Sunday, December 21, 2008

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Because Of A Broken Highball Glass



She, with dirty blonde hair, painted a bloody swath across all of the Kingdom of Spain; a trail of broken hearts from Barcelona to Madrid into the Portuguese Republic and back. Bands of American girls with long, tight, shirts for dresses and striped leggings come through and dance and drink every year, but she was different. She was the kind of girl about whom people say, 'she's the kind of girl who knows exactly what she wants' and gets it. That kind of girl. The kind of girl people love and hate that they love her. Even the people who say aloud they hate her, they love her, she's that kind of girl. And this particular girl was named, Elle Finney. And, of course, she was hated, and thus loved. Spain hadn't been rocked like this since Republicanos and Nacionales spilled each other's blood. 
Elle Finney was around 5'6" with a medium frame, voluptuous to a point, endowed but not overdone. Her hair was long and straight, usually parted on one side, that hair pulled across her brow.The green eyes of a doe outlined in black. A straight, just so slightly upturned, nose gave off approachability and royal elegance. She had one tooth that was just the tiniest bit crooked proving that she was perfect. If any human was to be human and still be perfect, one of their teeth would have to be just the tiniest bit crooked.
Elle's family had found it’s way into money only a few years earlier; her parents decided, that with a fair portion of their new wealth, they would educate and culture their daughter. They had each grown up wealthy and had both rejected their families after similar education and culturing, they decided for their daughter to do the same. 
So she was here now, dancing with Spaniards, had been for almost six months. Her time was running out. She had certainly made her mark, but was getting frantic in the final hours. Before Spain she'd gone to school on the West coast for a year, then back to the East coast for a semester and now here. As for after this, she didn't know.
Her time being short, she did what any decent American girl would do in a foreign country: She snorted a lot more blow. She went down on a boy or two or three in nightclub bathrooms. She had a few girls down on her in her room, her host family steps away. She started fights with the rich Franco-Fascist bitches at her school, and, lastly, fell in love. That love lasted her final month in Spain. It tempered her, calmed her. This is not a love story though. She went back to the states. She never talked to her Spanish lover again.


The boy she'd been somewhat seeing at Northeastern, before she went abroad, sent her a message the day after she got back. He was tall and classically handsome, he studied music and was always interesting; she had been head over heels for him, she cried for three days straight when the Kingdom of Spain first welcomed her. Elle told herself she'd call him when her jet lag was a little better. But this is not a love story. Elle never got around to calling.
Still, Elle would probably marry a musician with thick glasses one day, the hip and dorky kind, not the other kind of musician with the other kind of glasses. She was the kind that wore big headphones and sometimes wondered if she was trying too hard to look too cool, then she’d look in the mirror and realize: too cool is only just cool enough. Maybe that's why she'd marry a musician, if she really loved him, to listen to his music in big headphones. Elle Finney in a white dress, waiting to kiss at the altar. Elle Finney enraptured. Wait. This is not a love story though, that must be repeated; in fact, this is actually a story about rape and poison. It's a murder mystery. Something like that. Elle has nothing to do with this story. It probably goes something like:


Someone was walking, maybe down an empty street or through a forest at dusk, and she heard something behind her so she tried to turn around, but it was (of course) too late, and she was repeatedly penetrated, then stabbed; long story short: I did it. All because of a broken highball glass. How's that for irony?

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

roads


Kyle ashed his cigarette out the crack in the window and brought it back to his lips, but the wind had put it out. He slid it out the crack, disappointed.
"Pass me that when you're done," he said. Mark sniffed hard and passed the bag to him. He put his knee against the wheel and keeping an eye on the road used the corner of a Eugene Public Library card to scoop some up, he brought it to his nose, putting the other hand back on the wheel, looking out at the road now. He inhaled steadily. His nose felt like it was clogged, he could taste it a little in the back of his throat. He put the card back in and brought it to his other nostril, inhaling. It was good. He replaced the card and handed the bag back. He tried to clear his throat but knew there was nothing to clear. He fished in the dash pocket under the CD player for the bottle, and finding it, unscrewed and sipped from it. The taste was exceptionally bitter, it was hard to swallow with his throat numbed.
"Root beer," he choked out. Mark handed him the root beer with a little laugh. And took the small bottle from him and sipped it as well, then reached down and took the fifth of Jack Daniels from the floor, sipping that, grimacing. Kyle looked over at him and smiled, laughing a little, feeling charged. Mark handed back the morphine bottle. Kyle continued holding it out and said,
"To us and this, and fuck those bitches." Mark held up the Jack and clinked it against the smaller glass bottle. They both sipped, Kyle immediately going back to the root beer. Mark began again with the bag.
"So, we take this road for something like 5 more miles, that takes us to the 5 or the 99. The 99 takes us right into Creswell and Cottage Grove, if you want to eat something."
"Nah, I don't want to fuck this up," leaning his head back a little he yelled out, "Jay. Hey, Jay. Wake up for a second." Nothing. "Shake him, will you?" Mark leaned back pushing the map down next to the seat and tightening his grip on the bag. He pushed against Jay's torso.
"What, what?" He said, sleepily, turning to look at Mark.
"Do you want to eat something soon?"
"I want fucking...Burger King. I want Burger King." He rolled back over. Mark and Kyle laughed a little and Kyle took the bag back from Mark.
"Let's stop for a second, this fucking sucks."
They sat and made lines by putting the side of the card in, and inhaling off that. They passed it back and forth seamlessly. Kyle went to drink from the bottle and got only a few drops,
"Oh, shit...it's empty."
"That was a lot of morphine." Mark laughed and did another line. Kyle took the bag and did one more.
"Well, let's get this show on the road, feeling pretty fucking good."
"Yea, yea." Mark laughed. They both laughed their excited cocaine laugh. Mark passed Kyle the Jack, he took a small swig and handed it back. Looking for the root beer, only to find it empty too. He started driving again.
"Hey, put in Imagine, I really want to listen to that album." Mark looked through a small booklet of CD's, trying to find it.
"Fuck yes, that's what I want to hear, fuck yes."
"That's the song. The song you know?" From the back Jay spoke up,
"Fuck yes, I love that song." Mark and Kyle laughed. Mark put in the CD, the opening bars began, and they all quieted down. Jay sitting up in back to listen better, leaning forward into the front. As John Lennon's voice began, they all started to sing along.



