Showing posts with label Jack Bristow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jack Bristow. Show all posts
Thoughts
By Jack Bristow
Those incessant, goddamn horrible thoughts. Pounding away
in my brain. Never going away, never ever leaving me
alone. Reminding me, taunting me, making me sick to
my goddamn stomach. Distorting reality. False thoughts, false
memories. Sleep in the bathroom tonight. It's the
cleanest part of the house. You know. Like the dog's
mouth. The special palace. Where you won't be
seen. Where you can't be seen. Where you can
scrub your hands—your whole body, for that
matter—rawly.
knock—knock—knock—knock--knock
“Jared. It's me. Tim.”
“Hey.” I said real friendly-sounding over sounds
of the wash basin faucet.
“Oh shit Jared. Not now. Not again. For shit's
sake, man. I have an interview today. I need to
shower and shave and look presentable.”
“Can't you shower at Claudia's?”
“She's thirty miles away. Jared. I need that
goddamn bathroom.”
Any second now he will use those massive fists of his to
rip the door off its hinges. And I still have more
to scrub. It doesn't feel right. I scrubbed my feet
and hands harder. There's some blood. But it is
not finished. If I go out now the doubt will kill
positively kill me.
“Jared. Open the door or I am calling Dr.
Grossman.”
“Tim. I want to open the door. Really. I do,”
I said, scrubbing more leisurely and less
determinedly. “But I need more time. You
know—just until everything feels right. I
stopped scrubbing altogether a nanosecond
to think. “As I recall, Tim--”
“Goddamn it, man.” Tim shouted sad, not mad.
“You really need help. And now you're--”
“Before the move-in I ran things by you. I told you about me.”
I paused a second to make sure I made sense. “About my per-
fectionism, my eccentricities.”
“Eccentric. Hell. You are beyond eccentric. You're
flipped.”
“Yes. Well. It's me Tim. I'd apologize but I can't. It's me.”
“You're impossible,” he said. Almost it sounded like
he'd been laughing. I couldn't help smile at the silli-
ness of it either.
“Tell you what, Bub,” he yelled over the sounds
of the dueling water faucets in the shower and
wash basin. You've till tonight. Than after that
no more excess bathroom time. Got it?”
“I'll see what I can do,” I yelled politely.
He leaves.
I don't want to leave. I can't leave. It just is not
humanely possible to. Not now. This room is
my space, my oasis from everything going on
out there in the world. Every vile deed. From
every doublecross. Lie. Cheat. And back-stab. I have
it in here. All. TV. Blankets, sheets. My Manuscript.
Files. My desk. Ten cans of chicken soup. I
don't want to leave. I can't.
The room is filled with steam. Been a long time
since I've seen my self. I scrub the mirror and
look at my face. Pale. Hawk nose. Curly hair.
Pencil thin mustache. Lifeless green eyes. Look
into them. They dilate. They grow. Those scream.
Now those are eyes. Of no character, no personality.
I stare at my face long enough until I ask myself,
“What is this thing? Where'd it come from? Why
does he/she/it exist?
I yawn. I--I know! Tim will stay at Claudia's tonight. And
I can stay here. Yes. I must. I prefer to.
It is safe here.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
By Jack Bristow
Those incessant, goddamn horrible thoughts. Pounding away
in my brain. Never going away, never ever leaving me
alone. Reminding me, taunting me, making me sick to
my goddamn stomach. Distorting reality. False thoughts, false
memories. Sleep in the bathroom tonight. It's the
cleanest part of the house. You know. Like the dog's
mouth. The special palace. Where you won't be
seen. Where you can't be seen. Where you can
scrub your hands—your whole body, for that
matter—rawly.
knock—knock—knock—knock--knock
“Jared. It's me. Tim.”
“Hey.” I said real friendly-sounding over sounds
of the wash basin faucet.
“Oh shit Jared. Not now. Not again. For shit's
sake, man. I have an interview today. I need to
shower and shave and look presentable.”
“Can't you shower at Claudia's?”
“She's thirty miles away. Jared. I need that
goddamn bathroom.”
Any second now he will use those massive fists of his to
rip the door off its hinges. And I still have more
to scrub. It doesn't feel right. I scrubbed my feet
and hands harder. There's some blood. But it is
not finished. If I go out now the doubt will kill
positively kill me.
“Jared. Open the door or I am calling Dr.
Grossman.”
