The Forgiven (1866 hits)
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Submitted by UberMadness! (View user info) at 2007-01-22 15:30:17 EST
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Entry 1
Coleman Green was standing on a lonely country road, watching the horizon where the two-lane ribbon of highway dwindled to a thread.The sun was coming up.
Coleman knew he was dreaming, but this was his first dream in months, so he went with it for a while.
Coleman was at peace until two suns rose up over the horizon, two small and painfully bright disks ascending quickly. A hollow booming sound carried across the sky. The asphalt lurched under his feet as if a giant fist had struck the world and as Coleman watched the twin suns turned dark red and began to bleed into the sky and onto the road.
"My girls," Coleman whispered. He sat up in a bed half empty, awake but groggy.
He had been taking sleeping pills for months now to avoid dreams far worse than this one.
Coleman got out of bed. All he wore was a pair of cotton boxers. They were soaked with sweat, just like the sheets and pillows on his side of the bed. It was still dark outside. He glanced at his alarm clock. Just past three.
He looked at the bed, the bedding on one side undisturbed. Down the hall was an empty bedroom, the walls painted to look like blue sky and puffy clouds.
He went to the window and looked down into the back yard.
Frosted grass glowed in the moonlight. It was a cold night, the chill seeping through the glass.
Coleman saw movement in the corner of the yard. There was a kid down there, a kid wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and gray Converse sneakers.
"Ballpark?"
Coleman had spoken softly, but the kid in the yard looked up and nodded.
"Jesus Christ," Coleman said. He opened the window and leaned out into the cold, his body shivering.
"Hey man," the kid said.
The kid appeared to be in his early teens, and he was a dead ringer for Barry Franks, Coleman's best friend in high school.
Coleman rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He leaned out the window and drew a breath so bitterly cold he started to cough. This had to be a dream, but he was certain he was awake.
It had to be a dream because Barry Franks had been dead for more than fifteen years.
"I should go back to bed," Coleman said.
"Aw, don't be a pussy," Ballpark called out.
Coleman noticed that his own breath was visible in soft white cones when he spoke. That didn't happen when Ballpark spoke.
"Here, I'll come up, man," Ballpark said.
Christ, Coleman thought. It sure as hell sounds like Ballpark.
"You stay in that window you'll catch fucking pneumonia."
There was no longer any doubt in Coleman's mind that this was his dead friend. The kid had the same accent and nasal inflection everyone had ragged the out-of-state kid about back in school. Pneumonia was 'nee-moan-yah.'
"Hey," Ballpark said, now standing beside Coleman.
Coleman lurched sideways in shock, one arm flailing outside the window.
"Whoa," Ballpark said. "Don't fall out, man. That'll mess you up."
Coleman closed the window and padded across the carpet, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He looked at his old friend and shook his head.
"Those sleeping pills," he said. "I'm hallucinating."
"Nah," Ballpark said. "I'm here, man. I'm here cause I got a message for you. From your wife and little girl."
Coleman raised one arm and covered his eyes like a little kid who didn't want to see or hear any more.
"Hey, Green Lantern, listen up."
Coleman lowered his arm. Green Lantern. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. Coleman Green called Barry Ballpark. No mystery there. Barry Franks, Ballpark Franks. Ballpark.
Barry first called Coleman 'Green Lantern' when they were fifteen years old. The nickname came from the Green Lantern comic books both boys enjoyed reading, and from Coleman lanterns. Every kid had used a Coleman lantern one at one time or another, camping with their folks.
"This is a dream," Coleman said.
"No, man," Ballpark replied. "I'm here, Cole. I'm here because the guy who killed your wife and kid is going out on the road again."
Coleman closed his eyes, and bright images flickered in his mind, the hell of the last six months.
In late May they had visited Luisa's parents down in San Antonio. They had decided to drive now that Boo was old enough to take in what she was seeing as they drove from Nebraska to Texas and back again.
They had been only a hundred miles from home when the accident happened. In all of the investigations that followed, no one ever suggested what had happened was Coleman's fault.
Witnesses saw a Ford F150 cross the grassy median of I80 outside of North Platte, headlights flashing as it streaked across the lanes until it struck a Saturn in the far right-hand lane and then careened into the passenger side of Coleman's Oldsmobile.
Coleman remembered hearing a horn and seeing two bright headlights on Luisa's side of the car. He remembered feeling the impact, hearing a bang like someone hitting an oil drum with a wooden mallet, and feeling the wheel pulled out of his hands as the car shifted to the left and his body lurched to the right. Just before the Olds rolled onto its side and further memory of the moment stopped dead, Coleman had looked to the right, looking for his wife and daughter. On the impact-webbed safety glass of the front and rear passenger windows were bright red circles.
