tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30785133736257225512024-02-08T04:55:49.699-08:00Snippets from an Unwritten NovelJohn Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-28677169180867681802015-07-07T08:34:00.001-07:002015-07-07T08:35:37.625-07:0034. One More Mistake"I guess it had to play out this way, huh?"<br />
<br />
She rubbed her wrist, and looked one moment resigned and the next frightened, but never sorry or surprised. Why should she be?<br />
<br />
"Nothing to say."<br />
<br />
He took a step forward, and his eyes must have flashed, because hers widened and her chin trembled. She wasn't up for any of this. Give her enough time and she'd learn to fake it, but her heart would never be in it.<br />
<br />
"Are you going to kill me?"<br />
<br />
Jake snorted.<br />
<br />
"I don't have to, sweetie."<br />
<br />
It wasn't her first mistake. Might not be her last.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-31282348229124680612015-07-07T08:34:00.000-07:002015-07-07T08:35:30.929-07:0033. Sis"Moody little bitch, isn't she."<br />
<br />
Jake couldn't afford to give her more than a sidelong glance, so he shot one her way. He almost added a shrug, but he couldn't lie to her.<br />
<br />
She pulled a chair up close to him at that little kitchen table, and set a cup down in front of him, filled with the hot chocolate she'd been stirring since he walked into the room.<br />
<br />
"I can't quite get it right, can I?"<br />
<br />
"She's not the worst you've done, but yeah, you do a hell of a job picking them. When are you going to give yourself a break?"<br />
<br />
Her hand brushed a loose shock of hair out of his eye and smoothed it back into the mass of his hair.<br />
<br />
Jake's brother walked in, then, as he always fortunately did.<br />
<br />
"She likes the Bears, so I guess she can't be all bad. How long is she staying?" <br />
<br />
<br />John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-90806041095082793892015-07-07T08:33:00.003-07:002015-07-07T08:35:20.102-07:0032. Waiting ImpatientlyAn old woman paces in front of an office building. Not well dressed, but not poorly dressed. She holds a bottle of water. Her face look careworn, or perhaps only tired. It is early. People are filing into work, their minds on the day ahead or the night just left behind. They might see her, or they might not. It is immaterial. If they saw her, and saw her face, and held out a hand to help, it would come to nothing. They cannot help her. She is waiting for the only person who can help her. Impatiently waiting, and wondering where she is. What is keeping her? Why is she doing this to me? Why is she always doing this to me?John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-10034771154449944092015-07-07T08:33:00.000-07:002015-07-07T08:35:05.952-07:0031. Back BurnerDoes God ever lose track of us - put us on the back-burner mid-scheme as something new and wonderful pops into His mind and commands his attention?<br />
<br />
Has He ever put a thing into motion and then let His mind wander and leave the miracle of creation he had been fostering to go it alone, a wonder how things had just petered out after having gotten off to such a wonderful start?<br />
<br />
How many prophecies ended mid-sentence and were left a fragment in a potential prophet's mind?<br />
<br />
How many epic tales ended on a dock in some seaside village because God turned his attention elsewhere and the would-be hero noticed a fetching maid selling fish and thought he might mosey over and chat and I suppose that quest-thingy can wait a bit?<br />
<br />
How many divine plans have withered for lack of attention, cultivars gone wild and flourished or drooped and died because His hands became busy with a star system that just wasn't quite right, or some exciting new bacteria?<br />
<br />
How many unfinished masterpieces litter His studio?John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-55010313921849626862014-01-16T08:22:00.001-08:002014-01-16T08:22:38.722-08:0030. Field WorkTwo years gone, and he was never coming home. Her hands were cracked, her back a mess, and there was so much more to do under the oppressive sun or the morning damp or the chill of night, a wolf in every shadow.<br />
<br />
She saw the stage coming up the road and stopped and balanced her chin on her hands, her hands on the hoe handle, the hoe balanced beneath her in the tomato patch. There was music coming from the coach, and a woman in a faded scarlet dress sat next to the driver, who grinned into the sun under a worn silk top hat. The music came from inside, and she was just enchanted enough to forget to pick up the shotgun at her feet.<br />
<br />
