I'm going to try something... stand back.

[Riven___Caulfield]

I've had writer's block for... 2 years now and I've grown quite tired of it. Once, a long long time ago I wrote a story on here just 'cause. It might have been another one of the author-oriented boards. It had something to do with vampires, and I won't go into detail here.

But I wouldn't mind trying my hand at something similar tonight. Perhaps smaller in scope.

As this is a public forum, naturally feel free to respond or stay silent, encourage or berate the thread as you see fit.

-Riv

 

[Boxlicker101]

I've had writer's block for... 2 years now and I've grown quite tired of it. Once, a long long time ago I wrote a story on here just 'cause. It might have been another one of the author-oriented boards. It had something to do with vampires, and I won't go into detail here.

But I wouldn't mind trying my hand at something similar tonight. Perhaps smaller in scope.

As this is a public forum, naturally feel free to respond or stay silent, encourage or berate the thread as you see fit.

-Riv

So, write already. And let us know when you have it done.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

DISCLAIMER:
I have no idea what this story will end
up as, so just to be safe, if anything
offends you, don't read it. It might be-
come a filthy raunchfest not even wor-
thy of Penthouse Letters or a de-
cidedly unsexual jaunt into the realm
of gore-splattering horror.

Could be anything.

Could be nothing.

*
*
*
*
*
*
*

tuesday
by Me


PART 1 - morning

I'm standing on the sidewalk of Portage Avenue, and I'm freezing my ass off. Cars of much warmer people in much better moods drive by, and (between you and I) I'd like to just stand there on the street corner with my arms mostly folded, but my right forearm sticking out, a middle finger pointedly held up.

I'd just stand there - giving all those warm cars the finger.

I'd wait 'till the bus came like that.

Economists and environmentalists have a ton of good ideas when it comes to public transit, but the fact is there's no one to call when the last two busses never drive by your stop.

...I tell myself, of course there's someone you could call up, to get a couple drivers fired. But will you? Would you?

"No," I mutter. Of course not.

I'll sit here with my hands stuck in my pockets, digging my nails into my palm, trying to stay warm. Feeling my earrings turn to spikes of ice that burn the tender flesh surrounding.

Soon I know my ear is a uniform, cherry red - don't need to look. When they hurt like this, it's only 'cause they've gone cherry.

I scowl at a passing car and look up hopefully at the sound of a deisel truck's brakes.

But it's just a deisel truck, doing its mating call to trick some wayward bus. I start pacing. Keep warm. Keep warm. Look at your watch. The bus that should have been here twenty minutes ago would have gotten me to work ten minutes early.

...the next bus, the ten-minutes-ago bus, naturally never showed.

If I could, I'd like to gather all the economists and environmentalists who tout public transit into a room. I'd get up onstage, clear my throat into the mike and stand there, arm outstretched, giving them all the finger for the entire ninety-minute presentation.

I listened to you, and now I'm late for goddamn work! Are you going to stand there in front of my boss when i finally show up and listen to him say,

"...this isn't the first time, Becca," with that bullshit look of fatherly concern on his face, shining out between the heavy wringles. Now honey, your mother and I, we're not angry - we're just concerned. You're eating less, you're staying out late...

Yes Mister Torrence.

"You know what happens now."

Yes Mister Torrence.

"Ten minutes early. For two weeks."

Yes Mister Torrence.

"I'm not angry, Becca - just disappointed."

Thanks, Dad.

Ironic that if the bus had only shown up, I'd have been ten minutes early today. Is 'ironic' the word? No. 'Infuriating'.

I sit at my desk and wonder if the bus drivers are sitting in a coffee room somewhere, laughing about the hundred-odd people they made late for work today. I, and a hundred other people around this city are the whipping boys for a few lazy...

A light flashes on the phone hookup. I inhale sharply and hit a button, speaking with a bouncy smile in my voice;

"London Marketing, how can I direct your call?" Sincerity is easy to fake.

To be honest, I don't really listen to the response. But somehow my lips move, and I look over to the schedule board.

"I'm sorry, Mister Phelps doesn't get in until...

TUESDAY....TED... 11:00

"Eleven o'clock, can I take a message or direct you to his voicemail?"

I write something down, but I couldn't really tell you what it is. Then I write Ted Phelps, Mister Vice President of Big Ideas and Bad Ties a short email and lean back in my ergonomic chair. I'm getting carpal tunnel anyway.

What was I thinking about? Oh, right. Thanks to a bunch of Goddamned bus drivers I have to endure a punishment for the next two weeks - like a child who broke curfew.

"Any messages?"

Mister Vice President of Bad Ties himself stands before my desk, reading a paper. I'll bet he's looking for the comics.

"You're early. Uh, yeah it's... y'know, I forget exactly who or what but I just sent you an email about it."

He looks me up and down and smiles - musta' endured some awkward years in junior high to get that set of even, pearly whites - he smiles and says,

"It's a good thing you're a looker, Becca,"

before turning and strutting off to his office like the cock-of-the-walk. Cock - and dick - and ass as well.

I just stand there, considering this analogy and waiting to realize my mouth is hanging open. I just stand there for quite some time before slowly settling back down into my chair.

I don't need to look to know my cheeks are as red as my ears were on Portage Avenue.

Mondays are usually shit - but this is one Tuesday that's shaping up to overtake all past and future Mondays. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Maybe today will improve me. Maybe getting up ten minutes earlier will simply train my body to need less sleep - I'd be able to get more done! Maybe the leering stare and ugly mouth of Ted Phelps is just preparing me to better acknowledge a man of substance, when and if he comes along.

