Cappy

A recent writing exercise, based around some thoughts on using event-specific labels outside of their original context.

I just got used to saying “I met my wife on a train,” and now I have to say “I met my ex-wife on a train.” Of course it was a silly thing to say anyway. I didn’t meet my wife on a train, I met a lovely stranger named Susan Harris, and 13 hours later (4 hours after I forgot to get off at my stop) the train let us out in Berkeley. Then I took my friend to have a few drinks, and woke up the next morning with my lover. I met my wife in a chapel, 6 months later. At some point after that the girl from the train went back to Berkeley, and Mrs. Susan Green stayed behind. I didn’t love her the way I loved Susan Harris, and she noticed. She knew I was talking to a Susan that wasn’t there, and the Susan that I made love to was not the same Susan in my bed.

So I guess it only makes sense that the papers I’m supposed to sign don’t ask for anything. Because once I sign them she’ll be Susan Harris again, and Susan Harris already has everything I could possibly have given her. But I’ve been me this entire time. Been me as hard as I could, when it took every once of effort not to be a lie to Susan Green. And when I sign I won’t be me anymore, now or ever again. And I won’t have to say that I met my ex-wife on a train, because the person that met Susan Harris on a train to Berkeley won’t be around to make the statement true. It’ll just be me, whoever that is.

I’m probably supposed to think it’s strange that another person could ravage your life this way, make you feel like neither of you ever existed, and at the same time be the only thought you can’t push out of your mind. And I should find it strange to think she really is different now and I’m not, that she will become someone different once again, perhaps several times more. After all, it’s just one woman. But it all makes perfect sense to me.

Everyone changes, but somehow she managed to do it so quickly. She stopped staying up late with me, stopped singing and painting, stopped ripping seams and losing buttons to get to the skin underneath. Even her hair and her clothes changed… without warning. After we married she stopped saying that we met on a train, told friends she had never even been to Berkeley, like she wanted to suffocate Susan Harris, wipe her out altogether.

I should have done the same, but I held on to Susan Harris so tightly. I tried to hear her humming in the shower or catch her glance across the breakfast table. But she was never there. Only Mrs. Green. Then I started following my wife to work and when she visited friends, hoping that maybe she became my Susan when she left, hoping that if I saw a glimpse then I could bring her back. But I never saw a thing. Even her eyes seemed different.

I don’t blame Susan Green for wanting to leave. How could she stay? In the end she even thought I might be losing my mind, and I fear that I am. My mind was the first thing Susan Harris took, and she wasn’t giving it back. Even the papers I have to sign say that I barely have the competence to do so, that I can’t be trusted with my safety, or Susan’s. I would argue and say that Susan Harris will always be safe with me, but even the papers know that Susan Harris isn’t here anymore. She’s back in Berkeley, where she’s always been.

Fiction

Yes, another story, though not quite so serious this time. This is my attempt at an O’Henry-like twist, and it also seems to take on some of P.G. Wodehouse’s style, which I count as an honor. Enjoy!

Leonard Bricker is a man of discerning taste.

Well, you can’t really say something like that anymore, can you? That particular turn of phrase, “man of discerning taste,” has become so overused as to be utterly useless in speech and literature. Such a clichéd compliment is tossed about like beads at a Mardi Gras parade, and with about as much regard for class or deservedness. Nowadays any man could be said to have discerning taste who chooses quiche over a meatball sandwich, or any woman who buys a brand name perfume instead of the stuff in the checkout aisles of the supermarket. No, it won’t do at all. So instead we must draw Mr. Bricker in a more verbose though ultimately more meaningful light.

Picture if you would a fine, though small dinner table cast in the pink-purple glow of early evening, adorned between meals with a shimmering red silk cloth (situated, in the fashion, at an angle, so that the corners of the rare fabric intersect the sides of the fine table) and a single silver candlestick holder engraved with Latin adages sure to impress all those who gazed upon it dumbfoundedly. On any given day at this particular time and place you may find Mr. Bricker sitting so that he may face a portrait of his lost wife directly, with the setting sun on his left and the interior of his dining room on the right. Before him, you must imagine, are these: one bottle of wine, usually a deep red (he could be pressed to the light reds if the circumstances especially called for it, though whites must be more or less forced on him by those with means to do so); one crystal wine glass; one chilled glass of purified spring water; one sliced and lightly vinegared cucumber (both this and the water are present only to cleanse the pallet of Mr. Bricker between sips); and a plate bearing assorted cheeses. The wines and cheeses of course vary, but for the purposes of our description we shall presume that Mr. Bricker has sat down to a full bodied red wine (since this is most often the case), and, since later in the story he is found reading a book on such, the cheeses are made up of selections from southern France.

Read more…

Fiction

I wrote this just in the past week, and haven’t decided on a title since it’s still a first draft and needs a good bit of work. Once it’s done I’ll post it on New Height Books, but for now whoever happens upon this can get first glimpse.

The tattoo pressed along the edge of her shoulder blade like the cheek of a spooning lover. Its shape was made for the curve of that bone, of that body, of that woman. It did not cover skin, but highlighted its exposure.

The tattoo was a black bird in the moment before flight. The wings were outstretched but had yet to beat, the tiny legs were tense but had yet to push. Sliced in half by the strap of a dress, the tattoo held the attention of a man who did not like tattoos. Any bigger he would think it tacky, any lower, slutty. To him the black bird was absolute and anything else would’ve been a compromise.

The white strap pinned the bird like a captive beast. He could only think of it as dangerous, not as prey. He wanted to release it, to let it set upon him like a fury, to find him defenseless and leave him bloody. He wanted to pull that strap down. Read more…

Fiction