Short Story

RESOLUTION

RESOLUTION

Glen backed out of the driveway, shifted to drive and spun the tires of his SUV on the snow covered suburban street. The doors locked with a soft thud. Linda shivered in the seat next to him, undoubtedly impatient for the heat to come on. The New Year’s Eve party was still going, but Linda had asked to leave. Glen had hoped to spend a little more time with Brandy, the party’s hostess, and suspected she was Linda’s reason for wanting out. Snow was falling fast and the illuminating cones from the headlights ended early in the onrush of white flakes. The windshield wipers gathered chunks of ice and slush that refused to lose their grip when the wipers changed direction. Glen turned on to the deserted four-lane that led home, noting the lack of fresh tire tracks.
“This must be what it’s like driving in a snow globe,” Glen said.
“You say the stupidest things.”
“Sorry, I’ll just shut up and drive.”

“Jesus, turn the heat on,” Linda said. “I’m freezing over here.”

“The engine is still cold. The blower will just blow the cold air around.”

Glen eased around a state police car on the shoulder, blue lights flashing, tending to a car down near the woods. The sideways plow marks were filling in fast. Some lucky motorist had missed a large tree and the car remained upright.

“Tough luck. Must not know the snowglobe driving rules,” Glen said.

“Maybe this weather and the driving conditions will get your mind off of Brandy.”

Glen played dumb. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Linda reached over and snapped the blower to HI. “Can’t you go a little faster?”

“Well?”

“You know what I mean. You spent the whole night going ga-ga over her. You looked like the old fool that you are. The lust in your eyes was obvious. Too bad your wife was there to spoil your fun.”

“Christ, not again. Every time we go to an event where your friend Brandy is, you accuse me of hitting on her.”

“You do, every time.”

“Oh bullshit. We were just talking.”

“If she wasn’t my friend I’d think she had something going for you too, but I know she’s smarter than that.”

“If you’re worried about it let’s just quit going over there.”

“I’m not worried. I’m just embarrassed by the way you act around her.”

Was it that obvious? She was right of course. He had it very bad and if he were a single man they would get together in a hurry. The truth would kill Linda. The stolen moments they had shared were few but intense. And it wasn’t just Glen. No, Brandy wanted it too. And the last time, tonight in the wine cellar, kissing and groping until breathless, they knew they had to get back to the party, back to their real lives.

“What were you doing so long in the basement?”

“Just picking out some wine. Please let it alone. You’re spoiling a fun evening.”

“Well, you already spoiled mine. I swear, you’re turning into a dirty old man.”

Glen felt the tires lose traction and eased off the accelerator. “She’s our friend. We have a lot in common. I enjoy talking to her. That’s all.”

“You’d screw her in a minute.”
Of course. It hadn’t happened yet, but when the time was right Glen planned to lick every inch of her body and let her lick every inch of his. He desperately wanted to wake up next to her; have her be the first thing he saw in the morning. Some day. “I couldn’t afford an affair unless you kicked and I got the insurance money. And at that point it wouldn’t be an affair.”

“What an asshole.”

“It was just a joke, for Christ’s sake. Just trying to lighten things up.”

“Well just remember this – you divorce me and you won’t have enough left to buy a pack of rubbers.”

“Divorce? You’re the only one who’s talked about getting a divorce.”

“Maybe you didn’t think fucking your secretary was grounds for a divorce.”

“Jesus, that was ten years ago. I’ve apologized a million times and I haven’t

strayed since. You never let me forget and you continue to make me pay.” Glen was looking at Linda. “Just let it go. I’m sorry for enjoying myself tonight. I’m sorry for ten years ago. I’m sorry you keep making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Watch where you’re going.” Linda put her hand on the dash.

The SUV had drifted to the shoulder and the right front tire caught a frozen rut. Glen over-corrected and put them in a slow spin across the four-lane. When he knew he had lost control, Glen tried to assume a fetal position, or as close as possible given the constraints of the steering wheel and seat belt. Linda screamed and jammed both feet against imaginary brake pedals. The car slid over the embankment and rolled like a rhino in a dust bath, flipping three times down the steep slope toward the woods. Clouds of snow puffed out and blew away. The two-ton machine slid to a stop, roof against a large oak White piping fell from outstretched limbs, disintegrating in the wind. The passenger side was on the snow.

