by Tiana Laveen
He had to leave; he had to disappear inside of himself because now the band performed ‘November Rain’ by Guns N’ Roses, the song that had played over dinner in their home in Manhattan when the end came crashing down. His ex-wife leaned forward in her sheer white blouse, smelling of another man’s cologne. If he were a betting man, he’d say the inside of her mouth had traces of another man’s cum. She wore a slight smile on her face, lips glossy and blood red as if they’d been bleeding; and then, just like the rain in November, she delivered depression via a declaration. His eyes had welled with angry tears as she’d sat there calmly, a callous chill to her tone, with her fingers caressing the side of her wine glass, she uttered the silver bullet words that pierced his soul,
“Sloan, I want out. I don’t love you anymore…”
How many different types of limes can there be?
It was 1:29 in the morning. Emerald stood in the produce aisle of Whole Foods, her basket full of fragrant oranges, a pound of freshly carved corned beef—well, as fresh as one would expect at 1:29 a.m.—and a whole red onion to soon be diced into a crisp salad. She’d also picked up a bag of the sea-salted potato chips she told herself she was going to stop purchasing to no avail. She preferred to do her shopping late at night, despite her daughter’s occasional protests that she was begging to get mugged or worse. Besides, a craving had called. She had an urge to make margaritas—yes, at that late hour—so the limes were imperative but she’d never seen such an assortment before. Reaching across the carefully placed fruit and playing a silly game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, she grabbed hold to one that looked vibrant and healthy, gave it a slight squeeze and hearty sniff, then placed it along with a few others inside her basket before strolling off to the candy aisle. She sighed with premature regret as she drew closer, hating her sweet tooth; the damn thing ruled her as of late.
They said the cravings would get easier during menopause, not be as bad as when I had my period regularly…
Whomever they were had lied. The cold sweats were sporadic but happened frequently enough to remind her that her womb was on strike with the rest of her body, and her eggs were standing on the picket line waving fallopian tubes as political signs in protest. She ran her hand across her forehead, feeling a moment coming on. Sighing, she practiced mind over matter as her body turned into a damn inferno.
I’m forty-nine years old craving gummy bears and sweating like a human sprinkler system. Jesus!
After another minute or two, the spell was over and she maneuvered closer to the chocolate bars. On a deep swallow, she wielded an anticipatory smile and reached for the large bag of assorted Nestle brand miniatures. Pleased with her selection, she let the big heavy bag slump to the far side, causing the weight to angle the thing in such a way that it now shoved and poked at her skinny jean clad legs.
She paused and looked down at her thighs.
She loved her legs. They were the one thing… well, two… on her body that reminded her that, no matter what happened, she was still a lady and had some great assets. Those legs took her to the places she wanted to go. They carried her into work each and every morning. Those legs would bend and dip and help a crying child who’d dropped their teddy bear in a state of panic. Those legs would run up and down the streets close to her townhouse in an effort to stay in shape, especially after taking Ben and Jerry’s to town the night before. She enjoyed threesomes of the dessert kind… Those legs still made men pause and women roll their eyes, and they were hers, all hers, and she loved every long, luscious inch of them.
Even her twenty-four year old daughter would occasionally tell her, ‘Mama, you still got it going on!’ A wave of melancholy suddenly encompassed her as she paused a few steps away from the dairy aisle. Frozen, she just stood there, like the jugs of coconut milk and low-fat yogurt a few aisles over, curdling and getting old and unwanted as they approached their expiration date.
Nikki, I miss you…
Looking down at her cell phone, she noted the time. To be exact, she hadn’t shared a word, email, or text with the young woman in five weeks, three days, and twelve hours, but who was counting? On a sigh, she doubled back to the candy aisle, snatched the gummy bears off the shelf, balled the bag of those little bastards into the corner of the basket, and stormed off to the checkout line in a sweaty blaze, all the way daring someone to try and stop her…
“Dad, you’ve got expired orange juice in here.” Joel’s long nose, reminiscent of his mother’s, wrinkled along the bridge as he sniffed the now open cardboard container. “And what’s this?” The young man unwrapped a wrinkled wad of foil exposing an old broiled piece of pale chicken, the skin rubbery and the meat hard, dotted with a smidgen of black pepper meant to make the flavorless dish a bit more consumable. “Gross.” Joel tossed the packet into the nearby plastic trash bin, slammed the refrigerator door shut, and slumped down onto the kitchen chair at the table.
Sloan kept his schnozzle buried in his book, his glasses teetering on the end of his nose. The Time’s, ‘Gigolos Get Lonely Too’ played on the R&B oldies station on the radio.
“Is there anything to eat around here?” his son grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.
“I’ve got coffee.”
“I can’t eat coffee,” the boy scoffed.
“Freeze it, then you can.” Sloan licked his finger and slowly turned another page. Joel teetered back and forth in the chair, his annoyance given a voice via huffs boiled in boredom and frustrated sighs.
“It’s a nice house, Dad,” his son offered in a somber sort of way.
