THREE DADDYs

Sometime during the night the phone rang, harsh and loud, startling me awake. It wasn't so much the fact that no one calls at this hour, but more a case of nobody ever calling. I have the phone for one reason, and that is to talk to my mother, who is terminally ill. One would think, given the circumstance, that I would keep the phone next to my bed, but I have enough clutter about me, that the addition of another seldom-used utility that I frequently found off it's cradle, beeping busily and useless beneath a mound of laundry...now sits across the untidy room on the floor next to the floor lamp, where it might not be as easily misplaced or dislodged. So here I scramble across that treacherous floor in a room lit by a singular nite-lite, anxiety building expecting to hear the inevitable, yet ill-prepared to receive it, my pulse raises - I sense my blood pressure mount as my ears ring, and my breaths are short and tight. I grasp the receiver, and gasp into the mouthpiece "HELLO!?"

“Hey. Sorry.” It was female, soft, low, and slurred...the "eyyy" trailing off... "shorry", meek and contrite.

"You...You have the wrong number."

"Not this time..." He instantly knew ‘Who’. It was the foul-mouthed 'wrong number' that he had incurred that afternoon...or rather, given the hour it must be...last afternoon. 

"You have no reason to call here. What time is it?" Where was his clock?

"S'late..."

"No shit. Why are calling?! You told me to fuck off...to fuck off on my own phone, that you dialed and got  pissed off because I'm not fucking Carla..."

"I called Kayla. Carla wouldn't fuck you...but then neither would Kayla..."

"Well thanks for verifying your identity. You are the same self-involved foul-mouthed, conceited little bitch that interrupted my solitude this afternoon!"

"The same."

"So why you haunting me?"

"I'm not like that, and I think I came off badly...I called to apologize."

"What do you mean you're not like that - you just pulled the same shit!"

"I know. I'm rich...I'm spoiled...I'm fucked..."

“Oh, poor you, and fuck me, stop yanking my chain. Is that what this is? You and Sherry having a laugh in the back of your limo?”

“Kayla.”

“Who gives a fuck. Hang up.”

“You hang up...”

“Oh let's not play that...”

“I'm lonely.”

“So? Who isn’t? Buy yourself a friend and let me sleep.”

“You're lonely...”

“I am not.”

“You said you had solitude…”

“I said you disrupted my solitude. There's a big difference from being lonely...”

“Not where I live. Privacy! Security! Luxury! Tranquility!… and Loneliness. Come on…”

“Sounds like you got it made. How about using all that, to concentrate on yourself?”

“Concentrate on what?”

“I don't know...maybe who you might be?... what you might learn or accomplish?...little things...like, how you Feel?”

“I know all that, and I can Accomplisshhh... I DO,I don't make those decisions...so I don't think very hard.”

“Did you just state that someone else decides that?”

“They all do. But People know...they know who I am...”

“Not YOU.”

“In a manner of speaking, I do too... but that's not important.”

“So…It's a show.”

“...it's a show. Want to come over?”

“Why, where, and what the fuck for?”

“We can do that...I got a show I can show you...”

“No. Not happening.”

“Why? I'm pretty...you should see me…”

“You're drunk...you don't like old men...”

“I never said that...”

“You said that – ‘who'd want to fuck a gross old man like you’...?"

“I got to say, half the time my medication does most of the talking...and I'm talking the 'Dr.-shit', and not even the fun stuff. I am really sorry. I like old men. I do. My Daddys are old...”

“I'm not that old and I don't want to know about your Daddys.”

“I have three daddys! Really! It's what my Mother does! My real Dad, he died on the freeway. She keeps getting richer...not smarter, but her tits look great...we go to botox together. People think we're sisters...I hate that...I... Come on over. Be with me. I need...”

“I am a stranger. A random...old...hardly sympathetic, and totally put-off nobody...and you could be in danger. Don't be doing this shit.”

“I am reaching out. I need to reach out. They tell me, 'reach out'... I am reaching...c'mon reach me...touch me...”

“Okay, you're drifting off. What are you on?”

“I'm on the roof.”

MOTHBALL MEMORIES

She had dreams she once had family. She'd had a mother that loved her, a father that provided and hugged like a bear, and a sister with missing front teeth that teased her eternally. She missed them, yet never knew them, not really.

What she does remember so very well, from the reality she endured, was a father that would rage in violent acts within the domicile. He beat the shit out of them all,  until finally splitting open mother’s head with a hot frying pan…she burned his sausages…because she was sick…from a flu 
the child had given her…she sat down at the table while getting dizzy at the stove…she lay her head to rest and may have passed out. We can only pray. She did not hear his rage storm over head before crushing hers.

From under her bed she saw him approach. The room filled with the smell of burnt sausage. His feet now inches from where she huddled, He dropped the pan to the floor with a dull clang. Seeing the blood, she attempted in vain to stifle the scream.

“I won’t hurt you again…” he said. To his promise, he walked the eight blocks and turned himself in at the station. He had the blood on his hands. They locked him in a cell, then cops and Marta, came for the girls. Marta was her martyr, she’d say, and for good reason. She missed her sister who went to live with ‘Aunt Ri’ out of state.

The smell of fried meat haunts and nauseates her. The vegan, ever since, she’d cover her nose when driving by burger joints, less she lurch her lunch …again, and often took routes to avoid them. She learned to adjust, and enjoyed a stuffy sinus and her persistent allergies. But…

Moth balls…moth balls will trigger these memories. Mothballs in her sweater box tucked under her bed, and the round ones that hung in her closet – places they’d huddle.

The dreams? That family? She lives with them, not so much welcoming them, …oh, enjoying them in their moment, but simply being in that space with them was reassuring. Like walking in the front door of a house she grew up in. As if, she belonged.

