This is a highly unusual thing for me to do (actually, it's a first), but I'm posting the first part to a short story I've been working on. It's obviously still a bit rough, but I think it's ready for criticism, so please (if anyone is still reading this thing - I'm hoping my blog-neglecting days are behind me) comment away! Any feedback is welcome, though the more thoughtful and honest the better, of course. I feel good about this one. (NOTE: copying and pasting got rid of all my italics, and there is a lot, but hopefully you can figure out where most of it is anyway. Apologies for the confusion and laziness.)
Clicking firmly, the apartment door locked behind him. An artless smile acknowledged the slanted sun spearing through the hallway skylight. At that moment, it was probably easy to envy, or even sneer at his calm enthusiasm, he mused, but he refused to let that thought tarnish the innocence of a new day. His nostrils absorbed a strange but intoxicating mixture of freshly laid paint – the old coats on the walls had been cracking, revealing their age and previously forgotten history – and feminine perfume, probably sprayed in haste as a neighbor stumbled out the door, late for something. He languished for some time by the building vestibule, absentmindedly staring at his misspelled name adorning the pale gray mailbox – orthography is caring, she once said. His thumb mimicking the end of a pencil, he scrubbed out the errors and diligently rewrote. Though it produced no visible changes, the exercise was oddly satisfying.
“That lazy bastard Howry still hasn’t changed it, huh?” Ms. García winked sympathetically at him, entering the cramped, still dim foyer. No, the bastard hasn’t. Tightening the grip on his shoulder bag, he turned to face her with a wry smile. A warm yellow dress draped her svelte silhouette, barely concealing her knees. As put-together as she looked, she nonetheless gave the impression of having thrown on her outfit haphazardly, brushed her hair back without needing a reflection, and hopped out the door without the slightest worry. Even her frequent swearing failed to lessen the appearance that she constantly floated.
“Maybe I should smudge out a few numbers on the check for next week? See if he notices that.”
She hiccupped a coy laugh. “Let me know if it works; I wouldn’t mind saving a few myself. Have a good one.” She stopped and beamed another focused smile as she gently closed the door behind her. He nodded, following her preternaturally graceful exit, stage left. Coulda been a real actress, that one. She’d abandoned all her gigs years earlier, on account of becoming more serious, of finally acquiescing to adulthood. Three glasses of champagne that night, and still somehow elegant. Once again, he fought off the urge to recount how stunned he was by her Puck at Shakespeare in the Park. Don’t want her to think of me that way. He finally stepped outside.
Only a creature of habit could truly be a “morning person,” if it weren’t for the occasional, mechanical, but sincere neighborly exchange. A casual hello from a familiar face is better than coffee; it starts the day without the risk of burning one’s tongue. But even these sporadic greetings soon become indistinguishable blots on our increasingly impressionistic memories. Only from a measured distance do they cohere into any kind of whole, only to lose their unique, unrounded imperfections. But then their true function is finally evident. The ridiculousness of routine is most likely a modern notion, but in a restless city its presence seems almost too-natural, inevitable. Moving the alarm clock ahead a paltry few minutes is a small victory, but ultimately it becomes a futile exercise in attempting to manipulate that which refuses change. Switching toothpastes only fleetingly masks the bland taste of repetition.
The silence of early mornings is a still beautiful occurrence however. Worked-up dogs and taxi horns and birdsongs be damned; the eventual expectation of it all induces acoustic evaporation, the hum of a radiator that never rests. And indeed he noticed almost nothing, stepping out into the calm haze. Sleepwalking, minus the actual sleeping. A city that never sleeps, but often somnambulates.
A smallish, dark-haired girl of no more than nine sat on the bottom step of the coarse cement stairs leading up to the entrance, her elbows propped on her knees, her palms supporting what appeared to be an inordinately heavy chin. She leaned dreamily upon the iron-trellised handrail. Her knees were noticeably plastered with a collection of scabs, sign of a child still wrestling with the city life. Very pale, she reminded him of a depiction of Diana from a Greek mythology book he’d devoted to memory since the fifth grade. Her gaze was lost well beyond the apartment buildings across the way, and whatever her thoughts, they were not alleviating her palm’s ponderous load. A small, somewhat rusty bucket of water lay at her side, ignored. She didn’t notice him either, three steps behind her, as he peered over, first out onto the mostly deserted street – nothing worth gawking at – then optically fished through the water, still noticing absolutely nada. The bucket’s contents were murky, but not quite dirty. Its presence felt unquestionably strange. He could almost make out a face amidst the slow rippling, but quickly shook off that quixotic daze, the last morsel of sleep. Coming to the first step, rather furtively, he coughed politely, hoping to announce himself without startling. A genteel sparrow, viewing the scene from above, chirped amiably, as if to introduce the strangers less awkwardly. It wasn’t visibly evident that either party noticed the gesture.
