Another Short Story

cobsie

Hi All - another short story to read. There were so many insightful comments on my last one, I wanted to submit this for feedback too. I've copied it into 3 posts again, as pickarooney suggested before. Hope that's okay. I can't think of a good title, so any suggestions there would be great. Am really interested to hear what works and what doesn't. Thanks for reading!

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[Untitled]

Marguerite is calling, querulously, from the foot of the stairwell.

“Rocky? Rocky! I need a bottle opened!”

I freeze mid-step like a cartoon burglar. The banisters creaks under the weight of her hand as she holds herself steady there, breathing, waiting for an answer. She must have struggled up from her recliner by the window when she heard my footsteps come past her door and up the back stairs to my apartment. She coughs, willing me to come down. Marguerite owns the house, a typical Boston triple-decker and has lived here since the Forties. The place is rotting and rickety, too cold in winter, too hot in summer, with squirrels in the walls and mice in the basement. The back porch lists like a boat at low tide and when I go out to water my plants I stay within a step or two of the house wall, just in case. It's dirt cheap though, for a young guy like me who doesn’t care too much about the niceties. I’ve been living above Marguerite for three years, her chief TV remote-finder and reacher of high-up objects.

I cross to the kitchen sink and put my mouth under the faucet. It's hot out, muggy, the setting sun a red circle behind a gauze of heat and smog. I pull off my waiter's work shirt and toss it aside and take a foil square of leftovers out of my bag and put them into the fridge. I know Marguerite can hear me walking around, but she'll wait me out, now that she knows I'm home, like a white-haired old spider.

I take a pan of water out to my plants. On the porch next door there's an Asian lady doing Tai Chi. She runs from one end to the other like a little girl, windmilling her arms around and ending with a jump and a clap. She has good energy. I feel like she is going to call down some positive chi and I might get little a trace of it, a little contact chi high. It takes me a while to tidy my pots and water everything. I have some herbs growing out here that sometimes I'm nervous Marguerite might come across, but I don't think she's been on my porch since Tricky Dick was President.

Once I cool off, I'm hungry. I take my leftovers and go downstairs to see what's up.

Marguerite's hall door is ajar. The baseball is on TV, up loud, the commentator's genial drone raised to a shout.

“Hello?” I nudge open the door with my foot. “Hey, lady! You in here?”

Marguerite responds. “I’m in the pantry. Rocky! Come and get this thing open for me.” She follows her words with her head, poking sharply through the doorway from the kitchen to the living room. She gives me a neutral once-over like always and starts shouting out conversation as she walks away.

I go over to the TV and turn it way down. “What? I can't hear a word you're saying."

"I said I'm watching the Sox play Baltimore. It's not going too well."

"Oh yeah? What else is new?" I lean on the door jamb. "Sox are gonna choke, that’s all you need to know.” I like teasing Marguerite about the Red Sox. I grew up near St Louis, so I'm a Cardinals fan.

“They are not. Come in here. Help me with this. Turn back up the game.”

Marguerite has a long, slim-necked bottle of green glass in her hand. I take it in exchange for my foil wrap.

“Here. Leftovers from the restaurant. There’s good stuff in there, you'll like it.”

She gives it the squint-eye. “What is it?”

“Lemmie think. Mozzarella sticks. There’s some wings in there, you can have those, I guess.”

“Did you get blue cheese? They're only good with blue cheese.”

I sigh inwardly. Marguerite is a black hole of demands. "Hey, you know what? Why don’t you open it up and we can find out."

“Wait. You need a corkscrew for that. I’ll get you one. Wait a minute.” She fumbles around the bread bin and the weighing scales. Her fingers are twisted with arthritis, the joints swollen like wet knots under the skin in a way that's painful even to look at. I look at the National Parks calendar on the wall. Gethsemane. It's a month behind. I want to flip it over, but she's very particular about her stuff, so I leave it. She finds the corkscrew on the windowsill and hands it to me. The screen window has a dime-sized hole in the corner where mosquitoes get through. I've offered ten times to swap it with one from the spare room, but she acts like she doesn't know what I'm talking about. She prefers to have the excuse to call me down to find her citronella coils.

I grip the bottle under my arm and uncork it. The cork smells sharp and sour-sweet, like a berry cordial. "Whatcha got here, anyway?"

“I don’t know what it is. I got it from my son...oh, a good while ago. I found it in the pantry there, just now.” She unstacks some plates and shuffles between the counter and the drawers behind her, ferrying forks over, then back to get some paper towels and back again to get salt.

We let the game talk for us while we eat. The Sox are playing the Orioles at Fenway, getting their asses kicked seven-to-one and it's only top of the third. Pedro Martinez is pitching. Marguerite tisks and sighs as he throws his first three balls in the dirt. She holds a wing an inch away from her mouth while he winds up to pitch on the three-oh count. It whips past the batter and into Jason Varitek’s glove. Strike. Satisfied, she bites into her chicken. Pedro steps to the side, squeezing the ball between his palms. Marguerite waves the bone. “He takes too long between throws. Why’s he always walking off the mound?”

