THE PARALLEL PATHS OF YALE AND ARLO

2. On and On and On

An "Arlo" Story

by Brian Hughes

It’s a brisk and clear winter’s evening in New York City. Patients are being picked up and dropped off in wheel chairs outside New York Presbyterian Hospital. A man of slight build, unkempt black hair and bushy dark beard, sits on a bench just outside the main entrance – sobbing. This man of thirty years is Arlo. He rests his head in his two hands, and with elbows resting on his knees, lets the tears flow; with shoulders bouncing up and down, Arlo tries to catch his breath as passersby gawk; and just when Arlo thinks he has pushed out his last tear, more come – unexpectedly.
The scene keeps playing itself over and over again in his mind: how many times did his mother-in-law say it, with that winning smirk:
“It doesn’t matter … because if something happened to Noa, that would be the end of me Arlo. You wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of me. I’d swallow all the pills down right away.”
“Mom! Stop that! You’re nuts,” he remembers Noa saying, in what seems like a film of someone else’s life; because what is happening right now, this suffering, can’t really be happening.

***************************************************

Some of the best times he and Noa shared together were the glorious days of nothingness in their spacious one bedroom apartment. Arlo thrived on doing nothing; it was a trait he took advantage of and deplored in himself.
Waking up, they would stay in bed a little longer, dreaming about the children they hoped to have, volleying possible names back and forth:
“I’ve always loved ‘Hayden’ as a boy or girl name: What do you think of it?” Noa asks, as Arlo happily rubs a callous spot on the bottom of her foot – a spot that – when scratched – brings her enormous pleasure.
“I see Hayden as a girl’s name … it’s feminine. I just don’t see it as a boy’s name. ‘Hank’ – now that is a masculine name! That is one tough son-of-a-bitch.”
“Sounds like he spends his days hugging a beer in some dive bar. Awful. I should cut my hair: Is it getting too long?”
“No – it looks fabulous, what are you talking about?” Arlo says as her runs both his hands through.
“Shit – we have to pay bills tonight Sleepy.”
Noa called Arlo “Sleepy;” it was her nickname for him. Noa playfully envied Arlo’s ability to go to sleep at the drop of a dime – anytime, any place - while Noa fractured her sleep, mostly getting up to pee three or four times each morning.
Noa and Arlo are lying side by side, holding hands and staring at the ceiling as if it were a canvas in which they could paint their hopes. Arlo happily admits to himself that it feels good to finally feel like an adult when it came to his finances, his new friendships, his job, and especially his soul; it was a long time coming, and Arlo feels it’s finally okay to feel good about it – to bask in it’s well earned glory.
“You’ve done this for me, Noa. Since I have met you, I feel as if the shackles of bachelor-hood, of fear, have been blown right off. I look forward to fatherhood, to the challenges, and I look forward to sharing them with you.”
“Aw … Sleepy …”
Arlo feels child-like, hugging Noa a little further down, snuggled inside her, her arms around his shoulders. There is a security of content there he has never quite enjoyed nor known before.
“What are we going to do today?” Noa asks.
“You mean other than bills?”
“Well, yeah …”
“Absolutely nothing of consequence. We should just stay in, order in, the weather is shitty, watch a DVD, play backgammon, do some reading, catch up on some shit – you know, all of that: What about it? Does that sit well?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
There is a lot Arlo has to do. He desperately needs to catch up on some writing, clean up the bathroom, do the laundry; but after all the years of doing nothing and feeling guilty about it, there is very little guilt now, for in these moments in time, he is sharing the nothing with someone special.

*******************************************

Karen, Noa’s sister, is sitting at her mom’s hospital bedside, as Arlo enters the room. The onslaught of tears have washed the makeup from her wrinkled face. Both sets of eyes are red and swollen. Arlo stands against the wall, one sweatpant leg crossed in front of the other, staring at his mother-in-law, as she fights each breath. Neither acknowledges the other visually.
“Doesn’t she love me? Am I not worth living for?” Karen just stares hard at her mom, who has all sorts of tubes coming out of her. “She has grandchildren who want her in their lives and she goes and swallows these pills ; am I supposed to lose a sister and a mom?” Karen starts to sob, clutching to her damp handkerchief. Arlo embraces her around the shoulders. “What are we going to do without Noa? What are we going to do, Arlo? It’s so painful. I never imagined my baby sister would go before me - and with all my health issues. Why Noa? Why? Why? Why? Why?” Karen buries her face in Arlo’s tan corduroy jacket.
“I can’t think - my mind is just blank. I never realized life could be this sad. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Noa either,” Arlo says, unable to hold back his tears. “I waited so long to find her and she is gone like that. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I just don’t know what I am going to do,” Arlo says, energy fully depleted. Tank empty and gone, caressing Karen’s head.
“It’s not fair, I want her back. I want my sister back. It’s not fair…”
“It isn’t, I want her back to. It’s so painful.”
Arlo kneels down and embraces his sister-in-law, both breaking down, as machines click and beep and a game show host dole out the prizes on a small television hanging off the wall.

*********************************************

An 80s station is playing some classic tunes. Arlo sits on the floor in front of the couch – staring off – sobbing, sniffling, snot pouring forth. He wipes his face and nose on his t-shirt. He doesn’t give a rats’ ass about anything right now. Nothing gets in the way of the overwhelming numbness of loss: late bills can’t disturb it, his passion to finish his book is as helpful as used toilet paper; not even music, a faithful brother to Arlo in distressed times his whole life, can ease the ache that pains his heart.
The phone rings – threatening to wake him to his present reality – but he wants nothing of it, throwing a shoe and knocking it from the stand. Fuck the phone. Fuck everyone. Death to everyone! Arlo does not care anymore - for Noa is gone. He is having trouble remembering all the times they shared together, many joyous occasions; the specifics, the particulars, have faded, and this angers him – punching the rug with his fist.
“There will never, ever be anything like Noa Needleman. She will not grace this earth again and I can’t bare it. It was all so original. How her unique quirkiness brightened up the room. Man … so many people loved her. So many. All of them are in pain tonight, but not like my pain. It could never be like my pain."

**********************************************

Noa is sitting on the floor of their dining room, in her favorite pajamas, sorting through milk crates of presents from her “gift closet.”
“When are you going to stop buying presents for people? At some point, I think, you have to start giving them out,” Arlo says. “There is actual dust on them.”
“I know … I know … I have a problem,” Noa says with a smile, “whenever I see a cheapy gift that I know suits one of my friends, I have to pick it up for them.”
“Then you forget you have them!”
“I know! I’m such a spaz!”
“You’re my spaz, and I wouldn’t want you any other way,” Arlo says as he gets down on the floor and hugs her around, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead.”
“Thank you Sleepy.”
“I can’t keep from kissing you, especially in those precious pajama’s of yours.”
“A elf came up to me today and said that you were going to rub my feet tonight; is that true?”
“That elf must be reading my mail.”
Noa gives a big, goofy smile – the one Arlo fell in love with at The Bowery Ballroom three years back.
“Yes of course I will rub your cute little feet, Arlo says”
Noa applauds rapidly and smiles.