The coach ground to a halt, cloaked in a plume of dust, and the man lifted his hat and produced a pistol and sheepishly asked if they might have a bite to eat. Sarah couldn't help but for a moment consider that rejecting Jason's proposal of marriage might have been a mistake, though the vision of that haggard old man with the pot belly soon dispelled that thought from her mind. Everything in her life had been a mistake, and this was the crowning moment.<br />
<br />
Sarah dropped the hoe and turned around and began walking towards the house, her fingers straying towards her apron, wherein lurked a small pistol John had given her when he left. She couldn't hope to kill the lot of them with it, but she could use it to deny them a complete victory, for she hadn't yet been forced by man or beast to do anything against her will.<br />
<br />
She fondled the weapon as she walked up the hill to the house, her mind mulling it over, her fingers dancing about the weapon, made warm from its proximity to her body and the labor of the day, dancing around it but never grasping it.<br />
<br />
Sarah turned on her heels, leaving the pistol to lie in her apron. She walked with purpose down the hill towards the man with the gun and the woman in the faded dress and walked right up under her tired face, and squinting in the sun, asked, "Are you headed north?"John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-48799893026666733812013-11-24T11:21:00.001-08:002013-11-24T11:21:12.667-08:0029. TreadmillShe nuzzled in his neck and whispered in his ear, "I found your notebook. It was lovely."<br />
<br />
He could only stare at the ceiling, for a beat or two, and then roll away from her and vault off the bed, his hand giving her bottom a sharp smack as he did so. She was unfazed. He stretched a bit. His lower back was a bit stiff, and his ribs hadn't healed quite right.<br />
<br />
Jake walked to the mirror, and gave his chin a bit of a rub. He needed a shave. How the hell could a man be as stupid at 34 as he had been at 24?John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-47625450030242341152013-08-24T11:50:00.002-07:002013-08-24T11:50:56.843-07:0028. Dine and DashJake make a right onto 18th Street and headed for the south side of Zenith, a tough area and one he would have preferred to avoid. Still, if there was any chance the voice on the phone could be trusted, the meeting would be worth the visit.<br />
<br />
Four blocks down the street and into the south side, he instinctively checked that his gun was in his shoulder holster. As his fingers grazed the gun, a blue sedan lurched out of a side alley. Jake had to jerk the steering wheel hard to avoid the car. His own car leapt onto the sidewalk and caught a light pole, spinning it around. Jake tensed as his car did a 180 degree turn into the thankfully empty cross street and rocked to a stop.<br />
<br />
A quit inventory of bone and sinew proved there was no permanent damage to Jake, but he could see clearly that the right front of his car was pretty well smashed. He was going to need a tow. As his head cleared, he saw the blue sedan returning to the scene of the crime, carrying two grim looking characters that had their stared fixed on him. This was no accident. Jake felt woozy as he reached for the handle to get out of the car and look for cover, but as he did he saw a red-faced cop running up the street in his side mirror. The men in the sedan saw the cop as well, and moved on.<br />
<br />
Jake tumbled out of the car, a couple gents in the crowd that formed helped him to sit down as the cop arrived. As the cop looked for answers, the crowd erupted with them, and it took some time to clear things up. Fortunately for Jake, a few witnesses saw the blue sedan nearly run him off the road, and it turned out the cop knew his pal Curly. As the cop got on his call box to call for a tow, Jake, feeling steadier, hoofed it across the road to a diner. He was dry, and hadn't had a bite since breakfast.<br />
<br />
The diner was clean, even if not entirely inviting. The diners were all black, and they gave Jake a hard stare as he entered, a mix of trepidation and wonder, as most of them had witnessed the accident. The waitress behind the counter was a bit friendlier, as they usually are. She poured him a cup of coffee and Jake picked up a menu.<br />
<br />
"What's the special today," he asked as nonchalantly as he could, eyes on the menu.<br />
<br />
"Roast beef," shot back the waitress, a touch of nervousness in her voice.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, that'll do fine. Thanks."<br />
<br />
Jake put down the menu and pulled his notebook and pencil out to jot down his impression of the two men in the sedan. As he scratched away, he heard somebody behind him say, "What the hell are you doing here?"<br />
<br />
