Yesterday morning I decided that I had enough of my own moaning and groaning – so I went to huband’s office to finish a short story called “Night Driving”. Like most of my writing, it’s about 90% done and has been that way for an embarrassingly long time. I was hopeful, determined to do a little writing, editing and collating. I am in the process of putting together a themed collection of short stories, mostly sudden fiction. But when I got to the office, the Internet was out, ditto the coffee machine and even the shop up the street had no electricity for reasons the clerk was unable to articulate. The only available parking spot had a broken meter and I hate parking tickets. So I left, defeated and made it home in time to find a photo of Mister Surly for Nick, Tyler and the girls, and a piece of fiction entitled “Pushing a String”(500 words) post them both below, and head off to orientation at the Stock Island SPCA.
Finally I am about to do what I have been promising to do for a long time now. I am about to become a kitty ‘socializer’ at the Stock Island SPCA. I am finally confronting the absurdity of my position – which goes something like this – I love animals so much that I am fearful of volunteering at an animal shelter because I cannot bear to witness their suffering, but not enough to do anything to alleviate it. The tough assignment I am undertaking involves petting and cuddling cats and kittens for 4 hours a week. O martyr me. Okay maybe I’ll clean up a few litter boxes as well. . . I’m just saying . . .
After the two hour orientation session, I made it back home in time to don some heels, and struggle into too-tight jeans, then off to the 801 to film Gassy Winds for an as-yet-undisclosed foray into the outrageous and entertaining world of Key West’s fabulous drag queens.
I love this town.
Pushing a String by Jessica Argyle
I’m putting Vic’s poster back up when the doorbell rings. They wouldn’t let him out this early. It must be Janet. Maybe bringing me another self-help book.
Janet is my next door neighbour. Occasionally I skim through her offerings. I am of the opinion that they could all be written in 10 pages on the outside. Mostly rehash, and I enjoy telling her that. I smooth the poster’s glossy surface and stick in the last tack. I miss the old raving Janet. I allot her 20 minutes out of respect for when all we had was each other.
Janet would never put up with a man on a 2-day furlough from rehab. She has made this plain to me. But I can sense that she is beginning to warm to him.
I won’t camp it up for her today. I won’t parade wardrobe possibilities or answer my door in a black bra.
All this getting better is taking its toll on my nerves. Vic showers me with slogans impossible to argue with. He carries around a medallion that reads “Of joy or sorrow we have no measure.” You don’t argue with a rehab man. He mouths I’m doing my best in this limp voice whenever I take issue. I can’t get a rise out of anyone these days. I speak, their eyes glaze over. When Janet stops in, I catch them exchanging looks.
Janet and Vic have become remarkably similar. They both what do you think and how do you feel me to death. It’s enough to make you pine for astrology.
Vic tries to warm me up before sex but it takes its toll. I can tell. Afterwards he smooths my hair and rummages for words that have nothing to do with me. He used to grunt like a spent beast in the fury’s wake. Now doing anything with him is like pushing a string. The last time he sloganned me right after sex I said, How very proZAYic. He doesn’t respond so I say, Don’t you get it. It’s Prozac not prose. He cooly informs me that sarcasm is a form of anger. And that’s the best thing about it, I say, my teeth bared.
He’s not here yet but the idea of him is all over the place
I open the door and Janet is holding bright yellow flowers and I say Have you ever noticed that the more delicate the flora and fauna the worse it stinks when it rots. Take chicken for example. . and she looks at me with love and infinite patience and I feel ashamed. Thank you, I mean and for one second I crave the liturgy of her tired salvation but before I know it I say All I know is that I won’t be 70 until I am 70 and maybe not even then. And when I reach for the flowers and she tells me they aren’t for me for one instant I believe her.