Life With Laverne (15/31)

            “Alright, now. Bless you, too. And may God rain his mercy and love upon you.” Laverne pressed “end call” and reclined in her office chair with her phone on her lap. Growing up in the ‘60s, she would have never imagined this to be her life: trapped in her two bedroom - one bathroom - one office apartment with no companionship besides her plants. It was nearing year two of the quarantine, and the air itself was a risk to anyone above a certain age. Laverne thanked her benefits package - and of course, the Lord - that she was able to retire early three years ago. She was mostly settled into the (still new to her) gated community. Though most of her neighbors were her age, she didn’t particularly care for them. There was also no true way to tell how seriously they took this quarantine, even at this stage. Some people just couldn’t bear to have their privilege slowly stripped away.

            Her solace during those years was the prayer line. Even as a minister, she had no interest in stepping foot in the sanctuary. God would protect her, but God also gave her sense. Luckily, the congregation agreed. So, every day around noon, she would field calls from her church members and prayer with them. Occasionally, if she was close with the caller, they’d take a moment to catch up or she’d listen to a small bit of church gossip until she felt the devil creeping in. But this only lasted an hour, 90 minutes at best. It was now 1:08PM.

            Laverne stood up, phone still in hand, and walked out of her office into the living room. She inspected the bottle of water still on the coffee table and decided it was full enough to ease into her good living room chair. She already knew there was nothing good on TV, but she turned it on anyway. A rerun of a 00s black sitcom that she lightly remembered played. If she didn’t watch this then who did? A quick process of elimination gave her an answer and how to preoccupy herself throughout the afternoon.

            She checked her messages to see if her son finally responded to her 9am good morning glitter greeting card text. “Howdy,” the phone displayed. She didn’t know where he got the idea to be southern from; he was living in Baltimore these days. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and their days, which she knew he had no interest in, but it was a good excuse to stall for a topic even if she already had one. Consistency was key.

            “Do you remember that one show with that girl you used to like?” she included the thinking emoji for good measure.

            “With the father and the nice but kinda messy apartment?”

            “Yup.”

            “Oh, you’re watching One on One! So you’re finally watching the old shows on Netflix like I told you. I woulda thought you’d go for Girlfriends.” He must have informed her about them six times over the last three months but forgot everytime.

            “Actually, no. I was just flipping through the channels,” she admitted.        

            “Ah,” her son responded. “You know, I had a crush on her blonde light skinneded boyfriend, too.” He liked to spell words out like he would actually say them.

            She chose to ignore him. “So, what have you been up to?” He mentioned he finished lunch and was about to head back to work. She pried into his eating habits to see if he was eating decently. Even if he lied, at least he knew what he should be putting into his body. “I haven’t eaten anything yet. I’ve just been too busy.”

            “No you haven’t. You just don’t feel like getting your kitchen dirty yet,” he teased.

            “I am gonna make some salmon and brown rice with sauteed spinach later,” she teased back.       

            “Just remind me of my ailments, why don’t ya? Bad enough I’m around all these crabs as it is. Sounds healthy though.” Laverne got caught up in what turned out to be a “very special” episode of the show. By the time she remembered to check her phone, Trevon had started a new topic. “By the way, I’m doing another drag show if you wanna tune in tonight. Shirley Turner would love it you even got some of your friends to tip her.” He added a winking emoji.

She sighed and then smiled. It was nice that he was starting to let her back in after her mistake almost a decade ago. Still, she wasn’t fully comfortable with it. But for the sake of keeping her son in her life, she’d play along. “You and your hobbies.” 

            “Hey, it’s not like I quit my day job or anything… yet.”

            Trevon Marquise, she thought, you better stop playing. “[Frown emoji] Well… if you do, just make sure you have insurance or another reliable job lined up.”

            “Mmm hmm. Sure, mum.” His texting voice was multi-dialected. “Anyway, let me get back to work before I get out of the mood. Working from home is funny that way.”

            She knew he was lying to get off the phone, but she has done enough pushing. “Alright, well have a good day, alright. And maybe we can facetime later?”

            “It has been a while. ...I’ll check with my secretary and get back to you?”

“Sure, my son. I love you, and God bless you.”

