ARCADIA: Vol 2
Published by Arcadia at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Arcadia
Cover Art: “Strange Attraction” by Marc Barker
“I
(Like Men) Know Love’s Reason”
by Marc Barker
Oil on
Masonite 40X40
Arcadia is produced by students in the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma and is published once a year in the spring. The editors are Noah Milligan, Chase Dearinger, Roy Giles, Jake Foster, Corey Mingura, and Quinn Irwin.
Visit our website to find submission guidelines, www.arcadiamagazine.org.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
~~~~~~~
Table of
Contents
Fiction
At
the End, by Jim Meirose
Talking
to God on Lincoln Lane North, by Agustin Martinez
The
Endgame of Ruby Knuckles, by Stephen Ornes
Pages
for Pooty-Pooty, by Juan Carlos Reyes
King
of the Apes, by Benjamin Reed
Order
of the Arrow, by Dan Pinkerton
And
Everyone Will Have Fun But You as You Die, by Brian
Ted Jones
Poetry
Disturbing
the Tourists, by Vivian Faith Prescott
What
Passes for Nostalgia, by John Abbott
The
Fern, by Jessica Young
A
banner stretched across the street, by Matt
Farrell
Sawdust,
by Johnathon Williams
Morning
Sports, by Matt Stranach
Helium,
by Bradford Tice
Nonfiction
Mark
of the Devil, by Darren DeFrain
Comedy
Dangling
Fingers of Cow, by Zach Martin & Quentin
James
Drama
UKIMWI,
by Tom Coash
Art
Child,
by Kyle Taylor
Oblique,
by Nathan Opp
Ishmael,
by Ali Seradge
The
Wise Monkey (Naughty), by Pierre Bechon
Flight
of the Icarus Mark I, by Nick Hermes
Artists’
Bios
Back
to the Top
Jim Meirose’s short work
has appeared in many literary magazines and journals, including
Alaska Quarterly Review, New Orleans Review, South
Carolina Review, and Witness. A chapbook of his short
stories has been published by Burning River. His work has been
nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and the Shirley Jackson Award. One
of his stories was cited in the O. Henry awards anthology.
At
the End
by Jim Meirose
Spend the early evening at the Copenhagen Jazzhouse. Leave through the north door and walk toward the Helligands Kirken. There’s a late night organ concert. Sit in the pew next to a woman with oddly elongated arms.
Do you like the music, my dear? you say, smiling toothily. She remains looking straight ahead into the winding music.
Well do you?
She turns and faces you.
Oh no.
The other side of her face is a mass of discolored lumps and bumps.
For some reason it makes you think of how you had come to Copenhagen.
Grip the bull by the horns boy! Do it! Make the move! had said the executive, fisting his high gloss desk—
You took his advice. Now, you are here, divorced. It’s a long story. Each night after work you go out, alone. Spend the next evening at Baron Boltens Gard. You sit sipping a drink at the bar between a bullet-headed fat man and a small brunette. She’s having shots and beers.
Nice place, you mutter her way.
She looks at you and, literally, rolls her eyes. After downing her shot, she moves to the other side of the bar. She eyes you as she’s served. The bullet-headed man nudges your elbow.
Nice place, he says.
You nod, and move away from the bar into a booth. After having quite a few more, and coming up dry, you stumble along the Borgergade. The night air lies mildly about you. The big trucks breeze by all covered with canvas. You wish you could be in the back of a truck like years ago after cognac in the army, and piss out the back of the truck causing the following cars to drop way back. Lie down to take a nap on the asphalt of the parking lot off the Adelgade. You wake up in the police station at Ostre Landsret.
What’s the matter with you son, says the officer—have a few too many?
Yes, I guess—
The words bang against the top of your head as hard as though you’d risen under a open cabinet door and slammed your head into it. You clutch your head. You notice, through the windows, that the morning is bright outside. You’ve slept the night away in a fog.
Public drunkenness is a crime you know. I—I suppose I know that—
So now that you’re sober, get the hell out of here and go home. We find you again like that, it’ll be the lockup.
Oh, yes—
Yes.
Call in sick that day. Sleep off the hangover and wake at four in the afternoon. After wolfing down a traditional meal of fried rooster in the Gardenhalle restaurant, go out to have a drink at the Café Krasnapolsky. You have a mild stomach ache—wolfed down your food too fast. The woman at the bar next to you speaks.
