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Courtney McEunn was born in Interlachen, Florida and raised in Lawton, Oklahoma. She received her BA in English at Cameron University and is currently a first year MFA Creative Writing (fiction) candidate at Oklahoma State University. Her work has previously been published in The Gold Mine and The Cameron Collegian Newspaper.
About Last Night
“So... how’s the steak?”
This is the sixth generic question he’s asked me since we’ve sat down for dinner.
For the past three weeks, he’s been blowing up my phone, begging me to go on a date
with him. I’ve been trying to avoid him, hoping he would take a hint and give up.
He hasn’t.
“Just give him a chance. How bad could it be?” My roommate’s voice played in my head.
Yeah, how bad could it be?
As bad as this, apparently. How is the wine? How was the appetizer? Is it cold in here to
you? The questions kept coming, and not one was intelligent or worthy enough for further
conversation.
At one point I got up to use the restroom, which was actually a ploy to call my roommate
and beg her to save me.
“Samantha,” she sighed my name over the phone. “It’s been almost two years. You have
to start putting yourself out there. You gotta give it a shot.”
She sounded sorry for me, as if it were my fault this man is talking to me as if he’s never
spoken to a woman in his life.
“Fine,” I told her. “I’ll keep trying.”
“Atta girl!” She hung up.
I walked back to our table to see that our main course had arrived.
“Did you have a good bathroom break?” He asked as I sat down in my seat.
I wanted to punch him in the face. But instead, I forced a smile and said yes.
As we ate out meal, I tried to spark a more meaningful conversation. I asked him what he
does (he’s a full-time student with a trust fund—go figure), if he had a job (of course not), what
is he studying (surprise! It was business) what he does in his spare time (golf) and is he a cat or a
dog person.
“We didn’t have any pets growing up,” he answered in between bites of his chicken
alfredo. “My friends did, though. I found myself liking cats more. I’ve actually been thinking
about adopting one of my own.”
His answer saved the date. I told him about my two cats, one black and one grey, both
adopted from the local animal shelter. He surprisingly asked a lot of questions about them. He
wanted to know what it was like to take care of them, what they did around the house, if they
were mean or nice. We talked about my two babies up until the waiter came back with the check.
My date gave the man his credit card without even glancing at the bill.
“I can cover the tip,” I offered, reaching for my purse.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, flashing his pearly white teeth. “So, what do you have
going on after this?”
I knew where this was headed.
“Not sure yet,” I replied, honestly. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom before we
leave.”
I ran to that bathroom and called my roommate.
“Katy,” I explained the situation. “What do I do?! I told you I should’ve drove myself.
He probably thinks I’m going to go home with him.”
“Then go home with him!” She screamed back at me. “Like I said before, Sam. It’s been
too long. Go enjoy yourself!”
I could hear her boyfriend chuckling in the background.
“Yeah, Sam!” He called from wherever he was in the house. I guess I was on speaker
phone. “You better not come back here tonight.”
Katy giggled. “You’ll be fine! I’ve heard a lot about him; he’s a lot better in the bedroom
than most. You deserve it!”
“Plus,” she continued, “I have your location and you can call if you need rescuing. You’ll
be completely safe.”
I sighed. “Okay, fine. Fine!”
She started cheering and I hung up. When I got back to the table, my date still had that
stupid grin on his face.
“Did you have a good break?” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”
*
His apartment was ten minutes from the restaurant. He played smooth jazz the whole
ride, which made me laugh.
His apartment complex was one of the nicer ones in town. He parked in the attached
parking garage and hurried to open my door for me. At least he was a gentleman. It didn’t make
me feel as gross about our unspoken plans.
As we took the elevator to his floor, he talked to me about his classes. He was saying
something about how shitty the professor was because he got a C on his paper or something. I
wasn’t really listening.
Each beep of the elevator echoed in my pounding heart, getting wilder the higher we
rose. What am I doing? I thought. This wasn’t me. I didn’t go out with men, nor would I let them
take me home on the first date. I started to second guess my decision when the elevator finally
stopped on floor 7.