When the vehicle came to rest Glen was suspended from the seat and shoulder belts. “Linda, are you all right?” He looked to where his wife lay in the corner formed by the seat and the passenger door. Reflected light from the still shining headlights illuminated the interior. A travel mug rolled to a stop on the glass next to her face. Glen found the ignition key and shut off the idling motor.

Glen was not injured and twisted his body to unsnap his seat belt. He wiggled upright which put his butt on the console and his feet in Linda’s lap. His upper back was against the driver’s side window. “Oh God, Linda.” She was not moving and blood trickled from her mouth – a bitten tongue. Glen could hear her breathing steady. He reached down and put his fingers to her neck. A strong pulse; she was just unconscious, the result of her head banging several times against the window.

What to do. Glen sat for a moment, catching his breath, letting his heart return to normal. An argument in a snowstorm and now look what her shit got us into. Glen reached behind him and found the door handle. He pulled the handle and pushed against the door with his upper back, but stopped when he realized his feet were on Linda’s stomach.

Glen stared at Linda, then to the snowstorm. He turned the ignition key on and stared at the green numerals on the clock. One-oh-two. It was late and the car was cold and getting colder. He wished he were back at the party, back in the wine cellar actually. Back in that impassioned embrace that promised so much. Glen looked up toward the highway. No lights. This was a rare opportunity, and he was afraid. But it was, after all, New Year’s Day – time for resolutions, new beginnings, an improved life. It was now or never.

Glen gingerly placed his left heel on Linda’s stomach, just below her sternum. He increased the pressure then decided he did not want to leave an imprint on her skin. Forensics had gotten so good lately. He reached down, lifted a heavy rubber floormat, and placed it across Linda’s stomach, just below her breasts. He put his heel on the mat, and with all the strength in his coiled body, he pushed his heel into the mat. Linda groaned softly. More pressure. The window was cold on his back. How long can someone live with no oxygen? Three minutes? No, he would wait four minutes. Four minutes would do it. One-oh-three. Only a minute. Christ, clock, keep moving. He felt Linda move and pressed even harder. He thought the window behind him might pop out. One-oh-four. His heart was back to racing. He began to formulate his story. After the crash, he struggled to free himself from the belt. He could see Linda was hurt and she didn’t appear to be breathing. He tried to find a pulse but couldn’t. He tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it did not work. One-oh-five. He closed his eyes and counted slowly to sixty. One-oh-six. Thirty more seconds - just to be sure.

Ever so slowly he relaxed and listened. Silence - no breathing except for his own short gasps. He looked down where Linda now lay dead, eyes open in sightless surprise. It had to look like he tried to save her. He reached down and smeared Linda’s mouth with her own blood then smeared his mouth with the same. He threw the floor mat to the back of the car. With his elbow he struck the window behind him with the force of a desperate man. It bulged out, shattered glass falling on his back. He took a handful and ground it into his scalp until blood came and turned his hair into a sticky mess. Just in time. Flashing blue against the trees signaled the arrival of the police. Glen pushed open the door. He crawled out, the heavy door scraping along his back, and he fell into the snow. He began to stand but thought better of it. Instead, he collapsed to the ground and began to crawl toward the bobbing flashlight beam.

My Situation is Unstable

My situation is unstable, like a cone balanced on its point. I am so comfortable that I can’t feel my skin. I am at perfect thermal equilibrium with my surroundings while simultaneously enjoying a pain free morning. No joint discomfort or other age related feelings. It is weird. I am no longer sure where I leave off and the rest of the world begins. It’s a wonderful feeling though, to feel this good, to not know how big you are. I could be as big as an oak, as small as a bean. My thoughts seem expansive, oversize. Nothing seems impossible because I feel a part of it all, of everything. I have no body so I must be everywhere and everywhere must be here. My spirit leaps and I feel intense joy, like a caged setter freed to the autumn woods and the thrill of the hunt. I am sure this will not last too long and I am right. The air conditioner comes on and the cool breeze from the bedroom duct redefines my edges as I lie here on my bed. I smile and press the back of my hand against my wife’s rump, cool and firm, a pleasant reality. Her soft breathing reassures me. I want to wake her and tell her how, for a few precious seconds, I lost my body, that I know how a soul must feel, but she wouldn’t understand - no one would – well, maybe a dead person - but I only understand that I want to feel that way again and I know that I will. But I am not ready for that now, not for a long time. I have too much to do. I have to get a shower and go to work and walk the dog and make love to my wife. All good and pleasant things.

