Artistikem

I fell very much in love with a boy one day,
he had brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin,
as if the Caribbean sun had painted him
with the sultriest color, if there has ever been.
He taught me how to stare,
of course I only knew I was doing it when he turned angrily at me;
he taught me how to sit,
sideways so I could pretend I was listening to the teacher while admiring him;
he taught me how fast my heart could beat.
Yet there was something he taught me that I can’t forget still,
that when someone hits your food tray from below,
meat patties fly high in the air and when they land on your uniform, they stick.

“Thank you for calling the HIT network. First of all, are you of legal age? Say YES or NO.”

“YES.”

“Are you sure? Say YES or NO.”

“YES.”

“Okay, if you say so. But we must warn you that if you proceed with this call you could be liable for crime charges. If you understand this say YES, if you don’t, say NO.”

“YES.”

“Thank you for calling the HIT network, where hitmen and women are ready to take your murder requests twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We guarantee you the best service you can get or your money back. If you’re a woman, say WOMAN, if you’re a man, say MAN.”

“MAN.”

“Now if your victim is female, say WOMAN, if it’s a male, say MAN.”

“WOMAN.”

“Thought so. We get this all the time. Ok. Tell us more about this WOMAN you want dead. Who is she? Your wife? Your lover? Your mother? Your mother-in-law? Or someone else?”

“WIFE.”

“Another one bites the dust, eh? Ok. So, would you like this murder to be perpetrated by a man or a woman? You know the drill already.”

“WOMAN.”

“You want to watch or should we produce a video of the murder? We can do photos too.”

“WATCH.”

“Our system will now send your call to the next available hitwoman. For quality purposes, your call could be monitored. Please stand by.”

♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪ If you like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain,… ♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪

“All of our hitwomen are busy right now, between the economic crisis and other shit going on in the world we’ve been swamped with work down here. But don’t worry, your call will be attended in the order it came in by the next available hitwoman. Please, stand by.”

♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪ If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain,… ♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪

“Thanks for calling the HIT network, this is Cherry, who shall I murder today?”

“Hi, Cherry. I’m Daniel. It’s my wife, I can’t stand her anymore.”

Fingers typing away.

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

More typing.

“Our system shows that you chose to watch your wife’s murder. Are you sure about this?”

“Well, if it doesn’t get too gruesome.”

“It will be as gruesome as you want it to.”

“Ok, I’ll watch.”

“Good. Now we need the address where you would like the murder to take place.”

“1402 Gardenia Street.”

More typing, then it stops.

“1402?”

“Yes.”

“Dave? Dave Krazinsky?”

Reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to David Carl Krazinsky?”

“HARRIET?”

“What the fuck are you doing!? You want to murder me? I’m your wife!”

“I… I don…”

“Don’t you dare hang up the phone! Who the fuck do you think you are arranging my murder?”

“You’re a hitwoman!?!?”

Sigh. “Ok, I should’ve known you’d find out soon enough. But not like this. You’re so dead, Dave. So. Dead.”

Mad typing, then silence.

“Now it’s you who’s going to kill me, isn’t it?”

A sound, like something switching.

“Thanks for reaching the ‘I screwed up now I’m getting killed network’, subsidiary of the HIT network. Please say your last words after the beep.”

It was a moonless night and we were all sitting outside one of those shady places people go to have a beer on their way home from work. Sitting under a ceiling made of sheets of zinc, on plastic chairs and telling everyone what happened at the office when, all of a sudden, an alternate conversation broke our concentration:

His tones were low, hers were louder, yet they harmonized like any other melody. His hairs were gray, hers were blonde, however, they looked almost the same under the dim lights above them.

And he said, ‘girl, don’t worry’, but her ears were too young to hear his words, her lips moved so quick he could only look at them and smile. A faint smile, but it was a smile, indeed.

She was talking about trivial things, things that are recalled as fast as they happened, too fast for the normal ear to understand the whole array of events.