****************************************************

Rabbi Ableman talks from his desk at The Little Israel Synagogue:
“The Jewish way of dealing with death is one part of a larger philosophy of life in which all persons are viewed with dignity and respect. Our people believe that, even after death, the body, which once held a holy human life, retains its sanctity. Our sages have compared the sacredness of the deceased to that of an impaired Torah scroll which, although no longer useable, retains its holiness. In Jewish tradition, therefore, the greatest consideration and respect are accorded the dead. Jewish funerals avoid ostentation; family and visitors reflect in dress and deportment the solemnity of the occasion; flowers and music are inappropriate; embalming and viewing are avoided; and interment takes place as soon as possible after death.”
“So what you are saying is that I can’t bury her with her favorite stuffed animal and with her favorite sweater, and her two favorite albums and..” Arlo begins to become fraught.
“Calm down, Arlo …” Karen says.
“Jewish law prescribes burial in plain white shrouds to demonstrate the equality of all.”
“Noa, as far as I’m concerned, was not equaled with anyone. She was completely and entirely individual, and the world will never see her like again!”
“We accept our equality and humility in the face of death. Thus, we avoid ostentation and adhere to the same simplicity and dignity for the rich and the poor, the influential and the powerless, the famous and the little known. We face death without masquerade son. The hallmark of our practice is dust to dust.”
“Please don’t make this more difficult than it is, Arlo,” Karen says.
“Then why don’t we cremate her.”
“Bite your tongue!” replies Karen.
“It is against Jewish custom to desecrate the body,” the Rabbi says. |
“But what if I have it in writing that she wants to be cremated?”
“She never said she wanted to be cremated! Stop this right now Arlo! We are having a traditional, Jewish burial and that is it.”
“When was the last time you were in a synagogue? Huh? In all the time I was married with Noa, the only time she went to temple was because of circumstances that were not her own. This whole thing is a sham. No one in your immediate family is religious.”
“Rabbi, would you please excuse us.”
“I hope you’re not planning on burying her on Long Island. I strictly forbid it! Noa despised Long Island.”
Karen and Arlo storm out onto the sidewalk.
“Why are you being a pain in the ass? Aren’t we suffering enough?”
“I don’t want to disrespect Noa. She wanted to be cremated …”
“It’s not happening Arlo – get it out of your mind.”
“I will find it, and if she has it in writing, you won’t have a leg to stand on. A leg to stand on!”
“Aren’t we in enough pain? Are you paying for all of this? Who is?”
“I have Noa’s bank account and I can pay for it all myself.”
“Arlo, be reasonable. Noa was bot mitzvah’d. She wanted to put your kids through Hebrew school. She has a strong Jewish side and it will not be denied.”
“I will find it in writing. I will find where she wrote it down. I will.”
“You’re a shit, you know that? A real shit.”
Karen briskly walks back into the synagogue.
“I can’t do this. I can’t make it. I can’t go on without Noa. I can’t. I don’t have the strength,” Arlo says as he crouches at curbside and begins crying.

******************************************

Arlo walks into their apartment and drops his bag. The welcoming lights of the apartment house across the way beckons him. He keeps the lights killed. Grabbing his binoculars out of the dresser drawer, he zeros in on some locals, carrying on with their lives. I doubt any of these people are suffering through the pain I am right now, while they read their books and do dishes and fumble through laundry bags. I could really use a pair of tits right now. I need a woman to come out of a bathroom completely naked, thinks Arlo as he passes from one window to the next with his voyeur glasses. I will stand here, I will wait, for I have nothing to do, and I have nowhere to go. I am here, with nothing to do, with nothing to love, with nothing to receive love. I am an empty, full-bodied vacuum waiting on you to show me your fucking goods. Come out now, out of your bathrooms, out of your bedrooms, and expose your flesh to me. The real me is the me standing before this window, clutching his cock, waiting for you to disrobe before my binocular eyes.
And then the voice on top of the voice says: how can you engage in this mindless, callous activity, when you have suffered an unspeakable loss? Have you no soul? Arlo drops the binoculars at his side and clutches his face with his hands; a guttural yell follows as he drops his body onto the couch.
The apartment, every corner, contains a memory, a story, every frame and hook: There is the framed Ketubah commemorating their blessed wedding, the tall cd tower from which they plucked the music that soundtracked their lives together; and the tiny, Fisher Price figures created to look exactly like Robert Smith and The Cure, along with the unstable banister that Arlo was just too lazy to fix. I don’t want anything to do with a funeral, with anything, with anything at all. I just want to go, leave – be where no one knows my pain, where I can perhaps start over. How can I start over? She has sustained me and now she is gone. What am I to do? What? Arlo clutches the throw pillow to his face, dampening it with his tears. I have to find where she wrote about being cremated. Yes. I have to do that, there is no time left.
Arlo begins with the small alcove that acted as her home office: spiral notebooks and folders containing receipts, bill stubs, newspaper clippings; Arlo looks through them all, flipping page after page, scanning – nothing. He lifts up pads, looking behind books, sifting through post it notes attached to the wall – nowhere. He turns, feels for his chin, and remembers the lock box she had. He is sure her wishes are stowed away in that little metal box, but where is it? Arlo looks under the bed first, knowing full well it would never be under there. He snatches the step stool and climbs up into the upper shelves of her clothes closet, pushing and parting t-shirts with his hands – scouring behind Noa’s fetish for shoe boots.
I don’t want to be near anyone I know; I know that is selfish, but my heart hurts so bad, that I just want to be in a room alone for as long as it takes – like a withdrawal. I keep playing in my head the moments when she knew she was going to die, that I couldn’t be there to protect her, to hold her, die for her, with her. I don’t know how I am going to deal with me being alive and Noa not being alive. I don’t believe I have the courage to kill myself – maybe. It’s so painful. I just feel as if I’ve been squeezed into this tiny cage of pain, unable to move my arms or legs. I don’t know what to do. I weep openly in public; it is uncontrollable.
And everything is happening so fast – so fucking fast! A few days ago we were talking about what we would name our children, and now I have no plans, no wife, no nothing at all. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. I would rather slowly suffer on the electric chair than have to endure this.
Arlo pulls on the mattress and lets it slip to the carpet – nothing under there. Next the box spring, tearing into the fabric, he finds nothing inside, underneath or around it. He cries. He has destroyed the box spring. Now he has no bed. Great.
In the cupboards above the microwave, Arlo pulls down the can of peas, the boxes of pasta to get behind them, searching, the sauce shattering glass and red stuff on the linoleum: couscous thrown over his shoulder, and walnuts and vegetable oil. Nowhere in the cupboards does Arlo find a document stating Noa wanted to be cremated.
With a roar, and one arm, he lays to waste the dining room table, with its glass vase and dieing flowers, bills, dirty food plates and yellow stickies with important information scrawled all over. It’s over, nothing lasts, the fruit tree, the vase, Noa, nor the apartment. It all dies, it all suffers and hurts, and Arlo is going to have his physical say with whatever stands in his way.
Does it say anything about cremation on the orange plastic bottles in the medicine cabinet? No – well, trashed to the floor it goes. The toilet seat, the medicine cabinet, nor the mirror is spared Arlo’s brutality, as he smashes a bottle of perfume against it.
Taking a kitchen knife to the fluffy, forest-green couch, he searches the inner lining for his answer and comes up with nothing still.
And by the end of two hours, Arlo sits a defeated soul, bereft of Noa, yet left with all the materials of everyday life shattered and collapsed around him.

*********************************************************

Mourners pay their respect by sitting Shiva with Arlo and the rest of he and Noa’s immediate family. They all eat solemnly, mirrors covered up - while Arlo stares off on autopilot, thanking mindlessly those whom have paid their call. He has no desire to head back to work, to be a “sad story” amongst his co-workers, friends and acquaintances. All he wants is to just be a satellite gliding through vast space, not stopping anywhere – circling, drifting. That is his only desire right now.
Maybe I have to go against my core beliefs, he thinks, watching mourners mourn, but not really mourning; perhaps I have to start believing in heaven. Maybe, just maybe it is true. Maybe I’ll see her again there.


Arlo finds himself standing upon the broken steps that lead to the gymnasium of his old Catholic grammar school. A graveled parking lot stretches out behind him. Blue, red and green lights shoot through the crack in the large, metal gym doors, as pop music thumps beyond. Opening the doors, Arlo finds a school social in full swing: seventh and eight graders dancing about, drinking punch, playing practical jokes on one another, and standing mystified before the DJ. Arlo walks the perimeter of the gym, just like he did in the old days – forever a wallflower. It doesn’t shock him at all that he’s walked right into his past, with Ronald Jefferies hanging out with Billy Taben, and the ever popular Jamie Reynolds dancing with sweet Clara Delfinio; and the hall monitors, who were probably mostly dead by now, watching over everything. Miss Scoyak is there – the first teacher Arlo was ever hot for. And the look on Arlo’s face is one of marvel, as he crosses his arms and stands in the shadow, watching all his old classmates dancing with goofy determination. And little Arlo, chubby and self conscious, hangs with a few of his other nervous buddies, happy not to get involved, yet deeply yearning to be popular, to be dancing with the cute girls. Arlo can hardly look at his younger version without squirming. What a site? But on this night, little Arlo will get his chance to be popular for just a little while.
Noa – in her ever graceful, adult form, walks to the center of the dance floor, arms outstretched – beckoning the young tyke to step forward. Little Arlo suddenly has very little fear, as he slowly saunters toward her arms. It’s impossible for little Arlo to envision anyone prettier in the whole entire world. With just a few feet between them, little Arlo leaps forward and allows himself to be enveloped by her comforting arms. A peaceful smile arises on Noa’s face, trying to hold back tears as she smooths the younger Arlo’s hair.
“It seems we stood and talked like this once before,” cries little Arlo.
“It’s going to be okay … shhhhh … it’s going to be okay, Arlo,” Noa says, little Arlo sniffling and squeezing and crying little tears. “You’ll be okay. It’s going to be fine. Shhhh.”
Arlo’s fellow students spread out, grab each other’s hands, and circle the couple, caroling them to a Neil Young ballad.

