Breadcrumb #163

DALLAS RICO

“You kill a killer then the number of killers remains the same.” 

    That was Batman, I think. It reminds me of the irony of hating someone so much that I became the very person I hated. 

     It began on a humid and rainy Sunday afternoon in Brooklyn. Washing my clothes that day in the newly renovated Laundromat on my block turned into somewhat of a ceremony. As the machine cleansed my pillows of all the tears I’d cried over my ex, it felt like I’d started a new chapter. The washer clicked to the spin cycle. I silently vowed never to shed tears for him again, to never again soil my linens over that asswipe.  

     My small ritual was a simple gesture, but a powerful one. In that moment, something snapped. That night, on a whim, I hit up this nice guy who had been trying to get at me for the past few months, even though he knew I was in a relationship at the time. Our little fling launched what quickly spiraled into a three-month-long rampage of hookups and one-night stands. 

     Meaningless sex ignited an all-consuming flame. The more I had the more I craved. Toned bodies, thick bodies, big bodies, small bodies. Like a young vampire on the hunt for fresh blood, I couldn’t get enough. It got to the point where I was hooking up with up to three different guys a week, sometimes in three different boroughs. The best part about it was that there were no strings attached. No commitments, no arguments, and most of all, no expectations, except good sex. Switching guys as often as I discarded condoms, once I was done with one I was on to the next. 

“Meaningless sex ignited an all-consuming flame. The more I had the more I craved. Toned bodies, thick bodies, big bodies, small bodies.”

     I was surprised at how efficient I’d become. The process of cutting guys off afterwards was almost mechanical. My emotions lodged deep beneath my skin, far out of reach of any lovesick individual. I was no heartbreaker; at least I didn’t deign to be. I warned every guy that I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Proceed with caution.

     The delightful carnage hit a speed bump when I met Victor. Every now and then, despite the warning label engraved across my chest, some men caught feelings for me. Eventually, it would get so bad that I had to abruptly stop responding to their declarations of love, delivered in novel-length text messages. 

    Victor was one of those guys.  

     He was handsome, I must admit. I fucking loved running my hand through his curly fro, especially during sex. He was a solid 5’ 10’’ and you could tell he was a runner. I frequently hit him up for more, breaking my sacred one and done rule. One night, after we’d had sex, I was hungry so, without giving it much thought, I suggested we go grab tacos at the Mexican hole-in-the-wall a few blocks down from his place. Big mistake. 

     “So, where do you see this going?” he asked coyly after we ordered our food.  

     I gawked at him for a moment. Was this guy for real? Did he not read my disclaimer? 

     But the glint in his eyes, that twinkle you see in random Netflix rom-coms, confirmed he was indeed for real. I sighed, mentally running through the list of excuses of why we couldn’t be together. I didn’t feel like giving him the talk. When I looked at him, though, I felt something, as if someone were playing my heartstrings with the bow of a violin. Years of what could be flashed before my eyes. I saw us bickering over stupid shit like one of us watching our favorite show without the other, growing suspicious of infidelity and, most terrifying, nights crying alone on my pillow.  

     “I can’t,” I said, rising from the barstool. “I’ve got to go. You can have my burrito.”  

     “Wait,” he protested, following me out the door. “Can we at least talk about this?” Without looking back, I jogged down the street and into the subway station. On the ride home, I deleted our text history as well as his number. 

    While lying in bed, I thought about my ex. Over the course of the two-year relationship, I had nagged him incessantly, pointing out that he was too detached, utterly non-committal and emotionally unavailable. I kind of wanted to call him then just to say, “I get it.” I couldn’t help but laugh as I glanced at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. If this were a paranormal thriller, the ending would reveal that I had been possessed by the ghost of my evil ex all along. At least then I’d have a valid excuse for my cruelty towards Victor.

      “You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” 

     I remember that one from The Dark Knight. The film, not the graphic novel. Truth be told, I rather like being the villain. Playing one meant no more sleepless nights or tear-soaked pillows. That night, I slept like a baby.

• • •

Breadcrumb #162

SAM TWARDY

• • •

Breadcrumb #161

AARON CLODE

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Breadcrumb #160

SUSAN CLARKSON MOORHEAD

The girl is behind the dumpsters, she’s feeding the cats again.  Sammy can’t stand the cats, the way they fight at night with themselves or with the raccoons trying to steal their food, those screeching yowls that tear through his sleep, make him sit up in bed shaking off a dream, trying to remember who he is.  Where he is.  Until he sees the glow of the giant neon sign that flashes Niagra Falls Car Wash next to his window, the misspelled name in vivid orange over an ever flowing blue and white cascade of electric water.

    His brother, Mike, he has a friend who works there, wiping the wet off of the cars after they come through, shining up the chrome.  Mike's friend said the owner boasts that he spelled it that way on purpose so he couldn’t get sued by the real Niagara Falls and that it was not a problem because no one can spell for shit anyway.  Maybe so, but Sammy wonders who owns the real Niagara Falls and could they really sue considering they are a waterfall?  Sure, said Mike, anyone can sue about anything.  Well, maybe we could sue them because they never turn off that sign and no curtain has been made that is thick enough to hide the glare.  His mother just sighs and says he complains too much for a young man and at least he doesn’t have to pee all the time like she does hearing all the sloshing water hitting the cars day and night.

