Breadcrumb #14

Bob Raymonda

There is something special about the time she spends calf deep in the murky waters of a basement flooded by burst pipes. She takes her time, methodically searching for the source of the damage. With the water turned off, it isn’t as easy to discern as one might think. Especially when everything is so thoroughly wet. She wears her grandmother’s fading waders to keep dry, but secretly wishes to wiggle her bare toes in it. She has before, but resists the impulse, as this is a house call, a favor, and if she would like to keep making money, she has to remain professional.

     “Everything all right down there?” her temporary employer calls down to her.

     She takes a moment to survey the damage. Turning a full 360, she sees collapsing cardboard boxes, floating papers with splotchy running ink, and a small island of towels doing its best to soak up some of the newfound sea. She responds, “Might take a few hours to get the water out before I can really say.”

     An exaggerated sigh follows. “I was hoping to finish my laundry today.”

     She rolls her eyes. “Not quite sure if that’s going to be possible.”

     “Please do your best.”

     She wishes she could scream, I’d do better if you’d shut your goddamn mouth and let me do my fucking job, but instead says, “Why don’t you get yourself some lunch or see a movie? I’ll take this from here.”

     The widow upstairs, a friend of her uncle’s, slams the door without responding. Elle shakes her head and wraps a fist around the wrench at her hip. She’d love to take the wrench to the widow’s few surviving dry possessions, but she resists. She is sure to stomp some of the floating papers further into the depths, though the satisfaction it gives her no more than an empty gesture. No amount of time in the sun would have restored these documents to their original function. But no matter, she tells herself she had a brief hand in their demise.

“But no matter, she tells herself she had a brief hand in their demise.”

     She wades toward the stairs and climbs them, tracking grimy footprints on the steps behind her. She stops herself when she gets to the top and considers taking off her waders to walk barefoot through the widow’s home. “Mrs. G,” she calls out. “You here?” She takes the silence as permission and walks through the kitchen and out the front door to retrieve a Shop-Vac from her van. The destruction her waders leave is only temporary, she tells herself. She’ll have it cleaned up as soon as the water is out of the basement and dumped out in the flower bed in the backyard. 

     The back of Elle’s van is a treasure trove of power tools and toilet snakes. She has toys of all varying sizes to get a person’s shit to where it ought to be and out of their clogged pipes. This fills her with pride. Her kid brother may have his award-winning books and beautiful children, but she at least had the comfort of knowing hers was a trade that wouldn’t go out of style until humans figured out how to stop defecating. She’d never have to worry about her publishers shooting down her new idea, or her children growing up to hate her. She’d just have to keep taking her certifications once a year, and the cash flow would be steady.

     Armed with her giant water vacuum, she returns to the widow’s temporary basement ocean to do her work.

• • •

Breadcrumb #13

Anna Picagli

I. The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

Everything in your apartment smelled like rosewater and oranges. Sometimes it smelled like black licorice and your perfume or grated cheese and ginger but it never smelled like anywhere else. When you lose your breath, you speak in circles and hear things that aren't there. When I lose my breath, I speak in circles and hear things that aren't there. For years, I could not bear the weight of you or the sad irony of genetics. I found your loneliness prophetic and haunting and trite. I watched you grapple to hold things, always. I watched the fruit rot in your tiny kitchen. You'd always pare off the brown spots and eat it anyway. No one lives with you. No one can answer the phone when your ears are ringing.

II. Peaches

I can't remember what you look like in daylight. All my memories are in hushed evening mutes, ghost tones, clouded in anxiety, filtered in desaturated colors. There were poems, though. There was romance and rhyme and everything else I thought love was made of then. At performance practice, you made her recite the same line repeatedly until anger could swell in it: You're like a peach, you bruise easy. A few days later, I walked out in a snow storm to get milk for our coffee. When I returned, rosy-cheeked, ice in hair, you were reading me again. You're a peach, you said, joking, reaching.

“At performance practice, you made her recite the same line repeatedly until anger could swell in it: You’re like a peach, you bruise easy.”