Read part 1 (a "Yale" Story) - Designed To Die here

THE PARALLEL PATHS OF YALE AND ARLO

1. Designed To Die

A "Yale" Story

by Brian Hughes

“This is a real show stopper folks: high, tin ceilings, fluted plaster cornices, pocket doors, raised-panel wood accents, etched glass, custom window treatments, and gleaming pine and hardwood floors,” says a snazzy dressed real estate agent, wearing suspenders and Tom Ford glasses.

“Is there central air and heating throughout?” asks a twenty-something prospective buyer, as he and several couples are escorted around an elegant, pre-war brownstone, on the Upper West Side, New York City.
“Yes, in fact, it’s a relatively new central air and heating system. Let me escort you to the second floor,” says the broker as he guides them up the staircase. “As you’ll see, we have a huge, master suite with skylights, ceiling fan, recessed lighting, his and her California closets, and a full bath with a deep whirlpool tub with separate shower.” The couples nod and smile in approval as the broker opens the master bedroom door. The prospective buyers look on in puzzlement: a mirror and bureau adjacent to the king size bed, has been converted to a makeshift shrine, accented by framed photos, burning candles, incense and two, stuffed toy gorillas. The focal point of the shrine is a middle-age woman with tight, red curls and a slab of gray hair. The broker begins to close the door. “Well, that was the master bedroom, and as you can see …”
“Excuse me, Sir, but I’d like to take a look inside the master bedroom,” says another potential buyer, a gentleman wearing an ascot.
“Why, of course.”
The gentleman walks in. Couples follow behind him. They peruse the spacious bedroom. A preppie resembling a “Kennedy” opens a double-swing door. An avalanche of stuffed, toy gorillas fall to his feet. A few giggles are heard.
“It’s awfully cold and musty: Did someone die in this room?” the gentleman with the ascots asks, pointing toward the shrine.
“No. Not in this house. No,” says the broker, looking down at his watch.
A young woman, flush with rosy cheeks, round, pleasant eyes, and wide hips, makes her way into the master kitchen. She is embarrassed to find a thin man stirring sauce at the stove.
“Oh! Excuse me … I am sorry. I should have known someone was in here. My nose led the way.” The man doesn’t look at her, but carefully sprinkles oregano while churning the sauce. Slash-mouthed with high cheekbones, the man seems entirely unapproachable and morose. Around his waist is tied an apron saying “Margo’s Kitchen.” Unable to get any type of response, the prospective buyer looks about the kitchen, “Do you live here?”
The man turns his head, and with swollen, blood-shot eyes, says, “Can you please direct all your inquisitions to the real estate broker. That’s what I pay him for. Now – if you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh … okay … yes, I’m sorry,” says the rotund woman as she backs out of the kitchen. The man picks up a clear, plastic baggy and scoops out a fine, powdery, gray substance with a teaspoon and dabbles it inside the sauce. He stares after it as it falls.

**********************************************************

The broker walks into the kitchen, hands in pocket. The young man eats his pasta and carefully reads The Bhagavad-Gita.
“Hey, Yale.” Yale refuses to look up. “Could you do me a favor? Is it at all possible to act less strange?”
This gets Yale’s attention.
“We are trying to sell this wonderful brownstone, Yale. 4 million dollars, do you understand? I need your help. Potential buyers are getting creeped out.”
“Do your job,” Yale says with menace.
“Could you please remove the shrine for the next open house?”
Yale stands, sauce on his mouth. “I am suffering! What is your excuse? I will suffer and mourn as I see fit. You conduct your job as you see fit. Don’t tell me how to mourn. You do your job, and I’ll do mine!”
“Okay, Yale. All right. Just asking for a little help. Forget it. I’ll call you tomorrow.” The broker storms out of the kitchen

*********************************************************

Yale sits upright and with straight posture on a bar stool in front of a Maggiolini style round table. He crazy glues into place a series of Star Trek, Franklin Mint, glass chess pieces onto the board with delicacy. They are becoming frozen in mid play. Yale stares down at the pieces but is slowly losing composure. His hands begin to quiver as tears begin to well up in his eyes. He places his hands at the side of the stool and grips on tightly as if he were going to be propelled into the air. A smattering of horns are heard in the distance, but the lonely chill of the townhouse shatters out the cacophonic world as Yale screams:
“How could you … you …? Fuck! How could you? You make a move and … and … and you fall over – and that’s it? This is how all our memories and love ends? In a flash you bitch! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!!! Yale shakes the stool from both sides as it tips over, sending Yale to the floor. He lifts the stool, and throws it into a mirror, making a thousand pieces of it. He slams the walls with open palms, “Cunt, fuck, cunt, fuck, cunt, fuck, motherfucker!!!” Yale kicks the wall, then crumbles against it, face buried in his open hands. His tears and runny nose garble his words: “You would just never listen … to me, to anyone … you just couldn’t live right …”

*********************************************************

Yale walks carefully down the steps of his brownstone carrying a huge box of stuffed gorillas: amusement park gorillas, raffle-winning gorillas, Build-A-Bear gorillas, you name it, all of different shapes and sizes. With one heave, Yale tosses the lot of them into a colossal, metal garbage bin parked outside, bursting with furniture, paintings, rugs, household appliances and memories. Yale steps up onto the bin and looks inside, giving everything lying in there one last look over. There is nothing worth saving anymore. He steps back down and brushes the dust of his golf shirt and khaki pants. He doesn’t know what to do, other than walk. His mind is refusing to think. Has no need to think. He feels like walking as if a small child controlled his movements, as if he were a battery-operated toy. He walks into a Catholic Church. Like so many times before, he’s hoping for something, an answer, an epiphany. Unloading a stack of change, Yale lights every votive candle available in the vestibule. Above the bank of candles is a statue of Mary. Mary and Yale share a solemn look.

A porter with a walrus mustache and a broom stands behind both of them. “What, you trying to burn the whole church down?” says the porter with a chuckle.

Yale turns morosely to the porter. “No,” he replies, and saunters off into Nave.
Walking down a side aisle, past grayness, stone and maroon pews, Yale turns his collar up and stares at the Stations of the Cross. The Ninth Station: Jesus Falls For The Third Time. Yale considers himself lucky as he looks up at the picture of the suffering Christ. Technically he has only fallen this one time. Losing some pets and relatives he didn’t care for all that much could hardly be called a “fall.” Poor Jesus Christ, Yale contemplates, as he walks past the alter, choosing the closest pew. Yale sits for some time – staring straight ahead toward the alter, toward the Presider’s Chair. After a time he gets the attention of the porter, who stairs at Yale from behind a stone column. Feeling nothing but a chill, Yale gets up and walks out of the church, all the candles in the vestibule having been extinguished with his passing.

Yale lets the street lights guide him through an aimless walk, still feeling nothing, yet seeing images of Margo painting her toenails and making toast. Everyday stuff performed by a being like no other, a being that will never grace the face of the earth again. One foot in front of the other without so much as a plan. Margo is gone. That quick. Without a warning or preparation. All the clichés you can think of are just that until the hot spotlight shines on you something fierce. Most of the time it’s just news on television, and you manage to avoid it, but eventually - it catches up with you. Yale was not prepared. Yale’s ego supplied a most beautiful distraction all these years. Now he couldn’t find his ego with a GPS system. All this time – wasted. Why couldn’t he prepare for this moment? Why had he thought, like so many, that he was invincible, that this day would come – but not now.
The frustration and pain is funneling to the top of his head like a tornado as he drops to the concrete floor, writhing in anguish – shaking, convulsing, cheeks blowing in and out, in and out. Beating his face and torso with closed fists, he churns across the cold pavement, passersby stepping out of the way, scurrying away, avoiding this person’s pain with indifference germane to city existence. A patrolman’s car pulls up onto the sidewalk just in front of Yale. Cops approach Yale carefully, hands hovering over their steel.

*********************************************************

A mental health professional sits across from Yale, assessing his situation. The room is quite sterile accept for the framed family portraits resting next to an outdated computer atop a beaten up desk. Yale is slumped, tired, bored.
“Are you taking any anti-depressant medications?”
“No.”
“Have you ever stayed at a mental facility for any length of time?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
Yale pauses.
“No.”
“Have you ever contemplated suicide?”
“No.”
“Have you ever thought of killing someone else?”
“No.”
“What are you feeling at this present time?”
“No.”
“I said ‘What are you feeling at this time?’”
“I said ‘no’.”
“Okay … why no?”
Yale pauses again.
“No.”
The mental health professional sighs and takes some notes while looking over her paperwork. She loves what she does, but assholes like this test her patience.
“Your social security number?”
“No, no, no, dash, no, no, dash, no, no, no.”

