Cuento de Mi Id
“A Scream Within a Scream”
(It would be nice to pretend this tale was inspired by a recent Doctor Who episode but actually I wrote it back in 1991. I will admit that a certain Ray Bradbury short story inspired one part, but aside from that, I'm not saying...)
“Hey, Monica,” said Tad. “It looks just like you.”
Monica snapped out of her brief daze in time to respond to her husband. “It does not!”
“It does too," he said, pointing to the mummy. “Note the highly pronounced jaw structure. The full arch of the Castilian nose. The all-too-wide-and-yet-still-stylish hips -- ”
“That’s enough, wise guy,” she said. “I don’t go making fun of your ancestors.”
“That’s because I have no ancestors to make fun of,” he said. “I’m an orphan.”
“Gimme a break,” said Monica. She laughed. “This is supposed to be our honeymoon, remember? Not Anthropology 101.”
“I thought you wanted to see the Tombs of Guanajuato,” said Tad. “That’s why we came down here.”
“We came down here because staying at my Aunt Eva’s house was cheaper than Niagara Falls. Anyway, Guanajuato is a more romantic place any day of the week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Tad. “Niagara Falls still has a little spice to it. And where can you find a decent waterfall in this place?”
“Gimme a break, you goofball,” Monica said.
She laughed again as the two of them left the tombs and re-entered the sunshine. Then she frowned.
“That mummy back there didn’t really look like me, did it?” she asked.
“Who ever said it was an 'it'?” said Tad. He did a quick John Hurt imitation. “I am not an animal. I…am a human being!”
“You’re something, all right,” Monica said. Tad laughed as she punched his shoulder.
“How about making for the Street of the Kiss?” she asked.
“I’ve got a better idea. How close is the nearest motel?”
*************************************************************************************************************
Monica lay back upon the bed and stared at the white ceiling. Moonlight flooded in through the tall, thin Spanish windows and she could see the pattern of their iron bars reflected upon the opposite wall.
This was much better than Niagara Falls would have been, she decided. Even if it did mean spending her honeymoon at her aunt’s house. And Tad had proved to be a more loving husband than she had ever thought he’d be.
Oh, he had been amusing enough when they were still single. But there had always been that nagging question about what their parents would think about a Mexican like her dating an Anglo like him and vice versa. Things like that were not supposed to matter anymore. But they did. And then there was that weight problem she had struggled with all through high school. God knows that did not exactly build up her self-confidence even after she got over it.
Yet, in the end, things had clicked for her and Tad. Tad Arian didn’t have to choose her -- yet he did. God knows he could have found a more attractive wife among all the women he had dated, but then maybe he had not been looking for a pretty spouse. Or maybe Monica had been just attractive enough to suit his needs.
It did not really matter, did it? Monica had won and the others had lost. Now she and Tad were here in Guanajuato, enjoying the afterglow of a beautiful session of lovemaking. Which had been another thing Monica had worried about. But why bother?
Monica had always had a bad habit of worrying too much about the wrong things. Half the disasters she had predicted never occurred. So why be so uptight?
She sighed and turned toward her sleeping husband. Funny how he always fell asleep so quickly. Must be a male trait.
She gently burrowed her way into his arms, taking care not to wake him. His bristly chest hairs felt deliciously rough against her own smooth skin. Playfully she explored them with her fingers. His skin felt so warm and smooth beneath her fingertips. Then she encountered a small, circular depression in his skin. A chest scar. A childhood reminder of chicken pox, no doubt.
Or else an early symptom of AIDS.
She froze. She felt her own face grow pale. She drew back from her husband, all the while trying to remember how many times they had made love. Many times. After all, it was the third night of their honeymoon. And they had used no protection.
Monica touched her own chest and screamed --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- only to find herself once more staring at a white ceiling.
She was in bed again in Aunt Eva‘s guest bedroom. The moon still shone in through the tall, thin Spanish windows, and she could still see the pattern of their iron bars reflected upon the opposite wall.
It had only been a dream, she realized. Yet it had seemed so real.
The oldest cliché in the world, she thought as she reached for Tad. And encountered in his place a noseless Guanajuatan mummy...
*************************************************************************************************************
She awoke with a start. The sun was shining. She and Tad were standing outside the entrance to the tombs.
“What’s the matter?” said Tad. “For a moment there, you looked kind of distant.”
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I guess I was just daydreaming.”
“About yours truly, I suppose.”
“No, actually -- er, yes, you’re right.” She clutched his arm. “Let’s go back to the house.”
“But we just got here.”
“I know,” she said, nuzzling him in the chest. “That’s why I want to go back.”
“Women,” he said.
They started to walk back.
A thought occurred to Monica. “That mummy back there. It didn’t really look like me, did it?”
She waited for his inevitable comeback, but he merely shrugged and said,” You saw it yourself.”
“I know. And it didn’t look a thing like me.”
“Then why all the curiosity?”
“I don’t know,” said Monica. “I just have this strange feeling.”
“Comes from reading too many Ray Bradbury stories.”
“No, seriously,” she said, picking at his chest hairs. To her relief, his skin was unscarred. “I’ve been having the strangest daydreams.”
“You have?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. She looked him in the face. “I have.”
“Well, too bad you can’t go back there and check that mummy again. You’d have to pay all over again just to look at it again.”
“Yes, I know. But still -- you have no nose.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have no nose,” she said.
It was true. He did have no nose.
“I didn’t notice it until now but you have no nose,” she said.
“Well, you know what they say about the size of a man‘s nose, hey, querida?” he said with a leer.
He reached for her.
Monica screamed...
*************************************************************************************************************
“Never seen you that excited before,” a voice in the darkness said.
She blinked. She was naked now. So was Tad, the man above her. They were both in Aunt Eva‘s guest bedroom again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “ I must have blacked out.”
“Never had that effect on women before,” he said. “Must have been my new technique.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It won’t happen again. It’s just that everything today has been like a dream.”
“It has, hasn’t it?”
She ignored the question. “And this is real,” she said. It was more a question than a statement.
“Indubitably,” he said, caressing her breasts. “By the way, you have the cutest little scar on your right breast.”
“Oh, no,” she said. Her hand flew up to check her breasts. It was true. There was a scar on her right breast. Just like the one she had seen on Tad in one of her dreams. But how --
“Had any chicken pox lately?” Tad asked.
Monica pushed him away --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- and found herself facing an open grave. They were burying someone here; she didn‘t know who. The sun had been obscured by clouds, and there was a young man in a black suit standing by her side. It wasn‘t Tad. He was way too young to be Tad. Yet he held her hand as if he knew her.
She turned to look into his face and saw that he had no nose.
Then she screamed --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- in ecstasy as her left hand found once more the secret spot that only she knew about. She did not want to do this. After all, she was a good Catholic girl. But it was dark and she was lonely and she was all alone in the room she shared with her sister Magda. Besides, Tad was out with another girl and it was either do this or eat like a pig. She did not want to eat like a pig. She had done so all throughout high school in order to escape her problems, and it had only made her problems worse. But she could not help it. It was one of the few things besides masturbation which relieved her loneliness and made it bearable. One of the few things that made up for all the times boys like Tad Arian had walked right by her without saying a word, only to fall all over a cheerleader or somebody else right down the hall.
But it was no good. The pleasure was fading. The fear was returning. She still wanted to eat -- not just little portions but whole banquets. Her hand withdrew from her underpants and she stared up at the ceiling --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- which was now gray sky. It was a gloomy day and she was looking out the window of her little private room, waiting for company. But no one -- not even her little grandniece Letitia -- had come to visit her today. No one ever saw her here at the nursing home, it seemed, save the head nurse and the nurse’s aides, and she wished quite dearly that it did not have to be that way.
If only she had married someone like her sister Magda and her brother Narciso did. Someone like that cute Tad Arian she had known back in college and high school. Then she would not have to die alone like this.
But Tad had had to drop out of college and marry that other girl he had been seeing. Monica never did find another man as kind and gentle as Tad, and now Tad was dead and she was alone and not even her own family came to visit her.
But wait.
Someone was entering her room now.
A tall man.
With no nose...
*************************************************************************************************************
She nearly fainted into Tad’s arms in the bright sunshine outside the entrance in the tombs.
“What’s the matter, honey?” he said. This time he had a nose.
Monica did not want to answer. By now, she was wise to the tricks reality was playing upon her. The only question was: “Why?” What had she done to deserve all this?
“I’m sorry, Tad,” she said -- and she sounded just like an actress in a play, she realized. “I guess I must have just fainted.”
“That’s all right,” said Tad -- and this time she watched his nose to make sure it did not disappear again. But it was staying put this time. She smiled. Back to reality, she thought.
She leaned forward and kissed him --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- and then someone slapped her face --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- then she kissed him again --
*************************************************************************************************************
-- then someone slapped her face again.
*************************************************************************************************************
She kissed him again.
And he murmured sweet nothings in her ear.
“That mummy back there didn’t really look like me, did it?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
*************************************************************************************************************
The slap came again. This time Monica opened her eyes. Her own mother was slapping her on the face. But why?
Her father was on the phone in the other room, an empty pill bottle in his hand. He appeared to be talking frantically to someone, but she really could not tell because she was so woozy and her brother Narciso kept holding her up and dragging her around the room.