The drivers of the Saturn and the F150 were unharmed. Coleman had minor cuts and bruises. Luisa and Bonita were dead. Massive injuries to the head and neck.
Coleman learned later that the man who had hit his car had staggered away from the stalled Ford and vomited profusely in front of witnesses, including a Nebraska state trooper.
Coleman only saw the driver of the Ford once, in court, when Arlen Gantry's Lawyer argued that the results of the breathalyzer test administered by the state trooper were unreliable because the test was given just after Gantry, in a state of emotional distress, had vomited up what minimal alcohol he had imbibed that evening, and the resulting residue of freshly purged alcohol in his mouth had thrown off the results.
The give and take between the judges and the lawyers was fast and furious and Coleman couldn't really follow all of it, but the end result was that Gantry was sentenced to one year in a minimum security facility provided he took part in a substance abuse program.
His acquaintances and family wondered why Coleman wasn't outraged. Coleman couldn't tell them that he felt the accident was his fault.
"I killed them," Coleman said, getting up and going to the window again.
"That's bullshit, Cole," Ballpark said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Luisa kept saying I should pull over and find a motel, get some rest. But we were so close to home, man. I wanted to get Bonita into her own bed. So I pushed on. And I think I fell asleep, because I didn't see that guy coming. I didn't see him cross in front of us and hit that other car. I didn't see anything until we were hit. One minute I was looking at the empty road ahead, and the next... there was blood on the windows."
Ballpark stood up and began to pace back and forth. "No way, man. No way. This guy was ripped out of his fucking skull. When he puked on the asphalt people there could smell pure fucking booze, man. First his scumbag lawyer saves his ass with a technicality, and now that he's gone through a program and acted like a good boy he's getting an early release. Prison overcrowding, my ass. The whole thing is wrong."
Coleman simply looked at his old friend.
Ballpark had died in a car accident as well. He had been at Coleman's place late one Saturday night, just hanging out, watching movies and bullshitting. Driving home, Ballpark had lost control of his Camero on a tight curve and rolled his car into a rocky embankment.
He was the last person to be really close to Coleman until Luisa had come along.
Now Coleman had lost his family, and then his job, when he simply stopped going to the office. He hadn't paid the mortgage in months and was probably going to lose the house. He wished Ballpark had still been around, someone to talk to.
"Let's go, man," Ballpark said.
Coleman could no longer feel the bedroom carpet under his bare toes and he looked down. He was wearing jeans, a pair of old boots, and a sweatshirt.
"Grab your coat." Ballpark headed for the door. "We gotta hit the road.
Coleman felt a wave of nausea, and then he was outside the house, standing beside the rusted-out Chevy he'd picked up for under a grand after the accident. He was wearing an old Kansas City Royals jacket against the chilly November night, and he was holding the car keys in his hand.
He looked into the car and saw Ballpark in the passenger seat.
"C'mon," his friend said.
Coleman got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out onto the road. He still felt like he was dreaming.
"Where are we going?"
"Just drive," Ballpark said.
Coleman looked at his friend. Christ, Ballpark seemed so young, and he'd missed out on so much.
"I missed you, man."
Ballpark turned away, as if trying to hide his face.
Coleman took a turn, not knowing why, and took another. The wheel felt sluggish, and he seemed to be moving far too fast. Dry and brittle fallen leaves crunched under the tires as Coleman and Ballpark went from quiet residential streets to industrial parks and suburbs.
Ballpark leaned forward, pointing to a quiet street in a run down neighborhood.
"Here, Cole. Turn here and stop."
Coleman turned and realized his foot was already on the break pedal.
They were parked at the curb down the street from a bar. A neon Miller sign stuttered on and off in the night.
A man came out of the bar, shrugging into a jacket, car keys jingling in one hand.
"That's him," Ballpark said. "That's Arlen Gantry, the guy who killed your wife and your little girl."
Gantry stopped beside a pickup truck and opened the door.
Ballpark shook his head. "Still driving the same truck too, the fuck."
During the trial, Coleman had only seen Gantry from the rear, and his memory of that time was unreliable at best. Now Coleman got his first good look at Gantry. The man had a long ponytail of dark, greasy hair. He was lean, and his face was creased. He had to be at least twenty years older than Coleman.
Gantry started the truck and pulled away from the curb.
"Follow him," Ballpark said.
"Why?" Coleman felt tired, terribly tired. "What's the point?"
"We have to stop him," Ballpark said. "He's gonna cause another accident tonight. And he's gonna kill again. Maybe that's why I'm able to be here like this. Maybe three fatal accidents are just too much for this guy to be allowed to walk away from."
Coleman pulled onto the road and followed the weaving taillights ahead.
"I could just call the cops and let them know this guy is drunk," Coleman said. He thought a moment, and asked, "How do you know what's going to happen?"