“He wants to control the pace.”

“Oh for the love of Pete, throw already!”

"Calm down about it. Jesus God Almighty. How can you enjoy the game this way?"

"Don't swear. Don't talk like that. You don't hear me talking like that."

"Yessum," I apologise. I have good manners which Marguerite approves of. She thinks I must have a good family because someone taught me to be polite. I didn't learn it at home but I'm not going into any of that with her.

Pedro throws a curveball up and out of the zone. He's all over the place. Marguerite exhales a “pah!” of disgust. The game goes to commercial.

“Okay, let’s drink.” I stand up. I don’t want to watch the Sox lose for three hours, plus Marguerite’s couch is so soft I feel like I'm being slowly ingested.

The label on the bottle is in French, with fancy cursive and a drawing of an owl. I pour some liberal measures and put Marguerite's on the windowsill beside her and sit on the arm of the couch with my glass raised.

“Well, L’Chaim!” I say and take a mouthful. It tastes intensely of blackcurrants, with a burning after-kick, like an alcoholic kiddy cough mixture.

“What’s that? What did you say?”

“L’Chaim – To Life! C’mon lady, you can do it. Toast to life.”

Marguerite takes a thin-lipped sip, without cheer. “To life. That’s a good one. You could be dead the next day.” She delivers this in a fatalistic deadpan.

I play along, deliberately breezy. “That's true, you could be hit by a bus. The sixty-six to Harvard Square could be your number. Well, so long! Remember me in your will. Remember all those Buffalo wings I brought you.”

“Ha! There’s nothing in my will. I’ll leave you this house, as a curse.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll burn it to the ground and collect the insurance.”

"Oh, you're so smart. Don't sit there, please. You’ll break the couch.”

I slide off sideways onto a floral cushion and drain my glass. I am immediately thirsty and go into the kitchen to get some water. Orange bars of light hit the counter at a slant. Everything is still and heavy in the humidity. I unhook a cup from under the shelf and drink, letting the water run over my fingers as I look across the back yard. Purple clouds are swelling up in the east. The houses look like bleached driftwood, their windows gleaming with the last light of day.

cobsie

Section 2:

Marguerite is examining the label when I come back through, holding the bottle just under her nose. "You speak any French, Rocky?" she demands.

"No. No hablo French."

"That's a pity. I just thought you might seeing as how you were born in New Orleans."

"Right, I picked up a few phrases in the womb. Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir. There's one for you." I wag my finger at her and plonk down on the couch. "I tell you what, Marguerite, you're subtle like bricks."

"Well, I don't understand why you're not curious about who your people are. Where you came from. Who your mother was. Why don't you want to find that out? I would think you'd want to know."

I'm adopted and this fascinates Marguerite, but particularly that I've never looked for my birth mother. She thinks I show no interest just to annoy her, that it's not possible not to care. I think it's not only possible, it's reasonable. But we've been round this block before and it's too hot for old-lady-baiting. "Hand me over your glass, why don'tcha."

Marguerite looks at the TV, stonefaced, pretending not to hear me. She gets over it though. "My blood pressure’s high." She delivers this news like a challenge, along with her empty glass. "Doctor Blau’s going to write me a prescription next time, if it’s high like that again."

"Hey, I got a prescription for you - stop watching the Red Sox! This team's gonna put half of New England in an early grave." I refill us both and bring the bottle down on the coffee table with accidental over-emphasis.

"Stop that. You know, we used to walk over to Fenway for Sunday home games. My father and my brothers and I. All the way from our apartment in the North End."

"That's cool. Didja ever see anyone famous?"

"Oh sure. Sure." She throws back her head and considers. "Did I tell you that? About going down to see Ted Williams after he came back from the War?" She spreads her hands, flattening and smoothing the air like a tablecloth. "Well, I was working in Schraffts back then and I was going steady with a young man from Charlestown who was a welder in the shipyard and he'd been in the Navy during the war, like Ted Williams. Although I think Williams was a pilot. Anyway, he was very excited that Ted Williams was coming back to Fenway. My father was too, I remember. We all loved him for fighting in the war when he didn't have to. Everyone was real proud about that. So we're at Fenway and there's a quite a crowd waiting and finally he arrives and we see him walking over to the players entrance. He was very tall and handsome, a real All-American. Everyone starts cheering and waving and calling him and there was a big surge forward to get a look." Marguerite leans heavily on her fist and works a fold of tissue out of her hip pocket. She wipes the corners of her mouth carefully. "But I'll tell you something. Ted Williams never looked over once. Not once. He walked right past the fans like there no one was there. Like he was deaf as well as blind." Her eyes are agog at the memory of it. "Isn't that terrible?"

"That's too bad," I say. "What did your young man think about that?"

"Ach! He didn't see it that way. We had a terrible row about it on the way home." Marguerite sips her drink defensively, shoulders half-raised. "What John said was that Ted Williams turned and raised his hand to the crowd just before he went through the gate. And that was always how he told the story. For years afterwards. But that's not how it was."

