u s e y o u r h a n d s

Bethany opened the door as she knocked, rapping lightly on the solid-core door. She was framed by the hallway’s darkness. The feeble light in Cliff’s office failed to make anything glimmer but as it fell on Bethany’s skin, she gleamed like a pearl. Something in him began to stir, then churn. He stared stupidly at her while the tumult grew. Three seconds passed before Bethany saved them both with an easy smile and a flip of her hair. This flip distracted Cliff from the intense nausea brewing.

“Her hair deserves a novel,” he thought. And it was unfortunate that Cliff was not a writer, because a flurry of disjointed and bizarre observations flew through his mind as her hair rose and fell again on her shoulders. The color made him hungry; it was a mix of honey, cinnamon, fresh bread. He wanted to touch her hair to confirm that it was unspeakably soft and clean. She wore part of it in a clip at the side of her head. The gold barette caught the light and played with it, owning it completely. It was her only adornment. Cliff fell in love with her hair and though it broke his heart to take his eyes from it, he must greet her.

She beat him to a hello and continued, “Are you ready? You look ready. But sometimes, I find that even though I think all things are in order, they aren’t. Do you ever feel like that, Cliff?”

The words tumbled over him so fast that he had to replay the sound in his head in order to decipher them. “I’m ready to go. Everything is in order,” he stammered.

She gestured towards the perfect stack of paper at the corner of the desk. “I see. You made short work of that catastrophe.” She approached the stack cautiously. Cliff made an audible, sharp gasp. Bethany carefully lifted the top sheet and turned it forty-five degrees to the left. Instead of dust, his office filled with her smell, vanilla with flowers. Bethany turned back to him and asked him, as she tilted her chin, if he preferred Italian or Greek.

“Italian,” he replied.

“Fabulous, because I have quite the yen for ravioli. Oh, ravioli!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands.

Cliff shrugged into his dark coat and switched off the light. Bethany led him out the door and down the hall. His long strides seemed too quick for her, so he shortened his steps and she lengthened hers. They walked together easily after a few clumsy steps, weaving a path through the dark hallways quickly emptying of people. They emerged on the street, together with their hands shoved deep in coat pockets.

“I thought we’d have dinner, and then perhaps a walk. We could talk, if you like, Cliff. Or not. I think that would be lovely. The night seems to require it,” she said her normal instructive and lively tone.

For the first time in months, Cliff’s face broke into a huge grin. Bethany was startled. Cliff’s face completely changed. He wasn’t the dour man she’d seen skulking about the halls, but instead a matinee idol. A butterfly took flight in her throat.

Cliff returned to his desk and sat down. Papers covered in perfect longhand script peeked out from under him. The echo of Bethany’s voice hovered in the office’s shattered quiet. She would be by in an hour. Cliff spent 15 of those minutes staring down at the blotter on his desk. The complimentary blotter from his company, also a calendar, was free of any ink or pencil markings, but peppered with soft indentations. He tried to make sense of the little scratches, but he failed to form letters from the traces.

He spent five minutes methodically plucking lint from his worn brown sweater. Cliff piled up the tiny balls together. When the fuzzy mass reached the size of a quarter, he picked it up and dropped it into his wastebasket. It spun counterclockwise to the bottom, next to a crumpled napkin and empty bottle of white-out.

Twenty minutes dragged by as Cliff shuffled around gathering up the mess, sheet by sheet. He bent and reached with his left arm and kept the growing sheaf tucked in his left. The papers formed sharp corners. One corner poked him rather painfully in the stomach. When he reached down, the pain got sharper. After Cliff collected the entire mess, he piled it carefully on the desk. The tower measured at least four inches high and so precise as to literally make Cliff hold his breath lest it be disturbed. His body eventually kicked him back into respiration.

Until the last twenty minutes of the hour, he’d not thought about what had happened or what would occur that night. However, in the last third of the hour, Cliff came as close as he ever came to being nervous. He wondered if Bethany would be early or late. What was she doing in this last hour of the day? Cliff doubted she was standing still looking at the clock, but he imagined her doing just that. He imagined her at her desk, maybe looking out a window at a tree. Cliff thought Bethany might be staring at the fluttering leaves until the motion became one blur. The hem of her dress might sway slightly as it felt the shockwaves of her breath and beating heart.

At 4: 59, he rose and faced the door to his office. A slow tingle built from his knees to his throat where it buzzed mightily as the seconds fell by. Cliff heard footsteps approach his door, but they walked by and faded. Were they hers, he wondered. If he opened the door, would he see Bethany swishing away? The note in his pocket blazed. But he heard shoes again, and he was sure they were hers. He was not accustomed to sound, but even to him, this particular clacking sounded delicate and hopeful.

Ok, so you remember how I told you I was going to the track yesterday? well, I went. And I ate potato salad. And now I’m totally puking. Word. But I’m still going to continue the story, dogg.

Cliff took the papers from her and tossed them futilely onto the desk. The papers seemed intent to defy him, slipping again to the ground. She snorted as tried to suppress a giggle. He looked at her reproachfully, but she seemed so thoroughly delighted that his face softened immediately.

