Hi Everyone:
OK, here is the story for JCO's 60th birthday. For those who weren't
involved, this was one of those serial stories where someone writes a bit,
then someone else writes the next bit, etc. You know, it seems more
coherent now than what I remembered.
Steve
JCO's Birthday Story
Do With Me What I Live For
(only a possible title)
As an elderly maiden lady who, in joyful submission to the traditions
of the
Fruitemps family, has expected her name to come before the public only
through
the announcements of her birth and of her death (all possibility of
marriage
being forever ended for me owing to the weird and unlooked-for actions of
my
intended, Lt. Col. the Hon. Lysimachus Selbstlieb, formerly of the
Coldcream
Guards, and more recently of Papua New Guinea), it is with the utmost
trepidation that I offer to a general readership the contents—with
commentary—of the Gaspacho Papers. That these papers should have come into
my
hands (yet I may say that, though they belong to a lady of seventy eight,
my
hands still are able to inspire the most delightful—if perhaps excessively
gallant—compliments from my great-nephew Gorgias Fruitemps, or Gogo, as he
is
known within the Family) is itself a cause for speculation. For, not even
once did I ever meet or otherwise communicate with, the late Mrs. Hypatia
Gaspacho de Asís (or Mrs. Hypatia O'Leary Madison
Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst
Rasoumovsky de la Marck Turenne Hogg Gaspacho de Asís, to give her full
name
and, simultaneously, a portion of her biography), yet her executor, Mr.
Frank
Deadeye, has assured me that it was a condition of Mrs. Gaspacho's will
that
her papers be delivered to me, should I be willing to receive them, to
prepare
for publication. And, despite all natural qualms, I have accepted both the
papers and the almost Sisyphean task of editing and explaining them. For,
as
the reader will discover for himself, the Gaspacho Papers contain the most
striking—indeed shocking—new information not only as to the
accomplishments of
divers members of the Fruitemps family, but concerning the very discovery
of
America, the assassination of the late President Kennedy, the final stages
of
the COLD WAR, and nearly every decision of importance concerning the New
York
fashion market during the last fifty years! A heavy charge, I warrant,
but,
as my great-nephew Gogo says, "Aunt Eunice, if you don't know how to pass
on
all this dirt, no one does." A fine boy, of whom we're especially proud
now
that his little contretemps with the Sheriff's Department has been
settled.
It is perhaps best to begin this account with six sisters, or the Six
Sisters, as they were known throughout the Tippitauga Valley of New York:
Melpomene, Euphrosyne, Amalasuntha, Plectrude, Ludmilla and Madge—the
daughters of the late Abimelech and Mabel Fruitemps. These sisters, nearly
alike enough to pass for sextuplets and yet each entirely different from
the
others, had succeeded on the untimely deaths of their parents (at the
hands,
or, in a sense, at the fins, of Neptune, the family goldfish, in a sudden
frenzy that was entirely unpredicted and never to be repeated again) to
the
eighth largest fortune in the state. In consequence, the Six Sisters were
both feared as possessors of unmeasured, but certainly enormous, power,
and
coveted as being peculiarly eligible heiresses. Many an Astor, Vanderbilt,
Roosevelt or Rockefeller, among other candidates of distinguished family,
asked for the hand of one or another sister, or of all sequentially; or,
in
the case of Mr. Waldorf Vanderbilt, of all simultaneously—with the
suggestion
that the Six Sisters engage in Russian roulette, the survivor to win both
the
entire fortune and Mr. Vanderbilt. All such suits, however ardent,
steadfastly were turned aside.
Madge Fruitemps received rather fewer offers than her older
siblings—in fact
only two, and these both from gentlemen whose names did not appear in the
social register. This unexpected failure of masculine enterprise commonly
was
attributed to Madge's tainted blood, though as her sisters were entirely
free
of such a regrettable characteristic, and as she could not possibly have
received any taint from either of her parents, all those in a position to
judge agreed that the child must in some wise have tainted her own blood!
