SULFUR
by
Cindy Rosmus
You sit quietly, sipping your beer,
while around you, all hell breaks loose.
The Yanks are winning; you could care less. Metallica blasts on
the jukebox. Over at the pool table, he’s
just won . . . again. The cheers and claps are more for him than the Yankees,
though except for you, they’re all diehard fans.
Plenty of coke-bucks on this
game. He sees to that. There is
nothing seedy, or self-destructive
that he’s not in charge of. The pool
games, too.
Over those cheers and claps comes
that
laugh: hearty, near-maniacal, and so loud, you swear he’s right next to you, standing
over you, looking down at you, instead of over there, dancing by his winning
table.
He’s always dancing, always
laughing .
. .
Always winning.
Why me? you ask yourself. Why only me?
Why can’t they see it, too?
The Devil. You’d think he’d be handsome. Brad Pitt, or
Johnny Depp-looking, instead of
scrawny, with that too-curly black hair.
A wig, it looks like, though who’d choose a wig like that? And those
black pop-eyes. “Hellzapoppin’ ” eyes,
like twin doors to hell. Like behind
them, demons hurl themselves, trying to break out. No wonder he wears glasses.
And those teeth. Needle-sharp, though
only you can see that. To the guys, they’re
just too many long, white teeth.
But you’re a chick. Maybe that’s it.
No.
There’s Kate. The beautiful,
blonde barmaid.
You need a drink. Wearily, you wave her over, but she doesn’t
seem to see you. It’s like you’re dead.
The way she’s clapping for him, you’d think he was this stud-ly, Brad
Pitt-looking thing. You’d never know she’s head-over-heels for her own
boyfriend, Butch.
Where is Butch? you think.
“I ate him,” this purry
voice says,
right in your ear. You turn, but no one
is there. “I bit clean through his
bones, swished his flesh around in my mouth, then swallowed him.”
Wildly, you look around. Over by the pool table, stick in hand, he’s
grinning right at you. “Mmmmmmm,” you
hear him thinking. He licks his lips. No
one but you sees his tongue is forked.
“Santos!” Kate calls to
him. “It’s on Richie!”
Another free drink.
Richie holds up his own beer for a
toast. “Good luck!” he tells Santos.
What nerve, you think, to name himself
that.
“Can you think of a better one?”
You jump. He really is beside you, now, pool stick in
hand. “You play,” he tells Richie, but
he’s watching you.
“But it’s your table,
man!” Richie’s a
beefy biker. His face looks like a rat’s
been gnawing on it.
“S’okay,” Santos
says. You cringe, as he lights a cigarette. Sulfur,
you smell. Smoking in bars was
outlawed in Jersey, but he does as he pleases.
“I’m talking to Magdalena.”
An exorcist, you think. That’s what you need. Somewhere you could
find one. Write to the Pope, or something.
Or, if all else fails, do the job
yourself. Wearing a giant wooden cross
and a garlic necklace . . .
“Not a chance.” Santos
looks almost
sympathetic. “I could live on camerones
ajillo. Somebody’s been feeding you
a line of bull.”
“Kate,” he says.
Chin in hand, Kate is watching him, closely. Red, swirly contacts,
she wears now, for him. Her real eyes are brown.
“Two shots,” he tells her.
The look she gives you makes you instantly cross yourself.
“It won’t help.” Santos can’t help smiling.
But you’re not beat yet.
You, with your cheap gypsy earrings and chipped nail polish. You, who’ve
been “connected” to The Other
Side since birth. Wasn’t it dead Grandma
Tucci who’d stopped you from falling out of your crib? Mama had screamed as
those sheer batwings arms caught you in mid-air.
You, drunken slut or not, are the Chosen One.
“Yes, you are,” he says, right into your brain. “ ‘The Chosen
One.’ ” His glasses are ice-cold against your cheek, his purry voice tickles
your ear. You almost like this! “I’ve
chosen you . . . for my queen.”
You bolt your shot. Shut
your eyes tight against him.
Around you, guys are cheering the Yanks, ignoring both of you.
It’s like neither of you exist. You feel
you’re floating, in your stools, a few feet above the floor. “Aw,
shit!” Richie yells, as if from a great
distance. He smacks the stick down on
the table. Laughter is muffled.
You open your eyes.
Santos . . . he’s changed. You’ve never seen anything like
him. Deep-set dark eyes, high cheekbones,
a kissable mouth. Those Harpo curls are
gone: his dark hair is wavy, tousled.
Like he’s been in a windy place.
You are, you realize. Both of you stand at the edge of a cliff. Like a glowing red Grand Canyon, all around
you. You’re scared to look below, but
the smell finds you. . . .
Like rotten eggs, and too-sweet cologne. You realize you always smell
him before you
see him.
Holding his shot, he backs toward the edge, smiling. The fangs are
gone. He has such a beautiful mouth: perfect, even
white teeth, and lips you are dying to kiss. . . .
Blood, you smell now, as it gets closer. The shot-glass brims with
it. Coppery, and meaty, you feel hungrier than
you ever have in your life!
His shot he holds to your lips.
Still backing up. Any moment
you’ll both be over the edge.
“It’s worth it,” he purrs.
With all your strength, you smack that shot into him. A maniacal
howl rends the air. Louder than the biggest bomb. You’re torn in half. Cracked ribs split, bleeding
heart tumbles
over and over! You’re falling. . .
.
Screaming. . . .
“Maggie!” It’s Kate. Her
brown eyes are warm, concerned. Around
you, the guys, all Yankees fans, are watching you instead of the TV screen. “Are
you okay?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out of it. That’s when
the door opens.
