With both palms gently against the blue yoga mat and her eyes closed, Lucy struggled to block out the maniacal screaming and thumping of thrown furniture emanating from the apartment below. But the loud pop of a bullet -- and its appearance through the floor, inches from her head -- brought Lucy to her feet instantly.
Since their arrival nearly two weeks ago, the new tenants slowly unpacked with their belongings an eclectic and colourful catalogue of clanging and banging and shrieked obscenities, which Lucy enjoyed via the floor/ceiling membrane they shared. Today, having been interrupted during her Sunday morning relaxation regimen, Lucy had had enough. Clad in purple Lycra and a shroud of twenty-something-female "rage", Lucy marched out the front door of her apartment and rattled angrily down the emergency stairs.
Curling her recently-French-manicured fingers into a small fist, she knocked with purpose on the door of apartment 317, only then realizing the foolishness of confronting a gun owner (and certainly gun holder) armed only with yoga attire and the wholly non-threatening frame of a pilates instructor. Any confidence she had evaporated as the door swung open.
"What."
A green-eyed girl of modest proportions and a brown curly mane stood before Lucy. She looked sullen and her skin had an almost oily glow to it; nevertheless, she was not unpleasant to look at --save for the Glock in her left hand. She looked quizzically at Lucy, then spoke again.
"Lizzy?"
"What?" Lucy barely replied. Stunned, she couldn't take her eyes off of the dark piece of metal dangling from the girl's slender right arm. "No," she corrected with a dry voice, "I mean, my name is Lucy," and just as she felt after knocking on the door, another twinge of regret and panic coursed through her veins.
"Lizzzzz-eeee," said the green-eyed girl in a sing-song, and off-key, and sort of friendly way.
"I think I've got the wrong apartment." And she started to leave. But unlike her mouth, her legs did not automatically spring to action. She wobbled in her Lycra.
"Don't you remember me?" asked the gun-toting girl with a curious expression. She raised her arm and leaned against the threshold casually. The muzzle of her gun dangled awkwardly in the direction of Lucy's face. The curly-hair girl looked Lucy right in the eyes, and smiled. "It was in Cadiz."
Lucy's eyes widened.
* * *
Saturday, June 30
Sunday, June 24
Stolen sunglasses
It can be really, really difficult talking to my friend Darryl:
Darryl: Hey, Harvey.
Harvey: Darryl. How's it going?
Darryl: Well, I sorta had a date last night.
Harvey: Sorta?
Darryl: Well, I mean... yeah, sorta.
Harvey: Try to explain.
Darryl: OK, so I was waiting for the streetcar, right? Well, sorta.
Harvey: You were sort of waiting for a streetcar.
Darryl: Well, I started walking to Brant's, which is far, so I was constantly looking over my shoulder to see if a streetcar was coming.
Harvey: Of course.
Darryl: So, I was walking. And as I was walking I noticed this girl was following me.
Harvey: She was following you?
Darryl: Well, sorta.
Harvey: Explain.
Darryl: Well, she was in front of me, so I guess technically I was following her, but she seemed to be doing the same thing as me. She was looking back for a streetcar, and at me, every fifty paces or so. Then she stopped.
Harvey: She stopped looking back?
Darryl: Well, yes. But that's because she stopped walking.
Harvey: She stopped walking?
Darryl: Well, she slammed into a newspaper box while looking back for the streetcar. Then she fell to the ground after that.
Harvey: OK. So then what happened?
Darryl: Well, I ran over to help her up. She was fine though. She just kept walking after that.
Harvey: OK, so you "sorta" went on a date with this girl?
Darryl: No, not her. I never saw her again. But anyway, luckily she fell right at a streetcar stop. And one was coming by, so I got on.
Harvey: Are you getting to this date, or what?
Darryl: Yeah, I am. I’m explaining. So I was wearing my sunglasses, right?
Harvey: I suppose yesterday was sunny enough to justify sunglasses.
Darryl: Yeah. And on the streetcar I notice this girl standing next to me is staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye.
Harvey: She was staring at you?
Darryl: Sorta. Like she was looking in my direction, at least it seemed that way, and I could sorta make her out standing there.
Harvey: OK?
Darryl: So I turned to her, to see if she was staring at me.
Harvey: Right.
Darryl: But she wasn't. In fact, she was looking in a completely different direction.
Harvey: Fine.
Darryl: Well, sorta. She wasn't looking at me though. I was way off.
Harvey: So what happened?
Darryl: I just stared at her for a while.
Harvey: You stared at her?
Darryl: Well, sorta.