“C’mon, sis,” he kept saying. “You can make it.”
Make what? She was so tired that she just wanted to sit down and rest, but every time she did so, Narciso pulled her to her feet again and started dragging her around the room. And every time she started to close her eyes, her mother would slap her on the face again.
Then she glanced again at her father and recognized the bottle he was holding. It looked just like the one that contained her sleeping pills. The same sleeping pills she had taken when she realized that Tad Arian was going to marry another girl. A girl he had already gotten pregnant. Her best friend, in fact.
“Tell them to hurry, Papa,” said Narciso. “She’s starting to slip back.”
That’s why they were doing all this. They were trying to revive her. But she did not want to be revived. Not if it meant spending the rest of her life without Tad. Not if it meant abandoning all the hopes and dreams she had had about their future life together. Not if --
Her mother slapped her again. But it did no good. She still felt woozy. Let me sleep, she wanted to tell them. Sleeping never hurt anyone...
*************************************************************************************************************
“Hey, Monica,“ said Tad. “It looks just like you.”
*************************************************************************************************************
Her mother slapped her face again.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“After the Apocalypse”
(Obviously this is one of the most dated stories I have ever written and there is one image towards the end that makes no sense whatsoever. I do not remember how much of this story might have been based on a dream and how much of it was based on things I saw when I was visiting Michigan back in 1987. I will admit that I wrote the first draft while Ronald Reagan was still in office and I will also admit that the story was obviously meant to have a sequel. However, I have yet to write it. Maybe someday I will.)
Route 75 from Midland to Detroit is almost a straight shot once you get off Highway 10. There being no exits or detour signs to look out for, this route is perhaps the closest thing to a straight road in this twisty, curvy country. You enter Route 75 just north of Saginaw and you can take it all the way into downtown Detroit if you wish. But you best not.
The whole thing started on one of those bright summer days we’re not supposed to have up here in Michigan. The four of us -- Paul, Lee, Billy and myself -- had risen before dawn that morning in order to pack and we were already suppressing yawns by the time we finally got on the road.
Billy, the driver, had an in with the local camp commander who agreed to let us go down to Detroit on a “fact-finding mission” provided we return before dark. As it was summer and the trip normally took about four hours in either direction, we saw no problems.
Nevertheless, the guard at the city gate could not resist the opportunity to reinforce this point.
“Please get back here before sundown,” he said, stroking his gun with a smile. “We don’t want to have to come looking for you.”
The trip went okay until we hit Flint, the last major city on the route before Detroit. The authorities there insisted on taking the car in for inspection and since we were dependent upon them for approval of our travel permits, we really could not put up much of a fuss. Billy said that because of his National Guard background, the inspection was little more than a formality that would take at most an half-hour; he recommended that we all grab a delayed breakfast while we were waiting. I was not so confident -- I had seen troops being driven up and down Route 75 all my life and yet I was still not used to seeing them carry out civilian activities. However, I was content to trust Billy’s judgment.
That, of course, was a mistake.
The authorities shunted us over to the corner of a large reception area designed primarily for refugees awaiting the latest bus consignment. It seemed terribly gauche to put four of us rich kids there with a crowd of people who may never again see their homes or families, but Billy just shrugged when I mentioned this and muttered something about the infallibility of authority.
Paul smiled. Of the four of us, he had brought the smallest meal, a legacy from his anorexic days which had taken place at a time when self-starvation was still an abnormality and not yet a way of life. He ended up sharing part of his meal -- rather involuntarily, I noticed -- with a couple of refugees who had drifted up to our table. One of them was a young black man who kept inquiring about relatives in Saginaw. The other was a white girl interested in our chances of reaching Detroit. She said she had a sister in Taylor from whom she had not heard since the war began and there were rumors that the way to the city had been blocked.
A radio was blaring somewhere during all this and no one seemed to mind that it was on an all-oldies station. That was all that was left nowadays -- even the Top 40 stations had turned oldie due to lack of new material -- yet it seemed funny to be sitting there, listening to Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” just months after we had proved that this country could take the worst the Russians could dish out and still survive. However, when I pointed this out, one of the refugees just muttered something about it’s not being over till it’s over, which sounded suspiciously like a song quote.
It was at this time that an acne-scarred lieutenant came up to our table and asked Billy to come with him. There was no problem, he said. Just a little confusion concerning our travel permits.
Billy just smiled his old boyish smile and stood up. “This place,” he said. “They can’t do a thing without me.”
The lieutenant escorted him off to the main building and the three of us sat there waiting for his return. A WAC came by and asked us if we wanted a little something extra to go with our meal but we just shook our heads. There was no sense in becoming obliged to people when it was unnecessary and besides, it seemed vaguely obscene to offer aid to strangers who obviously needed no aid when so many around us looked as if they had not had a full meal for weeks.
It’s the old banking theory in action, I thought. Look as if you do not really need money and you are sure to get a loan; look as if you do not really need a date and your social life will be nonstop. The same principle apparently applied to emergency aid.
What a pity.
I pictured myself as one of those poor souls queued up for the next bus consignment and then I shuddered. At least we still had our own vehicle. It was not much, but it did permit us independence of travel and that was fast becoming a luxury in the post-war United States.
Another WAC came by our table.
“Staying with us long?” she asked.
“Only ‘til our permits come through,” we answered.
“Oh, you’re thinking of traveling?” she asked. “In what direction?”
“South! Towards Detroit.”
“Oh.” Something in her face died.
“Very well,” she said and then she left, leaving a trio of puzzled stares behind her. At least we were not being solicited to register as citizens, I thought.
I was wrong.
A couple of hours later, Billy finally made it back to our table, grinning and unaccompanied. “They’re rerouting all southbound traffic through Ann Arbor,” he said. “However, they did offer to let us register as citizens if we wish.”
“Billy,” I said. “That’s not our intention. I thought we were going to Detroit.”
“In time. In time. They’re still checking out the car for radiation damage. They should be through in an half-hour.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“Well, this time they sounded sincere,” he said.
I frowned. There was something just a little too glib about Billy’s expression -- as if there was something he was not telling us. Paul felt it, too. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched.
“Very well,” I said, deciding to give Billy the benefit of a doubt. “We’ll wait.”
They came for Lee after lunch.
“Just a slight formality,” they said. “It’s required of all female travelers.”
The fact that they apparently did not consider me female rankled a bit but I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I would be next. An half-hour later, I was not so sure.
“What’s taking Lee so long?” I asked.
“Health inspection,” replied Billy.
“What?”
“All women have to get them. Can’t have the next generation being born with two heads.”
“You sound like a bigot.”
Billy shrugged. “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.”
When Lee did not show up an half-hour after that, I began to get worried.
“Perhaps you should go check on her, Billy,” I said.
“Why?” he answered.
“It’s nearly two. We need to leave soon.”
“We can’t leave. The paperwork is still being processed.”
“We have to leave,” I said. “We have to be back in Midland by sundown.”
“That’s okay. They offered us residency here.”
“Here?”
“Sure. Along with free citizenship. No registration fee required.” Billy smiled. “I persuaded them of that.”
“But what about our travel permits?” I asked.
“I told you. They’re not done yet.”
“Why not? They’ve had all morning to work on them.”
Billy gestured at the crowd around us. “Busy place.”
“Busy place...” I started to repeat sarcastically when I caught sight of Paul’s gesture. He was looking at Billy’s face and he was gesturing for me to look at it as well. When I did, I noticed for the first time that although Billy was sitting on the side of the table facing the sun, he was not blinking.
“I think Billy’s right,” Paul said. “I think Lee will be okay.”
“You really think s -- ” I started to say. Then I shifted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. She’s in good hands.”
“I told you,” said Billy. His face seemed oddly smug in the summer sunlight. It reminded me of the way my old tomcat had looked after it had caught a mouse. Or worse, the way it had looked after it had been fixed.
“Right,” I said.
The three of us sat there, waiting for about twenty minutes.
Then I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and Paul excused himself to go to the men’s room. We met behind one of the portable buildings next to the camps’ temporary apartments.
“Paul,” I said. “I think we need to discuss Billy.”
“Not here,” he answered.
“What?”
“Not here.”
We found an unoccupied apartment. The sign on the door said it had been assigned to us.
“Kismet,” said Paul.
“What?” I asked.
“Never mind.”
As we entered the room, I turned on the radio. I turned it up just loud enough to drown out the sound of our voices to outsiders but not to ourselves.
Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“What if the room’s bugged?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just talk low.”
“Okay. What’s your conclusion?”
“Something happened to Billy. He’s not the same.”
“I know that. What about Lee?”
“I don’t know. I hesitate to think about it.”
“What about our travel permits?”
“I don’t think they’re going to give them to us. They’re planning on keeping us here.”
“Any reason why?”
“To separate us from the car, maybe. I saw no one being banned from the bus consignments. However, if we take that route...”
“Right...”
“There’s no telling where we’d end up.”
“And we’d be right where they want us,” I said.
“Which is where we are now,” Paul answered.
The two of us were silent for a long while.
“Any conclusions on your end?” Paul asked.