Yes - definitely. All I need now is some more crap to improve me.

Please God, shovel more shit in my lap.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, please squat from thy vantage in the clouds and deliver unto me thy holy shit.

"Heheheheh...." I giggle to myself, and from from his office, I can see Mr. Phelps lean away from his computer and raise an eyebrow at me. I know what he's thinking.

What could the empty-headed looker find entertaining? Must be a Bazooka Joe cartoon, Fucko.


Phelps looks away when I start clacking the keys in front of me. I look at the clock in the bottom-right of the screen. Ninety thirty-eight.

One hundred and forty-four minutes until I escape.

For an hour.

It's important today - I need to get out. I need to breathe.

My hands still dance over the keyboard, but I notice Phelps isn't looking at his work any more.

Naturally, I pretend I don't notice. I don't care the least about you, Fucko Phelps. I'm working 'cause I have a work ethic.

...the keys keep clattering, but he doesn't look away. I don't look away from the hillscape-at-night picture I have as my Windows desktop. I keep hitting keys and staring into the depths of the picture, but in the corner of my eye I see he hasn't looked away.

One hundred and forty-three minutes 'till escape.

***

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

PART 2 - lunch

One hundred and twenty-three minutes later, I'm the only thing left breathing in the office.

Oh - aside from my Bonsai tree. I swivel my chair around and lean forward on my elbows. It sits behind my desk - Mr. Torrence forbids any personal items on my desk, but he thought the Bonsai added a flair that "may encourage a broader Asian client base..."

London Marketing has three accounts.

One. A local uberhealthy cereal brand, invented by a middle-aged farmer's wife from outside Teulon, that nets us ohhhhh half my yearly salary - which is already a pittance.

Two. We handle the western Canadian ads for a low-rung American sportswear company. To his credit, Fucko Phelps managed to get Ringer Gear into every Athlete's Wear and Champ's from here to Victoria. It's the only thing keeping us above water.

Three. The Winnipeg Zoo comes to us for exposure when they do a Halloween 'Boo At the Zoo' or the Christmas Lights Thingy.

Point being, the only thing my Bonsai has ever succeeded in around this office is keeping me sane. When everybody's doors are locked - or like now, when I can't leave but there's nothing to do - I'll swivel my chair around and just look at it. Contemplate should be the word.

If you stare into a bright light for long enough, a trance-like state is said to sometimes overcome you. I can vouch.

When I was six, I was the second Christmas Teddy Bear in the school play. I had one line, so I entertained myself by staring as hard as I could into one of the stage lights.

Don't worry, I didn't damage my tiny retinas or anything. But the trance thing is true. I remember nothing I could call real in that seventy-minute production - I remember swimming colours and infinite vistas. I remember flying over the clouds, feeling lost for all time, only to find my feet moving at one moment that seemed no different from the last. One moment plucked out of forever.

I stepped forward, and delivered my one tiny line at the perfect moment - shouting it out across the school gym - only to take two quick steps backwards. I didn't think to - didn't really mean to - but I stepped back, and returned to staring at my stage light for the remaining twenty-five minutes.

Parents took me to a shrink, but they didn't understand I'd found a genuine peace for seventy minutes. I tried staring into my nightlight - my mom would piss herself when she'd come home and find all the lamps bare - the shades hanging off coat racks and couch backs.

I tried my nightlight and floor lamps and lights-on-pullstrings, but nothing brought back that sense of forever.

...is it Tibetan Monks? I think so.

They would leave their monestaries and climb into the rocky mountains beyond. Leaning on old staves, scraping their feet across the stones, they'd climb, climb, climb... 'till they'd find a tree.

They'd find one of those lonely, bare trees that you see jutting out of a bare rock face. Then they'd hunker down, get into their lotus position and stare.

I'd like to think they sit in their yellow-and-brown robes and stare like I did in my little red-and-brown bear suit twenty years ago - stare into their symbol of infinity, and find themselves falling into it as well.

Eventually those monks decided 'well, we can't spend every day up in the mountains staring at trees', so they started making little teensy trees they could keep in the monestaries. Little Bonsai trees, tortured to look like the ancient monsters that clung to life on naked cliffs.

Maybe my Bonsai doesn't look as ancient and dignified as a real monk would make it. But it is mine, and it sometimes gets me close to that stage light.

It gives me something to stare at for the remaining twenty minutes. I know Mr. Torrence keeps a security camera on my desk, so he'll know if I ever leave early.

Just twenty minutes. Take me away, little tree. 'Cause in twenty minutes it's lunch. And then I can throw my scarf around my neck and jump out into the free, fresh air.

And then, I won't walk straight today. I'll skip lunch.

Today, I'll turn right.


***

 

[hiddenself]

I am reading.

For those who might be interested:
(Riven's other improv a long long time ago)
https://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=83051&perpage=20&pagenumber=1

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

Hm - I was a lot faster back then.

Time's ravages have left me the pale husk of my former self >.<

And yet I'm enjoying the images that come to mind with 'pale husk'... to me, I see walking, talking dandruff...

"We meet again, Head & Shoulders - only this time the advantage is mine!"


I'll write more tonight.

 

[carsonshepherd]

This is wonderful.

Commence.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

k, tryin' again...