For the first time in months, I am looking forward to the day. Finally, no problem seems insurmountable, no worry worth the time. I turn on the shower and smile waiting for the hot water to make its way from the basement. This morning it takes just as long as ever, but I do not get impatient. Instead, I focus on the wonderful feeling of the cool water flowing over my wrist. I step in and lather twice, just for the fun of it, just to watch the suds swirl down the drain and smell the hint of the well. When I finish, I linger while the warm cascade erodes what may be left of any pessimistic thought or subconscious dread. I towel off vigorously, seeing the possibilities for the new and improved me that I am planning, that I know I can achieve. Diet, exercise – a new self-discipline – all doable and already begun. All of my long-shelved personal goals and projects now line up and salute, waiting their turn to submit to my inspiration and my energies.

While I shave I marvel at how a few moments in a different place, no, a different state, could bring on this spiritual effervescence. But I do not question it; I do not doubt it. My challenge is to not lose it, and I will not. It feels too good.

My bride stirs, lifts her head, sees me grinning at her in the mirror. What are you grinning at? I am happy. About what? My body disappeared and my soul exploded. It is hard to describe. For a few seconds I felt perfect. Oh honey, you are perfect. The sarcasm slides off. I continue my morning routine.

Downstairs I root in the cupboard for some vitamins I am sure I left years ago. They are gone but I will get fresh ones and take them every day. I do find an old box of Quaker Oats and make myself a bowl of oatmeal. I enjoy the flavor, the warm texture. Heart smart feels good.

My wife clumps down the stairs and chuckles at the oatmeal. She shakes her head and scratches her butt. Must have been some dream she says and opens a Diet Coke. No dream. It was real. All things are possible. What do you want for dinner? I ask. I’ll cook tonight. I’m feeling creative, energetic. Or we could go out. Whatever you wish. Surprise me Romeo. I leave for work.

****

At my office, I spend two hours cleaning the clutter. A new order, things are fresh. I untangle the procrastination pile, sit down and make the phone calls. Old fears are gone and potential conflicts dissolve in the firmness of my voice. Some comment on it, but my voice has not changed, the attitude behind it has.

I work through lunch, not realizing the time. I go to the cafeteria and buy some bottled water and plain yogurt. Hunger feels good for a change. This evening’s workout will be brief but intense. In three weeks I will be up to full intensity, the fat disappearing, muscles and health reappearing. My boss comes up and says he needs to see me before I leave for the day. He has, no doubt, noticed my renewed enthusiasm, perhaps heard from one of the clients I called earlier.

I spend the afternoon organizing my space, planning the week. I stop in my boss’ office on the way out. Come in. Have a seat. I sit, back erect, eye to eye. I might ask for a raise. We need to make some cuts. Sorry. You’ll get a month’s severance. My stomach winces, my face does not. I stand and extend my hand. I understand, I say, but I do not. I turn and leave.

The drive to the gym, so anticipated earlier, is a slog through a bog of renewing self-doubt. But I float on the quicksand, buoyed by the thought of an exercise induced, seratonin high.

In the gym, my immediate troubles give way to the smell of new sweat, the clank of cold iron, the grunts of straining muscle. I start slow, stopping just short of true burn. I want to be sore, but just enough, not in pain. Pain will kill desire and interrupt routine. Inside the squat machine, on the third rep, I feel a slight tic in my lower back. By the time I make the shower I cannot quite stand straight. The spasm is a hot chestnut next to my lower spine.

I struggle to shower, dress, drive home. Struggle to get out of the car and step into the house. Sweat pops out on my forehead as I lean on the breakfast bar dropping my briefcase. It hits the dog. She is sniffing my ankles, tail slicing the air. I kick her away.

A chirping fan belt tells me my wife is home. Her door slams and the garage door grinds its way shut. The mudroom door opens. I try to stand straight. Hi honey. I force a smile. What’s with you? I hurt my back. How? Working out. She hangs her purse on the kitchen chair and kicks the dog away. You’re supposed to start slow. I did. It’s just a muscle spasm. It will be OK. I loosen my tie and take off my sport coat. Sorry about dinner, but I need to ice my back. Can you order a pizza?

My wife orders a pizza and disappears upstairs. I get an icepack from the freezer and sit on my recliner, the cold pack numbing the hot knot in my back. I should tell her that I am unemployed, but I cannot deal with it tonight. Maybe I will never have to deal with it. I have connections. I should get a new job in no time. No, I will wait a few days. I cannot deal with it now.