“I love you, too. Byeeee.”

Laverne laid her phone on the arm of her chair. By this point in the episode, she was lost. With her stomach starting to churn, it was time to get up anyway. She flipped to her usual gospel music channel on cable. With the remote still in her hand, she stopped before she stepped into the kitchen. Checking the channel guide, she selected the disco channel. She could live secular again for a day.

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Prologue of a Player (14/31)

The wind howled as it whipped around Rufus’ olive trenchcoat. The tail of his coat slapped his calves as he waited in the rain, beads of water stopping inches shy of hitting his bare head before rolling off to the side of him. Half a joint-dangled out the right side of his lips. Usually there would be an advertiser of private goods or underground activity accompanying him on the corner, but the storm scared them away. Most people didn’t share his love for shitty weather, but most didn’t have his knack for editing destiny.

            Hand in his left pocket, he fingered a deck of 54 cards, each time shocking himself a little. Whatever was calling him in the middle of the night wasn’t ready yet. His gray eyes darted around the raindrops trying to spot any odd movement in an alley or oncoming traffic. Nothing. Noteven a sad looking dog or drowned cat around to beg for his protection. 

 With a moment to himself, the son of Robert Caldwell looked at his reflection in the puddle before him but did not see his own dark skin. Rather, the green-eyed tempter of his youth gazed back, begging him to join on the other side. Reluctant to waste a perfectly fine jazz cigarette, Rufus kicked at the puddle and turned away. He pinched the joint until it went out and shook his fingers off in the rain, pocketing it for later.

A pain struck his temple. He looked back to the puddle, but nothing was there. Someone else lingered; Rufus kept his guard up but closed his eyes. He quieted his thoughts and focused outward. “I need that jacket!” rang in his mind. It echoed around until he felt a warm sensation between his left eye and ear. 10 o’clock. Rufus pivoted to the right and threw a figure onto its back. He opened his eyes. A pocket knife clanked over a drain and a teenager with torn clothes and no shoes laid trapped under Rufus’ left wingtip shoe. 

“You look wet,” he said to the kid. “Follow me.” He released them and walked down the block until he reached an alley. The teen watched as Rufus stopped before disappearing. They rolled themselves over, grabbed their knife, and followed. Once they were close enough, Rufus introduced them to his office: a small gaming station made of scrap wood with a chair that didn’t match the other on opposing sides. “Sit. Relax. I’m gonna figure out how to help you.” Rufus claimed his seat, back to the brick wall behind him. “I said, sit, damn. I ain’t gonna tell you but twice now.”

The teen sat, unaware of how dry their chair was because they were soaking and shivering. They barely noticed Rufus slip out a deck of cards from his left pocket; it wasn’t until they heard the sound of shuffling that they looked up. “The fuck,” they wondered.

“Watch your profanity,” Rufus said aloud. “What if your mother suddenly appeared?” He laid down his first card: the Queen of Hearts. A zap of light blinded the teenager, accompanied by a loud crack that deafened them. “Or at least someone to keep you warm at night?” 

The teen shook off the crippling effects and looked to their left. A contained trash fire danced next to him. They stuck out their arms and dried their hands, bringing them back in to feel the warmth against their face.

            “I’m sure that’s a more useful spot than wherever it originally was going to hit. Best I can do with short notice; I ain’t no conjurer.” Rufus smiled as the kid was too occupied to pay attention to him. He shuffled the queen back into his deck and started to shuffle again when another pain struck. Slipping the deck into its rightful place, he tried to scout the alley, but the smoke obstructed his view. Suddenly he felt a burning toward the back of his head. 6 o’cl-- but something blunt beat the back of his head from the outside. Woozy, he felt a force grab under his armpits and drag him into the brick wall. “Fuck,” he whimpered.

            “You watch your profanity,” the kid tried to retort, but their kind stranger was gone. And once again, they were alone.

 

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Not Everybody Poops (13/31)

 

            Laverne stood in the middle of her living room staring at the television. A black woman continued to whoop ass on American Gladiators as Laverne gripped a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. Her grip forced the underside of the dustpan to cut into her fingers snapping out of the boobtube’s spell. “See this is why I don’t need to be watching TV when I’m trying to clean.” With the television off, she turned to her cassette collection to put her in the choring mood. That’s when she noticed how quiet the house was. No music playing from the back bedroom, no clicking of Lego pieces, no quiet snickering as someone read to himself.  

