Time Of No Reply - Chapter Three

TIME OF NO REPLY

Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant

All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER THREE

Remy gets up earlier than normal. A horrible mandate for an insomniac. His prescriptions are running low. He must walk to the Doctors office. It will take him three hours one way. Sometimes he gets lucky and a kind soul will offer him a ride. It would be a shame if today, kindness were extinct.

Optimism reigns briefly when one comes up from behind. He turns to look. Sometimes, making eye contact will humanize the plight. It is Joey. She does not extend any generosity. The road to soul continues to elude her.

It isn’t entirely her fault. She isn’t driving. The strange man is. They do slow down, but only enough to allow her to look at him through the rolled up window. He is convinced that this is purposely of her doing. It’s just something she would do for spite to get under his skin. Another hapless tease. A moment defined in slow motion.

Pulling away, she climbs over her seat and into the back. She keeps her eyes on him during the entire episode. She smiles throughout, gloating, no doubt. Oh, how she loves that power. That control. Just like a dominatrix would. And as expected, the world would not acquiesce to his demands. Instead, it dances around his very existence. And while his walk continues, the whole experience leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A taste that could be best described as an abandoned port-o-potty. For Remy, this could have been the final straw. Her vicious act of defiance was nothing short of a menacing malice of betrayal. He forgives her. He loves her still. She will always be his angel. The journey is hardly over.

Remy sits patiently in the waiting room. There are others more in need than he. That’s been the story of his life thus far. He dreamt of revenge every now and then. Why must his emergency always be vile? It’s as though his concerns are disconcerting. Illusory. If you’re not beautiful outside, then there is nothing inside for you to feel.

He exchanges a blank stare with a little boy. Remy guesses him to be nine years old. He is a Negro. Remy connects with him anyway. The little boy places his fingers in the sides of his mouth and stretches it as far as he can and sticks out his tongue. This action speaks volumes. Remy often yearns for a substance induced reaction. His blank stare would have to suffice for now.

By Cristy Quinn

The little boys mother appears to be in her mid thirties. She is a hefty woman. Her eyes reflect the dire straights of her future. He feels sorry for her. It must be difficult to be a Negro.

Moments such as these, when he is waiting for to be recognized, Remy takes advantage by reflecting. His wait will be long and he is prepared. He attempts to conjure up dead spirits from his past. If he wishes hard enough and clicks his heels, they might just free him from his bondage.

As a young boy, he made plenty of friends with imaginary things. He was the center of his own ineptness. He roamed the fields of perpetual bliss, holding hands with the goddess of sin. He was popular in the way of make-believe that he never achieved in reality. Sometimes, he feared that one day his mind wouldn’t know the difference. And if that was to be, would everything look prettier within that state of unconsciousness? Or would they resemble something much darker? More sinister? Less emotional? They might reflect the present, he feared.

The questions always seem to overwhelm the answers. For Remy, answers are like true love – nonexistent. The truest form of love was the bond he has with his mother, Cecilia. It has occurred to him that she too, has faculty issues. Perhaps that is where he inherited his own. His late father wasn’t exactly a genius either. Why do they allow the poor and down-trodden to procreate?

 And time continues to drag by like a lazy cloud in a lazy sky while the wind takes a much needed vacation. And the rain is the bastard child of the moment. Imagine if you got everything you ever wanted, then there would be nothing else left for you to receive in this world. You would be as lively as a vampire at high noon.

 Halfway back home, it begins to rain. Drizzles at first, then comes the storm. It was only fitting that this be his fate. He brought this on himself. Why couldn’t he be somebody cool? Like the man who drives the car that transports Joey?

Remy would never sing for his supper. He never helps his neighbor. He will never do what is proper. Or, his fair share of labor. He is a poor boy. While others count their coins, he will throw them over his shoulder. Nobody knows how cold it grows. And nobody sees how shaky his knees. Nobody cares how steep his stairs. And nobody smiles if he crosses their stiles. Oh, poor boy, so sorry for himself. Oh, poor boy, so worried for his health. You may say everyday - where will he stay tonight?

