Saving Old Glory

Note: This fictional account and story title stolen from my friend Dominic’s article.

Two million tourists and 130 tons of trash. That’s what the papers said. The spectacle of Obama’s Inauguration left me disappointed. Excitement prevalent a year earlier, during the primary, had given way to stale, recycled rhetoric and a stage empty but for aesthetics.

Crowds departed our nation’s capital giving way to mounds of candy wrappers, Coke bottles, and tens of thousands of trampled, dirty flags.

America.

As disastrous as the past eight years had been, did not the flag still represent more than the materials upon which it had been printed?

I found a milk crate and began collecting those torn symbols. Grandma would have been proud of me even though she was afraid of black people. She’d come here from Hungary for the things lying between the red and white stripes and beyond the white stars. I could not grieve for long; Grandma got what she wanted… death. And I couldn’t blame her, for she hadn’t lived in years. Outliving her husband and her eldest daughter, she always spoke of how she should have died in the war back home. But God is cruel, as she would say. Her only happiness came from the retention of her legs despite diabetes and when I picked her up and brought her to the grocery.

I’m glad I saw her often though not often enough. I hope my family felt guilty for not visiting her like I did. Grandma was the last one in my family who was on my side. Maybe I’m being selfish, maybe I grieve too much for myself, maybe the dirty flags in the crate are for me.

Sure, they’re for me, but also for my grandmother and everyone else.

Pieces

Prompt: Use dilation (pausing time) – “I felt the glass slip from my fingers…”

I felt the glass slipping from my fingers, even though she had dropped it, or maybe I just blamed her. I knew she would drop it; I’m a great judge of character, and I’m always right about those things. She’d been hopped up on painkillers for 18 hours, and this was her first foray from the couch we’d stolen from Salvation Army or her bed she’d begged me to sleep in when she felt lonely. I didn’t mind. I was lonely, too, and I mistook it for love, but when I look back all I remember is that ugly night and the glass I felt slip from her fingers.

The baby, or lack thereof, wasn’t mine. It belonged to the fat Jewish guy on the couch. I felt the glass slip from her fingers, and he laughed at the comedy show on TV. He was oblivious to her wobbly, drugged fingers sliding past the old crystal, crystal given to the girl by her mother as a moving-out gift, crystal that whispered, “Hey, you’re a grown woman now. Go out and take the world.”

The crystal whispered now, too, only this time it cried for the lost son of the oaf on the couch.

“You bastard,” I thought, “Your ass is where I lay my head on nights your girlfriend lies with you or the other guy you don’t know about.”

I suppose the mass of flesh and blood recently expelled into our apartment’s single toilet could have been someone else’s, and yet I cannot forgive you, sir, for failing to feel the glass slip from your fingers, too. You get the dinners, the movies, the showers, and the sex. I settle for the dishes, the laundry, and I’ll probably clean up the broken glass from the kitchen tiles once it hits. If you knew what was good for you, you’d have come in here and caught it halfway by now. You’d have snatched it up and delicately raised it to her damaged lips. You’d have tilted the glass so the water trickled down towards her pale face, replacing the fluids she’d sweat and cried out during the past 18 hours or the past forever. But you laughed and rocked side-to-side on the couch, the cushion crinkling beneath your fat, spoiled, selfish, pompous ass.

I felt the glass slip from her fingers, and it broke as it hit the floor.

Me and Rainbow

I wrote this piece on the beach at Assateague Island, Virginia in Summer 2008.

I’d almost drifted off when the line jerked tight.

-This is it!

I snatched the stick from the sand and yanked it hard to close the deal.  I wrapped the fluttering string in my hand and reeled it in, foot by foot, wrestling an invisible, feeble force from the dark depths of the bay.  A small fish materialized just below the surface, flipping left and right and desperately fighting the hook I’d hung.  Captivated by the ever changing glimmer of the creature’s scales and the nature of this beautiful struggle – one I knew I’d always win – this was why I cast my lure.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” I spun the line high above me to admire my catch against the clear blue sky, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

He settled a bit, peering at me quite skeptically.

“How ’bout you put me back in, then,” he gasped, “Not a huge fan of the air.”

“Ok, calm down now, buddy, hush…”

I grasped his slick body and carefully turned the hook until it popped out from the side of his face.  Then I tossed him into a bucket full of seawater.

“Hey now, you wanna throw me back in the ocean?  This bucket ain’t really doin’ it for me, pal.”

“Have another worm, Rainbow.  I’ll call you Rainbow.  You’re very pretty, all green and red and yellow.”

“Thanks, but the name’s Griff.”

“Rainbow…”

“Three more worms, and you can call me whatever you want.”

I gladly obliged and smiled at my new friend.

“Nice to meet you, Rainbow.  My name’s Jim.”

The fish ignored me, munching away at the nightcrawlers.  I packed up my tackle, put on my shoes, and threw my bag over my shoulder.

“Hey, where we goin’?”

I lifted up the bucket and made my way down the beach back towards the asphalt.

“I’m bringin’ you home with me.”

“Hey, woah there, I’ve heard stories, you ain’t gonna eat me, huh?”

“Hah!  Why’d I do that, silly?  No, we’re gonna be friends, you and I.  I’ll take care of you.  You’ll live like a king!”

“Alright then; Just keep them worms comin’.”

By the time we’d finished the long walk home, the sun had dropped below the trees.  Tufts of clouds glowed crimson in the distance, just above the horizon.  We entered my modest shack, and I set the bucket on the table.

