Refuge From An Indifferent World

The house is meticulous.  Everything has a place and every place has a thing.  The couple that owns this old worker’s cottage completely gutted and replaced it with a Modernist interior.  At the time, they couldn’t legally get married.  So, they blew their money on a dream house instead of a wedding.  I could never live in this museum.  Every surface is the Perfect Eggshell White, which terrifies a slob like me.  But, it’s also the reason I’m here.

Alex “somehow” punched a hole in a wall and they asked me to repair it.  Robin’s eyes roll with every mention and I know enough not to ask.  Since I’ll have to paint anyway, they request that I touch up the various scuffmarks around the house too.  Marks that most people don’t notice, but blemishes that drive them crazy because they are so close to the ideal.  No need to buy paint.  In the basement is a large shelf with cans of the Perfect Eggshell White paint.  They ordered extra during the renovation for just such an occasion.  I did purchase a drywall repair kit, on my way over, with spackle, a patch, and sandpaper.  An expense they generously cover on top of paying me more than requested and an invitation to the fully stocked fridge.  It’s an easy job.  Plus, they want me out of the house by three so they can prepare for some kind of party.  Shouldn’t be a problem. 

There’s only so much you can do waiting for paint to dry.  In the den is the only old chair in the house.  I check myself for wet paint.  You never know.  My luck, the seat is some valuable relic from the reign of the Duke of Italy or something.  Just in case, I lay a ragged bathroom towel over the furniture.  It’s difficult to relax in such a sterile space.  But, my knees ache from hours of standing on imported marble tile.

I guess a museum needs art.  On the opposite wall is an enormous painting.  How did they get it into this room?  It’s a panorama of a great old building with columns, arches, and statues.  Kind of like the courthouse downtown.  There seems to be a party or something.  Fifty or so smart looking old white guys with beards standing around.  No ladies (I assume some are dudes with long hair since it was the style in Jesus’ time and all)?  I don’t see any food or drink either.  So, can’t be much of a celebration.  Although, one guy must be drunk as a dog since he fell up the stairs.  They all pretend to be so important with their large books and serious conversations.  There is doubt in their body language though.  The plaque at the bottom of the frame doesn’t make any sense, School of Athens.  Must have been a frame for another piece of art since they don’t even have desks or a chalkboard.

I wonder why Alex and Robin got such a huge painting?  They must have built the room around the painting during the renovation.  The time, energy, and planning for the purpose just doesn’t seem rational.  Was this an escaped impulse that somehow had a room constructed around it?  Every question leads to more questions.

Leaning toward the painting I focus on the man thinking at the bottom.  What’s his story?  He’s the only one without any interaction.  Is he ostracized or is the isolation self-imposed?  All the others are all dolled up in fancy bright robes.  Not him.  Just a simple drab coat and heavy-duty boots.  What’s he thinking about?  What’s changing in his life?  His ups, downs, and troubled waters.  What will his inner conflict lead to?  Who is he and what was his fate?  Is that what he’s writing about?

I know my destiny.  It’s to get off my ass and finish painting.

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Red Lipstick

By Elizabeth Dunphey

Her name was Oona

and yes, the name was perfect

Alluding to the hush of a secret, or the ocean

Or a foreign country, say, Ireland

Where her daddy Eugene came from

Oona O’Neill

Was a sultry movie star vision

La brune, not la blonde.

Black of hair, dark of eye

Sullenly rich

Full lips.

La brune, to the extreme, as the French say

Brunette.

A mysterious bad girl teenager

That JD Salinger dated

And renamed Sally

Every broken hearted girl on campus

I see their love for her now

How they wanted Oona’s perfect uniformed body

That velvety black hair

To smoke cloves like her at the Stork Club forever

With red lipstick over her queenly mouth

and kisses for the dangerous world.

Elizabeth has modeled, written stories forever, and loves winter.  Read more of her in the Eunioa Review and Milk.

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

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Night Time Is the Right Time

My hand flails wildly at the nightstand.  I grab for anything that will stop the ringing.  The lamp falls to the floor followed by a pile of papers.  Who the hell is calling at this time?  It’s not a number I recognize on the caller ID.  Probably a drunk dialing the wrong number.  Roll over and press my face as deep as I can into the pillow.  Can I fall back asleep if I tell myself “I have to sleep?”  A beep.  They left a message?  What if it’s an emergency?  I better check just in case.  Roll back over as my hand thrashes for the phone again.  I have one message.