     When you left, the whole street flooded and you did not say good-bye. I was calf-deep in water. Things were lost, everyone cried, the key broke in my hand. Your car was parked next to ours. You kept slamming your trunk shut and ignoring me. I am a peach, I thought.

III. The Harvest

It hasn't been summer here in at least six years. I'm starving. Love bites fade and loneliness is trite. There are a thousand faces besides yours left for lamenting, but yours always seems to fit. Did you know: I broke her car keys. They snapped when I tried to turn them; no one knows why. We fixed them, but she never came back. I can plant seeds until my fingers bleed but nothing ever grows.

    The fruit rots in my tiny kitchen. I pare off the brown spots and eat it anyway.

• • •

Breadcrumb #12

Bob Raymonda

Lewis spent the majority of his free time on the forums. In fact, he spent much of his time on them during working hours as well. His boss knew, even though he liked to pretend he was stealthy about it. The theme of the forums, at first, didn’t matter. He’d hit the random button on the top of the homepage and voraciously read about other people’s passions. Once he’d had enough, he’d put in his two cents. Usually something along the lines of, “haha, go kill yourself.” He didn’t have to be eloquent, he didn’t have to debate. He just had to throw OP’s focus off themselves, for just a minute. Just long enough to make them question the validity of the thing they felt they knew better than anything else.

     Lewis was a troll. It’s what he did best. This might have something to do with his crippling fear of others, and the outside world in general, but he would never admit it. He thought of himself as powerful — as xenophobic, overweight, and privileged basement dwellers are often wont to do. The time he spent belittling others from the safety of his computer screen felt like retribution. Retribution for the time he spent as his neighbor’s playground punching bag. He’d never forget the way it felt the first time he stopped a conversation in its tracks, tapping his fingertips together as a serious discussion devolved into nothing more than a 30-post dick joke.

     That was until he found the sex advice forums. When he stumbled upon those, on a Tuesday slurping down his third glass of Mountain Dew, he felt like he’d walked into a chamber full of secrets. Here were the plebes he spent so much of his time looking down upon asking for advice on how to initiate a threesome within a long-term relationship. He was aghast; he couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of one person sleeping with him, let alone two. He decided quickly not to post here with his regular username, Th3M4st3rACE. He didn’t want his comment history to tarnish the advice these frequent fornicators might have for him.

“He didn’t want his comment history to tarnish the advice these frequent fornicators might have for him.”

     Sex was both a familiar and elusive act to Lewis. While he remained physically a virgin, he wasted hundreds of hours growing up watching pornography. Amateur, hardcore, softcore, web camming, hentai, BDSM — you name it, he’d devoted at least a week of his life poring over it. He wanted to be sure of what he liked when he finally lost his V-card. Especially since he’d always fully expected to pay for it. Until now.

     Lewis dipped his toe into the board hesitantly at first. He made a fresh handle, BigShyGuy99, and wrote: “I’m an overweight 20-year-old with excellent computer skills, but I’m lacking in the social department. How can I get a date?” The answers poured in, and he didn’t know whether to be angry or touched. They ranged from short and sweet, like “Confidence is key my friend,” to outright disrespectful, like, “Throw on that fedora and Hawaiian shirt combo you love so much, neck beard. Some other goblin is bound to eat you up.” The irony of this last response was lost on him, but he didn’t let it deter his deeper exploration. He was confident that someone here had similar feelings and would maybe even meet up to try the glory hole he’d drilled into his bathroom wall.

     He spent days talking with people he’d never met. He started cutting back on the Mountain Dew (three glasses a day instead of seven… Progress), and going for walks around the block. He didn’t stop eating pizza, but he was convinced that he was doing enough. But the lack of immediate results eventually frustrated him enough to abandon BigShyGuy99. He returned to Th3M4st3ACE and posted for his first time on the forum. Titled simply “take my virginity (NJ),” he crafted his most eloquent request: “You heard me. Fat, small-dicked loser seeking someone to take away his virginity, ASAP. Anytime, anywhere, anyone, just so long as you host.”