*********************************************************

Yale is on the telephone. The townhouse is almost completely empty, save for a few pieces of furniture purchased by the new owners.
“Yes, I have it,” Yale says. “I am looking to arrive tomorrow morning. I’m still not certain how long I’ll be staying. The journey is … shall we say… uncertain …” Yale shakes his head, looking up to the ceiling, a hint of a smile – his first. “Thank you very much. I look forward to meeting you.”
Yale walks to the center of the main room, hands comfortably inside the pockets of his drawstring, khaki pants. He gets one more sniff, one more sensory perception of the place. An overstuffed camping backpack awaits his attention.

********************************************************

Yale sits on some rocks at the base of the East River, on the Brooklyn side, Manhattan Bridge overlooking him. He removes the clear, plastic baggy of fine, powdery, gray substance he had in the kitchen. He sticks his nose to the mouth of the baggy and sniffs; then turning the bag upside down, he empties the powder into the river. Yale scrunches up his knees and takes them around with his arms, crying, watching the swirl of powder as it shines against the lights of the bridge.

The Story Slice: Part 6: Heather So Long

This is the continuation of a story that began here:

Part 1: Maureen (1)

Part 2: Maureen (2)

Part 3: The Takeoff

Part 4: Colleen

Part 5: Alex

by Brian Hughes

Cahil was listening to Barry’s Manilow’s “Somewhere Down The Road” on his iPod in the hotel café – staring at internet pictures of Heather and her man, at least fifteen years her senior, from her MySpace “Mexico Vacation” album, feeling bad for himself, clutching his blackberry, her speed dial number at the ready. He knew Alex was right, that he should just forget here, for whereas Alex and Maureen and Colleen where just libido fantasies, Heather was more. Dangerous. Forget it, he told himself over and over. Work on the Brenda Burgundy piece, you have her interview tonight … it could be a career defining piece for you, over and over he was telling himself, but he pressed the button just the same. She answered:
“Cahil! How are you?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time? I can call back.”
“No, no … what’s going on? What brings you out to Los Angeles?”
Cahill filled her in on his career and how it was moving along steadily. He didn’t mention his engagement, nor his wedding.
“I have to be honest with you … Colleen said you had come to town and I was hoping you’d call because … I don’t know … I feel we should talk and catch up.”
“Really … well, great! Are you available for coffee this afternoon?”
“This afternoon … let me look at my schedule …”
Why did she want to speak with him? What did she have to tell him?
“No … I think I’m good … yeah,” she laughed, “I think that would be great! Yeah … yes! Let’s hook up.”
“Cool! Awesome.”
“Do you want to meet at the Coffee Bean where we last had java?”
“Sure! Perfect!”
There was a silence. Heather actually sighed.
“I’m glad you called Cahil. So glad you called.”
“I’m glad I called as well. So, I’ll see you at three?”
“Yes … perfect.”

It became nothing but positive love songs on the way back into the valley: “Love Lift Us Up (Where We Belong),” “I Just Fell In Love Again” by Anne Murray, “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” and “You’re My First, The Last, My Everything” by the grand daddy of soulful love, Barry White; And Cahil was singing too … oh, he certainly was. Fuck Brenda Burgundy and her cocaine and her entourage and her problems. Fuck her, fuck everything, Cahil thought as he stopped at a roadside shop to pick up a basket full of lavender products – Heather’s favorite aroma.

Cahil’s left leg went up and down as he sat at a window seat, basket on the table, customers ordering coffee, unaware of the movie-like moment happening in his life. When he gazed upon Heather getting out of her vehicle in the large mall parking lot, reaching for her purse in the back seat, it was like a gleig light shone only on her and blocked out the entire shopping madness of Ventura Boulevard. His heart began to race. He at once felt an anchor of sadness, that this would never work, and a joy that brought tears to his eyes. He looked up and around and across to let air into them. He could not believe the eruption of emotions in the first split moment of seeing her; after the years of wondering what this moment would be like, it had finally arrived.
Heather’s shoulder went up in unison as she made eye contact with Cahil, and the shoulders lifted her face into a warm smile as she walked over and they embraced.
“I am dumb struck as to how amazing you look,” Cahil said
“Oh … not really …”
“Yes really! What have you done? Your waist is the smallest I’ve ever seen it!”
“I go to the gym a lot and lay off the carbs.”
“Remember all the diets we’d try, all the new ones that would land on the best seller list?”
“Oh, yeah … we’d compare notes.”
“Yup.”
“And the music we’d play in the stock room.”
“It was all Britney and Christina for me back then.”
“And I’d play you some brooding songwriter, like Neil Young or Bob Dylan.”
“And The Doors.”
“Naturally, The Doors.”
Heather wanted green tea. She reached for her Manga designed, Velcro wallet, but Cahil wasn’t having it. Everything was on him today.
“What is this basket,” she beamed.
“It’s for you. It’s all for you. You still love lavender, right?”
“Yes, yes, of course … but you shouldn’t have.”
“There’s so much I want to talk about, I don’t know where to begin.”
Heather smiled, and when she smiled, her small oval lips crept up her mouth and exposed her dimples. She looked down for a moment and took in a deep breath.
“Why don’t you begin with why you came out here?”
Cahil chuckled and looked out the window. It was an open invitation to jump in and cut to the chase. Why had she smiled when she said that? She knew, didn’t she, Cahil thought, she knew he had come out west in the hopes that she would dissolve everything and take him in her arms.
“Well, I came out here because I was given a tremendous opportunity to interview the hotter than hot R&B singer, Brenda Burgundy.”
“Really?” she asked.
“No, that’s not the reason. I should get us some tea. What kind do you want again?”
“Breakfast.’
“I can’t tell you how great it is to see you in person again, in person and not in pictures.”
“It’s great to see you too, Cahil.”
Cahil bought the teas and sat back down, staring at the table before them.
“Is there anything wrong,” Heather asked.
“No, no, of course not, not at all. I couldn’t be happier. Heather, listen, I want to catch up and talk and all, but I have to say what’s on my mind…”
“Okay,” Heather said with trepidation.
“Okay … wow … I don’t think I’ll be this nervous when I speak with Brenda Burgundy, hahahaha ….okay … here goes … Heather, I, I love you very much, I, I, have been just stuck, I, I have been unable to think of anyone but you since I came back to New York and I look at your pictures on MySpace and on Flickr and on Facebook, and I can’t shake your image, and, and I don’t dare talk to you, or instant message you, because I know it will lead me down the wrong path…”
Heather had her hand over her mouth, tears swelled in her eyes.
“I don’t know, Heather, its been a problem with me my whole life, I’ve let great women slip through my fingers, and I guess, before I enter the next important stage of my life, I had to come out here and see you one last time to tell you how I feel, how I will never forget you, never forget seeing you enter the stockroom that time we met. I never told you how I felt in person and its been knowing away at me like a chancre. When I see you with guys in your pictures, my heart hurts, I don’t know what to do. Am I supposed to un-Facebook you, un-friend you? Of course not, how would that look?
“Don’t say anymore, Cahil, you don’t need to say anymore,” Heather said with a laugh. “This is amazing, AMAZING, how life works …”
“What?” asked Cahil.
“Well … I haven’t forgotten you either. Every time I see images of New York City, or movies shot in Manhattan, my heart longs for you. I always thought that I would never see you again and that the brief time we shared together would be a just a pleasant memory.”
Cahil’s eyes had begun to tear as well. “Can I hug you, Heather?” Cahil felt her ample breasts press against him. “It’s so wonderful holding you close like this.”
Heather removed a tear from her cheek and nodded enthusiastically. “I think I love you Cahil, I really think I love you.”

The cell phone had a message on it. Cahil stared at the lavender basket in front of him. How could he have missed a phone call, not possible. As far as he could tell, the reception was just fine. It was Heather:
“Hey Cahil, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it, something just came up at the last minute and I have to take my nephew somewhere. How long are you in town for? Let me know – it would be great to catch up. Hope you’re well. Later.”
Cahil stared blankly at the empty seat in front of him, a seat made warm by Heather the last time they had a cup of coffee together. It would remain cold. Cahil drained the last of his coffee and walked out of the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf – leaving the lavender basket behind him.