Not wanting any trouble, he kept his eyes on his notebook. Could be two old friends or enemies. No need to get involved.<br />
<br />
"Don't ignore me whitey."<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe Jake was already involved. He slowly turned around on his stool to see a black man with a thin mustache in a crumpled white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, a fedora askance on his head, beads of sweat on his forehead.<br />
<br />
"I just came in for a bite to eat. Don't want any trouble," returned Jake, fixing his eyes on the man in a hard stare. He became conscious of his gun in the shoulder holster, but didn't dare make a move for it. It was a dicey situation. Jake couldn't afford to make the first move, for it would probably bring four or five other men down on him. In a street fight, though, if you don't make the first move, you lose. He wanted to look at the faces of the other folks in the diner, read them. Was he as outnumbered as he felt? Was this guy a well-known blowhard? His hand itched to grab his gun, but his reason got the better of his fear.<br />
<br />
The man continued to stare. He wanted a fight. Maybe he just lost his wife, maybe his job, maybe both. Maybe the last few years of his life had been a string of failures and set backs. Whatever it was, he wanted a fight and Jake was a likely target. A sitting duck on the south side. Jake concentrated on the man's eyes and on his own breathing. It finally occurred to him that the gun might get him out of trouble without leaving the holster. He slowly let his left hand drop to his side. He took the hem of his jacket between finger and thumb and drew it back, just enough to let the holster peek out.<br />
<br />
The gun registered on the man's face immediately, and Jake could see him doing the calculus. Could I get to him before he drew the gun? Was it worth it? If he'd had a couple friends nearby, Jake would have seen him motion to them with those eyes, but they stayed on Jake, steady and ever more fearful.<br />
<br />
"Just see that you don't make any trouble."<br />
<br />
That was it. The man withdrew to a booth near the jukebox and Jake turned around. He hated to turn his back on the man, but he was lucky to get out of the situation as it was and didn't want to push his luck any further.<br />
<br />
In 10 minutes, the roast beef was eaten. It was good. In five more a cab was called, and five minutes after that it arrived. Jake made a hasty retreat from the south side, little the worse for wear but exhausted and frustrated. He gave the cabby directions to his sister's house in the suburbs and leaned back, wiping his forehead with a hanky that was overdue for a rinse.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-12442761693696995362013-06-11T13:10:00.003-07:002013-06-11T13:10:45.725-07:0027. MoneyShe scowled a bit when we entered my office/apartment. It was a little dingy, I admit, and in need of some decorating, but I didn't think it was that bad considering what I pulled down following around unfaithful husbands and scouring the city for folks who forgot to pay their debts.<br />
<br />
"Don't like it," I asked, trying not to sound too hurt?<br />
<br />
"Needs work. It's old."<br />
<br />
She wasn't wrong, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a commentary on myself.<br />
<br />
"You don't get rich in my line of work. Well, most of us don't, especially when you hate the work as much as I do. It'll have to do. Besides, if I made a million dollars, I wouldn't know what to do with all of it."<br />
<br />
"You could spend it on me," she remarked, so casually I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-2744913082022622742013-05-22T20:53:00.003-07:002013-05-22T20:53:57.473-07:0026. Lady LovesEvery poet, every artist, every writer needs a woman to pursue. Somebody just outside their grasp but not entirely out of their reach. A possibility - a potentiality. They need somebody to dream about and obsess about and churn up every uncomfortable feeling in the book - love, lust, regret, despair. These are the meat and drink of the artist, and nothing can stir them quite like a woman or a war. War often has a terrible finality to it that really puts a damper on one's artistic output, so in all cases a woman is the preferred option.<br />
<br />
Jake's problem wasn't a lack of women in his life. There had been several. His problem was a difficulty in falling in love with them. He could never quite get over the line in terms of love - they all turned into friends he flirted with and took out to dinner and show, maybe some dancing, a few time quite a bit more. But they never quite made it deep into his soul, that secret spot where a man really lives.<br />
<br />
