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Session 2 CTY: Fiction
7-21-zero
“The neighbors have been talking
about the flamingoes again.” Ma glanced over at her grandson to see if he had
any thoughts.
The slouched-over 23-year-old college student on
summer vacation didn’t glance up from his Rolling Stone magazine. He really
didn’t match her interior design, she reflected. She had set up a very polite,
appropriate light yellow kitchen with sky blue butterflies, green vines, and
pink flowers. He was wearing blues and grays to “go with his eyes,” although
this scheme didn’t match his lime green hair done in little gangly braids that
sprung from his head reminiscent of Medusa, complete with black beads at the
bottom. Grass-stained white Birkenstocks rested on his feet like 1000 pound men
in bed… they weren’t going anywhere fast.
“They don’t like the flamingoes
at all,” Ma continued. “They think that the flamingoes, perhaps, should be
taken back into the garage.”
The boy, Nathaniel, snickered.
“What? They don’t like my Nativity scene in July? Stupid capitalists don’t know
a joke when they see it.”
“Perhaps you should have taken
off Jesus’ horns,” Ma said nervously.
“In order to solidify your
beliefs, you need to question them now and then,” Nathaniel replied, rubbing
his hand up and down his arm. He looked up at her with those cold cloud eyes
that sometimes reflected light in moonbeams when he was angry.
Ma struggled to remember back
when he was blonde. Back when he was twelve and had come to stay, back when his
parents were still around. Back when his eyes were still more “robin egg” (a
definite “spring” color – matching the kitchen) than “slate” (a definite
“winter” color – matching the upstairs bathroom). She bit her lip.
“All right.”
“Besides, I was planning to go
to Joanne Fabrics again tomorrow to create some new outfits for them anyway,”
he said defensively. “I’m thinking perhaps a Flamingo Prom. Or a funeral.”
Ma nodded eagerly at the mention
of the prom, less eagerly at the idea of a funeral. The neighbors…
Nathaniel was the only male in
Joanne Fabrics and more than likely the only person younger than 50, but he
felt no shame. He went to the back section, the cheap fabrics. He had settled
on the funeral. He had an orange crate in his room that held all of his
Anarchist CDs, and was planning to use it. He was going to have to buy a couple
of yards of black fabric, however.
He walked up and down the
artificially-colored fabrics, covered in things like flowers and badly-designed
patterns that didn’t repeat properly and animal prints. All the way in the back
were the solid colors, and even those were lit by florescent lights that made
them look rather gaudy and fake. Like America, he reflected. Damned
capitalists. The only color that wasn’t ruined was the black, of course.
He was trying to decide between
the shimmering black and the solid black when he felt someone tap him on the
shoulder. Not again. He crossed his eyes (his fingers were busy holding the two
different rolls of fabric) and hoped it wasn’t yet another old lady asking him
whether or not the chlorine had turned his hair that color. He was probably the
only person in all of the state of Florida who didn’t own a pool, and if he
did, he wouldn’t swim in it. Swimming was for people who didn’t know how to
take showers. Gathering patience and hope for America’s future, he turned
around, expecting a stooping, balding old lady with a tucked in sweater.
Instead, he saw the girl from
down the road who looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He remembered getting
screamed at whilst walking Slippers, the family dog, because he had been
looking in their living room. (It was just like any other: bean bags and video
game cartridges strewn all over, signifying brain cells lost.) He vaguely
remembered something about the mention of a Colt .45 that belonged to her
father. Perhaps that part was just a dream, but something had caused him to
scream “AWAY” at Slippers so the two of them took off like twin torpedoes.
The girl listened to rap,
already causing him to have a bias against her. Anyone who voluntarily listened
to a song like “Mo Money Mo Problems” by Puff Daddy was destined to have an IQ
below 80. She was wearing a “MA$E” T-shirt as he considered this. At least it
wasn’t advertising the “Ruff Ryders” or “Big Pun” or “Snoop Dogg” or any of
those other ridiculous “dudes from tha ghetto… yo.”