The Brenda Burgundy interview went well enough, all except for the burn marks left in Cahil’s flesh. Brenda took great, sadistic pleasure in putting cigarettes out on Cahil’s exposed skin. And when he returned to his palatial New York City apartment, a three bedroom bought solely by his wife Janeen, Cahil couldn’t help but think that he deserved the burn marks and much, much more. Having failed in his attempted debauchery of nailing three girls from his “bookstore job” past, Cahil had nothing more to come home to than a devoted wife, who – not only draped a welcome banner across the apartment door, but had cooked his favorite dinner and purchased the scented candles he so thoroughly enjoyed from Bed, Bath and Beyond. It was more than Cahil deserved and he knew it, as he clutched Janeen in his arms and kissed her profusely.
“Let me see your burn marks,” Janeen implored.
“They’re nothing really to look at.” Cahil tossed off.
“We’re going to sue that bitch!” Janeen said as she inspected Cahil’s arms. “Terrible. Terrible. She can’t get away with doing that to my fiancé. I’ll rip her vocal cords out and feed them to her.”
“Now, now …”
“I mean it!”
“I know, I know … say, are we going to look at more reception possibilities tomorrow.”
Janeen softened and smiled as she and Cahil pressed their foreheads together.
“You bet we are, hon.”
“I can’t wait. I love you.”
“I love you to.”
Cahil and Janeen kissed long and warm, embracing each other completely.
Cahil was glad to be back, back to the steel and girders and realness that sustained him, gave him strength and kept his wavering mind focused. The daydreams were dead. For the longest time, the girls and the regrets lived in his fantasies. Now with microscopic precision, they had been dealt a stealth and fatal blow. What was left was what he knew would always, in the end, endure.

The Story Slice: Alex

This is the continuation of a story that began here:

Part 1: Maureen

Part 2: Maureen

Part 3: The Takeoff

Part 4: Colleen

by Brian Hughes

Alex was kind enough to reach out to Cahil in the middle of the night and real him in with her Saturn. They were heading back over the hill into Hollywood – back to his hotel. She was wearing her pajama bottoms. Cahil stared at her ankles and pretty, little feet in sandals. Alex was always the girl with the attitude – anti-man for the most part, but no lesbian.

“So what the hell are you doing out here?” Asked Alex.
“I have a big interview with Brenda Burgundy.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah … I’m playing with the big boys now, Alex – just as I always said I would.”
Alex had a prominent nose and an always sly look in her eyes. Her world was photography, human rights issues, Johnny Depp and Jack White.
“You’re not interviewing The White Stripes I’m guessing …”
“Nope. But you’ll be the first to know.”
She was another in a long line of gals that Cahil felt he let slip through his fingers. Why? He’s still unclear of that: Youth, perhaps - fear mostly. Fear ruled the long days in the bookstore he use to work in: Fear of hanging out, fear of meeting new people, fear of asking the big three if they’d go out with him; Alex was two in the hierarchy, Heather of course sat at the top of the pyramid, while Colleen took up the rear.
“Have you stayed in touch with Heather?”
“Yeah, why?”
“How is she doing?”
“She’s doing well. She’s in “events planning.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, she’s in a relationship with this really cool guy. He’s a private pilot with lots of big time clients.”
“Good for her.”
“You’re still hot in the pants for her, are you?”
Cahil stared out into the passing night – seeing the first moment he set eyes on Heather: She was casually walking into the back stockroom, having just come off a break, when Cahil was introduced to her by the stockroom manager. He couldn’t remember the stockroom manager’s name, all he could remember was that he was a big time sci-fi reader who hated The Doors: He hated The Doors because they sounded like carnival music. It was strange what the mind remembered.
“I’m just warning you that any moment I might pull over to the side of the road and take pictures of you. I’m feeling it … I’m definitely feeling it,” Alex said as she reached behind the driver’s seat for her camera bag.
“We ought to collaborate and do something together some time.”
“Yeah, that might be fun,” she said as she peeled around the winding roads in the canyon. “Are you planning on visiting Heather?”
“I might,” Cahil said. “Do you know where she is now?”
“Yeah, I do – I’ll send it to you. Do you still have the same email address?”
“I do.”
“You should really stay away. You shouldn’t go see her.”
“I can’t! It’s the damn internet: The goddamn, motherfucking Myspace, Facebook and all the rest…!”
“Aren’t you engaged?”
“Yes, yes … If it wasn’t for these sites I would have probably forgotten her, but no, her image lingers: It stays there, updating, provoking me to continue looking, to continue to be informed.”
“It can’t lead to anything good – you’re engaged and she’s serious about her relationship.”
“I adore my fiancé, I couldn’t have found someone more perfect, it’s just I feel there is unfinished business.”
“You should leave it alone – trust me – I’m pulling over.”
Alex pulled off the curve and parked the car at a rest stop that overlooked the dark, cavernous canyon.
“Sit up on the front of the car, look over here.” Alex kept the lights of the car on. She was working the lights and shadows to some type of affect and moved about the car like a real picture pro.
“You’re gonna send me these pictures, right?”
“Of course.”
“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Cahil said.
“Thanks … lean a bit more to the left.”
“I should have asked you out.” Alex said nothing. “I think about you all the time.”
“How come you never email me?”
“I email you once in a blue moon, and you usually never respond.”
“There are so many guys to have to deal with … no offense, I don’t need any more drama.”
“I understand.”
“Oh! That’s awesome! Look this way.” The wind was blowing hard and all Cahil could think of was whether his weight was enough to send the car over the edge.

Alex was through getting her shots of Cahil. She peeled back onto the road with a screech and in the irony of all ironies, The Doors “Love Her Madly” came thundering from the speakers of her car. Cahil and Alex shared the vocals, he banging the dash, she slamming the steering wheel with her palm. Never had he wanted to fuck Alex more that in that very moment: The Doors, the California night, slinky roads and a curvy chick: what could be better to Cahil than this?
A message on his blackberry: Agatha Reece was in town:
“Heard we are staying in the same hotel. I’m in room 1004. Knock on my door tonight – we are demonstrating the latest Asian sex toys to hit the market.”
Agatha Reece was a sex writer who occasionally wrote for The City Savior and ran her own popular website called DeepVag.com. She had been on CNN and a bunch of other television programs. Cahil had a jones for her – had beat off to her site on more than one occasion. Going to her room was a definite possibility.
Alex pulled up to Cahil’s hotel.
“All right Cahil … nice catching up. Don’t be a stranger …”
“Would you like to, perhaps come up for a little bit, maybe …?”
“No way, I’m dead. I need some serious rest. Here – let me send you Heather’s address…”
“Oh, thanks …”
Cahil was thankful Alex came and got him. He’d have to remember to call Enterprise about the stranded car. He couldn’t even remember where he left it. He’d never fuck Colleen, nor would he ever get a chance with Alex. Perhaps that was best. As he stared down at Heather’s address, he was beginning to wonder whether he should take Alex’s advice and not go and see her after all: what was the point? He adored his fiancé, and perhaps Heather would always have a special place in his heart, but what was the use in seeing her? Disturbing her day? There was something so devious and ugly about going to Heather and spilling his guts to her, while Janeen was running around New York City with her mother trying to nail down a spot for their reception party.

Cahil was feeling down about himself as he knocked on room 1004. A large black guy in an expensive suit answered the door. Cahil told the guy who he was and was soon led in. The suite was surrounded by hip looking Asian people with layered, spiky haircuts and Soho duds. Agatha Reece was the ringleader, wearing a hot pink, Jacquard and lace corset. Always a bit on the big boned side, she filled out the lingerie with sexy opulence. The suite was awash in red light and dampness as trance bass music pounded the floor below his feet. Men and women were stretched out and strapped to various sex machines like The Thruster and The Missile Launcher, which was an industrial looking, steel cage contraption which drove a dildo into a young man’s anus. Everyone seemed to be having a rip roaring time though, with ball gags, chastity belts and medical gear – all except Cahil, who at once felt as if he should be punished hard for thinking he could get away with having sex with these California gals while engaged to the most wonderful woman in the world. The air was stifling and the longer Cahil stayed, the more he felt obliged to test one of these contraptions, but he knew, as with almost anything sexual in his life, he wouldn’t have the balls to go through with it.

Cahil’s interview with train wreck Brenda Burgundy was fast approaching and he hadn’t done a lick of research. With a bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand, he threw some headphones on and listened to her soulful, Motown-era sound. He stared at Heather’s address on his blackberry, through his tired, bloodshot eyes and wondered how in fuck’s sake would he ever get out to her?