And the low tones with the ages that backed them up said, very slow, ‘can I buy you a beer?’

And the louder tones turned low, the bright green eyes down, and the lips moved slowly now, ‘yes, thank you.’

It wasn’t a pick up line, it wasn’t a man with lust in his mind. It was like a father telling a daughter to slow down, to breathe, to remember those times when life was happier and brighter.

Then she sat down on a plastic chair covered by a layer of dirt engraved on it by the rain, crossed her legs and held the beer in her hand. She sighed. With that sigh she let all her worries free to flutter around her head while the man with the low tones caressed the air around her with thoughtful words that soothed her soul.

They weren’t words that would solve her problems, they weren’t words that would stop her from worrying further on. Just words that made her think it wasn’t the end of the world, that there was still something to laugh about. And she laughed, and drank, and we joined into the laughter because we needed it also.

The eyes that had lost their brightness seemed to be regaining it, the hands marked by arduous manual work stretched out to pat the shoulder left bare because of the spaghetti strings of her shirt.

Even through the heaviness of a drunken tongue, he managed to lift her spirit enough for her to leave with lighter steps through the path that lead her to where she would have to face her truths again.

The faces on the train you shouldn’t have taken. The glances that make you nervous to withhold, to control your own. Because the knife is in your pocket and you know why, you know it’s there for a reason and even when you try to believe that the wind will turn south and stop you from doing it, you know it will happen, it’s doomed to happen.

The voice coming from the speakers that makes you look up through the churning of your stomach. You aren’t happy, but you aren’t sad, you are just there, thinking over and over about the reasons that got you on this late night train that seems to be taking you to hell because the heat building up on your neck gets hotter with every passing minute.

Oh, to see those eyes again… To see them in a rush, in a blink, through the screams, the pleads. You’ve thought of it all, of how awful it will be. And you press your hand to your jacket, where it is, the knife, hidden from plain sight even when you can see it so clearly, so shiny, so murderously staring back at you.

A gasp that’s not your own, the thumb of a body hitting the floor, the wave of distress that travels quicker than the speed of light and hits your chest. The face of a man lying on the floor, pressing his hands to one of his flanks and cussing at the back of another man that’s running for the next car. Tears rolling down the cheeks of a woman kneeling beside the bleeding man, the stabbed man. How did they know?

The knife touches your chest, poking you, telling you it’s there, reminding you of what you are there for. You got on that train so you could get to her house, knock on the door, kiss her lips, step in and wait for her to walk into the kitchen and ask you what you want to drink, meanwhile, you’d be pulling out your shiny friend and calculating how to twist her around so you can stick it somewhere in her midriff.

Blood stains the floor, right underneath the knees of the pleading woman and something wakes up inside you, that motor that hadn’t purred for so long, that was numb with anger and sadness since you checked her voicemail and heard that other man’s voice. It sounded so sweet it was disgusting, it said things only you were supposed to say to her, it asked things only you were supposed to ask. But now the motor is running once more and it gets into gear, and you fall to your knees, check the wound, tell the woman to press her hands on it and another man standing nearby to call the paramedics.

The doors open, people rush out to get help, you help drag the man out of the car and between the frenzy of scared eyes and help coming in, pulling the man onto a stretcher and taking him away, the woman turns and, between the tears, says ‘Thanks for saving my husband. You’re a hero.’ ‘It’s the least I could do’ you reply, dismissing her so you can rush into a bathroom to wash your hands because the wind hasn’t turned south and there is a deed you haven’t done.

Because even heroes have a dark side.

From ‘The Habit of Loving’ by Doris Lessing.

