Some Things Are Finite

"...five, six, seven, eight," I finished counting. Some things are finite, I thought as I carefully folded eight sheets of toilet paper. I flushed, holding the lever for an eight count.

"Mary, are you almost done?" My sister didn't beat me to the bathroom today.

"I just have to brush and floss. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"You can't be late again," she warned.

I stepped before the vanity to execute three hundred sixty brisk strokes with my new toothbrush and two pea-sized dollops of paste.

Unhappy circles and lines stared back at me from inside the mirror. In response to my reflection, I touch my feet, my belly button and my breasts three times before I can look at myself again. Some things are finite. I floss until the white strands are red and my mouth tastes like warm metal.

Trigger Tosser

"Man, I can't wait for my short stack, steak, eggs, hamburger and meatloaf to get here," The Blurg said, tapping the table. "Fighting crime all night really drains the ol' gut."

The waitress came by and refilled coffees. She looked confused at the three costumed patrons sitting in the booth. One took up a side to himself. The other was occupied by a ratty young gentleman covered in body hair and a semi-attractive woman with her breasts hoisted nearly to her chin by an armor plate.

"Your food will be ready in just a few minutes," the waitress said before leaving.

"Hey, Danger Lady, you did a kickass job tonight," Mongoose Man said to her breasts.

Danger Lady scooted closer to the wall to increase the distance between them. "Thanks ... you, too."

"Oh man! Did you see when I belly flopped that guy from on top of the dumpster?" The Blurg heaved forward, shaking the table.

"Pretty sweet," Mongoose Man replied. He contemplated in his coffee for a moment. "Can I ask you guys a question""

They both nodded.

"Well, do you guys ever think that ... maybe if we were better at what we did, the city would no longer be rampant with crime? Then we wouldn't have to do what we did. You know?"

"No," Danger Lady shook her head. "I've never thought of that."

"Look," The Blurg pointed to the door. "Here comes that new guy."

"Oh yeah. I've seen him around," Danger Lady said.

A dark man, clad in all leather approached. He hefted a huge bag over his shoulder. He turned a cold gaze to their table.

"Hey, buddy," Mongoose Man said. "You're the new crime fighter in town. How you doin'?"

"I'm doing OK," he said in a gruff voice.

"What's your name?" Danger Lady asked.

"Trigger Tosser."

"Trigger Tosser? What ... uh ... do you do, Trigger Tosser?" she asked.

The bag clanked to the ground, hanging slightly open to reveal a multitude of different hand guns.

"I throw guns," he said.

Everyone at the table exchanged a perplexed glance.

"You throw guns?" The Blurg inquired.

"Yep."

Mongoose Man cocked his head. "Wouldn't it be easier to shoot them?"

"Not for me."

"Couldn't you throw something else?" Danger Lady said.

"Only guns."

"Well, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." The Blurg sat back and slurped his coffee. "I mean, that's gotta cost a bundle; all them guns. And are they loaded? Please tell me you're not dumb enough to throw loaded guns at your enemies."

"Never loaded. Not since that night ..." Trigger trailed off, looking at the ground.

"Well ... You can sit with us, if you want," Danger Lady said.

Trigger moved to take a seat next to The Blurg, but was blocked by Mongoose Man's foot.

"Actually, maybe you'd be better off sitting with another pathetic crime fighter. Over there, that's the Horned Toad. He shoots blood out of his eye socket to scare off villains. Only problem is that after he can't do shit for several hours, due to loss of blood."

The Horned Toad slumped over his table down the way. "Could I please have some orange juice," he mumbled.

"Throws guns," Mongoose Man muttered to himself. "Have you ever heard of a more ridiculous thing? I mean what kind of a dumbass trick is tha-" He saw a flash of light as a glock collided with the side of his head. "... fuck ... "

"I don't need to eat with you, dumb fucker," Trigger said. He heaved his bag from the ground with a grunt and lurched toward the Horned Toad's table.

Dead Lucky

When I came to, I saw my parents and sister standing by the door, talking to a cop and a surgeon. I felt pea-gravel in my mouth. My body was broken, shattered, aflame. My sister cried out when she saw me looking at them. They came to the bed.

"Do you know where you are?" the doctor asked me gently.

I nodded. My eyes swam. My sister pressed her face against my mother's shoulder.

"Do you remember what happened?"

I blinked hard against the flood.

"Oh, Soriah," my mother cried. "He's dead."

"...lucky," was all I could manage to say.

Bad Call

The phone rang, but I let the call go to voice mail.

It was Gil. I hadn't talked to him much in the last year, not since I'd quit working at the bar. He'd called me a handful of times to see if I would fill in for one of the girls. It was clockwork: no less than three shifts a week opened up because one of the girls was "sick," or too hung over and strung out to make it into work at eleven a.m.

That isn't why he called. His message was a whispery grunt. "You are so fucking hot," he panted. There was a pause, and then he hung up. I listened to the message a few times to determine if there was some kind of subtext. Maybe I was giving him too much credit.