Too late now, I thought. He led me down the hall to his room, 714, quickly unlocked the
door and ushered me in.
“My roommates are gone for the weekend,” he told me. “Sorry for the mess, though.”
There was crap everywhere. Open chip and snack bags were littered all over the living
room, empty beer cans were crushed and dumped on the floor, and it looked as if nobody every
took a mop to the hardwood floors.
“I swear it’s their mess,” he quickly defended himself, hands raised in innocence. “When
I moved in, I told them I refused to clean up after grown men. I would never treat my house as a
trashcan, but I won’t be their maid.”
Understandable.
I was inclined to not believe him until we got to his bedroom, which was spotless. First
off, the bed was huge. A king, I’m assuming. The bed was made and had four pillows laying on
top. Four pillows!
There was also a corner desk that was neat and tidy with a stack of documents and
textbooks placed carefully on top. He had a giant TV mounted on the wall in front of the bed
with a dresser placed below it.
“I almost didn’t believe you about the mess,” I told him candidly.
He huffed a laugh and came closer to me.
It wasn’t until he laid me down on the giant bed that smelled of lavender that I realized I
didn’t remember his name. I tried to recall his profile from the dating app we connected on, but I
came up blank.
Oh well.
*
The next morning, I jolted awake to what sounded like the front door slamming shut. I
was startled for a second, trying to remember where I was. When the memories of last night’s
date—and other stuff—came back to me, I swelled with a bit of pride. I finally did it. After
almost two years, I finally let myself relax and have a good time. While the events of last night
weren’t too satisfying, I was proud I took the leap. I carefully climbed out of bed to find my
clothes and dress myself. My phone was still in my jeans and was flooded with a million texts
from Katy.
Katy
SAMANTHA!!!
CODE RED CODE RED
YOU ARE NOT WITH JUSTIN!
He just posted a picture at a bar in Seattle with his friends
Did you not look at his pictures before the date?!
Hello???
Sam, please answer!
My heart dropped to the floor. There were more texts and missed calls from her, but they
all sounded the same. I slowly turned and looked at the man in the bed. Then I looked back at
Justin’s profile pictures. They looked similar. I was confused on what was going on.
Then, the bedroom doorknob jiggled. It was locked, but someone was trying to get in.
“Hey!” The voice called on the other side. “Jacob, are you in there?!”
Jacob? My heart was pounding, and I thought I was going to throw up. Who the hell did I
go out with last night?
I heard a key slip through the lock and a second later the door swung open. The real
Justin stood in the entryway, frozen and starting right at me. I was standing by the edge of the
bed, holding my breath. The two men—Justin and Jacob—did look alike. Brothers probably.
“Who the hell are you?” Justin asked.
“I-” I couldn’t think of how to explain myself.
“Why are you in my room?” He was yelling at me, as if I was supposed to know what
was going on.
Jacob stirred. When he rolled over and saw Justin, he jumped up.
“Justin! I mean, er-” He tried to catch himself, as if I hadn’t figured out he wasn’t the real
Justin.
“Someone please tell me what the hell is going on!” I finally shouted. I needed to go.
“Samantha, let me explain,” Jacob sloppily climbed out of bed, tripping over himself as
he searched for his clothes while covering his junk.
I took that as my chance to run. I grabbed my purse and phone, slipped around Justin, and
hurried to the front door.
“Sam!” Jacob called after me.
I made it to the hall and ran towards the elevator. He caught up to me before I could even
press the “down” button.
“Please, let me explain. I’m sorry,” he started rambling. “Justin is my twin brother. He’s
got his life together, you know. I knew you’d like him better than me. He was supposed to be
gone all weekend; I didn’t know.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
I laughed in his face. I couldn’t help it. The first time in years I let myself go out with a
guy, this is what happened. I should’ve known.
I kept laughing, bending over to try and catch my breath. He looked both concerned and a
bit relieved, as if my laughter meant that this whole thing was okay.
“So... are you good? I’m so sorry.”