Harvey: That's creepy.
Darryl: But anyway, she turned to me and asked me what I was looking at.
Harvey: Obviously. What did you say?
Darryl: "Nothing."
Harvey: You said nothing?
Darryl: I said "nothing".
Harvey: Why didn't you say anything?
Darryl: I didn't. I said "nothing", like the word 'nothing.'
Harvey: I see.
Darryl: But then I said, "well, sorta". Because I really wasn't looking at nothing, but at her, but only because I thought she was looking at me, but I was surprised when I noticed she was looking in a completely opposite direction.
Harvey: You explained all this to the girl on the streetcar.
Darryl: Yeah.
Harvey: And what did she say?
Darryl: Well she said that she was actually looking at me, but turned away when I looked back at her.
Harvey: The plot thickens.
Darryl: I was confused, but I asked her why she was looking at me. She said she liked my sunglasses.
Harvey: She was looking at your sunglasses?
Darryl: Sorta. She was looking at me in my sunglasses, and she thought they looked good on me, and that got her thinking about how she needed some new sunglasses.
Harvey: This is a pretty long story.
Darryl: I know. So anyway, I told her that I got mine from McGann's downtown.
Harvey: That guy is a total douchebag, I can't stand him.
Darryl: I know. That's what I told her, but she had never heard of the place. She asked me if I could take her there.
Harvey: So you took her there?
Darryl: No, I was on my way to Brant's. So I told her that I could meet her the next night. And I'd walk her there.
Harvey: So this was your date? Shopping for sunglasses?
Darryl: Sorta. So we met the next night at McGann's. And they had a pretty good pair of frames that she liked. And then she sorta stole them.
Harvey: Sorta?
Darryl: Well, she threw them in her purse when the sales person wasn't looking. Then she grabbed my hand and we booked it. She said her uncle was an optometrist and could cut the lenses for free.
Harvey: That's not "sorta" stealing. This girl sounds nuts.
Darryl: Sorta. She's nice enough though.
Harvey: Is she cute?
Darryl: Sorta. She has really pink cheeks.
Harvey: I see.
Darryl: After we stole the frames, we went to that coffee place on Bernard. She told me about how she grew up in the suburbs with her older brother, and her parents were always travelling, because her dad was some kind of geophysicist, and so her brother threw crazy parties and the cops were always showing up and throwing her brother in jail, and she would hide in the laundry room pantry and so on and so on. It was a long fucking story.
Harvey: Like this one? Sounds like a match made in heaven.
Darryl: Well, sorta. So then she suggested we go back to her place, and she tied my arms to her bedposts while she basically assaulted me with her mouth.
Harvey: That's hot.
Darryl: Sorta. She was kind of a weak kisser.
Harvey: Oh.
Darryl: But anyway, we had to cut it short when her boyfriend came home.
Harvey: She has a boyfriend?
Darryl: Sorta. It's actually her calculus tutor. Her parents got her one when her grades started slipping. But she makes out with him from time to time, to keep the lessons short. But he's the jealous type.
Harvey: This girl seems like a slut.
Darryl: Well, sorta. I got the impression that she's never really--
Harvey: Wait, calculus tutor? How old is this girl?
Darryl:
Harvey:
Darryl: I guess I could ask her tonight.
Harvey: You're seeing this girl again?
Darryl: Well, sorta. We--
Harvey: I gotta go, Darryl.
Darryl: Hey, Harvey.
Harvey: Darryl. How's it going?
Darryl: Well, I sorta had a date last night.
Harvey: Sorta?
Darryl: Well, I mean... yeah, sorta.
Harvey: Try to explain.
Darryl: OK, so I was waiting for the streetcar, right? Well, sorta.
Harvey: You were sort of waiting for a streetcar.
Darryl: Well, I started walking to Brant's, which is far, so I was constantly looking over my shoulder to see if a streetcar was coming.
Harvey: Of course.
Darryl: So, I was walking. And as I was walking I noticed this girl was following me.
Harvey: She was following you?
Darryl: Well, sorta.
Harvey: Explain.
Darryl: Well, she was in front of me, so I guess technically I was following her, but she seemed to be doing the same thing as me. She was looking back for a streetcar, and at me, every fifty paces or so. Then she stopped.
Harvey: She stopped looking back?
Darryl: Well, yes. But that's because she stopped walking.
Harvey: She stopped walking?
Darryl: Well, she slammed into a newspaper box while looking back for the streetcar. Then she fell to the ground after that.
Harvey: OK. So then what happened?
Darryl: Well, I ran over to help her up. She was fine though. She just kept walking after that.
