"Here." Lee's arm snaked past her head and dropped a white paper bag on the kitchen table, thud.
"Not on my papers!" She pushed the bag to a clear spot, then picked it up and looked inside, curious about its weight and feel. "Donuts?" She turned to Lee, rummaging in the fridge. "You know I'm trying to fit into that dress." She jiggled the bottom of the bag, looking at the contents.
"I was driving past and couldn't help myself. That place is so good you don't even need to smell the grease to be chummed in." He put the carton of orange juice and two mismatched glasses down, gave her a smack on the forehead before taking the bag and upending it onto a plate.
They sat there examining the pile of sugar- and grease-infused carb packets. The classic glazed, a twist, cake donuts covered in chocolate frosting and Christmas-colored jimmies, the red oozing out of a smushed jelly donut, a handful of holes, a craggy old-fashioned. He poured them each a glass of juice.
She licked the glaze off her thumb and picked up a second donut. "Where did you say you were this morning?"
Lee stuffed half a twist in his mouth. "Terra Linda, baby, Terra Linda."
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Beer and Fish Flakes
I'm sitting slumped in a chair, work clothes still on, with a beer in one hand and the paper in another. Catpants is whining. Favor-r-r-r-r.
"What? I'm reading the paper."
Favor-r-r-r-r. When she whines her meow takes on a gutteral quality, like when a slightly-crimped car door is opened. I turn the page with a theatrical flair. She knows the routine: dinner, the paper, then we play, even though I've broken the rules today and tossed her some cork-screwed twist-ties to chase across the hardwood floor.
"I'm reading." I turn another page, studiously examine the newsprint, though I'm not really reading it. I look at her out of the corner of my eye as she keeps it up, her creaky attempts to sway me to do her bidding. She's staring at the bookcase. Why?
Somebody has left the fish food on the top shelf. Catpants stares at the little plastic tub of flakes, turns to look at me, whines, her body rocking forward as she squeezes out the sound. Favor-r-r-r-r. Please.
The fish food is supposed to be locked up out of sight in a cabinet. This is in addition to the folded piece of paper wedge that prevents the cats from repeatedly opening the aquarium-stand door and letting it slam shut; the nailed-to-the-wall and off the-counter basket of tasty rubber bands; the plastic tarp that keeps the hanks of hair they pull off one another from adhering to the blankets; and the sports equipment stored high, high overhead.
Somebody left the fish food out last night, too, and 'Pants spent a long time incessantly whining and crying for somebody, somebody!, to please please please give her some fish food, by the gods of the little white bear Bimbo, anybody! The same somebody who left it in view to begin with broke down and did, and that stopped the fussing—until the lights went out and Catpants figured she could better make an assault on the fish-food tub under cover of darkness. Claws frantically scrabbling on plastic, imitation-wood veneer and books hitting the floor does not make it easy to sleep.
She doesn't do this for Fancy Feast or giblets or Tempations or even tuna juice. Sure, open the bag of corn chips and she's right there for her share, but the histrionics, my god, she saves that for the Spectrum and the AquaDine and the algae wafers that are supposed to be for the otocinclus.
Favor-r-r-r-r. Christ. I put the paper down and get up. As soon as she sees what I'm about she shuts up and goes rigid, staring staring staring at the promise in my hand.
"Here." I put a small pile of flakes on the table and pick her up to see. "Now let me finish my beer in peace."
"What? I'm reading the paper."
Favor-r-r-r-r. When she whines her meow takes on a gutteral quality, like when a slightly-crimped car door is opened. I turn the page with a theatrical flair. She knows the routine: dinner, the paper, then we play, even though I've broken the rules today and tossed her some cork-screwed twist-ties to chase across the hardwood floor.
"I'm reading." I turn another page, studiously examine the newsprint, though I'm not really reading it. I look at her out of the corner of my eye as she keeps it up, her creaky attempts to sway me to do her bidding. She's staring at the bookcase. Why?
Somebody has left the fish food on the top shelf. Catpants stares at the little plastic tub of flakes, turns to look at me, whines, her body rocking forward as she squeezes out the sound. Favor-r-r-r-r. Please.
The fish food is supposed to be locked up out of sight in a cabinet. This is in addition to the folded piece of paper wedge that prevents the cats from repeatedly opening the aquarium-stand door and letting it slam shut; the nailed-to-the-wall and off the-counter basket of tasty rubber bands; the plastic tarp that keeps the hanks of hair they pull off one another from adhering to the blankets; and the sports equipment stored high, high overhead.
Somebody left the fish food out last night, too, and 'Pants spent a long time incessantly whining and crying for somebody, somebody!, to please please please give her some fish food, by the gods of the little white bear Bimbo, anybody! The same somebody who left it in view to begin with broke down and did, and that stopped the fussing—until the lights went out and Catpants figured she could better make an assault on the fish-food tub under cover of darkness. Claws frantically scrabbling on plastic, imitation-wood veneer and books hitting the floor does not make it easy to sleep.
She doesn't do this for Fancy Feast or giblets or Tempations or even tuna juice. Sure, open the bag of corn chips and she's right there for her share, but the histrionics, my god, she saves that for the Spectrum and the AquaDine and the algae wafers that are supposed to be for the otocinclus.
Favor-r-r-r-r. Christ. I put the paper down and get up. As soon as she sees what I'm about she shuts up and goes rigid, staring staring staring at the promise in my hand.
"Here." I put a small pile of flakes on the table and pick her up to see. "Now let me finish my beer in peace."
