Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies

by Adam Sifre

  The walls are thin and the neighbors are all eyes and ears.

  Jesse kept playing his drums, kept playing until a uniformed policewoman placed hands on his shoulders and gently pulled him away. Later, outside, there were lots of lights. Not carnival lights, but they made Jesse smile anyway.

  CHAPTER 15

  NEWS

  Truman sits in his car on an early Tuesday morning, the rifle propped up against the passenger seat and ignored for the moment. There is something exceptionally peaceful about an empty parking lot on an early autumn day. It feels to him like white space – a page without a story.

  Uncluttered.

  His window is open and the soft whispering of wind in the trees beyond the lot lulls him in and out of a light doze every few minutes. There are days when even the most urgent of thoughts or actions are insufficient to keep one awake.

  The first car pulls into the lot. It's a silver Honda, not that it matters. It parks at the opposite end of the lot. No surprise, as he is parked far back from the building. Even before the car door opens, he can make out the sounds of children arguing, but the sounds are so small they don't interfere with the wind and the trees. Never a man of words, he knows there is a, a poetry to this moment. A sublime pause wraps itself around Truman and his world as they wait for everything to change.

  He closes his eyes again and thinks how odd the world is. A man can commit a horrible act and then later do something wonderful, and people will say, "Would ya look at that? Look at all the good he's doing now." But if that same man commits the exact same acts in reverse order -- something wonderful followed by something terrible-- people say "The monster! All this time and we never knew!"

  Only perception changes. There is the thing that happens and then there is the story we make up to explain the thing that happens. One is real, the latter important

  Truman thinks about all the terrible things that have happened, and the terrible things that are going to happen. He's thought about these things for so long. In the beginning, they would keep him awake at night. Sometimes he'd cry; sometimes shout. But now, at this moment, they hold no power over him. In fact, he drifts off again and when he opens his eyes, four more cars are in the lot. Three children get out of one of the SUV's, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and walk/run to the school.

  A steady stream of cars find their way into the lot, as well as the first in an army of yellow buses.

  He's so tired, always tired these days. Even his ex-wife, not the most observant of people, noticed this. She wants him to see a doctor. He promised he would.

  The parking lot is almost full now. A line of buses forms a barrier between the cars and the school. Truman gets out of the car, stretches. He walks around to the passenger side and opens the door, stifling a yawn.

  The world will want to know why.

  But this isn't that kind of story.

  CHAPTER 16

  PROM

  He looked perfect. Better than perfect. White teeth, sun-browned skin, black tux, blond hair. He was seventeen, with a face unmarked by any of life’s cruel jokes, protected by that perfect alchemy of youth, lust and recklessness. He could be forgiven for the occasional glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror, on this night of all nights.

  She looked perfect. Better than perfect. Pretty on any day, she was beautiful tonight. Her mother’s pearl necklace, a long, pale blue dress and an expensive silver clutch, purchased against her parents’ better judgment (‘$80.00 for something you’ll only use once!’). She was young, beautiful, in love (with everything). She sped off into the warm, June night feeling free and unbound.

  He had a little to drink, of course. It was near impossible to drink at the prom, so everyone did what they called “pre-gaming” – drinking a lot right before prom. He wasn’t planning on it, not really. But his friends were there. The bottle was there. And he was seventeen.

  The speedometer crept a little. The radio was on, and her perfume smelled wonderful. He could be forgiven for not focusing on his driving as much as he should and thinking about other things. Taking one hand off the wheel, he nervously patted his jacket pocket, feeling for the hotel key as he glanced, again, at the wonderful girl. She didn’t know about the key and he didn’t know if he would have the nerve to show her.

  He could see the lights of the Hilton up ahead. The sign “Welcome Class of 2012!” draped over the front entrance. His eyes strayed from the road, and he turned to her and smiled. She smiled back and leaned her head on his shoulder, her arm entwining with his, causing the wheel to turn, just a little, toward oncoming traffic.

  She felt wonderful there! He turned the wheel back the car began to drift back into the left lane. Then they were there. The car pulled into the lot, the doors opened, and the warm, forgiving summer night welcomed them.

  CHAPTER 17

  ONE POTATO

  As long as you were dying and quiet, the guards didn't care what you did; the silver lining of Auschwitz.

  It was a cold, winter day, but that’s wasn’t unusual. Winters lasted forever here, as did the hellish heat of summer. Past the fence a ways, sunlight, cold and bright, shone upon a barren field. In the camp, the sun hid, ashamed to shine.

  They were just two stick shadows in the dusk, standing in the small space between two barracks. A rare moment of isolation in a place where the dead and the living alike were stacked and burned like cordwood.

  Samuel shook the hand holding the potato at Michael. “The only way you get this is if I shove it up your bony ass!” He regretted the outburst even as he shouted the words. Shamed that he had come to this, but mostly scared he’d be heard. His vision swam and his head throbbed from the effort. Like the others Samuel was a skeleton, held together with dust and shit.