Ballpark shrugged. "I don't know, man. I feel like I've just been hanging around forever, you know? I've seen you from time to time, just checking in to make sure my best bud's doing okay. And then all the sudden I'm here, and I just know what's going to happen tonight. I've seen it. That fucker Gantry is gonna get out on the road and go head-on at another car and he's gonna be the only survivor. That's not right."
The Ford turned onto an empty stretch of a two-lane country road, and Coleman followed, saying nothing.
"Hey man," Ballpark said, a pleading tone entering his voice. "You gotta stop him, Cole. You can run him right off the road. He's drunk. Pull up alongside him, give him a nudge, and he's gone."
Coleman shook his head. This still felt like a dream, but it had to be real.
"I can't kill another person. I already killed my own family."
"Well... " Ballpark said softly, "They'll forgive you. If you do this."
"You said three fatal accidents. If one happens tonight and one was six months ago, what was the third?"
Ballpark just shrugged.
"No. I'm sorry Barry, but I can't do this."
"God damn it, you have to," Ballpark said. "He's the guy who ran me off the road seventeen years ago!"
Coleman was closing on Gantry's Ford. He glanced at Ballpark. "What?"
"That night I was going home from your place. I didn't just lose control of the car, man. That fucker ahead of us was drunk as hell. He tried to pass me on a curve and side-swiped me. Then I lost control and... and that was it for me."
Coleman was alarmed to see that he was now only a car-length behind the Ford. The wheel seemed to be fighting him, and then he was accelerating, and passing the Ford, driving alongside it.
"Now, man," Ballpark said. "Do it now! This fuck has been driving drunk all his life and we gotta stop him!"
The wheel twisted violently to the right, and as the Chevy veered closer to the F150, Coleman stomped on the gas, shooting ahead of the Ford.
Ballpark slammed his fists on the dashboard. "Fuck!"
Coleman saw headlights ahead. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw only empty road behind.
"All right," Ballpark said softly. "It's all gonna be all right."
As the oncoming vehicle came closer Coleman realized he was approaching Gantry's F150.
"Jesus Christ, Ballpark. Are you doing this?"
"Come on man," Ballpark said. He sounded angry and desperate. "Let's nail this guy!"
The Chevy started drifting across the road, heading into the oncoming lane. The headlights went off, and Coleman felt his own foot pressing down on the gas pedal.
When the Chevy was a thousand feet from the Ford Coleman said, "No, this isn't right."
"You gotta do this, man," Ballpark said. "For your wife, and your little girl. For what you did to them!"
Coleman squinted in the glare of the Ford's headlights and saw Gantry staring back at him in horrified disbelief.
For the first time that night, Coleman had one clear and true thought. "No, Ballpark," he said, using all of his strength to turn the wheel away from the oncoming truck.
"They would have forgiven me."
The Chevy shuddered as it raced across the shoulder of the road and Coleman heard Ballpark let out an enraged shout. The dark shape of a broad tree trunk loomed in the windshield.
Ballpark let out a half-shout, half-sob. "I'm sorry!"
"That's okay," Coleman said, just a moment before the Chevy slammed into the tree. "That's okay, Ballpark."
-
Hours later, as an EMS unit took Coleman's body away, a scared sober Gantry told a state trooper what had happened.
"He crossed the median and was heading right for me... and at the last minute, he turned. I saw him cranking that wheel like a madman. He... he saved me."
-
Coleman was behind the wheel of his rusted-out Chevy. Nothing hurt, and the car was moving down a road he'd never seen before. The sun was low on the horizon, a ball of molten gold.
He looked to his right and Luisa was sitting beside him. Her window was rolled down a little, and a strand of dark hair was dancing in the twilight breeze.
Coleman thought about this and wondered why he didn't feel shock or surprise. If anything, he felt content. Things were as they always should have been.
He looked into the rear-view mirror knowing he'd see Bonita, and there she was, showing teeth in need of braces that gave her a slightly goofy and heartbreakingly adorable smile.
"Hi daddy."
"Hi Boo." He heard his voice break and cleared his throat.
Luisa turned to him, the sun filling her eyes and turning them to glowing amber. She didn't say a thing, but she reached toward the wheel and put one hand on his.
Coleman had to ask. "What's going on?"
"You'll see," Luisa said. She looked down the road.
Coleman followed her gaze and saw that he now on a familiar country road. Ahead was the tree that was the last thing he remembered seeing. The rest of the landscape was unknown to him, but there was the road and the tree.
An old Pontiac was parked on the side of the road and a man was standing by the tree. There was a jagged white patch on the trunk of the tree where a lot of bark had been torn away.
At first Coleman thought it was just a guy taking a leak, but as he slowed the car to a crawl and took a closer look he realized that he was looking at Arlen Gantry.
The man had cut his hair and cleaned himself up. He still looked rough. His skin was pale and damp, and his were eyes hooded in shadow.