How you feeling? My wife returns in her baggy sweats. OK. The ice feels good. I’ll be all right. How was your day? Same old shit. The doorbell rings and she retrieves the pizza, fixes herself a plate and settles in front of the TV. I am about to say something but instead I struggle to my feet and get my own dinner. This evening is like so many others. Just more pain.

The day had such potential - like a kitchen match scraping the box, soon to ignite the reserve fuel in my life - the day comes down to this: I lie next to my wife in the dark. She is on her stomach. My back throbs but not bad. The dog snores in her bed. I will sleep later. My hand reaches for its favorite playground. I massage her lower back, gently rubbing the smooth curve of her hips, round and round, up and down. My hand slides down and I squeeze each cheek in turn. Your back hurts, remember? Not too bad. It’s OK when I lie flat. You could get on top. I’m tired. She rolls away and falls asleep.

I lie here waiting. I am not sleepy. My back twitches and my joints ache. I smell of Ben Gay. I am waiting for the feeling. I want it back… tonight. Just like this morning. I am waiting, trying to relax, ignoring my body. It is hot in the bedroom. I can wait. I am a patient man. I think back to this morning – a lifetime away. I want it back. I want my body to go away. I want my spirit set loose again. I want to feel that truth. There is a way. But it is too soon for that. I have tonight. So I wait. But I refuse to wait long.

The Obesity Police - Chapter One

Chapter One

By the time the Obesity Police knocked on Trini’s door he was already in an Obee safe house, this one in the basement of a long abandoned apartment building deep in the burned out section of Old Detroit. He sat alone at an old school desk eating the day’s free lunch - week old doughnuts and stolen Coke. Although the August day was unusually hot and humid, the basement remained cool and comfortable. There were half a dozen other people in the large room. Trini watched them in silence, trying to guess who was an Obee and who was an Indie. It was easy to assume the fat ones were all Obees and the others were Indies, but that wasn’t always true. Trini thought himself an independent even though the Bureau of Body Mass Index considered him at the low end of obesity. There might even be an undercover Rexic in the group. The government had no trouble recruiting the naturally skinny to plump up and spend a year underground trying to infiltrate the Resistance. The food was rich and free, and the money was good - fifty dollars a pound for every tax dodger brought to justice.
Trini dropped a piece of dried pastry to a waiting rat. The rat was as big as a tom cat and seemed as tame. Across the dim room, on the cracked concrete floor, a lumpy sleeping bag undulated briefly, then a loud fart. Seated nearby, a round man dressed in a dirty gray sweat suit rolled to his left, picked up an empty can, rolled back to his right, and threw the can at the gassy bag. “Pig,” he grunted.
Trini smiled and stretched back in his seat. He read the walls. The plentiful graffiti spoke to the age of this hideaway. Usually a busted den got scrubbed and painted, erasing the anti-government slogans. But Old Detroit was one of a handful of places in America where the Obesity Police still got shot and killed. “Fry the Lard Levy!” “Repeal the Blubber Bill!” “Fat & Proud.” “Butts & Guts = tons of power!” The letters wept hardened white paint.
Cigarette smoke curled around two bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. They got their power from a series of extension cords which looped along the rafters and disappeared up the stairwell. In one corner a McDonald’s bag sat precariously on a full trash can. Nearby someone had arranged forty ounce beer bottles like bowling pins. The place smelled of bad habits.
