Novel Race: Instant City, 1

I had drunk three rum and cokes and was working on a fourth. I never drank liquor in real life–I tended to nurse one beer, two tops, over the course of a party–but this was not real life. This was the City. Rum and coke was one of those drinks that I knew what it was, so that’s what I ordered. They were expensive, but I didn’t care. A soft, warm fur wrapped around the inside of my skull. My limbs felt loose, and my head nodded along with the opening band easily. With the alcohol and the dark and the crowd, I felt a strange combination of together and alone, if that makes sense. Like I wasn’t a person, but part of a cloud or a field. I sort of realized as I thought these things that I was only thinking them because I was drunk, and then I laughed at myself, and then I let the smile hang on my face and the music drift in and out of my ears and my eyes wander around the room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a short green dress with long sleeves. Something about the way it sparkled drew my attention, and I turned to look at it more fully, and then the woman in the dress raised her arm and her face to greet a friend somewhere in the crowd, and I fell down.

A girl next to me reached her hand down to help me back up, saying, “Careful, kid. Take it easy.” I ducked my head and slunk around to a corner on the other side of the bar, where my mother would not be able to see me. Nine years gone, and then I just stumble my drunk ass into her at a bar? That’s not the way this should happen, right? It’s got to be bigger, more special, more important. It’s got to be some other way. It can’t be like this. This can’t happen.

The opening band finished their last song, the lights raised slightly, and the next band started hauling their gear onto the stage. I watched from my corner as that green dress almost floated through the crowd, to the side of the stage, up the stairs, and started adjusting itself behind the mike. Her face was thinner than I remembered, but younger-seeming somehow. Maybe it was the stage lights. I had never seen her wear a dress like that, but I felt like, the way she moved in it, it suited her. She seemed natural, happy. She knelt down to talk to someone standing in the front row, and then walked back to talk with the guitarist, then kiss him, an easy, glowing kiss like people in love have in movies. All of a sudden I felt awkward and wrong and out of place, like I had no business being here. I couldn’t stay.

I couldn’t leave.

I finished my drink and pushed my way up to order another as the lights dropped again and my mother began to sing.

Novel Race: Down by the Water, 3

The question now was what to do with this girl. Bringing her back here had made all the sense in the world when they were shivering on the riverbank and there was a potentially angry and dangerous pimp lurking somewhere nearby, but now, with her unconscious and still somewhat damp on his bed, Jack wasn’t sure what the next step should be. The nameless girl seemed to be resting comfortably, her long, blond hair a tangled mass under her head, her t-shirt and jeans clinging to her in ways it was wrong for him to linger on. I should get myself cleaned up. Let her sleep, Jack thought. 

As he took a quick shower, Jack thought, By tomorrow morning, she’ll be out of here and I won’t have to worry about any of this. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. But I couldn’t just leave her there to drown… or worse. At least this time I did something. Took some action. Not like-- But he pushed the rest of the thought out of his head, turned off the water, and got out.  

He dried off and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs. Just as he was about to brush his teeth, though, from the other room came a strangled gasp.

Jack ran into the bedroom to see the girl, now 100 percent conscious, hunching over on the bed, wide-eyed and terrified, gulping for air. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What do you need?” But she didn’t seem capable of speaking. She just convulsed and gasped, her mouth moving like a fish’s. Do something, Jack’s brain said, but he had no idea what. He didn’t know how to do the Heimlich maneuver, and he remembered vaguely that if you did it wrong, you could break a person’s ribs. Out of desperate instinct, he ran to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and brought it to her, hoping she could wash down whatever might be stuck in her throat. She grabbed the glass of water and immediately threw it in her own face.

Jack stood in front her, shocked, as her breaths calmed and her face relaxed. Her hair was wet again and drops of water clung to her cheeks, and she sighed with relief. 

“Thanks,” she said in a lightly accented and almost musical voice, handing him back the glass. “Could I have another?”

Novel Race: Bad Luck, 2

I walked the two miles from my apartment to the address listed in the ad. I had sunk pretty far from my upbringing, but I did not ride the bus. The kind of people who rode the bus, I did not want to be in an enclosed space with. 

