The Third Person

Janice’s shoulders heaved as she struggled not to audibly sob.  The door to the motel room’s bathroom muffled the voices from the TV out in the main room.  Janice hoped it was also enough to keep the man from hearing her sniffle and blow her nose.  She glanced sideways from her seat on the toilet at herself in the bathroom mirror.

A naked woman straddling the line between mid and late 30s, with mascara running and the beginnings off crows’ feet and other wrinkles in the face.   Not many, just enough to remind her that her skin needed more care than it used to.  Hair that was tousled, hands running through it having undid the curls she had carefully put in it that morning, after she’d plucked another grey hair.  The hand that pushed back one of her loose bangs bore a wedding band.  The hand froze, then clenched into a fist and fell into her lap.

Russell was out of town again.  Another business trip.  Even when he’d been in town he hadn’t touched her in over a month.  At least, not in the way the man out there in the bed had.  Janice gritted her teeth as her stomach knotted.

There was a knock on the door.  “Everything okay in there?”

Janice dabbed at her eyes, trying to erase the marks of tears as she forced a smile.  She reached over and turned on the faucet.  “Yeah, yeah I’ll be right out.”

The door creaked open as the man walked in.  “Oh shit, sorry, I heard the sink and I thought you were done in… are you crying?”

“No! No, I’m fine,” Janice murmured.  The naked man stepped into the bathroom and took her chin in his hand.

“You don’t have anything to be upset about,” he said.

“I’m married.  I shouldn’t be here.  If my husband ever knew about this-“

“He won’t.  You’re not going to tell him.  You’ll take this to the grave and he’ll never be the wiser,” he traced a finger down her cheek.  “Did you know they’ve had two murders here in the past month?  They were just talking about it on the news.”

Janice’s eyes widened as she stared up at him.  He ran his fingers along her jawbone and down onto her neck.

“Kind of exciting isn’t it?  That we just fucked each other in the same building where someone was killed?  Makes it all seem sorta, dangerous.”

His hand moved along her throat, up to the back of her head, fingers clenching over a fistful of hair as he pulled her forward.  Janice closed her eyes and accepted it, like she’d accepted so many other things in her life.  Russell’s proposal, his suggestion that she give up her job and stay home, the decision to have a third child after the first two had been girls, the decision that she should have a hysterectomy rather than Russell getting a vasectomy, the steadily decreasing interest in her body as he spent even more time at work, the ever increasing work load of raising three girls.  She had just swallowed all of it without protest.

The man sighed and stroked her cheek again, then walked back out into the bedroom.  Janice remained sitting on the toilet.  Within five minutes she could hear his snores from the bedroom.  At that point she finally let herself vomit.  She cupped water into her hand from the faucet and washed out her mouth, then put back on the lingerie she’d bought for her and Russell’s anniversary, when he’d fallen asleep while she gave him a back massage.

She walked out into the room and stood over the man in the bed.  His mouth hung slightly open as he snored.  Janice closed her eyes and thought about Russell, the house, the Roth IRA, the certificates of deposit, the vacation they’d gone on last year, the girls.  The girls loved her, and they loved their father.  She thought about taking them to soccer practice, and going to their recitals.

She opened her eyes and looked at everything that was wrong.  Her fingers tightened around the lamp on the nightstand and she raised it overhead, then brought the corner point down as hard as she could on the man’s temple.  There was a loud crack, and she quickly raised and struck again, and again, and again before the man could even realize he was being killed.  She lost track of how many times she hit him, but her arm ached and the lamp just dropped to the dirty carpet of its own accord.

She went back to the bathroom and showered.  As the hot water washed over her she heaved a large sigh and allowed herself to smile.  After drying off she used the towel to wipe down the lamp, then tossed it over the man’s face and put her clothes back on.  No one at the motel would remember her, she hadn’t gone inside to talk to the clerk.  She’d sat in the car as the man put the room on his credit card.  The police would take prints that wouldn’t match to any known offender database, maybe find a hair sample that could match to her if they could ever get a warrant.  But they’d be no closer than they were the last two times.

Janice walked down to the street and walked several blocks back to the bar district before waiting behind several other people to hail a cab.  The girls would be back from their grandparents’ in the morning, and she would make them pancakes.  Russell would be back in the evening, and she would ask him how his trip went and listen to his stories with a contented smile.