Remy stands on his front porch the following afternoon, inches from the edge of the stairs. The rain continues to pour, both outside and - inside. Nothing was coming out to play on this day, except for Mr. Disarray. He saw no hide or hair of Joey. Not that he was anticipating. But he was.

He just stands there, taking drag after drag off his cigarette, watching the sky cry the tears it needed to release in order to be happy again soon. Cecilia pops her head out for a chore. “Time for lunch.” While that sounded fine to him, he had a hidden agenda to execute. In his fleshy and hostile manner, he executed it perfectly.

Remy walks down the stairs and a few feet into the yard. He looks up to the sky, spreading his arms wide and opening his mouth. He pretends the rain-drops were Joey’s tears. For these few precious moments - he is happy and fulfilled. They never tasted any better. He has tasted them before. Damn that evil bitch! She deserves everything that Remy dishes out. And then some.

He looks back at the dreary house. It crosses his thoughts a time or two to just up and leave. Forget everything and go make a name for himself. He bets the big city would welcome him with open arms. He believes this whole heartedly. He could go to New York town and become somebody who is dapper and dandy, proper even. That would teach her a lesson, he concludes, walking back towards the porch to enjoy another lost moment in time, and another fried chicken meal.

The hours procreate.

Remy lifts a few pills to his mouth. He is tired and really needs to sleep tonight. He refuses to wash them down with a glass of water. They are bitter. He is accustomed to bitterness. The bitter, the better. Bitter is home to him. The rain continues its onslaught. God is extremely angry right now and has been all day long. Remy is placing a bet though that Joey is safe, and warm - and dry. And very much satisfied.

The devil is celebrating.

Once he swallows the pills, he ventures out to the kitchen and opens a cupboard door. He reaches up to the top shelf and latches onto an acquaintance. One he hasn’t seen for a short while. Bringing it down, he closes the door and heads back to his bedroom. He moves with intent. He walks to the phonograph in the corner and puts on a record before lying down on his bed. He twists the top of the bottle off and takes a drink. The whiskey goes down his throat more smooth than the pills did and yet, equally as sour.

He channels in on Joey. Where has she gone? Why stay away for such a long time? She has done this before, but it was so long ago – the last time. Just when he thought he was making progress. Hope is a damsel in distress within a pair of ravishing arms. He has tried so many times to talk himself out of feelings for her. Who does he think he is? Who could he possibly rescue?

An agitated demon haunts the attic of his heart. His dilly-dally days have left him spent and deprived. His soul is about as wide as the Pillars of Hercules where in between, instead of a calm blue ocean, there lie broken glass and shattered diamonds.

His eyes are soon dilated, a sure indication that she is almost gone from his mind, even if for just a few glossy hours. The pills will ensure he sleeps. The whiskey ensures he won’t dream. The storm outside ensures a better tomorrow, which is just another way of saying that everything will return to normal. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he is excited for that prospect - and depressed. He is contradictory.

God is angry. The devil is not.

Time Of No Reply - Chapter Two

TIME OF NO REPLY

Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant

All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER TWO

Remy stands in the front yard. The afternoon sun is sweltering. His arms are dangling on either side. A coon dog is walking the country road before him, his nose to the ground, sniffing for a scent. Remy reasons that he is lost, and trying to find his way back home. How can a hound dog get lost? The creature appears as dyslexic as Remy. They disregard one another to the best of their abilities. The animal could be hungry and searching for food. Its ribs are showing and he takes the appearance of a skeleton wrapped in skin. Why can’t he find something to eat? He is a hound dog after-all.

Joey emerges from her house, same as yesterday. Remy doesn’t bother wasting his time looking. Not yet anyway. He will do this sporadically in an attempt to piss her off. Joey admires being adored. Before long, she settles next to him in observance. Standing there like two towers, they watch the coon dog together. She finds it all too surreal. She processes the image in her frail and demented mind. “I think I will name him Buster.”