     The utter lack of response broke his bloated grey heart. He amended the post, “EDIT: People are outright ignoring this. Jeeeeeesus that's fucking funny. Literally nobody on earth wants to fuck me. Guess I'm gonna die a virgin, you fucking assholes.” He spent the rest of the week in bed, wearing his collector’s edition Guy Fawkes mask and surfing Craigslist in search of an affordable prostitute.

• • •

Breadcrumb #11

Bob Raymonda

Argus wanders the bazaar with purpose, but allows the flow of wealthy tourists to determine his path. Tent after tent of children’s trinkets and wall hangings assault his eyes, but none catch his attention. He spends far more time looking at the merchants themselves rather than the wares they pedal. She hasn’t yet appeared, but he’s confident she will, even if he has to spend all day in the upper district.

     Everyone here makes Argus uncomfortable, but he’s convinced the endgame is worth it. He tries not to pay too much attention to the navy blue tint of their skin. He even tells himself that the time they spend in the warm rays of sun will kill them, rather than give them a healthy glow. He scoffs when he catches hundreds of his own reflection in a tent run by a straight-backed glass worker. The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.

“The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.”

     “Looking for anything in particular?” the mustachioed steward asks. Argus shakes his head and wonders what he would look like with facial hair. The steward rolls his eyes. “If you’re not interested, keep moving.”

     Argus clenches his fist, nails biting into his sweaty palms, but obliges. He can’t speak up the way he’d like, or one of the robed security guards might catch his attention. He doesn’t want anyone realizing he shouldn’t be here, at least not until after he finds her.

     The next tent stops him with the scent of smoking meats. He isn’t sure of what most of it is, as the carcasses are headless, but the emptiness of his stomach doesn’t mind. He points to a skewer of purple cubes and hands over one of the few banknotes he scrounged together for this trip. The flavor eludes him; it’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted. Receptors scream inside his cheeks that he never imagined existing. He lets each bite linger on his tongue before swallowing, unsure of when he’ll have a delicacy like this again. Tonight, he’ll dine with his brothers on the many-legged vermin they’re paid to clear out of Uncle Vernon’s sewer tunnels. It sounds worse than it actually is, as long as you have the right condiments.

     Argus resumes his ascent into the upper reaches of the bazaar. He climbs a chain-link ladder hanging from the highest platform to reach the last few tents. On his trip up, his skewer falls out of his mouth and strikes a child in the face. Argus is almost to the top of the ladder as he glances down and watches her aggravated mother alert a yellow robed security guard of his mistake.

     He hurtles up over the edge and stumbles into the first tent he sees, knocking over a rack of diamond letter openers. A teenager with a pencil behind his ear glares at him, but doesn’t move from his place behind the table, too busy with a sale to fix the toppled rack. Argus takes off running and bumps into several other angry wanderers. They curse at him in tongues unfamiliar. A woman in a yellow robe approaches him from below, but there is no urgency in her movement. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees what he came here for.

     She is the most elegant creature Argus has ever seen, and he wonders what she’s doing up here among these rich scum. Her tentacles hang over her left shoulder and glow the iridescent violet of someone from the western reaches. She frequents the bar his sister owns, and up until this moment, he’s only pined for her from afar. But last night, she’d left behind a satchel, the one tied to his hip, and he made the trip here determined to speak to her. He approaches calmly and with caution. He chooses to ignore the woman in yellow gaining on him.

     Her tent is colorful — there are glass phials filled with orange and green and purple powders everywhere. Most are corked shut, but the few that are open smell vaguely of the sea. He yearns to know what’s inside, to share any common interest with her, but will stick with what he’s got. She smiles at him, a vague look of recollection on her face. His heart jumps up to his throat as he inches toward her, unfastening the satchel from his hip and handing it to her.

     “Thank you so much,” she squeals. “Where have I seen you before? How did you know this was mine?”

     Before Argus can respond, the woman in the yellow robe appears behind him. She clutches his shoulder with a gloved hand, and before he can react, slaps a pair of plasma cuffs on his unsuspecting wrists.

