Crystal Vases: Four

I'm leaning back, my feet kicked up onto the coffee table. There's a cigarette in my hand, and across from me, Alex is talking his head off about the last football game. How this player should have done this, how the game could've ended differently if only the coach had done that, how the ref was full of shit for this, or that, or whatever the fuck.

I'm not listening to him.

He puts his feet onto the table as well, chews angrily at his fingernail. I give him a sharp kick and he stops. It's Monday evening, after work, and we're at my place. He followed me home.

"Have you heard from that girl?" he asks, and I throw him a dark look. It's been almost two weeks since the café, and I've seen her a few times since. The last time, she gave me her number, written in purple pen on a napkin. She smiled at me, told her I should give her a call sometime. Said she wanted to hear from me.

That was a few days ago. The napkin's been sitting on my nightstand, ignored. For the most part.

Alex sits forward, his eyes bright.

"You need to call her, man! She's on you!"

I make a low noise and straighten in my seat.

"Alex, don't fucking talk like that, you're not fourteen."

He shrugs, pushes his shoe against mine, and I kick him again. He laughs, pulls his feet off the table. I get up.

"I'm serious, Damien. Call her!"

I make a dismissive gesture, move into the kitchen, check on dinner.

I don't want to call her. Part of me wishes I'd never see her again, wants me to start avoiding that café, start avoiding her. The other part of me though, the other part wants to snatch up the phone this instant, dial the number, propose lunch, dinner, coffee, something, any excuse to see her.

I think about throwing the napkin away. Or maybe burning it.

Is that dramatic? That's dramatic.

"She likes you," Alex says from the living room. I move back towards the couch.

"Yeah, ok," I say, and sink into the armchair again. "You've been saying that for two weeks now."

"It's because it's true!"

He sits up again, beams at me. I scowl. He's in a mood. The kind where that wild optimism of his shines through to the surface and he's just about brimming with light. It's ugly – bright blue eyes, bright blonde hair, bright white teeth. He's my polar opposite.

Alex says we're like Jekyll and Hyde. When I told him that Jekyll created Hyde in order to explore the dark, carnal aspects of his nature, Alex just bounces his eyebrows at me and doesn't say anything more.

He's an idiot.

I don't respond, just lean my head back and close my eyes. Ignoring him seems to be my best bet at the moment. I listen to the couch creak as he leans forward, feel him stare at me with those bright blue eyes. In a moment, he'll kick me, I know it. Because he's a child, and all of this is just a game to him.

And sure enough.

I reach across the table and smack him in the side of the head. He falls backwards into the couch, laughs like a little boy. I whip a throw pillow at him and he just laughs harder, rolls off the couch and hits the carpet with a dull thud. All I can see are his knees, and his giggles force an extremely reluctant smile from me.

"God dammit, Alex," I grumble, but I'm not angry any more. It's hard to be really angry with a child.

/

I'm looking at a picture of the two of us. It's from a few years ago, and I'm smiling. Laughing, actually. I still have no idea who took it, but it's of me and Alex at a bar. Alex looks like he's saying something to whoever has the camera, his eyes shining and his face slightly red from the alcohol. His hair is tousled from my receding hand, and I'm laughing, really laughing, my eyes closed, face turned from the flash.

She's in the picture too. Just barely in the shot, in the upper right corner, her face just recognizable in the crowd. She's smiling, softly. Her face is blurred, not the focus of the shot the way Alex and I are. But she's there, in the background. She's always there, lingering on the edges of every memory. I can't get rid of her.

It's Saturday. Last time I saw Jody was Wednesday. It's because I've been leaving the apartment long before he arrives, and not coming back until the sun's gone down, when there's absolutely no chance that he could possibly still be in my apartment. Spending whole days out of the house, just to avoid some punk-ass college kid. It's damn ridiculous, but it's what I've been doing.

But today is Saturday. And Jody doesn't work weekends.

So I'm sitting in my living room, squinting through the light coming through my blinds, waiting for another Hispanic girl to come and knock on the door. She's got access to the same floral key the kid uses, but unlike Jody, she knocks. Doesn't just go barging into places like an idiot.

But honestly, I'm always making sure she doesn't have to use the key. Because she's probably got the same directions as Jody: knock, if I don't answer, use key. So I always answer the door. It's bad enough that Jody's always sticking his fingers all over it - I'd really rather not have another set of hands on it. It's weird, and possessive, and little neurotic, but it's how I feel.

I'm always tempted to grab this woman and shake her, demand that she hand the key over. Another harassment suit I avoid simply by strength of will.

The knock comes and I get up, slip the picture into my back pocket. I open the door and the woman smiles up at me. She's pretty young, probably mid-twenties, short stature, with thick black hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"Hola, Misser Damien," she says. Her accent makes her voice a little lispy, and it isn't helped by the gap in her front teeth. I stare at her and feel sick.