As he creeps in, you wonder where he got that hair. Is it naturally
curly, or did he sit for
hours in curlers, in some old lady beauty parlor? And for what? His glasses
are so thick, you
wonder how he can see where he’s going.
Somebody snickers. You
relax, a little.
When he reaches the bar, he throws down a bill. Smiles nervously,
all around. “Buy the bar!” he tells Kate, in this reedy
voice.
And that’s how it begins.
“Sulfur” originally appeared in Black Petals Issue #44, Summer 2008.
GOBBLE, GOBBLE by Cindy Rosmus What happened was, Rudy
fucked up. He knew the zombies were out there. It being Thanksgiving, he should’ve stayed
inside. The aroma of roast turkey vs. stench of rotting flesh? Come on. But he felt sorry for them. “Zombies,”
he told me, “have rights, too, ‘Einstein’.” That’s what he called
me, ‘cos I was smarter than him. A college grad with a crappy job, but I knew lots
of answers on Jeopardy. Knew other shit, too, like how to stay inside, when
the zombies were outside, chowing down. Home, I was, cooking our
Thanksgiving dinner. As Rudy staggered to my door, a fight was going on, out in my hallway. “Fuckin’
leech!” Lisa-from-next-door yelled at her boyfriend. “You thievin’ fuck!” I peered out
the door, not seeing Rudy, yet. Even as he clutched his throat, blood and rotting tissue
peeping through his fingers. Lisa’s boyfriend wore a jacket, hoodie, and a nice coat no doubt he stole.
Out of his backpack, I glimpsed two drumsticks, poised like an acrobat’s legs.
Like he’d crammed the whole turkey in there, straight from the oven. “Where’s
the stuffing?” Lisa demanded. “You take that, too?” No answer. His cheeks were
all puffed up, like before you puke. I slammed the door. Above the delicious aroma
of turkey was a noxious smell, like giblets from last night’s garbage. Rudy, I realized. Somehow, he’d slipped
in, past me. Something—either zombie ooze, or his mangled flesh—was stinking up my
place. “One of them . . .” Even with shades on, he looked dizzy. “. .
. got me!” He was ready to cry. “And I was only trying to help.” I
reached out, hesitantly. God, I loved him. In a sick, overwhelming way. That pale, brooding rebel; eyes
hidden behind dope glasses. Who always put my needs first, sexual,
or whatever. Damn, he was great between soiled, wrinkled sheets. Obsessed
with injustice, he was. Always fighting something. Even for the rights of …oozing,
murderous zombies. If Rudy . . . my dad once said, jumped off a cliff, would you . . . My smile had freaked Dad out. I’d
been to hell, and back, with Rudy. But this, I realized, fingers inching toward
his wound, was a new kind of hell…. The
doorbell saved me. “Baby,” I said, “Go sit down.” The bell buzzed wildly,
as he shuffled away. What if the zombie had followed
him here? And brought friends? I thought hard: Machete, bowie knife, .38 special. Which was the best zombie killer? If I used the machete, would the severed parts
keep moving? The head . . . would the runny eyes still see, rotting teeth keep
chomping on both Rudy, and then me? Or, would beheading the zombie do the trick? Did the .38 need
silver bullets? “No,” Rudy murmured, “That’s for werewolves.” He’d
read my mind. Was he even still human? The buzzing was replaced by persistent knocking. Machete behind
my back, I edged toward the door. Then threw it open. Old Mrs. Delancey, from 1-B stood, holding an empty cup. “Christine.”
Her voice was thick with dirt, and maggots. “Can you spare some flour?” I slammed the
door, heard the zombie’s head crack. A loud screeching followed. From the couch, Rudy moaned
in pain. Using almost super-human strength, I held the door shut. Heart racing. More of them
were out there. Jabbering, and howling. My feet slipped like mad, but I kept shoving the door back. God! I prayed, help us! Wondering
how long till the wood split. If Rudy wasn’t . . . wounded,
he might’ve saved us. But zombies had rights.
I seethed with hatred. This was all his fault. Now, we’d be the Delanceys’ Thanksgiving feast. Rudy
slumped off the couch. Sick as it was, the fear that he’d died, coupled with the dread of being eaten
alive, gave way to panic that our dinner was burning! Turkey would be overdone; potatoes
bubbling in too-little water, never to be mashed. If the wine was opened, I might’ve disinfected Rudy’s throat, before
gulping the rest, myself. Might’ve, I thought, bitterly. “Einstein,”
he whispered, trying to sit up. On days like this, I kept the kitchen window shut. To keep both the chill, and
zombies out. But not today. Our only chance was the fire escape. Machete in hand, I leapt
across the room, toward the kitchen. The door burst open, and the zombies stumbled in. The stench made
me gag. I glanced back to see Rudy, my poor, wounded love, half-sitting, looking so defenseless.
As
they tore into him, he howled. His shades went flying, as Lisa-next-door, a zombie now,
devoured half his face, with one “kiss.” The rush of jealousy terrified me. Still, I climbed out the
window. The sky was a freaky gray, like rain could help. I imagined it washing all the
zombies from this world. Maybe one, just one of them, would drown. Easing myself
down the fire escape, machete held close, I feared this might be my last Thanksgiving.
I
recalled that cliff I might’ve jumped off, for Rudy . . . .Before
landing on my feet. And stealing away. “Gobble, Gobble” originally appeared in Dark Dossier,
Issue #30, January 2, 2019.
GUNS AND MISTLETOE by Cindy Rosmus
Well, it’s V-Day. After months of trying, Lew was back with his
wife. Red cardboard hearts, I’m hanging, all over Scratch’s. Beneath the neon
beer signs on windows, on the new mirror behind the register. Right across from his Desert
Eagle .44. Lew’s so lovesick, I bet he forgot it’s there. But not how to use
it. It’s thanks to me, they’re back together.