“Just two. One: we have to make a break for it before sundown.”
“And risk becoming outlaws?”
“If we don’t make it back to Midland by sundown, we’ll lose our citizenship there.”
“We have no guarantee that things won’t worsen there the same way they did here.”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “But it’s worth a chance.”
“Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t, huh?” Paul said.
My face reddened. “Not exactly. But at least conditions are still slightly better in Midland.”
“For now,” Paul said.
“Let’s not worry about that,” I said. “What about my second conclusion? Two: Something’s happened to Lee.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure but the way Billy talked... I’m not entirely confident she’s in good health.”
“Surely they would not hurt an innocent girl?” Paul asked.
“In the position we’re in right now, they could do anything,” I answered.
“Right.”
“What about your conclusions?” I asked.
“I have only two as well, “ Paul said.
“Let’s hear them.”
“Number one: I don’t think they’re going to let us go voluntarily.”
“Why not?”
“Too much at stake keeping us here.”
“For Chrissakes, we’re not the United Nations.”
“But we are potential contributors to the local community. But that is not the worst part.”
“Which is?”
“My second conclusion,” Paul said.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said involuntarily, then silently cursed myself.
A black woman in a maid’s uniform came in. In her arms was an unconscious figure. She laid the figure on the room’s only bed. It was Lee.
“Lee,” I said after the maid had left.
“She’s unconscious,” said Paul.
“I can see that.”
I checked her pulse. It was still there. Her pupils did not seem to be dilated. They did not use drugs. So why was she unconscious?
“You shouldn’t display your nursing skills too much, Annie,” said Paul. “If they find out your true profession, we may never get out of here.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You just said we may have to break out.”
“True. If we plan to go south. The consignments will be going east, west and north.”
“I thought we already discussed that, Paul. You said yourself that we can’t trust the consignments.”
“Right,” he said. “Especially since the one for Midland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”
I glanced up at Paul. “You mean you checked?”
“Only in a casual way. But I have worse news than that.”
“About Billy?”
“No.” Paul turned toward the window. His voice was so low I could barely hear it over the radio.
I asked him to repeat himself. He turned.
“My second conclusion, Annie,” he said. “The reason all travelers are being kept from going south along this road. The Russians bombed Detroit.”
“After the Apocalypse”
(Obviously this is one of the most dated stories I have ever written and there is one image towards the end that makes no sense whatsoever. I do not remember how much of this story might have been based on a dream and how much of it was based on things I saw when I was visiting Michigan back in 1987. I will admit that I wrote the first draft while Ronald Reagan was still in office and I will also admit that the story was obviously meant to have a sequel. However, I have yet to write it. Maybe someday I will.)
Route 75 from Midland to Detroit is almost a straight shot once you get off Highway 10. There being no exits or detour signs to look out for, this route is perhaps the closest thing to a straight road in this twisty, curvy country. You enter Route 75 just north of Saginaw and you can take it all the way into downtown Detroit if you wish. But you best not.
The whole thing started on one of those bright summer days we’re not supposed to have up here in Michigan. The four of us -- Paul, Lee, Billy and myself -- had risen before dawn that morning in order to pack and we were already suppressing yawns by the time we finally got on the road.
Billy, the driver, had an in with the local camp commander who agreed to let us go down to Detroit on a “fact-finding mission” provided we return before dark. As it was summer and the trip normally took about four hours in either direction, we saw no problems.
Nevertheless, the guard at the city gate could not resist the opportunity to reinforce this point.
“Please get back here before sundown,” he said, stroking his gun with a smile. “We don’t want to have to come looking for you.”
The trip went okay until we hit Flint, the last major city on the route before Detroit. The authorities there insisted on taking the car in for inspection and since we were dependent upon them for approval of our travel permits, we really could not put up much of a fuss. Billy said that because of his National Guard background, the inspection was little more than a formality that would take at most an half-hour; he recommended that we all grab a delayed breakfast while we were waiting. I was not so confident -- I had seen troops being driven up and down Route 75 all my life and yet I was still not used to seeing them carry out civilian activities. However, I was content to trust Billy’s judgment.
That, of course, was a mistake.
The authorities shunted us over to the corner of a large reception area designed primarily for refugees awaiting the latest bus consignment. It seemed terribly gauche to put four of us rich kids there with a crowd of people who may never again see their homes or families, but Billy just shrugged when I mentioned this and muttered something about the infallibility of authority.
Paul smiled. Of the four of us, he had brought the smallest meal, a legacy from his anorexic days which had taken place at a time when self-starvation was still an abnormality and not yet a way of life. He ended up sharing part of his meal -- rather involuntarily, I noticed -- with a couple of refugees who had drifted up to our table. One of them was a young black man who kept inquiring about relatives in Saginaw. The other was a white girl interested in our chances of reaching Detroit. She said she had a sister in Taylor from whom she had not heard since the war began and there were rumors that the way to the city had been blocked.
A radio was blaring somewhere during all this and no one seemed to mind that it was on an all-oldies station. That was all that was left nowadays -- even the Top 40 stations had turned oldie due to lack of new material -- yet it seemed funny to be sitting there, listening to Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” just months after we had proved that this country could take the worst the Russians could dish out and still survive. However, when I pointed this out, one of the refugees just muttered something about it’s not being over till it’s over, which sounded suspiciously like a song quote.
It was at this time that an acne-scarred lieutenant came up to our table and asked Billy to come with him. There was no problem, he said. Just a little confusion concerning our travel permits.
Billy just smiled his old boyish smile and stood up. “This place,” he said. “They can’t do a thing without me.”
The lieutenant escorted him off to the main building and the three of us sat there waiting for his return. A WAC came by and asked us if we wanted a little something extra to go with our meal but we just shook our heads. There was no sense in becoming obliged to people when it was unnecessary and besides, it seemed vaguely obscene to offer aid to strangers who obviously needed no aid when so many around us looked as if they had not had a full meal for weeks.
It’s the old banking theory in action, I thought. Look as if you do not really need money and you are sure to get a loan; look as if you do not really need a date and your social life will be nonstop. The same principle apparently applied to emergency aid.
What a pity.
I pictured myself as one of those poor souls queued up for the next bus consignment and then I shuddered. At least we still had our own vehicle. It was not much, but it did permit us independence of travel and that was fast becoming a luxury in the post-war United States.
Another WAC came by our table.
“Staying with us long?” she asked.
“Only ‘til our permits come through,” we answered.
“Oh, you’re thinking of traveling?” she asked. “In what direction?”
“South! Towards Detroit.”
“Oh.” Something in her face died.
“Very well,” she said and then she left, leaving a trio of puzzled stares behind her. At least we were not being solicited to register as citizens, I thought.
I was wrong.
A couple of hours later, Billy finally made it back to our table, grinning and unaccompanied. “They’re rerouting all southbound traffic through Ann Arbor,” he said. “However, they did offer to let us register as citizens if we wish.”
“Billy,” I said. “That’s not our intention. I thought we were going to Detroit.”
“In time. In time. They’re still checking out the car for radiation damage. They should be through in an half-hour.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“Well, this time they sounded sincere,” he said.
I frowned. There was something just a little too glib about Billy’s expression -- as if there was something he was not telling us. Paul felt it, too. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched.
“Very well,” I said, deciding to give Billy the benefit of a doubt. “We’ll wait.”
They came for Lee after lunch.
“Just a slight formality,” they said. “It’s required of all female travelers.”
The fact that they apparently did not consider me female rankled a bit but I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I would be next. An half-hour later, I was not so sure.
“What’s taking Lee so long?” I asked.
“Health inspection,” replied Billy.
“What?”
“All women have to get them. Can’t have the next generation being born with two heads.”
“You sound like a bigot.”
Billy shrugged. “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.”
When Lee did not show up an half-hour after that, I began to get worried.
“Perhaps you should go check on her, Billy,” I said.
“Why?” he answered.
“It’s nearly two. We need to leave soon.”
“We can’t leave. The paperwork is still being processed.”
“We have to leave,” I said. “We have to be back in Midland by sundown.”
“That’s okay. They offered us residency here.”
“Here?”
“Sure. Along with free citizenship. No registration fee required.” Billy smiled. “I persuaded them of that.”
“But what about our travel permits?” I asked.
“I told you. They’re not done yet.”
“Why not? They’ve had all morning to work on them.”
Billy gestured at the crowd around us. “Busy place.”
“Busy place...” I started to repeat sarcastically when I caught sight of Paul’s gesture. He was looking at Billy’s face and he was gesturing for me to look at it as well. When I did, I noticed for the first time that although Billy was sitting on the side of the table facing the sun, he was not blinking.
“I think Billy’s right,” Paul said. “I think Lee will be okay.”
“You really think s -- ” I started to say. Then I shifted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. She’s in good hands.”
“I told you,” said Billy. His face seemed oddly smug in the summer sunlight. It reminded me of the way my old tomcat had looked after it had caught a mouse. Or worse, the way it had looked after it had been fixed.
“Right,” I said.
The three of us sat there, waiting for about twenty minutes.
Then I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and Paul excused himself to go to the men’s room. We met behind one of the portable buildings next to the camps’ temporary apartments.
