 |
|||||||
|
|
The Storm in the Park Violet She woke to a tarnished silver sky, bleeding trails of gray with no Frenching, cool gray, no warmth, no hope. Opie the Dog jittered and whined, danced and placed a frigid nose where it didn’t belong. Yes, Violet said, I’ll take you out now and hope it doesn’t rain. She adopted the dog to meet people, giving up her nice apartment for this less nice one near Forsythe Park. Five years later it’s just her and the dog. She stuffs a strawberry Pop-Tart in her mouth and wraps the other one up in her anorak pocket, the one without the poop bags. She told herself she will feed the squirrels with the spare Pop-Tart, but somewhere halfway through the walk, she sank onto a bench, tears threatening as rain fell. She ate the squirrels’ Pop-Tart with angry bites, hoping the chewing and swallowing would make the tightening in her throat ease. Opie the Dog sat prettily and begged, whiteless dog eyes aping understanding, sympathy. On the edge of sobbing, Violet gave the dog half the Pop-Tart and said, “What the hell do you know. You’re a dog.”
Trish Trish hid behind Jackie O. sunglasses, despite the increasing gloam of the storm. She wore winter white cashmere. Everything at home was white as well, white carpet, white furniture, a white Pomeranian and a white Persian cat (both matching the white Flokati and the rest of the décor). No one in the park would notice her, perched as she was on a bench near the public bathrooms away from the fountain. The man had asked her why they were meeting at this park, instead of Daffin Park, which was closer to her home. Cleanup was important to her, after all. Not that he gave a fuck, he shrugged. Trish didn’t have an answer, but it had nothing to do with her ex-husband’s habit of running here at this time of day. The man arrived, coming up behind her and placing a grimy hand on her shoulder. She stood, allowing him to drag her into the men’s side of the public restroom. He pinned her against the concrete blocks between the urinals, fucking her against the filthy wall until she was dirty, dirty, dirty. Like the dirty leaden sky.
Stiles Stiles met him in the alley behind Taylor Street one Thursday after dropping his grandmother off at Forsythe Park. His Dondi eyes lied. Past the big blueness of them, something wounded whimpered behind the retinas. Sure, Stiles knew what he did after dark, he and his older brother—the corner on River Street where boy whores propped their backs against 18th century brick walls, their boots crunching palmetto bugs on the cobblestones. They met every Monday and Thursday after Stiles left his grandmother to her park bench dreams ducking into private gardens near the park—emerging later zipping trousers and wiping shirtsleeves against flushed lips. This time, in a moment of madness when he came, following a flash of lightning from the pewter sky, Stiles screamed out, I love you. The light flickered on both their faces, frozen in what Stiles was sure was mutual embarrassment. As they let themselves out the back garden gate, Stiles grabbed his arm and asked if he would be there next Thursday. He smiled, stood on toetips to kiss Stiles and whispered—don’t worry. Everything will be okay.
Julia Her grandson offered to take her to Bonaventure Cemetery where they used to walk, but she would be spending plenty of time there soon. He left her at her usual bench with a bag of peanuts for the pigeons. Julia didn’t get involved with the social scene at the seniors’ high-rise. Last week her best friend started a course of antibiotics for the clap. Gracie cried all the way home from the doctor. When Julia asked her who gave it to her, Gracie said Earnest or Charles. Or maybe Harold. All three gentlemen had made advances to Julia. But Julia wasn’t much interested. Truthfully, she had never lost her taste for young flesh. Her mind still housed that clever young thing, that merciless flirt, that woman known for a good time. Two days a week, she came to the park. She liked the runners with their wiry legs, cyclists with their voluptuous thighs and cheese-grater calves, though rollerbladers had the best asses. A drop of rain fell from the platinum sky. A runner scattered the crowd of pigeons in front of her, his tendons ropy and hard. Julia watched him, sighing, oh yes, that’s the stuff.
David David took up running when he admitted the permanence of his spreading bald spot, just out of line of his vision, where he had to use a mirror to see it. So he shaved his head and bought a pair of nylon running shorts so insubstantial he could crumple them in his hand. When he ran, the push and pull of his breath, the stitch in his side, the slap of his shoes and the sweat trickling down the crack of his ass erased the nagging of time and the aftertaste, still bitter these ten years later, of things his ex-wife said as she walked out of his life. He stopped and bent over the water fountain, drinking the bleach-flavored water as the metallic sky darkened and thundered. Something cold, firm and damp poked him in his crotch from the rear. He cursed, whirling to find a scruffy shepherd mix grinning at him and a sad-eyed girl on a bench gasping, “Opie!” through a mouth full of food. She started to choke and David ran to her side, slapped her on the back. She smiled a messy, pastry smile and David sorta wanted to kiss her. And then came the downpour.
t o p |
||||||
 |
|||||||
