can be.”

“And these are old magazines. You’ve read these before.”

“Right.”

“So, you take a bunch of magazines in and what you take depends on your mood. You often take in magazines you’ve already read, but that’s OK because they have pictures you can look at when you’re not in the mood to read.”

“That gets it.”

“And this…’helps’ you in some way?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you ever bring magazines other places where you might have to wait?”

“Not really. Doctors usually have magazines. Not good ones. And I don’t like taking my books and magazines places. They might get stuff on them, or I could drop them and they could get jacked up.”

“But you’ll take them in there without a care in the world.”

“It helps pass the time.”

“What time? The five minutes?”

“Are you telling me you never bring anything in?”

“On a rare occasion, I might have brought in a brochure from the mail or something…if I was in a rush.”

“Well, there you go. It’s the same thing.”

“Not hardly.”

“Were you wanting to go in or something?”

“Well, yes. Yes I was.”

“Do you want one of these? I have Popular Mechanics.”

“No. No thank you. I think I can manage this without Popular Mechanics.”

“To each his own.”

“Look, where are you going with those?”

“I’m going to put them back.”

“Where is back?”

“You know…where I got them.”

“You should have them burned.”

Precarious

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Chester sat still, enjoying the quiet. Everything was good, for the moment.

He tried to absorb as much of the calm as he could, for once the chaos ensued he would ramp right back up to where the doctor said he should work real hard to avoid. The doctor called it the ‘Red Zone’. Who does that?

For Chester, life was a precarious house of cards – at least in his mind. The reality was his life was probably not as precarious as he imagined. Work was solid. Things with Alice were solid, he thought. Nothing had broken in the last 20 minutes…all good.

Still his mind seemed to live under the perpetual notion that he was always, constantly and forever, one misstep away from unrecoverable disaster. That everything he had, worked for, supported, built, repaired or maintained was all capable of being stripped away from him and he would be defenseless to stop it. He tamped all that down pretty good on the day to day, but there was an ever present, very subtle buzz in the back of his mind that seemed to constantly whisper, “Watch out!” as if he was undeserving, as if he was living someone else’s life fraudulently and he needed to be careful or the jig as they say, would be up. He feared the moment someone discovered the truth, whatever his world was would be destroyed.

Petition

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He looked at her and hoped he wasn’t making a face.

She stood on his doorstep young and determined, maybe 19, maybe older, it was hard to tell at that age. She held tight to her clipboard as she quickly ran through her spiel – most of it memorized – before standing quietly and waiting for him to respond.

He hated opening his door for this exact reason.

Ninety-eight percent of the people who wanted him to sign something or join something rarely reflected his personal views. Instead of signing or buying he was often more inspired to give them a good piece of his mind – to help clarify the error of their ways. This time was no different, but he held himself to silence.

She spoke of outrage, but he didn’t see it. He read about the situation himself and at the time he found himself shaking his head, “This is what people are ‘outraged’ over?”

She was clearly moved to action, but it was an action that would result in disappointment for her. The ‘outrage’ was not going to change the magazine cover, or help keep prayer in school or whatever other trivial thing that seems to put a thorn in humanity’s paw for a hot second.

She was a clean cut suburban kid who may be having her first full taste of social outrage. There were so many more things more worthy of her efforts that should not only generate true rage, but make you physically ill once you really understood the depth of the problem. Yet here she was with her petition and her determination. The last true rage she felt was probably aimed at her parents. She’d likely have better luck with a petition about that.

Duck

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Billington Quackmire enjoyed a regal existence in the pond outside of the Third Pentecostal Human Relief Church and Bank and Trust, Inc.

His presence, and that of his neighbors Jacques and Marie (who pretended to be French, but weren’t) lent a certain post-cardesque charm to the locale, especially on those sunny spring days when everything was in full bloom.

For as long as he could recall, the Quackmires have made this pond their home. The act of charm inducing visual support their job. He often saw folks taking his picture as they left the service. When he was younger, he had trouble with his timing and could be caught with his backside in the air as he searched for food in the subtle murk that lie beneath the water. The others pointed out to him that while practical, the timing was undignified.

With time, he worked it out so that his gallant glide across the water took place as most people were leaving the building. If he timed it just perfectly, he would get just below the beech trees as the sun broke through the leaves with bands of light. It was a hard sight to resist.

Return

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He flipped through the stacks. Each one sparked a glimmer of memory through sight and sound.

It had been years since the fire. Years since he touched vinyl. Years now since things seemed to go…sour.

It seemed trivial on the surface. Others might think it irrational to tie fate so closely to something possessed. Yet, while these material items were not his originals, there was still a kinship.

Oh…this one got him through his break up with Mary Ellen Newburgh, and this one was pretty much the root soundtrack to the summer after he graduated college. A consistent presence in a time of change and turmoil.

They were all his friends.

His mind raced to find a way to claim them all, but it was impossible. It just helped to know that they were here.

Then he found it, or it found him. The one he needed. He looked up as a tear welled in the corner of his eye. An embarrassed warmth hit his cheeks as he tired quickly to blink it away. He snapped it up and held it close to his chest as if he had just found a lump of gold. He would have it back now. It was the very first step that felt like the right step in a good long time.