Now that Gantry's hair wasn't held back in a long, greasy ponytail, Coleman could see that the man had a lot of gray.
Gantry looked up and down the road, clearly feeling self-conscious. Then he got down on one knee and set something at the base of the tree.
It took Coleman a moment to realize he was looking at a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and then he heard Gantry's voice as if the man was whispering in his ear.
"No more man. That's my last bottle. I'm done... I hope. I'm gonna do my goddamn best to stay dry, man. You gave me a second chance. I swear I'm not gonna blow it."
Coleman didn't say anything, but he gave the man an unseen nod as he passed by, a nod of acknowledgement, of release, of forgiveness, and he watched the man in the mirror when the tree was behind him.
Gantry stood and walked to his car. Before he got in he took a deep breath and let it out. Then he got in his car.
Coleman glanced at the road ahead, and when he looked back into the mirror Gantry, the familiar stretch of road, and the tree were gone.
He turned to Luisa and asked, "Baby, where are we going?"
"One more stop to make," she said, nodding toward the side of the road.
Up ahead was a kid holding out a thumb. The kid was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and gray Converse sneakers.
Coleman pulled over.
"Move over, Boo," he said to his little girl. "It looks like a friend of mine is coming with us."
Ballpark opened the rear door and stuck his head in. He leaned into the car and gave Coleman a sheepish, hesitant look.
"It's all right, man," Coleman said. "It's all right."
Ballpark nodded and got into the car.
"Hey," he said to Bonita. "I'm Barry. I... was a friend of your dad."
"Is," Coleman said.
Colman and Ballpark made eye contact in the mirror, and Ballpark just looked at his old friend until he felt a tug on his sleeve.
The little girl gave Ballpark her goofy smile. "People call me Boo, but my name is Bonita. Do you like to color?"
She took a coloring book and some crayons from a pocket in the back of Coleman's seat.
"Why don't you color," Ballpark said, "And I'll help out if you need it."
"Okay," Boo said.
Coleman felt Luisa's warm hand on the back of his neck.
"Now we're ready to go," she said.
Coleman looked at the empty road disappearing into the red ball of the sun now touching the horizon ahead.
"Where to?"
"Into the sunset, Cole. All of us, together."
"Okay," Coleman said. "Okay."
- VS -
Entry 2
She's gone. Which is what I wanted, right?And the fourth piece of greased up hut slice slides down my gullet along with the seven Kalik's and I can see my gut protruding so explain to me, please, this empty feeling in my midsection. This hollow, cavernous vacuum, maybe, even.
Nah man, no science needed here.
It's just that empty pain again, that's all.
So hey, wipe those eyes and have another pull and eat another slice and trod on, my friend. Trod on. Down this sandy, sunny street and to the beach. Out of the house. Away from the musty sheets and the cockroaches and the busted AC and the smell of her shitty perfume.
You can bring the beer. Lug it. Like the rock it is. Like a boulder tied to your ankle. Fuck it -- to the beach! Onward. Step. Pull. You can do it. Step. Almost there.
Pull.
And sit. In the soft, icing-sugar sand. Feel it? It's supposed to feel good, my friend -- not like nothing. Good. My friend. My only friend.
Me.
Good.
It's hard to imagine now.
Man, I've done some rotten things in my day. Rotten, rotten things.
Things that stunk.
But nothing like what I'm doing to this poor girl though, man.
Man.
So she's on the plane and I'm on the beach and that seems like a pretty fitting metaphor for our entire relationship. Her, transient and uncomfortable; me, relaxed and surrounded by what I desire. The beach. The plane. The tears.
Yeah, it's dramatic -- I know.
But it's how I feel and you're here, my friend (my only friend), and so long as you're listening I'm gonna keep talking.
Because it makes me feel worse and that makes me feel better.
The ghost crab beside me comes darting out of his hole. Quick and insect-like. He looks around. And then violently, throws some sand across the beach. He pauses. Waits. For something. Some moment. Some perfect moment. Before scuttling back in. Tiny footprints and piles of discarded sand surround his hole. In. Out. I watch him a few more times. Then throw my beer. But he's fast. And aware. And he's back in his hole before the bottle even hits the sand. And it was a good shot.
Why?
Because I was inspired by his violent tossing.
And I want something else to hurt.
So I stand up and puff out my shoulders and watch my shadow cast its gloom over his hole and drop to my knees and dig like a rabid dog. And about six inches down I find the little shit. All translucence and black shiny eyeballs and fearlessness.
I scoop him out and onto the open part of the beach and he offers me his claws and we circle like boxers. He won't let me behind him. He must be scared out of his little fucking crab-mind. He must. I lunge. Onto my knees and elbows and pin him to the beach and then force my palm into the sand and feel the soft crunch of his expiration.
Why?
