Vignette: Moxie’s mood makeup

Even lost at sea, she lined her eyes to coordinate with how she felt that day.

At the start of the adventure, she painted her lids with dazzling purple glitter, adding a dot or a star that reflected how shiny and new this wave-riding world felt to her. By the end of the day, the glitter would have flaked and fallen onto her cheeks so that in certain lights, it looked like sea spray, sometimes tears.

They called her Moxie, even though she had never asked them to. Her real name was Sue, but there was a mute man on the crew with a parrot he spelled out as “S-O-O” using a fist and two O-shaped hand gestures. At least, that’s what everyone preferred to think that sequence of sign language letters meant. He could have just been telling them to jack him off. And anyway, Moxie was fine with her new moniker. She’d always wanted an “X” in her name.

The longer they floated aimlessly — except, notably, when they were plowing through the waves to get away from a giant sea monster or enemy ship — the less color she used. Sometimes it would be brown or muted green that brought out the flecks in her hazel irises: A sign that she was being particularly introspective that day. Other times it was a faint gold that reflected the red-sky-at-morning and a particularly playful attitude. And then there were the dark days, like the ones after Porfry and Greela were snatched overboard by a giant squid, or when Yaru was shot through the heart by rival pirates, when she smudged black kohl across her lids and cried it off by supper.

One night a crew-mate called Kraken snuck into Moxie’s quarters and found the tiny box containing her eye paints. It was ebonied wood with a tarnished clasp of cheap metal that had somehow not rusted shut in the sea air that cocooned everything in moist warmth. Moxie knew that Kraken was in her room the minute she heard the screams, the guttural gurgling, and seen the blood creep from under the door and into the main galley as the boat pitched. She calmly opened the door, stepped over the puddle of Kraken’s blood, and closed the box.

By the morning, the blood was cleaned up. The only sign that Kraken had once been on the ship was the stain on the wood planks outside the door. It was the same reddish brown as the dramatically winged eyeliner painted across Moxie’s lids.

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Vignette: Patrick Bateman is my neighbor

I’ve got a confession to make. “In The Air Tonight” by Phil Collins is not on my phone.

That is why, when I woke up to the iconic bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum-dum drum riff at the 3-minute-and-16-second mark at 5:15 a.m. on a Saturday, I knew it wasn’t my alarm waking me up. That would have been the bink-beng-bum-bink-beng-bum-bink-beng-bum-bink-bink-beng-bum guitar of “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone.

A quick scan of my apartment confirmed that the poltergeist who had knocked one of my framed pictures off the wall two nights before hadn’t continued its mischief by turning my stereo on, either.

“You don’t know who this is?” slurred a voice as loud as the music. “How do you not know who this fucking is?”

Of course I knew who this was, but apparently my neighbor’s guest, a girl cackling with liquored-up laughter, didn’t, and was now enduring his wrath as he continued yelling over Phil’s echoing, ethereal eloquence.

And then — silence.

Maybe he’s murdering her with an ax, I thought during the absence of sound. Seems a high price to pay for not knowing a song, but Patrick Bateman killed over business card stock after explaining Huey Lewis and the News to Paul Allen in American Psycho, so anything’s possible.

The next morning I ran into her as she left his apartment, heels in hand and mascara dust powdering her cheeks. She had the flush of someone who had had a good night. Thank god I wasn’t awake to hear that part.

We stood waiting for the elevator, with her flipping through social media on her phone so she doesn’t have to acknowledge me. And I wasn’t going to say anything until she almost ran me over in an attempt to get into the empty elevator that had just arrived.

As we descended 20 floors, I began to whistle “In the Air Tonight.”

Vignette: At the Symphony

By the way…

I’ve never fallen so hard for someone as I did for you as I watched you fall hard for the symphony. How your hand squeezed mine as the conductor walked on stage. How I could feel your heartbeat drumming along with the tympani. How you drew breath as the first-chair violinist drew her bow.  

You said you couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way over music. I thought I couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way over a person. 