Trini was expecting the Obesity Police ever since he had refused to pay his Fat Tax, and by doing so had joined the million or so other citizens protesting the government intrusion into personal lifestyles. He was notified of the neighborhood sweep by several sympathizers, who, although they paid their taxes, still aided those who civilly disobeyed. He had grabbed his pre-packed bag and made the safe house within an hour.
“What are ‘Butts and Guts’?”
Trini opened his eyes. A slim, young woman stood next to his desk, a puzzled look on her face. Her hair was neat and short. She wore clean jeans, a white top and new cross trainers. She looked down at Trini. “Do you know?”
Trini straightened up in his seat and looked in her eyes. She seemed sincere and perhaps young enough not to remember the Butts and Guts.
“They were a Political Action Committee formed to fight the New American Health act. They say politics make strange bedfellows and they were among the strangest. The membership was mainly southern rednecks with beer bellies and northern African-American women of ample proportions. Some newspaper guy called them Butts and Guts and the name stuck. Eventually they adopted the name themselves, and they got a lot of TV time, but of course it didn’t matter. The fat tax hit them hard.” Trini got up and stuck out his hand. “Trinity Fogwalker. Call me Trini.”
“Emily Barr. Pleased to meet you.” Emily looked around. “This place is creepy.”
“You obviously don’t pay any Fat Tax. What are you doing here?” Trini began to suspect she might be a bad actor Rexic. “Government send you?”
“Oh, heavens no. I came looking for someone.” Emily dug in her purse and handed a slip of paper to Trini. “Would you know him?”
Trini read the name. “What do you want him for?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“Well he’s dead. Heart attack about a month ago.”
Emily took the paper back and put it back in her purse. “Oh,” she said and began to leave.
“If you tell me what kind of help you need maybe I can suggest someone else. Or maybe I can help.” He didn’t want her to leave. She was a good looking woman. “Let me walk you out anyway.” He caught up to her by the stairs and followed her up to the first floor and into the heat. The clouds were thin today and Trini squinted in the sudden brightness. “How did you get here?”
Emily looked up and down the broken street. The only vehicle sat on its rims amidst shattered glass, stripped of anything of value. Two flabby teens careened by on their power boards. Trini couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls. “The cab driver said he’d hang around for a while,” Emily said.
“He lied. You’ll have to walk out to Eight Mile to find a cab. They don’t come down here anymore.”
Emily flipped open her personal communicator and stared at the display. “No signal. Why can’t I get a signal?”
“Mega-Tel quit fixing the cell towers in Old Detroit. The power cables were ripped out for the copper. They went to solar but the arrays were always shot out within days. That’s why the safe house is safe. No cops, no Obesity Police.”
Emily turned and started walking. “That’s south. You want north,” Trini said. She did an about face then stopped and looked at Trini.
“You don’t look like you belong here either,” she said.
“I’m on the low end of the chart and I refuse to pay the Tax. The O. P. were doing a sweep of my neighborhood so I came here until things cool down.” Trini walked to the curb and kicked at a gone-to-seed dandelion growing through a sidewalk crack. The small puffs didn’t get far in the still air. “Chunk was a good guy.”
“Chunk?”
“Jim Nagy. The guy you were looking for. Everyone called him Chunk. Had a heart of gold. Then it stopped. But, hell, most people down here are good people. Most would help you. Me included. You must be desperate or dumb to come down here alone. Most people doesn’t mean all people. There are some bad eggs around.”
“I guess I’m a little of both,” Emily said. “Would you walk me out?”
“Let me grab my back pack.” Trini disappeared into the building and was back in thirty seconds.