“You,” I said between my laughter, “are insane.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. I quickly got in and repeatedly pressed the
button for the first floor.
As the doors closed between us, he looked into my eyes and said, “did you have a good
time, at least.”
Babak Movahed received both a Bachelor and Master’s degree in American Literature. He defined the type of writer he wanted to become by examining the prose of writers like Hemingway, Faulkner, and Baldwin. Additionally, he received his first publication credit after an original short story was published by his university’s literary magazine. Babak still writes creatively in his free time. His recent works have been published in the The Hungry Chimera, The Blue Mountain Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Allium, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Blue as an Orange, and Table/FEAST.
Neighbors
It was a Tuesday, and like every Tuesday for the past 124 Tuesdays, Phil Larsen watered the
small yard in front of his unit. The gardener of the complex did this task every Friday, but Phil
didn’t trust the gardener’s work because Phil didn’t trust the gardener. She never expressed her
suspicions, but the landlord assumed Phil’s need to do the gardener’s job had something to do
with either a love of gardening or racism. The gardener was Salvadorian, and Phil was a 76-year-
old white man. Phil Larsen didn’t care for gardening, nor was he a racist.
The landlord was descending the steps leading to the two units on the bottom floor of the
complex. The unit directly next to Phil’s had been empty for some time, and despite the
landlord’s efforts, she couldn’t find a suitable or willing renter. Phil heard the landlord talking to
someone. He wanted desperately to avoid eye contact and the subsequent pleasantry of “hi,
how’s it going?” Phil shuffled behind the large oak tree nestled in the center of the yard to give
the façade of watering some hidden away shrub.
Despite his effort, the landlord shouted, “Hey Phil, come meet these prospective neighbors.”
Phil’s throat swelled up and his palms became sweaty. Who are these people? Why are they
looking at this complex of all places? Oh God! Maybe they’re thieves looking for a low security
apartment to rob! Phil was so absorbed in his paranoid speculation he didn’t notice the out
stretched hand of the young man. He was some kind of Middle Eastern, presumably given his
thick beard and dark features. The Middle Eastern was accompanied with what Phil determined
to be his girlfriend, a fair skinned white woman with bright red hair. A cascade of judgmental
thoughts poured through Phil’s mind as he reached out to shake the Middle Eastern’s hand. He
didn’t introduce his name though; it was too soon for that. The landlord and the couple walked
into the empty unit, and Phil distinctly noticed a smirk, grin, or sly smile come across the Middle
Eastern’s face as he closed the door.
Moving day, and of course, the young couple had too many things and too many people helping
them move. There were people coming and going across Phil’s yard for hours. He wasn’t able to
go out and water, which deeply irritated him. The young couple seemed louder too. Phil was able
to hear their hushed conversations through their shared wall. He couldn’t make out what they
were saying, but he was sure it was nothing good, and even guessed that they were talking about
him. Phil thought there was something concerning in the way that man looked at him. It felt like
he was eyeing me down, trying to get into my head.
As Phil was tapping the side of his head with his index finger, there came a knock at his door.
The air was still, and the echo of the knock resounded throughout Phil’s apartment.
The terrifying realization occurred that perhaps the young couple had been eavesdropping on
Phil. Rational thinking dictated that this was a ludicrous belief given that Phil was not saying
anything aloud to be eavesdropped upon. However, Phil’s neurosis was getting the best of him,
and although it didn’t overtake his entire mind, it did enough to make Phil sweat profusely.
There was a second round of knocking at the door, which stirred Phil back to the reality of the
situation. I have to answer the door, but if I don’t maybe they’ll just go away, Phil persuaded
himself. Unfortunately, he mechanically stepped to the door and swung it open with his best
attempt at a welcoming smile.
“Hi! My name is Renee. You probably remember my boyfriend and I from last week. Clearly,
we fell in love with this complex, which is why we wanted to move in as soon as possible.
Annette told us that you help upkeep the garden. It looks great, again so much so, it forced our
hand to move in here. I love gardening too, so if there’s anything I can do to help out, I’d be
more than happy to. I guess I’ll start off by just putting out a few potted plants on our patio to
match the vibe of the garden...”
