Wet Works | 16 July 2021
The line for the bathroom wasn’t long, but it was desperate. Folks shifting left to right in a dance I knew too well. I didn’t actually have to piss, but I had orders – get there between 8-9pm, and look for the key in the hiding spot of the ADA stall.
BNR Response
Hiding spot, indeed. That was a cute touch to tack onto this latest clue. I really had to move though, and I knew the chance of Bobo or Bruiser beating me to the end of this hunt was growing with the minute. In my urgency, I started eyeing the three people in line ahead of me for the unisex bathroom for hints about how I might manipulate my way up in the queue. After telling the girl, clad in plaid and leaning against the brick wall plastered with curling posters of previous acts, that the restroom across the room didn’t have a line I was able to move up and take her spot. I convinced the next person ahead that I had simply left my phone in the stall, pointing to the conspicuous hole in the front pocket of my jeans, and was in the disabled cabin at last.
Hiding spot, what a sick joke. As if I’m in a movie and every toilet has that consistent hidden compartment for Godfather pistols and Scarface cocaine mirrors. Where the fuck was I going to find this key? Before I know it, I’ve burned through ten minutes and I can already hear those stupid brothers chest pounding and drinking out of the Cup in celebration. Think, Sy, think. I’m staring, eyes unfocused, at the water tank of the commode and it hits me: Jesus Christ on a crutch…they wouldn’t, would they? I’d already been put through the ringer this weekend trying to track down the other keys to solve this scavenger hunt: starting at a beachfront property party that made Eyes Wide Shut look like a day at a nunnery, the gritty manhole in the alley behind the IOOF hall, and, most recently, the groundkeeper’s shed at the cemetery. Fuck it. I lift up the lid to the tank and peer inside, and there it is: brass and very small, like the kind I had to unlock my bike chain in middle school. Fuck fuck fuck. After a sharp inhalation, I flush the toilet and the ball-cock descends, I reach in, elbow-deep, and extract the key and the attached letter packaged in plastic. I can’t avoid washing my hands and find myself side-by-side with the guy who had taken pity on my, “it’s just my phone” excuse and, in an effort to avoid his gaze, I focus on scrubbing the trichinosis-laden water off of my skin. I put the small key in my front jean pocket and discard the letter’s plastic casing.
The clue in my hand has to be second or third to last, surely. How many days were we meant to be on this quest? More than two days wasn’t worth $10K in my book, I was getting to goddamned old for this. Thankfully, this clue was an easy one, and I immediately knew to head down to the boat slip off Airport Road. At the end of a short ride I threw ten bucks at the cabbie and ran the block to the dock before slowing to walk the more delicate ramps between the boats. I was looking for a craft with a racy name, and passed one that sounded too bleu, Mermaid’s Clam, and opted for the less on-the-nose choice of, Butterfield-8. I think this is the kind of yacht they describe as, “yar”, she was a beaut. She seemed to be a KrisKraft from the 60s or 70s, sleek, modest, and with the splendor of varnished Thuja wood everywhere. The moon glinted off of the deck, and I then noticed the bobbing of the boat was driven by some action going on in the interior. Not wanting to disturb the boat’s occupants, I quickly climbed aboard, thankful for my white-soled sneakers, and located the key I sought on the dash by the steering wheel. The gyrations of the vessel were now met with escalating groans from the small cabin…time to disembark. Initially concerned that there wasn’t an envelope of some sort to accompany the large square silver key, I was relieved, once again on dry land, to see that the key tag held all the information I needed to get to my next destination. I put the key, which was on a boat mechanic’s vanity keychain, to my personal key ring to ensure I didn’t lose it.
The hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant, aptly named, “Off the Hook”, was just walking distance away. I began to relax a bit as I realized that perhaps the long treks during the first day of the hunt were now dissolving into shorter and shorter jaunts between clues. I walked along the edge of the land, where the grass growing in dirt gives way to ice grass growing in sand. About five minutes later, I was almost there. There was an increasingly steady stream of wavering pedestrians looking for their cars and taxis, and I couldn’t help but see their wobbly movements as a sort of dance to the music drifting on the air. “Captain Jack” by Billy Joel, how ironic. The key tag had said, “Windy is Off the Hook”, and I just happened to know that a Windy hostessed around the harbor and owned the best set of dimples in any of the cheeks in town. As I walked in, the smell of stale beer and fry batter was striking but the vibe was blissfully mellow and unpretentious. The music swelled and I saw Windy round the corner, holding a stack of menus. I’d been waiting for a chance to strike up conversation with this woman, and I was able to confidently tell her about my clue and ask if she had a key for me. She smiled and was genuinely interested in the uniqueness of my extracurriculars. There were those dimples. Hot damn. I was just about to transition into small talk and was feeling all kinds of right about this moment when an incredibly embarrassing lyric from Captain Jack punched through the pause in our conversation, “Your sister’s gone out, she’s on a date, and you just stay at home and massssssturbate.” I manage to laugh it off, but it has definitely killed my game, so I make a promise to come back after I conclude the scavenger hunt and buy Windy a drink across the street at the fishermen’s bar. Proud of my recovery, I look down at the heavy envelope she’s given to me for the first time. I open it up and it has no less than four keys in it and a handwritten note beckoning me to the beach. I fold the envelope in half and put it in my back pocket.
This last clue (it must be!) indicates that it will soon be time to try my keys to see if I have, indeed, been able to locate the one necessary to access my prize money. I scramble down the dodgy retaining rocks that appear to quite literally be holding the cliffside up and make it down to the sand. I remove my shoes and feel the sand is cold on my warm bare feet, all the heat is long dissipated and has had time to catch a chill, having been in the shadow of the cliff overhang for hours. I look to the right and see the fog coming in, no discernable light or life. I look to the left at a long stretch ahead of me, with what seems to be a bonfire about a hundred or so yards away. The smell of the smoke in my nostrils burns and the sound of laughter and garbled tunes from an old radio suggest that I am on the right path. As I near the group of revelers, I am hit with nostalgia so heady that I grow dizzy. Couples are snuggling under faded sarapes, beer cans are scattered about, and the fragrance of burning oak. I stop for a moment to close my eyes and take it all in. My eyes are still closed, and I am swaying gently as I am greeted with a questioning, “Uh, what’s up, man?” and I am instantly snapped from my daydream. I must look like a madman: having staggered eerily down the rocks, seemingly appearing from the ether, and now wandering, zombie-like, a little too close to their intimate gathering. I excuse myself and explain my quest. They nod with relief and their laughs break the momentary tension. A young blonde kid wearing a shirt that reads, “Back off, Warchild” points a few hundred yards further down the beach to what appears to be an old storage shack.
The shanty leans against the cliffside where the grade of the land starts to arc upwards once again and a number of narrow trees have created a kind of curtain of darkness. Is this the real destination or is it a decoy? I’ve been frequenting this beach for years and have never seen this structure. It seems to have spontaneously generated like the Zoltar fortune teller in Big. I sidle up to the one-door structure and realize that its more like a Disneyland feature than an authentic artifact, and I know this is the place: it had been strategically planted here as the final stop of the hunt and I was the only one here. There are two padlocks on the door, both owners to different keys. I systematically go through the nine keys I’ve gathered over the last two days. Orgy party key: no dice. Odd Fellows key: not immediately working. Groundskeeper’s key: success! It opens the top padlock. Boat key on my keyring: nothing, but the key tag reminds me momentarily of Windy’s breezy, “toodle-oo” and I can’t wait to win this thing so I can regale her with my tale over drinks at the bad bar. I exhale deeply. Focus, Sy. Now I reach for the envelope of four keys from Windy, recalling how her fingers had glided across my hand as she passed it to me…mmm. Envelope keys: no joy. I retry the Odd Fellows key and can safely rule it out now. Oh shit, wait a second, what about the dive bar toilet key? Yessssss. I reach into my front right pocket and my lungs drop into my pelvis as I realize my pocket is empty, and my hand can know reach fully through that fucking hole to the outside of my pants. I look down at my hand, which seems to be mockingly looking up at me from the exposed inside/outside of my denim. Fucckkkkkk.