“Tim. I want to open the door. Really. I do,”
I said, scrubbing more leisurely and less
determinedly. “But I need more time. You
know—just until everything feels right. I
stopped scrubbing altogether a nanosecond
to think. “As I recall, Tim--”
“Goddamn it, man.” Tim shouted sad, not mad.
“You really need help. And now you're--”
“Before the move-in I ran things by you. I told you about me.”
I paused a second to make sure I made sense. “About my per-
fectionism, my eccentricities.”
“Eccentric. Hell. You are beyond eccentric. You're
flipped.”
“Yes. Well. It's me Tim. I'd apologize but I can't. It's me.”
“You're impossible,” he said. Almost it sounded like
he'd been laughing. I couldn't help smile at the silli-
ness of it either.
“Tell you what, Bub,” he yelled over the sounds
of the dueling water faucets in the shower and
wash basin. You've till tonight. Than after that
no more excess bathroom time. Got it?”
“I'll see what I can do,” I yelled politely.
He leaves.
I don't want to leave. I can't leave. It just is not
humanely possible to. Not now. This room is
my space, my oasis from everything going on
out there in the world. Every vile deed. From
every doublecross. Lie. Cheat. And back-stab. I have
it in here. All. TV. Blankets, sheets. My Manuscript.
Files. My desk. Ten cans of chicken soup. I
don't want to leave. I can't.
The room is filled with steam. Been a long time
since I've seen my self. I scrub the mirror and
look at my face. Pale. Hawk nose. Curly hair.
Pencil thin mustache. Lifeless green eyes. Look
into them. They dilate. They grow. Those scream.
Now those are eyes. Of no character, no personality.
I stare at my face long enough until I ask myself,
“What is this thing? Where'd it come from? Why
does he/she/it exist?
I yawn. I--I know! Tim will stay at Claudia's tonight. And
I can stay here. Yes. I must. I prefer to.
It is safe here.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
The Merciless Slaying of Rusty Dwight
By Jack Bristow
Darren Carpenter loved more than anything THE CASINO. No. You misunderstand. Not any casino. Not the Circus Circus. Not the Mirage, nor The Flamingo, but THE CASINO, located on Forty-Forth Dimestreet Blvd, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Some of the casinos mentioned above are real; some aren't; some used to be. Does it matter? No? Thank you. Anyway. About Darren: every week day evening, after work, as soon as traffic would permit, he'd zoom his new Coupe de Ville The Casino-wards with great, unabashed enthusiasm.
Outside THE CASINO now, gazing upwards today, like every other day, he marvels at the beautiful pink-striped sign: "THE CASINO." In his heart he feels love--or a feeling similar to what he's imagined love to be like, for, although he has a beautiful wife and three remarkably precocious kids at home, they are completely and utterly unnoticed. But this casino, She is something of an entirely different nature, he thought standing outside her entrance, her fantastic multi-colored lights shining down affectionately upon him.
Inside: Like every place else, an overwhelming kaleidoscope of eyes: Green, blue, hazel, brown... But, unlike every place else--work, home, church--they weren't trained on him.
And they wanted nothing.
He falls in love with each and every impersonal one of them.
He walks past the blackjack tables invisibly, perhaps even anonymously, past the Three-Dollar Buffet--which, incidentally, he's fallen in love with, too--all the way to his favorite item: Wild Bill's 5-cent Slot. He calmy and coolly extracts a handful of nickles from his right dress-pant pocket, puts the inestimable amount inside the machine, and pulls the lever. Snap-snap-snap; success; change. snap-snap-snap; success; more change. Wild Bill gleefully "Yeehaws!"
An old shit-kicker type with a handle-bar slapped ridiculously across his face notices Darren's triumphant victory with Wild Bill and tries desperately to make conversation:
"Holy shit there! Fella! Dis might be yer lucky day! Say there. The name's Rusty Dwight. You are?"
This can't be, Darren thinks anxiously. No. Please. Ignore it. Not here. Not now. This thing just wants from me...just like--
"Hey, somethin wrong with you, fella? You don' speak the English? The name is Rusty Dwight, I says, and I--"
The machine sings jubiliantly. Providing Darren with more and more silver. Making him feel the winner. But this thing beside him, babbling! Which isn't real, just like the things at home, and the things at work. How could he stop their shrieking? And get away from them? Before it started severely altering his human luck?
