Craigslist Netta and the fiction

This is the date one, but I thought I had a little better scene where two strangers try to get together over something else: sharing an apartment.

As Peter brought the fork to his mouth, a large drop of Strawberry Yogurt fell onto his lap. If someone saw it, it could look really bad and really gross. “Shit, he said as he looked down at it. As he stared at the white blob of cow juice, he could feel someone’s presence in front of his back.

“You Peter?” A large tangle of hair matted the words out in a growl. The rest of her stood straight and defiant like the stray hairs on her forehead. She could only see the curls on the back of his head, but she thought he looked like the Facebook picture she had studied.

“Umm ya? Who are you?” Peter said as turned around to look up at her. Netta felt put off and she began slowly like he was 5 years old.

“I’m Netta, the one in the craigslist ad. We were going to meet here today, ya know, at this time,” she said impatiently as she brushed away the off shoots of forehead hair.

“OH! My bad!” Peter said as he quickly moved his laptop away from the open end of the two person table. “Sorry I had no idea.”

Sure ya didn’t, Netta thought as she sat down. She looked straight up at Peter and began her schpeal for the third time this week.

“So here’s the deal, I got a one bedroom that you could have the living room separated for your own space. But here’s the thing, it’s MY space, so don’t think you can come in there and have your friends over all the time and trash my place,” she said with one long, angry breath. Peter fidgeted in his seat but didn’t say anything.

“So when do you want to move in?” Netta said as she looked at her watch. She was tired of beating around the bush.

“Well..” Peter started up hesitantly.

“Well what? You contacted me about this. I came all the way down here for you,” she said. The café was only a minute away from her apartment but she had already walked the three blocks to see Match.com’s Ryan earlier, who wasn’t at French Meadow anywhere near the table by the painting they texted on.

“Well it’s just that we haven’t talked about anything yet. I’m not trying to rush this decision,” he said looking down at his laptop screen.

“Well that’s just great. Why the hell did you show up then!” Her voice was calm but her throat was letting out an inaudible scream and it resonated in her voice.

“Woah I just thought it be like a good idea to meet first,” Peter said as he looked around the café at the people. They were in their coffee sandwich world, not paying attention to Netta.

“Alright well this is stupid. I’m leaving. E-mail me if you want to see the place,” she said with a little spit at the corners of her mouth.

“Okay see you later,” Peter said as he pulled the Macbook away from the spittle lipped face. Netta got up and accidentally kicked the metal beam that supported the table top. It rocked and swayed and Peter moved a hand to settle it.

“Screw craigslist,” he said as he closed his macbook with his freehand.

inspired from waking my roommate up to use her computer, knowing her wants yet ignoring them

My pillow.

My pillow on my bed.

My pillow on my bed inside my bedroom.

My pillow on my bed inside my bedroom that opens to French doors.

And someone is at the doors. Why are they at the doors? What could they want? I want them to go away.

“Go away!” Cassondra howled out from underneath the down comforter. The layered comforter sucked in like it had the wind knocked out of it. The stickers of men on the bedpost nearly dropped their jaws. Are you serious right now?

“Cassondra,” the voice let out slowly and smoothly, taking advantage of the second s. It wouldn’t work, not the second s trick. Who does this kid think he is?

“Shut up... go away!” The first two words stuck with resolve, the second set sounded unsure of itself, it crept out as a beg , where as the first were uncompassionate and cold, like a pompous Prince to a poor pauper, it was a battle of the classes alright. Cassondra’s fingers dug into the sheets in front of her face. The light snuck in like a cold-hearted bitch.

“God damnit Cassondra!” The voice said louder as Cassondra heard the jewelry bag bounce and chime against the door.

The comforter scrunched even tighter into a fast collapse as if the pleura snapped. Awake with pneumothorax , Cassondra drew one curtain from her face.

“I’m so tired,” Cassondra said with a smile. The smile was cute and shy, probably snatched from a sheep that wandered into Cassondra’s subconscious, tired and lost from a jump that went far across the fence. His name was 72, which was rather bland, but somewhere someone was not sleeping because 71 was followed by 73.

Cassondra wanted to take 72 and throw it at Peter’s face right now, but yet she just smiled and wondered why she wasn’t sleeping.

True story which is why we need to be heros even when we don't know ite

The man sat in the chair but he sat weird. Weird, at the least, is a man who wears a pair of stale jeans and a pale plaid jacket in the middle of winter. Poor, would be another good adjective, if it were not for the brand new white Reeboks on his feet, the kind that you’d get made fun for in high school. They were too big, too gaudy, and too white, just like his eyes which stared at a young girl two plastic seats to the front left of Mary and Ted.