This taint appeared in behavior hitherto unknown in a Fruitemps: Madge
spent
an inordinate portion of her time in the company of an almost feral group
of
young women who, when not loitering outside a certain eatery frequently
visited by the police, kidnapped prominent local businessmen and left them
hanging upside down from telephone poles with the words "DON'T TREAD ON
ME"
branded on their cheeks.
One evening, Madge and her friends stood outside the diner, each
shifting
from foot to foot and tossing switchblades to and fro in a private rhythm.
The sound of car engines starting and stopping, promptly or reluctantly,
blanketed the background. A scent of overdone wieners and of car exhaust
permeated the parking lot's air. Despite the strolling, rushing and lazing
about of dozens of adolescents, a distinct space segregated Madge's group
from
everyone else, until the blood sisters were approached by a man in a
heavily
padded business suit, who wore dark glasses and a fedora.
"Say, if I had time, I'd spend it with you chicks!" he remarked,
grinning at
the witticism.
"What makes you think you have any time?" challenged "Elbows", who,
with
Madge, was the gang's leader. The members of the group suddenly crowded
around Elbows, their masklike faces forming types of rejection. Only one
very
slender, pale blonde girl stood apart, staring at the man with bold
calculation.
"I don't got time," the man admitted. "I gotta give a message to
Madge
Fruitemps and be back in Manhattan in two hours for a heist."
"I'm Madge," declared the blonde—the tallest, longest-legged of these
tall,
long-legged young women. "You don't look like you could have any message I
'd
care about."
The man glared at her, though she couldn't see it because of his dark
glasses. "How 'bout this message: 39 27 11."
Madge's entire skin grew paler than her dead white eyeballs. She
seemed
unable to talk. But, before even a comfortable Madge could have said
anything, the man with a message slumped over as if doing a kneebend. A
small
dart protruded from his neck. From the tiny puncture, a narrow stream of
blood, purple in the diner's neon lights, trickled between the folds of
his
neck until it disappeared into his collar ...
"So, what do you think so far?"
"... um ... well, it's interesting, I guess."
"I KNOW it's INTERESTING, Sissy! Geez, I put my heart and soul into
this
darn story!!"
"Uh, Nancy, will you get mad if I'm really honest with you?"
"Of course not. That's why I invited you over here to read it in the
first
place. I need an honest opinion."
The two high school girls were looking over a rather weighty
manuscript that
lay on a card table in Nancy's bedroom, in a gritty neighborhood of a
gritty
town in the gritty American northeast.
"This story will never make it into The Quill & Scroll!" Sissy
blurted, her
face hot and flushed as if someone had slapped her cheeks hard. "It's just
like the one you submitted last week. And the week before that."
"But I'm not writing it for some dumb high school magazine this
time," said
Nancy. "I'm gonna send this one to a REAL magazine for real money."
Eighteen-year-old Sissy winced and regarded her optimistic classmate
with
something dangerously akin to pity. "But, Nancy, you start out with this
creepy, old-fashioned voice as if Queen Victoria's telling the story. Then
you switch to modern talk ... like all of a sudden we're right here in
1964."
"What'd you think of where the guy gets the poison dart in his neck?
Were
you surprised?"
"Yeah, that was good. Listen, if you want to make some money, you
should
take all this up-to-date stuff about Madge and ... Elbows?...and the diner
and
write a story for True Confessions. Y'know, like Madge runs around with
these
awful, slummy girls until she meets this good-looking policeman ..."
Just then, the door of Nancy's room flew open to a hard kick and
Nancy's
red-haired younger brother ran over to the card table where they were
sitting
with Nancy's manuscript spread out. "Hey, whatcha got there, girly, girly,
girls?"
"None of your business, brat!" Nancy yelled. "And get out of my room
right
now or you're gonna be SORRY!"
"I'm sorry every time I have to look at YOU–n'yuk, n'yuk, n'yuk." The
little
boy replied, with a spirited imitation of his favorite Stooge. "You girls
writing love letters? Nancy's in love with that Kookie guy on tv. Hey,
Nancy,
you still got a big crush on old Kookie Byrnes? Lemme see."
