"The stars are coming out." A man on TV points at a map and says, "After a week of snow, the sky will finally clear up tonight. Colder though, with an overnight low of-2." Cindy Is perched on her bed with a clipboard and a pen. Just like a man; typical conservative Germanized man. What is it that makes them all wear blue suits and red ties with mallard ducks printed on them?
Cindy turns off the TV and settles onto a throw pillow by the window, armed with a flask of Jose and a shining copy of the Norton Anthology. Another worthless piece of literature. Damned fairytales is what they are. Why can’t they write something with a moral? It was the age of reason, you'd think they would have had some. I'll write that essay later. Cindy turns on the radio and throws the anthology over her shoulder. It hits her desk chair, cracking a leg, then crashes loudly on the hardwood floor. "Today on Stardate: Orion Is caught by the Bear over Jupiter. Virgos will experience a short downward spiral until Saturn has moved completely over the Bull." Her cat jumps from his nap up to the chair arm and stifles a hiss at the book.
Old cat, sometimes I think you'd be happier if you had moved out and tried your luck on the streets. Look at your eyes- "Your eyes are all coated in slime, boy, here." Cat fears the approaching finger more than her voice, and slips from his throne, running for the door. Cindy's face reddens slightly in anger. She sits down at her desk. "The industry is dying. Only reason it still exists at all is because tax- deductible-expense-laws make it possible. If you can cover cost, of course." Damn news, I hate news. I wonder how it would be if there were no more news... "First thing to do is get legal, right? Publish your company name in a newspaper, then pay the Government to let you keep it. Good, Now you can pay tax on gross sales." Nothing interesting ever
gets on the news- all politics and war and war. Cindy turns the station. "The Atchafalaya River has been diverting over 1/3 of total sediment loads from the Mississippi for over 150 years. Authorities of the United States Geological Survey believe that New Orleans will be completely submerged before 2010."
Hey Greg, what's shakin'? Yeah, about the same out this way. They said New Orleans is sinking into the Gulf. I think we should go down there this year. Will you be too busy? Oops, late. Gotta go, write back
Cindy puts on her dolphin earrings and looks at the book. The book just lies there, spread across loose floorboards. "The Army Corps of Engineers has been working for years to correct the path of the river, but success varies between slight and none." Cindy shuts off the radio and grabs her jacket. He'll be waiting, I know it. Why doesn't he just come to the door? Too lazy to get out of his truck, I guess. She stammers from her bedroom just as Greg's jeep pulls up her driveway and sputters it's horn. Cat runs sleekly back toward her room, belly to the carpet. "Hey Cat. C'mere you." Cat pauses on the top step and turns his head back to his tail. He stares at Cindy. "Damn thing, you just don't love me at a//, do you?" Cat chirps out a note, as if to say "Hell no," and turns back to his task, sliding past the bar which separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. Cindy is still looking up the stairs, half watching the oil portrait of her grandfather, half waiting for Cat to regress into youth and come to stroke her ankle again, when the horn spits out another cracked note. Cindy throws on her jacket, and walks out to Greg and his jeep.
This jeep scares me. Nothing but burned out Cigarettes, beer cans, and McDonalds bags. "Jesus Greg, why don't you paint this rust heap?"
Greg Ignores It and parries: "I like your sweater." The sweater is pale gold. It has an embroidered picture of Piney Creek Subdivision with a red circle and a line. Below is a picture of a dead opossum, and the words, 'No Smoking'. "What's It mean?"
"It means the sewage is so backed up there that the methane leaks cause fires. It means that Piney Creek is the anti-christ and must be returned to earth." Like this jeep." No bulldozers, just fires. Then hardwood saplings.
"Before the Renaissance, Catholics could buy their way into heaven with cash donations to the Church. Buy their time in Purgatory with indulgences. I bet self-indulgent people buy a lot of stuff they see on TV." Cindy tugs the channel knob on Greg's radio. It snaps and settles silently into her palm.
"They don't follow the bible is what I said. There ain't no crusade no more. Not enough money in it, since the Germans quit paying reparations." Cindy works the knob back on.
Jazz.. classical.. more religion.. "Old Faithful was an hour late for her 8:00 tantrum today. Now more music by a man who has no name. He used to have a name, but now it's just a weird little... well anyway, here we go with 1 in a row and less commercial breaks."
Cindy fastens her seatbelt and looks at the passing skyscrapers. "Greg you need a tape deck. The only thing now that has as much power as the medieval church is TV. Do you think that it dictates human behavior by creating stereotypes for the masses?"
