Yellow Mama Archives

Cindy Rosmus
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yellowmama2.jpg
Art by Tim Ramstad

YELLOW MAMA

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

A Chevy Camaro, that’s what they had.  A ’69.  Ricky knew jack shit about cars, but since that was the year he was born, it stuck out.  The ugliest yellow, like the caked mouth of their mustard bottle.  But some things cake faster than others.  Like blood.  And their car was splattered with it.

Hood, fenders, and grill. Outside their trailer, Ricky stood shivering, staring at the car.  Early morning, but the sun was too bright.  The time change, no doubt.  A year ago, the light would’ve killed his bloodshot eyes.  Hangovers were a bitch, he remembered: blinding headaches, boozy aftertaste, overwhelming fear that somehow things would never be right.  Never get better.  Ever.

But they had, at least for him.  But now this.  This, Ricky realized, wiping his mouth furiously, was not him.  It was Sam.  ALANON calling!  His wife, Samantha, as active as ever.  Over and over Ricky wiped his mouth, like it was smeared with her lipstick.  But they hadn’t kissed, in a long time.  My God, he thought, what has she done?  Call the police! came the voice of reason.  But his legs were as inert as the car itself.  And he hated himself for it.

Last night, he’d been dead asleep when she came home.  Strange for him, but lately Icky Ricky was changing.  Oh, he still looked the same: short, dark-haired, with the same questioning dark eyes.  But sometimes those eyes actually had answers.  He’d kept his goatee, as a “souvenir” from his drinking days. He ate lots of veggies.  Mornings he jogged.  His new job, data entry clerk, beat slicing cold cuts at the corner deli.  He even prayed.

Yes, Ricky was evolving, and he owed it to his Higher Power: A. A., ALANON, but also to “Mouse.”  His sweet, accommodating little Mouse.  Her real name “Giselle” just didn’t suit her.  Petite, sandy-haired, with the palest of blue eyes behind the ugliest glasses: wire aviators like he wore as a kid.  Mouse was Samantha’s opposite and secret rival.  Last night, alone, snuggled under the covers, Ricky had dreamed.  Crystal clear dreams of both his girls, the nights he’d met them, two years apart: nightmarish Sam, with hair of hellfire red, wildly sucking his cock after Ladies’ Night, and gentle, spectacled Mouse, trembling at her first Recovery meeting.  Sam had spilled Jack-and-Coke on him, Mouse, her scalding coffee.  “I’m so sorry!” Mouse shrieked, as he jumped up. “It’s okay,” Ricky lied, through clenched teeth.  The pain was so bad, he’d nearly cried.

*   *   *

They’d been the perfect match: Sam and him.  He hated lipstick; the mess it made, mostly the taste.  But back then, he’d dug hers: “Blood Rose.” Even sucked on her lips for more. When they drank, he just couldn’t get enough of her.  That first night they made out, so wildly, everybody in the bar snickered.  “Get a room!”  Some guy kept yelling.  “Aw, shut up!” Ricky grumbled.  Even bombed, he’d despised himself for falling so hard, so fast. 

“You are so gorgeous!”  he told Sam.  “No, I’m Scorpio,” she said, giggling, playing with his goatee.  “October thirtieth.  Mischief Night,” she said seductively. “Possessive.  Loyal.  Sexy.”  He moaned, as she massaged his inner thighs.  “Bet you are, too. Just look at those eyes!”  Ricky melted.  Hers were as dark, and nearly devoured his.  “No, I’m a Sag,” he said, like some astro-wiz.  True, but a moment later, she snatched back her hand.

“A control freak!” Sam screamed, so people stared.  “ Sagittarians suck.  All brutally honest fuckers!”  Ricky wished he could hide somewhere.  “Who needs you?”  Now she was sobbing.  “Or the truth?”  Annoyed, the bartender came over.  “The truth is useless, you hear me?”  Booze, Ricky realized now.  Too much could set anybody off. 

One look from the bartender, and Ricky knew they were flagged.  Sam’s mascara connected with her smeared lipstick.  She looked like a sad clown.  His heart surged with…what?  Something that terrified him.  But the Sagittarian in him took charge.  The bartender glared as Ricky softly spit into a cocktail napkin, and wiped Sam’s face. “Thanks, Sag,” she said, and hiccuped.  “I…like…that,” she said between hiccups.  Again they made out, heavy duty.  He squeezed her so tight, he felt something crack…

*   *   *

He’d woken up, suddenly, once she was asleep.  Maybe it was the light she couldn’t sleep without.  That smell hit him, and his stomach lurched.  Booze, and what else?  All he knew was, he refused to touch her.  “I’m a Scorp with Gemini rising,” Sam would brag.  “Insanely jealous, but at the same time…a whore!”  Ricky stiffened. Why torture him?  Sure, she needed it, but not from him.  Since he’d found Mouse, he didn’t care who Samantha fucked.   

Or did he?  Why else would he stay?  Their trailer was a mess.  From the outside it was charming: fairy tale blue, with wooden tulips on sills.  Inside, it was like a litter box, thanks to her.  Mouse’s flat was tiny, immaculate, smelled of vanilla.  She would die for him to move in, take charge of her life.  “Get out!” Sam demanded, at least once a week.  And always he stayed.  But why?

“’Cos…” Mouse had said wisely, and so sadly, “’Cos you love her.”  He punched her pillow till feathers shot out.  She went on, “You really do, Ricky.”  How?  How?  Each punch seemed to say.  “ ‘ Let go,’ ” she quoted A. A., “ ‘And let God.’ ” Now that he was new, and clean, and sober, and in love with a newer, cleaner, sober woman… he couldn’t still be trapped!

But he was.  He was totally, madly in love with Samantha, and equally in hate with himself.  Just her tap on his shoulder made him cringe.  Yet, some nights he lay next to her, watching her sleep, fretfully.  This horrible, giddy feeling would come, sickening him, making him so happy, he could squeal.  As strong as the stench of booze, and just as real.  In her drunken stupor, he would…touch her, on the sneak, gently, so she wouldn’t wake up.  A strand of that crazy red hair, maybe.  Near tears, he’d feel, wanting to punch himself.  “Love you,” he’d mouth, “Oh, Sam!”

They hadn’t fucked, since…when?  God knows.  Not since Mouse, anyway.  “You make me drink!” was Sam’s new one, once he’d froze to her.  An icicle one moment, an animal the next, Sam could suck Ricky dry, then climb on top, clench her twat muscles around his limp stuff, roughly ride him till he was rock-hard again.  Mouse was happy just cuddling.  Still, he knew his incredible tongue brought Mouse to more orgasms in the past months than she ever believed possible.  No matter who Sam fucked, Ricky thought smugly, she was too trashed to enjoy it.

Such denial.  All the signs were there.  Common sense said, just quit drinking!  One day at a time.  Don’t pick up.  Ninety meetings in ninety days.  “Meetings, my ass!” Sam said, during her brief “dry drunk” period.  “All your new buddies.  Whining, self-righteous fucks.  Who needs ‘em?”  People willing to face the truth.  Like Mouse.     

Sam wasn’t stupid.  Hell, she was smarter than him!  A college grad!  Till recently, she’d had a good job, in a law office.  But she’d called in “drunk” too many times. “We’ll lose the car!” she wailed. “And this place.  What’ll we do?”  Against his will, Ricky pitied her. “I’ll pay the bills,” he said coldly. “You just chill.”  That same night, Sam went on the worst of rampages.  3AM, Ricky awakened to the wild honking of their car horn.  Then drunken shouting.  Outside, Sam had straddled the Camaro. “ Hey, you! ‘Yellow Mama!’ ” She stroked the hood.  “Know who you’re named after?”  Stunned, Ricky realized she was talking to the car. ‘‘Hey, Sag, ‘member that show?  Betcha don’t.”  She was obsessed with TV crime: forensics, serial slayings, the more brutal, the better. But this was Jersey. Only she would remember “Yellow Mama:” Alabama’s electric chair.   

Both “Yellow Mamas” were killing machines.  Ricky was clueless about blood splatter patterns, but one thing he knew for sure: this much meant something, or somebody was dead.

But who?

Yesterday he’d come home from work exhausted.  The last thing he needed was a scene.  The Big One.  Before she’d even had a drink. “You’re my husband.”  Sam screamed.  Ricky was pinned against the fridge.  “I need you!”  A squirming mass of tits and thighs, she rubbed herself against him.  His cock was rock-hard, but he resisted.  Starved lips begged for his, but he jerked his head away.  As they fought, the magnets toppled off the fridge door.  Phone numbers went flying.  She crawled down his body, tried eating him through his pants.  “Stop!” he yelled.  Grabbing her shoulders, he shoved her so roughly, she landed on her ass. 

For a moment she looked hurt, pathetic.  His heart swelled.  Then her eyes narrowed.  “Who is it?” she demanded. “You’re getting it from somebody.”  He froze, as she snatched up the phone numbers.  His A. A. pals, Mouse’s included.  “Some pigeon!” As he tried snatching them back, Sam ripped, and crumpled all she could.  She was clawing him, wildly, when he lost it. 

The smack laid her out flat.  She didn’t move.  Fear made him want to puke, and he rushed to the sink.  “You…fuck!” he heard then, very softly.  Relieved, he hung over the greasy dishes.  Once, way back, she’d got trashed on jello shots.  4PM the next day, he’d reached into her purse for the car keys and pulled out this red, pulpy mass.  “I saved one,” she muttered, as he flung it across the kitchen.  It oozed down the fridge.  “I’m sorry,” she said, back then.  “You fuck!” she said now, again, getting up. 

He was scared to turn around.  If she cracked his skull, it would be fast.  Instead, he heard jingling of keys.  Then the door slam. 

He ran out after her, just as the Camaro roared to life.  A wild screeching of tires.  Sam!  He almost screamed.  Come back!  I love… She slid all over, garbage cans crashing, just missing their neighbor, a Vietnam vet who looked about ninety.  “Cunt!” the neighbor yelled after Sam.  Ashamed, Ricky ducked back inside.  “Ya drunken whoo-ore!” he heard.  Even straight, Sam was the worst driver ever.

“It’s okay,” Mouse said softly. “She’ll be back.”  Ricky grimaced.  But her words, the touch of her small hand, even the smell of coffee brewing, comforted him.  They were almost alone, up front, in the church basement.  The meeting would begin soon, and it was his turn to chair.  “I never hit her before,” he said.  Cos she called you a pigeon.  Mouse, was, too.  A newcomer Ricky had fucked too soon.  “Thirteen-stepping,” A. A. called it.  “She’ll be back tonight, like nothing ever happened.”  But how did Mouse know?

More people were coming in.  “Where’s she now, do you think?” Mouse asked Ricky. “Which bar?”  A strange question.  “Boxer’s Brew, probably,” he said, suspiciously. “Our old hangout.  Why?”  Mouse’s smile was mysterious, daring.  She patted his shoulder as she got up.  He watched her head towards the back.  By the time he said, “Hi, I’m Ricky! I’m an alcoholic,” he’d forgotten Mouse’s peculiar behavior.  He never even noticed she’d left…

Now, this morning, it hit him.  Why had she left?  Where had she gone?  She’d left Recovery meetings early before, but was always home when he called, no matter how late.  How sad, that Mouse was at his beck and call, and he was at the mercy of Sam’s.  But no more, Ricky thought.  Fists clenched, he glared at the car.  The bloody headlights seemed to taunt him with Sam’s own eyes.  He had to do something.  But what?

Confront her?  Wake her, or just drag her outside by the hair, and force her to face this? “Fuck you!” she’d scream, waking up the whole trailer court.  It was Saturday, too early for these people, mostly drunks.  Sweat crawled down his neck.  Then everybody would know what happened.  Somebody was hurt bad, maybe dead.  Right now, as warped as it sounded, his world was at peace.  Somewhere a blue jay screeched.  In a neighbor’s trailer, a phone rang, was almost immediately answered by a mumbly machine.  He was still safe.

He?  Ricky thought bitterly, pacing. Safe?  He was innocent!  Sam was the culprit.  Vehicular homicide.  How many years would she get for this?  She would know, he thought wildly.  The Queen of Forensics.  An accident that might never have happened, if the driver wasn’t shit-faced!  So what if it happened in a blackout?  Her fingerprints, DNA would convict her.  He stopped pacing, felt his mouth stretch in a horrible smile.  Good for her!  He stepped back, studied the car almost in admiration.  And good riddance.

A moment later, he sunk to his knees, sobbing.  Out of nowhere tears had come, and he bit his fist so hard, it bled.  My wife, he thought, as tremors shook him.  Can’t live with her, my God, could he really live without her?  Mouse.  He had to call Mouse, ask her what to do.  Only she would understand, in her selfless way.  And he, Mr. Control Freak himself, would obey her!

No answer, still.  He was confused, anxious.  Where was she?  As he slipped past their tiny bedroom, Ricky glanced in at Sam.  On her back, she was now, still out cold.  Nude. He hadn’t noticed before.  Something about her body was different.  He crept closer.  The huge bruise under her left breast matched the one by her eye.  Not his doing.  All he’d done was slap her cheek.  The impact from the accident.  When she woke up, oh man, the pain she’d be in!

 Furious with himself, Ricky tried Mouse again.  Nearly slammed down the receiver this time.  How dare she?  Didn’t she know he was worried sick?  Was she playing hard-to-get, so he’d leave Sam?  Suddenly, in his mind, he saw Mouse the way Sam would: a helpless Plain Jane, not in Sam’s league.  Somebody you’d kick aside, or wipe your shoes on.  Muddy, bloody shoes.

In the back of his mind was a thought so abominable, he instantly forgot it.  Or thought he did.  Keeping his mind blank, he got to work.  Bucket, big sponge, detergent.  Dish, or laundry? He’d use both.  As the water rushed into the bucket, he found himself whistling cheerfully, like some lunatic.  Sudsy water spilled, as he passed the bedroom.  Fuck you, he told the phone. 

Enabler!  The word disgusted him.  Haunted him, as he hurried outside.  As he splashed water on the Camaro, a worse word described him: accomplice.  Quickly, he soaped up the hood.  His heart raced like it used to, when he’d first started jogging.  After he finished the big clean-up, he’d go for a run.  Or…something.  Oh, God, he thought, he would kill for a drink.

Mouse, he thought wildly.  Save me!

The fenders, next.  So much blood, pink suds ran over his hands.  Gloves, he realized.  He should’ve worn rubber gloves.  Too late, now.  He and his wife were partners in crime.  Sorry, Mouse.  Should’ve answered the phone!  Ricky wrung out the sponge, tightly, like he was wringing her little neck.  Now she’d lost him for good!  Well, she knew he was married, didn’t she?  Dopey little four-eyed fuck!  Wearily he soaped up the sponge again, then bent to scrub the grill.

They were there, all twisted, imbedded in the grill.  No lenses, just the frames.  Those geeky wire ones, like he wore as a kid.  Puke filled his throat. 

