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reecesfleeces-blog · 7 years

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Chaplain of the Lot

Some guy once said religion is the opiate of the masses.

The sun rose on a Tuesday morning in the summer of the year two-thousand and twelve. She rose and floated low in the sky, nudged the people to wake up.

The light came in at an angle through the large showroom windows of Joe Capini Honda and the tables in the middle of the showroom floor cast long shadows. The sales manager, a man with pale blue eyes and a well trimmed white beard, who went by the name Roger, stood in the front office, looked out its floor-to-ceiling window, saw the sun floating in the sky and sipped his coffee.

The first employee to arrive at the dealership was Ryan Delotte. Ryan had just graduated from high school and planned on working through the summer, making a little money and enjoying his foray out into the world. He was somewhat short, at least relative to the salesmen who all seemed to be giants, and he was a bit gaunt. He had a pierced lip and ear, but he only donned the jewelry away from work.

The dealership proper was composed of two buildings: in front, facing a busy road, was the showroom and beyond this was the finance and automotive service building.

Ryan parked in the employee lot, a place in shadow and sandwiched between the showroom and the finance building. He jingled his keys as he locked his door and meandered to the side entrance. The side entrance was locked and so he continued to the front. He saw Roger through the front window and smiled and waved.

He liked Roger, Roger was kind to him. When he gave him the job, it was with utter faith.

Roger had shook his hand, looked him in the eyes, and said “it will be boring sometimes, stressful sometimes, but I think you can handle it.”

The job was small, but he was proud of it. He complained to the salesmen when they smoked cigarettes together, “fuckin’ four sales this morning, that’s four fuckin’ cars I got to detail in like half an hour. Calm the fuck down with the sales, huh?” But he loved it. He loved it as far as he knew that he loved anything. The part of the job detailing cars was even pleasant, these were new cars; mostly it involved removing the window sticker, taking it through the car wash, wiping the dash and hitting the tires with “tire shine”.

He stepped into the building and noticed it was much cooler inside than out. The cool and the smell of new tires enveloped him.

He said, “Mornin’ Rodge.”

Roger said back, “mornin’ Ryan.”

Ryan proceeded to the back of the showroom, poured himself a little styrofoam cup of coffee, walked back to the front office and sat on Roger’s big desk, sipping coffee.

Roger said, “have a good night, last night?”

Roger had this sort of trust with everyone that worked at the store. He knew everything everyone did, and so long as it was irrelevant to the smooth sale of cars, he judged not in the least. As it turned out, Ryan had a party he went to last night.

Ryan smiled, said, “oh hell yeah.”

Roger lifted his eyebrows, “girl?”

Ryan smirked, said, “girls”, and laughed.

Roger smiled, “hope you didn’t get too drunk.”

Ryan was a little more serious, “no sir, not in the least.”

Roger said, “that’s good,” he looked at his watch and said, “hey look, I need you to put up the balloons.”

Ryan nodded, hopped off the desk, and walked back through the showroom to the back office. The back office was a bank of six small desks, each with a phone and dividers so that salesmen could call their customers without polluting the main showroom floor. In one of the corners was an upright-standing large helium tank, and on the nearest desk was a spool of red ribbon-thread and a package of balloons.

It had been a learning experience when this first happened. Before he arrived, the salesmen took turns “doing the balloons.” All of them were better at it then him, and he marvelled at the idea that it could be so well done. They would have 50 balloons done and tied up in ten minutes. They taught him to start the knots of ribbon before filling the balloon. You cut fifty lines of string, start the knots, and lay them out across the desks. Then you fill the balloons, attach the string — finish the knot on it — then let it go. It floats up to the ceiling, and eventually the whole room is filled with balloons.

With great care he gathered the fifty dangling red strings and began the process of moving outside. Moving this assembly through doorways was yet another skill he was still mastering. It was a good thing that it happened in the morning, and that it was before other salesmen got there, because he was sure it would be an enjoyment for the salesmen to watch him struggle through this.

Ryan made it outside holding the great mass of balloons. For the hell of it, just because it was who he was, he found a particularly ugly balloon, dark green that clashed with the red ribbon, pulled the ribbon from the bunch, and let it go. He watched it float away, thirty seconds there, up, up and away. It tickled his stomach.

The sun was up a bit higher now and the road across from the dealership was gathering traffic. Down the road was a McDonalds, and its drive-thru lane was packed with breakfast customers.

As cars whooshed by, Ryan took the time to tie three balloons to the side-view mirrors on the front row of new cars. It was slightly difficult to hold some forty balloons while tying the another handful to the mirror, and even the very gentle wind tangled the balloons considerably, but in a few minutes he had mostly accomplished the task. There was sweat running down his neck when a salesman, Frank, drove up toward him and stopped, rolled down his window.

Frank said, “‘ey Ryan, gotchu somethin man.”

This lit up Ryan’s heart and he beamed, said “nice, nice.”

The salesman said, “you on balloon duty, huh?”

Ryan looked at him, feeling his own sweaty face.