Vignette: A promise

I promised you that the minute you needed to jet, I’d meet you outside in Coraline’s truck and we’d bolt down to Mexico — after all, I can speak Italian with a Spanish accent, so we would be just fine. The first time I said this, you laughed and replied, “God, you’re great.”

We were about two months into sleeping with each other at that point, five months into just knowing each other. 

The second time I reminded you I was willing to commit grand theft auto — though I’m not sure it’s truly GTA when it’s my own divorced sister-in-law’s truck I’m stealing, especially when she swindled my brother out of seeing the kids for 50 weeks out of the year — you kissed me on the forehead with a smile and said “But they don’t pay that much in Mexico.”

Canada, then, I said. They have Mounties and great healthcare. Or cheap pills, at least.

“And mountains!” you added. “I like mountains.” 

So it was settled, that we’d drive up to Canada in my ex-sister-in-law’s truck after I had swung by to pick up your dog and camping gear on my way to collect you from what I was sure would be a very bloody murder scene. You could hide in the back alley while the cops assessed the body count. Just one, as planned. Maybe more if there were annoying witnesses. Be sure to bash his head in with a block of ice so it would melt and none of your fingerprints would be found. 

“Feels….cold,” you said when I recommended this.

“Yeah, but the son-of-a-bitch deserves it.”

“No, the ice,” you said. “I lose feeling in my fingers really quickly when the temperature drops, so I’m not sure how long I can hold an ice block.”

“And you want to go to Canada?”

So now we’re back to Mexico as our escape destination, and I’m still waiting for the call telling me to hotwire that bitch Coraline’s truck, swing by to get Rufus the mutt and some camping gear, pick up you and your numb fingers, and high tail it to a beach south of the border. Just so happens I look great in a bikini.

Oh, you think I’m joking? Check out these abs. And this ass. I’m fucking Raquel Welch. Bette Page. Halle Berry walking up on the beach in Die Another Day.

Oh, you mean about driving to Mexico. Baby, just hand me the map and you can doze shotgun the whole way down.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 26: The city’s ribcage

For being called “The Oculus,” it looks more like a ribcage than something that can see — especially in this February fog. Its bones splay out, opening its spine up to the sky and exposing the invisible heart that floats within. It’s the heart that holds all of the memories of what used to be in this spot before that Tuesday in September, so no wonder the ribcage is open: It’s trying to let out some of that agony.

The Oculus building stands in New York at the World Trade Center

The Oculus in New York overshadowed by a February fog.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 23: Cooley’s broken heart

This all started when Cooley decided to drown his sorrows in gin. He had broken his own heart — taken it out of his chest, held it out for a dame, and then pulled it out of shape in front of her when she sneered at it. After witnessing these two months of vulnerable stupidity and stupid vulnerability, a friend recommended they go out for an evening of classy cocktailing. In the darkness of a speakeasy, the kind with a hidden door, no windows and a high risk of splinters from the bar, he finally felt at peace. His heart still hurt, but the four martinis and club chanteuse’s rendition of “Glad Rag Doll” numbed it so it could start to mend.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 20: Splendiferous

Lester Ranovich hated working the custodial dayshift — not based on the work, which was easier than nightshift cleaning, but because of the way the fancy people at the fancy 111 East building would either be over-friendly or pretend he didn’t exist. The latter was what he preferred, honestly. He knew that none of these designer suit-clad desk jockeys were remotely interested in how his weekend was or how he was doing.  

Sometimes he liked to play a game to see if they were paying attention. “How are you?” he’d ask. “Fine, you?” they would always fire back. Always replying to a question with the same question and hoping they’d get the same answer back, “Fine,” and then move on. But this was when he’d get tricky. His granddaughter had just gotten a dictionary for her birthday, and every night after dinner they’d pore over it looking for a word for the next day that they would each have to use in conversation. She was 10. He was nearing 63. Both took immense joy from the challenge.

Today’s word: “Splendiferous: extraordinarily or showily impressive.” 

So whenever anyone asked how he was doing, he would answer with “Splendiferous.” Depending on the word, he either came off as the harbinger of morbidity or just a crazy old loon.