Joytime Killbox
Page 10
“Your turn,” I said. “Same question.” I handed her the drink. It was then that I became aware of how close we were sitting. Her forearm against my shirt sleeve. Her knees next to mine. I didn’t pull away. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you, Doug.” She drew long from the glass. Her chin lowered and she exhaled. “I haven’t done it yet.” Her head fell toward the window and it felt like she was pulling me from the aisle.
I tried to lift my drink but her hand was on top of mine.
“Let’s toast,” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
“For tonight.” She raised her glass and her eyes went big. “Stranger danger.”
I wanted to tell her to stop. I wanted to tell her that Lauren was good. And that she wouldn’t want me doing this, whatever we were about to do. But all I could say was, “Veronica.” I said it again, even slower. “Veronica.” I liked the way her name sounded coming from my mouth. There was something exotic in it. Something thrilling that couldn’t be found in a name like Lauren. Veronica. Veronica. Her name was like a song.
She scribbled on a napkin. Behind her flexed hand I saw the beginning of a phone number, an area code I knew. My pulse exploded. I could feel my blood drumming in my head.
“Veronica,” I said.
“Not now, Doug.” She looked at me but kept writing.
My tongue felt soaked and heavy. I took another drink. “You’re bad for me.”
She creased the napkin and held it in front of me, teasing me, ready to pull it from my reach.
“Veronica, I can’t.”
“Who said I was giving it to you?”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
She fanned her face with the napkin. She looked like she might laugh. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
The plane was slowing and I felt my stomach begin to rise. I listened to the engines screaming. The sound drilling in my head.
“Why? Why now?” Veronica said.
I covered my ears. “I don’t know. Because she makes me take a baby aspirin.”
Veronica touched the side of her neck. “If that ain’t love.”
The engines revved louder. My guts punching at my throat. I swallowed it down. “She calls me, every morning like clockwork. She calls and asks if I’ve taken my aspirin. She says it’s the best thing a man my age could do. What can I say?” I wanted to smile but my mouth was sour. “She wants me around.”
The booze made Veronica’s eyes look big and liquid. And I honestly think she looked on me with a genuine concern. I pressed my hands tighter against my head. I imagined what Lauren was doing now. She’d already be at the airport, waiting for me at the gate. Right there in the front with a black camisole, just because I told her once—God knows when—that I liked the way it looked on her. Lauren remembers things like that.
“You don’t need this in your life. You’ve got enough on your plate this weekend.” She fished an ice cube from her drink. She positioned it between her molars and bit down. Her wet lips pouted before she blotted them with the napkin.
Of all the seats on the plane she had this one. I tried to prepare myself for Lauren. My lips shaping the words in my head.
Will you take me to be your husband?
How about we get married?
It’s about time, don’t you think?
But I kept running toward Veronica and her black bra. Her smooth legs. The hidden parts I wanted to see. Soon enough I’d be in the terminal clutching Lauren’s familiar body. How I’d cleave to that woman. I’d put a hand on the back of her head and tell her it was alright. I’d pull her into me until her heels lift off the ground. And from that movie poster embrace I’d see Veronica waiting for her luggage. Our eyes meeting, that private moment cutting through the chaos of the airport. And with Lauren still hanging in my arms, I would know this world held more excitement and cruelty than I ever imagined.
“Give it here,” I said.
Veronica shook her head before draping the napkin on the armrest between us. “You know what you’re doing?”
I stuffed her number in my shirt pocket. “I’m running toward it.”
My heart was punching my throat. I found it hard to take a breath. The airplane shook and the seatbelt sign came on. The engines tore louder. For the first time, I felt the sensation that we were hurtling toward the ground. My fingers curled around the end of the armrest. The plane dipped sharply and the cabin shuddered. The passengers groaned and I felt my chest tighten.
“I think I’m not well.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.
Veronica laughed. “It’s just a number, Doug. Don’t be so dramatic.” She moved her hand on mine. I got up and started for the bathroom. But before I could get to the door our flight attendant stepped into the aisle.
“Sir, the seatbelt light is on.”
I tried to go past her but staggered in the aisle. She pushed me into the nearest open seat. “Stay there,” she told me. “We’re landing now.”
From my new seat I could see the back of Veronica’s head. That wild shock of hair. I buried my eyes into my hands.
“Why?” I said. Over and over. “What’s wrong with me?”
As I muttered into my lap I heard a rustling sound from the passenger next to me. Then the gentle voice of a man. “You want one?” he said. “Sucking one makes it go away.”
I looked over and found myself pressed against the side of the fat man. He sat there wide and calm in the window seat, the armrest up, spilling into the aisle seat. His hands were as big as seat cushions and he rested them on his belly.
“Here,” he said. He turned his hand over. A pair of pastel butter mints were centered in his palm. “This will make it better. You’ll see.” As I put it in my mouth he gave me the slightest of smiles. I pushed the creamy mint into my cheek. I wanted to tell him thank you. And I wanted to tell him I was sorry, for what I didn’t know. But most of all I wanted to tell him that I wished he’d had my seat. It should have been him up there next to Veronica. But each time I tried to say something I found the air trapped in my lungs.
The plane rocked and a tear slipped into my mouth. I wiped my face with my sleeve.