"Whoheee," the thing called Rusty Dwight smacks its knee, and continues to congratulate Darren on his newest success.
Darren extracts his right hand from the coin-bucket, and as Rusty Dwight goes to reach for it Darren socks him straight-smack in the Adam's apple. Rusty-whatever-its-name-is eyes begin to bulge comedically as he falls ass-backwards to the floor, funny liquidlike sounds emitting his throat and mouth.
Darren walks back to his car. Opens the trunk. And-- eureka! A hat! And thick 80's-style Carrera Porsche sunglasses.
Back inside THE CASINO the securitymen and paramedics are already there, putting Rusty-Whatever-Its-Name-Is inside a big black bag. One cop is there scribbling
something in his notebook. Darren sits three slots away from the scene, grinning absentmindedly. The pitboss finally appears. "Well, looks like old Rusty finally did himself in," the middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired man chuckles. "Worst case of suicide I've ever seen," all agree unanimously.
It was then and there that Darren knew he'd stay forever.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
By Jack Bristow
Darren Carpenter loved more than anything THE CASINO. No. You misunderstand. Not any casino. Not the Circus Circus. Not the Mirage, nor The Flamingo, but THE CASINO, located on Forty-Forth Dimestreet Blvd, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Some of the casinos mentioned above are real; some aren't; some used to be. Does it matter? No? Thank you. Anyway. About Darren: every week day evening, after work, as soon as traffic would permit, he'd zoom his new Coupe de Ville The Casino-wards with great, unabashed enthusiasm.
Outside THE CASINO now, gazing upwards today, like every other day, he marvels at the beautiful pink-striped sign: "THE CASINO." In his heart he feels love--or a feeling similar to what he's imagined love to be like, for, although he has a beautiful wife and three remarkably precocious kids at home, they are completely and utterly unnoticed. But this casino, She is something of an entirely different nature, he thought standing outside her entrance, her fantastic multi-colored lights shining down affectionately upon him.
Inside: Like every place else, an overwhelming kaleidoscope of eyes: Green, blue, hazel, brown... But, unlike every place else--work, home, church--they weren't trained on him.
And they wanted nothing.
He falls in love with each and every impersonal one of them.
He walks past the blackjack tables invisibly, perhaps even anonymously, past the Three-Dollar Buffet--which, incidentally, he's fallen in love with, too--all the way to his favorite item: Wild Bill's 5-cent Slot. He calmy and coolly extracts a handful of nickles from his right dress-pant pocket, puts the inestimable amount inside the machine, and pulls the lever. Snap-snap-snap; success; change. snap-snap-snap; success; more change. Wild Bill gleefully "Yeehaws!"
An old shit-kicker type with a handle-bar slapped ridiculously across his face notices Darren's triumphant victory with Wild Bill and tries desperately to make conversation:
"Holy shit there! Fella! Dis might be yer lucky day! Say there. The name's Rusty Dwight. You are?"
This can't be, Darren thinks anxiously. No. Please. Ignore it. Not here. Not now. This thing just wants from me...just like--
"Hey, somethin wrong with you, fella? You don' speak the English? The name is Rusty Dwight, I says, and I--"
The machine sings jubiliantly. Providing Darren with more and more silver. Making him feel the winner. But this thing beside him, babbling! Which isn't real, just like the things at home, and the things at work. How could he stop their shrieking? And get away from them? Before it started severely altering his human luck?
"Whoheee," the thing called Rusty Dwight smacks its knee, and continues to congratulate Darren on his newest success.
Darren extracts his right hand from the coin-bucket, and as Rusty Dwight goes to reach for it Darren socks him straight-smack in the Adam's apple. Rusty-whatever-its-name-is eyes begin to bulge comedically as he falls ass-backwards to the floor, funny liquidlike sounds emitting his throat and mouth.
Darren walks back to his car. Opens the trunk. And-- eureka! A hat! And thick 80's-style Carrera Porsche sunglasses.
Back inside THE CASINO the securitymen and paramedics are already there, putting Rusty-Whatever-Its-Name-Is inside a big black bag. One cop is there scribbling
something in his notebook. Darren sits three slots away from the scene, grinning absentmindedly. The pitboss finally appears. "Well, looks like old Rusty finally did himself in," the middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired man chuckles. "Worst case of suicide I've ever seen," all agree unanimously.
It was then and there that Darren knew he'd stay forever.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