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The Best Ever
We haven't had a theme for a scratch fiction attack in some months...so here you go if you're so inclined.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Bummer.
His Royal Highness the King of Tonga is apparently making up for budgetary shortfalls by jacking up the rates for a Tongan domain. So I'm fishing around for a new one. And look what I caught! Totally unusable, like an old shoe or a piece of concrete on my hook, but so very interesting. Would make a great tombstone.
His Royal Highness the King of Tonga is apparently making up for budgetary shortfalls by jacking up the rates for a Tongan domain. So I'm fishing around for a new one. And look what I caught! Totally unusable, like an old shoe or a piece of concrete on my hook, but so very interesting. Would make a great tombstone.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Kelly Garrett
"...and a bag of Fritos."
The woman fiddled with the bag, crinkling and fussing with it. Did she even eat the chips or only soothe herself with the cellophane-like texture and sound of the bag?
A bar is a bar is a bar, even in California, and a woman sitting at the bar usually has a story to tell.
Patrons in puffy nylon clumped in and out, easing into chairs, smiling over beers or red-cheeked faces turned to the college game on the corner TV. Only the occasional whine of a snowmobile penetrated the glass and wood walls.
A white sweater, fashionably short in the midriff, jeans, white high heels, sitting on a white parka draped over the barstool. Curly brown hair and jewelry. She manipulated the Frito's bag with her raccoon paws.
"How do you say 'Carrie' in Portuguese?" What? The barmaid turned to the woman with the same question.
"How do you say 'Carrie' in Portuguese?" Crinkle, crinkle.
"Uh, 'c-a-r-e'?"
"No, the name. My name. C-A-R-R-I-E. Carrie."
"Oh. We say 'Carrie'."
"That's it? I thought it would be different. Something different."
The TV above the bar had America's Next Top Model, no sound.
The barmaids spoke Portuguese to each other, turned to the woman on the barstool.
"You're not skiing?"
She swiveled a bit on the stool, smiled. Was she eating the chips or not? "Oh, I skied this morning, a couple of runs, but I got tired. I used to come up here all the time and ski all day. But my boyfriend passed away this year and, I don't know, I got tired and came in here.
"Where can I catch the bus back to Truckee? I just don't feel much like skiing today. My boyfriend and I used to ski together, but he passed away last year, and I just don't have the heart for it anymore."
The barmaid leaned on the bar and pointed with a long, softly-brown arm across the parking lot. "You catch it there. The next one is 2:40," not even looking at the clock, knowing, "but you can leave here at 2:37, just there on the corner." She stood back, crossing her smooth arms under her chest. "Don't stand out in the cold to wait. Wait until you see the bus go into Sugar Bowl. It will make a loop and come back and you catch it on the corner."
She never ordered a drink, just watched the tv and out the window. Over a commercial she turned to me. "Charlie's Angels—do you remember that show? I named my daughter after one of the angels." I couldn't hear what she said; something about Jaclyn Smith, then it was back to Tyra Banks and her own world.
The bus took her back to Truckee. She left a dollar-fifty and the unopened bag of Fritos on the bar.
The woman fiddled with the bag, crinkling and fussing with it. Did she even eat the chips or only soothe herself with the cellophane-like texture and sound of the bag?
A bar is a bar is a bar, even in California, and a woman sitting at the bar usually has a story to tell.
Patrons in puffy nylon clumped in and out, easing into chairs, smiling over beers or red-cheeked faces turned to the college game on the corner TV. Only the occasional whine of a snowmobile penetrated the glass and wood walls.
A white sweater, fashionably short in the midriff, jeans, white high heels, sitting on a white parka draped over the barstool. Curly brown hair and jewelry. She manipulated the Frito's bag with her raccoon paws.
"How do you say 'Carrie' in Portuguese?" What? The barmaid turned to the woman with the same question.
"How do you say 'Carrie' in Portuguese?" Crinkle, crinkle.
"Uh, 'c-a-r-e'?"
"No, the name. My name. C-A-R-R-I-E. Carrie."
"Oh. We say 'Carrie'."
"That's it? I thought it would be different. Something different."
The TV above the bar had America's Next Top Model, no sound.
The barmaids spoke Portuguese to each other, turned to the woman on the barstool.
"You're not skiing?"
She swiveled a bit on the stool, smiled. Was she eating the chips or not? "Oh, I skied this morning, a couple of runs, but I got tired. I used to come up here all the time and ski all day. But my boyfriend passed away this year and, I don't know, I got tired and came in here.
"Where can I catch the bus back to Truckee? I just don't feel much like skiing today. My boyfriend and I used to ski together, but he passed away last year, and I just don't have the heart for it anymore."
The barmaid leaned on the bar and pointed with a long, softly-brown arm across the parking lot. "You catch it there. The next one is 2:40," not even looking at the clock, knowing, "but you can leave here at 2:37, just there on the corner." She stood back, crossing her smooth arms under her chest. "Don't stand out in the cold to wait. Wait until you see the bus go into Sugar Bowl. It will make a loop and come back and you catch it on the corner."
She never ordered a drink, just watched the tv and out the window. Over a commercial she turned to me. "Charlie's Angels—do you remember that show? I named my daughter after one of the angels." I couldn't hear what she said; something about Jaclyn Smith, then it was back to Tyra Banks and her own world.
The bus took her back to Truckee. She left a dollar-fifty and the unopened bag of Fritos on the bar.
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