An American Thanksgiving

(I have no idea how this evolved, but hang on for a rough ride!)

We’re not the cool kids, not the jocks, not the babes, just the guys who always fall between the high school cracks.  Whatever. We still have dreams of coolness, but we feel the frustration of a lack of true thrills and excitement in our lives.  We are in our senior year, and decided we would do a little exploring.  All you hear about at school are drugs and sex.  Thanksgiving break would give us some nice blocks of time to see what the real story is on illicit substances.  I decided to just go hardcore and get it over with, so when we met Ned the Needle in the bathroom, I scored a little heroin, and Matt bought eight windowpanes of LSD.  We paid him extra, a lot extra, and he agreed to do it right and shoot me up with the H when I wanted him to.  He’s a fucked up drug dealer, but he’s an honest businessman.

Matt’s family had invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, and my parents were OK with that.  Just as his mother called up to his room, telling us to come down and eat, Ned slid that needle into my vein, then slipped out of Matt’s bedroom window.  I was shocked that I so quickly started to melt.  I walked slowly, gingerly, down the steps and slipped into their living room sofa.  I heard Matt sing to his family, saying that I’d eaten at home, hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, and was just going to rest while they were eating.  His mother protested, but she let me be.  They say your first experience with heroin is often the best.  I say ‘shit yeah’.  I grew warm and started to glow, trying to turn down the intensity before Matt’s family came in to see what was going on.  The time from sitting down to collecting dirty dishes was so short, I almost missed it.  God had reached down and had picked me up, pulling me all the way to Heaven.  Between the two rooms was a serving table, and on it sat a huge homemade cake.  It kept growing bigger. I watched from Heaven as Matt’s little brother went upstairs to pee, and I heard him come down.  It was weird how he had Matt’s windowpanes in his hand, weird that he pressed them into the cake like he was decorating it, weird how he carried the cake in, weird when the noises began.  I don’t think he knew I was there, or watching.  White heroin from Hong Kong, Ned had said.  Hong Kong must be the capital of Heaven.  I think I said that out loud, because I laughed at what I said.  Hong Kong.  The perfect name.  Hong, Hong Kong.

The noises.  They were creepy for a second; screams turned into bells.  Beautiful ringing.  I slithered off the sofa onto the floor, one foot still by God; on hands and knees I thought I’d set my viewer on the dining room, which had grown quiet.  I had no idea how much time had passed but the dark floated in and around the window, wondering if it should enter the house.  Matt’s Mom was on the floor.  I crawled up to her, crawled past her shoes, up to her head.  I said, “Happy Thanksgiving” into her mouth.  Her eyes were open but she wasn’t talking.  When I saw her head, tipped on that angle, with her tongue actually hanging out (nice tongue Mrs. S!), I recognized the pose, having seen it in many movies.  I wanted to look around to mug for the cameras but forgot to.  Instead, I tried to stifle my smile, to let the video crew see a sweet look of feigned shock on my face – one they’d surely use.  As an added extra, I kissed her cheek.  Her soft skin filled me.  I tried so hard to give them a look of shock, but I busted up instead.  Oh well.  Let God edit it out. 

Matt’s father’s arm was hanging off the table.  I wouldn’t have known he was up there if it weren’t for his arm.  There was a button on his shirtsleeve cuff.  It reflected the light.  I saw a million reflections of it.  They filled the state.  His hand seemed to be covered with a cloud that shimmered and shape-shifted.  It was the color of mashed potatoes.  I imagined the turkey, still on the table, the boney frame hidden under the small of his back like a holiday lumbar support.  It must feel soooo good!  God bless you, turkey.