A car comes rolling along. It frightens the dog into the surrounding trees. The car pulls into Joey’s driveway. The man behind the wheel honks the horn. She looks in that direction before looking at Remy. There is something noticeably different about him today. He doesn't appear his usual self. She lifts her hand and with the backside of it, rubs his face. The stubble is coarse against her skin. “You need to shave.” She then scampers like a wet portrait towards the parked car.

The man gets out and waits for her. Remy turns to look. Joey bounces into his arms and the two come together, their lips touching. They spin around in a circle with her yellow dress flowing uninterruptedly. She is breaking his heart again. This is her secret joy, and his visible pain. He loves every second of it. His smile is a dead give-away to that. Why are all the well conceived plans so down-right evil?

Joey races around the front of the vehicle to the other side and opens the door. The man does likewise, taking his place behind the wheel. She hesitates while exchanging a confirmed glance with Remy. She sees his content. It’s the best he can offer. She is prompted to do the same. Waving, she slides into the seat and closes the door.

Remy tilts his head as they speed away. He raises his hand to his face. Perhaps she was right. It has been a few days since he used a razor. The coon dog reappears. He continues from where he left off, sniffing his way down the road. “Goodbye, Buster.”

The remainder of the early afternoon will have to be spent in a prism of dull colors. Multiple visions seers through his brain. He can only fathom what it is that Joey is doing to that man while they drive down the road to where-ever their destination might be. This would be a first for Joey - she lives without any destination, period.

Remy is no stranger to her nymphomania despite the fact that he has yet to touch her in the manner that the rest of the world seemingly has. He knows full good and well that Joey isn’t shy about when, where or how to acquire pleasure. When her desires call out, they will be satisfied no matter the cost. She has more than the world can offer to pay for such costs, too. Her riches dwell in the acts of gratification. She is the wealthiest girl in all of the county. And now, with her departure, Remy must find yet another way to fill his time.

Mary Jane Rodgers walks into the front door. She is a friend of Remy’s mother. She is sixty-eight years old. She sparkles with a delightful charm. She is a hairdresser. It’s the second Wednesday of the month, the day she comes to do his mother’s hair. Cecilia doesn’t date anymore, that time has passed. She still enjoys the remembrance of those lost years though.

Remy watches from the couch. He is trying to take a nap. He lies there - barely able to catch a glimpse of Mary Jane in the kitchen while she stands behind the chair Cecilia is sitting on. He is convinced she was angelic in her youth. She must have had many a gentleman caller in her day. This initiated his curiosity. Would they have been lovers had he been born in her time? Would she have been his Joey? He prescribes to the notion that, more to his knowledge and perception, she would have broken his heart as well. He also reasons, the pain of it would have felt the same - immeasurable. Who can know the thoughts of Mary Jane? Where did she come from? Where has she been and who has she seen in her journey through the stars?

 Remy cancels anymore considerations to the elderly woman. He resumes that nap, falling back into slumber - one small Joey at a time. Dreams are not the only place he can love her, but they are the only place she will love him in return. Perhaps that’s why he sleeps so much. It’s not that he is lazy, he just doesn’t have anything else to do, or to go. His status as her fool is an accepted ambience of frustration.

Time is molasses. 

Remy is lying on the porch swing, the same manner as the other day. The same as he always does. He is very predictable and consistent. Unlike Joey, who is sitting in the wicker chair only this time, her legs were stretched out on the front railing, wearing a light green dress. She is playing with imaginary visions, just reaching out into the air, trying to catch what did not exist. She is a child seeking refuge from boredom. “What ever happened to Buster?”

It is a new day - a new afternoon, resembling all the ones that came before it. Mother Nature is a deviant bitch. Remy has grown accustomed to her ways though. He is fine with it. He turns to look at Joey. This action did not distract her from her game. He pushes a dagger into her selfish heart. “He died.”