I was thoroughly skeeved. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually seen Gil face-to-face. I went into the bar last week with some friends after dinner, but he wasn't there.

Oh, shit. Of course. The cameras.

Gil was cheap. He'd rip his own mother off for five bucks. He wasn't so cheap, however, that he couldn't have cameras installed that linked to his computer at home. According to him, they were for security purposes, but he called me in the middle of a shift once to tell me to get off my ass and stock the Lite. He'd done the same thing to Heide; he called her to bust her out for drinking during her shift.

Being under surveillance certainly sucked, but when he 'joked' that he had installed a camera in the staff bathroom, I knew I had to get out of that place.

I listened to the message one more time before I deleted it forever. He sounded hushed, busy. An image exploded into my brain: Gil, hovering over the recordings on his home computer, spanking it, calling me, or Kim, or Shelly, any of the girls who worked for him, whoever might strike his fancy as they appeared on the screen, as long as he had an image and a phone number.

How carefully he must analyze that footage. I'd been there for maybe an hour on a random Thursday night, how much jerk-off material could he get from that? Although I was fully disgusted, I didn't have time to think too deeply about it. I had to get to work. Bartending was good money, but people just poured their endless bullshit into my brain day after day. I really couldn't take it anymore. I drove to the art studio, thinking about what a sick fuck Gil was.

Walking into Life Drawing, I put my purse away and made brief small talk with the students as I prepared for class. I dropped my jeans and stripped off my henley. The block is always so cold in the evening classes. I placed a blanket on the slick surface and folded myself into a shape for the class to draw, grateful that no one spoke to me while I worked. The instructor circled the room, making suggestions and comments. As he passed my cube on the way to his desk, he muttered at me, "you look amazing." I glanced at him, and looked at the clock. Only twenty minutes until eight. Then I could get dressed and go home.

Published by The Laundry Room, 2007

A Man's World

"Yeah, honey, I've got to take another call. I'll be home by nine."

"Alright. I'll just put your meatloaf in the fridge, then. Say goodnight to Junior." She tried putting the receiver to the screaming toddler's ear.

He returned to his barstool, nodded at the sexy bartender. "A round on me, sweetheart."

"She mad?"

"Nah. She thinks I'm workin' OT."

Change Is Good

I searched every empty purse, stripped the crevices in my car and did three loads of laundry, hoping to win big in the pocket lotto. After I'd scavenged every cent, I took three healthy handfuls from your giant vat of change and other various items that came from the depths of your pockets.

One fistful of change after another went into an ever heavier sack of metal money. This wasn't my first harvest. I felt the weight slowly increasing from fifty to seventy-five dollars, and then some more. I couldn't wait to feed the clinking stream of money into the change machine at the bank. Ninety-eight dollars almost to the cent. I filled out a deposit slip and gave it to the teller.

“Would you like your balance?” she asked sweetly.

I laughed as I entered my PIN on the touchpad. “Why not?”

She handed me my receipt.

Account Balance: $1.03

House Guest

She sighs loudly, even in her sleep. Yoga or meditation would benefit her greatly, I’m sure. She walks around the house on the balls of her feet, creeping quietly, even though she lives quite alone.

I can sense her wandering below me as I sit beside vents in the space above her, or beside the heat duct that runs to her bedroom. I listen as she complains to her friends about the raccoons in the eaves, but she never investigates the noises.

At night, she sleeps and I slide down into the living room. I, too, walk around the house on the balls of my feet, creeping quietly. I eat only that which won’t be missed. I couldn’t resist the lone Dove ice cream bar one particular night. The next evening, I heard her open the freezer. She stood there a while, surely wondering where it went.

Under No Circumstances

No matter how involved I am in the task at hand, the desire to have just a little more is the crackling hum of high-tension wires. It's enough to bring me to my knees.

Denial is the only way to break the spell. I know it'll be worth it if I can just wait it out. Just a little more will never be enough. I have to be better than that.

I'm sleeping more lately because I'm not responsible for the things I do while dreaming. Under no circumstances, though, can I be left alone with a jar of Nutella.

Overreaction

Through ten cigarettes, six cups of coffee, four loads of laundry, three diaper changes and one story, the desire to submit raged on. I tried to stay busy. I considered just throwing it away, but I couldn’t resist a set-up, even if it was self-imposed.

Afterwards, I avoided looking at the carnage. The only bread in the house had been an ornery rind of sourdough, which was cast aside in favor of a tablespoon. I feel sick now, ashamed because I just couldn't fight the urge to polish off that beautiful half-full jar of Nutella with my bare hands.

Tony Forgot

"Ready? We've got about forty-five minutes until the show."

“I can't believe you, Tony. I never thought I'd get to see Barry Manilow live."

"I wanted to make your birthday special."

"Mission accomplished," she said, buckling her seatbelt.