She pins me with a stare, demanding I agree with her. I raise my eyebrows and nod and murmur, "Wow. Right. That's crazy."

I stand up with my glass and pace in front of the china hatch, looking at the figurines and holiday souvenirs and the photo of her son. He is sitting in his graduation gown, smiling like a boy whose mother is proud. He seems like a straight-ahead kind of guy, blue-eyed and firm-jawed. It's hard to tell if he looks like Marguerite. I can't picture her being anything but a caustic sack of wrinkles. There's a small pewter Eskimo carrying a harpoon on his back, only a couple inches high. Very quietly, I pop the door and reach in and pick him up. He's cold and solid in my hand. His head is bent as if he's walking against the wind.

Marguerite groans. I literally jump. She pushes herself out of her recliner, swiping dismissively at the TV. She notices that I'm not on the couch anymore and swings around fiercely to locate me in the room. "What are you doing back there?"

"Nothing, nothing. Stretching my legs." I hide the Eskimo in my pocket.

Marguerite lumbers to the window behind her and looks out. There's a wide, pale sky with a ghost moon low on the horizon. She catches hold of the roller-blind and pulls it down, drawing deep shadows into the room.

My doorbell buzzes. Perfect timing. It blasts three times. I know who that is. I toss back the last of my cordial and bring the glass into the kitchen. "I gotta go, Marguerite. I gotta let this person in." I wash the glass under cold water with my fingers and dry my hands on my shorts.

"Is that your girlfriend?"

I skirt the couch and go over to the back door. "No, that's not my girlfriend. I am not dating anyone, but thanks for checking in."

"Really? Are you really not dating anyone?"

The answer to that is complicated and I hesitate for one second. Marguerite swoops like a hunting owl. "Why? What's going on? Is there someone? Do you have a girl?"

"That's not who this is, so relax. Okay lady? Save it for the game." I fumble with the latch. "I'll come back down later and watch another inning." I don't know if I will or not.

"Well, put the snib on the door."

The doorbell rings a few times, my phone rings, people come and go from my place. I play PlayStation and measure out some bags and listen to music and talk **** about the state of the world with a bunch of different people. I smoke and drink cheep beer and it's not long before my head is really clanging. After a couple hours things die down and I go out to the porch for some air. It's close and warm, not any cooler at all. The darkness is like a cloth dropped over the neighborhood. I push some pots out of my way and sit on the wrought iron table. I feel heavy and fuzzy and let my thoughts drift along a slow-moving current and out into the open sea of night.

There's another ring on the door. I stumble on the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters to steady myself. Cherry Chan has her hand raised to press the buzzer again when I finally answer.

“Dude! Took you long enough!”

I stand to one side and let her go up the stairs ahead of me. I'm pleased to see her and just as I'm thinking this I crash into my bike in the hall. I hop up and down clutching my shin. "Ow, ow, ow! Goddamn it!"

“I need three eighths. I’m picking up for Aaron and Lizzie." Cherry pauses on the landing. "You okay there?”

“Fine, fine. Three bags for the beautiful girl, right away.”

We go into my apartment. I pull out my scales and sit at the coffee table to weigh out the herb. Cherry circles the room, picking up buttons and flyers and postcards and examining them absently. She pauses at a plastic mermaid from Coney Island.

"Neat. I love Coney Island. It's so crazy and seedy. You ever see the mermaid parade?"

"Nah. It was given to me. I've only been to N - Y once."

"I always say I'm gonna move there, but then something happens and I stay. I guess everyone says they're leaving all the time." She laughs at her logic. "It's cool that you live by yourself."

"Yup, just me n' the squirrels." I roll the first bag tightly and lick it sealed. Cherry is looking at me funny. "What? What's up?"

"Ah, your leg is really bleeding."

I look down. There's a flowing trail of blood all the way to my sneaker. "Holy ****!" It looks pretty messy for such a small cut. "Little help?"

Cherry goes into the kitchen and comes back with a wad of damp paper towel which she holds out for me to take. I look at it and look at her. "How's your bedside manner, nurse? Feel like tending the wounded?"

Cherry scoffs, but smiles with it. “What're you, too weak from blood-loss?” She sits beside me on the couch. "Okay, show." I prop my leg on the coffee table and Cherry holds my knee as she blots, her movements competent, efficient. She looks damn sexy. The hairs on my neck are standing up.

There's always been a little vibe between Cherry and me, even though she has a boyfriend. I work with him, that's how we know each other. She looks especially good tonight with her cute black bangs and strappy tank top, sitting beside me now with her feet up on my coffee table. I start to flirt, complimenting her, making her laugh. I am not expecting anything in particular, I just like the static that's building between us. I want to touch it and get that little shock, that pleasant little sting. I concentrate on measuring out the bags. Cherry stretches languidly and crosses her legs at the ankle. I reach across her to get my Zippo. She doesn't pull in her legs so I have to press against them to get the lighter. They are smooth and bare and her toenails are painted shell pink. I want to put my hand on her calf and run it all the way up to her thigh. My mind is lit up like a pinball machine.