They walked in silence, north on John R, past the stained facades of abandoned buildings, long the symbol of the failed economy and withered entrepreneurial spirit. It was three miles to Eight Mile road and the closer they got, the more signs of commerce began to appear. Pedestrians, cars, trucks, and even an occasional bicycle, grew more numerous as Trini walked Emily out of Old Detroit.
“Can I buy you a beer?” Trini asked.
“Is it safe?” Emily surveyed the street.
“Sure. Nobody here has anything any more so nobody mugs anybody. There’s a decent little bar in the next block. Quiet and cheap.”
Like most of the storefronts, the Ten Commandments Bar & Grill had bricks where the windows once were. Inside it was dim and smelled of stale smoke and old grease, with a faint touch of urinal cakes thrown in. The bar and decor had an 80’s feel about it. A dust-covered mirrored disco ball swayed silently over a small dance floor, now piled with broken chairs and cardboard boxes. Every bar stool had duct tape holding what was left of the cushion in place. The same repair scheme joined the cracked plastic front of a juke box to its dented body. The waist high tables were supported by plastic replicas of the Ten Commandments - round topped stone slabs. Most of them had graffiti added to the original rules. Most were illegible. Some were marginally funny. “Thou shall not kill.” unless it’s profitable. “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife” fuck her instead.
Trini pulled out a stool for Emily. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a small revolver and laid it on the table. “An Old Detroit courtesy,” he said. Trini motioned to the bartender for two drafts. “Labatts.”
The bartender set the mugs down. “Eight bucks.”
Trini reached for his wallet, but Emily put her hand on his. “I got this. You’re doing me a favor.” She pulled a ten out of her purse and waved the barkeep away.
“Thanks,” said Trini.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for walking with me.” Emily sipped her beer. “That’s loaded, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
The bar wasn’t air-conditioned but the lack of windows kept the temperature reasonable. Trini and Emily were the only patrons. Casa Blanca fans rotated slowly overhead. An occasional slap signaled the death of another fly that wandered too close to the bartender’s defended territory.
“How did you find the safe house?” Trini asked.
Emily turned her stool back to face Trini. She had been studying the eclectic mix of wall hangings. “I bribed a little fat kid on Eight Mile. Then I promised the cab driver a triple fare."
"Who gave you Chunk's name?"
"My parents," Emily said. "They met him at the Farms. They said I should talk to him before I visited them again. They didn't say why.”
Trini half smiled. “Thinking of signing up? The billboards scream for new tenants.”
“I don’t want to live on a Farm. I just want to visit my parents.”
“Have you been out there before? They aren’t prisons. People come and go all the time...I think.”
“I visited them last year. Visitors are all given a super sales pitch to try to get them to join their relatives. Besides, have you ever heard of anyone leaving a Farm once they've signed up? It was the weirdest experience of my life. I don't want to go back alone. Now I won’t even know what that Chunk guy might have told me.”
Trini looked at her wedding band. “Won’t your husband go?”
Emily blushed. “I’m not married. I just wore it for safety.”
“Wouldn’t work down here.” Trini gave the barkeep another ten. “What was so weird about the Farms?”
“It was almost like stepping into a cartoon. Too fake. Too perfect.”
“Were your folks happy?”
“They said they were. And they seemed sincere. But I left with an empty feeling. More than just the pain of saying goodbye. I don’t know. They looked great - fit and fat - obviously. They were due for harvesting soon, which they both looked forward to. It earns them some sort of bonus food points or something. It’s all so disgusting, but it was the Farms or a really destitute old age for them.”
“Well, yeah. The whole concept is unbelievable. President Garcia was some kind of mad genius. He took an obese, lazy-ass, energy starved country and did what no one had imagined possible - convert the fat to fuel and make millions of people, not only be a source of diesel fuel, but love doing it. Work a little, eat a lot, give up your fat. Pay your Fat Tax with real fat. Jesus.”
“My parents weren’t obese and they certainly weren’t lazy.” Emily glared at Trini. “In fact, they joined as non-harvested - just workers - until their infirmities forced them into the non-mobile class. Then there is no choice.”
“I’m sorry. I just get a little crazy every time I think of people being used as a crop. I know that a lot of people join who are neither fat nor lazy. Just down and out due to a government that quit giving a shit about most of its citizens.” Trini finished his beer and motioned for another.
“Did this Chunk guy ever talk about what it was like living there?” Emily had calmed down.
“He loved the beer and burgers, but the ‘milking machines’ - his name for the liposuction needles - scared the shit out of him. Walked right out of his first harvesting. That put him immediately into arrears on his taxes. Joined the Resistance and managed to lose weight to boot. But it was too late to save him.”
“I didn’t think you could just walk out,” Emily said.
“I suspect there was more to it than Chunk let on. I know there are conditions that have to be met before they’ll let a person leave.”
“I know. I checked into getting my parents out. Didn’t tell them. According to the government I don’t have the resources to let them live with me. I doubt they’d leave anyway.” Emily pushed her second beer toward Trini. “Can you finish this?”
Trini finished his and downed hers. He muffled a burp and stood up. The pistol went back in his pants. Emily slid off her stool and picked up her purse. Trini waved to the bartender and opened the door into the city heat. Twenty years ago it would have been an Ozone Action day. Now it was just another smoggy summer afternoon - tough breathing for any thing with lungs.