“Paul,” I said. “I think we need to discuss Billy.”
“Not here,” he answered.
“What?”
“Not here.”
We found an unoccupied apartment. The sign on the door said it had been assigned to us.
“Kismet,” said Paul.
“What?” I asked.
“Never mind.”
As we entered the room, I turned on the radio. I turned it up just loud enough to drown out the sound of our voices to outsiders but not to ourselves.
Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“What if the room’s bugged?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just talk low.”
“Okay. What’s your conclusion?”
“Something happened to Billy. He’s not the same.”
“I know that. What about Lee?”
“I don’t know. I hesitate to think about it.”
“What about our travel permits?”
“I don’t think they’re going to give them to us. They’re planning on keeping us here.”
“Any reason why?”
“To separate us from the car, maybe. I saw no one being banned from the bus consignments. However, if we take that route...”
“Right...”
“There’s no telling where we’d end up.”
“And we’d be right where they want us,” I said.
“Which is where we are now,” Paul answered.
The two of us were silent for a long while.
“Any conclusions on your end?” Paul asked.
“Just two. One: we have to make a break for it before sundown.”
“And risk becoming outlaws?”
“If we don’t make it back to Midland by sundown, we’ll lose our citizenship there.”
“We have no guarantee that things won’t worsen there the same way they did here.”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “But it’s worth a chance.”
“Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t, huh?” Paul said.
My face reddened. “Not exactly. But at least conditions are still slightly better in Midland.”
“For now,” Paul said.
“Let’s not worry about that,” I said. “What about my second conclusion? Two: Something’s happened to Lee.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure but the way Billy talked... I’m not entirely confident she’s in good health.”
“Surely they would not hurt an innocent girl?” Paul asked.
“In the position we’re in right now, they could do anything,” I answered.
“Right.”
“What about your conclusions?” I asked.
“I have only two as well, “ Paul said.
“Let’s hear them.”
“Number one: I don’t think they’re going to let us go voluntarily.”
“Why not?”
“Too much at stake keeping us here.”
“For Chrissakes, we’re not the United Nations.”
“But we are potential contributors to the local community. But that is not the worst part.”
“Which is?”
“My second conclusion,” Paul said.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said involuntarily, then silently cursed myself.
A black woman in a maid’s uniform came in. In her arms was an unconscious figure. She laid the figure on the room’s only bed. It was Lee.
“Lee,” I said after the maid had left.
“She’s unconscious,” said Paul.
“I can see that.”
I checked her pulse. It was still there. Her pupils did not seem to be dilated. They did not use drugs. So why was she unconscious?
“You shouldn’t display your nursing skills too much, Annie,” said Paul. “If they find out your true profession, we may never get out of here.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You just said we may have to break out.”
“True. If we plan to go south. The consignments will be going east, west and north.”
“I thought we already discussed that, Paul. You said yourself that we can’t trust the consignments.”
“Right,” he said. “Especially since the one for Midland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”
I glanced up at Paul. “You mean you checked?”
“Only in a casual way. But I have worse news than that.”
“About Billy?”
“No.” Paul turned toward the window. His voice was so low I could barely hear it over the radio.
I asked him to repeat himself. He turned.
“My second conclusion, Annie,” he said. “The reason all travelers are being kept from going south along this road. The Russians bombed Detroit.”
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“The Dark Angels”
He was an old man, far too old to be a hero. He wore bifocals and a hearing aid to supplement his failing senses; he used a cane to get around and wore a long coat on the sunniest of days. His diet consisted mainly of old cigars and assorted medicines, and a well-worn fedora hid his vanishing gray hair from the noonday sun. All in all, he was a pathetic specimen of aged manhood, shrunk to almost half his natural size and more wrinkled than a bagful of raisins. But, in the end, all that mattered not.
The day he eventually saved began like any normal day. Distressed by his daughter-in-law’s fruitless efforts to quiet his restless grandchildren, Juan Rodriguez had embarked on his daily pilgrimage to the local drugstore, in search of peace and quiet and, hopefully, a few fresh cigars. The trip there was uneventful -- the neighborhood kids did not stop and jeer at his awkward gait and the store clerks proved quite nice by gringo standards. It was on the way back that the trouble began.
He had just stopped to light a fresh cigar when he happened to look over his left shoulder and notice two dark figures following him. They were not dark in the same sense that Negroes were dark, but there was an aura about them made them appear to be dark. Juan had never experienced it before, and was at a loss to explain this phenomenon until he noticed that both figures cast no shadows Now he was really frightened.
Instinctively, he headed for home. The dark figures followed. When Juan noticed this, he began to panic. Suppose they followed him into the house?
As it turned out, he had more to worry about than just that. As he approached his house, he noticed a crowd gathered in the street in front of it. An ambulance was parked nearby, and judging from the excited murmur of the crowd, it was apparent that a serious accident had taken place.
Madre de Dios, he thought, I hope one of the kids is not hurt.
As he pushed his way through the crowd, he learned that the accident in question did indeed involve a child. She had been playing in the street when she was hit by a careless driver. When Juan got close enough to see the body, it was all too familiar.
Oh no, he cried. Not Josefina. She had been his favorite.
“The child needn’t die,” said a voice behind him.
Juan turned to see one of the dark figures smiling at him. Even up close, his face still looked shadowed, and no one else in the crowd seemed to notice him.
“What do you want?” asked Juan.
“Simply a sacrifice,” said the dark man.
“Why?”
“Really, Señor Rodriguez. Now is not the time to question why. After all, your granddaughter’s life is the most important thing here.”
Juan did not question how the dark man knew his name, and how he spoke such fluent Spanish. He simply nodded and said, “Then take your sacrifice.”
“Muchas gracias,” said the dark man. “Your sacrifice will be appreciated.”
There was a pain in his chest, and then the old man collapsed. As darkness descended, he heard someone in the crowd exclaim that the little girl who had been given up for dead had had a miraculous recovery.
It occurred to him as he sank into darkness that in a strange way he was a hero. Only one question bothered him. If the dark men represented what he thought they represented, why were there two?
“The Dark Angels”
He was an old man, far too old to be a hero. He wore bifocals and a hearing aid to supplement his failing senses; he used a cane to get around and wore a long coat on the sunniest of days. His diet consisted mainly of old cigars and assorted medicines, and a well-worn fedora hid his vanishing gray hair from the noonday sun. All in all, he was a pathetic specimen of aged manhood, shrunk to almost half his natural size and more wrinkled than a bagful of raisins. But, in the end, all that mattered not.
The day he eventually saved began like any normal day. Distressed by his daughter-in-law’s fruitless efforts to quiet his restless grandchildren, Juan Rodriguez had embarked on his daily pilgrimage to the local drugstore, in search of peace and quiet and, hopefully, a few fresh cigars. The trip there was uneventful -- the neighborhood kids did not stop and jeer at his awkward gait and the store clerks proved quite nice by gringo standards. It was on the way back that the trouble began.
He had just stopped to light a fresh cigar when he happened to look over his left shoulder and notice two dark figures following him. They were not dark in the same sense that Negroes were dark, but there was an aura about them made them appear to be dark. Juan had never experienced it before, and was at a loss to explain this phenomenon until he noticed that both figures cast no shadows Now he was really frightened.
Instinctively, he headed for home. The dark figures followed. When Juan noticed this, he began to panic. Suppose they followed him into the house?
As it turned out, he had more to worry about than just that. As he approached his house, he noticed a crowd gathered in the street in front of it. An ambulance was parked nearby, and judging from the excited murmur of the crowd, it was apparent that a serious accident had taken place.
Madre de Dios, he thought, I hope one of the kids is not hurt.
As he pushed his way through the crowd, he learned that the accident in question did indeed involve a child. She had been playing in the street when she was hit by a careless driver. When Juan got close enough to see the body, it was all too familiar.
Oh no, he cried. Not Josefina. She had been his favorite.
“The child needn’t die,” said a voice behind him.
Juan turned to see one of the dark figures smiling at him. Even up close, his face still looked shadowed, and no one else in the crowd seemed to notice him.
“What do you want?” asked Juan.
“Simply a sacrifice,” said the dark man.
“Why?”
“Really, Señor Rodriguez. Now is not the time to question why. After all, your granddaughter’s life is the most important thing here.”
Juan did not question how the dark man knew his name, and how he spoke such fluent Spanish. He simply nodded and said, “Then take your sacrifice.”
“Muchas gracias,” said the dark man. “Your sacrifice will be appreciated.”
There was a pain in his chest, and then the old man collapsed. As darkness descended, he heard someone in the crowd exclaim that the little girl who had been given up for dead had had a miraculous recovery.
It occurred to him as he sank into darkness that in a strange way he was a hero. Only one question bothered him. If the dark men represented what he thought they represented, why were there two?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“To Taste the Flesh Not Yet Deceased”
(I normally don't comment on the stories I post here because I prefer any comments made about them to come from the people who read this blog. But this story is one of the first ones that I ever showed to other people and I wrote it for a college creative writing course. Hopefully it should be apparent that my writing skills have improved since then -- even if they have not improved by much.)