Inside, the phone rang.  But Ricky never heard it.  On his knees, he and “Yellow Mama” shared the kiss of death.

~~~~~

 

“Yellow Mama.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus.  Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. First appeared in Hardboiled, # 32, November 2004.

 

SO MUCH RED

 

By

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Her eyes were swollen, from crying.  So bloodshot, if she were a corpse, the M.E. would’ve ruled “Death by Asphyxiation.”

 

Up in her room, Mallory felt trapped.  More than she’d ever felt in his cellar, chained and gagged, hanging from the ceiling.  Or cuffed to that table. Waiting for that hot lick of the whip, wondering how many lashes she would get, hoping she could endure just one more, before screaming that word…Their color: of bleeding sunsets, her sweet, juicy insides, the underside of poison ‘shrooms.  Compared to this, all that was kid stuff.

 

This…dread.  Of life without him.  It was maddening.  Much worse than that dread she’d felt in school.  That any minute her cell would ring…

 

Mal-lory?”  Her Master’s Voice.  “Where are you, in health class?”

 

It was against the rules to leave your cell on in school.  All eyes were on Mallory as she whispered, “Yes!  But I can’t talk.”

 

As Mrs. Rose stalked over, Her Master said, “Talk?  When do I ever call…to talk?”

 

Mrs. Rose was the “Old School” type.  Since way back, when Mallory’s mom herself was a sophomore.  “The phone, Miss D’Amico!”  Her fat hand in Mallory’s face.

 

“Come here now.”  And he hung up.

 

Only once was she commanded to leave class. 

 

And just one chance she had to obey.  

 

She had no appetite anymore.  Whatever her folks gave her—even her favorite cereal, Lucky Charms—came right back up.  But, “Considering what she’s been through,” the female doctor had told them, “It makes perfect sense.”

 

Sad as she felt, Mallory almost laughed.  So far, that female doctor was totally clueless.  Welts, and lash marks stood out clearly on Mallory’s body.  But inside…

 

Last period?  Uh…this past week I had it!  Mallory had lied. 

 

No wonder she couldn’t hold down food.  But she refused to tell them about this.  The tiny life she just knew was deep inside her, growing, despite the lack of Lucky Charms.  Too soon they’d stop believing her, and give her a test.  Soon they’d all know.

 

How it’d happened…she wasn’t sure.  He was always so careful.  So in control.  As much as playtime absorbed him.  And she…as alert as that blindfold allowed.  That sound—of foil ripping—meant he was unwrapping a condom, didn’t it?  Each time he’d entered her, it had felt the same.  Forbidden…delicious!  Always, she shivered.  As hard as he rammed her, still straining her after all these months, hadn’t he protected her?  Not once had there been a massive…explosion, okay?  At least, not inside of her!

 

Just the real sticky table.  But that might’ve been blood.  Hers, from playtime.

 

Besides blood.  When he pulled off that condom, what if…

 

And she was bound fast.  She couldn’t get away!

 

Would she have wanted to?

 

Like it was real, she could see it all, now: bony fingers tearing it out of her, leaving her womb raw, bleeding.  Those same, bony fingers that really had pulled her off him: Richard Steele, her Master.  The “mystery” neighbor with devilish dark eyes, who’d made her feel so special.

 

As the cop arrested him, cuffed him, he’d laughed!  That rich, booming laugh that always meant trouble.  How dare you? said that laugh.  You think you can hold me?  Or stop me?

 

“No!” she screamed.  No!”  How hard she’d clung to him made him laugh harder.  Maybe at her.  His hysterical teen slave had dug in so deeply, she must’ve left marks.  On him!  That’s a switch!  her dad would’ve said.

 

No, she thought, shuddering.  What Dad had really said….

 

*     *     *

 

Cocksucker!”  Sal had screamed, at Steele, who’d stopped laughing.  The cop grabbed Sal, pulled him back. “You…fucking…pedophile!” 

 

Hands cuffed behind him, Steele towered over Sal.  “I’ll kill you!” Sal shrieked, tried to fight off the cop.

 

Steele smirked.  All the evil Sal had known since grade school was in that smirk.  Everything filthy and cruel, your worst nightmares, gritty worms, the devil, sick shit people did to animals…it was all there.

 

“I will!” Sal yelled. “I swear it!” From the other side, another cop grabbed him.  “In front of all these fuckers!  I swear…I’ll get you!  For raping my baby…”

 

Steele was silent.  But his eyes said it all: It wasn’t rape.  Don’t kid yourself.  And she’s no baby. Succulent jail bait.  My favorite flavor.

 

“You sick fuck!” Sal screamed.  Horrified, he felt his eyes fill with tears.  He wouldn’t cry, not in front of that freak.  “What’s wrong with you?  Scared she’d wise up?  Get away?  You had to chain her?  And beat her?”

 

Loved it as much as I did, Steele’s eyes said.  She loves me.

 

Not far back, in Maureen’s arms, was Mallory.  Without turning, Sal just knew those brat’s eyes were glued to Steele.  That his worst fears were real.

 

“Wanna beat somebody?  Come dance with me!” Again, Sal tried to shake off the cops.

 

In their thick skulls, something must’ve clicked, ‘cos the arresting officer was leading Steele to the patrol car.  Over his shoulder, Steele looked beyond Sal. 

 

Sal jerked halfway around.  “Don’t look at him!” he told Mallory.  “Ya fuckin’ dope.  Stop that!”

 

It was sickening.  His little girl, who looked so much like him, was groping…for that fuck!  That scumbag who’d violated her!  Who’d stuck his dirty thing in her little hole.  Who’d tortured her!  Maureen had her other arm, but Mallory looked ready to chew it off!  Wild-eyed, and hungry, his baby looked.

 

Like she wanted more.

 

Sal lost it.  A howl burst out of him.  As his tears gushed down, the car door slammed.  Till the patrol car had pulled away, the two cops held Sal fast.  But he’d stopped fighting.  A blubbering mess, he hadn’t cried like this since his Mama died, years back.  He’d been at the track. He’d lost everything, the Camaro, too.  Would anybody forgive him?  Could he ever forgive himself?

 

Till today, that was the worst luck he’d ever had.

 

*     *     *

 

 

As she sat on the bed, Maureen hugged herself, to keep warm.  Damn!  she thought, it’s freezing in here. 

 

The a/c was on high, and Mal was huddled under the covers.  Her back to Maureen, she faced the window that faced his house.

Maureen cringed.  Real bad, she wanted to grab her, love her, maybe strangle her, for being so fucking stupid.  And crazy!

 

As she looked around, Maureen almost laughed.  Against the pink walls was typical teen shit: a PC, junk Mal had won at carnivals, old Harry Potter stuff.  New pics of Johnny Depp.  The Caribbean Pirate. 

 

Maureen smirked.  That bloodthirsty fuck was nothing, compared to Steele.  A teen crush gone bad in the worst way.

 

What, she asked herself, Can I say?  Almost timidly she reached over, snatched back her hand.  No touching, she thought.  After what he’d done to her.  After how he’d…touched her.

 

“Kinky” was great, for grown-ups.  Hey…Maureen smirked.  If Eddie wanted to try …cuffs, nipple clips, why not?  She wouldn’t mind being tied up, though more likely she’d tie him up.  She even worked with a guy with a real-live “mistress,” who kept him “locked up,” if you can dig that….

 

Sal wouldn’t.  She was lucky he even…

 

As Mal stirred, Maureen bristled.  That fuck, she thought, about Steele.  And my baby!  Just fifteen, this sweet, shy kid.  Doesn’t even curse.  Maureen still couldn’t believe it!  No piercings, no tatts.  All Mal had bugged her for was that dye job.  The hot-pink hair Sal hated so much.

 

Mal turned over.  No face, just a few tufts of that hair were visible beneath the covers.  Maureen resisted the urge to stroke it back.

 

Was it my fault? she thought.

 

Where was I, she wondered, when he made his move?  Christ, he lived across the street. When Mal snuck over there, what was I doing?

 

She grimaced.  Fucking Eddie. Playing pool.  Sucking Eddie’s….Oh, yeah, and working like a dog, in that lingerie factory!  Overtime out the ass, to pay somebody else’s gambling debts!

 

Goosebumps, she had.  Way back, she would’ve yanked off Mal’s covers. Laughing, they would’ve slapped each other.  Then shared the comforter.  Maybe napped together, like sisters, instead of a too-young, dissatisfied mama and a daughter whose bizarre exploits took chunks out of everybody’s ass.

 

Except…Maureen got up and went to the window.  She glared out at that silent brick house…His.

 

Steele, of course, would get away with this.  Criminal Sexual Conduct, it was called, in this state.  Only a fourth-degree offense!  Maureen and Sal didn’t know much, but it didn’t look great.  Some jail time, he might get.  But only…Maureen shut the drapes…if Mal testified.

 

Never!  She could hear Mal’s screams, still.  Feel those nails dig into her, as Maureen pulled her off Steele.  Blood had poured out.  Even now, beneath Maureen’s gooseflesh, were deep scratches. 

 

As she’d fought with Mal, Steele was so close, Maureen could smell him.  Fancy cologne, he smelled of, and big bucks, period. 

 

That smile.  I’ll get off, it said.  And I’ll be back.

 

Those eyes: dark, and so deep, Maureen imagined drowning in them.  Herself and Mal.  Like that water the Titanic had sunk into.

 

“If she don’t testify,” the cop had told Sal, “You’re fucked.  Got no case.”

 

Even worse, Mal could deny everything!  With those big, innocent eyes, she could say, “He never touched me!  I was just flirting.  Using him to make Sammy jealous.”

 

And Sammy…

 

Chick magnet,” my ass, Maureen thought. What a dope.  So fucking gullible.  All of us

 

Just looking for love…in the worst places.

 

Mal was awake, now, but still silent.  Like she would never, ever speak again.  Unless he said it was okay.

 

Maureen’s heart ached.  Again she wanted to lunge at Mal, squeeze her so tight, their ribs cracked. 

 

But she didn’t.  And when she opened her mouth, not one word came out.

 

*     *     *

 

A semi-automatic, he thought this was called. 

 

Well…Sammy smiled, bitterly.  It had a slide.  At least he knew that.  He knew shit about guns, but bet he could fire this one, himself.

 

Before he pussied out.

 

He was so jumpy, he couldn’t sit still.  And forget trying to sleep.

 

Under his bed, it was, in a shoebox.  “An’ don’t touch!” his cousin Vinnie had snarled, like Sammy was two instead of sixteen.  Like Sammy slurped jarred apricots instead of Jager, and had no tribal tatts.  Like he couldn’t see that he, himself, was the wrong guy for the job.

 

Or, was he? 

 

Sammy’s blood boiled, he was so pissed.  Outraged, over this. 

 

The balls, of that guy…

 

Steele, Mal’s…neighbor.  That smooth-talking fuck.  Money shooting out his ass, like diarrhea.  Fucking limey pervert, that’s all he was! To steal his damn chick…out from under his nose….Hypnotize her…. Do all that…sick shit to her!

 

As he lit a cigarette, Sammy’s hand shook.  “No smoking up there!” his folks always said.  Fuck them. 

 

This was bad, man!  He needed Jager.  Even a beer would help, but there was no sneaking into their fridge.  These days, he could shit on fucking Pluto, and they’d smell it.  Like he was the worst scum there was.

 

The worst.  Sammy’s eyes narrowed.  Not me, he thought.  Shocked, he felt tears behind them, wildly blinked them back.  Fuck this! he told himself.  Shee-it!  Not even for Mal, would he de-ball himself.

 

Like her dad….Poor Sal!  How he’d bawled over this!  In front of him!  In front of that piece of shit. 

 

Sammy squatted, fists clenched. Without realizing it, he’d got up.  He was ready for a fight, hot to kill him!  All by himself

 

“I swear…I’ll get you!”  Sal to Steele, according to Cousin Vinnie.  The “middle man.”  Who’d heard it all.  What luck Vinnie had seen the whole thing.

 

“ S’like this,” Vinnie to Sal, at Barberi’s, the family pizza joint.  “Ya want it done, I know a guy, who knows a guy….It’s gonna cost ya.  Not right away, he can’t do it.  Or they’ll tie it to you. But it’s the only way.”

 

Greasiest pie in town.  You could see your face in your slice, Sammy knew.  He bet Sal’s looked sickly.  Like Death took a holiday.  “Lemme think about it, Vin.”

 

“Think about what?  He’s gonna get off.”  Vinnie would sound almost glad.  He loved setting this up.  “Oh, he’ll pay a fine.  But you can bet that’s it.”  He’d wait a little while for that to sink in. “Then what?”

 

Sal would be wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.  Or that he had Steele’s bucks. With that arrogant smile, Steele could write a check for any amount.  And still have plenty left over for duct tape.

 

Sammy could see Vinnie’s smirk.  “Back in your little girl’s pants!”

 

“Don’t touch!”  Again, his cousin warned him.  But as Sammy got down on the floor, he felt all grown-up.  His veins burned, with something more than blood.  Gone was his urge for a drink.

 

Fuck waiting.  It had to be done now.

 

As he slid the box out from under his childhood bed, he felt like a new man.   He would be  the” man.  The “friend of the friend.”

 

Not “hit man,” but “hero.”

 

*     *     *

 

He knew he shouldn’t be smiling, but couldn’t help it.

 

Steele could hear them all now: “ ’At’s where he belongs!  Some filthy cell, with rats gnawing his balls!”  “That fuck! Let ’im die there!”  Not a chance, Steele thought.  And his favorite: “I’ll kill you!  I swear it!”  Her father.  Sobbing, uncontrollably, like a child.  “In front of all these fuckers!”  Bad move, Steele thought.

 

Sure, he’d spent the night in that holding cell.  Not as comfortable as his cellar “playroom,” but he’d managed.  No killers surrounded him, just two blokes reeking of after-hours grog. “Prince Charles,” one called Steele. Neither was a match for Steele’s height, or strength.  Since the court had his wallet, Steele had no fear of being robbed. No fear of anything.  When his passport was confiscated, he said simply, “Where would I go?”

 

His home was here, now, in the States.  And he’d return to it, shortly.

 

Thanks to…what was her name?  His defense attorney?

 

“Liardi.  Katrina Liardi.” Her handshake was firm, like a man’s.  Like she was used to proving herself.  Mid-thirties, an attractive bird, though losing twenty pounds would do her good. “But you can call me ‘Kat.’ ”

 

It was she Steele had been mugging for.  “ ‘Liardi,’ ” he repeated, smiling wider.  Six languages, he spoke fluently.  “Italian, of course.  Which means…”

 

She beamed. “ ‘King of the Liars’!” 

 

Perfect. 

 

Red hair, she had.  A rich, ruby color.  And so shiny.  Like an ad for an expensive new shampoo.  Steele liked red hair.  The color red, period.

 

Though his favorite was…

 

What had happened was no shock to him.  He was bound to get caught someday, with one of them.

 

But this one…

 

Mallory, the most challenging of his “slaves,” had been special.  At fifteen, she was older than most (Was he growing up? he’d wondered, chuckling), but deliciously malleable, after all.  Her flesh tingled beneath his lips, stood up to his whip.  As her skin tore, the blood seemed to resist, before bursting forth!

 

Remembering this, made his cock stiffen.  He crossed his long legs, wondering if Miss “King o’ the Liars” was a mind reader, as well as a fool.

 

“Whether you did it or not, is irrelevant,” she was saying.  A true “bleeding heart.”  “You have rights.”  Her eyes gleamed.

 

He rubbed his chin, wishing he’d been allowed to shave.  But no matter.  Already he had her “wrapped.”  He could tell.

 

As he leaned over, she sucked in her breath.  “But I didn’t do it,” he said, smoothly. 

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

Trying hard not to laugh, he went on.  “The ramblings of an hysterical teenager.  Always trying to get my attention.  Kat,” he said, moving closer.  “Have you ever been stalked?”

 

Slowly, the fool lawyer shook her head.

 

“It’s no fun.  This girl…what’s her name again?”

 

“Uh…Mallory.”  She seemed almost unsure.

 

“Would sit in her window, watching…waiting for me to leave the house.  I’d be late, sometimes hours late for an appointment, waiting for her to go away.” 

 

“My God.”

 

Her hand wasn’t far from his, which edged closer.  “When I was a child,” he said, “In England…” As he closed his hand over hers, hers quivered like jello.  “My older sister did the same thing…”

 

She looked ready to swallow him whole.

 

“To Paul McCartney.”

 

If she was calculating his age, she didn’t get far.  “My father…” he said, without looking at her, “Raped us both.”

 

As she squeezed his hand, Steele smiled, sadly.

 

Home, he thought, an hour later.  He was free on bail, in his lawyer’s car.  Her smile was triumphant.  He longed to slap it off her face, but resisted.

 

She was much too old.

 

*     *     *

 

In the window, she sat, just like the old days.

 

What an effort, climbing onto the sill.  Mallory felt so weak, all over, especially her head.  Like her brain needed crutches.  The a/c blew back her hair, but she was beyond feeling cold.  Dead was more like it.  Without him, she already felt hollow, despite what she was sure was growing inside of her.

 

Even he was clueless about that!

 

Dare she feel smug?

 

How much she’d slept, she didn’t know.  She wasn’t used to so much sleep.  He enjoyed keeping her up.  Keeping her hanging, really, till he was ready for her. 

 

Was this real? 

 

All this…bad talk, about him.  How he didn’t love her.  How he would’ve cast her aside in the end.  How she was just one of…many young girls he’d brainwashed. 

 

“He’ll fucking burn,” her dad had said, “For this!”

 

Burn…but first he would have to…

 

Die.

 

As she jumped down off the sill, her stomach lurched.  The pink room spun.  But she had to warn him.  Wherever he was.

 

“He’ll be out on bail,” she’d heard Mom say before.  “Today.”  Maybe to Eddie, on the cell. “You watch.”

         

She almost fell, but caught herself in time.  She hated this room!  It was way too pink, like a giant placenta.  Smothering her.  She had to get out of here.

 

Somehow, she made it downstairs, past them in the kitchen.

 

Outside, it was hot.  Disgustingly humid.  She grabbed the railing.

 

Around her, everywhere, were wild roses.  In this unbearable heat, they looked droopy, ready to die.  They seemed to call to her. 

 

There, across the street, was…him!

 

Her heart leapt.  Master!  A burst of energy.  She waved, frantically, to him.

 

He was getting out of…whose car?

 

Mallory’s hand froze.

 

Some old, fat redhead’s.  As he saw Mallory, he seized the woman’s arm.  They both stared at her.

 

Who was she?  Mallory wondered.  But it was forbidden to ask.

 

And who was that, over there, behind Steele’s rosebush?  Or was she seeing things? 

 

A black gloved hand, holding…was that a gun?

 

No, she thought, feeling elated.  Just a bird.

 

Arms wide, she flew across the street.

 

 

THE END

 

    "So Much Red" is the sequel to "Pink", which appeared in issue #11 of Devil Blossoms, Copyright 2006, published by Asterius Press.

 

 

 

 

 

holidaycheer.jpg
Art by John and Flo Stanton

HOLIDAY CHEER

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“Shoplifting time?” their boss Alex had said as Elena and Dulce left the office.  He was overflowing with sarcasm these days.  Just that morning, he’d told them, “The only Christmas gifts you’re getting . . .” He snickered. “Is still having jobs for New Year’s.”

Last week, while the girls were trimming the office tree, Alex made fun of the ornaments.  Even  adjusted his glasses, so he could see them better. “Get you a speculum from my brother, the ‘g-y-n,’ ” he’d joked. Dulce was horrified. “Scrooge!” Elena said. 

Their friend Ceil, who worked in the sales office across the hall, asked Alex who’d clawed his face. “Was it you?” she demanded of each of the cat snapshots on Alex’s bulletin board. He’d stormed out when Ceil had picked up the new framed photo of his wife.

Elena remembered when they’d all been friends.  Ceil had spent her free time in their office; now she hardly ever stopped by.  Just a month ago, Alex had taken Ceil out to lunch for her birthday. Now they only spoke when they had something nasty to say to each other.

If only Alex had changed, Elena would’ve asked Ceil what had happened. But Ceil seemed to have forgotten she’d ever been Elena and Dulce’s friend.  So far she hadn’t asked either what she wanted for Christmas, or even exchanged Christmas cards with them.  Most of all, she’d stopped confiding in them.  So neither asked Ceil to come shopping with them this Friday night.

At four-thirty it started to snow, and as they walked to the train, Elena imagined a lunatic above them shredding paper dolls.  She didn’t mention this to Dulce. “You sick bitch,” Dulce would’ve said.

People thought they were sisters, though they looked little alike, and came from different parts of the world.  Dulce was a twenty-one-year-old, baby-faced Filipino with very generous parents.  A real go-getter.  She wouldn’t be at Fillimon Publications for long. Someday she’d be an accountant for some rich guy.

Elena was Dominican, twenty-three, but took life as seriously as a woman twice her age.  Someday she’d be a therapist.  Weeknights she went to school, working toward that dream.  She had lustrous black hair and small, intense features.

She’d had a rough week.  Besides feeling uneasy at work, she was miserable at home.  Her parents fought constantly, and two days ago, her brother Carlos had been thrown out of the house after their mother found a gram of coke in his jeans pocket. 

Elena wished she had a boyfriend who didn’t live in Santo Domingo, or at least one who loved her enough to make it to the states for Christmas.

Rush hour in the City was worse for the holiday shoppers. What’ll it be like on Christmas Eve? Elena wondered, as they hurried along.  On the streets, homeless people were scattered like stubborn roaches.  As the girls passed, an old lady with blue eyes as bright as the Caribbean grabbed Dulce’s sleeve and asked where she’d bought her leather coat.  Elena felt sorry for a one-armed panhandler but ran out of change to give the blind, legless, and one-guzzling ones she saw next.

“What’re you getting your mother?” Dulce asked half an hour later at Century 21.

“Nothing she’ll like, I’m sure.” Elena smirked at the price tag on a silk blouse. “I wish I could send them both to Santo Domingo.”

Dulce smiled. “Wouldn’t Tito rather see you?”

“The joke would be on him.”

They stopped last outside a boutique with windows displaying the most bizarre fashions they’d ever seen in shades ranging from mustard yellow to midnight blue.

“My God, look at that!” Dulce said.

It was a micro-minidress that looked more like an oversized clutch.  That and the mannequin’s fishnet hose were an identical Granny Smith apple-green.  The  stiletto pumps were exactly the kind Ceil would wear.

“I miss Ceil,” Elena said.

“You, too?”

The green outfit sure was made for Ceil, but not the mysterious grouch she’d become, nor even the friend who’d once slapped Elena out of hysterics when a co-worker had committed suicide.  This was the Ceil she’d been during the summer who’d changed so drastically with her thirtieth birthday.

One day in July, Ceil had come to work wearing an outfit Elena would only have worn out to a club.  Puta Pants,” she’d called Ceil, and the three girls laughed.  “I’m going out later,” Ceil had explained, and they’d dropped the subject.  But then the next day, Ceil had worn a tight skirt and revealing tee shirt.  For the rest of the summer each day’s outfit surpassed the one before.

Suddenly Ceil was the “Mystery Woman” of Fillimon Publications.  One day Alex himself had asked Ceil where she was going after work.  “Follow me,” she’d said smoothly, “and find out.”

“You think they’re having an affair?” Elena asked Dulce, as they walked to their train.

“She would’ve told us.”

“Not if they didn’t want us to know.”

“But Alex loves his wife.”

Smiling, Elena watched a bum spit down the subway pit, just missing some guy’s head.  “Think so?”

The first time Alex had taken Ceil to lunch, he’d casually asked the girls not to mention it to his wife.   “Lana’s paranoid,” he’d said, attempting a laugh. On his desk were many photos of his wife, and she sure didn’t look paranoid to Elena. 

All Lana’s pictures were taken in windy places.  Olive-skinned, with her cranberry hair blown to either side, she was ecstatically beautiful.  “Besides,” Alex had told Elena, “I only like redheads.” One look had told Elena his wife hadn’t been a redhead for long.

Still, Alex rarely mentioned his wife.  When they talked on the phone at work, his voice was pitched so high, he could’ve been yessing his overbearing Jewish mama.  Only when Ceil was perched on his desk, re-tying his Geoffrey Beane ties or admiring the latest photos of his cats, did he try to sound blissfully-married.  Elena recalled his eyes never left Ceil’s face.

 

Looks like that had always unnerved Elena.

“If they are,” Elena told Dulce, “It’s none of our business.”

Their train was delayed indefinitely due to the heavy snow.  “How ‘bout a Christmas drink?” Dulce said.

Elena wasn’t much of a drinker. “Well,” she said reluctantly. “Let me call my mother.”

But the lines for the phones were so long, they headed straight for the commuter bar. “Besides,” Dulce chided her, “How long does it take to drink one ‘Shirley Temple’?”

Though every table was taken, they arrived just in time to apprehend two seats at the bar.  Elena ordered a white wine, and Dulce had her usual Kir.  Dulce attacked the free hors d’hoeurves.

The place was a cross between a cheesy cocktail lounge and a friendly corner tavern.  A huge Christmas tree was covered with tasteless ornaments and noticeably defective lights. Over the bar was a moose head sporting a Santa Claus cap and from whose antlers hung a string of little plastic Santas.   

Though the waiters and waitresses wore tux-like uniforms, the handsome blond bartender had on tight jeans and a green tee with nine drunken reindeer scattered across his muscular chest.

As she picked at the little chicken wings and barbecued ribs, Elena looked around the crowded room.  In between impatient executives and jolly shoppers who didn’t mind being stranded, apprehensive-looking couples stuck out.  Elena suspected most were married—but not to each other.

The wine made her even more depressed.  No doubt Tito had a girl or two in Santo Domingo.  Elena’s brother Carlos had hurt more than enough this year—one named Marianela had called up crying six times on Thanksgiving.  Their father had finally told the girl to “¡ Vete al carajo!”

“What’s wrong?” Dulce asked.

“Nothing.” Elena wiped barbecue sauce off her fingers.  “You think Jonas cheats on you?”

“Better now than after we’re married. If I can stand him that long.”

“See that guy in the navy suit? With the woman in gray?”

“What about him?”

Elena looked away. “He just winked at me. You don’t think she’s his wife, do you?”

Dulce signaled the bartender.  “Of course not!  She’s wearing too much makeup.”

“Nothing for me,” Elena murmured.  “One’s enough.”

Feliz Navidad, you little sissy.”  And Dulce ordered two more, anyway.

The bartender brought Elena a Kir instead of plain white wine, but she decided to try it.  The first sip was intriguing, the second and third went straight to her head.  As she stirred the drink, strange impressions of it raced through her mind.  Crème de Cassis made her feel she was eating a jelly donut while drinking white wine.  And the color—a lurid pink—made her think of strained blood, or diluted passion.  She wondered if the Lunatic-in-the-Sky was still shredding paper dolls.

Then, from across the bar, came a crash.  A red-faced, very drunk businessman was holding the bottom half of what had been a martini glass.  “Fuckin’ thing broke right in my hand,” he explained to the nervous young man next to him.

“All right, Tom, you’ve had enough,” the bartender said.

“But it wasn’t my . . . “

As the bartender brushed away broken glass and replaced several customers’ drinks, Elena took another look at the young man next to Tom. He faced somebody blocked from Elena’s view by the bartender’s broad back, but whose red-nailed hand clutched the young man’s tie.  Without turning around, he nodded as Tom said, “So long, pal.  I’m getting’ the fuck out of here!”

There was something familiar about the young man that Elena couldn’t quite place. He might’ve been an ex-boyfriend or cousin.  He looked Latino, but not really, like he was merely playing the part, with dark hair and mustache and olive skin, but his eyes seemed too closely-set and small, almost shrunken from their original size.  He looked as uncomfortable in his white shirt and maroon tie as if he’d just been fired from a brand-new job.

When he put his glasses on to check his watch, Elena gasped.  As the bartender bent down, both girls saw Ceil untie Alex’s tie.  When they kissed, both girls looked away, but not at each other.

“Aw . . .shit,” Dulce whispered.

Reluctantly, Elena’s eyes returned to the couple.  Now that Alex faced front, she could even see the scratch-marks on his cheek.  What a difference a pair of glasses made!  The wine made Elena imagine a potential mother-in-law’s appraisal of him: He’s no Englebert Humperdinck, but he’ll make you a good husband.”

Ceil, on the other hand, looked totally unlike herself.  Above her black leather skirt and red angora sweater, her dark eyes were as somber as the dead Christmas tree lights. Against her skin, her hair was almost black and managed to curl, as if she’d gotten it wet or been sweating profusely.  Most of her lipstick had come off on Alex’s face, and what remained on and below her lips made her look like a child who’d been playing dress-up.  As if she’d read Elena’s mind, Ceil wiped her mouth and chin with a cocktail napkin, then did the same to Alex.

“They’re going to see us,” Dulce said, in a mournful tone.

But Alex and Ceil seemed oblivious to them.  Ceil seemed to have drunk quite a lot, while Alex appeared only mildly tipsy.  Elena recalled that at office celebrations, Alex never drank more than a small paper cup of champagne or wine.  Now he was finishing a Beck’s but looked like he needed something stronger.  Ceil herself was drinking something Elena could nearly smell across the bar.

Still clutching her drink, Ceil suddenly seized Alex and pulled him to her again.  It was the strangest kiss Elena ever saw.  Each seemed to be holding the other’s hand down and out of the way, as if a blow were feared. It finally ended with Alex mumbling something that caused Ceil to nod—without smiling, or even looking into his eyes—before downing her drink.

“Let’s get out of here,” Elena whispered to Dulce.

Eyes on the couple, the girls gathered up their belongings and began to squeeze through the crowd.

“Goodnight, girls!” the bartender said too loudly.

“Don’t go!  We need some holiday cheer!” yelled an executive drunk in a huge designer suit.

“We’ll buy you dinner,” said his friend. “Hey, China Doll!”

“Aw, shit,” Dulce muttered.

Alex and Ceil looked up. One of them gasped, Elena wasn’t sure who. Then Alex smiled to hide his embarrassment, but looked down at his hands.  Ceil fished an ice cube out of her glass and popped it into her mouth.  Unsmiling, she beckoned the girls over as if she’d been expecting them.

“What’re you drinking?” Ceil asked them.  “Your boss wants to buy you a drink.”

Alex had taken off his glasses again and was now rubbing his face. His hands were as small as a young girl’s.  For the first time Elena noticed that his wedding ring was taped with band-aid tape.

“I’d rather have my Christmas bonus,” Dulce said boldly, and everyone laughed but Ceil.

“Isn’t he cute without his glasses?” Ceil said.

“What can I get for you ladies?” the bartender asked the girls. “Two more of the same?”

“Another round for us, too,” Ceil said.  “No ice in mine this time.”

“Ceil . . .” was all Alex said.

“Sit down,” Ceil offered, sliding unsteadily off her seat.

“We really have to go,” Elena said.

“Why? You can’t hate him as much as I do.”

“Sit down, Ceil,” Alex murmured, without looking at any of them.  Then he got up himself.

“We’ll stand,” Dulce said.

As they hung their coats on the seats, Elena remembered how the four of them had once spent fifteen minutes of company time shooting rubber bands at each other. It felt like years instead of six months ago.

Ceil accepted her fresh drink from the bartender with her first smile of the evening.  This drink contained no ice and was in a glass twice the size of the others. “Thank you,” Ceil said.  “I don’t want you to think . . . I mean, I don’t drink like this all the time.”

“I don’t care if you do.” Eyes on her face, the bartender kissed her hand.  “Merry Christmas,” he said only to her, dismissing Alex as if his seat were empty.

“I didn’t know you drank beer,” Dulce said to Alex.

“Usually I drink ‘New Amsterdam,’ ” Alex said, “But they don’t serve it here.”

“You see,” Ceil said too loudly, “He’s convinced that ‘New Amsterdam’ is the kind of beer Dylan Thomas would be drinking if he were still alive.  Your boss feels that if Dylan Thomas were still alive, the two of them would be hobnobbing with the rest of the twentieth-century intellectual elite, or . . .” she went on with a cruel smile, “Just hanging out alone together drinking cases of the stuff and sneaking lines in men’s rooms.”

For a moment Elena thought Alex was going to slap Ceil.  What he did was stranger.  Grabbing Ceil’s hand, he squeezed it till she let go of the drink. Then he placed her hand on his face, the length of her nails making his hand seem even smaller.  Ceil worked one finger into her mouth.  The look they shared turned Elena’s stomach.

“I’d . . . appreciate it if you girls keep this to yourselves,” Alex said quietly, tying his tie.

“We’ll be glad to,” Dulce said, for both of them.

Ceil’s next smile actually scared Elena.  “He means his wife, poor, sainted thing.  Loves him just too much for sanity.  Do you know she sleeps with her leg crossed over his so he can’t escape in the middle of the night?”

Alex choked on his beer.  “You bitch.”

Ceil took a ladylike sip of her own drink.  “Even changed her religion to marry him.  Sold her soul to a man who makes her trim his hair so he can afford a manicure.  And look at the mess she made. . . .”

“You made a worse mess,” Alex said before he could stop himself, “With your nails.”

Ceil’s hand returned to Alex’s cheek.  Smiling again, she followed the fading scratches with the tips of her nails.  “I’m sorry.”

Elena put down her drink.  She couldn’t take anymore.  Dulce had stopped drinking as well. 

“Alex is giving me up for Christmas,” Ceil announced without releasing his face.  “It’s his present to her.”  Her hand fell to his tie-clip.  Tracing the gold “A,” she whispered, “That’s how much he loves her.” Then she turned to her two friends, her eyes filled with tears.  “And I thought he loved me.”

Alex eased his tie out of Ceil’s grasp and got up.  “I have to call home,” he said on his way out.

“Don’t cry, Ceil,” Dulce said, sliding into Alex’s seat.

“Did he tell you he loved you?” Elena asked.

“And what if he did?” Ceil laughed, suddenly.  “Would that change anything?”

Elena followed Ceil’s wild eyes to the ornamented moose head.  “Lucky little bastards,” Ceil said, referring to the string of Santas.  “Hanging out up there away from it all.  Knowing all our secrets.  Do they know what you want for Christmas?”

“No,” Elena said. To her, the little Santas looked crazed.

“Ceil,” Dulce said, “Why did you let this happen?  How did it all start?”

“Forget it, Ceil,” Elena said gently, “It’s none of our business.”

Ceil and the bartender exchanged sad smiles.  “How many?” he asked, and she held up three fingers that the young man couldn’t resist matching with his own.  “Just three?” he said, removing the Beck’s.  She nodded.

“You can keep the change,” she said, when he’d brought the drinks.  “He won’t be back.”

“Oh, Ceil!” Elena said, but there was an unmistakable finality to the neatly-stacked bills, all facing in the same direction.

“I knew it when he checked his coat . . . and wouldn’t check mine . . .” Ceil pulled her coat out from under Dulce’s.  “Because it has a fur collar.”  She buried her face in the white fox fur.  “I knew hours ago.”

By now, most of the other customers had left, and Elena could see the hallway outside.  It seemed the trains were back on schedule.  She wondered what her mother was thinking had happened to her.

Just then she remembered Christmas Eve long ago at her grandmother’s house: her thrice-divorced Aunt Carmen wearing mistletoe in her black hair; her father’s sudden disappearance; her mother’s despair and eventual breakdown.  Elena had seen her father and aunt share looks—some stinging, some deliberately vacant, some that, to an eight-year-old girl, meant, “Some day we’ll commit the perfect murder.”

Elena had forgotten most of her favorite dolls and even the eyeless, shaggy, once-blue bear she’d slept with every night for years, but never the intensity of those looks.  Tito had never looked at her that way, and she would be willing to bet her job that Alex—with or without glasses and his band-aid-taped wedding ring—never wasted any on his windblown wife.

“What a cheap gift,” Elena whispered.

 

 

“Holiday Cheer” originally appeared in The Village Idiot, Copyright © 1991, published by Mother of Ashes Press.
 

 

 

 

 

 

    

missyou.jpg
Art by Gin E L Fenton

Miss You
 
Cindy Rosmus
 

You didn’t think it’d hurt this much. That you’d feel so strange. 

Nauseous, though there’s nothing in you to come up.  It’s like chunks of your gut and heart were carved out.

Of all places, you’re out on the stoop.  Instead of playing it safe.  Jumping on that “bus from hell” to the City, or the train that’d get you to the Airlink.  Still, without luggage, you’d look damn suspicious, booking a flight. 

And where would you go?

Already you’re biting your lip.  Scared the truth will burst out.  That the first person who asks, you’ll tell.

It’s September.  Squirrel season.  Before you, they scurry around, duck under cars, shoot up trees, making those hissy, squirrel-y noises.  But always watching you.

They know.  And they’d tell, too.  Cats could give a shit; cats are “live-and-let-live,” but not these acorn-hoarding little fucks.

Squirrel-y tails high in the air, they saw it all from his window.  The basement window you’re seated beside.  Balls, you have, to be sitting right next to his window

. . . .

After killing him.

 

*     *     *

 

Todo está bien,” he would purr.  “It’s all good, Liz.” Wide, dark eyes filling up with you. Then laugh his obnoxious laugh. 

God, how you hated that!  What was good about anything, since you met him?  Since he took that big, fat shit on your life?

A leave of absence, you took from work.  A “mental health” leave, from your social services job.  How humilating.  But how could you help others when you were one step from the padded room, yourself?

Things had been good, before.  With that shield around you. Like four walls of ice that protected you.  Work, eat, sleep. . . . On weekends drink, sometimes way too much, then sleep, with married regulars from the bar, Spit’s.  Only you never really slept. . . .

“With married guys,” you used to brag, “You know what you get.” You were single, and liked it that way.  Liked being a “safe haven” for husbands.

“To be like Liz,” Maggie, the barmaid said about you, right in front of you. “That’s what I want.  Not to give a shit about nobody.  This way, guys can’t hurt you.” You smiled, wisely. 

Rafael was single, too.  And he dug married chicks.  “Womens,” he called them.  He was almost like a male you.

Almost . . .

The day you met him, something happened to you.  It was like getting hit by a truck, but dying slowly.

And where you met him . . . was the cruelest stroke of luck. 

In the cellar.  Rafael was your new super.

Spanish music blasting, he was salsa-ing as he mopped the floor, using the mop as his partner.  Not your typical stud. 

You watched him, transfixed.  This tall, skinny fuck, dirty-dancing with a mop.  He’s not even cute, you thought.  Too much forehead, a goatee that made his chin look dirty.  Dark hair too curly, and fright wig-looking.  Glasses that would’ve made somebody else look smart. 

But when he looked at you . . .

You went down in a split.

A real one, like a cheerleader, in high school.  Back then you were never popular, couldn’t do a split.  Now down you went, like his eyes commanded it.

The floor was slippery, you told yourself.  Bullshit.  He willed you down.

Mommi!” Real concerned, he sounded.  “Baby, you okay?”

Across the room, he’d been, but suddenly was right there, with you.  On your elbow, his touch was electric, magical.  You were back on your feet, you swear just from that.

“Baby?” Up close, he was better-looking.  It was the eyes: big and brown. And warm.  Nights in the tropics, you thought of, though you’ve never been there.  Magnified by those glasses, they should’ve been a turn-off.

“I’m . . . okay,” you said.  Why couldn’t you look away?

“O-kay?” Those eyes were laughing.  Ba-by . . . ” Three times he’d called you that, now.  Like you were his.

You shivered.

“You’re more than okay.”  With his fist, he tapped your chin, lovingly. “Sweetheart, eres  . . . buena.”

 

*     *     *

 

Sometimes . . .

He held you, like he’d never let go.  You talked . . . about real life.  How you hated your job.  “Don’t take no shit!” was his advice.  “Baby, you’re worth more than that.”  Those wide eyes convinced you.

If you were sick, or hurt, wasn’t he worried?  “What’s that?” he demanded, of bandaids on your arm, or leg.  “Where’d you get that?” Your heart swelled, that he cared that much.

And the worst: “You take your medicine?” Almost angry, that you needed it.  That, smart as you were, you still didn’t “have it together.”  Your smile relieved him. But usually you . . . didn’t. 

Those pills made you feel . . . strange.

 

*     *     *

 

 

“It’s like,” you hear yourself say, “He put a spell on me!”

Santeria, or something.  Nah, he’d never been out that way.  He was Puerto-Rican.  From Jersey City, yet.  Not into fancy hocus-pocus.  

“Rafael?” This is one dumb shrink. “The man you killed?”

You’re almost amused.  But laughter triggers off tears.  Like a marionette, you are.  Somebody’s always pulling your strings.  “That’s him.”

Why else would you be here, bound?  In this room with marshmallow walls?

“A love spell?” She can’t be that stupid.  “With a lock of your hair?”  She fingers her own blonde curls.  “And candles, and shit?”

You just look at her.  If she is that stupid, none of this is real. 

Behind you, you try to loosen your hands, realize they’re free.

As you study them, you know this is a dream.  Maybe a vision.

“Rafael? My Rafael?” This shrink-who’s-not-really-a-shrink is Marilyn.  Rival Number Two.  “But he’s not dead!” Wild-eyed.  Panic-stricken.  “He’s . . . not . . . dead!”  Grabs you, digging her long nails in you, till she draws blood.

But you feel no pain.

“Not yet,” you tell the Dream-Marilyn.

 

*     *     *

 

 

Blondes, he dug, more than anything else.  Trish, the gap-toothed one, had short, sandy hair.  Marilyn, a bleached, outgrown perm.  Rivals # One and Two.

Only you had black hair.  Jet-black, and straight.  But it was falling out, big-time.

Stress, you thought. 

Your black hair was all over his house.  Nobody’s but yours.  Unless Cher had dropped in for a fast fuck.

In his bed, he was sprawled, nude.  As he collected long black hairs from the pillow, he wasn’t smiling. “That’s not good,” he said.

You looked away, embarrassed.  Your guy, you feel, should never know your secrets: your weight, your true feelings.  This . . . shedding.  Like a cancer victim, you felt. Instead of an “hysterical pregnancy,” maybe it’s “hysterical cancer.”  You’d start wasting away.  Soon you’d be a hairless sack of bones.

Then he’d be sorry! you thought.  Boldly, you wrapped yourself in the covers.

“Stop that!” He yanked them off you.  Eyes blazing.  “What’ll Trish think, if she finds these?”

Your long, black hairs.  Not that many, really.  Just enough to fuck him.

“Or the cops,” you joked. 

Qué?” He was really pissed, now. “Estás diciendo?

“They’ll think,” you said gleefully, “I killed you.”

 

*     *     *

 

It’s close to eleven.  Almost an hour has passed.

When his clock chimed ten, he was still breathing.  Blood pumping to his heart.  Now that heart is dead meat.

 At ten, he had a shot.  ‘Cos you got him nervous. 

Blackhaus.  Like a spiked jelly donut, it tasted.  After he gulped it, remember you grabbed and kissed him?

You can still taste both: the kiss and the shot.

How weird, you think.  How you can still taste somebody . . . and they’re dead.

When that clock chimes eleven, will you hear it from out here?  Your post on the stoop.  Staring up at the squirrel-gray sky. 

When the sun was out last, he’d squinted from it.  Searched for his shades, his favorite prescriptions, the real dark ones.  “Dope glasses,” he’d called them, laughing.

But they were upstairs, in your apartment.

“Go get them!” Again, the eyes blazing.  Trish paid for those glasses.”

Trish . . . Trish . . . Trish . . .

 

*     *     *

 

 

“Liz, can you believe it?” He seemed so amused.  “They’re jealous of each other!”

Like a clenched fist, your heart felt. “Trish and Marilyn,” he said, smirking.  Like you’d never heard this before.

Even, in your apartment, in your bed, he loved torturing you. Rubbing shit in.  “Marilyn knew she was there, so she just showed up.  To fuck things up.”  He leaned across you for his smokes and lighter. Kissed you on the tit. “Can you believe that shit?” he said through his cigarette.  “To just show up?”

You would’ve, too.  But he’d never know it.  You smirked back. “That’s fucked up.”

No commitments, was your agreement.  Well, his. You didn’t mind sharing.  Long’s you had a piece of him . . .

If he knew how you really felt, he’d be gone.

“If I had to choose between the three of you’z,” he began.

No, you thought.  Not again. Your heart raced.

But, as he tightened his arm around you, really cuddled you . . .

Me? you thought, not daring to relax. Not yet. Would it be me?

“I’d say . . .” Your eyes were shut tight, but you felt him staring. Felt his breath on your cheek.  Trish.”

Skinned alive, you felt.  You wished he’d leave, right then, before you cried.

“We both love to dance.”  Tears burned your eyes.  You remembered him dancing with that mop. “She’s a wild thing.  Loves to fuck.  And such a tight . . . ass!”

He had to see your tears.  Still, he went on. “And she does so much for me, man . . .”

 

*     *     *

 

 

But it wasn’t just sex, you’ll tell somebody.  The warden.  A real shrink, this time.  Anybody who’ll listen. 

That first time was so . . . special.

His touch: on just your elbow had thrilled you.  But, on your clit.  Oh, man!  And . . . Oh, God, what that tongue could do!

His cock.  Bent, it was, from some shit he got into, years back.  “Kid stuff,” he called it. 

But how you sucked it was no kid stuff.  “Oh, Mommi!” he gasped.  Eyes twice their size.  His sweaty chest jerked back. “Qué rico!”

All day, you could suck that curvy cock, from all angles.  His little nuts, too.  He couldn’t crack a beer, light a cigarette, without you grabbing at him. You could live on that cock.  Who needs food? you thought.

How you sucked him, was how he fucked you.  In positions even you’d never tried!  Fucked you like he hated you.  Like he knew you loved him.  Like if he fucked you hard enough, he’d kill it.

But, after . . .

He held you, whispering . . . in Spanish!  That made it sweeter, or spicier, like how flan was richer than pudding.  Whispered throaty nothings in that language you always hated.  Spic talk, your folks had called it, when you were growing up.  You had no use for it, then . . .

His last words were in Spanish. . . .

Before he got sliced.

 

*     *     *

 

 

“When me n’ Trish come in, remember . . .” Those eyes meant business. “You don’t know me, girl.” Your heart sunk.

S’ bad enough he took over your home.  But your bar? 

For years, Spit’s was your place!  If you were short on cash, you ran a tab.  When the jukebox got old, the owner asked you for song updates. “Miss You,” that old Stones tune, was your favorite.

 Maggie, the barmaid, was your friend!  When jealous wives showed up, eager to kill you, Maggie warned you, in code.  “Can you babysit tonight?” would show up on your voicemail.  You’d know.  And if your latest fling stopped in . . . “Don’t forget to take out the garbage.”

But now . . .

Rafael ruled.  Dancing around, twirling the pool stick, running secret card games in the back . . . he was “The Man.” Buying rounds, leaving fat tips for the bartenders, the fattest for Maggie. 

“You sure?” Maggie asked him, as she pocketed the twenty. 

“I’m sure, baby.”  Baby, again.  As he took her hand, you felt electricity surging.  “I know if I ever need help . . .” He flashed that smile.  “You got my back.”

And cock, you thought, seething with jealousy.  How you hated Maggie, now! 

He didn’t work.  Not really.  Beyond the super’s job, nothing you knew of.  So where’d he get all that money?

 Trish?

As “Just a Gigolo” came on his radio, you began to wonder.

“You hear me, Liz?” His sharp tone brought you back to reality.  “When we come in that place, stay away from us!”

You forced a smile.  Lately, you even sickened yourself.  And “Sure,” had a sob behind it.

 

*     *     *

 

Somehow, you knew it’d be tonight. 

All day long, no word from him.  Mid-morning, well, you knew that was Trish-time!  Eleven, eleven-thirty, you knew what he was up to.  That stupid husband of hers dropped her off, in front of your building. 

“Thinks I’m a chick.”  Rafael always howled with laughter.  “Her sister’s friend.”  Then he got serious.  “Liz, you just don’t know . . .” He gripped your elbows. 

Your heart raced, thinking maybe he’d kiss you.

“What she goes through.  He beats her!”

Wonder why. You tried not to smile.

“Well, here I am,” he said, “To save the day!”

And this day he wasn’t calling you, or even answering his cell.  If your ceiling fell down, you’d sit there, covered with rubble.  All the tenants he ignored, when his cock tripped him.  Hey, he ignored them, when he was with you.

But today he wasn’t.

 The sickest part was, you wanted to see her.  Live.  Her photo on his nightstand wasn’t bad enough. The short, blonde hairs entangled with your long black ones in his bed.

Wanted her to see you.

 

*     *     *

 

 

“Rafael?” As she poured the chick’s wine, Maggie’s tone was casual.  “No, I haven’t seen him.”

With hatred, you eyed this chick.  Curly blonde perm, too much make-up. Perched on that barstool, she looked at least six feet tall.  But harmless.  She wasn’t out to kick ass.  Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Marilyn, you realized.  Rival Number Two.  Suddenly, your hatred was gone. You felt like sending her a drink.

Instead, you sucked down your shot and went for the jukebox.

When the side door buzzed open, without turning around, you knew it was them. 

The Stones came on, loud.  Still, you heard everything.

“What happened to you?” Marilyn.  Frantic, at the end of her rope.  Like you would’ve sounded.

“Shut up!” Him. “You crazy?  What’d I tell you about coming in here?”

 Your neck hurt from looking straight ahead.  But where was Trish?

You jumped.  Literally “in your face” was a face: small, with glassy eyes and a gap-toothed smile.  “Play me a song!” she said. “Something I can dance to!”

Her. 

As “Miss You” came on, she said, “Fuckin-A!” And started dancing.

“Marilyn,” you heard, in his poisonous tone.  “Get out, and don’t come back, you hear?”

Her tortured sob gave you chills.  The door buzzed open, and then he was right next to you, at the jukebox.  Your heart leapt.

Ignoring you, he punched in a song, then turned to Trish.  “C’mere, baby,” he purred.

He’d played your last song.  Out of your money.

As they danced together to “Miss You,” the words hit you, as if for the first time.  Something about “lying to yourself,” and how you loved him, and nobody else.  And something else . . .

About being crazy . . .

 

*     *     *

 

 

When you woke up the next day, you knew it was over.

The lack of sun, though it’d rained on and off for four days.  But there was something different about this day.  Rain drumming on your a/c seemed to warn you.  It was supposed to clear up later, but you didn’t care.  Life as you knew it was history.

Home alone, you acted different.  No music blasting, no TV either.  If you were extra quiet, maybe he wouldn’t say it.  If you lay there in the dark, he might think you were out, or . . . dead.

You couldn’t go out, without him hearing you.  I always know when it’s you, Mommi, he said smugly, months back, when things were good between you.  When you dump your garbage, or wash your clothes . . . Baby, I know.

Why, you asked God, did he have to move here?

Your phone hadn’t rung. No news is good news, you thought, for the first time ever.

As the day wore on, you felt worse.  Shivers so bad, you couldn’t take it.  Fear, you smelled, like gas from your faulty burners. 

Oh, God, you thought then, what if there’s a fire?

Then you were crying.  No matter how long you avoided him, it was coming. 

Your garbage stunk.  So out you went, with it.

Heart pounding, you passed his windows.  Lighted, cheery-looking, in this rain, on any other day.  At his kitchen table, he was, alone, on his cell.  His back to you, but you knew he saw you.

You rushed back inside, but not fast enough.

On the stairs, he was, blocking your way.  “Gotta talk to you,” came out weary.  Like the bomb he’d drop would wipe him out, too.

 

You just stared.

“Me n’ Trish, okay?” he said, real fast.  “It’s just us from now on.  Okay?” Now he looked scared.  “Just me n’ her.” 

When you didn’t answer, he looked even scareder.  The burners, you were thinking about. The ones that wouldn’t light.  You felt yourself smiling.

“I mean it, Liz.  She’s leaving her husband.  This weekend.  Moving in here.  Downstairs, with me . . .”

He was still talking, as you walked away.

“Liz?” He followed you to your door, which you slammed in his face.

“Mommi?” you swore he said next. 

After that, you don’t remember.

       

*     *     *

 

Paint, you smelled, when you woke up this morning.

Stinky semi-gloss.  And you knew where it was coming from.  Not upstairs.  That stuck-up chick . . . the fireman who was always off hunting . . . none of your second floor neighbors were that ambitious.

Just him downstairs.

Of course he’d be painting.  For her.

What colors would they choose?  Pretty pastels?  Mauve, she might like, for their bedroom.  Or a rich plum. 

But him . . . Mustard yellow, tangerine, lime-green . . . Spic colors, your folks called them.  A combination, maybe.  Like Easter eggs all over San Juan.

Up in bed, you sat, sniffing the air. Could you tell colors apart by the smell?

One spic color from the next?

Sad, isn’t it, you worked for Social Services.  Before you went nuts.  Most clients Spanish, or black.  You, they all said, had no prejudice.  Dug people for who they were. Took shit to heart.  Had their backs.

Rafael, you thought, what’d you do to me?

Tears . . . oh God, would they never stop?  Like a hot shower you couldn’t shut off.  Deep, gasp-y tears.  Like with each bout, your heart would come up.

Abandoned baby tears.   Human, and animal.  Kittens, you saw, drowning in those tears.  Through eyes so swollen, bees might’ve stung them.

Then, suddenly, the tears just . . . stopped.

And you smiled.

In a flash, it came to you.  He doesn’t know, you realized, that I love him!  You never told him!  If you had . . .

You hopped out of bed.  Even made it, with fresh sheets.  Humming.

He would’ve chose me. . . .

 

     

*     *     *

 

 

“¿Quién es?” he said, when you knocked on his door.

You didn’t answer. 

Dizzy, you were, from the stench of paint.  And not eating, the past few days.  Just soup.  You couldn’t even drink.

The door flew open; his face fell.  “Liz.” 

Your forced smile stopped him from shutting that door.  He’s got to think, a little voice said, you’re happy!  With or without him.

Still, he looked wary.  Never, you thought, had he looked so hot.  So… Spanish.  In your favorite t-shirt.  Once white, now it was splattered with paint.  Avocado green.

Your smile works, finally.  He flashes his own.  Even his glasses are speckled with paint.

“I smelled paint,” you said.  “Figured it was you.” Your voice sounds choked. It’s the most you’d spoken in days.

“Yeah,” he said, almost shyly.  Still gripping the door, he couldn’t look at you.  “Just getting shit ready.”

Should’ve picked me.  Smiling made your face ache.  “It’s a pretty color.”

His chest-hair was splotched with paint, too. “Wanna come in?” he said.  “And see the place?”

Sorry, he was, the instant he said it.  You just knew it.  But it was too late.

Inside, you smelled her over the paint.  So strongly, she might’ve been there.  But she wasn’t. 

Too early for her, you thought, as the clock chimed. . . . That clock she gave him . . . That . . . chick’s clock.  Nine, or was it ten o’clock?

God, you hated that clock.  Like you hated her face.  That smug, gap-toothed . . .

As he looked nervously at you, your smile returned.

Chick-shit, there was, all over the place.  A lacy pink bra draped over a chair. (“¡Me encantan tus tetas!” he’d once told you.) Makeup, hairspray, on the kitchen counter.  Chick-shit everywhere, except . . .

“Which room?” you asked.

As he gestured to the bedroom, he seized the bottle. Blackhaus, he needed, bad.  You scared him, but he wasn’t sure why.  In his face, you saw it.  In how fast he downed that shot.

Like something bad was coming at him, fast.

He went with you, into that room.  Carrying the bottle.  One shot wasn’t enough, not with you here.

Old newspapers rustled beneath you.  He lifted one slippered foot, saw paint on the sole. You watched him, closely.

On the dresser, he set the bottle. Next to the knife.

A carpet knife, it was, though he had no carpet.  With this scary, triangular blade.  For scraping old paint, maybe.

He grabbed it.  

Your eyes met.  “I love you!” you said, at last. 

“Mommi,” he said wearily, holding the knife behind him.  Please!”

He was begging.  For you.  Your heart swelled.

Behind his back, he struggled with the knife.  Trying to close it, maybe.

Was there time, before she got here?  For a kiss?

You’d make time!

As you lunged, he dropped it.  Your kiss nearly choked him; he reacted.  Shoved you away.  Hard.  Papers rustled wildly, as you stumbled, but stopped yourself from falling.

Then just looked at him.

 Glasses all crooked, as he wiped his mouth, over and over, disgusted.  Like your kiss was shit.  “Well, I . . . love . . . her,” he said.

You kept staring.

Then snatched it up. 

And flew. . . .

Slashed his neck from a crazy angle.

The right one.  Blood poured out, splashed your face!  For a moment, you were blinded by red.  Covered your eyes, then saw what you did.

Blood everywhere.  On his t-shirt, glasses, hands. Eyes wild.  Glasses knocked off, as he clutched his neck, tried to save himself. From between his hands, a red fountain, like an offering to you.  Please, he begged silently, help me, baby. I love you, too.  Till now, I didn’t know how much . . .

Even the walls had blood on them.  But, how? you wondered.  Those new green walls. Like Christmas was coming.  Holly and berries, you thought, almost cheerfully.

He went down, gasping. “¡Me mataste!”

And, finally, you understood.

 

*     *     *

     

An endless shower, you took, but why?

Long, black hairs, saliva, fingerprints, they were all down there.  What could you say?  You’ll never get out of this.

Your ass hurts, from sitting on the stoop.  You shift your position, glance down at his window.

From the curb, a squirrel watches you.  Then ducks under your neighbor’s car.

From inside comes a mournful sound.  Chimes.  Just for fun, you start counting: one . . . two . . . three . . .

Up the block, somebody is coming.

The gap-toothed one.

From under the car, the squirrel peeks at you, then disappears.  Your smile scares it.

As she gets closer, you sprawl on the stoop.  She won’t remember you, from Spit’s.  Never knew you both shared his bed. 

With the third . . .

The clock stopped chiming, but you’re still counting.  “Womens,” instead of hours.

So much shit, she’s carrying, for the big move. Sheets and stuff.  Green and white, is the new color scheme.

As she reaches for her keys, she drops her purse. 

It’s red.  You snatch it up, smiling, as you hand it to her.

“Thanks!” she says, as she goes inside.

With her mucho short, blonde hairs.  Mucho fingerprints.  Mucho saliva.

And thank you . . .  you think, affectionately now.

. . . For sharing.

 

 

foolsdrunks.jpg
Art by John and Flo Stanton

Fools and Drunks and Me and You
 
Cindy Rosmus

For Dave, Margaret, & Richie

 

 

The summer of ’83, I was never more conscious of being broke as shit.  Broke, drunk every day, and—I didn’t realize it till now—pretty happy.

 

            There we were—me, Freddy, Francine, and Nicky—full-time students who rarely went to class.  Part-time workers who hardly went to work.  Fourth-floor neighbors in this shit building up the block from Liberty State College. 

 

Needless to say, Liberty State was a shit school.  They’d let anybody in.  It was the era of the “foreign student,” and if you spoke English, you were a genius, right there. 

 

Me, I was an English major.  A writer, yet.  Back then I scrawled stories in notebooks, jammed them under my bed.  Why would I type them? Who’d want to publish them?  Who’d want to read the ravings of a needy, drunken slob?

 

Me,” Freddy told me.  “Like, what else would I read?”

 

Not his media arts text, that’s for sure.  The week before, he’d sold it back to the college store.  So much for summer school.  For spite, his dad was late sending Freddy’s check.  We needed money for beer now.

 

Also, he’d been fired from Shop Rite . . . for shoplifting!  That was at Path Mark, but the fuckers at Path Mark figured they’d really fix Freddy and call his boss.  So Shop Rite would look bad.  Man, did they!

 

All Freddy had stolen was a half-pound of salami.  He’d stuffed it down his pants, but was gonna pay for the two Portuguese rolls. “I stole it for you!” he’d told me, so I’d feel guilty.  Big deal.  This time I’d got stuck buying all the beer.

 

Worse yet, my mom was wise to me.  She’d been sending me money like mad, till she finally realized I owed her.  A vicious circle, you know?  As fast as she sent it, we drank it.  I hated going to my work-study job.  Why work just to pay somebody back?  Somebody who’d give you even more money, if you played sick, or sad.  I was great at both.

 

“Shelley, I got an idea!” Freddy said. That always meant trouble.  “Lemme use your phone.”  His was cut off; guess why?

 

When he hung up with his dad, he was giggling like a lunatic.  “Two hundred bucks, he’s sending!”

 

I had to sit down.  That was more than Freddy’s rent. 

 

“I got you pregnant,” he explained.  “You need an abortion.”

 

“What?” I yelled.  “You never touched me!”

 

He sneered.  “He don’t know that!”

 

I got up, paced around the coffee table.  “That’s terrible!”

 

“Worked in high school.”  He was trying to justify it.  “Said I knocked up Roseanne Massi.  Never touched her, either.”

 

“What about Francine? Can’t she lend you money?” Francine actually had some saved.  Her boyfriend Nicky had let it slip.

 

“She’s not that stupid!” Freddy said.  Then, real indignant, “What’s up your ass?”

 

“You used me!  Not Francine.  Or anybody else.  You lied about me!” I couldn’t stress that enough.  He was more than a drinking buddy.  Freddy was my best friend, the brother I never had.  Just the thought of us doing it was…well, incestuous.

 

“Too late now.”  He headed for the door.  “I’ll just have to drink alone.”

 

I beat him to the door, blocking it.  “My ass!”  I told him.

 

*     *     *

 

The night I met Freddy, the September before, it was 2AM.  No, later.  The bar had closed at 2, but I was making out with Mike Cassidy in the foyer for so long, you heard birds chirping outside. 

 

“Do you think,” I asked him, “We’re in love?”  Like a fool!

 

“Uh-huh!” He was even drunker than me.  A short Mick Jagger, he looked like, with the same lips, but these slanty eyes, like he was part Chinese, or just real stoned.  “I’ll bet we are!”

 

If I wasn’t so dumb, I’d have brought him upstairs, and fucked him senseless.  But back then, I thought guys wanted more than just sex.  That they had souls, watched sunsets and shit.  Could love you for real, at first sight.

 

I left him in the foyer with a rock hard-on and a look of such disbelief, I can still see it.  With this shit- eating grin, I waltzed my drunk ass up four flights of stairs.  What a fool I was!  And so bombed, I was scared to let go of the banister.

 

On the fourth floor landing, I weaved, almost fell backwards down the stairs.

 

Hey!” I heard, from across the hallway.  This skinny guy with wild red hair.  Freddy.  Though by now I saw two of him. 

 

He ran over and grabbed my arm.  “Four-o-four,” I tried telling him, but I was slurring so bad, it sounded like “Boy, oh boy!”

 

“S’all right,” I think he said.  He was slurring, too.  If you’re both fucked up, there’s no hope, period.  It was like we were two non-skaters on roller skates for the first time. 

 

He lived right next to me.  Since 2AM he’d been trying to unlock his door, which was actually mine.  When he realized his mistake, he smiled, wisely. 

 

Nice meeting you, Red, I swore I told him.  But it came out, “I-she-you-dead.”

 

Either way, he was delighted. 

 

*     *     *

 

“In this heat?” Freddy asked Francine.  “You gotta iron now?”

 

She smirked.  Freddy, Nicky, and I were sprawled on her bed, under the silent a/c.  A few minutes ago, it was nice and cool.  Now, thanks to her, sweat beaded on our faces and arms.

 

            “Can’tcha hurry up, or something?” Nicky’s voice was pleading.  The look she gave him shut him up fast.

 

            It was the hottest day yet, and only she had a/c.  Miss Perfect.  She was pretty, sensible, and actually paid her bills.  She was sick to shit of us, but who cared?  In an emergency, you shared with your friends.  Your last cigarette, can of beer, or a cold blast of air.  No matter. 

 

            As the iron heated, we tried to lay still.  Outside, you heard water rushing, and kids yelling.  Somebody had busted open a hydrant.  Lucky them, I thought, glaring at Francine.

 

Figures she’d be the one with the air.  It took her an hour to iron her jeans.  First she had to crease them.  Then she ironed the pockets, and between the belthooks.  Then she did everything all over again.

 

            Hot as it was, Nicky reached over and grabbed his guitar.  The acoustic one, since we were fucked if we blew a fuse.  For a long time, he strummed the guitar without singing.  For a Liberty State music major, he was pretty spiritual.  Despite his punked-out hair, he wrote songs that were closer to hymns.

 

“So,” Francine said, picking up the iron at last, “What’ll we buy for our big barbecue?” Before we could answer, she added, “With the money Freddy stole from his dad!”

 

“I didn’t steal it!”

 

“You lied,” she said smugly.  “That’s just like stealing.”

 

“Beer and wine,” I said.  “We can get a whole shitload for that kind of money.” The guys nodded. 

 

“I mean food!”  Disgusted, Francine actually stopped ironing.

 

“Food?” Freddy sounded horrified. 

 

“What kind of meat?” She picked up the iron again.  “Steaks? Ribs?  There’s a sale down at…”

 

“We don’t even have a grill!” I said.

 

“One of those little ones, we’ll get, from K-Mart,” Francine said.  That’s where she worked, as a cashier.

 

“Okay.  A pack of dogs, and a few cans of beans!” Freddy said.

 

“I’ll make a nice big salad,” Francine said in this hypnotic voice. Only she could sound dreamy about making a salad.  And stop ironing on top of it. “With beefsteak tomatoes, and nice crisp lettuce…”

 

A drop of sweat landed on the guitar. “Put on the air, damn it!” Nicky said, finally.

 

“Don’t yell at me.” She went back to ironing, slower, if you ask me.  “No, really,” she told Freddy, “Give me the money, and I’ll shop.”

 

“How much?” We were both suspicious.

 

Instead of answering, she said, “Nick . . . You’ll help carry everything, won’t you?”

 

What could he say?  He had no job and was living with her.  It was her apartment.  Everything in it: the orange tweed furniture, the a/c, even the hated iron, was hers.  Only that guitar was his.  You could tell he hated looking up from it. 

 

But he loved her. 

 

That smile was his answer.

 

*     *     *

 

            Home.  The most beautiful four-letter word. 

 

            Mine was the worst.  I hated to clean, and pick up after myself.  Everywhere you looked were crushed beer cans, books, clothes, silverware.  If you needed a fork, try the night table.  My kitchen table was so cluttered, Francine wouldn’t sit at it. 

 

“Looks fine to me.” Freddy felt right at home.  His kitchen was painted lime-green.  The ceiling leaked tar from the roof, which made the olive rug stick to the floor.

 

“Who,” Francine said distastefully, “Puts a shag rug in their kitchen?”

 

“Not me!” Freddy was insulted.  The previous tenant had done it. 

 

And brought roaches.  Thanks to him, we all had them. 

 

Even Francine. The cleanest one of us, and that bugged her the most.  “You,” she said to Freddy, “never wash dishes!  Leave filthy pots on the stove.  You deserve roaches.  But me . . .” She started to cry. 

 

We hated that.  She was our Rock of Gibraltar.  Like Wendy in Peter Pan, she was our mother, almost.  When Freddy got a splinter, who did he run to?  When Mike Cassidy never called me, it was Francine who said, “Don’t worry, Shel.  He’ll be back.”

 

You’re better off, Freddy had told me, without that fucking drunk!

 

*     *     *

 

Roaches or not, the four of us lived at Francine’s.  Even without a/c, it would’ve been our group home. The talks we had, we might’ve been hippies.

 

“If there’s a God . . .” Freddy cracked a beer. “Why’s there so much suffering in the world?”

 

‘’Cos you’re in it!” I joked.

 

Suffering?” Francine said.  She was rolling a joint.  Occasionally we could afford a dime bag. “What do you know about suffering?  You cut your finger, and Daddy writes you a check!”  Freddy laughed. 

 

“Free will,” said Reverend Nicky.  “God never said life would be easy.”

 

We all sat for a while, just nodding.  Nicky could do that to you.  If we were hippies, he’d’ve been our guru.  Deep down, we all believed the same stuff.  Even Freddy, who just liked playing Devil’s Advocate.

 

I sipped my beer, felt nice and high.  In my own fridge, a couple were stashed, so I wasn’t panic-stricken.  I could actually think.

 

People talked about changing the world.  But how?  All we could do was live our own lives, try not to shit on anyone else’s.  But I guess if we all thought that way

. . . .

 

I brightened.  A spiritual awakening, I guess this was.  We could share, too, I thought, as Francine passed me the joint.  But didn’t we already? 

 

Not enough, I realized.  In my mind, those beers behind the mayo reminded me of something wild.  The miracle, I was thinking, of the loaves and two fishes.

 

“Amen,” I said.  But by now they were stoned.

 

*     *     *

 

            Avoiding Dolly, the super, wasn’t easy.  She didn’t miss a trick.  Maybe being legally blind helped her smell trouble. 

 

            The roof was the only place we could barbecue.  The one place she never snooped. We’d have to sneak the grill up there.

 

            “Frederick!” she’d said, the day before.  “Is this yours?”  In the hallway she’d found an empty V-O bottle.

 

            “Hell, no!” Freddy sounded disgusted.  “I don’t drink whiskey.”  Then he snickered.  “Can’t’cha read?”

 

            “You fuck!” Dolly went to smack him, but I grabbed the bottle.

 

Dolly looked like Lucille Ball with thick cat’s eye glasses. Freddy looked more like her than her own son Billy did. 

 

He was the culprit, Billy.  Always drunk in the building somewhere.  She just couldn’t see him. 

 

If anybody creeped me out, it was him.  Ice-blue eyes, he had, like those aliens from sci fi flicks.  Aliens who married you, but only you knew the truth.  You always felt Billy was lurking around.  Or under your bed, or something. . . .

 

“You’d better be good!” Dolly warned Freddy, who laughed all the way down the hall.

 

*     *     *

 

            Finally. . . . 

 

Beers in coolers, wine in my fridge.  The meat and stuff was in Francine’s.  And what cool shit she bought: burgers, dogs, Italian sausage.  Even a London Broil!  Too bad she liked it burned to a crisp.  But on the grill, anything tasted great. 

 

            “No chicken!” Freddy had warned her that morning.  We were sick of chicken.  For months we’d live on baked chicken legs and canned potatoes.

 

            “And just one tomato!” His voice echoed in the hallway.

 

            “Shut up!” I told him.  “Nobody else’s supposed to know.”

 

We weren’t greedy; we just never had much to share.  Not food, anyway.  It was disgusting how we hid beers from each other. 

 

            “Okay,” I said, feeling guilty.  “Invite who you want.”

 

            “Dolly!” he said, and snickered. 

 

I opened the fridge, looked longingly at the wine. “That’s all we need.”

 

*     *     *

 

Up on the roof, burgers and dogs sizzled on the tiny grill.  We’d brought up

my ancient coffee table, and set the grill on that. 

 

When Freddy and Nicky carried the table out, one of its legs fell off.  I carried it up after them.  That no roaches were on the table, I hoped was a good sign.

 

It was so hot out, the tar felt warm and soft beneath us, like sand at the beach.  Francine and I lay down blankets: my crummy Budweiser one (with real sand stuck to it), and her fluffy pink one. 

 

While Freddy impatiently worked the grill, Nicky was our DJ.  Right now “Hungry Like the Wolf” was blasting. Duran Duran.  My favorite.  “Good song!” I said, trying to smooth out my stiff, sandy blanket.

 

“Put on ‘Thriller!’ ” Francine saidd.  Her favorite.  We all groaned.  We were sick of that tape.  But she always got her way, at least with Nicky.

 

Instead of buying batteries, they’d used extension cords to hook up the boom box to Freddy’s bedroom outlet.  If Dolly saw that, we were fucked, for sure.

 

Still, Michael Jackson or not, we were all in great moods.  We laughed at everything, no matter how stupid.  Took turns drinking beer at the edge of the roof, enjoying the “view.”  The city at its sleaziest: the park with its bums, and junkies.  But even they looked happy, today!  Down the block, another hydrant had busted open.  Kids and even grown-ups leapt through the gushing water.

 

“Don’t jump!” Francine told each of us in turn.

 

Like we were married, I stood behind Freddy, holding a beer for him to drink while he cooked.

 

“Aw, how sweet!” Francine would’ve loved it if we hooked up.

 

“Gimme your plates!” Freddy said finally. 

 

For a good half hour, we stuffed ourselves.  Our paper plates were piled so high, it was obscene.  Burgers, dogs, sausages.   Plus pickles and salads and shit.  The oily plate almost burned a hole in my leg.

 

“Good!” Freddy kept saying, through mouthfuls of food.  “Good!”  Frankenstein’s first word.

 

“Don’t let that burn,” Francine warned him.  Meaning the London Broil. Already it looked like an old black boot.

 

“I thought you liked it like that,” I said.

 

She glowered at me, then went back to eating.  Only she would bypass a pile of burgers and dogs to savor a green salad.  She looked so delicate, so out of place, sitting on a blanket on that roof.  Like Natalie Wood, in West Side Story.

 

“I can’t believe nobody crashed this thing,” Nicky said. 

 

“Maybe nobody’s home,” I said.

 

*     *     *

 

It hit Nicky first, how full we were.  Eyes wide, he was all bent over, like he would puke right there.  “Oh, man!” he said.

 

I was next.  Bloated and sick, I was scared I would die.  I’d drunk too much beer before eating, and that made it worse.  I wasn’t drunk anymore.  And that’s sad.

 

Freddy was still putting it away.  Like he was going to the chair, at midnight.  “You fag!” he told Francine, who leisurely speared the last hunk of tomato.

 

“Are you watching that meat?” she asked him.

 

That’s when it hit him.  Suddenly his eyes were twice their size: way bigger than Nicky’s.  Somehow he got up.  Holding his gut, he started pacing back and forth.

 

“ ’S’ your own fault,” Francine said smugly.

 

I managed to get up, too.  “I’ve . . . gotta go downstairs.”

 

The building was so quiet, it was eerie.     Not like everybody was just out, but. . .  dead. 

 

From the stairs, my place was the furthest. So when he came up behind me, I freaked.

 

“Hey,” Billy said.  Out of nowhere, he’d come.  Sloppy drunk, clutching a beer in a brown bag.  He could hardly stand.

 

“What’s up?” I tried to sound casual.

 

My door was unlocked.  As I rushed in, he shoved me, so I fell. He was right behind me.

 

It didn’t seem real.  In my own house, I was laid out, with this…thing looming over me!  Weaving back and forth, leering at me.  “What?” My teeth chattered, I was so scared. “What do you want?”

 

He shrugged. “I don’t know . . .” He leaned against the doorframe.  “A blow job?” 

 

All I’d eaten was ready to come up. “No!” I spat out. “I’d die first!” 

He looked sad.  Like he was really so drunk, he didn’t know what was up.  He held out the paper bag.  “Give you some of my quart.”

 

I just stared at him.  When he moved toward me, I yelled, “Get away from me!”

 

“Shel!”  Freddy yelled, from the hallway.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“Help!” I said, and rolled over toward the bathroom.

 

“Bill?” Now Freddy was in the doorway.  “What’s up, man?”  They slapped each other five!

 

“Nothin’,” Billy said. “Thought maybe she’d blow me.”

 

In the bathroom, I got up, shut and locked the door.  “Get . . . out!”

 

“Come on up the roof.” Freddy’s voice was muffled, as they left.  “Got beer, and . . .”

 

*     *     *

 

For a long time, I sat on the shower ledge, trying not to cry. Why was Freddy so nice to him?  He might’ve raped me!  What kind of friend was Freddy, anyway? 

 

Guys stick together, a little voice told me.  Plus, it wasn’t like Freddy was my boyfriend.  If it had been Francine, Nicky would’ve kicked Billy’s ass.  If I’d only fucked Mike Cassidy . . . .

 

The tears gushed down.  Why, I asked myself, didn’t guys want me? ‘Cos I was a slob?  One glance around my grimy bathroom made me cry harder. 

 

A drunk?  Well, too bad. After what just happened, I couldn’t wait for my next beer.

 

A . . . pig?  I’d just eaten enough for a family of four. I was lucky my shorts hadn’t split. 

 

I got up, wearily.  The saddest part was, if Billy had offered the beer up front, he might’ve had me.  I was that down on myself.

 

Nah, I realized, as I trudged back out.  He was just too creepy. . . .

 

*     *     *

 

            “Shelley?” Behind me, the voice was reedy, ghostlike.

 

            I swung around.  In the hallway, Dolly was creeping along, like she was smelling for something.  “Shel?”

 

            “Yeah.” 

 

            She kept sniffing around. “You seen Billy?”

 

            “ ’S’ up on the roof.”

           

            Then, whatever she’d been smelling, I smelled, too.  Like something was burning.

 

            This crazy smile lit up her face.  “Maybe . . .” she said, “He’ll jump!”

 

            I backed into the stairs. “Are we on fire?”

 

            “Billy!” I heard Francine yell from the roof. “That’s disgusting!” Then drunken laughter.

 

            The smell had gotten worse.  I was so confused, I didn’t know what was happening. Wasn’t sure where to go.

 

            I ran upstairs.  Behind me, Dolly was feeling her way up. “That fuck!” she said. “He’s burning the house down! That miserable, drunken . . .”

 

            Sizzling, we heard, right off.  As we reached the roof, I stopped dead, so Dolly bumped into me.

 

             Legs spread, Billy stood before the fiery grill. . . peeing! 

 

            “Good aim,” Freddy told Nicky, who was trying not to laugh.  They’d gotten twice as drunk since I went downstairs.

 

            “The grill caught fire,” Francine told me. “Say goodbye to your coffee table.”

 

            With that, the broken leg crumbled, fell off.  The whole thing collapsed, with the grill on top of it. 

 

            “Billy!” Dolly yelled.  “Where are you?”

 

            Billy was done peeing.  Without zipping his fly, he loped away from the mess. I looked away.

 

            “My London Broil!” Francine wailed.  On the roof, the charred meat blended right in with the tar.

 

            “Billy!” Dolly was still yelling.

 

            But he’d disappeared. 

 

            The music was blasting.  Freddy and Nicky were making up their own steps to the “Stray Cat Strut.” I went up to Freddy. “Thanks for nothing!” I said.

 

            “Huh?” I bet he saw two of me.

 

            “Watch out!” Francine screamed.

 

            Some things seem to happen in slow motion.  Take forever instead of the actual few seconds.

 

            One moment Billy was standing on the edge of the roof.  Looking down, like he owned the whole world.  Beer in one hand, arms spread out, almost eagle-like. For like a second, he tottered, then went over the side.

 

            I’m not sure if I screamed, like Francine.  I swore I didn’t, but remember yelling all around me.  And music.  The music never let up, seemed to get louder.

When the cops finally got there, the Clash were still rocking the Casbah. 

 

            For a long time, Dolly kept yelling, “What?  What happened?”

 

            Above all, I heard my heart pounding.

 

*     *     *

 

            “She didn’t mean it,” I said, later that night, at Francine’s. “Dolly didn’t really want him to jump.”

 

            “But did he?” Nicky asked.  We were all whispering.

 

            “I’m not sure,” I said. I really wasn’t. It felt like I had dreamt it. In my head, I kept seeing Billy go over the edge, but couldn’t believe it had really happened.

 

            “He jumped.” Francine sounded mad.

 

            It had cooled off, some.  We sat in the dark living room: me, Francine and Nicky on that orange tweed couch, Freddy on the floor, closest to me.  We’d all sobered up by now.  Between talking to the cops, and trying to make sure Dolly was okay. . . .

           

            “Poor guy,” Nicky said. “Probably depressed.” He leaned over, stared into space. “Who knew?”

 

            “Weren’t you pissed at him?” Freddy asked me. “What’d he do?”

 

            Real crabby, he was.  We all were.  Probably the first time we were all together, not drinking.  My own nerves felt raw.  It felt like we were standing on each other’s.

 

            What could I say?  Without being nasty?

 

            Nobody cared when I didn’t answer.

 

            For a while we were all silent.

 

Then Francine said, “Nicky . . . Would you make me coffee?” Tonight her voice was like a circular saw. 

 

“Make it yourself,” Nicky said.      

 

 

 

 

Eat The Worm

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

Mozart showed up late last night while Candy the writer was smashed on tequila.  The door was open, and Candy heard Mozart shut it behind him and turn the lock.  He stopped in the kitchen. When he opened the door to the old fridge, something fell out of the freezer and landed on his foot.  Candy heard him kick it across the floor.

For a while Mozart leaned in the doorway, staring at her.  He was almost as drunk as she was.  His wig was on crooked, and there were stains on his lavender waistcoat.  With one hand he held two cans of beer and with the other, he steadied himself against the bar.  Candy tried to get up but fell back on the couch.  She laughed nervously.

All the lights were out, but as Mozart came towards her, she realized that she could see every detail of the room, from the water spots on the wine glasses to the dust hanging from the radiator.  If she wasn't bombed, she could have re-read the editor’s letter.

She curled up her legs so Mozart could sit down.  Up close he looked amused, proud as a parent who was as rambunctious as his child, a parody of himself.  His eyes were brilliant, but so bloodshot they made Candy's begin to water.  His nose seemed too small for his mouth, which was smeared with lipstick from a weird angle, as if he'd been kissed.

When he smiled, Mozart had dimples.  Candy smiled back as he cracked one of the beers.  “You want a glass?" she asked.

"What for?" he said.

She shrugged.  He cracked the other beer and handed it to her.

"I'll puke," she said.

"Keep one foot on the floor,"  Mozart said, "and you won't."

As she moved her leg, Candy's robe slid open, and the bruise on her thigh was exposed.  It was the size and hue of a small eggplant and so ugly that Mozart couldn't keep his eyes off of it.  "Got hit with a barstool," Candy said before he could ask her about it.

"Over at McCabes's?"

She nodded and took a sip of beer.  "Last week sometime. Big Dutch knocked Cobra out of his seat, and the stool hit me.  Later some biker bitch said I stole her money off the bar. "

Mozart smirked.  "Try bolting your door."

She just shrugged.  Mozart took his feet off the cocktail table long enough to pick up the editor's letter.  "Another?"
he said, but she wouldn't answer.  He read it by the light of his face.  As he sipped his beer, the can shone silver as the buckles on his shoes.  He frowned.

"Fuckers,"  Candy said in a hurt voice.

"Idiots," Mozart corrected her.  He was reading it again. "How many idiots?"

She had to count on her fingers.  "This makes six."

He missed his mouth, and the beer spilled.  He wiped his face and neck with his sleeve.  Candy considered offering him a dishcloth, or at least her hair.  "It even won an award!” She cried.

Mozart folded two corners of the letter down and then the whole thing lengthwise.  "Congratulations," he said.

"Nine months they had it," Candy said bitterly.  "Nine goddamn months it took them to say they didn't want it."

Mozart smiled.  "Long enough for you to have a baby."

"Not me." Candy watched as he threw the paper airplane into the kitchen. She wouldn't be surprised if it came back by itself. "I don't want a baby."

"Not even mine?"

Candy hid her face against the couch.  As bombed as she was, she knew she was blushing.  When Mozart touched the cold beer to her buttock, she jumped up.  He winked, then finished the beer in one gulp.

"Last call," she said.

"That's what you think," Mozart said from the kitchen. Something else —maybe the ice pops—fell out of the freezer, and once again he kicked it aside.  Candy heard him crack another beer.

"After this you have to leave!" she yelled.

"Waiting up for Big Dutch?" "No way."

"At least I can speak in complete sentences."

"Get out of here!" she said.  From behind, Mozart caught her around the neck and rested his chin on top of her head. She trembled.  Tears came to her eyes.  When she wiped them away, her make-up came off on her hand, and she let out a sob.  It was the first time she'd cried since she turned thirty-five, since the unsold stories came back almost all at once.  Since Big Dutch slugged her.  She clung to Mozart's arm, and he tightened his hold on her.

"I've failed you," she said finally, when no more tears would come.

"Bullshit," Mozart said. "Now blow your nose."

"On your sleeve?"

"It's all I have."

She sighed.  "Should I give up?"

He slapped her wet cheek.  "I'm not sorry," he said.

"I won't give up, I swear!  It was a bad joke, like how do you load a truck full of dead babies?"

He wasn't laughing.  "With a pitchfork?"

"Just don't go," Candy begged.

"Relax." Mozart leaned against the bar.  He looked disgusted, haughty as hell.  Handsome, in spite of the lipstick all over his face.  He took small furious sips of beer and still wouldn't look at her.

Candy ran her fingers through her hair, holding it up around her face.  She wondered if the black streaks had dried on her cheeks.  The robe slipped off one shoulder but she left it that way.  "Herr Mozart?" she whispered.

He grunted.

"I promise I'll grow up." She let go of her hair.

"Where’s the book?"

She rubbed her shoulder.  "Kids are okay, but I prefer grown-ups."

"All I want is your book."

Now Candy looked disgusted.  "Over on the desk," she said.  Mozart covered his face so she wouldn't see him smile. But then he laughed out loud.

"So I'm a slob," Candy muttered.

Beer still in hand, Mozart shoved everything but the typewriter off the desk.  When he bent over to sort out the manuscript, Candy realized he wasn't wearing any underwear. She liked the shape of his lavender silk cheeks.  He suddenly turned and winked again.

Candy crushed the empty can and set it on the cocktail table.

Mozart perched on the edge of the desk and began reading the manuscript.  Now and then he scratched his thigh and Candy's eyes were forced back to his erection.  Then she saw his face.

He was smiling.  As he turned each page, his smile grew wider.  He licked his lips, then pressed them together.  He took off his wig and ran his hand through his hair.  His hair was as wild as hers, but blond -- the color of Gulden's mustard. He chewed his thumbnail.  Very slowly he shook his head.

Candy's heart was pounding.  For a minute she thought she was going to cry again.

Finally he looked at her.  When he spoke, his voice sounded strange.  "My child," he said, and the words unnerved her like a jab in the back.  Outside she heard motorcycles, but inside there was music.  His music.  "My child," he said now. He lay the manuscript on top of the typewriter and began to inch toward her.

She grabbed the empty bottle but she knew it would never stop him.  She wouldn't want it to.  "They say you get drunker when you eat the worm," she said, backing into the couch.

"Drunkest," Mozart said. "But you beat me to it."  He took her chin in his hand.  When she let go of the bottle, he smiled.  She blinked furiously against the light from his face, which was very close to hers.

He suddenly licked her mouth and nose. "No!" she screamed.  "That's what they did when I was little.  My Dad used to do that to my Mom."

Mozart nodded.  "I know," he said, "I was there." Candy stared.  It was her lipstick on his face, the same shade that reddened the mouths of the cans.  She looked into the darkest and dreamiest of eyes.  Last Call Eyes. A lot to do before she died, she realized now.  She was breathing hard.

He tickled her ribs so she would laugh, and after awhile, she did.  He laughed with her.  She put a finger in each of his dimples.

He yanked off her robe.

Afterward, she lay in his lap, her face against his thigh. The music grew softer till it was just in his hands.  He massaged her earlobe and neck, the back of her head.  She didn't want to fall asleep.

It was late when she woke up on the floor.  The sun was bleach-white and shining right in her eyes.  She sat up and screamed from the pain in her head.

She was out of aspirin.  And her rooms were a mess. 

 

Collected in Angel of Manslaughter, Fossil Publications, © 2006. Originally appeared in The Unmentionable, # 13 © 1991.

 

 

 

ilpaglio.jpg
Art by Paula Friedlander

Il Pagliaccio Morto

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

Joey.

 

He was this con artist, right? Not a pro, or anything, but a con job just the same. Otherwise, it would’ve worked out between them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve screwed her over.

 

Baci. Poor little Baci, that sweet crazy kid from downtown. The one who'd just sold her book, and shocked the shit out of everybody. The one who could've—and should've— had the best.

 

With her looks, anyway. That hot body, wild black hair and eyes, and those lips. Especially those. Big and red, like some living, forbidden fruit. The juiciest, hungriest lips. Insatiable, but with only one thing on her diet by then.

 

She should've seen a shrink. Big time.

 

She'd always had it rough, Baci. Laughed at in school because she was smart, and it was cool to be dumb, and cruel. When she was twelve, somebody pushed her drunk Pop out of a window. Baci heard her uncle Guido did that. Then her old lady married the uncle's pal—that slimeball with the skinny mustache who looked like Snidely Whiplash from the Bullwinkle cartoon.

 

The slimeball had it in for Baci. In more ways than one…

 

She was used to being smacked around, but this stuff was new to her. She screamed and fought back, and hated it at first. Then she realized there was no way out. Not yet. She got used to being sore.

 

Good thing she could write. At least she had that. Snidely said if she ever told anybody what he did to her, he'd kill her old lady. Baci made sure those little notebooks were never out of her sight.

 

When she finally did get away, she moved in with that bum, uptown. Bruno. Sly, muscular guy who looked like he could kick the shit out of anybody. He owned that drug bar by the park. When Baci turned twenty-one, he taught her to tend bar but said he'd kill her if he caught her sniffing any of the goods. He hated when she smoked. In front of customers, he snatched the Marlboro out of her mouth and broke it in half, grinning.

 

By the time she got away from the Drug King, she had her first story published. Brutal story about Stepfather Snidely and her that could only be printed in a skinmag. She was ready, now. Nobody would ever fuck with Baci again. The battered little beauty was on her way up.

 

She got a job tending bar at this place, Mick's. Way uptown, a place where chicks jumped each other if one got caught eyeing the other's old man. Working six nights a week at Mick's was the only way Baci could afford to live by herself.

 

A dump, sure, but the rooms were hers. A place for her graffiti-covered kid's desk and second-hand typewriter. That's where she wrote the book. Mornings she got up early and bolted down sweet, black coffee like she was doing shots of 'Buca. She stared out the windows at the shabby, dead-end street by the bay.

 

She wrote straight from the heart.

 

She searched for love all the time. Guys who swore they loved her went home with her nights. Lots of guys, all bums. They made her cry. Guys with ripped T-shirts who asked her to lick coke off their chests and cocks, but Baci did it without the coke. She never did drugs, though she could hold her booze better than her old man had. She drank, and she cried.

 

Baci guessed what she wanted was a nice, normal guy. Not too normal, but one who was for real. Somebody who'd stick around, but not beat her or yank Marlboros out of her mouth 'cos he didn't like her to smoke. Somebody who'd love her. Somebody creative. Even somebody who finger-painted her body would do. "Mister-Fuckin'-Right"

 

And she thought that was Joey.

 

He showed up at Mick's when Baci needed him most. Stepfather Snidely had stopped in for a beer when Mick wasn't around. He got bombed the way her real Pop had, then scrambled up onto the bar so he could jump on her. Joey had pulled Snidely back so he'd landed on his back like a giant roach. Joey had beaten the shit out of him while people cheered.

 

"Are you okay?" Joey'd said after he and some biker had carried Snidely outside. "Can I drive you home?" He looked so concerned, seemed so different from all the others. When he smiled, and Baci saw he had a dimple—one dimple—she knew she'd lost it. For good.

 

Sure, he was nice. And courteous. It was all part of his act. His "audition." He knew just what to say and do and how to say and do it, 'cos he was studying to be an actor. But that went right over Baci's bobbing head.

 