Because I hurt so much and I've hurt so many and I've especially hurt her. With all of my beaches and all of her airplanes and all of the rest.
"Just one more time," I said, "and I will show you how much I love you."
But it was nothing like that. It was more like, "Just one more time, and I will show you how much I hate myself."
Come on down. I will fly you. Under the guise of reparations. And you will see a man destroy himself with the drug and the drink. You will feel a man's fingers around your neck and you will see what it's like for a man to cry like a child and vomit similarly.
Come on down.
I pace.
I scream an apology out over the bay. It goes far across that flat water, but not far enough. Maybe, in a scientific sense, it even reaches continental America. But then the mountains and the rest, you know. There's no way it could get as far as it needs to.
But I am sorry.
I spelunked deep within the catacombs of my head to figure that one out. All it took was some brain-spelunking. Imagine that -- candle in hand, walking the recesses of your own mind -- the turn of every corner revealing something new and shocking or old and understood.
Profundity at every turn. Your own mind. Cast in eerie and dancing candle-light.
Come, I beckon.
There is my unhappiness. See him? I point to it, solemn and wild-eyed all at once.
Huddled in the corner -- hair long and ragged and streaming atop tattered clothing. Wet with the dampness of the cave. Shivering. Shivering at the sight of me, confronting myself.
Scared of myself.
Scared of standing up to myself and accepting who I am and what I am and dealing with and how to do it with a little goddamn dignity.
I am dying of acquired immunodeficiency syndrome.
That's right. It's real. It's not just users and minorities and fags -- it's people too. Regular people.
Never sucked a dick or stuck a needle or had dark skin. But somehow got it. From this Chinese bitch named Jennifer, I think. But that was a long time and a continent ago and I never had the courage or the confidence or the decency to call back and find out. Or tell anyone that might have wanted to know. Or should have known.
Fuck 'em, right?
I got fucked. No one told me.
Pay it forward.
Right?
I scream. I crawl to the ocean. It laps at the beach. I crawl in. My clothing tugs at me and urges me back to land. "Leave me be," I say, sobbing like a hopeless drunk. "You don't care. Just leave me be." And the water reaches my chest. Cold. Thieving. The sea swells into my mouth. Up my nose. I crawl. The sand fills my shoes and the sleeves of my shirt. Water up to my eyes now.
Close them.
Forward.
Forward to the inevitable.
Over my head. I am beginning to float. Force out my air. Open my eyes. Squint into the salty sea. A determined and desperate narrowing of the eyes. And... Inhale, you sonofabitch.
Corrosive spiders exploring every possibility of my lungs. They're wet but they're on fire. Down the main highway and then off to the side streets and then the alleys and then even the footpaths.
Enjoy it you piece of shit, for it will be the last thing you ever feel.
Enjoy it.
And then: an arm beneath my stomach and a hand around my ankle and I'm being sucked back out. The ocean swirls and bubbles and disappears and I call out in feeble protest.
"Shit, boi," he says, exasperated. "Shit." And he rolls me onto my side. I can feel the water dribbling from between my lips. He starts thumping at my back. The liquid comes quicker then slows and ultimately stops. He grabs my ankles and lifts them above my head and gives me a good shaking. My face digs into the wet sand and the sensation is quick and real and reaches my brain immediately. I cough, burping and belching up great geysers of ocean.
He lets go and I curl my knees to my chest and cough violently and involuntarily. It digs and grinds the salt into the back of my throat.
Slowly I calm and my brain allows my legs to straighten and I lay face down, one hand clutching the sand, as if it were my own filthy bed sheet.
"Shit boi -- you be drownin' like a legless dog, boi!"
I roll and look up to him, my black angel, silhouetted and haloed by the afternoon sun.
"I wanted to die."
"Ain't nobody wants to die," he says.
But he doesn't know shit. Some people want to die. I want to die, and I raise myself to my hands and knees and water drips from my nostrils and out of the corner of my eye I spot that bottle. What would its razor-shards feel like, pressed against my neck?
Bad, no doubt. Brilliantly bad.
But no, there's beer left -- hiding in its corner. Maybe a mouthful. I crawl over to it, sandy hair hanging in my eyes. Pick it up, flop onto my back and drain the pig. Two mouthfuls in one. It dribbles past my chin and my cheeks blow out and I swallow it all recklessly and I end up spitting most of it out and coughing all over again.
I stand. The stranger stares. I pick up the bottle and hurl it as far as I can into the ocean. Begin the lonely shuffle home. And realize, in my sorrow that I am dying. But I do not want to.
I do not want to.
No one wants to.
She won't want to.
But she is. Just like me.
And I think of her for once as a person instead of a miserable body. And how she will feel when she finds out. How I felt when I found out. How I feel now. What it has made me. Will it do the same to her? Will she seek out someone she sees as worthless and miserable anyway and use them to get off because she is so goddamn greedy and uncaring? Or will she resign herself to a life of celibacy and loneliness and tallied sunsets?