The Story Slice by Brian Hughes

The Massage 

by 

Brian Hughes

Arlen waited with a smile until the homely, Chinese masseuse ducked behind the curtain, giving him privacy to disrobe. Arlen was smiling because he didn’t care whether the woman stayed or not, he was quite comfortable will his all-together swaying in the pristine spa air. Climbing onto the massage table, he slid his naked, tightly built body underneath a white sheet and stretched his legs out as far as he could – feeling the strain of his muscles. 

The masseuse ducked her head back in and smiled:
“Okay … yes?”
“Yes, come in. I’m ready,” Arlen said, then exhaled, watching the masseuse’s feet moving to and fro from the face cutout in the bench. She placed a full-length towel over the backside of his body and began loosening his muscles by rubbing him from his feet to his calves to his ribs, on up to his shoulders and neck. After mustering up the proper chi, the masseuse unfurled the towel to just above his ass. Arlen closed his eyes as tranquil new age music emanated softly from two speakers sitting high above the room on shelves. The masseuse squeezed out massage oil into her hands then hovered her palms just below Arlen’s face in the cutout so that he might catch some aromatherapy. He liked it – a musky, tropical banana smell. Arlen liked bananas. He also liked the heat that existed between her hands and his body as she rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders. And with every tissue pressed and knot untied, he liked to imagine all the metaphoric cancers and muscle diseases and tumors being squeezed out of him. That with every session a force field of peace and goodness was taking reign over his body, a realm where no diseases could ever penetrate. It was the power of positive reinforcement and healing. Arlen couldn’t prove that it worked, but to his way of thinking, the mind was capable of so many powers as yet unknown to humans, that this was as good a technique as any in fighting the failures and frailties of the body. In his mind’s eye, he could see cancer cells wafting to the ceiling and popping like a child’s bubbles.

He groaned as the masseuse kneed a shoulder joint with her elbow. She giggled just then. Arlen thought that was cute. He wasn’t familiar with this particular gal. Her name was Mary. Yeah, right … if her name is Mary, then mine is Ming, he thought. “Ugggghhhh,” went Arlen as she giggled again. “Why are you giggling?” Mary just laughed again and said something under her breath in broken English that he couldn’t quite understand. She was a small woman, but the deep tissue massage she was dishing out, the strength and glorious force, made Arlen think that perhaps she was a goddess – the goddess “Masseuse” or something. Leaving him was the kidney failure, the arthritis, the Lou Gherig’s disease, the pancreatic cancer.

“You have nice, strong body,” Mary said.
“Thank you. I work out.”
“Yes, I can tell.” Mary laughed again as she began rubbing Arlen’s legs, moving up the thigh and skimming his ball sack. Arlen’s cock woke up. He didn’t like to get a hardon during a massage, though he was perfectly fine with it; but he liked to avoid it, so he began thinking about the company wide layoffs due in the spring, about his life insurance, about who would catch for the Yankees now that Posada was on the DL. Arlen kept the little guy at bay until she began working the other leg, continuing to giggle as she was moving up and down it. Why was she giggling so much? Can she see that I’m getting a woody? Maybe I didn’t wipe my ass well enough, he thought in a panic. No, that wasn’t it he thought – he had showered before he arrived.

“You’re so good! I’m really enjoying this.”
“Ummm, yeah … I can tell,” Mary said with a laugh.
Okay, she definitely knows I’m hard, Arlen thought. No doubt. All her giggling reminded him of one of those blooper shows where they show outtakes of an actress who keeps cracking up during a scene. It’s not very professional, he thought, but it’s making me more and more hard. She began working Arlen’s fingers.
“You married?”
“Yes I am.”
“Hum.”
“Are you married?”
“Oh no! I would love to be married, but you taken.”
“Now, now … I know you must have lots of boyfriends with those magical hands of yours.”
“No … no… I wish, but no…” Mary continued to giggle.
As she lifted his leg up and stretched it, his penis began to swish against the table, causing it to stiffen slightly. Arlen tried to continue to stay focused on the massage, not that he was getting excited - concentrating further on his body, on his immune system, on his survival.
“You have nice build. Yes.”
“You have an attractive body as well. Why haven’t you found a nice man yet?”
She let out a guffaw, slapping her hands down on Arlen’s ass in exasperation.
“I not been lucky to find white collar man like yourself.”
“You don’t want a white collar man like myself. Oh, no … I’m no good.”
“Oh, yes … like you… yes…” she giggled again as she switched legs – his hardening cock pressing against his abdomen. Arlen would moan now and again – especially as she worked his thighs and calves, the last set of squats at the gym having really tore them up pretty good.
“You’re so good my Chinese flower … so good.”
“Ummm … yes, I can tell…” said Mary with a grin.

After she walked on his back, pressing her toes deep into his spine, after she had elbowed everything into pure bliss, it was time for Mary to work the front of his torso. Arlen happily turned over – hardly shy to expose his large erection. Mary snuck a look and placed the towel over his center region. She started scrubbing his head, digging her fingernails into his scalp – it was his least liked part of the session, but there was a glutton for punishment deep inside Arleb that prevented him from telling her to stop: He just squeezed his teeth together and imagined brain cancer being rubbed out like a Brillo pad working out the grease on a stove. After a thorough massage of his feet, arms and legs, she ran her hands across his hairless, muscular chest, and moved down his torso just far enough to knick the head of his penis. Arlen was tenser now that the session was near completion than when he had entered the room.
“You know Mary, it’s tough … and, you know, I’m sorry that I’m, you know,” Arlen said gesturing to his erect shaft. She giggled once more, throwing her hands in front of her eyes in a playful motion. “And you know,” Arlen continued, “it’s a muscle and all, and it is left to just … to just be there, ya know.” He shook his head and sighed. The massage was over and Mary handed Arlen his robe. Arlen slowly put it on, making sure to give Mary one last look before she exited the room. She did look again, and smiled.

Arlen and his wife, Doris, sat on large comfy chairs in the rest area, eating fruit and enjoying the ambiance of lit candles and small, manmade waterfalls. Arlen needed terribly to go home and fuck Doris – he was frustrated, chewing up pineapple – brooding on his massage.
“I’m more tense now that the massage is over than when I went in.”
“Why?”
Doris was a former Houston, Texas beauty pageant runner up. Her body was still firm, but her face was collapsing under a canopy of large blonde hair.
“Because she was touching me near my penis and she was giggling.”
“I bet you enjoyed it. There is such a double standard in this world.”
“Actually … I didn’t enjoy it.”
“If a guy had done something like that to me, you would have gotten angry at the guy and probably at me!”
“I didn’t like it, I said.”
“You should say something, that’s very unprofessional AND I think illegal.”
“Yeah, well …”
Mary the massager brought a tray of juices over to Arlen and Doris, smiling.” They gave her a dirty look. “I’m not thirsty,” Arlen said.
“Say something,” Doris said. Arlen remained mum. Mary walked away – confused.
“I knew you wouldn’t say something – just like you. You probably loved it, that’s why you won’t say anything.”
“I tell you, that is not true. It made me very uncomfortable.”
“So uncomfortable that you won’t say anything.”

After Arlen and Doris had dressed, they walked up to the front to pay for their massages. Doris began putting her shoes on. Arlen looked frustrated as he handed his credit card to the squeaky clean Asian boy manning the front desk.
“Will you be paying for both, sir?”
“Yes – and … let me tell you, I find this establishment to be very unprofessional and highly distasteful. My massager, ‘Mary’ I believe her name was, kept massaging near my private area, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t know what she was expecting, but I asked her repeatedly to stop and she wouldn’t hear it. I don’t know if she could understand English or something, but I was very put off.”
“That is terrible Sir. I can assure you, we are not one of those establishments.”
“Well, I think you had better have a talk with ‘Mary’ – or can her ass, because she can get arrested for stuff like that? If she thinks I’m a ‘John’ – she has another thing coming.”
“Please fell free to write our Manager, she is not working today, and I’m sure she will take care of the situation. I am very sorry sir; we will not charge you for your session. I am very, very sorry.”
Arlen continued on like that for another minute or two as he put on his three hundred dollar pair of shoes.
“I’m very proud of you,” Doris said, hugging Arlen around as they left.

The Story Slice: Colleen

This is the continuation of a story that began here:

Part 1: Maureen

Part 2: Maureen

Part 3: The Takeoff

by Brian Hughes

Cahil picked up his rental at the airport. After having thrown back some pink tablets to help settle his stomach, he attached his iPod and began blaring “Eminence Front” by The Who. The drums beating out the intro combined with pulsating, belch-like bass line of bassist John Entwistle demanded Cahil put on a pair of 80s-era aviator sunglasses – large and obnoxious – which he had purchased at the airport. Sitting them firmly on his nose, he turned his head and gawked at two brunettes driving in a convertible beside him, hair trailing behind them, California skin shiny and luminescent.