Though I didn’t do much. On Christmas Eve Day, Wifey invited Lew over for
lunch. “What the fuck . . .” he asked, as
I sliced limes, “does she want?” I shrugged. “Go,” I said. “Find
out.” He reached for the Jack Honey, then changed his
mind. “Gotta buy her something? Like, nice?” To
Lew, “nice” meant perfume from the dollar store. Ask me, a chick asking
you to Christmas Eve lunch meant she was either dumping you or loved you. She’d already
dumped him. His phone pinged.
“Aaah, she’s cancelling,” he said, without checking the
text. “You sure?” He checked
his phone. “Junior. He’s on his way. On time, for once.” He
sounded disappointed. I tried not to laugh. “So, it’s
Christmas Eve,” he said, slowly pulling on his jacket. He’d seen
shit most people just watched on TV. Maybe worse. That gun under the bar was loaded . .
. usually. Don’t ask how I knew. But till now, I’d never seen him scared.
“What the fuck,” he said, on his way
out, “does she want?” * “Fucking liar,” I told Junior, when
he strolled in late, as usual. “Had to get rid of him.” He smirked.
“Mom wants him for lunch.” He’d blown his hair dry instead of letting
those curls run free. His sweater was nice and tight. “Late
lunch.” “Yup . . .” Thanksgiving
Eve we’d fucked, in the ladies’ room, after closing. He was
hot for Round Two. But I was cooler than his other chicks. We hadn’t even kissed. In a half-assed way, we welcomed Christmas. A fake tree near the pool
table people backed into, each time they took a shot. Mistletoe, who-knows-where, as I
was trashed when I hung it. Red and green Jell-O shots I’d made, for later. So far, the place was dead. Snake had stopped in, in a “Bah! Humbug!”
mood. Then a few bikers. Now some drunk guy in full Santa gear playing “Jingle Bell
Rock” on the jukebox. “Ho, ho, ho!” he said, with each fresh drink. Junior
eyed Santa, then the ladies’ room door. “C’mon, Shel,” he said,
“before it gets crowded.” From outside
came loud female voices. “Aaaah, shit.” Junior turned away.
The voices got louder. It was déjà vu, all right.
Without seeing them, I knew these chicks were trouble. Lightning,
I realized, as they came in, would strike twice. It
was them. That tiny chick and her huge, Madonna-haired lover. They were dressed for the holidays, Big Madonna in a red sequined pantsuit
with matching bag. Her bulb earrings flashed on and off like Christmas lights. The tiny
one’s getup topped even that: a red and green tunic with striped leggings like you’d
only find in Oz. Her elf’s cap had bells and pointy ears. But this
was no “Whistle While You Work” elf. Her round face looked as
mean as the day she’d held up Lew and me with that “Barbie” gun, two years back.
Then Big Madonna heaved her into the ceiling fan.
But she lived. On their way to jail, they made up. “June!”
I said, when they sat down. But Junior was doing Jell-O shots with
Santa. Lew, I thought. I’ve gotta tell Lew. Except
. . . Mom’s having him for lunch. The
chicks weren’t speaking. Casing the joint? I wondered. Finally, the
“elf” beckoned me over. “Mistletoe cocktail.” “A what?” Annoyed, she counted on her fingers. “Vodka.
Cranberry. Honey . . .” “No honey,” I said, but she kept going. “Mint.” Like this was the Kentucky Derby, and Mint Juleps
were flying. Then, “Ginger beer.” “Or
ginger ale,” Big Madonna said. “I like that better.” “Fuck you!” the elf said. “Now you don’t get
one. I’ll drink two Mistletoe cocktails, but you won’t get any.” “But . . .” Big Madonna was tearing up. “It’s
Christmas.” “Yeah?” The elf smiled. “Well,
I hate Christmas.” That huge fist could’ve smashed my face.
Expertly, the elf blocked it. “But . . . that’s when we met!”
Big Madonna wailed. “It’s . . . our anniversary! Tomorrow…” she
gasped out between sobs. “I thought . . . I was getting . . . a ring.” “Fat chance!” the mean elf said. Big Madonna got up. “You
making that drink?” the elf asked me. “Junior!”
I yelled, as the scorned lover ran over to Santa. “That
nasty bitch says . . .” She shook him, knocking his cap off. “She
hates Christmas!” “Good!” Santa tried pulling away.
“So do I!” Junior laughed, drunkenly. That strange déjà vu feeling,
again. Recalling the time this elf-like chick pulled
a “toy” gun . . . “Open the register,” she said now.
“Gimme all the money.” This gun was bigger. Out of that sequined purse,
it must’ve come. With both hands, she pointed the gun at me, then at Junior. At first, he and Santa were too trashed to catch on. Then, laughing
nervously, Santa put his cap back on. “Man,” Junior said. “I should’ve peed.” My
guts felt like those Jell-O shots. “The money,” the elf told Junior.
“I want all of it.” “But it’s Christmas,” Santa
said. “Not yet.” Junior inched
along, behind the bar. Whether he’d open the register, or
grab Lew’s gun, I wasn’t sure.
“You hate Christmas,” Big Madonna told the elf. “I bet you hate
me, too.”
“Shut up,” the elf told her.
From behind her, Big Madonna said, “Well, now I hate you!” Like
a grizzly bear, she overpowered her. As they went down, a barstool snapped, and the legs
went flying. The gun went off, shattering the mirror behind the register. Glass was everywhere.