They say there are no more demons, yet I know better. I sit here with my AK-47 and my batch of silver bullets awaiting the biggest demon of them all. The Trinity protects me; the black-and-yellow symbols of Saints Albert, Robert, and Enrico have been hung at every entrance. Yet I know he’ll get in. He always does.
They have made it unlawful for civilians to possess the only substance that will stop him; they even say it does not exist. However, it does not matter.
My wife looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“John,” she says. “No such thing exists.”
I know better, of course. God help me, I know better.
*************************************************************************************************************
Demons did not always stalk our world. They first came out after the bombs fell. The government did not want to acknowledge this. When a little girl was saved from a food riot, when a notorious black marketer was found bound and gagged by unknown assailants, they blamed it on coincidence. The clerics wished to credit it to divine intervention, but the Old God was not popular anymore since they bombed the Vatican, so they didn’t. A few spoke of making a pilgrimage to Paris, to pay a visit to the shrine of Saint Marie, who still lay unburied in a lead-lined chamber after two centuries. But the government discouraged such visits. Travel was not considered a good idea for anyone not under armed escort, and there were not enough soldiers to go around, so guess who stayed home.
Rumors arose, however. Hades was sighted, thundering across the now empty highways in a black horseless chariot. Hera appeared, too, now attired in a costume apparently fashioned from a flag of the old Republic. Satan finally appeared, as the pessimists among us had guessed he would. There was no doubt he was Satan for he wore a big red “S” on his chest and everyone knew that letter could only stand for “Satan.” He wore a blue suit, a red cape and had the Aryan features of a German warlord. He also had a pearly grin which could only be borne by a man to whom radiation and fallout meant nothing.
My wife and children insisted upon joining the cult of this new-found deity while I still clung to the old faith.
“Father,” my daughter Lois would say, “don’t you realize the Old God doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Of course, He does,” I answered. “There is only one God and I am His Prophet.”
My words were in vain though for my wife and children continued to attend prayer meetings dedicated to the new God and pore over copies of the ancient chronicles of his life and works. I once confiscated one of these sacred scrolls and tossed it upon the fire, only to find another one in its place the next day.
Then one day I looked up in the sky and I saw Him -- Satan -- as big as life. At first, I thought it was an illusion, yet after I had blinked, He was still there.
It was then that I realized that I was in the grip of forces much greater than myself. The citizens of the post-war U.S.S.A. (United Socialist States of America) had hungered for a miracle worker so badly that they had created one out of their own minds. It was too late to fight this creature with mere disbelief; the gestalt forces which had given it life were much too strong now. The only way to deal with it was on its own terms.
So I studied the ancient scrolls and I devised a way to lure it to its doom. I have already set out a sacrificial victim -- a virgin, I hope -- and now I merely await the arrival of the Grand Adversary Himself. I have heard him referred to as the Man of Steel, but the bullets in my gun are Teflon-coated and can pierce three feet of steel. It will be a grand contest I think -- as grand as the one that is said to occur when the Great King Jayefkay rises from his tomb to do battle once more with the Demon-King Kastrow.
My daughter says I’m foolish and I think she hates the ropes, but after all, I’m doing this merely for her sake but for the sake of all humanity.
There is only one God that I worship; one who has risen from the dead and promises eternal life to all His followers.
I speak, of course, of the one true Lord -- Dracula.
“To Taste the Flesh Not Yet Deceased”
(I normally don't comment on the stories I post here because I prefer any comments made about them to come from the people who read this blog. But this story is one of the first ones that I ever showed to other people and I wrote it for a college creative writing course. Hopefully it should be apparent that my writing skills have improved since then -- even if they have not improved by much.)
They say there are no more demons, yet I know better. I sit here with my AK-47 and my batch of silver bullets awaiting the biggest demon of them all. The Trinity protects me; the black-and-yellow symbols of Saints Albert, Robert, and Enrico have been hung at every entrance. Yet I know he’ll get in. He always does.
They have made it unlawful for civilians to possess the only substance that will stop him; they even say it does not exist. However, it does not matter.
My wife looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“John,” she says. “No such thing exists.”
I know better, of course. God help me, I know better.
*************************************************************************************************************
Demons did not always stalk our world. They first came out after the bombs fell. The government did not want to acknowledge this. When a little girl was saved from a food riot, when a notorious black marketer was found bound and gagged by unknown assailants, they blamed it on coincidence. The clerics wished to credit it to divine intervention, but the Old God was not popular anymore since they bombed the Vatican, so they didn’t. A few spoke of making a pilgrimage to Paris, to pay a visit to the shrine of Saint Marie, who still lay unburied in a lead-lined chamber after two centuries. But the government discouraged such visits. Travel was not considered a good idea for anyone not under armed escort, and there were not enough soldiers to go around, so guess who stayed home.
Rumors arose, however. Hades was sighted, thundering across the now empty highways in a black horseless chariot. Hera appeared, too, now attired in a costume apparently fashioned from a flag of the old Republic. Satan finally appeared, as the pessimists among us had guessed he would. There was no doubt he was Satan for he wore a big red “S” on his chest and everyone knew that letter could only stand for “Satan.” He wore a blue suit, a red cape and had the Aryan features of a German warlord. He also had a pearly grin which could only be borne by a man to whom radiation and fallout meant nothing.
My wife and children insisted upon joining the cult of this new-found deity while I still clung to the old faith.
“Father,” my daughter Lois would say, “don’t you realize the Old God doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Of course, He does,” I answered. “There is only one God and I am His Prophet.”
My words were in vain though for my wife and children continued to attend prayer meetings dedicated to the new God and pore over copies of the ancient chronicles of his life and works. I once confiscated one of these sacred scrolls and tossed it upon the fire, only to find another one in its place the next day.
Then one day I looked up in the sky and I saw Him -- Satan -- as big as life. At first, I thought it was an illusion, yet after I had blinked, He was still there.
It was then that I realized that I was in the grip of forces much greater than myself. The citizens of the post-war U.S.S.A. (United Socialist States of America) had hungered for a miracle worker so badly that they had created one out of their own minds. It was too late to fight this creature with mere disbelief; the gestalt forces which had given it life were much too strong now. The only way to deal with it was on its own terms.
So I studied the ancient scrolls and I devised a way to lure it to its doom. I have already set out a sacrificial victim -- a virgin, I hope -- and now I merely await the arrival of the Grand Adversary Himself. I have heard him referred to as the Man of Steel, but the bullets in my gun are Teflon-coated and can pierce three feet of steel. It will be a grand contest I think -- as grand as the one that is said to occur when the Great King Jayefkay rises from his tomb to do battle once more with the Demon-King Kastrow.
My daughter says I’m foolish and I think she hates the ropes, but after all, I’m doing this merely for her sake but for the sake of all humanity.
There is only one God that I worship; one who has risen from the dead and promises eternal life to all His followers.
I speak, of course, of the one true Lord -- Dracula.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“Balcony Scene”
It was Saturday night at the local movie theatre and Cinnamon Rivers was dancing across the silver screen with Alfredo Aster while dozens of pure-bread couples looked on in envy.
In the audience, Rubia Keeler looked up at Cinnamon and tried to imagine herself in the same role. Just suppose I was a dancer, she thought. Just suppose I was a movie star and all those people in the audience were staring up at me.
Stop having such silly dreams, her conscience told her. Be grateful that you were lucky enough to get that job at the shop around the corner. Mr. Matuschek may not be the best of bosses but he's sure better than that factory foreman who tried to peer down your dress or that guy at the warehouse who was always trying to get you to climb a ladder just so that he could try to look up your skirt.
But I don’t want to work in that shop, she thought. I get tired of having to be nice to all the angry customers and the lecherous co-workers. And I just know the new salesgirl is dating the owner’s assistant. No wonder she gets so many privileges.
If only I could be a star, she thought. Then I could rise above all that and I wouldn’t have to worry about where to go or what to do or how I was going to pay my rent. At long last I could just be me.
Just then the lights came up. Rubia realized that the movie was over. She took care to sneak out the side door so that no one would see her in the lobby, praying against hope that no one she actually knew would see her.
She had just gotten to the street outside when she heard someone call out, “Hey, Rube!”
She turned. Coming down the street was Marta, one of her cousins from across town. She seemed to be smiling and beneath the radiance of the nearby street lamp, her bronze cheekbones made her look like one of those Mexican movie stars that her late father used to like. She appeared to be in a good mood but you could never really tell with Marta.
“What’s the matter, Rube?” she said. “You too good to sit with us in the balcony tonight?”
“Er, I didn’t realize you’d be going to see this particular movie,” she said. “Besides, I -- er -- just didn’t feel like sitting in the balcony tonight.” She started edging her way down the street.
Marta grinned. “It must be nice to have a choice about that, Rube. I wasn’t aware that it was possible for a girl like you to have a choice. But then I guess that’s why you don’t hang out with me and my sisters like you used to. So you could have a choice.”
“Oh, please, Marta. Not here.”
“Why? You think those people up the street actually care what we say? That our opinions matter to them? What type of booze have you been drinking?”
“I just wanted to sit on the ground floor for a change,” said Rubia. “I get tired of always having to sit in the balcony whenever I go to the movies.”
