(Tell Me Which Character You Think Is) Normal
by Christopher Atkinson
The train shudders as it takes a turn. As he rests in his seat, he watches the other passengers vibrate in unison. In their simultaneous motion no one is discernable from the rest. If someone’s watching him, he thinks, he must also look like part of the whole, a cell in this organism of humanity.
He shuts the book in his hand and drops it on the empty seat beside him. This author’s usually good, but this story’s trite and boring. He’ll leave it on the train - perhaps the next person who happens upon it will find it entertaining. For him, he’d much rather watch these people. Them in their suits and ties and him no different.
Most of them look so plain, so regular that he can’t help but wonder what they’re like at home, tucked away from the rest of the world. This guy in the corner, he can’t even fall asleep without clutching the briefcase in his lap. Maybe he’s a serial killer, or worse, a pimp, leaving his victims alive to suffer under his strong arm and be in his debt.
A bald man with a red face and glasses can’t stop checking his watch. Maybe he cheats on his wife with his secretary, his bulbous belly bouncing beneath his mistress’ tits.
Then there’s the librarian-looking lady, with her bun in her hair, her glasses on the end of her nose, legs crossed. She might sell her cats to some Chinese food place. Maybe she owns the place, cooks it herself. Everybody’s got their secrets. None of these people are special in that regard.
The man, this Observer of Humanity, let’s call him Ted. He can’t tell his suit, tie, or briefcase from anyone else’s on the train. Who knew which was which or who was who?
The train halts. Ted hears his stop called over the PA. Maybe the conductor is a rapist.
The walk to his apartment from the train station is never eventful. No one on the street watches their steps as they walk. They chat on their phones or listen to their music. They stare into space. They’re there but not now. They’re there in the future. They’re there in the past. And Ted, he’s there with them. He’s the one that makes their lives worthwhile. He’s the only one watching it happen.
After a mile or so, he retreats, as always, into his home. This is when it turns into a sitcom. He enters the apartment, drops his briefcase, removes his jacket and loudly lets his wife know he’s returned. She never answers. She’s always watching TV in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Or she’s always on the computer, reading the news and chatting to her girlfriends, headphones on, oldies blaring.
Today, he finds her sleeping on the couch. She snores lightly, her chest rising and falling. He watches the rhythm of her breasts. He wishes he could jump on her, ravage her. She’s so beautiful. She’s his wife, he ought to be able to. He knows she’d scream, she’d kick. They’d both get injured. Bleeding and bruised, they’d sleep.
Instead, he works his way to the kitchen and finds some leftovers.
Another night watching the news. Other people’s misery is on for the next three hours, commercial-free. Ted never misses it. Stacked beside the television, atop the VCR, are VHS tapes, all labeled “NEWS REEL,” followed by dates: 7/7/85, 9/20/88, 6/6/93, 9/11/01. All in chronological order. All with ratings on them, one to five stars. Most have three or more.
Ted watches the attractive lady recite the news. Her left eyes twinkles and Ted wonders if maybe she’s a nympho. Ted stops listening, but when they go to the footage, returns his full attention to the screen. The video shows an apartment building being ravaged by fire. The flames escape through windows halfway up the building, reach desperately for the roof.
Ted’s eyes light up. The building seems familiar, as do the buildings around it. Ted knows this neighborhood. The fire engines, the scared bewildered people, the natural quality of the violence. This is all so delightful.
And there, in the top corner of the video, it says, “LIVE.” Ted’s keys are already in his pocket. His wife still snores in the living room. And it’s early yet.
When he leaves, he makes sure the door is locked behind him.
Around the corner from the fire, a block and a half down. He sees the flames, or at least the light emanating from them. He hears the crackling, either from the fire or the building it’s destroying. He smells the smoke, inhales it. His lungs embrace the smoke of a cigarette called destruction. Decimation.
He rounds the corner and there’s the scene from the TV: The fire, the tenants watching their lives literally go up in flames. The firefighters working so hard to curb the damage. The spectators, the news teams. Everyone finds a purpose to serve, even if it’s just calling a friend to let them know what the flames are like.
But that’s not the show Ted came to see. Surrounding all this hubbub, engulfing it, or right smack dab in the middle of it, depending on how you look at it, is a much more subtle show that still tells the how story.
