Flirt: The Interviews by Lorna Jackson Page A
Authors: Lorna Jackson
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Short Stories, Language Arts & Disciplines, Short Stories (Single Author), Communication Studies
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manâs opinion on that.
âJohnnyâs not just any man. But he said, âWhatâs in him at that moment? I donât know, some bizarre cocktail of bravado and compassion and oedipal urgings. Why does he do it? Because she wants him to and heâs a good boy. Because heâs so alive heâs bigger than death. Because heâs on an Experience-gathering expedition, and this is a Big One. Because this is where he brings girls to kiss them, and sheâs a girl. Because theyâve slipped out of the stream of time and become ageless. Because heâs so beautiful it would be a scandal if nobody were kissing him. Because he reads her well enough to know he can get away with it, and getting away with things is the teenagerâs raison dâêtre . Because heâs in awe of the moment heâs concocted, and knows he has to do something remarkable to mark it . . .â
âJohnâs words comfort you, donât they.
âThey do.
âWhy do you think he kisses her? Before you answer, try to open your mind, your heart, try to think about where you are â in the country on a hot day and eating a handful of blackberries that will stain your lips, holding my hand like weâre girlfriends off from school for the turning-point summer weâve been waiting for. Look at me. Now, why do you think he kisses her?
âFeel this under the dogâs front leg. Here, Alice. Put your fingers under mine. Feel that? Thereâs a little tumor under there, floating around, fixing for trouble. But look at him, smiling in his sleep, oblivious. Good dog.
He kisses her because she gives him the word âtanninâ. No woman has given him a word. Take off your hat, Alice. He kisses her because sheâs beautiful regardless of time. Because he canât help it.
I Flirt with RICHARD FORD
âWaiting for you to phone feels like high school. Will he? Wonât he? How do I look?
âBut I called, whereas in high school they likely didnât.
âI went to high school in Vancouver and stood far too many cold afternoons under the colonial street light on the corner of Wiltshire and 43rd with boyfriend X, after our respective rugby and volleyball games. I tried to convince him I wasnât too crazy to love long term, that just because my sister was near death I wasnât sad all the time, I could tell a good joke, cared about the civil rights movement and necked well, though ancient at fifteen. We stood so long my toes froze, in sight of my square blue Georgian house, its rhododendrons, my motherâs cream-coloured Austin inept in the driveway, but we didnât go in there. X helped keep me whole but by graduation, he had taken up with a rough covey of rugger chicks who liked their boys straddling rebuilt Harleys with long scars where pins held their ruptured bodies â elbows, knees. Girls who drank hard liquor fast and smoked weed in their parentsâ condos at Whistler and took pills and called that carefree. My sister dead, I quit the team, and found a nice United church redheaded boy who refused to fuck but could fingerpick a punchy acoustic guitar â his brotherâs D-28 Martin â and who lived for the scratch and squeeze of tight harmony. Of course, moral differences ripped us apart, and the phone calls stopped coming when I begged the world for one more talk. Richard, this is already better than high school.
âWeâll see.
âThank-you for calling.
âMy pleasure so far.
âYou may occasionally hear the sound of chickens. My office looks out on a rough little coop built seventy years ago from field stones and cedar shingles by a local shoemaker and is now home to a dozen Barred Rocks
and a couple of freakish and testy Black Minorcas. Their egg yolks this time of year are a yellow not otherwise found in nature and taste rich as French pastries, thick from a diet of hatching slugs. Early this morning, turkey vultures circled
âJohnnyâs not just any man. But he said, âWhatâs in him at that moment? I donât know, some bizarre cocktail of bravado and compassion and oedipal urgings. Why does he do it? Because she wants him to and heâs a good boy. Because heâs so alive heâs bigger than death. Because heâs on an Experience-gathering expedition, and this is a Big One. Because this is where he brings girls to kiss them, and sheâs a girl. Because theyâve slipped out of the stream of time and become ageless. Because heâs so beautiful it would be a scandal if nobody were kissing him. Because he reads her well enough to know he can get away with it, and getting away with things is the teenagerâs raison dâêtre . Because heâs in awe of the moment heâs concocted, and knows he has to do something remarkable to mark it . . .â
âJohnâs words comfort you, donât they.
âThey do.
âWhy do you think he kisses her? Before you answer, try to open your mind, your heart, try to think about where you are â in the country on a hot day and eating a handful of blackberries that will stain your lips, holding my hand like weâre girlfriends off from school for the turning-point summer weâve been waiting for. Look at me. Now, why do you think he kisses her?
âFeel this under the dogâs front leg. Here, Alice. Put your fingers under mine. Feel that? Thereâs a little tumor under there, floating around, fixing for trouble. But look at him, smiling in his sleep, oblivious. Good dog.
He kisses her because she gives him the word âtanninâ. No woman has given him a word. Take off your hat, Alice. He kisses her because sheâs beautiful regardless of time. Because he canât help it.
I Flirt with RICHARD FORD
âWaiting for you to phone feels like high school. Will he? Wonât he? How do I look?
âBut I called, whereas in high school they likely didnât.
âI went to high school in Vancouver and stood far too many cold afternoons under the colonial street light on the corner of Wiltshire and 43rd with boyfriend X, after our respective rugby and volleyball games. I tried to convince him I wasnât too crazy to love long term, that just because my sister was near death I wasnât sad all the time, I could tell a good joke, cared about the civil rights movement and necked well, though ancient at fifteen. We stood so long my toes froze, in sight of my square blue Georgian house, its rhododendrons, my motherâs cream-coloured Austin inept in the driveway, but we didnât go in there. X helped keep me whole but by graduation, he had taken up with a rough covey of rugger chicks who liked their boys straddling rebuilt Harleys with long scars where pins held their ruptured bodies â elbows, knees. Girls who drank hard liquor fast and smoked weed in their parentsâ condos at Whistler and took pills and called that carefree. My sister dead, I quit the team, and found a nice United church redheaded boy who refused to fuck but could fingerpick a punchy acoustic guitar â his brotherâs D-28 Martin â and who lived for the scratch and squeeze of tight harmony. Of course, moral differences ripped us apart, and the phone calls stopped coming when I begged the world for one more talk. Richard, this is already better than high school.
âWeâll see.
âThank-you for calling.
âMy pleasure so far.
âYou may occasionally hear the sound of chickens. My office looks out on a rough little coop built seventy years ago from field stones and cedar shingles by a local shoemaker and is now home to a dozen Barred Rocks
and a couple of freakish and testy Black Minorcas. Their egg yolks this time of year are a yellow not otherwise found in nature and taste rich as French pastries, thick from a diet of hatching slugs. Early this morning, turkey vultures circled
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