Marta frowned. “I get tired of sitting up there, too. How come you didn’t think to invite me to sit with you? Or to invite my sisters and my mom to sit with you? Is there something you’re trying to tell us, Rube?”
“Er, you know why,” Rubia said.
“Yes, I do,” said Marta. Her smile was no longer so beautiful and the nearby street lamp no longer seemed so bright. “I know why. I know exactly why.”
Marta walked off into the darkness.
If only I was a star, Rubia thought, that wouldn’t happen to me. I wouldn’t have to worry about what section of the movie section I had to sit in or what restaurant I could go eat at. Even Marta and her snotty sisters would have to look up to me then. If only.
Rubia walked off in a different direction than Marta, hurrying past the signs that said “No Mexicans allowed” and past the department store where her mother had said a young Mexican woman had been once forced to stand in a store window with a sign around her neck that said “Shoplifter.”
That will never be me, she thought as she remembered that. I do not intend to end up that way. I am an honest person.
And she kept telling herself that all the way home.
“Balcony Scene”
It was Saturday night at the local movie theatre and Cinnamon Rivers was dancing across the silver screen with Alfredo Aster while dozens of pure-bread couples looked on in envy.
In the audience, Rubia Keeler looked up at Cinnamon and tried to imagine herself in the same role. Just suppose I was a dancer, she thought. Just suppose I was a movie star and all those people in the audience were staring up at me.
Stop having such silly dreams, her conscience told her. Be grateful that you were lucky enough to get that job at the shop around the corner. Mr. Matuschek may not be the best of bosses but he's sure better than that factory foreman who tried to peer down your dress or that guy at the warehouse who was always trying to get you to climb a ladder just so that he could try to look up your skirt.
But I don’t want to work in that shop, she thought. I get tired of having to be nice to all the angry customers and the lecherous co-workers. And I just know the new salesgirl is dating the owner’s assistant. No wonder she gets so many privileges.
If only I could be a star, she thought. Then I could rise above all that and I wouldn’t have to worry about where to go or what to do or how I was going to pay my rent. At long last I could just be me.
Just then the lights came up. Rubia realized that the movie was over. She took care to sneak out the side door so that no one would see her in the lobby, praying against hope that no one she actually knew would see her.
She had just gotten to the street outside when she heard someone call out, “Hey, Rube!”
She turned. Coming down the street was Marta, one of her cousins from across town. She seemed to be smiling and beneath the radiance of the nearby street lamp, her bronze cheekbones made her look like one of those Mexican movie stars that her late father used to like. She appeared to be in a good mood but you could never really tell with Marta.
“What’s the matter, Rube?” she said. “You too good to sit with us in the balcony tonight?”
“Er, I didn’t realize you’d be going to see this particular movie,” she said. “Besides, I -- er -- just didn’t feel like sitting in the balcony tonight.” She started edging her way down the street.
Marta grinned. “It must be nice to have a choice about that, Rube. I wasn’t aware that it was possible for a girl like you to have a choice. But then I guess that’s why you don’t hang out with me and my sisters like you used to. So you could have a choice.”
“Oh, please, Marta. Not here.”
“Why? You think those people up the street actually care what we say? That our opinions matter to them? What type of booze have you been drinking?”
“I just wanted to sit on the ground floor for a change,” said Rubia. “I get tired of always having to sit in the balcony whenever I go to the movies.”
Marta frowned. “I get tired of sitting up there, too. How come you didn’t think to invite me to sit with you? Or to invite my sisters and my mom to sit with you? Is there something you’re trying to tell us, Rube?”
“Er, you know why,” Rubia said.
“Yes, I do,” said Marta. Her smile was no longer so beautiful and the nearby street lamp no longer seemed so bright. “I know why. I know exactly why.”
Marta walked off into the darkness.
If only I was a star, Rubia thought, that wouldn’t happen to me. I wouldn’t have to worry about what section of the movie section I had to sit in or what restaurant I could go eat at. Even Marta and her snotty sisters would have to look up to me then. If only.
Rubia walked off in a different direction than Marta, hurrying past the signs that said “No Mexicans allowed” and past the department store where her mother had said a young Mexican woman had been once forced to stand in a store window with a sign around her neck that said “Shoplifter.”
That will never be me, she thought as she remembered that. I do not intend to end up that way. I am an honest person.
And she kept telling herself that all the way home.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“Does the Word Morlock Mean Anything to You?”
September 21. It’s raining again today. I like it when it rains.
Sister Natalie once asked me why I like to see rain, and I told her about how it drowns the ants. She said that it was a bad thing to like things like that. Ants have the same right to live that we do, she told me, and it is not right to wish bad things about them.
I tried to tell her about how the ants came into my old house one time, but she wouldn’t listen. She said the only reason the ants would have come into my old house would have been because they’re hungry, and it’s not right to wish bad things about a living thing just because it’s hungry.
I wish I could make her understand just how icky ants really are, but it’s hard work making the Sisters understand anything.
Sometimes I wish my parents would come back from camp so I wouldn’t have to stay with the Sisters. We could go back to our old house and stay there and live like we used to live before the War. I wouldn’t mind living that way for a while -- even if my house did have ants. I wouldn’t even mind if we had to live in an attic again.
My friend Bobby says the Sisters aren’t really sisters. They just call themselves that because they want to look nice.
I told Bobby I already know that, but he never listens.
He’s always reading stuff the Sisters tell us not to read. Then he tries to tell me about it and get me in trouble.
I don’t know where he finds this stuff because the Sisters are supposed to have thrown all the bad stuff away.
But he does.
He’s always reading these old books full of bad words and pictures of people with no clothes on. He tried to tell me how grown-ups make babies, but I refused to listen because the Sisters say we should not talk about that kind of stuff.
Lately he’s been telling me about this book he read called “The Time Machine.” It’s a book the Sisters specially don’t want us to read because it was written by a bad man and it tells a lot of lies about history and stuff.
Bobby says that’s not so. He says that the guy who wrote it was a good man and that “The Time Machine” was a good book. He says it’s all about the future and how this man from the past goes there in a special machine. In this future, he says, there are no Sisters or camps or houses or anything. Just two tribes -- the Eloi and the Morlocks. The Eloi are the good people. The Morlocks are the bad. The Morlocks are always killing the Eloi, but the man from the past doesn’t like this, and he helps the Eloi defeat the Morlocks.
I told Bobby this was a strange story and I couldn’t understand why the Sisters objected to it.
Because they’re Morlocks, he told me.
I told him he must be joking.
Bobby insisted he wasn’t. The Sisters were Morlocks, he said, and they considered us all Eloi. And in the book, they ate Eloi.
I told Bobby he was just trying to scare me like he did that time he put that spider down my back.
But again he insisted he wasn’t.
I don’t know what to believe.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 22. Bobby showed me his “Time Machine” book during recess today. He said it proved the Sisters really were Morlocks.
I told him he was dumb. The Morlocks shown in the book looked nothing like the Sisters. They were all short and squat and ugly and stuff, and the Sisters don’t look anything like that.
Of course, they don’t, said Bobby. The Morlocks had a chance to read the book.
I told him he was stupid, and I threatened to tell Sister Natalie on him.
He asked me not to. He said what he told me was a secret and that I shouldn’t go blabbing about it to the Sisters.
Suppose I’m right, he said. Then we’d both be in big trouble.
I think Bobby’s just trying to scare me again.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 23. I asked Sister Natalie what a Morlock was but I didn’t mention Bobby’s name. She got very angry with me. She told me that Morlock was a bad word, and little girls like me should not be using words like that.
“Suppose someone called you a Spic,” she said. “Or your friend Bobby a nigger. Would you like that?”
“I don’t know what those words mean,” I told her.
“Of course you don’t,” she said. “Because me and the other Sisters have taken great pains to stop our students from using bad language like that. The word Morlock is just the same. It’s a bad word that only bad people use, and I don’t want to hear a student of mine using it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
I was afraid to ask her another question after that.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 24. Bobby called me an idiot today after I found out what happened between me and Sister Natalie.
“You dummy,” he said. “Now the Morlocks are going to go after you for sure.”
“Go after me for what?” I said.
“For guessing their true identities, stupid,” Bobby answered.
“So what?” I said. “Morlocks are just make-believe. They don’t exist in real life. And even if they did, your book says they lived in the future.”
“My book was written a long time ago,” said Bobby. “For all we know, this could be the future the writer was talking about.”
“You’re an idiot, Bobby,” I said.
“Look who’s talking,” he said.
I ignored him for the rest of the day.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 25. It stopped raining today. Today was the first day all week I could see the sun. But it doesn’t seem the same without Bobby.
I asked Sister Natalie about him and she said he must have run away in the middle of the night. He used to talk to me a lot about running away to camp to join his parents. So I suppose that is where he went.
We finally had fresh meat in the cafeteria today. But it doesn’t seem the same without Bobby there to make yukky comments about it.
My friend Indira thinks I’m being silly. She believes Bobby will come back just as soon as he realizes how rough it is on the outside. But somehow I don’t think so.
Sister Natalie kept urging me to eat during mealtime, but I just couldn’t finish a bite. I wish I could eat as much as her and the other Sisters do, but I’m just not in the mood.