* * * *
They reached Eight Mile Road and turned west looking for a taxi. Trini didn’t want to see Emily leave and he had just about convinced himself to ask if she wanted him to accompany her on her trip to the Farms. There was the risk of getting caught. If you didn’t pay your tax with money you paid it in fat. At Jail Farm you either did Patriot Labor until your BMI was 20 or you ate ten meals a day hoping your first harvest would square you up with Uncle Sam. The work didn’t scare him; he could make weight in thirty days or so. His opposition to the whole system was too great to give in. Working to make the Resistance an organized entity with political power was a full time job. He didn’t care to spend any time at Jail Farm. Too, part of him knew that he may not be strong enough to leave once the high fructose corn syrup kicked in.
“Would you like me to go with you?” Trini asked.
Emily stopped and flipped open her communicator. She looked at the display then closed it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m afraid you’d find me bad company.”
“Well I haven’t so far,” Trini said.
A white cab pulled up to the curb next to them. The driver got out and nodded to Emily. “He’s got a gun,” she said.
Trini spun around and was struck with an immobilizing dart. He collapsed on the hot concrete, eyes locked to the smiling Emily.

A Dream in Big Moon - Chapter One

Chapter One

Marne Brint awoke warm, wet and ready. She slammed the snooze button and fought the urge to slip her hand into her pajama bottom. The ringing cell phone of her dream was just the damn alarm, waking her at an unlucky moment; a moment she wanted to get back to. Marne lay still, breathing fast, surprised at the pace of her heart. She couldn’t remember the last wet dream she’d had, but then she couldn’t remember the last time she and Jerry had sex. Or made love. But he would be home tonight. Back off the road again after another two week sales trip. Marne could wait another twelve hours and let her anticipation gather momentum as the last Sunday (the last day!) of the Minnesota winter ticked away. Still she wished she had never set the alarm.

She stared at the ceiling, dim in the diffuse light of the March morning. She spent a millisecond feeling the guilt of sin. Then it was guilty pleasure as she reflected on the sexy dream and the fact that her subconscious lover wasn’t Jerry at all, but Cole Black. No surprise there. Cole had been on her mind a lot these past few weeks.

She smiled as she rolled out of bed. Dreams are always weird but she wished hers hadn’t included a large oak tree with cell phones for leaves, that decided to ring right before...well, it was coitus almostus. She tossed her blue flannel pajamas on the bed and wondered what it would be like to sleep in the nude again, like she did when she and Jerry were young lovers, getting to know the ins and outs of their bodies and desires. She thought the pajamas came on when her belly swelled with her first child.

Her pillow head hair-do disappeared under the hot jets of the shower. She washed herself with only her hands and the bar of cucumber Dove. Her hands ran over her breasts, still okay despite 46 years of gravity, but then she really didn’t have any breasts to speak of until she was 14 so that would make it 32 years of gravity...Jesus, her newly acquired technical education was affecting even her simplest thoughts. Then down her flat stomach, the victim of thousands of sit-ups at her gym, which she had named “Our Lady of Perpetual Youth.” She adjusted the water temperature down just a little and arched her face into the pulsing flow. Now her hands slid over her hips to her butt - her best feature according to Jerry. She wondered if Cole was an “ass man”. Then she wondered why she wondered that.

There was enough daylight to set her solar chime tinkling in the bedroom window. The thick warm towel felt good as she dried her black hair. She thought the gray at her temples gave her an air of wisdom and authority. She wished she hadn’t dyed it for her interview a month ago.

In the kitchen the clock on the digital weather station said 6:45 a.m., outdoor temperature 29° Fahrenheit, indoor 71°, wind out of the SSW at 7 mph, barometer rising. The weather station was a BI product. During her interview at Black Industries she had commented on the one in Cole Black’s office, and when he escorted her on a tour of the factory he had taken one from the stock shelves and gave it to her as a gift. “Batteries included,” he had said.

The coffee was done dripping when she returned from the curb with the Sunday paper. She sat at the granite breakfast bar instead of the oak kitchen table with the four empty chairs. Her seat had always been the one facing the patio door. Jerry sat across from her. Jenny sat to her left, Brad to her right. The number of sit down family meals decreased at an exponential rate as the children got older and Jerry’s sales job required more time out of town. This past year’s Christmas dinner was the last she could remember. Marne retrieved a pad of paper and a pen from a kitchen drawer and made a list of the things she needed for the romantic evening she had planned.

A good Cabernet, home made lasagna, fresh greens – a meal that always seemed to finish with sex for dessert. Jerry used to call it her sex initiation, or foreplay, dinner. If he called today she would mention it, giving him time to anticipate the post dinner treat. Marne finished her list and poured herself another cup of coffee. Over a bowl of Grape Nuts and skim milk, she read the Sunday paper.

* * *

In the pasta aisle at Sven’s Market, Marne studied the lasagna noodle selection. She preferred a meatless, spinach recipe with whole wheat pasta, but Jerry liked it with meat and traditional noodles. She went traditional, not wanting to give him anything to bitch about..

“Marne, how are you?” Annie Mott, her bleached blonde hair pulled tight in a pony tail, rolled her cart next to Marne’s.

“Hi Annie. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Good. Missed you at the meeting Thursday. The Big Moon Friends of the Arts isn’t the same without you.”

