An Enchanting Evening At the Golden Ticket

The waitress has deep set eyes and almost a sneer as she refills our coffee.  Semis rumble by this 24-hour diner along I-57.  The Golden Ticket Diner is the only place to go after seeing a show at a bar.  “What makes people fall in love?” Monica gingerly stirs her coffee with a slightly bent spoon.

“Genetics.” I reply with little-to-no thought or reflection.

“Genetics!?!  That’s romantic.”  Obviously she was looking for a more sensual answer than a scientific one (not that I’m a scientist).

“Well, at least that’s what I saw somewhere.  Has ta do with evolution.”  I cram a big piece of French Toast in my mouth hoping there won’t be enough room for my foot.

So, yer sayin’ we only fall in love ‘cause of our genes?” 

“I’m not.  Scientists do.”  It’s hard to blame someone not there.  “Genes wanna survive.  Ta survive, they need ta reproduce.  So, natural selection manipulated us inta enjoyin’ companionship, sex, ‘nd stuff.  DNA wants us ta make lotsa babies so they can continue inta da next generation.  Part of that is ta trick us inta fallin’ in love.”

“’Trick us inta fallin’ in love’?”  Monica’s confusion turns into irritation.  This can be dangerous.  “What makes ya think I hafta be tricked inta love?”

“I was just repeatin’ what I saw onna science show.  Talkin’ ‘bout shows, yer friend’s band was pretty good tanight.”

“No.  I wanna hear whatcha think ‘bout love.  Do ya believe genetics make ya love?”  Me and my big mouth.

“Well…  What do ya think makes ya love?”

“Fer me, it’s emotional.  I mean, I’ll see a guy ‘nd think ‘he’s cute’.  I’ll make eye contact ‘nd smile.  If we end up talkin’, I’ll twirl my hair.  I’ll ask lotsa questions ‘bout him ‘nd laugh at his jokes.  If I’m really inta him, I’ll find a way ta touch his shoulder or arm, which leads ta a compliment ‘bout how strong he is or somethin’.  If he seems inta me, I’ll give him my number ‘nd take off before he gets bored.”

“But that’s not love.  Ya just told me how ya flirt.”  She has tricks, but doesn’t believe genes do?  “Tell me ‘bout when yer in love.”

“What do ya mean?”  Monica takes a sip of coffee and crosses her arms. 

“Okay…  Say ya’ve been seein’ someone fer a while ‘nd realize ya more than like ‘em.  Ya love ‘em.  Can’t imagine life without ‘em.  Think ‘bout havin’ babies ‘nd all.  What makes ya love ‘em?”

“I dunno.”  She puts her elbow on the table and presses her cheek into her fist.  “Maybe it’s bein’ passionate ‘nd stuff.  Ya know, tellin’ someone all da details of yer life ‘nd they still accept ya ‘nd wanna be with ya.  Wanna be with ya so much that they don’t plan on leavin’ ya.”  She rips open another packet of fake sugar and pours it into her half empty mug of joe.  “Does that answer yer questions?”

“It was yer questions.” I reply trying not to sound too defensive, but still cautious.  “But, not really.”

“What do ya mean ‘not really’?  What’s wrong with my answer?”

“Well, ya told me what makes ya fall in love, but not why.  Why do ya seek affection?”

“Why do ya hafta turn a simple question inta an interrogation?”  The sarcasm is getting thick.  “We’ll keep playin’ yer game.  I guess love is like hunger.  My body needs food fer energy, so my stomach growls ta let me know.  I need love ta fulfill some urge.  Don’t know what that urge is.  Might be ta feel safe.  May be dif’rent fer everyone.  Who knows?  Is that a better answer?”

“Will I get in trouble if I say ‘no’ again?”  Why am I pushing this?  I should just say “yes” so we can banter about other meaningless garbage.

“Yer in trouble already, so ya got nothin’ ta lose.”  Her left eyebrow rises to a concerning level.  “Okay professor, what’s wrong now.”

“Let’s say yer right.  Love is like hunger.  What makes yer stomach know ta tell ya yer hungry?”

“If ya say ‘genetics’, I’ll kill ya.”  A fork and butter knife are dangerously close to her hands.

“What’s wrong with genetic love?  DNA is da most basic element of who we are.  They make our eyes blue ‘nd tell our bodies ta have two arms.  So, if every cell in our body is programmed ta love, is that so bad?”  There’s quiet as we bashfully look at each other and the twinkling lights of the interstate speed by our window.

“There’s somethin’ almost enchantin’ ‘bout our whole bodies bein’ designed ta love.”

“See, I can be romantic.”

“Shut up.  Yer just lucky ya were able ta pull that outta yer ass.”

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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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