The young girl looked uncomfortable, like someone was breathing on her. The breath inched closer. It soaked past the chairs, one plastic pollyp after the next, until it reached the back of the girl’s neck like cancer. The girl shuddered and Ted sat up a little straighter as his arm slipped away from Mary’s back. He made a cough to attract the man’s attention, but it went by unnoticed, at least to the jacketed man. The young girl twisted her neck 45 degrees with a furtive glance, her peripherals pointed toward the man. Her neck snapped back as she caught the stare head on. She projected it up to the Stop Display, 94^th Street and France Ave., she was only two away from 98^th Street, Home, so she reached underneath her seat for her purse.

Ted looked up to and saw the 94^th twinkle like a red Christmas light, he was only one stop away. He turned to see the young girl reaching for her stuff. Her stuff was artsy, with decorative purples and greens patches outlined by sequins, but it didn’t feel gaudy. It actually felt right, mixed with her burnt India ensemble: a rusty orange sweater, a yellow curry scarf, and a tight pair of fine-ribbed maroon courdaroys that hugged her healthy thighs into compact packages.

Mary began to motion. Her eyes pointed toward the glowing sign and she slipped her fingers around the window handle to get up. Ted sat as Mary made a commotion to get up, but even with the motion, Ted sat and watched as the man’s gaze slowly suffocated the young girl. Mary scooped her hand into Ted’s armpit like he was six years old and it was time to go.

“Honey, let’s wait,” Ted said as he looked at the man, paying no attention to Mary.

“But it’s our stop, we’ll have to wait in the cold if we don’t get off,” she pointed out the cold weather by pulling her jacket tighter.

“We can call a cab. I’m not getting off,” He said resolutely. His eyes were still fixed on the man as Mary caught the mood. She sat down and pulled Ted closer, the young girl’s fear was now shared as the bus pulled past Ted and Mary’s stop. The 98^th Street sign had just flicked on as the young girl made a move to get up. The older man got up to and moved toward the girl.

His arms moved so fast that Ted and Mary did not see it until he held her shoulders in place against the dimpled walls. The man’s gassy breath bled fuck fuel across her face planted cheek. Her cheek mashed against the metal like it needed the contact, scared of the distance between her and the man’s face, the two inches she gained was not enough and she continued to press her face against the steel. She could see someone in the background, a man and his wife stood up with their phones out.

“Get the fuck off her or I’m calling the police,” a voice boomed from two seats away. Her face was still stuck to the wall like it had licked a frozen door handle, and the man continued to breath on her while he held her shoulders in place. He didn’t turn around to the voice, he just stood and breathed, as her face played the helpless tune of an innocent animal being mistreated.

“I said, Get the FUCK off her,” Ted said again, stronger and louder with a hand in the air. The bell dinged and the door next to girl’s face opened. A sick wind whipped across her cheek and she felt the metal cool between her skin and the wall. She hadn’t noticed the tears until the wind whisped across them. The heat convected off her face and she started to shake. With the first shake the man dropped his hands and let her sink to the wall. He didn’t wait another moment before he slipped through the closing bus doors.

The map from Grand Theft Auto

"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech."

The car's brakes howled to a stop at the center of the intersection. Ganash Street and Wirxley Avenue, 12:32 a.m, right on time. The noise of the car seemed to overpower the red brick apartment building to the right and the row of shops to the left quaked in fear, and the rumble of the '72 Charger. The car, the night: Black. Perfect, Jason thought. A black alley cat ran in front of the car and Jason floored the gas without hitting the clutch. The alley cat fled, just like the buildings seemed to. Power, Jason thought as the door of the cadillac flew open. A black booted Sears Tower of a man stepped out. His gorilla sized black leather jacket puffed with primate muscle. Black is good, black is quiet, Jason thought when he bought the jacket. His 9MM Browning was the loud one. His Charger wasn't too quiet, either.

But now everything was still. Jason looked at shops, the lights were off under the red and blue awnings. The curved half moons that decorated the bottoms fluttered in the wind, and so did the smell of dog shit.

Dog shit had brought him here, to this brothel of humanity, Hackenslash, the home of Liberty Cities most notorious gangsters. Jason looked down at the man hole two steps in front of him. He could hear the rumble of sewage flow through the veins of the city, soon some of that sewage would be in the belly of the homeless person behind the second shop on the street. He could hear him digging through the yesterday's in the dumpster, and he could hear the rat's shrieks to the invasion of privacy.