Strangely enough, this is what was running through his aching head as he sat on the front stoop, his cheek already beginning to swell, his hair a tangle of odd perpenticularities. He needed to love a woman, to get out of the snooping racket and get a job that didn't involve angry husbands and lovers (well, not as many of them, anyways). Soon enough, his head cleared and he regained his composure and his hat, brushed off his pants, and took a stab at standing up. Too soon. Back on the stoop, arms back, eyes to the clouds and more ruminating on lady loves and his lack thereof.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-64811747937590355622013-04-25T21:22:00.002-07:002013-04-25T21:22:47.745-07:0025. MoralityThe girl talked about the insanity of war, and how, when you really got down to it, one side was no better than the other. Everybody was a murderer. Everybody was guilty. He smiled. She asked him why.<br />
<br />
"You only believe in such moral absolutes because you've put yourself, at no cost to yourself, on the side you believe to be righteous. I was there. There was a difference. If you don't see it, you're either blind or your eyes are closed."<br />
<br />
With that, he turned and walked away with a slight limp, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm and blocks under a beaming summer sun ahead of him.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-3598454791861902512013-04-15T11:11:00.000-07:002013-04-15T11:11:07.112-07:0024. The Perfect CrimeEvery law-abiding citizen is just a criminal waiting for the perfect crime. Frankly, Jake had never seen a more perfect crime than that leggy blonde on the arm of one Mr. Jarvis Hollister, architect and married man about town. He watched the middle-aged Casanova in the side-view mirror as he and the secretary from the office next door took a guilty walk down the street from the cafe they'd met at to the apartment his wife didn't know he rented. At least that was Jake's theory.<br />
<br />
Taking his notebook out of his vest pocket, he scratched down that line about "the perfect crime". It was a keeper. As he reached back into the back seat for his camera, he saw the smiling face of one of New York's finest staring back in the window. It was Eddie Meacham, a fat cop who was little more than a celebrated meter maid and poster boy for small-time police corruption.<br />
<br />
"You're not going to park here, are you Jake? The price of a ticket is going to seriously cut into your profit margin on this job."<br />
<br />
"Of course not, Eddie. Wouldn't think of it. I was just looking for you; wanted to buy a ticket to the policeman's ball."<br />
<br />
Two blocks and a five-spot later (thank goodness Eddie was a pal), Jake was taking the steps up to the door of a brownstone, camera in hand, hoping to finish this job and collect his fee from Mrs. Hollister tonight. Rent was overdue, and he hadn't had a solid meal all week. Coffee and chicken soup can only take a fella so far in life.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-51236416144575844752013-03-28T14:48:00.002-07:002013-03-28T14:48:59.089-07:0023. Scrum"Sometimes, when those thoughts pop up, I feel like there's some kind of fight in my head. The destructive thoughts rushing the barrier, my mind trying to hold them back. I'm just not always sure which side I'm rooting for."<br />
<br />
He crushed out the cigarette in the arm of the chair and stared at me, waiting for a reply or a nod. I just stared back.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-52209235694737304482013-03-20T08:17:00.002-07:002013-03-20T08:17:06.327-07:0022. LoveEven when love is ill-considered, inconvenient and terribly unwise, it is still love, and love is good.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-54725885619196078162013-03-03T15:47:00.001-08:002013-03-03T15:47:37.030-08:0021. Aftermath and PreludeInto the tavern, up to the bar.<br />
<br />
"Mike," he said with a low bark - almost a moan if such a thing is possible.<br />
<br />
The man behind the bar gave him a look and shook his head.<br />
<br />
"Loretta's gone again, huh?"<br />
<br />
"Yep."<br />
<br />
"Beer?"<br />
<br />
"No sir. My nerves call for whiskey. Five years of this shit, and I've definitely earned whiskey."<br />
<br />
"Neat?"<br />
<br />
"What else?"<br />
<br />
The bartender complied, and almost as soon as the glass hit the bar, Jake snatched it up and high-tailed it to a back booth. The bar was empty this morning except for the usual crowd, who went by the name of Abner and who had lived through a mustard gas attack during the war, much to his regret. Once in the booth, he kicked up his feet, tasted the whiskey (he hated it) and pulled a small book and a pencil out of his coat.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later found the glass empty and a few pages of the notebook filled with bits and pieces about love lost and the rarity of pure and true love and all the other things that cross a poet's mind after his wife has left him for, he was assured, the last time. In fact, he actually believed that this time was the last time. He read it in her face and even now could feel the hollow ache in his heart. The ache of finality.<br />
