Breadcrumb #288

MARYANN AITA

“I think it’s colder here than Manhattan, like, because it’s closer to the ocean. Right? And the ocean makes it windier. I think.”

    It was early January 2012 and my friend Dominic was living in law school housing in Brooklyn Heights. He told me his weather theory as we wandered from the 6 train to his apartment.

    I grunted some kind of affirmation because my face was frozen by the wind. It was so cold I could only assume it had been summoned by some ice troll living under the Brooklyn Bridge.

    Dominic had invited me to hang out with his law school friends while they played Goldeneye on N64 until we all worked up the courage to go outside and walk to the bar three blocks away.

    He and his roommate kept referencing Captain America, which was their nickname for their friend Marron. I thought Marron was already some kind of nickname, but learned this was his actual, given name.

    “Why do you call him Captain America?” I asked.

    “He kind of looks like the guy who played Captain America."

    “Chris Evans? Why not call him Chris?”

    “Captain America’s funnier,” the roommate added.

    “So he’s not, like, a really big fan of superheroes? Or a republican or something?”  

    Dominic and his roommate laughed. “He might be a republican."

    Apparently, Marron was as arrogant as he was wealthy. With a name that screamed “my family owns several yachts,” I could only imagine what kind of money he was descended from. Marron, I was told, was also kind of a know-it-all.

    A few minutes later, “Captain America” arrived at the apartment and I learned two things immediately:

    1) He was wearing boat shoes in January.

    2) He looked like a human Ken doll.

    He was also pompous and seemed to start complaining about something before he got through the doorway.

    After Dominic’s law school buddies had collected, pre-gamed, and murdered each other in Goldeneye a few times, we bundled up for our journey to the bar.

    Along the way, Captain America went on about argyle sweaters; he then explained that he was wearing a Fair Isle sweater—I own hundreds of articles of clothing. I can tell you the difference between tartan and plaid (it’s the colors), discern houndstooth from herringbone, and I am the first to praise argyle everything, but—I had never heard of Fair Isle.

    This guy, however, was an expert.

    I believe someone commented on the atrocity he was wearing, which prompted his explanation of the pattern. Somehow, this turned into me arguing that it was definitely not an argyle sweater (a fact he did not dispute) and how argyle sweaters are much better than Fair Isle sweaters, which remind me of clothes that people wear in catalogs when they are standing next to horses.

    Captain America never disagreed with me. Prompted only by my friend’s opinion of him, his ugly sweater, and the fact that he was wearing boat shoes, I made it my mission to argue with him. So I continued discussing the shortcomings of his non-argyle sweater in an effort to out-annoy him. Our argu-greement took up a substantial part of my evening, but I was fueled by fiery bourbon keeping me warm from the chill outside.

    Later, Dominic told me that his friends actually thought I was funny. They appreciated my haranguing Marron because none of them ever would. Assuming I would never see him again, it made no difference to me what impression I left. Sure, he looked a little like a Disney prince, but what was I going to do with a cartoon?

    I never expected to see Marron again. I wasn’t expecting some rom com plot where we find out that we were destined to be together. I was out with a friend who happened to be out with some of his new friends and I was the tag along.

    But Marron walked back into my life one morning.

    Two years later, Dominic helped me get a job as a paralegal at a law firm. I had been a nanny—the kind of job with a built-in expiration date—and transitioning into the world of office work had been challenging. I worked at the front desk as a phone answerer/legal assistant/pseudo first-year attorney/office manager. Dominic was back in school by then and no longer working at the office.

“I had been a nanny—the kind of job with a built-in expiration date—and transitioning into the world of office work had been challenging.”

    On a Tuesday in January of 2014, a blonde man in a suit walked in to interview for an internship.

    “Hi I’m Marron,” he said. “I have an interview with Tim.”

    I wondered if there could be two people on this planet with that name.

    “Hi,” I said, “You can have a seat. I’ll let Tim know you’re here.”

    The walk from the front desk to the back office—Tim’s office—was about eight seconds, but those eight seconds were some of the most vexed seconds of my life.

    That can’t be the same guy. Why isn’t Dominic here? He would know. That CAN’T be him. Do I say something? Does he even remember me? Why would he remember me? I remember him. But I'm creepy like that.

    I got to Tim’s office and tried to stretch time—I had to solve the mystery before I got back to the front desk.

    “Hey Tim,” I said.

    “Oh is the interview here?”