“Go ahead and relax; I’m gonna cook up some supper.”

I tossed in a few more worms and retreated to the kitchen where I pulled out the frying pan, a couple eggs, milk, butter, cheese, and a red pepper.  The first egg crashed to the floor as the phone ring cut into my ears.  I panicked; it wasn’t supposed to ring.

“Hello… Oh, hi, yes I’m fine… No, not tonight, I’ve been out all day, and I still have tons to… No, it’s ok… No, no bother… Bye bye.”

I wet an old cloth and wiped up the mess.

“Don’t worry buddy,” I shouted back to the dining area, “It was just Lisa.  Never can be sure with her type.  Never know what’ll happen.”

I paused and lost myself in the shattered shell speckled in the slime on the rag.

“When you bringin’ me home, pal?  I’m sure my family’s wonderin’ where I am, bet they’re worried sick.”

I snapped up and threw the rag into the sink.

“Oh, you’re living with me now.  You won’t have a care in the world.  And you’ll have lots of friends.  You wanna meet your friends?”

I brought the bucket down to the cellar and clicked on the lights.  They flickered and buzzed and illuminated a large aquarium spanning the back wall.  The dim light bounced turquoise through the pristine water.  Fish, hermit crabs, snails, and aquatic plants filled the glass box.

“Hey, ok pal!  Not bad!  This is what I’m talkin’ about!”

I dumped Rainbow into the aquarium.

“Hey guys, you hungry?”

I shoveled in about fifty worms and watched my new friend scramble for his share.

“Now everyone be nice to Rainbow.  He’s new.  I’m gonna go grab some food and head to bed; It’s been quite a long day.  I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

I turned the lights off and hummed my way back upstairs to the kitchen.

“Pal… hey, pal!  What’s goin’ on?  Hey, pal!  All these fish are dead!  Hey, pal! HEY!”

The next morning, I went downstairs to say hi to my friends.

“Hi, guys!  Everyone bein’ nice to Rainbow?  Rainbow, they bein’ nice to you?  Whoosh, you guys are pigs, hah!  I’m runnin’ out of worms over here!  Gonna have to pick up some more on my way back.”

I shoveled in the rest of the worms, gathered my things, and withdrew to the sea to woo those inferior once again.

Little Old Lady With Dog

This short piece spurned from the loins of Czech photographer Jan Lukas’ (1915-2006) “Little Old Lady With Dog”

As she opens the window, a fecal stench oozes into my nostrils from the streets of Pittsburgh below; this coming from a dog.  Bernice is my owner.  Or she is now that Richard’s passed.  It must have been black lung, but Bernice doesn’t like talking about it.  I always respected him for loving her; that pathetic, helpless mess.  I don’t know what good it does washing me when the air is opaque with dirt and shit and coal.  Even the soap and sponge are black.

The crispy radio drowns out the depression.

“…Honey slips a little around that turn, but her owner’s got her sprinting through the tubes, making great time now, up and over the incline…”

“…and she’s just a beautiful Westie, Mike, glistening, pure white fur, I just wish you folks out there could see her go…”

“…yes, John, and she crosses the line in good time, one minute, eleven point two seconds, and that’ll put her in second for now, great effort for Honey and her equally energetic owner, Joyce…”

Bernice stares me in the eyes, wearing a stupid, hollow grin.

“You know, Jack, you’re gonna be my ticket outta here, you know that, right?  We’re gonna fix you up good, cuz you’re the prettiest specimen I’ve ever laid my tired eyes on… Richard would be proud…”

I haven’t heard her say his name since he collapsed in the mines ten days ago.  He was one of the lucky ones, having a job and a house and all.

Back in the candlelit living area, the only room besides the latrine, Bernice takes a seat and pulls me upon herself.  I would have been happier alone, but she insists on petting my thinning hair, and shoving my head into her lap.  I perk up when she reaches into that luminous sack usually stored above the icebox.  My chest is concave; I haven’t eaten since…

The glorious aroma of stale bread and hard cheese tickles my dry nose. I resort to begging Bernice; begging her for mercy.  I hate relying on her.

She pushes me down.

“This is people food, Jack.  If I don’t eat this, I’ll wither away and starve, and then who will take care of you?  Huh?  Who will bring you to the competition?”

I hang my head and force myself from her flabby hold.  I only have enough energy to lie beside her, and the smell of the food is almost as good as eating.

I watch her with dreary eyes, and she keeps eating and eating, and the radio keeps playing its static songs, and she cries as she eats and wipes her tears with the bread before she engulfs it with her mouth.  She won’t stop eating and crying.  She pulls the last of the food from the rough sack, food that would have lasted us for a week had Richard been here, and swallows it all at once.

Her crying stops.  Her face grows even larger, strange hocking noises coming from it.  I lift my head from the cold floor, and look at her with a stupid, hollow grin on my face.  Her cheeks turn a nasty red, and then an icy blue, before she plops down, motionless.

I circle Bernice, sniffing, licking the salt from her bare, juicy feet.  She’s with Richard now, I think, but I’m still with her.  I lick scraps from the inside of her mouth, but it’s not enough.  I begin tearing at her limbs with all the strength I have left.  I drown in my macabre feast, and snarl as if she were living prey.  A dog’s got to do what he must to survive.  That nasty old bitch got what she deserved.  After I am full, I sprint from the first-floor window in the bathroom to the gnarly city outside.  I’ll be back for more.