My throat clenches and my nose runs and tears flow freely.
Those awful moments where I lay panting on top of her and she dug her nails into my back and I released my tainted seed and did it without guilt or remorse.
I double over and vomit in the street.
No, she needs to know. She needs to know. Even though it will ruin her, she needs to know. The guilt has caught up to me. Grabbed my shirt and propelled itself past me. It was indeed a race. With no rules and only one end.
Oh, god. Move those legs. Just get yourself to bed you awful fucking human.
I put my shoulder hard into the screen door and it slams against the wall. I stumble inside and with the sweep of my arm trash a dozen bottles from the counter. Open the cupboard. The Cupboard. Pull out that Bacardi Dark and unscrew it and tilt it unconsciouswards and gulp, gulp, gulp. Gulp an impossible, inhuman amount.
I am inhuman.
I am inhuman.
My vision slurs and swirls and the fire of the drink burns in my belly and I make my way in the direction of bed and collapse.
Collapse.
Huh?
Uh, this thick, dark, malodorous... dry and crusted and flaky... vomit? Caked to my shirt. Like a bib. And the taste in my mouth. Its taste -- I assume. Hard and dark and bitter. Concentrated in the back of my throat. My tongue, so fat and dry and leathery. My eyes, swollen and burning.
And of course, my conscience. Or scious?
Both, really.
In sorry states, my friend.
That blur of white and black and hands and numbers and what fucking time is it anyway? I think, slumped on the dirty tile -- not on but rather against my bed. It is... noon. Noon and a half.
But what day?
Would she be home by now?
Yes.
Especially if it's two days since yesterday.
So we should dial then, really, but not in this state -- not before a shower -- and so I drag myself into the bathroom and feel the hot kiss of hot water behind my ears and I think. Is this really the correct course of action? At the point we're at now, might I be better to simply continue the charade and spend the rest of my miserable life with this sweet, innocent, exploited human being and resent it and hate it and do it all because of what I have done, to myself and to her?
That would breed contempt. And the charade, it cannot continue forever. I'm already bursting at the seams with the booze and the rest.
So I should tell her and hot water presses against my back and my cheeks grow flushed and I turn the water to pure cold until the hot's all gone and I step out. Look in the mirror. At the thin stringy hair and the deep circles beneath my eyes and the gaunt look of my face and the hollow one in my eyes.
It is time to tell the truth.
For her, and for me.
Sit in the plastic chair. Grab that rotary phone. Steady those trembling digits. Wipe those eyes. Spin those numbers. It takes so many numbers to get where I'm going. It rings once and I slam the phone down.
One of the benefits of a rotary phone, it must be said.
Do it. Do it, you worthless faggot.
It rings.
"Hello?"
Cowardice creeps into me and I fight it. A medieval sword fight. Personal and vulgar and loud and dirty.
"Hello," I say.
"You sound a mess James, are you all right?"
The black knight has his boot on my chest and blade to my neck. And I contemplate lying.
A real pitiful, open-faced fallacy.
But before I can unleash my epic and horrible lie the girl starts crying man -- she starts crying! And it was a tough good-bye -- believe me, I know! But I thought her tears were done with -- or at least until after I had said my piece -- but here she is and she's sobbing uncontrollably and it starts to get to me and we spend a moment or two there just sobbing into either end of the earpiece before she finally speaks:
"I haven't been completely honest with you, James."
Not what I expected. My heart thunders. Need something to slow it. What happened to the script, man? "Just one sec," I say and run to the cupboard. The Cupboard. But it's not in there it's on the floor and it's broken but there's still some left in the base which is miraculously right-side up and full of the delicious, intoxicating, necessary Bacardi Dark. I sit back down and pick up the phone and say with what strikes even me as an odd tone, "yeah, go ahead," and sip from the jagged edges and feel a tiny splinter make its way into my cheek.
"I'm not sure how," she says, "but somehow I had justified what I have done to you. Not anymore."
I raise an eyebrow.
She continues. "I'm sick, James -- I'm very sick. And I have been for a long time." She begins to sob. Gasping. "And... I... Thought... You..."
"I what?"
"I wanted so much to tell you face to face, but I just couldn't."
"Couldn't tell me what?"
"I fucked you because I could fuck no one else and now you're sick and it's making me crazy and I want to tell you that I'm sorry even though I know it means nothing.
"I'm sorry," she says and the phone goes dead.
I click the receiver. Inhale. Drain what's left of what's left of the Bacardi Dark. Rise from the chair, light and heavy all at once.
"It's all right," I say -- worthless and miserable and used to get off.
"It's all right," I say, to no one but myself.
.