I hear the Bowzer brothers lumbering past the bonfire in their signature indelicate fashion, and I sink to my knees in the cold sand. When they catch up with me I’m trying to ready myself to concede defeat. Bobo dangles the tiny toilet key in front of me with a smug grin on his face. Apparently, I dropped it while making a pass at Windy, and it was the only key they had managed to secure. Before they put the key in the second padlock, I swallow my pride and manage to choke out, “Split it, boys?”
Member of the Wedding | 5 July 2021
She knew she shouldn’t be here. Well at least she knew there would be consequences for being here. She knew that for sure, yet she was here, sitting at a huge round table of wedding guests that she hadn’t seen in 23 years. Her classmates and him, the groom. She had quite a history with the groom, a long and lustrous relationship- torrid is probably the better word. As she sat listening to the drunkards wane prolific, her mind wondered off into the past…
BNR Response
It didn’t have to wander that far. The past could refer to high school, to the last ten years, two months, or 15 minutes, depending on what she was searching for. High school meant prom and sweet stolen kisses, ten years ago meant first weddings and borderline flirtations, two months meant inconspicuous rendez-vous at any given coastal restaurant or hotel, and the last 15 minutes marked the latest indiscretion: sex in the wedding rehearsal coat check. Why had she RSVPed to this horrid event?
Buffet dinner with the same linen tablecloths, the same faux gold bamboo catering chairs, and the same schmucks she was finally rid of after graduating from Torrance High back in the 90’s. It felt more like a high school reunion except for the unavoidable wedding kitsch: the cupcake wall, the step-and-repeat with the banner, “Tad and Sandra got hitched!”, and the bad DJ playing all the wrong disco.
This dress was itchy, and she suspected she still smelled of sex…which of her former classmates had walked in on them, again? She shuddered to think it had been “Mom”, the loveable nickname they gave to the thick-necked but tender student coach of the football team back in ‘98. She poked at her American-style orange chicken, listening to the blithering of her drunken alumni around her. “Can you believe that was Suzanne?” one gushed, “I KNOW, right? She is so slim considering that she has FOUR kids!”
Her head swiveled around the room, she hadn’t seen Sandra yet and she figured it was best to just up and leave the whole situation before seeing the bride-to-be. She felt herself pushing that plastic chair backward and it catching on something as she not-so-delicately excused herself from the high school homeroom table while polishing off her third glass of champagne. Turning around, nearly tumbling, she came face-to-face with Sandra: one-time friend, some-time enemy, current target of betrayal.
Dammit, she really wasn’t ready to face all that looking at Sandra carried: the heartbreak of their broken friendship all those years ago, the decades of words unspoken, and, most recently, the affair with Frederick. She wasn’t sure where “Tad” came from as a nickname, it seemed as mysterious to her as how “Peggy” could be derived from Margaret, but the latest string of sexual encounters led her to call him by his given name, Frederick, which sounded more adult and therefore more accountable for the mutual destruction they were creating.
So much flashed through her brain in those next few seconds: Sandra was breathtaking. Her dress was simple, and her skin was flawless. She really had nothing to say, and even looking at Sandra made her instantly think of all the things she had done that would hurt her. It was as if she was looking through one of those dermatologist lenses that shows you the sun damage you can’t see with the naked eye, only in this case she could see all the visible markings of the wrongdoings she and Frederick had committed against Sandra showing up like ink stains on that rehearsal dress like spots under a black light.
Sandra was greeting guests warmly as another cater-waiter walked by with a tray of champagne, so she grabbed two glasses. Still standing, she reminded herself how she had vowed she would call it off before it got to this point. I mean, after all these years if he couldn’t choose her for her and not as a side dish then when would he? Never, she reminded herself. And what did Sandra deserve? Should she marry this cad without even knowing what she was in for, or did she deserve a warning before blindly walking down the aisle? She tipped the first glass bottom up and then the second, and caught the lace of Sandra’s cap sleeve firmly in her hand while saying, “Can we talk?”
Solo Cup | 1 July 2021
She walked into the room and she saw him leaning against the wall under the peeling and tattered Jimi Hendrix poster looking down into his seemingly empty red solo cup. The sense of deja vu was overwhelming. This happened often and she'd learned to pay attention, so as she walked in his direction, she paid close attention to her internal reaction, and it spoke volumes. "Hey," she said. He looked up slowly and met her gaze. "Hey yourself," he said. "Are we gonna do this?" he added. She wasn't sure what he meant, but she said yes and accepted the hand reaching out to her.
BNR Response
He tried to pull her down to sit beside him but she countered his weight and pulled him up. She didn’t know what he had in mind, but she didn’t want to stay here to find out. As he rose he was a bit unstable on his feet, which she hated to admit she had been hoping for. If he’d had a bit too much to drink then he would need a ride home. After a few almost imperceptible stumbles, he instinctually handed her the keys and they made their way single-file down the narrow attic staircase to the second floor of the frat house. The party hadn’t raged that night, thank god, and instead had quickly migrated to the hellish home of the tri-delts (those sluts). The floor they were on was mostly bedrooms and was totally empty. It was weird to be here at night and for it to be desolate and so eerily quiet. They now disembarked down the broad grand staircase in the middle of the house into the area with the foosball table and where the beer pong seemed to be eternally ready for play. She imagined this house 40 or 50 years ago, the pride of some trapped housewife. This would have been the transitional room between the front parlor and the more casual dining room and telephone nook. The house had remarkably guarded much of its original charm: the hardwood floors still shone red under the dull scuffs from furniture moved clumsily, the original doorknobs were either glass and patinaed brass, the tile in the bathrooms was tiffany turquoise with matching vanity and commode. She wondered if local residents were ever able to wrest away and reclaim these historical properties, restoring them to their original luster, or if they were doomed to a slow, inevitable decay.
They walked out the back door and the still, summer air was close and hit them like a dead-end street. The sweet smell of cut grass, freshly mowed earlier that day, lingered with the fragrant ozone from recent rain. Lightning bugs created romantic atmosphere. Oh, if only she could reach out to his unattended hand, so close to her, and squeeze it.
They hopped in his pick-up, all the windows already down, and began the 4-minute drive to his apartment. They cruised through the blinking yellow streetlights, and Don Henley drifted on the airwaves from the AM/FM radio, “I thought I knew what love was, what did I know? Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go but…” and her chest felt hollowed out with longing. She knew her only real alone time with him was during stolen moments like these: his guard lowered by his being overtired or drunk, and when none of his bros were around to shoo her away. She had cobbled together a collage of these glimpses at happiness: that night after the movie in the park when his bike had been stolen. After cramming for an O Chem exam until the library closed, followed by a last call warm beer at the campus bar aptly named Study Hall. When his dog got run over and none of his roommates could deal. She sifted through these cherished memories and felt desperation in the realization that it might be months before she was alone with him again. The lyrics of Boys of Summer stuck with her in their haunting prophecy as she pulled up to his curb and they slowly climbed out from the cab, “I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach. Empty lake, empty beach, the sun goes down alone. I’m driving by your house, though I know you’re not home.” Would this be the last time she’d get this chance? Should she take it?