Sicilian and Polish, Joey was, like a blond Frankie Avalon with a yellow mustache and one small tattoo. Beach Blanket Bastard. Ride the wild Polack. Baci couldn't get enough of him. From one side he got the worst kind of guts, and from the other, that dimple, and those eyes. Joey's eyes were as bad as Baci's lips: the most sincere, the cruelest, and the bluest you'd ever seen. Eyes that said, "I'm not gonna fuck you up like all the others, darling. Trust me, okay?"

 

Baci did. She trusted him to move into her place and take over her life. Talk shit to her, in that "actor's" voice. Like he really wasn't from uptown, by the bay. He recited poetry and did Shakespearean monologues that gave Baci a lump in her throat. She couldn't believe she'd found a guy like Joey.

 

By trade he was a carpenter. The first week he lived with Baci, he hung up the mini-blinds she'd bought but forgotten. He built cabinets for her kitchen. When he volunteered to re-do her bathroom, he seemed shocked when she asked how much it would cost her. "Nothing," he said, showing that dimple. "Not a damn thing, darling."

 

He seemed too good to be true. He was the only guy she could really talk to, who gave a shit about what she'd been through. When she told him how her Stepfather Snidely had told her sick jokes while he fucked her, Joey was pissed. He suddenly turned and smacked the headboard, almost breaking it. "You should've killed him!" he said.

 

Mornings he got up with Baci and read what she'd written the day before, till it was time for him to leave for work. Sometimes he told her to change something, but usually he didn't. "I tol’ja to fix that, bitch," he'd say in one of his voices, never his own. Baci would start giggling, and all of a sudden, they'd wind up fucking.

 

They were wild in bed, you know? Baci was used to doing it rough, but Joey didn't smack her around. He pulled her nipples, but he never bit them. When she gave him head, he liked her to use her teeth. "Raking," he called it. Baci got into it, loved closing those ruby lips over the head and working her way down, then bringing her teeth around him so that Joey gasped. When she did, he moaned like the hammerhead from uptown that he really was.

 

All summer they were together. Then something hap­pened.

 

Baci sold the book.

 

Her agent had hit on just the right guy, somebody who loved the kind of squalid stuff Baci wrote. Baci had never been so happy. Now she had it all: a book coming out, a great guy who knew how to please her, and who really meant it when he said he loved her. She couldn't wait for Joey to get him to celebrate. She rushed over to Mick's.

 

Three beers and two shots of 'Buca went to her head. Baci looked Mick square in the face and quit her job.

 

Mick had always liked her. "Good luck," he said. "Give us a kiss, babe." When he stuck his tongue in her mouth, she was shocked. Before she could stop herself, Baci slapped his face.

 

It felt good. She stood there, watching Mick's eyes get bigger, wondering why she felt this way. Mick had always been swell to her.

 

"Get out!" he yelled, and all the heads that hadn't turned with the slap, turned now.

 

"You little bitch! All the shit I stood from you!" Mick yelled, as she ran out the door.

 

Till Joey got home, Baci sat in the window by her desk, drinking beer and smoking Marlboros. Staring outside at a stray cat. It was still almost a kitten, dark gray like the sky before a big storm. The cat made her feel strange, like maybe they should switch places. Like maybe it was really the cat who'd just sold the book, not Baci. Like maybe Baci should be the one roaming the streets, looking for scraps.

 

Joey was late. Baci kept checking the clock he'd hung in her kitchen. She cracked another beer.

 

She still couldn't believe what she'd done. How she'd smacked Mick just 'cos he'd made a pass at her. It wasn't her fault. She'd been drunk. But it'd felt great. God, she'd felt great when she'd smacked him, drunk or not.

 

It was dark when Joey finally got home. He walked in with his denim jacket slung over his shoulder, like a punk looking for trouble. He had on this cut-off T-shirt that Baci loved, the turquoise one that looked green next to his blue eyes. His face was red. He wasn't smiling. Before he even said a word, Baci knew he'd stopped at Mick's.

 

"What're you, fucking crazy?" he snarled.

 

"So I quit!" Baci said, reaching for his jacket. "I sold the book, Joe. Didn't I tell you? Now we..."

 

Joey snatched the jacket out of her hand and flung it into a chair. "Stupid bitch!" he said. "Think I'm gonna keep payin' all your goddamn bills? Do ya?"

 

Baci paused. "I never asked you to," she said, feeling like she was in a play. Maybe she was. Maybe Joey was just acting out a scene, like he used to. She realized she was still holding the beer, and she took a sip.

 

He knocked it right out of her mouth, and she almost fell back against the fridge. "Well, I'm through," he said.

 

Baci just looked at him. She tasted blood.

 

"I'm sicka this shit. I'm sicka you."

 

"You're drunk," Baci said hopefully.

 

"I could be drunker," he said, sneering. His dimple looked out of place now, as if all along it'd belonged to somebody else.

 

"You want a beer?" she said. "We should be celebrating. I sold the book, I said."

 

He smacked her into the fridge.

 

"Sicka you!" he said. "Sicka that fuckin' book. I got my own damn life, whether you like it or not."

 

Baci was crying. "I never stopped you!" She tasted tears along with her blood. "You got whatever you wanted."

 

"Bullshit," he said with that sneer. "It's your fuckin' book, not mine."

 

"We can work together," Baci said, cringing as he came toward her again…

 

With his thumb and middle finger, he mashed her sore face. "Who needs you?" he said. "I'm on my own, now, darling."

 

"Huh?"

 

"I got a chance," he said. "Just a chance. But I'm gonna give it all I got."

 

When he reached into his jacket pocket, Baci was sure he'd stopped off and bought a gun. She tried to remember one of the prayers the nuns had taught her. All she could remember was "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

 

But she didn't deserve to die like this. She'd never done anything that bad. It wasn't fair. All she'd done was love him the way she'd wanted to be loved. It wasn't fair. She loved him to death.

 

Joey turned around wearing a fake nose that was only a little redder than his face. "Just call me Chaos,’" he said without smiling. ‘Chaos the Clown.’"

 

He yanked open his jeans. Slowly he came toward her again, his cock in his hand.

 

Just like the old days, she froze.

 

Like all those times when she was a kid, she remembered not to scream.

 

 

When he was gone, she sat in the window for a long time, with an icepack against her cheek. Even though it was dark out, she watched for the cat. It had to be somewhere. She'd find it yet, maybe bring it upstairs. She had to protect it from Snidely. From the Brunos and Micks with their moving dicks. From Joey, actually. Joey who wasn't Joey anymore.

 

Who was she kidding? It was the cat who would show her what to do about Joey.

 

Chaos.

 

She went over to the fridge.

 

Mixed with her blood, the beer was delicious.

 

Not this one. Not Joey. Not after he made Stepfather see stars. He couldn't've hurt her. Not after he'd hand-carved those cabinets up there. Carved right through to that heart. Carved that heart right out of the body.

 

That heart.

 

Those lips. That heart.

 

Ravenous.

 

Carved right out.

 

The ad in the paper said "Conky the Clown," but Baci saw through it. Nobody would hire a clown named "Chaos." First show was at the library, in the kids' department, Saturday afternoon at one.

 

Funny, since Joey never liked kids. "Snot-noses," he'd called them. He'd been careful not to get Baci pregnant, but she'd stopped being grateful about that, along with the blinds he'd hung and the cabinets he'd built.

 

She was glad he'd forgotten his utility knife.

 

From the door to the Kiddies' Room, she watched five of the "Snot-noses" crawl all over Chaos the Clown. She could almost feel him cringe.

 

His face was painted white, but the dimple stuck out from the wide red mouth. His wig matched his eyes. From across the room, they were still the bluest she'd ever seen.

 

He saw her while he was tying a balloon into some kind of animal. It looked like a red stray cat. Chaos looked like he wished it was real, 'cos then it could feel real pain.

 

Like Baci.

 

He smiled at her. She smiled back, then ducked behind the door. She'd wait for him out by his car.

 

Outside the library, she climbed up onto the hood of his 'Vette and smoked, wishing it was dark so she could watch rings of smoke as she blew them.

 

Funny, wasn't it, that Chaos the Clown should drive a Vette instead of a VW, or jump out of a tiny matchbox model car? Since he'd left her the other night, everything struck Baci as hilarious.

 

Like those jokes her Stepfather used to tell her while he was fucking her. So she'd remember it being fun. Jokes about niggers and spics and Polacks. One joke, even, about Helen Keller, who'd been blind, deaf, and dumb. If only, Baci had thought then, if only she could've been struck the same way.

 

Maybe then she could've been happy.

 

When Chaos finally came out of the library, the same old feeling came over Baci. He was still wearing clown make-up and blue wig, but he'd changed into a ripped T-shirt and his tightest jeans. Baci looked away, almost shyly. He had a royal hard-on.

 

"Get offa my car, bitch," he said, but his tone was affectionate.

 

Baci obeyed without a word, without even smiling. She threw her cigarette into the street. Above them, the wind blew through the trees, and suddenly it was cool. Through one of the rips in his shirt, she could see his belly button. She reached out and covered it with the loose material.

 

"Get in," he said.

 

They drove down to Monk Road, on the other side of town, where guys and chicks went to fuck. Everywhere you looked, there were hills of dirt, and an occasional car parked in the distance. But down here, people minded their own damn business.

 

The sun was still bright. When Chaos unzipped his jeans, his cock popped up. It was almost as red as his fake nose. It looked like it was on fire.

 

"Hurry up," Chaos said. "I got another show to do."

 

Baci ran her hand up along his cock, then rubbed and squeezed it till he shut his clown's eyes and sighed. She lowered her head.

 

He moaned as she ran her teeth along it, up and down, pausing at the head, which had always been her favorite part. She'd often wished she could've sucked it right off. Instead, very lightly, she ran her tongue over it.

 

He seized her by the hair so she'd suck it faster, but this time she surprised him.

 

She bit him as hard as she could.

 

He screamed and let go of her hair. She backed up to the passenger door and pulled out the utility knife. While the clown clutched his bleeding cock, Baci snapped open the blade.

 

And sliced through his chest.

 

Dropped the knife in his lap. He screamed louder as blood spurted out, splashing both his hands and his cock.

He was still screaming as she pushed open the door and crawled out into the dirt.

 

But she was sick of crawling around in dirt.

 

Not even looking to see if a car was parked alongside them, not even caring if anybody saw her, speckled with blood, or hearing the agonized screams of the dying clown...

 

Little Baci stood up straight.

 

Il Pagliaccio Morto.”Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus.  Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. First appeared in Hardboiled, # 17, February 1994.

 

 

mikeysdadgin.jpg
Art by Gin E L Fenton

Mikey’s Dad

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

For the last hour, Mikey's dad had his eye on Lisa. Mikey's dad looked like Nick Nolte, with the strangest chin — shaven, but looking unshaven and always moving, like he had to bite his tongue or he'd yell, "Don't marry him, Lisa! It's me you want, stupid bitch!"

He was too late. Father C. said the word, and then Lisa and Mikey kissed. Mikey was a rotten kisser, but he was sweet in bed. He made her feel good, talked about God and how pretty the snow was, took her to horror movie matinees. When Mikey kissed her in the church, Lisa couldn't find his tongue. That had never happened with Mikey's dad.

It was cold in the Legion hall. Too Christmasy, with a shaky tree, bridesmaids in blood-red velour, the maid-of-honor in green, holly in their stiff blonde hair. Dinner would be turkey and the Veteran's Special: pigs-in-blankets. How silly to get married this day. Everyone's broke the week after Christmas. Santa's so bombed, he'd give anyone away.

Their song was "Happy," by the Stones, but they danced to "You Made Me Love You," to please Lisa's mom, the Judy Garland freak. Lisa couldn't wait for the champagne toast. She'd left her beer in the little room. The manager had practically grabbed it out of Lisa's hand when it was time to line up. ("Where's your wife, Mr. Rozewski?" the bitch had asked Mikey. Lisa was hiding in the corner. She'd held up her beer in response.) As she danced with Mikey, she watched Mikey's dad watch her. When he licked his lips, she shut her eyes.

Dancing with her own dad was like dancing with that Christmas tree. Lisa's dad was so bombed, he'd almost fallen down the icy steps of St. Jude's. He kept stepping on Lisa's gown. She remembered sitting on his lap in the corner bar, drinking ginger ale out of a whiskey glass. The glasses seemed to get smaller as Lisa got bigger. Now she drank a shot of Jack Daniels with every beer. It was Mikey's dad who'd introduced her to Jack.

While Mikey danced with his sobbing mom, Lisa sneaked a mini egg roll off a stranger's plate. He was probably a Rozewski, so she winked back at him. When she was almost through with the guy's beer, she felt someone tug on her veil. She refused to turn around, even when he did it again. "God Bless the Child" was over then. Lisa was the first to clap for Mikey and his mom. "Next one's ours," Mikey's dad whispered hoarsely into Lisa's ear.

But she got away. The toast took too long, since Mikey's cousin Zenon translated it into Polish after dragging it out in English. Lisa didn't like the soup: it was beef vegetable, with pearls of fat and canned carrot squares in it. Every time she picked up her spoon, someone started to bang his against his glass. Then they all did it.

Everyone but Mikey's dad. What was wrong with his wife? Couldn't she see through all those tears? Were they only for her late-blooming son, who still played drinking games with the Puerto Rican guys at work? Lisa looked into Mikey's eyes. They were brown and set so closely that sometimes it seemed she was all he saw, or wanted to see. She kissed him once, without the clanging of spoons on glasses. He tasted like beefy fat and warm beer.

The Veteran's band played a polka, and the old folks screamed. Lisa refused to get up. She picked at the salad while Mikey danced with the flower girl, his genius niece. Lisa looked over at Mikey's dad, but he wasn't there. Her heart jumped when she felt another tug on her veil.

"Get away from me," she muttered.

"If you want," said Mikey's dad. He sat down in Mikey's seat.

Finally she looked at him "Go get me a beer."

He signaled the waitress instead. "Two Budweisers, please," he said in the tone of voice he used to impress young girls. The waitress was old enough to be his mother; He grabbed Lisa's hand.

"What're you, crazy?" she said.

"Maybe," he said, smiling. He looked strange in his tux. He'd trimmed his mustache and gotten a haircut for the occasion, but his hair was still too long. He and Mikey could pass for brothers, except his eyes were different: his said they were sick of seeing the same shit day after day, night after night. He put Lisa's hand on his thigh.

Lisa got up. "I'm going to puke."

Mikey's dad wouldn't let her go. "It'll pass," he said.

The polka ended, and the band announced they were taking a break. Mikey headed back to the bridal table. "The next song's ours," Mikey's dad told Lisa, "no matter what you say." He clapped his son on the back on his way to the men's room.

"Aren't you eating?" Mikey asked Lisa when the main course was served.

"I'm sick of turkey."

"So eat stuffed cabbage."

Mikey's dad kept his word. When the band came back, they started playing, "You Belong To Me." Mikey's dad held out his hand.

Lisa looked at it in horror. "No," she said.

"Go 'head, babe," Mikey said through a mouthful of food. "I'm still eating."

Lisa felt light-headed. She couldn't remember how many beers she'd had, how much champagne. She was due for a shot of Jack. She headed for the bar.

Mikey's dad seized her by the arm and led her onto the dance floor. "Later," he said. He pulled her close.

She gasped. Just once he rubbed up against her. She struggled, but there was no way out "Enjoy it," he said.

A lot of people were dancing. Lisa saw her woozy parents, and Mikey's mom with Cousin Zen. Lisa's maid of honor was so coked up, she was trying to fast-dance to the song. Once Lisa had slept with the usher her best friend was with. Tom was a great kisser, but in bed, Lisa had lost out. No one could compare with Mikey's dad.

"I'm freezing," she said.

“They just turned up the heat,” Mikey’s dad said.

“You’re sick,” she said. Again she tried to break away, but he was too strong. She saw Mikey wave to them, a glass of beer in his other hand.

“He works all day Saturday, so he’ll never know,” Mikey’s dad said.

“Know what?”

He didn’t answer. Lisa heard him snicker into her veil. They were dancing right by the bar. The bartender was grinning down at the brainy flower girl. He dropped an extra cherry into her Shirley Temple.

“He’ll kill you,” Lisa said.

“He’ll kill you,” Mikey’s dad said, “if he has too much to drink. And he’s pushed far enough. Then he’ll explode.”

Lisa could feel the little she’d eaten start to come back up. “I love him,” she said weakly.

The song was ending. “Then don’t tell him.”

Lisa just looked at him. The other dancers clapped and stood waiting to hear what the band would play next.

She remembered the first time they did it, in the back of his van, eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Before she ever knew he had a son her age. He had two big tattoos and a long scar around his chest, from when he was stabbed—almost sliced clean in half—in Vietnam. He taught her what sex was about before she even learned to drive a car. It hurt so much that she cried. Mikey’s dad liked that the best. He said the more it hurt, the better it was. He said tears made him come.

Lisa was crying now, softly, on his shoulder. He smelled musky and rough, like a warrior. A chief. She let out a sob.

“Save it,” Mikey’s dad said.

 

 

 

“Mikey’s Dad.”  Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus.  Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. Collected in Sleeping with Dionysus: Women, Ecstasy and Addiction, edited by Kay Marie Porterfield, The Crossing Press, 1994.  First appeared in The North American Review, Vol. 276, No. 1, March 1991.

shangrilagin.jpg
Art by Gin E L Fenton

 

Shangri-La

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          His place was a sty.  Filthy, cluttered.  Creepy, like the Munsters had snuck in while decent people were out working.  Usually it was dark.  So dark you felt blind.  That mattress on the floor.  Getting up, if you didn’t kick Boomer, the dog, each step crunched a homemade porn tape, or sent a beer can flying.  Sex and booze: Lars’ priorities.  But in which order?  Valerie smirked.

 

          Outside the house she stood, in the snow.  But what snow!  A fucking blizzard, with flakes madly battering everything in sight.  They stung her cheeks.  You love pain! Lars had said smugly, in his perverse Dr. Higgins way.  You thrive on abuse.  A rocket scientist turned bad, Lars was, kinda, like the alien enemy had claimed his body, cock first.  That Val still loved him defied all logic. 

 

A month ago, he’d dumped her, right in that doorway, in a similar snowstorm.  Like in a silent movie, Lars pointed his finger, roaring, “Get out!  Get out, you crazy…psycho…lunatic bitch!”  Childishly jumping up and down, so Boomer bellowed.  Poor fuck, Valerie had thought, in the midst of her torment.  At least she had a fighting chance.  That ancient, half-crippled beagle was trapped.  She was wondering if Lars was too bombed to feed him, when a full can of beer had whizzed past her head.  “Get out!” Lars had shrieked, as the beer sunk in the deep snow.

 

          “Okay,” Val told the shrink, a nameless bitch with glasses too much like somebody else’s.  “I got low self-esteem, lesbo tendencies, and only like bad boys.  Oh, I had a fucked-up childhood, too.”  Same as she’d told all other shrinks, but this one she just didn’t trust.  Way back when, she’d slouched deliciously on mushy couches, poured out her heart, and felt better.  Still, she knew deep down, she was the same needy little fucker she’d been since she was five.  “Some things,” she told this spectacled shrink, “never change.”

 

          His real name was Louis, but he called himself Lars.  Val never asked him why.  Things like that set him off.  The strangest things did.  “You don’t remember?” Lars would say, with a flick of his cigarette.  Virginia Slims, he smoked, like a sophisticated dame.  “Then again, you were trashed.”  That evil gleam was in his eye.  Sure, she drank, but with Lars, you had to.  Anything to forget the demeaning way he made you feel.  Ate your pussy with gusto, clutching your hands so tightly, they ached.  Licked your asshole, too, God, he was dirty!  The sicker it was, the more he dug it.  The sad part was, he convinced you it was love.  Drunk or sober, he gazed up with brown, slanted eyes brimming with real tears.  Schatze,” he whispered, “I love you!”  half in German.  Raved about Berlin, but hailed from Jersey City.  Ultra-romantic, Lars was Gomez Addams, Rasputin, and a fallen angel, all rolled into one.  “But,” he soon added, all smug, lighting up again, “Not just you.”  That was the saddest part.  He had lots of soulmates.  And not just female…

 

          “Mmmmmm,” came choked moans from the shrink’s VCR.  His, as Mistress Pinky eased their favorite dildo up his ass.  What he loved most, was sucking cock.  Extreme close-up of Lars’ face: half-shut, long-lashed eyes, cheeks bulging with the massive organ stuffed in his mouth.  “Mmmmmmm!”  Skin shiny with cum from the two he’d just sucked through the Glory Hole.  As he lurches and gulps this fresh load, a plump, red-nailed hand smoothes his drenched hair back.  Ah, Mistress Pinky…

 

          “First of all,” Val said, in total disgust, “If I was gonna eat pussy, it wouldn’t be hers.”  Smiling, Lars wasn’t put off a bit.  “Not if, my little Schatze.  When.  And trust me.  It will be hers.”  He usually got his way.  But not this time, Val thought smugly. 

 

Mistress Pinky…just her name suggested the dirtiest secrets.  A sheer pink nightie on a sour-faced sow.  With glasses, yet.  Lars’ production company, “Shangri-La,” specialized in fetish videos: chain-smoking sluts, golden showers, but mostly BBWs.  Of his whole stable, Mistress Pinky was the BIGGEST, most BEAUTIFUL WOMAN of all.  A sideshow kewpie doll, with curves galore.  Super-long, silky hair, and red lips stung by a swarm of bees.  The same hold Lars had on Val, his Mistress had on Lars.  And “Shangri-La’s” Superstar always wore wire-framed specs!  “S’a big turn-on!” Lars snarled, when Val wondered why.  “For who?” she demanded.  Lars just smirked.

 

          Self-mutilation.  Out of frustration, Val had severe joint pain from grinding her teeth.  Palms scarred, from carving herself.  All to keep her from clawing that smirk off Lars’ face.  “’Cos believe me,” she told the bug-eyed shrink.  “It wouldn’t stop there.” 

 

But Lars wasn’t all bad, Val told herself.  How else could she love him so much?  When she was real sick, who held her head, so she could puke?  Who mopped her face?  And take Boomer…he loved that pissy mutt to death!  Liked wrapping the beagle in soiled sheets like a mummy, so Boomer yelped, and struggled to get out.  It was their favorite game.  But Val refused to join in.    

 

The last time she watched them in bed, Val lost it.  Sobbing hysterically, she crouched on the floor, as old Boomer stumbled over, nudged her face.  His was damp,  smelly, with the saddest eyes Val had ever seen.  Once brown, now blue with cataracts.  Tightly, Val squeezed him to her, as Lars plowed Mistress Pinky.  Boomer bellowed, struggled to escape. 

 

Schatze,” Lars called the groaning cow, whose spectacled eyes were glued to Val.  Huffing and puffing, heaving, Pinky was close to her ninth orgasm.  “I…” she gasped, pointing to Val, “I…will…have her!”  Still deep inside her, Lars turned to face Val.  Hair plastered all over his sticky face, his eyes were filled with love.  “Come!” he gasped.  “Join us.  Please?  His tone was pleading. “Schatze?”  But Val was frozen.  An instant later, the eyes blazed with hate.  “Then get out!”

 

          Now, a month later, out in the snow, Val was ready.  But not for that.  She, who’d never been in a fight, was ready for the Big One.  Shaking with fury, it was all laid out, beautifully, in her mind.  If Pinky was inside, she’d slide her fucking ass!  Beat her so bad, inside and out, so everywhere you looked, there’d be fat.  Clumps of bloody yellow fat, all over the snow.  Cunt, Val thought.  Up the block somewhere would be her glasses: smashed, twisted.  For the first time in a long time, Val smiled.  And meant it.

 

          Homicidal tendencies, the shrink would be thinking.  “But why you?”   Madame Prozac demanded.  “You’re built…nice.  Pretty, caring.  Not in the same league with that crew. You’re not his type!” 

 

Val had no clue.  All she knew was, she wanted him back.  And back she would go, no matter what. 

 

Oh, well!” she said casually, getting up.  “It’s over, isn’t it?  Life goes on.”  After all Val had just told her, no shrink would buy that.  But, Val thought, smirking, her hour was up.   No time to tell her about…“The Tape.”

 

          She was here for the tape.  That’s what she’d say, when Lars opened the door.  The only one she’d made, with him, for him, which really pissed him off.  “Don’t do it for me!” he’d said grandly.  “Do it for yourself.”  Like Glinda from Oz might’ve told her.  All it was, was her sucking his cock, while trying not to choke on a cigarette.  “Nothing big,” he muttered.  “It’ll never sell.  A waste of time.  Now if she were coaxing you…” She, she, she!  Val had had it with she, the way Lars’ eyes lit up when he mentioned she.  She’d rather watch him suck cock, some thick, drippy, anonymous…

 

          Val was nuts, and she knew it.  Why else would she be here?  When the barking and shouting began inside, why didn’t she leave?  Stumble home through knee-deep snow?  Or call 911, like a sane citizen?  Instead, she struggled up the stairs and burst inside.

 

          “You fuck!” Lars screamed at Boomer, who whined, pathetically.  “Look at this mess!” The place was too bright.  Candles, Val realized.  Hundreds of them, in the bedroom, all flickering crazily, like in Carrie.  Tea lights, wax kitty cats, and those tall, creepy black ones she never wanted to know about.  Wasn’t his life warped enough?  Beside Boomer was a puddle.  Poor fuck, Val thought again.  Lars was so bombed, he still hadn’t seen her. “Wanna get gassed?” he said cruelly.  “Wanna die in some oven, old man?”  As if he understood exactly, Boomer let out the loudest bellow ever.  It was more like a scream, and Val couldn’t take it.  “Shut up!” she told Lars.

 

          Who didn’t flinch.  It was like she lived there, or had never left.  Downing his beer, he crushed the can.  “Fuckin’ mutt,” he muttered, drunkenly, “S’been pissin’ all over!”  He kicked a loose videotape aside. 

 

Suddenly he turned and smiled, horribly, at Val.  “So look who’s here.  Uninvited.  I should call the cops.”  Cant, Val thought.  Phone’s disconnected. Lights off, too.  Lars sighed.  “Well, have a beer first.  Get me one, too.”  Without a word, Val obeyed.  Just like Old Times.

 

At least there was heat, coming from the kitchen.  The oven, he liked to turn on, with the door open.  A smell of gas, but faint.  Dangerous, sure, but Lars dug flirting with death.  They all did, anyone who fucked Lars.  Condoms repulsed him.  I want…” he always said, driving his cock deeper inside you, “To feel you, raw.  I want you to milk me.  Dry.”  And, like a fool, Val always gave in.  God knows what was festering inside her, inside all of them: Mistress Pinky, those Glory Holers…  The same cock that exploded in Val was connected to the Anus From Hell.  They were one tottery step from a mass grave.

 

“Where’s that beer?” Lars yelled, from that brightly-lit room.  But Val saw something that unnerved her.  On the stove, the rear left burner was on, with no flame going.  That’s why she smelled gas.  Idly, she tried another.  No flame, either.  Then the last two.  “Hel-lo!”  Now Lars made gagging sounds, like he was dying of thirst.  Smiling, Val switched off all the burners.  Close call.  If that oven flame ever… Still smiling, she grabbed two warm beers out of the fridge. 

 

She almost tripped over Boomer.  He was always in the way.  During wild sex, he stumbled onto the mattress next to them.  During filming, he howled.  “Gonna put’cha to sleep,” Lars mumbled, affectionately now, rubbing the dog’s ears.  Boomer laughed, silently, stretched out on the mattress next to him.   Val stepped carefully over the piles of tapes.  “So…” Lars accepted the beer.  “Why are you out on a night like this?  Or, to put it bluntly…” Beer spilled on his shaky hand. “Why the fuck are you here?” 

 

          The tape.  Ask him about the tape.  But her tongue felt frozen.  He looked like shit: unshaven, probably unwashed.  Plaid flannel shirt tucked halfway into pants he might’ve swiped from a mental ward.  But this was Lars.  Not the Porn-Meister, but the man who’d loved her.  These glazed eyes had stared deep into hers until both of them desperately had to pee.  But even that he made a dirty game out of, way back when.  Right now the candlelight, all these crazy shadows, were unbearably creepy.  But, at the same time…so romantic.  Was this, was any of this ever real?

 

          Eyes still on her, he drained the can.  As he put it down between two candles, one of them teetered.  She grabbed it, gasping, as the hot wax scalded her. 

 

She jumped up.  He was oblivious, eyes half shut, slouching. “Well?” he said, drinking her beer now.  “ Are we dying to come back?  For another chance?” 

 

“Ice!” she said.  “I burned my hand.” 

 

Smirking, he gestured to the door.  “Plenty outside.”  He stretched out.  “Y’ here to say you love me?” 

 

          But I do, Val thought.  I always have.  I told you!  Her heart raced. “Where’s my tape?” came out all shaky. “The smoking blow job?”  

 

Sold,” he said smugly. 

 

What?”  Val screamed.  “You said it’d never…”

 

 Lars shrugged.  “I lied.”

 

Suddenly Val felt dizzy.  Sick, like her heart could puke.  She saw the Triple X Marquee: SCHATZE DOES DEUTSCHLAND.  No, Direct-to-Video.   Some pot-bellied sicko slapping his salami, splashing his wide screen TV, before Wifey comes home.  Lars and Pinky banking it all.  Around her, flames swirled through Val’s tears. “I don’t believe you!”

 

He’d dozed off.  “Look around,” he said, real cranky.  He rolled over and faced the wall.  “Maybe it’s here, maybe it’s not,” came out muffled.

 

The room was infested with porn tapes, mostly unmarked.  It would take hours, days, to find the right one, if it was here.  Lars half-turned toward her.  “Maybe,” he said, seductively, “She’s got the only copy!” 

 

She.  That’s when Val realized what she was going to do.  Why she was here.  A damn shame, she thought, smiling, that she’s not here too. 

 

In a few minutes, Lars was snoring, softly.  Val stole into the kitchen.  Boomer watched, curiously, but didn’t bark, as she reached the stove.  Good thing he knows me, she thought, switching on the first burner.  That soft, rushing sound.  Still no flame.  But there were plenty inside.  Smiling, Val switched on the other three.

 

Tongue out, Boomer smiled back, innocently.  Good thing he loves me, Val thought, stooping to pet him on the way out.  They rubbed faces.  She kissed the top of his aged head.

 

The snow had gotten deeper.  Way off you heard foghorns, alarms.  But why?  Nobody was out on a night like this.  You were home with someone you loved.

 

Val was halfway down the steps, when she turned and went back in.

 

Inside, the stench of gas was overpowering.  Lars’ drunken snores alternated with coughs.  For a moment, Val stood in his doorway, coughing herself. The candles flickered wildly, shadows trying to pull her back in…

 

Boomer was a smart pooch.  Already stumbling toward the door.  Val bent and scooped him up.  He bellowed, but it was too late.  Love you, too, she thought.

 

Halfway up the block, the blast came.  Windows shattered, flames blew.  The snow was no longer white.  Life goes on, Val knew now.  She held Boomer so tightly, he cried.

 

 

 

 

“Shangri-La.” Collected in Gutter Balls, by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2007 by Fossil Publications.  Originally appeared in Sex and Guts Magazine, January 2004.  From www.sexandgutsmagazine.com.

 

 

 

basedespisedgin.jpg
Art by Gin E L Fenton

The Base and Despised

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

“She could’ve had me,” Ben had bragged, “but she blew it.”  Like he was the Grand Prize.  Like she’d never get over him: “Live Wire Liz.”  What a liar he was, back then.  And what an asshole he felt like, now.  Two years had changed them both, and now she was his only hope.

 

          Liz was no “live wire” anymore.  At least that’s what he heard.  In the bathroom mirror, Ben smiled bitterly.  One less bell to answer, he thought.  One less cock to suck.  His.  His rage was boundless, still.  And word had it, when her bell rang these days, it wasn’t for play.  It was for prayer.

 

          He looked down at the sink.  Lately mirrors scared him.  Mostly his eyes: like black exit wounds, and so baggy, he looked forty-five instead of thirty-five.  Skin tombstone gray.  An aging rabbi, he looked like, with that too-full beard.  Maybe today he would shave.  He was tired, so tired, but at least his hand wasn’t shaking. 

 

          The baby.  Little Nicole.  He was doing it for her. 

 

          “Coarctation of the aorta” was its medical term.  Ben had always hated doctors, avoided them like the plague.  Just like his dad.  Old Hy Rosen had even died right.  A week dead when they found him, so badly decomposed, no cause of death could be determined. “Ha!  Ha!”  Hy might’ve been laughing from the grave.  But the faulty ticker came from the Coppola side.

 

          This new doctor looked about half Ben’s age.  “Mr. Rosen,” he told him, “The large blood vessel leading from your daughter’s heart is too narrow.”  Ben shifted anxiously.  “We have to go in and widen it, so the blood . . .” Surgery.  The most obscene of all words to Ben.  How many surgeries before his Mom had died?  And Nicole was just a year old!  “Mr. Rosen?” the doctor was saying.  “Mr. Rosen, did you hear anything I just said?”

 

          Nicole.  Sweet, helpless, pale thing.  Baby blue kisses, and lifeless hugs.  No smiles.  Puffy legs and feet, ‘cos her blood wasn’t flowing far enough.  The clock was ticking, time was running out for his little one.  Maybe for both of them.

 

          “Mr. Rosen?” the doctor said.  “Are you all right?”

 

          “Fine!” Ben snapped.  He was breathing heavily, felt dizzy, but with his stress level . . . He flinched when the doctor touched him, grimaced as he took his pulse.  “Mr. Ros . . .”

 

          As the door opened, Ben jumped up.  “I said I’d make an appointment!” 

 

          His wife, Kathy, was holding Nicole.  Plain, spectacled, she looked like Daria from that Nickelodeon cartoon, except she was soft, loving.  Weak.  The opposite of “Live Wire Liz.”  As Ben took the baby from her, he said, “Hey, Sweetie!” in a choked voice.  Kathy and the doctor looked hard at each other.  He tapped his heart, pointed toward Ben.  She nodded, wisely.

 

          Ben nuzzled Nicole’s cheek.  Out of spite she’d been conceived, but oh, how he loved her!  It was Liz’s fault.  He’d been so pissed at her, his head spun.  His fingers flew over the keyboard as he chatted away with some “Lonely Hearts” group.  He was desperate to meet somebody new.  And Kathy was perfect.  He wanted her dumb, “So you feel like a genius!” his friend Richie said.  And frumpy, “So you feel like a stud!”  “The man,” Ben announced, “Should always be in charge.”  “You dig playing God,” was Richie’s response.  

 

But the one, true God, in His special way, invaded Ben’s “fool’s paradise.”  His plan to get back at Liz backfired.  Kathy the Dope mixed up her pink and white pills.  “You think,” she said, one night, “We oughta use one of those rubber things?”  Like most real men, Ben hated condoms. “Nah!”  Straddling her, Ben’s smirk could be seen, even in the dark. “I can control it.”  Sure, he pulled out, but  . . .

 

       “I’m pregnant!”  Kathy wailed, two months later.  Ben was furious.  Another man might’ve punched her.  But he wasn’t wired that way.

 

Coarctation . . . more common in men than women . . . even real men . . . high blood pressure . . . short-windedness . . . life span of about thirty-five years . . . thirty-five . . . He was thirty-five now!

 

       How long would Nicole live?  Would she be a Mommy herself, some day?  Would she make it to college, or even to kindergarten?  Or would her second birthday be her last?  Ben kissed her cool, soft cheek.  Oh, God . . . he thought, against his will.  Even more than doctors, he hated God.  The Chief Control Freak.

 

And He was on Liz’s side.  To her, of all people, he gave this healing gift!  One day, magically, out of nowhere.  If it was even true. 

 

       Well, he would find out, wouldn’t he?  Ben’s smile made the doctor look away, nervously.  Kathy reached out for the baby, but Ben ignored her.  In his mind, he saw “Live Wire Liz” once again.  Like it’d just happened, he could almost taste that wild hour with her.  The night they quit being “just friends.”  Almost two years ago . . .

 

*   *   *

 

What a slob!  Ben thought, as they stumbled inside.  But he wasn’t here to scrub her floors.  In the kitchen, Liz shoved him against the grimy stove.  She mashed his face, drove her tongue deep in his mouth, nearly ate his.  He felt violated.  He loved it.  His jeans had never felt so tight.  Her body felt molded to his, and her hot spot begged for him, tried to suck him inside her, through their clothes.  He moaned. 

 

         She was the hottest bitch he’d ever known: wild black hair, like some Metal queen, freaky, mermaid-green eyes, and those lips.  They looked like she’d drained all the blood from his throat, but wanted more.  And that body!  He mauled her breasts, crotch, ass, gasping for like his last breath.  Another kiss choked him, and his heart ached like it would explode.  Then she was on her knees, squeezing his hard-on, fumbling with his fly.  “Oh, man!” he said.

 

         Then she just . . . stopped.  Still kneeling, Liz looked up at him, amazed.  Like he’d suddenly turned into somebody else.  Or like she’d sobered up, and realized she’d made a mistake.  “No,” she said hoarsely.  She reached up, grabbed his unresisting hands.  “No, Benjie.  I can’t.  Not with you.”

 

         Still holding him, she got up.  He burned with rage.  “Why not?” he said shrilly.  Sex didn’t come easy, not to him, anyway.  “Geek,” “Mama’s Boy,” growing up he’d heard them all. 

 

With a smug tenderness, Liz stroked his beard.  Back then, it was a skinny goatee, and it made him look very cool.  “Cos you’re a . . . nice guy!”

 

He just stared, as she opened the fridge, took out two beers. “Let’s stay friends.  Okay, Benjie?”  That nickname infuriated him.  Like he was a shaggy little lapdog. 

 

“Please?” came out before he could stop it.  Please?” he begged.  He wanted to kick himself.

 

         She turned.  As she studied his face, those eerie green eyes seemed to memorize each feature.  That gave him hope.  His buddy Richie had sworn by her.  But . . . “No,” she said.  “Sorry.  I just can’t.”

 

He stormed out, slamming the door so hard, one neighbor yelled, “Damn!” through the wall.  Then another: “You go, girl!”  He was halfway down the next flight of stairs, when he heard Liz’s door fly open.  But he never looked back.

 

*   *   *

 

“You call her,” Ben told Kathy, later.  “I’ll go, but you make the call.” 

 

“Why?” she said, but didn’t even flinch, when he screamed, “Just call!”  In her crib, Nicole hadn’t flinched, either.  As Kathy dialed Liz’s number, Ben hung over the baby, tried to make her grip his finger, but she just looked up at him, dazed. 

 

          “Kathy Rosen.  Ben’s wife.”  He shut his eyes tight, imagining Liz’s reaction.

 

          Their wedding.  A shotgun service, at City Hall.  That night, drinks at Liz’s favorite bar.  But Liz wasn’t there.  “Too bad,” Ben told Richie, who doubled as best man and bartender.

 

 “Just love to rub shit in,” Richie said, “Don’t’cha, man?”

 

          “From Richie, we heard about you.  Rich Vitiello.  I mean, what you can do now.”  Ben heard the blush in Kathy’s voice.  What a prude, he thought acidly.  “You see,” she said, “Our little girl . . . she’s just a baby . . .” Ben covered his ears.

 

          “She remembers you,” Kathy said, when she’d hung up.  Always on eggshells around Ben, but this time she dared to cross him.  “You must’ve slept with her.”

 

          His harsh laugh shocked even him.  “No,” he said.  “I didn’t.”  He massaged Nicole’s cold, tiny fingers.  “On this little angel . . . I swear . . .” He kissed her icy thumb.  “I didn’t.” 

 

          Behind his back, Kathy smiled.  “She said, ‘Come right over.’ ”

 

*   *   *

 

          Of all people, Ben thought, on the way over, it would be her. 

 

          “No kiddin’, man!” Richie had assured him.  “She can heal.  Like those TV preachers.  I mean, she’s got the faith.”  Ben smirked.  “This magic water she uses.  From some holy joint, somewhere.”  Richie’s eyes shone.  Ben recalled that same gleam, two years back, about something else.  “But she’s changed!” Richie insisted.  “Like that Mary Magdalene babe.  And she’s free.”

 

          Yeah, right! Ben thought cruelly.  Till she’s done.  Then “just a small donation to show your gratitude.”  Probably a few hundred bucks. 

 

          Beside him, in her car seat, Nicole dozed.  At every red light, he glanced over at her.  Suddenly, he panicked.  She was so . . . still, even for her!  Behind him, horns honked, as the light turned green.  Then a slight flutter of eyelids.  Thank God!  That “G-word,” again.  As he took off, he tried to slow his breathing. 

 

          A hundred, a million, if he had it!  If Liz could heal this baby, there was nothing he wouldn’t give her. 

 

          Respect. 

 

          Ben cleared his head.  Kept his eyes on the road.  Resisted looking at Nicole till they got there.

 

*   *   *

 

          “It’s me,” he said.  As she buzzed him in, he shifted the baby to his other arm.  Above him loomed three flights of stairs.  He’d make it.  He had to, for Nicole.  As he climbed the first, he remembered the last time he’d done it.  How he’d pawed the giggling Liz, who was always a step ahead of him.

 

 At the landing, he stopped to catch his breath, switched Nicole to the other arm.  “I’ll go with you,” Kathy had said.  When he snapped, “No!” she looked like she was going to cry.  Now, as he struggled up the second flight, he realized she looked that way too much.  ‘Cos of Nicole.  No, he thought, gripping the banister tightly.  Not ‘cos of her. And not just lately.

 

Ben-jie!” Liz was on the third floor landing.  The exhilaration in her voice urged him up the last flight.  Huffing and puffing, he reached her, finally. 

 

“Ben . . .” Something about her was completely different.  That stricken look, maybe. “You look . . . awful!” 

 

She backed up, so he could pass.  “Thanks,” he muttered. 

 

Inside, he turned to face her.  Yes, she’d changed.  Hair more wavy than wild, make-up more for daytime than the nightly “booty call.”  It was the eyes, he realized.  Dark brown and soulful, huge enough to gulp this whole, sinful world.  No more green contacts.  And the way she looked at him . . .

 

         “Oh, Benjie,” she said softly.  “What happened?”

 

         He bent and set Nicole on the couch.  Again she was dozing.  He brushed her hair back, then slid down beside her.  “She’s got . . . ” he said, “ Something called ‘Coarc . . .” 

 

 No!” Liz said, “Not to her.  To you.” 

 

He leaned back.  He was sweating, burning up, like he was being roasted alive.  “N-nothing,” he said.  “Just . . . tired.  Stressed.”  He pointed to the baby.  As Liz sat down beside him, his heart raced.  But somehow, he wasn’t scared by it. 

 

She stroked his beard.  “You didn’t always have this, did’ja?”  You don’t remember? he wanted to scream.  You couldn’t keep your hands off it! 

 

         “N-no,” he whispered.  Her hand was so gentle. 

 

         “Just chill,” she said. “She’s gonna be okay.”  She got up.  “Just put her in God’s hands.”  She left the room.

 

          He shut his eyes, tried to relax.  In spite of his crisis, the old rage took hold of him once again.  Her touch, the smell of this place . . . what was it?  Old coffee grounds, the greasy broiler?  He opened his eyes.   She’d been more of a slob, if he remembered right.  No crushed beer cans laying around, now.  But then, wasn’t she saved?  His ugly thoughts made his chest feel tighter.

 

         He half-expected her to come back nude, if not in a white, flowing robe.  But she had on the same sweater and stretch pants.  Like something Kathy would’ve worn, but God knows, she was sexier than that.  In one hand was a plastic rosary, in the other, a small plastic bottle.  He forced a smile. “You gonna . . . do a shot first?”

 

         Liz smiled back.  “S’my healing water.  From Lourdes.  I don’t need much.” She peered over at Nicole.  “And she’s so little.” 

 

         “Don’t you . . . you don’t drink at all anymore, do you?” 

 

         She uncapped the bottle.  “Not like I used to.”  He couldn’t take his eyes off her.  Healer or not, she was the same, somehow. 

 

         “What changed you?” he demanded.

 

         She shrugged.  “Who said I was different?” 

 

         He sat up straight.  “Everybody.  Tell me . . . was it a bolt of lightning?”  His sarcasm surprised even him.  “A voice from beyond?”  She just looked at him.  Then he outdid himself.  Ogling her crotch, he said, “Or a burning . . .”

 

          She jumped up, capping the bottle.  “Ben,” she said, “You heard about faith moving mountains?”  He just smirked.  “Well, yours can’t even move your bowels!”  His smirk vanished.  He started to pick up Nicole, who let out a tiny whimper, almost a plea.

 

          ‘The base and despised,that’s me.  Right, Asshole?” Liz said.  The old Liz.  “You came here for a healing.  Whose?”  Face to face, they were, now.  Her eyes terrified him.  “Hers?” Liz took the baby from him, balanced Nicole on her hip. “Or yours?”

 

          His face crumpled, but he struggled to hold back tears.  Sobs that might kill him.  “She’s got her . . . whole life . . . ahead of her!” he said. 

 

         Liz nodded.  “Okay.  Are you ready?”  

 

         Ben lost it.  Years of tears gushed up and out, wracking his whole body.  It was like he was having a seizure.  Crying in front of her was worse than having a limp dick. 

Her standing there, holding his child, unnerved him.  And the way she looked at him with—was it pity?—brought back his rage. “I hated you!” he screamed.  “I hate you now!” 

 

          “Why?” she said.  “Why do you hate me so much?” 

 

         “You were this big whore!”  He kicked the couch, childishly.  “But you screwed everybody but me!” 

 

         “Says who?’ she demanded. 

 

         “Everybody.”  He couldn’t look her in the eye. 

 

         “Oh, yeah?”  Smirking, she switched the baby to her other hip.  “The way I hear it, there’s a real thin line between . . .”

 

         “No way!”  Ben said, through clenched teeth.  “Not you, bitch.  No way do I love you!”  It felt like the walls were closing in on his chest.  He sunk down on the couch.

 

         “Benjie!” she yelled.  He waved her away. 

 

         For a while, both were silent.  Then, in a tortured voice, Liz said, “You’re sick.  I mean, really sick.” 

 

         “I’ll be okay,” he said weakly. “It’ll pass.  Just gimme a minute.” 

 

         When he opened his eyes, she was sitting beside him, sliding Nicole onto his lap.  “Can you hold her?” she asked.  He nodded, locked his arms around the baby’s waist, rested her head against his heart. 

 

         It was nothing like he expected.  With the rosary, Liz crossed herself three times.  Uncapped the bottle.  Dipped her finger in the holy water, and anointed Nicole’s temples.  Made the sign of the cross on the baby, then sprinkled some water on the tiny head. 

 

         It was the closest to fussing Nicole ever made.  A startled look, a little whine, almost like a healthy child.  Liz took the cold little hands in her own.  She shut her eyes.  Ben watched her face as she prayed silently.  He’d waited for an outburst, maybe for her to speak in tongues.  But she didn’t.  It was so quiet, so peaceful, he relaxed.  A peculiar energy seemed to flow through them all, a rosy warmth he’d never felt before.  God, he thought, without his usual venom, she’s just a baby.  Don’t take her.  His heart seemed to swell.  Take me.  Please. 

 

*   *   *

 

         “Is she okay?” Ben asked Liz. 

 

         “Can’t always tell right away,” she said.

 

         Nicole was sleeping again, on Liz’s bed, but something was different about her.  The “rosiness” he’d felt during the prayer seemed to remain on her cheeks.  They felt less corpse-like.  But her legs and feet were still puffy.

 

        “Might take time,” Liz said.  They were sprawled out, with the baby between them.  Liz was holding his icy hand.  Up close, he realized she was beautiful.  But not in the nightmarish way he’d remembered.  “And maybe not in the way you expect.”

 

         His throat felt dry, achy. “What you said before,” he said hoarsely, “You know…that thin line stuff.”  He looked down at her hand.  “You’re probably right.”

 

         As she crawled around the baby, to get closer to him, he felt exhilarated, but not well.  They lay against the pillows.  Her hot, ferocious kiss made him almost wet his pants.  “I loved you, Benjie,” she said.  “That’s why I couldn’t.”  She nuzzled his beard.  “I was changing back then.”  She got up, suddenly.

 

         He felt weak, so weak again.  She’d gone somewhere, he hoped not for long.  Calling 911, he bet.  Against his cold legs was the warmth of his baby, curling up to him.  Maybe, he thought, she would be okay.  He’d never felt so happy.  And Guess what, man? he imagined Richie saying.  Liz finally took you to bed. 

 

         Get out of my dream, Ben wished he could tell him.

 

 

 

 

         “The Base and Despised.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter, by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications.

epitaph.jpg
Art by Kevin Duncan

Epitaph

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Atlantic City 1972

 

What happened? Is he alive, or dead? Howard, you jerk.  Why didn't you call?

I'm alone. I shouldn't be, the way I am. My friends call me "Psycho," 'cos I have to take nerve pills, but tonight the name fits. Howard, that dumb kid I’m so crazy about, is out getting himself killed.

Got in a fight with his big-shot boss. Danny, that big, smug-faced guy who manages the pretzel stand in front of that Woolworth's on the boardwalk. Can you believe it, Howard challenged him to a duel? Danny's about ten years older, but he agreed, Howard said, 'cos a bunch of kids were hanging around the stand. And Howard was showing off his blade.

Ten after eleven. Right now they're in the lot behind the old Salt Water Taffy store. Eyeing each other, bopping around with all the kids watching. Howard rushing in too soon . . .

My God, what if he's already dead?

I'm in my room. Howard's Dad owns this hotel. An hour ago Howard was here, bragging about the fight. He's nuts. He seemed so glad about it, like he couldn't wait to kill . . . or be killed. Fourteen and a half years old, and with no damn sense.

 

"Ever wonder if there's something after?" he said once. The night he got the blade. By the light from that big chandelier in the mezzanine he'd showed it to me.

There is," I said. He held the blade at a weird angle, so it gleamed "I know there is. Heaven, hell, or purgatory."

Howard laughed.

You atheist!" I hissed. I got up and would've run up the stairs, but he pulled me back down on the couch.

"Are you sure?" he said.

"Yes," I said stubbornly.

He gave me one of those looks. Those "You're fulla shit, Pam," looks. God, I hated when he looked that way. Then he flicked the blade back in its sheath.

"Almost," I said.

He sighed. All of a sudden he was serious. "I wish I knew."

 

How many times had he told me he'd love to tear Danny's throat out? But he didn't mean it. He couldn't have. I'd said the same about lots of people: my friends back home who call me "Psycho" to my face, while they call other kids "Faggot," or "Stinkbomb" behind their backs. My mother, who leaves me alone down here so she can go to the bar and pick up guys. Wearing those dumb turbans of hers.

Howard's not even old enough to work. His Dad is rich. A game, that's all it is to him. His first job, at fourteen years old. Making pretzels; sticking dough in the oven, and sprinkling salt on top. Summer fun for the bad little rich boy. Then out comes the blade. It doesn't add up.

I don't even know what the fight's about. Howard wouldn't tell me. On his way out of my room I kept trying to grab him. "You can't stop me!" he said, throwing up his hands. Walking backwards down the hall. Laughing.

If he dies—God forbid—that's how I’ll always remember him: five feet tall, curly blonde hair. Horn-rimmed glasses. Bumpy nose. Wearing jeans and that denim jacket with those patches of all the different sex positions on it. A girl. I betcha the fight is over a girl. Me?

No way! Not me. Sad as it sounds, no guy would ever fight over me.

Well, maybe! In the beginning Howard had really liked me. Same as he did every girl that walked into his Dad's hotel. I was his type that week Same height and age, long dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses I was always taking off so he could see my soulful brown eyes. He's the first guy I ever kissed. But that's as far as it went. "Pam the Prude," Howard calls me.

Even when he really liked me he hit on other girls. Right in front of me. We'd sit on the balcony, and he'd call down to anybody who looked good. Other girls, even ladies. The blonde French-Canadians who stayed at our hotel. The place was crawling with them.

Once he tried wolf-whistling at a sunburned lady in a gold satin turban. When she glared up at him, I almost died. It was my mother.

"Watch him," she told me later. "He's a real heartbreaker, that kid."

She was right. Since we stayed in Atlantic City all summer, I saw him with lots of girls. And each one hurt as much as the one before.

There was Jenny, that girl from Allentown, PA. Plain little thing, thirteen years old. What a dope. She used to hold his dick in the movies all the time. Four times they went to see Come Back, Charleston Blue, 'cos he knew the guy who worked there. He always let Howard in for free.

Four times they saw that damn movie, and all four times he told me how he had to take his dick out of his jeans 'cos it got so big it hurt. Just hearing about it made me hurt, and got me so mad, I wished he'd take it out so I could spit on it. "Wanna come?" Howard said, with that "Fulla shit" smirk. "Next time?"

Jenny was dumber than I could ever be. At least I said no. On the fifth day Howard met Melanie, and that was the end of Jenny.

I remember Jenny sitting between my mother and me on the black vinyl couch in the lobby. Skinny legs spread wide, she was karate-chopping the seat between them. "I hate him," she said, close to tears.

"Forget him," my mother said, inspecting her tan in the mirror behind us. "He's girl-crazy, kid."

I just smiled.

Still, in between most of the new girl guests, Howard spent most of his time with me. Well, it was really the other way around. I hung out at the pretzel stand a lot. I made like I had nothing else to do. For hours I stayed, getting mad when he called out to other girls and told me every dirty joke he knew. Most of them were about pretzels.

"Get lost," Danny said wearily. Behind my back he called me "That pain in the ass."

But then came the best part. To spite Danny, Howard made me stick around. Every time . . .

 

"Not yet," he said, just this afternoon. His arm went around me. "Wait'll this next batch is done. I'll give you a nice hot one… free. For your mother."

The wind blew my hair in my mouth, and he gently pulled it out. The smell of sea salt made me feel weird. Drunk. I felt real wet…down there. Oh, God, I knew what Howard meant.

A gull screeched. "You heard me," Danny told me. “Get lost.”

Howard smiled. He has green, almost gold eyes. Real long lashes. Behind his glasses, he winked.

And I fell in love.

 

That's why I’m freaking out What if he's really dead?

My mother's down in the bar, trying to pick up that Italian guy, Marco. The one without the mustache. The one who sings with the band and goes with all those blonde French-Canadians who can't speak English. "Oui-oui," my mother says sarcastically. "Only two French words that bastard understands."

A lot she cares what happens to Howard.

Only I do. I'm the one he told. Maybe he did it so I'd stop him. My God, What a jerk I am. That's got to be it!

He loves me, too. That's why.

The phone. Why doesn't it ring? I feel like throwing it out the window. Or kicking the shit out of it.

If Howard's dead, wouldn't somebody call me?

But who? And why?

Howard. He'd be the one to call. To say it's all over. That he's alive.

But he hasn't.

Behind me, the door locks, but I don't care. If my mother gets Marco, she'll be gone all night. I’ll have to get the spare key from Mr. Hertzberg, Howard's Dad.

If Howard's alive, I’ll bring him upstairs. Make him forget all of them: Karate Chop Jenny, even Melanie, who was sixteen and had red hair down to her ass. She always had on a bikini, even when it rained.

I’ll let him take off my clothes.

Sick of being good, I’ll tell him. Sick of going to Mass every Sunday. And confession. What did I ever do? Maybe you're right! I’ll say.

And his. I’ll let him take off his jeans in front of me. And I won't look away, I promise. I’ll . . .

"Where you off to, Pammy?" says Howard's Dad in a sing-song voice as I rush past the front desk.

I stop dead outside the bar.

"Going to check on your Mommy?"

The door to the bar is made of fluted glass. I can't see inside. "Yeah."

Howard's Dad smirks. "She's not in there."

"S'what I figured," I mumble. But just for spite I go in anyway.

The place is so packed, you can hardly see the Victorian murals on the green felt walls. Marco and the Mustaches are playing and singing their loudest Some Italian song—"Mala Femmina," or something. The one that means "Bad Lady." My mother's always asking them to play it

Everywhere you look there's smoke. That and the smell of liquor makes me feel sick, though usually they don't bother me. I’ve looked for my mother in enough bars. I know she's not here, but I make like I'm looking around for her anyhow.

"May I help you?" asks the snotty, wrinkly old cocktail waitress.

And that's when I see him.

In the last booth, the one near the fridge that says "Cold Beer To Go." His glasses off, he's surrounded by French-Canadian girls. His back to one, who's admiring and giggling over the sex patches on his jacket.

"You're under age," the snotty waitress tells me. "You have to leave."

The girl who's fussing over Howard is under age, too. Her long hair's the color of vanilla Salt Water Taffy. She's got on so much make-up, from where I'm standing by the stage I can see where her eye shadow ends, and her bronze face make-up begins.

"I’ll get Mr. Hertzberg," the waitress says, taking my arm.

I shake her off. "You’ll get shit!"

She stands there with her mouth open as I run out of the bar.

Since I'm locked out of my room, I cry up on the balcony, just outside the mezzanine. Across the street I watch the neon lights that spell "WASHINGTON HOTEL" flicker crazily. Like the building is having a stroke. I wonder if my mother's over there. I don’t care who she's with. Back in Newark, my father's probably snoring away. He hasn't touched my mother since I was born, she says.

"Howard," I say, right out loud, "I ha-ate you!" Choking on my tears. I feel even dumber than Jenny.

All that worrying. For what? The jerk never even went to the lot. Probably made the whole thing up. To get rid of me, maybe.

I wipe my eyes with my fist. Downstairs the band is taking a break. The jukebox goes on.

"So Nice to Be with You." Of all songs. It's our song, Howard's and mine. But he never knew it. It makes me cry harder. I pull my knees up to my chest and lay my head on top.

It's cool up here. Too cool for my shorts and T-shirt, the purple tie-dyed one Howard likes. I shiver, wishing the song would end.

No. I want to live in it, be part of it. Those simple words. That twangy guitar. What's wrong with me that nobody wants to be with me? That my own mother would rather be out with strangers than with her only daughter? Sex or no sex, it just isn't fair.

Somebody else is here, on the balcony. I won't look up. Not this time. For once I'm gonna cry in peace.

Giggles. S’more than one somebody here. A sweet French whisper . . .

A deep voice. Like a guy's that hasn't been a guy's for long...

Still I don’t look up. If I don’t move, Howard and that Junior French Fry'll go away. Maybe they didn't see me.

Kissing.

Slowly I lift my head from my knees.

They're at the other end of the balcony. In each other's arms. Howard is facing my way. His eyes are shut, but even if they weren't, he couldn't see me. Blind as a little bat, he is. Betcha he couldn't even find his fly without his glasses.

But she can.

She's down on her knees.

It's out, and she's stroking it I’ve never seen one before. I'm scared to look, but I do anyway. Pink, it looks like from where I am. It's getting redder. Like a knockwurst, but not as long. Howard moans.

She's putting it in her mouth.

I look back at the "WASHINGTON HOTEL" sign. Like it was haunted, the "S" has blown out. It should've been the "E." I feel hot, hotter than I ever have in my life. I want to get up and run out, but I'm scared of tripping over the chain. Howard's Dad chained all the chairs together because the guests would steal anything.

Howard gasps.

A slurping sound. Muffled words. Then a clunk as something falls, maybe out of Howard's pocket.

Sweating, I lay my head back down on my knees.

"Brandy!" sings Looking Glass on the jukebox downstairs. "You're a Fine Girl . . ."

"Mmmm, " Howard tells the French girl. That was real nice, you know?"

"Eh?" she says.

I hear him zipping up his jeans. "Shit," he says. "Where the hell is it?"

"Qu-est-ce que c-est?"

"So damn dark," he says.

Blind as a little bat, I think.

"Get it later," Howard mumbles. His voice is getting closer. It takes them forever to pass me.

"No big deal," he says from what I know is the mezzanine.

 

Not till Marco and the Mustaches are tuning up again do I lift my head from my knees. I expect more of "WASHINGTON" to have blown out. In honor of Howard.

I know what he dropped, all right. I’ll even find it for him.

My glasses are on.

As I get up, my legs hurt. I have to shake them out.

On my way to the far side of the balcony, I hear a familiar voice yell, "Play Mala Femmina!"

"We play already," Marco purrs into the microphone.

"Play it again!" she says.

I can almost see the music. Better than I can see what I'm looking for through my fresh tears.

"Bravo!" the woman screams halfway through the song.

Betcha she's got on a royal blue turban. To match her sequined evening dress. Betcha she's got a great tan . . .

I pick up the blade. Almost by itself, it flicks open. Now I’m smiling.

. . . and a psycho for a daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Epitaph.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter, by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications. First appeared in Vicious Circle, Vol. 1, No. 2, Fall 1993.

angelmanslaughter.jpg
Art by L. B. Goddard

Angel of Manslaughter

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          His eyes were unaccustomed to tears. Mark had no idea where Valerie was or how he would tell her when he found her. The girl reacted badly to a paper cut and had once gotten hysterical when a bottle of red nail polish had shattered in her purse. How would she take this?

 

          Only this afternoon Mark and Rich had been at Shaver’s, downing Bud nips and sneaking a half-joint of Mark’s brother’s homegrown stash outside the back door. He’d slaughtered Rich at pool. According to the doctor on duty, the blade (of Rich’s own knife) had punctured his pulmonary artery just after eleven. Puke Shoes and Sal had found him on the playground between the swings and the Jungle Gym. Like an aging pet that was being put to sleep, Rich had stared helplessly at Puke Shoes the moment before he died.

 

          It was mild for November but would have been too chilly for kids to go trick-or-treating if it were Halloween again. Less than three weeks ago, he and Rich had crashed a costume party, both claiming to be masquerading as Bob Dylan. Rich had gotten so drunk he’d passed out on Valerie’s front steps.

 

          Now Mark was running. Scenes from this night swirled through his mind like capsules on a rambling amusement park ride. He had no idea where he’d parked his car before he’d started drinking. Only Rich would have remembered.

 

          Mrs. Brinkley, Rich’s mother, had taken it well at first, but had suddenly fainted on top of their German shepherd. Rich’s brother, Sean—who still owed Mark fifty bucks for coke—had vomited his midnight snack (not to mention half-a case of beer) into the bathtub, by accident. Puke Shoes and Sal had rushed off to the police station, leaving Mark or break the news to Rich’s girl, Valerie.

 

          Mark dreaded this most of all. He’d been relieved not to find her at home, until he’d realized she was probably out trying to have a good time. Mark swallowed the horror in his throat. Now, she’d be free of the mental brutality that Rich had always claimed she’d thrived on. Mark had pictured her on a lopsided, sticky barstool at Ricky’s or Boxer’s Brew, or Bar 22, that little joint on the corner of Twenty-Second Street that looked like a chapel from the outside. But she wasn’t in any of those places.

 

          Nobody but him seemed to like her. Even Mrs. Brinkley, who’d been a devout Catholic since her miraculous cure from cancer, thought Valerie was off her rocker. Sean had dubbed Valerie “Screwball” but had almost lost an eye when he’d told his brother she could “screw my balls anytime.” Puke Shoes and Sal kept their mouths shut, making faces behind the couple’s backs instead.

          Valerie was probably just hypersensitive, Mark had figured. A recent college grad, she was too intellectual for their crowd, well-read and once a fervent churchgoer. That she’d met Rich at St. Jude’s during his brief “reformed” period, was the cruelest stroke of luck. The peaceful Rich that she’d fallen head-over-heels in love with had soon reverted back to the drunken brute; then, for some reason unknown to Mark, Valerie had decided to love Rich even more. The more he’d drunk, the less she’d seen of him and, just this afternoon, his friend had boasted of his plan to dump her. They’d even drunk to it.

 

          Breathless, Mark collapsed against a mailbox, his arms encircling it as if it were his dead friend. A sob squeezed out from between them. Tim McNally . . . it had to be Tim McNally, but right now, there was no time to think of revenge. That would come later. Sean would want a piece of it. Maybe even Valerie would help, if she could curb her squeamishness, and bury her conscience in some vacant lot. Better yet, the

churchyard.

 

          Mark’s last guess was she was in J.R.’s, a mellow pub that was two blocks down from St. Jude’s. He continued in the direction of the church—a bearded, bleary-eyed bearer of bad news. The angel of manslaughter.

 

          If it wasn’t for the moon—wedge-shaped but soggy-looking, like a lemon that had been squeezed into too many drinks—Mark would never have seen her. On top of the church steps, she was huddled against the railing.

 

          As he approached her, she turned slowly and looked up, as if she were never more pleased to see him. “Mark Jason Soppeck,” she whispered.

 

          But, when he reached her, her face was distorted and dark. Her curly hair (“gypsy,” Rich had always called it) seemed to grip and shake her shoulders like the paws of some wild beast. Her eyes were set straight ahead.

 

          Mark sat down. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

 

          Her profile smiled briefly. “Rich stood me up again tonight.”

 

          Mark examined his trembling hands, wishing that the right words would replace his haphazard, homemade tattoos. “I’m sorry,” he said. What an understatement, he thought.

 

          “Why did God ever bring us together?”

 

          “I . . . I don’t know, Val.”

 

          She looked at him as if he’d just appeared but raised her voice as if she were addressing a superior being. “It’s not fair,” she declared, “That some couples have such an easy time and others are so fucking miserable. How is that the will of God?”

          Mark wished he had a joint, half a warm beer, anything to ease him through this. He hoped he was still in shock. If so, better to tell her now.

 

          But the moment he opened his mouth again, Valerie’s shoulders slumped forward and a gentle hissing escaped her lips.

 

In the moonlight, the cat’s fur was the color of candied yams with syrup. From the sidewalk, it looked up at Valerie, took a few soundless steps toward them, as if in grateful recognition, then vanished under a black Volkswagen and dashed across the street.

 

“I put my dog to sleep the other day,” Valerie said, still leaning forward.

 

“Was he old?” Mark asked, against his will.

 

She nodded, and then Mark realized she was crying. “He couldn’t even walk anymore—my father and I had to carry him around. I was hoping he’d die right away. But, every now and then, one goes into arrest. And he did. He looked right at me. Looked me right in the eye and said, ‘You did this to me, Val. And I thought you loved me so much.’ ”

 

Mark looked away.

 

“I mean, that’s what he would have said,” she said softly, then added, “This time, I ran away.”

 

“Valerie,” Mark began, surprised to hear his own voice.

 

“He never should have had that first drink. On his birthday. The one Francis gave him.” Francis was Puke Shoes’s real name.

 

“I know he shouldn’t have.”

 

“He hasn’t been sober one day since.”

 

Behind them were the elaborately-carved oak doors, and for once, mark looked to them for inspiration. He realized that the next time he’d pass through them, his friend’s coffin would precede him.

 

“Father Goglia said he shouldn’t even have been drinking from the Chalice.”

 

“He’s dead, Goddamnit!” Mark said. “Rich is dead! Somebody stabbed him!”

 

Instead of shrieking along with him, Valerie’s voice dropped to a clear whisper. “I know all about it, Mark. Even before you.”

 

“They used his own knife on him,” Mark whimpered.

Valerie nodded.

 

“It had to be McNally, that motherfucker!”

 

“He shouldn’t have left it at my house,” Valerie murmured, shaking her head this time.

 

“What?”

 

She smiled down at the zipper of her jacket. “He thought I couldn’t stand the sight of blood.”

 

Mark had an uneasy flashback of the drunken moment when he and Rich had toasted to his Valerie-less future. Wiry, lively, elfin-featured Rich. Powerful when pushed, but certainly not the brightest guy in the world. Not at crucial moments, anyway.

 

“It just wasn’t fair,” Valerie said,” That everything had to fall apart when we were supposed to be the ‘Right Couple.’ When God brought us together in His own house. But he had to drink Puke-Face’s beer. Just one, he said he’d have.”

 

Mark studied the letters that were tattooed on the back of his hand, making sure that they spelled his own name. He wished he were his distant cousin Stanley, instead. He wished Rich could have loved Valerie to death.

 

“He asked to meet me in the schoolyard by his house. Where we used to sit on the swings and talk after church, while his mother roasted a leg of lamb. That’s when I knew I’d lost him for good.”

 

Mark looked deeply into Valerie’s eyes. Only a pitiable and monstrous logic kept them open now. “It was his own fault,” she explained, holding out her hands almost timidly. The blood had dried a while ago. The dove-gray of her leather jacket was marbled with red.

 

Without knowing why, Mark took her in his arms, allowing her to lay her head against his chest. He stroked her wiry hair.

 

“He didn’t even kiss the same, anymore,” she breathed. “Was it fair?”

 

“No,” Mark said. “It wasn’t fair.”

 

She clutched hopelessly at his denim jacket. “It was God’s fault for bringing us together.”

 

Her eyes, he was sure, were still open.

 

 

“Angel of Manslaughter.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in The Village Idiot, No. 19, June 1993.

 

 

 

 

 

thesidge.jpg
Art by Paula Friedlander ©2009

The ‘Sidge’

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

"What'd I do?" Joy asked Hector, the bartender. "Last night. Something bad?"

 

The way he didn't answer was answer enough.

 

Hector was good-looking, and Spanish, but slow. It took him a while to shake his head, when he did. He wasn't shaking it now. The beer Joy had spilled from the jitters he wiped up with care. As if his hand were doing the thinking. Wondering what to say to her. How, she imagined it saying, how can I put this bitch at ease?

 

"Christ," Joy muttered.

 

Except for that dark-haired chick by the window, they were the only two at Simple Simon's. At six-ten P.M. Strange, Joy thought. But she was glad. What a headache she had! A Paul Masson hangover: pounding head and sour stomach topped with guilt over something she couldn't for the life of her remember doing.

 

"Think the rain'll ever stop?" Hector said finally. Making things worse.

 

She hated rain. All day it had poured. Rain hammering against her half-open windows. That rotten egg smell of Jersey creeping in. Her dying plants were drenched. Joy's favorite—the shamrocks Paul had given her on St. Patty's Day—had lost its 'charms'. Her luck was bad, all right.

 

Fired again. She'd hated that office job. Her bitch of a boss. Joy had always been a drinker, but Guyer, Inc. had wiped her out. She'd called in sick so many times, the Bitch-In-Charge had finally scrawled "Called in DRUNK" on Joy's timesheet.

 

Her unemployment checks paid for beer, canned food, and rent. But now her slob of a landlord had jacked up her rent. "Noisy bitch!" he'd called her, right out on the street. "There's laws against shit like that!"

 

Meaning Paul's electric guitar. When Paul wasn't practicing, the stereo was blasting. Joy left the stereo on, whether Paul was there or not. Whether she was home, or not. It made her feel safe.

 

And now Paul was gone.

 

Joy was confused. She wasn't sure why, or where he'd gone to. Even how long he'd been gone. His smell was on her sheets: the black ones, with the white music notes he'd loved so much. He couldn't have been gone for long.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Joy gulped the rest of the beer and slammed down the mug. Hector jumped. "Ready."

 

Paul, she thought, looking over at the stage. Love of her life. Her soulmate, corny as it sounded. They were so much alike. He was the only guy who'd ever loved her for herself. "You're for real” Paul said. "S'what I love best about you." He squeezed her breasts. "After these." Laughing, Joy smacked him.

 

He loved her wild black hair, those juicy red lips. Her white skin. Even her voice. It was the kind of voice you either hated, or loved. Most people, like her ex-boss, hated it. "Cross between Patti Smith and Rod Stewart's," Paul said in admiration. With him, everything was a cross between “this” and “that."

 

Like Paul himself. The future rock star. Tearing up Simple Simon's stage with his band, Mainstreets. A cross between Seger and Springsteen, Joy thought with a wry smile. He couldn't make up his mind who he wanted to be. Who he identified with most.

 

Winters, his dark hair was long, his beard full and silky. Summers his hair was shorter. The beard was gone, mostly. Paul looked best scruffy, in ripped T-shirts. Howling out his heart, backed by his combination E Street/ Silver Bullet Band. He's back with her, Joy thought.

 

In the mirror she saw her face crumple. She downed her beer and slid the mug over to Hector.

 

No, she thought. She wouldn't cry. It was dumb.

 

Paul wouldn't do that. He'd promised.

 

"Not just for you, babe," he'd told Joy the other night, right in here. "For me. The band. She'll ruin it. If it's the last thing she does, she'll fuck it all up."

 

"She" was his wife, Isabel. That clingy, red-headed, hypochon­driac bitch. "She" was bad news. Looney tunes. Jealousy with a capital “J”. She was the "Sidge."

 

"Why do you call her that?" Joy had asked, back in March. The first time they'd gone to bed.

 

"She's Sicilian," he said, sounding like he didn't want to talk about it. "I mean, her dad is."

 

"Mafia?"

 

Paul didn't answer. To change the subject, he started sucking on Joy's nipples. It hurt, but in such a nice way.

 

He wound up giving her a hickey. Joy hadn't had one since high school. Worth the wait, she thought. Ten long years.

 

"Ugly," Paul said.

 

For a moment Joy thought he was talking about her.

 

"The 'Sidge' ", he said. "Ugly as sin. Frizzy red hair. Freckles all over. Here." Paul tweaked Joy's breast. "Even on her ass. And what an ass. Jesus Christ. She weighs about three hundred pounds."

 

Joy laughed so hard; her downstairs neighbor began pounding on the ceiling.

 

"I don't love her."

 

"Who . . ." Joy couldn't stop laughing. "Who could?"

 

Paul shut his eyes tight. "I used to. Way back when. She was . . . different, then." He opened his eyes. Now he looked mad. "She's no fun anymore. Never drinks, except on holidays. Then she only likes pretty things. Sweet stuff with grenadine and little umbrellas pokin' out."

 

Joy had finally stopped laughing. She covered her mouth, to keep from smiling.

 

"Always up my ass. Hates the band. Rock and roll, period. Calls Bruce a no-talent bum. And she says Seger's just as bad. That he tries to sound like him."

 

"What does she like?"

 

"Oldies," Paul said, disgusted. "Could you puke?"

 

He grabbed Joy's hand, massaging each of her fingers. He looked miserable.

 

"So why do you stay with her?"

 

Paul shrugged. "She's sick. In the head, mostly."

 

"She's really that bad?"

 

He looked at her sharply. "You callin'’ me a liar?"

 

She smiled. "Kind of."

 

"You're right," He eased himself on top of her. "But only about one thing."

 

"Mmmm," was all Joy said.

 

He whispered in her ear, "She's not fat anymore."

 

 

 

Fat or not, the "Sidge" was in their way.

 

For the last six months, they'd been sneaking around.

 

Since the "Sidge" didn't drink, Simple Simon's was pretty safe. "Chance of her comin' here's a million to one," Paul had said. Still, the safest place was Joy's.

 

"If she catches us," Joy said one night, "will her dad kill us?"

 

Paul didn't laugh. Like a little kid, he pulled the sheet up to his chin. "She'd do it herself."

 

"With what?"

 

He stared up at the ceiling. "Her bare hands," he mumbled.

 

Joy's laugh was harsh. "She's that strong?"

 

“I told you," Paul said, anxiously. "She's crazy."

 

Joy wished he hadn't said that. As she sat in the bar now, with the rain pounding against the window, and only Hector and that chick for company, she got the creeps.

 

"Can you turn down the air?" she asked Hector when he brought her a fresh beer.

 

He looked annoyed. "It's stuffy in here. She just asked me to turn it up."

 

Joy glared over at the chick by the window. Her hair wasn't just dark. It was jet-black, like hers. And nearly as wild.

 

"Who the fuck is she?" Joy said in a loud whisper.

 

"Shhh." Hector walked away.

 

Fuck him, Joy thought, angry herself. Bastard. When she could afford it, she'd tipped him good. Had almost slept with him once, before Paul. Well maybe she had. She'd been too bombed to remember.

 

What the hell did I do? Joy wondered again.

 

"Worst feelin’ in the world," Paul said, each time he'd blacked out. "That . . . dread. Not knowin' if you hurt somebody . . . or killed them, even. You keep hopin' somebody'll call you and tell you. Then again," he added, eyes wide, "You hope they don't."

 

Paul, Joy thought. She was close to tears. Where was he?

 

Hector was close by, making the other chick's drink. Joy hadn't noticed what she was drinking, before. He reached for the sloe gin.

 

"What's that?" Joy said.

 

"Sloe Gin Fizz. Extra sweet." Hector was either trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, or else laying it on thick. "With grenadine, yet."

 

Again Joy looked over at the black-haired chick. Worst teasing job she'd ever seen. The chick was staring into space. Bombed, Joy thought.

 

"Where is everybody?" Joy demanded.

 

Without answering, Hector walked away with the Sloe Gin Fizz.

 

"Fucking Twilight Zone," Joy muttered to herself. Or maybe just me, she thought. At least her head felt better. Nothing like the 'hair o' the dog’ as Paul put it.

 

She was starting to feel drunk. As relaxed as she could feel, with the creeps.

 

Till her fourth beer, she often felt like a little girl perched on her Daddy's knee. She used to sneak sips of his beer. Usually he jiggled his leg up and down. "Playing horsey," he'd called it. It had taken Joy years to realize she'd turned him on. . . .

 

"Hector!" she yelled, when her beer was gone.

 

Before he turned around, the black-haired chick did. She looked Joy in the eye.

 

That sense of dread, of unknown horror, swept over Joy again. Do I know her? she wondered. Had she ever kicked the chick's ass? More likely, had the chick kicked hers?

 

"Would you like a drink?" she asked Joy. Her face was deathly-pale, her make-up too heavy. Even from across the room. She held up her Sloe Gin Fizz. "One of these?"

 

Joy didn't know what to say.

 

"She wants to buy you a drink," Hector said in a patronizing way.

 

"I know," Joy said under her breath. She wanted to say no. In­stead she said, "Uh . . . sure. Thanks." Then, "What's your name?"

 

She was sorry as soon as she'd asked. The last thing she wanted was to talk to this Halloween-y bitch. But she was wor­ried for nothing. The chick didn't answer.

 

And Joy knew she'd heard the question.

 

If Hector knew the chick's name, he didn't volunteer it. His face was rigid as he made Joy’s drink.

 

"May I play the jukebox?" the chick asked.

 

"Go ahead," he said.

 

"You don't have to ask," Joy said, without looking at her.

 

As the chick got down from the stool, Joy's heart went wild. It felt like her floor did after her neighbor got through banging on it.

 

She wished she weren't sitting by the jukebox. As Hector put down the Sloe Gin Fizz, Joy glanced over at her. She was reading the selections. Either her lavender top was cut low in a "V" in the back, or she had it on backwards. Her back was covered with freckles. Gross, Joy thought.

 

She picked up her drink. At the same time, the chick slid her dollar into the slot.

 

The dollar came back out, and she slid it in again. Her hand was freckled too. She pressed four numbers.

 

"Good health," Joy said suddenly. It was Paul's favorite toast. Her back still to Joy, the chick just stood there, waiting for her song.

 

When it came on, Joy smirked. Del Shannon's "Runaway." Of all songs. She hated it as much as Paul did. If the chick had to play oldies, couldn't she have picked Elvis?

 

Joy sipped her drink. It was so sweet, she almost puked.

 

"You like it?"

 

At its best, the Sloe Gin Fizz tasted like black cherry soda. It was more like foamy mouthwash and didn't sit too well with beer. Joy nodded vigorously.

"What I like best is the grenadine."

 

God, she was weird. Joy wished she'd go away. Tonight of all nights, she didn't need some dyke hitting on her.

 

"Sweet enough for you?"

 

That did it. If she had to fight her, better to get it over with now. Joy swung around on the stool.

 

And almost shit in her pants.

 

Up close the chick was hideous. The make-up was all wrong. Eyebrows just pencil-thin lines. Green shadow, false eyelashes. She was so damn pale. Like she had on clown-white instead of foundation. Her red lips were too perfect. Should be sewed together, Joy thought weakly.

 

"Well, is it?" The lipstick on her teeth made Joy think of blood.

 

Joy nodded. She'd forgotten the question.

 

Smiling, the chick brushed back her hair. Even that didn't seem right. Wasn't done right. Like she was adjusting something that wasn't part of her.

 

As if she'd read Joy’s mind, she did it again.

 

Next to her dead-white face, that hand didn't belong. Before Joy's eyes, the freckles swirled. She had to look away.

 

"Do . . . do I know you?" she whispered.

 

"Two more," the chick told Hector. Joy heard her get on the stool next to hers.

 

"Were you here . . . last night?"

 

"It was packed, wasn't it?" the chick said. "Not like tonight."

 

"Where is everybody?" Joy demanded.

 

"Maybe I scared them away."

 

Sweat crept down Joy's back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the chick do something with her hair. "What do you think?" she asked. "Joy?"

 

Joy had never felt so scared. So helpless. Whatever she'd done, it was worse than she'd feared. This weirdo knew all about it. Knew her.

Then again, Paul had said. You hope they don't tell.

 

Paul, Joy thought. Oh, my God.

 

"You really want to know?" the chick said, sliding out of her seat

 

When Joy didn't answer, the chick grabbed her stool. "No!" Joy screamed, as she swung her around. .

 

The chick laughed maniacally. Around and around Joy went, till she was dizzy. She shut her eyes, but it didn't help. "Hector!" she yelled. But he didn't answer. On top of being drunk and terrified, now she had to puke.

 

The chick kept laughing, as Joy swung around. Where the hell had she got her strength?

 

She was so skinny, Joy thought, when she'd finally stopped spinning. She was scared to open her eyes. The weird chick had arms like fingers. Her clothes were hanging off of her. "Sickly-looking" was the only way to put it.

 

She's sick. From out of nowhere came the words. In the head, mostly.

 

Joy covered her face with her hands.

 

"Look at me!" the chick commanded.

 

The hands which seized Joy's were ice-cold. Joy had no choice but to obey her. She looked.

 

The wig was on sideways. Underneath it, the "Sidge" was bald.

 

"That's better," she told Joy.

 

"Wh—where's Hector?" Joy said hoarsely.

 

"Out back. He's scared. I paid him a lot to lock up before. Once you got here. Told him I just wanted to talk to you. About my husband."

 

"Paul," Joy said. She held her stomach, she felt so sick.

 

"It's bad enough you'd been fucking him. But to do it in the lot? In the car next to mine?"

 

Joy shook her head. She was so dizzy, she had to stop. "I....I don't remember."

 

The "Sidge" smiled her bloody smile. "No ‘I’m sorry I fucked your husband, Isabel'.  No 'I didn't do it! You've got me mixed up with somebody else.' Well, you can't even lie about it. I saw you."

 

Joy had the strangest feeling she was looking in a mirror. The funhouse kind. She picked up her drink. Without sipping it, she put it back down. "Did...you put something in my drink?"

 

The "Sidge's" smile vanished. "This is for real."

 

"We were drunk," Joy said. "We . . . didn't know what we were doing."

 

"First that damn guitar. Then the band. The girls. With teased hair. Back in school, he loved me for what I was. But it didn't last. I got sick. He thought I was making it up. But I had to show him!"

 

Suddenly Joy was more mad than scared. She got up. "Well, he loves me, now. And I love him!"

 

"Not like I did," the "Sidge" said.

 

For a while Joy just stood there. That feeling of dread she'd had all along, the surety that before long she'd be screaming, made perfect sense now. Weakly, she sat back down. Pinching herself would do no good. From this nightmare there was no waking up.

 

Without really knowing, she'd known.

 

Joy's eyes filled with tears. She looked past the "Sidge" to the empty stage. Just last night, Mainstreets had played here. She wished she could remember. Paul's voice. His raw, powerful, heart-stopping voice. His last song...what had been his last song . . .

 

Springsteen, or Seger? Joy wondered, crying softly. Still, she had to ask. "You killed him, didn't you?"

 

"Killed him?" The "Sidge" had taken off her black "Joy" wig. Smiling, she was twirling it around on her restless hand. "What do you think I am?"

 

Joy watched as the wig flew into the air. With a thump, it landed on the stage.

 

"Crazy?"

 

 

 

“The ‘Sidge.’ ” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Hardboiled, No. 27/28, December 2001.

sambuco.jpg
Art by Kevin Duncan © 2009

Hangovers

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

Their car was gone.

 

Gina had awakened knowing that something—besides her sleepless husband—was missing. It’d been one of those “forty-hour nights,” where it seemed she’d only slept long enough to find two mosquito bites and misplace Nicky. But it was already ten o’clock.

 

The sheets were so drenched with Nicky’s sweat that the cotton buttercups looked crushed. His pillow was on the floor. Like he was kidnapped.

 

Since the milk had gone sour, Gina had to drink black coffee. A shot of Sambuca would’ve helped it, but she wasn’t ready to face Walt. She still had on last night’s makeup and she could hear her father-in-law now: “Out of Brillo pads, Gine?”

 

“Pyromaniac’s Dream” was what the regulars called her when her dyed red hair was teased just right. She’s walk through the bar on her way out looking so hot—in her black shorts set and high-heeled pumps—that every mouth would drop. Walt would say smoothly, “Go ahead—break my son’s heart,” and over her shoulder, she’d say, “Wasn’t that the first thing he lost at the track?”

 

“My right arm,” he’d call her in front of customers, his own hidden behind his back. Then he’d squeeze her. He’d been eyeing her since the day Nicky had brought her home.

 

And she loved it.

 

Walt and Nicky. Father and son. But how? Before the first race, Nicky was warm and cuddly. Crazy but wide openly so. A twenty-four-year-old bundle of Disney joy. Walt . . . Well . . .  He could raise his own odds. Win every time. Wear shorts in the snow. Tend bar in the nude, if someone said not to. Tall and lean, in too much control. Tanned from ten­nis. A racehorse body with a reptilian face. They had the same eyes—brown and close-set, though Nicky's were hidden beneath his curly bangs. Walt's saw right through Gina.

 

It won't be long, said a voice from her past. Every day. “Can't do it,” she'd tell the shot glass she was washing. “Not with his father.” Some husband. Check-bouncing, candy-stealing, 'Buca-slurping Baby-Schnooks. Mr. Trifecta. “Stop it,” she'd tell herself, “He loves me.” Loved you. Got a new gal at the Meadowlands called "Beginner's Luck."

 

"Gimme a light," Walt would say, though the matches were close by, then grab Gina's wrist as she did. She'd pull away, a little slower each time. High on fear. That she'd lose it all.

 

It wasn’t till Gina was spraying her hair that she began to wonder where Nicky really was. It was too early for him to be down in the bar, if he was even allowed back in. Too early for anything, actually.

 

When she couldn't find the car keys, she realized she'd have to walk to the bank, and she changed her shoes. But as she was tying her sneaker, she remembered the extra set in the Chock Full ONuts cof­fee can under the sink.

 

Both sets were gone.

 

She was halfway down the stairs when the door locked behind her. She missed the next step, and her hand found the nail Walt had never removed from the banister. Should be Nicky’s, she thought, sucking the blood.

 

Last night she'd parallel-parked on 60th street, by the park, but when she couldn't find the Omni now she prayed she'd been mistaken—that she'd really parked some­where else, with the keys locked inside, or that the extra set had been lost when she and Nicky had been too drunk and horny to care where they'd flung them. Maybe he was only in the bar, sneaking double-shots behind his father's back.

 

Gina walked up to 60th street, then down again. She crossed the boulevard to 61st street, checking out the gas station where she often parked out of desperation. She ran up and down the next few blocks, ending with Dworkin Court, which was already crammed with Jaguars and BMW's.

 

In tears, she started home. The sun had finally given up, and she was glad. She wanted a summer storm...pounding rain, thunder. Lightning, too, would be a plea­sure, creeping along the tree-lined boule­vard.

 

Old Sloan, Mullaney, and Cobra the biker were already sitting at the bar. When they saw her, all three grunted and looked nervously away. Only Walt—who was fill­ing a glass with draft Coors—ignored her completely. She waited while he dumped the excess foam.

 

As the lunch bell sounded in the school across the street, Cobra said with a snicker to Mullaney, "Twelve o'clock. You can have a shot now, too." Sloan laughed.

 

Without a word, Walt poured Mullaney a shot of VO, then walked to the end of the bar. Gina followed.

 

It was chilly back there. Gina looked down at the jagged cut on her hand, then up at the Budweiser clock that always said 11:15. It had gotten so dark that Walt's face seemed the same sandy color as his hair. They were standing so close, she might have been the one wear­ing musk. How sweet a True must taste, she thought.

 

"I heard about the Omni," he said.

 

She held her breath. Lightning pulsed.

 

"I'm sorry," he said then.

A groan of thunder followed. "Uh, oh," she heard Cobra say.

 

"I'll bet you are," Gina muttered, holding out her injured hand.

 

Watt took it in his own, carefully avoiding the sore spot. His tattooed initials could have been a witch doctor's. "How'd this happen?"

 

"That nail on the railing. You should have fixed it, you . . . slumlord! You—oh, God, I hate your son even more!"

 

"Shhh," Walt said gently, resting her hand on the bar. "Of course you do. I don't blame you." With one finger he caught her next tear. "Sit down. Have a drink. Try to calm down," were soft commands that she instantly obeyed.

 

It rained. More regulars dropped in for an afternoon beer and shot and to wait for the ball game. Cobra and Mullaney left, the young biker helping the old man out the door. "Gonna take him for a spin around the block," Cobra joked. "So long, Walt! Gina!" Neither responded.

 

Gina wondered why she'd waited so long to get drunk. Without being asked, Walt had poured her a shot of Sambuca along with a draft beer. Both had disap­peared in minutes.

 