The young lady continued to talk about planting something or the other, but Phil wasn’t totally
sure. Phil couldn’t shake the feeling that she was sizing him up, taking quick mental notes on the
details of his apartment. She must’ve memorized the layout of the couch, TV, work desk, and
who knows how much more. She’ll likely report this back to her boyfriend. Instinctively, Phil
started closing his door, but remained still in the open part of the frame.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to keep you! I’m just excited about moving in is all and just started
going. Anyways, I wanted to give you these cookies as a gift.”
Phil reached down and took the tray of cookies.
“Thank you.”
Every day of the week, at the beginning of every hour Phil was awake, he made some
rearrangement to his apartment. The pattern became fairly consistent after the first day; focus on
the larger items first, move them very slowly as to not make a racket, shift to smaller pieces of
furniture in the afternoons, and spend the evening moving small items and decorations.
Phil was meticulous about the process, but never the placement of the items. On his first go at
strategic decorating (a term Phil coined to relay both the action and its purpose; this was not for
pleasure, but for protection) Phil essentially flipped his entire apartment. The result was
impressive for an elderly gentleman. Although initially elated, Phil noticed an obvious flaw in
his design. Those young hoodlums have already found out that I was going to shift things
around, Phil thought. They knew! I’m sure of it! I saw the way the girl was scheming. Pretending
to be friendly. Blabbering on about gardening to... to gain my trust. That must have been it!
Distract me and get me to trust her, only so she could case the joint. They must be planning on
something.
Phil’s confidence in his neighbors’ “casing” abilities, forced him to be more cunning about his
rearrangement routine. The strategic decorating had to be somehow different each go. After
completing each round, Phil’s apartment became more and more of a nonsensical hodgepodge of
furniture and knickknacks. The odd assortment of objects each held a significant ulterior
meaning personal to Phil. A collectable set of state spoons Phil purchased on Flag Day. A
specific style and design of each MLB team’s baseball caps from 1983; Phil’s lucky year. His
stockpile of oddities wasn’t exactly like a hoarder’s, but Phil’s obsessive attachments and need
for personal comfort was just as concerning. His carefully curated home resembled Peewee’s
Playhouse, but with less childlike whimsy.
By the end of the evening a full week later, Phil had to shuffle around numerous obstacles (some
of which, like his collection of crystal crosses, were placed directly on the floor, a potentially
dangerous and effective booby trap) to get to his kitchen. The bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom
remained intact, mostly because there was no way those nosy neighbors were able to see into
those rooms. Phil always kept his blinds shut.
Although the strategic decorating was finished for the night, Phil had one precaution left to
finish. He stepped over to the countertop where a box of blue latex gloves was next to the tray of
cookies Renee delivered last week. The cookies were untouched with the exception of one. Phil
removed two fresh pair of gloves from the box and snapped them on as if entering an operating
room. He grabbed the half-destroyed cookie and snapped off a small piece.
“Skittles! Skittles! Come here boy!” Phil called out.
He waited a few minutes but gave up on the hope that his cat would come when it was being
called. Surprisingly, Skittles was even more distrusting than Phil. Skittles was sure that Phil was
trying to poison him. The cat was only partially correct in his assumption. Phil wanted to use
Skittles to test how poisonous the cookies must’ve been. If Skittles were to perish from the laced
cookies, his death would be on the young lady’s hands, not Phil’s. To Phil’s disappointment,
Skittles always refused to eat the piece of cookie.
After running low on daily essentials, Phil needed to restock. However, his mounting paranoia
left him feeling too vulnerable to settle with his usual three-week three-day supplies written
down on legal paper. Traditionally, Walmart would be only store he would visit. The prices were
fair, it had everything he needed, and they were sympathetic to the elderly, an opinion that made
Phil feel safer during his shopping experience. However, he needed bulk canned goods with
extended shelf lives. I’m in this for the long-haul, Phil thought to himself. There was a military
surplus store not particularly far that Phil decided to pay a visit. He stockpiled a 6-month cache
of human and cat food/toiletries (the surplus store did not have kitty litter, but Phil figured the
industrial sized bags of sand would suffice as a substitute, a sentiment that Skittles did not share).