Leaning the broom against a wall, she walked to the back of the house and found all the lights out and all but one door closed. She gave it a soft knock. Before anyone could answer, she cracked the door open without looking in. “Are you okay in here?.”

            “It’s stuck,” he moaned, positioning his Disney Adventures magazine to maintain modesty between mother and son.

            She walked into the bathroom and flicked the light on. Trevon squinted as his eyes adjusted; he preferred to do shameful acts in the dark. “What do you mean, ‘It’s stuck’?” 

Dangling his legs, he described it like a large prune pit that scratched the inside of him but wouldn’t fully come out. “It’s playing a bad game of peek-a-boo.”

She stifled her smirk. “And you been in here the whole time?” He nodded. “Ooo, baby, we might have to take you to the hospital.”

Even though it was only four blocks away, Trevon shook his head in protest. He could do this. He just had to keep pushing. Through a strained voice he responded, “I think I feel it moving.”

“Ooup, ok, Trey, I’mma leave y--”

“No!” He shouted. He closed his magazine and placed it back atop the covered radiator. “I need you. I think it helps.”

No one prepares you for parenthood, but this is one of those weird moments that’s going to stick with both of you, Laverne thought. She sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub to her son’s left. She felt him grab her hand and hoped her son hadn’t suddenly become ambidextrous during his stint on the porcelain throne.

For the next twenty minutes, Trevon squeezed his mother’s hand to simulate the same reaction internally. She winced as she noticed her son’s grasp getting stronger. He was becoming a man in front of her eyes: a man who had a shitty diet just like all the others. “I’m putting more greens in your diet after this. And prunes.”      

“Yes, please; spinach, please!” he requested.

She applauded herself for recording episodes of Popeye to VHS tape for him to watch on repeat. “Sure thing, Trey. Just keep on squeezing.” Diverting her eyes, she noticed more and more dust in her bathroom, wondering if eight was too young to start chores.

A high pitched “EEeeeeeee!” crashed her train of thought. Her hand felt like it could break if his hand was a little bigger. And then there was a large “THUNK” sound.

“I’m free!” Trevon threw both his hands up like a referee signalling a touchdown. He turned his head to her. If that’s what childbirth feels like, count me out,”

            She laughed as she thanked the powers that be for saving her a probable costly trip to the ER. “Ok, you got it from here? I don’t want to get caught in your stinky take-forever to poop smell.” She stuck her tongue out and instantly regretted it.

            He gave her a thumbs up, and she scurried out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Her eyes widened realizing she probably missed the end of the American Gladiators episode. Defeated, she stopped at the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Just another day in motherhood.

 

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Me & Mr Taron (12/31)

 

            Books littered his office. This sounds like an exaggeration. No. The four bookshelves he owned could not contain his thirst for knowledge/referencing sources. Piles of books sat on the floor between his desk and the second chair lucky enough to grace his small - no, modest - office. I carefully tip-toed between them on any visible pieces of carpet I could find. His curtains were drawn close, yet the sun found a way to illuminate his office to a warm, reddish-brown hue. It felt oddly comforting like visiting an owl, because they represent knowledge but also chill night time vibes.

            Mr. Taron himself was not an unattractive man, slightly neurotic at first glance yet oddly inviting, his hair and beard edging closer to the salt side of salt and pepper. His round glasses highlighted his brown eyes and slumped shoulders. I never dared to get close enough to him to realize if I was taller than him or not, but it seemed a decent chance.

            I sat down in his second chair after a short email correspondence introducing himself as my advisor. He joked that I might get moved to someone else, but since I knew my major would be Writing we both knew that would be the case. He asked me what classes I planned to take that semester and I let him know and he wished me luck on my 8am and 9am courses.

            “I’m having some problems, though,” I told him. “I’m not sure what my minor should be?”

            “Minor…,” he seemed to ponder. “Nothing in mind?” I nodded no. “I wouldn’t worry about it then. No one’s really gonna look at that when you apply for a job.”