I hate this woman. I've got no real reason to, but I really do hate her. She isn't unattractive – in fact, she's kind of pretty, in that foreign, exotic sort of way. But my stomach churns when I see her.

I keep staring until she accepts that I'm not going to greet her back (I'm never going to greet her back), and then inches forward until I move out of her way, allowing her to pull her little cart through the doorway.

Her cart doesn't creak or clack the way Jody's does. It squeaks. A horrible, high-pitched droning sound that fills the apartment, and my ears, every time she moves. It makes me violently ill. Everything about her makes me feel ill.

"How are you doing today?" she asks. Her tongue sticks to her teeth with each syllable. I close the door – hard – let it slam and drown out that insufferable squeaking for just a moment.

"I was alright until just a moment ago," I grumble, coming down the hall to where she stands. She turns, faces me, and I loom over her, glare down into her murky brown eyes. For a moment, her smile falters, her politeness giving way to nervousness. I feel a sneer pull at my lips.

"You're not here to talk to me, alright? You're here to clean. So, hurry up and clean my fucking apartment like you're supposed to. Seriously, spare me the fucking chitchat. I can't stand the sound of your voice. It makes me nauseous."

She blinks, opens her mouth like she might say something, then closes it again, swallows.

And then, then she does that fucking thing that all these women do, that thing I can't fucking stand.

Her lips tilt downward, her forehead creases, and she looks at me like she feels sorry for me. Like she fucking pities me.

The build up of rage is so instantaneous, it takes all I've got not to smack her across the mouth. Instead, I make a low, ugly noise in the back of my throat and turn violently away from her. I hear her breathe softly behind me, a quiet little exhale, like I'd had a blade to her throat and just now pulled it away.

"I'm sorry, Misser Damien," she says behind me, softly. I pull a cigarette from my pocket, light it with the lighter from my other pocket, and take a deep, deliberate drag. He head thumps.

"What did I just say?" I ask, weighting each word, slow with exasperation. There's a pause, and she answers.

"Not to talk to you, Misser Damien."

I push my hair back from my forehead, lean my head back, and sigh heavily before taking another drag off my cigarette. I nod.

"Yeah, that's what I said. And what are you doing right now?"

I turn and look at her. She looks back at me, doesn't answer. So I move towards her again, make a gesture with my cigarette, prompting her to answer me.

"Well?"

She still doesn't answer, just looks at me, her face that sickening mask of pity. I'm overcome again with the urge to smack her, to push her face into the wall. I lean towards her, bare my teeth. She stays silent. I nod.

"Good girl," I mumble, voice low, crackling. "Now clean my fucking apartment."

She looks at me a moment longer - no anger in her face, barely any fear, just pity. Disgusting, vile pity. An expression so saturated with pity that I could just vomit. And then she nods, backs a few steps away from me, and moves to her cart to gather her supplies. I take a hard drag off my cigarette, blow it through my nose, and stand up straight again.

She doesn't move to clean the windows first. She moves to the kitchen.

I want to yell at her, tell her that she's useless, worthless, that she'll never become anything in her life but the cleaning lady for this apartment complex. That she'll die a lonely, meaningless death. Instead, I slip on my shoes, pull on a coat and gloves, and leave the apartment. There's nothing for me here.

I'm swearing to myself as I take the stairs to the ground floor. Cursing her, cursing Hispanic cleaning ladies, cursing stupid bitches with their stupid pity that they spread to each other like disease. I've no fucking clue where the hell they get off, pitying me. I curse them, do all that I can to hurt them, make them hate me. And all of them, they just stare into my eyes with that sickening, disgusting pity.

How the hell do they do it? How the hell do they get off pitying me?

"FUCK THEIR PITY," I say, and punch the desk where the old man sits in the lobby. He doesn't say anything in response, doesn't even jump. Just sits there silently, nods, doesn't even look up. I push my hair back from my face and lean an elbow on the desk. I look at him, try to regain my composure.

"I hate this place," I say. His old hands are fumbling through a stack of papers, documents of some tedious type. He raises his head and meets my gaze, holds it for a moment. And then he nods again, and goes back to his papers.

I look at him a bit longer, at the lines in his face. I watch the arthritis in his hands slow his work. I wonder if I will be the same one day – old and alone, sorting through papers, head full of a woman who's long, long gone.

If he knows what I'm thinking, he doesn't show it. Just keeps working under my gaze, as if I were not even there. I keep watching him for a moment longer, and then turn away with a sigh. Suddenly, I feel like a child. Stomping my feet for attention. Not getting it.

His silence is suddenly judgmental.