Imperative

Wake up.  Don’t hit the snooze button.  Time to go to work.  Get up.  Get out of bed.  Need to shower.  Get dressed.  Put on nice clothes.  Grab breakfast.  It’s the most important meal of the day.  Apple, bagel, yogurt, cereal, donut, bacon, take your pick.

Get in the car.  Get on the train.  Read the paper.  Listen to music.  Ignore everyone else.  Don’t give the homeless guy a dollar.

Get to the office.  Work.  Get some coffee.  Work.  Stare at the computer screen, check your email.  Make copies.  Get some printer paper.  Go to the bathroom.  Go to a meeting.  Go to lunch.  Go back to the office.  Get to work.  Stretch your legs.  Work.  Get some water.  Work.  Time to go home.

Fix dinner, watch a show.  Watch the news.  Go to bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Shouldn’t have hit that snooze button.  Wake up.  Time for work.  Get out of bed.  Shower.  Fix your hair, brush your teeth.  Go get dressed.  Put on nice clothes.  Eat breakfast.

Go to work.  Ignore the homeless person.  Try not to be late anymore.  Say hi to Linda.  Get a cup of coffee.  Check your email.  Raid the supply closet for paper clips and a few new pens.  Pay attention while your boss gives you feedback.  Have lunch with Brad.  Console him that the promotion didn’t work out.  Go back to the office.  Watch the clock, watch the screen, watch the birds outside.  Get back to work.  Pack up, head home.

Grab drinks with Shelly.  Talk about last night’s episode.  Go home.  Go to bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Go to work.  Ignore the homeless.  Get some coffee.  Work.  Eat lunch at your desk.  Shop online.  Work some more.  Play a game.  Check your email.  Do some work.  Go home.  Go to the gym.  Watch the game while you run on the treadmill.  Make a mental note that it’s not your fastest time.  Go home.  Cook a meal, save your leftovers.  Go to bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Get to work.  Have those leftovers for lunch in order to save money.  Sit in the break room and listen to Tony talk about his kids.  Get back to work.  Notice that your plant is drying up because you haven’t watered it recently.   Work.  Go home.  Order take-out.  Go to bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Sleep in, it’s the weekend.  Watch TV, go on a date, see a movie, try a new restaurant, ride your bike, try kayaking, see your friends, have sex.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Complain about Mondays.  Work.  Set your Facebook status to a joke about Mondays.  Work.  Email your coworker a cartoon about Mondays.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Tweet about Mondays.  Work.  Commute.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Look for a new job.  Work.  Commute.  Work out.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Celebrate Terri’s birthday.  Work.  Commute.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have sweet dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Commute.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Commute.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have dreams.

Wake up.  Get out of bed.  Take a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat breakfast.  Commute.  Work.  Eat lunch.  Work.  Commute.  Dinner.  Bed.  Have dreams.

Work.  Eat.  Work.  Eat.  Dream.

Shuffling

(This particular piece comes from another writing exercise involving a deck of cards.  Each card has a sentence fragment, such as "yesterday's Wall Street Journal".  You draw a card and write for several minutes starting with that phrase.  I basically smashed a bunch of these separate exercises together to try and form a narrative.)

Yesterday's Wall Street Journal lay across his chest, spread open and draped over his torso as a makeshift blanket.  Bill wrinkled his nose at the smell of the man's body odor and took note of the fact that the Dow closed strong yesterday, signalling a second straight quarter of growth.

The man groaned and shifted.  The paper fell to the floor.  Bill looked at the man sitting to his right.  Khakis, blue polo, a cellphone surfing the web.  Across the aisle next to the sleeping vagrant was another man in khakis with a green button up shirt and tie.  He had a cellphone out and was staring at it.

The smell of Susie's leftovers drifted up from the plastic grocery bag in Bill's lap.  Citrus and fish, her orange shrimp over rice.  Susie had started cooking more after the last physical, when the doctor told Bill to get his cholesterol down.  The man in khakis and grey polo to Bill's left sniffed again, tapping on his cell phone screen.  Bill shifted his feet and looked down at the bag of leftovers.

The straggling cuticle on his right hand continued to nag him.  He bit down on it and pulled, a chuck of flesh ripped free.  Bill let out a whimper, and saw blood already pooling in the gash.  It dripped onto his khakis.  A throbbing ache began to replace the sharp pain.