Greg's eyes are bonded with the windshield. He wants to tell her he painted the jeep this morning, but instead, he just stares at the road. "We'll be there in a minute. I saw a cool story on the news.
"This guy Ben, he needs a fix, so he sells his gun to a fence. Turns up later, the gun was used that night to rob a liquor store, and kill Bob, the only witness. Here we are. This place has really good food. They knew he was an addict from the blood samples."
Cindy is still battling It out in her head between TV and religion. "It was the Protestants, though, that told people they didn’t have to go out as much, right? Maybe then, when people got bored, Martin Luther's grandchildren were the ones who invented video reruns."
Grease from Cindy's fingers taints crumbs of breaded fish sticks. She stares intently at her gin & tonic, watching bubbles climb the sides of her glass. What an idiot. You think I don't know you sit at home with your TV and get high. Thinks you're such the storyteller— egocentric— there's no fiction there. Only question is, why do you feel guilty? Not because you lie to me, that's for sure; thinks you're Me is so noble you can make stuff up about it all the time. "Feudalism ended in the Renaissance, Greg. What'd you sell your gun for? You on crack? I thought you said you gave up heroin. Why do you think the guy you sold it to will shoot you?"
"I bought a microphone and a mixer."
"Still think you'll make it in music, huh? You been talking about this since I’ve known you. I keep telling you, Greg, you cant market congas and spun-ceramic Hare-Krishna drums in this county. Too conservative, too mod-deco Brazilian. What are you gonna do, rant and rave about the government over loud, chaotic rhythms? No melodies? It'll never work. Those red-tied bureaucrats love the government, and they got all the money to publish you, market you. The grungsters cant think for themselves. They're just Americans— they only know how to consume, and wonder why they are out and about without purpose."
Greg has pre-planned his response. "It'll work. I laid three poems down on Peter Gabriel's 'Passion' today."
Peter Gabriel? Not even good enough to sample, just steal it straight off? "Are you gonna sing your lyrics, or just ramble on, ad infinatum? Are you gonna give credit to the artists?" You'll never make it in performance art, Greg. You can't hold a conversation for 3 minutes, but you're gonna write songs? Cindy finishes her drink and drops the glass. It shatters on the bar.
As if on cue, lights dim, strobes accelerate. A cocktail waitress comes out with an ax handle, squealing like a pig in south Nevada summer, skin cracked from heat. Some cajunized funk starts blaring, and the bartenders start to Mambo. "You want to dance, Greg?"
"Not tonight, baby. I had a rough day shopping."
Pig. Worthless excuse for a human. "Why do I bother? I'm gonna Mambo. See you tomorrow." A spray of sweat forms on her forehead- a reflex from her sarcasm toward Greg. It pushes back her curled, black hair. Greg sits on his stool feigning deafness, wiping the sweat from his glass. Just like a man. Sports and an attitude.
In the final round, Cindy leans back too far and falls on her butt, crashing loudly on the hardwood floor. I never could Mambo, damn. The winner gets a $10, second place gets a rubber slug. What should I want with that? 10 bucks is enough for a taxi.
"Okay Cindy- second prize, come get your slug!" The bartender is prancing across the dance floor, waving the slug up and down like a dragon kite. Cindy walks
over and snatches the slug. At least it's not slimy, too much realism can make a woman sick.
Cindy puts the slug in her pocket and looks at Greg. He's watching the hockey game, and beating his fist on the bar. Cindy's eyes say what a loser, but Greg doesn't see them. He is engrossed in the game. Only his twitching hand reveals that she has affected him at all. He shoots a glare at the bartender, pounds his bottle, grabs his coat, and walks out. The bartender just stands there with a glass and a towel, watching the crowd.
A hand strokes Cindy's shoulder. She jumps. "Sorry. You need a new drink, here." She turns just in time to receive the glass that he is pressing against her hand. "Gin & Tonic? I asked the bartender. Want to dance? Your boyfriend left you here."
If this guy's a good dancer, fuck Greg. I don't really care about him anyway. We've only been together 4 months. What does he think I need him for? This guy'll give me a ride home, too. "You been watchin' me all night? You're a good dancer. Do you like this band?"
Thanks. Actually, I just noticed you at Mambo, but you were watching him pretty close. You look preoccupied. What's your name?" A TV in the comer shows a big hand-drawn steak with a hairy butcher massacring it. At the base of the screen are the words,
"Startling new animation on Night Flight. Tonight after the bars close."
"What makes you think he's my boyfriend? I was just looking at that television. You hungry? Take me home and I'll cook you some spaghetti. Homemade sauce?" Cindy smiles, and he stiffens with hunger.
"You only dance with me to scam a ride home. Are you a tramp? My name's Bob."
