Written and Published by Pete Rizzo
Boston, Massachusetts
© 2012 by Pete Rizzo
“So tell us, this book, this book,” Jay says, turning to me, acknowledging the clump of pages on his desk as if it needs no introduction, its cover crisp and bold and shining in the camera lights.
He is smiling, the last black strands of his hair swept up in a wave of grey, dulled from years of derision rolling off.
“It’s transfixing America,” he says, breaking from the cue cards.
“Come now—“ I say, laughing and turning to the fawning audience. They look like one blob of faces, some omelet that is slowly bubbling, ready to be flipped.
I smile at them, their praise filling me, evening out my shoulders and relaxing my leg as it rests across my knee.
I am in their homes now, a fact that is amplified by the brightness of the glistening factory, the sight of the silent operators at the switchboards, all these little people patiently transmitting me and this man and his great commanding chin...
“No, I mean it, it is—do you realize, the lines outside the stores? The… a million sold every time you write a new book, the cover of Entertainment Weekly, two weeks in a row...“
He holds up the magazines. I look at my face, a smirk like Don Draper’s, a suit like Tom Wolfe’s.
“Seriously, I tried to get in the building today, they made me wait in line like everyone else,” Jay says, raising his voice at the end to vocalize the joke.
They cheer and cheer. It feels like the couch is raising itself, that I am on their shoulders, as if the couch is their shoulders…
“BARKKKKK.”
It comes from the other room, through the drywall.
“Son of…”
The walls come into focus around me.
“BARKKKKK.”
It's a cry of boredom.
“I met a man name Gray, I took his wife to Italy…”
I hit the pause button, letting the silence settle in my ears.
“Bark! Bark!”
I get up and stare out at the room, my eyes focusing, dazed in the transition from the bright screen to the apartment's Friday night dark.
I feel the heat from the alcohol rising in my veins. Was it from the gin? I consider this as I place the cup at my bedside, on top of the plastic nightstand, the little ice cubes clinking like wind chimes in the plain glass.
I shuffle in my socks across the floor.
“Shut up!”
Fuck this, I turn around in the middle of the apartment, clenching my fists. It is too much, I shouldn’t have gotten up, I can’t afford to get up, I don’t get why I got up…
Go back, I go back to the room. Fuck him, fuck the dog, fuck that piece of shit, that piece of shit, that piece of shit, the little fuck! How dare he that fuck…
Where am I?
The church lady...
Yes, she had come to me on the sidewalk, looking as she did, a perfect square of person wearing purple, her hands eternally folded.
Yes, that was it.
She looked like a person who was always waiting, always ready to clasp her hands…
Why is it so hot? Is it the alcohol?
I get up to check the thermostat. It is 62 degrees. It is set for 62 degrees.
Where was I?
I am losing her, she is becoming a Frankenstein of people I know…
“BARKK!”
I almost fall to the floor.
What they must think, that I’m up here abusing the dog, running hot irons over his little paws, with the racket! What they must think… like I’m beating him with a rubber hose!
“Bear, shut the fuck up!”
I get up and sit down.
No.
Another word, another page, another thought.
I have to get it down, get it all out. I have to. This is my night, a night I set aside…
The church lady won’t text Chloe, that was it, her friend from the meetings. She doesn't know that Larry, her husband, is out with his new girlfriend - or is it an old one?
She waits for him, unsuspecting, suspecting, maybe both, in her humble god-fearing kitchen. She doesn’t want to think that he's out there in the glamorous night, drunk with his certain pair of tits.
I close my eyes, picture her poised before God. I rewind the images of the church lady, my protagonist church lady. She goes to the convenience store, she splurges on gum, frowns at the checkout magazines.
Ponder the questions, get to know her...
How does she get up?
She has a glass of juice, of course, from a pitcher she keeps in a fridge wrapped with newspaper cutouts.
It matches the two-person breakfast table that the kids don’t use… before that… she gets up from sogging on the bed, rolling both her legs off with a yawn, her body useless and decaying… she takes a shit and washes her hands with seashell-shaped soap…
BARK!
I open my door with a swift hand, walking with conviction as my teeth clench and my cheeks descend into a terse expression.
I open the door to the dark room and put my face into the bars of his cage.