Suddenly, she ceases her goofing around. Her smile transforms into numbness. Her enthusiastic demeanor settles into a more withdrawal state. She drops her arms to hang over the side of the arm-rests of the wicker chair. She sighs exhaustingly. “Serves him right for walking along the side of the road like that.” She closes her eyes tightly before reopening them. In a moment of situational clarity, she succumbs to her own mortality. “We’re all bio-degradable.”

She just can not sit still. Seductively, she rises to her feet and dances softly to the porch stairs. She stretches around the post closest to Remy, placing her arms on the railing and then, her chin. She believes he said that about Buster to hurt her and cause her some distress. She loved that dog. It was her turn to hurt him. “I’m pregnant.”

Remy pays her no mind. This infuriates her. However, she keeps that buried feeling from exposing itself. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a rabbit hop into the yard. She slowly returns to an upright position and takes careful and cautious movements towards the animal when it metaphorically stops to smell the roses. It soon senses her presence nearing, and by the time she jumps like a prowling jaguar, he shoots in the opposite direction and is gone in the blink of an eye. Her laughter, at his fear, pours out hysterically. “Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids.”

 Joey approaches from the side of the railing where Remy is still laying. She grabs the wooden dividers as if they were prison bars on a jail cell, to demonstrate she was incarcerated. She is contrite for scaring the rabbit. Her self inflicted punishment is fleeting. She inserts her arms in between them and reaches out to try and push the swing. She gets a high from the mere thought of disturbing his peace. Her small stature prevents this attempt. She folds her arms around the dividers in frustration. “You need to find a girlfriend.”

Time has told him that she’s a rare find. A much troubled cure for his much troubled mind. And time has told him not to ask for more. Perhaps someday his ocean will find its shore. Where Joey is concerned, there are no shores. Only empty storms of fate.

The hours quickly pass.

 

Remy finds a shaded place to stand that overlooks a quiet brook. Joey sits on a rather nice sized rock and splashes her feet in the cool water beneath her. She is very interested in knowing if she is scaring any fish that swam below the surface. Her head bobbles recklessly in her quest. All the while, smiling at her nothing accomplishment.Their time on his porch ran its course for the day. She is a free spirit who enjoys simplicity. It is still early evening and yet, far from resembling it. The days are just too long for him. Not short enough for her. Is it any wonder they tolerated each other? “I think I will take off my dress and go skinny dipping.”

Remy slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and stares down at his shabby - lace-up shoes. Is he daring himself to do the same? Or, is he conceding to his destructive self-image?

Joey sees this and smiles, clearly pleased with her power. He is such a dreary sight. A loner - all alone with his discrepancies. She is his only reason for breathing. She knows this, which is why she sat with him on the school bus when they were just children trying to find an answer to anything that mattered while the rest of the kids kept their distance from him. He was a plague. They may have never found those answers, then again, they have long forgotten the questions they asked in the first place and now, it just doesn’t seem to matter.

 He was always the same. She was always different. Her mood changes as often as the colors of her many, many dresses. Popularity has its merits. And she was always, and will probably always be popular to the rest of humanity. Where-as Remy is a ghost. Nobody knew who he was. Not even the boy who sat behind him in grade school. He continues to be forgotten.

Her junior year of high school was the first when he was no longer able to ride with her on the bus. She missed it horribly. Almost more than he did. It did help some that he was there in the morning on his swing when she left. And there when her day of learning was complete. She often times wondered if he really graduated at all. He didn’t go to his graduation ceremony if he did. She considered, on occasion, to question him about it, but the topic never did come up in conversation. And she really didn’t care.

Time has told him that she came with the dawn. She is a soul with no footprint, a rose with no thorn. Her tears, they tell him, there’s really no way of ending her troubles with things he could say. And time will tell him to stay by her side. To keep on trying until there’s no more to hide. Will he ever leave the ways that are making him be what he really doesn’t want to be?

His thoughts are always rambling.

They walk back through the wooded landscape heading home. She never did go skinny dipping. He knew she was a liar. And she enjoys her wretched joke. She considers it a payback for Buster. The birds up above garner her affections more than his company. She stumbles about trying to look at them all. “Did you know that the word racecar is spelled the same way backwards?”