He made a lunge for the manuscript, but Nancy caught his wrist in an
iron
grip. "Darn it, Arnold, you get the hell out of here!"
"OOooo-oooo, Nancy said a swearword!! I'm gonna TELL. You're in big
trouble
now, palsy-walsy." He wrenched away from his sister and darted out of the
room. Nancy slammed the door behind him and bolted it, but they could hear
him singing crazily as he ran downstairs, presumably to
"tell"—"Seventy-seven
Sunset Strip! ... bump! bump!... SEVENTY-SEVEN SUNSET STRIP."
Nancy had always hated Sissy secretly: her full breasts, high cheek
bones,
and that magical swirl of mounting hair parted in the middle with two spit
curls hugging both of her cheeks, so popular during 1964. And it was Sissy
who always got the boys: Sissy, you doing anything on Friday night? Sissy
you want to go to the dance on Saturday? That Bitch is good man; she'll do
anything ... I mean anything. And so they were friends, Nancy and Sissy.
If
you asked either one they would probably have different stories as to how
they
met. Whose version was correct did not matter really. Wasn't it Picaso who
said we should see things from all sides. But how does one do that? How
does
one see?
It was in seventh grade when they met. Cheerleading try-outs. How
horrifyingly degrading. Jumping, yelling, wearing tight-fitting skirts and
sweaters—such heat-holding polyester. Screaming, "Go, Fight, Win! ... Go,
Fight, Win!" And the judges, who were mostly men, staring and assessing.
Dissecting them. Mr. Klous, for Christ's sake, sitting all the way to the
right and staring just at her, Nancy. While doing the splits on the newly
waxed gym floor, Nancy had suddenly remembered dissecting a frog in Mr.
Klous's class last quarter. How she ran to the bathroom and vomited after
Mr.
Klous had pushed a thousand frog eggs out of the womb of a dead frog
saturated
in formaldehyde. Was that what a woman's life consisted of, preserving
herself? All the skin cream, the exercising, the hair teasing, and tight
sweaters? For this? So Mr. Klous could stare at her with bemusement and
then
write something down on a 3 x 5 index card? Apparently he had written
something good because she had made the squad. She and Sissy both had made
it.
They were excited for one another, genuinely, and became close
friends,
sleeping at each other's house frequently, talking about boys, penises,
vaginal discharge, and how sex worked. Does it go in and then get big? Is
it
ribbed? Why exactly do you do it in the first place? Rubber? Why is it
called that?
Thoughts like these had rushed into Nancy's head. So fast she felt
dizzy.
Imagining JFK and the bullet (or was it bullets) sinking and exploding in
his
head, entering in one direction and then swiftly forcing an alternative
trajectory, through an unsuspecting artery, vein. And the times they had
stayed up so late and talked about penises. What the hell for? Why the
fascination? I mean doesn't it hurt? That Bitch will get you off like
nothing you could do yourself. And now Nancy was back to the present.
Forcing herself to remember, I must live now. I have to live now. What the
hell is now?
How could Sissy so blatantly criticize her writing? Judge her like
that? As
Sissy was talking to her, she forced her hearing off, as if she were in a
movie and a dramatic scene was about to occur. She saw a pencil on the
desk
where her manuscript lay and thought obsessively, I wish I could erase
her, I
wish I could erase that bitch.
It was thirty-five floors down from her room to the cement. She sat
cooly in
the room, looking out the window across the Detroit River. How many times
had
she and Sissy crossed the border for a drink? Twenty, thirty maybe since
they
turned eighteen? Those quasi-Europeans were liberal.
The building wasn't elegant by any stretch of the imagination. But
the city
was. Motown Records was kicking ass on the radio, Detroit was in its
heyday.
It had been a decade since the Edsel failed, and Ford could do no wrong.
Calling out around the world ... dancing in the street baby.
Her dad had money, but she was damned if he would send any of it to
them.
Her mom had been working as an executive assistant to the vice-president
at
Ford and did OK. Added to that was the $250,000 inheritance from her
mother's
London socialite aunt, Bunny Bontrager. And though Nancy herself didn't
work,
she and her mother lived a comfortable lifestyle. How far could this world
come crashing down if one of them went to prison for murder.