“Shhhhhhh!”
The barking continues long after I leave the room.
“What the fuck do you want? Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I call from my room, looking at the awful walls, the bland beige coloring marred by the visible scratches. I notice the holes that have been plastered over, the dents, the pock marks…
I return to the page.
Where was I?
Oh yes, I wanted to comment on the internet age… yes, how everyone was now broadcasting their feelings out in the open. The church ladies kids. Larry and… shit… maybe Glenda… Well, why not…
This is bad.
The names or the story?
You have to maintain objectivity.
But, I was going to lay into how vain it was… The vapidness of those who post pictures of themselves in mirrors… how all they seemed to care about was themselves… and the frog face of the church lady...
She was staring back calm as ever, wondering about the fuss. She sits at the two-person table her legs dangling, listening to her kids fight for an iPod as she cracks a biscotti with her teeth…
What did this have to do with the church lady? She sighed. I was boring her. I was taking up her life with what?
A draft opens the door. I hear a slow creak, a long, laborious whine that runs down the fissures of my brain like long fingers.
I get up and slam the door.
“Bear! Shut up!”
“Barrkkkkk.”
He is whimpering when I come into the room again, his little eyes glistening as he moves his head against the side of the kennel. I feel bad, I really do. But, he has been out! I took him out! Dave has only been gone for a few hours. Only a few hours!
“Shhhhhhhh!”
I curse him all the way back to the room, the bed and the voice of Mr. Dylan, feeling put upon.
Where was I?
In the middle of this masterpiece.
There were characters I needed to think on. Who was the church lady? This random female dotting the pages…
Did her husband have sex with her? No, of course not, I knew that, I had talked to her, or overheard her in the pews. He thought she was cheating of course with the “spics” down at the church. Who would go on a retreat? Who would spend four days in the woods if it wasn’t for a long dick or a warm vag? I didn’t know, he wasn’t right, but I sympathized.
This isn’t sexy.
I could be out clubbing.
My life is the church lady’s boring and sad.
There are no tongue rings in her lif
e, just family dinners with no one talking, unsatisfied kids at Christmas and watching the news for the weather.
Where was the sex appeal? Fuck, even the weather woman is always sexy.
She could be a purely selfish creation, wearing a black mini skirt, with a red ring on the edges... She could have a ruler, why? Why not?
She could lick it up and down, she could spank it against herself.
Jay looks at me, waiting for me to answer the question.
Jesus where was I?
Did the church lady have feelings? Yes, yes, but what were they? What was she supposed to be talking about? What was she supposed to say to make her real? or real enough that I could burden her with the symbolism, with my opinion on an issue…
The weather girl stares back in my mind, her ass wagging like I want it to. Her bra sags under the weight of her little dough ball tits. My hands pass over them, I make her mouth pass over my chest. She is on her knees now, her lipstick smeared. She is wearing red panties. I make her take them off, I make them lacy, I run her fingers through my waistband…
“Bark!”
“Bear! You shut your fucking mouth, you shut your fucking mouth!”
“You’ve known it all the time, I know where I can find you, in somebody’s room. It’s a price I have to pay, you’re a big girl all the way...”
That’s it, this song! She is this song. This is her depth, the mind of someone else, some great creator…
“Bark!” shrill and through the door, like a corkscrew through my heart.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. No, no, no. I couldn’t steal like that…
“Who are your influences?” Jay asked. “No, really, we want to know, who inspires you?”
He asks as if I couldn’t be inspired.
“You mean who did I steal from?” I say.
The audience laughs and it is gone, again, dissolved in the barking…
“I can’t help it, if I’m lucky…” Bob sings, mocking me.
Drink, another drink. That was the solution I think as I pull down my pants and let my mind go.
A masterpiece, I think, pulling my dick up and down, watching the weather woman, her shoulders getting soft, her neck bobbing up and down, all the while Mr. Dylan playing, Jay Leno smiling, the dog barking and barking and the church lady lost forever, her dangling legs slipping away…
--END--
About the author:
Pete Rizzo is an emotional masochist who has been described as “the Great Gatsby but without the money and the pool.”
Connect:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/pete_rizzo_
Blog: PeteRizzo.com
Kindle Author Page