I watched Matt’s little brother’s foot slide on the floor through the swinging door to the kitchen, so I followed it.  I heard a sound, a continuous sound that seemed to have the flavor of his little brother.  It wasn’t a happy song, I felt, but I made it one.  On I crawled, through the door, and settled into a kitchen corner.  The walls against my back reached up to infinity.  That feels so good!  I reached for Matt’s grandmother’s dress, which was on the floor, along with all of her white underthings.  His brother’s song became muffled as the door to the oven shut.  I saw his eyes moving past the oven window and thought of how cool it must be in there for him, and how much his mother loved her huge oven.  Grandma’s naked hand on her naked body moved back and forth between the knobs on the oven, as the weight of her body rested on her knee, which was pressed against the oven door.  The sound of the oven when it lit up reminded me of so many past holidays.  It’s the sound of God huffing in the smell of baking turkey.  Grandma pressed her knees against little brother’s window, until the song slipped off our channel.  I saw her beautiful skin slide onto the top of the range, where she curled up.  The first time I got to see a girl’s nipples and it was Matt’s grandma’s!  I laughed.  Then it almost seemed like Matt’s brother wasn’t loving the warmth of his little womb, and that changed the smile I was wearing into a body frown, but not for long.  The turkey was just in there!  He must be loving it.  I felt tears on my cheeks, which changed as I saw small flames from one of the burners licking grandma’s leg.  A hand reached down and handed me a napkin.  It was Matt.  He asked me what I thought was happening.  He got down beside me on his stomach.  He licked the floor and kept asking what was happening.  My mind replayed the scene for him, of his brother adding the windowpanes to the cake that they all ate.  He didn’t seem to be receiving me at all, and he didn’t seem to see the beauty in any of this.  He said he was stuck to the floor, and asked me to get him a glass.  I fell in love with the word.  I said it over and over, turning it around, and inside out.  Glass.  Glass.  Ssalg.  I saw one on the counter above us so I reached up and let it float into his hand.  He looked through it at me for I think awhile, then started tap, tap, tap, tap, tapping its edge on the floor.  He tapped until the glass cracked and made a beautiful sound.  This allowed his stomach to separate from the floor and he sat in the corner with me, leaning against my arm.  He’s the best friend I ever had.  I watched him, with his hand up in front of his face, looking at his fingers.  I watched him raise the elegant broken edge and surgically cut across his skin.  I watched a red Christmas ribbon flow out of the cut.  He cut a small connecting line, finishing the letter L.  He looked at me and I tried to give him an all-knowing look and smile, but my head was moving slow.  He precisely cut a very nice O and G, and watched the blood drain, being careful not to smear it.  He looked at me with a serious look and said he had just logged on.  I didn’t get it at the time.  Then his arm stretched across the room and became a nice red curtain for the window.  At least that ‘s what he was seeing.  I could hear him.  I was so appreciative of all the colors and smells the family shared with me, and the warmth, and the daily love - the best Thanksgiving I’d ever had. 

Matt’s body slipped off mine and hit the corner hard as I started to crawl back into the dining room, hoping there was some leftover turkey somewhere.  The white meat was already in my mouth – the best turkey I ever had.  It was waiting for me to replace it with the real thing. 

I pulled myself up onto the table.  It was much more interesting than I had imagined.  So much food.  And then there was Matt’s Dad.  I stood on a chair and began to eat the food that had been calling me. 

‘I’m here, cranberry sauce!   You can relax now, I’m here.’  I shoveled a handful into my mouth, and knew I was kissing my creator. 

With all of God’s might, he threw me back into this craphole planet.  My body violently slammed onto Matt’s Dad’s.  Sorry, Matt’s Dad.  My mouth filled with a nasty turbo-vinegar taste, which only lingered for a second.  The explosion of taste became real as I vomited on the table and Matt’s Dad. Sorry, Matt’s Dad.  I never had the time to watch before, to watch it all evolve in space, to see the patterns in it, to calculate the trajectories.  Wow.  I can’t wait until Christmas, I thought, as I fell onto the floor and blackness wrapped around me.  It was a cold and pale blackness, with a single sliver that was open just long enough for me to see Matt’s grandma’s face sync with mine, as she started to drag Matt’s Mom into the kitchen.  My last thought was, ‘this will be my last thought’.  Is that too funny? 

Look at me now, guys!  Too kool 4 school.  I’m gonna get that tattooed on my forehead, if it’s not already there.  Maybe Matt will do it for me while I sleep. 

While I sleep.