    Right now Sammy is standing at the kitchen window, raising the spoon again to his mouth, the cereal he’s eating for dinner the last in the box until his mother goes shopping.  Mike is at his after school job so Sammy’s heated up a frozen dinner for his grandma, she is on the front porch where she likes her tray to be set up in good weather.  She likes to watch the cars.  Back when she was a girl, she says, you were lucky if you saw three cars an hour going down this road.  Now it’s a nonstop rolling show except for the deepest part of night where there is finally a little peace. Until the damn cats yowl him awake.

    The girl is opening cans and setting them down in a row.  She’s pouring water into some of the empty cans.  He has walked over there after she’s left previous nights, watched the cats, feral and spooky, make grinding noises in their throats as he nears, ears back but not running unless he throws something at them.  She sits two rows over from him in English, never talking, her thumbs sticking out from holes she has cut at the end of each sleeve of her hoodie.  It’s too big for her and she keeps the hood up over her hair unless the teacher says something about lowering it so she can tell if her students are awake.  He’s watched her thumbs worry the black frayed fabric.  She bites her nails.  The few times she has looked up, he has liked her eyes.  Blue.

     Today, because he wants to, he adds his empty bowl to the dirty pile in the sink, opens the back door and steps off the last step to the one foot of lawn before the parking lot starts.  The last thing his Dad did, before he went off to who the hell cares where, was to sell their back yard to the mini strip mall for extra parking. A CVS. a take-out Chinese, a nail salon, a pizza joint, all like little satellites off a big Staples and the big trucks unloading crap, and the side yard went to the genius who built the car wash.   Now their house is perched on the smallest piece of dirt possible, just a few feet from the back steps and he’s in the parking lot.

     She doesn’t hear him coming until he’s almost there and when she sees him she has that same look the cats get.  If she could lay her ears flat on her head and hiss at him, she would.

     “Hey,” he says.

     She looks at him, looks down.  She has only opened four little cans, he knows she’s got five or six to go.  She’s debating leaving but the cats win, and she reaches into her backpack and takes out another can.  “Hey, yourself.”

    “You’re in class with me,” he says, feeling stupid saying it but he can’t think of anything else. 

    “I know.”  

     “You like cats, huh.”

    She actually laughs at this, not a mean laugh though, and her face looks like someone turned on a light until she lowers her head and her brown hair slides in front of it, closing her expression off to him.  He’s afraid of the cats, if the truth be known.  He and his brother, Mike, have come out here and messed with them in the past, thrown their cans towards the bushes they hide in, tried to chase them away with a bucket of soapy water.  He worries they have long memories.

    “There’s a mommy cat I’m worried about,” she says.  “She’s blind and I haven’t seen her for three days.”

    He considers this, a blind stray cat, decides not to mention the dogs that run through the parking lot, not to mention the raccoons, the random coyote, boys like he used to be before he started watching the girl who feeds cats. 

    “Do you think I could get more water from your house?  I only have the one bottle cause the other one leaked in my backpack.”  She has shaken back her hair again, those blue eyes looking at him.

    He thinks of the kitchen, the way Grandma can’t bend to clean so everything from waist down is filthy.  It’s supposed to be Mike and him helping out especially after Mom took on the second job, but he’s been slacking lately, bad enough he’s got to take care of Grandma himself with Mike getting that after school job.  And what if Grandma hears her, tries to come in the kitchen and talk. 

    “Sorry, we’ve got a dog.”

    She looks at him.  “Just because I like cats doesn’t mean I don’t like dogs.”

      “You wouldn’t like this one.  He bites.  He’s totally crazy.”

    The girl just stares at him and he wants to take it all back, but she’s opened her last can and placed it down,  and is standing up, ready to go.  “Maybe you could bring some water out later, you know, when your dog doesn’t want to bite anybody, and put some water in those empty cans.”

“The girl just stares at him and he wants to take it all back, but she’s opened her last can and placed it down, and is standing up, ready to go.”

    He toes the ground with his sneaker.  He knows she knows there is no dog.  “Yeah, I could do that.”

    “Thanks,” she says, walking away. 

    He feels the space between them lengthening, about to turn to empty and gone, and he calls after her, “I’ll keep an eye out for that blind cat,” hears what he has just said and shakes his head. He looks up to the sound of her laugh.

    “That was awful.”

    “I know.  As soon as I said it.” 

    She smiles, and he can breathe again.  “See you tomorrow.”

    On the front porch, Grandma wakes from a half doze as he picks up her fork and balled up napkin, the empty  TV dinner.  She looks confused, and he sits in the creaky wicker chair across from her, the faded floral cushions smelling of mildew.  Maybe he’ll scrub the kitchen down, pick up a bit, between now and later when he’ll go and pour water into the little crusted tin cans, hope no crazy cat will jump at him. 