Sister Barbara came by during lunch today and said she understood how I felt. She said that Bobby and I will probably be together quite soon and that I shouldn’t worry. I wonder what she meant by that and why she had that strange look on her face when she said that.
Sometimes I get the feeling that she and the other Sisters know just exactly where Bobby went.
But that would be stupid.
“Does the Word Morlock Mean Anything to You?”
September 21. It’s raining again today. I like it when it rains.
Sister Natalie once asked me why I like to see rain, and I told her about how it drowns the ants. She said that it was a bad thing to like things like that. Ants have the same right to live that we do, she told me, and it is not right to wish bad things about them.
I tried to tell her about how the ants came into my old house one time, but she wouldn’t listen. She said the only reason the ants would have come into my old house would have been because they’re hungry, and it’s not right to wish bad things about a living thing just because it’s hungry.
I wish I could make her understand just how icky ants really are, but it’s hard work making the Sisters understand anything.
Sometimes I wish my parents would come back from camp so I wouldn’t have to stay with the Sisters. We could go back to our old house and stay there and live like we used to live before the War. I wouldn’t mind living that way for a while -- even if my house did have ants. I wouldn’t even mind if we had to live in an attic again.
My friend Bobby says the Sisters aren’t really sisters. They just call themselves that because they want to look nice.
I told Bobby I already know that, but he never listens.
He’s always reading stuff the Sisters tell us not to read. Then he tries to tell me about it and get me in trouble.
I don’t know where he finds this stuff because the Sisters are supposed to have thrown all the bad stuff away.
But he does.
He’s always reading these old books full of bad words and pictures of people with no clothes on. He tried to tell me how grown-ups make babies, but I refused to listen because the Sisters say we should not talk about that kind of stuff.
Lately he’s been telling me about this book he read called “The Time Machine.” It’s a book the Sisters specially don’t want us to read because it was written by a bad man and it tells a lot of lies about history and stuff.
Bobby says that’s not so. He says that the guy who wrote it was a good man and that “The Time Machine” was a good book. He says it’s all about the future and how this man from the past goes there in a special machine. In this future, he says, there are no Sisters or camps or houses or anything. Just two tribes -- the Eloi and the Morlocks. The Eloi are the good people. The Morlocks are the bad. The Morlocks are always killing the Eloi, but the man from the past doesn’t like this, and he helps the Eloi defeat the Morlocks.
I told Bobby this was a strange story and I couldn’t understand why the Sisters objected to it.
Because they’re Morlocks, he told me.
I told him he must be joking.
Bobby insisted he wasn’t. The Sisters were Morlocks, he said, and they considered us all Eloi. And in the book, they ate Eloi.
I told Bobby he was just trying to scare me like he did that time he put that spider down my back.
But again he insisted he wasn’t.
I don’t know what to believe.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 22. Bobby showed me his “Time Machine” book during recess today. He said it proved the Sisters really were Morlocks.
I told him he was dumb. The Morlocks shown in the book looked nothing like the Sisters. They were all short and squat and ugly and stuff, and the Sisters don’t look anything like that.
Of course, they don’t, said Bobby. The Morlocks had a chance to read the book.
I told him he was stupid, and I threatened to tell Sister Natalie on him.
He asked me not to. He said what he told me was a secret and that I shouldn’t go blabbing about it to the Sisters.
Suppose I’m right, he said. Then we’d both be in big trouble.
I think Bobby’s just trying to scare me again.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 23. I asked Sister Natalie what a Morlock was but I didn’t mention Bobby’s name. She got very angry with me. She told me that Morlock was a bad word, and little girls like me should not be using words like that.
“Suppose someone called you a Spic,” she said. “Or your friend Bobby a nigger. Would you like that?”
“I don’t know what those words mean,” I told her.
“Of course you don’t,” she said. “Because me and the other Sisters have taken great pains to stop our students from using bad language like that. The word Morlock is just the same. It’s a bad word that only bad people use, and I don’t want to hear a student of mine using it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
I was afraid to ask her another question after that.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 24. Bobby called me an idiot today after I found out what happened between me and Sister Natalie.
“You dummy,” he said. “Now the Morlocks are going to go after you for sure.”
“Go after me for what?” I said.
“For guessing their true identities, stupid,” Bobby answered.
“So what?” I said. “Morlocks are just make-believe. They don’t exist in real life. And even if they did, your book says they lived in the future.”
“My book was written a long time ago,” said Bobby. “For all we know, this could be the future the writer was talking about.”
“You’re an idiot, Bobby,” I said.
“Look who’s talking,” he said.
I ignored him for the rest of the day.
*************************************************************************************************************
September 25. It stopped raining today. Today was the first day all week I could see the sun. But it doesn’t seem the same without Bobby.
I asked Sister Natalie about him and she said he must have run away in the middle of the night. He used to talk to me a lot about running away to camp to join his parents. So I suppose that is where he went.
We finally had fresh meat in the cafeteria today. But it doesn’t seem the same without Bobby there to make yukky comments about it.
My friend Indira thinks I’m being silly. She believes Bobby will come back just as soon as he realizes how rough it is on the outside. But somehow I don’t think so.
Sister Natalie kept urging me to eat during mealtime, but I just couldn’t finish a bite. I wish I could eat as much as her and the other Sisters do, but I’m just not in the mood.
Sister Barbara came by during lunch today and said she understood how I felt. She said that Bobby and I will probably be together quite soon and that I shouldn’t worry. I wonder what she meant by that and why she had that strange look on her face when she said that.
Sometimes I get the feeling that she and the other Sisters know just exactly where Bobby went.
But that would be stupid.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“Mariana: Warrior Film Critic”
(Not to be confused with a certain female blogger whose persona seems to share certain physical attributes with this story's title character. Funny how stuff like that happens.)
It was a red-letter day and she was a red-headed woman, making her way through the snowy streets of Nuevayor in hopes of catching the eight o’clock show for the new art flick Marlowe in Love.
Up ahead she saw a billboard for the new Gaderan Schwein epic. It seemed like the same old militaristic flagboy fantasy film she had been seeing advertised hourly since the start of the Djinnistani War. Maybe not as bad as Yankee Doodle Baby Daddy or My Country, Right! but definitely close to that territory. It was called The Crusader, a take-off, no doubt, on the old Raymond A. Harold character Harridan Bourne. Judging from the billboard, it was all about a religiously motivated vigilante dressed in black who was all eager to fight for truth, justice and the American Way. Though the character was supposed to be a dedicated Christian with a cross around his neck that would be the envy of most Papists, he also managed to sport a hot babe on his arm, lest someone question his heterosexuality.
Don’t ask, don’t tell, she thought.
And then, all of a sudden, she stopped.
Between her and the movie theatre, three shadowy figures were waiting. Even though the street lights were shining fully upon them, she could not see their faces. Nor was she sure that she wanted to.
Draculaters, she thought. Worshippers of the vampiric self-proclaimed deity Vlad Christofor Tepes or as his followers preferred to call him, the Vampire Christ. Normally such people made a point of sparing any Nuevayorer who wore any ornament resembling the letter “T”. But unfortunately, Mariana rarely wore any such ornaments. Indeed, since the end of the Belief Wars of the 1990s, she rarely wore any ornaments at all. Indeed, every summer it was only mere modesty -- and the lack of sufficient sunblock -- that prevented her from violating the local nudity taboos.
The Draculaters were turning in her direction, their dark faces showing their canines as they looked upon her. They had had it in for her ever since she panned the movie Red Dusk which had been produced by a major sponsor of the local Church of the Vampire Christ. Not only had she given the movie a bad review but she questioned the sanity of a so-called religious person who poured millions into the production of a mediocre pot-boiler while doing nothing to help the local homeless. Not that the Draculaters lacked dealings with the poor but there were rarely the type of dealings in which anyone save the most desperate would care to participate.
But wait! They were coming her way.
And her movie started in ten minutes. She looked for an alternative route to the ticket counter but judging from the way the Draculaters were spreading out, there was none. She would have to fight her way through.
She opened up her massive Guess purse and pulled out her mace, her taser and her pepper spray. Just for fun, she also pulled out a jar of garlic powder. After all, she once had been a Girl Scout.
The Draculaters came closer. They started to surround her.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said.
They smiled. The theatre security guard showed no signs of acknowledging their existence and there was no way the local cops would show up in time to prevent anything even if they wanted to.
They closed in.
She smiled. Beckoned them to come closer.
Then hit them with the mace and the pepper spray.
While the Draculaters pawed at their eyes, she spread out the garlic powder on the sidewalk around her. One of the fiends dared to cross it, only to collapse when his garlic allergy kicked in. As his companions hastily checked their pockets to see which of them carried an epi-pen, Mariana boldly walked up to the ticket counter and bought one ticket for Marlowe in Love.
“Isn’t that that movie about the English pervert?” said the ticket seller, smacking her gum so loudly it could be heard halfway across the Rio Hudson.
“No,” said Mariana. “It’s about a great playwright.”
“I heard it was about perverts.”
“Well, you heard wrong,” she said. And ignored the great big silver “T” that the ticket seller wore around her neck.
*************************************************************************************************************
The movie was great. But it was way too short.