You don’t look so good sonny. Let me buy you one.
Okay, you say, eyeing her. She could be your mother. You imagine she must think of you as a son.
I know what you need, it’ll make you feel better—what hurts? Upset stomach?
Yes.
She calls over the bartender and whispers into his ear.
He nods, give you a look, and a moment later he brings you a black drink.
It tastes like shit.
She smiles at you.
No, you think. No.
Good, isn’t it—it’s a natural antacid.
Oh yes. It’s good.
You leave the smiling old woman and go out and and walk over to the Vor Frue Kirke. Bars and churches, has Copenhagen—churches and bars. You take a pew up front. You’ve always liked the smell of churches. The candles burning— the smell of the dark silence—
Hey, said the tourist with a camera—dig that great stone altar! Will you take my picture by it? Will you please?
You take his camera. He mounts the altar. You take his picture. Your stomach feels better. He doesn’t thank you—the strap of his camera tangles in your hand—you are connected with him a moment—he pulls, you pull—the strap lets go. He half-runs away. You leave the church alone. You are suddenly hungry, all the pain in your stomach is gone. You go have an espresso and a half sandwich at Café Bankerat. While you sit and nurse your drink, the waitress comes up.
I know you, she says. You do?
Yes. I used to work at the Panum Institutet. Do you work there?
Yes I do, you say. You take a sip.
Working here is better, she says. That place shit stinks.
You half smile.
Why do you say that, you ask.
They treated me like a piece of crap, she says. How do they treat you?
You lean back.
They don’t really treat me good or bad. I just go in, do my work, and go home.
That sounds like it stinks. You’re no different than you were years ago—
How do you know how I was years ago? Did we work together?
I saw you in the halls. You always looked busy—
I keep myself busy. It makes the day go fast.
Why is it good that the day should go fast? You want to wish your life away?
She slaps the check down on the table.
There you go.
She turns away. You look at the check. You pay the check. You leave a large tip. You go home and sleep without watching any television first. There’s nothing on, anyway. It occurs to you that the waitress couldn’t have seen you at the Institutet years ago—you’ve only been in town for six months. In bed, you suddenly feel uncomfortably full. Sleep delivers you from this. When you waken the next morning, after defecating copiously, you are hungry again.
Go out after work to have a good time, at Riz Raz. Order a classic Reuben. As you eat, alone again, you look about the place and see that it is packed. You’re glad you came when you did. They’re turning people away at the door because there are no tables. You scan all the heads about the room, and you reflect as you chew—every head contains a skull. Now if you were alone in a room full of skulls arranged on the chairs you might be afraid. It would be much too macabre. But the skulls are in the people, so it’s all right. It’s like you’ve thought that though you miss your dead grandmother, if she walked into the place right now and headed toward you it would scare you to death. The dead are not supposed to walk. Skulls are intended to be in heads, not out of them. There is a woman sitting eating alone and reading the paper. She reminds you of a woman you work with at the Institutet, but you are not sure—is it her? Her head turns toward you. You avert your eyes. You do not want to be seen staring. But is it her? It could be—but is just as easily might not be. Her being here makes you uneasy. You finish eating quickly and leave, with your back to her.
The next day, the woman you thought she was will not return your Hello in the hall.
You think little of it.
Later in your room you lie pantless on the bed watching TV. A character speaks.
He says Just kill one more time and you will be redeemed.
This phrase sticks to you. It is an interesting thought.
You say it aloud—
Just kill one more time and you will be redeemed.
Outside the door to your apartment, you had noticed as you came in—there’s a hole in the wood with a bee living inside. Later, in your dream, a mother bird stands in an empty nest solitary as a statue. All the babies have flown away. What is left for the bird, you wonder.
Who is the bird, you wonder.
A few hours into the next day, you make reservations to go to Restaurant Kanalen that evening. You sit at your desk idly musing.
What would happen if I went into Groahn’s Meat Market and ordered a whole side of beef? That’s half a steer. That’s a lot of meat.
You doze lightly, your back to your cubicle door.
You dream of driving a truck—through a crypt. You plunge through the shades.
Hey, says a voice, parting the solid wall of shades and letting the office show through again. You have trained yourself not to jump when wakened. You sat with your hands on the keyboard. The voice thought you were working. You turn around.
It’s the woman you saw in the restaurant.
Were you in the Riz Raz the other day?
Why—I—I think so.
