« Post-Millennium-Rebellions | Main | Highway Robbery »
December 22, 2005
The Night Clerk - Chapter 4
A problem of identity
She came rushing down the stairs when it was sunrise, screaming for a band-aid. I imagined that she had left the TV on in the middle of a Star Trek re-run or waking up from an especially gory nightmare. Her voice in the hall made the glass window tremble as though an invisible wave had hit them.
- What do you mean bucket-shaped?
- You have those strips, positive. Please, boy, I'm bleeding.
- Jason, Jason. And you're not bleeding. What's this, paper cut?
- No, it's a CD cut.
- A CD cut? And rotary saw? And disposing of body parts upstairs?
- Band-aid, pleeease.
- I have big patches, then smaller and thinner, water-resistant grade and circular patches. I can't find the bucket-shaped ones.
- Yes, those, there, circles.
- These look like buckets to you? Are you all-right?
- No. I'm not. I'm bleeding like the holy body of Christ. Gimme two of 'em.
- Perspective noise… I'm not going to read too much into your geometry, Julie.
- Can you unwrap them for me?
- Sure. One, two, tight. Don't get them wet, cowgirl.
- I won't shower today, I promise. Thank you, Jason.
She looked relieved that blood was out of sight, with the twin little domes overlapping, plugging her day and smiling. Circular band-aids really are for casual snake bites, straw pins and sewing machines mild offense. The cut off a CD coaster... pretty friendly edges. I'll remember to ask her when the clouds are not this dense.
She was crawling back into the hall, cozied up in pink, fluffy and steel-toed when I was packing away to bed with an eye on the clock. She had a perplexed, puzzled rocky face, like a slow eerie cloud that just can't give to dissolve.
- How's it going?
- Are you sure this is not too tight? I can barely feel my finger.
- Maybe a bacterial infection, hopefully not systemic. Soap can sometimes cause that.
- Silly. Could you loosen 'em up for me? I can't watch. God, what a day!
- Well, see... Can use to see a doctor, maybe stitches. You can call work and give them a head's up.
- Jason, I'm not to quit when the snow is sooooo thick, that's some Frank Capra's and I don't need it now.
- Burgers with extra ketchup and embedded at the source. I'll cleanse it for you.
- Where do you buy your humor pills? I'm a wuss and you're nailing well. Playing ER with the pie in the sky, bad boy.
- Would you sign-up to anything less than a handful of signatures in a singular body?
- You're right. I Guess. Maybe next time you'll handle the media while I work the corkscrew.
- Whenever you want.
Sometimes the day lacks any perceivable taste or smell. A straight path over which the winter's wheel revolves by gravity and routinely stretching a finger to beginning or end. On these days I feel nothing and smell nothing. I adjust myself into design by employing arbitrary management. With the bike parked a block away and wearing a visor and service late to 433... I'm just trying to feel something.
Popping thru the static she woke me up shooting into the speak, spotting for a break to enjoy.
- I'm getting better, getting well.
- That's good.
- Are you working tonight?
- Did you get my schedule?
- You gave it to me? I got all my stuff in the washer. Sorry.
- You are messy. So what is it?
- I've got some wine at my place and some new flicks, we can hang out.
- That's the best thing I've heard in a while. So, I'm on the cooking, what would you like? Spinach, carrots and salads? Keep warm.
- Cool. Later.
With the veggies in the steamer and the cheese in the nuke, the cab stopped, framed into the kitchen's window, half submerged in the snow and smoking like ice-cream. I staged the car for a moment, then it pulled and left. In the white cloud of exhaust the girl was balanced in between two brown bags, an anime adaptation for a cheap western addiction. Hair too blonde, eyes too big and too many words glancing right, left and walking over. Before I had a chance to hear the cheese bursting in the bowl I realized that she was rapping at the door and singing out loud. Just not with the usual pitch.
- Hi. Can I help you?
- Hi Jason.
- Yep?
- Could you hold these? It's glass.
- While you're at it, do you want in? You must be freezing.
- Thanks.
- I was expecting someone else. I guess. Did we talk on the phone earlier on?
- Sure we did, now you are messy.
- We did? I assume that as long as you like the salad, spinach and some quite hot cheese we can look into those wine bottles and discuss the weather. But I'm still waiting.
- I won't creep the evening with any more geometry, I'm not joking. Dinner will be fine. This is Shiraz. Are you still waiting?
We went thru one movie and onto another, cheese and two bottles of wine, moved onto beer with the sound of aliens zipping thru the East Coast in the background and tales of the Registry Office in my ear. She snugged up on the couch, an embryo in a coma and I followed her shortly with an arm hanging out. When we woke up it must have been two in the morning.
- We've been sleeping?
- Yes.
- Wow.
- Who sent you over? She did?
- What are you talking about?
She left that it was late afternoon. We cooked several times and gathered several more bottles of wine at the diner two blocks away. I think we had a good time. I think. I changed her medication every two hours, finished my reserve of band-aids and culled up her complaints about sharp edges thrown into daily life. We found ourselves starring at each other with nothing to say, which is when she started to laugh weaving down her curly blonde hair. I always like her when she laughs.
© Fortunato Caragliano. All rights reserved.
UPDATE: A dear friend of mine that has just some English pulled my attention over to translate this in Italian and I did so. This is the first time I ever try to translate one of my own writings back into my native language. I'm happy with the result. Do not compare the 2 pieces as most of the differences function to keep the story in context.
So, if you can read Italian, please enjoy the PDF.
Posted by lck at December 22, 2005 12:11 AM
