Riding Holiday Waves

We were late getting there, what with L.A. traffic and a not-so quickie in the truck stop restroom outside Los Banos. The paper towel dispenser was empty. We took the slow lane, didn’t zip up the highway. Why rush? he said and I agreed, air dried my hands out the window, trying to picture the people in San Francisco I'd never met.

By the time we landed on his mother’s doorstep, blankets and bags in hand, the family's faces were blurry, blank. I gushed about his mother’s amazing flat, the hardwood floors, the view of the bay, the double glass doors separating the living and dining rooms, skipped over mention of her recenly departed husband, his photo in the place of honor on the mantle. I fluttered, not finding a suitable perch. She said I had beautiful hands, asked me to sit, patted the spot beside her on the sofa.

His brother talked about flying in from the East Coast and how the guy next to him blew snot on the airline blanket and then spread it over his chest. He said the kids get up early, an unapologetic warning, before slouching off to the back bedroom to assess his wife's migraine. We got the living room fold-out without much padding, the inflexible frame now cutting into my spine.

At first light, she began setting the holiday table at a dogged pace. I watched with one eye, riding my attention up over the bunched pillow like a sneaker wave, spying on her as she fondled each dish. Against the foil light of dawn, she moved in sparrow hops from branch to branch around the room. 

She flapped a white table cloth, smoothed it with veiny hands, pulled brown napkin rings from a drawer in the battered sideboard, held a gravy boat up to the dim light, set it down. She stood hunched before the windows, wiping her eyes, twisting the wedding band around her bony finger, staring at the first hints of another day.

I ignored the warmth coming from behind, the knucklehead nosing my thigh. Clearly, his mother, lost in reverie, wasn’t blind. I nudged him away, suspected her hearing was pretty good, too. He kept nuzzling. I relented, arched my back, leaked tears, broke like a wave over the rising grief.

From "Hard Holidays" flash fiction collection, because holidays sometimes provide food for thought.

Flash Fiction -- Flight of the Herons

The sun comes up in the east and summer follows spring. I’m a literalist, a black-and-white person, comfortable with the way things are, the way they've always been. When we moved here, not that far, a thousand miles, and landed at the tiny airport, I expected birthdays and Christmas would be celebrated just like before—a special meal request from the birthday person and a homemade cake. On the 15^th of December, we’d put a Christmas tree in the front window and on the 25^th we’d bake a ham, boil potatoes.

But, relaxing in my recliner sometime after we’d arrived last year, my son looked at my feet and asked why I didn't paint my toenails like other moms. Honestly, I had noticed the women in grocery stores and at Little League games painted their toes, but chalked it up to working class affectation. If you wear closed toes shoes, like I do, what would be the point of painting your nails?

And there’s the issue of toxic chemicals and slave wages for the salon workers. Perhaps the women here do it, I thought, but it’s likely they don’t realize clear nails provide vital insights into ones health, a window it’s wise to gaze through often. For my money, a pedicure is about as stylish as shoeing a horse.

My husband gave me a gift certificate to the neighborhood nail spa for my birthday last year, his way of criticizing without saying a word.

I have principles, but don’t waste money, so I settled into the big recliner in front of the foot bath and he turned on the vibrator, gently pressed my shoulders back, whispered "relax." I didn’t tell him it was my first time, but he seemed to know. He picked up my gnarled right foot like it was a pink carnation and settled it in warm water tinted aquamarine. Then he took my left and nestled it beside the first, the water jetting around my ankles.

He was beautiful, his black hair gleaming as he bent over the foot basin, swiveling from side to side on a rolling stool. He rubbed, scrubbed, and buffed, then painted each nail cotton-candy pink. “Good for summer,” he said, almost smiling, before extending his hand and leading me to the drying station where a fan sent breezes dancing across my toes. He was crippled, stood over me like a heron balanced on one leg. He massaged my shoulders and I yielded to his touch, surprised us both with a soft sigh.

I presented my certificate to the cashier, who called the manager, who called a grandmotherly woman from the back. They studied the document and I watched him with one eye as he ate sushi with chopsticks from a Styrofoam box, seated beside a golden Buddha statue. Above him hung a poster of a beautiful girl in an apple-green sari and characters in black type that I guessed promoted an airline.

I began to feel anxious, not from the questions posed by these people who examined me head-to- toe like a fake twenty dollar bill, but because I knew eventually he would fly away and leave me. They took the certificate and then I gave them all my cash. "Tip," I said, feeling foolish until he looked up and I caught a glimpse of his cinnamon eyes. 

Last week I went in for my standing appointment, expected to see his twisted grin, watch him hobble to my feet. The grandmotherly woman said, “Rocky gone. Went home. Polio too bad. You want somebody else do you?”

I flew to my car in tears, collected myself. At home I found my family watching baseball, too absorbed in the game to say “Hi.”

"Flight of the Herons" is from Hard Holidays, a flash fiction collection. Catch up with my new serial novel, Drowning in the Delta. Installments are free online or for download on serial fiction site www.jukepop.com. Lots of great stories in every genre. Perfect for summer reading. Vote, Comment, Enjoy.

Knowing Cezanne

Before his mind completely collapsed, Denny said it was easy. He used a razor blade, cut it away and walked out with the Cezanne rolled and tucked under his arm. He didn’t carry it as a prize or slouch to the door. He said he nodded to the elderly security guard, noticed the finger smudges of other patrons as he placed his palm on the museum’s polished door plate, pushed. Afternoon sunshine streamed through the glass panels and he stepped out. That’s all, he said.