It is amazing how easy it is to feel alone; a solitude that is thick
and
heavy lingering above her head like smoke. The only thing that could
dissipate the heaviness of her aloneness is the stinging of her anger.
"Damn that Sissy bitch!"
How easy it is to mutter the curses that all the other girls mutter.
In the mirror, curling her hair the next day before school and Sissy'
s words
are still resonating deeply. The only way to fight, she thinks, is to
master
her game. Her sweater tight over her breasts, her lips perfectly lined and
filled in, an even red. "Cunt," she mutters from her perfectly innocent,
perfectly *perfect* lips.
In algebra, she sits next to Mike and feigns apathy. Lining up her x'
s and
y's, her equal signs in vertical lines, she thinks about practice reciting
the
cheers in her head. Go! Right Knee Up! Fight! Arms Out! Win! Arms up!
Scream! Shake Pom-poms wildly! Smile! Go! Fight! Win! For those few
minutes, everyone is beautiful, she thinks, we are all beautiful. It is
after
the game when it all changes. Some girls get rides home and some walk. She
is always walking, she thinks. And that is going to change. Lining up her
x's and her y's and her equal signs, a smile creeps across her face.
Lunch is the symbol of high school status stratification. Tables mean
everything. Some people always have someplace to sit and some stand with
their bright red trays, milk cartons lined up. Like any stratified system,
you work your way up, or at least try to.
She was tired of standing off to the side. She would work way her
up–she was
determined. As her eyes scanned the lunchroom, an idea began to form in
her head.
Her eyes closed and the pieces of the puzzle she was living in began
to
arrange themselves as algebraic expressions. How odd, she thought, to
imagine
oneself squared–oneself taken to a higher power. The equation half-formed
began to write itself–the components neatly coming together in exquisite
symmetry. How logical! How right! Why did she not think of this before?
A little tinkering here–a minor adjustment there–and she would soon
have her
answer. Balance, she thought–isn't that what they teach us, or attempt to?
The search for answers in mathematics is the search for balance–balance
will
make things RIGHT. Just like on the squad–BALANCE is necessary to perform
correctly, to perform to perfection.
How could she have missed it before? BALANCE.
Her eyes opened and once more she looked around the lunchroom with
her mind
now illuminated by the glaring glow of BALANCE.
The lunchroom was not right–not balanced. There, in the corner, a
group of
gangly boys stood at a table–the ones referred to as "dorks". In her new
heightened awareness, she thought they resembled refugees from the Island
of
Misfit Toys–their pants were too high, their hair slicked back with
grease–or
is it from oil buildup from not washing? Most of them wore thick glasses
that
did not face their face, and one even had the nose-bridge repaired with
tape.
Her stomach churned at the sight of them–how could she have been so blind?
Another glance across the room–over there! Those girls–a fat herd of
hippos
munching away ... Nancy's sandwich fell from her hands and she began to
feel dizzy.
BALANCE–that one word kept buzzing in her head. You must keep
focused, the
word seemed to be telling her. FOCUS ON ME–FOCUS ON BALANCE.
She closed her eyes and began breathing slowly–rhythmically.
Her life was OUT OF BALANCE.
The dorks, the hippos, that bitch Sissy … she would bring BALANCE to
this
world of hers … she would. She had to.
Sissy criticized her writing. Very well, Sissy would be plugged into
the
equation and let's see if she criticized that! On the business end of that
wonderful algebraic equation.
A smile crossed her lips as she thought of Sissy being divided
further and
further and further down into nothingness. She opened her eyes and was
startled to see Mike standing there, looking quizzically at her.
Mike has blue eyes, the bluest blue eyes, twin cerulean orbs. Eyes to
entrance, to capture and drown. Nancy returns the stare, her chin up, set
firm in defiance of his owning, assessing, oh so male gaze.
"Hi, Nancy," he says, or slurs, the result of one too many blows to
the head.
"I, uh, wonder if you'd, uh, like to come along to the band tonight."