She smoothed her dress and extended her hand. “I’m sorry to meet you like this, but at least it’s memorable.” Her hand was cupped gently and looked so smooth. Cliff stared at her hand and wondered if his cold, rough one would shred her hand if he took it. The odds seemed against it. He extended his own and she took it. There was not much movement in the handshake, but she took his hand in both of hers. Suddenly, his other hand felt like ice. It occurred to him that perhaps he had forgotten that such heat existed, but actually, he had never known it.

“Cliff,” he muttered.

Her eyes twinkled as if they were laughing. “I know. I’ve seen you here and there for some months. I’m Bethany, from down the hall.” She released his hand. Instead of searching for words, he savored the sensation of heat leaving his hand and into the air. Physics in a handshake; entropy in a greeting.

“Is there something - ? Can I - ?” he muttered to her shoes. Cliff didn’t feel nervous so much as curious.

She waved away his question. “No, actually, I think I found something of yours. Well, no – that’s inaccurate. I have indeed found something of yours.” Bethany reached into her pocket and produced his folded piece of paper. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Cliff took the paper from her and stuffed it deep into his pocket.

“Oh.” Though his eyes hadn’t met hers as she spoke, he removed his gaze from even her shoes. A strange sea of emotion swirled around him. The swirling itself was odd, but he was unprepared for all of these complex feelings.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?” Bethany asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He had never shared a table with a woman, never thought to invite one out, had never been asked. But every part of him immediately wanted to look at her while she chewed, to see how she held a fork, a napkin in her lap.

He shook his head up and down. She smiled broadly and clasped her hands together. The speed of her movement sent a faint waft of perfume his way. “All right, Cliff. How about in an hour, then? I can’t bear to stay past five. Would that work for you?”

His spine stood a little straighter in the wake of her ease and he cleared his throat to speak. “Certainly,” he said clearly. He wanted to bow but did not.

“Fabulous,” said Bethany. And then she was gone.

Yeah, I’m still doing that story thing, but in the meantime, chomp on these odd craig’s list mc’s.

18th and Castro @8:00 p.m.: you propositioned me - m4m I was walking out my front door on 17th street around 7:45-8:00 last night (Sept 18) when you came up to me and started to chat me up. You were so aggressive — I loved it! You complimented me on my “tight bod”, nice skin, and butt. Told me you had a big dick and asked if I wanted to f*ck. I told you why I couldn’t. I should have let you, man! You got me all worked up last night. Any chance I’ll run into you again?? Me: shorter, younger, very flattered by your attentions, felt a little shy, but managed to tell you that you were sexy. (craig’s list SF)

To the black chickin the leopard-print stretch pants - m4w I saw you outside the Bank One on East Jefferson today. What the fuck were you thinking when you crammed your fat ass into that outfit? (craig’s list detroit)

Buehla, I’m sorry I farted on your stomach - m4w - 32 I met a beautiful girl named Buehla at Tattered Cover. I took her home. We got busy. She said, “Hold me down, hold me down, I like to be held down!” So I pinned her wrists to the bed and sat on her stomach. I got a little excited, and next thing you know, BLAMMAAARRRROOOO-BRAPPEDY-BRAP-BRAP-BRAP! — I farted on her stomach. Hard. And my butt cheeks were all flappin’ around against her waist; I don’t think she liked that. C’mon, Buehla, what about forgiveness? At least it wasn’t a wet one. I’m sorry I broke the mood. Call me and I’ll put a cork in it. (craig’s list denver)

BONUS!! Two bizarre Burning Man Missed Connections:

nicholas from burning man - m4m - 20 nicholas originally from missourri. wearing a cowboy hat, and fireman get-up. camped at 8:30 and creed i think. i met you on a saturday night, maybe. i was rolling and intranced by the fire. wearing black boots and a brown loin cloth. (craig’s list)

Naked Photographer at Burning Man Wedding 8/30/03 (lost your card) You took pictures of my friends’ wedding at Burning Man and I lost your card. Please contact me so I can get the pictures for my friends. Thanks so much. Anyone know this woman? Michael (the winged man) (craig’s list)

Made this divine eggplant/cheese/marinara thing last night. I et it up.

When he got back to his office, Cliff surrounded himself with the tallest stacks of books, papers, and files that he could manage. This dusty, windowless space had been vacant for years, but when Cliff showed up, he gravitated to the quiet, dark corner. There was no phone, no computer. He did his work long-hand and had an in box bolted outside the door, which was shut. If Cliff thought about it, perhaps he’d realize that nobody had ever spoken to him inside this office or in the halls. But he didn’t think of it, nor did he consider that his longing to be heard was a deep loneliness surfacing like a bloated dead body.

The next few days passed without any event, warranting no further comment.

But on the first day of the next week, there was a knock at the door. As he had never heard the sound of a fist being put to the wood of his door, Cliff was surprised and assumed someone had dropped something in the hall. But then the noise rang through his office again. Cliff paused, put down his pencil, and listened hard as he concentrated on the plain metal handles on his filing cabinet.