HCH Response
There’s a quality about guys like him I can sense from across the room. I sometimes wonder if I could find them blindfolded — that’s how accurate the radar is. Maybe it’s just experience? I’ve had years of practice after all, I thought with a smirk as I approached this one.
Shy, obviously. Duh. Alone helps. Ill-fitting clothes on a frame that’s been wasted by bad posture and worse self-esteem. Body language that suggests a desperate attempt to escape into one’s mortal shell, yet miraculously summoning the courage deep within a nerd’s heart to go to a gathering instead. Not a gathering like Magic: The Gathering — like, a party.
You might not think a woman would want a reputation like mine. But fuck em. I’m a benevolent angel of light. I’m the goddamn Mother Theresa of virginity’s oily shelf life. I’m providing a public service. And, to be petty, you will never feel hotter than I do when I am with my mark. So everybody can suck it.
What do I get out of it? Sure, fair question.
They are tender. I always have the upper hand; they can never hurt me. On the rare occasion when one steps out of bounds, he finds out immediately, like a shock collar or an electric fence. And, as any good performer who leaves the audience wanting more can relate, I know that he will compare every future encounter to ours. Last (and most mushily) of all, I feel that our trysts set these guys on a path of confidence. Slap em on the tighty-whitey ass. Go forth, young genius. You’ve just leveled up on the way to being a man. Bonus +100 XP and all.
I guess that’s why I was taken aback by his question, “Are we gonna do this?” Well, that was bold. He required no flattery, flirtation, or leading. I immediately thought to counter with, “Heyyy, bucko. I’m actually fuckin Batman, and that makes you Robin, but more naked.” Come on. We all love a good homoerotic superhero fantasy. Anyway, either my senses had misled me, and I was about to wrestle my way out of an unfortunate situation, or I was about to train this pup in some manners. Or...? Door number 3. I’d said I would listen to my internal reaction, and now here I was. In all honesty, I was curious. I had to find out what this dude’s deal was.
I followed him down the hall, lined with necking couples deluded enough to think it was a private nook. I shrugged. Private enough, right? Needs must. The closer we got to the end, the less clothed the gallery got. I stepped over bras, hoodies, and at one point a pair of jeans. Wow, I thought, these are some Olympic-grade makeouts. God bless you and I hope you are on birth control. I’d never been to an event at this particular house, and I kicked myself for not having done a full reconnaissance mission when I arrived. Sloppy. The gauntlet I’d just walked, following his hunched shoulders the whole way, left me feeling more vulnerable than I cared to admit.
We stopped short of the bathroom to face the last door on the right. He must have felt the giant question mark over my head when he knocked instead of just entering.
“Password?” A small voice inside beseeched.
“Uzra,” he said, his voice lowered considerably and louder than our initial exchange. He might as well have been saying “Oohrah” like he was a Marine.
The door creaked open.
Inside was the brightest room in the house, if I had to bet. One overhead light, one desk lamp, one standing lamp and one lava lamp all glowed blindingly at me. A circle of faces collectively gave me a side-eyed glance, then returned to their cards in hand.
He shut the door behind me and broke the silence we’d held since I approached him.
“You play Magic, right? You… seem like the type.”
Church Ghosts | 1 July 2021
I never saw bats in this belfry, but I knew for certain there were ghosts in these pews. For me at least. It had been nearly 45 years since I last set foot in this church. As the heavy doors swung closed behind me, the chill up my spine made it feel like it was all yesterday. I feared that as I walked further in, the ghosts would appear one by one.
DD Response
I remember mama and daddy holding hands as the preacher waned prolific about the need to repent and be saved. I remember hearing daddy sing those Baptist hymns so off key I would cringe. He didn’t care, but I did. And I remember coming home to what mama called the Baptist Bar. It’s where they stored their liquor, and it had louvered doors that would close if the preacher came to visit.
I remember the ghosts of my past mortification -my baptism, where the water made my garment translucent. At thirteen what was being exposed underneath carried more weight than what was presumably being washed clean. I remember sneaking up to the balcony bathroom to smoke cigarettes and flirting with the cute boy in my Sunday School class. The words and pretense of the congregation did not play out as virtues in my home. This building represents the very definition of hypocrisy.
Grandmother left her faith letters in a trunk. As the family historian, my home became the repository for all things “collectible.” One letter struck me more than the others. She wrote to her cousin about getting married. “If you ever have the smallest little spat, don’t say a word. Just pray, pray pray.” The ghosts of this building haunt me today. They tell me "Just smile and shut up."
BNR Response
My family left the mining town when I was eight years old, a full two years before the whole town was officially considered ghost in 1942. The people and buildings I remember haven’t made it to the historical society or the tourist brochure: the empty saloons on opposing street corners with the swinging doors leading right out onto the dirt thoroughfare, the triple story general store with balconies stretching end-to-end on every floor, the wide-open spaces full of tumbleweeds and prickly brush, and our home.
On the other hand, this church has been widely photographed and is a mainstay in many ghost town exhibitions and artefacts largely due to the archetypal simplicity of its construction as well as how well it has passively been preserved. In fact, iconic images of this space have been so widely shared and adopted that they are often wrongly attributed to coming from Tombstone rather than my birthplace of Bodie, California.
My time spent in this church was not what people might think of when reflecting on religious spaces: finding hidden silver nuggets under floorboards, sneaking sips of whisky from forgotten bottles stowed in the narthex, rowdy made-up dances in the social hall, yanking up my skirt so the boys could see my knickers, my first kiss in the bone yard. When we were kids we used to enter the church and climb up to the bell tower after dark, that is until Susie Johnson fell to her death that night in August when we were four.
What started out like a typical Western adolescence for my grandparents here; riding mustangs, helping raise and slaughter the hens and hogs, canning food in the summer to ready for the winter, ten months a year in the one-room schoolhouse with all kids from two to twelve; took a tandem downward turn with the negative trajectory of the town’s silver and gold yield.
Once people started shifting out of town it became a rat race to the top of the sinking ship. People jockeyed for positions as they were rarely and suddenly left vacant: Sheriff, banker, madame. People looted abandoned storefronts and stole wagons and horses. The town became unfriendly, breeding suspicion and deceit. The spiral down started long before I was born, so my education in the classroom, on the land, and in the house continued uninterrupted. Even mama and daddy were raised after the bottom fell out, and they relied on pappy and mee-maw to tell of the change in the town when they were first married in the 1880’s.
We escaped late, the last few stragglers to leave an already unwanted city. When you grow up in a place like that, constantly unearthing the interrupted moments of all those lives, the bookmarks people thought they’d come right back to, those ghosts never leave you be. The thing about a ghost town is that it isn’t just the spaces that are left behind. Seeing as it was plumb too expensive to pack all that up and wagon out of town all the way to Mono Lake, or, better yet, Yosemite, what’s left behind are not just the pieces and parts of folk’s lives but the remnants of a people. Everyone’s seen photos of the hardware store left in a dash, stocked ready for the Friday payday rush; the bar with the billiard balls still on the felt; dishes left dirty on the washboard. The town stopped living mid-breath.
Childhood | 1 July 2021
It had been almost fifteen years. Childhoods marred by estrangements. I broke the silence we shared, the only thing I knew to say was ‘red leather.’