I straighten up and pull the ashtray towards me. “Why do you look so hot tonight, Cherry? Why is that, hmm?”

Cherry smiles, nudging her big toe against my ankle. “Why are you hitting on me tonight, Rocky Brown? Intoxicated by the smell of my perfume?”

“Well, I’m intoxicated alright. That’s for true." I put my hand in my pocket and pull out the pewter Eskimo and roll it between my fingers. “Godammit,” I mutter. I forgot all about it.

Cherry wants a look. “What is that? Let me see.”

I close my palm. “Nothing. Nothing. Something a friend gave me.”

“Well show me! What is it?” She giggles and tries to prise open my hand to get at the Eskimo. She wrestles with my closed fist, falling against me playfully. “Now I really want to see it. You’re just making me want to know.”

I catch her wrist and hold it away from me. “Stop it! Enough now. It’s nothing important. Here, see? It’s just a little figurine.” I open my palm and briefly flash her the Eskimo then shove it in my pocket again. “I just had it in my pocket for no reason, that’s all.”

Cherry blows a little O of smoke and slowly twists her wrist free. She puts her palm flat on my chest and pushes me back against the couch. I catch her around the hips and pull her with me.

Later, Cherry nudges me awake and sits up and gathers her clothes from the end of my bed and asks me where the bags are. I run my hand along her arm as she withdraws it. She pulls on her sandals and says over her shoulder, "Ari is having a party on Saturday. You should come." She lifts her hair off her shoulders and lets it fall again. "That girl you like is going to be there."

I stretch out and get hold of the hem of her tank top. I give it a tug so that she looks at me. She gives me a small smile and whispers that she had a nice time and then leaves. I hear her go down the hall and let herself out. I roll over onto my back and hold my head with one hand.

cobsie

Last section:

Marguerite looks mildly pleased when I clump into her living room. She has a plate with crackers piled every-which-way, smeared with paste. "There's some in the fridge, if you want some."

"No thanks. Definitely not. What is that, whitefish?"

"It's mackerel, it's delicious."

"Ugh." I sit down on the couch and gesture to the empty bottle. “Did you seriously finish that?”

“What are you talking about? There was hardly anything left. You drank most of it.”

Yeah yeah, tell yourself whatever you want, I think. I nod to the game. "What inning is it? Sox still losing?”

"Bottom of the eighth. And yes."

Nomar Garciaparra is at bat, looking like a rubber band that's about to snap.

Marguerite chews, squinting critically at him. "I wish Nomar wouldn't swing at the first pitch. They buzz him with a strike and he starts right off the bat oh-and-one."

"Hey Nomar!" I clap at the TV. "Let's see some hustle out there!"

“It won't do any good. What do you bet he swings on a strike?"

“A million dollars.”

“You don’t have a million dollars.”

“Okay then, two million dollars. Bada-boom!”

“You’re a wiseass, Rocky.”

Nomar swings confidently at the first pitch and socks it up the middle. I hold up my hand for a high-five and Marguerite touches her dry palm to mine begrudgingly. Boston fans are all the same. They love you when you're winning and hate your guts and curse your bones when you're losing.

I waft my tshirt in and out. "I need something to drink. This is the thirstiest apartment I've ever been in."

“Go into the pantry. There’s another bottle we can have.” She waggles her glass.

I get back up with a stagger. The room spins. I'm drunk. I go into the kitchen and open the pantry door. Marguerite shouts instructions from her armchair as to the whereabouts of the bottle she wants, which I find and bring back with clean glasses and the corkscrew. “Your son give you this one, too?” I ask, with the bottle between my knees. It has a monk admiring a pear on the label.

Marguerite takes her glass from me and gestures for the bottle as well, which she tips towards the light to examine, nodding. "I mentioned to Jack about these monks up in Montreal. I heard about them on WBUR. They make these cordials where they grow the pear inside, grow it right in the bottle. Just amazing, don't you think?"

"Them monks know a thing or two about booze, I tell you what."

"I'll tell you what's funny." Marguerite holds her glass up to one eye and looks at me through the pale straw liquid. She waves with her free hand and barks out a laugh. She's pretty tipsy, that much is obvious. "I tell you something. I never felt like drinking them until tonight. I saw one in the pantry this evening and I suddenly thought to myself, why leave it up there? What am I waiting for? No point waiting for a special occasion that's never going to come. And I thought, I'm going to drink this now! Why not? Aren't I right?"

"Damn straight," I raise my glass solemnly. "Salud. Thanks for this."

Marguerite drops her hand to the gold medal at her throat and gives the Virgin Mary a pinch. "Well, you keep these things because you think, I'll have that for a special occasion. You say, I'll have that now, next time Jack comes. I'll have it there, ready to go." She watches Tek knock the dirt out of his cleats. He's her favourite player, a catcher, smart and steady. She tears her eyes off him and leans towards me like she's going to tell a secret. "But today I said to myself, what is the point of that? Just waiting and waiting and letting them gather dust. You know what I mean, Rocky? He's never coming back. I know that. I do." She juts out her lower lip. Her voice sings with regret. "It's a pity. That's all. What can you do? Only nothing."