“I’ll be back. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Getting ready for the new job, no doubt.” Annie looked in Marne’s cart. “I buy frozen dinners, cheap wine and beer and you have ten buck chuck and the fixings for a home made meal. What’s the occasion?”

“Jerry’s getting in this evening. He’s been out of town again, another two weeks on the east coast, and I thought I’d surprise him with his favorite meal.”

“Two weeks? I think the dessert may only last a minute.” Annie winked at her long time friend. “Remember, if it takes him a while to get off, he’s been getting it on the road.”

Marne gave Annie a look, then checked to see if anyone was in earshot. “Annie, I have no reason to suspect he’s been unfaithful. He’s usually very attentive after his business trips.”

“You told me once he fell asleep watching the Vikings after one of his trips.”

“That was a while ago and just once.”

“Have you invested in a battery powered buddy yet?”

“A what?”

Annie put her hand on Marne’s shoulder, narrowed her eyes and, in a stage whisper, “A vibrator.”

Marne fought off a blush to no avail. “No. And I’m not about to.” She thought of her dream this morning. “Who uses those things anyway?”

“Single women, married women – northern Minnesota women. Why do you think battery sales skyrocket here in the winter? What’s a gal to do when her man is perched over a hole on a frozen lake trying to catch a fucking walleye when it’s ten below and she gets the urge to merge?”

Marne rearranged the items in her cart. She looked up at Annie and smiled. “I could have used one this morning.”

“Oh?”

“I had an...um...interesting dream about Cole Black.”

“Do tell. What happened? Was he good?”

“Unfortunately my alarm went off before I did.”

“Damn. But lucky you anyway. I only daydream about him. You didn’t feel guilty did you?”

“For about a second. I really wish I hadn’t set the alarm. Anyway, what’s it like working for him?” Marne moved her cart to the side of the aisle.

“Black Industries is great. Cole treats people really well. The hard part, for me at least is concentrating on work when Cole walks by. I keep thinking how nice it would be to be invited into his office and have him lock the door, turn me over his desk and have his way with me.”

“That your favorite position for a quickie?” Marne teased.

“Not really. He could take me any way he wanted. I just don’t look my best grinning ear to ear.”

“I thought he was married.”

“Divorced two years now. If he’s serious about anyone he’s keeping it a pretty good secret. I’ve got my feelers out but no one seems to know if he’s seeing anyone. Hey, I remember you had a crush on him in high school.”

“Who didn’t? I don’t think he knew I existed. I had some interesting freshman fantasies about several of the senior jocks.”

“Didn’t we all.” Annie sighed. “So tomorrow you start, huh?”
“Yes, and I’m really nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’ll do fine.”

* * *

Jerry’s plane was due in at six. He should walk in the door at about seven. Marne washed the romaine and dried each leaf with a paper towel before breaking them into a clear glass bowl. The lasagna noodles were done and she assembled the entrée with care. Their favorite red, two bottles, sat on the patio cooling to cellar temperature. Marne put new candles in the dining room candleholders. Earlier she had cleaned the family room and washed the rugs and throws. They still made love in front of the gas log fireplace on special occasions and Marne thought tonight qualified.

Everything seemed perfect for a night of passion, or at least twenty minutes. The telephone rang as Marne slid the lasagna into the oven. She smiled when she picked up her phone and saw it was Jerry. “Hi honey.”

“Hello Marne.”

“You didn’t call me all day. I was getting worried.”

“Had to spend the day with a customer. You know how it goes sometimes.”

“Did your plane get in on time? Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

The phone went silent for several seconds. “I’m still in New York, Marne.”

“What? Why? What happened?” Marne’s voice rose with the gut punch of disappointment.

Again Jerry was silent for a moment. “I won’t be coming home tonight. I won’t be coming home at all. I want a divorce.”

Surviving Evil Editor

I submitted a query letter to Evil Editor for his unique critique. Facelift 143 if you are interested.
I appreciated the rewrite as well as some of the comments. I will use this experience to rework the query as well as parts of the novel.

Growing thicker skin

It comes with each new rejection. Here's the latest:

Thanks for sending me the chapters. While I enjoyed them very much and think your writing is strong, ultimately I just didn’t feel passionately enough about them to justify taking this on at this time. The market is so competitive that I have to really fall in love with an author’s work in order to do it justice and I’m afraid that just didn’t happen here, much as I hoped it might.

I wish you the best of luck in finding another agent and getting your work published.