Ben There

I can't relive the details, I’m sorry, but my little brother Ben had a genetic disorder, which made him increasingly frail with every year, and doctors agreed - he would probably not see his 15th birthday.  At times it was disabling, and he couldn't get out of bed.  Whenever he was sick he would always expect a full report from me when I returned from wherever.  He’d usually get what he asked for.

We lived in the foothills of some beautiful mountains. One Saturday my friends and I drove up the highest peak as far as we could, then climbed the rest of the way, to within about 500 feet of the actual stark, rocky top.  We'd planned the trip for a while, purchased minimal climbing equipment and did our best to try to understand how to use it.  It was a stupid thing for us to do.

The air at the top of the peak filled our lungs with a freshness and clarity we had never experienced before.  It was a moment to remember for all of our lives.  And when we looked up there from our mundane lives, we could remember, we could feel the air in our lungs again, it was always there for us, almost always in full view, eager to provide a special memory.

After making Ben swear to silence, I shared the story of that Saturday with him.  He had a million questions - I could see his little brain working, just trying to get to that point where he could actually feel it for himself.

It started as asking.  He never asked much of me, but he wanted me to give him this one thing, to take him to Monarch Peak.  He was persistent.  He had just come off of a bad bout of illness and was back to his normal self.  He knew it was a good time to strike, so he begged me to give him this one thing, while he could still appreciate it.

We looked out over the valley below.  I tried to help him locate our subdivision, way down there.  It had taken us hours to get here.  Ben did it all beside me, more nimble than some of my friends.  No, my parents didn't know, but it was a gift I had to give him.  We had grins so broad that I'm sure they could have seen us from the valley!

The cool fall breeze carried a gust of winter, and 60 seconds of snow swirled around the two of us – just for us.  It felt great. Then he was gone.

His foot hit a slippery rock and he fell.  He fell badly, and rolled.  I could see his pain in his eyes, which briefly caught mine, but he was silent.  He was silent!  He rolled and he bounced and his body disappeared over the edge of the cliff-like side of the bluff where we stood.

Why didn’t he scream?

 There is no shortage of “fall-off-a-cliff” scenes in movies.  One person slips, the other person grabs for them.  Their hands and arms lock.  The weight of the person hanging over the precipice forces their grips to slip, and slip, and slip away.  Then there is the fading sound of that scream as they drop.  Why didn’t I at least have a chance to hold him, to try to save him?  I wouldn’t have let go, Ben.  I wouldn’t have.

I stood there, watching the sun being pulled closer to the horizon.  I didn’t care.  There was no right thing to do.  I had to tell my parents that I killed their son.  Some things can't be undone; some things you have to live with forever.  Just being there reminds them every day that the son they loved so much was dead because of me.

I wrapped my cell phone in my hat, dropped it off the peak, and watched it fall down in his general direction.  I knew that the GPS chip in it would help me at least get close to where his body should be, once I got back to the car and fired up my laptop.  I decided to tell no one, but to first find him.  It was a selfish thing.  My own tears would come first, because the tears that followed that evening, I knew, would sting very much more.  I wasn’t wrong.  It would have been easier if I’d just killed my parents.  Instead I brought them much greater pain.

As I searched for his crushed body, I convinced myself that his silence meant something. The poor kid just couldn’t take any more of this disease and found a way to make it stop.  If I could just get home, there would be a note, explaining it all.  It would make it all different. 

There was no note. 

Late at night when I hear my mother sniffle, sitting by herself in the living room with the TV off, and everyone else is in bed, in our new house far from any hills, I can feel that mountain.  It tugs on me, to take that trip one more time, to follow those footsteps one last time.  Ben’s footsteps.

#

The therapist broke his long silence. 

“You’ve been seeing me for almost a year, Jake, and where have we gotten?” he asked.  “You keep telling me the same story and only that story, from every angle.  You always get to the same point.  If you are trying to describe guilt that leads to suicide, I doubt that many would contemplate suicide seriously for a whole year.”

Jake shrugged.

“So you loved your brother but you’ve never talked about how his illness was painful to you.  Was it hard to watch him suffer?” he asked.