“Oh, hey Luke.  Guess yer not there.  I was…  Um…  Anyway, if ya can, call me back.  Oh yeah, it’s Monica.”  Well, it didn’t sound urgent.  Maybe it is.  Didn’t seem tipsy.  Maybe she is.  Even if there was a problem, what could I do?  I’m here and she’s in California.  Should I call her back?

What does she want?  We haven’t talked in years.  Isn’t this a strange coincidence?  Does chance exist or is it all predetermined?  I just saw the warehouse where we met a little bit ago.  Our relationship started with an expiration date.  There was no fault, just life pulled us in different directions.  Monica ended up in Los Angeles and I’m doing whatever the hell it is I’m doing.

Still doesn’t answer my question: should I call her back?  My grandpa always says, “Nothin’ good ever happens after 3am.”  That usually referred to me being out on the town.  Not sure if that applies to a phone call.  Monica is a grenade with a faulty pin.  Everything is fine until it isn’t.  No one should think this much about a stupid phone call.

Screw it, I’ll return the call.  It rings.  It rings again.  Now I get the voicemail.  Forget it.  I’m not leaving a message.  Finally, I can get back to sleep. 

Again, the phone rings and it’s Monica, “Hey Monica, is everythin’ okay?”

“Hi!  I’m great.  Did I wake ya?”  Maybe she didn’t take the time zones into account.  “I can call back later.”

“No.  No.”  Not falling back asleep any time soon anyway.  “So, how’s California treatin’ ya?”

“Oh, it was…  good.  I moved back home a little while ago, ya know.”

“I didn’t know.  I thought da next time I’d see ya was goin’ ta be in da movies.  I’d say ‘I knew ya when’…”

“That’s sweet.”  Her voice now deflated.  “L.A. was not what I thought it’d be.  Ya always hear how fake and phony everythin’ is out there, but it’s much worse.  It’s all ‘bout havin’ da right friends, bein’ in da right cliques, ‘nd givin’ favors ta sleazeballs.  ‘Nd if ya don’t have da ‘right look,’ forget ‘bout da whole thing.  Anyway, Anabelle told me yer back in town too.  Is that right?”

“Yeah, Granpa got sick ‘nd I moved in ta help out.”  I could of told her the whole story, but isn’t that depressing enough?

“Nothin’ serious, I hope.”

“It’s serious.  It’s all ‘bout reducin’ his pain at this point.  Enough ‘bout that.  What’s goin’ on with ya?”

“I’m at da Fallen Angel Bar ‘nd thought I’d see if ya wanted ta come out.  Whaduya say?  Wanna hang out?”

“No shit?  I was there a while back.”  Some things never change.  “Not tanight though.  I’ve gotta work tamorrow mornin’.  But, I’m pretty free after three tamorrow.”

“Great!”  Now I can hear all the gears grinding in her head.  “A coupla friends ‘nd I are goin’ ta Flanigan’s ta see a band tamorrow night, if ya wanna come.”

“Sure.”  Flanigan’s is the worst fake Irish pub with the biggest douchebag patrons. “What time?”

“Doors open at seven.  So, whaduya think?  ‘Bout eight sound good?”

“Works fer me.”

“Great!  Can’t wait ta see ya.  ‘Night Luke.”

“’Night.”  I hang up and turn on the lamp that fell onto dirty laundry.  The cheap light bulb casts an uneven yellow light across the ceiling.  It looks like static waves of dirty water splashing against the walls.  Still not sure if it was a “good” idea to return Monica’s call.  But, if I didn’t she’s liable to throw a fit in the front yard and wake up the neighborhood.  Still, I’m second guessing my risk and reward assessment.  What is it about Monica that drives me insane?  

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The Importance of Making Stuff

By Nick of Megalomania Zine

I started reading Dreamwhip and Cometbus when I was around fourteen and I grew to love the way they described the everyday-ness of life, with all its long, mundane parts and little inspiring sexy bits. To me, they made writing seem really possible. Over time, I learned that my favorite type of zine was the kind that blended sketches with handwritten text, so I try to make that kind of content. It seems to me that this is a better way to tell a story, because I think you gain a deeper understanding of an author and their experience by seeing their pen strokes. It’s more intimate.

Normally, my writing is a lot less serious than this post. Be sure to check out more of my stuff at www.megzine.com!

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What Lurks In the Basement

Where the hell is it?  I close another beat up cardboard box of old toys and open a towering armoire that’s lost a majority of its flakey white paint.  A weathered Santa waves to me from a cobwebbed corner.  His pudgy red face is so bloated that it looks like it could explode.  I slide a few more plastic bins and former appliance boxes around the room.  Plumes of dust roll like a miniature Arizona dust storm.  On the floor is a cheap baby blue backpack.  It means I’m close.  Pushing more shit out of the way, a strange form is revealed covered by a garbage bag.  I loosen the drawstrings and pull it off the guitar.