He walked towards the shops: the florist, the barber, the massage parlor. More like, the cocaine dealer, the small arms runner, and the whore house, and in that order: You couldn't make a penny in this neighborhood without death or addiction. Hell, you couldn't make anything in this world without them, he thought.

He walked past the massage parlor and got to the fourth shop, a chinese restaurant. In between the shops, there was a small cove that sheltered another homeless man. He walked towards him and was about to kick him square between the dirt on his teeth, when he realized it was a woman with a baby. He stood for a second before turning back towards the restaurant. The stillness was interrupted by lights that still glowed through the drawn curtains. A christmas bell dangled from it's wooden door, offsetting the metal guard rails against the window. Alarms, perfect, Jason thought, as he pulled a knife from his pocket and slipped it through the red ribbon loop. He slipped the knife out with a whisp and the bell fell to the ground. From inside, he could hear a man stand up and walk towards the door.

Jason turned back towards the cove. He ran his finger nails along the brick wall, feeling the gritty sand grind into his subunquis, before he rounded the corner and stood above the woman. The woman woke up startled and almost screamed before Jason pulled out his gun and put a finger to his lips. He looked back towards the street and motioned again to the lady with his finger towards his lips. The woman looked back toward her baby and started to cry.

The door of the chinese restaurant opened to the street and out poked the head of a Jon Gotti wannabe: a fat headed, white-tee'd, mustache of a man. There was no doubt he could hear the woman crying. He had already started walking towards the noise when Jason popped one in his head.

The start of a zombie story...

The tv was on from the night before and some anchor-de-jour was preaching h1n1 into the morning gloom. Ronnie pulled her old nighty over her new balloon belly, and walked down the stairs into the living room.

"Ya know, my boy ain't gonna want no pig baby," Annette said from her rocker. There was a quilt draped over her lap and underneath two spindly branches for legs tapped anxiously against the floor.

"Annette I've got to get the shot, it's for the baby," Ronnie let out with more energy than she thought she had.

"I heard that pigs don't need the shot," she said without hesitating. Ronnie knew Annette stayed in the chair all night just for Ronnie to wake up.

"That's okay. I'm leaving." She said and she turned back the upstairs to get ready.

"What da ya got en that red shirt, a basketball?" Nurse Pritchard asked as she slipped the needle into her arm.

"Feels like it," Ronnie said as she winced a slow breath.

"Ah don't worry hun. Frank came out like a lawnmower in the weeds. Damn near broke the mold with that one."

Mold. Ronnie stood up and heaved. Ronnie worked at the local supermarket/gas station. Earlier that week, she had to suck out the gelatinous mold that thrived in the cold-sweat of the coolers with a vacuum. It looked like chicken fat with gangrene. She threw up again.

"Oh bless your sweetheart, you sure got somethin in ya now!" she said as she picked up the waste basket from the corner of the room and set it in Ronnie's out-stretched hands. Nurse Pritchard put a firm hand on her upper back, just shy of where Ronnie's brown leathery hair stuck against the short of her neck. Ronnie bletched three more times.

"Sweetheart are you going to be okay? That shot ain't supposed you sick," Mrs. Pritchard said as she leaned into Ronnie's eyes. "My god what happened to your eyes! Their yellow!"

"I just hate the shots, that's all. I get all worked up seein that needle comin' at me like a sucker on a skeeter. I ain't got that much in me, ya know?"

"Oh sweetie you got a lot more in ya now than you might think." Nurse Pritchard smiled as she walked away with the needle pointed up.

Ronnie eased down into the chair, numbly holding the trash can in front of her. It took Peanut a whole week to scrape up the $31 to get her there. Twenty five for the shot. Six for the diesel. But Peanut hadn't came; he had to be at the soccer fields by six to start the mowers. They couldn't afford the shot for the whole family, not even Annette, but the doctors had urged her and Peanut to get one for the baby. She stood up reluctantly and fell. She had gotten to her feet before Nurse Pritchard came back and she made her way out the exit of the steel door.

On her way home, Ronnie caught a glance of her eyes in the rearview. They really were yellow. She stared at them, swirling in the reflection, until she ran off the road and into the ditch. When she woke up, she felt like she was floating.

For a while, things were cold. What those things were, she did not know, because she couldn't see anything. She thought may be she was blind. Her eyes had been such a strange yellow, like a cat's eye in the dark.