She likes to show-off her intelligence when he least expected it. To her, it left more of an impact. Her goal was to ensure it would keep him up all night thinking about it. Her scheme works like a charm. She is brilliant to the point of idiocy.

Remy is about as sharp witted as a dull knife. It is not in his DNA to try and pretend who he is. He makes no attempt to change what God created. He simply enjoys standing off in the corner of the stage to watch her flaunt about and be happy. She is the star. His eyes are the camera. His mind, the producer. He is making a movie in which all of his fanatical, irrational dreams would come true, even if she hadn’t a clue. But she did. Oh, yes, she knows exactly how his mind behaves. Don’t let her transparency sneak by – she is a crafty sort.

He is standing on his porch looking down at her while she stands on the ground looking up at him. It is a clear night. It is calm. It is the perfect setting for which to feed himself to death with her natural attractiveness.

The moon plays sparingly on her face. It glows unto itself. He can see why others would believe in a more Devine purpose when he loses himself in her eyes. They are intoxicating. This is the first time he ever wished he owned a car. So he could take her on a midnight drive somewhere - where the rainbow never ends.She is perceptive, gifted even. She has a way of reading him like a Shakespearean play. For once, she wants to give him hope. Gracing him with another smile, she does that very thing. “I’m not really pregnant.”

Show me the way to blue.

Time Of No Reply - Chapter One

TIME OF NO REPLY

Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant

All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER ONE

Joey White walks outside the front door of her home. She allows the screen door to retract on its own. It’s creaking and crackling is the result of its own inertia and slams to a close. She looks to her right and sees Remy Davis lounging on his porch swing. He could be asleep, perhaps taking a nap. Or - he could be daydreaming again. She doesn’t care either way. She casually heads in his direction with intentions of whiling away his hours. Subtly, she will tell him that he is not so good for her. Perhaps she will laugh at him in the autumn of his years. The soft grass cushions her bare feet. She despises foot-wear. Not since her scholastic career has she worn them. They make her feel like a whore. Don’t ask her to explain, she will only snarl at you.

By the time she makes it to the old, run-down looking porch, she rustles up some dirt from a dead spot before the steps with her toes. Only to her understanding does she find it to be remotely humorous. The dirt is blown away by the gentle summer wind. She stands there, looking down at the gray, chipped painted wood. It represents her idea of life, rotted and uneventful. Climbing them slowly, she keeps her eyes on him the whole time. She wants to see if he takes a peek. She has caught him before in the past, stealing glances of her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Joey is always looking. Despite her many lapses of concentration, she is very much aware. There are only a few steps to take. Once committed, she turns away and slowly glides across the front of the porch, sliding her fingers upon the railing in the process, stopping midway so as to not disturb a lady bug seemingly resting before it takes flight. When it does, she follows it for as long as she can before it magically disappears. “I wish I could do that.”

Remy has one arm behind his head, using it as a pillow. His other lies in his lap. One leg is propped up on the swing, the other, flat-footed on the porch. He is using it to gently rock himself. He has a cigarette behind one ear, a match-stick behind the other. His eyes are shut. He is purposely ignoring her. It is one of his hobbies. Well, one of his favorite anyway. He is grinning internally. He knows how much it gets on her nerves to be ignored.

Joey places her self down in a brown wicker chair that nestles in the far corner. She brings her feet up on the edge while ironing her long white dress down her shins, locking her hands into position, contracting her petite frame. “I won’t be able to wear this dress after labor-day.”

Remy reaches for the cigarette. He places it in his mouth. He then retrieves the match-stick. He strikes it against the back of the swing. It ignites a flame. Once lit, he tosses the now useless giver of fire to the side. He inhales and blows out some smoke. “Fashion faux pas?”

Joey lifts a hand and runs it through her long, blond hair. This is her favorite hobby. A butterfly swoops in and begins to flutter around her head. She watches it dance methodically. Apparently, this is amusing to her. She smiles. On a whim, she attempts to quickly capture it. The insect eludes her and leads her back to the front railing of the porch. She grabs it, preventing herself from toppling over, laughing all the while. “I’m a princess.”

