Thursday, June 10, 2010

"Tricks of the Trade" or From "Found" (4/5)

Long time, no see. I'm late as hell. I was stuck on the fiction; I have tons of ideas for blog entrys but I painted myself in a hole by putting up that "5" for the the total number of cuts. Still, there are plenty of different ways to get the mind flowing. You stop, you start a few times. Eventually you find it. This scene was actually written after what will amount to tomorrow's post. Both were done long-hand. I think I found it, finally (Pardon the pun on the title.), and I'm moderately proud of what I've written. This scene is basically a dialogue. You'll see. Think everything's pretty self-explanatory except for some references that I figure you can look up, since you're reading this on a computer. Maybe it'll take a while to see who's speaking. But I'm jawing too much. It also has title-headers, because I bloody well felt like it. Click on if you wish.

Leaving the apartment

“Which one then?” Bill asks an apparently empty room. Carl pushes his head over the top of the sofa.

“The heart with the arrow going through it.”


“Because the other one is covered in lightning bolts…”

“So? She got me both ties…”

“Probably because they were so very you, not because she ever expected you to wear them…”

“But what else can I do? These are the only ties I have. And it was your suggestion to go with the damn formal thing in the first place—”

“No, it wasn’t, it was her sister’s. Just because she happened to whisper it into my ear and not tell you directly, doesn’t mean that we’re not dealing with the recommendations of a blood relative of the same gender.”

“Is there really a difference between you and your girlfriend these days? Are you sure you haven’t become the same person?”

“Shut up and finish getting ready, we want to beat the women there.”


“Because we’re young successful men in a capitalist society. Everything’s a competition. Everything’s win, win, win.”

The car ride

“So why aren’t you dressed up at all if it was Selena’s idea?”

“No sense in hiding behind clothes when you’re ugly.”

“Oh, spare me.”

“Then stop asking really fucking stupid questions.”

“Okay, well then how has the week been?”

“Fine, Bill, fine; how’s the wife and kids?”

“Don’t make fun of my small talk; this was a big deal. Meeting the ‘rents, sleeping under the same roof as several of the family—I mean, they hate my guts, and I always expected them to, but how was it with weetle boy, Carl, and his smoochums, Selena?”

“Is that a pokémon? Smoochum?”

“Something like that. Oh, how subtle! How about we not change the subject…”

“Evolves in Jynx, right?” Red light. Bill staring intently at Carl like a high school principal who’s caught the mythical bathroom cherry-bomber. “All right, all right.” Light goes green. Bill breaks eye contact reluctantly, as if the culprit will vanish unless he’s held under a watchful eye, but he’s in luck and Carl does open up. “It was pretty much fine. They’re good people, which I guess we both knew when we began falling for their offspring, eh, probably worst thing was breakfast this morning, actually…”


“Because we broke the rules last night.”

“Wow! you fucked in the parents’ house. Whose room? My girlfriend’s or yours?”

“Master bedroom—no, but really, Bill do you seriously think we are such rabbits? We just ended up in the same bed for most of the night—it was almost entirely honest.”

“Sorry about the stereotyping, kid, I’m just remembering what I was like when I was a teenager. All I could fucking think about was, well, fucking—”

“Bill, I’m turning twenty in a week-and-a-half.”

“Well, anyway… ‘almost entirely honest’?”

“I, um—look it’s like twelve-thirty when she squeaks open the door and calls out ‘Nicky,’ a pet name, and, well, the mind wanders, doesn’t it?”

“So as she’s explaining itself, the only thing you’re thinking about is the super-risky, kinda-sick booty call scenario. Well, why was she there?”

“Nightmare. I sat up and we just whispered for a while, but then she said she didn’t know if she could go back to sleep and asked to stay…”

“And you’re not the type of guy to say ‘no’ to that.”

“Who is?”

“Someone from HCwDB.”

“Classic reference.”

“Thanks. They’re making a movie, you know? …Wait, you’re still hiding. What was so dishonest about last night?”