<br />
Another hour would pass in Pete's Place, two more glasses of whiskey, a somber conversation with Abner, who was foolish beyond his years and wonderfully sad, before Jake was ready to continue with life. He had appointment with a Mr. Brown this afternoon, which promised a fee that would help him pay for the whiskey and the office/apartment and his secretary's salary, such as it was. Jake's heart wasn't in it, but his stomach was insistent.<br />
<br />
John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-36295399830129824472013-02-21T16:39:00.002-08:002013-02-21T16:39:46.754-08:0020. Back and ForthYou beat yourself up over talking too much - and then tell yourself you shouldn't feel bad about who you are and fuck people who don't like it - and then you realize you don't want to be alone - but isn't being alone better than feeling like a fool - no, it isn't - but ...<br />
<br />
To love and be loved. That's the goal. Tough to get there.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-25939438167087746482013-02-18T11:06:00.001-08:002013-03-03T15:48:36.582-08:0019. SharingJake was spent before he knew it, but she wasn't finished with him. He threw himself back on the bed, sweating and happy, and she climbed on top and had her way with him. That was when she frightened him. He liked her - really like her - but looking up into her flushed face, he could see that even though her eyes were closed, they were looking far away. She wasn't with him now - he didn't know where she was. She was no more his than Angela was.<br />
<br />
But when she was finally sated, she snuggled close to him in bed and kissed his face and whispered sweet nothings in his ear and looked into his eyes and smiled. She was his, but he was going to have to share her with something or someone - past, present or future, he didn't know. Still, they went downstairs to the diner and talked and laughed and he felt certain that he loved her and she loved him. Maybe it was the big set-up, but what the hell. You need love like air or water.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-87521656919014775182013-02-15T09:44:00.006-08:002013-02-15T09:44:59.534-08:0018. Community ServiceAs cars whizzed by the on highway, Ralph McGubbin could have been staring at the thousand sparkling motes of light reflected on bits of broken bottles on the side of the road and imaging them as the stars in the sky or thousands of flash bulbs popping at a Hollywood gala or even the sparkle in the eye of a beautiful woman. But he wasn't, because he couldn't, and that was among the reasons he was standing on the side of the road in a day-glo vest collecting garbage. He'd never had much imagination, or any desire beyond what his heart desired at this very moment. Worst of all, what he wanted, he grabbed, like an infant.<br />
<br />
There were six other Ralph McGubbin's on the side of the road taking a half-hearted stab at telling society they were sorry (they weren't), as well as a Bob Trout. Bob was able to see those bits of bottle as a galaxy of lights, and the juxtoposition of Shelia Frank against those glinting lights and the mauve mountains beyond struck him as especially lovely. Sheila was, in his opinion, too pretty to be collecting garbage on the side of the road, despite what she had done to that unlucky pedestrian, and as he mechanically picked up discarded cans and hamburger wrappers, he plotted his next move.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-27519292051084038572013-02-14T13:32:00.003-08:002013-03-03T15:48:36.583-08:0017. The BulletThe well-groomed man lie on the floor, leaking life, eyelids flickering, lips quivering. He was going to die, and nothing in the world would prevent it. Jake couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He took the bullet for the lady in the black coat, the lady whose face remained a mystery. Some detective he was - didn't remember to get a good look at her face.<br />
<br />