Entry 1:
BLITZKREIG_BOB
bob
Bubba2341
CaptainThorns
Coyote
Doogsterville
drgoatcabin
EchoBoxing
FunnyAsCancer
ghola
Hiredugan
horse87
HotWillie
indoninja
Jack_McCallum
joedaddy
JoeyG
JonnyX
JulsInsane
kinney69
madddonkey255
Maltese
MyNameIsTim
nrduncan
orph
pen_name
Sacrilicious
satchel
snowclouds
Spuds002
stevie_says
sweetcheebs
swimmingbirdblue
thorpe
26 eligible votes (34 total) *
Entry 2:
Amontillado
apollo88
august_sobriquet
Axolotl
Ballare
charminglybeef
darko
ELG
Genko
homer42
hot_pocket
justagirl27
KindaNews
lechuza
littledan
Method
Orgasmatron
ParlorTrick
Pentameter
polyamorousaj
rad1101
ripple
scourge
sicosemen
Slighty_Obnoxious
sparkle_pink
SPECIALk
St_Jimmy
supadupapupa
thecaes
TheUniter
TimetoDance
yhywstudios
29 eligible votes (33 total) *
* Eligible votes are those made by users who had either (A) posted 3+ messages OR (B) written 100+ [lowered from 750+] reviews as of the beginning of the UberMadness! competition.
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-01-26 12:00:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
*struggles to lose gracefully, looks in mirror and sees this...*
http://www.bbc.co.uk/parenting/images/300/baby_crying_closeup.jpg
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2007-01-26 11:58:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2007-01-26 11:52:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I read these during the week, just voted on both. In case any of you crazies are analyzing how long between one's votes.
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2007-01-26 11:48:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
well, In my perfect world, we'd all be winners, not subject to the personal preferences and whims of others.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2007-01-26 08:25:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Both stories were good, but I really liked the writing style of #2. Very Bickerstaff-esque, I think. The man's internal dialogue was filled with brutal and harsh imagery and turns of phrase.
Good stuff, both of you.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-01-26 01:30:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
ahahahaha
Now it's up to Wisher.
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2007-01-26 01:16:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
and I've tied them both up.
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2007-01-26 01:14:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Honestly not sure which one is jack's.
Submitted by KindaNews (user info) at 2007-01-26 00:02:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2007-01-25 23:25:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by satchel (user info) at 2007-01-25 22:03:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by bob (user info) at 2007-01-25 15:43:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2007-01-25 15:20:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was certainly the better contest of the two in this round.
1.) Had a few misspellings. I drop typos all over this place, but I would wager I have never dropped one in a contest on Uber. This is THE contest on Uber and you're in the second to last round. Shape the fuck up.
I hated the third line of your entry. I wasn't enchanted with the plot.
That's it. You wrote it well. It was pretty tight, flowed well, no unnecessary trappings to try and impress us with things you can visualize. Thanks for that.
Had you been paired against either entry in the other half of this round you would have received my vote.
2.) Easily the best entry of this entire round. This piece just resonated very well with me. You were able to put me into the characters mind quickly and completely.
Your efficiency with words is fantastic.
Your take on the title was great.
I have no complaints about this entry at all.
Good job #2, you get my vote with no reservations at all. Do this well in the final and you'll have no trouble winning the whole enchilada.
Cheers.
Submitted by Doogsterville (user info) at 2007-01-25 14:04:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
NC
Submitted by kinney69 (user info) at 2007-01-25 13:38:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Read it earlier, finally had time to vote.
Good job.
Submitted by kinney69 (user info) at 2007-01-25 13:38:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2007-01-25 13:04:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2007-01-25 10:19:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by ParlorTrick (user info) at 2007-01-25 02:42:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent story Entry #1, but I fell for the creative writing of Entry #2.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-01-24 21:56:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-01-24 21:23:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is a really difficult vote. Whenever a well written piece can evoke strong emotions, no matter what those emotions are, it's worth something to me. Both entries were quite evocative. Entry one is ethereal, and leaves me with a sense of hope. Entry two was gut-wrenching and suspenseful. Stellar entries, both of you. In this case, I'm going with the one that made me feel good.
Submitted by Ballare (user info) at 2007-01-24 18:02:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2007-01-24 06:23:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Spuds002 (user info) at 2007-01-24 02:19:35 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2007-01-23 22:27:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-01-23 20:43:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2007-01-23 20:34:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
voted 2 because it didn't start of with the character's name like all these little stories seem to do.
didn't read either like.
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2007-01-23 17:43:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2007-01-23 15:30:30 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2007-01-23 15:29:49 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
so close to the end!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-01-23 11:11:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-23 10:21:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was a tough decision. Both stories were excellent.