I sat across from his gobsmacked. My years at preparatory school, they stressed the importance of knowing your major and selecting a minor that would seem appealing. Yet this man hit me with a reality I had not considered. It seemed a little fishy. Was he telling this to all his students, or just me - the black one - because he thought I couldn’t handle it. Either way, I didn’t bother to challenge him and took the easy way out. Who was I not to take an excuse to fill my elective selection with a wide variety of topics that interested me?

~~~

By my sophomore year, I grew concerned if my advisor liked me or not. It felt like I had to stare at him 50ft prior to crossing paths with him in the hallway for Mr. Taron to acknowledge me. It’s true, I never asked him how many students he was advising, let alone teaching. It didn’t seem like my place to ask. But I did wonder what he did in his free time, if he read the books decorating his office. Perhaps that’s why he never invited me into his office more than necessary.

During our first of two meetings that school year, I informed him I was adding acting to my plate, mostly as an extracurricular but also a course here and there. He encouraged it, pointing to Shakespeare and             Ionesco on his shelf. I think I even noticed a Wilson or two, but it was hard to tell. Then I asked him if there was any way he could put in a good word for me as an editor for the literary magazine, which he advised as well. Throwing up his hairy-knuckled hands, he informed me he had no pull in the politics, only in the financing of the publication. But again he wished me his best. I didn’t feel very guided.

~~~

Eventually I figured out a trick. I’d finally taken enough prerequisites to enact my plan. Using my experience designing the layout of the college literary magazine, I expressed interest in his Writing for the Web class. His eyes seemed to light up as if I suddenly scored a 87 after a career of earning 68s. Whether he knew I had a blog or not, he looked forward to having me in his class.

Second on the agenda was the matter of the traditional junior year internship. He turned to his desktop computer and started clicking through folders when he assumed, “You have a car, right?”

“No, sir,” I responded. “I just use the bus or catch a ride with a friend.”

Mr. Taron’s excitement deemed. “Oh.” This was an age before Uber and Lyft; perhaps another assumption, but he knew I didn’t have consistent yellow taxi money. This internship would also count as my sixth course of my usual five course load. It was my fault for withdrawing from Psychology 101 my freshman year; he tried to hint that 9am was early but it’s not like I could have changed it then. 

After pausing for a minute, I watched him close a folder and sit back in his padded rolling chair. He folded his hands together and pressed his pointer fingers to his lips as he scanned his desk. I sat there in silence awaiting his recommendations. Finally finding the sheet he was looking for, he handed me a flyer for the Writing Center. “You should contact them for your internship,” he advised. My eyebrows arched as I received the flyer from him. Students worked or received help at the Writing Center. I didn’t know anyone could intern there. 

