Somewhere, he had read, the hands were the extensions of the soul, the way that the eyes were gateways. As he persuaded his bleeding knuckles under the cold water running from the kitchen sink he reminded himself of this and thought about what he had extended towards the world – a friendly handshake prepared for the smile-less faces awaiting him, and maybe a couple more clenched fists getting ready to pose for the wall. As soon as the faucet is done spitting the cry of the rain outside fills his small apartment, and as the drops of rain hit the leaves of the maples outside he tries to catch every single note, not a single drop missed. He closes his eyes and imagines that if he could count out the noise that every single drop makes, and it never stopped, that if he could do that he could follow that noise and that moment until he carried him into a flood that pushed past every river, every ocean, until nothing was left but a deep oblivion from which there is no exit – where there is no desire at all, much less for escape.

And then his phone rings. His pocket vibrates and “It’s the Same Old Song” by The Four Tops starts rolling into the chorus plays out right as he reaches in and flips it open.

“What?” he says.
“Are you okay?” replies the old man’s voice.
“Yes, Jerry. I’m okay. I’m washing up. I’ll be to there by three but not before, okay?”
“It’s just that if you could come any earlier everybody would appreciate –“
“Three, Jerry. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t –“

He flips the phone closed and moves into his living room. There are too many books lying across the floor – a sea of pages and printouts and newspaper clippings adorning a lonely table – empty bottles of stout and a bottle of Jameson’s half full, left open in the middle of the floor with an empty scotch glass next to it that lies on top of a Simon and Garfunkel album. “Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.”.

But today is Sunday, and as he checks his phone to find that it’s nearly a quarter to noon it rings – it vibrates and Nights In White Satin flows softly out the phone. Emma. ‘Well, ~~~~…’ he says to himself. He flips open the phone.

“Hello, Emma.”
“What the ~~~~ is going on?”
“Well, Emma – “
“It’s been a ~~~~ing week and a half. Where have you been? Your phone’s been off for days. You totally blew me off when we were supposed to meet and I want my ~~~~ing CD’s. If you didn’t have them you could have said but you ~~~~ing stood me up – “
“I didn’t want to stand you up. I really didn’t.” He says and collapses onto his lonely couch. “I don’t know what the ~~~~ I did or what I’m doing. I never mean to stand you up.”
“I really need my CD’s.”
“I know you do. And I have your CD’s. I have all of them. I even have the one that I burnt for you that you left in my car.” He says.

He slowly slides from the chair like a bizarre snake, onto the floor and into the glass he pours the whiskey into, and drinking from it searches blindly for a pack of cigarettes that are buried either under a stack of poetry books, mostly Yeats, or under the couch that still looks so lonely, even from the glass and even from the floor. Flipping over page 17 of The Complete Yeats and eyes the title “HE MOURNS FOR…” he grabs his pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, then the glass, and slinks back across the couch.

“Where have you been?” Emma says.
“~~~~, I’ve been everywhere, Emma. You ever get the feeling that if you stop drinking or clutching on to something the world’s gonna start spinning so fast that it just sucks you off, into oblivion? It starts by grabbing you by the back of the head and pulls you off into endless spinning.”
“You’re drunk. You – “
“I am. I am drunk. I’m going to keep getting drunk until the rain stops.”
“Will you let me finish?” Emma says.
“And when the rain stops do you know what I’m going to do, Emma? I’m going to smoke a joint while I get even drunker.”
“Goddamnit, listen! I’m coming by to get my CD’s. If you’re going to ~~~~ing leave then just put them outside. I don’t even care. Just leave them outside in a box or something if you don’t want to see me.”
“No, Emma. I do want to see you. I want to see you more than I remember ever wanting to.”
“I’m five minutes from your house. Just don’t leave. Just… pour a drink or whatever and I’ll be right there.”
“Fine, Emma.”
“I want my CD’s.”
“I have your ~~~~ing CD’s, Emma.”
“I’ll be right there.”

He closes the phone and throws it across the room. ‘Who the hell listens to Elvis Costello anyway?’ he mutters to himself as his follows the glass up with his head, then he strays over to the bottle and pours another couple of shots. This sequence repeats and as the walls start to look like blurry gates with the slits of light pouring through the blinds. ‘All runny, like dried over eggs,’ he thought, ‘Dried over eggs that have been pissed on. Aborted chicken children with their stomachs stirred up and pissed all over. Over easy. It’s all over so easy.’ A knock at the door. Emma. I t must be. ‘What time is it?’ he thinks to himself and checks his watch. One o’ clock.