A super model with a large cat stared at him from a sign over the sleeping man.  She was naked, with her arms crossed over her breasts.  She sat on a couch with her legs spread, the cat crouched in front of her genitals.  "Nothing looks good when it's covered in fur."  So sayeth an animal right's group.

The train slowed to a stop and the doors opened.  Bill jumped up and tossed the bag of leftovers onto the homeless man's lap.  He ran off the train.  He still wasn't across the river, but Bill decided he wasn't going to work today.

Opening Day

The sun had not yet risen on the first day of deer season.  The air was cold enough to show exhaled breath.  The ambient darkness was fading into grey, and the first hints of orange were peeking over the tree line.  Dad had always said that a hunter had to be up before the deer, which meant a hunter had to be up before the sun.

Showers were a no-no.  Deer could smell the soap.  Apparently soap was worse than unwashed armpit or synthetic raccoon piss.

The early light illuminated the rifle my dad had bought for my birthday.  Bolt action, 7.08 mm.  The scope had been sighted in over five months of shooting at targets in preparation for this day.  Clothing had not been as carefully thought out.  Shivering and sunflower seeds are apparently how hunters pass the time.

That and visualizing.  A buck, eight points, would step out from between the yaupons to enter the field.  It would walk into the middle of the field and stand there, flanked by mesquites, staring up as regal as an insurance logo.  A shot would ring out, just one, and the proud beast would fall dead.  His head would be stuffed by the following Saturday, the same regal pose flanked by Star Wars movie posters, glass beady eyes watching Mario Kart.

“Ocho” wasn’t the last.  Imaginary bucks are no limit, and as sunflower shells pooled at the bottom of the stand like the sand in an hourglass Ocho was followed by a ten point, a running twelve point, a leaping twenty point bigger than anything the family had ever brought down.  Antlers as big as an elk’s keeping watch over this year’s dinners of venison steak, venison sausage, venison chili.  Dad would call uncles and cousins to come see the trophy. 

“Can you believe it?  My boy got the biggest buck in the county.”

A shot, an actual shot, shattered the image.  In a gap in the tree line between pastures a deer collapsed to the ground.

Dad got there first.  He set his rifle down and pulled out his folding buck knife.  The three point’s eyes rolled around as it flopped and twitched on the ground.  It kicked out its legs and kept trying to lift its head, kicking up tufts of dust as blood seeped from its nose and pink foam gurgled out of its mouth around the protruding tongue.  Its chest hitched and heaved, and blood spread from the hole in its side where the bullet had punctured its lung as the deer slowly drowned in its own blood.  It was still twitching as my dad kneeled down beside it.

“Dad, don’t…it’s not dead.”

“Just nerves.”

“Don’t.  Please.”

He waited until it stopped kicking, until the chest stopped moving.  The tongue lay still on the ground, and the eyes stayed open as Dad sunk his knife into the chest below the sternum and began sawing back towards the genitals, having to pull back and hack at times at the sinew.

“Can you help me?”  he asked as he began pulling out entrails.

“No.”

He looked up.  “We’ve got to get the guts out so the meat doesn’t spoil, and we need to bury them so it doesn’t attract predators.”

“No!”  I threw the gun down in the dirt and ran all the way home.  He didn’t call after me, or chase me, or ever speak of it again.

Forfeit - Part Two

Mark sat on the bench in the courtroom where the officers had placed him.  He wore an orange jumpsuit from the jail.  His hands rested in his lap and he stared straight ahead.

“All rise!  This honorable branch of the Circuit Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Howard presiding.”

The judge entered the courtroom and stepped up to take the bench.  He stared at Mark, who remained unmoving on the front row.

Forfeit - Part One

Mark sat at the light and didn't move. Behind him the horns of other cars threatened to form an orchestra. The driver immediately behind Mark leaned out of his window, waived his arm and screamed. The light turned red again, and the driver behind Mark cursed and held down his horn.

The light changed back to green, and Mark didn't move. The horns sounded again. The driver behind Mark got out of his car and came up beside Mark's door. He slapped the window by Mark's head. Mark didn't look.

"Move it asshole! What the fuck is your problem?"

Mark's hands sat on the steering wheel. His eyes pointed straight ahead. The man grabbed the door handle and pulled on it, but the door was locked. He kicked the door, denting it. Mark didn't move. The man spit on Mark's window. Mark didn't move.