"Right," I agree, waiting for more. I feel like I'm coaxing a little chickadee to come closer, peck the ground near me.

"So I said to myself, enough of this now! Enough waiting. I'm done with all that. And I took down the bottle and I'm going to drink it, instead of waiting around for him."

"Right. Good for you."

Marguerite's eyes blink slowly. She's locked into her thought. "Here's the thing. Here's the problem. Men have too much pride. That's the problem. That's what starts these wars. You don't see women starting wars. Because it's always hardest on the women and children. They're the ones left behind, while the men are off blowing things up. Then what happens is, they come back and can't settle down. They don't want to be at home, they want to be where the action is. And off they go. You can't stop them." She whooshes her glass upwards like a rocket taking off.

Her eyes are fixed on me, sharp diamond blue, demanding I acknowledge what she said is true, that it's always the men. Against my instincts, I nod. She rocks backwards, pleased, settling into her chair at a more genial angle. I raise my glass like Lady Liberty, then wheel it around for Marguerite to clink. She does so, allowing herself to be mollified. "Salute, Rocky. Your good health."

Tek lunges after a lowball and scoops it into shallow left field. He makes it to first base standing up. Nomar slides into third, fingers catching the bag just ahead of the tag. Marguerite slaps the worn grey velour of her armrest. "Look! What I tell you? They’re gonna rally.”

“God, it’s just prolonging the inevitable. The Sox are gonna break your heart, I'm telling you.”

“Hmm, well. Too late for that, I say.” Marguerite suddenly remembers and rounds on me. "So who was that girl? Are you dating?"

"No. Nothing like that." I am surprised by my own emphasis. I sweep my hand in front of me, erasing the air. "Just friends."

She reaches down and flips up the footrest. Her ankle has a bandage on it that I saw earlier and forgot to ask about and don't again. Her mouth is pursed in disapproval. "That's what you always say. They're never your girlfriend. You never say they are."

"Well? So?" I lounge back with the glass resting on my chest, taking tiny mouthfuls every now and then. "What if they're not?"

"You shouldn't do that. You shouldn't treat girls that way."

"What way? What way? I'm a gentleman. I treat girls great! You don't know what you're talking about." I feel like I have to defend my honour and that feels stupid and good at the same time.

Marguerite does a double-take, almost vaudeville. "Oh, please! Men do what they want to do. That's how it is."

I can't let this slide. I throw up my hands in indignation, they rise like crows off my knees and flap through the air with my words. "You're wrong, Marguerite! It's not anything like that. It's casual. It's not going anywhere." I feel a twinge of confusion as I say that. I think about the girl I like. Cherry will find a way to let her know we slept together, the way girls do that, on a frequency only they can hear. Goddamn it.

"That's what my son said too. See? That's just what a man would say. It's casual. What a crock! What if she’s in love with you, this girl. What’ll you do about that? "

"Christ on a popsicle! She's not in love with me. Cherry and me, we're...," I trail off. There are too many thoughts scratching at my brain to sort out right now. I don't know what I'm going to do about any of it. I press my fingers into my eye sockets. I made this mess deliberately, because I'm in love with a girl who is not in love with me. And that sucks. And I wanted to pass the time not thinking about her. But here I am.

I'm tired and the room is throbbing.

"Well, I'll tell you something that never changes. It's always the woman left holding the baby." Marguerite puts her chin in her hand. Her cheeks slacken like deflated balloons. She leans against the memory of it. "If he'd had any honour he'd've married her. I said it straight out. Lovely girl, beautiful. She was Mexican, but I didn't mind that. He said he wasn't even sure it was his. I said, how can you even say that? I couldn't believe my ears, what he was saying. He got this idea into his head and he wouldn't budge about it. It was all in his head. But how can you make him see that? You can't. You just can't." She slumps and stares at her fingers, turning her glass slowly anti-clockwise.

She looks sad and I frown over at her, wanting to make it better, whatever she's thinking about. I just stare, though, like I'm looking through a curtain into a room I'm not supposed to see.

"When did this happen?"

Marguerite regards me blankly. She thinks. "A long time ago. Ah, a long time."

We're both fading fast. I have slid sideways, just short of lying all the way down. Marguerite has nodded off and jolted awake a few times. It's the bottom of the ninth. The Sox have struggled to the bitter end and now the Orioles closer tugs dispassionately at his cap, the brim almost touching his nose. The Sox have three outs to make two runs. It could happen. These things happen.

I wake with Marguerite shaking my shoulder. “Rocky. Time to go.”

I raise myself to sitting and hold my head in both hands. "Jesus H Christmas." My mouth is sandpaper and my joints ache with sugar. “Who won?”

Marguerite picks up the bottle and eyeballs what's left, which is not much. “Who’d you think? Sox even loaded the bases on the last out. What d'you think?”