“Do you want something?” he
asked, raising one eyebrow. How old WAS this chick, anyway? She looked like she
had experienced perhaps 16 years of her life, at most. Maybe it was because she
was so tiny. He reflected that she might break if poked. He would save that for
future reference, in case of an emergency (such as… if she tried to hold a
conversation with him about the ghetto).
“What are you doing in Joanne Fabrics?” she asked, cocking her
head at him at such an angle that one pigtail hit her shoulder while the other
appeared to be trying to escape. Fly away, young Pigtail, Nathaniel thought
snidely, grinning with half of his mouth, which he was prone to do.
(Unfortunately, he reflected, he had dimples.)
“I’m getting ready to
custom-tailor some more flamingo outfits,” he replied in all seriousness,
watching her face intently to see what she would do. He liked to watch go about
their lives, to figure them out. He didn’t like to be watched, however: it was
none of their business what he did in his spare time. Sometimes he checked
behind mirrors for cameras. There were sick people out there and he wasn’t
about to be a victim.
Her eyes bulged a bit. They were
big black empty eyes that reminded him of his dog, Slippers, but in a bad way.
Slippers had emotions, and didn’t
listen to rap, after all. That dog listened to “Anti-Flag” and “Bad Religion.”
Puff Daddy would ruin his good Anarchist spirit.
“What is it going to be this
time?” she asked anxiously, tugging on the “be free!” pigtail.
“I’m thinking a funeral. I
already have an orange crate I’m going to use as the casket.”
She burst out giggling and
lowered her voice. “You can’t be serious.”
Nathaniel liked to toy with the
white trash. “Oh yes. I’m going to paint the dead one white. Like a vampire.
Perhaps in a later episode it’ll come back with pointy teeth.”
“My mom is really scared of you.
She wouldn’t like me talking to you,” the girl whispered.
“That’s right. Go home to that
mother in the muumuu, as she watches her soap operas and reads her romance
novels with Fabio on the cover. That guy’s face got smashed by a seagull when
he was on a roller coaster, you know, and he’s not a natural blonde.” He raised
an eyebrow and settled on the shimmering fabric. It would compliment the pink
plastic of the flamingoes quite nicely.
“Those romance novels are
actually pretty good, you know,” the
girl retorted.
Nathaniel started laughing so
hard that tears started to stain his creamy white cheeks like spilled glitter.
“I could write them DEAD,” he choked out.
“I’d like to see you TRY,” the
girl snapped indignantly.
“Would you pay me if I did?”
Nathaniel asked, raising the eyebrow again.
“I’ll buy that cloth for your
flamingoes, and the white paint for the vampire one,” the girl offered, “if
you’ll write a romance story.”
Nathaniel giggled like a
schoolgirl. “That’s too great. You have a deal… Hey, what the hell are you
doing here, anyway?”
“I followed you. I like to watch
the flamingoes, but don’t tell my mom that. I was wondering what they’d do
now.”
“This is utterly ridiculous,” he
informed the girl as they wound their way through the gaily-colored shouting
fabrics towards the cashier. She brought out a flashing neon wallet and he
visibly cringed. Fortunately, it had money in it, and soon he was walking home
with four yards of shimmering black cloth and white paint for Dracu-Flamingo.
Unfortunately, the day continued
to go on in the same deranged manner.
The girl followed him home. Ma
and Pa were sitting on the porch, sipping pink lemonade in a large wicker
loveseat. Looking at them, he could see how the average person would think they
were just like any other wrinkled, gray-haired old people, but Nathaniel had
been told otherwise. Ma always insisted that Pa had been “better looking than
Elvis.” Pa always insisted that Ma had had “bigger tits than Monroe.” The
cumulative effects of respective balding and gravity ruined these images,
however; and their present glory just… didn’t compare.
The Suburban Florida Ghetto
Queen grinned. “Hey! The Clementes! My mommy says hi!”
Nathaniel bit back a groan.
Ma smiled cheerfully. “Hello,
Matilda, dear. I see that you and Nathaniel have become friends!”
Matilda? Nathaniel thought. What
an awful name… that woman in a muumuu dropped even lower in his mind. Perhaps
this was where Matilda’s IQ came from. It was no excuse for Puff Daddy,
however.
“I’m going to help him write a
romance novel!” she squeaked cheerfully.