  Michael, Samuel’s twin in all but blood, recoiled slightly.

  “Shut up,” he hissed. "You want to bring the whole camp in this?

  “I’d rather be shot than see your filthy Polish hands on this.” But the words were whispered, and Samuel held the potato close to his chest, eyes searching the shadows.

  Michael took a small step forward, his brittle hands clenched in fists, still too far away to make a grab at the potato. It was a gesture with no real threat behind it. Both knew neither had the strength for even the smallest scrape. All the fight was in their eyes.

  "Don't be stupid."

  "Where did you get it?"

  "It doesn't matter. There are no more to be had."

  Samuel held the potato to his chest. They could not stay out here alone much longer. In a minute it would be over, one way or the other. All he had to do was wait.

  Michael wept. Soft, wheezing sobs, without tears. Each inmate was a dessert here.

  Like everything else in the brave new world, it was muted by the strange physics of Auschwitz.

  "Please."

  "Fuck off."

  "I have two children here."

  One stick figure fell to its knees, somehow diminishing itself even further. Its head slowly sank to the ground, surrendering. Everything.

  After a moment, the other stick figure walked away. Surrendering everything.

  CHAPTER 18

  ROMANCE

  He waited patiently for June to fall asleep. She’d spent the last hour and a half sucking his cock, doing him reverse cowgirl, begging to be spanked until she came, and screaming loud enough to wake the dead. He figured it wouldn’t be a long wait. Then he’d have all night.

  “Jon? Are you listening to me?” He gave a little start. Jon, right.

  “I’m sorry baby. I was thinking about your ass.” He gave it an absent squeeze and spooned her. “Thinking about the things I’d like to put in there.”

  June giggled and gently pushed him away. “My ass and everything south are closed for renovations. You wore me out.” Her hand found his cock and she started to lightly jack him. Jon rolled his eyes and sighed. June turned and started kissing his chest. “But my mouth is wide open for business.”

&nbs
p; Jon frowned in the darkness and reflexively pushed June’s head toward his cock. It never ends.

  He closed his eyes as he felt her tongue ring glide down his shaft.

  “Umm. You taste so good, baby.”

  Yeah, yeah. Still early enough. He hoped.

  “Thanks.”

  June stopped what she was doing. “Thanks?”

  Oh shit.

  “Now shut the fuck up and suck my cock.”

  She gave a soft moan and took him all the way in her mouth. Nice save. Jon smiled to himself and started to fuck his wife’s mouth while he waited.

  Sometime later June’s heavy snoring announced all was clear.

  One hundred twenty pounds, blonde with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of and she snores like Grandpa Manuel.

  He didn’t try to be quiet. June was dead to the world when she was done with his wood and sawing hers. He threw on a robe, padded out of the bedroom, took a piss, and went to the study. He sat down and moved the mouse a bit, and the computer screen instantly lit up. He left it on all the time these days. Jon (Jack) logged on to Facebook and clicked on the instant chat button. Only after he saw her name with the little green dot next to it, did he realize he’d been holding his breath. He smiled and exhaled.

  She must have been waiting for him.

  “Jack! I was hoping I’d see you. I was just about to log off.”

  Jack smiled to himself and started typing.

  “Hi Jill. I couldn’t get away until just now, sorry. I was thinking about you all evening though, all day actually.”

  “That’s okay. Just glad we get to chat tonite . I was thinking about the lake today. Made me smile.”

  Jack’s own smile grew. “That was the best day. I was there a few days ago. I sat on the very same bench. I missed you so much it hurt.” He felt like an idiot as soon as he typed it.

  “Aw, I miss you too, love. We must have sat there for two hours. So peaceful.”

  “Wish we were sitting there now. I miss holding you.”

  They talked like a couple of teenage Mormons until sunrise. Jill confessed that she thought about kissing him all the time now. Jack typed some corny lines, even a bit of poetry. Jill ate it up. All too suddenly the small hours were gone and Jill had to go.

  Jon sat in the still dark study, exhausted. He heard June moving around in the bedroom, and the low buzz of the vibrator. The one she called “Mr. Salty” for some reason. The apartment quickly filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and moans. Jack barely heard them, for he was still at the lake.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Revolutionary

  "Three rabbis and a nun were snorting lines of coke off President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s naked body. On stage, Boy George performed fellatio on Mohamed (PBUH). The music came to an end, and a priest walked into the room with two boy scouts and a duck."

  Lee glanced up from his notepad and scanned the café. Everyone appeared to be minding their own business. Of course, if they were watching him, they wouldn’t look like they were watching him. He wasn't too concerned about the security cameras because they were everywhere and they recorded everything. Strangely, that worked in Lee's favor. No one would take the time to analyze this cafe's recordings out of the countless thousands that were made and stored each day – unless there were some sort of incident. He scribbled over the words, and then tore up the paper for good measure,

  "More coffee?"

  Lee jumped halfway out of his chair. The waitress wore a black woolen burkah that covered everything except her eyes, which were wide with surprise. Even with his heart beating a mile a minute Lee could tell she was a looker. Something about the eyes; she looked like a cross between a ninja and Hello Kitty.