He had at once a desire to crawl through his windshield and re-enter the 1980s – only older: at an age where he could appreciate the dawn of MTV, new wave music, American moxy and prosperity. Cahil had little desire for the time he was living in, with all the superficiality, reality television, gossip rag mags selling at an all time high - with pictures of celebrities pumping gas and picking their nose, gasoline prices soaring into the stratosphere, and natural disasters across the globe killing thousands each week.

Cahil looked around at the hills, at the sunshine bouncing off of multi million dollar mansions, with sprinklers going off everywhere to keep the place from burning down: “Some people say this place is superficial,” he said to himself. “Exalt in your superficiality. I am superficial too. Let us be superficial together, shall we?” Cahil smiled, loving his shades, raising them up and down and looking at himself in the rearview – yes, he wouldn’t mind be superficial for a couple of days.

Cahil had some Depeche Mode blaring from his iPod dock. Cold cuts of American cheese, liverwurst, ham and salami were laid out on his hotel desk, displayed from their torn white paper wrappers. He made sandwiches not out of bread, but stuck everything between a couple slices of salami. With greasy fingers he typed out in a google search: “Heather Dupre naked”, “Alex Cobalt’s tits”, “Colleen McDonough nude” – and he came up with nothing. None of the three beauts appeared to have nude pictures of themselves on the World Wide Web. Why would they use their real names? It was no matter to him – he’d see them naked soon enough. He blew opportunities in the past – he wasn’t planning on fucking up this time. He had to do some more research before his interview with Brenda Burgundy, but instead opted to drop 39 dollars on a hardcore site and jerk off till he was sufficiently horny, holding off on his climax.

Colleen’s chat info was on her My Space page. He reached out …she was home:

cahilology: ive changed much since last we met
uc2004: can’t wait…
cahilology: I bought new shades today. I look bitchin in them.
uc2004: hot
cahilology: I have an interview with brenda burgundy.
uc2004: wtf! That’s so cool. That why you’re out here?
cahilology: no – you.
uc2004: awwwwww
cahilology: lets hook up – you pick the place.
uc2004: hummmm
cahilology: come on … im surrounded by the glitter and glam of hollyweird. no
friendly faces.
uc2004: poor boy
cahilology: I have a company card … come on … I need to see your pretty face.
uc2004: you know the coffee bean/tealeaf in woodland hills?
cahilology: yup

As he wound his way through the swirling roads of Topanga Canyon – destination Ventura Boulevard, he shook his head in glee at the thought of Colleen’s checkerboard Converse sneakers – and how the little white squares were colored in with pastel hues. He remembered her as a college girl who covered her sexy body with frumpy, oversized sweats. They both worked at a bookstore in Calabasas. Colleen always had a smile for everyone as she hustled coffee behind the counter of the café – her apron filthy with cookie batter and coffee stains. It almost seemed like the messier she became, the more turned on he became: the café baseball cap she had to wear, with her ponytail hanging out the back of it – something tomboyishly alluring about her. He hoped she hadn’t changed much. Fuck was he horny. He gripped the steering wheel, shook it, batted out a beat with his palms. Her Midwest accent, her small belly, her Irish cherry cheeks … always something there to remind him …

The raspy voice and Midwest accent he remembered had remained intact. She had died her hair jet-black and it fell across her face in a diagonal direction – in layers. They sat across from each other at a table – clutching their coffees – talking about general stuff – catching up. After she had gotten up for a smoke, they returned to the café and chose two lounge chairs to curl up on - more personal talk this time – relationship stuff. She had been hurt pretty badly recently. He encouraged her to divulge. Cahil had no intention of talking about his engagement, let alone Janeen. He named dropped some small time talent he had been interviewing recently – some of the bands she recognized. Colleen was impressed. He felt shallow resorting to name dropping, but he had his motives – a mission. He stared at her cute feet and her half gone polished toes. He imagined holding her feet while nailing her. His fantasies making him lose track of the conversation now and then, but more often than not he found a key word to get him back on track.

“Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Colleen asked.
“Who the fuck knows? Well … I shouldn’t say that. I know exactly why. I was so fucked up back then. I had no confidence, no car, and very little money and for most of the time I was seeing Loraine. Remember her?”
“Oh, yeah … the French chick.”
“Yeah, yeah … what a disaster, the stuff of three novels.”
“Oh, no …”
“Yeah.” They both laughed. “I wanted out of the relationship, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t have the courage. I’m a monogamous guy and I had a lot of guilt, I wouldn’t have even thought of cheating on her. My luck, it ended when I had already left California, so …”
“And now you have this new found confidence.”
“Yes … and I think I realize what I have lost.”
She smiled.
“Interesting. So you are still single.”
He looked down at the sticky stains on the floor.
“Yup. Indeed.”

They flirted here and there, then Colleen invited him to a party her friend was throwing in Chatsworth. He followed her in his car – pulling up to Colleen at lights and making funny faces, smiling, more flirtations between cars. There was an excitement in his belly. His balls were aching – they needed a release. The party held many options. He was sure glad he was going. It had to happen tonight for Cahil still had to get in touch with Alex and goddess Heather and his time was limited.

The house was a large, one level dwelling which four of Colleen’s friends shared. All the doors were open; pot and barbecue smoke was rampant. Colleen removed Cahil’s aviator glasses from his face and put them on as they entered to an uproarious welcome. Other than one other guy who looked like Jerry Garcia, Cahil was the oldest one there. He liked that. A popular Emo band was blaring from the stereo. He hadn’t interviewed them, but lied and said he did. Colleen held onto Cahil, squeezing him around the waist as she introduced him to her friends. Colleen liked to drink – she began throwing down Jagermeister bombs to Cahil’s dismay. Cahil fake drank. He’s pretend to pour a lot of liquor in a glass, than he’s fill most of it with coke, club soda or ginger ale. “I can drink ya all under the table!” he gloated. “Someone make Cahil a Jagermesiter bomb!” said Bevin, a tan, bow-legged, big breasted dame. “Nah … keep that kids stuff away from me, I’m a writer, I only drink bourbon – hustle more bourbon over.” “How can you drink that stuff?” another friend said. That was just the response he was looking for.

The girls had a Nintendo Wii game system. “Playing the Wii when you’re stoned is awesome!” Colleen said as she took another drag. The Wii is a video game system that allows you to physically play out games with your full body, rather that hit some buttons on a video game controller in some zombie-like state, like more traditional game systems. It’s designed to get you off your fat rump and become more active in gaming, and it’s an expensive money making machine attempting to get this nations overweight children into exercising. “Who has time for video games, I don’t with all the deadlines I have. Believe me, I wish I had the time, but I’m so in demand – it’s hard.” Once again Cahil was bullshitting. He got a Wii for free off someone’s truck some time ago, and liked to play tennis and golf on it when he wasn’t able to write, or didn’t feel like jerking off. Actually, was just borrowing the sentiments of his fiancé Janeen, who couldn’t understand why a man over 30 years of age would be interested in such trite entertainment. Colleen and her friends played around on it for a while, while the two old fogies, Cahil and the Jerry Garcia look-a-like, who for some reason was called “Dr. Sergeant”, looked on.

After a time, and some encouragement from the young lads, Cahil and Dr. Sergeant decided to grab the controllers and play. “I’m sure I’ll be awful at this. I don’t play video games,” Dr. Sergeant said with a friendly smile. “You and I both,” replied Cahil. Boxing was first on the bill. As if the video game gods interceded, Duran Duran’s “View to A Kill” started playing on the house iPod. It was as if Popeye had been given four tons of spinach to take on Bluto. Cahil clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. There was no room for losing now. He would have to attack with a “view to a kill.” Dr. Sergeant was in big trouble. The game began and both men started flailing their fists. Cahil was younger and quicker than Dr. Sergeant. The Dr was less interested in how good he was, rather he was overwhelmingly amazed at such technology. The mood was different with Cahil as with each round of punches, he moved more intensely toward the widescreen television, punching with left crosses, upper cuts, and jab, jab, jabs. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! You’re going down! Down! Yeah!” Cahil’s voice had dropped to a low, guttural scowl. “Yeaaaaaaahhhhh! Dr. is gonna end up in the emergency room. Yeah! Get this Dr some life support! Oh, yeah!!!” The good Dr. went down in less than a minute. The bell rang and the match was over. Cahil jumped up and threw his fists stiffly into the air – throwing a quick flurry of fists at the television for good measure. “Yeah! Yeah! Who’s next to try me?”