The salesman looked up and down the row, saw he was nearly finished, and said, “ay I guess you started last night huh?” and he burst into laughter.

Ryan blushed.

The salesman continued, “aight man, well come see me when you get done.”

Ryan tied the last wad of balloons to the last car in the front row and knotted it about fifteen times. He looked back on the row of cars, each with its bundle of balloons gently waving in the air, and was thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork.

He found Frank, who he considered he best friend among the sales staff, in the back office, unwrapping a breakfast burrito and sipping a 32oz Coca-Cola. He had, in fact, three burritos.

Frank said, “one’s ham, one’s sausage, one’s… I don’t know what the fuck, oh yeah, bacon.”

Ryan sat down next to him and Frank asked, “you want one? Got it for you.”

Ryan looked at the burritos sitting on the desk and said, “yeah.”

Frank slid the burrito over to Ryan’s desk. Ryan was in the process of opening the burrito when Frank took the first bite of his own, then immediately spit it out.

“Yuck, man.”

“What?”

“Shit sucks.”

Ryan sat there looking at his own burrito, it looked just fine.

As he was contemplating eating it, Frank took the remainder of his own burrito and threw it in a trash can nearby.

Ryan took a bite. It tasted just fine. Pretty good. Eggs, sausage, potato, cheese. It could use salsa. He said, “what’s wrong with it?”

Frank looked at him, almost in disbelief, then said, “you mean to tell me you can’t tell what’s a shitty burrito?”

Ryan shrugged and continued to eat.

Frank took a package of cigarettes out of his slacks, flipped it open, took one out and put it to his mouth, said, “you want one?” and Ryan nodded. Frank handed him a cigarette.

“And that’s not aaaall,” he said.

Ryan was chewing the burrito, trying to finish quickly now that they were preparing to go for a smoke break.

“Check this out my man.”

Frank turned the cigarette package on its side and out fell a tiny ziplock bag, the kind that would normally hold a button. Inside was a single nug of weed.

Ryan’s heart lifted. He’d asked Frank if he could score for him two weeks ago, just a few days after he started working.

Frank waved it under Ryan’s nose and said, “how’s that shit smell, man?”

Ryan nodded and said, “yeah.”

Frank said, “tell you what, I got a piece in my car if you wanna hit it.”

Ryan continued to chomp down the rest of his burrito, swallowing, mouth full with his last bite, he said, “fuck yeah.”

Ryan stood up, balled up the wrapper for the burrito and threw it in the can. Frank said, “hey you want this other burrito?” Ryan shook his head ‘no’.

“Ah, fine, I’ll try to pawn it off on one of these other retards.”

They left out the side door and stood beneath a wide awning. Outside was another salesman already smoking. His name was Carl, and Carl was old and grumpy as hell. He hated working here, and, indeed, had worked here for so long that virtually all of his business was repeat customers. He saw two or three a week, customers he had last seen maybe five years ago, and each time, without fail, sold them. At this point, he simply showed up.

When Frank saw him, he tilted his head back in a gesture of recognition.

“‘ey Carl, you have breakfast yet?”

Carl removed the cigarette from his mouth and as he spoke smoke came out of his mouth, “no. Don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank said, “‘ey well look, I got an extra breakfast burrito. I’ll sell it to you for a dollar.”

Carl glared, “I’m gonna have to pass, Frank.”

Frank shrugged, pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter to Ryan.

“ey man, you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. How can you expect to sell cars on an empty stomach?”

Carl dropped his unfinished cigarette on the ground, twisted it out with his foot and went inside through the side door.

Ryan looked over to Frank and laughed, said, “fucking asshole” and laughed again.

“It’s cause he don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank turned, motioned with his head for Ryan to follow him, and started walking back toward the employee parking lot.

Out from under the awning, the world was a nice gold color. The cement of the lot was tan, and when the morning light fell on it, it gave off a welcoming vibe, said “you are here.”

Cigarette hanging out of Frank’s mouth, sweat glistening on his bald head, he said, “it’s fucked up we got to wear pants and you don’t.”

Ryan shrugged, but since he was behind Frank it was a useless gesture.

They approached Frank’s car, a relatively new Chrysler sedan. Frank clicked the keyfob in his pocket, pulled open the driver’s side door, and sat. Ryan waited at the passenger side, Frank clicked the keyfob again, and Ryan opened the door and sat down.

Frank pulled out an aluminum foil pipe from his driver’s side door. He had fashioned it by rolling up a sheet of ~5” wide aluminum foil into a tube, then bending it at the end to form a bowl. He glanced down at this pipe, then glanced around the parking lot. He turned it over in his hand, emptied the bowl of ashes, rolled down the window and dropped the ashes out.

Then he handed the pipe and cigarette package to Ryan, fastened his seatbelt.

He said, “you get that shit ready,” and with a gentle dinging noise, turned on the car.

They drove out of the lot, down the road a little ways, and turned into a neighborhood. As they did, Ryan unzipped the little package, took out the marijuana flower, broke it into pieces, and put the pieces in the pipe.