It felt like a pity favor. Or as if he wasn’t pushing me hard enough. As I interned at the Writing Center, my most fulfilling assignment was designing copy and flyers for them. Otherwise, two days a week for 3-4 hours, I sat and scheduled students for their appointments with tutors. It wasn’t until the last month that I did any tutoring of my own. However, those 3-4 hours allowed me to write consistent blog posts “on the clock.” They also allowed me to ponder what my favorite peers were accomplishing at their off-site internships: the experience and references they must be gaining. I could have cultivated my online brand without the college credit.

~~~

Having shown more interest in the coding side of his class than the writing assignment side, I hesitated to take another of Taron’s classes. However, Advanced Fiction called to me, and from my memory of his office, he was the correct choice of the two professors offering it. I saw many familiar faces, writers I admired and looked forward to reading from. Honestly, if anything, his instructions and reading recommendations were a background to a course that allowed us to appreciate each other and hone our own voices. I think we could have run the workshops ourselves.

A couple of months into my senior year, I walked back to my dorm from the library: a place I rarely visited. As I jammed to whatever my iPod shuffled to that day, I heard someone calling my name behind me. It was Taron. I stopped to see what he wanted and he invited me to continue with him. I noticed I could almost see the top of his head. 

That year, a friend - Dwight Patrick - who admired my work asked me to take over writing the HipHop section of the Music section in the school paper, after being recommended for the position by my writing mentor at the time Vincent McDonald. It was an honor in itself that was starting to become a bit more overwhelming as each biweekly deadline passed. As it turns out, Taron read the paper and wanted to talk about my column. Nothing technical, but about the music itself. I had no idea he listened to rap let alone current music. As it turned out, he didn’t regularly, but he was interested in learning more. So for two minutes before we parted ways, I filled him in on that artist of the week and tried to suggest other rappers I thought he might enjoy. That was the one time he truly talked to me outside of a learning setting; and it may have been one of the most joyous accomplishments of my college career.

 

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The Guacamole Incident (11/31)

 

Int. The Castle, Living Room - Day

The living room's white walls are lightly stained from the beer of parties past. The beige carpet dingy yet clean enough to rest on. There are three couches that do not match forming a semi circle around a large flat screen TV positioned on a six-foot wooden table, game systems and assorted clatter litter the table as well. Behind the TV is a partition in the kitchen. The kitchen is the size of a narrow walk-in closet. There is a open door-frame connecting the living room and kitchen to the left of the TV from the viewer's side. There is a door leading outside parallel to this door-frame. There are two additional exits, one leading to a hallway with a bathroom and bedroom, the other leading to a spare room and the second floor.

GREG, 25, African-American, and DOUG, 23, Caucasian, flip through channels on opposite ends of the couch directly facing the TV. Greg is in a Tigger onesie, Doug in ripped jeans in two flannels with his chest exposed. BAST, 24, a short Caribbean man, is in the kitchen. He is in boxers and scratching himself as he finds his first meal of the day. Groggy, he opens the fridge. After a quick scan, he winkles his forehead.

BAST (off-screen)
Da fuq.

GREG
What's wrong, B?

BAST (poking head through kitchen door)
Did one of ya'll eat my guac?

DOUG
Noooope.

GREG

I still think it looks like boogers, so naw. (to Doug) This one?

DOUG

Nah, I don't wanna chance seeing a random episode. I'm still not caught up yet.

BAST (off-screen)

It has to be somewhere in here then. All this old ass food. There's too many people in this house!

GREG

It's not in your mini fridge?

BAST (off-screen)

Mm-mm.

GREG

...my mini fridge?

BAST (off-screen)

Nah, I wanted it close to my chips in the cabinet for easy access. Hold up. (he checks the cabinet) Still half full. Fuq is going on? (he pivots to throw something in the trash) [putting on an accent] Gotdammit, mon!

GREG 

(to Doug) Come on, this one?

DOUG

I'm not in the mood for Nick Cannon.

Greg throws the remote at Doug 

Bast enters the living room

BAST

Someone kilt it.

GREG

Wait, the whole thing?

BAST

Whole fuckin thing.

GREG

You ain't have none of it?

Bast shakes his head

GREG

Bruhhh.

VAN, 24, Caucasian, enters from the door leading to the rest of the house. She wears Bast's oversized hoodie and sleep-shorts. A bottle of Diet Coke is already in her hands.

