fiction

The Night Marla Did ,You Know, That Thing

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Marla had been precocious as a child. She had been almost a caricature of the precocious child. Sure in her diction, composed in her movements, confident in her thoughts.  People had wondered at the time what her future held for her.  They predicted great things. President, neurosurgeon, astronaut.  Nothing average for her.

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

But Marla discovered boys at 15 much to the displeasure of her parents.  “Boy crazy,” they said with hopes this would soon pass, but never in Marla’s 15 years had she had a passing fancy.  She grabbed on tight and learned everything she could.

In this instance, she grabbed on tight to Dylan Roberts, 16-year-old heartthrob. She studied Dylan like he was a particularly irregular Spanish verb. Dylan was just as taken with Marla for he’d had a crush on her since first grade when she wore that yellow sweater. To his credit, he had some precociousness under his belt too.  Yes, he was the star quarterback but he was also on track to be the class’s valedictorian just as Marla was on track to be her class’s.

Marla took to wearing smokey eyeshadow and ripped jeans.  Her father was dismayed. Her mother thought to say something but then thought better of it. Marla had always been strong-willed especially if pushed in a corner.  Her grades were still good.

The normality of being a 15-year-old girl in love invigorated Marla to ape the behavior of her peers.  She became increasingly concerned with fashion, cut and permed her hair, and spent hours in the bathroom straightening those expensive curls into soft waves.  She was blossoming into a bombshell and her father took to a nightly scotch.  He was worried.  He knew 16-year-old boys.  He’d been one.

It seemed a fleeting moment but in reality had been several months that their studious, possessed, and driven daughter was the popular girl at school, was glued to her boyfriend every waking moment, and earned her first B which did not distress her. “It was just one of five tests, Mama. I’ll make it up. Besides, advanced biology was a mistake.  Fashion consultants don’t need advanced biology.” 

Marla’s mom started joining her husband for the nightly scotch.

Marla’s father decided to have a talk with her.  Over breakfast, he said, “Marla, I would like for you to be home at 7 tonight.  Your mother and I wish to talk to you.” He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was going to say it.

“Sure, Pops, I need to talk to you two too,” she said spooning yogurt into her mouth.  Marla’s father studied the rusticity of her outfit – flannel shirt tied at the waist revealing cleavage and midriff with tight jeans and a rope belt.  Marla said it was spirit week at school as if that somehow explained the Daisy Mae costume.

At 7 pm, the family gathered at the kitchen table.  Marla took the lead. 

“Mom, Dad, before you start there’s something I want to discuss. I’m turning 16 next month and I want to host a party here at the house.  One with minimal parental influence.  In the basement.  No drinking, no drugs, no adults.  We just want to be able to be ourselves.

I also made an appointment with Dr. Clark. Dylan and I have talked. It’s time I was on birth control.

Marla’s father stood up and retrieved the decanter of scotch and two glasses.

Her mother rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

This became known as “The Night Marla Did, You Know, That Thing.”

Peas and Broccoli

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My name is Gus.  Gregory named me.  Gus.  No last name.  Gregory is only 3. He’s not up to speed on the concept of last names.

I’m a superhero accountant and Cheez-Its bring out my powers. I wear them in a pouch around my neck. I can climb like Spiderman, but I can also fly.  I am often blamed for not eating the mushrooms when they’re served.  Gregory does not like mushrooms. His parents insist he try them each time, but he doesn’t have to finish them. Gregory so hates mushrooms that even a taste makes him shudder. He tells his mom and dad that I will just spit them out. I wouldn’t. That’s bad table manners. So, Gregory spits them out.  Well spits it out. He will find the smallest one put it in his mouth with a grimace, wretch, and then spit it out.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

His parents think he is overreacting. He is not. Gregory simply cannot abide the texture. 

Gregory likes Miss Rachel on YouTube and his life-sized Cody doll. Cody is very soft and squishy.  Apropos of nothing, Gregory will holler, “Peas and broccoli” and then collapse into peals of giggles. It always makes his parents laugh. Me too. 

Gregory loves me.

I do not make his parents laugh. They think I’ve gone on too long.  They are concerned.

I think it’s unfair that they try to shoo me.  I’ve done nothing wrong. I am Gregory’s friend. His best friend. His only friend. Maybe when he starts preschool or daycare he will be done with me, who knows.  I hope not. He is my best friend too. 

During nap time, we whisper to one another in our secret language.  This really concerns his mom and dad.  It’s clear that it’s a secret language and it’s clear that we use it to keep the adults out.

Even Grandma isn’t allowed to know the secret language either and he tells Grandma everything.  Even about me. She knows there is a language, but Gregory will not translate for her.

“Peas and broccoli” in the secret language is a phrase of complete exasperation. Oh for peas and broccoli. You get the idea.

But when I’m not around, Gregory doesn’t use the secret language.  At those times, the phrase is just nonsense.

I love Gregory, but he will soon be done with me.  I have served my purpose.  I am similar to his dad, but I always have time for Gregory.  No household tasks or homework to interrupt our time together. His mother is just a lost cause.  She is so stressed.  Trying to keep the home neat and orderly. Trying to get a promotion at work.

