Pay for it

Shit I want to get mad. I want to feel it. I used to get so used.

Naraan got cut years ago. Some who-gives-a-shits took his handle clean off with a blade. We all felt so bad when he went quiet. I have two stickers on me. A Misfits thing and a Garbage Pail Kid. You can't read them, the way they're all dirty.

I work. I still work. There's a guy that uses me. He calls his granddaughter every couple of weeks. He wants her to do things for him, but she's always busy.

Dina is quiet. Not sure when she broke. She's probably broke. No one's come around to fix her.

Sometimes I would feel real grateful. Excited. Someone would come over. Finger in for change. It was something.

And then sometimes I would hate them. Smell their breath. People dial and no one picks up because they don't recognize my number. They're wasting quarters in me.

What if Dina is just faking? Can I do that? Someone picks up and I play dead? Do I have to dial tone? What would choosing feel like?

But now it's just… They mostly don't bother. I mostly don't feel nothing. I have nothing worth cutting.

There's going to be a van that comes by some day. People are going to want to have flowers here on the curb. Okay, maybe just grass. Or maybe just more curb. So this van will scoop up Naraan, Dina, and me. They’ll dig up the wires and put down something nicer. Someone's got to care about this city. They'll come by and fix this place so people like it more.

Someone comes by once a month to empty my belly. She always checks Dina and Naraan too. One time, she found a couple nickels inside Naraan. How did that happen? When did I miss some people feeding nickles to him? Was I sleeping? Am I losing time?

Cars at my back. They built me in a little box that keeps most of the rain out. It's open in front. I can see people walk up and check my handle. They hear the tone and they get all giddy to find a pay phone. They go wow, a working one out in the wild. And they laugh. It's just words to me. They take pictures of me with their little pocket pieces.

I want to leave a note here. Water the grass. That's what I want them to do. Make this spot nice. Make it so people like it here.

I just want to get mad again.

Yellow in the Fullness

It's just a tiny, little fern. I set it up on the mantel above the fireplace so it would grow tits. The dry heat rising from the fire helped it along. Took about a week to show. I was careful not to water it too much. I didn't want to plump them too heavy, or have them sag into the soil. It's tricky to get them to grow like you want them. Little, perky tits.

Stephanie at the garden club loves showing off hers. Last week she had this little bonsai rhodedendron growing out of a hollowed bowling ball. Nipples! It had nipples! I don't know how she does it. She's gotta be pruning them back and working a second growth. I don't know.

But she's so smug about it. Everyone asks about her titties and she gets all coy, "Oh trade secrets. Traaaade secrets." Such a bitch.

Mine are firm with a light green shading. They get more yellow at their fullness. I was thinking about growing them out to B-cups, but the longer I look at them, the happier I get with the A. Also, the fern is too light and feathery. Big breasts would bend it down. They look nice up there, peeking at me as I glance over the fire. They're not perfect, but they're mine.

Stephanie can go die in a fire.

Clip-Clop

I watch her march to the counter in her calfskin boots. The way they make a clip-clop on the slate tiles of the coffee shop. The way her blonde pony tail sweeps back and forth as she walks with her latte back to her seat. The way her tired eyes roll across the ceiling as she thinnks about whatever it is she's working on at her little netbook at her table in the corner.

And idle Wednesday in a quiet cafe, just like every other Wednesday before it. Ever since they dumped me from my desk, the weekends feel like weekdays and everything bleeds into everything else. I turn back to my screen, clicking up my resume, clicking through the listings, clicking on that last email from the headhunter who made all those promises.

Someone comes in, silver hair, nice suit. He has that executive sheen to his clean chin. The new guy has a plastered-on smile, like a decal on a robot. Of course he's meeting with the blonde in the boots. She stands up to shake his hand. She's nervous. Maybe this is an interview, or an evaluation. She's smiling too wide, eyes flashing. The executive's comfortable, tells a lame joke. She laughs politely.

I feel a thousand times better. If she were into that guy, if she really fell for that phoney robot-in-a-suit bullshit, she'd laugh for real. She'd tip forward, a laugh from the diaphragm. She'd look at his eyes and find an excuse to lay her hand on his wrist, just for a moment, just a touch. I write the scene. Directing the action, the woman forgets for a moment the meeting and tells a story of her childhood, the loneliness of the hill she grew up on. I'm in the suit now, and I run a few fingers through my silver hair, making a humble admission, perhaps a set of braces. No, it has to be something more serious. After an accident as a youth, I had to have my jaw reconstructed. I spent two years of highschool with my jaw wired shut. She relates, she moves in closer, my vulerability makes her bold.

His stilted, pained laugh draws me out of the scene. I'm back in the actual cafe, fiddling around, impotent, on my aging laptop. The executive and the blonde are talking. The executive has some sort of list in front of him. He's sipping and reviewing it while the blonde eplains. Maybe she's justifying, or back-pedaling, or apologizing. Things aren't going well, and that empty smile tatooed on the executive's face aren't making things easier.

She's wearing blue sweater and a stylish, black scarf. She looks very casual and professional at the same time. A friendly, welcoming style. She must have a job where people need to trust her. I'd trust her if I met her, if I had any kind of business to offer.

I'm back to my work. My half-finished novel, the blogging gig that pays beans, the screenplay my cousin is always almost ready to start shooting. I check my email again and again. I go through a few sites, looking at pictures of cats, then some other sites, looking at a few artistic nudes, then some other sites, looking at decidedly less artistic nudes.

How long have I been sitting here? I need to piss. I get the key from the counter. I head down the hall. I open the door.

The blonde is waiting in the men's room. I see her, and I stand there confused. It's not till I see her clothes on the floor that I realize she's standing there naked, staring at me. I should apologize and leave. I must have gone in the wrong door. She's looking at me, a little afraid. She's staring right at me.