VAN

Mornin, losers.

DOUG

(bending backwards over the couch) Van, you eat Bast's guac last night? 

VAN

H'what?

DOUG

'cording to Bast, it's all gone.

VAN

Fuck, I was gonna eat that today. Bitch, were you not gonna wake me up and eat it all yourself?

BAST

Nooo... just my half. Maybe a lil more.

VAN

Jerk. Thanks for the DC tho.

BAST

Yeah yeah yeah

Van walks past Bast and slaps his ass on the way to the kitchen.

BAST

Woman!

Van laughs and exits.

GREG

What you expect, B. You come down here after mornin sex with nothin on but some short shorts draggin that wagon. You lucky I'm sitting down or I'da down it first.

DOUG

Yeah, I woulda done it just to say "first."

GREG

(looking between his two friends) Hmm... Yeah I'd watch that.

Bast sits down on the couch against the wall, trying to hide his ass as best as possible.  

DOUG

Damn, cable is boring. Not even a good movie on. (turns off TV)

GREG

Fuck it, I'll just put some music on. (he starts searching his iPod already on the coffee table)

BAST

If not ya'll, then who? Paula's back home this weekend, and Chet wouldn't do it. ...who's lyin?

Van reemerges with salsa and a half-full bag of chips and sits next to Bast.

VAN

It coulda been Kaley.

GREG

(stopping his search) Wait, Kaley's here? I thought she went home.

VAN

Nah she caught a ride home with us last night, remember, Bast?

BAST

(blank look on his face) No I do not. Was I in the front seat on the ride home? (tries to remember)

VAN

We got one of those big taxis. Greg was in the front. 

GREG

Damn, I wasn't that drunk. I woulda noticed a second white girl down he-- you know what, nope. I def ran straight to the bathroom to poop and then straight to bed to get some air. (looking back to the bedroom) Damn, Chet, again?

DOUG

You think she's gonna stay the day?

GREG

Gawd, I hope not. Can't stand her. I'm not tryna make her cry again.

DOUG

Wait, where was I for that?!

GREG

It's not my fault you have friends besides us. And, you know, the bitch does eat people's food. Last week she just picked up my chips off my mini fridge and just started eating. She was like, "I thought it was house food." No, bitch, and even if it was, you don't live in this house!

BAST 

Hold up. (turning to Van) Didn't you say you saw her in our mini fridge one time?

VAN

Yeah, she was looking for something to drink and almost touch your Orange-Banana juice.

BAST

Not my blend! 

DOUG

So what, we think she snuck outta Chet's room in the middle of the night and scarfed down a whole tub of guac in like ten minutes?

VAN

She starves herself during the day. I've noticed cause I do it too. (nervous giggle)

BAST

And I keep telling you to eat.

GREG

Yeah. Damn. Fuckin Diet Coke-Coors Light ass diet.

VAN

(shrugs) You know I'd rather drink my calories.

GREG

Mm, and the bitch likes to smoke, too. Probably had the munchies. 

The gang mumbles in agreement .

BAST

But damn. The whole thing? And she didn't even hide the evidence.

GREG

Exactly. She has no shame. Why would she hide it? 

The sound of a door opens. A hooded figure quickly slides into the bathroom and closes the door. CHET, 25, Korean, enters the living room in a worn-out white t-shirt and pajama pants. His hair is disheveled but there's a smile on his face.

CHET

Aaah, good morning guys.

GREG

I bet it is for you. Reaping all the benefits of bringing a menace into our happy home. 

CHET

Hmm?

GREG

Was that flash of paleness Kaley?

CHET

Yeah, she's just finishing up her makeup.

DOUG

Was she with you the whole time last night?

CHET

Yeah, why?

DOUG

Like the whoooole time.

CHET

Mm-hmm

DOUG

Like the whoooooooooooole time.

CHET

Ok, what happened.

BAST

She ate my guac, man! (he starts to fake cry)

CHET

Really? I don't think she tasted like anything weird last night.

GREG

Gross.

VAN

He found his whole mini-tub of guac in the trash this morning, Chet.

CHET

Oh. Well, maybe Bast did it.

GREG

Ah true. You do have you're forget'ems.

BAST

There's a lot going on up here, and a lot gets thrown out, but I woulda remembered eating a whole ass thing of guac.

VAN

Would you tho?

BAST

Et tu, Van? 

VAN

I mean, I can see it. You, late at night, same thing you have on now, just eating out of the fridge, chewing that big dumb chew you do when you're in bliss.

GREG

Yeah, no, I can see it. too.

BAST

Ok, maybe, but I doubt it. No chip bits were in my teeth this morning. At least I think so. (he feels around his teeth with his tongue)

GREG

Van, is this a preview of... you know?

Van throws a couch cushion at Greg, misses, and asks for it back.

KALEY, 25. Caucasian exits the bathroom and hugs Chet from behind. She thin and dressed in pastels with a cropped black leather jacket and a Hello Kitty backpack.

BAST and GREG

Yooouuuuuuuu!

Kaley tries to hide behind Chet but he moves as if to say "What are you doing?"

DOUG