Junior had sobered up fast. Lew’s .44 was out and ready. “No cops,”
he said. “Just get out.” For a few moments, Big
Madonna just stared. Then, she picked up the elf like a broken doll. “Get off me!”
The elf shoved her away, shook out her legs before bending and retrieving the gun.
“Now.” Junior sounded just like Lew.
The elf slipped the gun back into the purse, and she and Big Madonna hurried out
the door. “Me, too?” Santa said. “You were never
here,” Junior said.
Behind the bar were chunks of broken mirror, between liquor bottles, on the floor.
Glass was stuck to our clothes. Somewhere back there was a spent casing we’d have
to find. A big mess to clean up. Better
than picking bullets out of each other. Not till I’d found the broom and dustpan,
did he put the .44 away. We both smiled. You knew what was coming. As Junior locked the doors, Lew’s text came through. “Kinda slow for Christmas Eve,” Junior said, when he saw
it. “That’s what I’ll say. But for a while, we were busy.” He got
really close. “Right?” “Maybe.” I
remembered now. On that mirror that shattered, I’d hung mistletoe. Now lost
among shards of glass on the floor, crunching beneath our feet. Squashed, with our first, hot
kiss. THE END
STARS by Cindy Rosmus Why write about
them? Seen any lately, in Jersey? Not long ago, that sky was
plum velvet, or barbecued orange, from toxic
waste. You could smell it. The stars
stunk, too, I bet. Sorry . . . You can’t get a candlelit, girly-girl poem
out of me. Not about stars, or that
sneering sea The Titanic sunk into. Not about love. Only “crimes
of passion”: cheating fools’
hearts spilling out of their ripped tees like chopped
chuck. It should be yours.
SINGERS AND SINNERS by Cindy Rosmus
Yeah, that’s right. Tony Z. Outside my
house, by the Padre Pio shrine. And don’t act like you don’t know.
The whole town knows. Like they all knew Tony
Z. At least, people who liked cheap drinks down the Lodge and who lived for Saturday Night
Karaoke.
Tony Z., that smug-faced fuck who came prancing in, at midnight, once the place
was jumping. Off-key regulars up my ass, with song requests. Like Bananas, who
tortured us with Journey. “Susie,” old Nelly begged, “Can I do ‘Crazy’ next?” It’d
be the sixth time she sang. “Umm
. . . no,” I said. “I,” Tony Z. announced, from the door, “am in the house!”
And assholes cheered, like Elvis himself had up and walked in, from the grave.
But he already had. Donny Dugan was
there. Our town’s official Elvis impersonator, who did shows down the Senior Center.
Sometimes he showed up in gold lame and greasy wig, but not tonight. Donny
wasn’t cheering. Clutching his Scotch, he glared as Tony Z. grabbed the mic out of
Nelly’s hand. “It’s my turn,” Tony
Z. told me, “Put on ‘Suspicious Minds.’ ” Donny’s signature tune. What he was singing
next. “Gotta wait,” I said.
“Donny’s ahead of you.” They
loomed over my booth. Tony Z. smirking, Donny stone-faced, as they both clutched the mic
from opposite sides. Like oversized brats, they acted, though both were
pushing sixty. And neither was what they seemed to be. A
big gambler, Tony Z. owed people big-time. But he loved his Italian mother more than life,
itself. Donny was more than an Elvis wannabe; he was a ruthless
bookie . . . Who could make you disappear. So
how does St. Padre Pio fit in, with all this? In our town, he’s our favorite Italian
saint. He worked lots of miracles. Since he took his first steps, Tony Z. was devoted to
him. So when his old mom got sick . . . Who did he beg, for a miracle? And
why outside my house? Years
back, when she’d beat melanoma, my mom put up the shrine in the front yard, behind
the pansies. St. Padre Pio had the kindest eyes. At least, the statue’s did. From
all over, people came to pray. All types: Weepy Mrs. Fratellis, with their black veils
and rosaries. Junkies, politicians. One drunken night, I’d staggered home to find
ex-Mayor Piccolo kneeling, before the shrine. Hey, it saved his marriage. When
my mom passed, I got the house, the bills, and the shrine. “Saint Padre,” I
prayed, “Send me a job.” I was broke as shit. What he
sent, was the worst job, ever: tending bar and running karaoke at the Lodge. My boss, Googie,
had three chins and watched me like a hawk. “No freebies,” he said, in his
gravelly voice. Still, I was blessed. Till
I lost it. One minute, I was between Tony Z. and Donny. Fists were flying, and I got splashed
with blood. Next, I was outside, pleading with cops. “They’re like
brothers,” I lied. “They’ll make up.” Tony
Z.’s lip curled. He had some shiner. But he could still sing. Glaring at him, Donny
spat out bloody teeth. “Please,”
I begged one cop, “don’t tell my boss.” “Thanks to you,”
Googie said, next day. “Tony Zaino’ll never come in here again. Why didn’t
you just let him sing?” “It was Donny’s turn.” “You
know how much money Tony drops?” “He drinks two-dollar Nips,”
I said. “Says it’s you, or him. Let’s see, lemme choose
. . .” He fingered his third chin. “Moneybags, or Grumpy Cat?” Moneybags
won. Till he disappeared. “No,” Bananas told me, at 7-11. “He didn’t
really disappear. I don’t think.”
We both peered around, like Donny was hiding behind the Slurpee machine. “His mom’s
real sick. Shit, she’s over ninety.” Outside, Bananas waited
for me. “He’s hiding,” he whispered. “From Donny.” Again, he
peered around. “Didn’t think he owed him that
much.” In case Tony Z. was gone for good, Googie took me back, bartending.
