Fiction Archives

Her
Karl Voskuil
from  Volume 4 Issue 2

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In the silver bullet diner she picks some dirt from her nails, which reminds me when I was young I ate sand. I tell her so, and she starts biting her fingernails. Then I say most people don't realize the many different varieties and flavors of sand, not to mention the possibilities of dirt, loam, gravel and soil.

One of her friends walks over and starts talking. She blocks my view of the stage, so I say, shut up and go away. The friend says, why, and I say, because you're blocking my view of the stage. She points out that it's intermission. I point out that she is a worthless human being, and that she can't justify the air she sucks or the volume she fills. I say, that's plenty volume because you're so fat that when you go to the beach the tide comes in. Her head droops in shame. I explain to her that her picture in my attic would scare rats, and that her brain energy, if converted to electricity, couldn't toast bread. She says, you're probably right. All this talk of how fat, ugly, and stupid she is reminds me of how slender, beautiful, and smart she is, so then I really start ripping into her. I say, your pathetic search for popularity hides behind a facade of false friendship, and you use your father's money to lure humble people to your waters; they bite a fishhook of envy, then you eat them to increase your suckled ego before vomiting. I tell her she is a self-centered, manipulative, pithy, loathsome bitch. Actually, I don't say any of that. The real story is that the friend walks over during intermission, and she says, hi, and then I say, hi.

I tell her how I take a shower. First I turn the water on warm and then jump in and start washing. By the time I finish my upper body I turn the water hotter. When I'm done washing my legs the water starts steaming, and as my skin gets all pink I give another twist to the hot knob. Rinsing the soap out of my hair is the best part because the water is sohot I can barely take it anymore, and I stand under the spout and my scalp tingles and the water plows furrows down my face along the taut edges of my open mouth: Little rivulets of wet heat. I explain to her that I keep turning the water hotter each time I get comfortable. She nods as I talk and she looks over my shoulder at the big old clock tower in the food court. Our bench is bolted down in the mall near the food court, and she finishes her hot dog while I'm talking. Mine is barely eaten and I keep thinking she doesn't know what I'm talking about.

She looks interested so I try to think of something entertaining. I say, I had a dog once. Then I explain his name was Woof.

I wash my dishes by hand with the blue dishrag and accidentally rinse myself down the drain. That's how it happens in the dream. She asks, what happens then. I tell her I slide a long way because of the slime and the water— past the bend in the pipe and down into the basement. I slide underground and find a hidden city made of things washed down drains. The king takes a liking to me and appoints me duke. He wants me to stay, but after I persuade him I must return home he helps me back up to the bend in the pipe, and then tells me I'm on my own. I try to climb up but keep sliding down like Sisyphus. I get really tired but I try once more. At the very top I almost fall again but I grab hold of the blue dishrag and clamber out of the sink. She says, was that the whole dream, and I say no, in the dream I finish doing the dishes. She never washes dishes by hand so she thinks this kind of thing can't happen.

I think about the time when I was eight and kicked out the wooden legs of a man on stilts. I decide not to tell her about it.

I tell her some of the square roots I know. Her eyebrow arch like little rising bananas, so I remind her that bananas can be dangerous. I was almost killed by a banana while running an errand. Walking home from the store I checked behind me and saw a giant, mutant, heat-seeking banana. I heaved clear my bag of bagels and sprinted away; the banana glided close behind. I thought I had lost the amber bastion of doom at Westchester and Monroe, but as I leaned panting against a wooden slat fence the banana skidded around the corner and we were off again. When I couldn't run anymore I turned to face it, and my heart faltered at the sound of its battle screech. We went eleven rounds. Just when I thought I would buckle, the yellow banshee tried to reverse-stem plunge-slam and I saw my chance. With my last strength I dove to the side and the banana entombed itself two feet in the ground. Now whenever I go by that place and see the banana tree, I touch the bark and resolve never to underestimate fruit. I tell her she should never underestimate fruit, either.

Sometimes signs make me remember things. I saw a sign on the road that said REDUCED SPEED 30 AHEAD and it reminded me of my father. Once when he was driving, my father saw a sign like that, so he counted how many were in the car— me, ma, sis, and him: four— and then multiplied four heads times thirty miles per hour. He figured we had to slow down one hundred and twenty miles per hour. But we were only going fifty-five miles per hour in the first place, so we turned around. When we got home we called grandma and told her we couldn't make it that year.