<cracks his knuckles (and his wrists - ew), pours a fresh glass of water, lights a cigarette. Selects some music, nods into a big pair of headphones>

Stand by... writing will commence in three, two, one, zer-

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

PART 2 - lunch con't


***

Naturally, I've returned to a very bad mood by the time I'm outside - twenty-seven minutes later.

...it always seems unfair to me, that I don't get credit for the time it takes to ramble down fourteen flights of stairs and walk through the lobby. Or ramble up for that matter - it takes a little while, and I can hardly consider that seven minutes my time, spent on me, as one's lunch hour should be. But of course, Mister Torrence could hardly consider it work time, either.

Nobody schedules in rambling. Nobody accounts it. Maybe the rambling time belongs to God. I'll explain that later. Over noodles maybe.

So I'm standing a block from Portage. Yesterday and every working day previous I'd gone straight - made a beeline for the Chinese restaurant two blocks north of Portage Place mall. I could get there, wait in line, eat my noodles and be on my way back to the office with plenty of time to nose around the mall.

Not that I ever buy anything.

But not today, today I stand outside the doors, looking north with a big dark crease in my brow. The wind bites wherever it can get a tooth in, and I fumble inside my purse for John.

John Players, I mean. And if you haven't met him, only take my word that he's very well spoken and never fails to satisfy a woman.

I find John and slip one in my mouth, tossing the pack back into the obscurity of my purse. I never have to fumble to find the Zippo in my jeans pocket - unlike a Bic, it'll still light in the world-record-holding winds of Portage Ave. & Main St.

The wind that cuts my face and keeps my smoke's cherry at bay isn't that bad, really. It'll be worse in February, probably.

I won't go straight today. I gotta' breathe. Gotta' get it out.

I'm mad.

I'll smoke on the way, I decide - so I take my eyes off the mall one block up and turn right. For the first ten seconds I have the image of the T-1000 from Terminator 2. I walk, but soon it's too fast to be called a walk. I strut - then trot - then I'm stalking along the sidewalk, making incredible time for someone who's not technically running.

The Pak Sao today?

No, work on your Side Shuffle. Need more power into your Sword.

Yeah, work on the Step-in Sword. Dickhead!

I stumble forward over some asshole's big foot, and my hand shoots out. It hits the concrete sidewalk, grips for traction and I let my momentum carry me over, then push away from the ground. I spring up onto my feet and slowly turn to face the Dickhead.

"...what the fuck, dude? Got a disability or somethin'?

I look him up and down. He's bundled up like it's thirty below - Centigrade. Big black wool overcoat - blue scarf around his neck. He looks like he's freezing, and he's just grinning at me.

John smoulders away between my lips - Mister Grinny picked the wrong day to-

"I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite," he says.

My eyes narrow on him. He's still grinning - he doesn't know how I... I could just... Such a...

"Just watch where you're going next time!"

And I walk away. Then strut, then trot then stalk, in that order, and I sure as hell don't look back. If I turned and saw him still grinning I'd have to go back and smack it off, and I don't have time for that - I'm already fifteen minutes into Lunch.

John is still a half-inch from his filter by the time I reach the steps of 217 Hargrave Street. I hit the security buzzer for the Dojo and raise my face to the camera.

Somewhere six floors up Marcy, the day secretary looks into her monitor and examines the image. I wave, and hear the electronic lock buzz open.

Six flights up - Lunch is one-third over.

"Vorhees - it isn't Thirsday."

"It's Tuesday, Don." I smile at him - this isn't a faked-sincerity smile, between you and I. I can't help it with Don.

Donald Wong is a half-Chinese first-generation Canadian guy who learned Jeet Kune-do from his dad, an old stuntman from the days of Golden Harvest Hong Kong Cinema. I know this 'cause he doesn't have a huuuge issue with revealing how his father learned his unique fighting style; he spent a great deal of time in Hong Kong with its developer and creator, Mister Bruce Lee himself. He named his Dojo The Intercepting Fist - which, as a direct translation of 'Jeet Kune-do' isn't very satisfying in terms of creativity, but he was never a particularly creative guy. Not that I mind - that just means he won't think up a way to fuck you over.

Don's only in his late twenties but he's already got a good mess of wrinkles on his face. Probably from smiling so much. Just so you know, he's also one guy I won't ever refer to as Fucko, Fucktard, Dickhead or Dickless - he's... nice. And he can see by how fast I change into my sweats I don't have much time for his unfaked smiles.

"Work with the pads?" his eyebrows pop up a full inch. Don thinks I need to work on my punches.

"Wanna' work on the Sword," I shrug. He just nods and walks away - basically telling me to stretch. I do, a little. I bend my neck and rotate my arms out. I bounce up and down in place, and kick one leg out to ninety degrees. I raise it up above my head, lower it back down to my side, and move into a Side Shuffle.

My sneakered feet flutter ballerina-style beneath me as I fade away from a practice dummy. In a blink of an eye, I'm four yards away and lunging back again, one foot outstretched to catch the practice dummy beneath his practice jaw. Krak.

A snap comes from the wood beneath the padding, and the foam-crusted body sways gently, enjoying aftershocks. Swaying...

Like a reed. I look to Don and bounce up and down again, shaking out the stiffness. He nods and smiles and shows his teeth, and his wrinkles.

I go back into the Side Shuffle.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

An HOUR? Gott-damn.

 

[Rhys]

nice to see you back Riv.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

nice to be here.

Trying again... check back in an hour.