Perhaps they are right to be concerned.  They are blowing it. There is only this one time that Gregory will be three. Will believe in me and my ability to climb skyscrapers or fly from one to another. Will make me spit out mushrooms and holler Peas and Broccoli.

Isobel

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Isobel scrubbed out what was left of her third cigarette of the morning and drained the dregs of her second mug of coffee.  Black of course.  No sugar.  Of course.

She’d been chain-smoking Marlboros and shotgunning coffee since she joined the Academy at 14.  It was the only way to keep her profile long and lean.

Sacramento portrait photographer Mayumi Acosta aims to share the many facets of the women she photographs. https://lnkd.in/gsamcc7r

Isobel was famous for the lines she could make of her body.  She preferred modern dance in nothing but a leotard the exact shade of her skin, but when you are called to dance, you go where your talent takes you. 

And so she was the prima for the New York Ballet – a position envied by many.

Today they had her costumed in swirls and twirls of scarlet silk and chiffon. Madame signaled that it was time to begin.  She walked in her toe shoes, that distinctive walk that only ballet dancers with years of experience can duplicate, to the center of the backdrop.  Simple black. The scarlet of her costume, the pale peach of her skin, with her dark hair — oh the photos would be extraordinary if the photographer had even a drop of skill.  En pointe, she lengthened her neck, pulled her arms into position, and rotated.  She heard the photographer gasp before she heard the camera shutter start its incessant chatter.  She always strained for that sound. When her audience gasped, she knew her body was telling her true.  She had arranged the lines perfectly. The veins and arteries of her neck reaching upward as did her arms and fingers – balanced perfectly on her toes and the wooden blocks inside her shoes.

Would Claude be in the audience tonight?  She wondered as she pirouetted and her skirts billowed to the background rhythm of the shutter clicking.  Claude was pursuing her with diligence and finesse. She had learned he was a podiatrist early on.  She was dubious that she could allow herself to be at ease with him.  Surely, such a doctor would want beautiful feet.

What most didn’t know was that professional ballerinas had the world’s most god-awful feet.  Isobel was vain.  She did not see her ugly feet as the vehicle for her talent.  She saw them as grotesque appendages never to be exposed to a curious world.  She never wore sandals and only went to the beach with water shoes. She could not fathom exposing her naked feet to a connoisseur. 

Claude’s interest was likely to be rebuffed.  Again.

Be Careful

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“Be careful what you wish for, Missy.”  I can hear my mother’s words reverberate in my head.  Be careful what you wish for, be careful what you wish, be careful.  Be careful.  I was raised to be fearful.  Somehow, the times, the burgeoning women’s movement, the rise of feminism, the advent of women as something other than playthings for men, allowed me to transcend my upbringing.

I stood there in front of the travel agency door looking at the poster.  Travel!  It said.  And oh I wanted to go in and book a trip- to somewhere, anywhere I haven’t been before.  To escape nostalgia.  I wanted new and unfamiliar.

But in times of decision, I heard my mother’s voice.  Over and over.  Boys don’t like girls who…your future husband will want…, when you are grown and married…, when. . . It was like I never had a chance.  And then I was forty with a husband and I didn’t give a fuck what he wanted.  That was my sign to get out.  I wished for a life other than what I had, and my mother’s voice came back to me, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Photo by Keszthelyi Timi on Unsplash

I have been sincere with my wishes.  They represent my core values.  I didn’t need to be careful; they were front and center and required no deliberation.

I left my marriage.  Not gleefully I recognized the tragedy and the failure it represented, but as the bible said, be ye not unequally yoked.  We were unequal in every way.  It was a disaster.

And here I was possessed of half of my retirement account and newly paid-off credit cards.  I went in.  A bell tinkled with the movement of the door.  The woman at the front desk seemed surprised and I said as much. 

She said, “We don’t get much foot traffic.”

I said, “I need a trip to somewhere I’ve never been.  A place most people don’t go.  A place where I can lose myself in the novelty of moving through unfamiliar streets.” 

She snapped her fingers and said, “I have just the place for you.  And we have a promotion going on.  It’s quite the deal.  Free airfare if you book The Budapest Hotel.”

I paused for a second and said, “I’ll take it.  Do I need a visa?  Travel papers other than a passport?” I didn’t even know what country Budapest was in.  I knew nothing.  It was perfect.

“Yes, but it’s pro forma. We can take care of it here.  Just fill out some online forms and voila!”

An hour later I had everything I needed to leave for Hungary the following Tuesday.

I didn’t second guess myself, oddly enough.  I strode into my boss’s office and told him I needed five weeks off beginning Tuesday and he said no.  So I said, “I quit.”  And he said, “Now woah, wait a minute…” but he wouldn’t relent and neither would I.

I was sitting on the plane, in first class no less due to an upgrade for the number of weeks I had reserved a room at The Budapest Hotel.  It took nearly all my retirement account to reserve the suite.  But I didn’t care.  Maybe I’d care in 20 years, but not now.

The flight attendant brought me a glass of crisply cold champagne, a finger bowl, and a warm towel.  The juxtaposition of the temperatures and the textures was sublime.  I handed her the used towel and she took the bowl.  I was left with nothing but the bubbly and my thoughts and I penned this. 

I think this trip will be transformative.  I’m going to keep this journal and document my deepest feelings.  The ones I’ve always shied away from because of Mother’s voice in my head.