Got something to... confessssss, Kaley?

KALEY

What are ya'll talking about? 

BAST

Don't play dumb with us. You heard us from the bathroom. You ate my guac didn't you?

KALEY

What? No. I just woke up. Wait, there was guac here?

BAST 

Don't play dumb; it was last night after we got home from the bar. We all went to bed but youuuuu snuck out and spotted the one thing I had to look forward to in this hungover life of sin. Admit it?

KALEY

You all seem cranky, so I'm gonna leave. (kisses Chet on the cheek) I'll call you when I get home, ok?

Chet walked Kaley to the door as Bast and Greg boo. Kaley exits The Castle.

GREG

She lyin.

BAST

I ain't eat my own guac, Chet! I'm telling you.

CHET

Well, I don't think it was her either. She woulda admitted it and then ran away like she usually does. 

Bast and Greg pause to find this to be true.

BAST

Dammit, then who was it then?

GREG

The mystery's still afoot!

DOUG

(grabbing the remote) Ahn, maybe there's something on TV now.

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Monologue for Young Adults 4: Thirty More (10/31)

 

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb -- Monologue 3: Secession

30 years? Damn. No, like... okay, yeah, we know I'm bleak. But making it to 60? I can't imagine it. No honestly, I can't! Like, making it to 30 last year was a gift in itself. And you're talking about retiring at 60. Whew, those benefits must be amazing! I mean, yeah, they better be if you're putting your life on the li-- I just didn't know we could do that. Not the at 60 party, retiring in general. I thought it'd be all dried up by the time whomever among us survived that long. Or we'd be 74. Yikes, nah definitely don't want that. Listen, my knees are already locking up. I can't drop it low like a bitch used to. I can't club at 74. And make no mistake, knowing millennials and our liberal aversion to children, there will definitely be clubs for the elderly. And I have... mature friends, so don't call me ageist. I love them, respect them, honor and cherish them. If anything they've showed me that making it past 40 doesn't have to be boring, it can be fulfilling. But that's a strength I have not yet acquired, and I'm more than happy to bitch out.

[laughs] Me. Elderly. [laughs again] Bitch, I'm tired now! I can't do another 30 years of this. Like, the first time around, easy. Barely noticed. Wasn't truly conscious until I was four. Didn't get a job til I was eighteen cause I never left the house before then. Didn't really start paying bills til I was 21, 22. And yeah, I've realized this before, but you want me to survive 30 years paying bills!? Mmm, I'll give you 20 and then drop. Listen, get your time in with me now. I'm not taking care of this already defective body any longer than I have to. They start making cyborgs, then we can talk. But til then, I'mma keep drinking this drink and just see how long I make it before I crash and total this thing. 

Mm, so let's make a toast and a pact! Cause I see all your faces souring. We're friends; we're tight; we love each other more than we love our families. We keep each other alive, but as soon as one of slips and we're all gathered around your hole in the ground or your urn, we just let it go. Fuck it. Party til our worlds end. Last one left throws themselves in the grave or crematory too. You in?

Word

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Goon to a Goblin (9/31)

 

Dusk fought to peek through the kitchen blinds, giving the room an orange glow as it reflected off the peach colored walls. At that time of day, a sliver of light reflected off the refrigerator door handle onto the floor. Brie crawled from under the oven to investigate. Closing her eyes as she stepped into the light, she enjoyed the warmth and rolled onto her back for an even coat. A light clank came from the living room, startling her. By instinct, she ran behind the overflowing trash can under the counter. 

            As she hugged the wall, she tried not to let the alluring smell of discarded food distract her. As unpredictable as he was, the pale skyscraper shouldn’t be downstairs yet. He always visited the kitchen before resting for hours in the living room. She continued towards the doorway when the scent of a half-finished microwaved Lean Cuisine made her whiskers twitch. She sat on her hind legs and contemplated her priorities. “Soon,” she whispered to herself and continued on her way.

            Once she made it to the carpeted game room attached to the living room, Brie spotted Squeakisha staring at a corner behind the partial wall separating the game and living rooms she usually ignored. Brie ran towards her friend. “Squeakisha. Squeakisha! Was that you making all that noise? Damn near made me shit a pellet.”

            “No, girl.” Squeakisha kept her eyes locked. “It was them.”

            “Them who?”

            “The rats,” she said.