“Goddamn Sox. I told you. Didn't I tell you?”

Marguerite doesn't answer. She is staring at the bottle, eyelids domed. "Where's your glass? You want the end of this?"

My stomach clenches, but I'm so thirsty and so reluctant to get up and get water, I cast about for my glass and hold it up. "Okay, but drink with me. I don't want to finish this by myself. C'mon, lady. Last toast of the night." I am swaying. My eyes close and snap open painfully. All I want to do is dog-paddle back up the stairs to my bed.

Marguerite scoops her glass into lumpy, freckled fingers. Her skin is papery in the TV light, the creases of her face inky blue. "Go on then," she concedes.

I stand, bending deeply to get my balance. I raise my glass and take a breath and hold Marguerite’s eye for a long second, then slowly exhale and circle my drink above my head.

"Everyone sucks but us!"

We crack glasses, leaning all our weight against each other for a moment. I pendulum back on my heels and drain my glass in a gulp and it jolts me, coughing, into action. I weave through the room to the door. Marguerite hobbles behind like a mechanical doll, hinges grinding. She unsticks the latch and holds the door open.

“Thanks for the drink, Marguerite. Think the Sox’ll go all the way this year?”

She pats my shoulder, guiding me out. “All the way, that's a good one. Alright now. Goodnight, Rocky. Take it easy on the stairs.”

Marguerite closes the door.

The shaft of light in the hallway narrows to a sliver and disappears and I'm left standing in the cool darkness. I turn and grip the banisters and pull myself up a step. I stoop forward, throwing both hands over my shoulder like I am carrying a great weight on my back. I take one heavy step up, followed by another, head down, shouldering the air. I am moving slowly, leaning into the wind that’s keeping me from home.

LegacyUser

hey, firstly i want to say that i enjoyed reading your short story i think you've managed to create a piece that is read like it could be an extract from a longer story which is great as to me it feels like the reader is allowed a private insight into a snippet of the lives of the two characters. I particulary liked the ending, I think you finished it very well it wasnt an immeadiate end to the story but more of a gentle conclusion thanks to the movements descriptions of Rocky climbing the stairs and Marguerite wishing him goodnight.

There are only 2 small things that i would suggest for review;

1. "Her eyes are fixed on me, sharp diamond blue, demanding I acknowledge what she said is true" with the use of blue and true, i re-read it several times and each time couldnt help reading it as a musical rhyme, this may have been intentional but I found that it interrupted the flow of the passage.

2. Rocky's use of the word "lady", obviously as this story is set in America the use of "lady" may be a common cultural norm but for an irish reader it stood out as Rocky and the old lady appear to be good enough acquaintances sharing food, drink and a baseball game, for me Rocky's use of "lady" came across as formal and even a bit rude.
only minor details and not sure of the meaning of "lady" in this context works in America.

Thought your attention to detail was great!

pickarooney

Another very well written piece, a very enjoyable read. The dialogue is stronger in this one and the descriptive text again dosed just right.

Marguerite is calling, querulously, from the foot of the stairwell.

In contrast to your last story, the opening line here is a stinker. I think you could do without it completely as everything in this line becomes apparent in the following paragraph. At the very least, ditch the adverb.

I'm no expert on American dialogue, but I found Rocky's use of 'lady' jarring. They're on first name terms, she calls him by his, why doesn't he call her Marguerite, or Mrs. X or even, if he's being all Souther polite, 'ma'am'. 'Lady' sounds to me like something you would call a woman you don't know, and not a particularly reverent term of address.

How long does the game last exactly? It seems like at least half a day goes by in the second section alone and they were into the third innings when he first arrived in Marguerite's.

Marguerite has a long, slim-necked bottle of green glass in her hand. I take it in exchange for my foil wrap.

This reads like the bottle is filled with glass. I think you were trying to describe the bottle in too much detail and shoved the adjectives about rather than snipping them.

I know Marguerite can hear me walking around, but she'll wait me out, now that she knows I'm home, like a white-haired old spider.

This line is a little confusing on first read. I would maybe swap the last two clauses about.

Jesus God Almighty

This sounds a bit forced. I don't think I've ever heard anyone use this particular combination and the situation doesn't really call for a triple-decker oath.

The Sox are playing the Orioles at Fenway,

Marguerite already told us this a couple of paragraphs back.

Marguerite is a black hole of demands.

I'm no physicist, but I'm not sure this metaphor works. A black hole is a place where things go in and never come out, no? She's more of an inexhaustible oil-rig of demands.

She holds a wing an inch away from her mouth while he winds up to pitch on the three-oh count. It whips past the batter and into Jason Varitek’s glove.

This reads like the wing is being referred to by 'it'. That added to the other meaning of 'batter' (pancake mix) threw me at first.

Marguerite exhales a “pah!” of disgust.

Can you exhale a 'pah'? Exhalation is a stream of air; 'pah' is a plosive burst. Maybe make a verb out of 'pah' or have her spit it instead?