Lori had used her artistic abilities to create a poster for Barry. She'd sketched a bold profile and embedded tiny lights into his nose. Beneath the profile was the line, "Pick Me, Barry."She'd originally made the poster for her boss, Holly, who saw Barry at the Star Theater last summer. Barry had, indeed, picked Holly to join him on stage. Lori hoped desperately that lightning would strike twice.

As they merged from I-57 onto the Dan Ryan, she popped in a CD.

"Her name was Lola..." She began.

"She was a showgirl..." He joined in.

He inhaled sharply after the word showgirl. She knew him so well she didn't have to ask. But she couldn't help herself.

"You forgot the tickets, didn't you?"

From the Balcony

I'm not given to lying to my husband, but I couldn't justify spending two-fifty on a ticket to see Celine Dion. He not only would have made me feel guilty about the expenditure, he would have busted my chops relentlessly about my sincere adoration of Celine. I can't help myself.

My girlfriend and I settled into our seats. Our vantage point from the balcony would afford us an unfettered view of each and every magnificent wardrobe choice and melodramatic gesture. I hummed with anticipation. As we scanned the crowd, Dawn's eyes narrowed. She blanched. I followed her gaze to the first row.

My husband was stepping over the concert-goers in the front row, his hand lightly resting upon the tight ass of our son's gorgeous twenty-two year old tutor. They settled into their seats, front and center.

What the fuck could that little bitch possibly know about Celine Dion?

Diamonds

Adele hit the stack of tires lining the back wall of her garage, her poor depth perception buffered by galvanized rubber. She entered her kitchen to a stab of acute anxiety, which she attributed to a low vodka level.

Setting her bags on the center island, she clipped to the freezer and withdrew an icy bottle. She didn’t remember finishing the last, but happily opened a new one. She pulled a frosted highball glass from the collection beside a velvet case of loose diamonds and rejoiced in the crackle of Ikon over ice cubes.

Adele sat on a stool and crossed her long legs. Pulling a ruby studded vial from her purse, she shook out a Loritab. She cradled vodka on her tongue for a moment and let the tablet disappear. Then she saw the snapshot across the counter top. She reached to pluck it from the tile surface, grateful for the warmth already exploding in her center.

She and John mugged for their older brother, Roy. They were going to live that life forever: young, rich, beautiful and always together. They were charmed; they were the Black family gems and no one could ever come between them.

Over Exposed

Adele’s silver Benz circled the roundabout and turned south onto Ocean Drive. John waited ten minutes before he approached the house. Tapping their birthday into the keypad, he passed through the empty garage to the kitchen door. Once a sharp woman, Adele’s perpetual wastedness left her vulnerable.

She chased pills with vodka hourly, making her the single most unselfconscious paranoiac John had ever met. Despite the fact that he loathed her, he still intuited her every thought. He found the box of damning evidence she’d used to subdue him, and laughed when he saw her laptop at her writing desk.

John copied her hard drive onto disk and deleted everything. He was surprised to see her half-full bottle of Ikon sitting on the sideboard; she usually kept it in the freezer with her valuables. He drank deeply from it and poured the rest onto the keyboard.

After sorting through her bills and frozen baubles, he probed drawers, cabinets and shelves for anything of interest. He came upon a photograph of them at sixteen, the shot’s colors washed out from over exposure. Arms around each other’s shoulders, their twin smiles shone like the sun-glazed waves behind them.

The Box

John held his breath as he opened the box. He looked at the sheaf of papers and photographs in confusion.

“What's all this?”

“Proof, you moron.”

He shook, certain that Adele had the originals in a safe place, otherwise he would have gladly gripped her neck. He could almost feel the tendons and ligaments pop. Instead, he finished the Glenlivet his twin had poured him.

“So?”

“So, leave me alone. I know it was you who pushed me, but Mother seems to believe I was being dramatic, as usual. Leave me the fuck alone, John, and you have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re crazy, Adele. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Typical. For the longest time, I thought I was just being paranoid, too. But know that if you try to do me in again, you will be exposed. Mother will see I haven’t been lying and the shares in the mines will never be yours.”

Silver

Everywhere she looked she saw silver bubbles against azure. Rising with them, she broke the surface and watched as the cabin cruiser continued southward. She’d been leaning against the stern gunwale, one tanned hand resting on a cleat. Mesmerized by the churning foam blossoming and fading into the deep blue water, Adele hadn’t sensed an approach.

She certainly never anticipated the splayed hand that pushed just enough between her shoulder blades to vault her over the edge. Adele watched her gin and tonic arc into the wake before she hit the water. Instinct sealed her eyes and mouth. She hit hard and skipped upon the surface, then sank, dazed.

She kicked, following the mercurial bubbles. After shedding her linen dress, she began to swim toward the beach, wondering which of her brothers had pushed her. Calculating just how she would get back to Mother’s house before they docked at the marina, Adele hoped she would believe her, that she was pushed and that it wasn’t just another drunken accident.