“Thank you.” He took notice of the young man moving about once again, this time like a bunch of ants were trapped in his trousers. Looking away from him, he turned the page, the only sound that of the paper moving beneath his touch. Eyes now focused on the black typewritten words on the ochre sheet inside the book, he fell back into the moment. Joel got to his feet, crossed his arms over his chest once again, and scowled at him. He knew Joel was doing just that… he didn’t need to look up in order to verify such a thing. With his head still bowed, he could practically see the penetrating hazel eyes glaring his way. He could feel the heat of the gaze, the words unsaid, almost piercing the air, begging for relief.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
He hesitated for a spell, then turned another page, despite not being done with the previous one.
“Mmmm hmmm,” he groaned.
“Why did you really move here?”
He peered over the top of his reading rims, suddenly realizing how fatigued his eyes were. “What do you mean?”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere.” Joel threw his hands up and spun in a half circle. “This house is huge…and it’s…” The Adam’s apple in son’s throat bobbed at the base of his long neck. He looked about, as if trying to find what words next to utter. “It’s a little creepy in here.”
“Well, hell… it’s old, Joel. Old houses make noises but I’m still working on it, painting, cleaning, stuff like that. I just need some more time but—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s cold in here.” The guy’s brows bunched as he ran a hand down his arm, gathering the fabric of his dark mustard sweater.
“I can turn up the heat. The electrician was out here yesterday and fixed it. Old wiring.” He forced a smile as he prepared to make the trek down the hall and give the house a bit more warmth. He scooted his chair back to rise but paused when Joel began to speak again.
“No. I’m not talking about temperature and I’m not talking about frayed wires, old house creaking and grating and all of that.” He waved his hand dismissively in his direction. “I’m talking about a heavy feeling, Dad…like something is in here. Something besides you and me…”
“It’s called a bill, Joel. I know it’s frightening, especially since you’ve never paid any of your own, but—”
“All right, just stop it! I’m serious.”
“Oh, not you, too!” Sloan laughed gruffly as he leaned bac
k in his seat. “Look, you’ve been reading too many ghost stories, Joel. You like to go on YouTube and view those scary true life ghouls and shit like that, too. I bet—”
“Dad, did you read up on Peter Jones? Do you have any real clue as to what truly happened here?” He pointed his finger towards the floorboards, as if the wood ran with blood.
“Now what kinda silly question is that? Of course I did. I know all about Peter Jones. I already told you all of that. So what?”
“Houses keep energy, ya know? They record things…”
“Like DVRs?”
“You know what I mean. Like the happiness at kids birthday parties for little children, or domestic abuse, too. The walls, the windows, everything… they hold onto it.” He stretched his fists out before him and shook them in the air. “They grasp the emotions of people that live inside of it, never letting go.”
“You and your hippie dippie do da shit. What a crock of crap and what does that have to do with Peter Jones? He was an author and screenwriter who happened to die, just as we all have to one day, end of story.”
“It’s not the end of the story and it has everything to do with it. The guy was a prolific writer; countless movies have been made based on his work, Dad.”
“I know.” Sloan looked casually back down at his book. “And they were all poor representations of his exertion. It’s rare when a movie can accurately capture and portray the power of a book. Some of these directors should be sued for defamation of a novel.”
“Never mind all of that, my point is that he was an innovator, one of the few writers of his time to get such limelight and then, all of a sudden, he just went crazy and starved himself to death. That’s gotta be imprinted on this house! He loved this house, Dad. You’ve seen the magazine photos of him in it, all the parties he had, the celebrities that walked around in here. The good times were plenty and then it was all over… him alone, barricaded, wasting away. How can a man go from being the life of the party to a recluse who made not one more public appearance?”
“Joel, none of that matters because there’s no such thing as ghosts and all of this energy business you’re talking about. When people die, that’s the end, okay? This is probably all my fault,” He rolled his eyes and removed his glasses, setting them down delicately onto the table. “I wish I would have talked you out of that liberal arts degree.” He sighed.
“This has nothing to do with that!” The young man’s voice rose, echoing in the grandiose black and white kitchen with checkered tiles. A shiny red kettle sat on the stove as the room clinked and clanked, burping gas through tired pipes every so often. “You told me when I was a kid there was no such thing as the boogie man. You told me to stop crying and man up when I was afraid of getting my ass kicked at school. You don’t believe in anything, do you?!”
A wave of guilt suddenly consumed him. He had in fact told Joel to man up countless times, and he hated that he’d sounded like his own father during those episodes, berating his son, trying to make him strong for a cruel, nasty world.
“Joel.” He sighed, leaning lazily to the side of his chair. “What do you want me to say, huh? Okay, I’ll do what you want.” He threw up his hands, prepared to remedy this silly situation once and for all. “Yes, Joel, there’s an Easter Bunny in this world and it lives with Alice in Wonderland, fuckin’ her brains out and smoking reefer with the caterpillar. You better look now, before he hops away with all the red and blue pills!” He pointed ahead at the barren refrigerator as his gut bubbled with laughter.
“Very funny.” Joel smirked. “But I’m serious and you know what I mean. You’ve always been cynical. Kinda strange considering what you write sounds so convincing.”