I leave the complex, the specter of shame biting at my ankles. That old man, I wonder if he even knows how he seems. Silent, all age and knowledge and understanding contained in his cataract afflicted eyes, in his utter indifference to what you say or do. And I wonder suddenly if all that depth is really just imagined, just filled in by different imaginations.

Maybe he doesn't know anything. Maybe he's just an old man who doesn't like talking to people.

The thought makes me laugh.

I decide to see a movie, direct my feet to the small theater a couple blocks away. They're usually just playing foreign movies, or Sundance films. Rocky Horror plays every other week, all day on Sundays. The freaks come out, grinning to themselves because they're going to see something they think is scandalous instead of going to church like good folks. I avoid the smug-fest. While I'm not religious, I don't feel the need to be proud of the fact. Faith just drained out of me like blood from a cadaver. There was nothing intellectual about it, just a natural, inevitable process.

I get there, and they're showing some European film called Life is Beautiful. The ticket seller tells me it's Italian, really good, really popular. Touching, award winning. Gotta see it.

So I buy a ticket for the next showing, even though the description "touching," kind of turns me off. It's not like I've got anything better to do.

While I wait for the movie, I head to a little park on the next corner. It's one of those bits that can barely be called a park. Really, it's just a patch of grass, crowded with trees with a couple of benches. But there's a sign, and it says it's a park, so it's a park.

I collapse onto one of the wooden benches, painted a dull and chipping forest green and covered with graffiti and etchings. A hot pink marker informs me that "Sherry is a slut."

"I'm sure she is," I mumble.

This is one of those places that mothers don't let their children play. There are too many trees, too many strange men, like me, sitting on benches and being generally suspicious. The kind of place that becomes a danger pit once the sun goes down, where a woman wouldn't dream of stopping in at night, unless she's buying something illegal, or feels like being assaulted. It just doesn't attract good people. A backfired attempt to "make the city a more beautiful place," as the sign proclaims.

It's shit.

I'm about to light another cigarette when I'm suddenly distracted by a mop of blonde hair moving across the sidewalk.

It's Jody. Jody, walking leisurely down the sidewalk, collar turned up against the cold. His hands are shoved into his pockets, head ducked, walking slowly, like if he tries, he can just ignore the chill, like it'll stop following him if he just doesn't acknowledge it.

It startles me. Seeing him, on a Saturday, on the weekend, when I'm normally rid of him. I'm not supposed to see him on the weekends. He doesn't work weekends. I get some Hispanic girl instead. Not Jody. No Jody on the weekends.

I sit, watch him advance down the concrete, pull the collar of my coat up, wonder why the fuck I'm acting all sketchy.

He reaches the corner, pauses a moment, then hops the curb and rushes across the street. Blonde hair flopping. He really needs to get that cut. I don't know, maybe it provides him some kind of warmth. Maybe he'd freeze to death without it.

I wonder what he's up to, wonder why it is he never works weekends. I figured he had classes or something, but here he is. No classes. Not that it's any of my business, but I'm damn curious.

So I follow him with my gaze as he continues down the sidewalk, dodging powerwalking suits and mothers jogging with their sport strollers. There's a confidence about him here that's foreign to me. He doesn't bumble or cower out of people's ways, doesn't cringe. Just bends his body, shifts his shoulders to move seamlessly through the human tide. If I wanted to sound like a cliché asshole, I'd say it looks like he's dancing.

It's interesting to watch. Not really because of any outstanding grace he has, but because he's managing to have any grace at all. It's different. Unexpected.

He stops at the end of the street, looks up. I squint, try to make out what it is he's trying to see. And then I realize that he's standing in front of the little theater, peering up at the show times. He sways slightly, like he might be indecisive, but then moves forward and steps up to the window, talks to the ticket clerk.

My heart thumps. They're only playing one movie.

I check my watch: ten more minutes until the doors open. Maybe he bought a ticket for a different show time. There's no way I'd have this kind of poor luck, that out of the sparse days that I don't have to be around him, I get stuck in a tiny, little theater with him.

No. He probably bought a ticket for another time. It's too close. He probably bought one for the next showing. Probably.

Fuck.

I get up. The kid's walking away again, vanishing around the corner. I stand there a moment, then start trudging back towards the theater.

I'm getting in line right now. Hell, I'm starting the line. There's no way I'm going to let us end up getting into the theater at the same time, get stuck sitting next to each other. Or, get there late, end up sitting next to him because all the seats are full except for the one right where he's sitting, which sounds like it'd never happen, but hey, I wouldn't put it past fate to pull that kind of shit on me. Fate's a bitch. It's a proven fact.

Maybe I shouldn't even see this movie. Maybe I should just go home, right now, just deal with that stupid little Hispanic woman and her stupid, fucking, pitiful look, and her squeaking cart, and lispy accent, and fuck.