Remy takes another drag. He finally opens his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he admires her nineteen years of beauty. Concluding, he couldn’t argue with her self-indulged remark. She will pamper herself at times when others refuse. That occurrence is rare. She was raised on being pampered. Getting her way is her primary trademark. And this is common knowledge for Remy. His shoulder length, coal black hair, makes him appear gravely ill.

The Missouri heat-wave is disorienting. Who can think on such a humid day? The year is nineteen seventy-three and for all they cared, it might as well be the turn of the century. Boredom sets in quicker than the light of the sun can travel, and that’s just the way they like it around these parts. Joey returns to the wicker. This time, she sits there with her legs spread and her hands in-between them. Joey has loved, but never shown her tears. “I have a new beau.”

Remy brings the cigarette to his lips. He takes a puff. This time, the smoke escapes through his nose. Is he trying to impress her? Only if she had noticed and – she didn’t. Or maybe she did and just doesn’t bother with that emotion. There are many emotions in which Joey doesn’t concern her self with. It’s just too much effort in her mind. The locusts in the background are playing out to their ears. He concentrates on them. A fly lands on his nose. He swats it away. The butterfly returns and lands on his extended knee. He studies it thoroughly. Joey gets back on her feet. She walks to the stairs. “Looks like you have a new friend.”


Remy raises the cigarette again and draws in the smoke. He blows it out of his rounded mouth at the creature, annoying it to go away. He is successful. It flies off. Joey hugs the extended posts that assisted in holding the structure together. The shade in which the ceiling above provided offers little in regards to refreshing her from the muggy dryness of the air. “He’s much older than you.”

Remy visually follows her as she walks down the stairs and makes her leave. Frustrated at his lethargic demeanor, she refuses to display anymore interest. He waits until she is no longer in view before taking the final taste of his tobacco. She departs as nonchalantly as she arrived. He readjusts his head back to its previous and comfortable position. He stares up at the flaking paint above him. Closing his eyes once again, he captures her in his memories for safe keeping. Smiling quietly to himself, he flicks the butt of his habitual remains off to the side. “Aren’t they always?”

This is the basis of their relationship. The foundation in which their friendship is built wobbles aimlessly amid despair. These encounters sometimes last for a few specs of time while often appearing to never end. It is a recycling event that plays out in such a staunch manner. It is as if both of their daily lives continuously repeats itself over and over and over. A toxic combination, these two, and yet, neither one of them would dare to change a single thing. Life has more important things to worry about than these two lost souls of purgatory.

 Remy and Joey are nothing more but a waste of life’s energy. This is just the way it is. Eternity drifts at half the speed of mud in this world. In fact, one might say that it is ghastly.


Remy stands before his armoire. The mirror’s reflection is that of a pale skinned and lanky man with hardly a trace of body hair. Masculinity deprived. He stands six feet, three inches tall, and walks with his shoulders hunched. His hands are engrossing, his fingers frail. Yet somehow, your first impression of him would be that of incredible elegance. His melancholy personality echoes the chilling loveliness of a boy’s choir singing Mozart’s Requiem. A far cry from Joey. She maneuvers like a goddess, often times placing a dandelion behind her ear to enhance her femininity. At five feet, five inches, she appears smaller than that with the naked eye. She is naturally flirtatious, thriving innocently from men’s attention. She obsesses in controversy with her vocabulary. Not that it is vulgar, just presumptuous. She is anorexic where sincerity is concerned.

Remy stares down at a clutter of pill bottles. He reaches for one and brings it up to observe. He reads the label of a tricyclic antidepressant called Tryptizol. He fears secretly that he is doomed. He takes his eyes off of it and resumes looking at himself in the mirror. He sets the pill bottle back down. A pillar of confusion swarms his inner workings. He has a fractured desire to be somebody else. Somebody that wouldn’t give a damn about what he saw in the abyss of his marbled eyes. God works with an inconsistent formula. On the one hand, Joey is flawless. On the other, Remy is nothing but a flaw. Cruelty in jokes is no laughing matter. And for the record, Remy never laughs. He is a statue of tranquility. He concludes – he should have just stayed in the womb.