“What’s in the water? Catch a frog or some tadpoles at the lake?” Kids hate formalities. Best to get to the point with ‘em.
“Oh, it’s just water,” she turned lethargically, without actually looking up at him, her mouth gradually apprehending the situation with its pronunciation, “but you can make a wish and throw some change in. That’s what it’s for. Like the fountain in Italy.”
Slight pause. “Uh-huh. And shouldn’t you be getting ready for school or something?” Oh how keenly adult of me.
And then, deadpan: “It’s July.” See, routine, what it does to you.
“No kidding. At least it’s not a Saturday, to boot. So would four quarters buy a good wish? I could use one today.”
“It’s not really up to me. That’s why it’s a wish. But I can try.” Honesty always appreciated. Thwoop. Thwoop. Thwoop. Thwoop. Best not to be too cynical… Thank you, thank you, good luck, and they parted, the peculiar pail thirstily awaiting its next hopeful donation.
Not a bad idea, that. He remembered being nine, not always very well, and not always fondly (wasn’t all that smart), but knew it was worth remembering. On the road to here, after all. Girls first became important at nine. Not in the way they are important to boys of fifteen, or twenty-one, or twenty-eight, but important nonetheless. They’re always different, even before the moment of birth, but they occlude all obvious signs until they’re nine, perhaps not intentionally, but it almost always occurs before they have two digits to their name. And that extra numeral gives a swift and cold mule’s kick to the male emotional axis (is there such a thing keeping us together?), inviting collision and confusion in for an extended stay. Ten is life’s signpost for a detour through Subterfuge, where half the world suddenly acquires mysterious and invasive (or is it evasive?) intentions and relentless complication ensues. Of course, there are those who not long thereafter learn to feign a heart’s quietude, quick to bury themselves in the snow with another. Un marriage, real or imagined. But others recognize that such a strategy really just relocates the lot of it underground. And it is darker down there. Well, cynicism is a dastardly thing, isn’t it? And a bastardly thing, too. But it does guard well – decidedly dull and safe, yes, we know – and offers the vital ingredient in the intricate recipe for present-day sanity. The romantics and even the modernists will tell you such sanity is not a virtue to aspire to. I would hope Picasso would agree with me: borrachos.
“That lazy bastard Howry still hasn’t changed it, huh?” Ms. García winked sympathetically at him, entering the cramped, still dim foyer. No, the bastard hasn’t. Tightening the grip on his shoulder bag, he turned to face her with a wry smile. A warm yellow dress draped her svelte silhouette, barely concealing her knees. As put-together as she looked, she nonetheless gave the impression of having thrown on her outfit haphazardly, brushed her hair back without needing a reflection, and hopped out the door without the slightest worry. Even her frequent swearing failed to lessen the appearance that she constantly floated.
“Maybe I should smudge out a few numbers on the check for next week? See if he notices that.”
She hiccupped a coy laugh. “Let me know if it works; I wouldn’t mind saving a few myself. Have a good one.” She stopped and beamed another focused smile as she gently closed the door behind her. He nodded, following her preternaturally graceful exit, stage left. Coulda been a real actress, that one. She’d abandoned all her gigs years earlier, on account of becoming more serious, of finally acquiescing to adulthood. Three glasses of champagne that night, and still somehow elegant. Once again, he fought off the urge to recount how stunned he was by her Puck at Shakespeare in the Park. Don’t want her to think of me that way. He finally stepped outside.