One of her friends passes us walking down the hall. The friend says, greetings, and we say, hi. When he passes out of hearing I ask her, what kind of person says greetings. I never say that. He probably wishes he was an English knight galloping around with a sword, swapping off heads. After adventuring he'd return to his castle to sleep between silk sheets; he'd wear his boots in bed, which would irk his wife. She would suppress the rage for years. Then she'd finally go crazy and poison his wine. He'd finish his meat without drinking and his wife would say, don't you want some wine, darling, and he'd say, it's funny but I don't quite feel like wine tonight, dear. One of the serfs would die after cleaning up the table, which would arouse his suspicions. After a year the repeated assassination attempts would drive him from his own house. He would go adventuring and die searching for holy grails, and she would start up a used book store. As we continue walking down the hall, I stop talking for a second, pondering. Then I tell her maybe I'll start saying greetings to people.

The answer is: So that it reads forward in your rear view mirror. She can't figure out the question and she pretends to be distracted by the cashier, who forgets the coupon for the potato. I'm eager to leave the supermarket— our shopping cart squeaked and chased its tail all the way from the celery aisle to the frozen duck-sausage aisle. Near the parsnips I had suggested we become shopping-cart Kevorkians and provide it with a ratchet set, but she told me no. I compromised and suggested leaving the cart on someone's porch with a note saying, Please Love Me I'm an Orphan. She said no again, and I realized she hadn't really considered the alternatives.

I say, if you could be any kind of ball, what kind of ball would you be? Her eyes flicker up from her cards. She puts them on the ground, to let her thoughts come out better, which is lucky for her because I held four kings. She says, I don't know. Then she says, maybe a beach ball. I respond, not bad but not good enough. I would be a ping pong ball, and I would crack the first time someone hit me; then I could go hang out for a long, long time with my garbage-friends in a land-fill. There'd be Mr. Tomato Paste Can, and Mrs. Coffee Grounds. I tell her all this, but I don't tell her about Miss Plastic Wrap. Then I get excited and yell, damn the recycling. She glances around and picks up her cards again.

The question is: Why is the word ambulance spelled backwards on the hood of ambulances? I think she is stumped so I tell her. She says, oh, okay, that makes sense.

In the morning I wake up and congeal out of bed. Sugar in the morning tastes good; I fetch a cookie and pinch it between my teeth while getting dressed, trying not to drool. While I step into my pants I bite into the cookie, which is a mistake because my lips can't hold it and the cookie flops to the ground. I finish dressing and crouch to pick it up, but then a thought stops me. I pretend to be a microbe. My only desire in life, my only need: food. Someone drops a cookie on me, and I attain true bliss; a cookie is a galaxy of gold. If someone took that cookie away after teaching me ecstasy, I would be devastated and probably suicidal. I stop pretending to be a microbe and stand up to get breakfast. I leave the cookie on the floor. Later that day I come back and eat half the galaxy.

I tell her I had a dog once. Then I explain his name was Woof. She nods, and then says, wait, you already told me that. I say, I know. This year Mad Farmer Yudderstoch took all his leftover seed from three crops and put it in a bag. He walked the rows of a field with his head tilted back, flinging seed in the air so that it rained down around him. Now, in the field, wheat, rye and corn rise together. She and I go there, and she stands watching while I lie on my back and make grain-angels.

Suddenly I realize I don't know what playing card she is, so I ask her. She stops dribbling the ball and says she doesn't know. I say, okay, what playing card do you think I am. After a small hesitation she says, jack of spades. I say, are you kidding. I get angry and leave her so I can be alone for a while. I'd never be one of those filthy jacks. They're always hanging out together and smoking those vile cigars while they whisper evil plots. It's us sevens that have kept things in line for so long, and if we hadn't the kings and queens would probably be fours and fives. Someday the sevens will find their voice. The sixes can be relied on to give support to the Cause, and the threes— except the three of diamonds, of course— are up for anything; the sticky point is convincing the eight of clubs. He's a key player. Thinking about the revolution lessens my anger, and as I become more reasonable I'm happy that she knew I was a spade, not a pouty diamond, obnoxious club, or wimpy heart.

She says, I love you. I say, I love you too but sometimes I don't understand you.

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