I saw you there.
Did you see me?
No.
I was mad for a while. I thought you were being stuck up and didn’t want to be seen with me when you didn’t look up and didn’t come over to say hello. It seemed like you looked away every time my eye met yours. You knew it was me, didn’t you.
No—
Come on, ‘fess up.
Well—I thought it might have been you. But you didn’t seem to look exactly like yourself.
Really?
Yes.
I wasn’t sure it was you—that’s why I didn’t come over.
You should have come over.
I—I know.
We could have had a nice talk.
Well, you say—we didn’t. But we could have one now. Have a seat, you say, motioning toward the small chair set in the corner of your cubicle.
No—I’m busy today. Need to run. A fire drill for the boss, you know—got to have slides ready for noon. You know how it is.
That’s why they pay you the big bucks—
You wince at having said something so inane.
So long, she says. You say So long. She moves off, seeming to float. You’re glad you’re not attracted to her. She has moles with long hairs in them on her cheek. You suddenly realize that’s all you look at when she’s there with you—you don’t really know what her face looks like. You know her moles intimately.
The next day, after work, you notice a demanding drip coming from a leaky faucet in the bathroom next to your bedroom. You think the sound of the dripping will keep you awake when you go to bed, but you figure you can just close the door to the bathroom and you’ll hear nothing. Tomorrow you’ll call a plumber, but tonight you’ll just close the door, even though you never do. It’ll be so strange to be lying in bed with that door closed. That in and of itself may keep you awake—but you close it out of your mind and head down to Konrad for a light dinner. After sitting down and perusing the menu you order a sirloin steak with mashed potatoes and vegetables. As you eat you notice a woman across the room also eating alone. What is her story, you think, is she unattached and alone in the world or is she just alone now temporarily while her partner is busy with something else at the time—perhaps her partner is back at their home fixing their leaking faucets like the faucet you have at your place, and she’s eating alone because he is busy—you use the knife and fork on your steak deftly and steadily until it is mostly gone from your plate and you make up your mind to go and say hello to the woman when you are completely done. You are not a coward about that kind of thing—you will not hesitate to do it. After finishing your meal, you pay with a credit card and go up to her; as you move toward her you think what if she has a husband—if she has a husband she should simply tell you so, or if she had a boyfriend she should simply tell you so. You approach her, you come up to her, and you lean over and speak.
Excuse me but are you free to have coffee with me?
She looks up without expression and speaks.
The whites of her eyes are full of red veins.
No.
I am enamoured of a bull.
What?
I am enamoured of a bull.
Her eyes—what a mistake it had been to pick this one—all at once, you feel caught in the middle; all at once, you back away. All at once, your soul turns dark—why has this woman said this to you? And you have heard this somewhere before too, but suddenly frightened, you leave Konrad alone.
Enamoured of a bull.
And her eyes.
You wonder what she must be on. You shake your head, your hand goes to your forehead. Later that night, in bed, you cannot sleep. Is it the closed bathroom door behind which is the drip that you cannot stop—or is it thoughts of the woman who is enamoured of a bull? Lying there, you gaze into the dark above, because you cannot sleep.
The next day’s Saturday. Eager to start the day, thought congeals in your mind—the faucet. Need to get someone to fix the faucet. SEVEN DAY A WEEK EMERGENCY SERVICE says the telephone directory. A plumber answers the phone and says what is your problem? How may I help you?
I have a leaky faucet. Can you look at it?
Yes I can. Are you home today?
Yes.
He comes over. At first you are frightened. His greasy face is covered with thick clusters of whiteheads and blackheads. But he is a plumber. He is who you need. You show him the faucet, and it is fixed in what seems like five minutes. You pay him. It is good to see him leave. He left a smell behind him. He left behind him the smell of his face. It’s a smell you never smelled before; it must be the smell of his face. You spray the room with Lysol and decide to go to Stroget to get some things you need. A great locomotive is parked on the tracks next to your building. It is black and filthy. Like that plumber’s face. As you walk, you remember when you would build model locomotives and model planes; glue the little pieces together one by one following the directions and bingo, bingo, you will have a plane. At once you feel weak. You wish to have some wine. At Stroget, you go to the little café on the third floor and have a drink of coffee before you start to shop. You are glad, that tonight you can sleep with the bathroom door open. But in that space, he had been; he and his face. They had been in that space by the bed, in the bathroom. That space is still there. You clutch your coffee and tremble and yawn, tired from having lain awake all night.