Since replenishing his inventory, Phil had not left his apartment, not even to water his once
precious garden. The uptick in precaution occurred one evening as he was performing his daily
ritual of reconfiguring his living room. As Phil was scattering his tchotchkes in new locations, he
heard a tapping against his shared wall. He stopped what he was doing and pressed his ear
against the wall. Sure enough, there was a slight tapping. It had a persistent cadence, not overly
loud, but seemingly coming from multiple points. Phil scuttled along with his ear smashed flush
against his wall. He tried to discern its origin, but it was impossible. The closer Phil believed he
was to the mysterious sound, the faster it teleported to the other side of the wall. This cat and
mouse game repeated itself for an hour, and even then, the only reason Phil ceased his pursuit
was because his ear was in pain from being rubbed raw.
Phil backed away from the wall and in a fury, he kicked a set of commemorative Forest Gump
plates. The cheap China went flying and exploded in a flurry of ceramic shards. Phil thought the
plate pieces looked like shrapnel, a comparison he deemed apropos considering this was war.
The young couple constantly made out the faint noise of things being moved about. They figured
it was simply a kooky compulsion of the strange old man. Regardless, the never-ending hubbub
was not a bother; they just turned up the volume on their TV. This time they heard the crash and
grew concerned.
“Do you think he is OK?” Renee asked.
“Probably? He must’ve just dropped some shit on accident.”
“I don’t know. He’s old, babe. He might be hurt. Think of those Life Alert commercials. All an
old person has to do is fall and they could be really fucked. Go check up on him.”
“Fine.”
The Middle Eastern man aggressively knocked on Phil’s door. He wanted to convey a sense of
urgency at having to check on the old man’s wellbeing. Phil did not pick up on that intention. On
contrary, Phil knew beyond a doubt that if he opened the door, he would surely be killed, or
mugged at the very least. He froze, not even taking a breath, in the hopes that the dangerous man
would assume that Skittles dropped the plates. Cats enjoy being mischievous that way. But the
Middle Eastern man knocked again, even harder this time, and shouted,
“Hey, are you alright? We heard a crash.”
Oh my God! Oh my God! Phil panicked and desperately thought, what should I do? I can’t do
nothing! That bastard will break the door down and catch me totally unprepared. His heart was
beating out his chest.
“Hello?”
“I’m fine. Thank you,” Phil replied back.
“Alright. Just checking”
Phil tiptoed to his window, pulled back the blinds, and checked to see if the violent neighbor had
truly left. Next time, Phil thought, I’ll be ready for them.
He was done waiting for them to strike. Too much time had passed and the only discernable
changes to the vicious young couple’s behavior was that they were causing more of a racket.
There were always strangers strolling up and down the shared yard. These people were worse
than expected. Clearly, they were running some debauched drug house. It was only a matter of
time that the drug dealing couple bribe a junkie to attack Phil in exchange for an amount of drugs
equivalent to the value they placed on Phil’s life.
Phil needed to gain the upper hand. His solution was simple, lure them into a trap and use the
element of surprise to strike first. But Phil was sure that the plan would fail if he left his
sanctuary. The floor was riddled with booby-traps that would be useful if they counterattacked
and charged into his home. Phil had to draw them to his door and make his move from close
range. After some consideration, he had conceived his attack plan.
On a dull weekday evening, Phil was prepared to spring his trap. He paced impatiently back-and-
forth in his bedroom, only taking periodic breaks to listen for sounds of movement from the
devious young couple. They needed to be in their bedroom for the plot to succeed. Finally, Phil
Babak Movahed, babakmovahed@yahoo.com 8
made out the noise of someone shutting a closet door. Without a moment’s hesitation, Phil
slammed a pill of books onto the floor and screamed, “Oh! Oh! My back! My back!” at the top
of his lungs.