Only a creature of habit could truly be a “morning person,” if it weren’t for the occasional, mechanical, but sincere neighborly exchange. A casual hello from a familiar face is better than coffee; it starts the day without the risk of burning one’s tongue. But even these sporadic greetings soon become indistinguishable blots on our increasingly impressionistic memories. Only from a measured distance do they cohere into any kind of whole, only to lose their unique, unrounded imperfections. But then their true function is finally evident. The ridiculousness of routine is most likely a modern notion, but in a restless city its presence seems almost too-natural, inevitable. Moving the alarm clock ahead a paltry few minutes is a small victory, but ultimately it becomes a futile exercise in attempting to manipulate that which refuses change. Switching toothpastes only fleetingly masks the bland taste of repetition.
The silence of early mornings is a still beautiful occurrence however. Worked-up dogs and taxi horns and birdsongs be damned; the eventual expectation of it all induces acoustic evaporation, the hum of a radiator that never rests. And indeed he noticed almost nothing, stepping out into the calm haze. Sleepwalking, minus the actual sleeping. A city that never sleeps, but often somnambulates.
A smallish, dark-haired girl of no more than nine sat on the bottom step of the coarse cement stairs leading up to the entrance, her elbows propped on her knees, her palms supporting what appeared to be an inordinately heavy chin. She leaned dreamily upon the iron-trellised handrail. Her knees were noticeably plastered with a collection of scabs, sign of a child still wrestling with the city life. Very pale, she reminded him of a depiction of Diana from a Greek mythology book he’d devoted to memory since the fifth grade. Her gaze was lost well beyond the apartment buildings across the way, and whatever her thoughts, they were not alleviating her palm’s ponderous load. A small, somewhat rusty bucket of water lay at her side, ignored. She didn’t notice him either, three steps behind her, as he peered over, first out onto the mostly deserted street – nothing worth gawking at – then optically fished through the water, still noticing absolutely nada. The bucket’s contents were murky, but not quite dirty. Its presence felt unquestionably strange. He could almost make out a face amidst the slow rippling, but quickly shook off that quixotic daze, the last morsel of sleep. Coming to the first step, rather furtively, he coughed politely, hoping to announce himself without startling. A genteel sparrow, viewing the scene from above, chirped amiably, as if to introduce the strangers less awkwardly. It wasn’t visibly evident that either party noticed the gesture.
“What’s in the water? Catch a frog or some tadpoles at the lake?” Kids hate formalities. Best to get to the point with ‘em.
“Oh, it’s just water,” she turned lethargically, without actually looking up at him, her mouth gradually apprehending the situation with its pronunciation, “but you can make a wish and throw some change in. That’s what it’s for. Like the fountain in Italy.”
Slight pause. “Uh-huh. And shouldn’t you be getting ready for school or something?” Oh how keenly adult of me.
And then, deadpan: “It’s July.” See, routine, what it does to you.
“No kidding. At least it’s not a Saturday, to boot. So would four quarters buy a good wish? I could use one today.”
“It’s not really up to me. That’s why it’s a wish. But I can try.” Honesty always appreciated. Thwoop. Thwoop. Thwoop. Thwoop. Best not to be too cynical… Thank you, thank you, good luck, and they parted, the peculiar pail thirstily awaiting its next hopeful donation.
Not a bad idea, that. He remembered being nine, not always very well, and not always fondly (wasn’t all that smart), but knew it was worth remembering. On the road to here, after all. Girls first became important at nine. Not in the way they are important to boys of fifteen, or twenty-one, or twenty-eight, but important nonetheless. They’re always different, even before the moment of birth, but they occlude all obvious signs until they’re nine, perhaps not intentionally, but it almost always occurs before they have two digits to their name. And that extra numeral gives a swift and cold mule’s kick to the male emotional axis (is there such a thing keeping us together?), inviting collision and confusion in for an extended stay. Ten is life’s signpost for a detour through Subterfuge, where half the world suddenly acquires mysterious and invasive (or is it evasive?) intentions and relentless complication ensues. Of course, there are those who not long thereafter learn to feign a heart’s quietude, quick to bury themselves in the snow with another. Un marriage, real or imagined. But others recognize that such a strategy really just relocates the lot of it underground. And it is darker down there. Well, cynicism is a dastardly thing, isn’t it? And a bastardly thing, too. But it does guard well – decidedly dull and safe, yes, we know – and offers the vital ingredient in the intricate recipe for present-day sanity. The romantics and even the modernists will tell you such sanity is not a virtue to aspire to. I would hope Picasso would agree with me: borrachos.
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