#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 28: “Savior” by St. Vincent

Another song discovered this week at just the right time. I’m diving more into Pru’s romance with Federal Vigilante Agent Maxwell Spelling, and when I heard “Savior” by St. Vincent — really heard it — and decided it was a perfect summary of their relationship. Pru is so enamored by him that she doesn’t mind that he’s looking for her to be a distraction, scapegoat, accomplice and victim all at once for him. Similarly, St. Vincent’s song cosmetically sounds like a woman’s adventure with sexual experimentation as her partner begs her to take on different roles (nurse, teacher, nun, cop and leather-momma).

But that’s not the point of the song at all, it turns out.

“I got ’em trying to save the world,” she murmurs at the end. “They said, ‘Girl, you’re not Jesus.'”

So not only is “Savior” about the demands Max makes on Pru in their relationship, but also on the demands she makes on herself and those around her. St. Vincent insists she “can’t be your savior” until being worn down by her lover’s pleas. Pru succumbs to her own addiction to the rush that comes from making a difference.

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#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 27: Amorous Congress

Having been a bartender for ten years, Nick Matthews could tell when a date was going well, and when the dude should just put down his card and call it a night. It usually had to do with how long either person took to look through the ten to twelve cocktail cards and pick their drink. If only one of them picked it right away, it meant they wanted to get the hell out and on with their separate life. If both were antsy to order, it meant they wanted to knock it back and leave to the next thing (depending on the hour, dinner or bed). And if both mulled over the menu because they were too busy talking about other things, it meant that this was a long-term relationship in the making.

The couple that had come in tonight — Lou, the owner, had told the hostess to move them up the list for a coveted spot at the bar because he recognized them from TV — were so busy talking that Nick wasn’t sure if they’d ever order. Finally they decided on something and put the order in. Two cocktails with egg whites. Nick would have to strangle whoever decided the menu tonight should have three different shaken egg white cocktails on it. His arms were killing him. 

“An Amorous Congress and a Screaming Mimi,” he said, pushing the drinks across the bar at the couple. They hardly noticed him, but the man flipped a card out of his wallet.  

“Tab?” Nick asked. 

“Sure, why not?” the man said with a smile.  

The name of the cocktails were also a sign of where things were going. If the woman wasn’t interested in her date, no way would she have ordered a drink called Amorous Congress. There were others on the menu sometimes — Or Gee, It’s Punch!; the Boot Knocker; and the Bondage Night Special — that could be used to subliminally tell a drinking partner (or partners) what you might be up for, but there were others like Not Tonight, Satan, and We’ll Never Have Paris that hinted the other direction.  

Two Amorous Congresses, one Screaming Mimi and a draught of Whistle Pig scotch later, Nick was hoping they’d either get another round or get the fuck out. His girlfriend had texted to say she and a friend wanted to stop by, and he could use the two seats. 

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t thoroughly entertained by the couple. They had turned out to be all right folks: well-versed in their brown liquors and convivial toward him. Unlike some of the more stomach-churning dates he had seen, there was never a dull silence or barbed comment. He didn’t know where some of these guys got the idea that insulting a woman was the best way to gain her favor. 

#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.

Poem: Time on his arm

He wears time on his arm
Literally, artisically, devotedly.
Not as a watch that slips on and off,
Slows down and speeds up,
Inexplicably stops one day
(it just needs a new battery…or maybe a repair shop).

No, he’s got Dali clocks under his skin.
Minute hands, hour hands, Roman numerals
Tangle among flies and flowers and dreams,
And tie together with vines that bind around his forearm.
A permanent reminder that time is impermanent.

So how funny is it
That whenever that surrealism-swathed arm
Wraps itself around my waist,
Offers itself as we walk down the street,
Extends to hand me a drink
Or reassuringly squeeze my knee,
Time seems to stands still.

(Or at least I wish it would.)

 

Vignette: “Promise me”

“Promise me just one thing,” she said over the crunch of Pringles between his teeth. She waited for the swallow, the contemplation over eating another.

Then she took advantage of the way his heart was facing her as he reached for the tube to strike it with her arrow:

“When you’re done with me, please tell me in no uncertain terms.”

Blink, and you would have missed the micro-hesitation of the chip en route to his mouth as he was forced to consume her words first.

“Why do you think I’d be done with you?” He asked, popping the Pringle in his mouth and letting it rest there. He waited for it to get soggy, except her request had left his mouth dry. How did she know that he knew he couldn’t let go, long after his hands had given out? It was like the cliff side of her had formed itself like handcuffs around his wrists, refusing to yield no matter how hard he tried to wrench free.

#NaNoWriMo2017 Day 27: “Dread and Adoration”

He thought — and then red wine made him say it aloud — that he shouldn’t adore her so much. He dreaded how it would end for him.

The thing about adoration is that it fades fast, like a half-formed idea that’s forgotten among the hustle of a day only to reappear in the dead of night when he rolled over and smell her perfume on his skin, or hear in his head how she somehow could pronounce “literally” as “litchrally” without sounding pedantic. All he’d think about for the next 30 seconds of wakefulness was her: Wonderful, riveting her.