“Well, fine, I’ll tell you. She gets under the covers with me and we start spooning and I’m sitting there wide awake at the moment with my imagination on overdrive, and, I mean, the girl is right here in my arms, so it really doesn’t take a lot to…pop a chubby.”

“Sport a thickie.”

“Whatever your grade called it in high school.”

“So then, what happens?”

“I bend back at the waist as much as I can.”

“You call that dirty? Almost honest, my ass, you did nothing.”

“Well, maybe you think it was nothing—she was scared and I was supposed to make her…unscared…not become aroused.”

“Get over it…wait, the breakfast. Ha-ha! How did that go?”

“I almost told them there and she gave me a stare that said there’s no fucking way.”

“Going to tell them about what? The boner?! Are you a crazy man?”

“Um—the whole ‘don’t sleep in the same bed as our daughter while you’re here’ and me doing just that thing…

“Well I figured y’all fell asleep, y’all got caught.”

“No, I guess she must’ve woken up about four and gone back to her room. I remember a kiss on the forehead but that might’ve been a dream.”

“So what’s there to tell?”

“I think I need to tell her father about it.”

“Why in hell?”

“Because I’m George Washington holding up the carcass of a cherry-tree. I don’t know why, just seems like the thing to do.”

“Well, best of luck. Here’s an idea—leave the l’il Carl standing at attention to yourself. Now here’s a question, did she know you were hard?”

Carl sighs. Head smack.

The women

“God—they’re gorgeous.”

“One benefit of not beating them here, Carl, is being able to watch them as they walk away from us to the ticket booth.”

“This is set-up! There’s no way that we all arrive within minutes of each other.”

“Yeah, you might be onto something there.”

“Shit, you’re in on it. Tell me what you know, you two-bit drug dealer.”

“Well, damn, thanks for throwing the reluctant occupation in my face.”

“Get a real job.”

“Find me one in this economy.” Carl points to a sign at the movie theater, Hiring. “Yeah, thanks; I’ll tell you that you’re not the only person who’s sleeping with an informer. Monica may have mentioned how the two of them wanted to put on a show for their dates; starting, perhaps, with the equivalent of a runway walk.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I—I’m quoting. Now get out of the car—we’re holding up our better halves.”



“Our better two-thirds. Self-diminishment is in and knowing your math is sexy.”

“Well, fine, then; now before those four-thirds up there get the idea that we might not be paying for their tickets…”

“Right, ‘going Dutch’ was originally an insult like ‘Dutch oven,’ a pot you heat or ‘Dutch wife,’ a whore. I’m reading you loud and clear.” He’s suddenly alone—he looks up and starts running after Bill.

The film

It’s your basic romantic comedy that sort of tugs at the heart-strings if you want it to; made all the better, all the more relevant, if you can hold someone’s hand during it. There is yet another debate about the definition of love; a dying father who doesn’t want the mother to know (and she’s about gone herself); a cute understanding boy (played by everyone’s new favorite actor-crush) who can hold her and tell her that no, it’s not always going to be okay, but we can get through it; there’s the angry split scene and the love confession at the altar that breaks up yet another wedding. Credits roll; you’d recognize some names, just like usual.

The after party

Carl lets himself cry a little; Bill doesn’t. Their respective love interests are both proud of their man’s response. Funny how quickly in-synch people can become.

“How was shopping for the forty-seventh time?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love this dress.”

“Okie doke.”

“You don’t love it?”


“What do you mean ‘okie doke’?”

“It’s a fine dress; you look beautiful in it—the two of you being distinct works of art.” She blushes; they’ve swapped cars, Bill taking Monica home, or—to his place? She smiles. “What’re your parents like?” she asks almost without thinking, “I guess I’ll know in a few days.”

“My parents are parents—I can’t describe them…”

“Why do I think you could do just that in a poem?”

“Biographical poems are for the famous or the dead. My parents are neither.”

“Well am I a celebrity or a zombie, then?”

“Touché. And that’s why I call you Star, isn’t it, Star? Because as far as fame goes personally, you top my list.” Red light, fast kiss, then she jack-rabbits the engine; the car moves off quickly into the distance.

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