    Damn it. Why was he aware of his appointments?

    “Uh. Yeah. Marron is here.”

    “OK. Let him know I’ll be out in a minute. You can have him sit in the conference room.”

    I made the eight second walk last about eleven and put Marron in the conference room.

    “Do you want any water?” I asked.

    “No, thanks.”

    He was wearing dress shoes and a suit that looked more expensive than anything either of my bosses wore.

    I lingered for a moment, not sure if I was trying to recall his face or if I was trying to send him some kind of signal: Hey, remember that time I yelled at you about some sweater you were wearing?

    Tim came out to interview Marron and I got back to work, which meant trying to see if we had his resume saved somewhere or a note on the office calendar. I got his last name from the calendar appointment and emailed Dominic to confirm my suspicion.

    I was right. It was the same guy. Although, really, as soon as he introduced himself, I knew: Fair Isle sweater.

    That law firm had a staff of less than ten people. Four law students interviewed for an internship that spring. And Captain America was one of them.

    In the week of waiting for my employers to make a decision on interns, I began to wonder what I would do if he got hired. Would I admit that we’d met? Maybe he already knew. Maybe he wouldn’t accept the position. But what if we had started working together? What if this was some punishment I had to endure for mocking a near total stranger?

    Of course, some tiny part of me loved the absurdity of it all. It felt like it had to mean something.

    But he didn’t get hired.

    He didn’t ever return.

    I wanted this coincidence to matter, but that was all it was: a coincidence. He was not, in fact, my prince. All the elements of a Hollywood love story were in place and then real life happened.

    Nothing happened.

    Sometimes, there is no greater meaning. Sometimes, we wonder for eight seconds and move on.

• • •

Breadcrumb #287

FRANCIS SANZARO

Unlike yours, my heart is tied down—stitched, actually—to my upper shoulder courtesy of a flap of skin they, the surgeons, stole from my inner thigh. I’m being serious here. In the manner of a mouse with its feet stuck in a pad of glue, the stitching keeps my heart from wiggling out of place. I have what is called ectopia cordis, an exotic but romanesque way of describing one who is born with their heart on the outside of their body.

    Go ahead, look ectopia up. It is an existentially threatening Google search. It is even mentioned in the cuneiform records of Babylon. Apparently, most in ancient history born like me were considered gods of temporality, since you could literally see their heart pumping on the outside of their body—an eternal timepiece cloaked in the veneer of mortal flesh.

    With ectopis cordis, most quickly die. Me, I lived. Also, I was born a twin, but my twin sister never made it. Ironically, she was born without a heart. We always wondered what became of her heart. I mean, really, where can a heart go? How can a heart not grow?

    Having your beating heart rest on the outside of your body, well, brings with it significant     challenges. One of those is Simone, who stood before me a few days ago trying to break up with me.

    As was always the case, she just couldn’t break the news. I knew it, she knew it, and being the emotional strategist that I am, I stood in my reluctance as a wet bird stands in a mud puddle, reaping the consequences of their joy all the while unable to fly until the mud dries and washes off. Mind you, about mud, she already called me spineless and pathetic...lovingly I think. But the details are not important here. She had cheated on me twice—the times I knew of—but my mother always said when you find something you love, don't let it go unless it bites too hard. The problem was I never felt her bite. I didn't deserve any better, and so, she dragged me around.

    This is all in retrospect, you see. The dainty and graceful Simone eventually did break up with me, but as to how she worked her sweet magic, you’ll have to wait.

    A fact about me, perhaps, or a note on exposed vulnerability—just because you are born with your heart on the outside of your body doesn’t mean you have a good heart. Aside from the obvious, allow me to make a few observations about women, sex and ectopia cordis.

Lying, deception, and the great game of opaqueness of soul cease to be a possibility. If I try to lie—say, “professor, I did do my homework, but left it at home,” the little red creature—my heart—vibrates and scurries about like a mouse when the lights turn on. When I’m horny, it stiffens and fills with blood, flopping around like it owns the place. A wolf tethered to a sheep is no tether.

    When I’m distracted during a conversation, it hums, well, kind of imagine how a mouse would sing if it got voice lessons from Bob Dylan. Young Dylan. If I am angry, its red body turns black…you get the point here—there are as many behaviors to my heart as there are what people have called “moods” or “emotions.” No manner of yoke or harness have proved effective in giving the little bloody pumper directives. It merely responds, and I have to clean up after it, as if I'm trying to decipher a poetic toddler who just learned how to talk backwards.