By the time she got out, the Draculaters were gone and she had just enough time to hit the subway for a ten-thirty train. With luck, she would get home in time to write a quick review and post it on the web before she had to go rest up for her day job.
She should have brought her laptop but she really did not like bringing it out in this weather. Besides, with the trouble she got into, it was usually a good idea to keep her hands as free as possible.
As she entered the subway, she was still congratulating herself on not having had to use her taser when she noticed the sound of footsteps echoing behind her.
She looked behind her.
A white-clad woman with snowlike skin and coal-black hair was following her. She noticed Mariana looking and smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.
“You saw the new Kit Marlowe movie at the Alhambra, right?” she said in a brisk yet unrecognizable accent.
“Yes.”
“It was a horrible movie, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said Mariana. “Actually I liked it.”
“No, it was horrible. The writers of today -- they just don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” said Mariana, trying to edge her way toward the turnstile.
“How hard it is to raise a kid with filth like that being shown.”
“Actually, I found it to be a beautiful movie. And I’m not sure why you’re bringing kids into this. Not every movie has to be made for kids, you know.”
Mariana backed away and went through the turnstile.
She was just about to board her train when she suddenly felt someone grab her in a bear-hug and steer her toward the front of the train.
She tried to fight her way free but whoever was holding her was just too strong. She tried to scream but someone just covered her mouth. And no one was paying attention, anyway.
Save for a trio of Draculaters who were coming closer to her...
“No,” she thought. And with that thought, she kicked the nearest would-be assailant in his generative organs and bit the hand that covered her mouth.
She heard a woman scream from behind her. It sounded like the Woman in White. She felt a strong force drive her off the subway platform and onto the tracks in front of the nearest train. And the train was preparing to depart.
She started to get up. But two Draculaters leaped down to hold her in place. She whipped out her taser and used it on one. The other stumbled out of her way and onto the third rail. Two down, one really down.
She climbed back onto the subway platform as the train started to move. She heard a scream from behind. And a scream from in front as the Woman in White muttered something about the Curse of Lesbos and how all those people stick together.
Mariana did not bother recharging the taser. She was not a short woman and she normally towered over most of her would-be adversaries. But the Woman in White was half a head taller than her and she was holding her clenched fists as if she had been a professional fighter.
A lesser woman would have given up then and reconciled herself to a beating. But then Mariana thought of her cousin Anton who had succumbed to the SIDA demon five years ago and how little help he had received from doctors because of people like the Woman in White. Then she clenched her own fists. The rest was easy.
*************************************************************************************************************
Her roommate Bonita was waiting up for her when she got home.
“I swear, girl,” she said. “It seems like it takes longer and longer for you to see those silly art flicks of yours. Please don’t tell me you were woolgathering again?”
“That’s right,” said Mariana. “I was woolgathering. Silly me.”
And with that, she collapsed upon her bed.
“Mariana: Warrior Film Critic”
(Not to be confused with a certain female blogger whose persona seems to share certain physical attributes with this story's title character. Funny how stuff like that happens.)
It was a red-letter day and she was a red-headed woman, making her way through the snowy streets of Nuevayor in hopes of catching the eight o’clock show for the new art flick Marlowe in Love.
Up ahead she saw a billboard for the new Gaderan Schwein epic. It seemed like the same old militaristic flagboy fantasy film she had been seeing advertised hourly since the start of the Djinnistani War. Maybe not as bad as Yankee Doodle Baby Daddy or My Country, Right! but definitely close to that territory. It was called The Crusader, a take-off, no doubt, on the old Raymond A. Harold character Harridan Bourne. Judging from the billboard, it was all about a religiously motivated vigilante dressed in black who was all eager to fight for truth, justice and the American Way. Though the character was supposed to be a dedicated Christian with a cross around his neck that would be the envy of most Papists, he also managed to sport a hot babe on his arm, lest someone question his heterosexuality.
Don’t ask, don’t tell, she thought.
And then, all of a sudden, she stopped.
Between her and the movie theatre, three shadowy figures were waiting. Even though the street lights were shining fully upon them, she could not see their faces. Nor was she sure that she wanted to.
Draculaters, she thought. Worshippers of the vampiric self-proclaimed deity Vlad Christofor Tepes or as his followers preferred to call him, the Vampire Christ. Normally such people made a point of sparing any Nuevayorer who wore any ornament resembling the letter “T”. But unfortunately, Mariana rarely wore any such ornaments. Indeed, since the end of the Belief Wars of the 1990s, she rarely wore any ornaments at all. Indeed, every summer it was only mere modesty -- and the lack of sufficient sunblock -- that prevented her from violating the local nudity taboos.
The Draculaters were turning in her direction, their dark faces showing their canines as they looked upon her. They had had it in for her ever since she panned the movie Red Dusk which had been produced by a major sponsor of the local Church of the Vampire Christ. Not only had she given the movie a bad review but she questioned the sanity of a so-called religious person who poured millions into the production of a mediocre pot-boiler while doing nothing to help the local homeless. Not that the Draculaters lacked dealings with the poor but there were rarely the type of dealings in which anyone save the most desperate would care to participate.
But wait! They were coming her way.
And her movie started in ten minutes. She looked for an alternative route to the ticket counter but judging from the way the Draculaters were spreading out, there was none. She would have to fight her way through.
She opened up her massive Guess purse and pulled out her mace, her taser and her pepper spray. Just for fun, she also pulled out a jar of garlic powder. After all, she once had been a Girl Scout.
The Draculaters came closer. They started to surround her.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said.
They smiled. The theatre security guard showed no signs of acknowledging their existence and there was no way the local cops would show up in time to prevent anything even if they wanted to.
They closed in.
She smiled. Beckoned them to come closer.
Then hit them with the mace and the pepper spray.
While the Draculaters pawed at their eyes, she spread out the garlic powder on the sidewalk around her. One of the fiends dared to cross it, only to collapse when his garlic allergy kicked in. As his companions hastily checked their pockets to see which of them carried an epi-pen, Mariana boldly walked up to the ticket counter and bought one ticket for Marlowe in Love.
“Isn’t that that movie about the English pervert?” said the ticket seller, smacking her gum so loudly it could be heard halfway across the Rio Hudson.
“No,” said Mariana. “It’s about a great playwright.”
“I heard it was about perverts.”
“Well, you heard wrong,” she said. And ignored the great big silver “T” that the ticket seller wore around her neck.
*************************************************************************************************************
The movie was great. But it was way too short.
By the time she got out, the Draculaters were gone and she had just enough time to hit the subway for a ten-thirty train. With luck, she would get home in time to write a quick review and post it on the web before she had to go rest up for her day job.
She should have brought her laptop but she really did not like bringing it out in this weather. Besides, with the trouble she got into, it was usually a good idea to keep her hands as free as possible.
As she entered the subway, she was still congratulating herself on not having had to use her taser when she noticed the sound of footsteps echoing behind her.
She looked behind her.
A white-clad woman with snowlike skin and coal-black hair was following her. She noticed Mariana looking and smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.
“You saw the new Kit Marlowe movie at the Alhambra, right?” she said in a brisk yet unrecognizable accent.
“Yes.”
“It was a horrible movie, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said Mariana. “Actually I liked it.”
“No, it was horrible. The writers of today -- they just don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” said Mariana, trying to edge her way toward the turnstile.
“How hard it is to raise a kid with filth like that being shown.”
“Actually, I found it to be a beautiful movie. And I’m not sure why you’re bringing kids into this. Not every movie has to be made for kids, you know.”
Mariana backed away and went through the turnstile.
She was just about to board her train when she suddenly felt someone grab her in a bear-hug and steer her toward the front of the train.
She tried to fight her way free but whoever was holding her was just too strong. She tried to scream but someone just covered her mouth. And no one was paying attention, anyway.
Save for a trio of Draculaters who were coming closer to her...
“No,” she thought. And with that thought, she kicked the nearest would-be assailant in his generative organs and bit the hand that covered her mouth.
She heard a woman scream from behind her. It sounded like the Woman in White. She felt a strong force drive her off the subway platform and onto the tracks in front of the nearest train. And the train was preparing to depart.
She started to get up. But two Draculaters leaped down to hold her in place. She whipped out her taser and used it on one. The other stumbled out of her way and onto the third rail. Two down, one really down.
She climbed back onto the subway platform as the train started to move. She heard a scream from behind. And a scream from in front as the Woman in White muttered something about the Curse of Lesbos and how all those people stick together.
Mariana did not bother recharging the taser. She was not a short woman and she normally towered over most of her would-be adversaries. But the Woman in White was half a head taller than her and she was holding her clenched fists as if she had been a professional fighter.
A lesser woman would have given up then and reconciled herself to a beating. But then Mariana thought of her cousin Anton who had succumbed to the SIDA demon five years ago and how little help he had received from doctors because of people like the Woman in White. Then she clenched her own fists. The rest was easy.
*************************************************************************************************************
Her roommate Bonita was waiting up for her when she got home.
“I swear, girl,” she said. “It seems like it takes longer and longer for you to see those silly art flicks of yours. Please don’t tell me you were woolgathering again?”
“That’s right,” said Mariana. “I was woolgathering. Silly me.”
And with that, she collapsed upon her bed.
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