The game was delayed because of rain, and several customers left. Gina let Walt clean and bandage her wounded hand. She watched him replace both of her drinks.

 

"Did you eat?" he asked, unwrapping his own lunch.

 

"I don’t feel like it," she mumbled.

 

Pasted to the mirror behind the bar was one of her and Nicky's wedding pictures. What a fool to have married him so quickly, she thought. On Valentine's Day. After one month—why, that was only one period, for Christ's sake. She was only twenty-one years old. Drinking age down the Jersey shore. And they'd never even had a honeymoon.

 

Gina picked up the shot glass as if she weren't sure whether to toast the photo, or smash the glass against it. Just work, work, work, so he could lose, lose, lose, every damned dollar.

 

Both times the Sambuca had dripped, and now the glass was stuck to her fingers. As she licked each one, she watched Walt smile in the mirror.

 

Yep, it was all Nicky's fault, she reas­sured herself. He'd bet his mother's myo­pic eyes next. The car—their faithful red Omni with the little white bunny she'd given him for Easter still lying on the dashboard—had been all they had left.

 

"Who'd he owe this time?" Walt asked.

 

"If I knew that," Gina said without think­ing, "I'd fuck him to get it back."

 

"Cobra must know," Walt said, coolly, "Want me to ask him if he comes back?"

 

She glared at him. "Sure."

 

Walt poured her another shot.

 

'Trying to get me drunk?"

 

He just smiled.

 

"You drink that one," Gina said, then flinched when he touched the shot glass to her cheek before downing the Sambuca himself. "I'm all sticky. Now what do I do?"

 

"Have someone lick it off."

 

Outside the rain came hard and fast. Windows slammed. Gina wondered if old lady Prazyck's calico cat had been forced off its reserved spot on the windowsill upstairs. She could care less if the win­dows in her own apartment were shut, but what about the ones . . .

 

In the car? Wherever Nicky was, she hoped it was face down in the gutter.

 

"Put me to work!" Gina said, so loudly that the man next to her dropped his pipe.

 

"On your day off? The union would kick my ass." Waft joked.

 

"Please give me something to do."

 

Walt saw what remained of Gina's cock­tail napkin. "Here," he said, handing her a fresh stack. "Make snow. I can't wait till Christmas."

 

Smiling, she ripped one in half. Leo, her ex-boyfriend, had said that only a sick bitch could sit for hours and shred cocktail nap­kins. And she—who'd never laid a bet on anything in her life—bet he was right.

 

Sometimes she even missed Leo. Short-legged, lying pizza master. If he hadn't slugged her that clear January night, Nicky wouldn't have broken his nose. They'd still be together.

 

"I miss Leo," she said out loud. She looked around. Since the game had been cancelled, Walt was giving the afternoon movie his full attention. He ignored her, but the man next to her had had enough of her. His thick glasses made his eyes look like roasted chestnuts.

 

"Hey, Boss," Gina said, "Buy this guy a drink."

 

"No thank you," the man said curtly, "I'm leaving."

 

"It's on me," Walt said, opening a fresh Amstel Light. "No sense getting wet before you have to," He refilled Gina's glass as well, then poured himself a beer. "Cheers," he said, and the two men toasted to the rained-out Mets.

 

They were the only ones left in the bar.

 

Gina's head began to ache, and she stopped ripping napkins. "What a mess," Walt said, sweeping them all away with his hand, "Shame on you."

 

"Stop picking on me," she said defen­sively, "and get me some aspirin."

 

"My daughter," she heard him say under his breath. But when the man looked away, Walt gently kissed the palm of her injured hand. He fed her sips of water in between aspirins, and smiled when she closed her hand around his. He mouthed a curse when his only paying customer mut­tered, "One more."

 

The rain had never let up. Gina accepted widowhood. Who would spring for the pine box? Probably Carol. Gina wondered if the mortician would cut Nicky’s bangs.

 

Her palm smelled musky now. She opened her eyes when two quarters were placed in it. Walt jerked his head toward the jukebox.

 

Gina's heart was pounding as heavily as her head. The first song she played was AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt-Cheap." She took her time with the others.

 

On his way out, the man blew his pipe smoke in her face. He'd left Walt a good tip, though. Faggot, Gina thought.

 

Walt had changed the channel and was adjusting the color on the TV. Gina recalled that the night they'd met, he was doing the same to the new console in his old living room. "Shall we watch General Hospital?" he said.

 

"Not while my songs are playing," she said.

 

He was wearing his white tennis shorts, and as he jumped down off the bar, she saw he had an erection.

 

"Do . . . do you know where Nicky is?" she asked.

 

He leaned back and lit a cigarette. "No," he said finally.

 

"Does Cobra?"

 

"Maybe."

 

Not since they'd tumbled out in fifth grade had Gina been so aware of her breasts. Ronnie Duvall behind the convent. Sister Marguerite's voice pitched as high as the late bell.

 

"I'm locked out," Gina realized. "Please let me in."

 

Walt shook his head. "Can't. My key is bent."

 

Her heart now felt heavier than her head. "Then what do I do?"

 

"Well, the toilets need scrubbing, but don't mind what's written on the wall. It's meant to be a compliment.”

 

"You suck," she said, and that made him smile. Leaning across the bar, he took her hand in his again. Flakes of cocktail napkin snow stuck to the hair on his brown arms. She could smell his True burning another’s filter.

 

"Fill up the juices," he said softly. His T-shirt was a cool freeze-pop blue. Like angel's eyes. Brown were better, she thought. Walt's eyes were like two coffee beans in Sambuca. He let go of her hand. "And lock the door.”

 

It felt strange being drunk behind the bar. For a while Gina forgot what he'd asked her to do and just stood with her hands on her hips, till Walt said, "Juices," again.

 

She poured the orange juice so carefully that he said, "What a girl," Her hands were shaking as she poured the grapefruit, but none of that spilled either. "Keep it up, baby," he said from behind her.

 

When Gina was three, a poster of Mick Jagger had scared her for weeks. Walt loved the Stones. The last song—"Play With Fire,"—was his favorite.

 

"You keep it up," she said without turn­ing around.

 

Lifting her hair, he licked her from shoul­der to shoulder. She lost the tomato juice, but Walt's body caught most of it. With his shorts drenched, his erection looked red-hot. He pulled her closer. "No," she whis­pered, but she knew it was too late.

 

The juice dripped down their legs. He slowly rubbed his cock against her navel. In the mirror, Gina saw the terror in her face. Walt twisted it back to his own. "What's stopping you?" he demanded.

 

"Someone . . . Nicky might come back."

 

"Before the ninth race? Not till midnight, kid."

 

"But what's left?" she cried.

 

Fists filled with her hair, Walt eased her head back so he could look straight into her eyes. "Not a damn thing," he said.

 

It was so dark she realized he'd shut off the lights and the TV. Round and bright as headlights were Walt’s eyes. Headlights to hell, she thought, smiling now. Here was love, here lie her heart, not caught between buttercups or under boardwalks. Not behind convents anymore. Fuck bleeding red Valentines and bangs too long to see what should have been these eyes.

 

She choked on his tongue—it seemed as hard as what was grinding against her body. He yanked her to his chest, kneading her buttocks as she slid into place, working two fingers inside her wet shorts.

 

"Nicky," she gasped, but Walt finished it for her; ". . . Can't do shit!" He spat behind her. "My own son!"

 

She clung to his T-shirt and hair as he carried her out the back door. He kicked open the cellar door, then took the stairs two at a time. When Gina's leg struck the banister, he said "Clumsy bitch," through a mouthful of hair.

 

She landed on top of the washing machine. Walt began dragging clothes out of the dryer—her own, which she'd forgot­ten—and piling them onto the floor. Colors and whites mixed together, with Nicky's new jeans on top. She slid off the washer.

 

Her shorts set glued to her body, but Walt tore it in half. As she pulled down her underpants, he grabbed them at her knees, tripping her as they came off in his hand. She fell on top of Nicky's jeans.

 

Walt's shirt struck the swinging lightbulb like a crazed bluejay. Almost no hair on his chest, and a funny tattoo. "‘Walt & Carol,’" Gina read mockingly, "Who was drunker?"

 

"Me. And it was there before you were born." Down came his shorts.

 

He tasted older in parts, strong, not sweet—his thighs like musky, sweaty tomato juice, his cock the best. That was her favorite. But she stopped before he came.

 

And Walt slapped her face.

 

"Nicky doesn't mind!" was out before she realized it.

 

She fell back so hard, the jeans zip­per pierced the small of her back.

 

He held her down. His tongue was so sharp, it might have sliced off her nipples. It lingered in her navel for so long that she actually feared what it would do next.

 

When she cried out, he stuffed a sock in her mouth. She tried to kick, but both his arms were locked around her thighs. When he was bored with eating her, he mauled her with three of his fingers. She was soaked.

 

He removed the sock, then, stroking her sweating face. "S' all your own fault, sweetheart. I could rip you to shreds."

 

"Please," Gina said without knowing why.

 

With each thrust, he plunged deeper into her. Above her "Walt & Carol" galloped like Roy & Dale. Rogers & Evans. His rhythm was working. She was ready to come. She covered her eyes.

 

He stopped. "Look at me!" Walt demanded, seizing her wrists. He began again, slower this time.

 

It was the light, she'd always told herself, that gave his face its reptilian quality. Dif­ferent lights. But this one was too far away. All it did was highlight the grays in his hair. Even in the dark, there were dozens of lines around his eyes, which had narrowed into slits. He licked his lips.

 

The jeans zipper had scraped her back raw. This slower rhythm made it hurt more. Her belly was sore. She had cramps in her legs.

 

"Wait," she said softly, "please stop."

 

He pumped faster.

 

"No wait," she groaned. Blood she smelled now, besides sweat. She stopped moving.

 

With one hand, he yanked both of hers over her head. "No!" she cried. With his other hand, he squeezed each breast. He rammed her harder. And harder. "No!" Gina shrieked. "No!"

 

He smiled. Then he came.

 

And it was over.

 

 

 

His Trues were in his shirt, at the foot of the stairs. His shorts he found near the cases of warm beer. For a long time he sat on the third step, not looking at her.

 

She hadn't moved from the pile of clothes on the floor. The light was so bright, she could still see it when she closed her eyes.

 

Upstairs, the phone whined like a baby. From the stairs, she heard him light another cigarette. "Let it ring," he mut­tered.

 

"Who is it?" she asked.

 

"How do I know?"

 

She looked up at him. "Are there phones . . . in hell?"

 

He smiled. "Do I care?"

 

She watched as he flicked the still-lit True into the corner.

 

"You should," she said as he hurried up the stairs.

 

 

 

She came up wearing Nicky's jeans and a wrinkled Bon Jovi T-shirt. A beer and a shot were waiting for her.

 

Though the rain had stopped a while ago, the bar seemed darker than before. Walt was sitting beneath the mute TV.

 

“That was Carol," he said in a strained voice.

 

"And?"

 

"Nicky's pretty bad. The five guys he owed got together and kicked his ass."

 

She licked the Sambuca off her fingers. "Where's the car?"

 

 

 

 

“Hangovers ” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Oui, Vol. 20, No. 3, April 1989.

 

 

gutterball.jpg
Art by Kevin Duncan © 2010

Gutter Balls

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

“Huh?” said the trailer trash.

 

“I said,” Jeff said irritably, “What size?”  Lately he had no patience with these people.  “Shoes,” he added.  You’d think she was retarded.  Maybe she was.  “You know…to bowl in?”

 

The old girl had greasy gray hair, was missing half her teeth.  Grinning, she pointed to the shabby sandal on the counter.  Her “collateral.”  These people loved to steal shoes.  “Same’s dat one!”

 

Real white trash, he thought.  A psycho, too.  Like he should talk.  He was one step from the crayon farm, himself.  Thanks to Karla.  Almost a year she was gone, but he still couldn’t think of her without clenching his teeth.  A wife who’d split with Jeffrey Junior, the baby boy she’d never wanted, but who Jeff loved above all else.  Sure, Jeff had a nasty temper.  But sometimes Karla deserved a good smack. “SEE YA!” she’d scrawled, in red lipstick, on the mirror.  Jeff had stared hard at his pasty reflection.  A wimp would’ve bust out crying.

 

“Size ten,” he said sarcastically, reaching for the shoes.  Big feet annoyed him.  So did chinless faces.  It’s weird how you could hate somebody just for not having a chin.  Or having big calves.  Karla’s were gorgeous: muscular, but so feminine.  Even at rest, they looked as sculpted as a model’s. 

 

“Thanks!” The old girl was drooling.  Jeff felt queasy. 

 

It didn’t take much to turn his stomach.  Everywhere you looked, was sleaze.  Gutter scum.  He smiled smugly.  An Equal Opportunity Hater, that’s what he was.  But if he had a choice, what he despised most . . . were faggots.  Whiney queens, ass-reaming ‘Friends of Judy’s’ . . . 

 

In the center of City Lanes was a bar.  Against his will, he looked behind him.  Just as he thought, she was watching him.  Daphne, the new bartender.  Smirking, as usual.  Man, she was hot for him.  In your dreams, bitch! 

 

He looked away.  Damn, tonight he was in an exceptionally foul mood.  All his thoughts were ugly.

 

He wasn’t always like this.  Way back when, he was . . . a nice guy!  Not a needy geek, but very sensitive.  Caring.  Bursting with love, for the whole world!  Anything, anything, could set him off, damn near move him to tears.  The bitter sorrows of life: a “premie” hooked up to countless machines, its fingers tiny as a Barbie doll’s.  A balding pigeon pecking at crumbs.  His own, too-often limp dick. 

 

*     *     *

 

Speakin’ of faggots, ‘member Cousin Lenny?  That Jim Morrison lookalike, with the palest blue eyes, and long hair that reached to the stiffest of nipples?  Stiffer than a chick’s, those babies were.

 

And, speakin’ of stiff, ‘member that one time, late at night, he rubbed his…

 

*     *     *

 

Jeff turned back around, forced a smile at Daphne.  She beamed. 

 

What a weird chick! For one thing, that get-up.  A walking flea market, she was.  Tonight she had on a turquoise bustier, sequined scarf, black lace mini, fishnets.  That hair: Hawaiian punch red, or purple.  Too shiny, to even be real.  And those glasses: horn-rimmed, with tacky rhinestones!  Her face wasn’t bad.  She did have luscious red lips. Jeff pictured them encircling his cock, and instantly felt queasy again.  But why was he suddenly rock-hard?

 

God, he could use some head.  It’d been a while.  But from her? 

 

And, these days, could he even keep it up?

 

He’d forgotten to ring up the trash’s shoes.  As he turned to do it, a chill came over him.  Like the Big Guy had turned up the a/c.  Sure, it was only September, but so what?  Some life, he thought.  Had he really sunk this low?  Freezing your ass off, while you rang up shoes and lanes.  All night long, hearing the crash of balls against pins.  Fuck!  As he slammed the register shut, he smelled heavy perfume.

 

It was her. “What time you get off?”  Her voice was husky, sexier than you’d think.

 

“Midnight,” he said wearily.  In that bustier, her tits looked huge.  Like it was made just for her.  It barely covered her nipples.

 

 She leered.  “Wanna hang out?”  

 

“At the bar?” Jeff heard the disgust in his voice.  Karla had been a party animal.  An animal, period.  She’d had no patience for his “shortcomings.”  “Till you get off?”  Then what? 

 

Like she read his mind, she licked her lips, smacking them loudly.  It was the foulest thing Jeff had ever seen.  But it excited him so, his jeans felt tight.  And they were his baggiest.  Maybe, he thought, there was hope for him.

 

He looked around, anxiously.  Nobody was hot for shoes.  “It’s a date,” he muttered. 

 

 

 

At 12:05, Jeff was at the bar, with an untouched cheap chablis.  Except for some drunk hag down the end, he was alone with Daphne.  As she leaned closer, her perfume made his gorge rise.

 

“Hate this place,” he muttered.  “Trash that comes in here.  With their stinking, size ten shoes.” 

 

Daphne smiled.  “Big feet’s a crime?”

 

And big calves, Jeff thought, darkly.  “Bunch of retards.  But you’ve got to say, ‘mentally challenged.’  This whole world’s so fucking politically correct.”

 

“What makes you tick?” she asked, smirking.  “What’s your big secret?”

 

Fag-bashing…

 

How hard he’d got, when Cousin Lenny . . . touched him.  “Don’t count,” Cuz had breathed, “Just a guy thing.”

 

A “gay guy” thing, Jeff realized, later.  And freaked.  He’d never told a fucking soul. . . .

 

Jeff froze.  Shifting uncomfortably on the stool, he picked up his wine.  Without tasting it, he set it back down.  “I have none.”

 

“Weren’t you married, once?”

 

He pushed his drink away.  “Still am.  Legally,” he added, without knowing why.  Here was a homewrecker, for sure.  He imagined her hanging up on stupid wives, leaving suggestive notes on cars.

 

“In this state,” she said, “Bigamy’s a misdemeanor.”

 

“Now get this straight!” he said, suddenly.  “I’m not looking for anything real. . . .”

 

“You want a fake blow job?”

 

He just looked at her.  Not since Karla had he known such an outspoken bitch.  And just like Karla, he felt like beating her senseless.

 

 Still smirking, she asked, “Were you in love?”

 

“What do you think?” he said, through clenched teeth.

 

Daphne smiled.  A real smile, this time.  A painful, knowing one.  Knows too much, this bitch, Jeff thought, anxiously. 

 

“So was I,” that husky voice told him.  “In love.  Oodles of times.” 

 

Jeff cringed. 

 

“And always got hurt,” Daphne added.  “But I kept on loving.”  Now her smile was bitter.  “Deep down, I always knew . . . who I was.”

 

Who, or what? Jeff thought, smirking.  He almost jumped, when she seized his hand. 

 

“I could love you,” she said.

 

“Daph!” yelled the hag down the end.  “One more, baby!”

 

Those huge lips pouted.  As she let go, Jeff relaxed, some.  He glanced over at the hag, who grinned back at him.  Blonde hair she had, obviously dyed.  She was at least sixty-five.  Real trailer trash.  “And give Loverboy one, too!” 

 

“No, thank you,” Jeff said, curtly.

 

“He’ll take it,” Daphne said.  Next to Jeff’s untouched drink, she set a red checker piece: City Lane’s symbol of a free drink.  What nerve, he thought.

 

 The trailer trash raised her own glass for a toast.  Daphne snickered.  Under her breath, she added, “S’ not like you’ve got to fuck her.”

 

Jeff shuddered.  Suddenly, his jeans felt looser.

 

By last call, Trailer Trash was singing, in a hoarse, trembly voice, along with the jukebox.  “Dude Looks Like A Lady.”  Aerosmith. 

 

Why, Jeff wondered, viciously, did people feel booze brought out their secret talents?  He forced a sip of wine, then another.  Karla, the “Karaoke Queen,” had been the worst.  The worst voice, the worst songs, and no way would she shut the fuck up! 

 

Daphne whispered, “Where to, now, Loverboy?’

 

He didn’t answer.  For the first time he wondered how old this bitch was.  She seemed ageless.  Smooth, ivory skin, but the magenta hair and glasses had to go.  She could be thirty, she could be fifty-five.  He himself was thirty-five.  Despite his thinning dark hair, he was damn good-looking!

 

“That’s all?” Karla had screamed, way back.  Thirty-one, he’d been, when they met, at that karaoke bar.  “I thought you were old as my Dad!”  Jeff’s face burned.  She had the balls to request a duet: “Young Girl.”  Throughout the song, Jeff glared at her.  Wiithout singing a word, himself.  That night changed him.  She changed him.  When they were married, just months later, he learned she was forty.

 

“Huh?” Daphne whispered.  “Where should we go?”  The hand that stroked back his hair was cold.  From the ice, he realized.  That blonde hag diluted her beers.  Nice try, Jeff thought bitterly.  Another “Mistress of Delusion.”

 

“I live far,” he lied.  His cheap flat was right up the block.  He felt woozy, kind of.  The wine he’d drunk went right to his head.

 

“Me, too.”  She nuzzled his cheek.  “Let’s go out back.”

 

Behind City Lanes.  Where idle teens peed, and stray cats fucked.  Before he could protest, her snaky tongue was in his ear.  “I can’t wait!”  she told him. 

 

Even for a Monday night, it was dead outside.  Two a.m. had never seemed so late. 

 

Those first, tortuous nights without Karla and Jeff Junior had made him long for death.  At least a dark nothingness.  He’d thought of gulping every pill in the house.

But, with his luck, he’d be doubly fucked.  Burn in hell, for sure.  And still be all alone.

 

But he wasn’t alone now.  Arm in arm with Daphne, he watched that blonde hag stagger down the block, toward the trailer park.  She bumped into a hydrant, almost fell into the street.  “Ouch!” Jeff muttered.  Daphne tightened her hold on him.  Her nails grazed him.  In the bar, he hadn’t noticed how long they were.  Like Karla’s, he bet they could slice up his back.  And she was taller than he was.

 

Chuckling, she walked him across the parking lot.  What a grip, Jeff thought.  Bitch would never take no for an answer.  Who’s saying no?  he thought, as they hurried around to the back.  His cock was so hard, it ached.

 

Gasping, he was flung against the wall.  Was she strong!   She tore open his jeans, fell to her knees.   His cock popped right into her mouth.  She began sucking, slurping it, obscenely.  It felt so good, his mind spun.  That man-eating plant, he thought of, from some crazy movie.  Her lips were that thick, and juicy.  His heart raced.  She wildly ran her snakelike tongue up and down the sides of his cock, around the base of the tip, till he almost screamed.

  

Her whole face, her whole being, was sucking his cock.  Glasses, hair, tits, beside those lips and tongue.  Sucked him in so deep, she kissed his nuts.  A delicious rumbling in them said he’d cum soon.  Too soon.  It was his best blow job ever, and he didn’t want it to end!

 

But it did.  As he shot his load, his whole body shuddered.  She gulped jizz, greedily, wanting more.  Like a psycho baby, with a human bottle, and no end to its delights.  Groaning, he pawed her face, knocked her glasses aside.

When he seized her hair, it shifted.  Seemed to move on its own.  What the fuck? he thought, opening his eyes.

 

A tousled wig, he was holding.  Short wasn’t the word for Daphne’s real hair.  A G. I. haircut, it was called.

 

Jeff cringed.  As he dropped the wig, Daphne laughed.  A laugh too hearty, too deep, for a woman.  A real one, anyway.

 

“You . . . fuck!” Jeff screamed. 

 

She was still on her knees, leering.  Glasses still crooked, splashed with Jeff’s jizz. Her huge tits—implants, obviously—had popped out of her bustier.  The nipples were like maraschino cherries.  “God’s not done with me, yet!” came out in a little girl’s voice.  Followed by that man’s laugh.

 

Fists clenched, Jeff just stared. 

 

Love!” Daphne nearly spat out the word.  “Like you know what it’s all about.  Like you even know how!  Love comes from your heart, and your . . . ass.”

 

Jeff backed up. 

 

“A ‘re-tard’ is smarter than you.  ‘Cos its love is real.”  Smiling, Daphne loosened her scarf.  “Same’s . . . this ol’ tranny!” 

 

Jeff yanked off the scarf.

 

Daphne caressed her Adam’s Apple.  “I’ll always have this.”  With a smile that thoroughly sickened Jeff, she got up.  Bile rose in his throat, as Daphne lifted her skirt, suggestively.

Like a red eel, her cock looked trapped in those fishnet pantyhose.  “I’m gonna miss . . .” she began, then stopped.  With a harsh laugh, she pointed to Jeff’s cock.

 

It was rock-hard. 

 

In horror, Jeff stared down, like it was a stranger’s.  He sweated so bad, he smelled it, above Daphne’s foul perfume. 

 

She kept laughing.  Like she’d never stop. 

 

He lunged. With his bare hands, he squeezed her throat, tight.  Her glasses went flying.  Eyes bulging, she fought back, like a man.  Like sissy Cousin Lenny, who’d been stronger than him.  Who’d laid Jeff out.  Called him a fag!  Then laughed.

 

With each smack, Jeff staggered back, nearly lost his hold on her.  But he kept squeezing, tighter, and tighter. Out of sheer rage, he’d found almost super-human strength.  His balls swung.  As she grabbed at them, he knocked her hands away.

 

Like a chick, she fought now, scratching desperately.  Like Karla would have.  He was killing Karla, too, not just this cunt.  This “tranny,” with a cock bigger than his.  He squeezed her throat twice as hard, just for that. . . .

 

Like he’d wanted to squeeze . . .Lenny’s.

 

He let go, finally.  Too late.

 

A grimacing mannequin, he was faced with.  Half-man, half-woman, like a manufacturer’s bad joke.  Not just lifeless, but dead.

 

My God! he thought.  As she slumped to the ground, he looked around, wildly.

Nobody.  No cars.  Not one sound.  Fucking Twilight Zone.  The perfect crime, just like he’d planned it.

 

Perfect?  His heart lurched.  With his jizz caked to that face?  Skin under the nails of the “Dude Who Looked Like a Lady!”  And a trailer trash witness, who was at home, sleeping it off.  But not for long.

 

All for a blow job.

 

Trembling uncontrollably, he looked down at his cock.

 

The “gay” defense.  That’s what the p. d. would use.  Some “politically correct” bleeding heart, who’d do anything to save Jeff from lethal injection. 

 

Staring down at Daphne, Jeff laughed, hysterically.

 

His laugh turned into a tortured scream.   For the first time since Karla left, he howled.

 

And his cock stayed hard. 

 

 

 

“Gutter Balls.” Collected in Gutter Balls by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2007 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Hardboiled, No. 36, January 2007.  Copyright © 2007 by Gryphon Books.

 

 

SUICIDE MISSION

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          The sickest part is, if he cut off his mother’s head to bowl with, you’d still want him.

 

          Poor Lizzette. Eyes blood-red behind all that make-up. Sneezing and wheezing.  Some friend, she must be thinking about you. Dragging her out—on a Sunday, yet—from bar to bar in a storm like this. Just to find some guy.

 

          But what a guy.  Black eyes rivet you to the wall. Your type of body

. . . lean, and mean. That tattoo . . . of the snarling cobra. Fangs dripping venom onto an arm once covered with tracks.

 

          He and his brother look so much alike, you got them confused.  Scudder. You’d called them both by their last name: Scudder #1 and Scudder #2, though that still didn’t tell you which was which. Except for the snake-arm, they’re almost twins. Twenty-eight and thirty years old, both living at home. Lazy fucks. Neither works, just claims he’s a “contractor,” same as the other bums. The drunken scum you can’t live without. Neither is ever splattered with paint, or stinking of sweat.

 

          Do . . . them . . . both, Lizette says, between coughs. That combo smoker’s cough and summer flu. Your poor, sick pal. Amusing you both, by pissing you off. Laughing makes the butterflies stop circling your tummy. 

 

          What’ll she use when she runs out of Kleenex? Wet cocktail napkins?

 

          Snot check, she says, before you go in each bar.

 

          Scanning the guys to see if he’s here. Glaring through black leather vested backs to find his. Praying, though you heard God never hears a sinner’s prayer. But you could do worse.

 

          The TV’s fuzzy, but nobody cares. Plenty of coke-bucks on this game.  All right! somebody yells. Their claps and hoots scare you.

 

          Almost.

 

          That feeling . . . the biker’s boot in the belly . . . comes over you, now.  That wrench of the gut, teeth against teeth, nails slicing through tender palms . . .

 

          You know you just missed him.

 

          By a minute. Probably while she was parking the car. Before the Great Snot Check.

 

          That glass, empty now, was just in his hand. That scarred, beautiful hand with the ring you’d feared was a wedding band, had clutched the glass till it nearly cracked. Thinking of you.

 

          What he could do to you in the dirt.

 

          The sky as moist and red as your heart. That smell . . . only in Jersey can you smell it . . . of something being barbecued alive. Steppenwolf growling on his lousy car radio. A Magic Carpet Ride, all right. Too close to a ditch, he’d force you down, and straddle you. Peel off his leather, piece by piece, while you pretend to struggle beneath him.

 

          Please, you say, in a voice unlike yours. Not in the mud.

 

          He feeds you a mouthful. Whether you like it or not.

 

          Like peeling an egg, hot out of the pot. The shell crumbles, and the steam scalds you. You know you should’ve waited for the egg to cool. . . .

 

          But you like to get burned.

 

          You love to eat dirt.

 

          Bless you, you say, when Lizzette sneezes. And you mean it.

 

 

“Suicide Mission.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter, by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2006 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Lunatic Chameleon, May 2005 Issue.

 

 

 

 

keytomyheart.jpg
Art by Lonni Lees © 2010

Key to My Heart

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

“I’M CLOGGED.  NEED TO BE SNAKED.  RENEE.”

 

On hot pink paper, the black letters were huge.  Even without his glasses, Manny could’ve read them.

 

Michelle, his woman, held the note in his face.  In her other hand, keys jingled.

 

“What the fuck,” she demanded, “Is this?” The smirky look was gone.  She was pissed.

 

He forced a smile.

 

“Renee!” Michelle screamed, waving the note in his face. “Who is she?”

 

Just chill, he told himself.

 

As he took the note, his hands shook. “Oh, her!” He laughed.  “A-5!  She’s a tenant, baby.  Just a tenant.”

 

“Renee with the big tits?” she said.  “Who’s always checking you out?”

 

Now sweat crept down his back.  Bony, it’d gotten, from lack of food.  From . . . stress.

 

“It was taped to our door,” Michelle said.

 

Manny cringed at the “our.” Not long ago, it’d filled him with pride.  My woman,” he’d jeered, when everybody—Goldie, the landlady, even Renee, whose heart he’d smashed to a pulp—trashed Michelle.

 

“ ‘Cos I’m the super.”  He could’ve been talking to a child. “Her tub’s probably clogged.” He tried to hug Michelle.

 

She smacked him, hard, so his cheek stung.  As she wildly tore up the note, it took those seconds for his head to clear.

 

“You fucked Renee, didn’t you?”

 

“Never!” he said, too quickly.  “I love you, baby.”

 

Michelle’s eyes gleamed.  “You’ll watch her die.”

 

“Never.”  But it was no use.  Once Michelle got hold of something, that was that. “I swear it.  On my mother’s eyes.” Thank God his mother was dead.

 

Was that a smile?  Even scarier.  That fast, Michelle had . . . changed. Into a coy little girl, with short blonde hair and a pointy, grown-up’s chin.  And she was his age, forty.

 

“You really swear?” She jingled her keys.  “Renee didn’t mean ‘your’ snake?” Giggling.

 

Manny’s pants felt tight.  Baggy, they’d gotten, but now he was rock-hard.

 

He’d lucked out.  That . . . mood . . . had passed.  And now . . .  His heart raced, as Michelle yanked down his pants.

 

He gasped. That first slurp got him. He almost lost it.

 

That mouth!  She sucked him furiously. Maniacally, como una loca. “¡Qué . . .” he said, humping her face. “¡Qué rico!” He wouldn’t last long. She was that good, that mouth with a mind of its own . . .

 

“Aah!” A sweet shudder, as he shot, down her throat. 

As she gulped everything, he shut his eyes. He was drained. Those lips lingered, begging for more . . .

 

But he was wishing Michelle was . . .

 

Like rose petals, shreds of that note littered the floor.

 

“. . .  RENEE.”

*     *     *

 

Renee . . . With her deep, dark eyes, rosy lips . . . She didn’t even need lipstick, they were that red and juicy . . .  How he always gave in, burying his face in her dark hair, and delicious tetas, scared him. All the times he risked getting caught

 . . .

*     *     *

 

Green eyes, this bar-slut had. Cat-like.  Manny had this thing for green eyes, especially on blondes.

 

          Hey, Renee was cool.  But he couldn’t commit.  Not to her, anyway.  A guy like him . . .

 

He was lean, with black curly hair.  When he took off his glasses, chicks lost it.  He had those melting kind of eyes: the biggest and brownest.

 

And a sharp, snaky tongue . . .

 

Like this blonde bar-slut’s.  As hers raped his mouth, he squeezed her.  She moaned.  Small tetas, with nipples sharp as that tongue.

 

          Alone in a bar with her at 2PM.  In a blizzard, yet.  His cock felt ready to explode.  Her hand inched toward it.

 

          From behind, the door opened.  A blast of wind. “The fuck you doing here?” Goldie, the landlady.  His boss. “Why aren’t you home, shoveling?”

 

          Big deal.  Farley’s was right up the block.

 

          Manny slipped his glasses back on, smiling. “Snow’ll still be there when I . . .” He turned to the bar-slut. “When we get home.” He bet the slut loved that. “Lots more, probably.”

 

          Behind the bar, the bartender was on his cell.  “Hey, Popi!” Manny waved to him.  “Two more Buds.  And . . .” He pointed to Goldie.

 

          “Who’s she?” the slut demanded. Alarmed, Manny looked at her. 

 

“Who am I?” Goldie said.  “The fuck’re you?”

 

“My boss.” Manny seized the slut’s arm.  “This is my boss, Goldie.” 

 

The slut pulled away. “Well, I’m his girlfriend!” she sneered.

 

He and Goldie shared a look: Renee, it said. Then he looked away. “This is . . .” But he didn’t know the slut’s name.

 

“Michelle,” the slut told them. “And I’m buying.”

 

*      *      *

 

          Months back, Manny was bad. So bad, he’d snorted up the tiny bag

 that should’ve been a vial.  Too late he realized this wasn’t coke.  It was heroin.

 

          He’d never done dope before; it might’ve killed him. Instead, this wild sense of joy hit him.  He’d cum in his pants. He felt powerless . . . powerless.  And he didn’t care.

 

How he got home, he never knew. But he was in the foyer, frantically ringing bells.  He didn’t know whose was whose.  He’d only been the super a week.

 

It was late. Only Renee answered. Instead of buzzing him in, she came down, herself.

 

Like a saint, she looked, in Manny’s dope-state. Wild dark bed-hair, smeared eye makeup. Half-dressed. La Magdalena, he thought.  He felt his eyes roll up into his head.

“You’re pinned, man,” he remembered her saying. “I’m calling 911.”

 

“No!” ended in puke, which splashed on her.

 

Somehow, she got him upstairs, to her place.  Without asking who he was.

 

 In between his vomiting bouts, she propped him up on the couch, next to her.  Kept his head and neck straight. 

 

She saved his life. . . .

 

*     *     *

 

“You crazy?” Goldie crossed her long legs. “Letting that nut move in with you?”

 

“Michelle’s married,” Manny said smugly. “’S ’not really living here.”

 

          In his kitchen, they sat, drinking muy fuerte coffee. “You kill me,” she said, smirking.

 

Gimme a break, he thought. 

 

But Goldie had.  After fat-ass Martha had dumped him and he’d lost his last handyman’s job.  From doing too much blow. That’s how he’d wound up here, instead of back in PR.  Goldie had given him a chance. 

 

She was cool.  Not his type: six feet tall, lanky. Too tough: he’d seen her lay a junkie tenant out flat.  Still, he dug blondes, and she had mounds of golden hair.  Way back, he might’ve fucked her. 

 

Before Michelle was “his woman.”

 

Goldie looked around.  “She pick this color?” Bright yellow, it was painted.  Like piss.

 

Street-smart, too, she was, eyeing his bony frame. “Not feeding you,” she said.  Drugs, he bet she thought.  For once she was wrong.  He’d been off the stuff since that bad night, way back.  The night he’d met Renee.

 

He got up, went to the coffeemaker.  “Sh’ ’ain’t here to cook.”

 

“You dump Renee?”

 

Carafe in hand, he stopped dead.  “A-5?  Dark hair?”

 

“Fuck you,” came out softer than he expected.  Renee was Goldie’s friend. A live wire, sure, but she paid rent on time, and had Goldie’s back.  They had each other’s, he realized.  Fuck with one, you fucked with the other.

 

Poised over her cup, he said, “Didn’t work out.” He smiled sadly. “What can I say?”

 

I say,” Goldie said, “Don’t shit . . . where you eat.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Never make your bed,” he asked Renee, “Do you?” But Manny felt deliciously-snug in her tangled sheets.

 

          “What for?” She wasn’t even pissed.  “You’ll just get back in it.”

 

          These stolen hours in her apartment were the happiest he’d felt in a while.  The most secure. No commitment, yet he felt someday Renee’d make a good wife.

 

Pero no la más limpia.. . . Smirking, he looked around.  Old blinds too short for the windows.  Clothes bulging from collapsed dresser drawers. 

 

“So I’m a slob,” she said.  “At least I always . . .” He moaned, as she wrapped her leg around him.  Smell good.”

 

That, she did.  Like she’d just showered with some exotic, fruity gel.  And her pussy . . . Just thinking about that made his cock rise.

 

In spite of Michelle . . .

 

“What’s with Michelle?” Renee demanded once.  “S ’like you’re on strings.”

 

“She loves me.” He couldn’t pull up his sweats fast enough. He had to get back downstairs.

 

This bad feeling, he had, that Michelle had come early.  Wondering where he was.

 

“Those . . . looks she gives.” Renee shuddered.  “And it’s not just me.”

 

In Manny’s mind, Michelle was outside Renee’s door, peering through the keyhole.

 

“No,” Renee said thoughtfully. “S’ not just me.”

 

*     *     *

 

“¿Cómo estás mamita?” Mop in hand, Manny stood on the landing.

 

          As she climbed the stairs, the little girl giggled. Marianela . . . whatever her name was, with her dad, Geronimo.  They, plus Nelly, the mom, lived in B-4.  The kid was four, and still in diapers, but loved climbing stairs. And, even more than that, she loved . . .

 

          “Manny!” she shrieked.

 

          As she reached him, Manny squatted, took her hand with his free one.

 

          Behind Geronimo, a face appeared.  Manny’s own fell, when he saw it was Michelle’s.

 

          On hers was a look of such hatred, he got chills.  She watched the little girl, closely. 

 

If Nelly were here . . . okay.  Her ass reached to City Line, and Manny dug it.  But . . . this was little Mamita.

She’s just a baby! Manny thought. 

 

*     *     *

 

“Sure Michelle’s married?” Manny was sick of hearing that.  Mostly from Renee.

 

In her kitchen they sat, on her worn chairs.  For once, she’d cooked, and it wasn’t bad: pork chops, potatoes, canned peas.

 

          “Who’d make that up?” he said, stiffly.

 

          “A needy chick . . .” Renee twirled the greasy knife.  “Who knows you can’t commit.”

 

            He couldn’t meet her eyes. He had committed.  Just didn’t have the cojones to tell Renee. . . . 
 

          It wasn’t to her.

 

          “Never takes off her wedding band,” Manny said.

 

          Renee threw down the knife. “Pul-lease!” 

 

          “Husband beats her,” he said, recalling those bruises on Michelle’s shoulder and arm.  And that . . . lost look she got. 

 

          “Beats herself, I bet,” Renee said.  “She right-handed?”

 

          Manny thought about it. “Yeah.”

 

          “Bruises on the left side?  And none on her face?”

 

          He didn’t answer. 

 

          “I thought so.” She smiled.

 

          Manny’s heart raced. Suddenly he hated Renee.  And this grimy kitchen.  Fucking slob. If it wasn’t for Goldie, she’d be out on her ass. 

 

He jumped up. “That’s my woman you’re trashing.” 

 

Renee picked up the knife again.  “And what’m I?”

 

Hot all over, he felt.  Wanting to hurt her. “Just a tenant,” he sneered.  “Who can’t cook for shit.” She just shrugged.  “Or clean.  Never makes her bed.”

 

“Well, you made yours,” she said wisely.  

 

“Mine’s with Michelle,” Manny said.  Just Michelle.”

 

As Renee nodded, slowly, tears filled her eyes.  She lay down the knife.

 

Somebody else would’ve sliced him.

 

*     *     *

 

The door to A-5 swung open. “Hey!” Renee said, when she saw him.

 

Manny clutched the metal snake for dear life.  Behind him, Michelle’s hot breath was on his neck. 

 

We’re here,” she told Renee, “to unclog your tub.”

 

Manny rushed past Renee, then stopped dead.  He would know where the bathroom was, wouldn’t he?  He was the super, damn it. 

 

“It is your tub, isn’t it?” Michelle sneered.

 

Sweat crawled down Manny’s back.  As fast as possible, he’d snake that tub.

 

As he worked, he heard voices from the kitchen, like both were keeping them low.  What the fuck, he thought, are they saying about me?

 

Hair, it was, that clogged the drain.  Renee’s thick, dark hair.  Even as sludge, it excited him.  Aquellas noches deliciosas.  He recalled getting tangled in that hair.

It wouldn’t come up.

 

Wiping his hands, he went out to the kitchen. “Baby,” he said.  When both looked his way, he froze. 

 

“He’s talking to me,” Michelle spat out.  Renee just shrugged.

 

With a triumphant smile, Michelle turned to Manny.  “Yes?”

 

“The plunger.” He licked his dry lips.  “Could you . . . I mean . . .”

 

Michelle’s eyes widened.

 

“Get it myself,” he mumbled.

 

“Want a drink or something?” Renee asked Michelle on Manny’s way out.

 

“No, thanks,” he heard from the hall. “I’ve got everything I want.”

 

*     *     *

 

Tearing open the box, Manny couldn’t help smiling. 

 

Suddenly Michelle was back to normal.  Had promised him this gift.  For your neck, she’d said. 

 

A rope-chain, he’d thought.  Thick ghetto-gold.  But what a big-ass box.

 

          As he yanked aside red tissue paper, his chest tightened. “You crazy, girl?”

 

It was a chain, all right, but a long, steel one, attached to a leather collar. A leash, like you saw on pits, outside drug houses. “A joke, right?”

 

But Michelle wasn’t smiling.  “The bag’s not empty.”

 

His smile returned.  He rewrapped the leash, set it next to him on the couch.  Eyed the gift bag, but didn’t reach into it. “Went all out, didn’t’cha, baby?”

 

She didn’t answer.

 

“Well, you bitches love to shop.”

 

Why’d he feel so strange? Like something was up.  Last night Michelle had freaked after he’d snaked Renee’s tub.  But then wildly fucked him, later. Made him feel all was cool again. Like she’d never said . . .

 

He’d watch Renee die.

 

Manny pulled the bag to him.  So Michelle was a little loca, sometimes. Here she was, proving she loved him!  Gifts out the ass, two more boxes, he could feel, and this one just had to be . . .

 

Handcuffs. “Kinky,” he said, when he’d unwrapped them.  “Who . . .” He shut up, fast.  He already knew who’d be wearing them. 

 

“You really like them?” Michelle said childishly. Like she’d knitted him mittens.

 

He just kept nodding.  His smile felt frozen.

 

Does she know?  he thought. ‘Bout me and Renee?

 

He set the handcuffs on top of the leash, but hesitated before reaching back in the bag.

 

Michelle’s smile . . . besides her tight ass and green eyes, was her best feature.  Even Renee’s . . .

 

 Michelle watched, expectantly, as he reached into the bag.

 

 . . . Renee’s smile fell short. Even with those beautiful teeth, those too-sharp teeth, that hurt when she gripped Manny’s . . .

 

This would hurt more.

This thing you put on your cock.  As Manny sat, holding this . . . thing, his cock shrunk.  Leather and steel, it was made of, with a lock.  His hand shook as he picked up the key.  Bitch,” came out before he could stop it.

 

Michelle snatched the key from him.  That smile was gone.  Her eyes gleamed coldly. “Get up.”

 

She knows, he thought. “Come on, baby,” he said, leaning back.

 

“If you love me,” she said, “you’ll do what I say.” She loomed over him.  Anything I say.”

 

From you, Renee had told him,I want jack shit. Unless it’s straight from your heart. How hard she’d sobbed had touched his heart.  Had he’d dumped her for this?

 

As he got up, Manny’s knees shook.  He dropped his sweats.

 

“I am not a bitch,” Michelle said.  He flinched: her hand on him felt colder than steel, as she placed that thing on his cock.

 

“Baby,” came out begging.  But . . . for what?

 

Mistress,” she corrected him.  “I’m ‘Mistress Michelle.’ And you are,” she said, smiling, “ ‘Four Eyes.’ ”

 

*     *     *

 

“Where’s the key to it?” Renee asked.

 

          She has it.”  How disloyal Manny felt.  But even more . . . humiliated.

 

They had no time to lose.  Soon Michelle would be home.  As Renee held his cock, it began to get hard.  And hurt. That damn thing killed him.  “I’m . . . ‘owned,’ Michelle says.”

 

“That’s fucked up,” Renee said softly.  No sarcasm in her tone, or eyes.  Without makeup, they were huge, gentle.  “Where is she?”

 

“With her husband.”  Manny wondered if it were true.  If that fool husband even existed.  Renee had made him doubt it, and now she was on her knees, holding his trapped dick.

 

“Can you pee through it?” It hurt more, as she gripped it.  He seized her wrist.

 

“Yes,” he said, through clenched teeth. “ ‘S’ got a little hole . . . just for that. ‘S’ all I can do . . . without her.”

 

Renee released him. “The ‘Gates of Hell,’ ” she said. “ ‘S’ that what they call it?”

 

“Oh, it’s hell,” Manny said. “Like somebody’s always holding me.  Makes me so . . . hot, but then . . . ’’ To his horror, tears burned his eyes.  “When I’m hard . . . it hurts.”

 

Against his thigh, Renee lay her cheek.  He enjoyed this tender moment like it was the last they’d know.  If only . . . He shut his eyes tight.

 

It was the tiniest of holes, but her tongue found his, through that thing. Caressed him, till he cried.  It was all she could do.

 

How moist and hot, Renee’s twat had been, when they’d fucked!  Manny had buried his cock so deep in her, she’d screamed.  The other tenants must’ve thought . . .

 

She’d got sliced.

 

He was really hurting. “I gotta go,” he whispered.

 

*     *     *

 

Something, he’d felt all day, would be different. Tonight.

 

          This strange sense of . . . quiet . . . all over.  Everywhere he went.  Both in and outside the building. 

 

          Goldie had called him. “Tonight’s garbage night,” she’d said. Like he was a retard.

 

          But it had dick to do with “garbage night.”  Out back, as he tied up tenants’ garbage real tight, his keys jingled on his belt. 

 

What was this? he thought.  A calm before a storm?

 

          Nah. Michelle was chilling.  Keeping him “captive” these past weeks had mellowed her, some.  Feeling she really was his one and only . . .

 

          One bag so stuffed with garbage . . . diapers, he knew, by the smell …was ready to burst.

 

          Those few minutes with Renee . . . did Michelle find out?

 

          Shit!” His keys. They’d snagged the diaper bag!  As the shit-pads popped out, he kicked them all over, cussing.  And fuck garbage night!

 

He cussed Mamita, that helpless toddler, for shitting her pants.

 

          Cussed Renee, and his “Mistress,” for locking him up.

 

*     *     *

 

Mistress Michelle had cooked for her unworthy slave.

 

          But, why Prime Ribs?  Manny wondered.  If she’d served Mamita’s shitty diaper, he’d have to eat it. 

 

Even allowing him to carve.  Knives that big scared even him.

 

          And Michelle’s getup: pink baby dolls vs. the black vinyl catsuit.  For the first time ever, she looked childlike, cute. 

 

          Halfway through the meal, Manny saw her watching him, closely.  Realized she hadn’t eaten a bite.

 

          She knows, he thought, about me and Renee.  As if she could read his mind, he cleared it.  But . . . I’m poisoned.

          She picked up her fork, smiling.  When she sliced and chewed a cooled piece of meat, he smiled back, relieved. 

 

          Renee . . .

 

          “You’re thinking,” Michelle said, “About her, aren’t you?”

 

          The food stopped dead, in his mouth.

 

          But she didn’t sound pissed.  She was still smiling. 

 

          “No,” he said, trying to keep his mind blank. “Not about her.”

 

Michelle’s eyes narrowed.  “Then who?”

 

          Manny lost it.  “Nobody!” He threw down the fork.  ¡Ay mi madre!” he yelled. “I’m sick of this shit! I can’t even think anymore!” It felt so good to scream at her.

 

          Michelle didn’t answer.  A new mood had seized her, one so foreign to her, he just stared.

 

          Tears.  In her eyes, they seemed out of place.

 

          “You lied,” she said softly.  “You don’t love me.”

 

          Never, not even when she’d showed up bruised, had she cried.  If her husband beat her, she should’ve cried.  Should’ve bawled out loud, like Mamita upstairs.  And if Michelle beat herself . . .

 

          Manny got up.

 

          If she really did beat herself, it was out of need for love.  Real love.

 

          As he went over to Michelle, his legs felt heavy.  But not from being drugged.  She would never drug, or really hurt him. This was all just a game.

 

          “Yes, I do,” he said, wiping her tears.  “I do love you.”

 

          “Prove it.” Michelle’s eyes were wide, trusting.  Four-Eyes.”

*     *     *

 

Manny was alone, in full bondage gear.

 

That collar had never felt so tight.  The leash . . .  was attached to the bedpost, somehow.  When he turned his head, the chain jingled.  Christmas bells, he thought. 

 

          Hands cuffed behind him.  Soon the itching would start.  Always, when you couldn’t reach to scratch.  First his head.  Then his back . . . nose . . . cojones.

 

          His poor cock.  Always locked up . . . till Michelle wanted it.

 

          On his bare, bony knees, he was.  Shifting from side to side, they ached so.  He was bare all over, with his cock in that thing.

 

          Fuck, he thought.  What if the place caught fire?

 

          Sweat poured down his neck and back. His glasses felt crooked, but he couldn’t move his hands to fix them.  And why . . .

 

          Why hadn’t she taken his glasses?  Left him blind, not just helpless? 

 

          What’d she want him to see?

 

          God, he had to pee.  So bad, it hurt.  His belly rumbled, from that rich food.

 

          Before she’d skipped out, half-dressed, he’d licked her small, shapely feet, and between her toes.  Didn’t ask where she was going.

 

          He was forbidden.

 

          Voices, he heard, suddenly, out in the hall.  Outside his apartment. Raised female voices.  His Mistress’s and . . .

 

          He almost peed himself. . . . Renee’s?

 

          Michelle would never bring Renee to him!

          “Sick, how?” Renee said on her way in.  Mistrustfully. “And what can I do?  I’m no doctor!”

 

          But she’d come! Thinking he was sick, Renee’d come to help him.  Walked right into the shadow of the Valley of . . .

 

          “He’s in there,” Michelle told her.

 

          “Manny!” From the doorway, Renee just stared.  Then rushed to him.

 

          “No!” He shut his eyes. “¡Vete de aquí!

 

He knew everything now: those lying tears. Prime Ribs vs. burgers. Something he’d have to carve.  With that big knife.

 

How he’d watch Renee die . . .

 

“I love Michelle!” he lied, as Renee gripped his face.  “Not you!” Renee’s only hope.

 

A scrunch, and Renee lurched forward. Blood splashed all over, with her scream.  More scrunches, and screams. Manny’s glasses were drenched

 

Eyes open, he saw mostly red, as Renee fell, just out of his reach.  Without screaming.

 

Michelle straddled her, still chopping like mad.  Laughing.  Laughs worse than Renee’s muscles tearing.  Louder than ribs crunching. 

 

Prime Ribs, Manny thought, laughing, himself.  Was he dreaming?  Or had his mind just . . . snapped?

 

 

*     *     *

 

“My husband,” Mistress Michelle said, “Doesn’t like it on his knees.”

 

It was all real. Manny’s brain felt like blood-soaked gauze.  “¡Dame fuerza!” he prayed, over and over. His own knees were sticky with Renee’s blood.  Beside him, her pulpy form was still.

“He’s been on his knees . . .” his Mistress said mischievously, “For two months.”

 

Giggling, she left.  Maybe still in those gory baby dolls. Or maybe she’d changed clothes.

 

It was quiet, so quiet, in here.  But for Manny, help would come, soon. 

 

Goldie, his boss. 

 

Manny, you dumb fuck . . . He could hear her, now.

 

You never took out the garbage.

 

 

“Key to My Heart,” by Cindy Rosmus. Originally appeared in Deadly Dames, edited by Gary Lovisi. Copyright 2009 by Bold venture Press, Bordentown, NJ.

 

 

 

foolsnightout.jpg
Art by Brian Beardsley © 2010

Fools’ Night Out

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          The summer of ’83 was weird as shit. 

 

          Bad enough we were always broke, and drunk.  But then Billy, the super’s son, went flying off the roof.  Everybody—Billy’s mom, the cops, even the other tenants—blamed us!  Like we’d dragged him up there, against his will. Like he was cold sober till he crashed our secret barbecue.

 

          Well, he didn’t exactly crash it, I thought, bitterly. Freddy had invited him. After Billy had almost raped me!  Some best friend Freddy was! But we were all bombed. I don’t remember much about the almost-rape. Just that Billy had offered me a sip from his quart. Maybe if I’d drunk it, he’d be alive today.

 

          Still, shit happens. We all felt bad, but life goes on.  For us, anyway.

 

          It was the hottest, muggiest summer, ever. That week it had been in the 90s. Even at night, so you dreamt you were drowning in hot soup. But only Francine had  a/c. Francine and her boyfriend, Nicky. 

 

          Three weeks after Billy’s death, the four of us were in their bedroom, huddled under the a/c., as usual, when Francine dropped the bomb.

 

          “Raquel, right?” she said, in this super-phony voice. “She’s got this house down the shore. A real small one,” she added, when Freddy leaned forward, eagerly.

 

          “And?” I said coldly. I sensed what was coming.

 

          “She invited us . . . for the weekend . . . Nicky and me, I mean . . .”

 

          I stopped listening. I’d been right. Freddy and me were out. I just sat there, studying my chipped nail polish, feeling like an unwanted slob, for like the zillionth time in my life. Twenty-three fucking years.

          What a life, I thought, miserably. A work-study job at State College any loser could do. No boyfriend. If drunks like Mike Cassidy made out with me, I was lucky. A shit apartment in this shit building, with these fucking . . .

 

          “Freddy, the house is small,” Francine repeated, like he was a child. “It’s already all filled.”

 

           . . . Those fucking people. Freddy was OK.  

 

          “Sure,” he muttered, but was eyeing Nicky. Perched over his guitar, Nicky couldn’t even look at us. He wished we could come, all right. But he loved Francine, and she always got her way.

 

          “What about Sarah?” Francine said. “Can’t you hang out with her?”

 

          Freddy and I shared a disgusted look. “Yeah, right!” he said.

 

          “If we feel like praying,” I said. Freddy laughed.

 

          Sarah was the “new kid,” on the first floor.  Super-thin, with brown hair she wore in these old-fashioned loops. Like Princess Leah, from Star Wars, she looked, but in Little House on the Prairie dresses.  The night Freddy went down there, looking for a beer, Sarah answered the door with a Bible in her hand.

 

          “Hey!” Nicky said. ”Why don’t you guys stay here?” Freddy’s and my ears perked up. “We’ll be gone, so you’ll have the a/c . . .”

 

          Francine’s look made him almost shit his pants. 

 

          “Yeah!” Freddy jumped off the bed.

 

          “That’s even better!” I said. “Thanks, guys.”

 

          They were fucked. Nicky had offered.  And it was too late to take it back.

 

          “We’ll watch the place,” I told Francine, who looked ready to cry. “So nobody robs you.” Nicky tried to hug her, but she smacked him away.

 

          Arms out, Freddy backed into the a/c, like it was already ours. “Two whole days,” he said, sighing. “Of . . . this.”

 

          Again, Nicky reached for Francine. This time she allowed him to pull her close, and rest his chin on top of her head.

 

          Now, she was smirking. “Who gets the bed?”

 

*     *     *

          I got the bed, Freddy, the floor. He could sleep on concrete, if the a/c was close enough. And Francine had a gold shag rug.

 

          “Just don’t puke on it,” she warned him. He laughed.

 

          Francine had packed so much shit, you’d think she was off on a safari, or something. All Nicky had was this small duffel bag, and his guitar.

 

          The night before, Francine had taken hours, I mean hours, to do her nails: fingers and toes. With a cotton ball between each toe, she was perched on the couch like a queen. “Nicky,” she said, in that babyschnooks voice, “Get my cigarettes. I can’t get up, yet.”

 

          Freddy and I rolled our eyes, but Nicky didn’t dare. Once he’d got Queen Francine’s smokes and lit one for her, I had to look away, ‘cos I knew what was next.

 

          “Rub my back?” she begged Nicky.

 

          Right before they left, Francine was on the phone—with her mom, I guessed—and Nicky called Freddy and me aside. In the foyer, he said, all guilty, “Shel, Fred, you guys know it’s not me. I mean, I’m real sorry you can’t come.”

 

          “That’s okay!” Freddy and I said, at once.

 

          “But it’s true about the house.” Nicky glanced nervously in Francine’s direction. “It is small.” Another nervous glance. “Real . . . fucking . . . small.”

 

          I forced a smile. “Lucky you,” Freddy told him.

 

          “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll take care of things.” Footsteps, we heard, and the three of us stiffened. “We won’t fuck up,” I whispered.

 

          The moment I said that, I knew we were doomed. Somehow, I knew something would happen to really fuck things up.

 

          Nicky grinned. “You’re the best.”

 

*     *     *

         

          As soon as they left, we hit the fridge.

 

          “Fuck!” Freddy said. I just stared, horrified.

 

          Inside their fridge were two eggs in a bowl, an empty Sizzilean package, a quart of skim milk (Freddy almost gagged), and a jar of mayo. And no beer. Good thing we had a six-pack in my fridge.

 

          Freddy slammed the fridge door. “What a bitch!”

 

          “She knew we were coming,” I said.

 

          “Yeah, that’s why.” He threw open the cabinets. “Ah, shit!”

 

          Shit was right. A can of tuna, box of mac-and-cheese, Cremora, and six jars of instant coffee (now I gagged). Francine loved instant coffee.

 

          “It ain’t fair!” Freddy said. “What’re we gonna eat?”

 

          I shrugged. “Chicken and canned potatoes,” I said. What we always ate.

 

          Scowling, he reached for the mac-and-cheese. “Boil some water,” he told me. Then he grabbed the tuna. “We’ll mix this with it.”

 

          There was no butter.

 

          “Don’t you have any?” Freddy demanded.

 

          “What about you?” I yelled back. “Always grubbing off somebody.”

 

          “Fuck you!”

 

          That sucked. Ten minutes Francine and Nicky were gone, and already we were fighting.

 

          Then, “Think Sarah has butter?” Freddy was desperate, all right.  “Come with me,” he said, grabbing my arm. “In case she starts preaching.”

 

          In the hallway, a wall of hot air nearly knocked us down. Freddy dragged me down three flights of stairs.

 

          Before he knocked on Sarah’s door, I said, “If she does have butter, can she eat with us?”

 

          He looked at me, horrified. Then the door flew open.

 

          “Oh, it’s you,” this Joan Jett-looking chick said.

 

          I almost shit. Freddy must’ve, too. I mean, it looked like Sarah—underneath the heavy eye makeup and teased hair—but not really. This top actually showed cleavage! Where were the “Princess Leah” loops? And the granny dress?

 

          Where was the Bible?

 

          From inside, a delicious, meaty smell wafted out to us. I felt faint.

          “Got some beers?” she asked.

 

*     *     *

 

          “So where’d they go?” Sarah asked, grabbing an ashtray. “Down Belmar?”

 

          Freddy speared another hunk of meat. “Where else?”

 

Beef and rice, Sarah had cooked, a humungous pot of it.  And was it good. Freddy hadn’t stopped eating since his ass hit the chair.

 

Her kitchen was hot, but breezy. In the next room was one of those high-powered floor fans. It nearly blew tiny Sarah out the window.

 

She studied her cigarette. “Used to like it down Belmar.”

 

          You? I thought. She was full of surprises. Just her smoking shocked the shit out of me. First the prairie dress and Bible, now Marlboros and . . . Belmar!  Hell down the Jersey shore.  Belmar and . . .

 

          As she cracked a beer, my eyes must’ve bulged. “What’sa matter?” She laughed.

 

          I shook my head. Maybe she had a split personality.

 

          “Is it still like ten people to a room?” she asked Freddy, who shrugged.

 

          “Maybe like twenty by now,” I muttered. “The point is, it’s not here. You got Happy Hour, and the beach, and the fucking breeze. Sorry!”

 

          Again Sarah laughed. “I don’t care if you curse.”

 

          Freddy swallowed more meat.  “She’s cool,” he said, pointing to Sarah with his fork.

 

          She really was. And damn nice to share her food. That was a dead-on Christian thing. We hadn’t wanted to share with her, even if she gave us butter!

 

          “And some cook,” I said. Besides the beef and rice, we had sugary, buttery peas, and homemade biscuits. Like, who had time to cook all that?

 

          “I need a job,” Sarah told us. “Any leads?”

 

          We both shrugged. I had a work-study job I rarely went to, as my mom sent me money when I cried hard enough. Freddy hadn’t worked since God knows. His too-generous dad made my mom look tight-assed.

 

          “Well,” she said, “I’ll just ask God to send me one.”

 

          This uncomfortable silence followed. I caught Freddy’s eye, resisted the urge to bolt out of there.  Beers or not, we knew what was coming.

 

          Are you saved? That’s how it would start.

 

          Like, what could you say? I was the sorriest Christian there was. A conniving, selfish brat. Also a drunk. And a whore, when I was lucky enough to get laid.

 

          “Don’t panic.” She’d read my mind. “Who am I to preach?” She held up her empty.

 

          But you shared, I thought, as Freddy got us the last three beers.

 

          “Be right back.” Sarah got up and headed for the bathroom.

 

           “I mean it,” Freddy said, beaming, “She is real . . .”

 

          When Sarah screamed, he spilled his beer. “Shit!” he said, and we ran after her.

 

          In the living room she stood, mouth covered, staring out the window. “It’s . . . him,” she said.

 

          “Who?” Freddy said.

 

I didn’t see anybody, either. Across the street, in that ivy-covered building, the shades were down in like every window.

 

 Now Sarah was shaking, and crying. “That . . . guy!” she said. “He’s gone, now. He always sneaks away . . . after he does it.”

 

Freddy and I looked at each other.

 

“He jerks off!” Sarah said. “At me.”

 

“He lives there?” Freddy said, sounding doubtful. If somebody that freaky lived across the street, we’d sure know about it.

 

“I think . . . there he is!”

 

As fast as we looked, Freddy missed him. I just saw a swirl of long, ratty hair.

 

“You see him?” Sarah asked.

 

“Kinda,” I said.

“No.” Freddy sounded pissed. “You making this up?”

 

“He hides,” Sarah sobbed, “right after he does it. So I look like a nut!” She sat down heavily, on the floor. “Nobody believes me.”  Mascara ran down her face.

 

“This guy,” I said, “Lives on the first floor, and flashes you in broad daylight?”

 

She nodded.

 

“You call the police?” I asked.

 

“Yeah. They said, ‘So shut your blinds!’ ” That’s what she was trying to do, now.  As one end got twisted, she cried harder. Freddy helped her fix them.

 

“He’s back!” she yelled. Just in time, we both looked.

 

In the window, the owner of the long, straggly hair was jiggling his cock. He had a thin, pointy-nosed face. Real fast, he slipped out of sight.

 

“Fucking weirdo,” I said.

 

“Yeah,” Freddy said. But we were still glued to the glass.

 

“You see?” Sarah said. “I am so upset over this!” She headed for the coffee table. Next to her beer was the Bible. I wondered which one she’d grab.

 

“Know what we need?” Freddy said then. “A night out!”

 

Sarah gulped the beer. “Who’s got money?”

 

Not us, I thought, miserably. So much for that idea.

 

“Francine might,” Freddy said. Francine always had money hidden somewhere.

 

Dead silence. Suddenly, I felt so evil. “Yee-ahh,” I said, thinking of how Francine had left us with no food.

 

“You’d steal?” Sarah said, horrified.

 

“No!” Freddy said. “Borrow. We’ve done it before.”

 

What a liar, I thought, proudly.

 

*     *     *

 

“You said she has air-conditioning,” Sarah said.

“In the bedroom,” I said. But something was up. Francine’s apartment was too hot. We were all still dripping with sweat. Freddy ran to check the a/c.

 

“I feel strange being here.” Sarah looked around, anxiously. Goody-Two-Shoes, I thought. Then remembered how she’d shared that stew.

 

Francine’s place was two floors up from Sarah’s. Same tier. Which meant . . .

 

We both looked toward the window.

 

From the bedroom, Freddy yelled, “Fuck!”

 

The a/c was just blowing hot air. Or that’s how it felt. Next to it stood Freddy, his face as red as his hair. “It’s not working!” he said, through clenched teeth.

 

“‘Cos it’s so humid,” Sarah said.

 

“This . . . mother-fuckin’ . . . piece of . . .” Freddy looked around wildly, for something.

 

When he grabbed the hammer, I saw what would happen, before it did. “No!” I yelled, but Freddy started pounding the a/c, anyway. 

 

Wham . . . wham . . . wham!

 

When the a/c died, this suffocating heat overwhelmed us.

 

“Oh, shit,” Sarah said.

 

“You asshole!” I screamed at Freddy. But he was too horrified to be pissed. This sickening whimper came out of him.

 

“Now what do we do?” I said.

 

Suddenly, Freddy was his old self. “Find that money!” He grabbed both our arms. “Now we’ve got to go out!”

 

As we searched Francine’s apartment, I felt like rat shit. Any rotten thing I’d ever done—like unscrewing the head off my cousin’s doll at her fourth birthday party—paled next to this.

 

But did it stop me?

 

As Freddy tore up the bedroom and living room, Sarah and I ransacked the kitchen.

 

At least I did. Beside me, Sarah was so quiet, I knew we were all hell-bound. She searched, yet didn’t search, kitchen drawers and those bare-ass cabinets.

 

Just once I’d looked in that fridge; still, I remembered exactly what was in there: two eggs, empty bacon package, skim milk . . .

 

Francine and Nicky used Cremora in their coffee. And neither of them drank milk.

 

“Freddy!” I screamed.

 

Inside the dummy milk carton were three twenty-dollar bills.

 

“This is wrong,” Sarah told us, as Freddy danced around the kitchen like Snoopy.

 

“You wanna stay home? Alone?” I said.

 

“There’s no more beer,” Freddy reminded her.

 

“Can’t you . . .” Sarah said, “just . . . borrow . . .” Even she knew that was bullshit. “. . . ten? Or five?” Smeared makeup or not, deep down she was still looped hair and Little House on the Prairie. “For a six-pack.  And put the rest back?”

 

Wearily, Freddy sat down. “And die of the heat?” he said. “Down at your place?” We couldn’t wait to leave Francine’s. “Watching the ‘Mad Masturbator’ next door?”

 

He’d struck a nerve. Sarah shuddered.

 

“We’ll pay it back,” Freddy said, on our way out. “Someday.”

 

“After graduation,” I said. “When we’ve got real jobs.”

 

Now Freddy shuddered.

 

*     *     *

 

Scratch’s was this tiny, smelly bar near the highway, where you could get small draft beers for like thirty-five cents. Our kind of place.  Always packed with the scum of the earth, so we felt right at home.

 

Miriam, the owner, was this evil, wrinkly bitch. Behind the kitchen (where she made drunks sandwiches so they didn’t puke all over the bar), she ran secret card games. We heard she got you killed, if you didn’t pay up. We never gambled, but she hated us, just the same. Mostly Freddy.

 

“Not that fuck!” she growled, when the three of us walked in. Freddy waved.

 

“Oh, no!” we heard, from the opposite end of the bar. But this voice sounded glad.

 

Gracie, the pest.  “Aw, shit,” Freddy and I said, at once. This night could only get worse.  He wildly signaled the bartender for drinks.

 

 “Who’s that?” Sarah whispered, as Gracie stumbled over.

 

“Got . . . great news!” Her booze-breath you smelled, from five feet away. “You won’t believe it.” Her hair was blonde again, stiff like cotton candy. She had on the same jeans and striped top as every time I’d seen her.

 

“What’s your news?” Sarah said, and I kicked her.

 

“I found . . .” Another blast of booze-breath. “ ‘Mr. Right!’ ”

 

Again. I’d always feared she’d snatched Mike Cassidy out from under me. Now my heart raced. “Who?”

 

Her smirk infuriated me. “You jealous?”

 

I almost shit my pants. Over her head, I scanned the bar, dreading seeing Cassidy’s sandy hair and Mick Jagger lips. But he wasn’t there.

 

“This new guy, Todd,” Gracie was telling Sarah, “He just moved to town.”

 

Whew, I thought. Now I wished Cassidy was there.

 

Freddy was gulping nonstop shots. When he beckoned me over with his beer, I heard Gracie add, “He was really shy. Till I got him going.”

 

“Shelley,” Freddy said, in a low voice. “Look down this end of the bar.”

 

I almost choked on my beer. 

 

Long, straggly hair. A pointy-nosed face . . .  

 

The “Mad Masturbator”!

 

“Wait’ll she sees him,” I said, about Sarah.

 

“Maybe she won’t.” Freddy was Operation Optimism, now.

 

The “Mad Masturbator” (alias Todd) was with two Scratch’s regulars: Smitty, who was captain of the pool team, and Butcher, a biker with a black beard down to his crotch. Beside Butcher, his nasty Rottweiler, Z.Z., had its head on Todd’s knee. The pile of shot glasses near Todd’s money meant he had mucho free drinks coming. People—even that dog—liked him.

 

Butcher said something I didn’t hear, and all three laughed. They looked past Freddy and me.

 

“Miss me?” Gracie bumped me, from behind.

 

“No,” I muttered, but she’d waltzed up to Todd.

 

“Oh, no!” Sarah said, from beside me. “It’s him!”

 

Disgusted, we watched Gracie and the creep suck face till they were both slimy as hell. Eee-yew! I thought. Freddy gagged.

 

“We should warn her,” Sarah said.

 

“Why?” Freddy said. “They deserve each other.”

 

That Gracie’s “Mr. Right” jacked off out the window at people filled me with joy. “Go ’head,” I told Sarah. Bust that bubble.

 

As Sarah called Gracie over, I snickered into my beer. Gracie would scream. Probably punch and kick that Todd-pervert till Miriam trudged out of the “secret room,” and tossed them both out on their ass.

 

“I know I just met you,” Sarah politely told Gracie, “But that guy, Todd . . .”

 

I strained to listen, but Sarah was whispering now.  Then she shut up, fast, as Gracie stalked off.

 

“I don’t think she believed . . .” Sarah said.

 

“My friend, Sarah,” Gracie yelled, sarcastically, “Just told me . . .”

 

“Aw, shit!” Freddy was smart enough to duck.

 

“That you . . .” Gracie’s finger was right in Todd’s confused face. “jack off out the window . . . at her!” Now she pointed at us.

 

Eyes wild, Todd recognized Sarah and turned white.

 

“You believe that shit?” Gracie shrieked. “She can’t get her own guy, so she wants mine!”

 

Todd still looked scared. But Butcher and Smitty were glaring our way. Other guys were, too. Butcher looked ready to snap Sarah’s neck.

 

Gracie kept it up. “And her friends. They suck, too! Shelley and that redheaded fuck . . .”

 

Freddy!” Miriam said, from behind the bar.

 

Z.Z. growled. Like in an old Western, Butcher and Smitty slowly got up.

 

“They’ll kill us,” I told Sarah. “Run!”

 

Freddy sucked down his beer, tossed the empty behind the bar. “You fuck!” Miriam screamed, but we had a head start.

 

The three of us flew, past the pool players, and out the door. It felt like all of hell’s demons were bearing down on us. Uphill, we had to run. Freddy was wiry, and in the lead. Behind him was Sarah, who I bet was glad she’d changed out of that prairie dress.

 

I was close behind. But my heart had swelled, so I feared I’d drop dead right there. Even before Todd’s friends killed me. Help! I begged God.

 

Serves you right! I pictured Him saying. For stealing.

 

Being last, I heard the barking first. No! I thought. They wouldn’t.

 

But they had. Butcher had sicced his nasty dog on us. Z.Z. was tearing up that hill, hungry for blood.

 

I’m sorry! I told God. I’ll pay back that money—all of it—myself! Just please get me out of this! Get us home alive!

 

Sarah must’ve prayed, too.  ‘Cos suddenly a cop car flew around the corner, heading downhill, past us.  We kept running.

 

But at least the cops would know why . . .  

 

*     *     *

 

Later that night, the leftover beef and rice sat heating on Sarah’s stove. Back in her prairie dress, she was at the kitchen table, absorbed in her Bible.

 

Across from her I sat, cheek to the table, which smelled like spilled beer. Finally, my heart had stopped pounding.

 

Freddy had left the rest of Francine’s money on the bar at Scratch’s. For Todd and his pals, the drinks were on us.

 

When Freddy knocked, I jumped.

 

“It’s open,” Sarah said.

 

Hot as it was, Freddy was draped in Francine’s blanket. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. “Those shots did me in,” he said. “I puked.”

 

On that shag rug, I knew. Under the busted a/c.

 

Smiling, Sarah turned a page. “More room for food.” 

 

 

Injun Bobby

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Injun Bobby was waiting for Dee at the mouth of the park. There was no way she could get out, nowhere for her to run except back down the hill and into the bay.

 

He leaned against the pavilion, muscled arms folded, eyes set straight ahead.  Injun Bobby said his grandma had been a Cherokee but that his stepfather, a Sicilian plumber, had adopted him. Their last name was Carrociola. Injun Bobby didnt even like pizza. When he was seventeen, he could already drink his stepfather under the table. Now that he was twenty-four, he preferred snorting fat, white lines.

 

Yesterday Dee broke up with him. Dees parents were so glad, they got bombed. Her mom was sick of hearing that “dirty F-word.” Dee's pop got the creeps every time he saw the swastika that was tattooed on Injun Bobby’s arm. It bothered him even though they weren't Jewish. They said guys like Injun Bobby always carried a blade.  Dee said sure, but how many of them had the guts to use it?

 

She blamed it on her parents, but he was no fool. Injun Bobby saw the truth.  His eyes were wild and wise, as oily and black as the bay. Rats were swimming in them. Everywhere he looked, he saw rats with cheating hearts outside their quivering bodies.

 

The other guy’s name was Mike, and he dealt big-time blow. Guys like Mike wore solid-gold coke spoons around their necks, but cut up the stuff with powdered bleach. Guys like Mike chewed up and spit out chicks like Dee. Then ran their mouths all over town.

 

Mike lay in a pool of rat's blood. He died with the sun in his eyes, hands clutching the blade that was stuck in his chest. The last sound he heard was the motor running in his car.

             

And Dee . . .

 

Dee looked in the bay and saw a face with black, rolling eyes. The sky was the color of Hawaiian punch, and the sun was a gold coke spoon. She saw a plane rise up from the airport and she wished—no, prayed, for the first time since Confirmation—that she was on it. Even without a pilot.

 

She saw Injun Bobby in his usual place. No Joggers, no poodles to get in his way. An early night for everyone, Dee thought, and would've laughed if she could remember why it was so funny.

 

Injun Bobby wasn't laughing. He hadn't laughed since the last time he'd tripped on acid. He and some punk had carved their girls' names on each other's arms with knives. Dee hadn't appreciated that. All the shit he did for Dee, this sneaky, chipmunk-cheeked little cunt.

 

"Hi," he said softly, and opened his arms.

 

Dee ran into them. He held her close.

 

 


 

His blade was still in the big rat's chest. On Dee he used his bare hands.

 

 

 

 

The Christmas That Cracked

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Merry Crissmesss!” they slurred, in unison. Cassie cringed.

 

          Billy and Sorehead. On Christmas Eve, yet. Reeking of booze at 4 P.M.

 

          “Hey!” From the couch, Nick sounded delighted. “Come in, ya fucks!”

 

Great, Cassie thought.

 

His old crack pals. After he’d been clean two months. People, places, and things, Nick’s sponsor had warned him about. And these two were the worst.

 

“Whatta pretty tree!” Billy said. The tree was fake, and decorated assways. Sorehead had a gift bag, too small to hold gifts for three kids.

 

Beneath the tree sat the kids: Junior looking like a grim mini-Nick, prissy Stephen holding Ellie’s doll, Ellie swinging her recently-deloused hair. Like urchins from a Dickens novel, surrounded by sloppily-wrapped gifts.

 

“Lookit all those presents!” Sorehead said. “Santa bring ’em?”

 

“No,” Junior said, solemnly. “There is no Santa.”

 

“Yes, there is!” Ellie screeched.  Stephen held the doll tighter.

 

Nick laughed. “Cut the crap!” he said, and the kids shut up, fast.

 

Cassie glared at Nick. Crackhead or sober, the kids obeyed him. Loved him.

Welfare had bought those gifts. What she made off the books paid the rent and fed them.

 

Instead of working, Nick made meetings. Ninety meetings in ninety days was his goal. He’d just made sixty, the other day.

 

Cassie’s heart swelled. Better him not working, she thought, than blowing every cent on crack. Sweaty, and wild-eyed. Nasty when it ran out . . .

 

Nick jingled his keys. Cassie knew what was coming. For sixty days without using, N.A. gave you a keychain. “Check this out,” he said, beaming. The guys crept closer.

 

“Wow,” Billy said, half-heartedly. Sorehead said nothing.

 

When Nick’s smile vanished, Cassie almost cried. You fucks, she thought. Like they could last sixty minutes without a hit.

 

“Want a drink?” Nick asked them. When their eyes lit up, he added, “Like Pepsi, man.” When they shook their heads, he looked just as disappointed.

 

“Dad?” Stephen sounded all choked. “There’s really no Santa Claus?”

 

Billy and Sorehead shared a smirk. “’Course there’s a Santa,” Sorehead said. “He’s bringing your dolly some new clothes.”

 

“Nick,” Cassie said. “Don’t you have a meeting tonight?”

 

“Later.” There was an edge in Nick’s voice she hadn’t heard in a while. “If I go.”

 

“Fuckin’-A!” Billy said. Cassie just looked at him.

 

“It’s Christmas,” Nick said defensively. “Can’t I have some fun?”

 

The kids huddled together. Cassie saw Stephen shiver.

 

“What?” Nick asked them.

“What’s for supper?” Billy asked.

 

Cassie burned the chicken, which wouldn’t have fed seven, if anybody wanted it. At the kitchen table, the kids sat silently. In the living room, the grown-up guys drank the cheap beer Sorehead had in his car. Between spurts of drunken laughter, Cassie heard the lighter lighting.

 

He’s using, she thought. And it’s just the beginning.

 

“Ma?”

That was Junior. Cassie couldn’t look at him. Suddenly she was scared of her own eight-year-old son.

 

Ellie got up. “Should we hide the presents?”

 

Cassie rubbed her forehead.

 

Last Christmas had been the worst. Nick was sweaty, itchy. Needed the rock bad. Arms filled with unwrapped gifts, he ran out. Guitar Hero, DJ Hero, PS3, he took them all . . .

 

“He’ll find them,” Stephen said.

 

 

 

 

hotseat.jpg
Art by Brian Beardsley © 2011

The Hot Seat

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          That stench—of perm solution—made him want to retch. Especially today.

 

          Every day but Sunday, his one day off, Lenny woke up to that smell.  Even before the alarm. The smell filled his nostrils so they twitched like a bunny’s. Felix Unger, he thought of, sniffling. No doubt he was allergic  It even burned his eyes.

 

          Except today that was tears.

 

          And it was Sunday.

 

          Furiously, he wiped his tears. No Kleenex anywhere, as usual. But that was the least of his problems. So was living over the Crowning Glory, where crusty old bags still came for their weekly wash-and-sets. On Sundays, now, too, he supposed.

 

Like they’d just moved in, months ago, he imagined checking out the place in one swoop: unpolished floors, stained drop-ceilings. Yellowish stucco in every room, so it looked like popcorn was growing out of the walls.  Grimy kitchen and bathroom. But no roaches, thank God. Thanks to that “perm-fume,” he guessed.

 

It was early October, still warm out. Too soon to start whining for heat. He’d finally paid the rent . . . to that bitch. Venus, the Mexican bull dyke from upstairs. Owner of both the Crowning Glory and these popcorn-covered walls. His wife’s only friend.

 

Some life, Lenny had. No car. No credit card, not even one of those sleazy secured ones. 

 

And his new job at Coliseum Gym. Already he’d been warned. No, no, youre not busy! the Big Boss piped. Never too busy to help a client.  And smile, Lenny! So they’ll feel as beautiful on the outside, as in! 

 

Beautiful, my ass, Lenny thought now, as his tears subsided. 

 

 Smile…or else.

 

 Something worse was making him cry. Something he found hard admitting even to himself . . .

 

His wife, Missy, was . . . different. She wasn’t who she was, ten years back. Every day Missy was . . . changing.

 

*     *     *

 

The creep had followed fifteen-year-old Missy. That weaselly fuck, from around the block. But Lenny had been “around the block,” himself.  Hed cruised schools for years. He hated himself for what he was. But he knew what he wanted. Missy was his type: big, and beautiful, with long, lustrous blonde hair. But this guy wanted blood.

 

          This guy lunged.

 

When she screamed, Lenny froze. But her wild eyes saw him. Help!” she begged Lenny, as she struggled with the creep. 

 

When the creep swung around, they scared each other. Him and Lenny. Two chicken-shits, face to face. But the creep never knew it. He shoved Missy down, and tore up the block. 

 

Lenny’s legs felt like jello. He couldn’t even look at that blubbering mess. How he lifted her, he’d never know. She was taller, weighed more than him. Still, that was his type. You saved me!” she sobbed.

 

But for what?

 

*     *     *

 

And now, Missy was “Melissa.” Thinner, curvier, even taller, if possible. When Lenny raised his voice, her eyes blazed. She actually scared him, sometimes. Were those fists clenched? And yesterday, she’d turned on him.

 

“I’ll get a job!” Missy said. “And run away. I’ll leave you all alone!”

 

Lenny smirked. “Who’d hire you?” he said. But her tone had chilled him.

 

Like the old Missy, she pouted. But a new, monstrous gleam was in her eye. “You’ll see.”

 

He lost it. First, he was shaking, then came the smack. 

 

After slapping her, his hand still stung. He kept looking at it. When he looked at her, Missy’s eyes were twice their size, her cheek so red, she might’ve bled, from that smack. She let out a sob.

 

 Suddenly, Lenny was scared. When she ran out, he panicked. What if Missy came back with . . . her? 

 

When he was alone long enough, he relaxed, some. Hey, he told himself, shed deserved it! He’d never hit her before, but there was always a first. And when you loved somebody the way Missy loved him . . .

 

Okay, she was growing up, he told himself. After ten years, you had to. You couldn’t stay fifteen forever. Oh, but he wished she could! Back then she was his ideal girl: that perfect blend of Cabbage Patch Kid and your favorite Dumb Blonde. Like that cutie from Poltergeist would’ve looked, if she’d lived.

 

Lenny knew he was different. This was different. From Day One, he loved her, as much as any balding, thirty-year-old pedophile could love anything. And when she was sixteen, hadn’t he done the Right Thing?  Snuck her down to Maryland, and married her? All behind her folks’ backs.

 

That, he remembered, was what kept her in line. More than anything else. “If they find out,” Lenny said, in his sing-song way, “They’ll kill you!”  Horrified, Missy’s hands flew up to her face. “Or take you away from me.”  That scared her more. What they’d do to him never crossed her mind. . . .

 

What they’d done to her had fucked her up, bad. Made her scared of so many things. Like fire. In the beginning, when Lenny lit his cigarette, Missy had cringed. “My Dad . . .” she whispered, like he was lurking around, somewhere, “He’d . . . burn me. When my report card was bad.”  She’d tightened her arms around her breasts. Lenny hadn’t seen them yet. 

 

“That scumbag!” he said, but the wheels were turning. Something new to keep her in line. And he couldn’t wait to see those tits. Burn marks or not.

 

  “My Mom just…watched. Said they did it…’cos I was dumb….”

 

*     *     *

 

You’re not dumb,” he told her, that first time, in bed. “Just . . . brain-dead!” He howled with laughter, tickled her wildly. “Stop!” Missy shrieked.  Giggling, and kicking like mad. This creamy mass of curvy flesh, burn marks and all, and with a throbbing hole inside. A tight one. Just imagining plunging into her, turned Lenny on. Sweating, he climbed on top of her, got tangled in her hair. He tickled harder. “No!” she screamed, louder, struggling beneath him. She sounded scared. That turned him on more. His nerves were tight. His cock was rock-hard.

 

And it exploded. . . .

 

. . . Before he fucked her.

 

*     *     *

 

Sex-wise, Missy didn’t know any better. Lenny liked being “The First.” With all of them. When they’re that young, you’re this experienced, “older guy.” Even back then, Lenny looked older, thanks to his thinning dark hair. But his sexy goatee and lean physique made up for it, big-time.

 

He wasn’t all bad. Hey, he couldn’t help who turned him on! No more than a fag, or that “lickety-split” landlady could. And he was damn good to Missy…usually. This literal “slap-in-the-face” was an exception. Hopefully, she’d never drive him to do it again.

 

Above all, he was terrified of losing her. Believe it or not, she kept him in line. But she’d never know it.

 

For years, Missy believed “ ‘The man is King of his castle!’ ” Lenny wouldn’t let her  work. No matter what, he didn’t want her to work. “I’ll pay the bills!” he said grandly. When the bills weren’t paid, she knew to shut up.  Between watching soaps and those chilling crime shows, she kept house…badly. No wonder he sneezed. You could write your name in the dust. She only cooked stuff he liked to eat: chicken with cream of mushroom soup, Tater Tots, mac-and-cheese. Lenny couldn’t gain weight if he tried.

 

But her . . .

 

“Don’t do this to me!” said each meticulously-scripted note. Taped to Kit Kats, Devil Dogs, even those low-cal Snack Crisps that equaled one-zillionth of a real cookie. Smirking, he’d hid each one, where Missy would find it. “Psychological torture,” a good divorce lawyer would call it. Like she would ever leave him!

 

 She thought she was happy.

 

Till “Hairy Ass” came along. 

 

“Don’t call her that!” Missy stamped her foot. Lenny was stunned.  Her smile unnerved him even more. It was that coy. “She likes the same thing you do.” His mouth dropped.

 

Picture a St. Bernard in tight shorts. A giant burrito with hairy legs.  That was Venus, the Mexican bull dyke. Their land-“lady.”

 

Who’d got as close as a crab louse to Missy.

 

“My man!” Legs spread, Venus yelled to Lenny from the stoop outside the shop. Just yesterday morning.

 

You wish, he always thought, smugly.  That’s what you need.  His mouth stretched in a hideous smile. 

 

Her black eyes gleamed. “Off to work, Popi?”

 

Why? he thought. So you can snatch my stuff? But he wasn’t thinking of the old VCR. “Gotta pay the rent.”

 

Mami come work for me . . .” Her wink was suggestive. “Rent might come in on time.”

 

          “No way,” he said, through clenched teeth.

 

          Her hoarse laugh followed him up the block.

 

*     *     *

 

“Beanhead,” was Lenny’s pet name for Missy. Even when she was sad, it made her smile. Missy had an awesome smile: perfect, gleaming teeth, like an antique doll’s. But her eyes looked like she would cry, any minute. The scary part was, they bordered on . . . wise. Like she was secretly a genius. Or some chess wiz. Or smarter than him.

 

*     *     *

 

          “ ‘Beanhead,’ my ass!” he heard Venus say, from outside the door.  Just last night. After he’d slapped Missy. “You a smart-ass woman. Don’t sell yourself short, Mami!” Missy was silent. “And a hot piece of ass.”

 

Out in the hall, Lenny stiffened. Lately, they were always together.  Either Hairy Ass here, or Missy downstairs. Coming up, Missy reeked of perms, and dye, and God knows what. No wonder he’d lost his temper.

 

“You deserve the best.” Venus’s voice was deep, growly, like a Classic car’ s motor. “Tell ‘My Man’ to eat shit.” Lenny cringed.

 

“And . . . die!” Venus’s laugh made the kitchen wall tremble. Like Missy’s legs, when she came. It sounded diabolical. After a while came a childish giggle.

 

Missy was laughing . . . at him!

 

“We’ll . . . torch . . . this place . . .” Venus yelled, between guffaws. “And . . . everything in it!” Missy laughed harder. “We’ll both be . . . rich!”

 

Fists clenched, Lenny almost burst in. But, as usual, something stopped him.

 

If Mami work for me . . .

 

Alone, in the hall, he hung his head. He was glad, at least, that neither could see him. Or they’d really laugh.

 

Behind him, “Whaddya say?” sounded distant, and purry, as he trudged downstairs. 

 

*     *     *

 

Why today? He wondered finally. Why this Sunday? It was no holiday weekend. Nowhere near Christmas. Why would “Hairy Ass” open up shop?

 

And where was Missy? On his one day off, she knew to be here. By now, instead of perm solution, he should be smelling bacon frying. It should be sizzling up a storm!

 

Something else was missing. . . .

 

Noise.

 

But not just up here.

 

Finally, he got out of bed. Like a ghost, he paced from room to room, listening to . . . nothing. No old ladies cackling, no hair dryers blowing. This floor was so thin, you couldn’t miss a trick downstairs. 

 

Or could you?

 

He stopped dead. A horrible thought was festering, something so perverse, even a pedophile was disgusted by it. Deep down, he realized, he was just an old-fashioned type of guy.

 

          Was Missy with her? Down there?

         

Doing stuff?

 

It’s bullshit, he thought, as he got dressed, hurriedly.  She loves me.

 

Does she? said a little voice. Gruff, with a Spanish accent.

 

He sat down in the kitchen, clutched his pounding heart. So why was he scared to look?

 

He got up, slowly. Like some idiot, he minced toward the front door, came right back. On his next try, he bumped into the wall, wincing, as the stucco scraped his face and palms. Arms outstretched, he sunk, whimpering to the floor. Just let her see him now! 

 

Her and her new “old man.”

 

“No,” he whispered to himself, on his way down the stairs. That smell was extra-strong today. He resisted the urge to sneeze. “It is bullshit,” he repeated, like some charm, against big, mean bull dykes. It felt like an hour just to reach the ground floor.

 

The back door was ajar. Suggestively, like he was needed. Wanted. 

 

Before he even saw, he heard. That filthy slurping, and smacking of lips. This desperate moaning, and mumbling. “Cho-cha,” he heard, over and over. It was the only Spanish word Lenny knew. Something about “pussy,” naturally. 

 

And he knew whose.

 

The door squeaked, as he peeked inside. 

 

Only Venus looked up. Her eyes were glazed, triumphant. Her lips and chin gleamed, like they were iced. Like she was eating Dunkin’ Munchkins instead of Missy’s pussy. 

 

She was in the chair. Her fairy tale hair was wrapped tightly in those ugly perm rollers. It was she who was stinking up the building, on a Sunday.  Instead of sitting primly in church, she lay back, legs locked around this bitch’s neck, enjoying what even he couldn’t do better.

 

Missy opened her mouth. What came out was a sick, little giggle.

 

It happened so fast, it seemed like a dream. He flew at her, but was yanked back in the half nelson from hell. He nearly choked from pain.  Howling like a beast, Venus pounded him with a fist like a sledgehammer.  Agony shot through his back. That arm around his neck was brutal, more powerful than a guy’s. The pain was excruciating. He was scared he’d swallow his teeth, his tongue. He tried kicking, but she yanked him off his feet. 

 

He was no fighter, he realized. Just a little wimp. And for a wimp like him, he bet the end was near.

 

Missy, he thought, as he began to lose consciousness, please save me!  I don’t wanna . . . die!

 

She stood right in front of him. Behind her back, she was holding something. He never saw what it was. But as it splashed in his face, he knew.

 

Perm solution.

 

He was still screaming in agony, when he blacked out.

 

*     *     *

 

“It’s okay,” he’d said. “I know you’re scared.”

 

As he held up the matches, her eyes were wild. “I’ll teach you, Beanhead.” He tore off a match.

 

But she couldn’t bring herself to take the match. And when would he quit smoking? It scared her so. Like with her Dad, there was always that chance he might stick the lit end . . .

 

And the power that gave him, always made Lenny smile. 

 

“I’ll quit once we’re married,” he said. Grudgingly, he kept that promise. And, grudgingly, she took that match. “Okay . . . go!”

 

She struck the match, squealed as the flame burst forth.

 

“Do it again,” was an order. “One for Daddy . . .” His smirk was patronizing.

 

“. . . Bean-head.”

 

*     *     *

 

His eyes were still burning, but he couldn’t rub them. His hands were tied behind him. He blinked furiously, against the pain, realized he could see.  Not well, but . . .

 

My God, what he could see!

 

In back of the salon, he was tied, no, taped to that chair! He was taped up, all over, with . . . duct tape. His mouth taped shut, too. There was no limb, no cell of his body free from pain.

 

Her hair loose and wavy, free from rollers, Missy looked beautiful.  She was busy helping Venus empty those bottles, all over everything: the floor, the equipment. You could hear it splashing, smell that foul, burning smell. 

 

We’ll both be rich . . .

 