That night, again, you cannot sleep, for a long, long time.
The weekend passes quickly as they all do. You’re in the office with your paperwork. A whole folder of work has been given to you. The folder of work might have been given to you by a devil. As your hands move writing and shuffling papers and as your fingers punch the keys of your calculator, you think again of the little model Messerschmitts you built as a child.
During your lunchtime walk, you buy some dark glasses at Magasin. You wonder do they still sell those models. You stop on the curb to let a car pass. You wish you were riding in a car. Your hand comes up; you adjust your glasses. You walk alone. Over and over you count up to nine. This drones in your head the way music sticks in a person’s head—one two three four five six seven eight nine one two three—
Ida Davidsen’s comes up. You think to have a bite. You look for a table. You have ten dollars. She gives you a menu. Choose carefully due to your limited funds. There’s an easel set up in the corner, leaning back and bathed in the slanting sun from the tall window.
Yes sir what would you like—
I—
They will sell you food here. They will sell you liquor here. You have the money for a sandwich and a drink. You order. The crowd goes past the window. A man reeking of alcohol approaches, leans down, puts your sandwich before you, and speaks.
I am glad you are here sir! Enjoy your meal—a cut of the bull—
He bends over you. He is pale. He stinks. What has he said? You are bathed in sweat. Slumped in your chair, you look at the cut of meat in your sandwich. What is in your sandwich had been walking around in an old field. You tear into the sandwich with your teeth. You chew slowly. The meat has been severed from an animal. A cut of the bull. You press the meat with the tip of your finger. Somewhere else someone’d said something about a bull. There’s a swath of mayonnaise across the meat. You cannot remember. The man who’d brought your food stumbles and sways away singing.
Yard! he sings. Another monarch overthrown! Grass!
You try but you cannot remember, so—you just let it go. No matter. You think what a shame the man’s in such a state in the middle of the day. This man will be sure to lose his job—if his management finds out he’s drunk on the job. You eat your sandwich, in Ida Davidsen’s, alone, as usual, letting thoughts of the unfortunate man wash over you, enter every pore. And the days stretch out before you all being roughly the same, though you cannot, will not, must not know it; you must not know that, like everybody else, you are already at the end. You finish eating. You go to work, again.
~~~~~END~~~~~
Back to the
Top
Vivian Faith Prescott was born and
raised in Wrangell, Alaska and lives in Sitka, Alaska and Puerto Rico
at the U.S.C.G. Air Station Borinquen. She holds a Ph.D. in Cross
Cultural Studies. Vivian’s the Co-Director of a non-profit called
Raven’s Blanket which is designed to perpetuate the cultural
wellness and traditions of Indigenous peoples. At Air Station
Borinquen she facilitates adult and teen writers groups. Her poetry
has appeared in Drunken Boat, Permafrost and Turtle
Quarterly. Vivian’s first book of poetry, The Hide of My
Tongue, will be published by Plain View Press in spring 2011. Her
website is http://www. vivianfaithprescott.com and she blogs at
http:// planetalaska.blogspot.com
Disturbing
the Tourists at Glacier Bay National Park Lingít Language Immersion
Camp
by Vivian Faith Prescott
Yes, we were
being loud—loud enough
for our grandparents to hear us
across
Icy Strait, atop Mt. Fairweather.
Loud enough to calve the
ice
and disturb the tourists who leaned
against our fine white
table cloths,
pales hands lifting silver forks,
dining on
halibut, salmon, and crab.
Above them, floorboards
creaked,
weighted by our old bones; rafters
hummed with
voices. They dabbed
their mouths with green cloths,
and
patted their chests to break
the congestion of strange drums.
The
waiter informed us, You’re disturbing
the tourists
with all this dancing
and singing. And like their
grandfathers
they assumed if they couldn’t see us—
couldn’t
hear us, we’d just go away.
So they sat pleased in the
silence
licking salmon scales from their knives.
~~~~~END~~~~~
Back to the
Top
Mr. Martinez is a former high school
principal, English teacher, and translator living in the DC metro
area. He grew up in Miami, Florida, raised in a bilingual
Cuban-American home and born of parents who fled Cuba in the 1960s.