Plan B

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Bits stopped listening the instant Jelly uttered the words, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” And the whole time Jelly extolled the benefits of his ‘Plan B,’ Bits wondered about the phrase.

Where did it come from? What could possibly require one to know how to skin a cat, say nothing about why they would need more than one way? How many ways were there? Did someone at some point change the problem from skinning the cat at the onset to actually working through a number of potential ways to determine which one worked best?

She imagined a small research team charting and plotting the goal of getting a cat skinned only to realize once they finished that there might be many more efficient ways to accomplish the task.

“We are going to need a lot more cats,” she heard one say in the back of her mind.

She was also convinced that Jelly’s ‘Plan B’ was doomed to fail. Just casually throwing out the cat skinning analogy without knowing spit about actual cat skinning implied to her that he really had no idea what he was talking about.

Muffin

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Muffin romped over the top of the hill down into Farrington Glenn.

Gimple’s sigh and following scowl drew Custer’s attention. “What worries you so,” he asked.

“She’s slight and reckless,” Gimple answered.

“She’s smarter than you give her credit for,” said Custer. “And she’s only doing what we all agreed needed to be done.”

Gimple tightened his grip on the wooden lever, the trigger of the trap. He watched as Muffin tumbled down the hill giggling. Nearly blissful, he thought. She should be more aware. The pangs of guilt made his stomach roll. “She doesn’t really realize, does she?”

Custer grabbed his shoulder with a comforting squeeze. “She knows.”

Gimple looked at Custer with a quick side glance, “She’s bait.”

Custer squinted out over the hill top letting a heavy breath ease its way from his chest. Another of Muffin’s giggles floated back to him. “She knows.”

Writing

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Criz dropped the pen.

Rubbing his hands together, he reviewed the page.

Pathetic.

What was supposed to be elegant and sharp on the whole, started out with a practiced neatness, but turned into a mosh of mismatched angles and strained lines by the third sentence.

His handwriting was never stellar, but there was a time there where at least had some consistency…some uniformity in construction. He had known people over the years who could write like their own font had been programmed directly into their hands. No matter the circumstance, they could tirelessly create smooth lines, clear turns and regimented spacing with a certain grace that could make even a grocery list a joy for the eyes to absorb.

He mostly typed his words now. And while his high school typing teacher would disagree with his perceived mastery of the skill, he got by. At least it was legible. There were sticky notes with important things handwritten on them that he had to ball up and toss out because he couldn’t make enough sense of the scratch to trigger the right memory of what he was supposed to do. Lost information. And now, even when trying to write something to add a more personal touch, something to share that shows a deeper more personal connection between the written word and the writer, his hand rebelled with fatigue leaving the letters, words and ultimately the message diminished in some way. Far less than what he intended.

Local News

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Six minutes into the broadcast reconfirmed everything Sal hated about watching local news.

The patronizing tones passed through a carousel of facial expressions used to help the viewer understand the meaning of the story performed on cue as if written into the script, and perhaps it was.

The woman was worse than the man. Her pout filled faux-sadness over the tragedy of the moment shifted unceremoniously to the cloying delivery of the feel good story “viewers won’t want to miss” at the end of the program. Sal feared it would be something akin to a cow overcoming the odds of nature and traveling 500 miles cross country to return home after being left behind on the family vacation to the Ozarks.

And really, who gets that excited about weather? He wanted to wipe the smile right off that guy’s face…with sandpaper. Then again, Sal thought, if he could go to work every day and be wrong as much as this guy – with no accountability – he would probably be as excited to do his job too.

Laundromat

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Julius loved the laundromat. It was the optimum location for practicing his particular set of skills. Because everyone there, at least at this location, seemed slightly off center anyhow he wouldn’t appear out of place once he got busy.

Clairvoyance can be a gift or a curse for those who both recognize and accept their affliction. It’s all in what you do with it.

Julius found it particularly productive to ‘trance’ in front of one of the machines as the laundry spun and churned before him. The machine worked to free the dirt and the guilt of the days from the items which shared everything from the most inane to the most intimate moments of the owner’s daily lives.

The owners find a calm in the sense of cleansing away the residue of the days gone by.

If they only knew.

As the essence of those shadows are released, Julius was there to claim them. To read them. To embrace them. To categorize them and then determine who may need his particular brand of help.

Drink

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He’d have a drink.

That seemed sensible.

That’s what men in the movies did after a particularly trying experience, and this was that for him…trying.

Finding a drink however, was not as easy as deciding to have one. A good rummage through the cupboards rendered a pathetic array of alcohol containing items – vanilla extract, soy sauce, and a crusty/rubbery tipped, practically empty bottle of cooking sherry long forgotten and pushed back into the corner where rarely used spices are condemned to expire. Not that any alcohol he found would mix well with the half a cup of lemonade, or the quarter-full jug of ‘this smells like it’s gone bad buttermilk the refrigerator offered.

Not even something as simple as having a drink was going to work out. He shook his head and opted for water from the tap, but poured the first glass he drew down the drain, deciding instead for hot water from the tap. At least that had a little bit of danger about it.