Oh shit. This is for the other guy. She's trying to keep her job. I've stumbled into some kind of illicit liason. This is what women have to do in this economy. I should leave. I should let her do whatever she has to do. It's not my place to judge her. If I had to do something like this to get my old job back...

But she's looking right at me and I'm frozen. And she nods.

Before the door closes behind me, I'm pressing my lips to her face, feeling her frantic breath. Her hand is on the back of my head, she's forccing her tongue over mine, pushing. Her other hand is working fast, over my hips, down the front of my pants. She's much shorter than me, she's got those boots off. She's trying to climb up, leap up on top of me while we stand there.

We're up against the wall. Her skin is so soft, with lean muscles tensing underneath. She must run everyday. She must go to the gym. She throws a leg over mine, pulling herself up. She must get massages at the spa. She must use oils and salves to keep her skin so...

She gasps a bit, the tiles on the wall are cold. One arms lifts us up, off the wall. The other reaches down, fumbling through my pants. She's pushing forward against me, breathing, moaning in my ear. The heat from between her legs, the light blonde tuft, presses into my waist. I struggle with my underwear. I can't seem to get at my penis.

She's ready, she wants this. Hurry, she tells me. She moves to look me in the eyes, hungry. Come on, right now. I'm lost, somehow, inside my pants.

She's in a rush. She only has a minute or so before the executive gets suspicious. Her breasts are tiny with thick nipples I can feel poking through my shirt. She just needs to blow off some steam for the interview. Where the fuck is my dick.

She smiles, reaching down to help. It's so fun and dirty, this fling during work. So naughty, perverted, to fuck and almost get caught. Breaking rules, taking an extra smoke break, a two hour lunch.

I remember feeling like that, back when I had a desk. I only ever wanted to escape it. Her fingers finally find me. I feel a cold jolt through my body. In a moment, she'll be back to work, and I'll be back at my laptop.

By the time I'm out of my shorts, I've gone completely soft. Useless.

The Apparition

We stepped on all the cracks
as she chased us

We dove into the underbrush
she was above us
just a torso

She told us
we were right to be afraid

The Show Must

"I don't..."

"What the fuck, Danny?"

"I just don't want to talk."

"Danny, what were you doing?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he says as he drops sideways on the leather couch in his dressing room.

Someone pokes Gus in the back. He turns to see some little blonde intern holding her hand over a phone. Behind her, maybe a dozen gawkers crowding over each other. Some of them look scared, most of them look curious, like those assholes slowing down by the big accidents on the highway. They want to peek a little red on the pavement, thinks Gus. He shoots them all a hard glare and closes the door. They'll have to wait.

Danny is soaked in sweat, flopped face down across the couch like a rag. His shirt is half ripped. His belt, unbuckled. He lost his jacket somewhere out on the set. Gus makes a quick note on his clipboard. Someone's going to have to get that back to costumes.

Gus watches him lie there. He's not moving at all. Maybe he's holding his breath, like a toddler turning blue for an extra cookie. Gus has been in this business a long time, sweeping up shit from all the talent. This was new, though. Gus never saw anything like what happened out there.

"Danny, you know we have to talk about this."

Gus pulls a stiff, wooden chair over. He sits right next to the couch. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Delicacy is a very important thing in this business.

"Danny, I want you to start talking to me."

He coughs and sucks a deep breath in, "This couch smells."

"The couch is fine. I want to talk about the show, the show you just did."

"It smells like mold," Danny finally rolls on his side. His face leaves a wet imprint on the leather, "like mildew,"

"Well that's where people sit. Their butts go there," Gus keeps his voice even, not a hint of sarcasm. You never really know with talent.

"It's not a fart smell,"

"Yeah, Okay. Listen Danny. I need to know if something is wrong. I have to spin this somehow. So you need to talk to me so I can get on the phone and save our jobs,"

Danny turns his face back into the wet leather.

A tremor cramps up Gus's arm. He takes a couple of breaths.

"Do you want to do something different with the show? Do we need to change things up?"

Gus taps his pencil on his thigh. He places the clipboard on the floor. Danny is motionless again. There is a timid knock at the door.

"Not now," snaps Gus. He turns back to the couch, "Is this it man? You want to kill the show? We can do that if we have to."

Another knock.

"Fuck off!"

The door opens anyway. That little blonde intern inches into the room holding that phone like it was a gun to her head. Poor girl. This place will chew her up like a spitwad.

"I'm sorry Gus, but it's..."

"I know who it is. Tell him I'm talk... I'm working here and I can..."

The girl winces and holds the phone away. Gus can hear it squawk from all the way across the room. Someone is screaming into the other end.

Danny rolls back, his eyes look wet, "I don't think I exist,"

Oh for christ's sake.

"Danny, let's take a moment to clear our heads and figure this thing out."

"I can't get it. I can't believe it anymore. I don't know what's going on,"

"Gus, what should I tell..."

"Delay. Keep him busy. I'll get the phone in a sec," then turning back to the crumpled mess on the couch, "Danny, you're stressed, you're falling apart. We can fix this. We can get you cleaned up, get you to a shrink."

"I don't think I'm really here Gus. I don't think I'm anywhere,"

"Well here," Gus places his pencil next to Danny's face on the moldy cushion. "You can pick this up, right?"

Danny pinches the pencil with his thumb and forefinger, lifting and looking at it like some odd bug.

"I guess." he speaks softly, like a child slowly waking.

"Well you have to be here, right? I mean, I'm talking to you. I can see you," Gus jerks a thumb over his shoulder, "She can see you. Who are we talking to if no one's here?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're fucking crazy."