Submitted by ripple (user info) at 2007-01-23 09:56:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2007-01-23 09:45:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
BASED SOLEY ON USAGE OF THE TITLE
Submitted by yhywstudios (user info) at 2007-01-23 09:04:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2007-01-23 08:30:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent, all around.
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-01-23 05:07:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-01-23 05:07:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Number 1 - very nice
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2007-01-23 03:05:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
nice #2, I really liked it! #1 was good too, but it was not what I was looking for this round. The SoC style rocked. Fast paced and furious like a caffeine OD.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2007-01-23 01:39:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by madddonkey255 (user info) at 2007-01-22 23:54:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2007-01-22 23:25:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by ELG (user info) at 2007-01-22 22:55:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
They both sucked but the style of number two won me over.
Submitted by swimmingbirdblue (user info) at 2007-01-22 21:38:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Neither was groundbreaking, but the first one was at least worth reading.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2007-01-22 20:36:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2007-01-22 20:35:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
To the victor go the coils.
Submitted by lechuza (user info) at 2007-01-22 20:31:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No comment
Submitted by littledan (user info) at 2007-01-22 19:38:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
disappointing....
Submitted by TimetoDance (user info) at 2007-01-22 19:34:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-01-22 19:20:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck. Meant +2 These were both nice.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-01-22 19:19:22 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by hot_pocket (user info) at 2007-01-22 18:44:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i dig
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2007-01-22 18:34:41 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
my good deed for the day
Submitted by Slighty_Obnoxious (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:48:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Took me a very long time to decide...
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:39:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
*Non-comittal comment to hide whether or not this is my match-up or not*
Submitted by SPECIALk (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:34:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:32:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
AIDS-twist is the new murder-twist.
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:19:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
It takes a lot to pull off a dead wife and kid ghost story and make it fresh. I didn't think entry one quite had it all pulled together, but it wasn't a bad effort.
Entry two was a struggle to get through... choppy structure can be great, but the individual fragments have to hold their own and read effortlessly. And I may be cynical, but I feel like there've been enough stories with an AIDS-related twist that the world would be a better place if no one ever wrote another.
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:13:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by drgoatcabin (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:06:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Genko (user info) at 2007-01-22 17:05:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
1 was good, but I got into 2 a little bit more.
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:53:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
#2 was incredible. Maybe the best of UM so far.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:50:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Toss up.
Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:41:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:08:40 (#)
Ranking: 0
Why is my vote not eligible? I certainly have enough reviews AND posts?
===
To have your vote eligible, you needed to have at least 3 posts or 150 reviews by the time the competition started on October 2, 2006.
Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:39:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Entry 1. Lolz.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:35:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by justagirl27 (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:29:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:08:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Both of them were great, but I liked the stream of consciouenss in 2.
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:08:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Why is my vote not eligible? I certainly have enough reviews AND posts?
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:07:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
tough call, both very well done. i like the actual writing of number 1 better but i like the ending of number 2, keeps you guessing...
Submitted by JulsInsane (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:06:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:06:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
And Coleman is a name for a cooler, not a person.
Submitted by Hiredugan (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:05:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
This was a tough one to choose. But #1 won out for me at the end. Not like my vote really matters anyway.
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:05:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Hey.
Yeah, you.
Both of you authors.
You both sure know how to use the enter key.
I mean, it's crazy, right?
Well, I like to think that maybe- just maybe- you took the time to hit the space bar the appropriate number of times to take it down to the next line.
And for that reason, number two gets the vote.
But there were a fair amount of enter strokes on your entry too, author 1... don't feel too badly.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-01-22 16:04:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
There's a problem.
What kind of problem?
A big problem.
Y'see, it's like...
Shhh.
Don't tell me, I already know.
How can you know?
A woman, a woman _knows_ these kind of things, it's just part of us.
All right, then tell me Miss Smarty-Pants, what is the problem?
It's the formatting.
The formatting?
The formatting.
I don't get it. What does the formatting have to do with anything?
Well, when you use a stylistic device to tell a story one sentence at a time, that's a problem. You need to provide paragraphs to group the thematic elements together, like I am doing here. See when you do it from time to time, for effect, that's cool. But when you tell the entire story that way, then it becomes...
Disjointed.
Well, not exactly the word I was going to use, but yes.
But is that really bad?
Look at this review alone, see where we started?
Wow.
That's really far up there.
I had no idea.
It's not your fault, it's just that sometimes, we get a feeling...
And we go with it.
Like I asid, not your fault at all.
What do we do now?
We ride off.
Where?
Into the sunset.
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2007-01-22 15:57:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by snowclouds (user info) at 2007-01-22 15:55:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very good. #2 was interesting and had a style all of its own, but #1 was a really good story.
Submitted by sweetcheebs (user info) at 2007-01-22 15:50:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
I'm overly critical of everything, but it was pretty good.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2007-01-22 15:47:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment