White Room
Chapter 5: The Rabbit Catcher
Excerpt from The Rabbit Catcher by Silvia Plath
It was a place of force --
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.
There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves --
Zeros, shutting on nothing,
Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.
I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.
And we, too, had a relationship --
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
That first kiss has haunted me forever… not only because it jumbled every fucking paradigm that I’ve ever believed in, but also because of the hunger of her lips, the sopping sensation of her tongue messaging mine, her mouth greedily clasping mine begging me to never let go… no, she didn’t beg me to never let go… I begged her to never let go… maybe I really did whisper it and those words mysteriously disappeared into the air… or maybe it was just my private thought because she seemingly ignored the comment and bit my tongue.
Without letting go of her lips, I pulled her by her smooth arms into my house. In the fleeting seconds when I gasped for air, I frantically exhaled:
“You’re fucking lucky that Hailie, Alaina, and Nathan are out tonight. Otherwise, I’da kicked your ass out,”
“Asshole,” she answered as jammed her tongue down my throat.
I kept stumbling as I led her to my upstairs bedroom. It was okay though because every time that happened, she would fall over me. Feeling her breasts against my chest ignited every burning sensation inside me giving me the energy to get up on my wobbling feet and try again. After both of us scrambled upstairs tasting nothing but saliva, sweat, and hair, I rushed us both into the bedroom violently opening the half-open door with my back.
Someone was pushed. I don’t remember who pushed whom onto the bed. Maybe it was me… Maybe it was her. All I remember is the bed catching our perspiring bodies as our limbs desperately toiled for something to hold on. She straddled on top of me, and I struggled to catch my breath. Looking into her eyes, I heard myself thinking about the fact that I didn’t know this woman. I couldn’t decipher the look on her eyes. Was it passion, or love, or lust? But two weeks ago, this chick was a fucking statue—a porcelain Medusa who glared at her admirers turning them into stone. No, I couldn’t stare at her any longer. Who knows what this bitch is capable of doing!
Closing my eyes, I enjoyed the heat of her vagina so close to my throbbing member. My hands blindly searched for the bottom of her shirt, and clumsily I helped her take it off exposing her astonishing breasts nestled in two cups of satin black. She moaned as I slowly kissed every inch of her arms and neck, and before I knew it, my shirt was gone.
I will make her fucking scream first, I decided. While kissing her plump soft lips, my shaking hands tried to unzip her zipper with no avail. Even though she had to help me in taking off her pants, I didn’t care. I was too busy nibbling her ear to worry about my useless hands. My fingers made a quick stop at the panty area. Shit, she was wet! Apparently, I was doing something right. Gently, I teased her clit by lightly touching that area. She promptly answered with a light gasp.
Sara laid on the bed quivering in anticipation as I kissed her bellybutton making my way down into the pussy. I separated her sweaty legs and looked at the sight of her burning clit among the bare pink lips between her thighs. Slowly, I licked the edges of her pussy barely touching her throbbing clit as she whimpered with every touch of my tongue. She moaned louder when my tongue finally began to playfully flick her pink desperate clit. Her pussy began to foam with milky juices running out of her ever-tightening hole. After licking her secretions, I burrowed a finger straight into her hot wetness cutting her breath short. With my thumb, I pressed down on her clit and added another finger into her sweltering pussy. I felt her whole body clench as her tight pussy took in every inch of my fingers. She groaned in gasping breaths:
“I’m gonna come!”
I rapidly took out my finger, “Shit, wait for me,”
She sat up on the bed teasing my mouth with her tongue. Her breath bathed me as she inconspicuously touched my poor protruding dick, which was still plotting its escape in my pants. I gasped in delight at her gentle touch making my dick beg to be inside her… to feel her wet walls contracting… to be swallowed until I emptied myself inside her tight cavities…
“Condom!” Sara sharply said.
“I thought you would be on the pill?”
“Condom!” she repeated.
“Well, are you?”
“I am… Condom!”
Okay… so I guess I’ll almost empty myself inside her… Shit, it doesn’t matter just as long as I’m inside her exploring every region. I wonder what the inside of her mouth feels on my dick… and her tongue… God, she’s a fucking wonderful kisser, but just the thought of her mouth even kissing my dick was enough to put me over the edge. I laid on the bed sighing in anticipation of that moment.
“I really hope you don’t think I’m gonna blow you,” was her answer.
“What?”
“I only blow special guys. I’m not gonna blow you,”
“Oh, of course. I was just resting a little,”
Okay, so I won’t feel the inside of her mouth with my dick… Shit, what the fuck am I gonna feel then? It’s not fair. I gave her head… I licked her from top to bottom, and the bitch won’t lick me at all. What the fuck!?... Holy shit, maybe it’s me… I must smell really fucking bad since I haven’t taken a shower since yesterday night. Goddamit, but I was about to take my shower… and my skin is pale and dry too. You can barely see it in faint light, but my arms look like white alligator bags. Every bit of skin in my body has a crack of skin, and some parts have even started peeling. I think everything about me is either peeling or cracked. Plus, maybe it’s best that she not see my dick since I haven’t shave down there in a long time now. I don’t think I could bear seeing her disgusted face when she witnessed my dick…Holy fuck, I’m being insecure again… But …
“I’m not a leper,” I whispered. I don’t think she heard me.
Promptly, I completely turned off the lights. I couldn’t see her and she couldn’t see me.
She gently laid herself on the bed, and I promptly took off my pants. Literally, I pounce on her body feeling the softness of her breasts. My erect dick was firmly lodged between her thighs nearing the entrance of her pussy. I could literally feel her body trembling before me begging her to continue—to fill her. Her vibrations turned into small whimpers as I gently teased her ever-hardening nipples. She was closing her eyes; I could tell she was hiding them from me. Maybe it was because I knew that, for that fleeting moment, she wanted me. She longed for my cock inside her despite the fact that in the past, she had hated me. She probably still does. No… none of this “probably” bullshit… she does hate me because she wants me inside her.
I enjoyed making her suffer by momentarily parking my cock near her thighs. In my mind, it was a deserved payback for her refusing to give me head after I licked her pussy dry. I would have continued, too, if I hadn’t been tingling with anticipation. The temptation was too strong, and driving Sara crazy was starting to drive me crazy. Holding on to her curvaceous hips, my bulbous head entered her tight opening slick with her juices. Her muscles contracted as if unconsciously trying to trap me in—never letting go. Shit, she couldn’t be any tighter, I think as I slowly pressed into her. She lets out a low moan… fighting for air as she strokes her purple nipples. Despite the fact that the room was completely dark, I swear that I could still see her… No one had ever looked more beautiful… I only wished that she would have looked at me back… I’m still did NOT want to turn on the lights though…
As her legs wrapped around my body, my dick buried itself further in the depths of her pussy. Trying to control myself from coming too quickly, I violently bit my lower lip-- tasting my own salty blood as I licked it. I lunged my throbbing cock in and out of her hungry pussy which felt so hot and so tight. Her throat emitted subtle moans and quick whimpers as she writhed under me. The noises intensified as I sped up the rhythm. It’s so fucking perfect… I want to make her cry… I want to make her scream… I want to make a mark in her world and make sure she never forgets me.
But… I exploded, and she merely fizzled out. Her orgasm was nothing less than a whimper… Her face was empty… Her mouth closed tightly in defiant protest… Yet, I felt her body stiffen and the muscles of her pussy contract with fierce jagged bursts. The rushing waterfall of cum rushing out of her opening was testament to her pleasure.
After we were done, she got up from the bed and asked mechanically to use my shower. Promptly, she took a shower, put her clothes back on, and disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared. All the while, a nagging feeling of rejection flooded my eyes.
“What the fuck was the matter?” I asked myself burying my head with my arms and tugging at my hair. Had she enjoyed it? Was she really satisfied? Her body was fucking screaming, but her mouth barely let out a yelp. It was as if she didn’t want to admit her orgasm. Shit, or maybe she didn’t really have an orgasm, and this was her polite version of “Get off me, fucker, you’re boring me!” Oh, God, I knew that she was too pretty and too perfect to fuck! I need to fuck people on my level. Was there something about me that disgusted her? Did she see something that she didn’t like about me? Am I a boring fuck? Does she hate me too much to feel pleasure? All of these questions deluged my mind like a violent hailstorm continuously pelting me.
Wait a minute! Why the fuck am I acting so self-conscious? She’s the boring fuck! I did all of the fucking work and she just sat there with her thighs open. And she barely touched me… The selfish bitch… I’m almost glad that she didn’t get a fucking orgasm; she doesn’t deserve one.
“Fuck her!” said suddenly Slim Shady, “Fuck that egotistical selfish holier-than-thou hypocritical bitch… right in the mouth so that it may fill with cum and make her shut up!”
Yeah, I thought, hate is good… hate is very good… It’s love that is complicated. Love can make people do crazy things. Hate good; love bad.
-----//
From Urban Rhymes Magazine: November 15, 2004
NEW EMINEM ALBUM A BUST
RATING: one star (out of five)
Well, my brothers and sisters, guess who’s back, back again. It’s our fellow brother Eminem who has released his new album Encore. Of course, it is an instant white mainstream audience favorite selling out a million copies in its first week (an accomplishment not yet achieved by more talented and deserving emcees). But I digress. Let me begin by saying that this is, by far, one of the worst hip-hop/rap (hell, even pop) records of all time. You may think I’m exaggerating, but once you listen to his record, you will agree with me. First of all, the rhymes are some of the worst and childish rhymes I have ever heard in my life. It is disgusting how some magazines actually praise his lyrics as ‘genius’ and yet completely disregard worthier artists. There are times when he does leave the fart and potty jokes in order to talk about something ‘real’, but as always his serious talk sounds like an overgrown child whining. In addition, his baby momma problems have gotten old these last couple of years. Listening to his new CD makes you scream ‘we get it! You hate your mom, you hate your ex-wife, you love your daughter. No one cares!’ Of course I really don’t believe that the relationships with these people are that skewed. In fact, I bet that this is all just a marketing scheme to sell records and if we were to research Mr. Mathers’ life, we would find out that in his younger years, Marshall Mathers lived quite a comfortable existence. Sorry, Eminem fans, but I strongly doubt that this man has ever experienced REAL SUFFERING, REAL HARDSHIP, and REAL PAIN. Like his rich suburban ‘wigger’ fan base, Mr. Mathers is a fake—a creation of the music industry.
However, let’s say, theoretically, that Eminem has truly suffered through those hardships, which I highly doubt. Then, why can’t he just move on? If he keeps ruminating these ‘problems’, wouldn’t it make matters worse? This is another reason why I think Eminem is a fake; people who have truly gone through pain don’t mull their problems over and over because it is too painful. Normal people grow up and move on. If Mr. Mathers can’t get over problems that happened years ago, then… there is something seriously wrong with him. This is why his music can’t evolve; because the artist cannot evolve himself.
He keeps bringing up the same anguish in his music, which could mean two things: either he is a marketing tool or a big emotionally stunted baby. Although he whines like a child, my bets are on my marketing tool theory. -- Sara Tyler
-----//
The next day, I was patiently sitting with Paul and Proof in the lobby of Detroit’s hip-hop radio station WJLB 98 FM waiting for an interview. The hairs on my arms were standing up—probably afraid of touching my semi-frozen skin. I don’t blame them. My whole body was cold. The black modern chic waiting room was a refrigerator storing meat for all of the ravenous radio fans. I remember this radio station. They let you wait in the freezing waiting room until they summon you in a hot and stuffy studio where they cook you for about 30 minutes, sometimes an hour. Then, when the DJs stop grilling you, they open up the phone lines, and they throw you to the hungry fans who chew you up and spit you back out. After everyone is seemingly satisfied, the DJs make you promise that you’ll come back to their studio next time (and you pretty much have to keep that promise if you wanna sell records and keep your record company happy). If you think about it that way, this whole process is pretty fucked up. However, I’ve accepted it, and I really don’t mind anymore. It’s a process all rappers have to go through. All rappers are ultimately meat to their record companies and their fans. Besides, when you accept it, you learn sometimes to even enjoy it.
I stopped writing rhymes on my paper pad for a minute and joined the real world, and in order to celebrate my return to reality, I began reading several music magazines. My fucking vanity got the best of me, though, and I would flip straight to the reviews section and read the music reviews of Encore. I cringed with every word I read. For the first time in my career, I received really bad reviews. From Entertainment Weekly to Bling-Bling Magazine, all I read were the words disappointing, worst of his career, and falling off. Many times I had to read a review over again to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating and making up my own version of that review in my head.
Immediately, I replayed the CD in my head, going over every lyric, every beat of every song. Of course, now, after reading the reviews, I realize the utter horse shit that was my fourth studio album. They were right! How come I couldn’t hear the weak beats I was making? How come I didn’t notice the wack lines I was spitting? How come I didn’t stop this ticking time bomb from fucking exploding? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m fucking dried up and exhausted. I’ve run out of ideas, and I’m so fucking tired of continuing the charade that I’m some sort of dope rapper who will always make dope albums. I can’t deal with this fucking pressure especially since people keep insisting on my so-called “talent”. It’s partly my fault for creating this monster. This Eminem who got lucky and recorded an above average album (which in my opinion, wasn’t that spectacular compared to the hip-hop classics from the past). Now, I’m suppose to pretend I’m some sort of genius who is suppose to churn out one genius album after another, and God help us, if I put out a wack album. Because that would mean that I’m falling off, and I don’t deserve to ever pick up a mic ever again, and Tupac will haunt me from the grave because I’ve tainted hip hop forever. Sometimes I wish I were one of those shitty party rappers with no expectations who can wallow in their lack of talent.
“What’s the matter?” Paul, who was also reading a magazine, looked up at me. Apparently, I must have looked upset.
“Whatchu readin’?” Proof said as he casually walked behind my couch and snatched the magazine from my hands.
After reading the article about Encore, Proof shook his head and said:
“Bullshit! Can you believe these fuckin’ critics? Fuckin’ jealous,”
“Oh, is that what you’re upset about?” said Paul as he went back to reading his magazine.
“Man, how can you believe these critics, Marshall? They’re all a buncha broke-ass niggas who neva made it as rappers so they start shitting on rappers who they all are fuckin’ jealous of,” said Proof.
“Shit, Proof,” I answered. “Most of ‘em are fuckin’ journalists who have been around hip-hop and love hip-hop just as much as we do so they know what they’re talkin’ about,”
“You said it right there, dawg. They’re journalists. Journalists! If they’re not jealous rappers, they’re fucking clueless journalist who don’t know dope from wack,”
“Hold on,” interjected Paul. “Not all the reviews are negative. Check out this one from Rolling Stone. You got three out four stars.”
“They don’t fuckin’ count! They’re fuckin’ ass-kissers!” I said. “Don’t fuckin’ kid yourselves. The album was terrible.”
“Fuck that! You seriously trippin’, man. Why you always believin’ the negative reviews over the positive reviews? Remember The Marshall Mathers LP? You were tellin’ me how you couldn’t believe every critic loved that album because you thought it was a piece of shit,” said Proof.
“I never said it was a complete piece of shit, Proof. I said that there were some parts, actually many parts, where my flow was a bit off. And there were lyrics that could have been more clever. My delivery got weird at one point. And some of my attempts at production were fucked up. The critics were sayin’ that it was a classic when it was far from being a classic.”
“There ya go. Marshall, that album was doper than all the bullshit that 90% of rappers put out these days. All your albums have been above average. For some reason, you love to put yourself down,”
“I’m bein’ honest-- ”
“You’re bein’ hysterical, dawg. Why do you let other people’s opinions about you control your own opinions about yourself? If ten people came up to you, and told you that you looked green, you’d probably believe ‘em without goin’ to a mirror and seein’ for yourself,”
“Well, ten people is a lot of people. Besides, what fuckin’ happens if I really I’m green?”
“You’re not green, Marshall. You’re probably one of the dopest emcees I’ve ever met. Every time we rhyme, you still kill it wit your lines, man. One rhyme and you send all the Ja Fools and Has-Benzinos cryin’ out the door.”
“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re my friend,”
“Godammit! You know what you need. You need to be more like Jay-Z and start rhymin’ about how dope you are on every fuckin’ song. You need to brag so that maybe you can get over this inferiority complex that you have,”
“I don’t have an inferiority complex!”
“Yah, you do. You sell millions of albums and you don’t think you’re dope. There’s definitely somethin’ wrong wit you, nigga. And trust me, I’d rather have a friend who is an asshole with a superiority complex than a friend who is… well, ya know,”
No, I didn’t know.
We didn’t have time to finish the argument, though. It was almost time to go on the air. We were live in Detroit’s hottest radio station WJLB 98 FM, and I was the fucking main attraction. With enthusiasm (I decided that it was too enthusiastic to be heartfelt), the two DJs told me just how dope my new album was and how I was one of the best in the game right now, etc., etc.. I gave my usual polite smile and thanked them while holding back the urge to beat the fucking shit out of them. Honestly, I wanted to fucking scream at them to tell me the fucking truth… to stop fucking lying to the fans because I was sick of lying to them and myself about shit like this. But, I figured, they were probably getting paid steep amounts of money to say all of this bullshit, and their families are counting on them to bring home the bacon. So, I didn’t say shit. It would be selfish on my part to get those two fired.
You must be wondering, though, why I’m so eager to believe the bad reviews over the good ones. The reason is that, in my experience, I’ve always found the bad reviews to be more brutally honest than the good ones. Whenever I read a bad review, I always find myself saying to myself, “yeah, he’s right,” or “that’s so true. What the fuck was I thinkin’,” and etc. Then, I try to take the criticism and improve my raps accordingly (sometimes with no success, but I try nonetheless). It’s hard to write rhymes and make music when your record company is saying one thing, the CD sales are saying another thing, the critics are saying another thing, and your fellow rappers are saying yet another thing. It’s so fucking deafening that many times I can’t even hear what I’M trying to fucking say. How can I even mess with the good reviews when I got so many people telling me what’s wrong with my music? Besides, most of those good reviews are from kiss-ass sell out “journalists”—shitbags! Why believe them? I don’t have time or the energy to believe them!
Yeah, they’re right! I can’t change. I can’t evolve. That’s why I can’t move on with my music. I’m no Ray Charles. I’m no Elton John. I’m not an artist who can grow with his music. My music can’t evolve if my past keeps on haunting me. I can’t live up to these expectations because I’m simply not talented and, yeah, not sane enough.
That’s what I think happened to many great musicians and rappers—they ran out of ideas, so they give up. Kurt Cobain killed himself, and now people worship him like he was a god forgetting all of his past transgressions. John Lennon probably hired that guy to kill him because he couldn’t write any more songs for that new album he was writing before he died. And Tupac and Biggie! Well, they both decided to triumphantly live forever by being killed. They both get themselves shot, and they’re suddenly the best rappers that had ever existed. All the haters abruptly forgot why they hated him and changed their tune so that they wouldn’t be the odd ones out of the universal praise. Their music was perfect, and they left the earth before it was spoiled by their own success. That’s the way to go! But I’m a coward, and I’ll probably just retire pre-maturely like Jay-Z, which isn’t half as effective.
After spending one tiring hour at the radio station, I went back to my house—starved for some food. Walking through the kitchen of my house, I noticed a box of crayons sitting on the counter. Half of the crayons were still in the box and the other half were aimlessly spread around the counter smudging a white piece of paper. Two dark blue lines were randomly drawn on the paper marking the beginning of a drawing. I figured it was Hailie’s mess who was, along with Alaina, visiting their “born-again” mommy. Staring at the paper, though, made me think of something… something that happened a long time ago…
I carefully grabbed a dark blue crayon, which was curiously bigger than my fingers. The piece of paper floated on to the kitchen floor where the tiles grew smaller and transformed into a yellowish rotting color. The flowers in the middle of tiles served to trick the viewer into thinking that he or she was seeing something beautiful rather than something revolting. The air around me turned so heavy that I thought the weight would cripple me. It didn’t help that the putrid smell of decaying garbage was choking my lungs making it a chore to breathe. Praying that it would all somehow go away, I clutched the crayon anxiously trying not to let go as I made more marks on the paper. Somehow, I was determined to make something with meaning… something beautiful…
The door behind me quickly opened and shut violently shaking the whole house until a vase with a flower on a window shattered into many pieces. I looked around me at the modest kitchen with the unwashed dishes and spoiled food on the counters. The elegant and long stairway leading to the upper rooms became just a narrow passageway leading to darkness and from the broken front door, came rushing in two bodies passionately kissing. They both settled on the couch before they noticed I was watching them with an almost vicious gaze.
“I think I need to use the bathroom, baby,” said the man, slightly bewildered at my stare.
“Alright. It’s past my bedroom to the left,” My mother answered as she momentarily fixed her beached blond hair.
She watched with amorous admiration how the man skirted past the three-year old magazines on the hallway floor making his way to the bathroom beyond the dark passageway. As soon as she heard the bathroom door shut, she turned her sharp brown eyes toward me. Her upturned smile faded when she pressed her lips together and bit her bottom lip. The green eye shadow she was wearing was smudged all over eyes, and her lips looked as if they had a bad skin rash from the lipstick soiled all over her mouth. Her white blouse was marked with a yellow stain (probably puke), which for a second she tried to hide by putting on a navy blue sweater. She came up to me, looking intently at my drawing. I cringed. This was my mother.
“Marshall, what are you doing on the kitchen floor?”
“I’m drawing a picture, mommy. It’s for my daddy,” I answered.
“Oh, forget about him, Marshall, he left us six years ago, and he ain’t gonna come back. The asshole. All men are asshole, except for that man right there who might be your future daddy,”
She sighed and stepped over me in order to open the top cabinet and get a bottle of gin covered by a paper bag. She poured herself a drink and almost mechanically crouched down under the couch taking out a bag of many different colored pills. Once, when I was younger, I thought they were candy. My mother handles them as if they were candy. Maybe, one day I’ll try them, I thought.
“One more thing, Marshall. Please, don’t fuck this up for me! This may be my one fucking last chance to bag me a man to help us. I’m getting old, ya know. So when I introduce you to him, keep your big mouth shut, okay? Then, maybe you can get a daddy, we can maybe move out of this fucking trailer, and we can finally be normal,”
“That’s what you said about the last man!”
“Just, please, shut up, for a moment. I’m trying to think--- hold on, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”
She glanced over at the floor, which was littered with broken glass pieces from the vase that fell when she had come in with the man.
“You little shit!” she started to shake me as she screamed, “You fucking broke my vase!”
“I didn’t break it!” I begged. “You did when you entered… with that man… please! I swear! You gotta believe me,”
“Don’t blame this on me! Now tell me who did it before I give you a fuckin’ beating you won’t forget,”
“Maybe it was the flower!!!”
“The flower?”
“Yeah, it was probably sad and lonely because of this horrible place and decided to jump from the window and kill herself!”
At this, she stopped shaking me, took a drink from her gin, and said:
“Know what, Marshall? Sometimes, I worry about you. Maybe, the doctor was right when he told me you were anti-social. We gotta fix that before you become a serial killer, baby,”
I began to cry.
“Stop blubbering and help me clean this up before Sam thinks I’m a pig,”
“We’re already pigs!”
“I know, but no sense in letting him know that! Now, help me,”
Because my mother couldn’t find the broom among the clutter in the messy claustrophobic closet near the kitchen, we had to quickly pick up the broken glass pieces before Sam came out of the bathroom and found us in that sorry state. He was ready before we were, though, and he reacted to the scene with a curious grin.
“Oh, Sam. This is my son, Marshall. He accidentally broke a vase, and I’m helping him clean up here,”
When Sam finally stepped on the kitchen floor, the faint light from the worn out light fixtures revealed his narrow eyes and nose. His clothes were unkempt like a trucker in order to match his unshaven face. A mixture of oil and sweat oozed from his hair into his temple and finally dripping to the floor. This Sam guy was wearing a red jacket, which did not match his gingham shirt weathered by environment and time. He looked ready to appear on the Jerry Springer Show, I noted.
The man twitched his nose and shook his head.
“Aww… baby, you work so hard! You gonna need all that energy for later tonight,”
He grabbed her ass. Sharply exhaling, I looked away.
“Mmmhhh…,” she answers. “Alright, baby, let me get things ready in the bedroom,”
After a quick kiss to her husband and son, she left for her bedroom. Of course, I tried to continue picking up the broken pieces of the vase while attempting to ignore the pink elephant in the room named Sam. Unfortunately, Sam refused to be ignored. His menacing shadow overtook my tiny body.
“So, Marshall… How old are you?”
“Six and a half. I’ll be seven next October,”
“Six? You gettin’ to be old, huh?”
“Yep,” I tried answering as softly and as coldly as I could so that he would go away.
“By the way, you know where your mommy keeps her liquor. I mean, ya know what liquor is, right?”
I answered by pointing to the same top kitchen cabinet from which my mother had taken the bottle of gin earlier. Sure enough, there was more liquor tightly packed in the tiny cabinet where normal families usually put china plates or the cans of corn. My mother had enough drinks hidden around the house to open her own bar because like a faithful alcoholic, she spends most of the food money on drinks. She can’t let the lettuce or the cartons of milk get in the way of Hennessey and Cognac.
Sam triumphantly opens the cabinet and takes out a friendly bottle from which he drinks a spirited swig.
“Hey, ya wanna hear a joke? Knock, knock…”
I didn’t answer.
“Knock, Knock!”
I continued to pick up the broken pieces of vase.
“Come on! Haven’t ya ever heard of knock, knock jokes before?”
The truth was that I stayed quiet not because I was shy or purposely trying to ignore him, but because I didn’t know how to answer him since I had never heard a knock-knock joke in my life.
“No, I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,”
Without warning, the man angrily steps on one of the big vase glass pieces breaking it into a million of glass shard pieces flying in every direction.
I look up; still crawling on the floor.
“God, you’re dumb,” he answers me. “You’re almost as dumb as your goddamn mother. I wonder if you’re just a crazy as her. The fuckin’ lunatic mother and her lunatic child going from the trailer park to the insane asylum. Holy shit, I’m gonna do some babysittin’ tonight,”
With frantic rage bursting out from my mouth, my hands snatched one of the larger broken glass pieces and threw it violently at Sam landing on his shin and exploding upon impact. Like a quick reflex reaction, the scruffy man responded by kicking me in the mouth with his other foot. All I remember was the sharp pain, the rushing rain of blood from my mouth, and his vigorous laugh.
“Yeah, that’s right, you little motherfucker! You got what you deserve… Tryin’ to throw glass at me is only gonna get you a date with my fuckin’ foot. Little punk ass!”
“What the hell is goin’ on here?” My mother came out of her bedroom and into her kitchen wearing a cheap nightgown substituting for lingerie.
“It’s your son,” Sam answered. “He tried to get smart with me so I had to discipline the boy. You need to keep him in line. I’ll wait for ya in the room,”
Promptly after Sam closed the door to my mother’s bedroom, she sharply hissed:
“What the fuck are you doin’? Ya little bastard! Do you wanna ruin it for me? Huh? ‘Cause if ya ruin it for me, you’re ruining it for both of us.”
“He kicked my mouth, mommy!”
“That’s ‘cause ya probably said sumthin’ smart-ass. Ya probably deserved it, you fuckin’ little ingrate,”
“I didn’t say---,”
“Marshall, do you think money grows on trees? Do you think I can snap my fingers, and we can have all the fuckin’ money in the world? No! We have to fuckin’ swallow our pride here in order to get by. This is our chance, and we may never get another,”
“Make him go away—like the others,”
“Please don’t make me anymore upset than I am now. I gotta splitting headache, and I need my pills. Just shut up when he’s around, baby, and we might not be evicted next month. Now finish cleaning up!”
And after taking a few more pills, my mother went back to her bedroom in the narrow dark passageway where Sam was waiting.
I, on the other hand, was left on my hands and knees in the kitchen floor alone to pick up the rest of the broken pieces of the vase… and the dead flower. That poor flower! The stem of that rose was half-broken, and the petals were of a darkened dead red color. No one had ever bothered to take care of the flower because when it was first given to my mother, the rose was thorny and hideous-looking. It started to wither soon after it sucked all of the water from the vase and kept begging for more. For a second, I began to believe my own made-up story. Maybe the flower, not wanting to live out the rest of its life with insatiable thirst, really did commit suicide by jumping from the window. For the miserable plant, it was either die an incredibly slow torturous death, or quickly end its life with a brief fall. A wise choice, I thought. The flower looked like it was at peace--- it was a gruesome mess; but it looked like it was at peace…
The phone rang, and the dark narrow passageway connecting the modest kitchen and the bedrooms of the trailer instantly disappeared.
I picked up the phone.
“Marshall? This is Sara,”
Her low voice hummed. It was an amazing sound to hear.
“Okay, it’s a little unbelievable that I’m actually calling you like this because, trust me, you are one of the last guys that I would ever think about doing this with, but… um… shit, let me start over. Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Sara, and we had sex last night, and I had fun… I don’t know about you. And well, I want to continue the tradition… even though it happened only once, so I guess it wouldn’t be a tradition. What I’m basically trying to say is that I find you desirable and maybe we should go out and get to know each other since I’m sure there are other sides to you besides your penis. And I’m not really asking you to be my boyfriend, but we can test each other out by going out on trial dates and what not because, no offense, but you’re definitely not my type… and I need to make sure you’re not really a serial killer before I’m involved with you. Does this make sense?”
“Honestly, I have no fuckin’ idea of what you just said,”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I explained my situation in the most logical and comprehensible way possible. Maybe it’s your way of understanding that’s flawed and not my matter of speaking,”
“Sara, just shut the fuck up for a second. Would you like to go out for dinner?”
“What time?”Author: bellababyblu@hotmail.com
These stories are for entertainment purposes only. They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character. No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.