Fuck going home. I'm going to see this movie. I don't even know if he bought a ticket for the same show time, and if he did, so fucking what? He's just a goddamn college kid. Probably won't even notice I'm there. And it's not like him being in the room is going to ruin the movie for me.

But I'm twitching in my skin. In my head, I see him smiling, see him get that look in his eyes, that weird, fierce look. He's just a college kid, but fuck, there's something about him. Something that gets to me, gnaws at me. This kid. He fucking gnaws.

The ticket vender asks me if I'm alright. I realize I'm clenching and unclenching my fists, digging my heel into the concrete.

I take a breath. Reach into my pocket, pull out a cigarette. Light it. Inhale. Take a moment to let the smoke sit in my lungs. Then I look at the clerk, look in his eyes.

"Yeah," I say, evenly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The guy raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say more. Doors are going to open soon.

"Hey," I say, get his attention again, "How many people are gonna be in for this movie?"

He raises his eyebrows again, looks down at something I can't see.

"So far?" he says, "There's only about twenty. Don't think they'll be much more either. Why, what's up?"

I shake my head, satisfied.

"Nothing. Just want to get a good seat."

The guy nods, give me a bit of a look, but is done. People are starting to line up behind me. Mostly elderly, but some young ones too. Couples, the kind that think small theaters are romantic or some shit. No sign on Jody. Probably bought a ticket for another showing. Probably.

The doors open and I head for the left corner seat, sink into the musty cushions. The theater attendant gives me a dirty look, points to her mouth. I roll my eyes, put my cigarette out, on the back of the seat in front of me, just to spite her, then tuck it neatly back into my pocket. She looks pissed that I put it out on the seat, but oh well.

I watch the other people file in, take their seats. There's not a lot, and I'm relieved. Even if Jody did buy a ticket to this showing, he won't notice me back here and he'll have plenty of seats to choose from. Nothing to worry about.

But then I hear the most disgusting sound in the world. The distinctive hiss and groan that every miserable person who ever went through the American school system wishes they don't recognize, but do.

It's the sound of a motherfucking school bus. And in a moment, I can hear the thumping of multiple feet and the sound of multiple voices, and a teacher crying for order. I put my face in my hands, squeeze my eyes shut.

And then a tide of high school students comes pouring through the doors, laughing and jostling each other, filling up seat after seat after seat. The teacher follows after them, hushing and shushing and apologizing to those already in the theater for her students' behaviors. Within a few minutes, the theater is full.

Except for the seat right next to me. Because a young couple came down my row and I threw them the most acidic look I could manage. Because I didn't want some douchebags making out next to me the whole goddamn movie. So they left a seat open between us. And now it's the only open seat.

And then, then, just as the lights are going out and the screen is lighting up, Jody comes through the doors.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck fate, that stupid, cruel bitch.

He draws his coat around him, looks around, slowly starts walking down the aisle, peering across the rows in search of an open seat. But I know that there's only one, and it's right fucking next to me.

I watch him, watch him squint and crane his neck, grow worried that he came too late and now there's nowhere to sit. But there is a seat. It's right next to me. Fuck. Fucking, dammit, fuck.

He's coming back up the aisle, losing hope, thinking he'll have to refund his ticket for the next showing.

But then he sees the gap between me and the young couple, and his eyebrows raise and a little hopeful smile crosses his lips.

And then he sees me. Me, a dark cloud of fucking hatred glaring at him from the left corner seat. And he stops in his tracks.

A good amount of emotions flash across his face then. I see fear, panic, watch him glance around the theater one more time, like maybe there's another seat and he just missed it, but we both know that there isn't. That the only place to sit is right next to me. Then there's embarrassment, hopelessness, uncertainty. He glances at the doors, probably contemplates just refunding his ticket.

He stands there a moment longer, fidgets with the hem of his coat, glances around. I want to stand up in my seat and yell for him to just get his ass over here and stop making a fool of himself. But it's unnecessary, because he starts shuffling my way.

That semblance of grace I saw when he was weaving through the sidewalk traffic is completely gone now. He's back to the bumbling, worthless piece of nothing that I've come to know back at the apartment, tripping over people's shoes, mumbling pathetic little apologies and fidgeting with his coat as he struggles down the row to get to the seat beside me.

He finally reaches it, sits down slowly, carefully, like he's sitting on an armed bomb. I watch him, blatantly, make a judgmental face. He's so stiff, so tense, it's almost funny.

"Hey," I say. And the kid actually jumps a little, closes his eyes and opens them again, looks at me. He looks bewildered, frightened.

"Hi," he squeaks. I look at him, eyebrows raised. He's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. I seriously don't think I can watch this movie if he's going to act so fucking weird the entire time.

"Jody," I say, and he freaking jumps again.

"Yeah?"

"Stop acting like a retard and just watch the goddamn movie."

"Okay."

/

- Thanks for reading!