Phase 1, right after Phil’s deception of injuring himself, the Middle Eastern man exclaimed,
“don’t worry! I’m coming over to help!” and was heard rushing out of his bedroom. The door to
his apartment was left unlocked, which would allow for the Middle Eastern man to enter right
away, something he will certainly do given his rushed effort to “save” Phil.
The young man swung open the front door and called out, “hey, where are you? Are you ok?”
“I’m in the bedroom! And ooohhhh ahhh, please hurry!”
Phase 2, Phil had turned off all the lights in his apartment. While trying to find the light switch,
the young man stepped on one of the many sharp snares Phil carefully laid down. It was a
vintage looking Snoopy ornament that immediately burst into pieces under the weight of the
young man’s foot. Although Phil was expecting to hear some of pain induced wailing, all was
quiet. He had placed his most fragile and jagged items nearest the door and along the path to the
light switch. Phil anticipated that the villain would barge in and head straight for a light, only to
be immobilized by a sharp object impaling his foot. Despite the lack of shrieks in the air, Phil
knew his window to pounce was limited.
Phase 3, Phil rushed out into the living room, carefully avoiding the litany of items on the
ground, wielding a large replica knife from the classic horror film I Know What You Did Last
Summer. He ran at the young man, who had just turned the light on (wearing sandals made
crushing the ornament a deterrent in that the young man paused for a moment out of utter
confusion).
“I got you now!” Phil cried out!
Unfortunately, Phil did not account for what was to come next. Skittles had grown weary of his
owner’s efforts at poisoning him. Even worse, Phil had completely neglected tending to Skittles
needs beyond occasionally feeding him. The litter box was in disarray and Skittles hadn’t been
allowed to go out for weeks. His tiger blood pumped, and the vindictive cat lunged at Phil’s leg.
Skittles claws dug straight into Phil’s calf, which caused a lightning bolt of pain to shoot up his
body. The two former compadres proceeded to get into a skirmish. Phil swung an open palm slap
across the side of Skittles body. The impact did little to penetrate Skittle’s dense coat curtesy of
his Persian ancestry. However, this was the first time Phil had ever raised a hand to him, which
caused Skittles to release his leg more out of confusion than pain. The two locked eyes for a split
second that seemed an hour before their silent stare down was broken by Skittle’s fierce shriek.
The rogue and vengeful cat dove once again and bit into his owner’s thigh. Phil cursed out from
the excruciating pain and stumbled back. He tripped onto one of the crystal crosses, and to Phil’s
dismay, he was not wearing any shoes.
The cross impaled Phil’s foot. He fell backward, crashing on top of numerous other household
possessions. Phil was falling into unconsciousness from the agonizing pain. But before his mind
plunged into that black abyss, he distinctly remembered the young man staring down at him with
a diabolic grin, like he had intended for this to happen all along.
Phil’s eyelid flickered open ever so slightly with the stubborn determination of survival found in
wild animals before they fall prey to a predator. Through waning vision and subdued hearing, he
was able to make out a form crossing his doorway. Phil forced his eyes open just long enough to
see the treacherous middle eastern and his conniving concubine hovering over his fading body.
Phil fainted right before a brief exchange.
“He’s really hurt Renee. I mean that foot is just pouring out blood. I think he might bleed out.”
“Oh babe! We finally got him. That was easier than we thought it would be.”
In the past, Justin has published short stories for Fly on the Wall Press, Fairlight Books, East of the Web and The Write Launch. He also writes film criticism, and is currently adapting an unpublished short story into a feature length screenplay.
Love's Bumpy Ride
Ruth and Jake never wanted to do what the other wanted. Disagreement was the one
constant in their relationship.
There was that one time at the summer fair. Ruth did not want to go on the Ferris
wheel, despite Jake’s pleas.
‘People fall out of those things all the time. Forget it.’ She said.
The queue was quite long. It was the warmest day of the year, the middle of June, in
fact. The many families were spreading wide across the bay, toward the beach where the
waves lapped along the white stones. The soft and subtle breeze came from the west and
was welcome as the night approached on the horizon.