After passing a ways through the neighborhood, Ryan tried to hand Frank the pipe, but Frank said, “nah man, you start it,” and handed Ryan his lighter.

Ryan looked around, saw houses and no one else, bent down, lit the lighter, felt the heat from it on his forehead, and inhaled, pulling the flame through the aluminum foil pipe. He sucked through several times before it started burning well.

Holding the smoke in his lungs he passed it to Frank. As he held it out, there was a coil of smoke coming from the bowl, Frank said, “you hit it too hard man,” and still looking toward the road, pulled the pipe to himself and gently sucked on it, stopping the bowl from emitting this smoke into the car. Then he took a hit, light, as though it were a drag of a cigarette, rolled down his window and exhaled, then took another light hit, gentle, so that it soothed the bowl, tempered the cinders, and exhaled through the window again, then passed it back to Ryan.

Ryan already had a feeling of giddiness. He could tell that while right now there was little effect, it was going to blossom into a very nice high. He put the lighter to the bowl, gently inhaled, rolled down the window, and let the smoke out.

He tried to pass it back to Frank, but Frank said, “nah man, I’m good.”

By the time they returned to lot, Ryan felt stoned. His eyes were red, and he knew he was going to have trouble acting normal. As he left the car, he kinda stumbled, and had to stifle a giggle. Frank went to the backseat, pulled out a bottle of Febreeze, sprayed it through his car, then sprayed it into a little mist cloud in front of himself then walked through it.

He had taken out a cigarette and was holding it in his mouth when he said to Ryan, “c’mere man”.

He sprayed Ryan with the Febreeze up and down, then pulled him by the shoulder so he’d turn around, then sprayed his front.

Frank put the Febreeze bottle back in the back seat, went to the front seat, grabbed a couple starlight mints and a bottle of visine. He stood beside the door, and said to Ryan, who was standing looking like an idiot at the front of the car, “ey, keep the rest if you want.”

Ryan thus opened the car door, withdrew the pipe from the passenger seat and stumbled over to his own car. He was having trouble unlocking his car door when he heard Frank say, “ey man, stop fucking around.” He succeeded, opened the door and stowed the pipe beneath his front seat.

Frank was standing along the backside of the building in shadows, holding a bottle of Visine up and squeezing drops into his eyes. Ryan came up alongside him and Frank handed him the bottle of Visine. Ryan tried to do the same thing, but flinched several times and Frank had a look of disbelief, mumbled “jesus christ.”

Ryan finally handed the bottle back to him, and it looked like he had been crying he missed so many drops. Frank told him so and laughed.

Frank then took out two cigarettes, handed one to Ryan and said, “here, smoke this cigarette.”

They stood there, behind the painted cinderblock back wall of the store, and smoked in relative silence.

After they finished, Frank handed him a mint, looked at Ryan and said, “good?”

Ryan half-laughed, unwrapped the mint, mouth hit with peppermint, and said, “yeah.”

When they returned to the showroom, all the salesmen had arrived. Frank made eye contact with one of the salesman, a massive polar bear looking like guy, and shouted, “hey, buddy!”

Ryan was having trouble walking normally, told Frank he had to go wash the cars, and left out through the front door.

Beyond the first row of cars with the balloons was the second row: the second row of cars was composed of the “premier” cars for the day. These were the ones that would be test driven and given walk arounds for new customers. The next part of Ryan’s job was to run these cars through the car wash.

He came up to the first one, a mid-sized SUV, and squinted at the number on the sticker in the top-right corner of the windshield. He said to himself, “five two two two six, five two two two six, five two two two six,” and walked back inside, turned into the main office where the key machine was. Roger was at the computer and without looking over said, “should already be halfway done with those cars, Ryan.”

Ryan muttered under his breath as he punched in the numbers, “five five two two six.”

The digital display said, “no such key.”

He punched it in again, this time getting it right, the machine whirred, and out popped a box with a key inside it. He turned to Roger and said, “sorry, Frank made me get breakfast with him.”

Roger turned in his chair, raised an eyebrow and said, “did he get me anything?”

Ryan said “uhh” and Roger turned in his chair, leaned back and shouted, “Frank! Get in here!”

Frank half-slid into the doorway of the office and had a huge smile on, he seemed to have been in the middle of telling a joke and said, “what is it, boss-man?”

Roger said, “how come you got breakfast but didn’t get me anything?”

Frank’s smile expanded, he looked up to Ryan then back to Roger and laughed, “you think I’m gonna forget you?”

Then he dashed off to the back office.

He returned wielding the burrito with pride, “now, I wasn’t sure which was your favorite, how do you like, uh, bacon?”

Frank placed the burrito on Roger’s desk, Roger opened it, took a bite, chewed, then his chewing slowed. He pulled out a trash can from under his desk and spit it out.

He said, “that’s worst damn burrito I’ve ever tasted.”

Then he turned to Ryan and said, “how come you aren’t washing the cars?”

Ryan left, and as he went out the front door, he heard Frank slap Roger on the back and say, “Rodge, we are going to sell some cars today!”