    It was a bar like any other bar, though it wasn’t as crowded as they get during the weekends.
    Richard was there, lulling over his whiskey and feeling like shit. He was tired, not physically tired, but mentally tired. He took the glass to his lips and swallowed the burning liquid, sucking it to the last drop. A businessman on a business trip like so many before him.
    The bartender raised his eyebrows at Richard, waiting, until the latter nodded for him to fill the glass once more.
    “Feeling lonely tonight?” A tall blonde slid to the bar stool next to his and flashed a smile.
    He had seen her up on the stage dancing some minutes before. She was pretty and graceful, yet he sat with his back to the stage and preferred to sink his sight in the vastness of golden fluid inside his hands.
    “No.” A hiss would have been more accurate.
    The young dancer snorted at him and scurried away.
    “Now, now, Jacky, your number is about to start.” A man’s voice came from behind. “Agh. What to do with these young girls.”
    The man it came from, a guy Richard calculated was in his fifties, just like him, sat on the bar stool Jacky had vacated, facing the stage. Leaned back, his arms stretched on the bar behind him, he seemed to be pretty comfortable.
    Richard gave a chuckle, not wanting to be rude. The man gave out a gasp when Jacky started dancing again. This time Richard was looking.
    “Can I get you anything, Ralph?” The bartender asked the man.
    “No.” Right after saying that he flinched, Jacky had missed a step. “Make it a Gin and Tonic. I can tell this won’t be a good night. That girl will ruin me and my business.”
    “Her?” Richard nodded Jacky’s way.
    “Yes, her, Jacky. She can’t give two steps without tripping. I can manage stilettos better than her.”
    Richard choked on his whiskey. “Excuse me?”
    “I’m kidding. I’ve owned this place for twenty years and have never seen a disaster quite like her. Fucking economic crisis.”
    “You own this place?”
    “Yes.” Richard’s skepticism took Ralph by surprise. “Inherited it from my father. It has seen better days, I can assure you that. Lately it’s been a struggle to make it to the end of the month. Bar by night, dance school by day. Ralph Donovan at your service, bar owner, dance instructor.”
    “Richard Wayne, non-interesting businessman.”
    “Is that empty?” Ralph pointed at Richard’s glass which was, in fact, empty. “Sean! A whiskey here for Mr. Wayne.” He leaped to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to put an end to this.”
    Ralph strode to the stage, stopped the music, and informed Jacky that, since that very moment, she no longer worked there. The girl did what they all do, she got angry, then begged, then got angry again, then she did the unthinkable, at least for Richard it was.
    She called Ralph a ‘faggot’.
    Everyone went silent except for Jacky’s panting.
    Ralph stood there like a freeze frame, arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressed into a thin line. The rest of the dancers dared not to approach him, so they took off through the back of the stage.
    “You have five seconds to disappear from my presence or not even God will forgive what I will do to you, you little scoundrel.”
    The girl’s eyes filled with rabid tears, her body trembled all over. She ran away to the dressing rooms without considering an apology.
    Ralph remained there, standing, a long sigh escaped his chest before he turned to the bartender.
    “Early closing, Sean.” It sounded more like a grunt.
    Sean hastened to tell everyone to finish their drinks while Ralph went back to his bar stool next to Richard and stared into his gin and tonic.
    After a moment of silence, during which they sat awkwardly next to each other, Richard stirred on his seat.
    “I am sorry you had to witness that.” Ralph’s voice traveled slowly, as if echoing inside his glass before heading Richard’s way. “You can stay for another drink if you want to. Even after everyone’s gone there’s inventorying, cleaning…”
    “Maybe we can have them somewhere else.” It was the weirdest thing for Richard to say, not that he wasn’t saying it from the heart.
    “I can manage, boss.” Sean was eavesdropping, rubbing an inconspicuous cloth on the bar. “Go out and get some air. You’ve been here all day.”
    “I’m staying at a hotel a block away from here.” Richard said to Ralph’s hunched back. “There’s this small bar at the lobby, it seems nice and quiet.”
    Ralph raised his eyes to meet Sean’s and, after getting a wink, turned to Richard.
    “I’ll get my coat.”
    Both men strolled to the hotel dressed in black coats, sharing jokes, laughing.
    The hotel bar was small, covered under a blur of smoke, and the jazz music playing on the jukebox gave signs of having been played too many times.
    Ralph seemed to be recovering the color on his face already.
    “People tend to have the wrong impression about me. I’ve been going through the train wreck of a divorce while my business is falling apart before my eyes.” Richard started spilling his truths at Ralph, who listened attentively.
    “Times are rough, my friend.” Ralph took his beer to his lips, glancing at the rest of the patrons as they left.
    The song playing on the jukebox ended and Ralph was quick to get to it, take some quarters from his pocket, and select a song. Richard watched from his seat as Ralph leaned over the jukebox, his foot tapping on the floor to the beat of the song.
    “I…” Richard’s voice startled Ralph, he didn’t know he was standing behind him. “I’m not much of a dancer, but being no one else here, I thought…”
    “That is very nice of you, but don’t worry. I’m fine. It is something one doesn’t get used to, not even with time, but I’m okay.”
    “Oh, come on! I never, ever, dance. Do you have any idea how much courage it took for me to get up and ask you to dance?”
    Ralph chuckled, a smile breaking through the darkness of the place.
    They danced, well, Richard followed Ralph’s lead until it looked as if they were dancing. However, his mind was somewhere far, where the lines drawn by society faded, taking everything he thought he was with them. He was in a land where there was no she, or he, just us. Where Ralph’s hand felt just right and he could smile even through the fog. A place he hadn’t been to before.
    Ralph was good, he was a good dancer, a good partner. Exactly what Richard needed to breathe better and unwind to the melody that was now a distant whisper. Because nothing else existed but them.
    When the song was over, their lips found each other’s and it was perfect. A hint of beer that mixed so well with the whiskey and the gin, like musk and leather.
    As if by instinct, Ralph stepped back, his eyes suddenly resembling the famous deer in the headlights cliché.
    “I’m sorry.” He started to apologize. “I got carried away.”
    “No, no, you didn’t.”
    “I’ve embarrassed you. I know you are not…”
    “It was perfect. To the point of wanting to thank you for it.”
    That brought laughter to both men, who stared at each other, each one holding back some invisible object.
    “It’s late. I should go.” Ralph turned on his heels and went for his coat, but Richard intercepted him midway.
    “It doesn’t have the end here.”
    “I’m not up for experiments.” Ralph slid his coat on, gracefully rearranging its collar.
    “Neither am I.” Richard took his coat from the rack, threw it over his arm and strode to the elevator.
    Ralph stood there, stunned, and, at the last moment, he rushed to stop the elevator door from closing.