Ted came to watch the faces.
There’s a family. The father’s face remains emotionless, stoic. For a moment, his cheek twitches, nearly giving way to whatever fear or anxiety crosses his mind this second. He doesn’t blink, so his eyes reflect the flames that burn turn the pants he wears in the family to ash, that fry the bacon he brings home. Maybe it’s the smoke or maybe it isn’t but something is watering his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t blink because it would send the water down his cheek in tear form, letting his kids, who already had that horror-movie-protagonist, what-the-hell-is-happening-and-what-do-we-do look on their faces, know that there’s something to worry about. You don’t even get that in the best movies or TV shows. Actors spend their entire careers trying to achieve that moment. But no matter how much talent they’ve got, how amazing they are, there are just some things they’ll never be able to replicate.
Like watching everything you’ve spent years working for, a life you’ve spent a decade or more to build, go up in flames and be gone in minutes.
No evidence it ever happened.
Ted wanted to pop popcorn over the fire; this was sheer entertainment.
A firefighter, his eyes narrow. There are other fighters, in their big yellow coats and pants, with the matching helmet. It all must keep them nice and toasty by the fire. The Fighter, he looks determined with that clenched jaw of “There’s got to be something else we can do,” while the others just try to contain the flames, fatigued; one even yawns.
Ted can tell that Fighter has the superhero instinct in him, that if -- wait.
Wait.
This is exactly what Ted had crossed his fingers - an
elderly woman, curly gray hair, wrinkles like a shirt crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a month. Ted wonders if you could iron a face.
Then he wonders if that would cause her as much pain as she already appears to be in. Her expression is as twisted and skewed as her arthritic hands. Her eyes wide - she’s not holding back those tears. There might even be enough of them to douse the flames. Her mouth is wide like when the dentist puts that plastic piece in it to hold your cheeks apart. Ted isn’t sure which is more profuse - her tears or her slobber.
And the wailing! Oh, the wailing. It’s mangled, screeching, terrible and glorious. If you tear her limb from limb, light her torso on fire while slicing her skin with rusty nails from the top of her neck to the top of her thigh, you won’t hear such tortured screaming.
That can only mean all that Ted could ever hope for.
“My granddaughter!” she cries. “My granddaughter and my car are up there!” She points to a general top-story floor. “Somebody help!”
Ted swears he hears someone tell her there are no pets allowed. Then he turns his gaze to the superhero Firefighter. The Fighter eyes all the fighters around him.
This is it, thinks Ted. The moment of truth.
It’s now or never.
Ted enters his apartment, closes and locks the door behind him. The lights are out and it’s mostly silent except a soft voice coming from down the hall. When he follows it he finds his wife has made it down to the bedroom; she’d fallen asleep to the news.
There in bed she lay naked and sexy. He thinks of how he should have just taken her on the couch, how he should now, and without thinking he’s naked. Without thinking, he’s under the covers.
She might be asleep, but she’s wet, so without thinking he’s not sure whether or not he’s raping his wife. After a few pumps, she’s awake and saying, “I saw the news.” And she says, “Did you go?”
Ted just pumps.
“There was a fire,” she says, and Ted thinks she’s getting wetter.
“A little girl died,” she says, “and a firefighter.”
Ted needs to hold back his cum. “A father couldn’t cry in front of his kids,” he tells her, “and the grandmother of the dead girl lost it.”
“But they saved a cat,” she says, and they cum together.
Ted asks, “Did you tape it for me?”
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Normal (First Draft)
Normal
by Don Macavoy
The trees whirred by as a I sped down the two lane highway just outside of town. There were other cars on the road but I didn’t really see them. My eyes were set straight ahead in a trance. I’m not sure how I made it this far without hitting someone or running a stoplight. That would be awful irony.
I slowed down instinctively as I neared the driveway. I pulled in, with more speed than I should have, creating a smokescreen of dust that trailed my car all the way to where I parked before it shrouded me in a momentary darkness. How appropriate.
I got out of the car, coughing to get the gravel out of my throat, then proceeded across the lawn expressionless. I sauntered along the fresh spring grass, around the big stones and sprinklers I had learned to navigate over the past few months. I stopped near your flowers and stared down at them, remembering the first time I came here.