II

"Come on, we've got to fucking go. Now," shouted Jay pulling a few things from the car.
"No, I'm not leaving him, he needs a fucking doctor, he's bleeding and shit."
"Fuck, I'm getting out of here."
"OK, OK, take this," Kyle shouted, handing him the bag of coke and the jack bottle, from the front seat. Jay grabbed them and his jacket and started running into the forest. Kyle stepped out, with the empty morphine bottle and threw it into the woods after Jay. A car's headlights brightened the scene. He stood in the road a little and waved his arms. The car slowed, it's window rolling down.
"Hey, call 911, we need an ambulance, my friend is hurt," he said frantically. The man in the car, pulled forward and parked. The front of Kyle's car was buried in the rear end of a large older truck. Mark, was unconscious against the dash. The man from the car came around the truck,
"Is it just the two of you?" Kyle sat against the rear door of the car, on the ground and nodded. The man spoke into the phone, Kyle couldn't really hear him, his ears were still ringing.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. The man spoke into the phone again and began talking to him, even putting his hand on his shoulder. He didn't respond. tears silently rolled down his cheeks. He stared at the ground between his legs, and felt a wave pull him under to some place else. Over the man's voice he heard a siren growing louder. He became suddenly afraid that the rest of his existence would be this, the growing sound of a siren and him staring at the ground. He became terrified. He felt he couldn't move, that he was trapped there in that instant forever. But then the lights hit him and he looked toward them squinting. And in that instant the former instant was gone, and now he became afraid, as the ambulance stopped in front of him, another ambulance and a cop car were coming down the road now too. Sirens growing louder.
He sat on the bench seat in the ambulance, a paramedic helping him hold gauss to his nose which he now realized was bleeding. He couldn't feel it really. He could see blood on his arms, little bits and sparkles there too, paint and glass in him, it looked beautiful. The paramedic told him to lay down, but he wouldn't, he wanted to sit. They closed the door and began moving. Forgetting that he wanted to sit, he lay down on the bench. Black washed over him.


III

He woke up in pain. Pressures at different places all over his body. He was in a bed. The lights were low. He opened his eyes and looked around groggily. It was a hospital room. He looked down to see the IV in his arm. He felt something wrong with his penis and tossed off the blanket frantically, then raising the gown slowly he saw a tube going into it. He pulled it out slowly. Stopping often from pain and more from fear of pain. When he got it out he saw his hand was shaking. Next he pulled the IV out of his arm slowly, a little blood came out. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the cold floor. His clothes were on a chair across the room. He sat in it and began to dress, coming slowly to his senses. He knew he had to get out of there. His next thought was where Mark was. He stood and walked to the door, looking out the small window. The hallway was empty. It felt late. He opened the door quietly and began looking for Mark's room. He finally found it. He looked in the window and saw him swollen and bandaged, IV and an oxygen mask. He opened the door and entered. He walked over to the bed, and shook him gently by the arm. After a moment, Mark opened his eyes and looked over at him.
"What?"
"Hey man, we've got to get out of here. We need to go, right now." Mark looked away from him, his eyes a little glossy.
"I can't go with you, I'm sorry."
"No, no, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, just go. I'll catch up with you sometime." Kyle squeezed his hand, then got up and left the room.

IV

They both settled in a little more for the long drive ahead. Kyle sat back and looked through the grating towards the road ahead. Marshal Deanes slouched a little lower in the driver's seat.
"So, why would you want to do that to yourself, kid?" Kyle paused and thought for a second.
"Honestly, there's nothing here for me. This world is fucked up."
"I'll give you the last part, I see a lot of bad shit. But there's better ways to go about living than just trying to die. You can't just give up."
"What else could I do? I'm not trying to die, I just want something to make it better, the drugs do that."
"But they don't really make anything better. I was like you, not quite so much, but close. It's just too dangerous."
"I don't want to be dangerous, I just want to be happy."
"Everyone does, you're a good kid, I can see that. Life deals out it's cards and some hands are winners and some are losers, but you get to pick the cards you trade in, and I think pretty much everyone gets at least one ace. Don't try so hard to be happy, just try to be content." Kyle thought Marshal Deanes was a pretty nice guy, but laying it on a little thick, but maybe he was laying it on too thick as well.
"But there's always something better. I always want that next best thing."
"Doesn't mean you'll get it."
"But why not try?"
"Try, sure. Just don't mess up a good thing to get there, because you might not get it in the end."
"I guess so. I think it's the journey that is most of the point."
"So then it doesn't matter what you try for really, might as well try for something good for more people than just you."
"Yea, I guess so."
There was a minute or two of silence, too little time for it to become uncomfortable, and just long enough to give an air of peace. He spoke slowly through the little grate, staring down between his legs,
"The doctor told me that we had taken lethal doses of speed and morphine. Our hearts should have burst from the speed in the coke, and they should have stopped from all that morphine; but they canceled eachother out basically, funny how things work like that sometimes." He could see his hand was shaking.