-R

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

PART 2 - lunch con't

I know a dark secluded place, a place where no one knows your face. A glass of wine, a fast embrace - it's called Hernando's Hideaway. OLE!

The Johnston Brother's version plays in my head as my appendages fire into the pads protecting Nicky's forearm. Don says I should work on my punches - and I do. But for some reason I always have to throw in a kick or two at the end of a punch combo.

Backfist-punch-elbow-foot.

This series always gets me in trouble. The backfist is quick, but a good sparring partner can block it. And once they block that, they easily block the second punch.

They're not always expecting the elbow, which hits at about the place your ribcage meets your stomach. Moreso, when I throw out my elbow I'm leaning heavily sideways, a lot of my weight on that lead foot.

So even if they manage to half-block that mid-elbow, they don't expect my lead foot to shoot off the ground and clip them in the jaw...

That lead foot hangs steady in the air next to Nicky's hairline. I fold my leg down and smile at her.

Nicky's quick - she blocked the elbow - didn't even stagger. But she was nowhere near blocking the kick, and that's what always got me in trouble. Nine times out of ten I'd end up smashing my sparring partner in the temple - send him sprawling across the room.

But that was before - I'm in a good zone today. A place of concentration. I didn't have my leg half-extended by the time I could see the pads wouldn't clear Nicky's shoulder in time. Point is, I saw it - noticed it - and got my leg under control before I sent her into the mats.

I switch my feet back and forth beneath me. At first I didn't understand what Don meant when he said it's just a little jump and a twist - it took me a while. What he meant was you pop into the air and twist your hips, to apply force to your legs. Instead of your left hip forward, now it's your right, and you simply let your legs sway like reeds beneath you while you're in the air. Your feet switch position and you've applied no more energy than it takes to hop up and twist your hips.

Switch - switch - switch - bounce, bounce, bounce. Nicky holds up the pads. Slap, wham!

Backfist-roundhouse into a Side Shuffle... I skitter away from Nicki and fly back in, one leg high, cocked for the strike... But I stop, letting the foot hang limp from the bent knee in a poor man's Crane stance.

"...what time is it?"

Nicky opens her mouth, but instead of speaking she moves her eyes to the wall clock behind me. In the mirrors behind her, I look at the clock's reflection - it's either ten after, or...

"Ten to one," she says. "Time flies when you're - Becca?"

*
*
*

I fly down the stairs of 217 Hargrave and bust out into the frigid air. The beads of sweat turn to beads of ice, and I hear my hair start to crunch in my ears as I book it north. I'm clutching a big white cloth bag - inside are my work clothes and my purse. I must look pretty stupid in the commercial district of downtown Winnipeg in the middle of November, wearing a pair of sweats and a tee.

I know what I'll do - I'll just run my ass off. You can push your body to do incredible things. I'll just run.

And I do. Long strides - bam bam bam bam bam up the sidewalks - leaping into traffic to beat the lights.

I know what I'll do. I won't take the stairs - that shaves seven minutes off, right? I'll take the elevator this time. I never do - that'll give me time to change...

I don't need to go digging in my purse to know that won't help much. I'll be wearing a delightful little JC Penny two-peice suit, a nice mock-turtleneck sweater, hair all akimbo and stinking of a goddamned Dojo!

It's my fault, I tell myself as I fly through the lunch-hour pedestrians. Shoulda' gone straight today - just like yesterday. Shoulda' waited 'till Thursday.

I shoulda' - but coulda'? I'm not sure I coulda' today.

I wanted to give a backfist-punch-elbow-kick combination to Torrence and Phelps today. The only thing that made me not was a picture of Don in my head and the idea of getting my frustration out on the practice dummies.

I wanted to kick their fuckin' heads off. That dumb bastard on the street, too - didn't know how close he came to a Step-in Sword to the face.

Gotta' work on your anger, Becca, a calm voice tells me.

"Fuck you!" I bark at it as I round the corner onto Edmonton Street.

God fucking damnit you goddamn cocksucking...

My face screws up like someone twisted my nose as I watch Mr. Torrence hold the doors of our office open for Some Potential Client. The Potential Client nods solemnly to Torrence and slowly steps in out of the cold. At least Torrence didn't look behind him before he slipped inside.

I move up to the glass doors and let a little moan slip out.

I guess it was rediculous to hope they'd use the stairs today. The doors of the single elevator close, and I know it's a peice of shit. It'll take forever to get up and come back down - maybe long enough to get changed!

Maybe... I fire a hand into the white bag and feel around for my watch. Three minutes... maybe...

Panicked eyes search the lobby. There's gotta' be...

I bust open the door to the stairwell, but hear voices above and below. Need some privacy, people!

Desperate eyes search the lobby. Old Security Guy. Board of Tenants. Door to stairway - Old Security Guy's washroom!

"Excuse me..." I manage my best faked-sincerity smile. "I'm really really late for a meeting upstairs and I need somewhere to change quick, do you think you could do me a huuuge favour and-"

He doesn't even look up from under his hat.

"Restroom's for employees only."

"But I am an employee..."

"Building employees - manager, custodian, security."

"Mister, please."

"You'll have to find another pisser, Little Missy, 'cause-"

His eyes move up enough under the brim of his hat to see my feet do a ballerina-style shuffle away from his desk. For a second I'm worried he'll see my face, but all he sees is the pattern on my New Balance sneaker - and then he's out like a light.

