Saturday Download (4)
Keats, Bar Fights, and a Christmas Waltz
Greetings!
This is the last newsletter before Christmas, so I hope you all take care of yourselves! Christmas can be an awful time for some, so to those people I want to wish all my love.
Instead of an essay, I am giving you a short story that I’ve not been able to place anywhere. I wrote it months ago, but everywhere I have sent it to has sent it back. If you enjoy the story, do let me know in the comments!
The Recoil of Gunfire
The raccoon-eyed girl took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her bra. I observed keenly as she seemed almost afraid of lighting it, like the world would explode upon ignition. We were at opposite ends of the bar, both exposed by the lights that hung like nooses above us.
The music crashed like syllables in my ears. Over the numbing decibels I learned that the raccoon-eyed girl’s name was Phobos, “after the moon”, according to her. Seeing how her body moved when she told that story gave me a little insight into who she might be. I felt the sparks coming off her; the notion of specialty pooling beneath her kitten heels.
In the company of men, she’d talk with her hands. Her acrylics forged a symphony in a five minute conversation. From the sound bites I caught, Phobos thought herself a bit of a prescriptionist. Her defence of the comma would be admirable if it wasn’t for the pompous disdain with which she spoke. She certainly kept the ivory tower in good stead.
As the ghost in the corner, I perched myself on a bar stool, because I wanted a drink, but also to keep tabs on Phobos. A stirring in my gut told me to stay close. Sitting on a daiquiri, I bore a hole in her soul; I’m sure she almost felt it, like the recoil of gunfire. Over time, she withered like paper. As men became increasingly disinterested in her, she turned her attention to me.
“What are you looking at?”
I finished the dregs of my drink, hopped down, and made my way to her corner like a boxer would.
“You.”
She brushed the hair off her shoulder and rested a fist on her hip. The melting guts of a blackberry revolted at the bottom of her glass.
“Do we have a problem?”
I took it and knocked it back.
“I don’t know. Do we?”
She looked at me with the same disgust she reserved for those who dared use a comma incorrectly. Let it be known that Phobos threw the first punch. She had a mean right hook, I’ll give her that.
“Little grotbag!”
I summoned the force of a thousand earthquakes and returned the favour, sending her flying into the chairs strewn just yonder. At this point, nobody intervened. I waited for her to regain her composure before aiming the edge of my palm at her nose.
“You’re going to pay for that!”
As she charged, I grasped her and diverted her into a booth.
“We’re done. Go home, Phobos.”
She froze.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?”
I sensed some paranoia.
“Don’t worry, I’m not MI5. I overheard you tell pretty boy earlier.”
As a sign of peace, I returned to my seat at the bar. She lifted her head up to the ceiling.
“We are not the same.”
Her distinction between us struck me as odd.
“Why would you think we could ever be the same?”
She stumbled out of the booth and toward the door.
“I should report you for assault.”
“Are you going to?”
She craned her neck.
“No.”
I followed her out into the night and over to a brick wall.
“Are you following me?”
Carollers started singing Silent Night nearby.
“Do you have an extra cigarette?”
“You smoke?”
I looked up at the mistletoe hanging over us.
“Never. I’ve decided to try something new.”
She slapped a cigarette and her lighter in my bruised hands.
“You’ll fuck up your lungs.”
“Who cares about the consequences, eh?”
She sniggered.
“You’re a strange one, Mr. Grinch.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be the mean one?”
She pointed at her face.
“Well, you did break my fucking nose, so yeah.”
I couldn’t light up, so she put her cigarette to mine and cupped them until mine grew a spark. She turned and blew smoke past my face.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I have a date with the devil.”
“I’ve got to fix this dipshit’s mess at work. Can you believe it? A fifty year old man who can’t use a comma to save his life!”
“If they could, I’d be here for eternity.”
Phobos stood up and began messing around in her bra. Eventually, she pulled out some money. I watched on in confusion as she stomped over to the carol singers. When she returned, they had started singing Mariah Carey. “See, throw cash at them and they cheer the fuck up,” she said.
“I know a good surgeon,” I gestured to her nose.
“Oh, I’m all good. I’ve been roughed up before.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
She pressed her cigarette butt into the gravel and made for the road.
“I’ve got to head home, and I’m all out of milk and eggs, but thanks for the fight…I think?”
“Thanks for the cigarette.”
“Make it your last. You don’t want to end up like me.”
“I think it will be.”
She gave a wave and a nod and disappeared into the ether. The heavens opened and started to rain down on me. Everyone ran for shelter, except for me and the carollers, but even they gave in when the lightning came. I couldn’t be deterred from spending one last night in the rain. Lightning struck just a few feet in front of me, setting off car and house alarms. You’d have thought it was the end of the world.
Reading:
Three-Martini Afternoons at the Ritz by Gail Crowther
The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector
The Penguin Book of Love Poetry
Bright Star (Letters to Fanny Brawne) by John Keats
Watching:
Bright Star
Wonderland: Gothic
Ted Hughes: Stronger Than Death
Mad Men
Saltburn
Listening:
Anne Sexton Reads Her Poems
Ted Hughes Reads His Poems
The Christmas Waltz by Doris Day
Writing:
Osmosis Press accepted my poem ‘Drunk on the Brine’
I’m still on a poetry frenzy. I feel like any day that goes by without producing anything is one wasted.
Thank you for reading this week’s newsletter and I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.
With all my love,
C.
Very "film a la noir."
Rough, like a cat scratch on top of an older one.
A lyrical torch song.