Lawrence Avenue sort of fades out as you go west. Starting where I live, it’s a normal street, with nice restaurants, real banks, a drug store, a post office–the things you’d expect to find in any neighborhood. As I walked farther, though, and especially once I crossed the river, it devolved into a string of cell phone stores, $5 haircut places, storefronts with the windows blocked up with signs in languages I couldn’t even identify, let alone read, and, worst of all, a live poultry shop, which on this overly humid June day stank like it was full of rotting bodies, which probably it was.

I kept walking as quickly as I could, wishing I weren’t wearing heels, trying not to make eye contact while simultaneously feeling like I needed to pay attention to everything. I held onto the strap of my purse, just in case. I dodged the people who were selling stuff out on the street: stands that sold snowcones, fruit, and big bags of orange-colored chips; a truck stacked with mattresses; a grocery cart full of socks and potholders; folding tables loaded with Avon products and Tupperware. It reminded me of the kind of open-air market you’d see somewhere in the Middle East or South America.

I passed a liquor store with two men sitting out front, one of them on an overturned milk crate, the other on a piece of cardboard that looked even dirtier than the ground it protected him from. They shouted something at me that I couldn’t translate–whether it was in another language or just drunkenly slurred English, I don’t know–but that I understood well enough. I turned my head pointedly away from them and wondered how many blocks I had left to endure and if I should even bother to keep going. But it wasn’t like I had a lot of choice. This was the first interview I’d had in three months. I had to make this work, somehow. I had gotten used to home hair color and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. I could get used to anything. 

Novel Race: Bad Luck, 1

[Note: None of these titles are final. I am crap at titles.]

“Mr. Stevenson?” I repeated, knocking again and pushing open the door. I took a step into the room and saw the desk chair was empty. Then I saw the couch, a plaid monstrosity looking like it had been pulled out of an alley behind a frat house, and the man splayed out on the couch. One foot was on the floor, one up on the arm rest, arms crossed over his face to block out the light. He just barely reached from one end of the couch to the other. “Mr. Stevenson?” I tried one more time, and he stirred and moved his arms.

As soon as his eyes opened and saw me, he jumped up, quicker than I would have imagined someone in his state could have. “Sorry, sorry, hi, yes.” He tried to smooth down an oversized and furiously wrinkled gray buttondown shirt. He’d paired it with a pair of equally oversized and wrinkled brown pants. “Bill Stevenson.” He stuck out a hand, slightly shaky, nail-chewed, and I took it, surprised at how rough and dry it was. “Mrs. Jankovitz, is it?”

I looked confused. “No, I’m Anna Miro.”

“Miro, Miro, right.” He took a seat behind his desk, and although he didn’t ask me to sit down opposite, I did. His face was blemished and looked as dry as his hand had felt. His eyes were reddish and baggy. “So, what can I do for you, Mrs. Miro?” he asked, turning on his computer.

“I–it’s Ms.”

“Sorry. Ms. Miro.”

“I’m here about the project coordinator position?”

He was looking right at me, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out how to follow this new turn the conversation had taken, from client intake to job interview. I would later come to think of these pauses as recalibration, the process of his brain switching gears from Detective Mode to Human Mode.

“The job?” he said.

“Yes, the job.”

“OK, OK, sure.”

His computer made a noise, and he typed something, then looked back at me. It was like he’d forgotten where we were. There was an awkward pause. I broke it with, “Can you tell me a little about the responsibilities?”

“Right! Of course. Well, it’s kind of a catch-all job. I need someone who can monitor the progress of my cases, figure out which jobs are priority, make sure we’re keeping the clients up to date on developments, organize my notes and research.” He paused, as though trying to go through a list in his head. “Marta takes care of all the phone stuff, you know, appointments, and the bills, so you won’t need to do that. I’m looking for someone organized, someone who can be on top of things.”

“Someone who can keep you in line.”

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It was supposed to stay in my head. But it came out. I’m sure the look of horror on my face was apparent, but as I tried to apologize, he just laughed.

“Yes. I need someone who can keep me in line. I had someone who did that, but she quit. I need a new one. Can you do that?”