BNR Response
I couldn’t believe it. I’d been living in the city for five years and had somehow avoided being a volunteer in an Upright Citizens’ Brigade skit through literally dozens of out-of-town guests’ trips here. And here I was, at that scuffed up table on that tiny “stage” under the busy streets of Chelsea. After sitting, I looked up to discover the volunteer sitting across from me: fucking Fredo. His real name was Freddie but after the stunt he pulled at the end of college I simultaneously stopped speaking to him and started calling him Fredo in homage to the traitorous Godfather character of the same name.
So now I’m face-to-face, looking at this ugly mug while having to stage whisper background noise to fulfill my volunteer obligation. I attempt to get “red leather, yellow leather” out of my mouth. I mutter with disdain. But fucking Fredo hasn’t recognized me yet, and his goofy half drunken demeanor is absolutely enraging me. Everything about him is so totally him: the “I © NY” tee shirt, so fresh of the Time Square shelves that it still has its creases in it; the thick 5 o’clock shadow that looks more like Homer Simpson than Don Draper; that same dopey laugh that comes out only when he’s genuinely enjoying himself. Wanker. It was all flooding back, and the good mixed with the bad like blood into sand and seemed to find itself on my tongue, prompting a strong desire to spit.
I’ve momentarily lost track of where I am until the peels of laughter snap me from my reverie. The two women downstage are deep into their scene about a raccoon that’s loose in a bustling restaurant. I’ve always enjoyed the performances of the brunette, Wendy, but the blonde is an over-eager newcomer who seems to think that the SNL casting director is in the audience that and every night.
“A RACCOON?!” the blonde yelps, holding her curled fingers up to her mouth in desperate overacting.
“I really hoped I’d never see you again, you piece of shit.” I spew in Fredo’s direction, spit from my mouth landing on his beardy cheek. He doesn’t hear me so I say it again, louder. This time, he seems to catch only the epithet and he faces me fully for the first time, saying, “Sorry, you talking to me, brother?”
“Don’t you dare call me ‘brother’, motherfucker.” I spout, and now my finger is in his face. At first, he starts to laugh but the smile quickly melts and is replaced by a grimace of recognition.
“Oh shit, Jack.” He’s got the right end of it now.
“That’s right, ‘oh shit, Jack.’” I kick back at him.
“Where will we get an animal trap at THIS time of night?” The blonde, Carolyn, tries to carry on the absurd raccoon storyline.
“Maybe if we create a big distraction then none of the other diners will notice as we catch it!” Wendy conspires. The audience laughs easily.
And just like that, I lunge across the table and Fredo, not realizing that it was a collapsible prop until it quickly folds under the weight of our lumbering bodies. Stunt glass shatters into safe shards and makes our very real fight seem like enthusiastic play-acting. The crowd erupts into laughter and applause, potentially thinking that we are really taking our volunteer responsibilities seriously. The improv actors take the opportunity to build on the momentum and excitement we’ve created. It works for awhile until our strenuous tussle moves further down stage, interspersed with my abbreviated account of Fredo’s unforgivable indiscretion.
“Sierra and I were going to…MARRIED…love of my life…never would have slept with you…too much to drink…ruined my life…fuck off and die.”
We roll around like fighting sibling possums, partially because I don’t think Fredo really wanted to get into it with me. Finally, exhausted from the fight, we roll, bruised and battered and panting in our 40-something bodies, off the stage and land on the sticky carpet floor between cocktail tables. The room is silent, and I no longer care where I am or what kind of spectacle I may have created. I have nothing left to say, or perhaps I do but I don’t know how. Fredo just looks at me with empty and sad eyes.
As the stage manager raises the lights, I notice that the crowd has circled around us. We are still on that tacky ground that smells like gum and stale beer, but we are now propped up on injured limbs, panting, and holding eye contact in the sobriety of this protracted moment.
“Sierra? Sierra who?” Freddie pleads.
DD Response
It had been almost fifteen years. Childhoods marred by estrangements. I broke the silence we shared, the only thing I knew to say was “red leather.”
I was afraid her reaction would be the same as before- disgust and denial- but she simply looked into my soul with a palpable gentleness. “I know,” she said. “I know you were telling the truth all along. He did it to me too.” Her response made me weak in the knees. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Fifteen years without my sister. A family torn apart. The sadness of it all washed over me distilling all of my fierceness into a puddle of sadness. She took a step forward and opened her arms. I leaned in and she enveloped me. “I’m so sorry,” she said as I cried. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
Fifteen years earlier
Our dad sat in his red leather recliner with his right hand flipping through the nightly news channels and his left hand clutching another beer. Mom and Cindy finished cleaning the kitchen and bounced into the room. Mom announced she was going to play bridge at the VFW, and Cindy said she was going to a movie with her boyfriend. Dad grunted his acceptance. Mom and Cindy had their happy, fulfilling lives and barely even noticed I was there. Dad noticed, and I wished he didn’t.
“NOOOO!” I screamed.” YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH HIM!” Time stood still as my heart pounded in my ten year old chest. Mom froze with one arm tucked into her red Christmas jacket with fur trim and fancy buttons. Cindy stood like a statue in her new fuzzy sweater, and Dad took another swig of beer as he rotated in his red leather chair. The sound resonated in my body and made me nauseous.
Then there was silence, a moment of silence that felt like an eternity. Mom dropped to her knees and cradled me tightly in her arms. I clung to her for all of the times I wanted to speak. “Baby, you can go to the movies when you’re Cindy’s age,” she said. Dad said nothing. Cindy said nothing. “HE’S HURTING ME!” I screamed.
I don’t remember much of the next several weeks, but I know Dad left the house, and Cindy hated me. She left as soon as graduation was over and never came back. Mom didn’t talk about anything, but she cried a lot.
Teddy | 24 June 2021
The last shot I had must have been stronger than I realized, as I’m now fuzzily coming out of a nap of unknown duration to see that the Summer Solstice party is still underway but has changed in spirit and tenor. I no longer recognize the faces around me, the lights have dimmed significantly, and the music is of a darker tone that leads to a sense of foreboding. I’ll have to find Teddy, as he’s my ride out of the desert.
IEF Response
Teddy was the guy. We don’t know how else to describe him. When we smoked our first cigarettes, he had the pack. When we got high the first time, he had the stash. When we tried cocaine the first time, the man talked us down. He was like a cold wet towel on the back of our necks.
So when he invited us out to the badlands above the mountains, into the deep desert, how on earth could we say no? We piled into his beat-to-shit Ford Astro, & didn’t ask any questions.
The thing crawled up into the low desert like a slug, all of us worried that we’d spend more time pushing the thing along than getting to camp.
Once we got to the campgrounds, the sun had just gone down, and the chill of the air beginning to set in. We were surprised to see that the site beside ours was evidently home to a group of… let’s call them “rustics.”
They had clearly set themselves up quite a while ago, and had stood up a set of floodlights, and a PA pumping out the worst kind of drum and bass.
But there we were. What could we do?
They came over, their awful music pumping behind them. They didn’t seem awful-charming, even. And they’d brought the moonshine they’d been sitting on for near on a month.
We took a shot. Then we took another. The second one sent our heads spinning.
We can’t quite remember what happened next, but the throbbing music and the glaring lights began to meld together into a single pulsating thing, and where in the fuck was Teddy?
The sand against our face was still hot from the day. The night sky spiraled above us.