He winced. If this was on TV, it would be so . . . funny. That deluded, dyke bitch. Both of them. They’d never collect. Never get away with this . . .

 

They were behind him, now, by the back door. In a moment, they’d both be gone. And he’d be . . .

 

He couldn’t turn around. He was more afraid of turning around, than of anything in the world. 

 

The silence was deadly. He could taste his heart. He wished he could cover his ears. 

 

Another chance. She’d loved him once, he knew she did. If he whimpered . . . if he begged . . . with his eyes . . .

 

Missy . . . please . . .

 

But he couldn’t.  He just couldn’t.

 

As Venus chuckled, Missy ripped off a match.

 

“One for Daddy . . 

 

“Beanhead!”

 

“The Hot Seat.” Collected in No Place Like Home by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2008 by Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Hardboiled, No. 37, January 2008.  Copyright © 2008 by Gryphon Publications.

 

 

calpurnia.jpg
Art by Mike Kerins © 2011

Calpurnia’s Window

 

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“Oh, man!” What Tony saw, through his bedroom window, nearly tore out his heart. As corny as it sounded, that was the only way to put it. “You fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered.

 

Almost three A.M.  Saturday night, actually Sunday morning, so his Dad wasn’t home. Their family’s bar, Scratch’s, would be just closing up. In their room down the hall, Tony’s Mom was all drugged up: an agoraphobic mess. Big brother Vinnie was out whoring, somewhere. Like with everything else, Tony had to face this alone.

 

Right next door, in her bedroom window, was Calpurnia. The love of his life, or so he’d thought. Calpurnia, his Buffy-faced angel, who never liked it with the lights on. Till now. With . . . whoever he was. That blond, spiky-haired fuck, who plowed her from behind.

 

Bright lights, too, like she wanted him to see. Like he was that voyeur creep in Body Double, and couldn’t live without her. “I’ve got the flu!” she’d said, earlier.  She could even sound sick. “Call me tomorrow!”

 

Yeah, sure. There she was, with somebody else’s inside her. Somebody she liked better. Sweat gleamed on their bodies. Hands dug into the meat of her hips.  You could almost feel the guy’s nails graze your skin.

 

Hunched over the sill, Tony shivered.  Nude, but for his tee shirt.  Outside, it was too hot to turn off the a/c in here.  Even at this hour.  Calpurnia’s window was shut, too.  Her bed was right by the window.  Big titties jiggling, honey hair flying, mouth open in a soundless scream.  She’d never screamed with him, when he fucked her.  But maybe he was just too gentle.  Didn’t want to hurt her.  And this was some rough ride. “Bitch!” he whispered again.

 

There was just something about her. And not just her bod. This…desperation in her brown eyes. Like you were her last hope. But for what? He’d never been in love before. If this was it, it sucked, big-time.

He sunk down, lower. He couldn’t look anymore. For the first time, in a long time, he wanted to cry. But he was nineteen, so he fought back tears. Stay away from that one, his Dad had warned him. Her and her mother. Both fuckin’ who-ores. Smug and spectacled, ‘ol Dad dug casting stones. At Scratch’s, they could all go fuck themselves. But in the DeCicco home . . .

 

He couldn’t stand it. He had to see more. Teeth clenched, he crept up, peeked out the window again. 

 

Calpurnia’s was dark. 

 

Lights out, he thought, bitterly, before somebody saw. Well, fuck ’em both.

 

He got into bed. Once the headphones were on, Tony blasted his music.  Eminem. Call that music? Dad again. Tony turned up the volume even more, lay back down, arms folded. But no matter what, he couldn’t block out that voice. Or Calpurnia’s face in the window. It felt like an ice pick was lodged in his heart. He clenched his teeth, blinked back tears. Be a man! Finally, it passed. And, somehow, he dozed off.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

What a crazy dream. On the wrinkled, baby blue sheets, he was sprawled, still wearing headphones. Still nude, from the waist down, ’cept now he was rock-hard.  Straddling him was Calpurnia, wearing this . . . gown, made out of, like tissue paper. Make-up all wrong: eye shadow too heavy, lipstick blood-red, painted to make her mouth look wider. Maybe that’s what was wrong with her smile. Even her hair looked weird, like her grandmother had set it, with those rollers from back in the sixties. 

 

Neither said a word. As she leaned over for a kiss, he felt nauseous. Like he had on his birthday, when he’d had a shot of Blackhaus, for every year. But he wasn’t drunk now. And, though he tried using his, she didn’t tongue him back.  The lips that brushed his were sewn shut.

 

He was jolted awake. Yanked off his headphones. Four A.M., the clock read.  He sat, clutching his heart. Then downstairs, the front door opened, and his Dad trudged in, like he carried the world and all its worries. But he was no muscle man.  That was Vinnie. No Neck chewed up chicks, and spat them back out.

 

That’s the way! Dad had told Tony. Be like him. Ain’tcha sick of your heart gettin’ smashed to a pulp?

 

Tony got up, crept over to the window. Sweat dripped down his back, as he peered out of it. 

 

Calpurnia’s window was still dark, like in a haunted house.

 

Asleep, Tony thought, bitterly. Wrapped in each other’s arms, like that one time she’d snuck him upstairs. Her bittersweet girl-smell had stuck to his skin, his long, curly hair. That smell. Just remembering that smell made him feel high. And, if he wasn’t horny before . . .

 

Boy, did he get the Third Degree from you-know-who! The fuck were you last night? Dad had said.

 

Tony hadn’t even slept that night. Between the feel of her damp flesh, and that . . . pounding from the next room. 

 

“My Mom,” she’d muttered. And . . . somebody. “My Dad,” she said, “Like split years ago.” As Tony nuzzled her breast, she added, “Can you blame him?”

 

 But her Mom’s animal moans gave Tony a fresh boner. “She’s a real player!” Calpurnia said, too loudly. “Totally sneaky . . . and jealous. Of me.”

 

“She likes them young,” Tony’s Mom said. “That lady next door.” And she never trashed anybody. “Your age.  Maybe younger.” His Mom, who ate Xanax like raisins. If she knew he’d slept in that house . . . 

 

You’d think I was nine, he thought, back then. Or a baby, playing with a mobile, instead of his constantly-stiff cock.

 

Next door, the back door opened, slowly. He’s leaving, Tony thought, face pressed against the glass, that fuck!

 

 But the face that peered out was female, framed by platinum blonde hair.  Calpurnia’s Mom.

 

He held his breath, as she looked anxiously around, then way up the driveway.  Wants some, too, he thought.  Been waiting all night for it, he bet.

Just as slowly, the head retreated, and the door shut. 

 

Got stood up.

 

For the first time that night, he smiled. 

 

She was hot. Real hot. Where else had Calpurnia got those tits? Those hungry eyes? That honeyed hair, though now her Mom was blonder than Gwen Stefani.  Maybe twenty years older.

 

And just what he needed.

 

He ducked down from the window. For a while, he sat on the floor, waiting.  In the bathroom, his Dad was washing up, real good. God knows what he did after closing, and with who. Nah, probably nothing, with nobody. Not him. Not with Mandi, the redhead barmaid, who shot up in the men’s room, or “Pickpocket Pearl,” who snatched a wallet a week, but never got caught. And stay away from them, too!

 

Shorts Tony pulled up, over his massive hard-on. He gelled back his hair.  And don’t get his Dad started on that.  Long, and too curly, but fuck it, man, he liked it like that! In the mirror, he saw his Dad’s eyes, and Roman nose. Man, he hated that face! They even had the same smirk.

 

Just for the sake of his hair he would do this. 

 

Before he cried.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Like a spotlight, the full moon seemed to finger him. Late as it was, it was way too hot out. And humid, like a giant’s sticky hands were pawing you. But an icy chill was creeping up Tony’s back. Outside Calpurnia’s back door, he stood, for several minutes, before knocking, softly.

 

No answer.  

 

He knocked again, louder. Maybe too loud. He imagined his Dad watching from upstairs.  The fuck’re you doin’, kid?

 

When a face appeared in the kitchen window, Tony’s heart raced. A light went on. Then the lock clicked. Asshole! his Dad hissed. Come home now!

 

The door opened, just a crack. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

 

He felt like a kid half his age. 

 

“Me, Tony,” he mumbled. Crossed one leg behind the other, glanced back at his own house. “You know . . . from next door.”

 

The door opened, a little wider. Panthene shampoo, she smelled of. He saw wet blonde hair, a white bath towel wrapped loosely around her body. Broad shoulders to hold up those luscious tits. When he shifted uncomfortably, she smiled. “Callie’s friend?” she said, and adjusted the towel.

 

Was he dreaming, or had she made it looser? The moonlight made water beads gleam on her skin. Silvered the tan lines she had from different bikinis. Revealed a blood-red nipple. His shorts felt even tighter. “I was.”

 

For a while, they just stared. Even without makeup, her eyes were huge, gorgeous. Wise. One good look told her what he was about. Why he’d come sniveling over like a lost dog at 4 A.M. “You saw them?”

 

He nodded.

 

The door flew open, all the way. Smirking, she backed up just enough for him to squeeze through.

 

Something was different about the house. The smell. Bleach, he realized, finally. Even in the living room, you smelled it, like some anal bitch had killed every germ for miles. Eyes on Calpurnia’s Mom, he sank down on the couch. The place was squeaky-clean, even organized. For once, the remote was in plain sight.  But he wasn’t here to watch TV.

 

One floor up, right above that couch, was Calpurnia’s bed. Fuck you, bitch! he thought. He couldn’t help smiling. And when her Mom, still half-wrapped in that towel, slid over next to him, his whole body wore that same, shit-eating grin.  Mostly his cock. Just the way she looked at it, made it ache. Like a giant finger, it pointed upstairs. Fuck you, bitch! he thought, again.

 

Like she’d read his mind, Calpurnia’s Mom laughed.

 

In that movie, The Graduate, Mrs. Robinson had laughed just like that. That all-knowing, dirty chuckle. She’d crossed her legs, suggestively. To a preteen Tony, Mrs. Robinson had been the hottest babe alive. But now, beside him, in that towel, Calpurnia’s Mom put even her to shame. And she wanted him. Bad.

 

Man, was he scared. But he wanted her, too. That’s why he was here, wasn’t it? Suddenly, he was sweating so bad, he swore he could smell it. No, that was the bleach. He jiggled his leg. What if I suck? he thought, anxiously. Calpurnia’s dissing him was bad enough. She was just a kid. But if he couldn’t even please her . . . then how . . . ?

 

When Calpurnia’s Mom touched his hair, he jumped. “Nice curls,” she said.  He felt a tug, as she wrapped one around her finger. Her breath was hot on his ear.  “Are they real?”

 

“Y-yeah.” His heart raced. “It’s not a wig!” 

 

That laugh, again. “I meant, was it a perm?”

 

“No.” Now his cheeks burned. Just imagining—her imagining—himself in some beauty parlor, with little curlers in his hair, bummed him out, big-time.  It’s naturally curly.”

 

Her hand seemed lost in his hair. His nerves felt like live wires, as she stroked the back of his head, his ear. “You’re lucky,” she whispered.

 

Real lucky. He thought of that cunt upstairs. “My Dad . . .” he began. As he turned his head, she let go of his hair. Her lips were inches from his. “Hates it! He keeps saying he’s gonna cut it . . .” he said bitterly, “While I’m asleep!”

 

“He won’t,” she said. He moaned, as she licked his lower lip. “I won’t let him.”  She squeezed his cock, and he groaned with pleasure. “I’ll stand guard. All night, if you want!” 

 

“Oh, yeah!” he said. His shorts down, she attacked him. Expertly mauling, pulling on his cock, tickling behind his balls, doing everything dirty and hot that he loved. “Oh, man!” he gasped. This was beyond a hand job. She was that good, he couldn’t hold out much longer. 

 “All night,” she said. Those dark eyes were selfish, soulless. Like a shark’s, he thought, even as she lowered her mouth to him.

 

And he lost it.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

When he woke up, in her bed, he felt pretty smug. Hung over, though he had no drinks. Like 9 A.M., judging by the sun. It gleamed on the dresser’s brass trim, making him hide his eyes. What a night, man!  Smiling, he reached over to squeeze her. But she wasn’t there. 

 

In the bathroom, he figured, yawning. Killing whatever germs she’d missed.  Up here, the smell of Clorox was overpowering. Big deal. His Mom had agoraphobia, hers had OCD.

 

He turned on his side, smoothed the tangled sheet. What was real strange, was what had happened downstairs.  How fast he’d shot his load, made him blush even now, here, alone. But it’d splattered all over the couch. And her tits, and her face, hey, her belly was full of it! He fluffed up the pillow, lay back down. 

 

So why hadn’t she cleaned that up?

 

No time, he thought, grinning. No sooner had the stuff cooled, than he’d popped a fresh boner. And was she glad! Nude, she’d scampered up the stairs, not giving a rat’s ass if they woke up, and saw her! In hot pursuit, he’d followed, almost tripping over his cock.

 

And in this room . . . He shut his eyes. “Fucked her brains out” was putting it nicely. Her ass was tight, parts of it white, from wearing those thong bikinis.  When she lay face down, on this bed, and raised that sweet ass . . . he swore he howled like a wolf. Probably woke them up, in the next room. Right behind this wall! As he fucked this bitch from behind, he glared at that wall. He fucked her hard, and mean, balls smacking those cheeks, fucked her till she turned to Jello beneath him! A shivering, juicy mass. He thought she cried. He bet he broke something, and was glad. Something deep inside her. He hoped he hurt her. He hated her! God, he wanted her to die!

 

When he came that time, he’d pulled out, and shot on her back. Splashed her squeaky-clean hair, these tangled sheets. It felt like he’d never stop cumming, and it felt so good. It was just what he needed. He felt bad, now, but last night, he didn’t give a fuck about her. Or her daughter. He’d slid off her back, and, like a baby, had passed right out.

 

That was sex, he thought now, smugly. Raw, and hot. Not that sissy Calpurnia-Pinhead shit! Dead silence, there was, on the other side of the wall.  Then and now. Well, maybe they’d left. He smiled. She was clueless, all right, about who was sleeping in her Mom’s bed.

 

Sleeping? Not! Already his cock was rock-hard, hot for an encore. He wished she’d hurry out of that bathroom. “Hey!” he yelled, then shut up fast. Damn, what was her . . . name?  Mrs. Robinson, said his Dad. 

 

But nobody answered.

 

Not just that, no water was running. No toilet flushed. If she wasn’t in the bathroom, where the hell was she? 

 

Downstairs, cooking breakfast. Slapping bacon on the grill, mixing pancake batter, maybe for the four of them. But this time, he wasn’t laughing. He was starting to get the creeps.

 

The a/c was on way too high. He had goose bumps, all over. Worse, he was losing his hard-on. Out in the hallway, he stood, listening, for . . . what? Some sign of life. At the top of the stairs he stood for a while. Downstairs, it seemed just as quiet. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.  Something was wrong.  But what?

 

In the bathroom, the smell of bleach burned his nose, and eyes. The tub was filled with bubbly pink water. Pink Champagne, he thought of. He resisted the urge to thrust his hand in. This sickening fear that someone would grab him made him run out.

 

To Calpurnia’s door. He looked at it for so long, it began to sway. Crazy thoughts came to him: her soundless scream, when Pinhead fucked her, that scary dream, with her red corpse lips struggling to kiss him, her words . . . Words she’d yelled, from the other side of the wall, for the wrong person to hear: player, jealous . . . of me.

 

All at once, Tony knew. Everything. Who that guy was. That young guy.  Why she’d let him in, at 4 A.M. 

 

What he’d find behind that door.

 

All he’d eaten for the past two days was lodged in his throat, as he turned the knob, and went in.

 

It all came up. On Calpurnia’s rug.

 

Everywhere you looked, there was blood. But mostly on them. Like red tar, their coagulated blood just didn’t look real. They looked less real, like two broken dummies. He went first, so he couldn’t fight back. Deep, red gashes showed bits of flesh, muscle, even bone. Broad shoulders to hold up those tits. Unlike the dream-Calpurnia’s mouth, this one was open. And so was her throat. 

 

Without realizing it, Tony found himself at the window. He peeked at his own house, which was so lost to him now. He felt as cold as those corpses, as he watched his Dad trudge outside, to search for the paper. Big news today. Later today.

 

Today, Tony knew, it was okay to cry.

 

The first tear fell. In his mind, his smirking Dad made everything worse: Right before they fry you . . . they shave your head.

 

 

 

Baby Mass Murderer

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Like she did every night, Mama was rocking me to sleep, and telling me a long, long story. Daddy was sleeping out on the couch, snoring away, since she wouldn’t let him touch her once I was born. Mama and me slept together.

 

The bedroom was dark and stuffy, crowded with the big bed, three splintery dressers, and the crib I refused to sleep in. They looked like big, black buildings. Sometimes I got scared. In the corner, the nightlight burned. It was shaped like Tinkerbell, the fairy, in a short, green dress with tiny wings. I wished she’d hurry and swallow the poison. ‘Cept, once she did, the light would go out.

 

Mama’s voice droned on. I needed it to fall asleep. Worried she’d finish before I did. This story was about a pigeon. But nothing happened to it. Nothing bad, anyway. I kept hoping the story would get better.

 

It didn’t.

 

“You mean,” I said, still wide-awake, “the pigeon doesn’t die?”

 

“Yes.” I didn’t have to think about it.

 

Suddenly, her voice was as big as Daddy’s. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Fer Christ’s sakes!” Daddy yelled from the next room. “Shut the fuck up!”

 

“You wanted the pigeon to die!” Mama screamed. “And you’re just a baby. My God, what’s wrong with you?”

 

“Yes!” I screamed back. “Yes!” I was crying, but I didn’t know why. I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. With my fists, I beat on the headboard. I kicked and kicked, hoping to hurt her. But she’d gotten up.

 

“What’s the matter with that kid?” Now Daddy was in the room.

“She wanted the pigeon to die.” Mama told him.

 

“So what?” he said. “They’re just rats with wings, anyway.”

 

Mama started to cry, herself. “She’s only three. . . .”

 

Daddy grabbed my legs, so I’d stop kicking. For him, I did, though I was tired, now. He wasn’t as mean as her. He knew lots of things. Maybe if I told him, he’d take my side. It wasn’t my fault. I just liked things to die. Like that baby chick . . .

 

It wasn’t my fault.

 

 

 

sniperb.jpg
Art by Kevin Duncan © 2011

Susie the Sniper

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Your fingers are itchy.  Real itchy.  You wished you’d learned to shoot.

 

          He was supposed to teach you, ‘member?  On your birthday, ‘cept yours was the same as his.  He couldn’t be there.

 

          He was home with them. 

 

          God knows where he learned about guns.  In his business, filth is king.  Filth is mentor to filth, breeds like maggots on raw pork.  Piled high like lumps of shit inside all those port-o-johns.

 

          So teach yourself.

 

          Carefully, now.

 

          S’really yours now, this sweet .38.  Asshole.  To leave it at your house.  With the coke he stashed in rice in the wall.  Behind that phony switchplate.  Asshole. 

 

          But you’re a bigger one for loving him.

 

          Bullets in the medicine cabinet, next to the rubbers he’s too proud to wear.  “Got it snipped years ago,” was his excuse.  “I got no use for kids.”

 

          Well, whatever he’s got, you’ve got it too.

 

          Asshole.

 

          For believing him.  “Ain’t fucked her in years,” he assured you, that first time he straddled you.  High on ‘Buca and his best blow.  “Fat cunt.  Weighs like six hundred pounds.  Skin like fuckin’ stucco.  She tapes game shows.  Can you beat that?”

 

          Then you saw her.

 

          Like a mermaid, fresh out of the sea, on new, model’s legs.  Hair as pure gold as Rapunzel’s.  A real blonde, too.   You could tell.

 

          That angel’s face on his demon’s chest.

 

          Make him pay.

 

          Blow them both away.

 

          He deserves it.  For lies like that.  For making you love him this much.  In spite of it all.  You feel like one of those grimy teddy bears strapped to the front of Mack trucks. 

 

          Thanks to him, you hate kids.  His, though you’ve never seen them.

 

          But you will.

 

          Fantasies, you have, of a school bus crashing.  Even a little model will do.  Glue it together yourself.  Douse it with lighter fluid, then strike a match.  Like he did to your roaches. 

 

His kids . . .

 

Three little lies, looking just like him, with those eyes: black, and barbaric, even in toddlers.  Eyes like holes from that .38.  A clean shot between each little set.

 

Make him watch. 

 

You don’t know the number, just the street.  But you’ll find that house.

 

“Bought a windsock shaped like a scarecrow,” he’d said.

 

The only one on the block.

Your hands sweat as you picture it: Halloween night.  The Scumbag himself in the doorway, barechested.  Those tatts you love so much battling the gooseflesh on his arms.  Not stoned enough to go out for the night, but too stoned to take them trick-or-treating himself.

 

So off she goes . . . with Captain Hook, the Wicked Witch, and Superbaby.

 

If you could shoot like him, you’d do it neat.  Boom-boom-boom-boom!  Four dead, just like that.

 

But you’re a lousy shot.  Your hand shakes.

 

On Junior’s left eye he wears a patch.  Your first shot knocks out his right. . . .

 

. . . Into his sister’s trick-or-treat bag.  Your second tears up her chin.

 

Rapunzel’s screams are shrill, muffled.  Like a sparrow being choked by a cat.

 

“Oh, God!” he screams from the doorway.  Sobers up fast.

 

Around you, neighbors rush back into their homes.  No heroes this Halloween.  No slicing or searching apples for blades.  That’s kid stuff.

 

You follow the baby.

 

No!” he screams from the porch.  Jumps over the side and comes after you.

 

You stop, suddenly.  And so does he.  Watch his face crumple.  No ‘Buca, no lines, can get him through this.  He yanks out his own hair.  “You . . . bitch!” he says.  Watch his heart pound in that vulnerable chest.

 

You smile.

 

“Oh, God!” he sobs again.  A war cry, this time.  Still, he can’t help loving you.

 

You get rid of his wife.

 

Plug her once, through the back. A great shot.  Surprisingly clean, though her hair turns red.  It’s fun to watch.

 

“Candy!” he howls, but you know he’s glad.

 

Little legs thrashing, Superbaby struggles under its mommy.  You didn’t know it was there.  Forgot all about it, really.

 

He knocks you down. 

 

Over and over you roll, in the grass.  Fighting.  Deliciously sexual, it turns you on.  Him, too.  You’re not sure which is his cock, or his gun.

 

His smell is so close.  Dial soap and ‘Buca, gunpowder, and sweat.  Yours and his.  You realize you’re going to cum. 

 

It goes off.

 

So fast, you’re shocked.  Heart grabs gut, as it slides out of your hand.  Sound so loud, it kills your ears.

 

Alone on the bathroom floor, you curl up.  Fists against your ears, you never hear them coming.

 

Hands claw you, jolt you back, cuff you.  Snarling, they nearly rip you to pieces.

 

“It wasn’t me!” you want to scream, as they drag you away.  “I can’t even shoot!”

 

All you can do, they’ll find out soon enough, is suck a mean dick.

 

 

“Susie the Sniper” by Cindy Rosmus.  Originally appeared in Hardboiled, No. 42, December 2010.  Copyright © 2010 by Gryphon Books.

 

 

brujaheader.jpg

BRUJA

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

          “Shhh,” Jessie said. “Someone might hear you, baby.”

 

          For spite, Hector rattled the keys louder. “I live here, don’t I?”

 

          Not for much longer, Jessie thought, smiling. Soon he’d be all hers. No more bruja wife, in their way. A pit stop here, to get all his shit, and they’d be off.

 

           His key didn’t work. “What the . . .” he said.

 

          Jessie got closer. “You don’t think . . .”

 

          “She changed the locks? Bitch knows better.”

 

          Again, Jessie smiled. What a temper! Hector was a bad boy who never grew up. Lean, and mean, with a dick that just never quit! On their way over here . . .

 

          Shocked, Hector stared at the locked door.

 

          Suddenly he attacked it, fists pounding it, like he’d break it down.

 

          Hector!” Jessie said. But, as early as it was, no neighbors came out.

 

          The door opened by itself.

 

          He shook off her arm, pulled out his cell.

 

Inside the apartment, the phone rang once, twice. Six times, before voice mail picked up. Liliana, the bruja wife.

 

Jessie cringed. Hearing that voice—even on a machine—made her so jealous.

 “Liliana is a witch,” Hector had told Jessie. “With a witch’s cat. Bruja, its name is.” He shuddered. “My wife’s’s into weird shit. Claims she put a love spell on me.”

 

“Did she?”

 

“Fuck, no!” He seemed amused. “Hot as she is?”

 

Jessie really hated her, now.

 

“But she makes shit happen.” Hector actually looked scared. “Says she can send her . . . soul . . . all over.”

 

Jessie felt a chill.

 

“And that cat . . .” Hector shook his head. “Sometimes . . . she says they switch places.”

 

Right now, Jessie wasn’t thinking about cats, or spells. She wanted him inside, packing his stuff. His, and anything of the wife’s worth hocking.

 

Instead, he was making another call. Sweat beaded on his face as he waited for an answer. “She should be at work.”

 

Pissed, Jessie shoved the door open, and went inside. Hector lagged behind.

 

The place was a sty. Like someone had already ransacked it, and walked off with the good stuff.  But . . . “It always looks this way,” he said.

 

On the wall was a framed photo . . . of them.

 

Jessie stiffened. Hector’s smirk said he wished he were with Jessie. Liliana looked like she had Hector wrapped. A bottled blonde, she was, but beautiful, green-eyed. Sensual enough to keep the man she loved. Her smug half-smile said she had it all.

 

 Love spell, my ass, Jessie thought.

 

On the living room windowsill, the cat lounged.

 

“Stay away from her,” Hector warned, on his way into the bedroom.

 

“She might scratch?” Jessie said, but he didn’t hear her.

 

The cat was a gray and white long-hair, with green eyes that held Jessie’s. Its mouth looked crooked, unlike your typical cat’s. Even from across the room, Bruja’s expression intrigued her.

 

Jessie had never been a cat-person. She didn’t even like kittens.  But this cat was special. There was something about this one that made her creep closer. Despite Hector’s warning, Jessie couldn’t wait to pet it.

 

Timidly, she reached out.

 

They were face-to-face when she realized why Bruja was special. Bruja had Liliana’s smug half-smile.

 

But Bruja’s vanished.

bruja2footer.jpg

GOODWILL TOWARD MEN

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

1967

 

 

          “Hey, Zilenski!” the husky boy yelled to Mary, who cringed. “How many dogs you scarf down?” His friends laughed.

 

          Of all stands, Mary had wound up by the snack bar. The smell of grilled hot dogs was wonderful, but these kids had ruined even that, for her.

 

          “Fat fuck,” one girl said, and the others howled with laughter.

 

          Mary blinked back tears. These kids were older, maybe eighth grade. Like her sixth grade classmates weren’t mean enough.

 

She sucked in her gut, and walked away, ignoring their guffaws.

 

St. Jude’s Christmas Bazaar was a big deal. The church hall was hung with garlands and tinsel. Beneath the shiny pink tree were presents Mary heard were for orphans.

 

Wish I was an orphan, she thought. Or . . . dead.

 

Pop was at Lenny’s Tavern, drunk again. Mom was here, somewhere, playing chances at some junk stand.

 

Who needs that shit? Pop had said last year, when Mom won the Santa doll.

 

It was as big as Mary, with a leer like white-haired Uncle Louie’s. Once she’d caught him with his pants down, jiggling his thing. Instead of acting embarrassed, he’d given Mary this evil smile.

 

“I hate that doll,” she’d told Mom.

“Me, too,” Pop said, under his breath.

 

The bazaar was packed with kids, parents, even teachers. Mary’s teacher, Sister Paul, was drinking eggnog with Monsignor Lallie. Next to him, Sister looked young, though she had to be ninety.

 

When Sister laughed, Mary was shocked. Aside from smacking bad kids, what fun could nuns have?  

 

Everybody was having fun.

 

Except me, Mary thought. She craned her neck, looking for pin-curled gray hair. When she spotted Mom, she went the other way.

 

None of her friends had come. Like brainy Noreen, who the kids hated worse than Mary. Or Dizzy Deb, who had no dad, and who loved Davy Jones, from the Monkees. He wrote back to me!  Deb had told someone in their class. The next day, the mean kids had torn up the letter Deb probably wrote, herself.

 

“I won!” some lady yelled. Around her, people clapped as this year’s leering Santa doll was handed to her.

 

Mary hurried off, wishing that pink tree would catch fire and burn them all up.  She’d never felt so alone.

 

“Mare?” she heard from behind her.

 

Mary had to look twice. It looked like Dizzy Deb . . . in makeup!  White lipstick and heavy eyeliner like the Beatles’ girlfriends wore. But this was a lady. Her eyes looked funny, like she couldn’t keep them open. She smelled like Pop did, when he stumbled home from Lenny’s.

 

Deb’s mom gripped Mary’s arm so hard, it hurt. “Tell Deb . . .” she said, eyes rolling. “Tell her . . .”

 

When she fell, Mary went down with her.

 

“Oh, my God!” Mary’s own mom screamed.

 

As Deb’s mom lay there, people cried, worrying she was dead.

She is, Mary thought, thanks to me.

 

She’d wished them all dead. And at Christmastime, too.

 

The ambulance came, but it did no good. Even Sister Paul stopped having fun. The mean kids were quiet for once.

 

“OD,” some guy whispered, about Deb’s mom.

 

But Mary was thinking about poor Deb. An orphan, she was, now.

 

Beneath the tree, a shiny present waited for her.

 

 

 

 

decomposition.jpg
Art by Paul Dick © 2012

DE-COMPOSITION

by Cindy Rosmus

for Dallas

1990

 

          I was sitting outside my house, waiting for Darrel, that guy I liked, to walk out of Mackin’s, the bar across the street.

          Don’t ask me what I saw in him. He wasn’t my type. He was blond, and I hated blonds. We were always fighting about something, anything. Animals’ rights, because in the winter, I wore fur, and all year round, I lived on almost-raw meat and bloody mashed potatoes. We fought about the weather, since he liked it hot, and I loved the snow. Even the ingredients of a Long Island Iced Tea we fought over. I’d never had one, but I argued with him just as savagely as if I knew what I was talking about.

          There wasn’t a time I didn’t leave Mackin’s hoping I’d never see Darrel again. Once I wished he’d get hit by a truck. Then something clicked. Or maybe it had clicked long ago, but I’d just heard it when the Mack truck screeched to a halt inside my head.

          The last time I saw him was when things started between us. He grabbed my ass, pretending he was reaching for his pool stick. “I’m just kidding!” he said, when I yelled at him.

          But when I turned around, he did it again. Then he laughed.

          By the end of the night, we were making out at the bar.

          He was the best kisser I ever kissed. Maybe that’s what got me. The way he backed me into the bar and forced his tongue inside my mouth. Then laughed, as if he expected me to bite it, or something. Maybe that’s what did it.

          So here I was, waiting for Darrel on the stoop of my apartment building, drinking a Diet Coke out of a paper bag. Almost thirty years old I was, and acting like a damn teenager. A real punk. I wished the Diet Coke was a beer. That’s what he would think it was, if he saw me drinking out of a paper bag.

When he saw me. I wasn’t going back inside the house till we saw each other.

Jeannie, the bartender at Mackin’s, was a good pal. She’d called me and hinted that Darrel was over there. She probably thought I’d go running over. But I couldn’t walk in by myself. Not anymore. I felt worse than a punk, now. I felt like a twelve-year-old slurping soda out of a paper bag because she wasn’t cool enough to drink beer.

I was scared Darrel would realize I was waiting for him. Maybe he’d overheard Jeannie on the phone with me. How could he help it? She practically ha to scream over Motley Crue. “Hey, Toni-Lynn!” she’d said. “Come pay your tab!” Darrel wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t figure out our code.

Maybe he’d groaned when he heard my name. No doubt he was shooting pool with some jerk. “That bitch,” he must’ve said, missing his shot. Or maybe he deliberately scratched on the eight-ball, so he could get out of there fast. Before I got there. Maybe right now Jeannie was trying to call me back, but I couldn’t hear the phone because I was sitting outside on the stoop.

Toni-Lynn. He probably cringe at the sound of my name.

I hated it, too. A real kid’s name. Everything was against me: a kid’s name, a kid’s legs covered with bruises, ‘cos I was always bumping into things when I was drunk.

A kid’s mind I had, too. Why else couldn’t I just drag him across the street one drunken night and get it over with?

Because I even fucked like a kid, that’s why.

I could see it all, now: me freezing up, not knowing what to do first. Then almost taking a bite out of his cock, for spite. Feeling like a virgin again, forgetting where to put my legs. Crying that it hurt when he rammed it in, when I should’ve been wet enough before we started. “What’re you, frigid, or something?” he’d say sarcastically.

Maybe I was. Of course I was. That’s why we fought the way we did. Because that’s how it would end. I might as well be dead. I might as well walk in front of a truck myself, right now.

The phone. My stomach took a poke at my heart, but it was for nothing. It wasn’t my phone—it was Marilyn’s, upstairs. Hers was the kind of phone that sounded like one bird calling another when it rang. Mine was just loud: a good, old-fashioned, shit-in-your-pants ring. Thank God. But where I was sitting, I couldn’t hear it, anyway.

Where the hell was he? Why didn’t he come out? It was his type of day—grossly-humid and hot. Like a giant’s sticky hands all over your body. And where I was sitting, waiting for his hot, sticky hands to fondle me, torment me, there was no escape.

I finished the soda, which had gotten warm after the first few sips. It should’ve been a beer, but I couldn’t go get one, now. I couldn’t miss him. If I did, I might never get another chance.

Damn, it was a month since the last time I saw him. Since the night we’d made out.

Maybe I wouldn’t see him again till I was an old bag. A bag of old kid’s bones, covered with bruises. I’d stop dyeing my hair black, and it would be gray. I’d have it done up in a bouffant at the old ladies’ beauty shop up the street, and then I’d wait on line with the other old ladies for the bus to Atlantic City that the beauty shop sponsored on the side. Maybe Darrel would be waiting for the same bus. That’s how I’d finally see him again. All stooped over, his blond hair as gray as mine. “Still frigid?” he’d say, with that mischievous, all-knowing smirk.

I’d rather he got hit by a truck.

A big one. One of those huge vans would smash him on his way cross the street because he was too damn nosy not to see what I was drinking out of a paper bag.

I crunched the can inside the bag and set it beside me on the stoop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to Mackin’s open.

But nobody came out.

The door shut again, as if somebody had just opened it to look outside.

“That black-haired bitch still sitting on the steps?” he must’ve asked somebody to find out for him.

“Yup. Wanna shoot another game?”

“Might as well. Bitch can’t sit out there forever.”

As Darrel racked up the balls, I saw Jeannie and him share a look. The kind of look I wished he’d share with me. But now he never would. He wanted Jeannie, instead. Maybe it would’ve been me, if I were a blonde, too. All blonds stuck together. Maybe Jeannie had wanted Darrel all along.

But she’d called me, I reminded myself. She’d gone out of her way to let me know he was there, in code.

“He likes you,” she’d said, a lot of times. “I can tell.” Usually, she smirked. But maybe that was just her way. Like it was the funniest thing in the world that I liked this guy, or any guy. Some big deal. “He is cute,” she’d said once, though. And it had bugged me.

Right now it was bugging me more than ever. Still, she had called me. She did it so I could go over to Mackin’s and get him.

Or did she, really? Maybe she did it to keep me away.

I picked up the can in the bag and crushed it even more. I wished it were Jeannie’s blonde head. I should have known better than to trust her. What a con job she was. Always crying about being too broke to afford an operation on her eyes. Laser surgery, she needed, she’d said. And she had no benefits at Mackin’s.

Right now Darrel was probably staring into those diseased eyes of hers. They were laughing because poor dumb Toni-Lynn was still sitting outside, impatiently waiting for him.

Even the guy who was kicking Darrel’s ass at pool was laughing. I knew what he looked like, too. Dopey, blue-eyed, bearded guy with a cap who lived over the old ladies’ beauty shop up the street. He was always at Mackin’s this time of day. A real drunk. So was Darrel, for that matter.

He deserved to get smashed by a truck. Maybe by the Atlantic City bus. Whichever was bigger.

I looked up at the sky and wished I was dead. The sky was too blue. Bright blue for blond lovers while it was still daylight, and the full moon wasn’t out, yet. Too early for Darrel to turn into a wolf.

I wished it would rain. Damn it, why couldn’t it snow just once, in July?

I started to cry. I wiped what were probably black tears from my eyes and got up as the door to Mackin’s finally opened.

Darrel staggered out and began to cross the street.

He didn’t see me. Like he was sleepwalking, he watched the Michelob truck turn the corner at a crazy speed. It was headed straight for him.

He staggered back, then forward, unsure what to do.

Darrel, I thought. Why couldn’t I scream?

He lurched forward, just in time, as the truck thundered by.

I screamed, finally. Like his brains were splattered all over me. Like my wish had come true.

In the distance, the truck rumbled on, out for blood. Anybody’s.

The door to Mackin’s opened again. Jeannie and that guy with the pool stick came out. Looking anxiously around for cars, they hurried across the street to Darrel.

He just stood there, clutching his heart, blinking, like he wasn’t sure what had happened.

“Y’all right, man?” Pool Stick said, but Darrel ignored him.

“Toni!” Now he was sobbing, looking right at me. “I could’ve . . .” His eyes looked wild. “It missed me . . . by inches!”

“I know.” I felt as guilty as if I’d been driving that truck.

He grabbed me around the waist, pulled me down to the curb. “By inches,” he repeated, holding me so tight, I felt his heart pounding.

In the gutter were cigarette butts and other junk. I smiled, relieved that they weren’t covered with Darrel’s brains, and guts. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. So poetic.

“I’m glad,” I whispered into his neck.

 

“Decomposition,” by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 1990.

Part of this story appeared in a different form under a forgotten pseudonym as part of a “How I Became the Town Trap” installment in a forgotten issue of Just 18 Magazine, published by Swank Publications back in 2000.

 

Music to Your Ears

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

          Aw, shit. That song again.

 

“Picture.” By Kid Rock and What’s-Her-Face. Karaoke at its worst, with these two drunk fucks. 

 

Here at Scratch’s, you’re trashed, yourself. Hoarse from wailing out Joplin. But where else would you be? In your lonely, grimy rooms? With only roaches for company?

 

When Lord went back to Lady Douchebag, you lost it. You’ve been trashed every night. This past week, you only showered twice. You can smell your hair.

 

Valentine’s Day was hell. Hearts and roses for all but you. Even the retarded girl downstairs gets laid.

 

How could he do this to you?

 

          Maggie the barmaid watches you, anxiously.  Like she’s scared you’ll go postal in here.  When you wave her over for a shot, she cringes.

 

          Bitch, you think. You tip her good, even when she ignores you. These days, you hate everyone. Smiling, you imagine her drenched with blood.

 

 “Another?”she says.

 

          When “Picture” ends, finally, you’ve got your shot. You clap for the losers.

 

          “But you hate that song,” Maggie says.

 

          I hate you more, you think. Wish you were dead.

 

          Now she’s got the mic. This country star who is so not. As she bursts into “The End of the World,” you wish it was.

 

“Why does the sun go on shining? Why . . .”

 

          Of all songs.

 

Since he left, you can’t stop crying. Mascara all runny, and a snotty nose. People stare like you should be locked up.

 

The sun stopped shining for you.

 

 What is life?  Tasteless meals and that cold, wrinkled bed. Since he left, you sleep on the couch. Like a funeral urn, his “Clapton is god” mug still honors your dresser. With his rancid coffee still in it.

 

“You okay?” asks the ditzy chick next to you. You just sob harder.

 

He was drinking that coffee when his cell rang. 

 

“. . . Said goodbye!” As the song ends, the applause is deafening.

 

You just knew it was her calling. Before he even picked up.

 

“Thanks!” Maggie waves to the crowd. “Thanks, guys!”

 

She hands you the mic, which you wave away. “Crying over him?” she sneers.

 

Next up’s that ditzy chick and her pals: “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” The girly-girl anthem. It kills your ears.

 

“Get over it!” With quick, vicious movements, Maggie chops lemons. They look like misshapen, tiny heads.  “You’ve gotta move on.”

 

Like it’s that easy.

 

But he did. He moved on while he was still with you. Picture a snake waking up beside you, its forked tongue flicking in and out, as it plots its next move.

 

“Got something to tell you,” she says, smugly. “You’re not gonna like it.”

 

Your heart’s in your guts. How bad can it be? you think. They’re already back together.

 

“They’re married,” she says.

 

Time stops. Around you, Scratch’s backs off, so the screechy singing’s in the distance. Or just a memory.  Before you, those fingers leer with Maggie’s own bloody grin.

 

All of her is bleeding. There’s blood everywhere.

 

‘Cos you have the knife.

 

And these screams are music to your ears.

 

 

 

backwards.jpg
Art by Paul Dick © 2012

Backwards

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

They were outside at lunch when Noreen brought it up. Paul McCartney was dead.

 

"No!" Mary almost screamed. She couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it.

 

All the eighth-graders were upset. Some of the girls were crying. Ricky Kelly had started the rumor, Noreen said. The only kid who was meaner than Sister Stephen, the nun who jabbed you with her pointer. Ricky sat next to Mary in Sister Stephen's class and sang "Zilenski is a scumbag!" in her ear to make the day go by faster.

 

Mary and her friends were standing away from St. Peter's cool kids, by the tree at the side of the building. "He heard it on the radio," Noreen said. "All the DJ's are talking about it."

 

Greta adjusted her glasses. "That doesn't mean it's true."

 

"It's not," Mary kept saying. "It can't be." She looked over at Deb. Her eyes shut, Dizzy Deb was leaning against the tree, singing “All You Need Is Love.” Mary felt like smacking her.

 

They didn't just love the Beatles. Mary and her friends were the Beatles.

 

But nobody knew it.

 

"It's bullshit," Mary said, using one of her Pop's favorite words. Noreen and Greta just looked at her.

 

Mary had it rough. Her parents were Polish and Italian. And weird. Even Mary knew it. They were old, too. She was the only eighth-grader at St. Peter's whose parents were in their mid-fifties and who lived in a tiny apartment instead of their own house.

 

She was fat. Ellen Monahan was fatter, but she was Irish and her aunt was a nun. Sister Stephen treated Ellen like a celebrity. The kids liked her because she was as snotty as they were.

 

Mary's uniform skirt was long and too tight. The cool girls' skirts were hiked up to show most of their skinny thighs. They teased their hair and even kissed boys. Mary couldn't imagine kissing one, except for Paul.

 

And now he was dead.

 

She bit her lip to keep from crying. She wished Deb would stop singing. Ricky and his friends weren't far off. Her singing Beatle songs made the whole thing worse.

 

What if Ricky figured it out?

 

In the beginning, they'd all wanted to be Paul. Then they sorted it out and Noreen became John, since she was their leader. Greta was George and Deb, Ringo, which was funny since Ringo hardly ever sang. Mary knew she was Paul only because the gang felt sorry for her, which was the saddest part. Her friends, the other class creeps, pitied her.

 

Noreen, with her nasal voice and red, frizzy hair and zits. Greta was smart enough to skip a grade, but she was Swedish-Polish instead of Irish, so she lost out. And Deb, romantic and boy-crazy but ugly and so dumb. That time Ricky had stuck a tack on her seat, she didn't even scream. "He likes me, I bet," she'd told them after coming back from the nurse.

 

And they think I'm weird, thought Mary. If only her dark hair was long, like Cher's, down her back with bangs reaching to her cheekbones, hiding her heavily made-up eyes. If only she was skinny, her uniform a human size and yanked up the way Twiggy would wear it. If only she was Irish.

 

But she wasn't, so she had to be Paul.

 

"You watch Dark Shadows yesterday?" Noreen said, trying to change the subject.

 

"He can't be dead!" Mary said.

 

"We can find out," Deb said. "Just play the record backwards, like Ricky said."

 

"Not backwards," Greta corrected. "On a higher speed. Forty-five RPM."

 

"Here comes Ricky," Noreen whispered. Mary looked around, nervously.

 

"Hey Zilenski!" he yelled at her.

 

The first bell rang. "Oh, thank God," Noreen said.

 

"Zilenski," Ricky said as they lined up. "Wanna suck my cock after school?"

 

The other eight-graders gasped. Some laughed. Sister Stephen was too far up front to hear him.

 

"Zi-len-ski?"

 

Mary didn't answer. Eyes shut, she retreated to the safest place she knew, the back cover of a Beatle album. In her satin band uniform, she tried to block out that voice. The laughter. Tried not to think of her parents. Paul-killer, she thought, trying not to cry, clutching the black carnation to her chest.

 

Played at forty-five RPM, "I buried Paul" could clearly be heard at the end of Strawberry Fields Forever.

 

"It's true." Deb started to cry.

 

Noreen stood looking at the record player, like she wouldn't be surprised if Paul's ghost appeared. Greta sat on her hands. Mary paced around the room. "Stop that," she told Deb. Deb's crying terrified her. Once at the St. Peter's bazaar, Mary had won a huge bride doll. Seeing tears running down Dizzy Deb's cheeks was like seeing that bride doll cry.

 

"I have the Abbey Road album," Noreen said. "It's just like they said. Paul is barefoot. John's dressed all in white, like Jesus."

 

"Show us," Greta said.

 

"No!" Mary said. "I've got to get home. It's almost time for Dark Shadows.

"Watch it here," said Noreen. "Finish your Tab. You haven't touched your Snickers bar either."

 

But Mary was pulling on her jacket. "I can't," she said. Her voice sounded strange to herself, like it was coming from beyond the grave.

 

"They say," Deb sobbed, "that maybe Paul's head stayed alive, for pictures!"

 

Mary couldn't get outside fast enough. Her heart felt the size of her own head. Her face was crumpling. At last she could cry.

 

If Paul was dead, then so was she.

 

In a clear coffin she saw herself, barefoot, with Greta and Deb as pallbearers. Her head on Sister Stephen's pointer, wielded by Ricky Kelly, her killer.

 

Paul-killer. Mary-killer. Was there a difference?

 

Mary would never watch Dark Shadows or do homework again. Her hair would finally grow to Cher's length and her rotted body would be as thin as Twiggy's. Ricky would be the first to spit on her grave. "Zilenski is a Scumbag" would be engraved on her tombstone.

 

God, she was nuts. When she was older, maybe she would see a shrink. Confession didn't help much, though she liked talking to Father Shaughnessy. He was young and cute, like Davy Jones from the Monkees, but without the accent. He gave out the easiest penance. "Say five Hail Marys," he always told Mary. "And tell your mom and dad what you just told me, okay?"

 

A lot of good that would do.

 

On her way into the apartment house, Mary heard shouting. It was coming from her parents' side of the building. "You were told not to play ball in that yard!" her Mom yelled at the top of her lungs.

 

The neighbors' kids laughed. "Fuck you!" one kid yelled back. Somebody hit the ball against a garbage can.

 

"Shit," Mary muttered.

As usual, her Mom was perched on the kitchen windowsill. "I'll tell your mother!" she screamed out the window. "She'll wash your mouth out with soap!"

 

"Wanna bet?" the kid screeched.

 

"Mom?" Mary said from behind her.

 

Her mom almost fell off the windowsill. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. Eyes wild, her gray hair set in tight pincurls, cigarette dangling from her lips, she looked even meaner than Sister Stephen. "Want to give me another heart attack?"

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"What do you think?" Her Mom got down and knocked an ash into the Atlantic City ashtray. “Those bastards are playing ball again. They were told . . . "

 

Supper was on the stove, smelling better than it would taste. Something in her Mom's watery red sauce. Stuffed cabbage, maybe. Usually Mary could force it down, along with a ham sandwich and a few Devil Dogs. But not tonight. Tonight she would throw up if she ate anything.

 

This time the baseball struck the side of the apartment house.

 

"You see? They're going to break the window!" Mary's Mom climbed onto the windowsill again.

 

"Maybe not," Mary said.

 

"Stop that!" her Mom yelled down to the kids. "Or I'll call the police!"

 

"Go ahead," one kid said.

 

"Up your ass," said another, "with a piece a glass!"

 

"Where's Pop?" Mary wished her Mom would get out of the window.

 

"Where do you think?" her Mom said without turning around.

 

Suddenly Mary wanted to go. Anywhere, back to Noreen's, downstairs to see the super's new kittens. Lenny's Bar, to find Pop. Anywhere to get away from her nosy Mom. When she wasn't screaming at the Woleks' kids, she was making fun of the laundry they hung on the line. "Red sheets," she sneered. "Purple towels. If you ask me, they're goddamn gypsies."

 

A baseball crashed through the Zilenskis’ window, shattering it completely.

 

"I knew it! I knew it!" her Mom shrieked.

 

Mary saw her chance. "I'll go get Pop!" She ran out the door as her mom started to cry.

 

"You little bastards!"

 

Lenny's was right down the street, a dark tavern about the size of the Zilenskis’ kitchen. Mary was panting by the time she reached it. She bet none of her classmates, except Ellen Monahan, got tired this fast. She loved the way Lenny's smelled. Like liquor and cigar smoke and kielbasa. As freaky as she felt, she wished Pop would buy her a kielbasa sandwich.

 

Pop was sitting at the end of the bar, away from the jukebox because it was always too loud. Lenny was refilling Pop's glass with beer. Greta's father, Mr. Fornell, said, "That's on me, Len." He and Pop looked a lot alike, except Mr. Fornel’s hair was blond, like Greta's, and Pop's was gray. Both wore glasses. Pop's were patched with masking tape.

 

"Is this Mary?" Lenny said loudly. "Look how big she's getting!"

 

Mary stiffened. He probably meant tall, but she always thought fat.

 

"What's wrong, baby?" Pop asked, turning to her.

 

"Want a Coke?" said Lenny.

 

"Uh, yeah. Nothing," she told Pop. "I mean, not much." If she brought up the window, they'd have to leave.

 

"Want to sit down?" Mr. Fornell offered her his seat

She shook her head. "It's bullshit," some guy said at the end of the bar. “They’re just tryna sell records.”

 

"Damn right!" Lenny yelled to the guy.

 

Mary sat on Mr. Fornell's stool.

 

"Can you believe it?" Lenny said to Pop. "They're sayin' McCartney's dead!"

 

 Pop shushed him. Lenny looked hard at Mary. "Oh," he said. "Sorry."

 

"How was school?" Behind his glasses, Pop's eyes were red and watery-looking, like they were swimming in her mom's sauce. Mary guessed he was drunk. "Huh?" he said.

 

"Is Paul really dead?" she asked in a small, sad voice.

 

Before he could answer, Lenny said, "Course not!"

 

"S'a publicity stunt, man," said the guy next to Mr. Fornell. He had long, greasy hair. His wild clothes looked like he'd made them himself from the Woleks' sheets and towels.

 

"It is?" she said hopefully.

 

"Damn right," Lenny said again. He set a small glass of Coke in front of her.

 

She tasted it. It was real syrupy, the way she liked it. Her stomach growled.

 

"Maybe it's not," Pop said.

 

"Look, man," said the guy with the hair. "It's like this. Somebody came up with the idea, way back when, planted all that shit in the damn songs. Said to play them backwards and all. Then fixed up the goddamn album covers to match. Black roses, bare feet, shee-it, man."

 

"Watch your fuckin' language," Pop said. "In fronta' my daughter. You goddamn hippie."

 

"Sorry, man," the guy said.

"Really?" Mary said to Lenny. "Is it really just a joke?"

 

"Not a joke, kid," Lenny said. "Where money's involved, nothing's ever a joke."

 

"Fuckin' hippie," Pop muttered drunkenly.

 

"What's for supper?" said Lenny. "Spaghetti?"

 

"None-a your business," Pop said.

 

“Pigs-in-a-blanket," Mary said. Her stomach growled again, but not at the thought of her Mom's cooking. The kielbasa smelled better than ever.

 

"Lucky you," Lenny turned to Pop. "One more, for the road?"

 

"Who said I was leavin'?"

 

Mary remembered the broken window. Later, she'd get it from both of them for not telling Pop about it right away. She didn't care. Paul was alive, the hippie said. The hippie should know. Mary smiled.

 

"My pal," Lenny said as Pop gulped his fresh beer.

 

Mary took hold of his callused hand that would probably spank her later. She saw Ricky Kelly in his grave, spittle on his shocked face, a black rose withering upon his chest. "All You Need Is Love," Dizzy Deb sang in the background.

 

Mary kissed Pop's cheek. "I love you," she said.

 

Pop nodded. "Two more," he told Lenny.

 

 

 

“Backwards.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. First appeared in Fritz, Vol. 3, No. 1, 1993.

 

 

 

Anybodys

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Just a hole and a mouth,

to Jets and Sharks.

But please don’t tell.

That ‘Nardo, man!

With his tweezed eyebrows

and curly cock.

A fleshy croissant, it’d look like,

if it ever went limp.

Don’t count on it.

Officer Krupke wears silky pink panties.

I, on my knees, salute him.

Even pigs have rights.

Not to fancy dinners like nice girls:

girls with manicured nails

and nicely-waxed twats.

Not even phone calls.

Maybe a smirk, if I’m lucky.

I like to be in America.

I like to be in America!

Mega Lotto,

sweaty sex on rooftops,

too many tears.

Cuz when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way,

But when you’re anybody’s,

You’re nobody’s.

 

 

 

“Anybody’s” by Cindy Rosmus. Originally appeared in Lunatic Chameleon, May 2005.

 

 

 

 

 

MAD MONEY

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          In the next room, Paulie heard her, rifling through his drawers.

 

          Oh, Trish, he thought, wearily.

 

          Same shit, every day. Looking for money, in all the wrong places. It was in the kitchen, in the Folgers coffee can under the sink.

 

          The kitchen, he thought at her. The kitchen.

 

          “I leave her money to steal,” Paulie had told Red, the barmaid. “I’ve got to. Or my whole pay check goes in the stem.”

 

“She stole my purse!” Red said.

 

“Nah. S’not her style. She just takes wallets.” Lovesick Paulie was so in denial.  “Crack is poison,” he said, teary-eyed.

 

A real killer.

 

As Trish tore through the closet, boots and shoes went flying. Almost super-human strength, she had, these days.

 

The coffee can, Paulie thought, fists clenched. Under the . . .

 

In the doorway, he smelled her. He shut his eyes, pretended he was invisible. Still, he felt her eyes on him.  Sweat poured down his back, into his shorts.

 

Finally, she went away.

 

*

 

He’d just got to work when the call came.

          “Your wife . . .” His boss had that knowing look.

 

          “Is she sick?”

 

          “Oh, it’s a disease, all right.” Smiling, the boss handed Paulie the phone. “But she doesn’t have a fever, or cancerous tumor.”

 

          You fuck, Paulie thought. Of all days to be out of cell phone minutes.

 

 “Yer wife,” a strange guy told him. “She won’t leave. Did all my shit, drank my booze . . .”

 

Stole your wallet.

 

“Come get her, dude.”

 

“Be right over,” Paulie told him.

 

“And stay there.” His boss had stopped smiling.

 

*

 

Paulie himself was a three-beers guy. Had never done drugs.

 

“So what,” his friends asked, “do you see in her?”

 

          Helplessness.

 

          This lanky thing, with big, scared eyes. A wounded bird, she was like, huddled under his blanket. Almost shy, after sex, but just with him.

 

          “Trish?” one guy yelled. “Shy?”

 

“Yeee-ooww!” Another grabbed his own cock.

 

          “Paulie,” she would say, in this distant voice, “I need . . . help, don’t I?”

 

He held her close, her bones nearly cracking. “I’ll help you,” he said.

 

          But he didn’t.

 

He was that scared of losing her.

 

*

 

By 2 A.M., he was past three beers. A pint of Jack, he’d found, in that closet. Skynyrd on his iPod: “Needle and the Spoon.” Words from the wise . . .

          But no needle killed her.  And no stem did, neither.

 

A speeding truck took her from him.

 

          Chunks of Trish struck parked cars, a mailbox. Intestines smeared the streets and sidewalks . . .

 

          Paulie’s underwear drawer . . .

 

Over Skynyrd, he heard her come back. A shuffling, and scratching, like rats.  Smelled that smell, like a zillion dead ones.

 

He turned up the music till his ears screamed.

 

If she hadn’t been high, she would’ve seen that truck.

 

If he’d’ve helped her, she wouldn’t have been high.

 

“The kitchen!” he yelled. “Look in—”

 

But what she was here for, money couldn’t buy.

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

outofjuice.jpg

OUT OF JUICE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Nine days without power. Or is it nine years?

 

And nobody knows why.

 

          Outside, neighbors scream. “I can’t take it!” someone screeches. That nut upstairs, with the wild eyes. Freezers stuffed with rotting meat. Melted ice cream and slime drip onto kitchen floors.

 

Outside, garbage piles up. Always, you smell it. Why hasn’t it been picked up? No answers, just rumors: the gas shortage, runaway garbage trucks, sanitation workers are dead.

 

Today, on your way out to charge your cell, the stench is the worst. It follows you to U Bust It, I Fix It, that new computer store.

 

A lotta good, you think, technology does now.

 

Still, this place is the new town center. Between the generator, and hot dogs sizzling on the grill outside, this place is your only hope. Dozens of neighbors, chilly in just hoodies, wait impatiently for their laptops and smartphones to charge. Power strip after power strip is added, each connected to the ones before, all hooked up to the “Big G.”

 

And, for what? No answers to the Big Question. Just crazy theories, fears of Amageddon.

 

 “Thank you!” you mouth to Daniel, the young owner, whose smile seems to hold ancient secrets.

 

 “Any idea?” someone asks, nervously. “when the power’s coming back on?”

 

It gets quiet. All eyes are on Daniel, as he turns a fresh batch of dogs. Finally, he shrugs. “Maybe never.”

 

Above the franks, the stench of garbage wins out.

 

*     *     *

 

It’s outside U Bust It, I Fix It that you find Rudy.

 

“ ‘Einstein,’ ” he says, like it’s the good ol’ days.

 

  Despite the sad, gray sky, he wears his shades. Something wrong with his eyes, always the palest blue. Dark curls receding. How long has it been?  Since he just . . . vanished?

 

He goes home with you. Sex hot as ever, even on ice-cold sheets. His shades keep you from reading him: Where did you go? you wonder, as he rams you. Will the power ever come back on? He cums, hard.

 

Upstairs, that nutjob paces back and forth. Her “Can’t . . . take it . . . anymore!” sounds muffled.

 

Rudy lights the gas burners, to cook: beefaroni, minute rice, spam. Steam makes the windows fog up. But outside, what is there to see, anyway? Rats crawling up piles of trash.

 

On the window, he writes his legacy: RUDY LVS EINSTEIN.

 

But you left, you think. Why?

 

Outside your window is a grate. Something huge thumps against it on its way down. Screams say the nutjob checked out.

 

You wipe the window, to see better.

 

Across the street, another neighbor jumps to his death. More screams. “Did you hear?” a female voice wails. “Why the power’s gone? They say . . .”

 

It’s gone forever.

 

Trucks trudge along, with megaphones blasting unspeakable news. Soon, you’ll all be one with that stinking trash heap.

 

Still, inside here, it’s dreamy. Steam curls like from a witch’s love potion.

 

In your bed, Rudy drowses, shades still on. Very slightly, his thin chest heaves.

You edge closer.

 

As you reach for his shades, images haunt you: scarred tissue, empty eye sockets.

 

You, he once said, watch too many zombie flicks.

 

From behind one lens, a worm crawls. But you smile, as it encircles your finger.

 

 

 

 

rosesforlove.jpg
Art by Lonni Lees

Roses for Love

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

For five years old, Rosalie was smart.

 

Smarter than the other kids in Ms. Gelber-Jones’s class, Ms. Gelber-Jones had told Mommy.  A little “too” smart, maybe.  Rosalie knew where babies came from, but that was ‘cos Mommy was having one, soon.

 

“We know it’s a boy, too,” Rosalie said proudly. “They gave Mommy a test.  ‘Annie-something,’ it’s called.”  She was telling the kids about the needle the doctor had stuck in Mommy’s belly, when Ms. Gelber-Jones hurried over.

 

“Can’t keep her mouth shut,” Mommy muttered to Daddy that night.  “Just like your mother, I swear to God.”

 

Smirking, Daddy popped the cap off another beer.  “Damn right,” he said.  But Rosalie knew he was sad.  What Mommy said had hurt him.  Rosalie’s grandma was dead.

 

Death Rosalie understood too.  It was like sleep, only you never woke up.  At least that’s what Mommy said.  Daddy didn’t like to talk about it.

 

Grandma had died right before Rosalie was born, and so Rosalie was named after her.  Mommy hadn’t liked Grandma, or Rosalie’s name.  For the past five years she’d called her “Lee.”

 

“You name this one,” Daddy had said just last night, pointing to Mommy’s big belly.  “Name it “Batman,’ for all I care.”  Rosalie had wanted to laugh, but then it had started: the biggest fight so far.

 

When Mommy and Daddy fought, Rosalie shut her eyes and covered her ears. They screamed so loud, she got scared.  Sometimes she cried.

 

“Hit me!” Mommy yelled, so loud, Rosalie could still hear her.  “Right here!”  Rosalie knew that meant Mommy’s belly.  She was too scared to open her eyes.  “You never wanted it anyway!”  Mommy screamed, each time they fought.

 

Daddy never hit Mommy.  He hardly ever spanked Rosalie, ‘cept when she did something really bad.  He hadn’t spanked her that day Ms. Gelber-Jones had called.  He hadn’t even been mad.

 

After Ms. Gelber-Jones had called, Daddy had pulled Rosalie onto his lap, and nuzzled her cheek.  His beard tickled, and she’d giggled.  She loved his beard.  She bet none of the other kids’ daddies had one like it.  He even took off his glasses, so he could get closer to her.  She liked that part the best.

 

“ ‘Daddy’s Little Girl,’ ” Mommy called her sometimes.  When she was in a bad mood.  She got in bad moods a lot, now that she was having the baby.  Rosalie guessed it was the needle’s fault.  She hated needles, herself.

 

She loved Mommy, but she liked being “Daddy’s Girl” even better.  ‘Specially when they went to the bar on the corner.  O’Brien’s, it was called.

 

Mommy hated when Daddy went there.  He hadn’t gone in a while, though he drank a lot of beer at home.  Rosalie missed going to O’Brien’s.  She missed Daddy’s friend Matt, who Mommy said lived there.  Daddy said that wasn’t true; Mommy just didn’t like Matt. 

 

Daddy seemed so sad, sometimes, it made Rosalie sad, too.  He never cried, but she thought he would like to.  She wondered if he missed Matt and O’Brien’s as much as she did.

 

“Shhhh,” Daddy said, when she’d asked him.  “We’ll go,” he whispered.  “I promise.”

 

“When?” she asked.

 

“Soon.  Real soon.”  He shut up fast, as Mommy came out of the bathroom.

 

On Saturday, Daddy kept his promise.  “Going over Matt’s,” he told Mommy, grabbing Rosalie’s hand.  “To watch the game.  Be back before supper, hon.”

Mommy gave him one of those looks.  Those “needle” looks, Rosalie called them.  She hoped Mommy wouldn’t make her stay home.

 

“His family’s here,” Daddy went on.  His hand was getting sweaty.  Everybody.  Mikey’s kids, too.  You want to go play with Joey, baby?”

 

Rosalie’s heart sunk.  She’d thought they were going to O’Brien’s.  She’d rather go there than to somebody’s house.  She glared down at the floor.

 

“Huh?” Daddy said.

 

When he squeezed her hand, she nodded.

 

“Have fun,” Mommy said.  But Rosalie knew she didn’t mean it.

 

It was hot out.  Too hot for the spring, Ms. Gelber-Jones had told the class.  At least where they lived.  School wasn’t even out yet, and people were already going to the beach.  As they walked up the block, Rosalie saw a lot of people with brown or red faces that Daddy said changed color from the sun. 

 

“S’that why Matt’s is so red?” she asked, and he laughed.  It was the first time she’d heard Daddy laugh in a while.

 

“No, baby,” he said, squeezing her hand again.  His was still sweaty, even more than before.  She guessed he was hot.  We should go to the beach, she thought then. Better than playing with that dumb Joey, whoever he was.

 

When they reached the corner, Daddy turned around, like somebody had called him.  “C’mon,” he whispered, though nobody was there.  They rushed into O’Brien’s.

 

He lied, Rosalie realized, as the cool air hit them.  Daddy had lied to Mommy.  It made her feel strange that he’d lied, though she’d wanted to come here all along.

 

The bar was crowded.  She looked around for Matt, who was curly-headed and bigger than anybody there.  She didn’t see him.  “Where is he?” she asked Daddy.

 

He let go of her hand.  “Where’s who?”

 

“Matt.”

 

He didn’t answer.  He was looking at somebody who was sitting at the bar.

 

A lady.  Rosalie guessed it was her, ‘cos she was looking at Daddy like she knew him.  But she wasn’t smiling.

 

A pretty lady, but scary, too.  Like one of those lady crooks on the Superhero cartoons.  Black hair, she had.  Black, spiky hair that made her look like she was part spider.  She had on make-up, lots of it.  Mommy never wore make-up, ‘cept at night, when she went out with Daddy.  She hadn’t worn it since they’d made the new baby.

 

This lady’s lips were bright-red, like she’d been eating a cherry ice-pop.  Mommy never wore lipstick ‘cos she hated the taste.

 

The lady winked at Daddy. 

 

Rosalie looked up at him.  Now he was smiling.

 

“Where’s Matt?” she asked again.

 

Still smiling, he rubbed Rosalie’s back.  “She’ll know,” he said. “That’s Matt’s friend.”

 

Jay was behind the bar, making drinks.  She was Matt’s friend, too, Rosalie knew.  Jay’s face was as red as Matt’s, and so was her chest.  Jay’s chest was as big as Mommy’s, though Mommy’s was from the baby.  Jay’s hair was blonder, too.  She was always smiling, or laughing.  Rosalie wished Mommy was more like Jay.

 

“Look what I’ve got for you!” Jay said.  From under the bar she’d pulled a coloring book and crayons. 

 

Daddy threw some money on the bar.  “Bottle of Bud,” he told Jay.  “And a Coke.”  The black-haired lady was still staring at him.  She looked like she wanted something.

 

The crayons were brand-new.  Like Jay had bought them just for Rosalie.  The coloring book was a Barbie. Rosalie’s friend Marisol had one just like it.  She wished she could sit down and color, but there was nowhere to sit.

 

The black-haired lady got up.  “You want to sit down?” she asked Rosalie.

 

“Thanks,” Daddy said.

 

The lady helped Rosalie onto the stool.  She smelled nice, but strange.  Like beer, the way Daddy did now that it was hot out, but sweet, too.  Mommy never wore perfume. It made her throw up.

 

“Okay?” the lady said. “Can you reach the bar, or do you want to sit on my lap?”

 

Rosalie could reach if she knelt on the stool.  Mommy had told her never to talk to strangers.  Even though Daddy was standing right there, Rosalie didn’t answer her.

 

“She’s okay where she is,” Daddy said, sounding annoyed.

 

“What’s your name?” the lady asked Rosalie.

 

When Rosalie didn’t answer, Daddy said softly, “Guess.”

 

Rosalie wondered why he didn’t ask about Matt.  That’s why they were there, to find Matt.  Weren’t they?  She picked out a picture, and started coloring.

 

“It’s Rosalie,” Daddy said.  She felt his damp hand on her shoulder.  “After my mom,” he added.

 

“Bullshit,” the lady said.

 

“Rosa!” Jay said sharply.

 

Rosalie looked up.

 

“Not you,” the lady said, smiling.  “She’s talking to me. I’m a Rosa, too.”

 

“ ‘Just’ Rosa,” Daddy said.  “But you’re a Rosalie.”  He was acting nervous.  He drank his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the bar.  Jay looked mad when he did that.

 

“I’ve known your daddy for years,” Rosa said.  “Since before you were born.”  She lay her hand on the page Rosalie was coloring.  “Let’s see,’ she said.

 

Rosalie looked at the hand.  It was smaller than Mommy’s.  Her nails weren’t long and red like Jay’s, either.  Rosa’s hand was real white and thin.

 

Then Daddy’s was next to it, on the page.  “Wow!” he said, sounding proud.  “Look, Jay.  Barbie’s got yellow hair just like yours.”

 

Their hands were touching, Rosalie saw.  Rosa’s little finger climbed over onto his, and he took his hand away.

 

“Blondes have more fun, I guess,” Rosa said hoarsely.

 

“Want another cherry?” Jay asked Rosalie.  Her face was redder than before, like she was getting madder and madder.  But Rosalie wasn’t sure why.

 

“Can I have two?” she asked.

 

The three grown-ups laughed, like it was funny that she finally said something.  Rosa was leaning against Daddy, but he didn’t move away.  “You can have whatever you want,’ he told Rosalie.

 

I wanna go home, she thought.  But she didn’t know why.  And she was scared to tell Daddy.  She knew he would get mad.  She didn’t feel so smart, anymore.  She popped a cherry in her mouth. It didn’t taste as good as they used to.

 

“What took you so long?” Rosa asked in a low voice.

 

“Please,” Daddy said.

 

“You promised.”

 

Daddy glanced over at Rosalie, who looked down at the half-colored blonde Barbie.  “My son’s due in two weeks.”

 

For a while they were quiet.  Then Rosa said, “So was she…the first time we did it.”  Daddy shushed her, but she went on.  “You couldn’t take it anymore, remember?  You wanted me, then.  You loved me, remember?”  She sounded like she was going to cry.  “Remember the roses?  The petals on the sheets?  Remember?”

 

“Shut up,” Daddy whispered.

 

Jay was on her way over with a new beer for Daddy.  She looked ready to pour it over his head.

 

“What’re you, crazy?” Jay said, through gritted teeth.  “In front of the kid?”

 

“I gotta pee,” Rosalie said, and the three of them looked at her.

 

“I’ll take her,” Rosa said.

 

“No—I will!” Jay said.

 

“Who’s gonna work the bar?” Rosa asked.

 

“Stay thirsty.”  Jay started walking to the end of the bar.

 

Rosa was staring at Rosalie.  “So beautiful,” she said, in a dreamy voice.  “She looks so much like you.”

 

“Too early for her to grow a beard,” Daddy said, trying to be funny.

 

Rosa didn’t laugh.  “A good kid, too.  Never yells.  Doesn’t get in the way. I wish….”

 

Jay reached them, then, and held out her hand.  Rosalie hung back on it, gaping at Rosa.

 

“She should’ve been ours,” Rosa told Daddy.

 

In the bathroom, Jay papered the toilet seat so Rosalie could pee.  “Where’s Matt?” she asked Jay.

 

“Working.”

 

“Is she Matt’s girlfriend?”

 

Jay paused.  I’m Matt’s girlfriend,” she said.

 

Rosalie thought about that.  “Then whose girlfriend is she?”

 

“Nobody’s,” Jay said too quickly.  “A friend, that’s all she is.”

 

They hurried out of the bathroom.  Shit!” Jay said.  She grabbed Rosalie’s face, trying to cover her eyes.

 

Daddy and Rosa were kissing.  His glasses were off, just like when he got close to Rosalie.  It was the kind of kiss he used to give Mommy.  Before the fights got bad.

 

Daddy grabbed a napkin off the bar and wiped the lipstick off his face.  His cheeks looked as red.  Rosa’s lipstick was all smeared.  “You’re screwed,” she said, sounding glad.

 

He got up and rushed into the men’s room. 

 

“Want to sit on my lap?” Rosa asked.  Rosalie shook her head, backing into an old man, who was getting up.

 

Jay was back behind the bar.  “Leave her alone.”

 

“I won’t hurt you.”  Rosa looked sad now.  “Please?”

 

Rosalie didn’t move.  She was so scared, she felt cold all over.

 

“Can I have a kiss?”

 

“Rosa!” Jay said.

Rosa bent and kissed Rosalie.  Half on the cheek, half on the lips.  “Tell your daddy goodbye for me,” she said.

 

And she left.

 

When he came out of the men’s room, Daddy looked sick.  And sadder than he ever had, before. 

 

“She’s gone,” Jay said.  “Thank God.”

 

Daddy nodded.  His hand was shaking as he took most of his money off the bar.  He almost dropped his glasses when he put them back on.  “See you,” he mumbled.  He took Rosalie’s hand, and they walked slowly to the door.

 

“Daddy,” she said, when they were outside.

 

He didn’t answer.  He was looking up and down the street.

 

Daddy?” she said, when they started walking again.

 

His hand felt limp in hers.  He was dragging his feet, like he didn’t want to go home.

 

She wanted to ask him if Rosa would have a baby, now that she and Daddy had kissed.  She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to make him mad.

 

He looked down at her, finally.

 

Shit!” he yelled, just like Jay had.  Then his hand was on her face, wiping roughly.

 

Rosalie started to cry.

 

“What’s wrong with her?” he said. “Fuckin’ lipstick!”

 

“Daddy!” Rosalie screamed. “That hurts!”

 

He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, pulling her close.  His heart was pounding.  “It was Grandma,” he said.  “Like Mommy says.”  His beard hurt her sore face. You were named after Grandma.  Okay, baby?”

 

She was too scared to answer.

 

“Lee?” he said, starting to cry, himself.

 

 

 

OVERQUALIFIED

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

 

Liquidation:

What Dorothy did

to the Wicked Witch,

leaving just her stinking cap and cape.

Your 401K’s down there, somewhere.

Those few bucks they matched

through the years.

Thirty-three years:

As long as Christ lived.

The day you came here,

one-fifty-nine was good pay.

Drunk as you got,

you always had food,

a chunk of the rent.

You got older here,

but never grew up.

Crying over guys,

coworkers who got axed,

some who left for “better” jobs.

It hurt when no one called.

It hurts now,

when no one calls

for an interview.

“Overqualified”:

That’s you.

After years of doing

the same shit, day after day,

you’ve got to start fresh.

Or you’ll starve.

You will starve,

you aging, aching,

black-haired, tragicomic,

walking Dylan tune.

Never as smart

as you thought you were,

just short of magna cum laude.

Digesting the nutrient facts

on Fancy Feast cans

will at least come in handy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Art by Steven Cooney

 

Now Featuring . . .

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Atlantic City 1972

 

 

“Don’t tell me,” the box-office bitch said, “you girls are only twelve.”

 

“Forget it!” I gave her my buck-seventy-five. We could’ve paid half price, if Ramona wasn’t so fat.

 

And bug-eyed. Those thick glasses made her look like a teacher. Funny, ‘cos she was the dumbest kid at the hotel. Melanie, her sister, was the smart one.

 

Smart enough to snatch Howard away, I thought. Imagining her red head in his lap drove me crazy. Till she came along, I was his favorite.

 

 “But you’re not seventeen, either.” Box Office Bitch smirked. “Shouldn’t be here without a parent.”

 

I forced a smile. We just had to see The Godfather.

 

She looked away. “Go on in.”

 

I hated Melanie but Ramona was okay. Since Howard dumped me, we were stuck with each other. We hung out on the boardwalk, ate cotton candy, made fun of people. Mostly happy couples.

 

Every day I dragged her to Madame Tussaud’s. God, I loved wax museums. Especially the Chamber of Horrors. Gleefully, I imagined Howard and Melanie in all the torture devices.  

 

“Maybe . . .” Ramona said, early that afternoon. “They’re meant to be together.”

 

“Bullshit!”I said.

 

We were outside Steel’s Fudge. In the window, that mechanical guy made fake fudge.  We watched him, almost hypnotized.

 

“Besides,” I said. “They’re too young.”

 

“But you guys are fourteen, too,” she said. “You and Howard. What’s the difference, Pam?” God, she was stupid.

 

Before I could answer, she grabbed me, pointed across the boardwalk.

 

Jenny.

 

“Aw, shit!” I said, but inside, I was laughing.

 

Jenny was this tiny, skinny pest, madly in love with Howard. Worse than me. One whole week in July, she spent sucking Howard’s dick in the movie theater. The same theater Ramona and I were at, waiting to see The Godfather.

 

“She’s not gonna like it,” Ramona said, real serious, “That he’s with my sister.”

 

No, I thought. She’s not!

 

Fantasies of Jenny slicing them both up soared through my head. All summer long, Howard had shown off his switchblade. If Jenny got hold of it . . . she was that crazy. At least, I hoped she was.

 

Jenny was from Allentown, PA. That was some drive to Atlantic City.

 

“Her family must’ve brought her back,” I said. “’Cos she can’t live without him.”

 

From where we were, she looked even thinner. Haggard, like she’d been real sick. But she didn’t act sick. She hurried across the boardwalk, like she was searching for something.

 

Howard, I thought. What else?

 

When she stopped at Woolworth’s pretzel stand, I was sure of it. That’s where Howard worked, when he wasn’t getting his cock sucked by the hotel’s girl guests. But somebody else was working the stand.

 

And suddenly Jenny was gone.

 

“C’mon,” I told Ramona. “Or we’ll be late for the movie.”

 Once we sat down, toward the back, with our Milk Duds and Tabs, Ramona said, “Think Jenny’ll show up here?”

 

I sipped my Tab. “If she doesn’t find him somewhere else.”

 

That the two of them might show up here hadn’t occurred to me.

 

What’s to stop them? I thought. This sure was a “couples” place. Howard’s, anyway. They could be up in the balcony, right now. His jeans down, her mouth stuffed with . . .

 

The lights dimmed. Soon the movie would start.

 

“Hope it’s nice and bloody,” I said.

 

But I couldn’t get into it. And it was just me, ‘cos everybody around us seemed totally absorbed. I mean, no mumbling, or paper-rustling. Not for hours. That was unheard-of.

 

I pictured Howard and Melanie doing all kinds of dirty stuff. Some I’d done with him, but not enough to keep him.

 

Maybe ‘cos she was prettier than me. Probably the prettiest girl down in fucking Maryland. A bigger chest than mine, too.

 

God, I hated her. Wished I could hang her by that long red hair. From the balcony, I imagined her swinging.

 

“Look!” Ramona whispered.

 

Something was going on, in the picture. Something bad. You could tell by the creepy, high-pitched music and how the camera took you through the house.

 

At the same time, something was going on behind us. This . . . sobbing. It wasn’t part of the movie, at least I didn’t think so. It sounded female, and in the scene there was just a guy, in bed.

 

I turned around, but nobody was there.

 

“Don’t you hear that?” I asked Ramona, but her eyes were glued to the screen. Suddenly, she gasped.

 

In that bed was a horse’s head.

 

We all screamed, with the guy. Everybody in the theater. So loud, they probably heard us back at the hotel. Some jerk up front tried scrambling backwards in his seat.

 

Above the screams, you heard the sobs.

And after the screaming stopped, you still heard them.

 

It was so annoying. I’d finally got into the movie, and some jerk was ruining it for me. I’d finally stopped thinking about . . .

 

That giggle. Up in the balcony, I heard it. Then a guy’s mumbling. And moaning.

 

When the slurping started, Ramona looked at me.

 

The scream that followed topped all the others. 

 

I turned as a body—like a big rag doll—went flying off the balcony.

 

It hung, suspended, in the air, while other screams rang out around us. It just didn’t seem real.

 

All the lights went on. When I glimpsed red hair, my heart reeled.

 

But Melanie wasn’t hanging.  She was in the balcony, with Howard.

 

Jenny was hanging, but from what? She didn’t seem attached to anything. It was magic, or something.

 

Magic or not, she was dead.

 

          The ambulance and cops came, did their thing. People swarmed all over, but the cops kept them back.

 

Howard looked half-dead, himself. Like he was scared he would be, when his dad heard about this. Bad for business, his dad would say.

 

Hope you pulled up your jeans fast.

 

          Melanie had fainted, earlier. Now she and Ramona sat, arms around each other, rocking like sissies.

 

Though the cops wouldn’t let us near Jenny, she sure looked dead. I mean, like dead for a while. Or like a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s. But that was impossible.

 

Or was it?

 

Two days later, Jenny’s death was in the paper. In the hotel lobby, Mom read the article to me.

 

“Now it says here,” she said, crossing her tanned legs, “that ‘Jenny Cowell, aged thirteen, hanged herself in her bedroom in Allentown . . .’ ”

 

“No!” I said. “The paper got it wrong. She did it at the . . .”

 

Behind the desk, Howard’s dad gave me an anxious look.

 

Mom kept reading. “‘ Time of death was around noon.’ ” Her eyes narrowed. “What time were you at that movie?”

 

I shrugged.

 

The day Jenny died, it was like twelve o’clock when we’d seen her on the boardwalk. Weaving in and out of crowds. Haunting the pretzel stand.

 

Like a lovesick, lost soul.

 

“We walked out,” I said, finally. “After the horse died.”

 

 

“Now Featuring . . .”Collected in Death Takes a Snow Day by Cindy Rosmus, edited by Jason Michel, with cover art by Paul “Deadeye” Dick.  Copyright 2012 © Pulp Metal.

 

 

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Hangdog

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “That’s Gordon,” Speed told Tina, her first night back. “The ‘new kid.’ ”

 

          Gordon was no kid. Unless he had that weird aging disease. Sixties, haggard, with bulging eyes, he’d been dancing by himself all over Bar 13.  Now he was all over Carolyn, the crack whore. Ringo and his biker pals howled with laughter.

 

“Thinks he’s one of us.” Speed looked disgusted. “But I hate his guts.”

 

Giggling, Carolyn let Gordon paw her.

 

“Shit,” Tina said. Rough enough coming back to work. Her lungs still felt like somebody was sitting on them. But now some new creep to deal with.

 

When Gordon caught her eye, she got chills.

 

“Hey, Guidette!” he yelled to her. She stiffened.

 

“That fuck,” Speed said.

 

“Drinks on me!” Gordon tossed wrinkled, slimy bills on the bar. “For every motherfucker here.”

 

Ringo stopped laughing. “Wudga call me?” He started over.

 

As Speed slid his tip over to Tina, she grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave,” she said.

 

This “new kid” freaked her out. She thought she’d seen it all: sex offenders, hit men, thieves. Bar 13 was crawling with thieves.

Like her own mother . . .

 

But there was something especially evil about Gordon.

 

“I meant it nice,” he said. “You’re my bestest friend.” In Ringo’s hands, the pool stick looked like a big toothpick. “Kick your ass next game,” Gordon added.

 

Tina hoped Ringo would split the stick on his head. Instead, he said, “You’re on, man.”

 

“Guidette!” Gordon said. “Where’s them drinks?”

 

Who the fuck, Tina thought, is this guy?

 

“Malibu Bay Breeze.” What Carolyn always leeched off guys. “A double,” she didn’t have to add.

 

Round after round, Gordon bought.  Every time they did a shot, he and Carolyn sucked face, noisily. Tina almost puked.

 

Again Speed tried to leave. “No!” Tina said. “One more—on me.”

 

“No, on me.” Gordon tossed her another slimy bill.

 

He kept winning at pool. Ringo’s scowl said they were never “bestest friends.”

 

“Who is this fuck, anyway?” Ringo muttered to Speed.

 

“Hank would’ve said, ‘The Devil himself.’ ”

 

Hearing Hank’s name made Tina want to cry. Their friend had died during last month’s blizzard. Bar 13 wasn’t the same without his dry humor, or sensitivity. The bar’s leeches had sucked him dry.

 

Ringo said, “Al’s callin’ him the ‘new Hank.’ ”

 

“What?” they both said.

 

Tina was shaking. “’Cos he beefs up the register? That greedy fuck!”

 

The others just stared at her. Never before had she trashed Al, the owner. But tonight she felt like walking out.

 

I’ll go on welfare, Tina thought, like the crack whore.

 

Carolyn had bled Hank for drinks and bucks. She’d also gotten Tina’s man Felix killed in jail. Every day Tina hated her more for it.

 

Now Carolyn squeezed Gordon’s cock through his baggy jeans. With a disgusted look, Ringo went out the back door.

 

“Even he can’t take it,” Tina said.

 

“Nah,” Speed said. “’S gotta walk Butch.”

 

Picturing the Rottweiler tearing up Gordon’s throat made Tina feel good, all over. And Carolyn would make a yummy dessert.

 

The back door opened.  “Can’t be back that fast,” Speed said.

 

Instead of bald Ringo, it was an older chick with red, spiky hair.

 

Aw, shit, Tina thought.

 

“Hide your money!” one biker yelled.

 

“Fuck you!” the older chick said.

 

Tina’s face burned as her mom, Patsy, sat at the bar. Nobody knew they were mother and daughter. Her smile assured Tina their “secret” was still safe.

 

Tina poured Harvey’s into a fancy glass. “What’s up . . . Patsy?”

 

Still smiling, Patsy cased the bar. As usual, Carolyn had no money up. When Patsy said, “Pickin’s are lean,” Tina cringed.

 

Then Patsy saw Gordon’s stray, slimy bills. “Hmmm,” she said.

 

“Ma—” Tina stopped, just in time.

 

 Gordon and Patsy had spotted each other. He walked around her, peering at her, like he wasn’t sure how he knew her. But the look on her face chilled Tina.

 

“You.” Patsy’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Thought the worms would’ve got you by now.”

 

Speed nudged Tina but she wouldn’t look at him.

 

“Do I . . . know you?” Gordon said.

 

“Cut the crap!” Patsy spat out. Tina had never seen her like this, with any guy. And she’d had plenty. When Tina was little . . .

She had a new “daddy” every week.

 

Gordon smirked. “Give this lovely lady a drink.”

 

Carolyn looked annoyed. Tina reached for the Harvey’s.

 

“I don’t want it,” Patsy said. “I’d drink my own piss first.”

 

“Sheee-itt,” Speed said.

 

“This fuck,” Patsy said, “robbed me blind.”

 

People relaxed. Smiling, Carolyn leaned back, crossed her legs. Good for her! Tina bet she was thinking. The image of Patsy strolling out with Carolyn’s purse could still make Tina smile.

 

After she refilled Patsy’s drink, she began chopping limes.

 

Patsy sipped her drink. “Years back, he robbed me,” she said. “Bailed out when I needed him most. I was just a dumb kid. Dumb and . . . knocked up.”

 

The knife slipped, slicing Tina’s thumb. It bled all over. No! she thought, sucking her thumb. No way. He can’t be!

 

“I never fucked you,” Gordon said, sneering. “I don’t even remember you.”

 

Tina scanned his face for . . . what? Resemblance? Her own brown eyes were deep-set, not bulgy. His were like a Boston Terrier’s. She looked so much like Patsy, people should’ve noticed.

 

“Remember this?” Patsy threw her drink in his face.

 

Speed got up. As he wiped his face, Gordon’s smile was horrible. “Oh, yeah,” he said.

 

“That was the day,” Patsy told the others, “He hung our dog.”

 

Even Carolyn gasped.

 

“Zorro.” Patsy started to cry.

 

Zorro, Tina thought wildly, recalling old photos of Patsy’s favorite mutt. Zorro, the Chihuahua mix, had died before Tina was born. Now she knew how.

 

Let’s hang him, she thought.

 

 

When the back door opened and Ringo’s dog Butch flew in, Carolyn screamed. Patsy joined her. The whole bar went wild.

 

Ringo was behind Butch. Still screaming, Patsy was climbing over the bar, to get away from Gordon. Others backed away, like he had the plague.

 

Butch’s barks and growls were aimed at Gordon, like the dog knew what he had done, years back.

 

Like this creep must pay . . . 

 

Tina caught Ringo’s eye.

 

Her heart throbbed with her bleeding thumb as she pictured a younger, sadistic Gordon plowing her mommy. Really hurting her. Tears swelled, as she imagined the terrified look in Zorro’s eyes. Felt the rope getting tighter and tighter around the poor mutt’s neck.

 

“Butch . . .” When Ringo smiled, she looked away.

 

Till Gordon’s screams started.

 

Then she had to watch.

 

 

“Hangdog” by Cindy Rosmus. Originally appeared in Pulp Ink 2, edited by Nigel Bird and Chris Rhatigan. Copyright © 2012 by Snubnose Press.

 

 

 


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BIRTHDAY FROM HELL

by

Cindy Rosmus

         

          “Lynn!” the barmaid yelled over Kelly Clarkson. “Wanna shot?”

          Her last one was still full. Lynn downed it, wiped her mouth, held up the empty. “Oh, yeah!” she said, as Mickey poured more Jager.

          “Only a bitch goes out on her husband’s birthday!” Mickey said. Lynn just shrugged.

Ten after eight, the Bud clock read. In less than an hour, the fucker would die.

          Lynn’s hubby. That conniving, Twinkie-scarfing fuck. Once he’d owned a sweatshop, making him an “illegal alien-banging” fuck, too.

It was fuck the boss, or lose your job. But Lynn was the dope, for marrying him. She’d never trusted him, since.

          A loving wife might’ve planned a surprise party for his birthday. Good wine, a Carvel cake.

But Lynn plotted his death.

“Sure about this?” Boy Toy had asked. Skinny kid with the Dick Tracy nose. “What if you change your mind? What if . . .” he said, seriously, “You miss him?”

Like she’d miss a crab louse.

“It’s like this,” Lynn explained, counting out his fee. “He never misses American Idol.”

“Even on his birthday?” Boy Toy said. “He’d rather watch that dumb show than fuck you?”

If Lupe showed up, Lynn thought, he’d fuck her.

That spic cooze was still lurking around, somewhere. Lynn bet every wrong number was Lupe. That Hubby had never really dumped her.

“Yeah,” Lynn said wearily. “And eat Twinkies.”

When Hubby was rich, he’d nickel-and-dimed her to death. Now that he was broke, he sucked up everything she had.

Almost . . .

Blissfully drunk, she smiled, separating her wet singles.

“Aw, baby!” he’d whined, when she denied him play money.

“I’m saving up,” she said sweetly, “for your special birthday treat.”

Mickey leaned across the bar. “I don’t know,” she said, “If Scratch left me alone on my birthday . . .”

“You’d be pissed.”

Slowly, she wiped the bar. “No . . . suspicious.”

“Oh.” Hubby could give two shits about Boy Toy.

“I’d say he was going to kill me.”

“Huh?” Lynn sobered up fast.

“What a great alibi!” Mickey smiled. “Lotsa witnesses, all saying he was out with them.”

Lynn’s own smile was forced. “But that doesn’t mean . . .”

“While some creep’s headed to our place with a crowbar.”

Or a Star .380.

“Some real dope, if I know Scratch. With an IQ of 12.”

He’s not that dumb, Lynn thought, about Boy Toy. He even went to college. Or was it art school? He said he knew a lot about guns. . . .

“And I’m home, all alone. . . .”

Lynn struggled with this. Before she could make another drink, Lynn seized Mickey’s wrist. “But he won’t be alone all night.”

Mickey just looked at her.

Smiling slyly, Lynn said, “I promised him—you know— something special for his birthday.”

The tugboat guys had said Mickey swung both ways.  Lynn hoped it was true.

“A real treat,” she said. “You know.”

Mickey smiled back, finally. “Maybe after closing.”

Closing or not, Lynn should’ve checked with Boy Toy before planning this. But not now!  He was supposed to text just one word: “DONE,” when it was over.

Five to nine. She had goose bumps. Right now, on that LCD TV Hubby had blown her money on, an Idol wannabe was being eliminated. And across the room . . .

On the couch, she pictured him, grinning, Twinkie wrappers on his belly. As Boy Toy snuck in, Hubby thought he was Lynn.

And the gun went off.

She felt sick, suddenly. Did the kid bring a silencer? Or would he shoot through a cushion? Would he have time, if Hubby saw him?

Would blood splatter all over? Drip down the TV screen? Make Twinkies look like red velvet cake?

“Mick!” She held up her empty glass.

Sure, get trashed. So she wouldn’t know her ass from last week.

Five after nine, now. And still no text.

Maybe Boy Toy was cleaning up.

No, no blood splatter, she thought. You dumb shit. One slug and get the fuck out.

She kept peering at her cell. When Mickey said, “Surprise!”, Lynn jumped.

“Nervous?” Mickey asked, smiling. “You a first-timer?”

“First-timer for what?”

“You’re a good wife,” Mickey said. “You know that?”

By nine-thirty, Lynn was a sweaty mess. When her cell rang, she didn’t hear it. Above the music, she heard the bar phone ring and almost shit her pants.

Mickey covered one ear, so she could hear the caller. Lynn’s heart raced, as Mickey’s eyes went from confused to horrified. She looked straight at Lynn.