While a translator and managing editor in Rockville, MD, he published
as work-for-hire The Multicultural Spanish Dictionary, How Everyday
Spanish Differs from Country to Country, currently available in its
2nd edition. Mr. Martinez is working on publishing his first novel,
The Mares of Lenin Park. His one- act play, Blasphemous Rumours, was
produced at the Florida International University Theatre (Miami). His
10-minute play, Ham and Eggs, was produced at the Silver Spring Stage
One-Act Festival (Silver Spring, MD). This latter play was also a
finalist at the Actors Theatre of Louisville 10-minute play
competition. These plays were published by Silverhawke, LLC
Publishing and Drama (Escondido, CA), now out of business. He now
retains full rights to these plays. Mr. Martinez has a Bachelor of
Science in English Education degree from Florida State University,
and a Master of Science in Education degree from Johns Hopkins
University.
Talking
to God on Lincoln Lane North
by Agustin
Martinez
1.
Esperanza sipped the last of the Coke, shaking the can over her mouth to rid it of the warm syrupy contents. The red and white can had to be extra dry or the cutting would be difficult and messy.
She learned how to make model airplanes out of leftover Popsicle sticks back at the hospital. But they always looked childish and didn’t ever satisfy her. Besides, the stains the Popsicles left behind gave the model airplanes a spotted look as if the gasoline had run down the tail or as if hydraulic fluid had seeped through the nose of the plane. Not only did her airplanes have to be formidable replicas, they had to appear safe; the lime, orange, and grape-colored stains just would not do.
God urged her to use soda cans as her medium instead of Popsicle sticks when, one day at a gallery right on Lincoln Road Mall, Esperanza saw a group of people admiring a poster of orange and yellow F 4 B-4 navy planes. The cloudy skies in the picture and the Irish-green pasture underneath the planes accented the box structure of the aircraft. The freedom the pilots possessed with their leather goggles and red scarves waving in these clumsily delicate flying machines left Esperanza awe-struck.
Although it sounded absurd, the pilots had the option of either jumping out of the planes or of remaining securely strapped. They would never jump, of course. That would be ludicrous. But the option was there, and this was a relief to Esperanza who panicked at the thought of any situation where options were not available.
She primped her oily gray hair, looking at her reflection to assure no embarrassing moments ensued when entering the gallery. Esperanza was confident that she looked good. Her T-shirt, which she found in the bin across her living area on Lincoln Lane North just a few days ago, was practically brand new if it weren’t for the yellow around the armpits and the subtle scent of cat urine.
In any case, the oversized bomber jacket she wore even during the humid Miami summers hid the stains and the scent. The red Converse high-tops she sported had no visible holes, and the once-white socks were pulled down tight; it was necessary to hide the dried, bloody scabs on her ankles from the last uncontrollable fit of scratching.
She tightened her belt to a newly-made hole in the strap, as she attempted to walk into the gallery for a closer look at the F 4 B-4s, but she was thwarted by two pony-tailed, earring-donned gentlemen who raised their hands to Esperanza as if shooing a fly. She didn’t understand what they were saying in their multi- colored jackets. They were speaking Portuguese, and even though she spoke Spanish and could sometimes understand Portuguese, she squinted, as if this would make their passionate words more comprehensible.
But it was to no avail. The art crowd huddled in a corner sipping their wineglasses like mice nibbling at a piece of cheese, acting oblivious to what was occurring.
One of the Brazilian fellows nodded and pointed and grimaced at Esperanza. She knew it was time to leave. Now she knew why her friend, Liani, who owned a new-age shop on the same side of the street as the gallery, constantly told her to stay away from there.
Esperanza stood outside the gallery for hours studying the frame, the colors, the expression on the cows drowned in the planes’ shadows. The title read: Scaring the Cows. How dreadful she thought since the cows didn’t look frightened at all. Couldn’t anybody see how the cows were rejoicing in their bovine oblivion much like the mice people at the gallery? It was as if these F 4 B-4s were a natural part of the cows’ everyday lives, like gnats. God whispered to her that it should have read O’er Green Pastures. So she walked away with her hands snug in the bomber jacket and continued listening to His latest ideas, as they were very good, not letting the Portuguese men know what a great suggestion their Creator was making.
Because of their orange hues, the planes reminded Esperanza and God of a Sunkist can. Consequently, Esperanza’s first commercial F 4 B-4s were bright orange and silver with shadows of lemon yellows. God liked these best, but they didn’t sell all that well.