Wrong Shoes | 24 June 2021
I hadn’t planned on running that night, and I was wearing the entirely wrong shoes. But being now 3 to 5 miles out from anything but farmland I had to make a choice between hitching and getting to my destination on foot. The moon was already high, and I was halfway regretting jumping out of Johnny’s pick up, but there you have it.
HCH Response
The day at the lake was everything I thought I wanted. Nothing like this had happened last summer. There were no parties, barbecues, concerts, or late nights meeting unexpected people. No cutting loose. True, as I’d gotten older, those occasions often took a toll — but after a year of zoom meetups and holey pajamas I was ready to feel that spark of energy again.
Justin picked me up out front of my apartment at about 11am. His girlfriend was in the front seat, and one of his union buddies was in the back. We were work friends from a previous life, when we made minimum wage and ate from the gas station for lunch. We’d sneak out for smoke breaks, talking so long we got in trouble with the manager. Life was different now, but I always wanted to say yes to his invitations. Who better to follow to a lake party and get my fix of the old days?
The drive was was a lot longer than I expected. In the car, two nagging flies buzzed in my mind. The heat wave and excitement had seen me running out of my door in flip flops, a bathing suit, a shitty pair of cut-offs, and a shittier baseball cap. I threw a tote with a towel, some sunblock and a sixpack in the back seat, and away we flew. My vision for the day only extended to 7 or 8pm. Then there was our company. Jen in the front seat was not thrilled. I didn’t try to guess why. It was like sitting with an impenetrable stone covered in porcupine bristles. Then there was the buddy, who kept his hat down over his eyes and finger-drummed on his knees to the metal Justin had turned up to cover the discomfort. No help there.
We passed Petaluma and exited eastward, heading inland past herds of cows and rows of crops. Nothing on the horizon. I imagined the cows organizing into a gang or a union and felt Pete Seeger smiling somewhere.
The lake was packed with people high on sunshine, like a Floridian spring break. It was hard to keep track of who was there from the Justin circle and who were strangers. I put psyched myself up for the opportunity at hand, and met some people. We had requisite banal conversations. Then periodically, thank God, someone’s better half/bad influence would arrive with an armful of cans from the cooler and things finally started loosening up.
I wandered to the water and waded in. Some friendly folks were in there splashing around and I felt myself thaw to the world. We grinned at the forgotten sensation of having public fun, and the sand and algae between our toes. I boasted, “I didn’t come all this way just to sit next to the cooler!” and applauded when a few women from the party produced brand new inflatable floaties from their deeply-stocked beach bags. They huffed and puffed and laughed at how hard they were to inflate by mouth. Buzzed on beer and vaccine confidence, I insisted, “lemme try, lemme try!”
Another guy who had been on the edge of the splash circle waded over and offered to help. This was Johnny. He was a little aloof, but I’d noticed he had a radiant smile when it hatched. Aloof was good, I thought, when meeting strangers in bathing suits. Certainly better than the alternative? Now we had a task, a reason to talk. We faced each other, blowing into the plastic nozzles red-faced like dueling horn players, competing for efficiency, until we got light headed and cracked up. We handed the prizes over to their delighted owners before shaking hands to introduce ourselves.
I’m not sure how long we talked. At some point we made a run to the cooler and sat on the edge of the water, as the light got lower and the temperature more bearable. He would answer my questions briefly, with good humor and a self-deprecating shrug. He was another union guy. He knew Justin but only from the job site — he didn’t even know his last name. When he asked me questions I remember feeling like I was stepping into a spotlight, and it was showtime — I wanted to keep it going long enough to draw him out. Then that smile would break, and I’d feel rewarded for my effort, even if nothing of substance had really been said.
The sun dipped onto the horizon. Someone had started a small bonfire. Johnny and I decided we liked that idea. Suddenly I realized that, in my eagerness assert independence at the party, I hadn’t seen Justin or Jen or finger-drum dude in hours. My head snapped reflexively over my shoulder like a kid in a supermarket who could have sworn their mom was just in this aisle. Shit. I really should go check in. “Hey, I need to find my friends really fast, but I’ll see you at the fire?” I said. Johnny nodded and the corners of his mouth lifted in approval.
Why does everyone look the same when you are trying to find someone? Who had I met earlier? Crap. What about the floatie friends? Crap. They wouldn’t know anyway. Eventually I just started asking everyone. “Hey, sorry!” I apologized, approaching a group like I was waitstaff interrupting a raucus table. “Do any of you know Justin or Jen? My friends I came with? I’ve can’t find them.”
After four rejections, I got recognition. “Ohhhh shit, you came with those guys? Yeahhh...” The woman in front of me furrowed her brow and touched my arm. “Justin and Will got pretty messed up — I think must have been like, laced shrooms? I don’t know. Something Will brought. Don’t worry! They are tripping out in the tent in our campsite up the path.” She beamed, proud to have offered the care. I breathed a dual sigh — relief for knowing Justin’s whereabouts, and irritation at this new complication. “Where’s Jen?” I asked, unsure how I would approach her once I knew. Again the furrow. “Oh dude. Um, she got hellllla mad and took Justin’s car. I think she went home. She was fucking pissed. Tore out of here.”
My stomach dropped. Here I was, stranded because I wanted to go to a party, play mermaid with the lake in my hair, get out of the city. I put myself in the hands of fate and here I fucking was. I had followed Justin even though I knew he his spontaneity was a double-edged sword. I had been distracted by handsome boys and floatie contests. Fuck me. I felt myself pale with shame. I’ll never complain about my pajamas again, I swore silently. Just let me go home.
“Do you wanna staaay?” she said. “Like, our tent is full, but you can sleep on the grass.” Before I could answer, a figure approached. It was Johnny.
“You coming to the fire?” he said. The sun was officially down and the spell of his charm was broken in this triangle of bad news. No offense to him, I just didn’t care about the fire anymore, or flirting, or the spotlight, or his smile. Everyone feels like a stranger when you’re far from home.
“Yeah, hey,” I rushed. “My friends are gone. My ride took off. It’s kind of fucked up. I just need to figure it out, so I’m probably not coming over there. It was cool to meet you though.”
“You live in Oakland? I could give you a ride back. I’m in San Leandro,” he offered. The tent mom wrapped herself around Johnny’s arm. “Yaaaay!” she said. “See? It all works out. Johnny’s the best.”
“That would be… great,” I say, both thankful and hesitant by habit. Had I not just wished a way home would appear? Had I not spent all afternoon with him?
“Cool, I’m good to head out,” he said. Again, aloof, but I’ll take it. I nodded and followed him to his truck.
Climbing into the front seat, I didn’t know if I felt more like a passenger in a tow truck that roadside assistance has picked up, or like a girl on a date. Tow truck, I decided. I wished he had a radio or some flashing lights in this Tacoma. We rolled out of the park’s gravel entrance and into the night. It was pitch black on the county highway, save a string of distant and underpowered streetlights. I longed for the blinding efficiency of the freeway fixtures that tell me I’m almost home. Striking up a conversation was like pulling teeth. I tried to summon my energy from the golden hour, but couldn’t. The last hour had tanked me, but not changed him a bit. I was subject to my own mood, inspiration and stress; he was still his distant self. Quickly we lapsed into silence. I stared out the windows and retreated into my mind. There were no more cows (it turns out they really do go home). I thought of the sparkles on the water; I wondered what mushrooms must be like; I kicked myself for being square; I wondered what the name of the tent mom was; I drafted a conversation to have with Justin when this all blew over; I remembered I was out of coffee at home.