She's watched from the audience before, watched Mike (vocals, lead
guitar) as
he plays and sings, the clangour from the hall's bad acoustics. Six feet
four
he stands, hair down to his shoulder blades, arms like tree-boughs,
muscles
corded, making his twin wolf's-head tattoos into bas reliefs, leather
trousers
cut tight about his crotch.
How Nancy has wished for a closer union with Mike, one consummated in
the
back of his car, tongues entwining, as his hand blindly scrabbles at the
clasp
of her brassiere.
"Yes, Mike," she says. "I'd be delighted." The last word a melisma.
After school, Nancy went straight to her room. She took a sheet from
her
orchid-scented stationary, a gift from her grandmother and the inspiration
for
Eunice Fruitemps. It was time for some balancing.
Eunice + Madge + Elbows + Dart = Great
-Eunice -Eunice
------------------------------------------
Madge + Elbows + Dart = true detective = crap
therefore, invalid equation
39 + 27 / 11 = the story's secret, which Sissy stupidly refuses to
understand.
Story * Sissy = 0
Story = great; therefore story valid as is.
The Quill and Scroll > IDIOTIC!!!
Two braids + Sissy = class
Two braids + Sissy + two scissor snips = humor
Criticism <> 0; fiction = life
Arnold = Curly = 77 Sunset Strip
Arnold + Sissy = annoyance
Freedom = -Arnold-Sissy
Sissy + sex = slut + Sissy bitch
Nancy + Mike = magic - Sissy bitch
Nancy + Mike = young love
Dorks + Hippos + Bitch + Nancy + Mike = the entire universe
-(Nancy + Mike) -(Nancy+Mike)
-----------------------------------------------------------
Dorks + Hippos + Bitch + n (Where n = everyone else) = Nancy + Mike
Okay, she thought with a Puckish smile, let's prove these statements.
BALANCE THEOREM
1. Dorks + Hippos + Bitch + n = Mike + Nancy
2. (Dorks + Hippos) + Bitch + n = (Mike + Nancy)
3. (Losers) + Bitch + n = young love
4. Losers + n(Bitch) = pleasure
5. n(Bitch) = Losers by degree of school social register
6. Losers + Losers = Losers
7. Losers = young love
8. Losers = Winners
QED, balance achieved
Nancy looked over her calculations, making sure none of the errors
that
haunted her schoolwork appeared. Perfect. She considered including the
work
in the story, just to give some poor portly college professor, or other
literary critic, something to obsess over. Nah, she decided, it's served
its
purpose, cutting the stress. She tore loose the sheet and slid it into the
garbage can. Touching her perfectly coiffed hair, Nancy rose to shower for
her date.
When she opened the door to her bathroom, however, Nancy clasped her hand
to
her heart, for there in front of her, standing at the sink and washing
what
appeared to be blood from her arm, was Madge Fruitemps! Nancy's legs
collapsed like two sticks of bubblegum, and she fell back against the
doorjamb.
"Pull yourself together, Nance," said Madge. "We've got to save
Knees."
"... save ... Knees ...?"
Nancy glanced at the bathtub and saw that it was full of blood.
The room gained a vivid chartreuse glow, the walls undulated, the
floor
became a porous sponge and Nancy fell through its membrane and down into
darkness.
* * *
She awoke to a scream which wasn't a scream.
The world was still, and a soft yellow light drifted across her face.
Nancy
stared at the familiar squares of the ceiling tiles in her bedroom.
Another scream–the telephone bleating at what seemed like
supernatural
decibels. Nancy picked up the receiver and brought it to her ear. "Hello?"
she said quietly.
"Nancy?" A man's voice: strong, gravelly, threatening, unbalanced.
"Y-yes..."
"It's Mike. When do you want me to pick you up?"
When do you want. Me. To pick you up. Me to pick. You up. When. Words
stumbled through her mind as sounds free of any association.
"I ... um ... I'm not sure..."
"Do you still want to go?"
Go. Go. Yes! Yes–go! "Yes!" Had she screamed, or was her voice always
that loud?