But not for karaoke. That, he did himself, next Saturday night. “Hey!” he yelled,
to Nelly. “Sing that shit, bitch!” Donny showed up, just
to drink. “No songs tonight?” I said. His
open mouth showed missing teeth. How could I forget? “And I’m still pissed,”
he said, in a muffled voice. “That song-stealing mother-. . .” I
hid my smile. “He ratted you out, Susie,” Donny said. ‘Cos you
sided with me.” A hundred-dollar bill appeared on the bar, next to
his empty. “I like that you sided with me.” It was your song,” I said. But this was about
more than karaoke. This could lead to something big. ‘Cos
of Tony Z., I’d lost my job. And if he came back . . . I
watched Donny, carefully, as I slid the hundred across the bar. “His mom’s real
sick,” I said. “Almost dead.” No reaction. “They
called the priest. But Tony . . .” I poured Donny a double Scotch. “He wants .
. . a miracle.” Donny’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe
he’ll find one.” Donny closed his hand over mine, which still clutched the
bill. He squeezed, tightly. How the killer knew when Tony Z. would be there, nobody knew. But
when the bullets shattered the back of his head, he was on his knees, before the shrine.
Bloody chunks of skull, and brain flying all over, onto the grass, and pansies. I
mean, that’s what the M.E. must’ve told the cops, later. Hey,
watching from my window, they could’ve got me, too . . . But
they didn’t. THE END
“Singers and Sinners” originally appeared in Rock and a Hard Place
Magazine, Issue 2: Winter / Spring 2020.
GRANDFATHERED by Cindy
Rosmus “Samantha?” Kate, the crossing guard.
Her saying my name like that, from behind me, made me nervous. I checked if the bus
was coming before facing her.
This look she had, like she knew something. Or wanted to. Nosiest bitch on the block,
Bingo Joe always said.
“Georgie’s selling the building?”
“What?” I said. “No!”
She smirked.
Georgie, our landlord, was Bingo Joe’s boss. Mine, too, since I wasn’t
working. That bus I was waiting on was for a temp agency’s skills test. “Where’d
you hear . . .”
“There goes your bus!” Kate said, as it flew past me. Against the light, I
hurried across the street. “Hey!” she yelled. “Nah.” At
the kitchen table, Bingo Joe smoked a joint with his Fruit Loops. “Georgie ain’t
selling.” He passed me the joint. “Thought you had some test.” “You sure?”
“Would’ve said something last night, on the phone. And, so what if he
sells? Been down Florida two years now. I’m doing the shitwork.”
“What if the new owner doesn’t want you?” A shrug, and deep toke,
in response. Like “’The Dude’ Lebowski,” ‘cept Puerto Rican.
Nothing fazed him. But that rumor sent my brain spinning. “We’ll
be . . .” I choked on the word. “Homeless!” Outside the abandoned A & P, we’d
be camped out, our five cats the “new kids” in the feral colony. Eating out of
dumpsters. Sharing wine out of paper bags. “Those big, red Salvy boxes?” he said, grinning.
“Where people shove clothes?” Itchy the gray tabby
clawed his ankles, and he bent to rub his ears. “Knew
a guy lived in one. Didn’t like shit they threw in, he’d throw it back
out.”
Almost crying, I ran out. Upstairs, like some psycho, I touched the lobby walls so I’d
remember what they felt like. We should’ve watered those dying plants more. Packages,
mostly from Pet Place, were piled up beneath the mailboxes. Two huge ones for old Miss
Roberts in 1C. Kitty litter for Sunshine, her huge gold Persian. “NO
PETS,” the current lease said. We’d all ignored it. The building was
crawling with cats, rabbits, even a snake. Laying on the beach in Florida, Georgie wouldn’t
know. But the new landlord . . . “Stop crying!”
Back downstairs, I flew into Bingo Joe’s arms. “Aww, baby. It’ll
be OK.” I squeezed him so tight, I probably hurt him. “You promise?” He grabbed the water pitcher before Noodles shoved it off the table. “The plants!” Bingo Joe said. “I was just gonna . . .” Sighing, I trudged upstairs with the pitcher. Everything had to be done “just right” now. Hallway
floors should be spotless and shiny. No waiting to mop till after the drunks puked. And
buff, I thought, wearily. No leaving the trash till the last minute. Take the cans out at 5 PM
sharp. And no mixing beer cans with cardboard recyclables. Or with real garbage, I thought, cringing. Like eggshells. And used
condoms. Like Bobby-G, in 2-B. I was watering a brown plant when the back of my neck felt
strange. Like someone was watching me. I looked around, but
no one was there. Bobby G., I thought. Lurking around, with those creepy eyes.
And two tenants dead, right after . . . “You guys leaving?” I screamed, and the pitcher went flying. Out of nowhere, he’d appeared. Bobby G. picked up the
pitcher and handed it to me. Both the floor and his jeans were soaked. He was smiling. “So, Georgie sold the building?” “No!” I backed away. “Says who?” “La
Roche!” The door to 1-D flew open. “That’s who’s buying it.”
Mrs. Dietz kicked her laundry basket into the hall. “Who?”
I asked. “La Roche.” Bobby G. jammed an unlit cigarette
in his mouth. “The ‘Roach King!’” “Roaches?” Cradling Sunshine, Miss Roberts came out of 1-C. “Who’s
got roaches?” “Us!” Mrs.
Dietz said, “If that slumlord buys this place.” “He’s
buying up buildings all over,” Bobby G. said, through the cigarette. “Not ours,” I said. “Wanna bet?” “How
do you know?” Miss Roberts asked. Smirking, Bobby G. jerked his head toward the front door.