    Sometimes I feel guilty disobeying it in the face of its pleading and brutal honesty, as in, it has a distinctive consciousness of its own, which, while clearly associated with the irrational labyrinth that is my psyche, exhibits traits that feel foreign, nay I say feminine.

    It would have been so much better if my sister had survived. We could talk about things, laugh together. I wouldn't be so lonely. Mother always said we were soul mates who never had the chance to meet, but will meet at the end. What happened to her heart? How could someone be born without a heart? Are you kidding me?

    The little experiment that life is playing on me has revealed a truth so far only investigated in the dusty annals of speculation—a thing called honesty.

    As it turns out, the ability to feign emotion is as integral to our social life as money is to our economic life. While everyone can pretend to feel bad, pretend to care, and go through the motions of what empathy looks like, I’m marooned on an island of asshole, since if I don’t care people know it immediately, and apparently, I care seldom. I can try to make excuses for it, but who, really, to believe? The rest of my body doesn’t even have to react anymore, and strangely, over the years it seems to have a ghostly mission to direct me in my affairs, a phenomenon I know exists since it is not always consistent, as something purely instinctual should be, nor is it always against me, given that it often reacts in such a way that I don't like in the short term but, in time, I come to realize is the best course of action. Girls that I’m physically attracted to but repulsed in every other way get the wrong impression—actually, you’re hot, but I don’t want to sleep with you—and conversely, girls wearing baggy clothes that I want to see naked get the impression that I don’t think they are sexy.

    On the other side of things, you’ve all heard of having a broken heart. People are terrified to hurt me, since, well, my heart begins to break immediately—on my chest, on the spot, immediately. Blood down my shoulder, valves writhing as a headless snake. It’s all literary in a sense, but a fucking mess in all practicality. Rags, a mop, disinfectant, the whole shebang is needed.

    Now, you would think that this would be a boon to any guy. Chicks dig sensitive guys, right?, a guy who has shucked the incandescent slime of masculine indifference and who is now open to the world’s sensations, as much as say, a flower is to the warm tentacles of the sun. I am proof this isn’t the case. But right now you’re thinking all this is a bad thing. You are sadly mistaken.

“Blood down my shoulder, valves writhing as a headless snake.”

    Let us return to Simone, that petite blond beauty who was just standing in front of me days previous botching her break-up speech. Simone stopped me under a street corner. Her lips quivered under a flickering street light, and I saw, on that rare occasion, what makes her so delicate, why I fell into the love hole with her in the first place—an inability to hurt that registered in the color of her skin. When she panicked out of fear of causing harm she would turn pale, as pure as an angel dipped in a bucket of white paint.

    Simone and I were kin in this regard. We were both readable on the outside, unlike the rest of you conniving bastards, you who can hide.

    She was trying to break it off for some reason, but that’s not important. What is important is the position of power I always had over Simone—once she saw my heart quiver, gasp and turn black on my shoulder she would be forced, out of an emotional imperative that has its origin in her father’s death when she was twelve, to back pedal. Simone couldn’t hurt a soul, at least intentionally. But she was no dummy. She was well aware of this fact. She knew that as long as her eyes saw my heart break, she didn’t stand a chance of going through with it. Sleeping with other men was no problem, but to return home to face up to the fact in person would crush her, and I empathized with her in that regard. She knew that to successfully break up with me she would have to employ trickery. Trickery she did.

    Like a dog on a scent I could immediately tell that something was amiss when, rather than lower her head and break up with me in shame, as she had done on so many previous occasions, she stood forth, smiling that sexy smile, leaning forward, surreptitiously—nay, clandestinely—drooping her heavy breasts into the cold night air so that even mother Teresa couldn’t avoid a peek. And when I saw them, my heart pumped full of blood, squeaking giddily as she delivered those fateful words—“You’re an asshole.” Then my heart exploded, split, frost heaved, cleaved…blood everywhere, bits of heart flesh scattered on the sidewalk like crumbs of insincere love doled out by drunken carelessness. But wait, she didn't say those words. She said, "You hurt because you are scared, and you are scared because you feel guilty about something, but I don't have a clue as to what that is....I don't deserve you."

    By the time I figured it out, she was already around the corner. With my heart in pieces, I was still living, still breathing. A man without a heart—it was a scientific miracle.