It was January. Your whole family was there. A bunch of your friends too. It was snowing really hard and it had already piled up a good deal but everyone was standing around out there, huddling in little groups to build up some heat. Their black petticoats were a stark contrast to the ocean of white surrounding them. They were the shadow to a bright day.
I’ve never been that comfortable talking to your family, so I stood off to the side like usual. The snow kept hitting my face, begging me to open my mouth and taste it but I wasn’t in the mood to eat snow that day. Every once in a while someone I knew would come over and talk to me for a few minutes, slowly stepping away after their questions evoked little more than a patronizing nod from me.
I just stood there taking in the cold. My body had lost the ability to shiver a while ago. The snow I stood in was melting into my shoes as the falling flakes turned to water on my head and streamed down my face. I listened to the words that people were saying as I watched the swirling mess of white in the foreground of a grey sky. Just clichés and comments about the weather. That’s why I felt better alone with my thoughts. They may not be happy or interesting but at least they’re original.
I looked across the snowy field, through the crowd to where you were. I wondered if you would get a chance to read the note I gave you earlier that day. I would go ask you but I didn’t think I would get an answer. Not one I would understand anyway. So I just stayed at the farthest edge of the crowd thinking about all the things I explained in that note and wondering if you could ever understand.
I had written to you about all you mean to me. You were my first love. My first real relationship. Everybody in high school thinks they were in love at least once; I did. But then two years later when I found you, the real thing, I realized I had never even been close.
I explained how I took you for granted. I became complacent with what I had. I didn’t appreciate you and I took advantage of your trust in me. I had time to reflect on all of that during the two weeks we weren’t talking. I missed you so much. Even though I was on vacation and should have been having fun, all I was thinking about was you. About my apology.
A few days into it, I called you and blurted out how sorry I was. You admitted that you had missed me too and I admired you for being strong, not calling me first. We talked for an hour or two, deciding to meet once I got back from Florida. The rest of the trip was much better. I was able to have fun, but I was still formulating my speech to you in the back of my mind.
The moment the plane touched down at Philadelphia International I sent you a message asking when we would meet. It was the only time I had been so anxiously awaiting my return from vacation. We made our plans and the next few hours passed slowly. The ride home from the airport was seemingly endless.
We agreed to meet at the park by our old high school. I got there about an hour early. I paced around the swings, kicking at the mulch, then walked around the pond at least four times. I had a terrible heavy feeling in my gut for which walking did nothing. I just wanted you to be there so we could get this over with and go on to be happy together. Then I saw your headlights.
So many things were going through my head when you walked up to me that I couldn’t pick one to spit out first. I just hugged you. It was the best hug I’ve ever had. When you put your arms around me and squeezed me back I felt like everything would be okay. That feeling that I had lost you for good was finally gone and you were here with me.
At that moment I knew that I could be a different person. A better person. I knew that I never wanted to feel that alone ever again. I would do everything I could do to show how much I loved you and how much this meant to me. And I told you. I don’t think you completely believed me, but you could see the passion in my eyes and hear it in my voice. Then you decided you would take me back.
For the next few days I was elated and everyone could tell. I spent the time thinking of things we could do. Places we could go. We talked on the phone every night like when we first met. Everything was going amazingly well. Then, just one week after our reunion and my solemn vow to never take you for granted again, everything seemed to be back to the usual drill.
We had run out of exciting things to talk about on the phone so there were some awkward silences before we hung up. We had seen each other every day since I had gotten home so it wasn’t really a “special occasion” as it felt like the first few times. You asked me to come over later that night and I said that I would. I had to work in the morning, a few hours after midnight, so I would have to sleep for a while and get up early to come see you. When my alarm went off at one A.M. I was not ready to wake up. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep until right before work. I was sure you’d understand. I’d just see you the next night.
After work the next day I had band practice. We were in the cold garage, rocking out as always, when I broke a bass string. Bass strings are much thicker than guitar strings, therefore much harder to break. It was strange. We had to stop playing so I could fix it, but I didn’t have any spare A strings. Since you played bass as well, I figured I would call you up and ask you for one.