Harvey: OK, so you "sorta" went on a date with this girl?
Darryl: No, not her. I never saw her again. But anyway, luckily she fell right at a streetcar stop. And one was coming by, so I got on.
Harvey: Are you getting to this date, or what?
Darryl: Yeah, I am. I’m explaining. So I was wearing my sunglasses, right?
Harvey: I suppose yesterday was sunny enough to justify sunglasses.
Darryl: Yeah. And on the streetcar I notice this girl standing next to me is staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye.
Harvey: She was staring at you?
Darryl: Sorta. Like she was looking in my direction, at least it seemed that way, and I could sorta make her out standing there.
Harvey: OK?
Darryl: So I turned to her, to see if she was staring at me.
Harvey: Right.
Darryl: But she wasn't. In fact, she was looking in a completely different direction.
Harvey: Fine.
Darryl: Well, sorta. She wasn't looking at me though. I was way off.
Harvey: So what happened?
Darryl: I just stared at her for a while.
Harvey: You stared at her?
Darryl: Well, sorta.
Harvey: That's creepy.
Darryl: But anyway, she turned to me and asked me what I was looking at.
Harvey: Obviously. What did you say?
Darryl: "Nothing."
Harvey: You said nothing?
Darryl: I said "nothing".
Harvey: Why didn't you say anything?
Darryl: I didn't. I said "nothing", like the word 'nothing.'
Harvey: I see.
Darryl: But then I said, "well, sorta". Because I really wasn't looking at nothing, but at her, but only because I thought she was looking at me, but I was surprised when I noticed she was looking in a completely opposite direction.
Harvey: You explained all this to the girl on the streetcar.
Darryl: Yeah.
Harvey: And what did she say?
Darryl: Well she said that she was actually looking at me, but turned away when I looked back at her.
Harvey: The plot thickens.
Darryl: I was confused, but I asked her why she was looking at me. She said she liked my sunglasses.
Harvey: She was looking at your sunglasses?
Darryl: Sorta. She was looking at me in my sunglasses, and she thought they looked good on me, and that got her thinking about how she needed some new sunglasses.
Harvey: This is a pretty long story.
Darryl: I know. So anyway, I told her that I got mine from McGann's downtown.
Harvey: That guy is a total douchebag, I can't stand him.
Darryl: I know. That's what I told her, but she had never heard of the place. She asked me if I could take her there.
Harvey: So you took her there?
Darryl: No, I was on my way to Brant's. So I told her that I could meet her the next night. And I'd walk her there.
Harvey: So this was your date? Shopping for sunglasses?
Darryl: Sorta. So we met the next night at McGann's. And they had a pretty good pair of frames that she liked. And then she sorta stole them.
Harvey: Sorta?
Darryl: Well, she threw them in her purse when the sales person wasn't looking. Then she grabbed my hand and we booked it. She said her uncle was an optometrist and could cut the lenses for free.
Harvey: That's not "sorta" stealing. This girl sounds nuts.
Darryl: Sorta. She's nice enough though.
Harvey: Is she cute?
Darryl: Sorta. She has really pink cheeks.
Harvey: I see.
Darryl: After we stole the frames, we went to that coffee place on Bernard. She told me about how she grew up in the suburbs with her older brother, and her parents were always travelling, because her dad was some kind of geophysicist, and so her brother threw crazy parties and the cops were always showing up and throwing her brother in jail, and she would hide in the laundry room pantry and so on and so on. It was a long fucking story.
Harvey: Like this one? Sounds like a match made in heaven.
Darryl: Well, sorta. So then she suggested we go back to her place, and she tied my arms to her bedposts while she basically assaulted me with her mouth.
Harvey: That's hot.
Darryl: Sorta. She was kind of a weak kisser.
Harvey: Oh.
Darryl: But anyway, we had to cut it short when her boyfriend came home.
Harvey: She has a boyfriend?
Darryl: Sorta. It's actually her calculus tutor. Her parents got her one when her grades started slipping. But she makes out with him from time to time, to keep the lessons short. But he's the jealous type.
Harvey: This girl seems like a slut.
Darryl: Well, sorta. I got the impression that she's never really--
Harvey: Wait, calculus tutor? How old is this girl?
Darryl:
Harvey:
Darryl: I guess I could ask her tonight.
Harvey: You're seeing this girl again?
Darryl: Well, sorta. We--
Harvey: I gotta go, Darryl.