It was then that I noticed us weaving on the road. My eyes darted over to see Johnny with two hands on the wheel. His head was pointed perfectly at the windshield, but his mouth slack and his eyes heavy.
“Are you ok?” I asked first. No response. I reached over and shook his shoulder. “Johnny!” I shouted. He startled and over-corrected the steering wheel, sending my heart rate skyrocketing.
“Sorry,” he said, took a deep breath, and adjusted in his seat. I sat frozen, not sure what to say. In the hours we had spent together, I hadn’t seen him drink more than a couple of weak cans of beer. I didn’t question his sobriety when I walked in the car. This felt like something else.
“You tired?” I asked, more concerned now.
“Mmm, it’s just um, these roads. Mmm. Sometimes I fall asleep. It’s okay though, nobody’s out here.” My mind raced in shock. It’s okay? Shouldn’t we roll down the windows, blast the radio? Should I pull something out of me I don’t have anymore to entertain him, to keep him awake? Tell him to pull over and nap? What are the cheat codes for this guy I barely know? I could offer to drive. I knew I should slap him around and solve this, but in fight or flight mode, I froze.
While I calculated, he nodded off again. This time his head dipped to his chin and he startled himself awake for about 30 seconds. I rolled down my window and turned on the radio. He stretched in his seat and seemed refreshed for a few minutes. Then, as I sat paralyzed watching the yellow and white lines, I noticed us drifting again, lullaby style. Slowly, softly, with no reflectors or corrugations on either side to alert us. I instinctively reached over to the steering wheel and guided it back to the center. My palms had started to sweat. I wondered if I could operate the gas and break without crawling into his lap.
This isn’t going to work, no matter how often I wake him up, I thought. There is nothing that will make a person give up control if they don’t do it willingly. I couldn’t do this. I looked out the windshield and saw try the dry, haylike tinderbox of California grass on the road’s edge. I decided to take it.
My left hand was clammy on the steering wheel. With my right hand, I checked my pockets for my keys and phone, then sent it to the passenger side door, feeling blindly for the latch. The pressure of Johnny’s foot had relaxed off the gas pedal enough that we were only going about 15 mph. It’s a wonder nobody was behind us, even in the farmland. As quickly as I could, I released the wheel and reached down to shove his leg — hopefully knocking his foot off the gas pedal. Blood was in my ears and all I wanted was to be alone. I didn’t wait for the car to lose momentum. Johnny jerked awake again, but it was too late. I had already opened the door and leaped out onto the road.
It looks easy when they do it from trains, in the movies.
It’s not easy.
I braced for impact with my arms cradling my face. My feet landed first, but too fast, and I tumbled onto my knees and elbows. When I stopped tripping and skidding with momentum, I found myself resting myself face-down. I marveled that I was still conscious. I lay smelling the grass and checking my skin for blood — only a little. I rolled on my back and flexed my joints. I think I’m ok. Strangest of all, my flip flops were still on my feet.
Sitting up, I saw no sign of the truck ahead. This was a relief and a disappointment. I’d expected the Tacoma and its absentee driver to pull to a wheezing halt, after I’d shoved Johnny’s leg. However the fact that I jumped betrayed that — clearly, I didn’t think it was going to stop, so I removed myself. The hard part was realizing that evidently he had woken up, because he kept driving, and not stopped.
Was I just some crazy bitch he met at the lake? Was he so disconnected that he just went on his way? What else was going on with him, that I couldn’t predict this would happen?
Why does time pass differently, while you are deep in thought? I shaded myself toward the fence-side to be away from debris. The blades of try grass swished and crunched under my feet, releasing a heady, sweet smell. The moon overhead offered what she could. My eyes slowly adjusted. I thought of how many journeys have been made at night, people fleeing. The temperature is cooler. It provides a cloak. One can hide in the dark. It gives you a head start on the people who would hurt you, or you just don’t want to know. And also, the night is beautiful in her own right. Where the day is demanding, the night can be forgiving. Maybe there’s shelter in the night. I breathed and realized I was feeling better.
Somewhere outside of Petaluma, I saw the fluorescent lights of a gas station. I took off my flip flops, jammed them in my back pocket, and started running.
The Chase | 18 June 2021
The wind swept across my face in a warm, delicious way that reminded me of so many days spent at the beach. As the sun sank closer to the horizon, I let him chase me across the lawn until we dropped, rolling easily in the earthy cushion of the grass.
HCH Response
The dinner bell was minutes from sounding. I didn’t have to check my watch to know. There was a certain quality of shadows from the picnic benches, the upturned canoes, and on the weathered face of the birdhouse nailed to the biggest tree on the great lawn. For a camp counselor like me, this time of evening has an almost Pavlovian effect. Quick glances at the sun, summer after summer, and then the bell — in your bunk at night, you realize it’s just burned into your brain.
On this day, I’d been tasked with organizing a game of capture the flag. It was a last-ditch effort to get the kids more cardio at the end of what had been a camp week full of athletic issues. By this, I mean: the soccer coach had a family emergency; the swim instructor had broken a leg in a rock climbing accident (should’ve stuck to water, I thought grimly); and the hiking guide was with us for three whole days before a near-death allergic reaction to a bee sting on a trail (saved by a kid carrying an extra EpiPen, but out of caution he got the rest of the week off).
I am the crafts counselor. My campers weave rainbows of string around popsicle sticks, create amulets out of ordinary rocks, braid friendship bracelets, and stitch their names onto scraps of cut-up denim. Their eyes light up when they bring me their creations for approval, still warm from their earnest grips. “Look Mr. Jay, it’s got Ninja Turtle colors for my best friend!” I bend down and inspect the precious artifacts. “It’s magnificent,” I bless them each, one by one. And they really are.
Needless to say, I was a little out of my element with this game, so I enlisted the help of a few trusted hands. There was Shayla from plant and animal identification, Toby from music education, Tim from fire safety, and Meg from morning warmups to referee. Toby glued himself to me immediately, so we became a team by default. We nodded in solidarity but turned to face our squadron without a single tactical bone between us. Shayla and Tim were less intimidated. They gave a camp high-five (touching the ends of wiggling fingers) and gathered their tiny troops for a pep talk like a pair of hens.
Confession time.
I wanted an excuse to work with Tim. Our attraction was undeniable. Had I not been shy, private, and paranoid about consequences, maybe something would have happened between us. There were decades of history of counselor fraternization at this camp — hell, all camps, but this one for sure. Late nights skinny dipping after the kids were in bed. Contraband joints and condoms buried under a particularly phallic rock just outside of park grounds. Stealthy walks of shame from one cabin to the next before dawn. The legend of the mess hall underwear.
I couldn’t help but think of these tales when I passed by the fire safety circle, between my classes. Tim would be there squatting among the kids, patiently demonstrating all the steps of making a fire by hand drill. He’d build the softest tinder nest. Then he would take the perfect stick and slowly but firmly roll it in palms, pressing into the earth. Smoke would start to curl up from the bed of tinder. He’d blow gently and watch tiny embers come alight. The kids were awestruck by his magic. So was I. Once he glanced up to see me staring, and he flashed a huge unstoppable grin — then, embarrassed, let his hair fall over his eye and quickly rose from his crouch to attend to the next kid.
For the one time he caught me looking, I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye ten times. He passed by the crafts area almost every day. A faded t-shirt moving in my peripheral vision, between the trees, pausing…. Treading lightly. If I stood up, suddenly the t-shirt would move briskly and head with purpose toward the cabins.