When I picked up my cell phone I noticed a missed call from your best friend. You always called me from her phone when you didn’t have service so you must have been at her house wondering why I didn’t come over last night. I called the number back and she picked up the phone, not you.
I shuddered suddenly. I looked up from the flowers I had been staring at and realized it had gotten dark. I must have been standing here for a few hours. I wiped my eyes and gazed at the bright moon that illuminated the spot where I stood. I closed my eyes and lowered my head slowly. When I opened my eyes I stared down at my glimmering tears on a granite rock. They spilled into the letters of your name and the etched date, exactly four months ago.
This has been every day for me. I drive straight here, I stare, I play our memories in my head like a movie, I find another reason to hate myself and then I wonder when it will end. When will this end? That’s what I ask the psychiatrist, whom I was urged to see a few months ago, every Tuesday and Friday night when I sit in his vinyl chair that’s a far cry from the comfortable couch we picture when we think of a seeing a shrink.
He never has a solid answer for me. The only other thing I ever ask him is why I still feel like this. Why I still do this every day. His response is always the same, patronizing psychologist cop-out answer: “Feeling this way after the sudden death of someone you love is normal.” It’s normal.
I’m still wondering if you’ll read my note. I left it right next to you the last time I saw you, lying in the front of the room as everyone passed by and looked at you, dropping gifts and letters on the satin you lay upon. It was still there when they closed the lid over your head and I watched from the snow bank behind the crowd of black coats as you were lowered into the ground. Lowered beneath where I’m standing right now. Where I’ve stood each day for the past four months. Talking and expecting a reply somehow. Because now that I’ve lost you again, I need you back.
So I talk to the ground and stare at tulips until the sun hides away. Then I leave, knowing that I’ll come back the next day. It’s normal. I’m normal.
by Don Macavoy
The trees whirred by as a I sped down the two lane highway just outside of town. There were other cars on the road but I didn’t really see them. My eyes were set straight ahead in a trance. I’m not sure how I made it this far without hitting someone or running a stoplight. That would be awful irony.
I slowed down instinctively as I neared the driveway. I pulled in, with more speed than I should have, creating a smokescreen of dust that trailed my car all the way to where I parked before it shrouded me in a momentary darkness. How appropriate.
I got out of the car, coughing to get the gravel out of my throat, then proceeded across the lawn expressionless. I sauntered along the fresh spring grass, around the big stones and sprinklers I had learned to navigate over the past few months. I stopped near your flowers and stared down at them, remembering the first time I came here.
It was January. Your whole family was there. A bunch of your friends too. It was snowing really hard and it had already piled up a good deal but everyone was standing around out there, huddling in little groups to build up some heat. Their black petticoats were a stark contrast to the ocean of white surrounding them. They were the shadow to a bright day.
I’ve never been that comfortable talking to your family, so I stood off to the side like usual. The snow kept hitting my face, begging me to open my mouth and taste it but I wasn’t in the mood to eat snow that day. Every once in a while someone I knew would come over and talk to me for a few minutes, slowly stepping away after their questions evoked little more than a patronizing nod from me.
I just stood there taking in the cold. My body had lost the ability to shiver a while ago. The snow I stood in was melting into my shoes as the falling flakes turned to water on my head and streamed down my face. I listened to the words that people were saying as I watched the swirling mess of white in the foreground of a grey sky. Just clichés and comments about the weather. That’s why I felt better alone with my thoughts. They may not be happy or interesting but at least they’re original.
I looked across the snowy field, through the crowd to where you were. I wondered if you would get a chance to read the note I gave you earlier that day. I would go ask you but I didn’t think I would get an answer. Not one I would understand anyway. So I just stayed at the farthest edge of the crowd thinking about all the things I explained in that note and wondering if you could ever understand.
I had written to you about all you mean to me. You were my first love. My first real relationship. Everybody in high school thinks they were in love at least once; I did. But then two years later when I found you, the real thing, I realized I had never even been close.
I explained how I took you for granted. I became complacent with what I had. I didn’t appreciate you and I took advantage of your trust in me. I had time to reflect on all of that during the two weeks we weren’t talking. I missed you so much. Even though I was on vacation and should have been having fun, all I was thinking about was you. About my apology.