Ryan drove the SUV, smelling entirely of brand new car, by the finance building, and onto the back service road. This service road was shared by three car dealerships, and along this road was a body shop, a couple reserve lots — where the new shipments were held — and, most importantly, the car wash.

He drove up to the keypad, pressed on the square metal buttons, “3, 1, 2, 4”, and pulled around to the tunnel. The first drive through the car wash was perhaps the holiest experience of the day. The sun was fairly strong by now so that the tunnel felt like a cool enclave.

He pulled up to the tire grooves, set the car to park, and lay back in his seat while the machine did its work: rinse, water streaming down the windows, soap, the spinning cylinders with lapping fingers, wax, green, yellow and red in blurred stripes, sweet smelling, then rinse again. The machine retracted its tools and it was time to pull forward through the air dryer. Slowly, slowly emerging out from this enclave and entering the world anew with a wonderfully clean car.

He pulled up in front of the showroom, saw that it was busy with salesmen on the phones — it was too early for walk-in customers so they could call from their showroom desks — and came to the next car in the row.

He repeated the routine: check the window, repeat the number to himself, get the key, drive to the wash, return. He repeated it again, and again, and on the fourth time through the high was leaving and he was feeling a bit tired, so he stopped, got another little styrofoam cup of coffee, and went to the side of the store to see if anyone was on a smoke break.

…

Sure enough, there congregated were four salesmen: the big polar bear guy was telling a story from the era when he worked at a custom shop in Chicago, he told these tales beautifully, that they worked on Porches and Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Somehow Ryan could only imagine that he worked at a shitty lot in some suburb.

“Anyway, it was a red ferrari, it was Michael Jordan’s. Now, he didn’t come in the store, he had an agent bring it in, but the license plate said MJ 23 and it had dark tinted windows.”

He scratched his head with his cigarette-empty hand as if he were trying to remember exactly how it went, his voice was soft and he meandered on: “I had to take it to another one of our shops, and driving on the highway everyone slowed down around me, trying to look in through the windows, and little did they know, it wasn’t Michael Jordan in the Ferrari, but me.”

He grinned, took a drag from the cigarette, looked around from person to person, seeming disappointed by the tepid reaction, lifted his eyebrows, and said, “he had a Porche too, a sweet setup; a black turbo.”

He continued to talk and Ryan nudged Frank, who was standing in amazement, and Frank responded by throwing his hand out as if he was sweeping away a fly.

Ryan sighed, went back through the building, prepared the fifth car for a car wash. This time, however, he stopped on the way to the car wash in the employee parking lot, sat halfway in his car, legs still facing out, retrieved the pipe from under the seat, a lighter from the cupholder, and took a deep hit.

He let out his breath and the smoke coiled around the footwell, the pedals, of his car. He leaned out, waved his hand to ward off the smoke, returned to the still-running uncleaned burgandy sedan, and proceeded through to the car wash, listening to the radio at very loud volumes.

He was determined now to make it through the rest of the row of cars before his high went away. Boom, wash, boom, wash, boom, wash.

He parked the final car in the row, closed the door, stood away and looked at all the cars facing the steps to the dealership. Beautiful, shining, spotless. A bright point of light was reflected in each of the roofs of the vehicles. Ryan, shielding his eyes from the sun, looking like he was giving a salute, turned and went in the showroom.

At this point, Frank had got himself a customer, Ryan was familiar enough to understand that the man wanted to buy the van, but he was in the delicate act of maximizing his gains by choosing accessories. He could drive away with the van today if it were just the van he wanted, but he was going on a roadtrip Friday and he wanted the luggage rack. He needed to know how long it would take to be installed, and Frank was in a gleeful back and forth with the man.

This sort of information went through Ryan’s head unimpeded. It was the daily rhythm and the song and refrain of the days. People came in, full of anxiety about being sold, and were eased into it. He imagined that, in their younger years, the salesmen must have been pretty good lovers. Been very good at easing her tension: no, no, honey, yes, it’s okay to say no, we can lay here and relax, and then they start rubbing her shoulders, and finally she gives in, just barely, leans back into him, and he kisses her on the neck. It’s smooth sailing from here. The man buying a van was well into the process of love, would be willing to spend a hundred years in the dealership, and the salesman was giving him all the peace of the world.

Ryan sat in the back office, legs propped up on another chair in front of him, and sent text messages on his phone. He wanted to let his girlfriend know that he had some weed and that he was going to save it for them tonight and that they’d have a wonderful time.

It was at this point that there was a knock on the open door.

It was Roger.

“Ryan,” he said, “did you wash the burgundy Accord this morning?”

Ryan turned from his chair and looked at Roger, he said, “yeah?”

Roger smiled, and said, “I thought so.”

He said, “come with me.”

Ryan stood up and walked out of the room. Roger held his hand lightly on the small of Ryan’s back and led him out to the side entrance door.

Ryan said, “where are we going?”

Roger responded, “finance building.”