    But it wasn't a miracle. The heart on my shoulder was never mine it turns out, but the heart of a ghost, a twin, a twin sister who never made it here.

    I'll see her in the end, I've been told.

• • •

Breadcrumb #286

CHRISTINE QUATTRO

Date a boy. Any boy will do, but if he’s good looking and has a car that’s bigger than yours, this is best. Actually, a truck would be best: back and front seats lifted off of the ground so people cannot see in. Without effort, they have to stand and peer and crane their necks and wonder: does that girl have a bra on?

    If he’s Italian, you know he’s wrong for you. Your father is Italian and all these men regardless of age are so damn angry they can barely help themselves. But, he is beautiful with shiny black hair, symmetrical bone structure, and he loves you as much as any man who hates women can love you.

    Dark tinted windows, scrambling up and over the center console because this a primal need. Somehow, a face with blood drained from it and flushed lips resembles a look of love when it is anything but. You’ll feel just as drained as those lips, as if something you didn’t want to give has been taken from you. Not that you didn’t make this choice, but in your making the choice you forgot that being with the wrong person is worse than not being with anyone at all.

“You’ll feel just as drained as those lips, as if something you didn’t want to give has been taken from you.”

    One day, the truck will be parked facing an open vineyard on a dead end street and a man who probably lives on that street will walk by and put his hands to the darkened window. “Who owns this truck?” he asks aloud. No one answers because he is alone and the two of you have flattened yourselves on the floor of the backseat. If someone sees you with your wrong choice, it means it counts.

    Mediterranean men, once again, are terrible choices for you. You know this! Why do you keep doing this? What you’re looking for here is a freebee. So instead of all this Italian business, you consider inviting a Greek boy over to make out while your mom is at work. Dark curtains that close are best. No one around to watch you blunder through this dating pool, is best. His body is chiseled, his face is okay, and his parents definitely want him to marry a Greek girl. If he’s Greek you’ll think he’s less wrong for you because he isn’t Italian, but he has a slimy parrot tongue that jabs around offensively. You’re trying, but he’s not. Or is he?

• • •

Breadcrumb #285

ELISE FISCH

Mom and James and I go hiking through a sparse wood, making our way between broken birches, careful to avoid snapping twigs beneath our feet. We walk in a line, me in the middle because I’m the youngest. Mom comes to a stop up ahead, signaling for us to do the same. James half raises his rifle, alert, my hand hovers over the pistol at my side, but then Mom gives the OK and we continue walking. This is all we can do, keep moving on. It is almost the fall and there are dead leaves on the ground, there are dead bodies in the river, the stench and screech of the undead all around us.

    When we reach the shallow part of the creek, we find a deposit of half-eaten bodies. The flesh and the innards is what they eat, leaving the rest behind for us to pick through. We descend on the scene like vultures, ravenous for anything we can get our hands on, the shock of death having long been lost on us. There isn’t much to scavenge from this lot, no tools or weapons, no materials save for a few shoelaces, a leather belt, some buttons from their torn and bloodied shirts. Things we can use to mend or replace our own tattered clothes. Mom stands watch on the edge of the riverbed.

“We descend on the scene like vultures, ravenous for anything we can get our hands on, the shock of death having long been lost on us.”

    As I dredge myself up from the shallows, a brightly colored, cardboard object catches my eye from beneath the wet leaves. A soiled box of cigarettes reveals itself to me, red and white and black lettering. I quickly pocket the sad trinket before mom or James takes notice of my loitering. We make our way again through the woods at a brisk gait, making as little noise as possible. None of us says a word.

    We find our way back to a wooden shack, half-hidden by broken branches and moss cover, built and abandoned by someone else. It has been our camp for the last couple of weeks, but not for much longer. We were grateful to find it, and lucky that it was uninhabited. Luck has been a great asset to our survival, and we never ask for more than we receive.

    Marnie runs up to James and throws her arms around his waist, just as she does every time he returns to camp, and he ruffles her hair in reply. Of everyone, these two have been with mom and I the longest. James found Marnie while searching a deteriorated house for supplies, starving and trapped there, so he unquestioningly took her into his care. The pair had traveled together for a long time before joining my mom and our small group of survivors.

    Marnie is the closest to my age, so we’re best friends. I flash her the cigarette box as we reunite and she gives me a discreet high-five. There’s only one in there that isn’t too damaged to smoke, so we agree to share it tonight when we take first watch. Mom and James and the others usually let us take first watch because we’re teenagers, or we just go right to sleep. Sometimes I sleep with my boots on. We must always be ready to run.

