What To Know And Bring

edited by Cristina

for Two Bears Press:

***Cora***

Update Spring 06: This story just won $2000 & publication!

Zero Visibility

Her body avalanches toward me and I feel myself pulling away.  

            "Come on," I say.   "Mom's waiting."

         Mother sits at the kitchen table in her Egyptian print dress, calligraphic males and females stacked in levels like an ant farm.   She bought the fabric originally for curtains but father said they were too thin for curtains and two months later they had become a dress.   "Does she always dress like that?"

"Almost."

Mother reaches her arms around me and ignores Caroline, who folds her hands and waits.   "It's very pleasant to meet you," she says.

Father doesn't believe in God and mother's jury's out.   They sit at the kitchen table passing Camels back and forth, speculating about the neighbors.   "I think they're growing pot over there."   She points to a florescent window.   "And I bet all those big envelopes are kiddy porn."  

            "Mom," I say.   "They're artists."

Art and Anthony have lived across the street for twenty years in the same two bedroom as my parents, only yellow.   There are rusty angels on their front lawn and horses with metal skeletons that show through the plaster.   Mother is my favorite excuse.   She gets bathrobes for Christmas every year and pats Dad's paunch appreciatively.   "You can't invent parents like yours," Caroline says. Ten blocks west, opalescent water breaks on opalescent shore.   The rocks are black and shark teeth and brown foam froths at the edges.   "In the winter," father says, "I used to throw a ball up in the air and it would disappear."   Out of three hundred and sixty four days a year, Pacifica has one hundred and seventy four days of partial sunshine.   That's how they measure it.   Number of days the sun was seen, like a missing person.

"Abalone," Dad says, knocking a Camel from the pack.  

"There's no smoking in California anymore," I say.  

"Damn hell there's no smoking in California."

The pre-pubescent waiter approaches.   "Sir, I'm sorry - "  

"Nick and I used to smoke right there at the bar.   Do you know who Nick is?"

"Sir, you are a loyal customer, but -"

"And when he started this shithole it was a fine place, waitstaff old enough to have their first erections, you know ..."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but if you don't put out that cigarette -"

"And boy if you don't learn to respect -"

"Okay, Dad, that's enough."   I take the cigarette and stamp it into the bread basket, pull my father up by the elbow.   "Cummon, Dad.   I'll make you a sandwich."

"I don't want a goddamn sandwich, I came for the Abalone."

"We don't serve Abalone anymore, Sir."

"It's endangered, Dad."

"Damn hell it's endangered."

"I am very, very sorry," I say to the waiter, and show my father to the door.   Caroline and mother trail behind.   Dad falls into his corduroy Lay-Z-Boy when we get home and naps with his whiskey on the arm.

to be continued !