Questioned more closely, we were all a little drunk by then, admiring bathing nudes on the canvas rolled out on his apartment floor. He said taking it was a mind state. He said it was his; it rightfully belonged to him. No one stopped him or disagreed, he said, because it was true to the bone. Invincible knowing.

He talked about philosophy of mind, stimuli arriving to inform the essence that steers us to what we want or need—worldly belongings, like squash soup. He’d taken the squash from the community garden at the senior center and put it in the pot on the stove. Went in, he said, picked out the best one, walked, caught the bus home. He gave us some soup. It was chalky awful, but Denny chewed mushrooms, sipped the soup from a chipped mug, didn’t seem to notice.

“Now, Christmas,” he said, “is unnecessary, you see. Why wait for people to guess what you want or need? Find what you like? Take it. It belongs to you. Most people don’t give a shit or are too stupid to think beyond their twisted nucleus accumbens, brains only wired to jack off and grunt. That’s about it. Think they’ll give you what you want? Or stop you from taking what belongs to you?”

Somebody, a skinny guy sitting on the floor beside a bucket filled with peacock feathers said, “Fuck that.” He explained how he and Denny snuck into the zoo and used a squeaky dog toy to attract the birds, then they’d challenge the cocks, make them overheat and shit their pants. He bobbed his head like a turkey to demonstrate their technique.

“They dropped feathers all over the place, rattled their turquoise asses. We just picked the feathers up and brought them home. They belong to us.”

~  ~  ~  ~

When she pulled the wooden tiles for oxazepam a few years later and scored 392 points, a royal flush in Scrabble, she mentally thanked Denny that she'd ended up in drug rehab in Hollywood, where it was so easy to be a winner. She’d been thinking about his theory of positive thinking and then drew the letters.

Before rehab, she just said oxy, never knew the proper spelling of her drug of choice, not until the counselors at Bright Way Life Center spelled it out. After she won the game and took a shower, she stepped onto Sunset Boulevard. Some kids were selling hot apple cider in front of a church, singing holy Jesus Christmas carols. She took a steaming cup, kept walking. In a mean voice, someone yelled, “God Bless You!”

In front of the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel she paused, looked up at the flags and flood lights, adjusted the Dior scarf she’d just picked up on Rodeo Drive, and placed her open hand on the entry door’s brass plate. A uniformed doorman held it while she passed into the marble foyer where huge vases of red roses glowed under a crystal chandelier. He spoke sounds like a cow; the words made no sense to her. She nodded, moved to the art gallery off the lobby, her hands freezing.

“This is split bamboo position,” the man in the purple ascot said, putting the carved ivory piece into her palm. “A very rare 17th century netsuke of woolly mammoth ivory. If you look, you can see each pubic hair. Exquisite, really.” The figurine was warm and she wrapped her icy fingers around the ivory. It belonged there, twisted passion inside her grasp. She asked to see another carving, one in the arc position. He turned. She tightened her fist and stepped away, walked into the winter-brittle sunshine, knowing.

"Knowing Cezanne" is from Hard Holidays, a flash fiction collection. Catch up with my new serial novel, Drowning in the Delta. Installments are free online or for download on serial fiction site www.jukepop.com. Lots of great stories in every genre. Perfect for summer reading. Vote, Comment, Enjoy.

Memorial Day

We were late getting there, what with traffic and a not-so quickie in the truck-stop rest room off I-5 that smelled of toilet bowl freshener. We took the slow lane, didn't zip down the highway. Why rush? he said and caressed my inner thigh. I agreed, but felt fatigued by the time we landed on his mother’s doorstep last night, the faces of his family blurry and blank.

I gushed insincerely about his mother’s amazing flat, the hardwood floors, the view of the bay, the double glass doors separating the living and dining rooms, skipped over mention of her now gone husband, his soldier's photo in the place of honor on the mantle. She'd start with "we"  or "he" then stop. "Vietnam," she whispered, following my eye to the photo.

His brother talked about flying in from the East Coast with his family in a nasally voice. He told how the guy next to him blew his nose on the airline blanket and then spread it over his chest. He said the cab from the airport smelled of stale hash and warned us the kids get up early, then slouched off to the back bedroom behind his wispy wife. We got the living room fold-out without much padding, the inflexible frame now cutting into my spine.

At first light, she began setting the holiday table at a dogged pace. I watched through the glass doors with one eye, riding my attention over the bunched pillow like a sneaker wave, to spy her fondling each saucer and candlestick. She flapped a white tablecloth, smoothed it with veiny hands, pulled brown napkin rings from a drawer in the battered sideboard, held up a cobalt glass goblet to the dim light, studied it, put it away, stood hunched before the dining room window, facing east, wiping her eyes, twisting her wedding band around her bony finger, thinking she alone was staring at the first hints of a mimosa sunrise.

I ignored the warmth coming from behind, his knucklehead nosing my thigh. Clearly, his mother, my hostess, was lost in painful reverie. Lost, but she didn't have on blinders. I pushed him away, suspecting her hearing was still pretty good. Relenting with the next nudge, I arched my back and surrendered into her grief.

From Hard Holidays, online flash fiction prompts from writer Meg Pokress, author of best-selling flash fiction collection Bird Envy.