    “They say the Canadian side of the Niagara Falls is nicer than the New York side,” Grandma says, her voice sounds like she is auditioning for the role of calm grandma but there is still a little panic around her eyes. 

    “Maybe we’ll go there, see for ourselves,” Sammy says. “You and me and Mom and Mike in the car, we'll drive up there and stand on either side, we could make it a contest, you know, vote on it.”

    She shakes her head, herself again in her smile and the ease in her face. They watch a blue van nearly collide with a speeding Subaru, a blaring honk, an angry gesture. By the side of the house, a Toyota spits out of the mouth of the car wash, sleek with water, and the towel guys start drying it off.  “Think of it,“ he says, “Winner buys dinner.”  And she laughs.

• • •

Breadcrumb #159

JEN WINSTON

You’re inside me and it feels like warm lightning. I’ve wanted this for six months — 180 sets of 24 hours that have felt somewhere in the range of 15 years — though I don’t dare say those numbers out loud. I don’t dare say anything, even though I can tell you’ve wanted this, too. And I can tell you’ve wanted this because you do dare say something.

    “Monica,” you moan, grabbing my face. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

    I can’t believe it’s me either, here under you. Under the boy in the blue sweater, the boy I know I first saw on a Tuesday because that’s the day of the week our new employees start. You were dressed too casually for your first day, and so you sunk into yourself ever-so-slightly, standing in the supply room with your supervisor, Ray —tall, lanky, and very married Ray, whom I’d written off a long time ago. You were looking at office supplies, nodding, and I imagined you were plotting which ones you would steal and take home, because I imagined you were a rebel. Tonight, when I saw those ballpoint BIC pens on your dresser, I smiled. Though I would have preferred you steal non-BIC pens, at least they meant that I was right.

    We talked that one time in the elevator, and then that other time in the kitchen. I thought we were flirting but could never be sure — in the office, who’s to tell what’s a flirt and what’s a small talk? With you, to me, “how was your weekend” never meant “how was your weekend.” It meant take me now, I need you, and yes, fuck, yes, let’s both feel less alone.

    I never go to coworkers’ birthday parties, but I went to Ray’s. So did you. Jungle juice is holy water for the horny.

    “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” you ask me when we’re done, my arm lying across your chest like an L, the best Tetris piece. It feels funny to make small talk with you in this context, the naked context, but I tell you: I’m going home.

     “I didn’t know you were from Utah,” you say, and look deep into me. There’s a lot you don’t know, I think to myself. I see you five days a week, but somehow, I feel mysterious. 

_____

     My mom picks me up from the airport, as she always does when I come home for the holidays. I want to tell her about you, but know that would be dumb.

    “I had very good sex last night, mom.”

    “That’s great, honey! With whom?”

    “With a coworker.”

     “Naughty girl! Tsk-tsk. How’s Applebee’s for dinner?”

    We are home together for three days before Grandpa dies. It’s not a surprise — he was very old — but no one thought he was mortal. My mom cries more than any of us expect her to.

    “I didn’t know I’d be this sad,” even she says, blowing her nose. “It’s selfish of me, really. He was here for 94 years and I still wanted him to hang around.”

    I skip two days of work. Family first, sure, but I also kind of want to be having sex with you. I draft you an email.

    Subject line: “Did you know the office supply room has a door?”
     Body: “And it locks.”

    I feel a hiccup between my legs. Then my mom walks in, not a trace of mascara on her eyes, which strikes me as sadder than smeared makeup would be. She wants us to go clean out grandpa’s house.

    “Right now?” I ask, annoyed, then realize I should have nothing better to do. I hit discard.

_____

    When I’m back at the office, I avoid you. Not because I don’t want to see you, but because my grandpa keeps popping into my head, and also it’s even trickier now, making the flirting vs. small talk distinction. Do you want it to happen again? Do you want to learn more secrets about me, and give me some of yours? I’m chill either way, I’ll say. We have to play the game.

“Do you want to learn more secrets about me, and give me some of yours?”

    The next day you wear the blue sweater, as if to bribe me into talking to you. It works. Thanks to free pizza, we run into each other in the kitchen, and the sweater is such a trigger for me that I say “Hi” at you with disdain in my voice. You notice it, and look at me surprised. Y u mad tho? I’m not sure. I think it’s because I’m thinking of my mom, and then I feel guilty about wanting you to bend me over against the counter. But is it really my fault? I wonder. In spite of mom’s thin, pale eyelashes, you are still wearing that sweater. 

    The next night, I talk to my mom on the phone for an hour and a half. It isn’t fun, but I can tell it helps her, and that curbs my guilt. I did what I could, at least for today, so now I can be selfish.
When I text you, you say you’ll be free to hang out in two hours, at 11:30. I have an early morning spin class, and if I miss it, they’ll charge me $30.

    “Cool,” I say, even though it isn’t, really.

• • •