            Brie tripped over her fore feet and flipped on her back. “How the fuck did rats make it in here? Shit we gotta hide.”

            “Oh, not those rats,” Squeakisha finally broke her gaze. “Ew, yikes! Girl, you know I would not even be out here if that was the case.” She sauntered over to Brie and dragged her to the living room for a better view. “See? The cage up there: regular sized white rats.”

            Brie pulled herself up clawing up her friend’s back. There it was: a cage on top of the table with a pink tail hanging out the front. “Ooo, you’re right. How many do you think there are?”

            “I dunno; I was waiting for you. I know how distracted you get.”

            Brie played with a crumb tangled in a strain of hair. “Never.” She focused and ate the crumb, pulling the hair out of her teeth. “Ok, I’ve at least had a snack. I can say hi to strangers now. Lead the way.”

            Squeakisha jumped up to the cushion of the chair in front of her while Brie followed up the chair leg. “Oops. My bad, girl. I’ll make smaller steps.” She kicked off the back support of the chair and landed on the table in front of the cage. Wasting no time, she called down, “C’mon you got it. I know you at least agile.” The smaller mouse made the leap and nearly missed, climbing up the edge thanks to a push from her companion.

  

            Brie looked around the table. The usual Lego set had been pushed to the side to make room for this cage that seemed to appear out of thin air. She looked inside and saw the white rats were now on the other side of the cage staring at the wall. “Hey. Hey you over there.” The rat on the left yawned, aggravating her. “Hey! Shithead one and shithead two!” The rat on the right turned his head dumbfounded. “Yeah ya’ll. Get over here.” He walked forward, leaving his slightly rounder friend behind. Brie began her line of questioning. “The fuck did ya’ll come from?”

            “You don’t have to answer that!” the bigger rat yelled.

            Luckily for Brie, she was talking to the simpler of the two. “The store,” he replied.

            She looked back at Squeakisha puzzled. “The store? Like… a grocery store?”

            “No, you idiot. A pet store. Jeez, and I thought we were the sheltered ones,” murmured the rat in the back.

            Brie stood up against the cage and grabbed. “Ey, you got a name back there, wise shithead?”

            “Oh, he’s Finn and I be Jake,” answered the slim rat.

            “No they are not; it’s Spinner and Teeter!”

            “Hold up,” Squeakishajoined. “Ya’ll got slave names? Aw, this is rich. Ya’ll the white ones but yeah the ones locked up. From what I’ve seen on TV, this is very ironic and comical.”

 

          Spinner started his approach, “Yeah, we’ll at least we were chosen. And we’re taken care of. Look at all this food. Meanwhile, what, you’re out deal looking for scraps?”

            “Shows what you know,” Squeakisha responded. 

            Brie, still hungry, started around the right side of the cage. “When did ya’ll get here?”

            “Yeah, and what’s with your real names?” Squeakisha added. 

             “Well, he spun out of our mum when she had him. And I’m just a big o’fan of breast mi--”

             “Aht aht,” Spinner cut off his brother. “We got here this morning, I’m pretty sure. Haven’t seen the big one since he disappeared around that corner.”

             “Ah, the stairs.”

             “Stairs?”

            “Now who’s the sheltered one,” Squeakisha laughed. “You make it sound so nice that you’ve got a bed and water and a wheel and bland food” that her friend was in the middle of stealing. “Well, jokes on you. This slob leaves food everywhere: on the table, the stove, the trashcan. Last week, I found a whole cookie in between the couch cushions. You think you have unlimited food now, but wait until it gets smoky in here and you get hungry out of nowhere but he disappeared to fall asleep again. Oh yeah, that’s the other thing; good luck trying to figure out when your next meal is coming. So sure, we may sleep in the wall, but at least we’re free to enjoy the diversity of the tall one’s scraps.” Brie gave her friend the signal as she scurried down the table to the TV stand with paws full of food. “Well, if you’ll excuse us. We’ll leave you two to start your first hunger.” 

               Spinner and Teeter turned around to find one lone food pellet left in their dish. When they turned around, the mice had vanished. However, they heard small mouths chewing in delight below them.

            “Bland, huh?” Spinner said into the open air.

            “Thank you, Finn and Jake,” the mice sang in unison.

            Teeter nudged his brother, “Oy, I think fancy us, Finn.”

            Spinner slapped his brother, “Shut up. And drop the accent.”

            “Aw. You never let me have any fun.”

 

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