After brainstorming with Him for thirty-six hours straight, Esperanza began experimenting with Sprite cans to see how well these sold. She figured if people were able to choose, if people saw that there were two choices, then perhaps both cans would have more appeal. But no such luck. People simply walked by, ignoring the green- and orange-tin planes.
Having nothing to lose, sales being considerably low, and God not being much help in this venture, Esperanza discovered used Coke cans and decided to give those a try. The colors were totally different, and this allowed for shoppers to choose a motif more complementing to their dens or libraries.
Jackpot! These sold instantly.
These, she sometimes sold for five dollars! (The Sunkist and Sprite planes only brought in about three dollars tops when she did manage to sell them.) The Coke cans looked more
patriotic, and not many people could match oranges and yellows and greens with their furniture.
She once lied to a customer who asked of her inspiration. There was no need to involve this passerby with what really happened at the gallery. Instead, Esperanza told him her granddaddy, a crop duster, used to take her for rides back on their Northern Florida farm. After he died, she moved to Miami. The man, so enkindled by Esperanza’s tale, bought three planes and promised to come back for more.
Part of this was pure fiction, though. Oh, she did spend time at Chatahoochee in Northern Florida, being sent there by INS after arriving to the United States in the 1980 Mariel boatlift, when Castro emptied his jails and sanitariums. But the flying and her southern granddaddy were pure fabrication based on a child’s fable she read at the hospital.
Nevertheless, she rarely thought of life back in the sanitariums near Guantanamo Bay. In fact, she fantasized so often of how it must’ve been growing up in the forested landscape of Northern Florida that she actually started believing that her grandfather was a crop duster who took her for rides on cloudless afternoons.
This is how Esperanza spent her days at the open-air Lincoln Road Mall, talking to passersby, reinventing her history, and marketing her craft. She always felt safe since God was around to warn her of any danger lurking.
Esperanza allowed God to counsel her on all her choices, no matter how small. And God understood that it was ultimately Esperanza’s decision, not drowning her in I-told-you-so’s when things didn’t go as planned.
At times, Esperanza lost touch with God – particularly when she found herself under the care of a new physician. But it was like talking to a long-lost friend. As soon as her medication wore off, Esperanza and God would pick up right where they left off. She knew God didn’t like the doctors probing.
Although the medication didn’t cut the communication completely, God explained once, it made it much more difficult for her to receive messages. The messages were there and so were the sender and receiver. But the prescriptions interfered with the process of letting it all take shape in her head.
Experiencing these temporary communication gaps left Esperanza feeling alone and afraid, so she developed a talent that proved very useful at these in-patient observations. God gave her an astute sense of knowing what the doctors wanted to hear. Very eloquently and soon after arriving at such institutions, Esperanza surrendered her spirit; a cured patient who admitted that “the voices” were simple delusions was cause for celebration!
After a few pats on the back, knowing there was no insurance to cover the necessary follow-up treatments and no need to really analyze the battery of tests, the doctors would sign her release. A vicious cycle that Esperanza found tedious.
“God,” she mumbled, not looking up from her stripped Coke can. She certainly didn’t want to lacerate a finger or cut in the wrong place. That would ruin a fine product, for which she would have to reduce the price.
“Yes, Esperanza,” He answered, always attentive to Esperanza’s needs.
“Should I stop making these F 4 B-4s? After all, look at all the wonderful things that these shops have to offer. Over,” she pointed, reminding God of the recent stores that opened up on the once-commercially-declining Lincoln Road Mall.
“Yes they do. But the prices!” God complained.
“Well, eventually people are going to get sick of my planes. They’re going to realize that they’re paying for the same trash they threw out. Over.”
“We’ll come up with a marketing plan that involves recycling. We’ll call it ‘eco-art!’” God was so smart.
“But they can walk into any of these fancy galleries and boutiques and pick out something else. Something new. Who wants recycled art? Over.”
God laughed, “Look at Chez Garbáge? Jacque sells toilet seats with real vomit and feces for a thousand bucks!” God reminded Esperanza of the gallery that just opened up on the corner of Lincoln and Washington Avenue. Jacque sold millions of dollars a year recycling old radios, sinks, garbage disposals, and even toilet seats with real bodily fluids. It was the latest rage amongst shoppers on South Beach.
“Five hundred bucks,” corrected Esperanza, “not a thousand. Jacque had to reduce the price due to the economy, remember? Over.”