"Cindy, and I'm not a tramp. Come on, Ben." Cindy turns and walks out the door.
Bob and Cindy enter her apartment. Cindy heads for the kitchen side to cook. She turns her head just enough to catch a blurred glimpse of Bob standing behind her, and says, "Make yourself at home, Ben." Bob nods and blinks, then heads straight for
the couch and remote control. Cindy comes back across the spread after a few minutes, serves his food, and excuses herself. She goes back to her pillow.
Dear Greg what's shakin? Sitting here with Wallace (that's my pillow,) thought I'd give you a buzz. I think I will start my own business. AH I need to do Is publish a name and pay a fee. Then I can publish my recipes for spaghetti sauce. What do you think?
write back
Cat sits huddled In the comer, paws wrapped fully around a catnip mouse and glowers at Cindy. "Not in the mood?" Cat's tail hovers 1 inch from the floor, fur spiked out in excitement. Cindy gets up from her desk and rubs the frost from her only window. icicles hover outside smearing a walnut tree. The streetlight has been burned out for months, so the ice can only reflect light from the living room. Not too artistic, or beautiful, but that's what I get for being raised in a city.
Cindy brushes her hair, then heads for the door. Cat flies past her and runs ahead. "Silly cat. Just 'cause I teach you vanity you fear me. It's not so bad to took so good." She skips back out toward Bob.
Bob's eyes glance up from their passive existence of food and TV. He says "you look good," then returns to a man pushing a "new aerobic weight set, better because of it's special, patented waist strap which vastly improves body stability." Cat lashes his claws at Bob's leg, drawing blood. Bob turns to swat back, but Cat has already run past the carpet. Cindy watches him cross to the kitchen. Bob's left hand has become engaged to Cindy's spaghetti. There is a snap outside the front door, and Cindy moves back to the bedroom. The noise persists. A shadow flinches outside. Bob turns up the TV with his thumb, and glances back at the door. "Spring loaded action system condenses fifty pounds to a half-turn of this dial." Bob looks at the TV. The window shatters and a hand reaches in, opening the front door. Cat runs back from the kitchen toward the door, attempting his escape. Bob draws his gun, and fires two shots Into the door. Greg opens the door wider as he falls, and crashes loudly on top of Cat. Cat's squawk is cut short as Greg's body engulfs him. Greg tries to get up, falls back, and spits at Cindy, "I knew you'd bring some guy back here." "Studies have shown that people who exercise regularly have lowered risk of heart attacks." Bob panics. He leaps over Greg, but Greg grabs his heel. Bob falls on top of Greg's left leg, which snaps. "There is truly no better product on this earth to make you stronger and trim that weight. And you can order now by phone!" Bob hammers Greg's face with the butt of his gun. Greg lets go of his leg, and Bob sprints off into the street. "Call now." An Eldorado swerves, but still hits him. Bob's body flies across the sidewalk and hits a tree. Inside, Greg moans twice then passes out, dead. "That's 1-800-BE-TOUGH. Call now." Ambulance sirens approach. A few minutes pass before Cindy's left eye appears in the bedroom door. "First 100 orders will receive free, this VHS-recorder by Audiovox."
Two doctors enter, look at Greg and the cat's tail, and tell Cindy someone will call. They pack up Greg and Cat in plastic bags and walk out.
I can't go to the funeral, it overlaps my aerobics class. Too much conflict. She turns on the radio. "More bombing in Israel, and school closings coming up, but first, Nathan Renwald, notorious book extraordinaire, will show us how to market an autobiography." Cindy kicks the radio from it's roost with a swift roundhouse and sits down at her desk with a pen. The icicles drip a steady chorus. "Hey, Cat! You furry shit, why wont you play with me? Because you didn't like Ben? Forget him, he was just a ride home." She takes a few swigs from her flask, and starts to write.
"Lawrence uses dramatic irony to express his opinions about money in "The Rocking-Horse Winner." The fact that Lawrence does not believe...."
Cindy looks at the radio. It coughs two sparks of remittance, then lies there, feigning death. A tattered copy of the Norton Anthology lies next to it, still sprawled over loose floorboards. Cindy grabs a clean sheet of paper.
Dear Greg what's shakin? Here's this, and two from Thursday. Just over here doing homework right now. I think I'll write my autobiography and sell it in my company, too. How about that? I'm glad we're broke up now, because I need more time to work, and you base your fife too much on TV, anyhow. Poetic justice, right. See ya.
Love, Cindy
Cindy puts all three letters in one envelope, seals it, and tosses it into her desk drawer, filled with sealed envelopes.