I looked around the office: stray papers and post-it notes with a scrawling, angular, all-caps handwriting all over it. Multiple stained paper coffee cups and cigarette butts. Pill bottles of various sizes, some neatly lined up, others laying on their sides. The lingering stink of smoke and body odor and booze and maybe pot. I looked at the man himself: clearly hungover, or possibly still under the influence of something, loose and unkempt. I couldn’t even determine his age under his ill-fitting clothes and generic men’s haircut and possibly prematurely lined skin.

“The salary in the ad is final?”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

“No insurance?”

“No insurance.”

“Any benefits at all?”

“You’ll have some good stories.”

I nodded. My dwindling bank account figure and my last conversation with my parents about a possible loan cycled in my head. “I can keep you in line.”

“Do you have any experience?”

I thought about my college coursework, my internship at the photography gallery, my spring break work project down in Guatemala, and I gave him the most appropriate answer I could.

“My roommate sophomore year was a pillhead. I had to drag her home more than a few times and keep her on her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit.”

He looked right at me with eyes that, despite their shadows, seemed actually quite sharp. I think at that moment I first saw how he might be good at this job.

“You’re hired.”

Novel Race: Down by the Water, 2

He should have stopped after the sixth whiskey. Should have, but didn’t. Jack was really more of a beer man, but whiskey seemed more appropriate for a night of mourning. He couldn’t believe it had been a year already since she died–since he’d let her die, he corrected, the bitter memory of his helplessness twisting inside him. His wonderful Sarah. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see her coming down the street toward him now, petite but curvy in all the right ways, her long, blond hair swaying with each step.

Wait, the sober part of his brain said to the rest of him. That’s not Sarah you’re remembering. That’s a real girl right there. 

But something was wrong. Jack stopped and leaned against the first post of the bridge railing, watching, trying to figure out through the alcoholic fog what was going on.

As the girl got closer, he could see under the yellowy streetlights that she was young and beautiful–and panicked. When she got to the middle of the bridge, she hesitated for a step, turned to the railing, climbed over, and jumped.

With this act, the fog instantly cleared. “No!” he shouted, and ran over to where she’d jumped. He saw out of the corner of his eye another man running up from the opposite direction. The man skidded to a halt when he saw the girl jump, and then turned around and fled. Jack didn’t have time to worry about him. He looked over the railing and saw circles rippling through the water where the girl had gone under–and hadn’t come back up yet.

Jack hurdled over the rail in one clean move and dove into the river. There wasn’t much light from the streetlights and the moon, but he could just make out her hair and two limp arms trailing just below the surface. He swam over to her in a few powerful strokes, reached down, and grabbed her under the arms. He dragged her back to shore and scrambled up onto the nearest dock.

He leaned down. She was breathing, but barely. He gently turned her on her side, and she coughed and sputtered for a minute, clearing the water from her system. Thank God, Jack thought. He got lost gazing at her pale, porcelain face, serene despite the trauma she’d just gone through, with the clean-angled Eastern European features that you see all over this neighborhood and long, dark eyelashes. He suddenly realized he’d been stroking her wet, tangled hair and jerked away. He focused on the problem at hand: What am I supposed to do with her now? There was a reasonable chance, given that she was pretty and young and running away from some big guy in the middle of the night, that she might be a… working girl. Clearly, he’d stumbled into something unsavory. And he didn’t want to make any trouble for her by taking her to a hospital and getting the authorities involved if they weren’t really needed.

He picked up her thin wrist and felt for a pulse. It was regular. She was breathing more deeply than she had been when he first pulled her out. Other than some cuts on her feet and a couple of bruises on her arms and legs, she didn’t seem to be badly injured. She was just unconscious.

“Hey,” he said softly into her ear. “Hey, whoever you are. I’m going to take you home, OK? I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you. And we’ll get this all straightened out in the morning.”

The girl moaned slightly and rolled over onto her other side, but she didn’t open her eyes. Jack picked her up, so light even though she was soaking wet, and started up the bank in the direction of home.

Project Update: Novel Race

SO.