The walk from the side entrance to the finance building was changed from the morning. It was high noon now, the sun was directly overhead and the tan cement was so bright it seemed white. The sky was so clear Ryan expected a buzzard, or maybe a hawk that fly across and cry out, ba-kaw!

He heard his own footsteps, tennis shoes on pavement: contact, contact, contact.

As they approached the finance building, Roger took the lead and opened the door for Ryan. They walked down a hallway, and Roger stood by an open door, made a motion for Ryan to enter and sit down.

Roger closed the door behind him, looked at Ryan with his soft, gentle, pale blue eyes.

Then he looked down at the floor and said, “let me ask you Ryan,” looked back up, “why do you think we’re here?”

Ryan said, “huh?”

Roger said, “I mean, why do we come to the dealership?”

Ryan felt that he understood the right answer, he trusted Roger to ask questions honestly and in earnest.

“Well… to make money.”

Roger nodded, “Close. To sell cars.”

Ryan was vaguely confused.

Roger put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, gave him a concerned look, said, “and do you know what makes it hard to sell cars?”

Ryan looked up and shook his head “no”.

Roger smiled, “when they smell like weed.”

Ryan frowned and felt very small.

Roger patted him on the back, looked Ryan in the eye, and said, “you need to be more careful.”

Roger turned to leave the room, but in the doorway he spun on his heel, and then said, “Ryan, do you know the difference between working to make money and working to sell cars?”

Ryan shook his head.

Roger nodded, “The difference is… you work for money if you need something: if you need a house, if you need food — whatever.”

Roger took a moment to compose himself, then said, “But what if you have enough money for food and shelter and security and all that?”

Ryan said, “you buy stuff.”

Roger said, “exactly, you buy stuff, you work for stuff not for money. And why do you buy stuff? Because you want it. What is the opposite, what must it be like to want nothing?”

Ryan thought about this, he assumed that to want nothing must have meant pure bliss, but now he could see that it was much more a kind of depression. Apathy, pointlessness. Even a preacher wants for the salvation of his congregation.

Roger saw the conclusions being reached in his head.

He nodded, “and so, what do we do here? We sell cars. We give people meaning.”

Roger took a second, smoothed out his shirt, and said, “It’s bullshit that people think meaning is a singular thing, like, ‘oh if god just sent me a message then I would know exactly how to live my life’, no. It’s a collection of things, it’s about girls,” and he raised his eyebrows at Ryan, “and it’s about good food, and it’s about many, many things. We give people a small chunk of meaning too, a pursuit of a nice car, the bliss of taking ownership, and the several years thereafter where they have pride for it.”

He smiled at Ryan, turned to leave the room, and in the doorway he stopped and knocked on the frame, looked at Ryan, said, “people are fulfilled, so long as they want.”

Roger left the room, and as he was on his way down the hallway, he stopped at another door, leaned in, looked at the finance guy at his computer and said, “look alive! Frank’s about to sell a van!”

#short story #sales #salesmen #writing #practice

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reecesfleeces-blog · 7 years

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The Good Parts

When John was sixteen he spent the first twenty minutes home from school each day in the same way. He thought about Abby Hensley’s butt in her jeans. He imagined her hands unbuttoning them and then pulling them down slowly. The jeans had to make a leap to be unleashed; the waist had to be pulled over her cheeks. This image came to him over and over.

As he imagined, he varied what was underneath. She pulled them down and there were light blue panties, cotton things, perhaps with a slight wedgie working its way up. No, no. He thought about them being white. Oh God, you know, he thought perhaps it was a purple thong, say two centimeters wide, starting at the middle of her waist and descending into ... mm, a contented hum. Yes, there she would be, jeans at her thighs, hands pulling them down, she slightly bending over, and a purple thong tracing the line that God himself had drawn.

Sometimes the ecstasy of it was over too soon.

It was in Spanish class sophomore year that he first fell in love with Abby Hensley.

John sat behind Abby alongside the right wall of the room. It was a shame because they rarely had an opportunity to make eye contact. It was through eye contact that he determined compatibility.

The teacher stood in front of the class and said, “we’re going to play a game. We’re splitting the class up into two teams, left side and right side. Each team sends a student up to the whiteboard, I will say a phrase in English, and whoever writes the correct answer in Spanish first scores their team a point.”

When it was Abby’s turn, she stood up. There was her butt. John recoiled, he wanted to shout, wanted to scream, “Good Lord, there it is!” It launched him back in his chair and the sound of torquing plastic made her look behind. She saw John’s goofy ecstatic look and rolled her eyes with a little smile.

She stood facing the whiteboard with marker in hand. John failed to blink. His eyes were watering when the teacher started to read off the line.

She said, “the boy and his sister eat rice.”

Abby scribbled, and John noted that her entire body shook.

“el niño y su hermana comen arroz.”

Abby turned around, capped the marker, looked at the teacher, saw she’d scored a point, then looked at John. John’s gaze was doing the work of a week’s worth of eye catches. His mouth was comically agape and it forced a smile on Abby’s face.