My heart sunk. “Kate?” I asked. “The crossing
guard?” “Take a shit on Mars, that bitch can smell it.” I felt
like puking. Would serve Georgie right, if I left it there. How
could he sell to the “Roach King”? And not even tell us! Footsteps, we heard,
shuffling up the stairs. Still in his slippers and pj’s,
Bingo Joe clutched his phone. “Georgie just called.” “Tol’ja,”
Bobby G. said. Miss Roberts asked, “When does the ‘Roach Prince’
take over?” “‘Roach King.’” Bingo
Joe sat on the bench, next to the packages. “La Roche don’t want
it.” We looked around, relieved, but not meeting each other’s
eyes. How shitty was this building, that even that scumlord didn’t want it? Miss Roberts shifted Sunshine to her shoulder. “Well, that’s . . . good.” “But someone else does.” Except for the plants dripping water, it was dead quiet. “Name’s Cowell. Georgie’s flying up to meet him.” I sunk to the floor. For Georgie to leave “Margaritaville” . . . “I hope Mr. Cowell likes cats,” Miss Roberts said. “You kidding?”
I wanted to kick Bobby G. “They’ll be the first to go.”
When Miss Roberts squealed, he added, “After these two.” Meaning Bingo Joe and
me. “Think your pets are grandfathered,” Mrs. Dietz
said. “If you’ve been here a while.” “Not
them.” Again Bobby G. meant us. “And if I read the lease correctly .
. .” My head on my knees, I thought back to those two crazy nights.
In February, right around Valentine’s Day, Looney Toons in 1-E hung herself. Then,
in August, Kissy-Face in 2-D drowned in the tub. But maybe Kissy-Face had help. Maybe
they both did. Six months apart, but both times
Bobby G. had been right there. Knew more than the cops, it seemed. If you
shit on Mars, I thought, he would smell it. Both
were blondes. Maybe that was his type. If death
came in threes . . . Who would be Blonde #3? Suddenly, Bingo Joe got up. “Gotta mop these halls,” he said, “before
they get here.” * *
* Four o’clock, they would be there, both Georgie, and Cowell, the new owner.
“‘Wannabe’ owner.” Bingo Joe
cracked our last beer. At the kitchen table, we’d sat,
glumly, all afternoon. In his cereal bowl from this morning, two sad Fruit Loops floated
in milk. One pink, one blue. “Georgie flying up,” I said,
“that’s not good.” He nodded. Itchy jumped up on the table,
nudged my face. I buried mine in his. Why couldn’t we be
“grandfathered”? When Bingo Joe’s phone rang, we
jumped. “Georgie’s flight’s
delayed,” he said. “Says can we hang out with Cowell till he gets here.”
Disgusted, I got up. “I’ll
go get a six-pack.” Upstairs, the
lobby floor shone so, I saw my face in it: a nasty mug, with too much eye makeup. Those
damn plants had perked up. I wanted to spit in them. Since the packages were gone, I stretched out on the bench and shut my eyes. Old Miss Roberts, I thought. When Cowell took over, how much longer
could she keep Sunshine? That fat cat was her whole life. And our cats . . . Itchy, Noodles, and the other three . . . And Bingo Joe . . . They were my life. They were all
that I had. Tears
burned my eyes, and I felt my mascara run. But I couldn’t stop crying. Why us? I thought. We weren’t the worst supers. At the building
I grew up in, those supers robbed all the tenants. This young husband and wife, said the
landlord wanted the rent in cash, as of now. My Pop lost his whole paycheck to them. We’d never screw anybody. Neighbors were neighbors. When the front door opened, I wiped my eyes and got up. Behind the glass lobby door was a lady, in a Fruit Loop-blue suit.
Blonde hair, like a golden waterfall. Rich-looking, like she’d come here by mistake.
Not the way she strutted in. “Who,”
asked a voice from behind me, “is that?” For once, he didn’t catch me off guard. Before she could ring the bell, I opened the lobby door, smiling.
“May I help you?” I asked, in my grandest temp-agency voice. “I’m Melody Cowell.” As he came around, I realized I’d never seen Bobby G. look
so good. Almost handsome, in business casual: nice jeans and a shirt that was the same
blue as this lady’s suit. He admired
her long, blonde hair. “I’m so happy to meet you,” he told her. “Pleased to meet you, too,” she
said, smiling. “George.” When he glanced over at me, I
looked away. Looney Tunes had been a bottle blond.
When the EMTs cut her down, I bet her dark roots were visible. And in that vanilla
bath, Kissy-Face’s locks would’ve trailed like a washed-out mermaid’s. But Melody Cowell was the real deal. As she and “Georgie” went up the
stairs, I remembered I had a six-pack to get. Maybe I’d hit every liquor store in
town till I found the cheapest. Or let everyone think I did. THE END
“68” by Cindy Rosmus “It’s a family curse,” the client,
Sandy, said. “They all died at 68.” She looked down at her hands. “Now
it’s my turn.” She didn’t look 68. Just crazy. With those
wild eyes and dyed black hair pointing in all directions. Hat hair, but with no hat in
sight. Just an ugly purple purse. Those hands she was staring at didn’t look old,
only chapped. “Please!” she said, when she’d
walked in through the beaded curtains. “I need your help!” “Who . . . died first?” I said now. What else could I say? Madame Julia, I called myself,
since that morning. My grandma was the real psychic, but she went
to Atlantic City with her “Golden Girl” pals. I was filling in. I wasn’t
even a Madame: I’d just turned 18, but the purple satin robe and turban smelled as
old as Grandma. “My mom’s parents,”
Sandy said, “went first. Nonna had breast cancer, so
68 was lucky for her. But Nonno was so distraught . . .” She fingered her spiky hair.