But dread? That’s what kept him up the rest of the night after her perfume had faded and voice had quieted. He studied the book of everything they had said, done, planned, agreed upon, disagreed upon, bonded over or fought over in hopes of calming or confirming his fears that this was a paperback beach read of a relationship. So many nights he stayed up reading and hoping with every page turn that he would find a passage that proved this wasn’t just an author’s cruel joke of a novel meant to make smart readers feel outmaneuvered.

Just as he rounded the 10th or 11th chapter — he had lost count of how many nights he had spent on her porch, on her couch, in her bed — he realized that he had to make a choice. He could keep running his eyes along every curve of every letter of every word, hoping to find a single phrase pointing to this relationship not being a waste of time.

Or he could leave this book, unfinished and unwanted, for someone else to try to decipher late at night. Best wishes to whoever cracked her spine next.

Excerpt: “Untitled Vampire Story”

The fact there was something different about him should have clued me into the fact that this was a bad idea — but I never heed my own instincts. My sister said it would eventually catch up to me, this haphazard lifestyle, but hey: I’d been purposefully arrogant for all 563 years of my life.

That’s what comes with being 17 for the last 547 of them. People expect me to be a thrill-seeking, living-on-the-edge, throw-caution-to-the-wind adolescent because I look like a walking, talking teenage cliché.

My sister, ten years my senior, used to moan about how inconvient it was that I vamped at the height of my teen years. She was a perpetual victim of my pubescent mood swings until I figured out how to control them around Year 303 of vampiredom. It also meant having to move around constantly because I never grew older. Then she realized continual transfers were useful, as it meant she could take complete advantage of any man she dated, then disappear when the relationship had run its course. No awkward breakups, and no one-night-stands gone long.

This was fine for the first 500 years until everyone suddenly became like us.

I don’t know who did it. Brom Stoker? Anne Rice? Fucking Stephanie Meyers? Almost overnight — or over-day, rather — the 300 or so vampires, including me and Morgan, came out of hiding in droves. Maybe it was because we were tired of being casted as brooding teenage heartthrobs. Maybe we were jealous of the attention fictional characters attracted and wanted some of the lime light. Whatever it was, suddenly, it was cool to be a vampire.

All I know is that one minute I was a rarity — a freak, some would say — and the next everyone I knew was drinking blood and sleeping from dawn until dusk.

Along with this change came another.

For 563 years, I avoided the hormone cesspool of high school successfully. Now that everyone turned out immortal, everyone started hitting Vamp Highs, where the older you were, the cooler you looked. It was a place where if you were new the first question wasn’t “Where are you from?” but “How old are you?” Some people jacked up their age, just to get attention. That was stupid, since just one glance at your V.I.D (Vampire Identification) clarified the subject.

None of us really needed school, but we were in the habit, and habits die hard, especially when you won’t. Or can’t. Ever.

Like any other “new kid,” when he walked into history class and the teacher, 958 years old, told us his name was Ron Jones — quite a pedestrian name, as far as everyone could tell compared to the students named Cecily, Piper, Loradonna, and Hunter that dominated the roster — the first question he was smacked in the face with upon taking his seat was “How old are you?”

“17,” he replied, looking at his books. I snorted at how Hollywood it sounded.

“No,” said Cecily di Garso (Cecily G. for short). “How old are you? Like — all together.”

“17,” he said again.

That was when the teacher told Cecily G. to shut up and listen to the lesson. Because we were all pretty old, the teachers didn’t really take care “to protect the youth.” Half of us had braved the Crusades, and we had all lived through at least the second World War. When we weren’t trying to one-up another during history class, we were busy swapping war stories.

Which helped make abundantly clear that this Ron kid was weird.

First off, he took notes.

Second, he had no good stories to tell. Not even when the topic of conversation moved on to the Vietnam War did he perk up. He attempted, once, by regaling us with a story told by his last history teacher who had passed around a shell from a bomb he almost died from just outside of a small coastal village in South Vietnam, but when no one seemed to care unless Ron had personally collected it, he grew quiet.

I overheard Cecily G. talking with the over-600 crowd at lunch that day while I eyed Ron taking a seat alone at the corner table.

“He must be a newbie,” she said. “That’s why he said he’s seventeen. Must have just Vamped.”

“Wow,” gasped one of them. “I didn’t know there were any humans left!”

I took my seat at a table away, with my friends in the mid-500s. There were no humans left, even 20 years ago. We had all taken care of that pretty well. I personally had never bitten anyone — I didn’t believe in all the stories about how kinky it could be — but I knew Morgan had. Once. By accident.

I found this in my files from God knows how long ago and thought it would be fun to share in the light of today’s Halloween festivities. Honestly I don’t know where I was going with it, but it fits into my usual M.O. of imagining a tired storyline with the roles reversed or perspective changed. A vampire figuring out what to do about a human in their world? Now that could get spookily hilarious. Who knows: Maybe this will turn into a YA book one of these days….