The great lawn battleground was divided in two. We planted our team’s yellow flag in a convenient woodpecker hole at camper-height, which inspired the kids to name our team The Woodies. Toby buried his face in his hand to keep composure. Across the way, Team Lizard wedged their red flag between slats in a picnic table. We took our positions. Meg used her biggest counselor voice to refresh us on the rules, and then blew the whistle.
Thirty little ants scattered over the lawn, shrieking with excitement. Enemy lines were crossed. Fingers grazed elbows, clothing was grabbed, disputes were ignited and settled. Prisoners were taken to the freeze circles, and immediately rescued by comrades. Bushes became bunkers. Acts of heroism and self-sacrifice were rampant. Untied shoelaces and runny noses threatened to sabotage each side. Time-outs were called for minor tears after self-inflicted tripping incidents. BandAids were produced. All in all, this was a very evenly matched game… perhaps too evenly. This was taking a lot longer than I expected. “Come on, let’s get that flag!!!” I cheered while running with my soldiers. It seemed unfair for the counselors to really try, so we mostly ran around in circles encouraging them.
The shadows got longer, the light more golden, and then just as I suspected, the dinner bell rang. Meg blew the whistle again.
“TWEEEEEET! OKAY CAMPERS, LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT A TIE! WOW, GREAT JOB EVERYBODY! IT’S DINNERTIME, LET’S WASH UP!” We rounded up the stragglers. Toby, Shayla and Meg filed the kids into line for the mess hall. You could hear exaggerated war stories being told until the door closed. I lingered behind to collect the little orange cones we’d set up for boundary markers. I had just finished stacking them when I heard over my shoulder, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Tim was by the Team Lizard picnic table, poised like a runner at a starting line. He pointed at the yellow Woodie flag across the lawn. Before I could say anything, he took off sprinting towards it. Oh my god, was he serious? I threw the cones down and went after him. “You wouldn’t!” I gasped, already out of breath. “For The Lizards!” he panted, zig-zagging out of my reach. I finally got within contact range and smacked his shoulder blade. “AAHAAA! AHAAAA!” I gloated. Before either of us could catch a breath, a glimmer of mischief crossed my face. I broke for the picnic table, gunning straight for his flag. We were fueled by some second wind. “In your dreams!” he taunted me. We laughed and scrambled and I managed to evade him, until I didn’t.
I felt two palms make full contact on my back. Their warmth stunned me, even though I was already hot. My feet slowed. Tim’s momentum was broken by my mass and we collided, falling to the ground in a cooperative pile. Holy shit, this sensation. I could feel his heart pounding, smell the salt of his clean sweat. Our chests rose and fell together, as if the grass itself had put us in sync. It felt like a sacred act, breathing with him. I knew this could only last a moment under the acceptable guise of horsing around. We were due in the mess hall. Tim let his hand travel down to the small of my back, then rested it safely on the ground. I took a chance. I reached over and swept a piece of hair away from his eye. For the first time, we dared to look at each other.
“Meet me at the dock tonight?” I whispered.
“I thought you’d never ask.” He said.
DD Response
And then I woke up. Tangled in the sheets and my thoughts, reality rushes me like a 300 pound linebacker, and my heart starts pounding in my chest. The fantasy becomes reality, and I remember in vivid detail every single frame - moment by moment - and I’m angry. I’m just so fucking angry. I hit redial and hear her syrupy voice- the sickeningly elongated “hellloooo” as she answers thinking it is him. I start to plan my revenge, but the precious reverie of his demise is interrupted by the sounds in the kitchen. The children are up, and they’re hungry.
I stumble to the kitchen after a quick pit-stop - just quick enough for the three of them to start fighting over cereal bowls. Why in the world did I think it was cute to buy that set of character bowls when all they do is fight over Elmo? “Hey kiddos,” I say in my fake growl voice, “You know mommy is not fully human until she has her coffee. Wanna watch a cartoon while I make that happen?” They scurry to the den in unison giggling over my weirdness, and I am alone for a few more minutes. “Breathe in and breathe out… you can do this,” I say to myself as the aroma of coffee fills the room.
Two hours and 2,600 steps later, I’m sitting in my office - our office technically, but he’s not here. He’s with her while I sit with all of the responsibility - home, kids, company - all of it - alone, being the good girl while he’s luxuriating on Miami Beach with a 23 year-old. My anger sizzles on my skin and locks my jaw. My brain is swirling, and I’m starting to sweat. I decide to meditate and clear my head, so I shut my office door and sit on the floor with my back holding it shut. I feel the air from the vents blowing on the top of my head, and I hear the hum of the electronics. I close my eyes and breathe- long inhale- long slow exhale. Over and over until my mind is thinking only of my breath… and my body. “No.” One simple word resonates with the vibration of my heart. “No.”
“I will not carry the pain of his actions.” The hidden tears leak from my eyes. The pain sizzles on the surface of my skin. I hurt. And I cry until the cleansing tears subside. “I can do this. I can stay true to me. I smile as I remember Scarlet with her fist in the air, “As God is my witness, they're not going to lick me.”
Breaking and Entering | 18 June 2021
I’d been banging on the door for 15 minutes when I saw the kitchen window was open. Did I dare? Could I actually get enough of a foothold to get inside? One quick backwards glance at the street for passers-by, and I decided to go for it.
BNR Response
With one foot on the AC unit and the other on some kind of pipe, I hoisted myself up and clumsily shoved my body halfway through the window. With my soft belly now squarely and uncomfortably across the sill, my face was immediately confronted with the stainless-steel goose-neck kitchen faucet. Having acted quickly and without any planning, I had forgotten that this unlawful entry to Ridley’s home would land me in the kitchen sink. One last headlong dive and I toppled, ass over tit, until I terminated an ill-shapen somersault on the Mexican ceramic tile floor.
I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. Even so, I was relieved that Ridley wasn’t home, and had some warped sense of confidence that I could procure the love letter I had posted from his pile of unread mail before he got back from his kickball game. Given that we lived in the same small coastal town, I wagered a one-day delivery schedule and timed my “visit” closely after the mail had been deposited in his street’s mail slots. In the distance, I could hear a Mariachi band in the park which sat kitty corner from his bungalow. I longed to be a relaxed guest at the birthday party or baby shower where they were playing. Instead, I was feverishly going through the belongings of my best friend whom I secretly loved.
First, I walked to the front door where I knew the mail came through the slot most days around 11AM. No pile of mail. Damnit! He must have collected it before he headed out for his morning with the league. I frantically looked around, not knowing where to look next and suddenly feeling that my plan was woefully inadequate to accomplish what I’d hoped. I walked back to the kitchen and started scanning the concrete countertops. Papers, bills, and a few post-its were by the fridge. No mail.
Why had I written that stupid letter anyway? Why, after five years of lusting after Ridley had I suddenly chewed through my resolve that told me it was better to be friends than nothing at all? This resolve had taken years to stiffen. The letter clearly wasn’t in the kitchen. I paused, just for an instant, to admire his Viking range once again. I had received no indication that our status nor his feelings towards me had altered: he was affectionate, but not sensual. We shared with each other openly and without varnish, but also talked about our romantic pursuits. He always answered my calls, texts, messages, there was no game playing. He laughed easily at my jokes and didn’t care how I looked in the morning or after hot yoga. None of these things point to typical romance! I scampered into the living room. Maybe the letter was on the table by the remotes. I looked everywhere for the pink envelope and Sara Vaughn postage stamp with my loopy handwriting on the front. My heart was racing as I remembered all I had divulged in those two college-ruled pages: how I was hopelessly attracted to him and his lazy curls, how I had felt more than “friendly” feelings for years, how I wanted to take our relationship in a different direction, that I LOVED him. Oh, Christ! Yesterday’s second glass of afternoon rosé was really coming back to haunt me. I had been so smitten after Ridley and I had had lunch yesterday. We talked about comparative cinema, joked about my most recent quinoa recipe fail, and talked candidly about summer daydreams. That goddamned letter that I then brazenly penned and posted hit me like a regret hangover immediately upon waking this morning. Wait, what’s that on the coffee table under his keys?