“Have another mint,” he said. “You’ll see. We’ll be safe and on the ground before you know it.” But the thought of land just made it worse. That last gulp of air before giving up and going under.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS1
I’m indebted and thankful to too many people to name them all. But I’ll try my best here.
First: thank you to my parents for forcing me to go to Sunday school, where I learned the lasting power of stories. To my first writing instructors, Sydney Brown and Harold Jaffe, thank you for showing me how to read, for telling me to keep writing.
Next: to all my classmates in the San José State University MFA program, thank you for reading and grooming those early drafts. Kevin Manning and Amanda Moore, your time and care with showing me how to be a better writer. I couldn’t have asked for better friends. My thesis advisors, Susan Shillinglaw, Nick Taylor, and Cathleen Miller—your collective patience and guidance—thank you. Andrew Altschul, for calling out all the bullshit. And Daniel Alarcón for teaching me not to leave any “money on the table” where the story is concerned.
Then: a million thanks to Chad Post and Kaija Straumanis for making me feel welcome when I was new in town. Thank you for introducing me to other writers and artists. Sharon Rhodes for her keen eye and kindred spirit. Peter Conners for taking a chance on me, for seeing something in my work. Thank you Rodrigo Fresán for being a friend and mentor, a writer who continually makes me want to throw my hands up and cuss at the wall—in a good way.
Always: Katie. Forever and ever. Thank you for your unending support, for showing me what grit and hard work looks like. Thank you for giving me the courage to doggedly hound my dreams. I love you.
1 To be read frantically, with urgency, as if given at an awards ceremony and the conductor has begun
playing the “will you please get off the stage now” music.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian Wood holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San José State University. He teaches creative writing at Writers & Books. He has served as the Managing Editor of Reed Magazine, as well as Fiction Editor for POST. His work earned him an Ida Faye Sachs Ludwig Memorial Scholarship for Excellence in Creative Writing, as well as James Phelan Awards for Short Fiction and Familiar Essays.
BOA EDITIONS, LTD. AMERICAN READER SERIES
No. 1
Christmas at the Four Corners of the Earth
Prose by Blaise Cendrars Translated by Bertrand Mathieu
No.2
Pig Notes & Dumb Music: Prose on Poetry
By William Heyen
No. 3
After-Images: Autobiographical Sketches
By W. D. Snodgrass
No. 4
Walking Light: Memoirs and Essays on Poetry
By Stephen Dunn
No. 5
To Sound Like Yourself: Essays on Poetry
By W. D. Snodgrass
No. 6
You Alone Are Real to Me: Remembering Rainer Maria Rilke
By Lou Andreas-Salomé
No. 7
Breaking the Alabaster Jar: Conversations with Li-Young Lee
Edited by Earl G. Ingersoll
No. 8
I Carry A Hammer In My Pocket For Occasions Such As These
By Anthony Tognazzini
No. 9
Unlucky Lucky Days
By Daniel Grandbois
No. 10
Glass Grapes and Other Stories
By Martha Ronk
No. 11
Meat Eaters & Plant Eaters
By Jessica Treat
No. 12
On the Winding Stair
By Joanna Howard
No. 13
Cradle Book
By Craig Morgan Teicher
No. 14
In the Time of the Girls
By Anne Germanacos
No. 15
This New and Poisonous Air
By Adam McOmber
No. 16
To Assume a Pleasing Shape
By Joseph Salvatore
No. 17
The Innocent Party
By Aimee Parkison
No. 18
Passwords Primeval: 20 American Poets in Their Own Words
Interviews by Tony Leuzzi
No. 19
The Era of Not Quite
By Douglas Watson
No. 20
The Winged Seed: A Remembrance
By Li-Young Lee
No. 21
Jewelry Box: A Collection of Histories
By Aurelie Sheehan
No. 22
The Tao of Humiliation
By Lee Upton
No. 23
Bridge
By Robert Thomas
No. 24
Reptile House
By Robin McLean
No. 25
The Education of a Poker Player
James McManus
No. 26
Remarkable
By Dinah Cox
No. 27
Gravity Changes
By Zach Powers
No. 28
My House Gathers Desires
By Adam McOmber
No. 29
An Orchard in the Street
By Reginald Gibbons
No. 30
The Science of Lost Futures
By Ryan Habermeyer
No. 31
Permanent Exhibit
By Matthew Vollmer
No. 32
The Rapture Index: A Suburban Bestiary
By Molly Reid
No. 33
Joytime Killbox
Brian Wood
COLOPHON
BOA Editions, Ltd., a not-for-profit publisher of poetry and other literary works, fosters readership and appreciation of contemporary literature. By identifying, cultivating, and publishing both new and established poets and selecting authors of unique literary talent, BOA brings high-quality literature to the public. Support for this effort comes from the sale of its publications, grant funding, and private donations.
The publication of this book is made possible, in part, by the special support of the following individuals:
Anonymous
June C. Baker
Gary & Gwen Conners
Joseph Finetti & Maria Mastrosimone
James Long Hale
Sandi Henschel, in honor of Barbara Lobb
Jack & Gail Langerak
Joe McElveney
Boo Poulin
Deborah Ronnen
Steven O. Russell & Phyllis Rifkin-Russell
William Waddell & Linda Rubel