"Can I pick you up at seven, then?"
"Sure. Seven." Seven: a number. 7. There was something else, it wasn'
t
complete, it didn't balance, there needed to be something more...
"Great. I'll see you then."
The line went dead and Nancy thought for a moment that she had gone
deaf,
that she would hear only the hum of the dial tone for the rest of her
life.
She replaced the receiver, and silence enveloped her.
Seven.
There was more to it than that. Another number, a whole number
system, a
universe of integers. Where were the patterns? What was the meaning? How
could it balance?
Nancy sat up. She was in her bedroom, on her bed, safe. She had not
moved
beyond her bedroom, she had not seen Madge in the bathroom–there was no
Madge,
there was no Knees. There was no blood.
A knock on her door. Nancy swung her head around as if someone had
slapped
her, and stared at the door. Another knock.
"Hey, you in there?" It was Arnold. What was he doing here? What did
he want?
"Go away!" Nancy said, but it came out as a dry whisper.
"Girly! You in there!"
The knob began to turn. Nancy clenched her fists; her fingernails
jammed
into her palm, and she was sure she had broken the skin. She was hollow
with
what had been fear but what was now just an emptiness. It was only Arnold,
after all.
The door opened slowly, and Arnold peeked into the room.
"Why didn'tja answer me, Nancy-girl?" Arnold said. "Why you just
sitting there?"
"I ... have to get ready. I'm going out, Arnold." I want you to go
away,
she thought. I want you to die. I have to save Knees.
Arnold walked toward her slowly. His eyes focused on her, unblinking.
He
stretched out his hand.
"No..." Nancy whispered. Her muscles tightened, she needed to stand
up, she
needed to move away from the bed and away from Arnold and away, away--
"I just want to touch your skin, Nancy. It's very smooth."
"... no ..."
"Come on, Nancy. Smile for me, come on. Let me touch your skin. He
won't
do this for you. Mike won't. You think he will, Nancy, but he won't. You
have to come with me." His hand, cold as the barrel of her father's
Winchester, touched the side of her neck.
The phone rang.
It was a familiar sound but she couldn't place it. Twice, three
times. A
mantra rising from somewhere inside her, while cold spread across her
chest,
out from the dart in her neck. Then the focus shifted. The spell broke.
Arnold's shoulder was nearly dislocated by the force and suddenness with
which she grabbed his arm. She spun him around and pulled his wrist up
high
behind his back.
You sniveling little spy; you've been watching me. You just wait. I
warned
you!." The little wimp squirmed and whined. You might have thought she was
killing him. He didn't even imagine what she was capable of. One of these
days he'd find out ... eavesdropping on her like that. She shoved him
against
the wall. "Get out of here!"
He moved toward the door, a bright red globule of blood already
forming under
his nose. Wouldn't you know it? It was always the same with him. And she
hadn't even touched his precious nose … run crying to Mom … splash it
around
like it was some stupid crime scene. She imagined the blood spreading out
across the floor … so much you could slip. If she were to go down there
now
she might slip on it … go skating across the floor maybe, while her mother
shouted at her about picking on Arnold. What did her mother know? Had she
ever slipped on blood? Why couldn't she see the little snit was doing it
on
purpose? She would scream up any second, "NAANN-cy, get down here right
now!"
But what did she know? "Had she?" she wanted to ask, to scream at
her, "on
red, red blood?"
The ringing had stopped. She walked to the bathroom. Should she
shower or
not? It was getting late, but she was going to be grounded for sure. She
felt
trapped. "This place is a cage." Her own body was a cage … her brain. She
couldn't get out. Oh well, she could write the paper for English class …
Cheever, "The Geometry of Love." Thinking of English class reminded her of
that damned bitch, Sissy. She remembered spring vacation when Sissy had
told
her about Mike's penis. It was probably too big for her anyway. You worked
your way up … or at least tried to. Maybe she should start with one of
Arnold's hairless friends. Shit, how was she ever going to get anywhere at
school … couldn't even get out of this stupid house to listen to a little
music. She undressed … folded the bloody napkin into a ball and tossed it
into the trash. Basket! … should be on the Globetrotters … turned on the
water … cold. Sissy had told her about the hair Mike had all over his
body.
