likes unpacking. She likes opening things and, before putting them away, tasting just a little bit.
She stands up, peeling herself off the lawn chair with a long sucking sound, and walks toward the house. As she walks, her legs slip past each other with the same whooshing sound that corduroy makes. Her breasts and belly and butt bounce as she walks; they bounce with different beats but all in some strange syncopation, like a strung-out rhythm section.
She steps over the threshold. The contrast between light outside and the darkness inside makes the dark somehow darker and causes temporary blindness. For the first minute all she can see is the front door, straight ahead across the living room. It is open. She can see out into the light. She thinks of walking through the house and out the other side. The darkness seems to take her over, to swallow her. She stands still. There are mirrors on both sides of the living room walls. She sees herself as a large mass of unbelievable whiteness. She sees her shape, the scope of herself and her size. She feels deformed.
In the air-conditioning she can feel herself shrinking, somehow getting smaller all over. She looks away from the mirrors and focuses ahead on the open door. Her mother is just outside bringing in bags from the car. The boy from next door passes by on his skateboard and looks in the door. He sees her and calls out her name, “Chunky.” Cheryl stands there, sees him see her, hears her name, and still stands there. Without realizing it she drops her hand to her crotch, covering herself. Her mother comes in carrying three bags, looks at her, and says, “Get dressed, dear.”
Jim Train
It is Jim’s idea to walk every day to and from the station. He thinks of leaving his new home, walking down the sidewalks, past the neighbors’ homes, over the small bridge to the train station as a pleasant thing to do, the kind of thing he imagines would keep a man alive.
“It gives me time to think,” he tells anyone who asks why he doesn’t just have his wife drop him off at the station like all the other men.
“I enjoy large thoughts,” he says to his wife one evening. “I need them now. My thoughts are my food,” he says. “I have to eat.”
Jim pops a section of a Ho Ho into his mouth; cream filling squirts out onto his lips.
“I understand,” his wife says, refusing to look at him. The sight of food in a person’s mouth makes her ill. “Good night.” She turns off the lamp on her side of the bed.
In the morning as he walks, Jim passes unoccupied cars, motors running, warming up, spilling thick exhaust out onto the sidewalks, into the air. He steers around them fully realizing that avoiding the smoke means nothing, toxicity surrounds him.
He weaves down the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, sweating lightly in his overcoat, feeling young, like a boy, looking forward to school and at the same time drawing out his walk so that inevitably he always arrives at the last minute.
On his way into town, he reviews his thoughts, which frequently come to him in the form of a speech. Each day he either adds or subtracts something so that by the time he reaches the station, he has relieved his mind to the extent that when the train pulls in and he squeezes himself into a seat, holding his briefcase on his lap—the weight and trapped heat lowering what is left of his sperm count—he quickly falls asleep.
Jim is a lawyer, as is everyone in New York City, or so it seems. His office is on the thirty-fourth floor of a large midtown office tower. Every morning his first activity after being greeted by his secretary—who bounds toward him, messages in hand, with all the good cheer of a well-bred retriever—is to close his door and call home.
“I’m here,” he says, as soon as either his wife or the housekeeper picks up the phone.
“Good,” the voice on the other end is trained to say. “Great,” Jim says. “Gotta go.”
Occasionally when he calls, there is no answer,
She stands up, peeling herself off the lawn chair with a long sucking sound, and walks toward the house. As she walks, her legs slip past each other with the same whooshing sound that corduroy makes. Her breasts and belly and butt bounce as she walks; they bounce with different beats but all in some strange syncopation, like a strung-out rhythm section.
She steps over the threshold. The contrast between light outside and the darkness inside makes the dark somehow darker and causes temporary blindness. For the first minute all she can see is the front door, straight ahead across the living room. It is open. She can see out into the light. She thinks of walking through the house and out the other side. The darkness seems to take her over, to swallow her. She stands still. There are mirrors on both sides of the living room walls. She sees herself as a large mass of unbelievable whiteness. She sees her shape, the scope of herself and her size. She feels deformed.
In the air-conditioning she can feel herself shrinking, somehow getting smaller all over. She looks away from the mirrors and focuses ahead on the open door. Her mother is just outside bringing in bags from the car. The boy from next door passes by on his skateboard and looks in the door. He sees her and calls out her name, “Chunky.” Cheryl stands there, sees him see her, hears her name, and still stands there. Without realizing it she drops her hand to her crotch, covering herself. Her mother comes in carrying three bags, looks at her, and says, “Get dressed, dear.”
Jim Train
It is Jim’s idea to walk every day to and from the station. He thinks of leaving his new home, walking down the sidewalks, past the neighbors’ homes, over the small bridge to the train station as a pleasant thing to do, the kind of thing he imagines would keep a man alive.
“It gives me time to think,” he tells anyone who asks why he doesn’t just have his wife drop him off at the station like all the other men.
“I enjoy large thoughts,” he says to his wife one evening. “I need them now. My thoughts are my food,” he says. “I have to eat.”
Jim pops a section of a Ho Ho into his mouth; cream filling squirts out onto his lips.
“I understand,” his wife says, refusing to look at him. The sight of food in a person’s mouth makes her ill. “Good night.” She turns off the lamp on her side of the bed.
In the morning as he walks, Jim passes unoccupied cars, motors running, warming up, spilling thick exhaust out onto the sidewalks, into the air. He steers around them fully realizing that avoiding the smoke means nothing, toxicity surrounds him.
He weaves down the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, sweating lightly in his overcoat, feeling young, like a boy, looking forward to school and at the same time drawing out his walk so that inevitably he always arrives at the last minute.
On his way into town, he reviews his thoughts, which frequently come to him in the form of a speech. Each day he either adds or subtracts something so that by the time he reaches the station, he has relieved his mind to the extent that when the train pulls in and he squeezes himself into a seat, holding his briefcase on his lap—the weight and trapped heat lowering what is left of his sperm count—he quickly falls asleep.
Jim is a lawyer, as is everyone in New York City, or so it seems. His office is on the thirty-fourth floor of a large midtown office tower. Every morning his first activity after being greeted by his secretary—who bounds toward him, messages in hand, with all the good cheer of a well-bred retriever—is to close his door and call home.
“I’m here,” he says, as soon as either his wife or the housekeeper picks up the phone.
“Good,” the voice on the other end is trained to say. “Great,” Jim says. “Gotta go.”
Occasionally when he calls, there is no answer,
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