Why did grandmothers have to
appreciate perky young girls so much? At least Pa looked kind of bored, sipping
on his lemonade (more likely than not enhanced by vodka) and watching Slippers.
The hair on the back of his pet’s neck was raised and he was slowly growling.
Matilda followed his line of
vision and spied Slippers. “A PUPPY!” she squealed, dropping to her knobby
knees. “HEY SWEETIE!”
Slippers whimpered and jumped
off the porch, then quickly slid under it.
“Good dog,” Nathaniel whispered.
Not easily deterred, Ma asked,
“You’re going to write a romance novel, dear?” She pursed her lips and squinted
at him.
“Um, well, a short story with a
romantic twist. About a guy that
meets a girl, realizes she’s a capitalist, dumps her, finds an anarchist and
lives with her in a New York City apartment for the rest of his life. They
enjoy being starving artists in a corrupt society together,” Nathaniel replied
with mock cheerfulness.
“What?” Matilda squeaked.
“You heard me,” Nathaniel said,
bobbing his head. He raised his eyebrow. “I will draw Fabio to go along with
it.” He tossed his head and laughed.
She stared at him with those big
bland eyes.
“Hey. Cut it out. Don’t look at
me,” he snapped.
She looked discreetly at Ma, who
tried to shrug in a way only seen by Matilda. Somehow Nathaniel managed to
catch it. He kicked the bag containing future flamingo clothes in
embarrassment.
Inside, the phone rang, a sign
Nathaniel took as divine intervention. He bent over to grab the bag, seeing a wave
of green in front of his eyes for a second before he flipped his hair behind
his shoulders again. He pushed open the door to walk in, nearly tripping over
by a ball of furry speed otherwise known as Slippers.
“Hello?” he asked into the
tasteful white phone in the kitchen. I don’t go along with the design of this
room, he thought. I am not one with the color scheme.
“Hey sweetie,” a whiny voice
drawled into the phone.
NOT Nerissa. He was more willing
to spend time with “Matilda,” the anorexic Puffy fan, than his own girlfriend.
She was a capitalist, too, working as Minnie Mouse in Disney World. The only
thing a Minnie Mouse mascot is allowed to do is a) hug children, b) sign their
autograph books, and c) giggle. She did this because she wanted money to buy
things she didn’t need. The $20-a-week allowance didn’t cover the expense of
her GAP/Abercrombie/Tommy Hilfiger wardrobe, her mainstream CDs, or her makeup.
He was planning on dumping her sooner or later. He was just too lazy to do so.
“Um, I am busy,” he said
quickly, and hung up the phone. He was a pathetic liar. He counted to 15,
waiting for the usual one-instant-later callback with the whiny “do you hate me
or something?” accusation.
At 10, the phone rang, and he
picked it up. “Yes?”
“It’s over,” she snapped. “I’ve
found someone better, okay?”
“Donald Duck?” he asked,
starting to regress into giggles.
“I’ll give you another chance,”
she offered, instantly beginning to get second thoughts.
“No, that’s okay. I’m a jerk.
Thanks anyway.” He hung up the phone laughing. He went into his room with his
laptop and printer. It was time to get down with his inner sap and write an
Anarchy love story.
Slippers, the family’s Jack
Russell Terrier with white fur and dark paws, looked up at Nathaniel with fully
opened hopeful eyes, holding a Mickey Mouse leash in his mouth. He shook his
head at the dog and contemplated exactly when he’d buy a new leash for that
dog. And a new collar, for sure. The light blue collar with rhinestones was so feminine.
It matched the kitchen; obviously Ma had bought it.
“We must get to the pet store to
give you a wardrobe makeover,” the aspiring vet said, shaking his head. “Until
then, let’s get out there and mark territory.”
He dumped the MACE spray in his
bag and pushed open the back door, letting the dog out first. On the gray mat
that said “GO AWAY” (obviously a purchase of his) there lay a folded-up
note on fish stationery. He scooped it up and put it in his pocket for later
reading.
He stared up at the morning sky, a light blue color
that hurt his eyes, even without looking at the sun. It was going to be a
“beautiful day,” which was why he walked the dog first thing in the morning, to
avoid “beauty.” Personally, he thought cloudy days were better, crisper and cleaner
somehow.