The teacher said “next” and John stood up and walked toward Abby. He took a deep breath as he reached the front of the class. Abby held out the marker and he sighed. He reached in to take the marker from Abby’s hand and there it was, something unexpected. She had moved the marker just enough to arrange a mild touching of hands. John looked up, saw she was smiling. As he caught her eye she looked down and then headed straight back to her chair. John fought the urge, a goddamn violent urge, to watch Abby walk back to her chair.

Yes, John remembered that very well. It was his teenage hobby, it was his passion, to admire butts. But it was Abby Hensley that struck him with lightning. Abby certainly knew, it had been a bit of a debacle when it was discovered in eighth grade he was taking pictures for a collection. John figured maybe she was flattered. And maybe she liked being flattered.

There was a continual flirting between the two. In the rare moments they were able to catch eyes, he always found Abby looking back at him, giving him a nod per se.

It came to a head near the end of that sophomore year. They were nearly friends and they talked whenever it was convenient. He asked her, last day of Spanish — he figured no irreparable harm would come of it, it being the last day — for her phone number.

John said, “hey, so, what do you think about hanging out this summer?’

Abby responded, “you only like me for my butt.”

John bowed, said, “no, I love you for your butt.”

She took John’s piece of paper and wrote seven digits in purple ink.

John took the paper, looked into Abby’s eyes, and kissed the paper. He started up talking right then, “so, Abby, what do you like to do?”

They hit it off, Abby said she liked long walks in the park. She enjoyed expensive dinners out. She liked things like, oh, what’s it called John? Where you dip things in cheese? And then you dip things in chocolate?

Fondue. Yes, fondue is excellent. But it’s not quite the same as bein’ fond-o-you. He grinned up the right side of his mouth and she allowed herself a mild wave of enamoration.

What John had, she felt, was honesty. It was true that he liked butts and it was true that she was more than that. She wanted to joke in John’s manner that “indeed, she also had tits”, but that didn’t really matter so much to her. It didn’t matter why he liked her, it just mattered that he did. And that he was quite direct about it. He wasn’t ashamed of what it was that made him do the things he did. And she liked the things he did.

Over the summer they met up several times, they ate cups of shaved ice and John told stories about how he used to be a pretty good baseball player. That the cups of shaved ice reminded him of that era; they were always around the ballfields, you know, but he never got any on account of his father scorning anything so expensive and frivolous. He hated playing baseball, he hated going to practice. He especially hated running.

“Fuck that”, John said, “running is never worth it.”

Abby raised an eyebrow, “you know, my mom was a crosscountry runner.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She ate a bite of shaved ice, tangerine, and let the statement hang there a minute. She kept a straight face but inside she was smiling.

John poked at the contents of the styrofoam cup with his spoon and went ahead, “you gotta be pretty miserable, I assume, to want to run that much. I mean, how unhappy can you be that sheer unpleasantness can lift you out of it”.

Abby smiled at him, her lips tinted orange.

It was later that night, after each had had their respective dinners, that they met in a more romantic way. The sky was full of stars, the summer heat was mild, and there was a pretty good breeze blowing around Abby’s neighborhood park.

They walked and after John finished explaining how the stars made him think of his grandpa — everyone always seems interested in the stars, but out of all my family he was the only one to know constellations — he looked at Abby and reached over and took her hand.

Abby looked at him and smiled, a string of errant hair across her brow. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He smirked and looked back. She held his eyes, after a moment said, “what?”

John let go of her hand, and for a split second she felt she was losing balance, but his hands came back, around her face, right on her cheeks, and he kissed her, lips to lips. No tongue, John later remembered, but the point was made.

Abby wiped her lips with the back of her hand and then leaned back in. There was tongue the second time around.

They stumbled up the path they were on, jogging (John wondered at how much this running made sense), towards the cement bathrooms. Above the bathrooms was an orange light. There they kissed, Abby up against the cement block wall, face in John’s shadow. They kissed and kissed. At a point John moved his hands around her back and held her butt.

Abby giggled, couldn’t stop it. Pushed him away.

She said, “I knew it! I knew you were just going for my butt!”

John lowered his head, sighed, said, “you were right.”

He raised his head then and went back and kissed her on the face.

“But you know, I don’t mind having to kiss you to get there.”

And then he took her hand again and pulled her away from the bathrooms.

It was the high point of their summer romance.

School started again and John was finding the majority of his freedom again in those glorious first few minutes home from school. As was routine, imagining Abby removing her jeans. He was sure, absolutely certain, that if he saw this thing he would remember it until the day he died. John thought, “shit, it might be the death of me.”

It was early in September when the glorious day was heralded. Just like that, a Monday afternoon, when John was vividly imagining Abby pulling her pants down — this time they were wet and she had goosebumps — that he received a text message.

“My parents are going on a retreat this weekend. Church thing.”

John’s jaw dropped.

Abby’s parents had no idea she was dating. Had no qualms whatsoever. It was perhaps the largest obstruction to Abby and John’s summer goings out. Abby had to always make an excuse. And so, for this reason, they were going to leave Abby alone at home for a weekend. What fools, what absolute fools.

