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a tragic character: part three.

In short fiction on February 8, 2010 at 10:52 pm

The snow is killing me.  Please send care packages of whiskey, comic books, and Chick-o-sticks.   One would think the recent blizzarding (or is the correct verb “blizzing?”) would give me plenty of time to write, write, write.  But in reality, it just gives me extra time to clean my closet and dye my hair.  And nitpick at everything I’ve written ever.  Ack!  Okay, cross your fingers for an early spring (and don’t forget to send the aforementioned care packages).


6.

“The most important thing is to use the correct heat setting. Always check the label for the fabric content.” I gesture towards the dial, pointing out the cotton, silk, and polyester icons.

I am teaching Carrot how to iron. He had a dream about being mocked for wearing a wrinkly shirt. He was forced to wash away the aftertaste of imaginary ignominy with half of a plastic bottle of vodka. My concern for his liver–coupled with my own irritation from dealing with a drunk boyfriend at five pm–has motivated me to give this lesson. He’s so serious, he’s actually taking notes in an illegible scrawl on the back of a used envelope.

“If the garment doesn’t have a tag and you don’t trust yourself to guess, just use the lowest setting. It’s easy to assume that the hottest iron will guarantee the best results, but really you’re just going to burn your clothes.”

Carrot nods his head. “How do you know this stuff?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I guess my mom showed me somewhere along the line.” And then I remember. “Actually, I was obsessed with ironing for a while; I would beg my mom and my grandma to let me iron the curtains, the tablecloth, my grandpa’s pants…whatever. I found it very relaxing.”

Of course he laughs at this. “You know, that is the first time you’ve ever mentioned your family.”

Oh, he’s drunk. It’s a recurring theme, always fueled by bottom shelf liquor: “Ella you’re so mysterious and I don’t know anything about you.”

a tragic character: part two.

In short fiction on February 3, 2010 at 10:15 pm

Sorry for the delay.  I’m an overthinker.  A perfectionist.  A sometimes self-loather and a chronic worrier.  As a result, I like to revise.  I love nothing more than hemming-and-hawing over the placement of a comma.  And I swear I’m not blithely tossing ellipses around.

A writing professor (her hands covered with turquoise and silver rings) once told me “show, don’t tell.” And so, I’ve been struggling with that idea while working on this story.  There’s going to be a part 3…as this “little” story is evolving into a short, short novella.  Or a looooong story.  You pick.


4.

Carrot doesn’t get the twelve step program. “I mean, I’ve never even seen you take anything stronger than an Advil.”

I can’t explain it to him. But the idea is very simple: I go to these meetings so that I won’t do drugs. I am trying to protect my present and my future. The past has been unpleasant. Shameful. Destructive.

And at these meetings, I have a rapt audience for my sad stories.
Hits like “that night I got so high that I fell and hit my head on the very same sink I had just been snorting heroin from, chipping a tooth and being dragged to the emergency room by my best friend.” The crowd loves any saga that involves a bloody face (check) and an exasperated lecture from a loved one (check).
And “that time I collapsed on the Max tracks, just before the train came and a wholesome young man with a degree in Chemistry saved me and my supposed gratitude forced me to go on three awkward dates with him.” Oh, yes, tales of obligation and guilt are welcomed with only the most open of arms. And it goes without saying that I was super high for the aforementioned dinner-and-a-movie appointments.

But wait! There’s more! Like that summer of slow suffocation from the fluid slowly filling my lungs (a common complaint for devoted heroin snorters). Or the number of times I woke up in places I did not recognize. The night I almost drowned in my own bathtub.

They are all glad to hear this. I am a beloved member of this family of fuck-ups and ne’er-do-wells.

a tragic character: part one.

In short fiction on January 24, 2010 at 10:13 pm

This is a new story.  A very rough version, indeed.   It’s reallllly long, so I’m breaking it into two posts.  Part one, today.  Part two, tomorrow.  Alright?

During a Skype date with my friend Lem, I whined “Every time I write a story, everyone thinks it is about me.”  He gave me a knowing look, “Well, it is somewhat, right?”  Isn’t video chat grand?  I dismissed him with a “meh” hand wave.

This story is fiction, I promise…with certain elements of myself, of course…peppered with bits of people I have known, things I have heard, and dreams I have had.  Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

Here we go…”A Tragic Character….

1.

Carrot isn’t thrilled to hear that I have sold the car.

“But why? How will we get around?”

He is from LA, where cars are mandatory and even going out for breakfast requires a thirty minute drive.

“We’ll ride our bikes or take the subway or walk. Cabs occasionally, I guess.”

His pursed lips indicate that he is not convinced. I’m certain he is subtly shaking his head.

Never mind that it was MY car. I feel as if I must defend my decision. “Neither of us knows how to park the car properly and we’re racking up tickets. I don’t even want to tell you how much money I gave the Parking Authority last week. We don’t live in a fantasy forest city any more. Our lives are completely different. We have to make changes.”

He shakes his head. “But we drove all the way across the country in that car. It’s one of the few things we have left from the west coast. It has memories.”

I know that he is serious about this, but I can only laugh. The car has smelled like feet since the six-day coast-to-coast drive. After much quibbling about various records and clothing that would be allowed to accompany us, we loaded all of our most valued possessions into my station wagon. I was going to be starting a job. A real job. With a desk and meetings and a stapler of my own. Carrot was coming along, because…well, because I couldn’t leave him behind.