Glasses, Wallet, Keys (eBook)

Stories

John Collins Williams (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
92 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-8092-1 (ISBN)

Infos

'Glasses Wallet Keys' presents five stories about people forced to make a choice on who they are and who they will be in the relationships that matter most.

John C. Williams is an award winning filmmaker, TV producer and co-founder of Reel Works, a nationally recognized nonprofit in Brooklyn. He lives in Long Island with his wife, son, corgi, and cats. This is his first collection of short stories.

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A pandemic-panicked father nurses his sick corgi while facing the possible loss of his marriage. A young New Yorker believes he has to choose between two women - the one that got away and the one right before him. But the choice may not be his to make. A retired Vaudeville star faces the end of her dreams of family, stability, and hope. Will she follow her sister and mother into despair, or find strength to rebuild her life? "e;Glasses Wallet Keys"e; presents five short stories about people forced to make a choice between who they are and who they want to be.

Textauszug

Glasses, Wallet, Keys

What the fuck? Shit everywhere! Drips, streaks, plops. Jackson Pollocked the carpet. Stinking up the whole downstairs. She looks back at me: brown eyes, no pupils, face of shame. It’s my fault. Slept in. Can’t be mad at her. She curls up on her bed, nose down. Poor thing; fourteen years old and no longer in control. This will take time. And a lot of paper towels. Sponges, Nature’s Miracle, vat of Febreze. Search the cabinets. Out of everything. Fuck! No choice. Haven’t been out in a week.

Shower. Brush. Dress.

Pat my temple, my butt, my pocket: glasses, wallet, keys. Where are the goddamn car keys? Counter? Other counter? Nope. She left her jacket. Shake it. Thank God! Grab the shopping bags: save the planet. Gloves. Coat. Hat. Scarf. Phone. Head to the car. Beep the door and climb in. Press Here. Lights and chimes. Every machine sings.

See my breath.

Think.

Keys. Wallet. Bags. Mask.

Fuck! Mask!

Search the car. Door pocket. Glove compartment. Floor. Floor. Under the seat. Old one. Her lipstick. Gross.

Short drive. Paper towels, sponges. What else? Something for lunch and dinner? Can’t think about food with a house full of shit. List: Corgi. Cats. Kibble. Cans. Paper towels will be a problem. Paper anything. Napkins. Garbage bags. I’m starving. Carpet cleaner. A pickup truck passes me with a torn American flag waving behind. Another bumper in front: Blue Lives Matter. Signaling to each other. I am surrounded. We are masked. We are unmasked.

Stop & Shop. Short line out front. Social distance. Grim faces. Mask up, eyes down. Smell her. Wipe down the cart. Arrows on the floor, one-way traffic. Eyes feel assaulted. Make it quick. Wrong way to cleaning products. Scan the shelves. Follow the list. Lysol. Paper towels! I’m in luck. Line to pay. Takes forever. Breath fogs my glasses. Escape!

Carry corgi into the yard. Followed by the rug: a goner. Get to work. On hands and knees, spray bottle. Towel up the poop, plop by streak. One little dog! Crack open the windows. Febreze the house. Take the garbage bag out to the garage. Where is she? Search the yard. Call her name.

Trot to the back. Nope. Run to the front. Scan the street. Fuck! Freezing. Run back in. Jacket, glasses, wallet, keys. Leash! Still have some poop on my fingers.

No need to panic. Happens all the time. Neighbors will bring her back. “Is she yours?” Little rascal! Walk the block, scanning low. Call her name.

Jingle the leash: her favorite sound. Second favorite sound: should have brought some kibble. Turn the corner. Check Main Street. Imagine a guttered lump of fur and blood. Nothing. Circumnavigate the block. Forgot my mask. Back to the house. Check the yard again.

Empty.

Stop.

Think.

Feel her absence. Corgi here. Corgi gone.

Breathe.

Up the street again to the dock and back. Searching, calling, jingling. Remember the time I went looking for her and found her following me. No problem here, officer! Turn around to check. Starting to feel my heartbeat. Go back and wash my hands. Could she have gotten inside? Impossible. Circle the downstairs. Run up and check: hallway, bathroom, boy’s room, bedroom. Corgi. Son. Wife.

Sit on the top step and listen to the empty house. Distant traffic. Gulls. Tinnitus. Breaths. I had looked forward to this: solitude.

Last week was great. Refrigerator full of food. Watched Antonioni movies all day and fell in love with Monica Vitti. Oh, my God, Monica Vitti! Che faccia! Like, back in college with Louise Brooks. I could look at her for hours. She was alive to me. Though dead. As is Monica. Gorgeous, though. Misteriosa. Slept in. Fed the corgi and the cats. Small meals. Filmed entertainment. Quiet. Peace. Me time.

Last night, she called: boy doesn’t want to leave school. OK in the dorm, taking classes online. Better than home with us.

“Told you,” I said.

“You did not.”

OK, not technically. Big fight before she left.

“You’re babying him,” I said.“We can’t rescue him every time.”