The next thing he heard was the sound of the door opening and two shoes edging cautiously inside. Again, the novelty of the sound struck him dumb. Cliff didn’t move, but dissected the noise with his ears. The hinge was squeaky, but not as much as you’d expect. And the shoes? Were the soles hard? With women’s feet inside?

“Excuse me,” said the cool female voice. It could have been a crack of thunder for how it made Cliff jump. He knocked his pencil and tall stack of detritus to the floor. As it fell, he reached out trying to catch the papers and books, but instead his clumsy arms flung papers high in the air. Nothing remained in his arms and he watched helplessly as everything rained down on him. Cliff’s eyes followed one piece of paper fluttering down and met the woman’s eyes. Before they could stifle it, they both burst into laughter.

She wore a plain black - what is that? - wool dress cut modestly, black tights, and black low-heeled shoes. Above the neckline, her face still wore a smile, but it was rapidly melting away. She had small pearl earrings.

“Everything is everywhere,” he said forlornly, glancing around at the floor.

She laughed gently again before picking up a few pieces of paper. She held them out toward him. “But it was a beautiful disaster.”

You can never believe.

More serialized fiction. Let’s see if I can’t make this week’s story a little peppier. I promise no self-mutilation.

The white fire hose lay coiled inside the glass cage, sleeping like a serpent. It failed to inspire fear or even curiosity. And that was why Cliff chose that place above all others. When he was investigating this option, Cliff stationed himself across the hall in a dark office and kept his peripheral vision trained on the fire hose. Nobody touched the glass cabinet or even looked at it. It seemed that nobody held hallway conversations near it.

Cliff worked two floors above this one, where he did his research and spoke to noone. He was not lonely so much as he was bored with this constant lack of contact. He listened, yet was not inclined to join in. Cliff sought not banter, but an unresponsive ear. He wanted to be heard but not judged.

His first thought was to pray. Cliff tried sending his thoughts away from him, but as he did not believe in God, he could not convince himself that they had been heard. He tried journalling, but again, someone else’s eyes would not see and accept his ideas. And then one day he read an article that planted a seed that grew the scheme. It talked about a classroom of Maine schoolchildren who put messages in bottles and dumped them offshore in the Atlantic. The children had little expectation that their messages would ever be read, but they revelled in the possibility.

He lettered his first message carefully in a tiny hand, then folded the slip carefully. Cliff clutched the little shard of paper tightly in his fist and walked through the corridor. Nobody was coming in either direction so his action was unobserved. Cliff pushed the paper in the small crack where the glass door met the metal hinge. The paper was just visible near the nozzle of the fire hose.

Yesterday, we remembered so much death. Death on that day and all those that have followed since. And this morning, over muffins and yogurt, I heard about two more.

The Man in Black has passed on into white. And I can’t even tell you how this makes me feel. I’m unrepentant about my love for country, past and present. And Johnny Cash epitomizes this thing about country music that I love more than anything - the bare lyric. Whether he was shooting a man in Reno or walking the line, Johnny did it all with honesty. Sometimes he was swimming in drugs, sometimes in pain. Something big is gone today.

And John Ritter, too. Wait this one out with me and I’ll tell you why this stung as well. The clown is easily laughed at, but is seldom lauded as a deep cultural influence. But his Jack Tripper pratfalls on Three’s Company and silly walk on Ally McBeal stands strong against the world’s beatdowns. I’m not going to dare get sanctimonious about the healing powers of laughter. Whatever soothes your soul, I say. And I love laughing. And Ritter’s self-conscious slouch and puppy-dog eyes always got me, regardless of the venue. High comedy, low. Funny is funny. He died shortly after collapsing on the set of his latest sitcom from an aortic dissection. Out of nowhere. In the middle of a scene of a mediocre ABC family comedy, and then out like a puff of smoke blown apart in the wind.

Death scares the shit out of me. I think it does most people. I don’t want to talk about why I’m scared of death, why it wakes me up in the middle of the night, why I triple-check my world for danger. But someday, I won’t be able to dodge the shadow, regardless of how fast I run or how hard I laugh.

The Joy in Friday

KANSAS VS. PANCAKES person, breakfast at Schuba’s on August 30th. You were wearing the T-shirt, we had listened to NPR, you all seemed like good people and, well, wow. You: lovely. Hence this note. Can I call you? Meet you again? (Chicago Reader)

MR SATAN ruising in that red devil of a mustang, you mesmerize me. I’m intrigued to see where the road leads us. You give me the chills.
Miss Kitty. (Seattle Weekly)

From Tualatin… Hottest thing since JEA. Seen you around the last 4 years(!!?). We went to high school together, uh huh? So totally hott - I could just eat your teeth! How about a T. Rex dance party? Bike ride (You know how I do) xo! (Portland Mercury)

God, I love the MCs. The balls on these people. Anyway, take the weekend. Do whatever the fuck moves you, man. Get drunk during the day, clean from top to bottom, fuck like banshees. Do something. Do it well.

Next Page »