A few days into it, I called you and blurted out how sorry I was. You admitted that you had missed me too and I admired you for being strong, not calling me first. We talked for an hour or two, deciding to meet once I got back from Florida. The rest of the trip was much better. I was able to have fun, but I was still formulating my speech to you in the back of my mind.
The moment the plane touched down at Philadelphia International I sent you a message asking when we would meet. It was the only time I had been so anxiously awaiting my return from vacation. We made our plans and the next few hours passed slowly. The ride home from the airport was seemingly endless.
We agreed to meet at the park by our old high school. I got there about an hour early. I paced around the swings, kicking at the mulch, then walked around the pond at least four times. I had a terrible heavy feeling in my gut for which walking did nothing. I just wanted you to be there so we could get this over with and go on to be happy together. Then I saw your headlights.
So many things were going through my head when you walked up to me that I couldn’t pick one to spit out first. I just hugged you. It was the best hug I’ve ever had. When you put your arms around me and squeezed me back I felt like everything would be okay. That feeling that I had lost you for good was finally gone and you were here with me.
At that moment I knew that I could be a different person. A better person. I knew that I never wanted to feel that alone ever again. I would do everything I could do to show how much I loved you and how much this meant to me. And I told you. I don’t think you completely believed me, but you could see the passion in my eyes and hear it in my voice. Then you decided you would take me back.
For the next few days I was elated and everyone could tell. I spent the time thinking of things we could do. Places we could go. We talked on the phone every night like when we first met. Everything was going amazingly well. Then, just one week after our reunion and my solemn vow to never take you for granted again, everything seemed to be back to the usual drill.
We had run out of exciting things to talk about on the phone so there were some awkward silences before we hung up. We had seen each other every day since I had gotten home so it wasn’t really a “special occasion” as it felt like the first few times. You asked me to come over later that night and I said that I would. I had to work in the morning, a few hours after midnight, so I would have to sleep for a while and get up early to come see you. When my alarm went off at one A.M. I was not ready to wake up. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep until right before work. I was sure you’d understand. I’d just see you the next night.
After work the next day I had band practice. We were in the cold garage, rocking out as always, when I broke a bass string. Bass strings are much thicker than guitar strings, therefore much harder to break. It was strange. We had to stop playing so I could fix it, but I didn’t have any spare A strings. Since you played bass as well, I figured I would call you up and ask you for one.
When I picked up my cell phone I noticed a missed call from your best friend. You always called me from her phone when you didn’t have service so you must have been at her house wondering why I didn’t come over last night. I called the number back and she picked up the phone, not you.
I shuddered suddenly. I looked up from the flowers I had been staring at and realized it had gotten dark. I must have been standing here for a few hours. I wiped my eyes and gazed at the bright moon that illuminated the spot where I stood. I closed my eyes and lowered my head slowly. When I opened my eyes I stared down at my glimmering tears on a granite rock. They spilled into the letters of your name and the etched date, exactly four months ago.
This has been every day for me. I drive straight here, I stare, I play our memories in my head like a movie, I find another reason to hate myself and then I wonder when it will end. When will this end? That’s what I ask the psychiatrist, whom I was urged to see a few months ago, every Tuesday and Friday night when I sit in his vinyl chair that’s a far cry from the comfortable couch we picture when we think of a seeing a shrink.
He never has a solid answer for me. The only other thing I ever ask him is why I still feel like this. Why I still do this every day. His response is always the same, patronizing psychologist cop-out answer: “Feeling this way after the sudden death of someone you love is normal.” It’s normal.
I’m still wondering if you’ll read my note. I left it right next to you the last time I saw you, lying in the front of the room as everyone passed by and looked at you, dropping gifts and letters on the satin you lay upon. It was still there when they closed the lid over your head and I watched from the snow bank behind the crowd of black coats as you were lowered into the ground. Lowered beneath where I’m standing right now. Where I’ve stood each day for the past four months. Talking and expecting a reply somehow. Because now that I’ve lost you again, I need you back.
So I talk to the ground and stare at tulips until the sun hides away. Then I leave, knowing that I’ll come back the next day. It’s normal. I’m normal.
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