WINDOW LIGHT

w o r k i n g   w /  w i n d o w ' s   l i g h t

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

3:00. P. M   -   w e d,   -    S u n  /. S h a d e s  /. 

Reflection

THE LONG TABLE

They sat at the long formal table, grand in scale, flowered and articulately arranged. He would have...no, he expressly, wanted it to be this way. So it was. Everyone in fine black attire, smiling, toasting, and mostly toasted too, just as he would have it...ties loosened, heels kicked off beneath, jesting, teasing, risqué banter, he would be soaking it in. 

Besides, it was a shock to no one, a blessing for most...his long slow descent, painful as it was, was also filled with laughter and reminiscence. It was indeed clichéd - ‘the best, and worse’ ... So much to regret, but far more, to be grateful...

Eventually the laughter turned to chronic cough, spasms, choking, phlegm and bloody sputum. Wracked between laughter and pain, until only pain remained. With no stories to share, he caved. 

  

So they arrived, relieved he was released, no one grieved, rejoicing instead, on this  gleeful night, at his final invite, he was gloriously free.

THE TRUSTY STRAY

HE WAS EASILY BEFRIENDED

JUST AS EASILY BETRAYED;

A TRAIT THAT STILL 

STAYS WITH HIM

AND HAUNTS HIM

‘TIL THIS DAY.

V

THE BAD, BAD, BALL GIRL

Tell me about yourself.

Oh. Okay. I enjoy receiving the gift of cunnilingus much more than enduring fellatio, but in any given situation, I am willing to negotiate.

Well that was straightforward.

Time limit. Your turn.

I can’t match that…I…

Time limit. Spill it! Do you like your balls fondled or not? Rough stuff or puffy?

I can’t. What is this? Are you serious?

I have five minutes…4:18…to help you get your shit together and half-way appeal to me!

Ah! I get it! So either I throw strikes or I’m out of your zone! How many pitches?

It’s a fairly simple game. You know the score.

Disagree. It’s a subtle, and sometimes complex, game. And, I am willing to bet you’re having a perfect night…

Hardly.

No. I’d be willing to bet you’re throwing a perfect no-hitter. How many batters have you faced? Eight? Nine?…

I lost count, but, so far, you’re at the bottom of the order.

Then why are guys volunteering to move down?

Fuck you. There are men I need to see, not some pussy mama’s boy.

The fleet could come in and they’d still sail by…

I could bring the fleet to their knees.

Yeah. That makes sense. But, since you offered the info, I gather you seldom assume that position.

AS I said ‘…depends on the situation.’

Negotiation. Sad. Such a simple gesture and it has to go into Negotiations. (tsk-tsk). Are litigators involved? …because, stating right up front - I’m a litigator, so if there’s a conflict  of interest I should know about it…

Is that what this is?

What’s that?

A conflict of interest…?

Oh. Are we conflicted?

I sense we are.

In what way?

In a conflicted way.

Thanks for clarifying…

You know what I mean. And…by the way? You’re moving up in the order. I got a call from upstairs. They want to see what you can do under pressure.

Piece of cake.

Whatever you want to call it.

Are we presently ‘negotiating’?

We’re ‘in discussion’.

How far up? Middle of the order?

You have to earn that spot.

You mean ‘Clean-up’ !? …really?

I’m the field general, I’ll decide.

You mixed your malaprops, missy…a ‘field general’ is a quarterback.

Not what my Pop used to say, and he coached his whole life. And don’t dare call me ‘missy’…

So you’re a jock sniffer.

Okay that’s it….Pulling you out of the game. Hit the bench.

Why don’t we just hit the bed and see how the ball bounces?

Just as I suspected…

What’s that?

You’re missing one.

Only one way to find out.

Not true.

I throw some nasty stuff. How we doing on time?

Huh? Oh. Twenty seconds…

Still benched?

Hate to say it, but…

Go ahead.

Your bench or mine.

Yours.

Alright, but I’ve gotta’ warn you - there’s peanut shells on the dugout floor…

Now you’re just talkin’ dirty…

…and, all this time I thought we were talkin’ ‘baseball’.

THREE SHIH-TZUs TO THE WIND

Salvatore took the shih tzus for a walk

around two. He liked this walk. His last chore of the day. The dogs were mellow and spent from a day of yapping, napping and luxury and knew their mission was simply to shit and get home...while providing Salvatore, a stroll and a smoke. They had a good understanding at this hour, and each appreciated the other, and the quiet in the neighborhood. Sprinklers hissed, their mist fills the air…‘spspspspspsp’…the wide lawns and gardens, so wet and sweet, mixed with the Jasmine from up in the canyons…peace drifts to sleep on the back streets of Brentwood.

As they approached their favorite tree and patch of green, Salvatore, was ready with the bags. Predictably, each did their task. The First, The Second, and The Last. But as Salvatore bent to perform his task...snap!...just that fast!...he felt a Yank!..then Two!!…then Three!!! -  spinning him, flailing, right off of his feet! His head spinning while searching...what?...where?...but there down the street ran a band of coyotes with three tasty treats. Stunned, he rose to run, but slipped on the bloody berm, then fumbled and tumbled onto the asphalt. When, finally, firmly afoot, he chased in pursuit, jumping hedges, roses, and old tree roots, he started to close…

Then they veered off the street across a sprawl of yard, wide and open, to the hillsides beyond. While flood lights triggered on, the pack yipping with glee, instantly disappeared in the night - Poof! - gone. As Salvatore, in his panic, was obliged to follow. No dogs, no job. Came the 'crack!'...the dull thump in lawn. He stopped cold, but the man with the gun did not, and the next sound he heard, was the round that he got.