“Five hundred dollars for a decorative toilet seat with shit and piss, and you’re worried about a five-dollar F 4 B-4?” God rolled His eyes.
“Maybe it’s time to retire,” analyzed Esperanza, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth while she bent the tiny red and white metal fibers just the right way. “Maybe I should move to California. I’ll let You pick out the right spot under the redwoods. Over.”
“California?” God sounded perturbed. “Are we back to this again? You sound like a broken record.”
Esperanza argued this moot point many nights while staring at the stars from her living space on Lincoln Lane North.
“I don’t know if I can protect you there. I’ve got a whole plate-tectonic thing happening that won’t be complete for centuries.”
Esperanza did not inquire of God’s reasoning. In fact, she was only inspired by the creative process, the cold touch of the tin. Esperanza didn’t mean for God to take it so personally. If it were a bad idea, then so be it; she didn’t want to get caught up in God’s reshaping of the West Coast. It was just that California was where everybody lived blithely. People lived in great homes and talked to their neighbors who could’ve been anyone from Rock Hudson to Gary Cooper.
California always appealed to Esperanza ever since she saw all those I Love Lucy episodes back at Chatahoochee. She sat for hours, medicated, pretending she was sitting by the pool with Lucy and Ethel, while Ricky and Fred did whatever it was they did back in Hollywood. Since then, Esperanza thought it would be nice to retire there. All the celebrities could purchase her soda-can airplanes, as everybody had money there. She’d make millions, she figured.
Esperanza continued mending and slicing and folding the newly made Coke strips. She reached for her ankles but stopped half way. They’d hurt later if she scratched now, and she didn’t really have to scratch all that much. She’d wait for when she just couldn’t take it anymore; that would ease the guilt. One hand found itself over her sticky socks anyway, and she massaged her bruises with the tips of her fingers, not allowing her nails to lacerate the crusty skin.
God often reminded her to stop picking at her ankles. But it felt so good to just sit down and scratch and scratch and scratch at the ever-present scabs. It was a feeling so good that only increased in pleasure the deeper she scratched, the harder she dug her nails. At times, when she scratched and picked too deeply, her ankles throbbed from pain and bled, causing her socks to stick to her legs. Even though she was taught all sorts of compulsion- management techniques, the thought of picking her ankles was the only relief she had – besides talking to God.
Sometimes, though, when the feeling seemed overwhelming, when compromising simply didn’t work, she focused on different ways of creasing and piercing to create other types of planes. It was pointless, of course, since F 4 B-4s were special. But it worked in those break-glass-in-case-of-emergency moments. And even though she would never abandon the production of F 4 B-4s, the thought processes involved in creating a new style of merchandise eased the yen to scratch.
Concentrating harder on the metamorphosed soda can, Esperanza curled the strips that would form the propeller. It didn’t quite come out with the design she intended. A giant ‘C’ clung to the edge of one of the bands. She shouldn’t have looked up to see the stray cats dancing on the trash bin, but they looked so majestic in their walk, their talk, and even the way they licked themselves.
The common passerby would not notice the dangling ‘C’, but Esperanza knew that this model was not up to par. Perhaps it would sell for $4.50 instead of $5.00. She had to pay more attention next time.
At the end of the crosswalk, standing there as if lost, Esperanza noticed two ladies in a heated discussion, as if debating which one would approach the artist with the soda-can planes. But Esperanza only dared to glance for a second. No need to cause any other dangling letters that would require her to reduce the price fifty cents lower than the original fifty-cent discount.
The one with the Prada glasses began walking up to where Esperanza sat, but she was held back by her friend who warned her to be careful. Prada turned around and must’ve made her friend feel guilty, because they both began approaching tremulously.
“How can I help you ladies?” she asked the rosy-cheeked creatures with the half-empty shopping bags that smelled of air conditioning and French perfume, not looking up to assure a semi-perfect F 4 B-4.
“Here you go,” the one with the polka-dotted silk skirt said, offering Esperanza two dollars.
Esperanza saw the shadow of the bills on the sidewalk in front of her but did not react. She knew the ladies were not there to shop, but simply there for selfish reasons. The one in the polka- dotted skirt dared to edge forward, Prada holding her with one arm as if the former was in danger of falling into a well or some black hole. Esperanza could hear the polka-dotted one’s heart beating as she shoved the two dollars between the artist and her airplane-in-the-making.