A meeting with management
I haven't written anything in a month. As such, my boss, Martin Coley, has been less than pleased with my performance. Being a spite-filled sack of vitriol, he invited me (demanded, really) to meet with him last Sunday. As such, I was also less than pleased. It went a little something like this:
Martin: What the fuck, Harvey!
Marty likes to start with exploratory questions. He also likes to emphasize each word in a sentence, as though his query's chance of resolution was directly proportional to the volume of his voice. He was and is a loud, angry motherfucker.
Harvey: Look, I know what you're going to say and--
Martin: Where is your FUCKING copy? You have spent a whole month fucking the dog you dog fucker.
It stands to reason that dog fuckers fuck the dog.
Martin: Fuck. The last time you wrote something was a month ago. And it was contemplative HORSE SHIT. What is the fucking matter with you? I asked for funny! You shit fuck.
He paused, searching for the perfect word.
Martin: Fuck! Just-- I want something funny and I want it fucking yesterday!
Martin's brand of abuse is truly exquisite. I wish I could meet with him more often.
Harvey: Right. Look, Martin, I have been working on stuff. I have a few ideas that--
Martin: You're working on shit, you shit-faced fuck. I'm not paying you to come up with ideas! I want production! Do you hear me?
Harvey: Uh, you're actually not paying me--
Martin: Always fucking excuses! Fuck! How hard is it to fucking write something? Jesus fucking Christ! Get off your fucking ass, and fucking write! What's the fucking problem? Christ almighty. This is why I beat my fucking wife.
I didn't know how to respond to this.
Harvey: Right.
Martin did not appreciate my lacklustre response.
Martin: You shit stain. You fucking cum-guzzling... fuck, I'll beat... you've been wasting my--
Anticipating the steam building up behind his dark eyes, and predicting an explosion of Vesuvian proportions, I interrupted him.
Harvey: No, no, listen. Marty. I have have been working on some ideas. Here.
At this point, I produced a stack of loose graph paper from my bag. It was mostly half-written stories, some abstracts, ideas -- lots of ideas -- for things to write. I handed him the wrinkled stack, and some casual advice.
Harvey: Also, have you considered some relaxation therapy? Maybe light some scented candles in here?
Martin ignores my facetious query and rifles through my notes. I'm usually loathe to give someone access to my undigested thoughts and ideas, but Martin was about four seconds from complete melt-down. I thought this might help prevent an aneurysm. I was wrong.
Martin spent a few moments (four seconds) reviewing the sheets in his fat, angry fists. His knuckles turned white. Nuclear winter was upon us.
Martin: What the fuck. What the fuck is this shit?
He began to read out the titles from my sheets with a voice so heavy with disgust, you would have thought he just ate a brick of shit.
Martin: "The problem with pogroms"? "Ships, passing"? "I'm so hungry for a hot tranny"? What is this shit?
Harvey: Actually, that last one is an epistolary--
Martin: I don't even know what that means, Harvey; that means it's shit. I hate this. I can't publish this! The "Aroma of Neutrogena"? Is this fucking poetry?
Harvey: Well, I'm not sure if you're familiar with Haiku but--
Martin: I don't give a rusty fuck, you fucking hack. I've shit out better ideas than this --on holiday.
Is this a figure of speech somewhere? He threw the sheets of rumpled graph paper across his desk in my direction.
Martin: You are going to fucking write something tonight, you fucking fuck of a fuck. I want to hear a good idea. Now.
I paused briefly to appreciate the glorious redundancy and rhythm of "fucking fuck of a fuck". But Martin really wasn't digging my lack of progress. I had to think quickly.
Harvey: Uh, I'm working on a sitcom about a gangster robot.
Martin froze when he heard this. I knew he liked robots. I think, just for a second, his molten fury subsided.
Martin: Go on.
Having called my bluff, I continued to improvise.
Harvey: Well, it's about this robot, who looks exactly human, except the scientist making him accidentally...
I pause, and think.
Harvey:...pops a tape of some BET shows into... his language programming... er, program...
I'm sweating at this point. This idea and its associated explanation sucked so bad.
Harvey:...and repeated exposure to Comic View starts to make the robot... "gangstalicious".
(It was either that or "ghetto fabulous". I stand by my choice.) I struggled to conclude:
Harvey: It's fun for the whole family!
I felt sick. Martin paused briefly and seemed to consider my proposal; shitty though it was. The office was quiet except for his hypertension breathing, and my finger tapping on the arms of the office chair. I was actually slightly relieved when he spoke.
Martin: Get the fuck out of my office. And write something you piece of shit. Fucking Christ on a pogo stick. You're a motherfuckin--
Before he could finish, I stood up, got the hell out of his office, ran back home, and wrote something. A meeting with management is always inspiring.