I have sucked at Dictionary Project specifically and writing in general lately, despite having a bunch of ideas kicking around in my head. To remedy this, I invented the Novel Race this morning. (This is not a “race” novel, although at least one of the ideas I have will certainly have to do with race.) The Novel Race is going to work like this. I have four potential novels that I have various ideas, outlines, scenes, etc, written for. A couple of mornings a week (I am aiming for Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, but let’s be honest, once a week will be better than nothing) I will be writing pieces of them here, based on whichever one I’m most inspired to work on that day. It’s my hope that one will emerge as the clear front-runner, so I can focus my energies on that. Because if writing one novel is stupid, writing four is ludicrous.

This is not a fair race at all. Each of the ideas is at a different starting line. One of the novels is the leftovers from NaNoWriMo 2009. Another is one that I started writing last year with some brilliant workshopping help from Emma Hooper. For the third, I wrote an outline last year, mainly as a joke to entertain me and my friend Laura while we drudged away in our cubicles, back when we both had cubicles. And the fourth is something I had the idea for a couple of months ago when someone reminded me how fantastic noir is within a week of me seeing a very suspicious man walk into a very suspicious door.

That’s the plan, anyway. We’ll see how this works.

Novel Race: Down by the Water, 1

Ania’s legs couldn’t move any faster. She’d kicked off her shoes a couple of blocks back, because there was no way being chased in heels was going to end well. There was, she supposed, little enough chance this was going to end well anyway. But now her feet were bleeding from hitting bits of trash and glass and broken concrete, and all of her Saturday morning jogs had not prepared her for running for her life.

Ivan was getting closer. He was drunk enough that he was not at his most athletic, but he was still fast enough to catch her, eventually, and strong enough to do whatever he wanted to her once he did. She knew she couldn’t just keep running. And they were coming up to the park, which would be abandoned at this hour of the night, and anyone who might be hanging around, she probably didn’t want their help, anyway. Do something! her brain screamed, but her body’s only reaction was to keep moving. She was kicking herself for scoffing when her aunt had told her to start carrying pepper spray when she moved to this neighborhood. I don’t need pepper spray, she’d said. I have Ivan to protect me. She winced at the irony.

She needed a plan. There had to be something. And then there was:

The bridge. The river.

Ania had been scared of water her entire life. She was told that she’d almost drowned in a farm pond back home, but like all memories of back home, she had only the shadow of it, and what others told her, to go by. She’d only been three when they left. But the echo of that event stayed with her, and the fear of water meant she’d never even learned to swim. But drowning, she figured, was preferable to whatever Ivan might do if he got his hands on her.

She glanced behind her. He was close enough that she could see the look in his eyes, even in the darkness. More than drunkenness, more than anger, there was fear, and that was more dangerous than anything. A scared animal will lash out in the most violent ways.

There was no more time to think. Her legs mounted the incline of the bridge, and before she had time to be scared or to question what she was doing, she put her hands on the railing and pushed herself up, one leg over, then the other. She closed her eyes and jumped. Somewhere behind her, she heard a man shout, “No!” The descent took forever, and during that forever, she found herself considering how odd it was that he’d said No, as though he actually cared what happened to her.

And then she hit the water, freezing, slimy, stinging in her cut-up feet, filling her mouth and nose. Her arms and legs kicked by instinct, but they didn’t know what they were doing, and she was so tired, and the water tugged her down like she was being pulled into bed by a lover, and then it all went black.

Icarus

It all happens in slow motion, just like they say. And that’s the worst part. The worst part is not the drowning. That isn’t so bad. The water just pulls me in and everything is warm and soft like the embrace of my mother and it gets quieter and darker until there isn’t anything else anymore. But it’s the part before that. The part where I am descending, slowly, falling further away from the beautiful gem that I almost captured, and it is getting smaller and dimmer, but I have enough time to think about how it looked up close, so bright and so near that I feel like if I open my mouth I can swallow it. And all the way down, I’m thinking, It would have been so much better to have gone right into the center of it, to let it go right into the center of me, to have burned up and had everyone in the world stare up at me and watch. No one is watching me fall. My father is not looking back, not one glimpse during my whole descent. And as I fall, all the way down, I’m thinking, Almost. Almost. Almost.