“Five ~~~~in’ minutes, Emma?” he says as he pulls the door open and falls less than elegantly into the wall.

As Emma marches he in he tries to make sense of her frame, which seems smaller now. Her shadow, though, has grown taller as it marches around him and then past him, passing hopelessly through the piles of books. Her brown hair looks darker to him, and it’s all done up for once, tied into a tight bun. ‘She never wears her hair like that.’ He thinks. The long, black and white, polka dot skirt she wears runs up her frail body, up to her hips, leading up to a thick brown Notre Dame hoodie.

“They’re all here?” she says, grabbing the CD’s.

Stumbling over to the couch he collapses over the side and rolls onto the floor at Emma’s feet. Her feet... which looked so small now, so delicate inside the beat up pink converse.

“Pass me the bottle.” He says.
“Goddamnit. Grab it – “
“Please, Emma. Will you please? They’re all there. Every CD. Every one of your damn CD’s. Even the one that I burnt for you. That one that you – “
“Left in your car, I know,” she says, picking up the bottle and handing it to him. “You’re almost out.”
“The spite in your voice drips down on me like acid tears.”
“What does that mean?”
“I love you. Why don’t you sit with me?”
“Because you’re drunk. You don’t love me. I just wanted my CD’s.”

She tips her head to side and stares down at him, all broken up, the bottle looking stronger than his legs do at the moment. While she pulls on her skirt she bends down and looks him in the eyes.

“Do you need me to go to the store for you? Is that it?” she says.
“No. No, goddamnit, I can go to the store by myself.”
“I don’t want you driving. You’re almost out. Do you have money?” she says.
“I have enough. I have all I need. Money ain’t ~~~~, Emma. All that it matters is that it smells different when you burn it.”
“Do you want me to go to the store for you?”
“No, I have to be somewhere at three anyway. I gotta go there and probably a couple of bars.”
“But not behind bars. I can go to the store for you.”
“And when you come back,” he asks, “will you sit with me? For a while. Just for awhile. We can do whatever you want. We can listen to your music. I can read to you.”
“Okay.”

He scours under the couch for his wallet, which was a terrific guess on his part as that is where he finds it. Standing up, he leans against the couch, falls into it once more and staggers across the wall and pours into the door handle.

“Here’s fifty.” He says, and opens the door as he slips down against the wall and back onto the floor.
“I’ll be back.”
“Don’t you want to know what I need?” he asks.
“What do you need?”
“I want a fifth of Jameson’s and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Will you get me some Root Beer?”
“Okay.” She says and steps outside of the door.
“Barq’s, Emma.”
“Yes.”
“You are coming back, Emma. Tell me you’re coming back.”
“Yes, Dan, I’m coming back. Just stay there.”
“Don’t call me Dan. That was my father’s name.”
“It is your father’s name, Dan.”
“Yeah…”

He pushes the door shot and throws his arms against it. He listens to her footsteps fall down the stairs like countless leaves. And if her steps never stopped, and she never stopped going down, and he counted every single step… The phone rings. He rolls in spins and somersaults and twists over the phone on the other side of the apartment as “It’s the Same Old Song” sings out once more.

“Jerry.” He says.
“Dan, the flowers are set. Everybody is here. We understand you’re upset but your sister is greeting everybody and – “
“Three o’ clock, Jerry.”
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come and get you?”
“I’m right as rain.” He says, and hanging up begins to count the raindrops once again, on and on and on as long as they will let him.

i do!


and did!

heart breaking

heart breaking

I always love reading your short stories. This one is haunting...it reminds me of Charles Bukowski a little- the pain of it anyway. Your voice always moves me C.

I understand. I think everybody does, in their own way. Thanks for something new, was missing your stuff.

I love it. Write some more.

Excellent. Love the imagery you build with words like "lonely couch" and "bizarre snake". You have a good hand for dialogue, too.

No matter what you write PP, it is always a fab read..Someone should publish you..I liked this short story, and am still a big fan of your poetry...

This is a little awkward for me. I don't really understand posting to wait for feedback.

Thank you to every one that read and especially those that complimented. It was a very kind thing to do.

i think i would take the cds & leave

<---- nobody ...and cool, really well done!

(((((PP))))) really liked this!!!