“I would have done anything to take it away,” Jake said.

“So you’re finally going to say something new to me?  Tell me,” he said with a deadly serious look on his face.

“I’m not sure,” Jake said.  “Did … did I … did I push him?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

“Did I?” Jake asked, astonished.  “I must have.  I know he was gone, I don’t remember enough details. Did I do this all for him?”

“Jake,” he said, moving closer, “are you telling me you killed your brother?”

“I think I am.  It’s all a blur, but it explains so much.  I must have.  It all fits.  Oh, God, what did I do?” Jake broke down and the tears started to flow.  His body convulsed.  He slid out of the chair onto the floor and turned, kneeling, burying his face in the seat.

“Now what?” Jake sobbed.

“Now we finish out our hour,” the doctor said, coldly.  “It’s been awhile now, Jake, that I’ve asked you to talk to your parents about Ben, to find out how they feel.  I’m still waiting.  Either you never talked to them, or you just won’t tell me what your parents have said to you.  It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on with you and them.”

“Now?” Jake asked, shocked at his change of topic.  “Doctor, the truth is, my parents are dead.  It was always just Ben and I.  I had to take care of him.  I was only a teenager, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Jake, I’ve talked to your parents,” he said.  “They’re not dead.”

“Well, doctor,” Jake sighed, “truth is there was no Ben.  I guess I’m, what do they call it, a habitual liar?”

“We’ll make this your last appointment, Jake.  I think we’re both done for now,” he said, as he got up and opened his door.

Jake hung my head and started to walk out.  “But can you tell me what the truth is, doctor.  Can you tell me?”

“Yes I could,” he said.

#

After the psychiatrist's last comment, with his hand on the door knob and Jake’s body half way out the door, they both stopped and high-fived each other.  They turned to the class and accepted their enthusiastic applause.

The professor stood up and looked at the class.  "OK, folks," he said, "comments?"

He pointed to the first hand.

"They did a really nice job, very plausible, very realistic.  Unfortunately it was a monologue.  Jake talked the whole time.  The assignment was for an engaging dialogue. Since this is an acting class, I think Jake can be pretty good, but we really need to see more of, uh, the guy who played the shrink before we can evaluate him.  I'm sorry, what's your name?"

The fake psychiatrist said, "Ben, my name's Ben."

The professor jotted down some notes in his book.  It was a creative line, improvised on the spot.  He'd done an interesting thing in just a few words. Apparently only the professor in this new class knew that his real name was Joseph.

My Maestro

The New City Orchestra (NCO) – the words had a nice ring but meant nothing.  It was exciting that a new Orchestra was being formed in town, but with no information, it will either be a great opportunity or a colossal waste of time.  It was announced that the world-renowned conductor Maestro Samuel Genesis would be presiding.  I could find no one who recognized the name.  Still, I was young and desperate to make a name for myself as an emerging violinist, so I auditioned.  Maestro did not attend the auditions but his personal assistant Jacob was a full participant on the panel.  He was excited to tell us that our funding was coming from the National Science Foundation.  Peculiar indeed.  I made the short list, was called back twice, and was selected as a second chair violinist. 

‘Life is good’, a sticker on my violin case declared.

With two day's notice a practice schedule was announced with a list of orchestra members.  We would first be working on Gustav Hoist’s seven movement orchestral suite THE PLANETS.  An interesting list of Maestro quirks verbally circulated through the membership. A timpani player filled me in, suggesting I pass the word along. 

“We all need to be aware that the Maestro is painfully introverted,” he explained.  “If you want to stay, don’t try to interact with him.  Also, he hates tardiness and is always the first to arrive, the last to leave.” 

These were all traits that I related to, understood, and admired.  The last detail was that any and all communications would pass through assistant Jacob. I shared the facts with two viola players I knew.

I arrived 45 minutes early on Day One and quietly seated myself.  The practice stage was empty except for Maestro, who slowly paged through the score.  He looked ready to go, behind his podium center stage, standing on a small round stage/platform that gave him a good view of every chair.  I felt obligated to say something, so I cleared my throat.