He slumps against the wall moulding behind the desk, his chair at a dangerous angle beneath him.

For a second - ten seconds - thirty - too long, I just stand there letting the frozen sweat on my face drip onto the floor. I stare at him - out like a light - did I hurt him?

Did I really hurt him? Oh shit, he's got a welt coming up over his eye... fuck! Fuck! Way to not get fired, Becca! Way to stay calm and solve the situation! Way to...

I snatch the keys off his belt and steady the chair beneath him. He's just sleeping. He just dreamed about a Little Missy kicking him in the face. I dart into the washroom and drop the white bag, finally stripping out of the frozen sweats.

The sweater's a little cold from outside, but a hundred times better than the crackling tee-shirt. I slip into the wool slacks shrug the blazer on, trying to do something with my hair in the mirror. It's frozen in big, sharp chunks and hundreds of little rogue hairs point out at unnatural angles.

All I can think of is to wet it with warm water and slick it back. Maybe the guys at the office will think it's sexy like Jamie Lee Curtis in that last good movie Arnold Schwartzie did.

Okay - good enough. No makeup? Fuck makeup. I slip out of the washroom, lock it, and put the keys back on the guard's belt.

Ding. The elevator doors slide open.

Did I hurt him? He looks okay - he looks like he's sleeping.

I hold the white cloth bag with two hands as the doors close.

At least I got some of my anger out.

***

 

[carsonshepherd]

You're great.

 

[yui]

Your are good...really good! It relates to nothing but I have a story called "Tuesday", too.

Back to reading.

Much luck to you,

Yui ^_^

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

Hey - we do the same smilies. But I use a period for the nose.

^.^

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

PART 2 - lunch con't

When the elevator passes the sixth floor, I notice my hands are shaking. Turning to the glass wall of the car I examine myself, and frown. My hair's so thin, it's wasting no time in drying out. Already loose strands are falling out of place and brushing across my jaw.

A few trembling fingers stroke my cheek. My face looks like it's had the blood drained out, then spraypainted back onto the cheeks. My forehead and lips are china-white, but my cheeks burn. I look flushed. I look like I just got laid.

Oh please don't let Phelps think that. God knows what witless remark he'd make.

At the thought, my eyes roll up to the roof of the car. I'm not looking at the roof, of course - I'm looking past it.

You got some more Holy Shit to shovel onto me?

The answer comes back, in my head;

You'd deserve it.

After what I did to Poor Mr. Security Guard, maybe I do. Don would kick me out of Intercepting Fist if he knew. I'd used my strength to wield power over another.

Don would frown - his wrinkles would go entirely the other way - and he'd tell me how dissappointed he was.

In my mind's eye, Don is still berating me when the doors slide open to the fourteenth floor.

I move quickly down the hall and silently open the door to London Marketing...

"Miss Vorhees, late? Again?"

"Late? I'm not-"

Torrence just nods over the rims of his glasses, indicating the clock on my desk.

It reads in big red analog letters: 1:02

I'm two minutes late. I am two minutes late. My shaking, quaking right hand slowly closes into a vibrating fist.

"We'll have to talk about this later. In the meantime could you please fish out the proposal for Vicera?"

The fist is still clenched. It's still shaking.

"Yes Mister Torrence," I mumble. "Right away."

Calm down, Becca.

Relax.

Just relax. Sit down in your ergonomic chair. Work.

I glance at my Bonsai and my lips stretch into a half-smile. The Monks believed menial laibor was a path to enlightenment. Y'know those rock gardens they have? Sometimes it'll be almost a field - fifteen yards by forty - with three or four or five big stones laying on a sea of sand.

Well, someone has to rake the sand. What perfect work! Even more thoughtless than this tedious office crap - just rake, rake, rake the sand. Rake, rake, rake the sand. Now do it again. Again. Again.

...people can lose themselves in their work. Forget themselves. Forget to worry about this and that and their fucking job. Hahahahah - your work lets you escape your job.

This silly thought is why I'm smiling when I open the door to Torrence's office, and hand him a green folder. It's a genuine smile - teeth and everything.

Torrence looks from his Potential Client and back to me. He seizes the folder and leans in to whisper in my ear;

"Make yourself presentable, would you? Then coffee."

And the door clicks shut.

Presentable.

Presentable?

I turn to my desk - I turn to my Bonsai and stare. Stare into the leaves. Find infinity.

I stare at the tiny tree in its tiny garden. Like a little rock garden, the miniature tree trunk rises up out of a bed of sand. Using my Scotiabank Visa Gold card I smoothed the sand to uniformity and placed two pretty rocks on it to keep the tree company. One in a corner, the other, larger one nearly touching the trunk of the Bonsai.

Look into the sand, and find a sea... find eternity...

...but in my imagination, a little monk wanders out from behind my Bonsai and looks up at the tree, contemplating.

"...doesn't really look old," he tells me.

"Augh!" I shriek, throughtlessly, and listen to the echoing silence of the office afterward. My bark even quieted Torrence and his Potential Customer for a few moments, but soon I can hear the bass of their conversation through the door again.

Back to the task at hand.

Make yourself presentable and serve coffee.

Presentable.

You need this job, Becca. Just put on some fucking makeup and make the coffee.

Presentable...

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

There's a distant chance I'll add more tonight. Definitely tomorrow.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

Tuesday

PART 3 - evening

It's freezing, and it's snowing. I squint against the wind with the other poor car-less working stiffs at the Portage Place bus stop.