I proudly bear your fingerprints as scars on my skin. Scars of a war I didn’t know I was fighting, and couldn’t win. Your essence wrapped itself around me like a cloak, tied me in a thousand ways, with knots no one could ever undo. And yet, I wasn’t trapped, I walked freely.

Now you are sitting here, in front of me, sip by sip drinking your coffee, and I envy the way your lips touch the foam cup. I envy it to the point of wanting to rip it from your entwined fingers and throw it away into the loneliness I am sitting on. I want the cloak back on me, I want the knots to be tied again.

You sneer at me like I’m a stray animal you want to scare. I’m not a child, I know you too well. You sneer when you are uncomfortable, when someone is reading what is inside your mind. You sneer at me because you want me back, yet it is your pride that is building the wall between us, brick by brick, until I have to climb to get a peek of you down there, on the other side.

Climbing, a rope between my hands, pulling my weight upwards to get to the top. When I make it, you are casually sitting on the edge, one leg hanging, a burning cigarette in your hand. But there is no place for me on the ledge because your pride is already there, and it sneers at me, and it takes its foot to my head and pushes me down. You take the cigarette to your lips, like the coffee cup, and take a sip. Meanwhile, I’m kicked numerous times by your pride. I lose my hold on the rope and fall.

“Are you going to finish that?” You ask.

I feel the cup and learn my coffee is already cold.

You grunt. “We are finished. Get it in your head.” You sneer at me once more.

I nod, tears welling up, and watch you take off while your pride holds the door.