The label on the bottle is in French, with fancy cursive and a drawing of an owl.

I feel like, even if he didn't understand it, Rocky would tell us what was written on the label.

It tastes intensely of blackcurrants, with a burning after-kick, like an alcoholic kiddy cough mixture.

The simile is a bit laboured. Does cough mixture not have alcohol in it anyway? Unless you mean cough mixture for alcoholic kiddies

"L’Chaim" - would she really not be familiar with this expression?
I didn't like this little exchange, something about it didn't ring true.

The Ted Williams story - I kept waiting for something to happen, but was left wondering why she bothered remembering and recounting an incident where she saw a baseballer and didn't speak to him.

“Dude! Took you long enough!”

I'm not sure why, but "dude" used like this, by, presumably, a New England female, just sounded wrong. Again, I'm no expert on this so it's probably a stupid remark on my part.

“Fine, fine. Three bags for the beautiful girl, right away.”

This is where I would use 'lady' - it sounds incredibly cheesy as is, even more so than I think you intended

The last section dragged a little bit, probably because it reverts to the slow pace of the beginning after a faster middle section. I'm not really sure if I can advise anything as there's nothing really obvious that could be removed to make it shorter.

cobsie

Hey pickarooney - thanks for your comments, I'll go through them all carefully and see what needs fixing in the text.

Couple of quick things - baseball games are 3.5-4 hours long.

Ted Williams was massively popular (he has a tunnel in Boston named after him!) and he was famous for never acknowledging the crowd, until the last game he ever played. But maybe that requires too much insider knowledge. I might revisit this anecdote.

'lady' is an informal but friendly term often used by young people to older women - you might greet an older colleague that way. 'ma'am' would be VERY formal (and Rocky is from Missouri, which is not the South).

'Dude' is very commonly used, although over here we think it's reserved for surfers, but it's not necessarily, and is used for (and by) males and females. I might change it to 'Man' as something less conspicuous.

Lots to think about, though! Thanks for taking the time to read and comment

pickarooney

cobsie wrote: »

Hey pickarooney - thanks for your comments, I'll go through them all carefully and see what needs fixing in the text.

Couple of quick things - baseball games are 3.5-4 hours long.

Ted Williams was massively popular (he has a tunnel in Boston named after him!) and he was famous for never acknowledging the crowd, until the last game he ever played. But maybe that requires too much insider knowledge. I might revisit this anecdote.

'lady' is an informal but friendly term often used by young people to older women - you might greet an older colleague that way. 'ma'am' would be VERY formal (and Rocky is from Missouri, which is not the South).

'Dude' is very commonly used, although over here we think it's reserved for surfers, but it's not necessarily, and is used for (and by) males and females. I might change it to 'Man' as something less conspicuous.

Lots to think about, though! Thanks for taking the time to read and comment

Grand so, it was a bit presumptuous of me to comment on the terms of address I suppose. He says 'yessum' at one stage - is that not "yes, ma'am" or is he being cheeky?

On the game itself, if it's a 4 hour match then the guts of an hour would be gone by before Rocky gets to Margeurite's. He then sits with her for a while, then this happens:

The doorbell rings a few times, my phone rings, people come and go from my place. I play PlayStation and measure out some bags and listen to music and talk **** about the state of the world with a bunch of different people. I smoke and drink cheep beer and it's not long before my head is really clanging. After a couple hours things die down and I go out to the porch for some air. It's close and warm, not any cooler at all. The darkness is like a cloth dropped over the neighborhood. I push some pots out of my way and sit on the wrought iron table. I feel heavy and fuzzy and let my thoughts drift along a slow-moving current and out into the open sea of night.

Then the girl comes, they smoke a bit, have sex, he falls asleep, wakes, get dressed and goes downstairs and it's still not over? At the very least, it doesn't say much for his staying power

cobsie

Well it's a tight schedule, that's true, but not impossible If I take out the line about 'a couple hours go by' then everything becomes more elastic. Also, if I make him go downstairs during the second inning, I've bought myself another 20 mins

He says 'yessum' to be elaborately apologetic after swearing, and because he as a bit of a smart ass.

pickarooney

cobsie wrote: »

Well it's a tight schedule, that's true, but not impossible If I take out the line about 'a couple hours go by' then everything becomes more elastic. Also, if I make him go downstairs during the second inning, I've bought myself another 20 mins

He says 'yessum' to be elaborately apologetic after swearing, and because he as a bit of a smart ass.

Yeah, you could even drop the bit about people coming and going or reduce it to just one other person.

dawvee

pickarooney wrote: »

Can you exhale a 'pah'? Exhalation is a stream of air; 'pah' is a plosive burst. Maybe make a verb out of 'pah' or have her spit it instead?

This is far too pedantic for my taste, especially as it strikes me as incorrect as well. Try saying 'pah'. Notice you are exhaling.

cobsie wrote: »

'Dude' is very commonly used, although over here we think it's reserved for surfers, but it's not necessarily, and is used for (and by) males and females. I might change it to 'Man' as something less conspicuous.