Jake tugged at his black jacket; flipping his collar, never satisfied with the look,
always conscious of his appearance but still trusting his grin and hair cream. He wore
black and white with a moist brow and slick, black hair. He moved like a drunk. But Ruth
loved that about him; the rumpled quality which both their parents called a lack of
responsibility.
Ruth lit another cigarette, the wind blowing her shoulder-draped blonde hair across
her glossy cheeks. She cushioned the match from the breeze, her fingers rolling over the
stem of the cigarette. It rested between her luscious red lips.
Jake cozied up to Ruth and tried to take her hand but she moved fast between other
people with an aimless sway. He managed to grip the sleeve of her black dusty coat and
was carried along with it like a dog on a leash.
‘Come on, let’s go over here. I like these things.’ Ruth said.
There was a ring toss game with cuddly toys behind the varnished worktop. Ruth
stood at the long counter. When Jake saw the opportunity to impress her he was ready to
go. Something nice like a fluffy panda would make her happy, keep her on his side, he
thought. He reached into his pocket, fetched out a few torn bills and slammed them down
on the counter.
‘Come on, baby. The big brown bear right there. I want that one.’ Ruth said, tugging
his arm.
‘Alright, let me try, I can do it.’
Jake wound up his arm, his leather sleeve expanding like a balloon on his shoulder.
He tossed the red plastic ring, it bounced on the top of the spike and rebounded to the side.
He grimaced. Ruth whined at him.
‘Shit. All right, let me try again. I got two more.’ He said.
But with two attempts Jake still failed so Ruth punched his arm before marching
away into the crowd.
Theirs was a relationship founded on the whim of passing attraction and maintained
on the basis of moodiness. It was rare that both Jake and Ruth found themselves in a
similar, placable mood, and when they did, it was squandered on drink and parties. The
next day they could not remember how easy it was just to get along with one another.
For a long time Ruth had spoken about how she wanted to move away from the city.
Today’s journey was a trial to see if they liked the seaside. It was pointless to suggest to
them that the thoroughfare was only passing through and that summer didn’t last all year.
Neither of them would pay any heed and judgments were fast and easy to make. So why
not.
The children would be returning to school and their parents would be hard at work.
The streets were going to be deserted and the beach neglected while the waves continued
rolling in silence. They could have the place to themselves practically, just the way it
should be.
‘Can’t we just be happy and free somewhere? I’m tired of everybody sticking their
noses in where they don’t belong.’ Ruth complained.
‘There’s nuthin’ stopping us from leaving. We’ll do it, I promise we will.’
Jake expended more effort than usual when he filled up the gas tank in the car and
searched the map for a place to take Ruth. He thought some places had cool-sounding
names. They were the places he decided to take her. But then she complained that they
needed access to jobs, and those other places he mentioned were too metropolitan.
‘You wanna work as a cook but there’s nuthin’ but banks around here. It’s too
fancy.’ She said.
‘I know, I just thought these places sounded good.’
‘Yeah right, forget it. We need money right now, and I’ll take it where I can get it.’
Jake was working as a jazz musician at the time, playing the trumpet. For a few
years it was the only area of his life where he applied himself. But once he began playing
around small clubs with a band it ceased to be a source of enjoyment. The other players,
older and hardened by the road, shouted at him, sometimes in the middle of a
performance. Also, Ruth never offered any enthusiasm toward his playing and rarely
attended the shows. The first night he stayed at her house he searched the shelves for jazz
records but there were none. How could she understand what jazz was, he asked, if she
never listened to it.
Jake still liked the free form style of the music. In a rare moment of contemplation,
he realised how playing jazz allowed him to formulate his thoughts, the thoughts that were
usually so rapid and impetuous like the music he played.
But it wasn’t paying the bills. Now they lived together in a small squat. They ate
crumbs and the beer became stale when the tabs were left open overnight. Ruth was tired
of the place and said the smutty furniture and musky walls made her want to vomit.