     “Please go about your day, Helena,” the woman in yellow mutters, and drags him off toward the imposing castle in the clouds. Argus should feel a crushing wave of despair right now, but he doesn’t. Because even though he never got to speak to her, she spoke to him, and that’s half the battle.

• • •

Breadcrumb #10

Jen Winston

The girl was breaking her New Year’s resolution. Or, technically, she had already broken it, and now she was just feeling the effects of fucking up (euphoria, rise in body temperature, impaired judgment especially so). The third glass of wine had been the culprit, but what was she supposed to do — refuse? A two-drink limit was too optimistic for a year-long goal, anyway. Besides, now they were walking to her apartment, and that meant she was about to achieve her other resolution. This one trumps drinking less, she thought, biting her lip.

     Girls looked cute when they bit their lips, the other girl thought. It was a nervous act, but also a sexual one. As hot as self-doubt could be.

     She wondered why she wasn’t also nervous. Sure, she’d done this before, but only once, and it had taken six whiskey sours and some joints before she’d felt anything like herself. But tonight, after just three glasses of bad Malbec, she was comfortable. Almost more comfortable than she’d ever been on a normal date with a guy. She liked the girl — found her attractive but unremarkable, nonthreatening. She liked the way her worried eyes carried a hint of possibility, like this might be the moment where things turned around.

“She liked the way her worried eyes carried a hint of possibility, like this might be the moment where things turned around.”

     The girls were both conscious of his presence behind them, but each pretended to ignore it. As they talked about the glory days of surf rock in the '90s, he walked five feet back and watched their asses, taking note of whose was sticking out further. It was a trick he’d learned: If an ass stuck out because of a dramatically arched lower back, it meant that ass’ owner was trying to impress you. Holding that position required focus and intent, so women only used it when their confidence was low and they needed an easy seduction ploy, fast. He expected a desperate move like this from the other girl — after all, she was the stranger here — but this arched back didn’t belong to her. And that worried him.

     The girl’s apartment was just around the corner. It was soon to be his apartment, too, and they were going to get a dog. He’d imagined lots of puppy-related scenarios — athletic days at the park, lazy nights on the couch — but mostly, he imagined the two of them arguing over what to name it. He knew he would suggest “Kierkegaard” since he’d met her in the Philosophy aisle; she would say that was cheesy, douchey, and hard to pronounce. Then she would suggest “Sia,” and he would ask who that was. She would call him pop culturally ignorant, and they’d meet in the middlebrow with something like “Lou Reed.”

     They reached the building, and the girl fumbled with the key. Her lower back was still curved, and now he could see she was doing that lip-gnawing thing she did sometimes. Should they go through with this? The whole thing had been her idea, but tonight she hardly seemed like the bold prowess who’d suggested it in bed last month. Maybe he was overthinking, but when he’d scoured forums for the advice of experienced couples, they’d all said to be overly cautious of the female’s happiness. “Women tend to do what’s polite,” one poster said. “To make the social moves that are easiest in the moment. It’s up to the man to decipher his partner’s actions. If you intuit that she wants to leave, you leave, or you suffer the consequences.”

     Why were they doing it, anyway? Things were just fine between them — they had fun together, the sex was fantastic, and the promise of Lou Reed gave them more than enough to look forward to. He could end it here and now — dismiss the other girl and have the girl all to himself. He’d go slow, the way only he knew she liked it.

     They walked upstairs, single file, and the other girl noticed the girl’s posture. For me? she wondered. She’d used that lower back technique before, but had always assumed it looked desperate. Now that she was on the receiving end, she realized it just felt good to be wanted.

     The girl fumbled again at the apartment door. The guy rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out what to say, how to cut the wires. “It’s getting late,” maybe. “We’ve got to be up early, so.”

     Before he came up with anything, he watched the other girl step forward, placing her hand on the girl’s bent back. He watched the hand slide lower, watched the girl turn around. She closed her eyes, and the nerves turned into something else. Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he should just relax.

• • •