His thoughts are like a parasite, draining the life force from his heart. The bittersweet oxygen that travels through his lungs stings with every breath. As calibrated as he is, even he would testify to the inhumanity of God’s humor. He is distracted by the opening of his bedroom door. It’s his mother, Cecilia Davis. She is calling him to dinner.

Cecilia is sixty-four years old. She has been beaten down through the years. Her husband, deceased for the past fifteen after suffering a heart-attack. She takes on the persona of a dewy spring morning. Her face is as worn as a catcher’s mitt - and just as harsh a texture. She wanted to be a ballerina when she was but a young girl with adventure in her blood. Instead, she became the wife of a laborer who faltered in supplying the necessary finances to buy her the things she deserved. She harbors no regret in decisions that she has made throughout her years. She is content.

At the table, they enjoy another meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy and green beans. It’s about all they can afford. Chicken is cheap, their souls are anything but. Cecelia washes down a bite with a glass of ice water. “Keeping busy today?”

Remy nods slightly while feeding. He eats quickly, which strikes many a folks to be a tad bit bizarre when considering, he lives at a snails pace. His movements are about as calculated as a general leading an invasion into enemy territory. He too, will wash it down with ice water however, his eyes, using peripheral vision, are periodically aiming at the upper cupboard to the right. That is where his best friend resides, in a bottle. Sour mash whiskey is his only escape. That and Joey. Between the two of them, he fears they will both lead him to his demise. He is bright in that manner. He would often times wonder about pursuing a career in philosophy. The only thing stopping him is the salary. It pays less than that of a vagabond.

 I saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way. And none of you stand so tall. Pink moon is going to get you all. And yes, it’s a pink moon. – These were his thoughts for the remainder of the day.

 

Remy sits in a lawn chair in the middle of his back yard. He lifts a bottle of bourbon to his lips and savors the flavor of the nectar. He is close to becoming drunk again. His tolerance level is high and so, more swallows to follow. A light turns on inside of the house next door. He turns his head to look. This moment is for him and him alone.

Joey is seen walking within. She is removing her clothes. Intuitively, she knows he is there, watching. He’s always there watching. Ever since she was seven and he was nine, he’s sat there in the darkness, observing her with his imagination roaming wildly. She’s an exhibitionist at heart. The stars above ridicules his perversion. He ignores it. This is his television - his entertainment. The solace of the night is where he dwells. It’s this moment where he feels unduly. Ugliness doesn’t exist in the dark. At the very least, it can’t be seen.

She turns in the direction of the window. She will stand there momentarily, long enough for him to get his fill. Her breasts will mock him. They aren’t that big, but they are everything to him. They are the only thing. Her smile is the only indication that the show is almost over. She can barely make out his silhouette. Raising both of her arms up, the curtain hides the rest of her activities, whatever they may be.

Remy is fully clothed, wearing blue jeans and a white muscle tee-shirt. His wardrobe never changes from day to day. The vision of her turns him on yet, he is not aroused. He just enjoys the fantasy. The flickering of the flame coming from a match-stick highlights his shadowing image. Once the cigarette is lit, the flame is extinguished. The night will continue onward through its journey, just as it has done for so many years. Nothing really changes in this world. It’s always the same.


Remy often wonders why she is so belligerent towards him. Offerings of opportunities he has presented her to be allies have been indiscriminately refused, rebuffed, or repelled in a malicious manner yet, far from being directly hostile. Her teasing was the result of his ambitions. She knew well how to play his emotions like a fiddle while hiding in the confines of her sexuality, behind a wall of plagiarism. As the orchestra of crickets soothes his pain, he issues his undying gratitude for whatever small amount of identity she gives to him. “I love you.”