I didn’t want it.  Right before band practice, I went to Loewe’s Music for strings.  Man, that was years ago.  Anyway, I was waiting for the clerk when I picked up the fiery red guitar and messed around for a bit.  Kind of weird looking with an oblong body, but fun.  “Whatcha think ‘bout that guitar?” shouted the clerk from the cluttered back.

“It’s awright.” I replied.  “Da lead in my band has a blue one ‘nd likes it enough.”

“Wanna plug it inta an amp?” that metalhead thought he had me on a line.

“Nah.  Just gettin’ strings ‘nd hafta get goin’.”

“’Kay…” He grabbed the high gauge strings and was about to ring me up when he asked, “Whad if I gotcha a deal?  Wouldja consider buyin’ da guitar then?”

“Yer persistent, aren’t ya?  It’d hafta be a great deal since I awready have a guitar.  What’s wrong with it anyway?”  There’s salesmanship and then there’s desperation.

“Nothin’.  Nothin’.  Just had it fer a while ‘nd need ta move it off da sales floor.  How does $300 sound?  I’ll even throw in da strings ‘nd a gig bag.”  I tried to pretend 50% off wasn’t a good deal.  Faked a moment to think.  Luckily, I had enough cash for the down payment and paid the rest off the next day.

The guitar is in rough shape.  The body and neck are fine, but there are patches of rust on the pick-ups, keys, and bridge.  Fine brown dust forms around the corroded strings with every pluck as I tune it: not an easy task when I’m missing the D string.  It’s still a fine instrument if you can get over the disheveled appearance.

Reaching in the nylon backpack for a pick, I remove a crumpled piece of paper from our CD release show.  An old set list with twelve original songs.  Each one about an inside joke, a twisted relationship, or personal disaster.  One melody was even sung in a made up language (not our most popular hit).  Two songs are about the same girlfriend: one at the beginning of the relationship and the other at the end.  I didn’t write any of them, but they are still special to me.

The amp appears to have survived its long hibernation.  I won’t really know until I can plug it in.  It used to be so loud.  Absolute no reason to have a half-stack if you’re only playing V.F.W. halls.  But, it was all part of the act.  The highest I ever turned the dial was “3” and I nearly lost an eardrum.  It could produce a sound wave that resembled a chainsaw cutting steel.  Spray painted on one side is the band’s name: Justice Fire.  The white stenciled letters almost glitter on the battered black cabinet.  A message from a former era, like a cave painting.

I’m still unclear how I joined the band.  They lost their drummer and I had a friend without a group.  I introduced them and was about to leave when someone asked, “Where’s yer guitar?”

“Uh…  At home.” At the time I had an inexpensive beginner’s set.

“Why didn’t ya bring it?”

“Why would I?”

“’Cause we have practice.  Go home ‘nd grab it.  We’ll start on drums ‘nd be ready ta work with ya by da time yer back.”  The drummer and I had less than a week to prepare for our first show at a banquet hall.

Peeking at the mechanicals in the amp head, there’s a stack of photos in the nook.  I forgot all about these.  There are shots from every show and the dumb stuff we did waiting to play.  Here’s the set we did in our underwear.  That’s us eating all those free burritos because we wrote a song for a Mexican restaurant.  There I am arguing with a cop because he’s trying to shut us down citing nonexistent laws and ignoring our permit.  Oh man, this picture is from the basement show we played and thought a serial killer tricked us into being his victims when we first arrived.  And, that’s me posing with friends after my last performance.

I didn’t know that was my last show then.  A week later, we practiced at the studio as usual.  I was packing up my stuff when one of the guys said, “Hey Luke, can ya talk fer a minute?”  They politely cut me from the band.  I was disappointed, but I realized I was the least talented member.  I collected all my stuff as they watched me from the couch with melancholy faces.  It was quiet as I crammed everything into the blue backpack.  I unlatched the door to the alley and stopped when I heard, “Hey man, we’re sorry.”  I couldn’t respond.

The half-stack was the first to go downstairs.  A while later, I stored the recording equipment in a tub.  A lot was changing in my life at that moment and music didn’t seem to be a part of my future.  So, I wrapped up my guitar, just as I’m doing now, in a shriveled garbage bag.  It crinkles as I carefully place it on the stand.  I turn off the lights and head back upstairs to reality.

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

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If you have any submissions, questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com