“Fantasy books are lies, mere illusions… I live in the real world.” He poked his chest emphatically with his index finger. “What I write is just another part of me, a way to create something else, page by page, chapter after chapter.”
“Yeah, it’s fiction, but they say in every fiction book there is some truth, a piece of the author. You write about God, about a Creator and spirits and aliens paying homage to higher intelligence than their own. Some of your books are far out there, but they hook the reader, Dad. They hook the reader ’cause on some level, even with all that stuff you write, you make them relate. You can’t write about God, about human creation, and not understand life and death. Life and death are blurs, running into one another like watercolors on paper. How can you separate the two so easily?”
“Simple.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his growling gut. “There is no proof that we hang around after we’re dead, Joel. If there were, a lot more people would see so called spirits. Instead, all we get is grainy film footage on YouTube. And who the hell, if they were dead, would want to still roam the Earth and hang around here?” He huffed. “This place isn’t some prize. I thought the afterlife was supposed to be full of harps ’nd shit?” He smirked.
“Who… are… you?!”
“Your father, that’s who, and this is what I believe, okay? You’re an adult now. I no longer have to save face for you or your sister regarding these matters. Santa Claus isn’t real, and I can say so. I think these ideas of life after death are ridiculous.”
“You believe in nothing then.” The boy looked truly speechless as his mouth hung open and his eyes glossed over with crushed reality.
“…I’m just a shell of a man,” Sloan taunted as agitation set deep within him. He jested with the child, tried to soften the mood, but on some level he understood his words were true. He was a shell of a man, a mere sliver of a human being. His soul was barricaded, and that’s how he planned to keep it. Besides, if there were truly anything supernatural to believe in, why didn’t it show mercy on the motherfuckers walking the Earth trying to do the right thing? It didn’t, so he had absolutely no damn use for it.
End of story…
CHAPTER FOUR
Tall Drink of Fine as Hell Wine
“Is this any good?” Emerald whispered to herself as if she were her own best friend. She held the bottle of Ravenswood red wine, turning it about in her palm while eyeing it like a connoisseur. She didn’t know much about wine, only knew what she liked, what titillated her taste buds and made her palate sing. And here she was yet again on another of those times at two in the morning, on the search for something savory, inexpensive, and a cure-all for a bout of insomnia. The twenty-four hour Whole Foods was fairly empty, a welcome change.
Typically, people would be still in here, mulling about like zombies, cackling in the cereal aisle, high on something illegal—or like her, trying to avoid human contact as much as possible while searching for nourishment. As she continued to languidly lament over the selections, wishing to be certain that this was the best choice Whole Foods had to offer at such an ungodly hour, something with broad shoulders, oak tree height, and commanding steps gathered her attention and held tight. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the very attractive man with a smidgen of shimmery gray at his temples holding a nearly empty basket. All that seemed to be inside of it was a cylindrical tin of peanuts, perhaps salted.
He walked leisurely, yet with purpose. The man’s pants fit on his body like a partially pulled down curtain from a hanging rod. Dark beige with large cargo pockets, the things were a bit too big, baggy in all the wrong places. And his olive eyes, albeit alluring, looked tired. She turned away from him and placed the bottle back on the shelf to continue her liquor inquisition, hoping to soon make a final choice. But then, he reached out, his hand massive with thick, winding veins and a dusting of dark hair, fingernails carefully cut. The giant plucked a sleek Cline Cashmere bottle from the shelf and placed it quite delicately into his basket. Leaning slightly closer to check out his selection, smiling.
Yeah. Those are Planters Peanuts… salted.
“Is that any good?” she asked, appreciating the bottle’s simple design.
“I think so.” He placed his palm up to his chest, over his heart, as if pledging an
oath. “Are you tryin’ to find something new?” His well-shaped lips curved in a welcoming grin, a bit too welcoming…
“Yeah,” she beamed. “But I really don’t know much about this stuff.”
“All right.” Stepping toward her, invading her personal space and taking her off guard, he reached past her to grab a bottle from an upper shelf completely out of her reach, one that would have required a step stool and a prayer for her to obtain. “Let me help ya out here.”
“Thank you.” She rocked back on her heels as he brought his long arm dangerously close to her body, almost brushing against her.
“Liberty School Cabernet Sauvignon is a good choice for novices. Not so much beginner drinkers, but to get your feet wet for comparison tasting. It’s got a lot of bang for the buck, too. Not pricey, yet not cheap tasting, either. It’s from California and pairs well with a number of foods.”
“What about what you have?” she questioned as she pointed down into his basket, though she preferred to keep staring into his eyes that seemed brighter under the direct light.
“The Cashmere?” He reached into his basket and wielded the thing as if about to do a commercial. “It’s extremely smooth, real good stuff.”
…Like you, huh?
“I find it relaxing. It’s a nice drink before bed.” He placed it carefully back into his basket. It amused her to see such a large man being so watchful with his items, cautious, delicate…
“I like to drink a glass of something before bed every now and again, but I’ve decided lately to try and step out of my comfort zone and try new drinks. So far it hasn’t been going too well. I have trouble sleeping every now and again, too. My mind is always racing.”