That was the code but the stupid bitch didn't understand it. (Needed a
couple
dozen short, swift axe strokes to open up her mind. Maybe more.
Twenty-seven
should do it. She knew where she could put THAT in the story!)
Everything was off-balance. She thought back to the equation …
realized the
error. She'd reduced herself to a square root. Tomorrow she'd probably be
having lunch with the hippos … or the dorks. She tested the water … warm.
She stepped in under the spray. From below, she heard her mother shout,
"NAANN-cy, get down here right now!"
"Mother, I'm in the shower!"
What was happening didn't fit anywhere in her story.
Dressing for her date, she rummages for nice clothes, settling on a
beautiful
long white sundress. An angel in white yet dressed to kill–as they call
it.
Dressing for Mike, for her mother and Arnold, and for Sissy who would
certainly be there tonight. But wasn't the dress too long? Wouldn't it get
in the way? Heading downstairs to the kitchen where her mother squats over
Arnold in a chair, gently stroking his nose with an ice cube to stop the
bleeding; upon seeing Nancy she says, "If you think you're going out
tonight
after what you did to your brother!" but Nancy just stops at the
silverware
drawer, the silverware inside tarnished badly, her hand reaching in and
grasping a knife, a sharp one. Simply touching it brings her calm.
Like the sky she notices outside the window. A thin line of clouds, bright
red from the setting sun, a long streak straight to the west. Straight
like
her new plan for the night, suddenly forming, inspiring, like when she
writes.
Maybe she would head west after tonight, after getting rid of them.
"I'm sorry mother," she says. "And I'm sorry to you too Arnold.
Things got
out of hand. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. At least I shouldn't." Then
she withdraws the knife from the drawer, stunning her mother and
squelching
Arnold's pout.
"But this should do."
She also thinks about copping the ice cube out of her mother's hand
and
swallowing it, after all Arnold's nose has stopped bleeding, they
prolonged
the scene merely for her benefit–but that was going too far, wasn't it?
What
about using the knife then and there, right in front of her mother, to
shorten
the dress, to ruin it? But was that ruining it? Or improving it? How far
would she go?
"Did you know that the square root of a number is still the square of
another
number? Hmm? Did you know that?"
She uses the knife out on the front porch while waiting for Mike to
pull into
the driveway. She cuts the dress a little too short, but at least it was
still even!
Then her plan, in motion:
So easy to convince Mike to include Sissy on their date. Mike already knew
Sissy would be there, but wouldn't it be better if she came with us?
Wouldn't
you like that? That bitch will do anything I hear. At least I hope so, don
't you?
Then getting Sissy to come with them after stopping at her house, Sissy
not
quite ready, in fact still in her cheerleader's outfit after practice.
Nancy
convincing her not to change, to just come straight along. Sissy asks, why
'd
you skip practice? Because I'm going to cheer tonight, for Mike. We can
practice tonight, come on. But you're not in your outfit. Doesn't matter,
come on.
And–in the moment while Sissy goes back inside to grab her
purse–telling Mike
that she will drive, that they will make a quick stop by Lake St. Clair
before
going to the show. We have the time, don't we? Besides, isn't it what you
really want? And no matter what happens, just trust me. You have to trust
me. Don't interfere. Just let it happen ...
But behind the wheel and speeding toward the lake a slight doubt
creeps in.
It's as if she knows the ending, but just can't see her way there. Wasn't
everything as it should be? Driving, in control, in possession of the
keys,
with music playing loudly out rolled down windows. But how would she get
Sissy, on the seat beside her, into the trunk, and keep Mike, in the back
seat
and already immune to blows to the head, where he was? Besides, she needed
him awake, didn't she? What would she do if she were writing this? But she
was writing it, in a sense. And no matter what she needed Sissy in the
trunk,
pounding wildly to get out, while Nancy lay on top of Mike in the
backseat,
propped up on her knees and elbows to see the code in his chest hairs,
letting
Mike work his way up into her, because wasn't that the key–working one's
way
up? Go! Fight! Win!