I wanna' look at my watch, but I know two minues ago it was six forty-three. Torrence usually goes home at four thirty, and I stay 'till five, but the Potential Client had turned into an Actual Client. As soon as he'd left the place Torrence went into a fit, tearing apart his office for some good ad ideas he was sure he'd put in his desk, and had me call Phelps and McKay in for an emergency meeting.

Sean McKay is the guy who usually writes the ads. He has one of these real handsome faces - he'd actually be gorgeous if he dressed right and shaved off forty pounds or so. He musta' been a heartbreaker as a kid, but you can tell life's shaved all that crap off for him.

Sitting in my ergonimic chair, watching my Bonsai and listening, it's only McKay who comes up with the really cool ideas. Sometimes he gets so excited about a concept, you can hear what musta' made him charming before he got to where he is.

Before life shaved off his ideals and packed on forty pounds in its place. Once he told me he'd been working on a novel - put it aside when he realized how much time he had to spend at the office.

Point is, McKay's not a bad guy - but he does look it. He walks around with a permanent scowl on his face. Heh - kinda' like me.

Though I'm not scowling now. A few other people waiting in the snow are wiping their faces - but not as much as me. Maybe the wind is makin' their eyes water - but not mine. No, I'm standing there in the middle of a crowd on Portage Avenue, and I'm wiping away tears. Quarts and quarts of silent tears.

I needed that job.

I really needed that fucking job!

A dark haze moves into my blurry field of vision, and someone says,

"Here."

I wipe my face again and look up. It's the guy in the wool overcoat and the blue scarf. He's got a hankerchief in his hand - he's offering it to me.

I know I scowl at him a little, but I nod and take it and wipe my eyes. He chuckles at me. Probably smeared my mascara.

"Nose is runnin'," he tells me.

I blow it into his little cloth. A shame, really - it's silk. Black silk. Nice. I lean in and blow again. Honnnnnnk!

"Thanks."

"Keep it," he holds up his hand. "I got tons."

I look down at the filthy hankerchief and feel a pressing urge to dispose of it in the bin nearby.

"You just give 'em away?"

"Heh, well not every day."

I want to chuck it, but that seems cruel. He's being nice. How often does a nice young man give you his hankerchief on a cold November night?

Not often enough. I fold it carefully and slip it into my purse.

"Thank you."

I'm looking at my shoes. Why am I looking at my shoes?

"I didn't mean to bump into you before," he says.

"Don't worry about it. I was in a mood. A very bad mood." I look up from my work shoes and see his eyebrows raise.

"Shitty day?"

"Man, you don't know the half of it," I laugh. And his smile breaks too. Next, I'm tucking my hair behind my ear.

He opens his mouth to talk - falters as if he's changed his mind, then opens it again;

"You could tell me about it. I don't know this town too well but there seem to be lots of places to eat around here, and I'm havin' dinner alone."

I open my mouth. I push more hair behind my ear. I. Uh. I. Well. I. Oh.

"I'm already late for something. But that-"

"Oh."

"I really appreciate the offer," I tell him - and I do - but I'm not sure he believes me. Maybe his cheeks are that red from the cold. "...and I could definitely use a good meal," I continue. "But I have these... responsibilities. I appreciate the-"

"Yeah."

"So..."

"Yeah," he mutters, and pulls a pack of Camels out of his coat. A smile spreads across my face.

"Camels!"

"Yeah, they smoke 'em all the time in that big country south of here."

"I don't meet many Americans," I say, and hold my hand out. He misinterprets the gesture and places a cigarette between my fingers instead.

"Well, one's a good start. I'm David."

"Becca. Becca Vorhees."

Then David leans in, and lights my smoke.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

Over the past 48 hours I've gotten a real sense of where this story is going. It'll be interesting if David turns out to be what I think he is - and once Becca gets home.

Ah well - I'll just have to wait and see.

 

[carsonshepherd]

I really like this and I'm reading it. Please continue....

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

I will - and thank you - just not right now, I'm in the middle of something. Heheh.

-Riv

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

Tuesday

PART 3 - evening con't

David Morten is the 'road manager' for a writer from Detroit, Michigan. The writer is on a publicity tour, but he doesn't work for the writer. The company he actually works for is the writer's publisher, and is based in New York. David Morten is originally from New Mexico.

He wears clear contact lenses, and likes kung fu movies. He likes to read - nothing I've heard of.

The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge,
The Dark Tower - some obscure series. He hasn't finished reading it yet.
Memoirs of a Geisha,
Shogun, Rat King, Tai-Pan,
The Bible,
The Koran,
anything by Dr. Seuss,
Dante's Inferno
and
She-rab Dong-bu. Which he explained as "some Zen musings by a Hindu cat called Nagarjuna."

"Nagarjuna - how do you pronounce that?" I asked. He smiled again, and said,

"just that way."

"Your list just keeps goin', eh?"

His eyes rolled up and away - he wasn't rolling his eyes. He was thinking about it.

"Yeah," he said.

I scratch patterns into the frost on the bus window, and smile.

Some people say looking up and away is an indication a person is lying. I don't think that. Some people also think when a person looks left it means they're lying. It's a bona-fide facto that President Clinton scratched his nose like five times as much during his testemony where he lied, as opposed to the one where he fessed up.

...so lying isn't necessarily about the eyes. Some people say looking up and to the right means you're thinking about something. Means the cogs are turning in your head. 'The answer isn't on the ceiling, is it Rebecca?'