The back door opened and Boy Toy hurried in.  He grabbed Lynn’s arm.

“The police are at your house,” Mickey told Lynn. “You’ve got to leave right now.”

“Dude,” Boy Toy whispered. “It was freaky. All that blood.”

“Shut up!” Lynn pushed him away.

“I’ll call you a cab.” Mickey eyed her, strangely.

“Mick, what happened?” Lynn said. “I’m scared.” She was, too.

“I’ll drive her home,” said Boy Toy. “I’m her friend.” Was he nuts? He should’ve been on the lam, already.

Outside, he lost it. “It could’ve been me!” he said. “That psycho bitch had a knife.”

Lynn wanted to slap him. People were staring on their way into the bar. She smiled at them like he was nuts.

“You mean . . .” she said, once they were alone, “you didn’t kill him?”

“She beat me there. Just kept chopping, and chopping. Till he looked like dog food!” He covered his face. “That crazy bitch. Crazy Spanish bitch.”

Lynn pulled him close. Like she was his mommy, he snuggled up to her.

“Thank God I got away,” he said. “And she didn’t see me in the house!”

“Yeah,” she said. “Thank God.”

But she was thinking money, now, and how hard it was to save. A long time, it had taken her. All for a job Lupe did for him . . .

But only a real bitch would ask for it back.

“Birthday From Hell” by Cindy Rosmus. Originally appeared in Death Takes a Snow Day, edited by Jason Michel, with cover art by Paul “Deadeye” Dick.  Copyright 2012 © Pulp Metal Fiction.

 

“Birthday From Hell” by Cindy Rosmus. Originally appeared in Death Takes a Snow Day, edited by Jason Michel, with cover art by Paul “Deadeye” Dick.  Copyright 2012 © Pulp Metal Fiction.


 


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The President Is Dead

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          My sister Kathy was three.  Mom was changing her pants, Kathy told me.  Those red velvet ones we never saw again.  Mom was crying, Kathy said, but Mom cried a lot, back then.  The funny part, Kathy remembered, was how Mom stopped in the middle of changing her.  The pants were half on, half off her.  Her chubby legs were freezing.  Our tiny black and white TV was in the kitchen, and the porcelain table was ice-cold beneath Kathy’s bottom and thrashing legs.

 

I was in second grade—Mrs. Finn’s class.   That mean, shriveled bitch of a lay teacher with the tight gray bun and rimless glasses as late as 1963.  She was seven feet tall, and worse than any nun.  Even for eighth grade, she would’ve been mean.  “What Mass did you go to last Sunday?” she asked each kid in turn. 

 

We were supposed to go to the nine o’clock Mass.  If you went to the eight, or the ten, you were fucked.   Mrs. Finn screamed at you.  I think she liked making kids cry.  She smelled our fear I guess the way sharks did blood.

 

          Shivering, I wished I were invisible, or at least at home, still throwing up.  How many times had I bit my tongue till it bled, Mrs. Finn scared me so much?  If she called on me, it was all over.  “Mom doesn’t believe in God,” I’d have to say.  Nobody lied to Mrs. Finn.  “And Dad refuses to go.  Says ‘I work hard all week long!  Saturdays, too.   For her, and you kids!  Can’t I sleep late just once?’ ” Well, in a way, that was a lie.  Dad never said anything nicely.

 

Mrs. Finn was getting closer.  My heart raced.  “Mr. Doyle,” she said to the fat, quivering kid in front of me.  “What Mass…”

 

We were saved by the loudspeaker.

 

First…static.  A long pause.  Then…what sounded like sobbing.  All of us kids looked at each other, confused.

 

“At-ten-tion!” said the principal, Sister Joseph Marie.  She could hardly speak.  “Sisters and teachers, boys and girls…our president was shot!”

 

With one huge breath, we gasped.  I stared up at his picture on the pink wall, next to the big wooden crucifix.  Is he dead? I wondered, but was too scared to ask.  “You want him to be dead?” Mrs. Finn might scream.  The greatest president we ever had, the only Catholic one?  The one who almost sent his little girl here, to your school, in Jersey, to keep her out of danger?

 

“Is he dead?” the braver kids were saying, but Mrs. Finn was past yelling at us.  Her hair had come loose.  Tears poured down her wrinkled face.  “How?” she cried.  “How could God let this happen?”

 

“Good for ‘im,” Dad said, that night.  “That piece of shit. That’s what I told those bums at work.  That ‘Bay-a Pigs’ fuck—…”

 

Mom got mad.  “You should’ve been fired!” she yelled, and he laughed.  “For saying a stupid thing like that!”

 

Kathy and I were huddled together on one kitchen chair, her head on my shoulder.  Hours after supper, you still smelled burned meat loaf.  They kept showing the president’s face on TV.

 

He was dead.

 

Days later, in the dark kitchen, we watched the funeral.  Just three of us, since Kathy was fast asleep in Mom’s arms.  Mom’s face was stern as a nun’s.

 

With only the light from the TV, I painted my nails with the pale pink polish from my Barbie makeup kit.  The funeral music was so sad, it made me want to cry.  Made me want to throw up again, but there was nothing left in my stomach. 

 

The saddest part was, seeing the President’s little boy—John-John, his name was—salute his dad.  He was only like Kathy’s age.   I bet he didn’t know what was really happening.  I couldn’t imagine saluting my dad, if he died.  But I bet we’d miss him, mad as he got, sometimes.  At least, I would.


“Seriously, he’s better off dead,” Dad said, in a quiet, almost understanding voice.  Mom didn’t answer.  “If he lived, he’d be a vegetable.  His head was gone.”

 

Mom wouldn’t even look at him.

 

 

“The President Is Dead.” Collected in No Place Like Home by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright 2008 © Fossil Publications. Originally appeared in Conceit Magazine, Vol. 10, Number 10, January 2008.  © 2008 by Perry Terrell Publications.

 

 


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The Zombie Lover

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus


 

          For weeks now . . . maybe months, Rudy walks the streets, aimlessly. But in his brain is a picture of you. The you he lost, once he died.

 

          Einstein, he called you, ‘cos you were smarter than him. Read the classics, knew the answers on Jeopardy. “I’m jealous,” he teased. Now those words would stick to his throat. He’s lucky it hasn’t rotted, yet.


           It’s Valentine’s Day. Florists’ trucks pull up, bouquets pop out. Rudy reels. Even dead, he hates the smell of roses. Those velvety red fucks. Always, the thorns pricked his fingers. Delicate white fingers, he had, like a child pianist. He counts them: all ten, he’s still got.


           Chocolate, he always loved. All kinds of sweets. He wanders into Chocolate World.


          It’s mobbed. Everyone waiting for chocolate-dipped strawberries, heart-shaped lollies.  Something special for that special someone.


           Einstein, he thinks.


          The place smells delicious. Even more, since he can’t eat. Worms wriggle in his stomach, but if he thinks about you, it’s not so bad.


 The door opens, and a delivery guy breezes in with roses. Rudy almost gags.


He seems to walk right through Rudy, up to a chick behind the counter. The best-looking one, though Rudy only has eyes for you.

 

“Christina?” the guy guesses.


 “Yeah?” she says.


 A pimply kid brings out a tray of goodies: teddy bears clutching chocolate roses. “Hey!” he says. “Say they’re from me!” One customer laughs. “Score me some brownie points.”


 “Fuck you!” Christina says.


 More than ever, Rudy thinks that the prettiest girls have the foulest mouths. Make guys feel like shit. But not you.


 Nobody seems to know he’s there, but he’s not invisible. As he holds up his hand, he sees he’s lost a finger.


 Before the rest of them drop off, before he sinks into a puddle of putrefaction, he’s got to find you.


 As he leaves, he smiles at his reflection in the window. The shades hide his empty eye sockets. He always wore shades, even at night. How cool he used to be! But he’s not sure when that changed.

 

He thinks you live up the block from Scratch’s.

 

Joe, the day bartender, is in Scratch’s doorway, smoking a Marlboro. In the old days, you could smoke anytime, anywhere. Even in the hospital.  Vaguely, Rudy recalls someone dragging three IVs into the hallway, to light up.

 

As he passes Joe, the smoke chars what’s left of Rudy’s lungs. Joe doesn’t even see him.


 Einstein, Rudy thinks.


 On your stoop, he oozes onto the top step.


 Summers, way back, you drank beers out here. Sitting so close, his heart raced. Watching the moon together.


 “Take off those shades, asshole!” the moon might’ve said.

 

I can’t, Rudy thinks. He’s overcome with such sadness, he can’t fight it, anymore. Though his eyes are gone, somehow he cries big, salty tears. . . .


                                       *     *    *


 

When you walk outside, later, you almost step in something foul.  Like a giant bug, or month-old garbage.


         Your neighbor must’ve ruined his shoes.  In a rage, someone stepped on, mangled a pair of sunglasses.


 Rudy . . . you think, blinking back tears.


 Above you, the moon has nothing to say.


 


 


 



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Art by Lee Kuruganti © 2014

LENT

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Pancakes.  And sausage.  Love that stuff, man,” Danny had said.  “Wouldn’t miss it for nothin’.”

 

          But he did.

 

Cherie sat red-eyed at the vestry’s table with the syrup bottle in her hand.  Twisting the cap this way and that till her hand was sticky.  She’d got the last of the burnt sausages, but she didn’t care.  She wasn’t hungry anymore.

 

He’d stood her up.  On Fat Tuesday.  The guy she’d met right here at St. Mark’s.  The one who’d braided her hair at Saturday night Mass, the love of her life, hadn’t shown up for the Pancake Race.

 

“Tol’ja,” Beth said later.  She was Cherie’s best friend: the wild one.  She knew Danny from way back.  “You’re lucky he lasted this long.”

 

Cherie choked back tears.  They were in St. Mark’s lot.  In Beth’s beat-up Camaro.  No heat in the car, and with the windows wide open.  On the radio was an old Bruce tune.

 

“He’s drinking again,” Beth said.

 

Cherie shrugged.  Usually she got mad.  Wanted to scream “Liar!”  But not tonight.

 

“Probabaly drugs too.”

 

The rectory looked like a haunted house.  How could Father Shaver live there alone?  He needed a wife, Cherie thought. 

 

“Listen to me,” Beth said.

 

“I feel sick,” Cherie said.  She did, too.  The half-pancake she’d eaten was no match for all the coffee she’d drunk.  Both her heart and her head were pounding.

 

“Okay.  You want the truth?”

 

No, Cherie thought miserably.   She turned up the music.

 

“Tough!” Beth shut it off.  “He’s hanging with the Sleaze again.  Down Spit’s.  Every damn night.”

 

Cherie shook her head.  It made her feel queasy. 

 

“He’s back to his old shit, Chere.”

 

Moira, Cherie thought weakly.  Tattooed on his arm.  His ex from Spit’s, the one with red…whose nose he…

 

Cherie just opened the car door in time.

 

“Sure you’re not pregnant?” Beth asked on the way home.

 

Cherie stared out the window.  “No,’ she mumbled.  As close as they were, Beth didn’t get it.  Nobody did.

 

The Camaro screeched to a halt outside the Valenti home.  “Damn shame,” Beth said, “You had to meet him in church.”

 

*     *     *

 

Father Shaver wasn’t your typical priest.  Balding, he had longish gray hair.  Looked like a cross between an aging Sting and an aging Phil Collins.  “The ‘Rock and Roll Priest,’ ” Cherie’s dad said sarcastically.  Father Shaver played guitar.  Sometimes in the middle of sermons, he’d pull it out and start singing.  He preached about forgiveness.  Joy.  Love.

 

St. Mark’s wasn’t your typical parish.  Piss-copal,” was the way Cherie’s dad said it.  Her parents had never forgiven her for converting.  They were Roman Catholics from head to toe, though neither had been to Mass since Cherie was twelve.  “Don’t matter,” her dad muttered.  “The Pope is infallible, kid.”

 

St. Mark’s was filled with strange but nice types: young and old gays, punk rockers, ex-drug addicts.  Real people.  It shouldn’t have surprised Cherie that Saturday night last summer when she was leaning back in the pew and felt a slight tug on her hair.

 

First one side.  Then the other.  While Father Shaver preached the Gospel of John in his own words: “ ‘Hey, Pete,’ Jesus said, ‘You love me, right?’ ”

 

Cherie’s hair was so long, she could turn around without jerking it out of the guy’s hands.  It was Danny.  He was braiding her dark hair as if she were an Indian princess. 

 

He smiled.

 

Just like in books, it happened.  With just one look.

 

Danny was her type.  The kind of guy she’d searched for in bars around town but had given up ever finding.  Rumpled dark hair.  Eyes that looked through you.  And that mouth: small, but with that pouty underlip.  “Pissed-off mouth,” Cherie’s dad called it.  Even when he smiled, Danny looked pissed off about something.

 

He was dressed like he’d just got thrown out of a bar, in a ripped t-shirt, and faded jeans.  A small gold cruicifix was in his left ear.  Good, Cherie thought.  Means he’s straight.  As he braided her hair further up, she felt his hand on her back, her neck.  Already she was sweating from the ninety-five degree heat.  Danny’s hand made her feel hotter than ever. 

 

Smiling, she turned back around to hear the rest of the sermon. 

 

“You’re not pissed, are you?” Danny asked, during the Exchange of Peace.

 

Cherie giggled.  “You like pizza?”

 

Her dad owned Valenti’s Pizzeria.  Six days a week Cherie helped out, answering phones and heating up slices, mostly for teens.  For seven years she’d worked for her dad.  “S’all yours someday,” he promised her, his only child.  He would’ve died if he knew how much she dreaded owning the place. How much she wanted to run far away.

 

“Lousy town,” Danny agreed.  “Fulla prejudice.  People getting’ kicked around all the time.

 

“Me,” he said, holding his slice at an angle, so the oil dripped onto the paper plate.  “I wanna play guitar.  Sing.  Maybe even preach.”

 

Cherie was thinking how long she’d been waiting to lose her virginity.  Twenty-three she’d be soon.

 

“I didn’t know you were so…holy,” she said, eyeing his tattoos: something really freaky on his upper right arm, and the name “Moira” on his left forearm.

 

He smirked in the middle of a bite.  “Not holy,” he said, chewing.  Saved is more like it.  Grateful.  I owe my sobriety to Him.”

 

Cherie wondered who “Moira” was.  His girlfriend or, God forbid, wife.  Hopefully his mother.  “How long’s it been?” she asked, thinking more of Moira than of his sobriety.

 

He shrugged.  “Don’t keep count.  But it’s been a while.”

 

From the counter, Cherie’s dad was giving them looks.  She’d purposely picked the table furthest away.  “I always wanted to sing, too,” she told Danny in a low voice.  “And sometimes I think about going to divinity school.” 

 

Eyes wide, he wiped his mouth on the oily napkin.  “I got an idea.”

 

A group of teens came in, and Cherie was glad.  Her dad trudged toward them.

“What?” she asked Danny.

 

          He took her hand.  “We’ll form a band.  Me, you.  Coupla the guys.  Maybe even Father Shaver.”

 

          The Rock and Roll Priest,” Cherie thought, her heart racing.

 

Danny held her hand to his lips.  “You can sing back-up.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Oh, jeez!” Beth said, when Cherie told her Danny’s plan.  “Gimme a break.”

 

Cherie felt like shoving her off the stoop.  “Atheists!” she hissed.

 

Beth sighed.  Then went off on Danny.

 

According to her, he was bad news.  They knew each other from downtown.  Hung out in the worst places: dopers’ houses, the sleaziest bars, down Monk Road, where kids went to get drunk, stoned, and laid in the dirt. 

 

In those days, “Wild Child” Beth was skinny and hot, though she still dressed the same, forty pounds later.  Only once did she fuck Danny, who “Looked exactly the same back then.  Ripped t-shirt and all,” Beth said.

 

They’d done it in the back of his old van, the same one he had now, the gray one with all the Classic rock bumper stickers.  “Born to Run,” said one.  “Let It Bleed,” said another.

 

“That same night,” Beth went on, “The scumbag dumped me for Moira Mangano.”

 

Cherie choked on her Pepsi.

 

“Sicilian-Irish bitch,” Beth said.  “Redhead.  Loves to kick ass.  Well, she didn’t get to kick mine.  I booked.”

 

“How long…” Cherie could hardly get the words out.  “I mean, does he still…”

 

“Nope.”  Smirking, Beth picked a splinter of wood out of her “fat” jeans.  “ Busted her nose.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Who do you think?” Beth yelled.  “Danny Gallucci!” 

 

When Cherie shushed her, Beth yelled it again.  Over and over she flung Danny’s name over the tops of trees like clumps of shit.  Cherie was glad her parents weren’t home.  They didn’t like Danny as it was.

 

Suddenly Beth calmed down.  “Anything you wanna know about him, just ask me.  Never mind.  I’ll tell you anyway.  He’s twenty-nine.  His mom’s a Jew.  That’s why he was raised an Episcopalian.  He’s got a nice cock, and knows how to use it.  Loves animals.  Watch him on the street---he’ll pick up strays.”  She laughed, harshly.

 

“You’re this hurt,” Cherie said, “After all these years?”

 

“No, pissed.” Beth glared at her.  “I got over the hurt part.  And how he hurt me was nothing compared to what he put that redhead through.”

 

Cherie picked up her can of Pepsi, which had spilled on the grass.  “But he’s different now.  Sober.  He goes to church every weekend.  He even takes Communion.”  The Host, but not the wine, she thought, relieved.

 

“Maybe he is,” Beth said.  “For now.  But he’s still got that temper.  Like a time bomb itching to go off.  Soon’s he takes a fucking drink…watch out!”

 

“He won’t,” Cherie said.

 

*     *     *

 

Beth had been right about the “strays.”

 

The night Cherie lost her virginity, Danny found a one-eyed tom cat down First Street.  Its gray fur was as shaggy as the doormat Mrs. Valenti had finally thrown out.  “Poor bastard,” Danny said sympathetically.

 

Cherie backed away. “Bet it’s got fleas.”

 

“Ya think?” Danny smiled up at her, then back down at the cat, which seemed content in Danny’s arms.  Muscled, they were, now that he started working out.  He couldn’t seem to find a job.  Spent more time playing the guitar.  Watching the few stars  in that plum velvet Jersey sky.

 

She cringed.  “Lots.”

 

He released the cat, which shook itself before waddling off. “Know what I’m gonna do?” He got up.  “Run my hands through your hair!”

 

“No!” Cherie started running.

 

All the way down First Street, he chased her.  The October wind blew her hair out behind her.  She shrieked as he got closer.

 

They were headed for that wire fence outside the Skyway.  Before she could change direction, he caught her by the hair.  Together, they slammed into the fence.

 

Instead of howling with pain, they both laughed.  He wrapped her hair around her hands. “Stop!” she said.

 

He did.  Then looked hard into her eyes.  For a moment, she was scared.  Like he could see through her eyes and the fence to something horrible on the Skyway.  She looked at his pissed-off mouth.

 

When he kissed her, she knew something was different this time.  The way his tongue chased hers around her mouth, she knew it was out for more.

 

 In between kisses, he licked her face.  Then she was doing it to him.  She felt him get hard against her.  In spite of the cold wind, she was burning up.  All over.

 

“Where’ll we go?” she asked.

 

“My van.  S’right up the block.”

 

Beth, she thought, as they hurried toward it.  But things were different now, Cherie thought stubbornly.  He was sober.  Saved.

 

Strays, she couldn’t help thinking.

 

Inside the van, it was as cold as outside.  Colder once they began taking off their clothes.

 

“S’ my first time,” Cherie said softly.

 

In the dark, his smile looked less pissed-off.  “Think I don’t know that?” She shivered as he unsnapped her bra. When he pulled down her jeans and panties, and pressed against her, she gasped.

 

An old packaged rubber was all he had, but it did the trick.  She moaned with pain, but she liked it.  When he finally broke thought, it felt like he belonged inside of her.  “Easy,” he whispered.  “S’ no rush, baby.”

 

When he came, he shivered.  “Oh…God!” he cried.  “Chere.  S’been so long.”

 

She didn’t ask how long.  She didn’t want to know.  The name “Moira,” framed by wild red hair, hovered over them in the dark van.  Cherie could almost see her: noseless, probably freckled, spying on them. Hating them both.

 

“I love you,” Danny said, as he slid out of her.

 

“Me…too.”  When she pulled him back on top of her, she surprised even herself. 

But there were no more rubbers.

 

He used his tongue.

 

*     *     *

 

When Danny dipped the Host in the Chalice, Cherie shared a look with the “Rock and Roll Priest.”

 

“Amen,” Danny said, then popped the wine-soaked Host in his mouth.

 

Monday night, Father Shaver stopped by Valenti’s.  “Can you take a break?” he asked Cherie. “Sit with me while I eat?

 

“I’m worried,” he told her.  “And I know you are, too.”

 

“He’s trying so hard.”

 

“Not hard enough,” Father said.  “He should be in A.A.  N.A., too.”

 

“He’ll go,” Cherie said, “When he’s ready.  Saturday night Mass keeps him out of bars, at least.”

 

“So far.” Father sounded just like Beth.

 

“Pray for him,” Cherie begged.  “Please?”

 

*     *     *

 

Two weeks later, Danny sipped from the Chalice itself. 

 

“S’ the Blood of Christ,” he said defensively, when Cherie brought it up.  “Lay off.  Was hard enough getting’ through Christmas.”

 

For Christmas he’d given her a white stuffed cat.  One of those Gunds.  Cherie wondered where he’d got the money for it.

 

“Better than a real one, anyway,” Beth said.  Cherie hadn’t seen much of her, lately. 

 

The following Saturday Danny didn’t even go to Mass.

 

“Got a headache, babe.  And tendonitis in my hands,” he explained to Cherie on the pizzeria’s phone.  “But I’ll see you later, okay?”

 

She didn’t.

 

*     *     *

 

The congregation prayed.  Along with Father Shaver, the ex-dopers and punk rockers—one with royal blue hair—laid hands on Cherie at the altar, and prayed for Danny to come back.

 

“Call if you need me,” Father said on her way out of the church.

 

Sobbing, Cherie ran all the way to First Street. 

 

*     *     *

 

“ ‘The Sleaze,’ ” Beth said, “Is like his oldest friend.  He used to bully us in grade school.  Picture this nasty eighth grade fuck chasing little kids.”

 

“He’d rather be with him than me?” Cherie said.

 

“When he’s drinking, yeah.  It’s no fun drinking in front of you.”

 

Cherie started to get out of the car, then sank back down.  “How could this happen?” she cried.  “He was doing so good!  We were supposed to form a band.  Preach together.  Get married, and have kids.  Run away from that damned pizzeria!”

 

Beth put her arm around her.  Cherie nearly choked on her sobs.  She didn’t care who heard her.  If she woke up people’s kids.  She wished they were all dead.  Herself, too.

 

“Used to…call me…all day long,” she sobbed.  “How could he just…stop?”

 

“It’s okay,” Beth said, once she’d stopped crying.  “I know. I’ve been there.”

 

“Not when he was sober!”

 

Beth shut off the motor.  “Tomorrow night,” she said, “We’ll go out.  Down Spit’s. We’ll find him.”

 

Cherie looked at her in disbelief.  “In a bar?”

 

Beth sighed.  “What’re the odds?”

 

*     *    *

 

It was so long since she’d gone to a bar, Cherie didn’t know what to wear.  She wound up wearing jeans, and Danny’s favorite of her crop sweaters: the white silk angora.  It was so soft, Danny was always rubbing his face against it.  Her make-up looked great, but her hair was too long for her to do anything with it.  She hadn’t cut it since she was fourteen.

 

Please don’t, Danny had begged.  For me?  She held back tears.  Remembering that time he’d braided it in church.  That time he’d chased her…the first time they’d made love in the van…

 

When she saw Cherie’s forehead, Beth said, “You’ve gotta be kidding,”

 

Meaning the Ashes.  Cherie knew Beth would bitch about that.  “It’s Ash Wednesday.”

 

“Wipe ‘em off.”

 

“No!”  Cherie looked up and down the street, almost scared of her own voice.  “It’s a sin.”

 

“C’mere.”  Cherie backed away, and Beth fell across the passenger seat.  “I was just gonna move your bangs.  Cover the Ashes a little.”

 

“I’ll do it myself,” Cherie muttered.  Finally she got in the car.

 

Beth shook her head.  “You kill me.”

 

*     *     *

 

Cherie was so nervous, they sat outside Spit’s for a long time.  She looked around, as Beth suddenly got out of the car, and slammed the door.  “It’s now or never!” she told Cherie.

 

Up close Spit’s looked even scarier.  One of the front windows was broke, nearly shattered.  The light in the Coors Light sign had probably died with it.  Even with the door closed, Cherie could hear every word of the Slayer song on the jukebox inside.

 

She looked so pathetic, Beth laughed.  The door opened, and voices came out.  “Put that stick down. Yeah, you, motherfucker!”  Beth walked into the big-bellied guy who was holding the door. 

 

Spit’s was mobbed.  Cherie was afraid to look around. What if Danny was here, in a place like this?  Even worse, what if he wasn’t?  For the first time, she felt self-conscious of the Ashes on her forehead.

 

“Whaddya want?” the barmaid demanded.  She was the size of a quarterback, with bleached hair, and a long scar down the side of her face.

 

“Mug of Bud!” Beth said.  It was so noisy, she had to yell.  “Chere?”

 

Cherie had to think about it.  All she ever drank were sweet things.  Jolly Ranchers, Woo-Woos.  She remembered something that had tasted like Strawberry Quik. “Tequila Rose?” 

 

“The fuck is she?”

 

“Not ‘she,’ Lulu.  ‘What,’ ” Beth said wearily.  “That pink, creamy shit.”

 

Lulu looked so pissed, Cherie thought she’d climb over the bar.  “Forget it!” Beth said. “She’ll have a Bud, too.”

 

“I don’t like beer,” Cherie said.

 

“Shut up and drink it!”

 

The first sip made Cherie feel like puking.  “Keep going,” Beth said.  “It’ll calm you down.”

 

When the beer was half-gone, Cherie found the guts to look around the bar.  Some crew, she thought.  Bikers in heavy leather and chains.  Old Spanish guys.  Here and there a druggy-looking black guy, or white trash.  All clumped together, Danny had said about this part of town.  So we know our place.

 

“See him?”

 

Cherie shook her head.  How different they all were, from people at St. Mark’s.  Even the wildest-looking churchgoers were no match for these losers.  Yeah, she told herself.  Some great Christian you are.

 

A three-legged dog hopped past.  It was just too much.

 

“If he was here,” Beth said, “That mutt would be right by him.”

 

Cherie froze.  “Beth?”

 

“He’s here?”

 

Cherie forgot it was rude to point.  That the wrong person might kick your ass if she caught you with your finger in her face.  Though she was on the opposite side of the bar, the girl was clearly glaring at Cherie.  Cherie, and nobody else.

 

“Moira,” Beth said, but Cherie had already figured that out.

 

Her hair was bright red.  She looked like her head was on fire.  Plastic surgery had a hand in her striking face.  Her “new” nose was a movie star’s, but Cherie wasn’t sure whose.  Her eyes were evil, so evil Cherie wanted to look away, but couldn’t.  It was like Moira had her under a spell.  She’s a witch, Cherie thought.  My God, that’s it. She’s making him drink again.

 

“He’s not with her.” Beth brought her back to reality.  “He’s not even here.”

 

Cherie’s mouth was dry.  She licked her lips, then found her beer. “Then where could he be?”

 

“You really wanna know?”  Beth nodded toward Moira’s side of the bar.  “That’s your source.”

 

Cherie shut her eyes.

 

“Finish your beer, then go talk to her.”

 

“I…can’t.”  Her back to Moira, Cherie could still feel her eyes.

 

“Rather drive all over town?” Beth said. “It might take all night.  And I’ve gotta work tomorrow.”

 

Cherie swallowed hard.  “Come with me?”

 

As they approached Moira, Cherie felt herself get smaller and smaller.  Moira’s eyes knew why they were coming.  Without taking her eyes off Cherie, she picked up her bottle of Bud and took a slug from it.

 

Up close she was bigger than life.  Her freckled fingers were bony, her nails about an inch long.  They were painted the color of her hair.  On some of the tips were jewels.  Cherie imagined them imbedded in her eyes.

 

Rather than look into Moira’s eyes, Cherie studied her chest.  Flat, it was.  Her plaid shirt was opened to show the tattoo on her left breast.  It said “DAN.”

 

Finally Cherie looked up at her face.  It was stern.  Smug. 

 

“We’re looking for Danny,” Beth said from behind Cherie.  “You seen him?”

 

Without changing her expression, Moira slowly shook her head. 

 

The song changed.  Something Latino came on.  Somebody whooped with laughter.

 

“Do…” Cherie’s voice was thin.  “Do you know where he might be?”

 

Moira smirked.  Brought the beer up to her mouth.  Without taking a sip, she put it back down.  “If you don’t,” she said, “Why the fuck would I?”

 

“Sorry,” Cherie whispered.

 

Beth nudged her. “Let’s get outta here.”

 

Cherie was afraid to turn her back.  “Thanks, anyway.”

 

They were almost at the door when Cherie heard a “Yo!” from the other side of the bar.

 

Moira was beckoning to her.

 

“You try Monk Road?” she asked when Cherie came back over.

 

“N—no.”

 

Moira smiled.  “Meet’cha down there!”  She started to get up.  Cherie backed away, scared she’d pee her pants.

 

“Maybe!” Moira yelled, as Cherie hurried away.

 

Her raucous laughter followed them out to the car.

 

*     *     *

 

For a while they just drove around town. 

 

“I was so scared,” Cherie murmured.  In spite of the cold, she was sweating.  “I thought she was gonna hit me.”

 

“I had your back,” Beth said.  “But she still would’ve killed us.”

 

“It’s not fair,” Cherie whispered.

 

Beth pulled over, by the park.  “Can I ask you something?”

 

Cherie didn’t answer.  She was picturing Moira’s red head on Danny’s bare lap.

 

“Ever occur to you that…maybe it’s better this way?  Maybe it is over, and you should just accept it?”

 

Cherie had known that was coming.  “No!” she screamed. “I love him!”

 

“ ‘Cos he’s your first,” Beth said.  “You never really forget your first.”

 

“I do love him,” Cherie said, fighting back tears.  “He’s the best.  Not like any other guy.  He can’t help it if he has a problem, damn it!”

 

“Nobody’s pouring those drinks down his throat.”

 

“He…” One tear got away, and slid down Cherie’s cheek.  “He used to say…it never bothered him to bring up the gifts…the bread and wine…at Mass.  That he never even got tempted.”

 

Beth shrugged.  “Well, he was wrong.” 

 

“I guess.”  Cherie nearly choked on the sob.

 

“Maybe…why don’t you try this?”  Beth brightened.  “Give him up for Lent.”

 

Through her tears, Cherie saw she was grinning.

 

“Just till Easter.  What is that, like six months?”

 

“Six weeks,” Cherie said.  “That’s not funny.”

 

“S’ your choice.”  Beth started the car. “What’ll we do?”

 

Cherie wasn’t sure.  Not once in her twenty-three years had she ever been down to Monk Road.  She’d always been too scared.  And till now, she’d never had a reason.

 

“Chere?”

 

In her mind, Cherie saw Danny’s face.  The way he’d smiled that time he’d braided her hair.  The look he got when he was praying with the others.  Eyes shut tight.  Intense, but at the same time serene.  “Talkin’ to the Big Guy,” he’d called it once.  She remembered this past Sunday, when all the hands were on her.  Bring him back, she’d prayed herself.  The harshest, most demanding, gut-rending prayer she’d ever prayed. 

 

“You know,” she said now, “In all those programs like A.A….how they say ‘Let Go, Let God’?”

 

“I’m an atheist, ‘member?”

 

Cherie ignored that.  “Well, I can’t.  I just…can’t.”

 

Beth backed up, then turned the Camaro back onto the Boulevard.  “So let’s go.”

 

“Down to Monk Road?”

 

She oughtta know.”

 

All of a sudden Cherie felt strange.  Panicky.  Sick to her stomach.  Like somebody had stuck a gun through the window and was aiming it straight at her head.  Go home, a little voice warned her, or you’ll be sorry.

 

Beth picked up speed.

 

*     *     *

 

Monk Road was bumpy as hell.  It was made out of hills of dirt.  Above the road the sky was bright orange with toxic waste.  It looked like Moira’s hair. 

 

Just like last night, an old Bruce tune was on the radio.  “ ‘Better Days,’ ” Beth said.  “Could be an omen.”

 

“Think he’ll be mad?”

 

“Probably.” 

 

Cherie pulled down the visor, inspected her face in the lighted mirror.  Her eyes were swollen.  The black tears had dried on her cheeks.  “Christ,” she said, “I look like a raccoon.”

 

“Leave it. S’ so dark down here, nobody’ll notice.”

 

Cherie looked out the window.  Monk Road was deserted.  “I’m scared.”

 

“You should be.”

 

In the distance was a van.  It looked gray, but could’ve been black, or navy.  Cherie’s chest tightened.  She could hardly breathe. 

 

“That’s it,” Beth said for her. 

 

They pulled up.  The van’s back doors were open.  Two guys—one skinny, one fat, were slouched on its floor.  Cherie recognized Danny.  Even in the dark, the other guy looked like trouble.  “Chicks!” he said.  “Oh, boy…”

 

“Hey, Sleaze!” Beth said, as she and Cherie got out of the Camaro.

 

One chick,” The Sleaze grumbled.  “And fuckin’ ‘Beth o’ the Bedspins.’ ”

 

“Kiss my ass,” Beth said.

 

Danny poked his head out of the van. He seemed unsure of who Cherie was, at first.  Then it dawned on him.  “Hi, babe,” he said.  For once his tone matched his pissed-off mouth perfectly.  He sat back down.

 

“What a rude fuck.” The Sleaze shook his head.  The Camaro’s headlights shone on his face.  God, he’s ugly, Cherie thought.  Eerie-looking.  Eyes bright in that acne-scarred face, which looked like a dead fat man’s.  When he turned his head, she saw he had a tiny ponytail.  “Get out the van and make nice with yer girl.”

 

Danny jumped out of the van.  The look he gave Cherie made her think of Moira’s nails.

 

“Wanna beer?” ashed The Sleaze.

 

“Sure,” Beth said.

 

“N-no thanks,” Cherie said as he cracked one can.

 

“Too late,” The Sleaze said as he cracked the other.

 

“What’s up?” Danny asked Cherie.

 

She didn’t know what to say.  As he stood there, hands on his hips, she studied him.  He had on jeans with a clunky belt, pointy boots, and a leather vest.  No jacket, she realized, then.  It was March.  Like forty degrees.  And windy, yet.  “Aren’t you cold?” was all she said.

 

“I was, before,” Danny said, “But now you’re here to keep me warm.”

 

She smiled nervously.  “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

 

The Sleaze hooted.  “Fuckin’ stalkers, man. Get a restraining order fast!”

 

“Shut up!” Beth said.

 

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” said The Sleaze.  “You fat, ugly bitch.”

 

“Look who’s talking!”

 

Cherie moved closer to Danny, who handed her the beer she didn’t want.  “I missed you,” she said softly.

 

“Same here.”

 

She looked into his eyes.  Even in the dark, they looked glazed.  “You weren’t at the supper.”

 

He frowned.  “What supper?”

 

“At Church.  The pancake and sausage thing.  Last night.  You missed it.”

 

“Big deal,” The Sleaze said.  “ ‘At’s what diners’re for, man!”

 

Danny reached into the van and got his own beer off the floor.  Cherie’s heart raced.  Except for that sip of wine in Communion, she’d never seen him drink.  She was horrified.  Saw it all in slow motion.  His back to her, he raised the can of beer to his mouth….Head back, he gulped it, looking up at…the sky.

 

It was the saddest thing she’d ever seen.

 

Again her swollen eyes filled with tears.  He crushed the empty can and tossed it behind him into the dirt.  Then reached into the van for another.

 

“No!” Cherie begged.  “No more, please?”

 

Shee-it,” said The Sleaze.

 

Danny looked guilty, pissed-off, and amused.  All at the same time.  Shaking his head, he cracked the beer.  “S’ my last one, babe.”  He took a sip, then another.  “Swear to God.”

 

“Cherie,” Beth said, as she crushed her own empty.  “Let’s go.”

 

“Great idear!”  The Sleaze said.

 

Cherie threw her arms around Danny’s waist.  He held the beer up and out of the way.

 

“Come on,” Beth said.

 

“She wants to stay with me,” Danny said.

 

“I’ll be okay,” Cherie mumbled into his chest.

 

“You crazy?” Beth said.  “I’m not leaving you here!”

 

“What’re we, fuckin’ psychos, or somethin’?” The Sleaze said.

 

Cherie clung to Danny like she’d never let go.  She kissed his chest.  He was so sweaty.  And it was cold out…it didn’t make any sense.

 

“Go ‘head,” Danny told Beth, who shook her head. 

 

He let go of Cherie, suddenly.  Go!” he yelled at Beth.  “Get the fuck outta here!”

 

Cherie had never heard him raise his voice.  Or curse.  She backed into the van.

 

“You hear me?” Danny said.

 

“Cherie?” Beth begged.  “Please come with me!”

 

Danny turned and took Cherie in his arms, nuzzling her neck. “She don’t wanna.”

 

Cherie didn’t.  Danny’s lips, and tongue, on her neck, was all she wanted now.  All she’d wanted all along.  Whether he went back to church, or not.  Drunk, or sober, she’d got him back.  Her prayers were answered.

 

She looked over at Beth, who grimaced.  Again Cherie felt the way she had in the car: panicky, sick.

 

“Bye,” Cherie said.

 

*     *     *

 

“Good riddance,” The Sleaze said, once Beth was gone.

 

Danny sat on the edge of the van.  Patting his lap, he said, “C’mere, babe.”

 

As she sat down, Cherie felt his hard-on.  “I missed you,” she repeated.

 

He set the beer down behind him.  “I know.”

 

“Kiss me.”

 

It was the strangest kiss.  Rough, as always, but with no heart in it.  He tasted like beer, and something else….

 

Smoke.  He tasted like smoke. But Danny didn’t smoke cigarettes.  He never had.

 

“That was nice,” he murmured, when the kiss was over.

 

His clothes—even his hair—smelled like smoke.  Besides leather, and sweat.  When the wind blew, he got goosebumps on his arms.  “You sure you’re not cold?” she said.

 

“I’m burnin’ up.”

 

“ ‘Cos you’re drinking,” she said.  “Please…don’t drink any more.  I’m here.  Everything’s going to be OK.”

 

“Who says somethin’s wrong?” he demanded.

 

“That fat cunt,” The Sleaze said, “Who just left.”

 

“We missed you at Church,” Cherie told Danny.

 

He reached behind him for his beer.  “My last one,” he said again, when he saw her face.

 

The Sleaze snickered.  “Till when?”

 

Danny looked like he was thinking hard about it.  He swished the beer around in his mouth before swallowing it.  “Easter,” he said.  “I’m givin’ it up for Lent.”

 

Instead of laughing, The Sleaze said, “Hey, that’s right.  It’s Ash Wednesday, ain’t it?”

 

“Lemme see.” Danny moved Cherie’s bangs, squinting in the dark.  His hand was ice-cold.  “Can’t tell,” he said.  “But if I know my baby….”

 

“Really?” she said hopefully.  “You’re really giving up drinking for Lent?”

 

“Yeah.”  He motioned to The Sleaze, who took something out of his back pocket.

 

“Maybe you’ll quit for good this time.”

 

“Maybe.”  The Sleaze handed him something Cherie couldn’t see.

 

She kissed Danny’s cheek.  “I love you.”

 

Something else he had now, too.  It sounded like a lighter.  One that didn’t work too good.  He kept flicking it, impatiently.

 

But he doesn’t smoke, she thought again.

 

“I love you,” she repeated.

 

He didn’t answer.  Finally he got the lighter to work.  “All-right!” The Sleaze said.

 

Pot, she thought, cringing.  They were going to smoke a joint. 

 

She looked down at what he had in his hand.

 

A clear, tube-like pipe.  With a rock in it.  Danny ran the flame back and forth along it.

 

Crack.

 

“What’s your name, anyhow?” The Sleaze asked, after his first hit.

 

Any minute she would cry.  “Cherie,” she whispered.

 

Danny inhaled deeply, almost choking.  He started coughing.

 

“You French?” The Sleaze asked.

 

Cherie shook her head.  Her eyes were filling with tears.

 

“Italian,” Danny said, when he’d stopped coughing.  “Her dad owns Valenti’s Pizza.”

 

“ ‘At so?”

 

Again it was Danny’s turn.  His cough was horrible.  Through her tears, Cherie watched him closely.  He looked like he was thinking of something equally tragic and funny. 

 

After his next hit, he turned and gave her a strange smile.  “You don’t have to be French,” he said, “To French-fuck.”

 

Cherie just looked at him.

 

The Sleaze laughed.  “She good at it?”

 

Danny gripped Cherie’s jacket.  “You kiddin’?  With these?”  She was never so aware of her breasts.  He released her, roughly.   She whimpered.

 

“We’re getting’ married,” he told The Sleaze, who was coughing up a storm.

 

“Best…man!”  The Sleaze spat out.  “Can I… wanna be the best man.”  He handed the pipe to Cherie, who shook her head.

 

“You got it,” Danny said, and took a final hit.

 

“Wanna beer?” The Sleaze asked Cherie.  She didn’t have the strength to say no.

 

Danny’s hand slid under her jacket.  “S’just me,” he said, when she jumped.

 

“Not here!” she said.  Suddenly she hated him.

 

“Why not?” The same hand worked its way down her belly. Then between her legs.

 

She clenched her teeth.  “Dan!”

 

He shoved her off his lap.  “You’re a bitch.  You know that?”

 

“They’re all bitches,” The Sleaze said, “But she’s real cute.  You lucky fuck.”

 

Cherie was on the ground, sobbing.  Danny stood over her.  For the first time, she was scared of him.  Real lucky,” he said.  He started unbuckling that belt.

 

She got up on legs she couldn’t even feel.  “No.”

 

He smirked.  “No, what?  I’m not doin’ nothin’.”  He turned to The Sleaze.  “Got any more?”

 

“Man, ya know we don’t.”

 

“Fuckin’ liar!”

 

Cherie held her breath.  Slowly, she backed away.

 

He turned and pounced, knocked her back down.  Around in the dirt they rolled, him laughing maniacally, her crying harder than she ever had in her life.  He kissed her, but she didn’t want it.  His tongue hurt, then gagged her.  “Stop!” she screamed, when he gnawed on her throat.

 

“Please,” she begged.

 

He tore off her jacket, and yanked up that sweater he’d once loved.  Her bra went flying.  He bit her nipples so hard, she got chills.

 

“Give it to her good,” The Sleaze said smugly.

 

In horror, Cherie watched as Danny sat up, still straddling her.  As he unsnapped his jeans, his look was a wild animal’s.

 

Just in time, she pinched him.

 

Howling, he backed off.  She got up fast, not knowing where she’d found the strength, or the guts, to resist him.  She hadn’t really hurt him, she saw.  He was getting up, too.

 

Then she was running.  “Get her!” The Sleaze yelled from his ringside seat.

 

Cherie’s heart felt the size of the van as she bolted up Monk Road.  She could hardly see where she was going.  It was too dark.  No light in this darkness.  The sky was the color of dried blood.  Getting wider.  Just sky and dirt.  Wide, dirty sky….

 

The wind had got stronger.

 

Blowing her long hair behind her…

 

Way behind her.


THE END



 

The Runoffs

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

         

          Your downstairs bell rings. Too early.

 

Bingo Joe scrambles out of bed. “Who is it?” he asks the intercom. Yawning, he scratches his ass through Bud Light p.j.’s.

 

The answer’s garbled, but you make out “the Burns team!” Or maybe “the Rossi team.” These damn elections.

 

He buzzes them in, jumps back in bed.

 

When the upstairs bell rings, it’s your turn. You trip over a cat, slam your knee, en route to the door.

 

“Yeah?” you ask the smirking teens. Chicks. Maybe twins.

 

“Hi!” one pipes. “We’re from Mayor Burns’s team!” Those freaks from The Shining, you think of.

 

“We don’t vote,” you say.

 

The smirks vanish. One looks confused, the other ready for a good fight. “Oh?”

 

“We can’t. We . . . both . . . did time.”

 

The door slams shut.

 

No interviews today. Jack shit, for both you and Bingo Joe. This no-job shit’s like a sore that won’t heal.

 

Still in bed, he lights up a roach. Like he’s their guru, the three cats sit, watching him. “Play the numbers?”

 

Money’s low. But any day now, you’ll hit. He can feel it.

 

“And a sandwich.”

 

Lunchtime, already. You peel out singles, fear that’s all that’s left. See that “two-thirds” of a twenty he’s had since Clinton was president. Always trying to break it. Like anybody’s that stupid.

 

In the clothes you slept in, you go outside.

 

Walk right into the Rossi team.

 

“Good morning, Miss.” His sign in your face, the guy explains the runoff election. Like you’re retarded.

 

Burns and Rossi each got 48%. That other fool—what’s his name, again?---got only 4%.

 

Rossi won, you think. But Mayor Burns won’t give up. So they said it was a tie. . .

 

The others crowd you. It’s like you’re underwater, surrounded by sharks.

 

“Stop!” you yell. “Rossi’s got my vote!”

 

Cheering, they let you cross the street . . .

 

Where Mayor Burns’s team waits.

 

“Burns rules, man!” you tell them. “He’s got my vote. Mine, and my man’s.”

 

“Your name?” somebody says. “May I . . .”

 

But you’re already gone. Heart pounding, you’re walking . . . running to the convenience store.

 

“You fucks!” you hear from behind you. “Stay on your own side of the street!”

 

Ahead, it’s worse. Both teams are outside the store. What a mess: blood everywhere. Ambulance, cop cars. Flashing lights.

 

You duck inside a bar.

 

It’s mobbed. Like nobody cares about blood, or cops. Or who’s the mayor.

 

Could even be you.

 

You grab the only seat left. Dump out Bingo Joe’s singles.

 

“It’s on me!” says some guy, at the end of the bar. Hairy-armed, “Tony Soprano”-looking, with wise brown eyes.

 

You smile. “Thanks.”

 

An hour later, you’re holding hands. “When I’m mayor,” you say, drunkenly, “know what I’ll do?”

 

He orders shots for the bar. “No, what?”

 

“This.” With your shot, you point around the bar. Workers, white trash, even that new skin doctor, they’re all here. “Get drunk. Buy for the whole . . . fucking world.”

 

He nods, smiling. “And?”

 

“Isn’t that . . .” You hiccup. “Enough?”

 

You feel sleepy. You never played those numbers. The midday drawing’s over, now. Bingo Joe’s still waiting for his Italian hero.

 

On top of your unused singles is two-thirds of a twenty.

 

Your new friend takes it. Lays down a crisp, whole one.

 

“Works for me,” he says.

 

 


herecomesthesun.jpg

Here Comes the Sun

 

1970

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“Where you going?” Mary’s mom whined. The girls stiffened.

 

“Nowhere.” Mary wiped her sweaty face. Noreen and Greta dug bare toes in the sand, as Dizzy Deb said, “Just to the boardwalk for ice cream.”

 

That blew it. Either Mary’s mom would stop them from going, or want something, herself. Mary bet she’d want hot coffee. She would burn herself carrying it back.

 

“You leaving me all alone?”

 

Mary’s heart sank. As usual, she would get stuck behind.

 

So far, this day trip stunk. It was super-hot. She’d got sand in her bathing suit. If she scratched her crotch, “Itchy” would be her new nickname. Worst, it wasn’t even her bathing suit. Once her mom’s, it had got stretched out enough to fit over Mary’s “Lard Ass.”

 

She wished one of her friend’s moms had come, instead. Greta’s or Noreen’s would be under an umbrella, eyes glued to a book. Dizzy Deb’s mom would be at that bar on the boardwalk.    

 

With her cat sunglasses and gray hair peeping out of her turban, Mary’s mom was a joke. Cigarette after cigarette, she smoked, and the smoke went right up their noses. Each time Noreen coughed, Mary’s mom looked the other way.

 

“You want anything?” Dizzy Deb said, reluctantly.

 

“Coffee!” Mary’s mom said. “Extra-light, with sweet'n low.”

 

Once they were gone, she said, “Look at you, with sand all over you!”

 

When Mary brushed off the sand, she heard, “That suit looked better on me. You’re too fat for red and white.”

 

Like she was back at school, Mary’s lip quivered. Sometimes, her mom was as mean as her eighth-grade classmates.

 

“Santa Claus, you look like.”

 

Mary didn’t answer. Around them, ladies lay on blankets, tanning, while their kids ran wild. When the kids kicked sand all over, Mary’s mom yelled, “Stop that!” Even strangers’ kids, she was mean to.

 

“Wish Pop was here,” Mary said.

 

“He should be pie-eyed by now,” her mom said. On Saturdays, Pop spent all day at Lenny’s bar. Should’ve married Deb’s mom, Mary thought.

 

She loved Pop. He never picked on her; he even snuck her Devil Dogs, when her mom hid them high in the cupboard, out of Mary’s reach.

 

Mary stared out at the ocean, watched the waves rise and fall. She tried to block out her mom’s voice, worse than the seagulls screeching above. When the voice finally died down, the snoring began.

 

Thank God, Mary thought.

 

“Guess what?” Her friends were back, without coffee, or cones, Dizzy Deb all excited. Mary shushed them.

 

“The Beatles are here!” Greta whispered.

 

“What?” Mary said.

 

Huddled together, the four girls inched away from Mary’s sleeping mom.

 

“This man,” Deb said, “Told us they were here, playing  . . . under the boardwalk!”

 

“But we’d hear them.” Mary looked over, toward the boardwalk. “There’d be a crowd.”

 

“He said,” Deb said, “to come now, before everybody else.”

 

In the distance, Mary heard Beatle music, low and tinny: “ ‘Here comes the sun . . . It’s all right. . . .’ ”

 

“Hear that?” Deb said. “C’mon, he‘ll introduce us. He works for them, he says.”

 

“I don’t know,” Mary said. “Is he English?”

 

“Sounds like a transistor radio, to me,” Noreen said, suspiciously.

 

“Ma-a-ry?” Mary’s mom’s wailed.

 

“C’mon!” Mary said.

 

She ran toward the music. It wasn’t far, but it felt like miles, running through sand.

 

She huffed and puffed, like she’d die before she got there. Paul, she thought. If the Beatles were there, she’d be the first to meet him!

 

Under the boardwalk, she stopped, suddenly.

 

Sour, and damp, it smelled, down there. The music still sounded tinny. And had never got louder.

 

“ ‘Here comes the sun!’ ” the Beatles sang. But there was no sun under here.

 

“Deb?” Mary said hoarsely, looking behind her. “Greta? Nor?”

 

They weren’t there.

 

“Hello,” a male voice said, but Mary couldn’t see anybody.

 

“Where’s Paul?” she asked. But deep down, she knew none of the Beatles

was here.   

“Where are your friends?” The voice got louder, as the man got closer.

 

Mary’s stomach felt tight. And not just from running. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. It was like she’d choked on sand.

 

The man was tall, younger than Pop, and with no underwear on. Between long, hairy legs was this . . . thing. Red, and veiny, like it belonged inside his body. Mary couldn’t take her eyes off it.

 

In her mind, far off, she was all grown up, on a bar stool at Lenny’s, drinking, like Pop. On the jukebox, music played, but not the Beatles.

 

No Beatles. Ever again.

 

“You look smashing,” the man said, “. . . in that suit.”

 

 

 


welcomeghouls.jpg

Welcome, Ghouls

 

1969

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

          “You’re goin’ out?” Mary’s Pop said. “At night?”

          “Trick-or-treating,” Mary said. “With Greta and Noreen.”

          In the doorway, Pop shuffled his feet, itching to get to Lenny’s.

          Figures, Mary thought. Just for spite, her Mom had told Pop before he started drinking.

          “You ain’t goin’!” he said. “Stay here, Baby, where it’s safe.” Mary’s mom smirked.

Mary fought back tears. Sometimes she hated her folks. They were as weird, and old as the building they lived in. Out of all the kids in St. Peter’s eighth grade, only Mary lived in a crummy apartment.

“All you need is more candy,” her Mom said, once Pop left.

Mary’s school uniform did feel tight. The mean kids always laughed at her. “Don’t cry,” Noreen had said, kindly. Their classmates hated her, too.

This year, Mary hadn’t even planned a costume. Maybe drape a sheet over her “Lard Ass,” and be a ghost. She couldn’t be Cleopatra, since she wasn’t allowed to wear eye makeup. Now she wouldn’t be anything.

“That’s OK,” Greta said, when Mary called. “I figured they’d say no.”

Mary was all cried-out, by now. “Me, too.”

“We’ll share our candy with you,” Greta added.

In a bowl by the door were fun-sized Milky Way bars. In case trick-or-treaters showed up.

Fat chance, Mary thought. Nobody trick-or-treated in apartment houses.

‘Cept for her. Years back, their building was the only place her folks would let her trick or treat. . . .

“Awwww . . .” Drunk Mrs. Luddy in 1C had said. “What’re you supposed to be, sweetie?”

In a huge pink dress, Mary wished she were dead.

“A fairy princess!” Mary’s mom had said, for her. She jammed a plastic wand in Mary’s hand, forced her to wave it.

Mrs. Luddy laughed hoarsely. “Ooooh, maybe I’ll win on the horses!”

          It was still early. Maybe trick-or-treaters would show up. Mary pulled a kitchen chair near the bowl of candy and eyed it, hungrily.

          Hours, she sat there. Around her, it got dark, so the shabby apartment looked like a haunted house.

“Get outta that yard!” her mom screamed out the window. “You kids don’t live there!” Mary groaned.

Her mom loved screaming at kids, period. One peek at the three tall ghouls told Mary they were unrecognizable. How would her mom know where they lived?

Most kids would scream “Fuck you!” back at her. These kids were silent. Mary got a bad feeling. She wished Pop were home.

A hideous face appeared in the window. They both shrieked.

This was no mask. The way the face churned, and sneered, made Mary think of demons. “The Devil’s Holiday,” Sister Stephen always called Halloween. Now Mary knew it was true.

Clawlike hands scratched at the window. At the same time, someone rattled the doorknob. Mary’s mom started crying.

“Where are you going?” she said, as Mary ran to the door.

“Mary!” Pop’s voice said. “Let me in!”

Mary’s hand froze on the knob. Pop never called her “Mary.” He’d called her “Baby” all her life.

“Let your father in!” her mom screamed.

And never came home this early.  Mary watched the doorknob jiggle as the scratching on the window got wilder.

“Mary!” Pop’s voice said. “It’s time to go trick-or-treating.”

He snickered.

 

 


serafina.jpg
Art by Paul "Deadeye" Dick © 2014

MERRY CHRISTMAS, SERAFINA

by

Cindy Rosmus

 

          All you wanted, was to get away from them.  Especially at Christmas.

          Leave those three stuffy rooms and have fun. Without them.

At five, you tried sneaking out, but naturally, they caught you.  

Chuckling, they walked you back into your “cage”: that tiny room with the rock-hard bed that was once your crib. All your toys looked sorry for you: the mermaid doll with purple hair, and the teddy bear with missing eyes. Even the Raggedy Andy that gave you nightmares.

How you hated Ma and Pop.

In the next room, they fought, bitterly. “She can’t get out!” Pop said. “She can’t reach the lock.”

“Keep drinking!” Ma sneered.

“I have to fucking drink!” he yelled.

“Stop cursing!”

“I have to fucking curse!”

The furniture was old, beat-up. The couch sagged; three of the coffee table’s legs were loose. That black and white TV that was old back then.

The whole world had color TV. But not you. Yours was tuned to her shows, day and night: As the World Turns, Perry Mason, Peyton Place.

Day into night, night into day . . .

Summer into fall, into winter . . .

In summer, forget a/c.  There was one fan, for the three of you.  “I can’t take it!” she screamed, fanning herself with past-due bills. “Want me to die of this heat?”

Yes.

In fall, she sat in the window, watching the neighbors’ kids play ball. “You little bastards!” she screamed. “Break our window, I’ll kill you!”

They just laughed.

You would, too, if you were with them. The one time you played outside, you fell, and split your head open. “You see?” Ma had screamed at Pop.

In winter, you and Pop froze. The radiator hissed all night, so she shut it off. You could never stay warm.

“Hot flashes,” Pop whispered, behind Ma’s back. “They make her crazy.”

*     *     *

 

Then came Christmas. . . .  

“We ain’t going!” Pop yelled, when Uncle Emil invited you. Your heart sunk.

“Ralph, it’s my brother!” For once, Ma thought your way. “It’s an insult not to go.”

“Fuck him!” Pop said. “We’re staying home.”

In tears, you looked around you: that tiny, fake Christmas tree. Sloppily-wrapped gifts—sealed with masking tape—on the floor.

For spite, she told you which gifts were yours, what was in them. “That big one’s a jumper and blouse,” she said, smugly.

Great, you thought.

“ ‘Cos you’re too old for dolls!”

No, I’m not, you thought.

“And the top one’s a wool hat, to keep you warm.”

Though you can’t go out and play.

And forget Santa.

“That’s baby stuff,” she told you. “You’re a big girl, Serafina.”

She dug her nails in your arm. You winced. “We gave you those gifts,” she said. “Not some fat bastard, sliding down the chimney.”

We have no chimney, you thought. Just that dusty radiator she kept shutting off. Always, your teeth chattered.

“You stay home,” Ma told Pop. “We’re going.”

He cracked another beer. “Over my dead body.”

You wished.

*     *     *

You and Ma went to Uncle Emil’s. Pop played sick. The last you saw, he was drinking beer, in his undershorts and ripped T-shirt. “Merry Crissmess,” he slurred.

When you got in the car, Uncle Emil asked, “Where’s Mr. Wonderful?”

Ma paused. “Upset stomach.”

“Bullshit,” Uncle Emil said.

All the way to his house, he chewed his cigar. “Damn boozehound,” he said, about Pop. 

“Shut up.” Ma waved away his smoke.

You liked his smoke, the smell of his cigar. It was homey.

Smiling, you gazed out the window. Like a Christmas card, the scenery looked: pure white snow and big, pretty houses. Icicles like diamonds hung from trees.

 “Should’ve left him, years back. Before she . . .”

“Shut up,” Ma said.

You passed groups of kids packing snowballs. Your heart lurched. If only . . . you thought, enviously.

Looking sly, they turned your way.

“Watch out!” Ma squealed, as the snowballs struck the car.

“Little bastards,” Uncle Emil muttered. He glanced back at you. “Bet Serafina don’t throw snowballs.”

Ma’s look was like ice. “I’d kill her.”

You shuddered.

When she took off her scarf, you knew what was coming. “Emil, can we open a window?”

He didn’t answer. You crazy? he had to be thinking.

“Just a crack?”

Still without speaking, he hit the power button. Ma’s window slid down.

And the heat was gone.

*     *     *

They had a Christmas card-house. You could’ve jumped for joy. In the doorway, Aunt Jo stood, smiling at you.

Way up, smoke puffed from the chimney.

Santa, you thought. If only . . .

Inside, it was warm! A crackling fireplace, they had. Like in a fairy tale, or old book. Serafina, said the dancing flames.

Smiling, you edged toward them. . . .

“Oh, God!” Ma screamed. “I’m dying!” She tore off her coat, and sweater. “Emil, please put that out!”

Seraf . . .

*     *     *

And a real Christmas tree. Like the ones outside. So tall, it brushed the ceiling. And it smelled fresh, like something you’d eat.

You crept closer.

Beautiful ornaments covered the tree. Tiny, sparkly things. Like the china doll, with pink feathers in its hat. 

“Stay away!” Ma warned you. “You’ll break something.” She snickered. “That clumsy kid,” she told Aunt Jo.

Those tree lights: rows and rows that blinked on and off, like the tree was winking at you. “Merry Christmas, Serafina!” the tree seemed to say. “Welcome . . .”

“Jo, it’s daytime!” Ma complained. “Should those lights be on? You’re wasting electricity.”

Your tree at home had no lights, even at night. Just tinsel.

Goodbye, you thought, sadly, as Aunt Jo shut off the tree.

Those presents . . .

Under the tree were shiny, gold boxes, tied with red velvet ribbon. One had an angel doll inside a huge, green bow.

“They’re for you,” Aunt Jo mouthed, when Ma left the room.

You felt warm again, all over. Even more, when Aunt Jo squeezed your hand.

In the kitchen were smells of baking.  “What’s that?” Aunt Jo asked you, like it was your house. “Sugar cookies? Gingerbread?”

Her hair looked like gingerbread; her eyes were brown, and soft, too. Her smile was like the Christmas tree’s wink.

“Big girl” or not, you climbed onto her lap, and she hugged you.

“Serafina?” Ma called, from the next room.

 You got down, fast.

“Aren’t those cookies done?” Ma stood in the kitchen doorway. “That oven’s so hot.”

“Soon,” Aunt Jo said, coolly.

*     *     *

At dinner, you sat near Aunt Jo. You picked up the soup spoon, turning it over and over.

Around you, the dining room was bright.  At home, you ate supper in the dark kitchen. Ma even cooked in the dark, and food tasted that way.

“What’s in this soup?” Ma asked, like she didn’t like it.

 “What’s wrong with it?” Aunt Jo asked.

“The carrots are hard,” Ma grumbled.

You liked the soup: meatballs and vegetables that weren’t mushy, like Ma’s.

Uncle Emil jammed a cigar in his mouth, talked through it. “She always bitch like this?” he asked you.

Transfixed, you watched him light the match. Serafina, the flame said.

“Thanks a lot,” Ma said. “Want us to leave?”

Your heart raced. Under the table, Aunt Jo gripped your hand. “Not on Christmas,” she said.

Enviously, you eyed the matches. . . .

*     *     *

At home, nobody smoked. Or Ma would say, “Serafina! Don’t play with matches!”

Reluctantly, you’d stop.

“She’ll burn herself up!” Ma would tell Pop.

“Or the house,” he’d say, knowingly.” Or . . . us.”

You’d smirk.

*     *     *

After the roast (“Too dry,” Ma muttered, behind their backs), it was bedtime for you.

You couldn’t stop yawning. But you’d wanted to stay up . . .

They had the biggest color TV. . . . 

“Come on.” Aunt Jo got up, held out her hand.

“If you don’t go to sleep,” Uncle Emil said, “Santa won’t come.”

“Yeah, right!” Ma sneered, as you left with Aunt Jo.  

“Shhhh . . .” Uncle Emil whispered.

 “She knows there’s no . . .”

But if there was a Santa Claus, you thought, what would you want?

“Aunt Jo,” you said. “Can I stay here . . . forever?”

“What?” she whispered.

Again, the flames danced in the fireplace. From the hallway, you felt them calling you. . . .

“Please?” you begged.

She squeezed your shoulders, walked you upstairs. “If only . . .” she said. “you were our little girl.”

If only . . .

*     *     *

Snuggled in the covers, you were so nice and warm!  But something kept waking you: flashes of light on the walls.

Was it Tinkerbell? Or an angel with tiny wings?

“Serafina!”

That was no angel. You hid in the bedclothes, scrambled up against the wall, as she got closer.

She sat on your bed. “Those gifts, downstairs?” she hissed. “With your name on them?”

You shivered.

“Guess who bought them?”

Aunt Jo? you thought, but were too scared to speak. Uncle Emil?

“I did,” she said, smugly. “All of them.”

How? you thought. We’re poor. The bed shook with your trembling. Somehow you held back the tears.

“All of them,” she repeated, getting up.

Liar, you thought. Liar!

“They don’t love you.”

Finally, she walked out the door.

*     *     *

All the way home, in the car, you were quiet. Even surrounded by so many gifts.

“What a strange kid,” Uncle Emil had said, like you couldn’t hear.

Aunt Jo had looked sad that you didn’t like Barbie, or her Dream House. How you cried over the stuffed kitty that looked so real.

“Is she scared of cats?” she asked Ma, who shrugged.

“She’s full of surprises,” Ma said.

You had one for them. . . .

“Home to Mr. Wonderful,” Uncle Emil said, driving faster. He slipped a cigar in his mouth.

After gift-time, you’d sat by him.

As he lit his cigar, you’d watched closely: Hold match between two fingers and thumb, then drag match across the lighting strip . . .

Over and over. Cigar after cigar.

Finally, Ma sighed.

“Hope his stomach’s better.” Uncle Emil snickered.

As he felt for his matches, you smiled.

THE END

 

"Merry Christmas, Serafina" originally appeared in Media Virus, Issue # 7, on February 1, 2010.



THE REAL THING

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

For forty years,

my friend’s dad

brought her glamorous mom

breakfast in bed:

a wheat English muffin, jam, and coffee.

But not till she’d slipped on

that red kimono

and prepped her face.

Not once

in those same forty years,

did Dad see the woman he loved

without carefully-applied

liner and mascara.

 

“He don’t beat me”

was why Mom

stayed with Pop,

her heart still aching for

that motorcycle-riding,

ice blue-eyed,

Jewish boy

that Grandpa wouldn’t let in the house.

 

“Marriage,” a mobster pal told me,

“S’like . . .

She’s always got your back.”

Instead of sleeping

with a Glock by your face,

crushed New York Posts

on your bedroom floor,

Wifey willingly eats the bullets.

On V-Day,

a silver moon

turns werewolves

into romantic slobs,

and cougars into kittens.

People like me

gag at roses,

prick our fingers on thorns.

We burn English muffins.

while guarding those doors.

 

I got your back, all right. . . .

Wish you had mine.



 

SPRING BREAK BLUES

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Define Spring Break: nude college brats, drunk down Daytona Beach, FL. Or the Jersey shore, if it suddenly got hot.

 

          Liberty State’s spring break of ’79 was looming. In our dorm room, Darlene and I plotted. Fuck beach- and barhopping. We just didn’t want to go home.

 

          Back in October, Darlene's mom had blown her brains out. They weren’t close, but it really sucked. Darlene's legally blind stepdad liked to feel what Darlene looked like. . . .

 

My drunk Pop wasn’t around when Mom put me down. Or burned me with her “Mores”: those long, brown cigarettes that looked like skinny turds.

 

          Rules, or no rules, I was not going home.

 

          “You have to leave, Shelley,” warned Callie Gilbert, the fat, smelly nurse-in-charge-of-the-girls’-dorm. “Read the announcement.”

 

          “All female students,” it said, “MUST vacate the dormitory from April 2nd–6th. Anyone found on the premises will be subject to disciplinary action.”

 

          “I know,” Darlene said, at dinner, while others went up to pack. “Let’s say we’re student teachers! They’d have to stay this week.”

 

          “You crazy?”

 

Nobody would buy that. We were always stoned, or at the campus pub, trashed. Like those guys in Animal House.

 

“We’ll have to hide out,” Darlene said, and I agreed.

 

To throw Callie off-guard, we left our door open and packed like we were leaving, too.

 

“Bye-eee!” we yelled to everybody. “Bye, Lisa!” we yelled, as Lisa Moskowitz dragged her big suitcase past us.

 

Behind Lisa trudged Callie. In case Lisa tripped over her bag and died, we guessed. Tonight, the smell of Callie alone could kill you. Like she’d puked up dinner and was wearing it.

 

“When’re you two leaving?” I gagged, as Callie stopped in our doorway.

 

“My mom’s coming soon,” Darlene said.

 

I cringed. If Callie remembered she was dead, we were fucked.

 

“Stepmom!” Darlene slammed her suitcase shut.

 

As Callie trudged off, smiling, I muttered, “Brilliant.”

 

Hiding out sucked ‘cos we had to be quiet. Boston was my favorite band. It killed me I couldn’t blast “Don’t Look Back.” We had to stay in the dark. And that night, it got dark fast.

 

We lit up our one joint. “I’m hungry,” Darlene whispered, soon after. “And we’ve got nothing to eat.”

 

I sighed. The munchies.

 

“Can’t even sneak out to the diner,” she said.

 

“Everybody’s gone,” I said. “They won’t know if we even died.”

 

Then we heard footsteps.

 

“Shel—”

 

Muffled by the hall carpet, but they were footsteps, all right. And getting closer. Somebody huge: a big, fat . . .

          As our door opened, we screamed.

 

          “I knew it!” Callie threw on the blinding light.

 

She sniffed our pot smoke. “What is that smell?” That she smelled it over herself was a miracle.

 

           “We all went to your mother’s wake,” she reminded Darlene , as we marched to the elevator.

 

We said nothing.

 

“Smoking marijuana is illegal,” Carrie said smugly.

 

I just sighed.

 

Soon, the cops would come. I pictured us in jail, living off stale bread. Fighting off fat bullies till Lights Out. . . .

 

On the cramped elevator, the smell was so bad, I covered my nose. Darlene groaned.

 

When the elevator stopped, between floors, my heart raced.

 

Minutes later, we still weren’t moving.

 

Callie rang the alarm. “Hello,” she said. “Hello? Hel-looo!”

 

And then it was Lights Out, for real.

 

 




BIKINI QUEENS

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Atlantic City 1972

 

 

          She’s dead, Pam thinks, hurrying along the boardwalk. Then . . . Howard’s with her.

 

          Bikini Queen Melanie.

 

Is she dead, too?

 

          No. It’s Mom who’s dead.

 

          Sweat pours down Pam’s back, but she feels nothing. Above her, the sun is the gold turban Mom had on when Jessie the maid found her. Handcuffed, spread-eagled, with that hole Pam popped out of crying “Help me! Help me!” like in that old movie, The Fly.

 

          But it was too late.

 

          Where’s the daughter? Pam bets they’re asking: cops, guests. Howard’s dad, Mr. Hertzberg, who owns the hotel. Real bad for business, he thinks, rubbing his manicured hands together.

 

          Where’s the guy . . . they should ask, with the freaky eyes?

 

          Tall, creepy, like a famous killer from Madame Tussaud’s. Mom likes . . . Pam swallows hard . . . Liked guys who were the opposite of drunk, boring Pop.

 

          Eyes like a shark, this guy has. But colder.

 

          As she passed them, Pam felt those eyes.

 

Howard, she thinks.

Faster, she walks, past Steel’s Fudge, the Steeplechase Pier. Then Woolworth’s, where Howard makes pretzels, sometimes. “Hey,” he calls, to Bikini Queens, of all ages. In that voice that just changed.

 

He called to one Bikini Queen, in a gold suit and turban . . .

 

She’s dead, Pam thinks, and that freaky guy did it.

 

Her heart swells, but no tears come.

 

Only once did she make Pam feel loved. In first grade, when Sr. Alice said Pam’s baby brother wasn’t in heaven. That ‘cos he wasn’t baptized, God threw him out.

 

Pam remembers she couldn’t stop crying. Mom held her tight, like she really loved her. “Fuck that old bitch,” she whispered.

 

Mom’s wild nights are over.

 

“She’s sleeping,” Pam had to tell Pop, when he called. In the next room, Mom was doing everything but sleeping. With each groan, Pam cringed.

 

“So early?” Pop said, and she almost cried.

 

Now, it’s just her and Pop.

 

Howard!, she thinks again. And tears, like huge raindrops that kick off a storm, gush down.

 

Now she’s running, past Planter’s Peanuts and that souvenir store where they sell kazoos. Outside, kids play them along to “Old Fashioned Love Song.” Three Dog Night.

 

She runs way out, to those benches that overlook the beach. Where lazy tourists and Mrs. Marshall, the Psychic, watch bikini queens. With her crooked wig and sunglasses, she scares hotel guests with her “sightings.”

 

“ ‘Beware a man with predatory eyes,’” Mom mimicked. “Please! After a few, they all look through you.”

Mrs. Marshall’s bench is empty. Pam collapses onto it.  

 

Gulls circle, searching for food. The sea air is tangy, intoxicating. Pam feels high from it. Hours ago, she and Howard . . . had big plans. Big for her, a desperate virgin. By now . . . If only . . .

Mom wasn’t found . . .

 

Pam’s teeth are clenched. If only . . . Jessie had cleaned the other rooms first, and saved that one for last . . .

 

Behind Pam, someone sits down. Her heart pounds as she feels him staring.

 

Further back on the boardwalk, kazoos start up, again. Sounding so far away.

 

A gull screams.

 

If only . . .

 

 

 







lucky1.jpg
Art by Kevin Duncan © 2015

LUCKY

by

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Baby,” Angel said. “I think I’m gonna die tonight.”

          Sure, Cass used to think. But no more.

In the dark, he was like a curly-headed Grim Reaper, shivering in his hoodie.  Beneath the bedclothes, his legs were like sticks.

Her voice shook. “Wanna go to the ER?”

 “Nah.” He felt on the nightstand for his smokes. “What’s the use, Mami?”

They’ll keep you alive.

He jabbed the cigarette in his mouth. “If I’m worse in the morning . . . then I’ll go.”

It was bullshit, so she’d feel better.  For a moment, she did.

But when he lit up, the flame accented his sores. One, on his upper lip, kept him from kissing her.

No kisses, no sex, but you couldn’t pry her away. That she still loved him this much, was stupefying. Clean up his mess. Feed him his pills. Too many, so every morning she feared he wouldn’t wake up . . .  

Oh, God, Angel! she thought, now.

          When her cell rang in the kitchen, he snickered. “Your new boyfriend?”

          “No!” He was always accusing her. “Don’t say that!” She got up, ran out of the bedroom.

          New boyfriend, she thought, bitterly. Sure. She hadn’t got laid since . . . Even safe sex wasn’t safe with Angel, anymore.  And she didn’t want anyone else. How sad was that?

          Her cell lit up the kitchen table: Gracie.

          Crazy Gracie. They’d been friends, through Angel, before he got sick. Clean now, years of drugs and booze had eaten Gracie’s brain. Worse, had left her broke.

Cass was broke, herself. With Angel out of work . . . and the mortgage way overdue. They would lose the house.

“Cass?” Gracie was crying.

Great, Cass thought. Some guy kicked her ass. Probably robbed her, too.

“Yeah?”

“I need help.”

Cass sat down, heavily. “I’m broke, babe.” And my man is dying.

“No, it’s . . . Lucky.”

Lucky?” Gracie’s cat.

Gracie kept sobbing. Till she stopped, Cass stared outside at the yard. Everywhere were holes: trees to be planted. One for Angel, she thought, when he . . .

“He’s sick!” Gracie said, finally. “Hissing and biting me.” Even for hateful Lucky, that was weird. “And he just had a fit.”

Cass’s stomach tightened.

“Will you take us to the vet?” Gracie said.

Now? It’s ten o’clock!” Cass couldn’t believe this. Angel could be dead by morning.

“Dr. Leeds is at the clinic all night. He sleeps there.”

Cass cringed. Leeds must be nuts. She squirmed in her seat. “Grace, it’s a bad time for me. Angel’s not . . .”

“Angel’s a tough fuck,” Gracie said. “He’ll be fine. But Lucky . . . he’s helpless. He can’t take himself to the vet.”

Or the ER.

Lucky never shot dope, or stuck it in a crack whore’s ass. Then Cass.

“I’ll be right there,” Cass muttered.

*     *     *

Their car was old, but it worked. As she floored it to Gracie’s, Cass’s heart raced. Tough fuck, she thought, about Angel.

“Have fun!” he’d said, before she left. “Get laid.” His voice already a ghost’s.

In the car, she realized how good it felt to get away from him.

“Baby,” he’d said. “Before you go, turn on the TV. And, please, baby, please . . . bring me . . .”

His pain pills. More and more he needed, every day.  Sometimes he lost count. Once he’d almost . . .

It was his right to do it himself.

Now she honked at teens, dragging ass against the light. “Fuck you!” one said. Another gave her the finger.

Gracie was on her stoop, with the carrier beside her. A dog carrier, as Lucky was huge. It shook like the Tasmanian devil was inside it.

“He’s having another one!” she wailed.

“Shaddup!” yelled a neighbor. Like it was 4 A.M.

Gracie ignored him. As they struggled to get the carrier in the backseat, Cass said, “He had his shots, right?”

“Years ago,” Gracie said. “I guess. Who has money for vets?”

Not me, Cass thought. She wondered how Dr. Leeds would get paid.

“Are you bleeding?” she asked Gracie, on the way.

“Stopped now.” Gracie faced the backseat, cooed to Lucky, “It’s okay, Big Guy.”

Lucky’s hissing was unnerving, but Cass felt bad for him.

He loved only Gracie. Cass, he tolerated, but she knew not to pet him.  Tonight she sensed Lucky was the “unluckiest” of them.

“These fits he’s having,” Cass said, at the next light. “You mean he foams at the mouth?” When Gracie didn’t answer, Cass said, “You don’t let him outside, do you?”

“Oh, lay off!” Gracie started to cry again. “Yeah, on nice days, he bangs all the female squirrels.”

Rabies, Cass thought, but didn’t say it. She recalled the night Angel had fucked a crack whore with full-blown AIDS.

All the shit he’d exposed her to, she was lucky to be alive.

“Go down this street,” Gracie said. “He’s out back, waiting.”

Doctor Leeds, Cass guessed she meant.  She recalled Angel’s apology: Mami, I’m sorry. You know what a pig I am.  

Months of waiting to take the blood tests. Afterward, hoping . . . and praying. Watching rosy sunsets, planting flowers.

Then . . . peace, for Cass.

But not Angel . . .

“There he is!” Gracie said.

Cass had to look twice. In the clinic’s driveway was a bedraggled-looking man. His grizzled beard hung to his waist. Rip Van Winkle in a long, white robe and skull cap. He smiled, strangely.

“There who is?” Cass said.

“Doctor Leeds!”

Christ-like, Leeds raised his hands. He had on surgical gloves.

In the backseat, Lucky’s hissing had stopped. Cass wondered if he was dead. 

 

“Come on.” When Cass didn’t budge, Gracie said, “He’s legit. Real gentle with animals.”

Behind Cass, the hissing began again. She got out of the car. Leeds had the carrier, and was speaking in a low, hypnotic voice to Lucky.

As they went in the clinic’s back door, a thunderous barking shook the walls. Lucky yowled.

“Stop that, you hear?” Leeds said in that same low voice. And the barking stopped.

In the clinic’s back room, inside a cage, was the biggest white lab Cass had ever seen.  Around its neck was a pink print bandanna. A plaque on the cage read: “Killer,” and Cass believed it. Pacing, the dog eyed her like a midnight snack.

“Why’s this dog here?” she said. “He looks healthy to me.”

 “His owner passed,” Leeds said, sadly. “AIDS.”

 “Oh,” she said, thinking of Angel.

Behind his glasses, Leeds’s eyes twinkled. “But in the end, he was right with the Lord.” He slipped something in her hand.

A tract. As they went in the examining room, Cass read the excerpt from 2 Kings.

“ ‘ . . . The Lord says: Put your house in order, because you are going to die; you will not recover.’ ”

Nice, Cass thought.

From behind, something nudged her, and she jumped.

Killer looked friendly, now. It was his nose that had brushed her. She hadn’t realized how close she was standing to his cage.

Timidly, she held out her hand, and he sniffed it.

“No!” Gracie yelled, from the examining room. Cass rushed in.

Inside, Lucky looked like a fuzzy cobra. He clawed Gracie, who clutched him to her. Needle in hand, Leeds had wormed himself between them.

“You can’t!” Gracie said. “I won’t let you!”

“It’s just a . . . sedative.” Sweat dripped into Leeds’s beard. “But . . . we may have to put him down.”

“No!” Gracie wailed. “He don’t have rabies. I was kidding about the squirrels!”

“We’ve both been bitten,” Leeds said. Cass saw blood on his robe and gloves. “Has she?”he asked, about Cass.

“Not yet.” Lucky hissed in Cass’s direction.

“Get back outside,” Leeds told her. “Before you are.”

 

*     *     *

 

When Cass came out, the barking started again. It felt like the walls would cave in.

“What’s up?” she said, softly.

Killer stopped barking, gave her an inquisitive look.

“Are they nice to you here?” She looked around the clinic. In smaller cages were other animals: an asthmatic black cat, a dachshund in a back brace.

Eyes still on Cass, Killer lay down.

“You miss your daddy?” Cass said. Tears were coming, but she blinked them back. “I’m gonna miss mine.”

Killer rested his head on his paws.

“Even though he’s no good.” It was no use fighting tears. “Cheated on me. With toothless bitches.” With one motion, she wiped her nose and eyes. “Robbed me. I ran out of places to hide money.”

Killer’s eyes looked sad, for her.

“But I still love him.”

She reached into the cage, stroked Killer’s head. “Least you got a home. I’m losing mine.”

Killer turned his head, licked her hand.

“Or I’d take you home with me.”

She imagined the day she would move, alone, from her small, shabby house. Pictured the bed, without sheets and the soft green blanket Angel draped over himself. How long till the blanket would lose his scent?

She thought of the crummy linoleum. The paneled walls.

Those holes outside, for the trees.

*     *     *

When she came out, cradling Lucky, Gracie was smiling, strangely.

Leeds was behind her. “I’ll send you the bill.”

Good luck, Cass thought.

He looked stern. “Are you sure,” he asked Gracie, “you won’t let us test him? He bit us both!”

“He’s fine,” Gracie said.

Cass had never seen Lucky so calm. As tight as Gracie squeezed him, he didn’t even fuss.

“Will he be okay?” Cass whispered, but got no response.

Leeds followed them outside.

“Where’s the carrier?” Cass said, but Gracie ignored her, resting her chin on Lucky’s head.

As they got in the car, Leeds handed Cass another tract. “ ‘He was delivered over to death for our sins,’ ” she read aloud. “Enough!” she said, and he walked stiffly away.

They drove off.

“He wanted,” Gracie said, “to cut off his head.”

What?” Cass almost crashed the car.

“To test for rabies. But I said no. Not my baby.” Gracie began kissing Lucky, who was totally limp.

Cass felt sick. “He’s dead?”

“Can we bury him . . .” Gracie said, “in your yard?”

*     *     *

Cass had no clue what time it was, but it had to be late.  In case Angel was watching, she parked up the block. 

Baby, she thought, are you still alive?

Out back, Cass gave Gracie her hoodie and stood, shivering, as Gracie wrapped up Lucky up in it. When his tail drooped, Cass feared she’d cry.

Gracie was silent as Cass placed him in the hole. Bags and bags of soil Cass dumped on top of Lucky. Though it was dark, Cass saw Gracie smile.

Damn, she thought, you are crazy.

But a good friend.  Cass glanced up at the dark bedroom window.

They were lucky to have each other.

“I can walk home,” Gracie said. “It’s not far.”

Cass didn’t stop her. Upstairs, a tiny flash of light gave her hope. Had he lit a cigarette?

Or was it just the TV?

With a leaden heart, she trudged inside.

 

                                             THE END



crossingjessie.jpg
Art by Bar Napkin Art © 2015

CROSSING JESSIE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

            “Sam?” I hear, in the first three minutes. “Samantha, is that you?”

 

          Aw, shit, I think. Jessie.

 

          My first day, temping at Garrett Press. Flat hair, suit, heels. So not me. Feeling like I might puke any minute.

 

Now this.

 

          Same wild, black hair, Cleopatra makeup. Clothes she wore back in 1990.

 

          “You know each other?” The Director smirks.

 

          My “Sort of” is lost in Jessie’s hug. “Oh, Sam!” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here!” I stiffen.

 

          “We worked together once,” I say.

 

          Work, my ass, I think. For years, we both crawled in, hung over and crazy. Both obsessed with bad boys. It was before Bingo Joe, but I always loved one for too long. With her, every week was some new jerk. One, a “witch,” or going to school for it. Another claimed to be a spy. After that, she pursued coworkers. Lots of coworkers . .  .

 

          “You can reconnect later,” the Director said.  “Samantha, I’ll show you your workspace.”

 

“Bye,” I say, and follow the Director.

 

Jessie is right behind. “There’s an empty desk next to mine.”

 

If it’s yours, I’ll walk right the fuck . . .

A blond guy—tall, snooty-looking—passes us. Smiling, then suddenly looking like he shit his pants. Behind me, Jessie chokes.

 

“That’s him,” she whispers, too-loudly.

 

Back then, him meant one thing: the latest guy who fucked her up.

 

The desk next to Jessie’s is mine.  As the Director explains my duties, Jessie impatiently taps her long nails on her desk.

 

My heart races as the Director drones on, and on. Important shit, this is, but that nail-tapping is driving me nuts. Just like back then. “Your computer will be set up,” the Director tells me, “by noon.”

 

It’s 10:10, now. Though the A/C’ s blasting, I’m sweating.

 

The second the Director leaves, Jessie is on my desk. “Stephen! His name’s Stephen Schall. That blond guy in Sales. Fucked me twice, now suddenly he’s got a girlfriend! In Sweden, yet! Astrid. A fucking rock star. . .”

 

In my mind, I’m back on the Food Stamp line. It won’t be long, now.

 

“After work,” Jessie says, “There’s this great bar . . .”

 

I can’t!, I think. Not the first night. They’ll fire . . .

 

“Not tonight,” I say. But she keeps on talking.

 

“So how’d it go?” Bingo Joe asks, when I crawl in, after midnight.

 

Still in my suit, I collapse on the bed. Within minutes, two cats are asleep on me.

 

A few days later, I go in super-early. Sober, ready to work. It’s still dark, both outside, and in.

 

“C’mere!”

 

Fuck, I think. Not this early.

 

Jessie’s computer screen is the one light, back there. “Look.”

 

I do, but at her. Her face is a map of crazy: last night’s makeup, twitching mouth, eyes that see but don’t see.

 

“Sweden, my ass. That bitch is here. In town!” She turns the screen, but I look away. “Her band is playing tonight!”

 

I shuffle my feet.

 

Jessie’s eyes gleam. Like lightning struck, inside. “We should go.”

 

“No.” From somewhere, I found guts to cross her. “We shouldn’t.” Adrenalin shoots through me, even before I have coffee. “Let it go, Jess. Let this one go.”

 

Those blazing eyes settle on me. “Oh, yeah?” she says. “Coming from you?

 

Somehow, I know what’s next.

 

“Like when you got on my shoulders to look through Pete’s window?” Twenty-plus years ago, and she remembers his name. “And made me dress up on Halloween to help stalk his wife and kids?”

 

I’m close to shitting, right there. If Bingo Joe knew all this. . .

 

“Jess . . .” I try to sound logical. “I’m just a temp, but you’re here for good. Don’t fuck up work.”

 

She’s back glaring at the screen. Suddenly, she sits up, straight. “You don’t think she’d come here, do you?”

 

“What?”

 

She sneers. “Oh, fine, he can take her to lunch! Probably that Thai place up the block.” She pushes back that ratty hair. “Bet she’s a vegan. All cunts are. Tofu with mixed veggies,” she says sarcastically. “Maybe I’ll show up! Spit right in her food!”

 

I feel dizzy. “Jess,” I say.

 

“No, first he’ll bring her around. ‘My girlfriend, Astrid,’” he’ll say. When everybody here knows he fucked me!”

 

Everybody . . .

 

Now she’s got scissors. “I’ll kill her!” she says, stabbing the air. “I’ll kill . . . all of them!” Maniacally, she laughs, still stabbing the air.

 

“Jess,” I say, when she’s done. “You’ll get fired.”

 

“Oh,” she says. “I already was. Last night.”

 

*

 

Going home during rush hour is a breeze. But, at 8 A.M., it feels weird.

 

“The fuck you doing home?” Bingo Joe is washing breakfast dishes.

 

I just shake my head. This . . . feeling . . . There’s no words for it. I just had to split.

 

Another job down.  Fuck it.  Already, I’m covered with cats. Itchy grooms himself on my leg, as I try going back to sleep.

 

I’ll kill her, I hear, like it’s whispered in my ear.

 

Around lunchtime, I start to email the temp agency. But, say . . . what? I just stare at my cell.

 

“Babe!” Bingo Joe makes the TV louder. “Check this out!”

 

Breaking News . . .

 

A gun, she used. Maybe she owned one, maybe she ran out and bought one before noon. She had all morning to find one.

 

Ten people shot, mostly employees. Five dead, including the shooter . . .  ex-employee: Caucasian, black hair, aged 46. Also dead . . .  Candice Schall, Registered Nurse . . .  victim’s sister, visiting from Wisconsin. . . .

 

Did “Astrid” even exist?

 

“Damn,” Bingo Joe says. “Bet she got fired and went postal.”

 

I stare at my cell, but no words will come. “Probably.”




leapingthepyramid.jpg
Art by Bill Zbylut © 2015

Leaping the Pyramid

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Even more than washing dishes, you hate bugging people.

You hate when they bug you. Some suited bitch yelling to you, when you’re giving people the slip. When your hood’s up, hand clutching your blade, and you’re picturing half the world as chopped meat.

Still, there you are, in your suit and skippies, outside some Welfare office. “Free phone?” you quip, hopping around in the cold. It’s fucking freezing—wind chill of zero. Christmas week , yet.  Bingo Joe’s back in jail; it’s the only job you could get.

          Even the dollar store wouldn’t hire you.

“Where’s your experience?” asked the gum-snapping fuck-in-charge.

No cashier experience, not much of anything. Dishwashing, till the boss’s chick sliced him up in Casa Vitale’s kitchen.

“Free phone?” you say, in this new voice they taught you. People glare at you, then away. “See if you qualify with our exciting new plan!”

They are scam artists. Friendyourneighbor International, they’re called this week. Working with nonprofit firms to give out free stuff to the needy. This time, free phones. Just your no-frills, piece of shit, free phone.

Free, my ass, you thought, when that young puke was training you. His eyes were ice-blue, unblinking.  What’s the catch? But you kept your mouth shut.

What an outfit: crawling with anxious, unsmiling dopes. All standing… All dressed to the nines. You felt like a roach on the wall.

In the next room, those motivational rallies: one dope yelling out a prompt, with the others clapping twice in unison. Over and over.

Fuck that bitch!  Clap-clap!

Kill that bitch!  Clap-clap!

That couldn’t be right, but it sounded right to you.

“Your first week,” Young Puke told you, “Expect to make two to three hundred dollars!”

That woke you up fast, though you hadn’t dozed off.

“But only . . .” He smirked. “If you earn it.”

There it was, on paper . . . the pyramid scheme. How little you would make, hustling out in the snow. If you saw any bucks at all. And how much those top feeders would make off of you. Those clapping sharks in Ralph Lauren heels and suits. 

Outside the Welfare office, you’re working for them. Freezing your ass off. Instead, you should be inside, waiting on line with the others.

Food Stamps, you think, longingly. Free peanut butter, mac-and-cheese . . .

The icy wind shoots up your skirt. You can’t even feel your feet. You want to go inside, so bad.

It’s not fair, you think. Tough as you are, you feel like crying.

“Hey!” you start yelling at people. “Don’t you want a free phone?”

“No!” Young Puke snaps. Like roaches do, he appeared out of nowhere. To check up on you. “You have to qualify them. You . . .”

Again, it starts to snow. Fast, and hard.

“Yo!” you scream at a huge, hooded guy. “Yo, motherfucker!”

 “No!” Young Puke squeals.

Mean as fuck, the huge guy turns around. That you’re a chick means shit to him. Like a Raggedy Ann, he would tear you apart.

“Free Smartphone!” you yell. “From this guy!” You duck behind Young Puke.

On scary eyes, he’s got Young Puke beat. Black, with a wind chill of zero. Snow already covers his hood and shoulders.

“A million a year, he makes!” you say, backing away. “While we eat cat food.”

“Are you crazy?” Young Puke says.

“Hear that?” You back further away. “He called you ‘crazy.’ ”

The guy’s crazy enough that this works. Out comes a nice big blade.

“Oh, my God!” Young Puke squeals. “Help me!”

Around you, people glance over, then away, as they hurry off. Same as when you yelled, “Free phone!”

The big guy starts chopping.

Ignoring the piteous screams, you walk into the Welfare building. One frozen step at a time.

And you get on line.

 

 

 

homesweethome.jpg
Art by Bill Zbylut © 2016

HOME, SWEET HOME

By

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Even in dead sleep, something loomed in Frankie Connelly's mind. Getting real close, it bore down heavy, would crush him with inhuman speed. His wife sneered. Don't wake up!

But he did. In a cold sweat, his heart trapped in his throat, he'd jumped, as the train zoomed past. The Light Rail. What he hated most about this place: on one end, train tracks. On the other, a highway, with sixteen wheelers rumbling by, at five AM. But he was as used to the tractor trailers as he was sleeping out on the couch. Here, in the bed, he felt alien, cold. No wonder he had nightmares.

But it's not a dream, came that shrill thought again. In his wife Maggie's voice.

Where was she? he wondered, kicking off the covers. He got up and stretched.

Actually, he could give a flying fuck. If she were even in the house, he wouldn't be here, in the bed. Rule Number One. Who knows what you've got, Maggie loved to say, after you fucked her.

She wasn't always such a bitch. Shit, maybe she was. Back then, they'd done so many drugs together, life was a delicious, mindless blur. They'd shared needles like normal teens did malts, back in the good ol’ days. Maggie had been petite, cute. If he wasn't so fucked up himself, he'd have wanted to protect her.

In the shower, he tried jacking off, pulling on his cock like he hated it. But he couldn't cum, no matter how hard he squeezed. When the water turned ice-cold, he gave up.

Chop it off! Maggie shrieked, inside his head. Outside the bathroom door.

Suddenly she was everywhere. Might as well. Now you stuck it in Petunia Pig.

Yeah, well, guess what? Patty, his "not-so-secret" girl, had been no pig, and

nobody to fear. Her warm, rumpled bed was fucking heaven on earth.

"Cancer," Frankie said wearily, so many times. "It's just cancer." What a crazy way to look at it. Not as humiliating as AIDS, but it killed her just as fast.

Man, what a fighter! Frankie thought, as he made his coffee. She'd had more courage than all of them, put together. She still shamed him. A wisecracking Venus, short one breast instead of arms, she'd been the pilot light of his miserable life. When chemo had claimed her own thick, black hair, she bought a Cher wig at a garage sale for three bucks. To Frankie, she was just as beautiful. On good days, they'd fucked. She was always on top, riding him with what little strength she had. Wrapped that wig hair around him, tightly. "Now you're ... trapped!" she said weakly, " .. .in my web."

Not yours, Frankie thought, bitterly. As he put his coffee together, he spilled soured milk, trailed sugar all over the kitchen table. Yep, he was trapped in more ways than seemed possible, even for him: an ex-junkie, almost fifty, laid off after twenty years in a dead-end job. He'd always been a tough motherfucker. Grown up in the wilds of Jersey City: Curry's Woods. Orphan White Boy in the projects. Till lately, it took a lot to terrify him.

Today, he just knew something was wrong. On a Saturday morning, in a household of five .. .it was just too quiet. Why was he alone?

Still, worse if his son was home. Frankie Junior, his ten-year-old, gave him the creeps. The Bad Seed. Hyper, and "full of hell." Junior had his mommy's eyes: bulgy like a Boston Terrier's, but psycho ward-green. The geeky glasses fooled no one: Frankie, his teachers, the shrink who was scared to look Junior in the eye.

Even cats ran away from him. In the feline network, it'd spread like wildfire how that crazy Connelly kid had sawed the paws off a stray. "Boys will be boys!" Maggie told the horrified vet. When Frankie saw the bloody, blanketed mess, he blamed himself.

And ... her. With drooling junkies for parents, how else would their baby boy have turned out? They were both clean for years, but the damage was already done.

Now that he was out of work, maybe Frankie could spend more time with him.

Some good ol’ TLC might just do the trick. His smile was bitter. Junior might not be a future President, but Frankie refused to give up on him. He never prayed much. Still, right now, in their grimy kitchen, he found his hands folded tightly. Begging for a second chance ... for all of them.