“Good day, Maestro Genesis,” I quietly said.  “I’m one of your second chair violinists.  My name is Roberta.”

He slowly raised his head, turned and flashed his gorgeous green eyes my way, and cracked an eighth note’s worth of a smile.

“I am Maestro Genesis,” he said, then pulled out a pen and started to annotate the score.

I sat in silence as the chairs around me filled, spellbound by his deliberate, exacting motions-each executed with precision.  Efficiency personified.  Oh, to have a mind as highly trained as his!  Within 30 seconds of the published start time the house lights dimmed, his baton was raised high, and without a word we began to play the music that was sitting on the stands before each of us.

Eight measures in, a bassoonist’s hand slipped.  It was the audio equivalent of a well-fed pigeon decorating a new Mercedes Benz.  Maestro stopped, did not look up, pointed in the direction of the violation, then he raised his baton.  Most of us, unsure but desperate to do something, started over.  After 32 measures, he raised his head as he lowered his hands.  We stopped.  His gaze ratcheted around the room from seat to seat, engaging each and every one of us.  

“Very good,” he slowly said with a smile.  “I’m proud of each of you.”

We played for two hours.  Each audible error resulted in a full stop and start over, with accompanying groans.  It was a very effective way to encourage flawless playing – peer pressure (in addition to disappointing our Maestro).

At the end of the two hours Maestro, with a flourish, put his baton away in its case and resumed jotting notes on the score.  We sat, lacking instruction.  At the urging of the other strings, I made the first move.  I packed up, awkwardly stood up and started to walk out. 

“Goodnight Roberta,” he said, not looking up.

“Goodnight, sir,” I replied, setting the procedure for all.

Everyone followed my lead, each getting the same, surprisingly personal salutation, each responding as did I.  He knew all of our names.

I stopped and stood under the red glowing exit sign, watching Maestro as everyone filed out.  He remained in the place I’d found him. 

“Good evening, Roberta,” he repeated, as the house lights went dark.  As I walked out the door, exterior lights briefly cast a few photons on him, still at the podium, writing notes in the dark.

After a few practices I noted that roughly one hour into each session he would proudly look at each of us as he skillfully lead us through an especially challenging and difficult passage.  I loved watching him, loved contemplating how he chose to do this with the hardest sections.  His gaze moved from musician to musician in time with the piece!  It was, to me, just adorable.  He was a beautiful man.

I loved looking into his eyes with each and every opportunity that I was given.  I swear his gaze rested on me for just an instant longer than the others.  I must admit I was a bit obsessed with him, enough so that I risked quite a lot to pay him a visit 20 minutes after a Friday rehearsal.

As I’d been told, Jacob sat in the outer office.  Maestro could not be disturbed, and since I actually had no questions, I begged forgiveness.  Jacob smiled, opened his desk drawer, and handed me a small white box. 

“Maestro wanted you to have this,” Jacob said. 

Inside was an NCO paperweight with Genesis’ signature burned across the brass plate that was affixed to the marble base.  Nice!

There was no advertising for our first concert.  We didn’t understand why, but agreed as a group to not tell our friends that it was coming up.  The first thing we noticed when we finally walked on stage was that every seat was occupied.  People lined the back walls.  We were told to plan on a long night, suggesting a major post-concert gala.  I was up for that.

That evening I swear there were 96 flawless performances.  The crowd seriously went nuts as we ended, and Maestro took several well-deserved bows before the appreciative audience.

As the endless applause continued, three well-dressed people approached and surrounded Maestro.  He was unfazed.  With simple power tools they unscrewed the small circular platform, on which he stood, from the stage, tilting it and him back. Under the platform they disconnected many dozens of wire cable connections.  The arms on his tilted body relaxed to his sides as his head slowly dropped back.  Applause swelled. They picked him up and laid him in a long packing box that had appeared.  As he was carried to the edge of the performance area, audience members swarmed the stage asking questions about our experience.  It took us awhile to appreciate what had just happened.