“He got hit by a truck!” I nodded. “Sixty-eight, too.” “The next day, he would’ve turned 69.” That robe was hot, even with the A/C blasting. The turban
made my scalp sweat. “He almost broke the curse. Who else?” “My dad’s parents died years back, before
I was born.” “In the old country?” Her eyes narrowed. “No!” she snapped. “In
Newark! Their bar was held up, and they were shot dead.” Shit, I thought. “Which ‘old country?’”
She sneered, getting up. “Which did you see in the cards?” I jumped, like I’d been burned. Grandma had left
the Tarot cards spread out on the table. I
didn’t know much, but I felt it was the Death card that’d zinged me. “The cards say nothing.” She
sat back down. “They were both 68, too. Twenty years ago, they found my
Pop . . . he’d left us way back . . . dead at 68, in his house. Drowned, in his own
. . .” I waved that away. Now I felt nauseous. “At 68, my mom died in jail.” When I didn’t react,
she said, “For poisoning my stepfather.” She smiled. “I found out she
was doing it. And you know what I did?” Nothing,
I thought. “Watched her stir anti-freeze into his cocktails.
Squeeze a little lime, add some sweet vermouth.” I gathered up the cards. “She’d taken a fat insurance policy
out on him. Once he was dead, we could get away.” I shuffled the cards, even though the Tarot wasn’t my thing. But I could read palms. “He wasn’t a
bad guy,” she said. “We just had . . . to . . . get away.” I reached for her hand. “Hey!” “You want my help,” I said, “or not?” Last year, in senior bio class, I’d stroked a
boa constrictor. Minutes later, when Mr. Landers fed it a live rat, I ran out, sobbing.
This old bitch’s hand felt snakelike as
I turned it over, lightly touched her pinky. “So many lines,” I said, “in
the middle joint.” I let that sink in. “What does that mean?” I didn’t answer. I enjoyed how sweaty her hand
got as I turned it over, staring at her palm, poking the heart line. My smile might’ve
looked like hers when she said she’d helped kill her stepfather. “You’ll be fine,” I said, dropping
her hand and getting up. “Actually, you will break the curse.” “Really?” she said. “I won’t
die this year?” I shook my head. “How long will I live?” “If I knew numbers,”
I said, “I’d be in Atlantic City right now.” We both laughed. She gave me more money than I bet she would’ve
given Grandma. Maybe more than Grandma had won, or lost, at the casino today. “Thank you!” Beaming, she left through the
beaded curtains. Maybe I was the real thing. I couldn’t see the number, but someday, when she
was older, and gray, walking down icy steps, some kid jonesing for crack would push her
down most of them. When her skull cracked on the sidewalk, he’d snatch her purse.
That ugly purple one from today.
“NOYB” by
Cindy Rosmus “’N-O-Y-B,’”
I said, laying down the phone. “‘None of your business.’” “Oh,
yeah?” Marco smirked. He was doing a cut when the text came through. “Everything’s
my business!” The
client cringed. Marco was always pulling hair. Not everything, I thought. Everybody’s. “Section Eight,” he said, after
one lady left. Eighty bucks for a color but she got free rent. Twenty
years I’d worked in his shop. It was OK, with clients of all ages, some real old.
Vintage perms, they wanted. The solution burned my nose and eyes. “She’s
worth like five mill,” Marco said, as a nonagenarian was shuffling out the door.
Like she was deaf. The guy with her, maybe her son, gave Marco a dirty look. As
the door shut behind them, Marco said, “Bet he can’t wait to collect.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. Owner
or not, he still wore his curly hair as long as when he sang in a Zeppelin cover band.
He was still starved for attention. “È pazzo!" he said, about some clients. Crazy or not, one guy took back his
tip. “Cheap fuck,” Marco
said, in English. “You,” I said, “talk
too much.” He did mostly cuts,
left the shit-work to me: frostings, two-tones, those dreaded old-lady perms. But when
Himself was swamped, I also did simple colors. “Gina,
please . . .” Last week, a regular squeezed my arm till it hurt. “Redo my
color! Saturday . . . he missed . . . the whole side of my head!” “Wow,”
I said. Saturday he’d been too
busy trashing the client before. Theresa, this married chick he was hot to fuck. “She
could’ve had me,” Marco said, “Anybody but her would’ve
dumped him by now. That . . .” He looked around the shop before saying, “finocchio.”
His wrist went limp. “Can you believe it, Eddie Mangione takes it up . . .?” Silence,
all over the shop. Nancy, the pink-haired shampoo girl, just stared. Eddie
Mangione was once famous, in our town. Owned restaurants that went broke. A bar that got
busted for serving minors. People said he’d hit rock bottom. And, lately, we heard
he was sick. Marco had never met
him, but trashed him, anyway. Once, years back, he’d seen Mangione’s picture in
the paper. Chubby-cheeked, with blond hair longer than Marco’s. “Meat
Loaf!” Marco had laughed. “Someday,”
I told him, that day I redid the lady’s color. “The wrong person will hear
you.” My hand shook so, I squirted dye everywhere but on her head. “Sorry!”