“It’s a fucking pandemic,” she said. “You’re cold. I don’t know you,” she said.

Off she went. Six-hour drive.

Now:

“I’m staying.”

“For how long?”

She didn’t answer. Airbnb.

And a thought, deep thought, dark thought, forbidden thought, began to form: Is this how it happens?

“It’s nice up here,” she said.

Hung up and waited for a feeling.

Thought: Ciao, Monica!

It occurs to me: last time she went missing, really missing—flyers-on-telephone-poles and lost-pet-Facebook-group missing—I found her at the vet around the corner. So, I call.

“Has anyone brought in a missing corgi?”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

“With diarrhea?”

Glasses, wallet, keys, mask, leash. When they bring her out, she seems to barely recognize me. Nonchalant.

The nurse says, “Corgis are so adorable!”

“That’s how they get you,” I say.

Make an appointment for tomorrow.

Dream of Larchmont. Murray Avenue School. Lookout Circle. Kerry Dancer. The Duck Pond. Childhood. The streets do not match my memory. Wake up wondering, Where is the Duck Pond? Off Chatsworth? Images clear but don’t connect. Maybe I could take a drive . . . then, I sniff. Rise with dread. Downstairs: Shit Show, Part Two. Not as bad. But still. Another rug ruined. She looks at me again; so adorable! Paper towels, hands and knees, Nature’s Miracle. Poor thing.

Glasses, watch, wallet, keys, phone, mask, leash, car, corgi. Vet is Russian. Heavy accent. Catch every third word. Corgi on table scale, growls. Hold her head, stroke her ears. She’s pissed at me. Losing weight. Could be a lot of things: UTI, liver, kidneys, cancer. Bottom line: two antibiotics, probiotics, stool sample, blood work. Seven hundred dollars. We both leave miserable.

Together on the couch. Stroke her head. Can’t concentrate on filmed entertainment. Can’t read. Think about the Duck Pond. Chemical smells. Nauseous. She repositions her butt toward me: Scratch there. No! There! Impatient. Brown eyes. Red-tan coat. Thick white chest. Widow’s peak. Fairy Saddle. Love this dog. Every hour, carry her to the yard. She makes it through the night. Gobbles her kibble and pills. She’s loving this. Asshole.

Next day, vet calls. “Blood work mixed. Could be cancer. Need to do imaging.”

“What about her pain?”

He levels with me. “Some dogs live to sixteen, some eighteen. Yours won’t. You have maybe a year with her. She’s passed her expiration date.”

Sit on the floor and hold her. She growls. Don’t care. Kiss her ears and head. Squeeze my expired corgi. “Who’s my girl? Who’s my girly girl? “ She snarls. This little dog. The boy was four. I was forty.

“Midlife Crisis Corgi,” she declared.

How did she get old? How did I? Choke up. She yelps and squirms free. Shakes her floppy ears. Looks at me. Searches my face. Yawns.

Kerry Dancer didn’t growl when you held her. Picture my father sitting on the porch steps, petting her. Mom standing over him.

“My life is shit,” he sobbed.

I watched the back of them through the door glass. Scared. Never seen him cry. She came inside. He sat for a while, glanced back at me, lost, and then drove home, drunk.

Corgi beside me in bed, breathing. Can’t sleep. Nuzzle her head. Favorite smells: corgi ear, baby head, nape of neck. Never smell baby head again. Eighteen. Squirms when I hug him. Pats me on the head. And her neck? Next to me every night . . .

Make a list. Glasses, wallet, keys. Phone, computer, charger. House, car, job. Money, sex. Mother, brother, sister. Health. Breath. Food. Water. Sleep. Books. Film. Dreams. Memory. Longing. Desire. Clothes. Watch. Masks. Habits. Roles. Duties. Debts.

Love.

Marriage.

Son.

Dream of the Duck Pond again. Frozen. Skates with double blades: I’m four or five. Dad and Mom. Brother and baby sister. Before the corgis. Before divorce. Family.

She barks me up. Carry her out to pee. Her legs shake. I shiver.

Kibble, canned food, pills, and powder: she laps it up.

Out again. She assumes the position: solid dump. So proud of her.

Feelings I can name: pride, exhaustion, anxiety, loneliness, longing, tenderness.

Carry her in. Listen to the house. Emptiness. Sadness. Shame.

Love is a verb.

Text the cat sitter. No reply. Fuck!

Suitcase: pants, shirts, sweaters, socks, underwear, toothbrush, toothpaste, razors, shaving cream. Advil, Lexapro.

Text again.

Headphones, boots, computer, iPad, charger, other charger, notebook.

Lug it downstairs.

Text again.

Kibble, cans, pills, powders, bowl, leash, dog bed.

Text again.

Fill the cats’ bowl. Water. Cat box! Forgot about their shit entirely. Big job. My life is shit! Almost funny.

Litter. Camera. Film.

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Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.2.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-8092-6 / 1667880926
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-8092-1 / 9781667880921