Emotions were mixed to say the least.  I was furious.  I hopped off the stage and jogged to Jacob’s office.  He was in his office with three people.  He introduced me to them as the inventors of the first viable robot conductor  - a musician, an engineer, and a computer scientist from City University.  Jacob vigorously expressed his appreciation on their behalf for my participation in a fascinating and unique experiment.  Jacob opened his desk and presented me with a very nice white box with a paperweight inside.

“Maestro wanted you to have this,” he explained.

I noted tools on his desk, and surprised myself by asking if I might have a few minutes alone to speak with him.  The scientists enthusiastically cooperated.  As soon as the door closed I stepped behind Jacob, rolling his chair back from the desk.  His head and torso were strapped onto the chair.  He had no legs. There must have been 30 thick cables that fed into him.  I methodically disconnected them all, watching his body go limp and his green eyes point to the ceiling.  I stuffed the ends of a few cables down his throat, placed a very nice white box atop his manicured head, the box looking rather like a funny hat, and peeled the skin down from his lower lip, stretching it till it was anchored below his chin.  I poked through his desk, found a permanent marker in a lower drawer, and wrote “fuck you” across his forehead.

In the days that followed many of our musicians had their 15 minutes of fame, discussing Maestro’s precision, their shock at being unwilling guinea pigs, and everything in between.  No one wanted to hear what I had to say (my thoughts were clear) and I wasn’t about to confess how real my crush had become on the assembly of motors, microprocessors, gears and wires.

As quietly as it had appeared, the NCO disappeared from our view, into the academic journals; it was touted as a successful experiment, with so many options on where to go next.

life after orchestra

Three weeks later I bought a cup of coffee that I couldn’t afford at my old haunt, Beaners Coffee Shop.  It was surprisingly crowded there so I headed for the door. Mike the owner grabbed my elbow and guided me to a singly occupied table.  He introduced me to a beautiful blonde guy named Edward.  He actually kissed my hand as I sat with him, and I liked it. I looked into his eyes - such beautiful green eyes.  I leaned back in my chair, pushing my napkin onto the floor.  Under the table I looked. No wires.  He was completely self- contained.  I loved the way he said “Roberta”, which he often did.  I told him how beautiful he was, reached for his hand and could practically feel his body working, as calculations were being made to intertwine his fingers with mine.

“Oh, what the hell,” I murmured to myself as my other hand rested on his thigh under the table.  Time for me to make my contribution to science.  I was, after all, clearly selected for a reason!  While it was probably too soon to make a final decision, I was optimistic that he was going to be a much more satisfying gift than a marble paperweight.

Keep Writing and Good Things Happen!

PageTurners is an international publishing house in Bangalore, India.  They recently published an anthology of short stories, The Traversal of Lines, which was sold to raise money for The Gosports Foundation.  Dedicated to a cross-cultural perspective, PageTurners is publishing a second anthology of short stories called Across the Ages, again an international, culturally focussed collection of creative writing (https://www.facebook.com/pageturnersanthology).  Across the Ages will contain stories on 'age'.  PageTurners recently announced that they selected my short story "Old/Bored/Trouble/Dead" for inclusion in this latest anthology.  You can find the short story at http://www.readwave.com/old-bored-trouble-dead-across-the-ages_s3093.

In June 2013, the short story website Readwave (www.readwave.com) formed a partnership with Worldreader (worldreader.org), an organization that works to promote literacy in developing countries in Africa.  They load tablets and Kindles and Nooks with e-books and short stories, and send them to schools in need.  Worldreader is backed by major publishing houses as well as Amazon.  I'm honored that three of my short stories were selected for inclusion in the e-readers.  "Damaged", "Garage of the Nobodies" and "Old/Bored/Trouble/Dead" can all be read at readwave.com.  The Worldreader project is doing amazing things.  Please check them out and consider supporting their work.

As part of the Author Interview series on Infinity Publishing's blog, an interview with John Allison concerning his first book, Saturday Night at Sarah Joy's, can be found here.

My (longer) short story, “Red Light Plywood”, appeared on the Friday, August 2, 2013 edition of Alain Gomez’s Short Story Symposium blog, http://bit.ly/1bXnT3R.