    When we can’t sleep at night, which happens to be much of the time, Marnie and I whisper to each other about our hopes, the little things we know we need to carry with us in order to survive. She tells me she hopes we find an apple tree so she can taste the sweet sensation of biting into the hard skin of a fresh fruit, her favorite from a former lifetime. I tell her I hope we find a dog to travel with us.

    One night she says she had always wanted to try a cigarette, just once, she says, maybe. Me too, I say, and tell her that my mom would probably kill me, but maybe it wouldn’t matter to her anymore. My father couldn’t live without them, but luckily for him, he never had to. She thinks for a minute and decides James would be unhappy about it too, and then we are silent, gazing up at the stars, breathing out clouds of fake smoke in the cold night air.

    Now the summer is almost over and some of the leaves are withering and falling, but tonight is warm and comfortable. We are giddy through dinner, trying to hide our smiles while digging our teeth into the flesh of a scorched trout. Currently, there is an even number of people in our group so everyone eats two to a meal. Marnie and I share a fish. Mom and James share too, ceremoniously handing it back and forth as they each take one bite at a time.

    Night falls and we hear the screeching wail of the undead rise from the furthest reaches of the forest like a rooster at daybreak. Marnie and I assume our duty on watch as the others huddle in the shed before it’s their turn to take guard. Mom stays behind to stoke the fire a little longer, reluctant to leave us two alone out here, but I reassure her that we’re ok. She warns me not to stray too far before finally turning in.

    We sit side by side against a tree near the campfire. I slide the slim, white, paper prize from within my shirtsleeve. Marnie produces a pack of matches, a resource she’d always collected on her travels. Only a few beat-up matches remain, but the sacrifice feels worth it as we strike it into flame. We watch the satisfying glow of the ember garnish the end of the cigarette as I inhale, breathing the smoke out of my lungs, up into the night sky.

    We pass it back and forth, becoming light-headed, feeling the sudden and unaccustomed rush of nicotine as it enters our brains for the first time. We try to blow smoke rings but don’t even come close. At first the stale smoke isn’t too harsh, but then Marnie starts to cough, hacking and wheezing uncontrollably. I try to help her breathe it out, quiet down, but she is unable to stop it.

    We hear something move. A loud rustling alarmingly nearby. Marnie covers her mouth with one hand, draws her pistol with the other. The undead have come for us, just as they always have. My gun is in my hand before I know it. The noise approaches at a hastened gait, aggravating bushes closeby, about to tear through the darkness in a hungry fervor. I stand to meet it, raising my weapon with both hands. It emerges, a dark, wild shape. I pull the trigger.

    Marnie lets out a yelp as the body of a deer collides with the ground at my feet. My arms and legs are shaking visibly. Mom soon appears, weapon drawn, eyes on fire. She sees me first, then the deer, then me again, then erupts into a hushed rage. She reminds me that the noise of a gunshot will only attract more attention. This was not a life for death situation, she points out. Marnie is beside me, her hand holding mine. We stand before her dumbfounded, too startled to speak, still buzzing with nicotine.

    Mom then embraces us both, telling us how grateful she is that we’re ok. She hesitates before pulling away, a puzzled look on her face. Have you two been smoking? She asks, but doesn’t allow space for a rebuttal, dismissing the thought as she remembers the deer. We share a look of triumph as we turn to head inside.

    Marnie and I are in an elated state, so we stay up all night retelling each other the story, feeling empowered by our small accomplishment. We laugh until there are tears in our eyes, already reminiscing about the night we had together.

• • •

Breadcrumb #284

SUSAN CLARKSON MOORHEAD

What I want from you
is to take the clench
of the day off me.
To arrest the tap tap tap
at the plate of my chest
and to hold it at bay
when I find myself in
all the different corners.

What I want is for you
to meet in the middle,
to know that when
I'm at either end,
I am still with you. 
To know that
just you there
is enough.

Stand with me
as I look up that climb
of impossible sky, reaching
for a grasp of green: spinning
trees under careless clouds,
trying to anchor these hours
to something outside
ourselves.

To make it all count,
our so short and so long
time here.  Let us be
like breath, the in and out
of these moments, our
lives here before us, this
now, passed, and gone.

• • •