It got Jake thinking. A friend of his once told him the Jake was the only guy he knew who would take a bullet for someone. Jake had never had to test that theory, so he didn't know if it was true. In fact, he'd never even thought about it, but apparently his friend had, and it stuck with him and made him proud in a way. Over the years, he'd never had to take a bullet, but he'd had to take lots of other things, and it always made him proud. But, walking on the shady side of 40, he now realized the one problem for people who take bullets. Nobody takes bullets for them. When you're always taking what other folks have to dish out, you tend to attract the dishers, not the dishees. That little blonde waiting outside in the car was probably another dishee. It was just a matter of time.<br />
<br />
As that thought echoed in his skull, he snapped to attention and got down to the business of searching the soon-to-be stiff.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-36941289709547809262013-02-11T17:38:00.000-08:002013-02-15T09:45:55.073-08:0016. EngineI'm an engine<br />
<br />
People use me to get where they want to go<br />
<br />
They give me what I need to move<br />
<br />
When I'm fast and strong, they love me<br />
<br />
When I'm slow and weak, I'm a piece of shit<br />
<br />
When I cost too much to fix, they say "Too bad - it was a good little engine" and they find a new one<br />
<br />
A new engine to get them where they want to go<br />
<br />
I don't want to be an engine anymore<br />
<br />
And I don't want anyone else to be my engineJohn Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-85287862863813538252013-02-11T14:25:00.001-08:002013-02-11T14:25:35.968-08:0015. Living VicariouslyOver coffee.<br />
<br />
"Have you ever had one of the those days where you longed to hear somebody's fantastic news? Just wanted to bask in the light of somebody's day - share in the wonder for a moment - like your own day needed a jump start?"<br />
<br />
Pause.<br />
<br />
"No. Is that all? I'm about to go on break, so I'm going to leave the bill with you - you can pay up front."<br />
<br />
"Yes. Thank you. Going on break, huh?"John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-85634655838401808642013-02-11T14:09:00.001-08:002013-02-11T14:09:05.821-08:0014. Reflection in a Bowl of SoupYou think the trick is getting somebody to tell you they love you. Earning it, inspiring it - whatever. That's the prize in all the movies and books - the moment when the words pass from her lips and her soul through your ears and to your soul. That's the end of the story, whether they all live happily ever after or better to have loved and lost - whatever the future, the story ends with "I love you."<br />
<br />
They're wrong.<br />
<br />
The words have to come. The eyes aren't enough, the bed isn't enough. It has to be spoken. But it has to be believed. Words and eyes and the bedroom are easy. Love is not. It's rare. You have to believe they love you. So what if they do love you, but you can't believe it? Or what if you believe it, but it isn't true? How could you know?<br />
<br />
That was what I thought, staring into a bowl of chicken soup, following the path of a bit of carrot as it circumnavigated it's little world. Do I believe it? Can I believe it?John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-13215481817113815162013-01-27T09:51:00.003-08:002013-03-03T15:49:18.198-08:0013. Seconds CountThe balding man with the bad hair looked out across the bay, the tears welling in his eyes blurring his vision and giving him the impression that the buildings on the other side of the water were swaying and dancing. He used his thumb and forefinger to wipe his eyes and then pinch the bridge of his nose - the universal sign of a man relieving stress - to cover up for the tear-wipe, but it was obvious enough. Jake took a step forward.<br />
<br />
"Where's her body, Stan?"<br />
<br />
"It's Stanley, not Stan."<br />
<br />
And then he leaped into the water - suicide, escape - hard to say. Jake took a shuffle towards the edge of the pier and quickly realized he wasn't going to follow, so he hightailed it for a phone. He had his man for a second there, but the police weren't likely to believe it. A quick phone call, and then across town. There was one loose end left, and if he was quick, he might just grab it.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-15782041550412136182013-01-23T14:19:00.001-08:002013-03-03T15:49:18.199-08:0012. A Flash of LegHe only saw a flash of leg, for an instant, as he entered the apartment building (tenement was more like it). The back of the knee, a bit of calf, a spiked heel - too shapely for this place, the shoe too expensive. Even if it wasn't suspicious, though, the momentum of that leg would have dragged him around the corner. Curious, impetuous, horny; whichever, it was, he bit.<br />
<br />