The two of them walked up and down the streets,
heading towards their designated morning spot. As they talked, Nathaniel began
to talk to his dog. He thought of Slippers much as his sidekick, his
accomplice, his comrade, and didn’t find anything wrong with talking to him,
even in public.
“Stupid Americans, Slippers. Their lawns and fat
children and suburb kids who think they’re from the ghetto, but really they’re
misinformed white kids. All their lives revolve around getting jobs to get money
to get stuff they don’t need. Why? To keep the economy booming. It’s a
conspiracy that the messes just don’t understand. This is part of why we mark
our territory every morning.” He was glad to have someone to fight against
conformity with. Slippers looked up at him with understanding eyes.
Their job was essentially to keep Mickey at bay. A
hideous Saint Bernard that always drooled frequented a certain hydrant,
thinking it was his own. Before then, it had always been Slippers’. There had
been a fight between the dogs, resulting in Slippers’ left hind paw broken and
in a cast.
Nathaniel saw this as another sign that America was
flipping them the bird. After all, the offending dog was named after an icon he
could only bring himself to refer to as, “Squeaky the Capitalist Rat.”
So, every day, Slippers would, um, “mark” the hydrant,
then, later in the day, Mickey would. So it continued. Nathaniel carried cans
of MASE spray in case they happened to choose the same time. He wasn’t letting
that capitalist dog get Slippers again.
Luckily, today wasn’t one of those days that the MASE
spray was necessary, and as they got back to the house, he slipped his dog a
biscuit. Then he settled at the kitchen table to watch his grandmother bustle
about, frying eggs.
“Anything interesting happen this morning? Did you see
Mickey?”
“Nah. It was generally just the two of us gaining
ground against the masses,” Nathaniel replied absentmindedly. Then he
remembered, as if someone threw a snowball with a rock in it at his head. The
note.
He shifted, reached into his back pocket, and pulled
out the note. Carefully unfolding it so as not to ruin it or distort any of the
letters, he laid it out on the table and leaned over it. It said,
Nathaniel
– come to my house and look at my lawn!
- Matilda
“Looks like I have a field trip here,” Nathaniel said
in a deadpan manner. He raised an eyebrow and tapped the note with his right
middle finger.
“Where?” Ma’s curiosity was piqued.
“Matilda’s house. The fun never ends around here. I’ll
be back before breakfast, I promise, Ma.”
He went back to his room to grab his “love story,”
complete with drawing of Fabio, and emerged from his house into the gathering
humidity. It hit him like a halfhearted linebacker. He made his way towards her
house, in the general direction of Joanne Fabrics.
This had better be good, he reflected, playing with
one of his green braids. Damned good.
As he turned the corner, the sight presented itself
and he figured that the scene was good enough. Yes, it qualified under “damned
good.” It was borderline insane and definitely Anarchy-approved.
Yes, Matilda had “rearranged” her pink flamingoes in a
very Nathaniel-esque manner.
They were set up in sets of two, the females in
wedding dresses and the males with bow ties and ripped-off covers of romance
novels stuck to them. All of the covers featured Fabio.
Nathaniel laughed so hard that the woman across the
street, clearly either awoken by him or simply angered by his very presence,
came out in a light blue bathrobe, curlers in, and shook her fist at him. It
was so cliché that he laughed harder, flipping her off. Her face flushed and
she stalked back into the house, slamming the door behind her.
He turned around and walked up to Matilda’s house. On
the door, above a mat that said “Welcome,” (as opposed to “Go Away,”) was a
note that said,
Thanks
in advance for the presents. Can I help with the vampire?
He was beginning to hear police sirens. He sprinted
off to his own house, hoping that Rudely-Awoken Ugly Woman didn’t know where he
lived. In an anarchist society, no pigs (cops) would be there to follow him
around.
A new project had presented itself by the time he
charged in the back door of his house. He was definitely going to have to turn
Matilda into an anarchist. He could really help her, save her soul.
He whispered as he shut the door behind him, “Sure, kid, you can help me with the Living Dead Flamingo.” He looked forward to eggs and another day of anarchy.