Like "Brat." The daughter Maggie swore was his, but way back then, she'd fucked spies at City Line. Sure, Brat looked like Frankie. But he was Black Irish: shiny dark hair, olive skin, eyes like wet tar. Down one cheek he had a long, white scar, from being slashed over smack. A bushy mustache to hide his gutted upper lip. Brat's face was pierced in so many places, Frankie's long hair got caught each time he kissed her.

Which wasn't much, anymore. She was all grown up, now: eighteen, and a mommy.

But she had some mean streak, herself. Frankie was scared she'd take it out on Big Guy.

His grandson: the two-year-old dumpling Frankie loved most of all. And where were they, anyway?

Not with Miguel, he hoped. Big Guy's daddy, City Line scum with tweezed eyebrows and that pathetic "Sal Mineo" look. Big Guy had that same look, sometimes, but on a toddler, it was cute. Miguel would just as soon knife you, as reach for one last hug. 'He'd never hurt us," Maggie had said, way back. "We're family." Famous last words.

"But I love him!" Brat wailed, a month ago, when Frankie had finally kicked him out. Big Guy wailed, too, 'cos his mommy was covered with blood. He'd watched the whole thing, poor kid! Of all people, Maggie took Miguel's side. She turned on Frankie.

"How could you?" she said, through clenched teeth. Frankie was shocked. Over and over Brat sobbed, "I'll miss him, Daddy! I'll miss him!"

"Know what I'll miss most?" Patty had said. "The sun." "Shut up," he said softly.

Outside the sky was a slimy gray. You smelled drizzle, and what they'd just done on those tangled sheets. "No shit," she said. His cheek on her scarred breastbone, Frankie toyed with her one full breast. A huge macaroon, he thought of, squeezing the cherry-red nipple like he was scared to let go. "S'funny," she said. "I'm the one dyin' ... " She stroked his damp hair back. "But I'm happier than you." Instead of looking at her, he shut his eyes tight. "That really sucks," she whispered.

That Miguel. A real dangerous fuck. What Brat had seen in him said a lot about her. About all the Connellys. How a guy with four Social Security numbers has the run of your house. Peeling open a can of Goya corned beef, like Frankie did now: the "poor man's meal." Latino style: fried in tomato sauce, dumped over rice.

What a life! Tomato sauce, ketchup, blood. Always there was blood everywhere: the key breaks, the can slices your hand. Or Miguel cracks Brat a good one. His knuckles bleed from the lip and nose rings. Studs all over that sneery, whiney face. A fucking porcupine, that's what Frankie raised. They were always mixing blood ... all six of them. Where would it all end? Well, at least Miguel was gone.

But not dead, like Patty. A closed casket, she'd wanted. "Death's a personal thing," she half-joked. "Maybe a picture?" he suggested. His favorite: a sleazy Polaroid of them sucking face on some boardwalk, like in an old Bruce tune. "Maggie'll love that" Patty had said. No, Frankie thought sadly, just that you're dead. "Wish you were, too!" Maggie screamed, when he got back from the wake, bawling his eyes out.

Something, he realized, was going on. He just couldn't figure out what. As he shoved away his breakfast, he heard something outside the window. A rustling of hedges. It was May, and hot, but there was no breeze.

Instinct, from the old days of dodging narcs, made Frankie slink to the window.

He peered over the sill. Through the hedge, someone peered back. Face framed by a gray print bandana. As the hedge rustled again, Frankie saw one plucked eyebrow.

Miguel. But why? Sneaking around just wasn't his style. Try busting down your door. Or screaming from the street, so you knew he was back, for good. And, in the three years he'd known him, Miguel had never worn a bandanna. "Ghetto," he called it, lip curled in disgust.

So what the fuck?

When the phone rang, both jumped. Heart racing, Frankie ducked. But it wasn't the house phone, or even his cell. "You crazy?" he heard Miguel hiss into his own.

"Callin' now? Stupid bitch!" Then silence.

Frankie shuddered. A blade, he had somewhere. From his wild days. Fuck that, he thought. In the drain were steak knives, though they hadn't eaten steak in months.

On the floor, he shifted anxiously. Even that key from the corned beef can could do it, if enough oomph was in behind it.

Thank God he was home. The only one. If Brat and Big Guy ...

But where were they? For all Frankie knew, that fuck outside had them holed up somewhere. Punks with knives at their tender throats. Maybe he wasn't even here for them.

Then for what? They had nothing worth stealing.

From outside came an unmistakable click. Metallic, deadly.

He swallowed hard. That's when he knew.

"It's only death!" had been Patty's last words. She sprang up, suddenly. Her

arms tightened around him, so he could hardly breathe. A boa constrictor, she'd felt like. When she let go, he knew it was only 'cos she was dead.

Die fighting! he bet she'd say now. Kill him first! But with what? His bare hands.

Rage shot through him. He crawled across the floor, out of the kitchen. Like a panther, he slunk along the living room wall, ducked under windows, till he reached the back door. You're crazy, he told himself, on his way out. But his heart swelled like it would explode.

When they met head-on, Miguel's face fell. Frankie hoped he shit his pants. Both went down. With a pop, the gun went off. You fuck! Frankie thought. They grappled, rolling in the grass. He kicked the gun away. He'd kill him, Brat or no Brat. He fought dirty. Went right for his eyes. Miguel blinked, whimpered pitifully. One crunch, and his nose was broke. Frankie almost puked, but kept pounding him. He ground Miguel's balls, enjoying his shriek. He tore off that bandanna. If Miguel fought back, Frankie never felt it.

When his head cleared, he struggled to his feet. His heart still raced. Beneath him was this sniveling, pulpy mess. He looked away, then made himself look back at Miguel. The one nice thing he'd seen him do, was change Big Guy's diaper, making goofy faces, 'cos of the stink. "Pew!" he kept saying. "Pee-eww!" "Oh, man!" Miguel was sobbing, now. His eyes were swollen shut, the lids baby blue.

Why? Frankie wanted to say. Why'ja wanna kill me? But the words wouldn't come. His hand was killing him, now. He paced in the grass. Saw that bandana, splashed with blood. Then Miguel's cell. Purple, it was, like something a chick would buy you. Frankie smirked. Maggie's favorite, and his least favorite color.

Over by the fence, he spotted the gun. A .32, it looked like. An automatic. Eyes on Miguel, he slowly approached it. He stopped, went back. For a while, he stared down at the bandana, like it symbolized his whole, rotten existence. Then he picked it up. As he wrapped it around his aching hand, he was freshly repulsed. Still, the prints ...

Like a smack in the face, it hit him. The perfect way out. For all of them.

No, he thought wildly. Even for him, it was crazy. But as he picked up the gun with both hands, this crazy peace came over him. First Miguel, then ...

Below, Miguel's eyes were terrified. His bloody jaw seemed to rattle. No! screamed the softest of voices. Maybe from inside Frankie's heart. Still, he loomed over Miguel, pointing the gun at his sickening face. Ya gave up dope for this? Frankie shut his eyes.

That's when he heard it. From inside the kitchen, Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" began to play, softly, real tinny. His cell phone, this time.

He looked at the gun like he'd never seen it before. Then he smiled, horribly, down at Miguel. "You lucky motherfucker," was all he could say.

As he rushed inside, he almost dropped the gun. His cell had stopped ringing, then started again. He snatched it off the kitchen table.

"Mr. Connelly?" said a strange, female voice. Husky, laid back. "I'm Detective Rose Sgambato ... "

Frankie laughed. "You're too late, lady!"

She ignored him. "To tell ya the truth, I don't know what's goin' on ... "

Impatiently, Frankie peered out the window. Miguel was still laid out. "But I gotta kid here says he's your son. Frank Connelly, Junior."

His heart raced. Again, he saw red, the whole world through a gory haze. It was just too much! Through clenched teeth, he whispered, "The fuck he do now?"

"I'd rather not say on the phone. Mr. Conn ... "

"Tell me!" he screamed.

The lady cop sighed. "Says his Mom paid some guy to kill you."

He'd never seen Junior so quiet. So helpless. Without those glasses, his eyes looked as swollen as Miguel's. But with this kid, it was from crying. Arms folded, he sat, shivering. Det. Sgambato, the lady cop, asked, "Want me to shut off the air?" Junior shook his head.

To Frankie, this was the end of his dream. A human train wreck. Too bizarre, too agonizing to be real. Soon he'd wake up, again, in that lonely bed. All over again, he'd make coffee, knock over sugar. The milk would be twice as sour.

He. was still in shock. When it really hit him, he bet he'd puke right here, on this lady cop's desk.

Miguel was in custody. Brat and Big Guy were both outside, bawling. Innocent, he heard. Well, at least Big Guy. Maggie was missing. By choice, Frankie thought, feeling like a crowbar was stuck in his guts. Without emotion, he realized where Miguel had got the pretty phone. Mauve was its actual color. Maggie's special favorite.

"Go on," said the lady cop. About fifty, she was hot stuff, but no bullshit, and knew how to smile at a terrified kid. A kid who'd once mutilated an innocent cat. Now he looked pleadingly over at Frankie.

His throat felt dry. "Tell us the rest, Francis."

Junior shifted anxiously. "Mom ... l mean, I heard her and Miguel ... you know ... "

Frankie leaned forward. "Plotting?"

Junior didn't answer right away. "That, too," he murmured.

For a while, nobody said anything. All you heard was the a/c humming. Frankie's eyes burned, but he fought back tears. Since Patty's wake, he hadn't cried. A howling, convulsing mess he'd been that night, and Maggie never let him forget it. "Go join her!" she said, laughing. "In hell!" How could somebody who once loved you, hate you so much? Enjoy your pain? Your tears? Shit, I want you dead!

He breathed deeply, but it didn't help. Any second he would lose it. He stared hard up at the ceiling, but it blurred. Chop it off! he heard again, in that cunt's voice.

Cunt who was fucking her daughter's old man. Bought him a gun, Junior had told the lady cop. Frankie wiped his eyes, furiously, but more tears came.

"Dad?" Junior's voice cracked. He was crying again, too. Frankie still couldn't look at him. "I guess ... " the kid sniffled. "I shoulda told you, shouldn't I?"

Det. Sgambato's eyes were brown, and warm, and too much to bear. Frankie shuddered.

He looked at Junior. It was the saddest face he'd ever seen, on any kid. Like a bad child actor, hamming it up. But these tears, this fear, it was all real. So was his love.

His howl-like sob scared them all.

A horrifying love seized Frankie. In spite of all this, he swelled with joy. "S'okay, son," he said, trembling. He opened his arms. As Junior dove into them, Frankie sobbed, too, without shame. He squeezed him so tight, his son groaned.

"Five hundred she paid that scumbag," the lady cop muttered. "Ask me, you're worth more."

Frankie hiccupped. Through his tears, he smiled. "I am."

THE END





"Home, Sweet Home" originally appeared in A Twist of Noir, on May 30, 2011.





 


feral3.jpg

Feral

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Cat ladies. Ricky had known lots, his grandma the craziest. Felines clawing his legs, hair all over his clothes. House reeking so bad, his nose burned with memories. But what he smelled today was no memory. It was piss, all right.

 

          “Kitty,” she called herself (How original), as they don’t give their real names. You never go to their house, but this was a rush job. And she would pay big bucks.

 

          Where, Ricky wondered, rubbing his nose, did she get the money? So many cats covered the couch, cocktail table, Plasma TV, you couldn’t tell what anything was worth. Just that “Kitty” owned a big house on the same street as the mayor of this town.

 

          “He hates cats.” Her eyes blazed. “It’s all his fault.”

 

          Behind the abandoned Shop Rite, lived a zillion ferals. Soon, thanks to the feral cat supporters, there might be two zillion. At least that’s what His Honor told everybody.

 

          “Two-hundred-fifty dollars!” Kitty told Ricky. “That’s the fine for feeding those poor, hungry babies!”

 

          Should be five hundred, he thought, rubbing his eyes, now.

 

          “But that didn’t stop us!” Kitty said, triumphantly. “We kept on feeding them. Somebody,” she said, “who signed ‘Anonymous’ in the Community Star, says he’s going to pour . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, “antifreeze . . . in the food we put out.” She turned away, shaking with sobs.

 

Against his will, Ricky felt sorry for her. Those could’ve been Grandma’s thin, quaking shoulders. How hard Grandma took it each time one of her cats died. And that was usually from old age.

 

Except for one . . . that sweet kitten young Ricky had loved. Who’d slept on his head . . . till the bully next door smashed her. With a hammer.

 

How Ricky had bawled.

 

Antifreeze, Ricky thought, now. Sick fuck.

 

Like it had just been fired, the Glock burned in his pocket.

 

“Fat, red-headed bastard,” Kitty said.

 

As Ricky turned to go, she said, “I’m going with you.”

 

“You crazy?” he said. “That’s not how we do things, lady.”

 

“The customer . . .” She picked up a purring calico, “. . . is always right.”

 

*     *     *

 

 

“Make a left, next block,” Kitty said.

 

Ricky didn’t say shit, just drove. It was a gorgeous spring day. Cherry blossoms were everywhere: soft, pink, like little kitty tongues.

 

Then, the stench of cat piss made him re-taste his cornflakes.

 

“We’re almost there!” Kitty said.

 

The ground sloped, as did Ricky’s stomach. On both sides of the road, Cats watched them drive past. Lean, mean ones; older, skittish ones. A zillion kittens, scampering around. Soon, the mayor had promised, there’ll be two zillion.

 

Unless . . .

 

“Stop!” Kitty said, and he slowed down. “Look!”

 

Up the road, Ricky saw him.

The monster carrying the gallon of poison. Like in a sci fi film, the cats split up, making a path for him.

 

Dumb fucks, Ricky thought, so used to humans bearing food, and water. Humans that longed to pick them up, feel them purring against their hearts . . .

 

But this swaggering, fat, “anonymous” bastard . . . The cap hid most of his face, but his teeth gleamed.

 

“Get him!” Kitty said, but Ricky had to get closer.

 

Still grinning, the monster squatted, nearly losing his balance. He unscrewed the lid.

 

Ricky felt the Glock. Can’t leave a witness.

 

All along, he’d known that. If he killed one, he’d have to kill the other.

 

As he pulled out the Glock, he remembered Grandma. How proud she looked when he confessed what he’d done . . . with the bully’s own hammer.

 

How awed he was by her physical strength . . . even more, by the strength of her stomach.

 

All Grandma’s cats had eaten well that week.

 

Ricky glanced over at the eager Kitty, then out the window.

 

And these would eat better.

 

 

 


birthdayland.jpg
Art by Steve cartwright © 2016

BIRTHDAYLAND

 

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Why me?, you think.  By the looks on their faces, they’re thinking the same thing.

 

          The birthday elves. One blue, one pink, named Bluebell and Pinky. Like the Lollipop Guilders from Oz, but cooler. Pinky grants chicks’ birthday wishes.  Bluebell is antsy, like he’s dying to go outside for a smoke.

 

That sucks, you think, about Birthdayland.  Even in this magical place—topped with buttercream frosting, lit by blazing birthday candles—you can’t smoke inside.

 

Bluebell’s scowl says he’s with you. In his sheer pocket, you spot Marlboros. You wouldn’t mind lighting up, yourself.

 

“This year you’re the lucky one,” Pinky says, in a falsetto voice.

 

“Our honored guest,” Bluebell says.

 

Yeah, right!, you think. A trick, this feels like. Something Javier and that sneaky bitch Mandy cooked up.  To pay you back for his birthday surprise. 

 

Torching their truck.

 

Your smile scares the elves.  Bluebell pats his Marlboros, nervously. This bitch, his phony smile says, is crazy.

 

“And how old are we today?” Pinky asks you.

 

These fucking elves.  What do they know about love, and revenge? That feeling like somebody drilled a hole in your heart? 

 

“How old?” comes out even squeakier.

 

You can’t remember. Thirty-five? Fifty-five? 

 

On Javier’s birthday, three weeks back, you colored your hair.  Just in time, you made it back inside.  As the flames rose from the SUV, you were squirting black dye on your roots. In the hallway: heavy footsteps, shouts. Your maniacal laughter drowned out your music: Simon and Garfunkel. Triumphant, you felt, but also mellow. 

 

“I don’t know,” you say. “Fourteen?”

 

The elves don’t get it. “Would you like an iPod?” Pinky asks, “For your birthday treat?” Bluebell sticks on his headphones, turns on his own iPod.

 

Outside, carolers sing “Happy Birthday” in the distance. Soon, they’ll be here.

 

“Fuck no!” you tell Pinky.  Bluebell shuts off the iPod.

 

“Okay.” Bluebell takes control, now. “It’s like this, Birthday Girl . . .”

 

You smirk. From outside, smells of sugary frosting and cigarettes waft in. He’s tortured by the smoke, and you love it.

 

“A grown-up girl deserves a grown-up gift.” Out come the Marlboros. Smiling, he takes something out of the pack.

 

 A Lotto ticket. He unfolds it, hands it to you.  “Congratulations,” he says, smugly. “You’re rich.” Pinky titters.

 

Javier, you think, would kiss your ass. Already you hear his footsteps, on the stairs. He’d dump Mandy fast for this crazy, rich bitch. Even after you torched his truck. 

 

“A mega millionaire!”

 

A soft knock on your door. “Mami?” Javier purrs. “Estás ahí?”

 

No, Shithead, you think. I’m not home. I’m in Birthdayland. Where nothing is real. Not even you.

 

“No,” you say, through clenched teeth. “I don’t want money.”

 

The elves just stare.

 

“People using me.” You see it now: a yellow Lamborghini with him at the wheel. “Suing me.” For torching their truck.

 

The elves look confused.

 

“What I do want . . .”

 

They lean forward, expectantly.

 

“Is the . . . head . . . of Javier Rodriguez.” 

 

“What?” they say, together. 

 

“His head!” you say.  “You know, that thing on his neck, with the brain inside.”

 

They look at each other, then back at you. “A picture of it, you mean?” Pinky asks.

 

“No!” They jump. “I want his head, cut off that skinny neck, right here, on this table.”

 

Outside, the carolers are getting closer. “How old are you, now?” they’re singing to somebody less crazy than you.

 

You see it now: Javier’s head.  On the pink birthday platter, where your cake should be.  Black eyes like marbles. Glasses askew:  the blow from the ax made them shift. That bad haircut she gave him.  Delilah to his Samson, she’d snipped off his balls along with those curls. . . .

 

Mami?” his dead lips say.

 

Smiling, you lean back. “Yeah,” you whisper

The carolers are here, but they can’t get inside. Pinky won’t let them.  With incredible strength, he leans back against the door, holding it shut.

 

Bluebell jams all the Marlboros in his mouth, and lights them, one by one.  Eyes wild, he puffs harder and harder. 

 

“Oh, yeah!” you say. “That’s what I want.”

 

 

“Birthdayland,” by Cindy Rosmus. A longer version of “Birthdayland” originally appeared in Issue # 120 (June 2009) of Zygote in My Coffee.

 


notreal.jpg
Art by Marina Cicalese © 2016

NOT REAL

by

Cindy Rosmus

 

          When Eric, the new guy at work, dumped me, I planned this melodramatic exit.

          “I’ll just . . . walk,” I told Jenn, “into the sea. Then . . . keep walking . . .” I wiped my tears. “Till . . .”

          “Go ahead.” Jenn sounded bored.

Too early for Happy Hour, we were on the beach, in bikinis that matched our shades: mine, floral. Jenn’s, leopard. It was the Jersey shore, late 80s. The sun was strong and waves super-rough, today.

After the shit I’d been through, I needed to get away.

“I wonder . . .” I stared way out at the ocean . . . “how it feels . . . when your lungs fill with water.”

Jenn’s look said it all: Fuck up my weekend, I’ll drown you myself.

What an asshole I felt like. But it had just happened yesterday.

“I can’t believe,” Eric said, “You gave me a card.”

“Guys hate cards,” Jenn had warned me.  The voice of reason. “Especially with teddy bears and shit.”

Especially married guys. Like, what if his wife found it?

“Be glad he didn’t spit in your eye,” Jenn said now.

Shrieks, as an extra-big wave struck a bunch of teens. They almost fell backwards into the water. Even we got sprayed.

 I shuddered. Maybe, I thought, he’ll just tear up the card. Put the teddy bears behind us.

Jenn checked her watch. “C’mon,” she said, in a softer tone, “Let’s drink ourselves to death.”

“Not yet,” I said, wisely. “Life’s too short.”

*     *     *

This shore house, we had, with two sisters, Leona and Veronica. And a bunch of people we didn’t know. Wall-to-wall friends of friends, puking and fucking, all over the place.

Leona was quiet, with big, red hair, like that B-52s babe. Veronica was super-tall, dark-haired, divorced. And a cop. But the neediest cop you ever met. She was obsessed with Bruce, who was married, but that was OK, ‘cos she was tough and had a gun. A small .38 she loved flashing.

She also had a kid, Keith. The ugliest, neediest kid, ever. “Mommy,” he whined constantly. “Mommy!” Tugging at her elbow, which she jabbed him with. “Get off me, Keith!” she said.

Keith was always whining, or crying.  Like me, ‘cept nobody had stomped the shit out of his four-year-old heart.

One day, while our other “roomies” were out cold, the three of us watched a movie on the beat-up VCR. Some slasher flick. ‘Cept Veronica was doing her nails, and Keith was doing “Mommy, Mommy,” and getting the elbow in his bony ribs.

Does he ever eat? I thought. Cop or no cop, bringing him to a party house was really fucked up. He never had fun. She never took him on the rides, or even to the boardwalk for a cone.

When the phone rang, it had to be trouble. It wasn’t even our phone.

 

“Hello?” Veronica was applying top coat to her nails. “Hi!” Now she sounded delighted.

Suddenly, she dropped the receiver, so it clattered on the floor. These huge, deep sobs came out of her.

“Mom-mee?” This time, Keith sounded scared.

 “What happened?”

Keith crawled into her lap, but she didn’t shove him off. “B-Bruce . . .” she said. “Bruce . . .”

I hung up the phone, took the bottle of top coat before it spilled. “Yeah?” I said, gently.

“Told me . . . to go fuck myself.”

On the TV, the killer blew a teen’s head clean off. 

“Mommy?” Keith’s small hands gripped her face, but she didn’t pull him close. “Why you crying?”

Pissed, I jumped up and grabbed him. “She’s scared,” I lied. “Of the movie. Me, too.” I shut it off. “Even though it’s not real.

Veronica slowly shook her head. “I want to die. Just . . . die.”

“Like in the movie?” Keith said. “Or for real?”

Veronica got up, looking taller than six feet, and walked hypnotically into a bedroom.

In another room, a guy yawned, loudly. Then a Bon Jovi tune came on.

“Shot Through the Heart . . .”

That gun.

Alarmed, I ran after her. In my mind, the shot rang out before I got there.

She stood, staring at the .38, like it was a flower she’d just picked. My walk-into-the-sea fantasy gone real.

 

“If I die,” she said, “It really is me who loses.”

I kept my eye on the gun. “Right.”

“Like, I let him win.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.

I didn’t say a word.

“He’ll still have Francine. Nobody . . . will have me.” Her grip loosened. “Not a great guy looking to treat me right. If he even exists.”

“He does.” It was bullshit, but I had to say it. I felt all hollow inside.

“Not . . . my son.”

“Keith,” I said.

Nodding slowly, she dropped the gun on the bed. Then walked out, past me. 

By now, Leona, Jenn, and the guys they’d picked up were up. One guy, husky with a blond ponytail, was making omelets. I smelled instant coffee and watermelon.

But between my shit with Eric, and “Officer Check-out,” my stomach was churning.

“Don’t burn mine!” Jenn said, about her English muffin. Next to the smoking toaster were Frosted Flakes and Lucky Charms.

“Keith!” Veronica said, like she’d just remembered his existence. “What kind of cer-”

“Oh, my God!” Jenn said. Leona stifled a scream.

In the kitchen doorway stood Keith, holding his mommy’s gun. “For real?” he said.

Eyes wild, Veronica opened her arms, as if to shield the whole world. “Keith,” she said, “Baby . . .”

The most loving words he would ever hear.

 

THE END







nocostumesrequired.jpg
Art by Steve cartwright © 2016

“No Costumes Required”

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Oh, pul-lease,” Lisa said. “All guys say that.”

 

          “It’s true,” Mike said. “My ex really is nuts.” He looked around the bar.

 

          “Scared she’ll show up here?”

 

          He chewed his thumb. “She hates booze. Even chocolate martinis. Says you still taste the vodka. It takes all the fun out of chocolate!”

 

          “Fun,” Lisa muttered. She could use some, herself.        

They were at Scratch’s. On one wall was a flyer, boasting, “BIGGEST HALLOWEEN BASH EVER!  Oct. 31st. Food. Dollar shots. No Costumes Required.” Halloween was two days away. Lisa was hot to go, costume or not.

 

Everywhere you looked were fake cobwebs, orange and black neon lights. The ceiling fan was on, full blast. Above Mike was a cardboard skeleton. When its bony legs brushed him, he jumped.

 

“She killed her sister,” he said. “When she was ten. A tiny baby.” His voice shook. “’Cos she was jealous. On Halloween. She won’t admit it, but I know her.”

 

Smirking, Lisa studied her Halloween nails: orange and black, with a jeweled pumpkin on her ring finger. Black-haired, icy blue-eyed, she was forty but had never been married, or even engaged.

 

“And she’s gonna kill us, too,” he told her.

 

*     *     *

 

 “Got any pets?” Mike asked, on their first date, last month.

 

“No!” she spat out. “Who has time to walk dogs? And cat piss stinks up your whole house.” She sensed him shudder. “And, as far as kids go . . .”

 

He seemed like a nice guy. The kind who assembled his nephews’ oversized toys at Christmas.

 

Do not, she told herself, fuck this up.

 

“I’m not ready,” she told him.

 

*     *     *

 

Last week, he stood her up. At her place. She’d even cooked: baked pork chops, with a packaged salad, and old, bottled dressing.

 

For hours, she drank wine, worrying.

 

Is he dead? she wondered.

 

Each call went straight to voice mail. Every text showed delivered, but unread.

 

Call 911, she thought, drunkenly. But, what was his address? Supposedly, he lived by the park.

 

Finally, he picked up. Without saying anything.

 

“Mike?” she said.

 

No answer. But . . . somebody . . . was there, listening. Had heard her say his name. Knew she was waiting for him.

 

“Who is this?” Lisa said.

 

A childish giggle chilled her. “Who’s this?” said a girly voice.

 

Lisa dropped the phone.      

*     *     *

 

When she got home from work Halloween night, kids with the freakiest costumes ruled the streets.

 

Squeezing through, Lisa saw a half-human, half-alligator and a teen with live maggots squirming on his red face. The stench of rancid meat made her want to puke.

 

Outside their building sat Nayda the super, handing out candy bars. “Too many fucking kids.”

 

Lisa accepted some chocolate. “Better out here than inside.”

 

“What?” she said, when Mike called, later. “No party?”

 

“I’ve got to work.” Liar.

 

“So after work.”

 

He paused. “I’ve got no costume.”

 

“‘No Costumes Required.’”

 

The following silence seemed to last forever. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a choked voice. Like this was about more than Scratch’s Halloween bash. “I’m so sorry.”

 

*     *     *

 

It was too late to hit Scratch’s party. The baked ziti would be dried out, the bar slimy with spilled shots.

 

Lisa fumbled with the corkscrew. She’d drunk enough for three. For the freaky trick-or-treaters. “Hey, Maggot Face!” she toasted, when the wine finally opened.

 

The knock was so soft, she thought she’d dreamt it.  She’d dozed off, without realizing it.

 

Mike? she thought, almost falling on her way to the door.

 

One last trick-or-treater. Dressed all in black, with Jason’s bloody hockey mask and a curved blade. Friday the 13th. The blood even looked fresh, and real.

 

Lisa gripped the doorframe. “You’re late,” she said, but got no answer.

 

Trying to catch up, she guessed, searching for Nayda’s chocolate. Mom worked second shift, somewhere.

 

But, late as it was, no mom was in the hallway.

 

That’s OK, Lisa thought, grabbing the chocolate. The obviously concealed curves assured her this was a girl . . .

 

Who could take care of herself.

 

Like she’d read Lisa’s mind, she giggled.

 

 

 

 


santy.jpg
Art by Marina Cicalese © 2016

SANTY’S WISH LIST

 

By

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          You?” Dee, the luscious barmaid, seemed amused.  “Play Santa Claus?  For little kids?”

          Vic scowled.  Big deal: so he had long, curly hair down to his waist.  Despite his hooked nose, he looked like a rock star!  “Not ‘play,’” he said, coldly.  He dropped a crisp twenty onto his soaked singles.  “Work.  It’s a job, baby!”  A lousy one, too, he thought.  And little “brats” was more like it.

          She refilled his shot glass with Black Haus.  “Coulda fooled me,” she said.  “You don’t seem the type.”

          His eyes narrowed.  Talk about types.  Here was Malibu Barbie, in the flesh: sea-green eyes, straight, honey-colored hair, great figure.  Ageless.  And tan all over, in the dead of winter.  In Jersey, yet. 

          “I mean…” She fingered his twenty, forced a smile. “Forget it.”  She pushed his money closer to him.  “Hey, s’on me!  It’s Christmas!”

          “Not yet,” he muttered.  Disgusted, he looked around him.  From all sides, red, green, and blue lights blinked crazily, like the bar was having a stroke.  In the corner, beneath a wobbly-looking tree, some drunk kid (a minor, no doubt) was out cold.  On the CD player, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” was playing for the tenth time.  And Vic had only been here an hour!

          “Cheers?”  Dee said hopefully.  She held her own drink up for a toast.  Without speaking, Vic clicked glasses with her. 

          A Christmas tip, he thought.  All she wants.  A big one, though he’d never come in here before.  And never would again.  “Nick’s” was the bar’s name.  Like that hellhole in IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE. What a lame joint, he thought, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.  He downed his shot.

          Just three more days till the Big Day.  Despite the Grinch’s best efforts, Christmas would be here at last.

Three more days…of hell.  Of wearing that hot Santa suit, pretending to give a damn.  Ho! Ho! Ho!” and all that crap.  Snot-nosed whiners crawling in his lap.  Selfish little brats, begging for expensive gifts.  A “DS,” they all wanted.  Or “Play Station 2.”  Even the girls.  Vic was thirty-five.  But when he was a kid, his sisters had dug Barbies. 

“ ‘Princess Pappas!’ ” The Big Boss had told him.  “Talk ‘em into Pappas Barbies, whether they want ‘em or not.  And we still got plenty of “Swan Lakes” left.  Real cheap, Santy Claus!” he’d added, sarcastically.  He knew what Vic was all about: bucks, booze, and babes.  Hot babes.

Speaking of hot babes… Vic smirked at Dee’s back.  Tattooed, and muscular, in a red, criss-cross top.  Leather, or spandex.  Nice and Christmas-y.  “Yo!” he said, pushing his empty beer mug toward her.

But she was busy.  That kid had woken up, finally.  Like a human spruce, his spiky hair stuck out, all over.  Yawning, he stood at the bar, near the back door, unfolded his singles.  Her back to him, Vic still heard the smile in Dee’s voice.  Hey, Sleepyhead!” 

His jaw tightened.  Jealously, he eyed the kid, who leaned over the bar, in a too-familiar way.  Could be her damn son, Vic bet.  Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. “Yo!” he said again.

They both glanced over.  The look she gave Vic made him want to go hide somewhere.  Maybe under that wobbly tree.  But she’d never know it.  Or get a tip, either, he thought, as she took her time refilling his mug.

“Face it,” his pal Ronnie had said, just that night.  “You’re as down on yourself as the rest of us.”  Yeah, right! Vic had thought.  Ronnie, the sorriest guy he knew.  And the only one with a job worse than his.  All day, Ronnie strolled up and down the mall, dressed as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Ronnie’s costume was bigger and hotter than Vic’s Santa suit, any day.  Still, Ronnie really dug life!  “Y’ask me,” he’d told Vic knowingly, “Somebody hurt you.  Big-time.”

“I do still love you,” the girl had told him, way back, after he’d tracked her down, at her house.  After how many un-returned phone calls?  “I’m just not in love with you.  No more.”  A few casual words, and his heart turned to stone.  A tombstone was between his lungs.  “Please don’t hate me,” she said, right before the door shut forever.  “Hey, I always tell the truth.”

The truth, Vic thought now, as he downed his beer.  The truth hurts, the old saying went.  Damn straight.  He smiled, smugly.  Slid the empty mug across the bar. Ever since then, he made it a point of telling the truth, whenever he could.  And if it hurt…tough!

The CD player took a turn for the best: Pearl Jam’s “Last Kiss.”  “S’about time!” Vic said, too loudly.  Around him, the regulars stared. “Later for all that Christmas crap!” 

Dee treated him to another disgusted look.  Sleepyhead stood up straight, craned his neck.  He was tall, and lanky.  Vic could easily cream him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Vic said.  Fists clenched, he jumped up, just as the door opened behind the kid.

Snow blew in, swirled around and around.  Like in A CHRISTMAS CAROL, it seemed almost to form a ghostly figure. 

Time just stopped.  Nobody moved.  Vic’s, Dee’s, and Sleepyhead’s eyes were all glued to the open door, as somebody crept in, finally.

A little girl, Vic thought, at first.  In a black, hooded cape. Crazy as it sounded, she looked like the “Ghost of Christmas That Would Never Come.  Nobody spoke, as she stopped by Sleepyhead, slowly took down her hood. 

“Hey, Ruthie,” Sleepyhead said, but she didn’t answer.

Even from a distance, Vic felt stabbed by her eyes.  Round and huge, they were so deep and dark, somebody else might be scared to see into them. He actually got goosebumps.

Then…“Black Haus!” came out, in a hoarse, choked voice.

A grown woman, Vic realized.  About his own age. Real tiny, but just in height.  In weight, she was an oversized cherub, with shiny, red, chipmunk cheeks. 

As her chubby paw reached for the shot, he relaxed, some.  As she downed Black Haus like a drunk old man, Vic even snickered.  He couldn’t believe it.  A moment before, he’d been scared!  He waved Dee over.  Just some fat chick, he thought, smugly.  A frumpy fat chick, yet!

“Yeah?” Arms folded, Dee hated him, now.

“Drinks all around,” he said.  Her lip curled.  Still gorgeous, he thought.  Unlike…

That fat chick.  Smirking, he turned back to Ruthie.  He just couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She was talking to Sleepyhead.  Just listening, really.  He was doing all the talking.  And loud enough, so Vic caught almost every word.  “Keep the faith, man,” Sleepyhead said. “Sure, chemo’s a drag.”  He leaned closer, but didn’t lower his voice.  “Be just fine.  Look at me.”  Yeah, Vic thought.  Drunk, and stupid.

As his fresh beer came, Vic slurped it.  Sleepyhead was still bending Fatso’s ear. “Mine grew back,” he said, leaning all the way over.  Timidly, Ruthie stroked his spiky locks.  “Yours will, too.”  She hesitated, then touched her own hair.

That hair

Vic almost choked.  Why hadn’t he noticed it, before?

Fresh drinks appeared before Sleepyhead and Ruthie.  Still pissed, Dee pointed over at Vic.  “Hey, thanks!” Sleepyhead sounded surprised.  Without speaking, Ruthie smiled over at Vic.  Then, creeping closer, she held up her shot glass, for a toast.

Vic bit his lip, to keep from laughing.  That hair… What a scream!  Not since his old Grandma Vitiello had died, had he seen a rug like that.  Ginger-colored, chin-length, in that pouf-y style from the mid-60’s!  But the killer was… Vic finished his beer in one gulp. 

…Those little barrettes!

“M—Merry Christ…” Ruthie could hardly choke out the words.

Vic couldn’t stand it.  He howled with laughter.  When the others looked confused, he explained.  “Your…hair!”  He pointed to Ruthie’s wig.  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Her eyes widened. 

“Gotta problem, man?” Sleepyhead demanded.

“Don’t mind him,” Dee told Ruth. “You look great.”

“Great?” Vic said.  “Hey, girl, you must be single.  Either that, or your old man’s blind.  Letting you walk out of the house wearing that!”

Ruthie just stared.  Those big eyes were wet, now, with tears.  A childish fist wiped them away.

“He’s drunk!” Dee said, disgusted. 

“I might be drunk,” Vic said, “But I speak the truth.”

Out!” Dee said.  “You sick bastard!”

Vic was thrown against the bar. “She’s got cancer, okay?” Sleepyhead yelled. “In her throat.  Is that funny?”  Vic groaned, as his shoulder was twisted.  He was too bombed to really fight back. “You busting a gut?”

“Throw him out,” Dee said, wearily.  Around them, stools screeched, as regulars got up, to help.  But Dee waved them away.

 Arms and legs flailing, Vic felt himself being dragged.  His one good punch, Sleepyhead ducked.  As they passed Ruthie, Vic saw two of her.  Two sets of black, hopeless eyes.  He blinked, wildly.  As the door opened, cold air smacked his face. The whole world spun, as he was flung outside.

 

In the snow, he landed with a thump.  Laughs and claps, as the door shut behind him. 

For a few minutes, he just lay there.  Bastards, he thought, miserably.

Man, would he be hurting tomorrow!  And a work day, yet.  Already, his shoulder was killing him.  He got up, slowly, cussing.  Shaking snow off himself. The neon “NICK’S” sign blinked, in a too-familiar way.  It made his head want to explode.  Wincing, he wrung out his soaked, rock star’s hair.  His heart sunk, as he realized he’d left his money on the bar.

He kicked the side of the building. “Merry Christmas!” he yelled, at the top of his lungs.

Then trudged away.

 

*     *     *

 

 

“…And a DS.  No, PSP!”  The little girl weighed a ton.  As she leaned against his sore shoulder, Vic clenched his teeth.

“What else?” Even smiling hurt him, today.  Especially smiling.  His pounding head felt the size of the whole North Pole.  And the furry red suit felt three times as hot. “C’mon, Taylor…tell Santa what you really want.”

Taylor’s curvy mom was checking him out.  Either that, or watching to make sure he didn’t try anything with her baby girl.  “How about a…Barbie?  A brand-new ‘Princess Pap…” The woman nodded, slowly, at him.

Deep in thought, Taylor chewed a grimy, fat finger.  “An iPod!” she shrieked, finally.  Vic jumped.  Her voice was like a chainsaw.  He covered his ears, almost knocking her off his lap.  “The Mini, I want!” she said, “The pink one.”

Taylor’s mom shook her head, wildly.  But Vic had had it.  He was due for a break.  Real bad, he needed a slice.  And a beer.  Maybe two beers.  But the brats were still coming.  He was scared to count how many were left.

“You’ll get it!” he said, handing her a candy cane.  Her Mom’s look chilled him.

“Thanks a lot!” she hissed, as they hurried away.

Who else had looked at him like that?  Not long ago.  Last night, maybe.  But most of last night was still a blur.  Vic rubbed his temples.  He felt sick, sick.  In his head, stomach.  Maybe even in his heart. 

 

Fat chance, he thought, but for once without humor.  He wondered if he’d ever really laugh at anything again.  But wasn’t sure why.

Horrified, and still dizzy, he stared down the long line of kids, with their moms.  Weakly, he beckoned the next kid over.

 

*     *      *

 

“Wow!”  It was Ronnie, in street clothes.  Hours later, it had to be.  And finally, a lull.  For once, no kids were waiting!  It was unheard-of.  Vic got up, grabbed his sign. “OUT FEEDING MY REINDEER,” it said.  He propped it on his seat.

“Here since this morning?” Ronnie asked.

“Nine.”  Vic’s voice was hoarse.

 “Out late last night?”  Vic’s silence was answer enough.  “Oh, man!”

“Let’s go,” Vic said, yanking down his woolly beard.  Then, “Aw, man!” as two boys approached. 

“Shhh!”  Ronnie said, as they got closer.

Reluctantly, Vic pulled his beard back on. “But I’m hungry!”  

Santy Claus…” Ronnie said, in a small voice.  “I think they are, too.”

Blond, and bony, they both were, about twelve, and eight.  No, twelve and…six, more likely.  And did look hungry, Vic realized.  But maybe not for food.  Clearly brothers, they both had the same eyes: deep, and almost black.  But where the smaller one’s were like a hunted deer’s, the bigger’s were like holes from a .22.  Neither was smiling.  And, somehow, both looked familiar.

Vic got goosebumps.  He pointed to the sign.  “You gotta come back,” he said, in a hollow-sounding voice.  “I’m out feeding my ‘peeps.’  Rudolph, and them.” 

The younger kid just stared at him.  “But you’re still here,” the older one said, without defiance.  Instead, there was a desperation about him.

“And so’re they,” Ronnie said, under his breath.  “I’ll be back.”

Vic watched helplessly, as Ronnie walked away.  Something about these two almost scared him.  He wracked his brain.  He’d felt this same way, recently.  Was it just last night?

He took the sign off his chair.  As he sat down, his whole body ached, mostly his head.  It felt like he had a paper-cut on his skull.  Forcing a smile, he opened his arms.

“Go ‘head,” the older boy told his brother.  “Sit in Santy’s lap.”

Still staring, the little one perched on Vic’s kneecap.

 

“What’s his name?” Vic asked, out of the side of his mouth. 

“Timmy,” the older boy told his brother, “Tell Santy why you’re here.  What you want for Christmas.”

Those fawn’s eyes blinked, suddenly filled with tears.  Furiously wiping them, he turned away.

“A DS?” Vic suggested.  He looked at the older boy, who shook his head.  “I know…” Vic brightened.  “Sidekick Two!”

No response from Timmy, who began whimpering.  Again his older brother shook his head.

“S’okay, Tim,” he told him.  “Santy’s okay.  Santy’s…the man.  Be straight with him.  Tell the truth.”

Still no answer.

Vic’s head hurt so bad, he felt like crying himself.  He lost his patience.  “What do you want?” he growled.

His back to Vic, Timmy shook with sobs.  He mumbled something unintelligible. 

What?” Vic demanded. If the Big Boss was close by, he’d be fired for sure.  “What do you want?  Tell me!”

          Timmy whirled around.  “A wig!” he screamed.  “A new one!  A nice one!  Her old one’s so ugly!” 

          With all his might, he kicked Vic in the shins.  The sickening crunch went right to his head. “Owww!”  Vic yelled, clutching his leg. 

“She’s dying!” Timmy shrieked.  He turned and ran, wailing. “Dying!  Dying!”

“Shit!”  His brother ran after him.  “Timmy!” 

 A few feet away, he stopped, suddenly.  Looked back at Vic, with tortured eyes. Like big, black mirrors.  Even from there, Vic saw himself in them.

“My Mommy is…dying!”  Timmy shrieked, in the distance. People stopped, and stared, as he passed.  Little kids clutched their own mommies’ hands.  Then too many people were staring at Vic.

He looked down at his leg.  It screamed, with pain.  But something worse was happening to him.  Something terrifying.  His eyes throbbed.  He shook, all over.  It felt like his heart was being torn in half.  

Or like something cold and hard was crumbling.

Fat chance, he thought, as the tears gushed down. 

 

 

THE END






nunssmile.jpg
Art by Daniel Valentin © 2017

A Nun’s Smile

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

1967

 

 

          Mary never forgot it. Old Sister Michael had Danny Feeley by the cheek, squeezing hard. With her other hand, she slapped him, repeatedly. Each slap made him laugh, louder. Like he enjoyed the pain.

 

“Scumbag!” he said, between laughs.

 

Mary cringed. Usually, she was the one Danny called “Scumbag.” Or “Fatso.” Or he pretended to stumble along, since they all knew Mary’s Pop was a fall-down drunk.

 

          Around them, the cool sixth-graders laughed, too. But Mary’s friends, the other class creeps, looked horrified. Boo Hoo Bridget was crying, though Boo Hoo cried if Friday’s lunch was fish sticks instead of grilled cheese.

 

          As the show went on, Mary’s heart raced. She stared up at the crucifix, praying that Jesus would come down and end this.

 

          If a nun hits you, Mary’s mom always said, it’s because you deserve it. If Sister had hit Mary, her mom would smack her twice as hard, that night.

 

Please? Mary asked Jesus, one last time.

 

When the door opened, heads turned. But Mary was watching Sister, in amazement: the old nun was smiling! Both corners of her ancient lips turned up, revealing teeth like Chiclets. She let go of Danny.

 

Father Sebastian strolled in, also smiling, like Sister had been reading aloud, instead of beating Danny. But Father was always smiling. His teeth looked fake, like on those toothpaste commercials. He was older, like forty, but loved showing up to visit Mary’s class. But mostly the boys.

And Danny was his pet.

 

But why? Mary always wondered. Danny was the meanest kid, ever. So mean, sometimes she wished he was dead.

 

“Danny, Danny, Danny . . .” Father gripped his shoulders, rubbing them. “Sister,” he said, with those teeth, “What did Mr. Feeley do, on this beautiful spring day?”

 

In unison, the class glanced out the open windows. Soft pink blossoms stuck out from the trees. The sky was almost too blue.

 

Sister sighed. “The usual.”

 

When Mary looked back, Father was rubbing Danny’s neck. Danny’s eyes were cast down, his face really red, from Sister’s slaps. But he wasn’t laughing, now. He seemed almost . . . scared. But of what?

 

Not Father, Mary thought. Father was so nice. He liked the Beatles, though Sister said all four of them “were going straight to hell!”

 

“We’re all sinners,” Father told the class, each time he stopped by. “Even . . . Sisters of Charity.”

 

Sister Michael waved that away. 

 

“All of us,” Father said, in a dreamy voice.

 

Mary recalled Danny acting up on those days, too. And Father squeezing him. Sometimes just mussing his hair. Danny had very curly, dark hair.

 

“Come with me,” he told Danny today, “And I’ll hear your confession.”

 

But it’s Wednesday, Mary thought.

 

Danny had gotten pale. “I’m sorry,” he told Sister, sitting down. “I’ll be quiet. Or . . . read out loud, if you want.” He struggled to find his place in the reader.

 

Sister pointed at the door. “Go with Father!”

 

But Danny wouldn’t budge.

 

“Mr. Feeley?” Father said, softly.

 

Danny’s eyes darted from Father, to the window, then back again.

 

As Father stepped closer, Danny bolted out of his seat. Knocked down Boo Hoo, before scrambling onto the ledge, and out the window.

 

A three-flight drop.

 

Mary screamed. Others did, too: snotty kids who’d just laughed, minutes ago. Sister clutched her heart, fell against the blackboard. But she lived.

 

Father must’ve been the first outside. Mary’s class stayed put, guarded by Miss Norell, from next door. Miss Norell was trying not to cry, so they wouldn’t. But Boo Hoo had been bawling since Danny knocked her down.

 

Later, Mary heard that Father knelt, wailing, over Danny’s broken body. That he choked out the wrong words to the prayers.

 

She heard Danny’s body was covered with reddened cherry blossoms, from his flight into the tree.

 

She also heard Sister Michael never smiled again.

 

That, Mary believed.

 

 

 

blinders.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

Blinders

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          The subway platform, as usual, smelled like an armpit. Worse: a homeless guy’s crotch.

And they were sleeping, all over. One guy Samantha stepped over, not far from the turnstile.

Call 911, she thought.

But she’d called 911 lots of times. All false alarms. Drunks sleeping it off, cops said. Always, she was late for work. The last time she called, the cop who showed up raised an eyebrow, like he’d recognized her voice. A serial prankster, he might’ve thought.

She’d worked in the City long enough to be up on the latest. Thieves, perverts who rubbed against you on the M train. Nuts who shoved you in front of it as it roared in. Whether at rush hour, or 2 A.M., none of it made sense.

Shit happens, she thought, as she waited this morning. From some things, you just couldn’t protect yourself.

An hour late she’d be, thanks to Bingo Joe and the cats. His aching gut cut into her bathroom time. And the cats: One had puked in the bed, another had left shit by the front door. Don’t leave us, Mommy!, no doubt that meant.

Good afternoon, Sam, her boss would say. Nice of you to drop by. She’d be waiting at Samantha’s desk.

But they were called “kiosks,” now. In all the years she’d worked, things changed faster than Samantha could keep up with. Bingo Joe misspelled shit 90% of the time, but she still needed him to download the apps on her phone. “Get with it,” he told her.

Speaking of phones . . . She slipped hers in her purse.

Thieves were everywhere. The old lady over on the bench seemed to be sleeping, but maybe it was an act.

Where’s that train? Samantha fidgeted. The longer it took, the worse the platform stunk. She had to hold her breath.

Finally, she thought, as the tracks lit up, suddenly.

When the M pulled in, Bench Lady woke up, singing loudly. “En mi Viejo San Juan.”

 

With a whoosh, the train doors opened. I wish . . . Samantha pictured her boss at her kiosk, I could join you there.

The car was empty, except for two guys. And a guide dog, a yellow lab, wearing a blue vest. “PLEASE DON’T PET ME,” the vest said, “I’M WORKING.” 

When Samantha sat down, the dog looked over, smiling.

She loved animals, mostly cats. When two tenants died, one from being old, the other a suicide, she and Bingo Joe took all their cats in.  

The blind guy stood, facing straight ahead. Blond, like forty, he wore shades and looked like somebody itching for a fight. The other guy, dark-haired, early twenties, sat nearby, texting away. But they didn’t seem to be together.

Before the next stop, the young guy got up, still texting. The dog edged toward him, nudging his leg. Finally, he looked down.

“Don’t pet the dog!” The blind guy yanked on the harness. “Read the fucking sign.”

The young guy froze, as the train slammed to a stop. “Dude . . . I didn’t pet him.”

“Her,” the blind guy said, coldly.

Oh, jeez, Samantha thought.

“Nobody pets guide dogs,” the young guy said, looking anxiously at Samantha. “You go to hell for that.” He hurried off the train.

“That’s right,” the blind guy said.

Lots of people got on. Before any could sit, Samantha ran and sat by the dog. She caught her breath, as it laid its paw on her foot.

“Wow,” she said.

The car was filling up, fast. Still, she reached out to stroke the dog’s head.

“Hey!” some suited guy yelled. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t pet seeing-eye dogs,” said a bitchy-looking lady. She stood close to the blind guy, who nodded, triumphantly.

Samantha’s face burned. But the dog was waiting.

“Should be ashamed,” the bitch hissed. All in purple, she was dressed, like a real kook. And she needed a root job.

From where she sat, Samantha could see right into Purple Bitch’s huge, open purse. Served her right if someone snatched all she had.

“Fuck you!” Samantha said.

People gasped. They kept staring as she ruffled the dog’s ears, then lay her cheek on its head. “It’s OK,” she whispered. The dog turned and licked her face.

When she looked up, the “blind” guy was cleaning out Purple Bitch’s purse: wallet, laptop, phone.

He checked the time on the phone.

Samantha smiled.

The train stopped, and the doors flew open. On their way out, people still gave her disgusted looks.

“Don’t work too hard!” she told the dog, as the thief dragged it out the door.

 

 


surprisemeheader.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

Surprise Me

by

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

"Who cares?" Lew said, when asked whose birthday was tomorrow.

 

"It’s Nina's," Snake said. The crack-whore, I thought.

 

"Thought we'd do something for her."

 

Lew groaned.

 

"Like what?" I said. Picturing balloons on the ceiling and bouncing all over the bar. Maybe Nina wearing them.

 

"Like, a party?" Snake said.

 

I caught Lew's eye. Yeah, balloons. And a cake that nobody would eat. Nina milking all the guys for drinks. Top-shelf stuff vs. the usual cheap beers.

 

“Hell, no,” Lew said.

 

It was Labor Day weekend. Most of Scratch’s regulars were down the shore. The place was dead, but a party meant work. Labor Day was for not working.

 

And fuck parties, I thought, bitterly. Donny, the scumbag who’d stole my heart, was MIA. For like a month. That blue-eyed, poetry-spouting fuck made me cry for weeks.

 

“Good riddance,” Lew had said. Donny’s was the biggest bar tab at Scratch’s.

 

“C’mon,” Snake said. “Just a cake, or cupcakes. Balloons and streamers from the dollar store.”

“Cupcakes?” Lew said. “What’re we, in third grade?”

 

“Fuck decorating,” I said.

 

And I’d get stuck doing it. Last Halloween I hung the fake cobwebs and cardboard skeleton. No sooner was the skeleton up, than some drunk bitch pulled it down and was dancing with it. 

 

Nina, I realized.

 

“We’ll surprise her,” Snake said. If she comes in tonight, we can’t talk about it.”

 

“Who says we’re even doing it?” Lew said.

 

Nina burst into the bar. “Doing what?”

 

“Nothing.” But Lew’s tone said he was giving in.

 

“Hey, guys!” She practically crawled into Snake’s lap. “Guess what tomorrow is?”

 

“Fucking Labor Day.” Lew winked at me.

 

I’d be baking the cake, too.

 

Devil’s food. Lew’s favorite.

 

*     *     *

 

Donny. Everything reminded me of him: Skynard tunes, since “Simple Man” was his favorite song. Vanilla-scented candles, since he was such a romantic fuck. Even cake batter . . .

 

When I was a kid, he said once, I felt so left out. ‘Cos my birthday’s in August. Other kids got to bring in cupcakes for theirs. But not mine, man. ‘Cos school was out.

 

He was still pissed, like there’d been spies at the school out to get him. Donny was big on conspiracy theories.

 

So there I was, candles burning, Skynard in the background, mixing chocolate cake batter and bawling my eyes out.

 

You don’t really think, he’d said last month, that the Kennedys had nothing to do with Marilyn’s death?

*     *     *

 

“Maybe Donny’s dead.” I handed Lew the cake.

 

He trudged around, like it weighed a ton. “I wish.”

 

Next to the register, was a huge plate of hot dogs he’d grilled out back. He dumped the cake next to it.

 

“Fuck it,” he said. “I ain’t hiding it.”

 

“But nobody’s heard from him.”

 

You haven’t.” He smirked. “Don’t mean nobody else has.”

 

My heart sunk. If I’d eaten a hot dog, it’d be on its way up.

 

Labor Day or not, people came in. Sunburned guys sick of the family barbecues. And some chick with blue hair that fucked both Lew’s sons.

 

As fast as I poured beers, I couldn’t forget Lew’s smirk.

 

Donny, I kept thinking, where the fuck. . . ?

 

Then, Lew nudged me. “Surprise, surprise.”

 

There they were, in the back doorway, the Three-Fucking-Musketeers. Tube top down so low, her nipples should’ve popped out, Nina was between Snake and . . . Donny.

 

“I’m here!” she screeched, holding up a can of Coors. “Happy B- . . .”

 

“Hey!” Lew yelled. “You can’t bring your own beer!”

 

“But it’s my . . .”

 

“Birthday!” As Donny hugged her, I saw red. Like the world’s jugular was slit. He turned to me. “Shelley?” he pleaded.  

 

His eyes looked wide, crazed. His “all-day drunk” eyes. I’d woken up with him, heard him crack that first beer. It took hours for his eyes to get this way.

 

When Nina grinned, impishly, I lost it.

 

“Shots!” Snake said. “Gotta catch up with these two.”

 

“Y’okay?” Lew asked me.

 

The night dragged. You’d think I couldn’t hate them more. But they kept making out, or he squeezed her skanky tit.

I slammed down their drinks, so they jumped. Charged for every fucking one, birthday, or not.

 

How could you? I glared at Donny. Last month, we’d made out to Skynard. He’d squeezed my tit. Had beer-and-Pretzel Crisps-breakfasts in bed.

 

“You think,” I asked Lew, “he’s just trying to get me jealous?”

 

He glanced behind him. “Nope.”

 

The bar was sticky, from Fireballs that people sucked down. The blue-haired chick started that.

 

I washed shot glasses like mad. Dropped an empty Bud bottle that rolled to God-knows-where. Later, I’d probably trip over it.

 

The balloons got loose, and people popped them. Some guy popped one right behind Nina. When she squealed, Donny got up, his face lobster-red.

 

“Oh, jeez,” Lew said, “S’gonna be a fight.”

 

Good, I thought. Die.

 

Fucking birthdays. . . . Instead of a bloodfest, it was time for cake. Behind the bar, Snake removed the Tupperware lid.

 

“They’re not gonna fight?” I said.

 

“You get candles?”

“No.” I flicked Lou’s lighter, and the flame shot up high.

 

“Oh . . .” Snake said. Then, “Happy Birthday to you! Hap-. . .”

 

Like life had ass-fucked him, Lew trudged toward Nina with the cake.

 

Then Karma kicked in.

 

That bottle I’d dropped? It rolled right in Lew’s path. The cake went flying.

 

When it struck them, they fell apart. Nina, almost off her stool. Chunks of chocolate cake and frosting were stuck to their faces, and clothes. It looked like they were smeared with shit.

 

Through the fudgey mask, Donny’s eyes looked even wilder. He wiped off some frosting. Smiling, he called Lew over.

 

“Now what?”

 

Donny smeared frosting all over Lew’s face.

 

“You fuck!” Lew yelled. “Get out! All of you’z.”

 

Some people got up, slowly. But it was like a mob getting it on. Blue Hair smirked at Lew.

 

“You too, Bluesy!” He never remembered her name. “And Happy Birthday, my ass!” he told Nina.

 

It was like that old movie, Animal House. Suddenly people grabbed gobs of cake and frosting, began flinging them at each other. Especially, at Lew.

 

I ducked, but it landed behind the bar. On booze bottles, the register, everything. The sweet smell was like, noxious. I almost puked.

 

“Cake fight!” someone yelled, too late.

 

“Get out!” Lew was still yelling, when I got up, like ten minutes later, to check out the mess.

 

It was like Godzilla had shit all over us. The stools, floor, pool table . . . everything was mucky with devil’s food cake.

 

And, guess what? Nina was on Snake’s lap, nibbling cake off his face. Now he was squeezing her skanky tit.

 

Beside them, was Donny, smiling, waving me over.

 

Like a lovesick fool, I went. Hating myself more, with each step.

 

Once there, he painted a chocolate mustache on me. First one side, then the other, with little curly-q’s.

 

“I guess,” he said, “I really . . . fudged things up.”

 

I couldn’t help smiling.

 

Even though I knew he’d probably fuck me up again; even though tomorrow, I’d probably be cleaning all this shit up, I waited, hoping . . .

 

I’d be surprised.

 

 

 


surprisemefooter.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

dishes.jpg
Art by John Lunar Richey © 2017

Dishes, Dishes, Dishes

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          All your life, you hated washing dishes. Your mom’s fancy china, pots and pans caked with grease. Broke as you were, you’d toss your own, vs. scrubbing them. Buy new ones in the dollar store.

 

Now here you are, so hard up since Shithead left, you’d do the thing you hate most.

 

“Sorry!” the cook says, breathing booze in your face. “We don’t need no waitresses.” Like waitressing is every girl’s dream. You see two: a graying redhead and a mummified blonde.

 

“I’m here to wash dishes.”

 

It sounds fake. Like you’re a hired killer, and this is a front. Like some scorned chick hired you to take out this cook. Shemp’s his name, like in The Three Stooges.

 

Nah, you think. Not him.

 

Shemp’s like fifty, with this shock of white hair that’s got to be real. A Hawaiian shirt and shorts that reveal too-hairy legs.

 

He looks familiar: like that “hunk” from your mom’s day who drove the navy Lincoln all over town.  Each time, with a different blonde. As he got older, the blondes got plumper, with doughy, made-up faces.

 

Was that Shemp?

 

“Ever wash dishes before?”

 

“No.” It’s true. You’d die first.

 

He snorts. “Good luck.” And leads you to the kitchen.

 

Where his girl waits. A chunky blonde in tube top and shorts.

 

That’s him, you realize. Mom’s first love. Now the cook at Casa Vincenzo. Little does the clientele know this tarantula-legged fuck is sautéing their shrimp.

 

Between shots of ‘Buca.

 

Greasy pots piled to the sky. Dishes stacked at a crazy angle, in a sink from like 1910. And at Casa Vincenzo, you think. Fat roaches scoot up the wall.

 

“Hah!” Shemp says, when you cringe. “Even the best restaurants got ’em.”

 

You’ll never eat here again.

 

Only one automatic dishwasher. For all those dishes.

 

“Hand me that apron,” he tells Fatty Pants.

 

“Do it, yourself!”

 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

 

You walked into that. On your first night. But they were battling, before. You can tell. The blonde was too quiet, like she was waiting, maybe hoping, to be fucked with. She’s got the craziest eyes going.

 

The grimy apron is for you. Shemp throws it at you. When it lands in your face, he snickers.

 

“Ha! Ha!” Fatty Pants says sarcastically. Like he thinks he’s funny, but he’s so not.

 

For some reason, you start with the pots. Puttanesca sauce caked so thick, it’ll never come off. Never. Back home, this fucker would be in the trash by now. On the garbage truck, already.

 

Like an asshole, you try scrubbing it. With a sponge.

 

“Good luck,” Shemp says again.

 

 You need it. Those pots are hopeless. The matronly waitresses dump dish after dish on the belt. And the dishwasher’s fucked up. Shit, you think.

 

A half hour later, it’s almost closing time. Your elbows are killing you. You start stacking silverware.

 

“Hurry up, will’ya?” Shemp says drunkenly, from behind you.

 

“Ya like that, don’t’cha?” Fatty Pants means you. She’s as drunk as him, now.

 

“Nah.” You hear bottles clink. “No meat on ’er.” Like you’re not even here.

“ ’Sides,” he says, snickering. “I like blondes.”

 

You know what’s coming.

 

“Blondes?” she says. “Like, how many?”

 

“How many?” Shemp says, getting pissed “Like, too many.”

 

 “So I’m not blonde enough for you?”

 

“Forget it,” Shemp says wearily.

 

A wave of booze hits you, as Fatty Pants reaches past you, grabs something off the tray.

 

Scrunch! you hear, next.

 

“Ahhh!” Shemp says, sounding choked.

 

Then . . . scrunch again. “You fuck!” she says.

 

You turn around, nearly keel over.

 

The biggest knife, she took, and is hacking away. Shemp gags, as blood shoots out of his neck. He grabs it, tries to stop bleeding.

 

In minutes he’ll be dead.  But she keeps chopping: chest, shoulders. Now she’s sobbing.

 

Blood is everywhere: even on you, way over there. On dishes you washed. Like the world is splashed with Puttanesca sauce.

 

“Help!” you scream, finally.

 

Till then, Fatty Pants forgot about you.

 

Luckily, a waitress runs in and screams . . .

 

The old blonde.

 

 

 

ferdies.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

FERDIE’S CHRISTMAS

 

1965

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“On your way back,” Mom said, “stop down the bin and bring up the Christmas tree.”

 Pop groaned.

 Damn, Mary knew he was thinking. Can’t even enjoy my fuckin’ beer.

 The “Christmas tree” was old, like two feet tall. Silver, with gold balls already on it. Who has time to trim a tree? Mom always said.

 Not you, Mary thought. Mom just had time for cigarettes and soap operas.

 A “Charlie Brown tree,” Mary wanted. From that new TV show they just saw. A tiny, real tree that smelled so good. Each time they passed the lot, that fresh Christmas tree smell almost made her cry.

She bet St. Jude’s other fourth-graders had real trees. Even her weird friends, like Dizzy Deb, whose mom did dope.

  Just once, Mary thought, can’t we get a real one?

 Cigarette dangling from her lips, Mom wrapped a gift for the super’s daughter. Cheap paper, she used, with Santas on it, even though the kid was like fourteen. Mary was nine, but had never believed in Santa.

 Dear Santa, she might’ve written, bring me a Mom who likes me. And a school with no nuns. And no mean kids, like Ricky Kelly.

 In five minutes, Pop was back with the tree. 

“Back so fast?” Mom said, through her smoke. “Lenny out of beer?”

 Pop dumped the tree on the rug. “Fuckin’ Ferdie was there.”

 Mom’s lip curled. They both looked sideways at Mary, who left the room.

In the bathroom, she sat on the tub’s edge. Ferdie was the super’s son. Or . . . something. Nobody was sure what. Sometimes he looked like a guy, with blond hair, and too many freckles. But lately, his wavy hair was getting longer, and blonder. And he walked like a girl.

“Hi, ladies!” When they saw him in the hallway, Mom squeezed Mary’s hand hard.

“Filomena!” Ferdie even talked like a girl. “My mom says to call her. Mary . . . gorgeous sweater, girl!”

Mary beamed. The pink sweater hid her oversized St. Jude’s uniform. Ferdie liked to make people feel good.

“Wishes he had one like it,” Mom sneered.

Nobody cared if Ferdie heard them. People were so mean.

Like Ricky Kelly, Mary thought.

At Lenny’s Bar, people like Pop left when Ferdie walked in. Perched next to Pop, Mary drank ginger ale.

This week, Ferdie wore a Santa cap. “Take that stupid thing off,” Lenny said. “Mrs. Claus.” People snickered.

Smiling, Ferdie had taken off the cap and set it on Mary’s head. He winked, like they had a secret.

“Get offa her,” Pop said, but Mary winked back.

 At home later, she ate Devil Dogs while Mom cooked dinner.

             “Ferdie,” Mom began. “Ferdie is a . . . freak. He doesn’t like girls.”

             “I’m a girl,” Mary said. “He likes me.”

              Mom picked up the salt shaker, then put it back down. She rarely salted meat. “God said . . .”

              Mary stopped eating. All day at school, she’d been hearing scary things God said.

“ ‘I made man and woman.’ For a reason.” Mom’s eyes gleamed. “People do piggish things. Disgusting things, with each other. But when they’re married, it’s beautiful.”

                 “Huh?” Mary crumpled the wrapper.

                 “That’s how babies are made.” Mom angrily lit a cigarette. “But when two men do it . . .”

                They go straight to hell, Mary thought.

                 When the door opened, they both jumped. Pop trudged in, carrying beer in a cardboard container. “Hey,” he said, drunkenly. “Guess who’s outside, handin’ out fuckin’ presents?”

          “Where you going?” Mom said, as Mary snuck out the door.

          “Ho, ho, ho!” On the front steps, Ferdie was playing Santa, for real. Or one of his elves. “Merry Christmas!” Out of a large sack, he pulled beautifully-wrapped packages. Some had big bows, others little dolls, and toys on top.

But few kids had come for the loot. Mary just saw Billy Ruger, whose dad had hung himself, and another neighborhood kid, Eddie-Somebody, who Pop said was retarded.

As Mary sat beside him, Ferdie looked sly. From behind, he brought out a small silver box, with a huge gold bow on top. It looked like their Christmas tree. “Special, for you,” Ferdie told her.

She handled the gift as if it was actually made of precious metals.

“Not gonna open it?” Ferdie said. “Wanna wait till Christmas?”

Mary set the gift down. “At school, right? There’s this boy, Ricky . . .”

“You like him?” When Mary shook her head, he said, “Calls you names? Makes you cry?”

Mary felt like crying, now. “Says, ‘Hey, Zilenski, how many Devil Dogs you bring for lunch today? A thousand?’”

Ferdie pulled out two candy canes, handed her one. “Wow. I can only eat five hundred.”

Mary smiled. “He put this tack on my seat. They all laughed. ‘Now you’ll pop, like a balloon,’ one kid said. It hurt so bad.” Like she still felt it, she got up and rubbed her butt.

Ferdie tried not to laugh.

“Sister yelling at him just made it worse.”

“Didn’t tell your folks,” Ferdie said, knowingly. When Mary looked at him, he added, “Never told mine anything.”

She studied his face. Wisps of blond hair stuck out from the Santa cap. His eyebrows were thin, like he’d tweezed them. And skin was lighter, so you didn’t see his freckles as much. Makeup, she realized.

“We’re alike,” he said. “We keep stuff to ourselves.”

Mary stared across the street. It was late afternoon, so nobody’s Christmas lights were on. But tinsel garlands were twisted all over, up people’s banisters and along window frames. Next to the tinsel, the dead bulbs looked so depressing.

 “Our selves . . .” Ferdie said, “is all we’ve got.”

It started snowing. Mysterious, tiny flakes that Mary might’ve imagined. House by house, the colored lights went on. You could almost smell families’ real Christmas trees.

Maybe Ricky has a fake tree, she thought. Or . . . none.

Maybe his folks were weirder than hers. Maybe he got his meanness from them.

Back inside, Mary opened Ferdie’s gift, secretly, in the bathroom.

False eyelashes.

Smiling, she ran one finger through them.

Outside, suddenly, there was lots of noise. Footsteps, and yelling. Something bad was happening. Not a fire, ‘cos she didn’t hear sirens.

 Out in the kitchen, it was quiet. The tasteless roast simmered on the stove.

Mom stood in the doorway, whispering to neighbors in the hall. Nosy Mrs. Lynch from A-5, anyway.

What? Mary thought. But if she went out there, Mom would smack her back in.

By the time Pop got home, the roast was dried up. Thinking Mary couldn’t hear, he and Mom talked in the hall.

“He’s . . . dead,” he said. “They . . . bashed his fuckin’ head in.” He didn’t sound like himself.

“Who?” Mom said. “Who did?”

Pop didn’t say. “Don’t let her go out.” If he was drunk, he wasn’t, now. “Fil, there’s blood . . . all over the steps.”

Mary gasped. 

Later, when things had got quiet, she sat in the dark kitchen, alone.

As usual, Pop had drunk himself to sleep. In the next room, Mom whispered on the phone, about Ferdie’s mom.

My God, to lose a child, and at Christmas, yet, she bet Mom had said.

In total darkness, they couldn’t see she had on false eyelashes. After crying so hard, she was surprised they’d stayed on.

Yes, even a freak like that.

 

 

THE END



deathtakesasnowday.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2018

DEATH TAKES A SNOW DAY

by

Cindy Rosmus

“Yeah!” they all cheered, as Hank stumbled in Bar 13.

In a snowstorm like this, only the diehards came out. Tina had just three customers since 3 P.M.: twitchy Speed; Ringo, the bald biker; and Carolyn the crack whore. And now Hank.

“The more the merrier,” Tina said.

And meant it. She was sick of these clowns. Hank was the nicest of all her regulars.

Tonight, he looked like the Grim Reaper, the hood covering most of his worn-out face. He’d been sick a long time, with all kinds of shit. Cancer, for one. When he pushed back the hood, his eyes looked haunted.

“Hank?” Carolyn said, in her nauseating way. “Buy me a shot?”

“Jeez!” Speed said. “Let him take his fucking coat off, first.”

Tina smirked. She’d been thinking the same thing.

“Sure,” Hank said, wearily.

People used him for drinks, a loan, even his last cigarette. To clean his house nude, Carolyn charged him a bundle.

Too cold to strip tonight, Tina thought. She wondered if the go-go bar in the next town was closed. For all she knew, Bar 13 was the only bar open, period.

She opened the back door. Outside, it was a winter wonderland. Snow falling like mad, coating trees and tops of cars. The soft, fun kind it was great to stomp through. Like when you were a kid. Nights like these were so peaceful.

“Yo, bitch!” Ringo said, clearly to Carolyn. “That’s my fuckin’ five.”

Oh, jeez, Tina thought, and shut the door.

“Think I’m a thief?”

“I know yer a . . .” Smirking, Ringo didn’t finish.

“Hey, hey!” Even Hank’s voice was thin. Like it was lost in the blizzard. “Knock it off. I’ll give ya the five bucks.”

“Why should you?” Speed demanded.

“Outta here. Tina . . .” The twenty shook in Hank’s hand.  “And drinks all around.” 

“Malibu Bay Breeze,” Carolyn told Tina.

‘Cos Hank’s buying, Tina thought.  Since 6 P.M. Carolyn had been drinking the cheapest beers.

As Tina reached for the Malibu, Carolyn added, “A double.”

Tina froze. User, she thought. Fucking lying, sneaking . . .

Oh, Felix, she thought, suddenly.Last July, when it hit 90 some nights, Felix was still alive. In County, sure, but above ground. Walking, breathing, eating jailhouse food with white bread and gravy.

 But thanks to Carolyn, he was dead.

At the register, Tina forced back tears. It was Carolyn who’d gotten Felix locked up. . . for jewel-theft! Then torn to pieces by some asshole who’d thought Carolyn was his. All over crack.

The guy got life, Tina heard. But . . .

Felix still got death.

“Whoa!” A blast of cold air brought Tina back. “It’s still comin’ down!” Ringo said, from the doorway. He tried to light his cigarette, but the wind was too strong.

“So smoke inside.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Tina said, eyeing Carolyn, who looked shocked. 

Dumb fucking law: no smoking in bars. Tina wasn’t a smoker, herself, but she knew all about addiction.

“Mamita,” Felix had told Tina, at County. “Didn’t mean to play you dirty. It just . . . happened.”

Like death.

As Carolyn grabbed his cigarettes, Hank smiled sadly. “You . . .” he told Tina, “are a very nice girl.”

I’m not, Tina thought. I’m just . . .

Lovesick. Still, six months after seeing Felix in that box. Stiff, dark curls she still found on his clothes—she just couldn’t bring them to the Salvy. Oversized brown eyes seemed to follow her, everywhere, though they’d been sewn shut, long lashes on cold, hollow cheeks.

When Hank’s lips gripped his cigarette, the oddest feeling came over Tina: that this would be his last smoke ever.

 “Someone,” Hank said, “should . . .” He looked around, like he was confused. “I mean, there’s lots of . . . love in this world . . .”

There was, Tina thought.

“No,” Ringo said. “There’s not. It’s a cold-ass place. Even when it ain’t snowin’. ” He blew smoke in Carolyn’s face. “Hell on ice.”

There was dead silence. Then Hank said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

You, Tina thought, of all people. The closest to a dirt nap. He looked ready to keel over. 

would.” Ringo stabbed out his cigarette. “And don’t tell me there’s a God.”

“There might be,” Hank said. Weakly, he waved for another round.

The back door opened, with some difficulty. Al, the owner.

“And there He is, now!” Speed joked.

“Fucking snow,” Al said, “and wind.” He struggled with the door. Inside, he kicked snow off his galoshes. “Bad for business. No customers.”

“The fuck’re we?” Ringo said.

Al ignored him. “Call ‘Last Call,’ yet?” he asked Tina.

“ ‘Last Call?’ ” Speed said, horrified.

“It’s only midnight,” Carolyn said.

“S’ almost one.” Al said. “Check yer watch.”

Tina cringed. She knew what was coming.

“Oh, that’s right.” Al snickered.

It got stolen.

Felix, Tina thought, for the zillionth time since he died.

Slow night or not, Al was as hot to close up as the regulars were to stay drunk. He wouldn’t let Speed and Ringo play pool. Took away their unfinished beers.

“Fuck you!” Ringo said, on their way out.

As Carolyn slid money in the jukebox, Al shut it off.

“Hey!” she said. “You owe me five bucks.”

“Owe you?”

Al’s smirk vanished when he saw Hank. “Teen,” Al whispered.

Tina looked up from the cooler. Hank’s face was ash-gray. His hood was back up. More than ever, he looked like Death took a snow day.

Then Carolyn was back, hanging on him. He opened his eyes, but didn’t seem to see any of them.

“Want a ride home?” Al asked him.

 “He ain’t leavin’!” Carolyn hovered over Hank’s money.

“You’z all are, real soon. Close out,” Al told Tina.

As Tina ran the register, Al gave Hank his arm, but Hank shook his head.

“I only,” Hank whispered, “live . . . a few blocks . . . away.”

Tina collected her tips, which sucked. Usually Hank tipped the best. But tonight she got nothing from him.

She pulled on her jacket. Felix’s: battered black leather, with a zipper that stuck, sometimes. Even since last winter, his smell was still on it.

With the jacket, an unbearable sadness came over her. But not just for Felix. She kissed Hank’s cheek, which was cold.

“Bye, Angel,” he said, without looking at her.

Bye, good buddy, she thought.

“You don’t want a ride?” Al said, but she hurried out the door.

Outside, the sobs came, from deep inside her. Loud, hiccupy sobs, that probably woke up everybody on the block.

The snow had stopped, finally. The wind had died down, too. But the snow was so deep, she could hardly walk in it. With each step, snow crept into her boot-tops. Soon her socks would be drenched, and cold.

Last winter, they’d had only one storm. Felix was their building’s super. Early that morning, he was outside, shoveling. In this same jacket Tina had on. In the doorway she stood, in her pajamas, shivering, holding the hot coffee she’d made for him.

Mamita! he’d said. Drink it, yourself. Or you’ll catch cold. Baby, don’t die on me, now!

Somehow, she wound up on Hank’s block, which was out of her way. But she didn’t turn back.

In the distance, near Hank’s house, someone was already out, shoveling.

Tina pulled the jacket tighter around her. As she got closer, she saw it was Hank’s walk that was being shoveled. By somebody who couldn’t work fast enough.

A teenager, she thought. Out to make money. ‘Cept Hank wasn’t home to pay him. Hank . . .

Again, tears came.

Tina watched the young guy work. He was lean, curly-headed. Though it was freezing out, he wore no jacket. But he didn’t seem to feel the cold.

Shivering herself, she got closer.

As he scooped up the snow, muscles tightened in his arms. He hurled it behind him. Over and over, without a break. Like he was super-human.

He didn’t look at her.

She got as close as she could without getting bashed with the shovel.

When he looked at her, she smiled. His brown eyes were huge, long-lashed.

They looked right through her.

Still smiling, she turned and headed back down the block. Stomping, like a kid . . .

Home to coffee and dry socks.

THE END

 




“Death Takes a Snow Day” originally appeared in Pulp Metal in May, 2011.




 


 



favorites.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

FAVORITES

 

1970

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Fritos,” Noreen said, that day in the lunchroom. “Chips and dip.” Mary smirked.

“I’m giving up ice cream,” Greta said.  They both nodded, sympathetically.

 Greta didn’t mean Breyer’s, or Howard Johnson’s. Her dad made his own ice cream. Mary’s mouth watered, just thinking of it.

“How about you?” Noreen asked Mary. “What’re you giving up for Lent?”

“Spaghetti,” she said.

“Mare!” Greta was horrified.

“You hate spaghetti!” Noreen said.

“My mom’s.” Wistfully, Mary thought of real spaghetti, like you got in a restaurant. 

“You should give up your favorite,” Noreen said.

Mean Ricky Kelly was on his way over to their “dork” table. In her belly, Mary’s lunch felt like cement.

“So Zilenski hates spaghetti!” he said. “So why’re you five hundred pounds?” he asked Mary, who shivered.

“Ignore him,” Greta whispered, trembling herself.

Ricky grabbed his crotch. “Wanna eat this?” Around them, kids snickered. “You fat slob!”

          “Where’s Sister Stephen?” Noreen said.

Mary just looked at her. Brain that she was, Noreen could be so dumb, sometimes.

Sister Stephen had no clue about stuff. She didn’t teach from their books, or teach, period. Usually she just yelled till her face was beet-red. “Get up to that board!” she screamed at their class, and the cool kids howled with laughter.

Ricky was Sister’s favorite.

“Kneel down!” she’d told Ricky, that morning. He never stopped laughing, even when she roughly twisted his left cheek while smacking his right.

“How ‘bout it, Zilenski?”

Mary gritted her teeth. When she didn’t answer, Ricky asked Greta, “How ‘bout you, Fornell?”

For years, he had tortured them: Noreen for being a genius, Greta for being a basket case, but mostly Mary for being fat and creepy and ‘cos her Pop drank. Once Pop had passed out, outside Lenny’s Bar.

Hey, Zilenski! Watch your Pop don’t get picked up with the trash.

If the teacher called on her, and Mary’s answer was wrong, Ricky sang out, “Zilenski is a dumbbell!” If she answered right, his “Wanna tutor me after school?” was followed by, “I’ll bring the Devil Dogs!”

Next day was Ash Wednesday. Mary dreaded what Ricky would say about the big, black cross Father Tom smeared on her forehead. The cool kids always wiped off their ashes, but she was too scared to.

Why, she asked herself, am I scared of God? When He lets Ricky rule the school?

Was he God’s favorite, too?

When the bell rang, Ricky slunk back to his own table.

 They gathered up their garbage. Not one Devil Dog wrapper on her tray, but to everybody, Mary was still a fat slob. She wished school was over, so she could cry.

 It’s just not fair, she thought.

Back in their classroom, something big had happened.

Sister Joseph, the principal, was in there, sobbing. The nicer kids were crying, too. It was like back in second grade, when President Kennedy was shot.

Noreen heard first. “Sister Stephen . . .” she said, “had a stroke!” The others gasped.

By 2 P.M. they had a sub, Mrs. Lane, who had taught some in seventh grade. Really taught, with books, peering over her bifocals at the cool kids, who to Mrs. Lane, were just dumb.

“What page are you on?” she asked, today. Before Sister Stephen’s body was even cold.

“Page of what?” Ricky said. But nobody laughed.

Mrs. Lane asked tough history questions that only Noreen knew. “Ugly bitch,” Ricky muttered. Mrs. Lane ignored him. 

Mrs. Lane didn’t smile once, all afternoon. Or mention Sister Stephen. Even the cool kids fidgeted in their seats.

When she finally asked each kid to get up and state their name, she skipped Ricky like his seat was empty.

“What about me?” he said.

Mary had dreaded her turn. But this was worth it. She tried not to smile.

Zi-len-ski . . .

“When’s the funeral?” Ricky asked Mrs. Lane later, but she made like she was deaf.

It was chilly but sunny out, when they left school. For once, Mary didn’t feel like crying.

At Lenny’s bar, Pop was in his usual spot, smelling like he’d gotten there real early. The bar itself smelled like kielbasa.

Mary’s favorite. “Wanna sammich?” Pop slurred, as she sat next to him.

“Sure,” she said, without hesitation. She took Pop’s arm, rested her head against him.

It was hours till supper. 

And tomorrow she was giving up kielbasa for Lent.

 

 

THE END


cookiecrumbles.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

THE COOKIE CRUMBLES

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          A gift? Nah, it’s more like a curse. And different people get different type signs.

 

     Like Mrs. Hinckley, my old neighbor, used to see rain in front of your face. Yeah, rain. If you were the one, she’d see streams of water coming down, so she could hardly make out your features. And real soon, you’d be. . . .

 

     Some people smell flowers, like at a funeral. Lilies, I guess.


     But me . . . I don’t know anybody else who smells what I do.

 

     Years back, it started, when I was a freshman in high school. The week before my brother was supposed to graduate.

 

     You know, Vinnie. Who was more like a sister than a brother. Always whining, and depressed about stuff. This time it was graduation.


      It was this unusually hot, humid June night. 


      I’d sniffed the air. “Hey Mom . . .” I said. “Are you baking? In this heat?” We had no a/c, back then.


       “Baking?” Mom laughed, hoarsely. “You crazy? I’m doing my hair. It’s Saturday night.” A whoosh of hairspray, but I couldn’t smell that.


      Cookies, I smelled. Mmmmmm . . . Chocolate chip, or . . . oatmeal? They smelled so good. . . . 

    

      At least, in my head. 


      I’d checked the oven, and it was cold.


       Oversized cookies, with burnt edges, I pictured. But inside them, maggots squirmed.


       I gagged. Hunger had turned to nausea, fast.


      Where had that come from?


      “Mom . . .” I said. 


      Please don’t go out, I thought. It’s raining. Roads are slick.

 

      “What?” she said, through a Virginia Slim. Those long, skinny cigarettes she loved more than Vinnie and me.

 

      “Nothing.”

 

      Cancer, I feared. Tonight, more than ever. What was it about this night? Why couldn’t I shake this feeling?

 

      The smell of cookies was stronger, now. Like they’d come fresh out of that cold, dead oven.


      It took Mom forever to get ready. Finally, she grabbed her purse and keys. “Sandy,” she said. “Where’s your brother?”


      He’d been gone since supper. In the kitchen, he’d split up his chicken salad with the fork but hadn’t taken one bite. That glazed look was in his eyes, like he saw far beyond what most kids saw. 


      Vinnie.


      In my mind, I saw him, upstairs: eyes bulging, stretched neck bloated and purple, swinging from a homemade noose.

 

    “Mom!” I screamed.


      Maybe she saw it, too. One look, and she raced upstairs, dropping her purse on the way. The can of hairspray fell out, clunked down the stairs. 


      I was frozen. She threw open Vinnie’s door and wailed. I sunk down to the floor. 


      And the smell of cookies finally went away.


      It came back, naturally, when the cancer ate up Mom’s liver and brain. That one lung was just a midnight snack. 


      In college, I was caught off-guard. Winter nights, most of us hit the diner for hot cocoa and pastries. But on our floor, some chicks baked for the hell of it.


      I smelled cookies long after our dorm burned down. . . .

 

      And my husband was shot. I could go on.

 

      Nah, enough of this. Thanks for the coffee. Next time, it’s on me.

 

      We can share one of those rich, chocolately croissants.

 

      No? Well, whatever they are, they smell really, really good.

 

 

 


birthdayblues.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

THE “BIRTHDAY BLUES”

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“Hi,” the fat guy said, “My name is Richie . . .”

And I’m an alcoholic. . . . drug addict . . . compulsive gambler . . .

Not this gang.

“All my birthdays were horrible,” Richie said, sniffling. “But the worst . . .”

I rolled my eyes. Theirs were on him.

In a church basement, we met, with dying A/C, in mid-August. Like a real “Recovery” group. But. . . why? Everyone has at least one shitty birthday. These people were freaks.

Always a whipped cream cake, or cutsey cupcakes. And candles. Not too many, or we’d feel old, besides being out of our fucking minds. All fanning ourselves in the heat, like being here was life, or death.

“Mine is Thanksgiving week,” one girl said. “I’d just get a piece of pumpkin pie!”

“With a candle?” our leader asked. This week, ancient Andy led the group.

“Some-sometimes.” From the back row, you heard a sob.

“Mine is on Christmas!” a disgusted voice said. “How’s that for a buzz-kill?”

Freaks.

I wasn’t here by choice. I’d first come with Vee, my childhood best friend, ‘cos she was scared to come alone.

Till last month, on her birthday, she hung herself.

“The ‘Birthday Blues,’ ” one speaker had said, “is a real issue. A bizarre phenomenon. . . .”

The closer you get to your special day, the greater the chance . . .

Of a dirt nap.

The DIY kind.

“Nobody’ll do what I want.” A whiner. “Ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, or eat salt water taffy for breakfast.”

What’re we, I thought, in fourth grade?

It was in fourth grade we’d met, Vee and me. On Vee’s ninth birthday, her psycho dad strangled her mom, then shot himself. 

Even before her own suicide, Vee had these freaks beat.

“Let’s take a break,” old Andy said.

A mad rush for cake. Ice cream, too, that Andy had brought, ‘cos it was so hot out. The shitty, supermarket kind.

“It’s melting,” the whiner said. Still, she’d scooped plenty of it onto her cake.

I stayed seated. Fuck sweet treats. Know why my birthday would suck?

My best friend was gone, forever.

During break, this new guy came in. A weirdo. Even weirder than us.

Handsome, but in a skeletal way. He wore shorts and a tank top, but they didn’t suit him. And bagged, like crazy. Even his cap seemed too big for him.

Like a rotted corpse.

As they passed with their drippy cake, people glanced at him, then away. His smile looked painted, or sewn on. Nobody smiled back.

Mysteriously, the A/C was working, now. At least, I was chilly.  

Who was this guy? He seemed familiar, like I’d known him, once. His eyes bulged, like an old Chihuahua’s.

Part Two of our meeting opened with the song “Happy Birthday to You.” Tonight it seemed even more depressing.

Lights flashed. Cops and paramedics passed, back and forth. On the back porch we’d sat, huddled together, two nine-year-olds and a dog. The old dog Vee never saw again, same as her parents.

“My story is special.” The new guy was sharing, now. Without stating his name, first.

What was his name?

“Very special,” he said. I knew the voice, but from where? “And stranger . . . than all of yours.”

Some people looked skeptical. The whiner’s lip curled.

“It wasn’t my birthday that got ruined. In fact . . .” His smile got creepier. “Mine was today.”

Was?, I thought.

Almost mesmerized, others watched him. No “Happy Birthdays,” from anybody. Something “stranger” was coming, for sure.

“All she wanted, was cupcakes. No party. No presents.” His smile seemed more human, now. “Not even a puppy.”

A very old dog, I thought.

“Just cupcakes. Chocolate, or vanilla. She didn’t care which.”

People shifted in their seats. Old Andy leaned over the podium.

“On their birthdays, kids brought in cupcakes for the class. But not her.” Suddenly he was angry. “‘Cos she was born in July.” He clenched his fists, and some people got up.

July . . . cupcakes . . . More was coming back to me.

“My mom,” Vee had told me, one drunken night, “dragged out this fruitcake . . . from last Christmas! For my birthday!”

Vee’s howl of laughter became a heart-wrenching sob. . . .And now these howls—of terror, these sobs, were real! In the basement, people were running, and falling.

God knows where he’d hid the gun. But he was up, firing. Laughing, and crying, between shots. Shooting up more than that mangled cake. Blood sprayed everywhere.

But . . . how? It wasn’t possible.

Heart pounding, I lay on the floor. Praying he wouldn’t remember me. Struggling to recall how many shots there’d been.

Wondering, how could the last shot kill him . . .

If he was already dead?

 

 

 


cabinfeverheader.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

CABIN FEVER

 

1970

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

 “Camping?” Mom wailed. Mary shivered.

 “Stan!” Mom yelled after Pop, who walked faster. Lenny’s, he was headed, for more beer. “Stanley, come back!”

 “It’s not really camping,” Mary said. “We’ll be in Noreen’s folks’ cabin. Not out in a tent.”

 Noreen was her most genius friend, with the strictest dad. Mary hoped Mom pictured them reading by flashlight. Too into their books to get mauled by bears. 

 “Camping!” Mom sat down, lit a Virginia Slim. “In October! The woods, at night, with bugs. And wild animals.”

 “We’ll stay inside,” Mary said, “and read.”

 Her heart raced. Except for Christmas at her aunt’s, she never went away. Or even slept on a bed. Just that shabby, old couch. In the cabin there’d be cots.

 On The Brady Bunch, they had sleepovers. None of Mary’s friends even came over. Once Noreen tried, but Mom stopped her at the door. “Mary’s doing her homework,” Mom had lied. “Have you done yours?”

 Mary had the weirdest parents of any eighth grader at St. Peter’s. Maybe in the world.

 “Noreen Flynn?” Mom said, suddenly. “With frizzy red hair? The smart one?” Mary cringed. 

The door opened, and they heard Pop stumble in. 

“Her dad,” Mary whispered, “says whiskey’s the ‘devil’s lemonade.’”

***

It was chilly, up at the lake. Mary was so fat, she wore Pop’s bulky winter jacket. Old beer, it smelled like, from Lenny’s. 

“Years back, he drank,” Noreen said, about her dad. Over the firepit, they toasted marshmallows. “But not anymore.”

“How come?” Mary said.

Noreen peered nervously behind her, at the cabin. “Something bad happened.”

 The marshmallows smelled so good, Mary’s stomach growled. She shrugged off Pop’s jacket.

 “He hurt my mom. . . . And then me.” Noreen rubbed her arm, but it was too dark to see the scar. The fire’s glow made her hair even redder.

 “Wow,” Mary said.

“Now he’s into church. But not ours. The fire-and-brimstone kind.”

 In the window, Mr. Flynn sat, watching them eat marshmallows. Since they drove up that afternoon, he hadn’t smiled once. Or said much, not even to Noreen’s mom. Mrs. Flynn seemed scared of him. She looked like a grown-up, worn-out Noreen.

 At dinner, she’d served them hot dogs with fruit cups and string beans. Canned vegetables? Mary’s mom would’ve said.

 “Would you like some more?” Mrs. Flynn whispered. Mary was afraid to say yes.

 Now, from behind her, Mary heard a car coming. Loud voices. Music blaring: The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.”

 Behind the window, Mr. Flynn seemed to stiffen more.

 “Man!” one guy said, “This place is groovy.”

 “Watch out!” said a girl. “I’m spillin’ my beer.”

 Giggles, as the loudmouths got out of the car. Without turning around, Mary knew there were at least four. And, like Pop would’ve said, “shit-faced.” 

And not just from “Devil’s Lemonade.”

The smell made Mary’s head spin. Sweet smoke that tickled her nostrils. Hippies, she thought. Hippies smoked those druggie cigarettes.

Mr. Flynn burst out of the cabin. “Get inside!” he said.

Noreen scrambled to her feet. Mary turned and saw a dirty-haired girl stick her tongue out.

The girl wore a tie-dyed T-shirt, with no bra, so her nipples pointed right at Mr. Flynn. Laughing maniacally, she pulled up her shirt.

Mr. Flynn’s eyes narrowed.

Around them, the hippie guys laughed with the girl. One lit up a fresh joint, then held it out to Mr. Flynn.

“Mary!” Noreen yelled from the cabin door. Mary watched Mr. Flynn clench and unclench his fists.

When Noreen grabbed her, Mary was jolted back to life. They ran as fast as they could into the cabin.

Over the kitchen sink, Mrs. Flynn was crying. “Go to bed,” she said. “Just . . . go to bed.”

***

Mary couldn’t sleep. The cot was as hard as the couch, back home. She had to fold the thin pillow in two.

Noreen hadn’t spoken since they went to bed. Mary bet she knew something bad was coming. That even without drinking, Mr. Flynn was dangerous.

Would he hurt me, too? Mary shivered. Pop never hit her, no matter how drunk he got.

She’d just dozed off when the screams started.

Outside, the air was bright orange. The stench of burned flesh and hair made Mary gag. Noreen beat her to the window.