John sat at his desk, pants feeling smaller, and texted back, “send me a picture of your butt.”

Abby said, “no..”

John said, “yes.”

Abby said, “no.”

John said, “yes.”

Abby said, “>_<.”

John said, “please.”

Abby said, “fine.”

John waited.

He typed up a new text, “I’m literally dying, you’re killing me.”

He waited. And then he waited more.

He sent it.

Abby sent, “I didn’t specify when.”

John typed , “you god damn bitch, YOU GOD DAMN BITCH.”

But then he deleted it.

John said, “Abby, I love you. You know I do. But you’re killing me.”

Abby said, “just hold on, alright? jeez.”

John laid down on his bed, feeling lightheaded.

His phone vibrated. He shook his head before he picked it up to see the message.

That god. damn. BITCH!

It was indeed a picture of her butt. All that could be seen was the stitching of the jeans that ran up the middle. No curve. No thighs, no hips, just the god damn sewn line.

He worked up his next text message, “it’s like the ocean.”

He lay in his bed and tried to count seconds. Each second seemed to take longer than the next. He wished that the seconds would pass the quicker he counted. Even then, though, he would still run out of breath, be exasperated, and have no good grasp on the way time was passing.

He closed his eyes.

It was the longest week of his life. By far. He counted hours. He counted days. When he woke in the morning, rolled out of bed, he thought, “another day, thank you god”. Each day drew closer.

…

John was absolutely certain he was going to experience his dream. He was sure that he was going to spend his Friday afternoon forging a memory that would last him forever. This singular image would sustain him for, he figured, a decade. It would be the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

He waited in his final class on Friday afternoon and kept giggling to himself. He was giddy. There was this thing, like a cake, and he was gonna have it entirely to himself. Or it was like a nice piece of fruit perfectly ripe. He was going to sink his teeth in and the juices were going to flow.

The bell rang and he found himself daydreaming before he got home. It reminded him of being younger and going to summer camp. Of waking up early, putting on bug spray, putting on sun block, seeing the sun rise, and having the eagerness of wanting to be somewhere. He wanted to be somewhere. It was a rare feeling. He often felt there were good things, that he wanted to do something like play video games or watch a TV show, but these were lesser desires. Things that existed because the greater desire didn’t. If there were a summer camp to go to, where he would go canoeing and shoot a bow and arrow, then he would forget the TV and video games. This was one of those things that overshadowed everything else.

He arrived home and he laid in his bed. He did everything he could to avoid thinking about Abby. He meditated; he lay there and let his thoughts run off, leaving him empty. Sun fell through the window and left his shirt warm. He practiced tightening each muscle and then relaxing. He practiced breathing and being mindful of his breath.

His mouth began to salivate.

…

When Abby got home she put on Latin music and did her best to sing along (at the very least humming along). She danced around the kitchen wearing her headphones and making herself a sandwich.

Her mom arrived home a short while later. She was in a hurry, she was anxious. She explained she was meeting her dad at the church. The nervousness was clear and Abby reassured her, “you’re going to have a great time, mom.”

Her frantic mom was making sure everything was set, “you have food? You know the emergency numbers. We’ll call you tonight and tomorrow night. There’s money on the counter for pizza.”

Whatever, mom, please. Just go.

Her mom smiled at her and hugged her, “I love you honey, don’t wreck the house too bad when we’re gone!”

And then she left. Abby was free and home alone. She went to take a shower and listen to music, singing as the water ran over her face.

She finished her shower and dried herself off. She sent John the text message, “John I’ve got an empty house right now, you should probably come over.”

John arrived in record time.

John, smiling, rang the doorbell to her house. She opened the door.

John was stunned. Her hair was wet, she was wearing a t-shirt, no bra, and pajama pants.

She smiled, said, “hey.”

He walked in, put his hands on her hips, leaned in and they shared a wet kiss.

He pulled away, hands still on her hips, and he looked down.

John said, “you’re not wearing jeans.”

She laughed and said, “yeah no shit.”

They both fell into one another faces and there was wet kiss after wet kiss.

John slid his hands from her hips down into the back of her pants. Just skin. He said, “and no underwear.”

Abby looked at him and her smile grew. She took his hand and walked him up the stairs, around the corner, and into her room.

John looked. Lavender walls. A single bed under a window. A desk in the corner, a chest of drawers right inside the doorway.

She led him to her bed. He sat down. She sat next to him. They kissed. John led his hands around her body. The skin under her shirt. The softness of the small of her back. The curve of her waist, of her hips. He brought his hands up her back to her shoulder blades. He kissed her cheek, her neck.

Abby pushed him over and straddled him. She leaned in, kissed him, then sat up erect. In this moment laying flat with Abby over him, he thought, “I will miss kissing you”.

She pulled her shirt over her head and the last phantom image he had of her pulling her jeans down evaporated. Gone. Instead she is there, with her gentle shoulders bare, her collarbone bare, her breasts bare. Her stomach.

John swallowed and thought his last thought in words, “jesus christ”.