I think it worked. I have a (female) Cypriot friend who has never surfed, yet calls everyone 'dude', so it's by no means just male California surfers that use it.

pickarooney

dawvee wrote: »

This is far too pedantic for my taste, especially as it strikes me as incorrect as well. Try saying 'pah'. Notice you are exhaling.

It is very pedantic but it's just that it tripped me up by being too convoluted a construct (but I still maintain it's also physically impossible).

cobsie

pickarooney wrote: »

I'm no expert on American dialogue, but I found Rocky's use of 'lady' jarring. They're on first name terms, she calls him by his, why doesn't he call her Marguerite, or Mrs. X or even, if he's being all Souther polite, 'ma'am'. 'Lady' sounds to me like something you would call a woman you don't know, and not a particularly reverent term of address.

I was thinking about this - what the equivalent 'weight' would be here in terms of how this form of address is perceived, and I think it would be like Rocky saying 'Hey, Missus'. It's informal and colloquial and shows a certain affection or at least familiarity.

pickarooney

cobsie wrote: »

I was thinking about this - what the equivalent 'weight' would be here in terms of how this form of address is perceived, and I think it would be like Rocky saying 'Hey, Missus'. It's informal and colloquial and shows a certain affection or at least familiarity.

I suppose it depends on who's saying it, but I would never personally say 'missus' (without a surname) to an older woman whom I knew. It sounds quite rude to me.

cobsie

pickarooney wrote: »

I suppose it depends on who's saying it, but I would never personally say 'missus' (without a surname) to an older woman whom I knew. It sounds quite rude to me.

Really? How would you address an older woman in a friendly way that didn't use either their first or surname? What would be your equivalent to any of those alternatives (Ma'am, Missus, lady)? This has made me very curious.

cobsie

pickarooney wrote: »

Yeah, you could even drop the bit about people coming and going or reduce it to just one other person.

People are coming and going because he's a low-level dealer of weed. I keep it on the d-l in the story, but its in the text several times. So, he needs people to come and pick up, that's why the phone is ringing and the doorbell is ringing...

Better to solve the time problem by taking out specific references to it and just have the arc of the baseball game be the timeframe. It was well noted by you that otherwise things are a little tight, if you really add it up.

pickarooney

cobsie wrote: »

People are coming and going because he's a low-level dealer of weed. I keep it on the d-l in the story, but its in the text several times. So, he needs people to come and pick up, that's why the phone is ringing and the doorbell is ringing...

I did get that (unlike a lot of the baseball references ) but with such a high client visit ratio would he not be a little better off than he seems to be? I didn't get the impression that he had a huge number of plants either.

I'm being far too picky, no?

I don't think I would use any term of address other than 'Jane' or 'Mrs. Smith' to an old lady who I knew well. The use of 'love' or 'darling' would not be appropriate for a younger male to an older female, but would be fine in the other direction.

I'd be interested to know what others think.

MilanPan!c

Hey Cobsie,

I don't really know about all this other stuff... I mean, maybe some of it's valid, but NONE of it really affected my enjoyment of the story...

I think this one is actually better than the other one... it reminded me of a theatrical play I guess, which I like...

It's funny, I often find myself worrying for hours (days, weeks?) about a single word that no one notices, then sometimes people pick up on a single turn of phrase and can't get past it.

I guess I'd say, you seem to have your own voice, based on a time and place in your life (?) and if you stay true to that people will catch on.

Don't let too many cook ruin your...err...story...

Good work, can't wait for more!

One last thing, drug dealers often have TONS of clients and NO money. It might be hard to believe that drug dealers aren't good at managing their finances, but it's often true.


;D

pickarooney

There was a comment awaiting moderation whicih I missed previously (now post 4).

Lady Tottington

Hi. This is the second of your stories that I have read on Boards and I really like it too. Must be your style or the type of characters you write about that appeal to me - I find it easy to enjoy their company even though I wouldn't class myself as a slacker like them.
I notice that someone commented on the Black Hole of Demands - I loved that expression! To me it just sums up that draining, endless attitude that pessimistic people have. I wonder at what level a narrative has to be more accurate, or literary, than the character delivering it?
I agree that leaving out references to time (e.g. where the game is at) would mean that you wouldn't have to defend a time line. Although if you were having this reviewed by people passionate about baseball they might feel differently.
I really liked the story about Ted Williams (maybe because I've been to Fenway Park!) - I was intruiged - thanks for elaborating in this thread, I wasn't sure if it was a real story. But does it make Marguerite too old??

cobsie

Thanks, Lady Tottington! I really appreciate you taking the time to read. And I'm delighted that you enjoyed the story.

I think I'll be much vaguer than previously about the timeline of the game, at least at the beginning of the story. There's no reason to be specific and it has the potential to cause problems, so what the hell.

The way I figure Marguerite's age in my head is, if she was in her 20s in the 40s and the story is set in the late 90s ... that makes her...110? kidding...old but not too old.

Thanks again for the boost, I'm very grateful