Usually they went for a long walk when she felt that way. Jake always wanted to tell her to
get a job of her own but he was afraid, as she often overreacted. Then he would have to
buy her an ice cream or a packet of cigarettes and forget about everything else.
The music at the carnival was louder and more people gathered around, moving
about in dancing strides. The lights from the various rollercoasters and waltzers were
glittering and flashing across the grass and the watchful faces. The smell of fast-food
burgers and hot dogs permeated the night-time air.
Ruth was hungry and said she wanted to get some food. Jake suggested they buy a
couple of hot dogs. The queue was short so he stood in line while Ruth wandered nearby,
surveying the shore with her soul-searching eyes. Jake hated it when Ruth was silent
because it meant one of two things. Either she was upset with him because of something
he said, or she had something to say but did not know how to say it. No matter what
happened, there would be drama. Jake knew he would have to look Ruth in the eyes
eventually. He could never look people in the eye.
The hot dogs came just in time. Jake squeezed some ketchup and mustard on each
bun. The smell of the sizzling onions watered his eyes.
They sat down together on a bench at the fringes of the grassy promenade. There
was a moment of silence when Jake handed over the hot dog to Ruth. More people were
scuttling past; children playing chase, adults holding hands and enjoying ice creams. Ruth
saw one of the ice creams with raspberry syrup dripping over the brim of the crunchy,
brown cone. Now all thoughts of food were nauseating to her. Her stomach turned.
‘Here’s your hot dog.’ Jake said.
‘Eugh, no.’
Jake ate his hot dog and soon felt the warmth of the other one in his hand, mustard
and ketchup dripping over his fingers.
‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ He asked.
But Ruth couldn’t speak for the tears on her cheeks and the contortion of emotion
therein. She tried to turn her head away from him but collapsed into herself in a storm of
tears and sobs.
Jake looked around from shoulder to shoulder, seeing a mass of people parading
past. He scoffed down his hot dog but was still saddled with Ruth’s hot dog in the other
hand. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his black leather jacket.
‘Come on, Ruthie, just tell me what’s wrong?’ He said.
‘I’m pregnant, okay.’ She said.
Pressed into a response by the immediacy of the situation, Jake answered like only
he knew how.
‘Hey, that’s great. Really... we’re gonna be the best parents ever.’ He spoke with
acceleration as though coming to a punch line.
‘But what are we supposed to do now? We can’t have a baby. We can’t even take
care of ourselves.’ Ruth cried.
‘Don’t worry about a thing, all right. Everything’s gonna be fine. I promise.’ Jake
reassured Ruth with his arm around her shoulder, her hair falling against his jacket. All
this time he held the hot dog in his left hand.
More people strolled on by, indifferent to the crisis. Ruth cried and rubbed her eyes.
Jake promised he would keep the hot dog for when she was ready to eat it. Slowly he
helped her to stand, keeping his right arm clamped around her shoulder. She threw her arm
across his chest and walked along with him. For the first time all evening they looked like
a happy couple; now a family with a little bundle nestled between them.
Time was tip-toeing along. They each possessed enough perspective in that small
space to enjoy some final moments in blissful ignorance.
Farther along the grass was a bumper- car ride. It was Jake’s suggestion made with a
comforting nod. Ruth agreed. It was only a little fun, and together they got in a silver car
after Jake paid the fare. The music was lively. If only they could have danced and ridden
in the car at the same time, that would have been fun too.
Jake took the wheel. They laughed while swaying from side to side, occasionally
being thrown and bumped against their bodies own motion. Ruth held onto the side with
her left arm and gripped Jake’s waist with the other. He kept the wheel steady and was
eager to bump as many other passing cars as possible. It was like jazz, he thought, free and
loose. No two moments were the same. The hot dog was wrapped in some napkins in his
jacket pocket. He did not care about that now, and Ruth was just happy laughing, living
outside the verve of her own body.
Together they went around in circles, diving and swerving in the bumper- car,
coasting in the fast motion of the ride with their bodies caressing and smiles equally
alighted on their faces.