The needle in Melanie's vein stuck straight out of her limp arm. The long slack of the pink belt rested against her bottom jaw. Melanie knew as she slipped out of conciousness, out of sight, that it was best for her and her baby.

The Philedaplhia suburbs weren't as hard as the inner cities, but a girl still had to be careful. Melanie wasn't old, but she wasn't young either, so she caught awfully long glances from men she felt awfully bad for. Her mom told her not to pity the men, they were drug addicts and crooks, not men of God, but Melanie wasn't so sure.

Leo, the one blond among brunettes in front of DeFlora's Floral, was why she wasn't sure. Granted he was the same as the rest: he catcalled, he smoked, he even wore his pants down low...er than most, but he was very GQ, in a very G-Unit way. Most, his blue eyes, even in their reddest state, knew how to look at her to make her feel ashamed. And excited. He was the reason she went to confessional every week.

Leo knew this, of course, but never asked for a date, just playtime, which made Melanie insane and worse, in love. It wasn't a problem until Melanie became pregnant. The word got around fast and Leo dissapeared. She was four months along before he was back in front of the pale blue awnings in front of DeFloras.

"Where have you been?" Melanie let out softly.

"Working.. in my appartment. I have something to show you. Something I want to give you." He said with his eyes loosely afloat about Melanie's head.

"Really?" She asked, her bright eyes begged his to come back down. She knew this could work. She knew her mom was too hard on her high hopes. Leo left with her at once, feeling low for someone so high.

They were only walking for five minutes before the alleys grew dark, literally growing around her; fenced walls fortressed the streets, apartment buildings shot into the cloudy sky like rain fell to the ground, but it all seemed more unnatural than rain. Melanie felt her stomache for warmth, but her belly felt like cold-press, a collection of anxious energy in a murky, icy darkness. They walked until they were under a street lamp next to a man in sweatpants and a leather jacket. Leo stopped and spoke to the man, he gave him a large bill and recieved only a small package that he palmed. He put his arm around Melanie who shivered and stopped at this touch.

"What is that?" Melanie asked, looking back at the man. "What did he give you for all that money?"

"It's for the baby, to make sure it's healthy. Come on let's go." He said as he leaned into her eyes. He made a step onto the crosswalk and pulled Melanie with him.

They got to Leo's apartment. In the daylight, the lonely books on the floor held a minimalist scholarly appeal, blindly she had never paid enough attention to them, they were covered in ash and dust. Months ago, the light through the blinds had warmed her skin as she sat on an old mattress, the only furniture in the room, but now the blinds were closed and the darkness felt dank. He led her past the books and through a tunnel of a hallway and onto another bed. He pulled out a needle.

"Babe I want you to do something for me," he said looking her in the eye.

"Leo I don't want to," she said as she skirted to the middle of the bed. She knew what was next. She never asked questions about what he did because he always treated her well enough. She thought of how happy she was when she saw him at the Floral shop again, she thought he left for good.

"What is that, Leo?" She asked as she moved back closer to the edge of the bed.

"Well Babe, it's like vitamins, for your head," he said as he took her right arm at the wrist, "It will help you relax. It will help the baby relax. It's for girls pregnant young as you. I wouldn't lie," he said as he touched her belly with his other hand. She took a deep breath in, letting the balloon in her shirt inflate under his hand. He winced.

"Okay babe are you ready?" He asked as he took her belt off.

"Leo no. I'm already pregnant," she smiled as she put a palm over her crotch.

"Not that," he smiled sheepishly as he slipped her belt through the loops, gently removing her fingers off the belt buckle. He held his hands open palmed with the belt lying like a dead snake in between them. She put her arm over the belt and Leo wrapped it around her forearm like an anaconda in a knot.

"Lay down, relax," he said, and she laid down on the dirty mattress.

Things that make me stew..

Le Fache (Angry) Chef's Menu:

(Reservations for one are required)

Soup de Jour:

People who copycat and being pushed into originality

People who need to be the first

People who want to be last

Fake pregnancies

Entrees:

Bad drivers, people who don't pay attention to life minute by minute

When I drive badly

When people who don't know what's good/bad for them and why

(Blind people who still have their eyes)

Cool kids

Kids who are actually cool, but not "cool," who strive to become "cool"

Cheaters

Prostitutes

My parent's dissolution

Becoming my dad

Birthdays

Desserts:

Pornography

My mom's new place

Turkey day

Christmas

Fuck, any holidays

The smell of my old house

The chair my dad sits in, in the dark, while listening to classical music

My dad's Match.com emails

Trusting others