For Christmas, I thought I would do something different and post a short story I had written earlier in the year. Adapted from a script I was working on, the musical theme fits what we do here, and in all honesty, I was too lazy to come up with something more festive to post today. Enjoy.
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The doorknob spun in his hand faster than his mind could think, if he ever bothered to do so. The hinge almost dripped oil as the door swung open in a gliding arc, silently cutting a semicircle in the sunlight warming the floor. He moved to take a step inside, but froze in place when his eyes focused as he turned the corner. That delay had always felt like a curse to him, a mistake in his wiring that slowed him down when the world was speeding up with every revolution.
The figures came into shape, two lovers engaged in the act. She was leaning forward, her elbows dug into the mattress, her face blankly reflecting the blue light from a computer screen. Behind her, her younger man's skin glistened, the work obvious on his form.
He snapped his eyes closed as quickly as he could, but not before the image was burned into his memory, a postcard to be sent again and again from Misery. He threw his hands up, blocking residual torture from borrowing through his eyelids. As his throat fought not to spasm, she noticed his presence. She did not move.
"Are you just going to stand there?" she asked.
"What are you doing, mom?"
"I'm trying to learn how to fold a fitted sheet," she responded flatly.
He opened his eyes just enough to check if he was the only one whose skin had turned bright red. To his amazement, he had not interrupted.
"Do you think your friend can stop while I'm standing right here?"
"You walked in without knocking. I'm the one who should feel uncomfortable," she said.
The man behind her slowed down, but did not pause his motion. His eyes moved from one to the other.
"Should I stop?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"No, dear. This talk can wait until we're done," she argued.
The man stopped, and disengaged from her. He looked to salvage his dignity, and picked up a t-shirt from the floor behind him. He placed it over himself, letting it hang in the air like a slightly soiled ghost, not hiding the outline. He sidled past and moved toward the door.
"I'm going to finish in the other room," he says.
"You don't have to do that," she replies.
"Yes he does."
She looked at her son, having not moved. She didn't show it, but she enjoyed his embarrassment.
"Seriously? You can't find anyone to sleep with who isn't one of my friends?"
"They're the easiest ones to meet," she says.
"You know that's not the point."
"Unless you were planning to sleep with them, what does it matter if I do?" she asks.
"Don't throw logic into this. We're talking about feelings. Disgust, mostly."
"Is it disgusting for me to screw him, or for him to screw me?" she asks.
"That question is a trap."
"You're going to have to accept that you're not the only one in this family with needs. It's not my fault your friends are delicious," she says.
"Please tell me that's a metaphor."
"Sure, it can be one of those too," she says.
"I can't handle this."
"That's what he said," she replies.
"Oh God."
"He said that too," she says.
"I'm done."
"We didn't get that far," she says.
He took a deep breath, occupying his mouth so words he will later regret don't come flying out. He shook his head, and turned to leave the room. Before his senses caught up to him, he was outside, walking down the street. His autopilot knew where to take him, and he enjoyed the silence until the rhythm of his shoes clicking on the asphalt began to remind him of music, and a song crept into his mind from somewhere in the shadows. It was an inevitability.
He arrived at the record shop, entering as the broken bell made the small clatter of a closed hi-hat, not doing anything but making the new arrival question if their presence has even registered. He considered it a fitting metaphor.
"Best song for finding one of your best friends balls deep in your mother? Go," he shouts.
The owner of the store was sitting behind the counter, tracing the groove of a vinyl record with his finger, as if he could play the music directly into his blood. He stopped his circle when the words registered.
"That's the weirdest one we've ever thrown out there," he says.
"Every situation needs a soundtrack."
"Is there something you want to talk about?" he asks.
"Not really. I just need something to flush my head out."
The other girl in the store drew closer, her energy a black cloud that for the first time didn't feel like an omen.
"How about The Darkness' "Get Your Hands Off Of My Woman"?" the owner suggests.
"Good try, but she's not mine. That would be even creeper than what I saw."
"So you saw something?" he asks.
"Can we not talk about it?"
"Sure. If you want to clear your mind, how about Fastball's "Outta My Head?" he says.
"You're getting closer.
Her voice came from behind him, as if the devil on his shoulder was speaking.
"Tom Petty. "Into The Great Wide Open"," she says.
"I don't get it."
"I figure since you wrecked her life, you probably wrecked her body too."
The owner of the store put his hand over his mouth, trying to not visibly laugh. Family trauma should not be a comedy, at least not when the one being tortured is present. The mocking should be done behind one's back, as is proper.
"I really don't want to talk about my mom's..... you know."
"We can talk about whether your friend is hung enough for her instead," she says.
"That's not helping."
The owner disappeared below the counter, leaving him alone with the inappropriate voice putting bad thoughts in his head.
"Don't you want your mother to be happy?" she asks.
"That's not the point."
"And isn't it better she not get involved with some skeezy guy who could be a serial killer or something?" she asks.
"Yeah, but..."
"So your mom banging your friend might be keeping her alive," she assures him.
A few chords rang out over the speaker. They were familiar, but he couldn't quite place them. It took him a moment before he realized the joke. "She Bangs" continued to play.
"Oh, screw off."
He gave the other two the finger as they lost control of their laughter. As Ricky Martin pounded home the chorus, he couldn't help but crack a smile as well. A good joke is a good joke, even when it hurts.
"Why don't you get yourself laid so you can forget about it?" the owner asks.
"The only place I know to meet people is here, and that's a disaster. It's hard to be with someone with bad taste in music."
"What does someone's taste in music have to do with sexing them up?" the girl asks.
"My mother has a whole theory about it. She says if she meets a guy buying a record from a pop star, he's probably more interested in eating a bag of Cheetos."
"Orange is tastier than pink. Got it," she says.
"I'm ignoring that. If he's got tattoos and is in the rock section, he probably slaps it around without knowing how to use it at all. And if they're into emo or synthwave, they're probably good at oral."
"Because they're too sad to get it up," she surmises.
"Exactly."
"What about if they're into something like The Smiths?" the owner asks. "I'm asking for a friend."
"You probably need to draw them a picture of how it's supposed to work."
"Sounds about right," she says.
"The last date I went on, we started talking about music, and she tells me he doesn't like music. Like, she doesn't listen to any music at all, just podcasts."
"The monster," she says.
"I didn't know what to say. I'm thinking to myself about how desperate for human connection you have to be to listen to people you don't know talk about stuff you don't care about. And if you never listen to music, you can't have any rhythm, so how do you figure out how to get it on?"
"This isn't very scientific, you know?" the owner interjects.
"Psychology is more important than science. Science can't explain why nearly every stupid thing humans have ever done was in the pursuit of getting in someone's pants."
"Every good thing, too," the owner adds.
"They do say that most business gets done under the table," she points out.
"That's not what that expression means."
"You don't know that," she responds.
"Why do I ever come to you people looking for some advice?"
"Because no one else likes you," she says.
"Are we that bad at it?" the owner asks.
"Let's see. You are the one who brought a boom box into the delivery room so you could play Danzig's "Mother" while your wife was giving birth."
"I was going to play "Stacy's Mom" if we were going to have a girl," he adds.
"It's no wonder you're divorced," she replies.
The owner took a sarcastic bow.
"Your sadness does make me feel better about myself."
"So do you want the new Morrissey album or not?" the owner asks.
"You know what? I don't think I'm sad enough for that anymore."
"Good. Listening to Morrissey is worse than walking in on your mom's o-face," she says.
"Great. There goes my mood again..."
"I'll put on a record for you," the owner says.
Fergie's "M.I.L.F. $" began to play.
"I hate you guys."
"We hate you too," they reply.
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