Inside the pit, the hippie girl was on fire. Her friends scuffled around; one grabbed a bucket, one tried beating off the flames with Mary’s Pop’s jacket. One pounded on the Flynn’s cabin. “Help!” he said, hoarsely. “Please! Help!”

“Noreen?” Mary begged. Noreen just shook her head.

Nobody answered the door.

Later, an ambulance and red-faced sheriff showed up. “We’re deep sleepers,” Mr. Flynn told the sheriff.  Mrs. Flynn looked away.

The foul stench was still in the air. Huddled together, the hippie guys watched them get in the Flynns’ car.

The drive home took way longer than the drive up. Without Pop’s jacket, Mary hugged herself for warmth. She felt hollow, soulless. Like she would never smile again.

But Mr. Flynn smiled, all the way home.

 

 


cabinfeverfooter.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

xmaskarma.jpg
Art by Daniel Valentin © 2019

CHRISTMAS KARMA

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

  Needles. Green, spindly ones, all over the lobby floor Bingo Joe had just mopped. And on the stairs, leading to the second floor.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  I dragged the broom out of the supply closet. “Didn’t Georgie say, ‘No live Christmas trees’?”

  From upstairs, we heard voices. “No, hold the fucker this way.”

Which way?”

This way, bitch.”

Creepy Bobby G., in 2-B. And a whiny chick. Door was wide open. You could smell the tree, all over the building. A nicer smell than most, but still. . .

***

As I swept the stairs, Bingo Joe confronted Bobby. “Yeah, I know,” Bobby said, “Georgie’s got rules. You’re only doin’ your job.”

“Who’s he?” That whiny voice again.

“The super,” Bingo Joe said.

The whiny chick came out of Bobby’s place. Chubby-cheeked, with that two-toned hair every bitch had, these days. But something about her eyes made me back down a step. They were cold, glassy. Like those dolls in movies that rip your throat out, with their teeth.

“I’ll shut up,” Bingo Joe said. “Just watch the needles, OK?”

The whiny chick snickered. As she went back in his apartment, Bobby said, “That’s Rosalie.” He peeked inside, to make sure she wasn’t listening.  “My new piece. She just loves Christmas.”

“Lucky her,” Bingo Joe said, under his breath.

Lucky her, was right. How strange was it, that two female tenants keeled over, in the past six months? Looney Tunes in 1-E was found hanging, and Kissy-Face in 2-D drowned in a vanilla bath. Both times Bobby G. was too close, for comfort.

Death comes in threes, I thought.

“Guy’s got balls,” Bingo Joe said, once we were back in the basement.

“Should we warn her?”

Itchy, our littlest cat, crawled up his leg, pulled at the drawstring of his pj’s. “About what?” he said.

He might be a serial killer.

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“He picked the wrong one, this time.” How Bingo Joe knew that, was a mystery. But by 10 AM, he’d cracked a beer.

*     *    *

Tenants always called us, for stupid shit. But when one came down the basement, you knew it was trouble.

When the bell rang, all five cats scattered, one clawing me as it jumped off my lap. I sucked the blood from my arm as I answered the door.

Fucking Rosalie. “Know what we should do?” she said, out of the blue. “Play ‘Secret Santas.’ ”

Secret Santas?, I thought. That dumb office Christmas shit?

I shut the door behind me, to keep her out. “With who?”

“Each other!” she gushed. “The neighbors. We’ll pick names out of a Santa cap, and give fun little gifts.”

I forced a smile. “I’ll pass.”

“Samantha,” she said, “We all gotta do it.”

My name on that creepy doll’s voice chilled me. I didn’t even know she knew it.

 She smiled. “Or it’s no fun.”

*     *    *

“Not me,” Bingo Joe told me. “I ain’t doin’ it. I’m the super. They should be givin’ me gifts.”

“Me, either.” I crumpled the paper I’d picked. Old Miss Roberts, who didn’t know her ass from last Wednesday. “Or anybody else, I bet.”

That night, as we lugged out the garbage, I snuck up the back way, checked out each floor. No gifts outside anybody’s doors. Not even Bobby G.’s.

But as I passed Bobby’s, there was a racket inside. “I told’ja!” he yelled. “Nobody wants to do that baby shit!”

“They all took names,” Rosalie said.

“Yeah, to fuckin’ shut you up!”

Heart racing, I ran down to the basement.

In our doorway, Bingo Joe stood, holding a small foil gift bag. “Gee,” he said, “I wonder who.”

Inside were homemade cat treats.

    Cats.

But she’d never been inside our place.

The treats smelled strange. Sweet, not like what you’d expect. The strange sweetness you smelled in a car’s works.

Antifreeze.

Bingo Joe smelled it, just as I did. The look we shared held fear, disgust. Horror.

He crumbled the treats into the toilet, flushed it a zillion times. As he washed his hands, he was almost crying.

“That . . . psycho . . . bitch,” he said.

A half hour later, I went out to play numbers. On the stoop was the psycho bitch, herself, next to a Despicable Me backpack and overstuffed plastic bags. On her head was that old Santa cap we’d picked tenants’ names out of.

“He dumped me,” she said, “Right before Christmas.”

“Really?” I could still smell those poisoned cat treats.

“Said to get the fuck out.” She stared straight ahead. Then, she smiled. Those doll’s teeth looked sharper, somehow. “And ‘Happy Holidays!’ ”

I couldn’t get away fast enough.

*     *    *

That night, Bingo Joe and I were chilling, watching the Grinch stealing Christmas, when the building shook. Cats raced all over, as the loudest music ever started playing.

“What the . . .” He was already out the door.

From Bobby G.’s, it was coming, two flights up. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” but it might’ve been Metallica.

Tenants came out as Bingo Joe pounded on Bobby’s door. “Hey! Quiet down in there!”

No answer.

The guy from 2-C had pillows over his ears. “I can’t break down the door,” Bingo Joe told him.

We went back downstairs. “Guy’s got balls,” he muttered.

Between the earsplitting music and the live tree . . .

I had no clue when the music stopped. Somehow, we’d both passed out. But, very early next morning, when only Mrs. Dietz in 1-D would be up, washing clothes, something shocked me awake.

A scream. But had I dreamt it?

With the next scream, Bingo Joe bolted out of bed.

Outside our door, he’d knocked over a foil gift bag. That psycho bitch, I thought, following him upstairs.

In her doorway, Mrs. Dietz wailed. On top of her laundry was a gift bag, its grisly contents spilled onto her whites.

“Oh, my God,” Bingo Joe said.

Gift bags were outside other doors, too. More tenants had come out. Miss Roberts peered inside her gift bag.

“Don’t!” Bingo Joe said, too late. The old lady muffled her scream.

“9-1-1.,” the weary dispatcher told me. “What is your emergency?”

Bingo Joe grabbed my phone. “Body parts . . .” he said, as calmly as he could. “Someone left human . . .”

Bobby G., I thought. Who else?

And he’s just getting started.

Figured: The first cop there was the same bull dyke who’d found Looney Toons hanging in the closet. And yanked Kissy-Face out of the tub.

 “Well . . .” she said, smirking. “It does come in threes.”

On each floor, “Secret Santa” had left neighbors something special: fingers, toes, ears, nose, heart, intestines. Lots of intestines.

People were crying, holding each other, trying not to scream. The hallway floors were marbled with gore. CSI would have a picnic here.

Bingo Joe let the other cops in Bobby’s place. The butch cop came downstairs with me. She would see what was in our gift bag.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I said, on the way. “It’s a shame she’s dead, but Rosalie was like, crazy.”

She would’ve poisoned our cats.

“Yeah?” the cop said.

“But Bobby is crazier,” I said, as she checked out the bag. “I mean . . . really. And he had some balls . . .”

She interrupted me. “Had, is right.”

I covered my mouth.

Outside, a car cruised past, as “Run, Run, Rudolph” played softly.

 


pineapple.jpg
Art by K. J. Hannah Greenberg © 2019

PINEAPPLE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Even from the womb,

I’d fucked up,

she told me.

This urge . . .

for juicy, golden fruit

you couldn’t find

anywhere

in the winter of ’56.

How crazy we drove him,

into the icy slush,

booze on his breath,

a prayer in his heart,

as the Comets

rocked around the clock.

 

Where he found that fruit

is a mystery today.

Maybe

some tiny-winged angel

or loan shark

had a spare.

Or some stranger from Roswell

felt bad.

 

All I know is:

Maniacally, she tore it apart.

With bleeding fingers,

she jammed chunks of it

in her mouth.

 

And to this day . . .

I can’t get enough

of fresh pineapples

or blood.

 

 

 


spookdick.jpg
Art by Hillary Lyon © 2019

Spook Dick

 

by Cindy Rosmus

 

Now, wouldn’t you expect a medium—a live one—to be some old chick in a plus-sized fringed dress, or a swami in a turban?

But, no...you get “Spook Dick.”

Like Groucho Marx, he looks, ‘cept Spanish, with sores. God knows what he died from. His face looks like raisin toast. The body, wrapped in a baggy trench coat, seems skeletal; the big bump is a Glock.

“Agent Rivera,” he tells you, “your wish is my command,” like he’s a genie vs. private spook-hunter, with an accent already getting on your nerves.

You’re confused enough. A few minutes ago you were trashed on the couch. Music was blasting. Candles were flickering. Rule # 1, you’d broke: never burn candles when you’re drunk. And you’d dug out all of them, even the special one Asshole had given you last Valentine’s Day. The only thing Asshole had ever given you was that super-tall, long-stemmed mauve rose with the super-long wick.

“Cassie?” Spook Dick says. Trashed, you’d called him from your cell, though the battery was dead. 

Now you’re face-to-face, at the pay phone across the street, close to the church. He’d answered from there, though the receiver had been torn off by some punk a year ago. The ground is icy, but somehow, you don’t feel cold.

“Be straight with me,” Spook Dick tells you. “Why’ja call me?”

To find Asshole, you think, ‘cept Asshole’s not dead.

Or is he?

Spook Dick smiles, but he’s no mind-reader, just a dead junkie trying to make a living.

“There’s this guy,” you start to say. But your tongue seems swollen; the words are trapped. Your heart feels flat, and in another dimension.

Spook Dick nods. “There always is.” Somehow, he understands you. He takes your arm and walks you up the block towards the church.

 

*     *     *

You’d just had a fight. You’re not sure what’s happening—it’s a serious blackout—but you’d pissed him off. He’d kissed you—you can still taste the Blackhaus on his lips—but now your shoulder hurts from how he shoved you, right after. People stared.

Other chicks, you’d brought up. Big deal, he claimed. He’s this big flirt—so what? He hates you calling the shots, telling him what to do.

Even what songs to play, he can’t stand you telling him. You hate The Doors; he digs them. Even with your money, he plays what he wants; he flirts with who he wants, and probably sticks it to who he wants, when he’s not with you.

Now he’s at the jukebox. As you touch his arm, he shoves you away. He’s always, always, shoving you!

As “Wild Child” comes on, you picture some filthy, naked thing, raised by wolves, clinging to him, slobbering over him . . . and him loving it. 

Some crack-whore, with missing teeth, is more like it—inch-long nails, and a moist, diseased snatch. He prefers that to you. 

At least, he did. Now . . . he’s . . . gone.

 

*     *     *

 

Now you’re with Spook Dick, on the church steps. Further up, he sits, bony knee in your face. Jiggling it, he nods. “That’s the last time you seen him?”

You’d told him everything, even . . .  

“With the crack whore?” In a conspiratorial tone he adds, “Ever seen her before?”

You don’t answer, ‘cause . . . rushing toward you, is . . . Vee! 

No, you think, it can’t be.

She looks the same: cheeky, with real short platinum hair, like a chubby Annie Lennox. Behind her ear is the familiar cigarette. My smokes, Vee had called her Marlboros. They’d been the death of her. A bald, twitching skeleton she’d been, the last time you saw her. Ravaged with cancer, her eyes had rolled up till just the whites showed.

“You know her!” Vee says. “Sandy. ‘Member? Fucked three guys on the pool table? One was her cousin.” The best gossip ever, Vee’d been. If you puked on Mars, Vee would know where, and when.

You’re . . . dead, you think. 

“It’s her,” you whisper. “Is he . . . is that who he’s with?”

She blows up. “Who cares?” Her eyes blaze. “He’s an asshole!”

“But I love him.” An even bigger asshole, you feel like, for confessing. Instead of wondering how your friend’s back from the dead, you’re defending Asshole, as usual. 

What’s weirder—behind Vee, the sky is this rusty orange color all over, like somewhere, something is burning. You can almost touch it. It’s not night anymore, but it’s not day, either. Your nose tingles. You wipe it absently. “What time is it?” you ask Spook Dick.

“Time for you to wise up!” Vee won’t let up. “That fucker used you. . .” 

You shiver, though it’s not cold. Whatever’s burning has heated up the air.

“. . . then talked about you like a dog.”

Much as it hurt, Vee always spoke the truth, which you hated. You can’t deal with the truth. You’d even lied to yourself about Vee dying, till it really happened.

“Motherfucker,” she says again, real smugly now.

Before she died . . . before she turned into a hairless bag of bones, she’d lost her voice. How much you’d missed hearing her go off like this.

But now, all you want to know is: “Is he . . . dead?”

Her narrowed eyes shame you. “She don’t know?” she asks Spook Dick.

“Come back later,” he tells her. And she’s gone.

Your heart races. Vee’s last word—know . . . what?, you think.

You jump up. “Sit down!” Behind those Groucho glasses, Spook Dick’s eyes are twice their size. You try to pull away, but he’s too strong. And he’s got that Glock. . . .

“Now listen,” he hisses. Instead of listening, you gaze into his big, black eyes. Like they’re binoculars, you begin to . . . see. . . .   

This . . . room—a  tiny, cluttered room that’s mostly bed—wrinkled  sheets, mustard yellow, blood . . . and . . . the works: syringe, needle, spoon

. . . and an arm totally covered with tatts, except for the hose being tied tightly around it, to make the crusted vein pop up. . . .

Now you see the face: drawn, unshaven, but so handsome. Sweat beads on his forehead. Oversized dark eyes watch what he’s doing. “Spook Dick,” you realize, “It’s you!”

Horror, you feel, and such overwhelming despair, a sob’s in your throat. It’s like you’re the one shooting up, ‘cause you know this is “The End”—Spook Dick’s final fix. 

“Stop!” you scream, but he doesn’t hear you. “Don’t do it!” Even if he did hear you, even knowing this last fix would kill him . . . would not stop him. The poison surges through his vein, and those eyes shut tight.

“No!” You can’t look anymore. As you turn away, this Spook Dick pulls you back.

“Now you,” he says. 

The scene changes. You see yourself. “No,” you whisper, ‘cause you know what’s coming . . . and you don’t want to.

Trashed on the couch, you are . . . or . . . were. Flames flickered madly, as you sobbed over Asshole; how he’d just . . . vanished, was so unlike him. He had to be dead. He should be dead, for fucking you up!

A cold, windy night, even for February. Living room windows were wide open, ‘cos the heat was blasting. The dusty curtains swelled. You sucked down that last shot: the shot equal to “one last fix,” and then turned over on the couch . . . with your back to the flames.

“No!” You scream now, and Spook Dick holds you tight. “It’s not true! That didn’t happen. Not to me!” But you can’t look away . . . while the tallest flame—from Asshole’s rose candle—licked the curtain.

Está bien, mi amor,” Spook Dick says. Spanish, he speaks now, but somehow you understand. His voice is so soothing.  Todo está . . . bien.”

As he turns you around, slowly, you feel . . . peaceful . . . so unlike your drunk, crazy self.

Your building is devoured by flames. It’s crumbling. Fire engines, flashing lights, are everywhere. Neighbors scream but can’t help watching. You would be out there, with them, if you weren’t dead.

“You’re safe, now, here,” Spook Dick says, smiling. “On this side.” And he doesn’t mean the street. 

You smile back. You’re so . . . happy, your heart actually swells.

But, why? Life as you knew it, is over! You’ll never see . . . Asshole again . . . unless . . .  

“Nah!” Vee appears beside you. “He’s still alive.” She sounds disgusted. She jabs the Marlboro in her mouth. “Gotta light?” she asks Spook Dick, who feels in his pockets before pointing to your crackling house.

And the three of you’z laugh.





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Art by Hillary Lyon © 2019

THE BIG HUNT

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Callie!” Daddy said. “No stealing. Remember?”

          Smirking, four-year-old Callie hid the hot-pink egg behind her back. I sneaked it into my own basket.

          “Want Daddy to spank you?’

          We both giggled. He never spanked us, or talked loud.

          Mom was the mean one. When she drank, even Daddy was scared of her.

          It was Easter, the day of the Big Hunt after church. A bouncy castle, plastic eggs filled with candy, hidden all over. No nuts, ‘cos some kids were allergic. Not me, but Callie was. The last time we ate peanuts, she almost died.

          “You crazy?” Daddy asked Mom, at the hospital. Maybe she was, but drinking made her forget.

          At the Big Hunt, lots of grownups smelled like Mom did, at night. They drank orange juice out of paper cups, with stuff added to it. Corks were popping, like on New Year’s.  Father Volpe walked around, pouring from bottles. Probably ‘cos Lent was over.

Mom had drank all through Lent. At home and at BJ’s, that bar across the street. Some nights she stumbled home, almost getting hit by cars. Once, we’d heard brakes squeal. “Get out the street, bitch!” some guy yelled. “F--- you!” Mom yelled back.

Daddy rushed downstairs, to half-carry her up. “Saw your skank today,” she said.  “The fat blonde. You f---k!”

She pounded on a neighbor’s door. “Help!” she screamed. “Rape!”

Under the covers, Callie and I held each other.

The police came, and things were OK. But, the next night, Daddy came in our room. “We’re moving soon, Lizzie,” he whispered, so Callie wouldn’t wake up. “All of us, but to different places.”

Where? I wondered. And . . . how?

“But it’ll be OK.” He looked through the door, like something good was waiting behind it.

A picture, I’d seen, on his phone. A blonde lady, with a round, pretty face.

Fat skank, Mom had said.

Suddenly, they were acting nice. Daddy even paid for Mom’s hair: She came home with rainbow colors: purple, bright blue, green. Easter Egg colors. He even ran his hands through her hair, and she giggled.

They didn’t like church, but sat through it with us, the day of the Hunt.

Daddy didn’t talk to us. Something was back on his mind.

“Long time no see.” Mom grabbed the last bottle from Father Volpe. When she poured it out, he added, “Melissa, you’ve had enough.”

Daddy tried taking her cup, but she wouldn’t let go. “Okay,” he said quietly. Father Volpe looked down at me, then away.

“C’mere, Lizzie.” Daddy took my hand, and we walked across the lawn.

Callie was over at the bouncy castle, with the smaller kids. We all waved, as Daddy and I headed toward the parking lot.

“I’ll wait here. Will you do something for Daddy?”

That hot-pink egg, he was holding. The one Callie stole, that I’d snuck in with my others. Somehow, he’d got it back.

Nodding toward a red car, he handed me the egg.

As I trotted over, the driver’s door opened, and a lady got out. The round-faced, pretty lady from Daddy’s phone.

With the biggest smile ever, she bent and took the egg from me.

We didn’t say anything, but I felt special. Like this day was special, and everything would be different, now.

Everything . . . .

On my way back, I heard shouts, from the lawn. Daddy was running back that way, as fast as he could.

“Daddy!” I yelled, but he didn’t stop.

Everybody was crowded around our table. I just saw Mom’s hair: the green and blue part. Father Volpe was closest to her. She was sick, ‘cos I smelled it. When Father turned around, there was throw-up all over his shirt, and white collar.

But Mom never threw up when she drank.

“Mom!” I yelled, but somebody pulled me back. “Mom!”

Sirens, as police and an ambulance hurried into the parking lot. Daddy held Callie, who was crying. “Mommy!”

“It’s OK,” he told Callie.

He looked at me, like he couldn’t see me. Like he was all alone, somewhere else. Like he’d done something so bad, not even Father Volpe could forgive him.

And neither would we.

 

 

 

 



godmotherpartydownatscratchs.jpg
Art by Hillary Lyon © 2019

GODMOTHER

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“A kid’s party?” I asked Lew. “For a christening? In the back room?”

“Wanna work it, or not?”

At Scratch’s, business was slow in May.

“Pizzas, they’re getting,” Lew said. “Baby’s mother’s Bettilynn. Friend of Snake’s.”

 Snake loved his bike, and Rottie, hated his wife and slut daughter. I bet Bettilynn was a good friend of his.

Yup, I realized, when I saw her at the party.

Arms covered with scary ink you only saw on guys. Even Snake didn’t have the half-eaten face. The purple tube dress looked painted on and clashed with her fruit punch-red hair. “Fireball,” Bettilynn ordered.

“Where’s the kid?” Lew asked.

She sucked down the shot, pointed behind her.

Two chicks, like six feet tall, held babies. The older one looked like time had shit on her face. The young one wore thick glasses. In the old chick’s arms was Bettilyn’s baby, in her white christening dress. Chubby and cute, sucking on a pizza crust. The young chick’s baby wasn’t eating.

‘Cos she was a doll.

“My sister, Lori,” Bettilynn said. “Her daughter, Martha.”

Lew smiled at Bettilynn’s tits. “What’s your baby’s name?”

“Joni.” Martha’s bug eyes looked through us.

“Gisella,” Bettilynn said. “Her baby is Joni.” With Martha just inches behind her, Bettilynn added, “She’s not wrapped too tight.”

“You fuck . . .” Lori said.

“She’s not.” Third shot in hand, Bettilynn swung around. “Big chick with a five-year-old brain.”

“Lay off,” Lori told Bettilynn, who sighed. “She is the godmother.”

Martha cradled her doll. “Joni,” she said, “Wanna slice?”

Trashed grownups and screeching kids. Metal so loud, my brain cried. When they weren’t popping balloons, kids raced, all over. Behind them ran Martha, the Giant Kid, with her giant footsteps. The bar shook, as she ran past it.

Then, they were behind it. One jostled my arm, and the vodka went flying.

“Hey!” Lew said. “Get out from there!” He meant Martha more than the kids.

“Big Retard,” he muttered. Then he was gone.

So were half the grown-ups. “They’re out back,” Martha tattled. “Smoking.”

Weed, I realized. “Where’s your baby?”

Giggling, she gulped from somebody’s glass.

“Whose drink is that?”

“Mine.”

“Gimme . . .” But she bounded away.

All the kids were drinking. Parents getting high out back, there were plenty drinks on the bar.

In minutes, Martha was back. “Oh,” I said, “you found your baby.”

When the doll cooed, I gasped. “That’s Gisella! Your aunt’s baby.”

“Mine now,” she said.

I turned to make a drink. When I looked back, they were gone.

“Not bad.” Lew brought up empties. “Some kids’ parties suck. No drinkers. But these fucks . . .”

“Who you calling ‘fucks?’ ” Finally, Snake was there.

Suddenly, there was yelling, and crying, with people rushing all around.

Bettilynn ran up to Snake. “Walter!” She pawed him. “Gisella’s gone!”

The way Snake shot up and ran with her meant one thing.

“Knew it,” Lew said, smugly. “Baby’s a dead ringer.”

“Where’s Martha?” people asked. They’d sobered up, fast. One kid cried, but his mom was busy texting.

“9-1-1,” Lew said. “Great.”

“The baby’s missing!”

And the Retard Godmother,” he said.

By the time the cops came, Snake was crying with Bettilynn and Lori.

“Where the fuck,” Bettilynn sobbed, “are they?”

“If you were a retard godmother . . .” Lew whispered.

Godmother, I thought. God . . . mother. God . . .

“The christening . . .” I said.

Like he’d read my mind, Lew yelled, “Hey! Which church?”

St. Stephen’s.

In the back row was a pleased Martha. “We played baptism,” she said. In the font, she’d held her live doll underwater till she stopped breathing.

But the EMTs worked on Gisella till her pulse came back. 

It made the news. “I will never,” Bettilynn sobbed, “miss Mass again! Or drink. Or curse.” On camera, she was, still in that tight purple dress. With Snake holding her close.

We watched it on TV. “Wifey knows, now,” Lew said. I nodded.

But Martha . . . I felt bad for. With her bug eyes, and big, sad feet. A full-grown chick who’d always be a kid. . .

And the “Godmother from Hell.”

 

 

 


ym75fools4love.jpg
Art by Scarefina Doll © 2019

FOOLS FOR LOVE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          It was the summer of ’84. The four of us were just as broke, just as drunk, but not as happy as the year before.

          I’d “called in drunk” so many times, my boss, Mike (a raging drunk, himself), blew up. “Monday morning,” he said, “I want to see you, with the shop steward!”

Sandy, I thought. Sandy was the shop steward, who worked right next to me, in his department. Once again, he forgot her name.

          Freddy, my best friend and neighbor, had lost his new job. On the first day! In the men’s room, he was pulling up his pants, when a joint fell out of his pocket. Figures his boss was in the next stall.

          Who, a self-righteous fuck might say, brings a joint to work?

          And Francine and Nicky . . . Man, they were worse off than us. But not with job shit. Relationship shit. Suddenly, with no warning, generous, compassionate Francine turned into this clingy bitch.

“Where you going?” she demanded, each time Nicky tried sneaking out the door.

Like he was up to something. Till now, everything was cool with them. More than anything—except maybe her—Nicky loved his music. Most of the time he sat, strumming his guitar, singing, while the three of us listened. Just . . . loving it.

To Freddy and me, he was like Joe Strummer, from the Clash. Nicky was a huge fan, but he wrote his own stuff. Straight from the heart, he wrote, about real-life shit: being broke. Losing someone you loved. Wanting stuff you just couldn’t have . . .

Till now, Francine sat along with us, goo-goo-eyed, as he played. Like time had just stopped. . . .

But now. . .

“You check the paper, today?” She meant the want ads. “I’m trying,” Nicky said. “Every day I read it.”

“Not the funnies,” she said. Wiseass bitch.

Shelley, she’d told me, you could make good money. . .

If you didn’t drink like a fish.

 

Out in the hall, last night, Freddy and I waited for Nicky.

“Where’re you going?” Francine screeched, as he threw open the door.

“Nowhere,” Nicky half-lied.

We were just sneaking up to the roof. Since last year, it was off-limits, ‘cos Billy, the super’s drunk son, jumped off it. But Freddy busted the lock, and we snuck up when we could.

And we knew what was coming.

“Rub my feet,” Francine said. Slowly, Nicky shut the door.

We just stared at it. “Bitch,” Freddy said finally.

Who, she’d said yesterday, brings a joint to work?

An hour later, Freddy and I were on the roof, sprawled on my sandy blanket, drinking beers. It was dusk, so the sky was a hot, stinky orange. Toxic waste over the filthy, depressing city. No wonder Billy jumped.

Maybe someday, I thought, downing my beer, we all would.

Since Freddy busted the lock, only Nicky and us came up here. But Nicky was stuck home with Francine.

So, when we heard trudging footsteps, we got ready to run.

It was Nicky, looking like a giant bird had shit on his life.

“We know, man.” Freddy handed him a beer.

But as he cracked the beer, Nicky grinned. “Got big news.”

“You left her?” Freddy said.

Nicky sat right on the tar, not even the blanket. “There’s this guy, right? Front man for Fools Rush In. They need a guitar player, like A-S-A-P, ‘cos they’re going on tour!”

“Fuckin’-A!” Freddy said. We both hugged Nicky. “When?” I said.

He looked around, wildly, like the roof was bugged. “Tomorrow. But the thing is, can I just . . . leave?”

We stared. Freddy crushed his can, tossing it aside. “Why not?”

Nicky looked at his hands. They were great hands, with long fingers, meant to strum guitar, to make music. But they looked red and dried out, even in the dark.

Baby, I pictured Francine saying, after that song, can you wash the dishes?

Click-clack. Click-clack.

We listened. Someone was coming up. “Click-clack” meant wooden high heels. 

Who, I thought, cringing, wears high heels up to the roof?

Francine. “I knew it!” she said. Like she’d caught us with a zillion fucking bucks. “You’re not supposed to be up here!”

“Neither are you,” Freddy said.

She walked out further. Disgusted, she studied the heel of her shoe. “The tar’s so soft. My heel’s getting stuck.”

Nicky scrambled to his feet. I was scared he’d beg forgiveness. All he did, I thought, was have a beer on the roof.

“There’s this band,” he said. “Fools Rush In. I’m going on tour with them.”

My heart raced. Freddy squeezed my arm. This was the best, ever.

“Tour?” Francine said. “With a band?” Then she yawned! “You?” she said, still yawning. 

Nicky looked defeated. But he wasn’t giving up. “For six months. We leave tomorrow. On a bus.”

“A bus?” Francine said. “Are you crazy? I’m not even packed.”

Freddy squeezed my arm tighter.

“And which hotels?” she said, sneering. “I bet you don’t even know. There are bugs, and thieves . . .”

With “thieves,” she looked right at Freddy, who turned and walked off.

“I’ll be fine,” Nicky said. “You stay here.” He followed Freddy.

Francine started after them. Then I got up, brushing the sand off, and soon we were all on the opposite side of the roof.

Where Billy had jumped.

“I can’t believe this!” Francine said. “You would just . . . leave? Without even discussing it . . .”

She went on and on. Nicky didn’t answer. She was right in his face, like she would smack him. Maybe she did, all the time.

Nick,” Freddy said, “Watch out.”

Close to the edge, Nicky stood. Facing the sky, poisonous without it even being that lethal fucking orange.

Like he was thinking about a dream he once had. Or wondering if he really did have a soul. And if he could lose it. . . .

As she raised her arm and lurched forward, her heel caught in the tar, again.

He saw her coming. His expression was horrible, like no matter what happened, he couldn’t stop it.

And he wasn’t sorry.

I gasped.

He caught her, a moment before she—before they—would’ve gone flying over. Like Billy. For a moment, they teetered, then collapsed together onto the tar.

Oh . . . man, I thought. Behind me, Freddy’s head sunk to my shoulder.

Then Nicky and Francine were grabbing each other. Crying. Even Nicky. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so . . . sorry.” Francine mumbled something I didn’t hear.

“That was close,” Freddy whispered to me.

“My shoe . . . ,” Francine said, “it’s ruined.” On the tar she sat, pouting now, holding that ruined shoe.

Nicky smiled sadly at Freddy and me. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

In my mind, it was dawn. A graffiti-covered bus crept past our building. A tour bus, headed for sleazy hotels and the cheapest food.

Loaded with punks, and equipment, minus one guitar . . .  

And the dishpan hands born to play it.



ym_76_oct19_starofvengeance.jpg
Art by Hillary Lyon © 2019

STAR OF VENGEANCE

 

1967

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

          “At night?” Pop said, like it was unheard-of, on Halloween. “You crazy?”

 

          “A party . . .” Mary left out the “slumber” part. “At Greta’s. Please, Pop? Just me, Noreen, and Deb’re going.”

 

          “Deb?” Mom said. “Whose mother drinks in bars?”

 

          Please, God, Mary begged.

 

          “OK,” Pop said. “But stay away from that bastard next door.”

 

          To the Fornells, he meant. Greta’s family. That mean, old guy Mr. Baum-something. Baumgartner?

 

          “Fucking Nazi,” Pop said. “Don’t believe me, ask Lenny.”

 

          Lenny, the bar owner, would know. He was a Polish Jew. Over twenty years ago, he’d lost half his family, thanks to Nazis.

 

          “That camp,” Mary overheard Lenny tell Pop, “The horrors. No food. Raw potatoes, my little cousin begged for. They kicked his teeth in. Then the ovens. . . .”

 

          In school, Sister Michael taught them about World War 2, but not much about Nazis. Maybe ‘cos they were only in sixth grade.

 

          “My Pop,” Mary told Greta later, “Said stay away from . . .”

 

          Greta sighed. “We know.”

 

          “Shit,” Dizzy Deb said. “That old creep. Let’s trick-or-treat there, first.”

 

          When Noreen gasped, Deb added, “Before it gets dark.”

 

          They got changed, fast. In a pale green nightgown, Greta looked like a Greek goddess, especially with her hair up. Noreen’s Pilgrim costume looked itchy. In last year’s Fairy Princess dress, Mary’s stomach felt tight. Deb’s hobo outfit looked thrown together.

 

“Stuff her men left behind,” Mom would’ve said, about Deb’s mom.

 

          Mr. Baumgartner’s place looked like a haunted house. The other trick-or-treaters avoided it, like poison.

 

          As Deb marched up to his door, Mary’s heart pounded. Noreen and Greta stayed back, too.

 

“Come on!” Deb said. As she swung around, the door opened behind her.

 

In beat-up clothes, the old guy looked more like a hobo than Deb. Mary had expected a Nazi uniform.

 

Deb faced him. “Trick or treat!”

 

“Get out!” Snarling, he had sharp, yellow teeth. “All of you!”

 

Mary froze, as the others ran. His eyes were cold, like a monster’s. Super-tall, she pictured him stomping on kids’ heads.

 

Kicked his teeth in, Lenny had said.

 

          When Deb grabbed her arm, Mary jumped. They all ran to Greta’s.

 

          “Back already?” Mrs. Fornell said. Mary was still shivering. “Well, we can start the party early.”

 

          At Greta’s, they always drank Tang, and ate chocolate chip cookies. Homemade, chewy cookies, so Mary’s stomach would growl, just thinking of them.

 

But tonight she could still feel those Nazi eyes on her.

 

“What’ll we do, next?” Deb said, much later. They’d already listened to Sgt. Pepper, twice, and watched a movie. From the living room, more creepy music played on TV.

 

Greta beckoned them closer. “My sister Missy’s away, at school,” she whispered. “Let’s use her Ouija board.”

 

Mary squeezed her arm. “No.”

 

But Greta broke free. They all went upstairs, Mary last.

 

Missy’s room was pitch-black, smelling vaguely of hairspray. “We don’t have candles,” Greta said, “Just flashlights.” She handed one to Mary.

 

In the bright light, the Ouija board stood out on the bed. Like it was waiting for them.

 

“You put it there!” Mary said.

 

“No!” Greta said. “I . . . don’t come in here.”

 

She trained the flashlight around the room, so they saw Missy’s things: antique dolls with pearly teeth, a lab skeleton, and a vanity dressing table, with a multi-sided mirror.

 

“I’m not playing,” Mary said. The flashlight shook in her hand.

 

“Hold it still!” they all yelled at her. She felt like crying. Plus, she was so scared, she felt sick.

 

 “It’s good we’re all here. ‘Cos you can’t play alone. And you can’t insult it. Or it can possess you.” Somehow, Greta knew all the rules. “You first, Noreen. Put your hands lightly on the planchette.”

 

For someone who doesn’t come in here, Mary thought, she knows way too much.

 

In the beam from Mary’s flashlight, Noreen’s face looked white. She pressed down on the planchette.

 

“Lightly!” Greta said.

 

“Will I go to college?” was Noreen’s question.

 

Mary almost groaned. Noreen was the smartest kid in school. Even the eighth-graders hated her.

 

She kept the beam on Noreen’s hands, as steadily as she could. The planchette slid right to “Yes.”

 

“Cheater!” Deb said.

“I am not!”

 

“I saw you push it!”

 

“Quiet!” Greta said. “My parents’ll hear.’’ Then, “Deb, your turn.”

 

Deb was crazy about Danny Feely, that kid who called her “Scuzz Bucket.” Mary bet she would cheat.

 

When Deb said, “Will I marry Dan--?”, the planchette almost flew off the board.

 

Mary squealed. “You’re the cheater!” Noreen said, taking the flashlight from Greta.

 

“The spirits,” Greta said, in a superior voice, “think you’re laughing at them.”

She took Deb’s place at the board.

 

          “Mr. Baumgartner next door,” Mary said, suddenly. “Who is he? Really?”

 

“It’s not your. . .” Deb began, but then the planchette was wildly dragging Greta around the board.

 

Mary felt fearless. “What is he?”

 

In her hands, the flashlight leapt, almost by itself. Noreen’s and her lights beamed all over: in Greta’s goddess hair, in a doll’s toothy mouth, up and down the skeleton’s ribcage.

 

Then, into the mirror. All over the mirror, striking each side, in turn.

 

When the six-pointed star appeared, they all screamed.

 

This can’t, Mary thought, be real!

 

The star disappeared, then reappeared.

 

“He’s evil!” a strange voice said. Boy’s, or girl’s, Mary wasn’t sure. But it now it was hers. “He . . . killed us all!”

 

In her mind, she saw it, happening, now: a man, on a wood floor, eyes wide in terror. Shuffling backwards, crab-like. As small figures hurried toward him.

 

“Now,” Mary’s new voice said, “We’ll kill him!’

 

From all sides, the man was attacked. Screaming, as tiny feet kicked his face, and head. Over, and over. Screams dying in his throat, as so many small hands grabbed and squeezed it, as hard as they could.

 

When the room went black, the girls’ screams were deafening.

 

Then footsteps, as Greta’s parents ran, and burst, into the room.

 

“Calm down,” Mr. Fornell said. Like a mother hen, Mrs. Fornell held all the girls at once. Mary’s mind was a blur.

 

Soon, Tang and cookies appeared. Everyone but Mary ate.

 

“It was how you two held the flashlights,” Mr. Fornell explained. A scientist, he was, so they kept quiet. He demonstrated his theory. “The mirrors are at right angles to each other. When the flashlights hit the mirrors, the star effect appeared. When you moved . . .”

 

Mary stopped watching.

 

“So it looked like a Star of David.”

 

She didn’t believe him. She knew what she saw. She could almost taste those dead, gritty words. Was it even English, she heard?

 

Next day, when Pop went to Lenny’s, Mary followed him.

 

As he set a Shirley Temple before her, Lenny mouthed to Pop, “He’s dead.”

 

In dribs and drabs, for hours, she heard the news: how Baumgartner was found dead. Eyes wide open, cold and glassy, like one of Missy’s dolls. Hands clutching his own throat, like invisible hands—lots of invisible hands—had reached it, first.

 

Small ones, Mary thought.

 

And small feet she knew kept kicking  . . .

 

Till he swallowed all his teeth.

 

 

THE END


The Ghost of Christmas Never

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

“Not that one!” Lew said, smirking. “The branch below.”

Ass high, Nina the crack-whore hooked the ornament on the lower branch.

“Lower!” Snake laughed. “Lower, baby!”

Oh, jeez, I thought.

“Fuck you!” In red spandex pants, Nina was hot shit, trimming Scratch’s fake tree. Playing to these sex-hungry dopes.

Her pipe, I thought, will be full tonight.

Behind the bar, I sliced lemons. The bar was covered with Christmas balls, loose tinsel, strings of lights. No customers, ‘cept for Nina and Snake, who had like ten bucks between them. Lew was less Grinch-like than usual. Must’ve been Nina’s pants.

“Gimme the lights,” she said.

“Lights should’ve gone on, first,” Snake said.

“Thanks! You dumb shit!”

“Shots!” Lew said. Held up his empty, waved around the bar.

“What?” I almost sliced my hand. “For real?”

Jack, I poured us, Honey for Nina, who usually licked it off her fingers when it spilled. Tonight we downed them fast, before Lew changed his mind.

“Why you so happy today?” Snake asked.

Lew shrugged. “Ahhh, it’s Christmas. You know. Makes you sit back and appreciate shit. Fun times, people you love.”

Love. Nina, Snake, and I shared a look. Us?

Behind the bar, Lew poured himself another. “My mom raised me, herself. Dad left when I was two. Fucking piece of shit.”

Snake stifled a yawn.

“When I was seven . . .” Lew said, “I asked for a puppy. But Mom said they ran out, that Christmas.”

On the ceiling fan above, there was tinsel. A real fire hazard. Good thing the fan was off.

Donny, I thought, suddenly. He would’ve turned it on.

Live dangerously, darling.

“I mean,” Lew went on, “That’s what Santa said.”

Tears burned my eyes. Four months ago, Donny had ODed, drowned in his own puke. My soul mate was gone, forever.

“And Santa don’t lie.” Lew sounded choked-up.

Donny had lied . . . to me . . . and Nina . . .

Good luck, bitch, I thought, as she untangled the strings of lights.

And Desiree. That nut with the Medusa hair, and goofy glasses.

Love you, darling, Donny had told each of us.

“A puppy,” Lew said. “Just some little mutt. That’s all I wanted.”

I’d never seen him so nostalgic, remembering fifty Christmases ago.

Right after Thanksgiving, his wife moved down the shore. “Temporarily,” he said, sarcastically. Not one tear shed. Now, he was weepy over imaginary puppies.

“Christmas,” he said, now, “is magical. Brings joy to every-fucking—"

 The door opened, real slow. But nobody came in.

It was like 5 PM, but so dark out. Early sunsets made us all want to slit our throats.

“Aw, shit,” Lew’s whole mood changed, as a dark-hooded figure came into Scratch’s.

Instantly, Magie Noire filled the place. I gagged.

Desiree.

As she took down her hood, Snake said, “‘The Ghost of Christmas Future.’ ”

“ ‘Future?’ ” Lew said. “More like. . . Never.’ ”

Much as I loved Donny, he was dead. Nights, I couldn’t stop crying. I knew he’d never show up at Scratch’s, again.

But Desiree swore, “He’ll be back!”  

In his old seat, right where Nina was entangling the lights. The same rickety stool Donny claimed, “gave me splinters in my ass.” That he’d still sat on, every time.

Desiree approached “Donny’s” stool.

“Port,” she said, in a choked voice. “Two snifters.”

“Port?” Lew said.

“Two?” Nina said. “For you, and who?” She’d flung the lights aside.

I’d almost jumped over the bar.

Smirking, Lew snatched the money and poured two snifters. “That’s it,” he said. “No more port.”

As Desiree raised hers to her lips, I eyed the other.

 Their last time here together, her red, horn-rimmed glasses were on Donny’s face. All dimples and jokes, he was. Looking smug, Desiree faked reading port dregs like gypsy tea leaves. “The future,” she told me, “will astound you.”

Astound, my ass, I’d thought. Death row for killing you both.

But Donny died first.

Again, my heart felt squashed. These shiny red balls, tinsel, the garland I longed to wrap around Desiree’s throat, all screamed that there’d be no Christmas for Donny. That mine was fucked, forever.

“Oh, my God,” Nina said, pointing. “Look!”

Desiree sipped her port, as if in a trance. Beside her, the other snifter slowly, mysteriously, emptied itself.

“What the fuck?” Snake peered closer.

Lew trudged over. “Now what?”

“The wine . . .” Nina said. “drank itself.”

“Donny drank it,” Desiree said, “He still loves his port.”

Snickering, Lew grabbed the Jack Honey. “Bet he won’t know the difference.”

Nina almost beat Desiree to the snifter.

“His next’s on me!” said Nina.

“That’s it!” Lew said. “Spook-whisperin’, spook-guzzlin’. What’s next? Spook-fuck—”

Under the Christmas tree, Nina appeared, posing seductively.

Smiling, Desiree took a jeweled pill box out of her cloak. She popped something into her mouth, chased it with port.

 Lew pointed over at Nina. “Beat’cha,” he told Desiree, who didn’t answer.

Snake nudged me. “That was a trick, right? How that wine just vanished?”

“No,” Desiree whispered. Even behind glasses, her eyes looked weird. “No trick.”

I was feeling really anxious. Like whatever was wrong here would soon eat away at me, too.

“No trick,” Desiree said. And she didn’t beat me. Because . . . tonight . . . Donny . . .  and I . . .”

She slumped over on the bar.

“Shit!” Lew said. “The fuck’d she take?”

“Hey!” Snake had Desiree by the shoulders. Her glasses fell off.

Her eyes were rolled way up in her head, with just the whites showing. Out of her mouth, white foamy shit was coming.

Nina sniffed the air, as I dialed 9-1-1. “What’s that smell?”

“Almonds?” Lew sniffed harder. “What the fuck . . . where’d she get cyanide?”

I was shaking. “What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked me.

 

“Um,” I said, when Lew glared at me. “Possible OD?”

*     *     *

Almost closing time, it was, when the last cop left. Desiree was in the morgue, like she’d wanted. Somehow, Nina had scored crack. She was back to maniacally decorating that tree. You could smell almonds, like sweet liqueur had spilled all over.

God, I thought, no more Amaretto, ever.

Again, it was us four, as no customers could come in, during either the removal of the body, or the grilling.

“You said ‘OD,’” a fat, sneering cop said.

And the detective: “But you don’t OD on . . .”

Cyanide.

How did Lew know so much? Same as he knew so much other shit . . .

That ate away at me. 

“I wasn’t sure,” I told them. I felt guilty, like I was lying. Like they’d searched my head, seen me hanging Desiree with that garland.

But I hadn’t.

And Donny. I hadn’t killed him, either.

Were they really together . . . over there?

Lew poured shots for us all. “Hadda do it here,” he muttered. “Couldn’t wait till she fuckin’ got home.”

“It was planned.” Snake looked sad. Alive, he could give two shits about Desiree. But now that she . . .

And Donny . . .

I seethed with jealousy. Sick as it was. And I felt physically sick, almost like I’d poisoned myself, too.

I imagined the burning, what the cyanide did to her throat, and brain. I could almost taste it. Her last thoughts had to have been about. . .

Donny.

The mysterious snifter was gone, in a bag, just like Desiree’s, so the forensics nuts could analyze them. Prove us all liars. Maybe accomplices.

Still, I knew what I saw. And what I was feeling, now.

Lew was right. We had run out of port.

But from the other side, I heard a cork popping.



TOAST, JELL-O, TEA

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Atlantic City, 1972

 

 

          “Ah, mon cherie, I understand. Oui, I feel your pain.”

          At Cup of Joe’s, we were, the all-night diner next to Howard’s dad’s hotel. In a booth by the window. Simone, a French-Canadian guest, was old, and funny-looking, but she was someone to eat with.

          It was really late. In the Victorian Room, “Marco and the Mustaches” had finished their last set. My mom—in royal blue gown and turban—had snuck off with the keyboardist. A sneering little creep.

          Curly-headed Howard—love of my life—was flirting with Marina, in the hotel lobby. Near the ancient cage elevator she ran. She was fourteen—our age, but super-tall, with legs longer than my whole body. Shiny black hair she could sit on.

          But Howard, I thought, blinking back tears, we had a date. Didn’t we?

          You’re special,” he said, that first night, as we made out, on the mezzanine. That plum velvet couch we just sunk into. “Not like most chicks. Smart, but not annoying smart.” I know I beamed. “I like that,” he breathed. “And . . . these.” He squeezed my breast. Down there, I felt wild, and hot. . . .

“See you later, Pam!” he said, as I rushed past them.

“Men,” Simone said, as I searched for the waitress, “they need to---how you say, ‘be in control.’ Your little Howard already thinks he’s a big man.”

Yeah, I thought, bitterly. Always showing his dick, to somebody. ‘Cos his dad owned the place, he got away with shit.

“Oh, Pam!” He’d wave it at me, but I’d look away. “’Pam the Prude!’”

“‘Cos I’m still a virgin, he calls me that,” I confided in Simone. “But I’m only fourteen.”

“Ahhh.” She smiled, like I’d said “forty.” Maybe the language thing.

“Fourteen,” I repeated. “One-four.”

“When I was your age,” she said, “I had many lovers.”

I signaled the waitress. “Huh?” Simone looked sixty-something. Plain, with gray hair, and corny glasses. Like an old man.

At a nearby table, a song came on the mini-jukebox. The Hollies: “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.”

Marina. And Howard.

“Yeah?” The waitress said.

My stomach growled. I’d wanted the Cup of Joe Special: corned beef on rye, with coleslaw, and Russian dressing. But now I pictured Howard with Marina. Him toying with her Cher-like hair.

“What’cha want?” Impatiently, the waitress tapped the order book with her pen.

Simone was staring outside, like she forgot we were supposed to order.

“The Special,” I said, imagining choking on coleslaw.

“Toast,” Simone told the waitress, “Jell-O. And tea.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Jacques. His name was Jacques.”

Simone piled cherry Jell-O onto a slice of plain toast. Her tea she took black, without milk, or sugar.

“He had a wife. And many children. But he loved me best, he said.” As she nibbled on the crust, her eyes looked wet. “But he ran away . . . with all that I had.”

Money, I thought. Self-respect.

And appetite.

Right outside, a couple strolled past, arms around each other. A guy, with cherubic golden curls. And a tall . . .

In my throat, the coleslaw stayed, as I watched them duck into the hotel entrance.

I swallowed hard. “So, since then,” I said, “all you eat is . . .”

 “Yes.” Smiling, she picked up her tea. “Till he comes back.”

 

*     *     *

 

Somehow, I knew they’d be in there.

I had waited too long for the elevator. From the lobby, I’d heard Howard’s dad yell,  “Last Call!” in the Victorian Room. That felt like an hour ago.

 

Simone had taken the stairs. “Come,” she said, “walk with me.” I shook my head.

My mom, I was sure, was in the keyboardist’s room, not ours. I wasn’t scared I’d walk in on them.

When the elevator finally came down, I saw Howard, behind the glass. Though the cage hid his expression, his head jerking back told me what was happening.

I’d seen it, before.

Unseen, Marina was on her knees, sucking his cock. Like those blonde French-Canadians he’d dumped me for. ‘Cos I was “Pam the Prude.”

I backed away, hoping they wouldn’t see me. By the time the elevator door opened, I heard slobbering, slurping. Him gasping, “Oh, yeah! . . . Oooh, baby.”

Her giggling.

In silent tears, I bolted up the stairs.

 

*     *     *

 

“Cheap fuck,” My mom said, at Cup of Joe’s, next morning. “Don’t even buy his date breakfast.”  

I didn’t answer.

“What’s up your ass?” For a change, she seemed concerned. “Hungry?”

I shrugged.

“Well, I want the works: omelet, home fries. And pancakes. With lots of syrup, and butter.”

The bottle was caked with syrup, from hours before. The sticky-sweet smell made me sick. I thought of Howard’s cock, dripping into Marina’s mouth.

“What about you?” Mom said, as the waitress—different from last night’s—looked impatient.

“Just some . . . toast,” I said, softly. “And tea.”

“That’s it?”

I shook my head. “And . . . you have cherry Jello-O?”

The waitress just looked at me. “For breakfast?” Mom said.

I forced a smile.

Yes, breakfast. And lunch. And probably . . .

“No man is worth it,” Mom said.  

 

 

THE END


 

 

 

PRANKSTER

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Detective, I swear, I didn’t know he was in there.

 

          Remember that TV show, Jackass? With those assholes—Sorry, Ma’am. I’ll watch my language—dopes doing crazy stuff, like jumping off a Harley, to see what would happen? Well, Freddy was always like, flirting with death.

 

          No, Ma’am, he didn’t ride. Or climb into snake pits, but once he climbed from window-to-window, along the fourth floor of our building. Why? I’m not sure, but lemme tell you, that bitch in 4-F who claimed her jewelry was missing was full of . . . sugar.

 

          Inside, he did crazy stuff, too, but mostly pranks. That’s why . . .

 

          I know I should’ve heard the screams, but please . . . what I did hear . . . If you’ll let me talk, Detective . . . Ma’am . . .

 

          Freddy liked scaring people, OK? He’d jump up on the hutch and peer out of the kitchen, waving, like he was Spiderman, up on the ceiling. He’d hide in a closet for an hour, just to scare the . . . sugar . . . out of you.

 

          One time . . . and here’s my point . . . I came home, and heard “Help me! Help me!” in this tiny, muffled voice. Remember The Fly? The old version, with Vincent Price? The tiny half-man, half-fly trapped in the spiderweb? That’s what this voice sounded like. And I had no clue where it was coming from.

 

          At the dining room table was this . . . thing. Like a scarecrow, almost, in a hoodie, with hood up, head down on its thick arms. I saw no hands.

 

          I got closer to it. “Freddy?”

 

          “Help me!” I heard again, but not from Ray Bolger here.

 

          On his hands and knees, Freddy crawled in the room, laughing.

 

          “Where were you?” I yelled.

 

          “I can’t . . .” He choked out, between guffaws. “Can’t ever tell you!”

 

          Who knows, Detective? He wouldn’t tell me. For all I knew, he was hiding in the fridge, back then.

 

          Oh, that’s right. He would’ve suffocated . . . that time.

 

          I’m sorry, Detective. It’s just . . . hitting me, now. That he’s really gone. I loved him, so much. Even his stupid jokes.

 

          “Help me!” I kept hearing, like that last time.

 

          Oh, pul-leasse! I thought. Not again. So I ignored him. Let’s see, I thought, how long he can wait this out.

 

I never thought he got trapped in there, cleaning it. Who knew it was empty? That he’d chucked the old stuff?

 

Sure, I smelled Fabuloso. That super-sweet, cloying stench. He was always cleaning. You don’t smell grease, do you? When he wasn’t playing jokes, he was always frying something.

 

          He loved me, right? But not my cooking. When I made chicken, he’d run out, gagging, like there were maggots in it. But I never got sick.

 

          Chuletas, he fried, and salted plantanos. “Gonna fatten you up,” he promised. Then, in front of our friends, he’d grab a handful of my . . . butt, squeezing it, so it hurt. Laughing.

 

          He caught my best friend’s eye. When I turned, she’d winked back at him.

 

          Laughing.

 

          Like that time he crawled in, laughing, after making the dummy.  

 

          Like when that RC toy helicopter was headed straight for my eyes.

 

          If I heard that laugh one more time—

 

          I mean—

 

          That long he was in there? Oh, my God, Detective . . .

 

          How could I have possibly known?



ALL YOU YOUNG DUDES

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

 

          Dear Young Dude,

          Or, as Tennessee Williams might put it, “Young, young, young dude.”

          Happy Birthday! Your post said you were shit-faced, already. A Fireball shot for each year? Bull-shit. That’d be thirty, and you’d be dead. Half that, you’d be in ICU.

          Maybe less. . . .

          Way ahead of you. By thirty years. All you young dudes . . . Like in that Matt the Hoople song. Before your time.

And mine? Stop thinking aching joints, saggy jowls. Think thirty more years of getting fucked, and doing fucked-up things.

          That weirdo Lars, who swung both ways? Who made the fetish porn movies? Pregnant bitches sitting on balloons, smoking? What we did, back then, would make your skin crawl. Your smooth, powdered baby skin.

Thought how cool it’d be to fuck a bi guy. Like a Mick Jagger, or some artsy-fart. Strap-ons, spiked urine cocktails. Some scat freak wanted Lars’ latest smoking bitch to shit on him.

‘Cos I wouldn’t do it, Lars dumped me.

          And Howie, that married guy, from work. Always with a briefcase, like he was in Secret Service. But in that briefcase was a sandwich, blindfold, and handcuffs.

One day at lunch, down the block, we found an old mattress in an alley. As Howie munched on the sandwich (rare roast beef on rye), I sucked him off, blindfolded, hands cuffed behind me. Wearing a pink leather miniskirt, with glass on my knees.

“I fell,” I told Keith, my boss, about my bloody knees, and torn hose. Sneaking off the freight elevator, I walked right into him.

Smirking, ‘cos that elevator was Keith’s and my secret spot.

Like the Talking Heads would say, I had some “Wild, Wild Life.”

Once, while visiting my brother Frankie, in that rural Christian rehab, we both hooked up. Him, with the visiting organist’s son, me with Frankie’s roommate, Ian.

A dreamy-eyed felon, we fucked in their room, while Frankie and the kid went off, somewhere.

Probably the woods. On lots of trees, scriptures were carved. No matter how far you went, no matter how dark and scary the woods felt, another comforting Bible verse showed up: “But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8.”

Yeah, we’re all sinners. But I fucked up anyone who got in my way.

Like that cute Spanish chick Howie hired. Mariah. Who snuck coke on the ladies’ room sink right after Mariah left? So the bitch-in-charge would find it?

Who called Howie’s house late at night, giggling when his wife answered?

Who switched on the gas, in all the burners, in Lars’ kitchen? After his power was shut off? Left him in a drunken stupor, with candles burning.

Before strangling young dudes at their request, I strangled some who fought back.

But years of strength training paid off.

          More than thirty.

          Right now, that Fireball has burned up your gut. Maybe the first shot did. But you trusted me, so you kept downing them. You trusted me at your place.

          After fucking me up. Twice.

          One more: That was powdered bleach, not aspirin, in my cheating husband’s coke. On our first anniversary, we were alone, in a candlelit room.

          Who’d ever believe I flunked chemistry?




HOMICIDAL HUBBY

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

  Back then, before we got married, I didn’t know. Not really. Jim was funny, and sweet. Abrasive, sometimes, but always throwing fifties, hundreds on the bar.

“Lots more,” he said, with that mischievous smile, “where that came from. Hey, I gotta great job, Kid.” He always called me “Kid,” though we were like the same age. “Moe takes care of me,” he said.

Moe was Big Shit in the restaurant biz. Or maybe those food courts in malls, where lowlives came, to eat free shit. Actually, it was supermarkets. All I knew was, when Moe said, “Jump!”, people said, “How high?”

“I’m a butcher,” Jim said. “At least, that’s how I started.”

Yeah, he was Moe’s right-hand man. Always at work, doing something for Moe.

Moe, Moe, Moe.

But somehow, at the weirdest times, Jim was free.

Like that day I’m talking about, in August ’88. Suddenly, he was available . . .

For my cousin Theresa’s wedding.  When my “boyfriend” Billy stood me up.

“You fuck!” I screamed at Billy’s answering machine. In a red satin dress, with black tears streaming down my cheeks. “The wedding’s in an hour.”

“Give me twenty minutes, Kid,” Jim said, when I called.

“What an asshole,” he said, when he picked me up. Only he could pull off that yellow-and-white checked suit. “He don’t deserve a prize like you.”

“Thanks.” I sniffled. “No work today?”

“Few hours.” As he turned the corner, he said, “Problem in the downtown store. Klutz left early again.”

Like I knew who he was talking about.

“Who?”

“You know, ‘Klotz, the Klutz.’ Butch Klotz, King of fuckin’ Workman’s Comp. Slippery floors, falling soup cans. Wanna hear today’s excuse?”

 

I was fixing my makeup. Klotz.  Sounded familiar.

Jim jabbed a cigarette in his mouth. “Got hit with a shopping cart,” he said, through the cigarette. “Then, a car.”

“Oh, my God!”

“He’ll live. Car just tapped him.” Smirking, Jim lit up. “Too bad.”

Naturally, that got past me. I was mourning Billy, and the past year, wasted.

Recalling other times Billy had fucked up, leaving me home, alone. Drunk, with just egg rolls, and ribs to keep me company.

But today, of all days . . .  to stand me up, for Theresa and Tommy’s wedding. Make me face scary Uncle Vince . . .

Scumbag stand you up? my uncle would say. With eyes cold as a shark’s.

“What’cha drinking, Kid?” Jim asked, as we walked in the hall. Suddenly, he stopped dead. “What the fuck . . .”

I craned my neck but just saw Theresa’s new father-in-law. A chubby, sweaty version of Tommy, with a home-movie camera. Such a klutz, he backed right onto a bridesmaid’s foot. “Ow!” the girl screamed.

He looked around, then froze when he saw us.

“Klotz,” Jim said, in a low voice.

“’The Klutz?’ ” I said. “That’s the groom’s father.”

Looking terrified, Klotz disappeared into the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?’ Jim sucked down his first drink. There were lots more to come.

What were the odds? That my last-minute wedding date would be the groom’s father’s boss? Angry boss. You couldn’t make this shit up.

And things got worse.

Oh, the meal was outstanding: surf n’turf, rack of lamb, fancy hors d’oeuvres. And a full, open bar. Top-shelf shit. In the corner, something fruity, but lethal, was shooting out of a fountain.

Only two people didn’t eat one bite: Jim, and Klotz. Jim drank like booze was going out of style. Klotz was scared to.

Not once did he look in our direction.

“Be right back,” Jim said, halfway through his uneaten meal.

“I like your date.” Uncle Vince lowered his big self into Jim’s seat. “Better’n that other scumbag.” Billy.

As guests banged their spoons against glasses, Theresa and Tommy kissed, awkwardly.

Uncle Vince leaned closer. “Better’n that scumbag, too.” He hated Tommy.

“’Scuse me,” I said, getting up.

Jim had been gone a while. I was getting a strange, sick feeling and hoped it wasn’t the food.

Outside the rest rooms were pay phones. As I approached the ladies’, I heard a familiar voice. “Tellin’ ya, Moe,” he said, “We each chip in two large, our problems’ll be over. No more Klutz.”

In a checked suit. Only one in the place.

When he turned and saw me, Jim smiled. “Yeah, another ‘accident.’”

He had to be kidding. But he didn’t seem drunk, anymore. Still on the phone, he enveloped me in this huge hug. Like he loved me, or something.

“Yup,” he told Moe. “It’s his son’s wedding.”

Sure, he was kidding, I thought, as we headed back to our table, arm-in-arm, like real dates.

Jim was always joking about people deserving to get hurt. Like Billy. A dirt nap, he needs, he said, once, when I’d said Billy was too tired to come over.

Uncle Vince was still in Jim’s seat. As we got closer, my uncle’s face lit up. But it was a strange smile: like Jim was part of the family. Maybe not ours, but somebody’s. . . .

“Buy you a drink?” Uncle Vince joked. Jim laughed.

It didn’t take long.

This next car that struck Klotz in the supermarket lot squashed him like a bug. Car was doing, like ninety. How it missed killing screaming shoppers who were in the way, was a miracle.

Some witnesses said the driver was drunk, and weaving. But one teenage boy said, “It headed straight for him!”

“Changed his story, Kid,” Jim told me, over dinner, that night. Chinese, at my place.

Not once did Jim ever stand me up. Moe, or no Moe, who I’d still never met.

Maybe I’d marry him, I thought. I mean, if he asked me . . .

Still, I had to know. “So,” I said. “It was an accident?”

Smiling, Jim squeezed soy sauce on his food. “His last one.”

He and Uncle Vince were pals, now. I kept thinking about Tommy. Once, he’d beaten Theresa bad. Too many nights, he staggered home, drunk, once across a busy highway.

One more nasty, reckless drunk.

Another accident waiting to happen.

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

“Homicidal Hubby.” Collected in Stupidiocy by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright © 2019 by HEKATE Publishing. With cover and illustrations by Coates “Keith” Walker. 

 



CHERRY-ORANGE-GRAPE

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Ice pops. Can you believe it? He replaced me with ice pops.

Me, and . . . booze.

Soon’s he quit drinking, my husband Ricky froze, like a human popsicle. Three in a box, they came, but he ate the cherry ones first. Then orange. He hated the grape.

“They taste,” he said, sneering, “like your lipstick.” He hadn’t tasted my grape-y lips, or any of me, in almost a year.

Two years back, he loved sucking on them, lipstick, or not. Like, at that karaoke bar, where we met, the neon flamingo bathing us in rosy light. More thirty, than forty, we looked, that night. Ricky, with his almost-black eyes, and sexy goatee.

“’All . . . my love,’” he sang, looking right at me. “Unchained Melody.” Around us, chicks watched him, dreamy-eyed.

“’If I can’t have you,’” I sang, thinking of my ex, but staring at Ricky, who still had his mic.

“’I don’t want nobody. . .’” With this smug look, he joined me, like that old Dusty Springfield song was his.

What balls, I thought. Maybe. Except for fucking him, I’d blacked out most of that night.

Sure, I drank too much. Blacked out a lot. Bruises all over. And DUIs. Last one, they almost sent me back to driving school! Ricky was disgusted. Hey, once he stopped fucking me, I needed some fun.

Way back, we fucked, nonstop. Sometimes, we’d forget to eat. Now, he ate like a pig, but stayed lean, despite all those ice pops. Sherbert, he loved, too. All our spoons were bent backwards.

Yeah, he was stressed. So was I, when I’d worked. But instead of drinking to relieve stress, he blamed shit on me.

Holding his delicate nose when I came home late. Like I hadn’t showered in days.

“You smell,” he said, “like booze.”

No kidding.

And bedtime? He slept so far away from me, he might’ve fallen out of bed, and cracked his skull.

 I wish.

Ice pops. All over the trailer, were sticks. Most stained blood-red, and stuck to something: kitchen table, nightstand.

The freezer door slammed. “Samantha!” I cringed, when he yelled to me. “There’s no more cherry. All that’s left,” he said, “are orange and . . .”

“Grape!” I screamed. “Grape! Grape!”

“They keep me,” he said, through clenched teeth, “from picking up!”

Picking up.

One day at a time. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.

 All A.A. talk. Like a parrot, spouting age-old knowledge from other dry, self-righteous fucks. Ninety meetings, had been his goal, in ninety days.

How proud they all were, when he made it.

Soon, he’d have a year.

Or, would he?

He didn’t know I knew. That he was “thirteen-stepping.” With some “pigeon.”

Mouse, he called her, though she had some girly first name. Gabrielle? Nah, Giselle, like the ballet. In a tutu, I pictured her, stumbling across the stage. A real loser.

But, loser or not, this pigeon came first. Even before ice pops.

“A friend,” he lied, when she kept calling. “From the rooms.”

The rooms . . .  

Those whispered phone calls . . . abrupt hang-ups. That smug look he got each time I caught him.

Crazy as it was, I still loved him. And even crazier, I believed he loved me.

When you’re sober, and get bad news, you drink. Soon as booze hits you, you’re OK. Maybe for an hour. Even ten minutes drunk beats facing it dry.  

But when you’re trashed first, and you find out . . .

How much more trashed can you get?

At Boxer’s Brew, I was, almost seeing double, when she came in. That gut feeling, when she headed toward me: tiny; mousy; geeky wire-framed glasses. She’d left the tutu home.

Soft-spoken. Couldn’t hear her over White Zombie. The crack of balls on the pool table made her jump. I was glad.

Finally, she had to yell. “I’m Ricky’s friend! Can’t say from where!” The pigeon.

Staring at her, I downed my beer.  

“He loves you, a lot.” She smiled, sadly. “More than he loves me.”

Deep inside me, something clicked. Like my safety got shut off.

 I grabbed my car keys. If she wasn’t wearing glasses, I’d’ve gouged out her eyes. I got up, fast.

She followed me outside.

“Keeps trying to leave you!” Behind me, she burst into sobs. “But he can’t!”

Yellow Mama, I’d named our ’69 Camaro. My ’69 Camaro. After Alabama’s electric chair. Despite DUIs, and the time I’d missed that tree by inches, my mustard-yellow baby was a safe ride.

Till that night.

As she wailed, her tiny fists pounded on my car. I was inside, and it roared alive.

 Like a fool, she threw herself on the hood. Thinking that would stop me.

As I took off, blood thumped in my ears. Drowned out that thud, like when a monster deer greets you.

No deer around here, the cops might’ve said, later.

If not for Ricky.

My mess he was stuck cleaning up, out of love: fenders and grille ruby-red, and sticky. Like from all those cherry ice pops he’d eaten.

In the grille, like bent-backwards spoons, were the wire frames from her glasses. The lenses might’ve cracked beneath her.

Her mangled body was way behind me as I drove home . . .

My mind a complete blank.

 

 

THE END




TIME-SHARE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          Who knew, back then, that someday you could go back?

          Imagine being eight years old, in Grandma’s backyard. The safest place in the world. On the swing, waiting for the Good Humor truck. Chocolate éclair, strawberry shortcake. Eat both without stressing about calories.

Or going back to teendom. Relive your prom . . . if you were lucky enough to go.

Not you. In high school you were a loser. Fat, pimpled, with your big nose in a book. Then one cool kid slammed that book shut. . . .

 

*     *     *

 

          “You have two choices,” the android time-travel agent said. Her turquoise nails matched her eyes, and hair. “The super-ultra package for five thousand euros, or the supreme-ultra package for ten thousand.”

          Broke as you were, you took the cheaper one. This was your Christmas present to yourself.

          Her synthetic eyebrow went up. “Are you sure?”

          Behind her was one of those singing Christmas trees. A real spangly, fake-looking one, also turquoise. “Santa, Baby,” it sang, in a smug, girly-girl voice.

          “What’s the difference?” you demanded.

          “With the supreme-ultra, you relive the day with no memories of the future.” Her eyes sparkled. “But with the other . . .” Her eyes went dead.

          “I’ve only got five thousand.”

          She sighed. “Okay, then.”

Big deal, you thought. So, you knew what was coming.

“But, no matter what you know,” she said, smirking. “You can’t change the past.”

Androids, you thought, all fucking know-it-alls.

“Fine,” you said.

And gave her all the money you had.

 

*     *     *

 

 

August 13, 1994

 

Outside Donny’s Den, the sun nearly blinds you, this time of day.

          You’ve got no shades. Scudder’s, you had, till you flung them in the bay, in a drunken rage.

You’re younger, thinner. These jeans were your favorites: ripped, patched in the thighs. And this cut-off denim top. One married guy left his shirt behind, and you cut it to suit you. You can’t even recall his name.

But Scudder, you never forgot.

Donny’s is mobbed. “Beth!” Phil the bartender beams, when you walk in. “Guess who was just here?”

Your heart sinks. “Scudder?”

Shit, you think. Five thousand euros, and I missed him?

“But he’s coming back!” Still grinning, Phil sets down your draft beer and shot of Jack. “I told him you’d be here.”

“Yeah? How’d you know that?” The cold beer tastes so good. And Jack warms you, all over.

As Phil shrugs, you realize that in two months, a fight will break out at closing. Phil will get stabbed through the heart, trying to break it up.

Can’t change the past, you remember hearing.

“Phil!” you scream, anyway, but suddenly the jukebox is so loud, he can’t hear you: “I Would Do Anything for Love.” Meat Loaf.

Phil turns to another regular, whose “Yo, Phil!” was shrill as a chainsaw.

Shannon.  Worst of the afternoon drunks. Wearing that same flower-print top as every time you saw her.

She’s pregnant, you realize. But doesn’t know it.  

Her poor baby . . .

“Shan—” But you can’t even hear yourself.

Can’t change . . .

When the door opens, light blazes. Through the glare, you see Scudder’s panther-like silhouette.

Same old Scudder: black leather vest, scary tatts. Black hair that looks best right before it’s cut. ‘Stache crooked from that knife-scar. Piercing, dark eyes.

 

As they meet yours, your insides feel like soup. He smiles that half-smile you longed for. “Bethy,” he says in that gravelly voice. Like it really was almost forty years since he saw you.

I love you, you think. Leave your wife. And five kids. Pul-leasse?

You jump into his arms. Suck face, like mad.

There’s nothing like his kiss. Not before, not since. You suck on his lips and tongue, taste blackberry brandy. Feel how hard his cock is, against you.

Around you, the regulars hoot and cheer. “Get a room!” Phil yells, finally, laughing.

“I missed you,” you tell Scudder.

He chuckles. “Just saw you last night.”

“Feels longer.” You just can’t let him go. He can hardly breathe, you’re holding him so tight.

“The bitch was pissed.” He reaches around for his shot of blackberry. “Thought I was with Sorehead.”

Sorehead. Who has AIDS, but no one knows, yet.

“He’s bad news,” Scudder says. “Can’t stay off the shit.”

“If you only knew,” you mumble.

One day Sorehead will hang himself in his garage.

 “Scudder,” Shannon says. “Buy me one.”

Her baby . . .

Scudder frowns. “I don’t know . . .”

Even he knows she’s had enough. She’s holding her beer sideways. Some of it spills onto her pants.

The shot he does buy her, she downs, like a guy. Wipes her mouth on her arm, grins at them. Back then she was only missing one tooth.

The bar phone rings. Phil runs for it.

Your heart sinks before he even yells, “Scudder!”

This was years before iPhone 40. The cord doesn’t reach, so Scudder hops up onto the bar to take his call.

It’s her. You remember. Their youngest kid has a fever, or some shit. Or maybe the bitch made it up. But when Scudder leaves Donny’s, you never see him again.

“I gotta run,” he tells Phil.

“No!” you scream, but nobody hears you. You can hardly hear yourself, as something is happening. Your vision blurs. Your whole body—your soul—is shimmering, changing.

 

In this dream-state, more blasts from the past torture you: drunken flings, countless dead-end jobs. A bout of cancer that weakens you, leaves you sterile, nearly hopeless.

Fresh as ever is one memory: Scudder’s leather-vested back as he rushed out of Donny’s, home to his wife and kids. . .  

But your freshest memory is the time-travel agent’s office. That turquoise stare that all androids have. Her pushy attitude. And that obnoxious Christmas tree, singing “Jingle Bell Rock” now.

In the waiting room, there was one guy ahead of you. You didn’t notice him, before, but you remember him, now: a chunky, balding guy, smelling of blackberry brandy.

         Half-smiling at his iPhone 40.

Time Share originally appeared in Black Petals Issue #56, Summer of 2011.






THREES

  

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

1978

 

 

          Last night was the worst. In twenty-one years of worst nights. Worse than getting burned out of your parents’ place, at age eleven, ‘cos your mom fell asleep, smoking. Everybody lived, but so what?

          Liberty State’s dorm was paradise, next to that shabby flat. Like a neat, pretty set for a movie. A psychological horror flick.

          Your first roommate, Neely, shook her wooden leg at you, for fun. The next one, C.J., robbed you blind. Deborah, who had skin like funeral lilies, stole more than money. Those tiny notebooks you’d hid in your snow boots wound up in her locked drawer. After the whole world learned your secrets.

          How Mom mixed rat poison into Daddy’s juice, but you spilled it, in time.

          How you’ve never once kissed a guy.

          Or even wanted to. . . .

          Now, a year later, the one guy you were dying to kiss, was lost to you.

          Joey, that scruffy, leather-jacketed, bad boy poet. Whose brutal words only you could understand. Who you loved in a way only brutal words could describe.

But you, with your frizzy hair and fat ass, were out of his league.

According to Lisa, Professor Steele’s slutty young wife. Gotta lose weight, she claimed Joey said, about you. Then: “’She sure can write,’” Lisa quoted, in Joey’s scratchy voice, “But she’s not my type.”

Off on a ski trip, Joey was. Like all this snow was a tease. You pictured him wasted, with some slut, maybe blonder than Lisa.

Your heart felt squashed, like someone fatter than you sat on it.

          Fat like Mary Alice next door. Her heart was pulp, like a dinosaur had stepped on it. ‘Cos her fiancé was gone.

Poor Hal. Heart imploded under freezing, black water. His death an excuse to get shit-faced at the pub. Kiss Steele’s ass, so he’d buy pitchers of beer. Jerks who’d never even met Hal toasting to his memory. Behind Steele’s back, Lisa snuck one guy her number.

Mary Alice wasn’t even missed.

 

Suitemates, you were, ‘cos you shared a bathroom. If you didn’t hear her in there, you still smelled what could’ve once been rat stew. But she ate the same dorm meals you did. And lately, the grub was worse.

Right before Hal, the food services guy died, in a gruesome car crash. Like a bowling ball, his head shot across the icy highway. You heard Sam “Three Chin” Jones was buried headless.

Weasel, the new guy, had cooked in ‘Nam but was too stoned to know chicken from pork. Both he served pink.

This morning, your bathroom would smell worse. Mary Alice’s retching made you want to puke, too. When she stopped, she left the bathroom from her side. You hoped she wasn’t down in the dining hall.

Normally, at breakfast, you lucked out. Bubbly Nancy made yummy cheese omelets. But today, Weasel was cooking.

“What’cha want?” His eyes were just slits.

Runny eggs and burnt toast.

That’s what you got. When Weasel cooked, he blasted the overhead music so your head hurt.

Out in the dining hall, Mary Alice sat alone, by the window.

No, you thought, please, not today . . .  

But she looked right at you. So you had to join her.

“Hi,” you said, sitting down.

No answer. Her skin looked almost gray. Her oatmeal was untouched.

Outside, winter seemed in as foul a mood as you. En route to class, kids slid around on the ice. Old students back in school after years walked slowly, nervously.

How freaky it was, that ice or snow caused those two deaths: “Three Chin” Jones’ car crash, and Hal’s ice-fishing tragedy.

“Threes,” Mary Alice murmured.

“Huh?” You thought she’d said “Trees,” but she wasn’t staring out at frosty branches. Her eyes were set straight ahead.

“Death,” she said. “It comes in threes.”

Great, you thought. Bad enough Joey was “dead” to you. Off on his precious ski trip.

Who’s gonna croak next?

Forcing a smile, you skimmed the yolk off an egg. “Awwww . . .”

From the overhead speaker came that Foreigner song: “Cold as Ice.” With that annoying piano intro.

She picked up her spoon. “Yup.” To the beat of the song, she mashed her oatmeal.

“Well . . .” you said, “sometimes, it seems that way. But not all deaths are connected.”

“No?”

“Um . . . the week my aunt died, our super got burned up with our apartment building.” You wished she’d stop mashing that oatmeal. “Then . . . my best friend’s grandfather . . . got hit by a bus.”

“You see?”

“But they didn’t know each other!” you said, wearily. “My aunt lived way out in Seattle, and Louie’s grandpa was on a trip to India. A tour bus hit him.”

Mary Alice dropped the spoon. “Mr. Jones didn’t know my Hal.”

You sighed. So what if she didn’t get it? Her pain was way worse than yours. Her Hal would never come back.

But Joey . . . As long as he was alive . . .

You’re not his type.

Joey might as well be dead, too.

Usually, by 5 PM, you were at the pub. Night class, or not. Beers with Steele and the gang was more . . . enlightening . . . than Social Research Methods.

But tonight, on your way there, this chill came over you. Like your ribs were icicles. Even bundled up, you felt colder than ever.

“Hi,” you told Jack, who checked IDs at the door. No class tonight? he usually joked. But not tonight.

Inside, the place was packed but seemed quiet, though the jukebox was on. A Fleetwood Mac song played: “Go Your Own Way.”

At Steele’s almost-full table, the pitchers were empty. Lisa was crying. Practically the whole gang was there.

But not Joey.

Oh, my God, you thought.

Slowly, Steele got up and walked over to you. Up close, you realized he looked old enough to retire.

As he held you close, your whole body trembled.

“He had too much to drink,” Steele said, “before skiing.” Tears filled his eyes. “Never saw the tree.”

As the bad-boy poet would say . . .

           And that makes three.


KLEPTO

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

“I took it,” she always said, “for you!”

“Thanks, Ma!” Beet-red, I peered around, hoping nobody saw.

Steak knives from restaurants, ashtrays from hotels. And I didn’t even smoke!  She never got caught, but still . . .

“Everyone does it!” Ma said defiantly. “The prices they charge!”

Wrong, Ma, I thought. Not me.

Back in the 70s, my teen years were hell. Bad enough I was fat. And the mean kids knew Pop drank. “Vicky’s mom’s a thief!” they’d say, next.

That . . . tiki glass! From the Polynesian buffet. “Nice role model!” I said. A totem pole, it looked like, with leering faces. “Ma, what’s wrong with you?”

How proud she’d looked. Giggling, opening the tiny paper umbrella. When she held it over her head, I smacked her hand.

“’Miserable Bastard,’” she said. Meaning Pop, vs. the cocktail. No wonder he drank. Married to that klepto bitch.

“You,” my shrink said, “need to distance yourself. When she calls, don’t answer the phone.”

That was the 80s, before caller IDs. No cell phones with personalized ring tones. If so, “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” would’ve been hers.

Still, somehow, I knew it was her. But I always picked up.

“Victoria?” she said. Never “Vicky.” “Got something for you.”

Got, meaning stole….

“She can’t . . . help it,” Pop said. “It’s that . . . change she’s going through.”

Hot flashes, mood swings, maybe. But grabbing anything not nailed down?

“Or,” Pop said, “maybe it was ‘zat heart attack.”

He paused, so that would sink in.

In Atlantic City, it’d happened, in the late 70s. When that first casino opened. The one with the swirly brown-and-orange rug.

Before “The Klepto,” she was the Slot Machine Queen. In her jeweled turban, she looked like that fortune-telling guy.

“Hey Zoltan,” some jerk yelled. “Where’s yer beard?”

The fever was raging. Eyes wild, she lost quarter after quarter. Cherries, lemons, Lucky 7s lined up, but never for the big payoff.

“Ma,” I kept saying, “Let’s go!”

“When I hit,” she said, “We’ll take a cruise! Leave ‘Miserable Bastard’ in his own puke!”

I snuck off to a bar.

          When I came back, she was out cold, on that swirly rug. Like maggots, people hovered over her. “Ma!” I yelled, shoving them away.

She lay there, turban askew, mouse-gray hair showing, her face the same color. Without seeing, she stared, a quarter still clenched in her fist.

But the EMTs made it there, in time.

“Nah,” I told Pop. “It wasn’t the heart attack.”

She’s just a dirty thief.

But the last time she called, I was caught off-guard. It wasn’t “her” ring.

Home sick from work, I stared anxiously at the phone, scared it was my boss. Had he heard how trashed I’d been, last night? Had a coworker ratted me out?

With a shaky hand, I picked up.

“Vic-, Vic-toria?” Ma was crying.

“Where are you?”

“K-Mart.” Her favorite place since I’d moved out. “The-the manager’s office.”

My head ached all over again.

“This lady cop,” she whispered loudly, “wants to arrest me!”

“Be right there,” I said.

In the K-Mart office, the bitchy manager and lady cop looked hungry for blood.

In a plastic interrogation chair sat Ma, all cried out. Her gray hair pointed in all directions. In her lap was her shabbiest turban.

“What happened?” I said.

In my mind, the cop snatched off the turban, searched it for dope, or a diamond necklace.

“We’ve been following her for weeks,” the manager said. “Always returning things…with no receipt.”

“Who saves receipts?” Ma said. “I only buy things I plan to keep. Like that lipstick.”

The cop held it up.

“I bought that . . . for you,” Ma told me.

Even hung over, my lips were bright red. The cop uncapped the lipstick to reveal the palest pink, ever.

“What am I, a corpse?”

“Certainly not,” Ma said. With the turban, she wiped her sweaty forehead. “That’s why I’m returning it.”

“With no receipt,” said the manager. “As usual.”

“It’s ‘the change’,” I said. “You know, that women go through . . . women older than us . . .” The cop smiled.

“No . . . change,” Ma said. But suddenly she did seem to change. She didn’t sound like herself. Her face looked as gray as her hair.

Only one other time had she looked that way.

Slot Machine Queen, I thought.

When she slumped over, I gasped. But the manager and cop smirked at each other. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled. Before I reached the manager’s phone, the cop grabbed me.

The manager turned Ma’s purse upside down, but nothing fell out. She kept shaking it, like she didn’t believe it.

“Ma!” I cried, already sorry for stuff I’d said to her. For being an ungrateful, selfish brat my whole life. My guilt was just starting.

That corpse-pink lipstick she’d “bought” for me . . .

Matched the dress Pop picked out for the wake.



CHECK OUT

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

Atlantic City 1972

 

 

          “Ten minutes?” Howard says, smirking. “Same place?”

          Room 314, he means, of his dad’s old hotel. Where we meet, secretly, to do dirty stuff. Everything but fuck. I wasn’t ready for that, yet. “Pam the Prude,” he calls me.

          “I guess.” But he knows I’ll be there.

          Howard is fourteen, too, but a slut. Groovy-looking, with blond curls like that guy from the Who. Greenish eyes that madden me when he takes off his glasses. He’s short like me, but has a deep voice. God, I love him.

So much, I almost killed him.

          I’m nuts, right? Back home they call me “Psycho,” but now it’s summer and nobody here in Atlantic City knows that.

My mom—I’d love to kill her, too—thinks I’m crazy, too. In sequined evening gowns with matching turbans, she screws all the guys in the bar. First, Marco, the bandleader. Then everyone else. Last night she left with some guy with creepy eyes. She hasn’t come back, yet.

She never knows what I’m up to. Or cares. I could spend all day and night with Howard in Room 314.

‘Cept there’s other girls.

But today it’s my turn.

 Today, Howard and I are gonna fuck. In daylight. With the sun making everybody else lobster-red on the beach, and seagulls screeching outside the window.

Last night, while Mom was out with Creepy Eyes, I lay in bed, imagining Howard’s penis inside me. I even touched myself there. Sometimes he touches me there, but just so I’ll lick him. He makes me lick him till my jaw aches.

Downstairs, Marco and his band—I call them the Mustaches—played loudly. I felt like every corny, romantic song was about Howard and me.

 

Maybe we’d get married, someday. Or . . .

Sneak down to some hick state and do it now. I could make myself look older. Wear Mom’s heavy eyeliner, and her white turban . . .

I would never come back.

She’d miss the turban, but not me. Never wanted me, to begin with.

“ ‘Daddy’s girl,’” she calls me, sneering. She hates my Pop.

“ Play ‘Something Stupid,’ ” she told Marco, the other night. Just so I’d cry.  Frank Sinatra had sung it with his daughter. I wanted to go home to my Pop. I love him so much.

But I love Howard more.

The plan is, Howard goes upstairs before I do.

I sit in the paneled lobby, on this vinyl chair that sticks to my thighs. Howard goes up to the front desk, to pester his dad, Mr. Hertzberg, who’s flirting with some bikini blonde.

“Honey,” Mr. Hertzberg says, with this phony smile, showing every tooth in his head. “Wash the sand off, out back.” He means the sleazy bathhouse. “Pul-lease?”

"Qu-est-ce que c-est?" the blonde says.

When he hears French, he leers. Those French-Canadians are as wild as my mom.

“Dad?” Howard says.  And the blonde sneaks away.

The look Howard gets chills even me. “Nothing,” he mumbles and hurries upstairs.

Five minutes I’ve got, before following him up.

Early as it is, the bar door’s open. The jukebox kicks on: “Alone Again, Naturally.” That hit song by that dorky Gilbert-somebody.

Howard, I think, don’t leave me alone.

“Pammy,” Mr. Hertzberg says, “I haven’t seen your Mommy, today.”

I just shrug.

“Maybe she got up early,” he says, “and hit the beach.”

Again, I shrug.

“She’s really into those turbans, isn’t she?”

Sighing, I join him at the desk.

“My favorite is the gold lame one,” he says, grinning. “That matches that dress.”

More than anything, I hate that gold turban. Each time she wears it, I wish she was dead.

“They all match,” I say, bitterly. 

Still grinning, he looks past me at some new blondes coming in the lobby.

The swordfish wall clock says it’s been ten minutes, not five!

Shit, I think.  Howard might think I stood him up!

Or, worse . . .

He’s with another girl.

A French-Canadian.  Like Cécile, from last week. Or Melanie, the bitch from Maryland . . . with the bug-eyed, fat sister. Her family’s been here way too long.

Howard and Melanie . . . sneak looks they think I don’t see.

She’s on the third floor!

The elevator’s in use, so I take the stairs. By the time I reach the third floor, I’m panting.

Then this strange feeling comes over me. I can’t describe it. It’s not about first-time sex, or even jealousy. In a nearby room, I hear Melanie giggling with her bug-eyed sister.

All the hallway windows are open, and the sea breeze blows the sheer curtains all over. Like daytime ghosts, they look.

I approach Room 314.

Outside Room 313, Jessie the maid is taking a smoke break. “He’s waitin’ for ya,” she says. Her smirk reminds me she once caught us in the act.

“Jessie works Pacific Avenue,” Howard once told me.

The door to Room 314 opens for me.

“What kept you?” Howard is nude, all exposed, in the daylight! With the door open!  And Jessie right there.

Smiling, Jessie unlocks the door next to ours.

As Howard pulls me into Room 314, she screams.

And keeps screaming. Till every guest not roasting on the beach comes out of their rooms.

Howard can’t stop me from joining them. He fumbles with his shorts, tripping as he pulls them on.

I can’t see a thing. Too many people. When Melanie and her sister get there, some guy tries to block their view. “Don’t look!” he yells.

But they do, and scream, themselves. Melanie starts to cry: big, heaving sobs.

Mr. Hertzberg flies off the elevator, just as I squeeze through, and see the body.

Spread-eagled. Handcuffed to the headboard. Eyes wide open. Gold satin turban askew.

My heart feels like I ate it. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Wildly, I reach behind me for Howard, but he’s not there.

Arms around the sobbing Melanie, he’s walking her back to her room.


FOOL’S PARADISE

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          My worst fear? Got two. First . . . a power outage.

The Big One: where it’s dark all over, like in Deep Space. And sweltering, ‘cos it’s summer. You’re scared the power will never come back on.

The other?

Finding a corpse.

Not walking in Grandma’s room after her heart stopped in her sleep. Finding a gruesome body. Maybe murdered. But no accident.

Now put them together.

That huge blackout, back in August 2003? The day it happened (at 4:10 PM), I’d called in sick. On Manny’s (my married guy) last day at work. How proud I’d been that I’d stood him up for lunch. But he never showed up, period.

“’Mail me my check,’” Kitsy, our coworker had mimicked, when I called. “’Good riddance to that psycho.’”

Meaning me. Thanks, Kitsy.

At 4 PM, I was trashed, bawling my heart out. Skynyrd in the background. Cold beers, but I would’ve drunk them piss-warm. Icy Jager shots. I was wailing along with “Free Byrd” as I opened the freezer once more.

That horrific “Beep!” as the A/C and music died. My “’Fly . . . high’” came out flat. No guitars, or twangy voices to save me.

“No!” I screamed. Instantly, it felt hot. Like I was floating in warm beer. I rushed to the window.

Outside, neighbors were bitching. The traffic lights were out. My whole block was fucked.

Mine, and who else’s?

No TV to hear the news, no phones. Back then, I had no cell. Not even a basic one.  

How long would this last?

I’d leave. Better hot, fresh air than this stuffiness. I’d head over to my friend Freddy’s. His landlady had a pool.

Outside, Raoul, my super, was with a cop. “It’s all over,” Raoul told me, “Radios say halfway across the country! To Ohio.” The cop looked grim.

 

This was Jersey. Neighbors in cars listened to their radios. Bad news everywhere: cancelled flights, halted trains, traffic jams. Over in the City: pandemonium! New York was not the place to be.

Thank God, I thought, I’d caIled in sick.

Psycho. Kitsy’s smug voice maddened me.

But Kitsy, I realized, was trapped at work.

I laughed all the way to Freddy’s.

Back in the 80s, he and I were neighbors, in Jersey City. Drunk every night, usually unemployed, but always there for each other.

“Don’t be surprised,” he said, now, “If Kitsy fucked Manny, too.” On a raft in the landlady’s pool, Freddy sounded relaxed, and wise.

I leaned against the pool’s rim. “Think so?”

He sat up and sipped from a tiki bar glass. “Yup.”

All his landlady’s shit, he used: tiki glasses, pool, propane grill. Maybe that deep freezer in her cellar, too.

But this yard was a fool’s paradise. Mrs. Ward was a real slob. Till her dog died, there’d been turds all over the grass, ‘cos she was too lazy to walk him in the park. The yard had smelled like shit.

Somehow, it still did.

“Maybe she left meat out to defrost,” Freddy said, about the smell. “Before she split.”

Mrs. Ward loved travelling. When she wasn’t off on a safari or road trip, she was holed up with her creepy professor lover, Chandler.

Once, I’d seen them from Freddy’s car: A chunky chick in a Crocodile Dundee hat and an ageless scarecrow with dagger eyes. The look he gave Freddy chilled me.

“It’s OK, Shelley,” Freddy said later. It was getting dark, and the power was still out. Mosquitoes attacked us, and that shit-smell was still there.  “I assume everybody fucks everybody.”

“’Cos you do,” I joked.

“Not everybody,” he said, smirking. “But guess who?”

I knew it. “Dagger Eyes?”

We howled with laughter.

“But he got the guilts,” Freddy said. “A closet case. So, we made like it never happened. Some guys,” he added, “Go nuts over it.”

I sipped my drink. “Some guys are nuts, period.”   

“You hungry? There’s steaks in her Deep Freeze.”

Steaks. If he wasn’t gay, I’d say he fucked Safari Queen, too.

“They’ll only go bad.” He got up and stretched. “Flashlight’s around, somewhere. Can you fire up the grill?”

I was too drunk to, especially in the dark.

And why did we still smell shit?

When he opened the cellar door, the smell got so bad, I actually sobered up.

“Oh, my God!” He gagged.

In the shadows, what looked like a severed head was the Crocodile Dundee hat. But the head couldn’t be far. So many bloody knives, all over.

The beam from the flashlight showed blood had dripped down the freezer, adding to the foul puddle beneath it.

Freddy’s hand shook so the beam danced around the cellar. When we saw what hung from the overhead hook, we grabbed each other.  

Some guys, Freddy had said, go nuts over it.

Pantyhose tied around the throat. Nail marks on swollen, purple cheeks. And, in the scarecrow’s eyes, the power had gone out.

For good.


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), will be out, soon! Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. 






In Association with Fossil Publications