He edged around the corner in the most nonchalant yet cautious way he could figure and saw an empty hallway flanked by a dozen grungy doors emblazoned with number plates that might once have been brass, but had long since given up and adopted the uniform dingy brown common to the bad side of town. No sound of a door closing - she either hadn't used one or was on to him and closed it quietly - no light from beneath any of the doors. Nothing. He was going to have to move from this spot, and figured a jaunt outside was better than being ambushed inside.<br />
<br />
Past the mailboxes and out the front door to the drizzle and grey - every window shut tight, no sign of a skirt. Inside then - nobody in heels like that could shimmy out a window that quickly. Inside was the ticket, but when he turned to get back on the trail of his quarry, he saw that grim, flat face again, this time looking out the window instead of from above him as he lie flat on his back in the alley. Not wanting a repeat of that unfortunate scene, he turned on his heels and beat a hasty retreat to his car. Guns weren't an option here - it turn into Custer's last stand. Time to file this away for future use and pursue another loose string - the Chinese laundry.John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-91308213572589883272013-01-17T18:15:00.002-08:002013-03-03T15:49:18.204-08:0011. ShenanigansAs he turned the corner, Jake saw the two punks and a girl, maybe seventeen, blonde (dye job, and not too bad) - very attractive. The boys were looking for trouble, and he had an appointment to keep, so he figured on playing it safe. They might be punks, but there were two of them, and you didn't have to be a genius or a he-man to stick a switchblade in a guy's ribs. Playing it safe was the way to go, and he would have if it weren't for the sidelong glance the girl sent his way.<br />
<br />
"What's a girl like you doing with these chuckleheads? You can do better, you should trade up."<br />
<br />
That did it. The short one was going to be the first to speak and the first to pull a knife. He had the most to prove. His friend was tall and lanky and looked nervous - just along for the ride.<br />
<br />
"Fuck you."<br />
<br />
It was the short one - big surprise. He continued, "you got any smokes?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah."<br />
<br />
Shorty flexed his fingers, arched his eyebrows and shrugged in a bad imitation of a humble beggar. He tried to force a smile - he'd seen too many movies this kid.<br />
<br />
"So, can we maybe bum a few?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
He was pissed - he was an easy target - and Jake could tell he was just about to pull the knife like a big boy. His pal still looked nervous - knew what was coming. Now was the time to act, so Jake sent his balled fist slamming into the tall one's jaw. He dropped like a bag of wet cement. Shorty was taken off guard and forgot his lines, so Jake tried a little improv and broke his nose. While the little creep leaned against the brick wall and bled, Jake gave the girl a smile.<br />
<br />
"My car's down the street. Why don't you come with me? We can have a bite."<br />
<br />
She blinked, tried to remain calm and composed, but she was all pins and needles. Just the same, she took a hesitant step towards Jake, then another, and as he turned she matched his stride and locked arms with him. They covered a few yards before she spoke.<br />
<br />
"What do you expect from me?"<br />
<br />
"Your eternal gratitude, if you play it smart."John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3078513373625722551.post-81585921777682199162013-01-14T14:16:00.001-08:002013-01-14T14:16:10.642-08:0010. Better"I could never get over the tooth-sucking. Drove me nuts," as he topped off the cup.<br />
<br />
"No, you could never get over the fact that she was better than you - heart and soul," came the reply from behind.<br />
<br />
He turned around, hinting at a grin, "Wha ...? Fuck you."<br />
<br />
"Fuck yourself. She's fabulous. I was always jealous. I'm still jealous. She was better than you," they were walking now, "and you couldn't stand to admit it, so you found a reason to get out. I don't blame you, really," out the door now, on the sidewalk, "you would have always been on the bottom in that relationship. Nothing worse than being beneath somebody who's not only better than you, but it better than you because she'd never see herself as above you - never more than an equal."<br />
<br />
"You don't - really don't - know what the fuck you're talking about."<br />
<br />
In the shelter of a burger joint's door - "Sure I do. She was better than me, too, but I would have changed. She'd be worth it. Looking into those eyes every day would make it worth it. Those eyes held everything - like fire. Everything."<br />
<br />
With the smell of fresh french fries in his nose - "Yeah. They did. Fuck."John Matthew Staterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02310914386482078369noreply@blogger.com0