Wait.
His KEYS?
I had been so desperate to extract and forget my confessional missive that all I heard was the rushing in my ears – blood coursing through my pounding head like a flash flood. Now, I froze in-place, as if I would only be visible while in-motion. I was now able to hear the sound of his commercial-grade rainfall shower being turned off. Still not having located my letter but knowing I was about to get caught breaking and entering without any rational excuse, I was temporarily immobilized. Panic was replaced with terror. Ridley’s discovering I loved him wouldn’t be as bad as him thinking I were a common lunatic with criminal tendencies. I spun around on my heel to head back toward the kitchen and tripped over his Pendleton rug, crashing onto the hardwood with an audible thud. I heard the shower curtain spin on the curtain rod. “Hello?!” Ridley called out. I got up and raced toward the kitchen, not even conscious of whether I was making noise, talking to myself, whimpering, anything. I briefly looked at that small kitchen window above the trough sink and realized that getting out seemed much more daunting than it had been gaining entry. Nevertheless, I somehow got both knees up on the edge of the porcelain sink and was maneuvering my body around that fucking beautiful faucet, my head ducking over the windowsill, when I heard, “Sara? What the hell is going on?”
Well, fuck.
DD Response
I pushed my foot into the crevice between the bricks and reached for the ledge. My grip was tenuous, but my resolve was strong and hoisted me to eye level with his newly renovated, state of the art stainless steel kitchen. The cabinets were melon green and the center island housed an enormous cook-top with corresponding vent hood that rose to the vaulted ceiling above. I hauled myself up and slithered inside before I lost my nerve. “You want evidence?” I thought. “I’ll get plenty.”
I stand in the room holding my breath as I realize that the fucking bastard copied the kitchen layout from my childhood home. The St Charles kitchen cabinets were a different color, but it was the same layout, right down to the countertop insert for the blender. It had to have cost over $200,000. I snap a photo in each direction before walking to the next room.
Floor to ceiling bookcases… of course. I scan the shelves and easily spot the years of scrapbooks and photo albums I lovingly created of my children’s lives. The ones he said he didn’t have- the ones I “must have lost in my move.” I snap a picture knowing that I’m taking every damn one of them with me when I walk out the door. I also see the set of Compton’s Encyclopedias from my childhood and my collection of Tom Clancy mysteries lined up by date of release, exactly as I had them shelved in our house. My arms tingle with disgust and fear. I was living with a psychopath. I slept with him and had his children.
“Evidence. Gather the evidence,” I remind myself. I know exactly where he would keep it, so I walk forward. Three steps farther and I see it through the next doorway. Sitting against the dining room wall is the chest - his prized possession. He told all of our friends that it had been in his family for generations, but I know differently. I was there when he brought it home from the flea market. I was the one that stripped and sanded and stained it to the current rich mahogany brown as a gift. Why did I ignore all of the lies? “No harm, no foul” I lied to myself time and time again, until he turned his lies on me.
I opened the secret drawer hidden from view by the gilded scroll I painstakingly restored. I push in to release, and the drawer pops open. I snap a picture as I reach in and slowly lift the velvety covering. Cash. Lots of cash. I lift up a stack to photograph the depth of his reserves and see a key.
I take the key and as much cash as I can stuff in my back pocket and head to the back door for the box I left there. Furiously I stuff all of the photo albums and scrapbooks into the box, and turn to leave. A surge of energy pulses through my body, and I have an overwhelming urge to hurt him. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t stop myself. I take the key out of my pocket and walk back to the dining room. I grip the key and scrape it across the top of the chest with vigor. “Take that asshole!” The revenge feels like a jolt of power coursing through my veins.
I walked out the back door and left it wide open. Let him know I was here...
Cover Charge | 14 June 2021
The door charge was $10. Sure, it was all I had in my wallet, but I needed to make $60 that night and this was a calculated gamble I would bet on myself to win.
BNR Response
I handed the doorman my $10 in cash and walked into the darkness of the bar. As always, there were girls dancing to the right in the kind of soft-core way that makes Happy Hour types feel adventurous yet safe. I didn’t see Rita in the cage so I continued to the bar. Luckily, Nigel was eventually visible so I bellied up to his side of the service and gave a familiar nod in his direction.
The place was darker than usual but filled with the same mix of after work stiffs and afternoon regulars. Pretty soon the lightweights would stumble home and we’d be left with the drunks stuck to their stools and tourists coming in once the theaters let out. I used to enjoy the vintage photos on the walls, which at once felt like a mixture of 21 and a more adult TGIFriday, but now they just seemed tacky. When I looked up I noticed that the ceiling was cobweb ridden and clearly hadn’t been cleaned since the last health inspection. The alcohol was always well- stocked with a nice range of anything you could desire, but then again, that’s where the money is, right? At least, that’s what I used to think until I was taken to the kitchen last Summer.
After getting my usual from Nigel and promising to pay on my way out, I head towards the restrooms only to slide past the line and into the kitchen. I was pleased to hear Louis Prima replace the sound of Pink that had been playing in the main bar. They had stopped serving food at this establishment when Franky Fingers seized it from the bistro owner who owed him a few K and turned it into a mob-run go-go bar. Now the kitchen was used to launder money and house weekly Thursday poker games. I was a ringer at poker and was hoping I was early enough to sit in before the blinds started. I slouched into a chair next to one of the familiar greasy dudes, this one happened to be one I knew, but who could never remember my name. Before I knew it, I was up $500.
Having made the money, and then some, that I needed to get out of my current pickle, I threw in my last hand got up from the table. Not wanting to cause suspicion among a group of mostly unknown but all verifiable gangsters, I leaned idly against an unused range and finished my scotch. After another hand, at once sensing the urgency of repayment as well as the calm in the room, I made my way for the swinging double doors that head back out towards the restroom and retired cigarette machine. I had just about made it out when a hand on my left shoulder stopped me. It was the last person I wanted to see: my source.
I’d just published a story for the Tribune on a rival crime family and leaned heavily on information from an anonymous source that I met at this very establishment. He was hesitant to go on the record, fearing retaliation, and so I may have told him that I would pay him for his information. This non-sanctioned and highly unethical call on my part was due to both one too many scotches and a looming deadline where I was expected to deliver the scoop. He clearly hadn’t forgotten my offer as I had hoped he would.
I may never know what came over me, but instead of handing him the $500 I had just won, which likely would have bought me more time to deliver the additional $500 I had promised, I ran.Nigel hollered after me as I blew past the bar, tab still unpaid.I nearly mowed down a few out-of-towners in the entryway in my haste, and once I hit the street my instincts really kicked in.I was in a gypsy cab and headed downtown and towards temporary safety.Now all I had to figure out was how quickly I could get the Trib offices to pay my debt of $60 to my intern co-conspirator who was holding my press badge hostage. Luckily, he didn’t know that I would have paid $6,000 to get that flimsy laminated ID back.