Martin: What the fuck, Harvey!
Marty likes to start with exploratory questions. He also likes to emphasize each word in a sentence, as though his query's chance of resolution was directly proportional to the volume of his voice. He was and is a loud, angry motherfucker.
Harvey: Look, I know what you're going to say and--
Martin: Where is your FUCKING copy? You have spent a whole month fucking the dog you dog fucker.
It stands to reason that dog fuckers fuck the dog.
Martin: Fuck. The last time you wrote something was a month ago. And it was contemplative HORSE SHIT. What is the fucking matter with you? I asked for funny! You shit fuck.
He paused, searching for the perfect word.
Martin: Fuck! Just-- I want something funny and I want it fucking yesterday!
Martin's brand of abuse is truly exquisite. I wish I could meet with him more often.
Harvey: Right. Look, Martin, I have been working on stuff. I have a few ideas that--
Martin: You're working on shit, you shit-faced fuck. I'm not paying you to come up with ideas! I want production! Do you hear me?
Harvey: Uh, you're actually not paying me--
Martin: Always fucking excuses! Fuck! How hard is it to fucking write something? Jesus fucking Christ! Get off your fucking ass, and fucking write! What's the fucking problem? Christ almighty. This is why I beat my fucking wife.
I didn't know how to respond to this.
Harvey: Right.
Martin did not appreciate my lacklustre response.
Martin: You shit stain. You fucking cum-guzzling... fuck, I'll beat... you've been wasting my--
Anticipating the steam building up behind his dark eyes, and predicting an explosion of Vesuvian proportions, I interrupted him.
Harvey: No, no, listen. Marty. I have have been working on some ideas. Here.
At this point, I produced a stack of loose graph paper from my bag. It was mostly half-written stories, some abstracts, ideas -- lots of ideas -- for things to write. I handed him the wrinkled stack, and some casual advice.
Harvey: Also, have you considered some relaxation therapy? Maybe light some scented candles in here?
Martin ignores my facetious query and rifles through my notes. I'm usually loathe to give someone access to my undigested thoughts and ideas, but Martin was about four seconds from complete melt-down. I thought this might help prevent an aneurysm. I was wrong.
Martin spent a few moments (four seconds) reviewing the sheets in his fat, angry fists. His knuckles turned white. Nuclear winter was upon us.
Martin: What the fuck. What the fuck is this shit?
He began to read out the titles from my sheets with a voice so heavy with disgust, you would have thought he just ate a brick of shit.
Martin: "The problem with pogroms"? "Ships, passing"? "I'm so hungry for a hot tranny"? What is this shit?
Harvey: Actually, that last one is an epistolary--
Martin: I don't even know what that means, Harvey; that means it's shit. I hate this. I can't publish this! The "Aroma of Neutrogena"? Is this fucking poetry?
Harvey: Well, I'm not sure if you're familiar with Haiku but--
Martin: I don't give a rusty fuck, you fucking hack. I've shit out better ideas than this --on holiday.
Is this a figure of speech somewhere? He threw the sheets of rumpled graph paper across his desk in my direction.
Martin: You are going to fucking write something tonight, you fucking fuck of a fuck. I want to hear a good idea. Now.
I paused briefly to appreciate the glorious redundancy and rhythm of "fucking fuck of a fuck". But Martin really wasn't digging my lack of progress. I had to think quickly.
Harvey: Uh, I'm working on a sitcom about a gangster robot.
Martin froze when he heard this. I knew he liked robots. I think, just for a second, his molten fury subsided.
Martin: Go on.
Having called my bluff, I continued to improvise.
Harvey: Well, it's about this robot, who looks exactly human, except the scientist making him accidentally...
I pause, and think.
Harvey:...pops a tape of some BET shows into... his language programming... er, program...
I'm sweating at this point. This idea and its associated explanation sucked so bad.
Harvey:...and repeated exposure to Comic View starts to make the robot... "gangstalicious".
(It was either that or "ghetto fabulous". I stand by my choice.) I struggled to conclude:
Harvey: It's fun for the whole family!
I felt sick. Martin paused briefly and seemed to consider my proposal; shitty though it was. The office was quiet except for his hypertension breathing, and my finger tapping on the arms of the office chair. I was actually slightly relieved when he spoke.
Martin: Get the fuck out of my office. And write something you piece of shit. Fucking Christ on a pogo stick. You're a motherfuckin--
Before he could finish, I stood up, got the hell out of his office, ran back home, and wrote something. A meeting with management is always inspiring.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)