I told her. “Watch!” Marco
yelled. “Blue-black’s expensive.” Big
inkblots I had to clean up, mostly on the lady. “It’s OK, Gina!” she
told me. What
was up with me? That shit I’d said, about the wrong person hearing him, had come
out of nowhere. Later,
like 3:30, not long before closing, I saw Nancy pack up to leave. “Where
you going?” I said, and she jumped. “Um
. . .” She slid her phone in her purse. “My son . . .” Son? She looked like a sixth grader. “There’s
one more cut,” I said. “He
. . .” It was like lightning had struck her face. “He shouldn’t have
said that.” “Who?” But
I knew. N-O-Y-B, I thought. “I’ll
wash his hair,” I said. The
guy had called earlier, with a mouthful of marbles. Like Don Corleone from The Godfather,
he sounded. “Last-minute gig,” and “haircut” were muffled. The
clearest words were “Only Marco.” Only
Marco could cut his hair. “What’s
his name?” Marco asked me. As
Nancy rushed out, the guy walked in, as if neither saw the other. Strange, especially ‘cos
of her shocking-pink hair, and how he looked like Death took a holiday. He
was so thin, his bones nearly creaked. Face was familiar, but at the same time, not. Like
it would’ve been, but something was different now. Hair real long, like an aging
rock star’s, some blond, mostly gray. Something big bulged in the black leather jacket.
He walked right up
to Marco. “Sit down, bro.”
Marco pulled out his chair. “My
niece said, you said I take it up the ass.” Marco
froze. For the first time, he was shut up good. His face worked, like he was struggling
with something. Nancy, I thought, my
heart racing. That meant her uncle was . . . “Only
way you would know that,” Eddie Mangione said, “was, it was your dick
in there.” “Huh?” Marco
looked nervous. I
started edging backwards, toward the door. “If
my Theresa thinks . . .” Mangione reached in his jacket. “Your dick was in
me,” he said, “I’m blasting yours off.” “Please,”
Marco begged. That fast, he was crying. “I’ll shut up.” Should’ve
done that way back, I thought, getting closer to the door. “Please!” On
my way out, Mangione started shooting. “Help!” I yelled, but couldn’t hear myself. The shop
shook with the impact of giant bullets. I ran. A cop car passed, and I flagged it. It
was horrific. What a mess that huge gun made: mirrors
shattered, bottles of perm solution, color exploded. Like a bizarre mural, blood, guts,
and cellophane colors streaked the walls. On
the floor lay Marco, his bottom half drenched in blood. His top half close by . . . that
mouth shut up for good. Mangione turned the
gun on himself, but the cop I’d flagged yanked it away. * Mangione tried pleading Man 1 but got
twenty-five to life. I mean, he’d brought that monster gun with him. His face alone
could scare you to death. Bet he gets out, though. They say that
wife, Theresa, sticks by him. Some say Marco was killed
in a lovers’ quarrel. Others say, “Shit, he and Mangione were made for each
other.”
I say, “N-O-Y-B.”
KABOOM by Cindy Rosmus
Yeah, it was me. And so what? He deserved it.
Three Christmases, RJ ran off with our gifts. Missy’s doll house, Patty’s Legos.
This time, it was the baby’s stuff. Year-old Lulu. His own kid. With the same cold,
almost black eyes. Like bullet holes on those shows where the bad guys always win. I knew
he would do it. That one present, that’s the one I rigged. The prettiest package,
wrapped in silver and red foil, with the little stuffed kitten sticking out of the bow.
That’s the only thing I hated, about doing
it. The kitten got blown up, too. Never
mind why I did it. Why’d he keep stealing our presents? Sold them, to get high. And
Mom always let him. With that hopeless look she got, when my brother Markie took another
dump in his pants. And he was no baby. We were all fucked up, all five of us. Me, I was supposed to
be dumb. But at the same time, smarter than some grown-ups. How else could I build a bomb?
A special kid in a special school instead of a real sixth grade class. Nobody was
allowed to say why I was weird. But toy companies made special dolls for kids like me.
Just for girls, I guess. The one girl in my class kept spinning around, but could recite
all the presidents, backwards. An old
mousetrap, I found, in the basement. The storage area. Our building is super-old, with
lots of fun shit, all over. Wouldn’t have been fun for the poor mouse, though. Glad
I found the trap, first. And more fun shit, on the other end. That weird guy upstairs,
I think they were his. The shotgun shells. All those shows, on like the true crime channels. You learn a lot.
They’re so stupid to give directions. Not everybody who watches wants to blow something
up. But there’s always one kid . . . Who’s sick of the shit
. . . Like his mom’s eyes all swollen, more often than not . . . Who busts out crying,
when she’s nuking mac n’cheese, or wiping ass. When the pretty foil
comes off, and box opens, the bar on the trap hits the primer . . . 00 buckshot. Nine per
shell . . . A
nice, big mess. . . . You’d think Mom would be glad. But when the cops came— the lady cop looking
like that weird redhead comic—Mom screamed, and screamed. Chunks of RJ mixed with
chunks of the dealer, the cops said, so you couldn’t tell who’d worn the Giants
cap. You couldn’t tell who was black, and who was white. The kitchen stunk. Markie had
shit his pants again. For once, the cops came with good news. But nobody but me was happy.
Not even Lulu. And it was mostly for her, I did it. She looked at me all mean. With Mom
wailing in the background, and the other kids holding each other, that lady cop kept her
eye on me. The
only one smiling. I hooked my pinky around Lulu’s fingers. In her baby face, RJ’s eyes
told the cops that yes, I was special: More grown-up than kid. THE
END “Kaboom”
originally appeared in Shotgun Honey on April 5, 2019.
Cindy is a Jersey girl who
looks like a Mob Wife and talks like Anybodys from West Side Story. Her
noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun
Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; Horror, Sleaze, Trash;
and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow
Mama and the art director of Black Petals. Her seventh collection of short stories,
Backwards: Growing Up Catholic, and Weird, in the 60s (Hekate Publishing), is out,
now! Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
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