A few of Colleen’s lady friends took the challenge and Cahil fell them with his fury of arrogant violence like an Andy Kauffman of the Wii gaming world. “Why do you have to be such a douchbag about winning?” one of Colleen’s friends said. Her name was Dorothea. She was muscular and won an MVP and state championship for her rugby team in college. “I could kick your ass without these controllers. Why don’t we step outside and see what you’re really made of.” Cahil stood aghast – staring at Colleen with his mouth open. “Would you believe this shit? What a sore loser. I’m sorry if I’m a competitor. If you can’t take a beating like a real champion, you should not play.” “I KNOW ABOUT COMPETITION! THIS is NOT competition! It’s a FUCKING VIDEO GAME!” Dorothea replied. Colleen calmed her friend down, but the tension was undeniable.

“I’ll take you down in tennis – let’s go,” said a jock friend of Bevin’s, with big muscles, no body hair, and little sneakers with no socks. His name was Brad. He arrived sometime during the Wii hysteria. Cahil hadn’t even noticed. Brad chugged down a beer and grabbed the controllers. “Sure,” said Cahil, “just don’t get all pissy when I kick your ass.” Brad’s nostrils flared as he shot Cahil a look of pure venom. “Let’s GO!” Brad howled.

Cahil, with little to no bombast whatsoever, coldly took Brad in straight sets. He placed the controller on top of the TV and gave Brad a look of cool confidence that said, “I told you so.” “Fuck you!” shot back Brad.

Colleen was dead to rights on liquor in one of the bedrooms. Everyone else had either left or were passed out. He had some wrong thoughts flying through his brain as he stared at Colleen lying vulnerable on the bed. For most, there was no decision to be made: the night was over and no sex was to be had, but Cahil just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Looking about him to see if anyone was looking, he quietly walked over to the bed where Colleen laid and slowly lifted up her shirt and bra. These were the tits he had imagined – longed for, dreamt about for years. He ran his hand across both of them, his cock rock hard. Cahil got a good feel them put them away and left the room.

Back in his rental, he tried to start the car and it wouldn’t turn over. “Fuck!” he said, as he turned the key in the ignition over and over again, only to get the sound of a death rattle. After a few minutes of expletives, he opened his phone and scrolled down to Alex’s phone number. It was real late in the AM, but she was young and beautiful. There was no doubt in his mind she would be up and available to him.

The Story Slice: The Takeoff

by Brian Hughes

This is a continuation of a story that began here:

Maureen: Part 1

Maureen: Part 2

Cahil sat at the gate confidently. He batted his thighs like drums, feeling indestructible: three fair maidens would be his. It had taken him many years to feel just …like… this. This would be the sexual adventure he had dreamt about. And what better timing: a career defining interview with pop star Brenda Burgundy, several biters for his first book of fiction, the beginning of a new stable life with his soon to be bride, and a grand sense of entitlement that all of this and more should be coming to him.

His trip of unbridled sexual ribaldry though would have to wait, for there was a fissure in the landing gear module of the airplane. There was another flight he could jump on, but that would mean a three hour layover in Chicago. Not exactly how he wants to see one of the great cities for the first time. He’ll wait.

The Takeoff Bar was teeming with business types reading trade magazines and sports sections. There was a stool open; Cahil took it. All this dreaming of the three California sex maidens made him feel licentious, so he ordered a rum and coke and dialed Janeen.

“Mom and I are looking at three more restaurants for our reception.”
“So we’ve ruled out the Botanical Gardens?” Cahil asked.
“Yes – and The Inter-Continental.”
“Awww … I was jonesing for The Inter-Continental. That view.”
“That’s so cute …”
“What?”
“That you’re this invested. That you are disappointed.”
“Of course I’m invested!” He laughs.
“Well, one thing the city is not short on is views.”
“Very true.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“I miss you already. You think you might be able to come home earlier?”
“Possibly, but Carey is trying to set me up with another interview – I can’t say no to Carey.”
“No, you’re absolutely right. I picked out three invitations that I think you’ll really like.”
“I can’t wait to see them, hun.” Cahil said as horse racing caught his eyes on the television over the bar.

Talking to Janeen made him feel real low down. Why should I feel guilty, he thought. Every man deserves the opportunity to experience different body types before he sets out on a life of faithfulness. I mean, shit … I’m not having a silly ass bachelor party. Those things are just ass. I couldn’t help it if my mind was genetically prone to stay inside itself and not get laid for years and years and years. I know I’m a good person down deep, I keep telling myself that, and I know it’s true. I just haven’t fucked enough, and I want this – I need this, damn it!

The bartender with the red ponytail was heavily invested in the harness racing on TV.
“I could never get why people preferred harness racing over the regular racing,” Cahil said aloud to the bartender.
The bartender turned slowly toward him with big, bulging spaced out eyes.
“It’s the sulkies, my lad … the sulkies,” he said.
“Oh, okay … are those the carts they ride?”
The bartender looked back at the television. Cahil felt as if he was distracting the bartender from his race. “I like the blue one. If I could bet, I would bet on the blue one.”
“Well put your money where your mouth is lad. Place your loot on the bar!”
Cahil thought it over. “I’m a betting man, don’t tempt me, or you’ll lose your shirt.”
“Put it on the bar lad – the race is about to begin.”
“I have luck on my side – be careful.”
“On the bar lad!”
“How much … how much … let’s say ten dollars?”
“You’re on. You don’t know what the blazens you’re doing, do ya?”
“Not at all.”
“What are ya doin’ lad – you’re gonna loose that ten dollar bill.”
“I’m okay with that.”
After two and a half hours, Cahil was out a hundred dollars, and drunk to boot. Cahil had never flown drunk. This should be interesting, he thought. He was also out 30 dollars in drinks.
“I don’t have any more money for the drinks. I gave you all I have.”
“That’s very unfortunate. What are we going to do about this?”
“What I think I’ll do is run for my gate and not pay you.”
“I’ll be out thirty dollars. I won’t have that.”
Cahil began teasing the bartender with feigning to run away.
“I’ll hop over this bar and kick your little ass. I’ve been to jail, I’ll go again.”
“You’d go to jail over thirty dollars and a shitty airport bar job?”
“You’re beginning to piss me off.”
“I wouldn’t go to jail for my job … shit … Okay …here.” Cahil handed the bartender his charge card. Take twenty dollars off it for yourself – you’re a good chap.”
“Thank you, Sir.”

Cahil hated takeoffs. Janeen was so sweet. She texted him before take off. “Lake George” she wrote. Lake George was where they went on their first vacation together. They would phone or text the name of that first vacation spot as an offer of good luck and love before taking off. Those two words felt so incredibly safe to Cahil. They even had a force strong enough to burst through his drunken haze. He smiled and drifted off into a doze.

In his dream he saw Janeen and his future mother in law on line buying tickets at a movie theatre. The ticket taker was bitching because Janeen had only a hundred dollar bill and no change. The mother in law was angry and yelling at the theatre manager. Cahil walked over and put it all to rest by giving the ticket person three twenties. It felt good to Cahil that he could diffuse the situation. That he had cash in his pocket to do so. An Asian girl behind the ticket window was hot and coming on to Cahil, but she was just a child: he had no interest. Next he found himself on a subway train. The Asian girl sat in front of him as he leaned over her, bucking a bit from the rattle of the subway car. She stared at him and gave him the sex eye. The girl slipped off her sandal and rubbed his ankle with her bare foot. Cahil walked away. She was still a child, and still held no interest to him. He walked to the back of the car and watched the train tracks steal away in the dark tunnel. A young boy was trying to lift himself from the tracks onto the platform. He didn’t make it. A train barreled through and tore the little boy into oblivion. A grunted yell bellowed from deep inside Cahil, as he sound of the co-pilot awoke him. They would be taking the Northern route to California.

Brenda Burgundy was the featured story on the cover of the in-flight magazine. Like the Asian girl of his dream, he had no interest, even if she were one of the most famous women on the planet. Heather – Heather was a name that made his loins twitch. He got an instantaneous desire to jerk off in the airplane bathroom, but he felt his cheeks secreting saliva and was on the verge of violently vomiting. He made his way to the back of the plane and locked himself in. Someone was banging on the door, as he stuck his finger in his mouth. Cahil feared his flight to California would be a monumental mistake.