Dec 21

blogger’s preface:

this is cutting edge stuff. this is Pulitzer prize worthy, war ending, Nobel peace winning, piece(s) of literature. and i’m only saying that half ironically (the other half is also ironic, as it will be blatantly clear to the {unlucky} reader of this short story that I am no Shakespeare, no Hemingway, no author of any kind- but it was fun to pretend to be try it out [and do a horrible job of it].

one more thing- as I fiddled and toyed with the order of each story, I realized it didn’t really matter where any of them where placed, i.e., the reader can read the stories in any order that want, the meaning of any of the monologues or dialogues won’t be effected. maybe they’ll have new meanings? I wrote hyper fiction by accident, do I get any extra credit for that?

 

 

The Restaraunt

“It’s hot as balls in here” Janie declared, her black cashmere scarf snaked around her chafed neck as she struggled with sweaty hands.

“It’s not that hot, you’re not dying” Arin shot back, a sour twitch of her lip told how annoyed she was.

“That was a great call, it really is just a butler that googles things for you” Mike said, continuing his favorite conversation, which always led Janie into her favorite conversation, one that included her and Mike.

“When did Google become an action? If I said to my great grandparents ‘I’m gonna go Google it’ they would flip their shit. Like with their gray hair and glasses and stuff just being like ‘what is that? Some sex thing?’” Janie did her best impression of two old Jews from Brooklyn and Mike laughed. Their mirrored smiles were making Arin feel left out. She hated third wheel situation and feeling left out. Something needed to be screamed. Tension needed to be broken- or created- she didn’t know which one, but something involving her had to happen.

“What happened when you were waiting for me at the library this morning?” shouted Arin across the table.

“Where all the magic happens?” said Mike, eyebrows snaking up and down his forehead.

“What happened?” asked Janie

“I’ll tell you what this gentleman told me”, said Arin, taking on a formal air in her voice, and flinging her long blonde hair at Mike. “He was at the library late last night, when suddenly he looks up and sees the most beautiful young woman in the world,”

“She had really nice tits” said Mike with an exaggerated wink.

“So he goes over to her and says ‘can I borrow your calculator?’ and he takes it and graphs her a flower” finished Arin, who also made sure to act out the whole scene for Janie’s benefit.

“You graphed her a flower? Why don’t you just graph her a picture of your vagina?” said Janie. Then realizing this might have been going a little too far, punctuated her remark with a creepy smile and a nervous laugh. She looked down. She felt awkward. She thought of Devo and one hit wonders. She didn’t want to be a one hit wonder. She didn’t like those red ice cream cone hats they wore. Janie didn’t want this conversation to be one big awkward Devo song that people would listen to and VH1 would make fun of, years later. Seeing herself spiral into a black hole of awkward nostalgia, Janie looked up again, determined to appear normal. “So what happened next?”

“I got her number! Cr-ack that whip!” Mike did his best Devo impression, which was not impressive, but almost made Janie cry and laugh, which made Arin laugh, which made for a nice ending to an episode of the Cosby Show.

“True story” Arin finished.

 

Mike’s Story

Stale air.

Contents: hot breath, muffled coughs, wet coats, and the occasional whiff of matured fart. Checked my phone again for the time- 4 o’clock, one bar battery left. Pushing it away made that annoying, ear clawing scraping noise that brought eyes in my direction. ‘Where is that noise coming from?’ Looked around like, ‘it wasn’t me, but I need to stare at whoever it was’ and then-

We made eye contact. I stared too much and she looked away, preoccupied with her work.

I saw the calculator and had an idea- nay, a grand idea! Today I am a man. Today I am confidant. Today I have balls the size of my fists, the size of the pot brownies I had last night for dinner for funsies.

Went over to her, special swagger reserved for being a pimp. “Can I borrow your calculator for a minute?”

It was too easy. Who says math nerds don’t have game? Who’s got two thumbs and mad- good pickup skills? This guy.

Later I might realize that graphing a flower is a total pussy move. Later I might shit myself worrying I was too forward, too aggressive. Later arin might call me a creep, and I might tell her (politely) to go fuck herself. Now, I am a romantic. If I could graph a sonnet, a ballad, a box of chocolates, I’d be freakin’ Cyrano De Bergerac-ing all over this shit.

She laughed at the flower. That was to be expected. I went for it: “can I have your number?”

I got it!

P-I-m-p.

 

Janie’s Story

It was so cold outside. The mixture of dewy after- rain and wind slapped around my face and neck as I looked up at the tree by my apartment. The last few orange leaves fell daintily before me and I felt like a younger version of myself. Myself, in my bright pink winter coat, daisy printed pants, blowsy black hair tied back in a messy ponytail in the fall of ’96. I was still in Boston with Felicia, matching friendship bracelets around our wrists, playing with our favorite barbies in my old yard. I liked to pretend my yard was a mini forest; the trees so tall and so many that I could jump into a pile of leaves and hide there with Barbie, waiting for Felicia to come steamrolling through and jump out at her, giving her baby- high blood pressure. She was such a Chuckie, as in 90s Nickolodeon, Rugrats scaredy-cat Chuckie.  Not to be confused with the abandoned doll that murders people.  Red hair, anal retentive little baby girl. Translation: my best friend forever. I was in that phase of childhood where it was really cool to scare people by shouting “doody!” at them. ‘Doody’ was a game changer in ’96. Budding comedienne that I was, I had the scoop on all the buzzwords at the time, those words mostly being bathroom related. So yes, I was (am?) pretty cool.

That little reverie of my childhood made me, like, 5 minutes late for class. My nose was running all over my face, and I kept having to wipe it on my sleeve, like a nerd. If this was still 1996, they’d be calling me booger face. And I’d be crying. Game over.

So I speed-walked my way to school, wind whipping at me hard, and I kept thinking ‘you’re not Devo, wind! You can’t whip it!’ which made me laugh. I made a mental note to say that to Mike later. Dude loves Devo. And I love dude. And then I got a nervous feeling, because I’m in love with Mike. Ooh. Awkward feelings. Friends don’t let friends profess their love to each other over Devo jokes. Not cool.

 

Arin’s Story

The only thing I hate more than waiting is having to wait alone. Standing, staring out at into space, shuffling feet, counting blinks; it’s so fucking boring. My only consolation was that the nice old lady to my left gave me not one, but TWO dirty looks. Wait, did I say consolation? I meant pain in my ass.

Awful, awful day! I always wait till the last minute to start studying for something, and now I’ve screwed myself. Worse still, I know Mike is waiting for me at the library, probably just sitting there, smelling things. Is that a problem, like ADHD? A person will stop a conversation to smell his fingers, rattle off the scents and go back to talking about the wonders of Google. Nerd alert! He’s gonna have to wait for me. Alone, helpless little baby Mike, twiddling his thumbs in the middle of the library like a nerd (alert). And then he’ll ask where Janie is because she’s always late and he always asks where she is. It’s so tiring when two friends don’t have the balls to stop beating around the fucking bush and just go have sex too the [awful] soundtrack of “Whip It” by Devo.

STOP LOOKING AT ME OLD LADY! I know you’re old and you’re bones are brittle, and you have saggy skins under your eyes that makes you look like a sad hound dog, and your groceries are so heavy, and it sucks to take the bus, and you can remember when it only cost a nickel, and the youth today don’t speak correctly and dress like whores, but godammit, keep your dirty looks to yourself! I hate waiting.

 

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what's eating jimmy? a blog about food. and jimmy