* * *
Hey, it's Mike Fruitemps. Aunt Eunice was calling me Gogo when she
posted
before. She and my grandma and some of the other old relatives always do
that. Because my parents named me Gorgias M. Fruitemps. But I like Mike.
Anyway, I'm posting this 'cause I want to explain something. See, Aunt
Eunice
just died. We didn't expect it, but it's ok. She was so old and
everything.
But nobody knew that she had a PC. Even E-mail. And she posted this stuff
on
the Internet. But she didn't finish it. Ooh, just a minute. I gotta itch.
So, me and my friends, we thought we'd finish her thing for her. Just
make up
something cool. Because, see, there's no such thing as the Gaspacho
Papers.
We looked, and we couldn't find them. And this lawyer didn't know anything
about them. I think that Aunt Eunice had, what's that disease called that
old
people get? So, we just tried to make up a good story. Because Aunt Eunice
had already posted that stuff you read.
Anyway, I don't think what we wrote was exactly the same as what Aunt
Eunice
wrote. I wanted to kind of make it fit in. But Nancy and Sissy and Arnold,
I
don't think their parts were the same. Not even mine. I guess the people
of
now don't think like Aunt Eunice. Of course, you never saw her staring at
crotches and boobs. Not like some people, SISSY and ARNOLD. But it's ok.
So
I don't think any of us sound too much like Aunt Eunice. We kind of all
agree
about that. Even though our part is more cool than Aunt Eunice's part.
Though Arnold HAD to put in stuff about math and codes. No wonder he's not
too popular. And he's also short. So anyway, we said we'd better stop. But
we've already posted the stuff you read after Aunt Eunice's stuff. So I
wanted to explain. Damn, 'scuse me. I gotta itch again.
I don't know about most of the things that Aunt Eunice was writing
about. I
don't really care about the old days. Because they're dead. So I didn't
know
that somebody killed this President Kennedy. Nancy told me about it.
'Cause
she's a history major. Somebody's gotta be. It's too bad Aunt Eunice
didn't
say anything to me. I could of made one of my jokes with her. "Do you mean
they HAD rifles in 1963? They didn't have to use clubs?" I was good at
joking with Aunt Eunice. Though she was kind of funny lately. Didn't laugh
as much. Probably 'cause of her disease or something. I didn't know about
the Cold War or that other stuff, either. I'm glad I didn't know about the
Cold War, 'cause summer is my favorite time. Nancy knows about that war.
But
she's a hot babe, so it's ok. I could see Sissy and Arnold being in a Cold
War. Just joking, folks.
But it's ok. Aunt Eunice liked me. She left me a lot of money. Nobody
knew
she had that much. Not even her CPA. But she did. Now I do. I deserve it.
I was nicer to her than everybody usually is to old people. I'm going to
get
married to Nancy, now. Sissy was going to be the maid of honor. But I
don't
know if she still wants to do it. She's mad about that the part about
being
locked in the trunk. Be cool, Sis. It's just a story. And I still want you
as the best man, Arnold. But wear platform shoes. Hell, wait a minute. I
gotta itch.
Me and Nancy are going to Dallas for our honeymoon. Nancy says she
wants to
look at the Book Depository. Not very romantic, to me. But hey, you gotta
go
somewhere on your honeymoon. And Dallas isn't cold. Also, it's near Cousin
Madge's prison. So we might visit her. She got out of that gang that Aunt
Eunice posted about. Then she was a stockbroker. But she got busted in the
old days. I think it was around ten years ago. People always did give her
crap. That's what the Family says. Except not her sisters.
I guess that's all. We're gonna close down this site when we figure
out how.
We tried before. But Arnold's hard disk got wiped out. I don't know how
Aunt
Eunice could do that. But we'll figure it out. So you don't need to post
any
messages here. Ooh, God damn. I got jock itch. I guess I'm gonna put some
cream on it. Well, it's better than warts.
Anyway, have a good one.
Mike