  "What? Excuse me?" Lee almost shouted.

  "I asked if you’d like more coffee, sir," she replied calmly. Two of the security cameras sensed a spike in tension and turned their electronic eyes in his direction. Not good. Lee's heart raced as he fought to remain calm.

  "Sorry." He unconsciously covered the torn paper with his hand. "Um . . . no thank you. Just the check please." He was positive he saw her eyes narrow and glance at his hand. Sweat broke out along his forehead. Despite having just downed a glass of water, his throat was parched. Lee fought the urge to just throw money on the table and get the hell out of there.

  What was he thinking? Such a stupid thing to do, for no reason! He’d never thought of breaking any of the hate crime laws before. Now, over coffee and scones, he had risked everything for a whim. Five years in civil service camps at least – ten if the café was within 1,000 yards of a school or place of worship; and they always were.

  At the hostess counter, he saw her ring up his check. She said something to a short, pudgy man dressed in a dirty blue/brown polyester suit.

  Not good at all.

  He thought about eating the pieces of paper, but that would guarantey the recordings being pulled and reviewed, assuming they didn’t just slap a track ‘n retrieve patch on him right here. The cameras might not have caught anything. He couldn’t imagine why they’d have zoomed in on his writing.

  The waitress returned with the check. Lee was certain she purposely avoided eye contact, but there was nothing he could do. Praying they would decide he wasn’t worth reporting, he paid the check and reluctantly left the bits of paper on his saucer, soaking in a small puddle of coffee.

  Outside, Lee breathed a little easier. His phone didn’t buzz with any government missives, and no one followed him from the café. His pulse was still too high but if it caught the attention of any detection devices now, there would only be video of him walking down the street; hardly enough to trigger a level two investigation. Now that he wasn’t in danger, Lee reveled in the excitement of it. The combination of acting recklessly and not getting caught made him giddy.

  Walking back to his apartment, he actually thought about going to the Metro Tobacco and Lottery store on Delancy Street. For enough cash you could purchase black market podcasts of Lou Dobbs and Michael Savage free from security tracing codes. He wouldn’t do it of course; just a thought. Still, it couldn’t hurt to walk past Delancy Street.

  CHAPTER 20

  YES DEAR

  Stanley fished the sponge out from the soapy, tepid water, rattling a few of the submerged dishes. Even that small sound made him wince. He’d left Janet stretched out on the couch in the family room, snoring while Glenn Beck wept on the television. From the kitchen he could still hear her snoring, clear as day. If there was a God, she'd be out for the night. And if there was a really good God, she'd never wake up.

  If he were forced to use one word to describe their marriage, it would be "long." If he had to choose one word that terrified him, it would have to be "longer." He envied all those imaginary people who, when confronted with things that didn’t work in their life, did something about it. He was 39 years old, a stranger to hair products, and so hen-pecked over the last twelve years of marriage that he sometimes woke himself up in the dead of the night mumbling "yes, dear" in his sleep.

  His mind always wandered when he was alone in the quiet kitchen washing dishes. This was his "me time," and he relished it. Things had been especially tough lately. Work was slow and the company had cut back on overtime. Stanley could stand the cut in pay. It was being home before six that was killing him.

  He was daydreaming about bachelor pads, the playboy channel and White Castle dinners when disaster struck. A soapy blue water glass, purchased for .99 cents at Costco, slipped from his fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor. Glenn Beck, still weeping over the destruction of America and babbling some nonsense about the dead rising again and illegally crossing the borders, ignored it. Janet did not.

  The snoring abruptly stopped and she immediately launched into ‘Jesus Christ’ mode. "Jesus Christ," she yelled. "What did you do now, you brainless idiot?"

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Nothing honey. Don't worry about it. Just watch your show. I'll take c
are of it."

  She must have muted the television because Glenn Beck went silent (imagine that) and Stanley no longer believed there was a God.

  "If you didn’t do ANYTHING, then what is there to take care of!?"

  Eyes still closed, he heard Janet begin the labored process of getting up from the couch. Ignoring the broken glass for the moment, he put his hands back into the dishwater.

  "Jeez and fucking crackers, are you so stupid,” she wheezed, “so incompetent... that I can't leave you alone to wash a few dishes without worrying about you wrecking the house? I can't just sit down for five minutes and watch my shows? What is wrong -- no wait. What is right with you Stanley? I don't have time to stand around and listen to everything that's wrong with you, and that's the God's truth."

  He saw her in his mind's eye, rocking back and forth, building up enough momentum to propel herself off the couch and into the kitchen. Her cotton sky-blue warm up pants, lightly spattered with spaghetti sauce, hanging on to her hips for dear life.

  "It's nothing, sweetheart, just a drinking glass." In a moment of brilliant inspiration, he shouted out "Don't come in until I clean up. I don't want you to cut yourself."

  Ignoring him (big surprise), Janet waded into the kitchen, guns blazing.