He pulled his own shirt off and then she laid against him, skin touching skin, kissing again. He reached around to her pants and pulled them down, baring then her thighs. He wondered how glorious this image must be from another angle, but the thought was swept up as he grabbed her thighs.

The teenagers continued their vulgarity. Genitals were rubbed. Abby rolled over, stood up next to the bed, pulled her pants all the way down and stepped out of them.

Time froze for a moment when John saw her fully naked body. Something struck his heart and he lost all control. She returns to the bed, John removes his underwear, and they are naked together.

It is in this shared nudity that a new sort of connection was forged. There was something transcendental about their shared nakedness. As her body rubbed up against his he was washed away by the profound sense of connection. There had never before been something so profound in his life. The smell of her neck and the sense enveloped him completely.

He was underwater then, in a warm plasma. A place of perfect contentment. A place far more home than he had ever felt. In her pleasant grip he learned that she was the source of well-being. She was transformed into a font of peace. He looked into her face and saw it was the same person. How strange, he expected an ethereal entity; the source of all that is good in the world; the reason time existed; the reason he existed.

There was then a stillness. Abby climbed off him and walked naked through the bedroom door, heading to the bathroom. In her absence he felt the pain of separation. Strong. His body was sensitive to the air then, he could feel the very gentle currents of the room run over his skin. Cold and foreign.

She returned, walked through the door. Smiled at him and laid in the bed. Side by side. John reached his arm over to hold her.

She whispered, “it’s too warm”, and scooted away from him.

John was helpless. No, it’s not too warm. It could never be too warm. How dare you? How don’t you understand that it could never be too warm. Their skin was red and flushed, and there was heat in the bed, but the warmth, the heat, was a very small thing to pay for that feeling of connection. She was right next to him, but he felt then a sense of distance and it ached his heart.

He laid in bed and felt his heart beating. He had just known the supreme relaxation. The absolute oneness. And now they were apart and he ached.

He had thought love was a much gentler thing. It was severe and he knew it now.

…

The lust never went away. On Monday morning, when he was preparing for school, he was thinking about being with Abby. When he was driving to school, he was thinking about being with Abby. When he was in class and the teacher was talking, he was thinking about being with Abby. He just needed to touch her.

Seeing her in Spanish made it worse. He was serious. He was smitten. He passed her a note that said, “I love you.”

She smiled and sent it back with an addition, “you only love my butt.”

John wrote, “no.”

If there was a clear feeling Abby had, it was sick. John might have been lovesick, he might have had a certain positive twist on the emotional severity he was experiencing, but her’s was negative. John had lost his sense of humor, he had lost his lightness of being.

It was now that he felt the distance between them. Before it was a childish rush. Before it had been about seeing just a part of her. Now she was a flaming fire in the middle of winter. Now she was the thing he needed more than he needed water. When he ate, there was no flavor. When he drank, he remained thirsty.

There were two weeks after this when he remained fully smitten. When he remained completely disabled in his emotional throes. He barely could maintain himself, and it grated upon Abby.

It was on a weekend, after Abby’s sixteenth birthday, that they met up to eat lunch in a Chinese fast food place. Abby was poking at her fried rice and avoiding John’s gaze.

“John”, she said, “I think we need to think about seeing other people.”

John was prepared, though not fully, for this blow.

He knew it was going to happen. He knew it was coming and he knew there was little he could do to stop it. He had lost his power, he had lost his carefree view of life. Things were heavy. Things were difficult to move. He had trouble at his homework, he would sit there and would force himself to write things, but they came out only with strenuous difficulty.

John said, “I love you.”

Abby’s face became more serious.

“I love you too, but… I think it isn’t working any more.”

Abby started to stand and John reached out and grabbed her wrist, “wait”, he said.

He let go and she took her arm back, “what?”

He said, “I don’t know.”

Abby shouldered her purse and walked out of the restaurant.

John stayed. Abby had left her food. He thought there was still a bit of her there. If he just ate her food it would be okay. He would keep part of her with him.

It was impossible for him to imagine that it was really over. The clawing desperation held within him. He continued to text, he continued to call. When he saw her in Spanish he tried to resume his notes. He might have even sent her a message that said he was going to kill himself. His eyes were filled with tears often. Never at school. But on the drive home. Each day after school he drove with the knowledge he would never find that warmth for life again.

It was then, in these throes, that he was laying in his bed at home after school, that the image of her butt being released from her jeans came back to him.

He swallowed and remembered it. He was afraid to touch this memory. He was afraid it was going to feel empty and weak. He was afraid it was going to be a great weakness. Instead he remembered it with nobility. He was not a slave to it, it was more a trophy. While this heartbreak was severe, and while the absence was severe, what he thought he would remember is this image. He would not remember the heartbreak, would not remember the emptiness. Just the holy imagery here, just this thing that had driven him to know love.

There was no one to understand and he lay in his bed. Tears ran down his face and he hugged his pillow. His twenty minutes were up, he heard the front door open and his mom call, “I’m home, sweety!”

#practice #short story #parts of it are good #writing

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