Turns out it mighta' been, teacher. Turns out my little brain was just workin'. So David Morten wasn't lying to me.

The ride is much shorter than it was this morning, and soon I'm skipping off the bus into the snow and spinning around. I get a feel for the icy-ness of the sidewalk and set a good pace north. If I looked at my watch, it would tell me it's almost eight, and I should've been home about three hours ago.

The number 21 came along when he was telling me about A Yaqui Way of Knowledge. It stopped, and I considered getting on, but I said,

"...and instead of really taking him for a ride of terror, the Mescaline just plays with him."

David's eyes lit up. Maybe he was just impressed I'd been listening.

"You've read it?"

I laughed, I couldn't help it - he looked so excited.

"No," I said, and listened to the bus start moving without me.

Waiiiiiiiiiiiiit, a little voice inside had called. Give me another hourrrrrr....

David didn't know it was my bus. He didn't look away from me - he went on, explaining his surprise.

"Well... actually, that's what Don Juan said when the guy wakes up."

"He said...?" I didn't understand, so David took a deep breath, puffed out his chest and boomed,

"...'I have seen Mescalito fight with a man, I have seen Mescalito kill a man, but I have never seen Mescalito play with a man'," in his own deep-voiced, wise-sounding version of Don Juan. So I laughed again. So...

And he stayed with me until the next number 21 came along.

So. Sew buttons, honey.

I'm smiling into my scarf as I hop up the steps of my building and fire the key into the lock.

*
*
*

The door squeeeeaks open, and I slip inside.

"Beckeeeyeeeyeeyeeyeeeee..." a tiny mass comes bounding across the apartment and slaps into my legs. His little arms squeeze around my knees so tight I almost lose my balance, but I hold myself up on the end table as I drop the keys into the dish.

"Oiiiii who's gettin' heavy?" I grin down at him, and he looks up, his hair flopping over his eyes.

"I had peanut butter and banana sandwiches."

"I'm sorry I missed supper, Bud." I try to get my coat off, but balance becomes an issue. One arm at a time, I lean against one wall, then the other before tossing it into the kitchen. It wraps around the back of a chair, and I can finally bend down to pick up Warren. He gropes for my arms and lets me heft him onto a hip.

"I think you're getting too big to carry," I tell him, kicking off my shoes.

"Nope," he says, pushing his little face into me.

"Where's Charlie?"

"Livin' room."

I carry him through the apartment and smile at Charlotte. She mutes the TV and scoots over to let us sit down.

"Thanks for staying so long," I tell her.

"Was there a problem?"

"No - no. Everything's fine, I just had to stay late. How was my man?"

"A perfect gentleman," she reports. Then looks down at him. "But...?"

Warren's little hands smack up to his eyes, and he looks down at his pyjama bottoms.

"But what?"

"I got in trouble," he says.

"A girl at montesory pushed him - so he pushed her back."

"...so?"

I can tell Charlotte's puzzled by my blank expression.

"They have a zero tolerance policy, Becca."

"But she shoved him first! Right, Bud?"

He nods up at me, so I lean down and grab his little hand.

"If someone ever pushes you? You push 'em right back." And he smiles.

"Becca-"

My eyes shoot up to her from Warren, and Charlotte knows to stop. I soften - I smile and lean back down to the kid.

"Don't let anybody ever hurt you, Buddy. You did the right thing."

*
*
*

"...it could end up getting him in trouble, is all I'm saying."

Charlotte and I are in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Charlotte has a lot of opinions, but she's an incredible cook. She also takes care of Bud for free, for which I'm eternally thankful. I couldn't afford to pay her. She also makes wicked coffee.

"I don't want him thinking it's okay for kids to push him, or hit him. It's not. If someone hit you, would you hit them back?"

"Well..."

"I'm trying to instill the same good sense in him. Zero tollerance my ass."

I sip my coffee. Charlotte starts talking shop.

"So when you called I decided to put the spaghetti on hold. Tomorrow maybe?"

"Yeah, definitely tomorrow," I nod into my cup. "I'm sorry I missed it today, let me tell you."

"There's half a sub in the 'fridge, though. If you're hungry."

I'm nodding.

"...you okay?"

"Hm?"

"You seem different today."

For a split second ice shoots through me. What Clintonesque Nose-rub is she picking up on? Can she tell I kicked a guy's face in? Do I transmit it, that I got fired today?

"Different how?"

"Well, you're lookin' like you... like you..."

"Beckyyy..," Warren hollers from the living room. "Oddparents!"

Charlotte and I stand up, but she finishes.

"You look good."

I smile, and say thank you, and go into the living room to watch cartoons.

*
*
*

Two hours later, I'm stretched out on the couch. Warren's curled up against my stomache, and the one arm I've draped over him seems immense in comparison.

I always marvel at how small he is. How he's a miniature man.

The light of the TV reflects in my glasses, and the mini-man stirs beside me.

"Becca?"

"Yes Bud?"

"Why aren't you angry today?"

I don't look down at him. The TV reflects in my glasses.

"I'm angry usually?" I ask.

"Well sometimes. But not today."

"Well then today's a good day, huh?" I squeeze him.

"Mmm." He nuzzles his forehead into my chest, and reveals the spot of drool he deposited on my sweater.

I've had better days. But maybe it was a good one.

 

[Riven___Caulfield]

wednesday
also by Me


PART 1 - very early morning

I'm beating the shit out of a vinyl punching bag. I've been giving it standard punch series and ending kicks, but now I start moving into backfists. Backfist-knee. Backfist-punch. Backfist-punch-elbow-punch. Backfist-roundhouse, skittering into a Side Shuffle.

I dance to the other side of the tiny second bedroom and launch myself back.

Why couldn't I sleep?

"Tcha!"

A bare foot strikes a foot north of the bag's center, and it rocks on its chains. Stucco shakes loose and falls into my hair as I hold the bag back with a foot, stretching my leg.

I'll tell you why I couldn't sleep - worry. Sickening worry.

I go into a backfist-knee-elbow...

...am I angry usually? Fuckin' right I am. Fuckin'...

Double-backfist.

...right. When six months ago I coulda' dropped the job like a bad habit.

You can't see, Becca. The sweat's in my eyes.

Backfist-sweep.

Calm down. ...six months ago - but not now.

Now it's the end of the Goddamned world!

Backfist-roundhouse into a side shuffle. Floating across the ten mats on the ground and-

"Augh!" My skittering feet are about to skitter into Warren. He's standing just inside the doorway, eyes closed and clutching Green Eyes, the ancient Wrinkles dog. I let my momentum carry me, just like that first trip with David. I push gently off the ground and throw my weight forward, over him, tumbling to a stop in the hall beyond.

"Hohhh... hahh... What did we say about Becca' room?" Laying on my back, I peer up over myself to look at him.

At first I wonder if he's in shock. He stands there in his pyjamas, pointed into my room and cradling his dog (which was once my dog). In time, he turns around rubbing his closed eyes.

"...thirsty," he says with confident finality, and puts out his spare hand.

"Oh. Ah, sure Buddy..."

I gather myself to my feet and take his little hand. Leading him towards the bathroom, I have to correct him to make sure he doesn't go into the wall moulding. Bud's excellent at operating half-conscious. He's not sleepwalking, technically. But he's certainly not awake.

He sits patiently on the toilet as I pour him a cup and point him in the direction of our bedroom.

"You need me to come sleep with you?"

"Mmm."

He takes a sip, sets the cup on his end table and crawls into my (our) severely oversized bed. Then he's snoring.

I lean out of the doorframe and pluck my pack of John Player Specials off a bar stool in the hall. Inside is a Bic lighter, and I watch Warren sleep for a few puffs before I take it outside onto the balcony.

I forget the exact statistic, but kids are drastically more likely to smoke if their parents do. ...or caregivers. I know that's true in my case.

Clutching a heavy winter coat closed at my throat, I muse about my first memory of cigarettes...

That would be Sarah, picking that lit butt off the sidewalk when we were on our way to the bus stop. I was six, she was eight. She took one long drag off it, and threw it away. Wouldn't let me touch it.

A teacher came and found me at lunch hour, and told me Sarah had taken very very ill, and I would see her at home.

...of course, I didn't tell anyone what had made her so sick. Neither did Sarah.

I also remember the smell of Dad's cigarettes, on long car trips when I was ten or eleven. I remember that first plume of super-sweet smoke filling the car before he cracked the window. The smell of Player's brand cigarettes.

I remember that day when I got home from school, I looked in on Sarah's room and saw her laying there, white as a sheet. I remember thinking so clearly then, knowing without a doubt that one day in the inconceviably far future, when I was a grown up I'd be a smoker. Not 'cause I'd decided it then, I knew. It wasn't a decision.

It was a premonition. Or that's certainly how I felt about it.

Either way - I was right. I flick the cigarette off the balcony and it falls, falls, falls into the street below. I always look in the streets for my cigarette butts, to see if there's like a noticeable amount of them beneath my apartment.

No - there isn't.

I quietly close the balcony door and look at the clock. It's one twenty in the morning... why is that important?

"Fulltime Killer. " David had said. What was Fulltime Killer? Ah, yes - one of those Hong Kong movies he liked so much.

I roll the taste of cigarette around in my mouth and look in on Bud. He's angelic, so I go into the bathroom and start running a cool shower.

I slip in and rinse the sweat off, not bothering to shampoo anything out of my hair. I'll deal with that in the morning, I decide, and shrug into my bathrobe. Wet, bare feet pad across hardwood as I meander into the living room and plop onto the couch.

Alright, David. I'll watch your shitty movie if I can remember what channel you said on the first try...

What had he said? No, what was it I said? He'd said,

"So what are these big plans, so important you can't skip 'em?" ...or something like that. Something to that effect, and all I could think to say was,

"I have to stay in."

"Ahh, well those are always the best plans, right?"

I didn't answer.

"...that's what I'm doing," he told me. I laughed. I thought he was joking, but he said, "You guys actually have decent TV up here - tonight on..." He'd snapped his fingers three times, trying to remember. "Action Lane. S'called Fulltime Killer - sooooo Hong Kong slash Rodruigues slash Cameron. Mostly Hong Kong."

I hit three buttons - 0-6-7.

"It's too bad you weren't born Chinese," I'd told him. He'd liked that.

"I been tellin' people that my whole life," he'd said.

A preview for Fulltime Killer comes on. It looks horrible, but I'd promised. I got it on the first try.

Couldn't really help remembering, I guess. ...s'not like coming into work late tomorrow is a huuuge concern...

*
*
*

 

[Tisi]

Oh dear Riven, have you gone again? Please don't let it be another 7 months or more til you come back again!

Take care xx