It Smells Like Plastic and Hurt Feelings Read online

It Smells Like Plastic

  And Hurt Feelings

  (stories)

  J. Bradley

  Copyright © 2012 by J. Bradley

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

  www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

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  SHOULDERS

  My friend Ben doesn't understand why I keep paying for aborting babies that aren't mine.

  “You could just ask her out on a date, dude” Ben says between sips of Milwaukee’s Best. “I mean with all the money you've spent, you could have flown her out to New York or something, stayed in a nice hotel, and had dinner.”

  “I'm not ready, yet. I need to get to know her a little more first, see if she's interested in going out with me.”

  “Doesn't she think it's a little weird you keep showing up with different women at the clinic and that you're always paying for the abortions?”

  “Not when you explain you're going as 'moral support' for a friend and you hand the money to them before you walk in with the women. Didn't you know Craigslist isn't just for getting your dick sucked by strangers?”

  ***

  Becky sits behind the front desk, wearing scrubs covered with little Cleveland Browns logos. I walk in with this month's woman, Amanda.

  “Sean, we really need to stop running into each other like this,” Becky says between pops and snaps of her bubble gum.

  “I know we do, Becky, I know we do. I didn't know you were a Cleveland Browns fan.”

  “I'm not. My ex-boyfriend is a huge fan and right now, I'm into ruining anything that he loves as often as possible. Are you Amanda?” Amanda nods. “Here's some paperwork to fill out. Afterward, I'll bring you back to see the doctor.”

  After Becky takes Amanda to the back, I pull out the notebook and pen in my right pocket. I add “hates Cleveland Browns and ex-boyfriend” to the notes I've made of what I know:

  likes daises

  “I Don't Want To Miss A Thing” - favorite slow dance song (ex and her were supposed to dance to it at their wedding)

  allergic to shellfish and carrots

  thinks she's too fat (I don't)

  reads James Patterson novels

  plays drinking games during Dancing With The Stars

  tired of meaningless sex (don't know with how many people – don't care)

  hates Oprah (is Becky really a woman?)

  loves vintage clothes

  doesn't date vegans or Republicans

  listens to “Freebird” before and after boarding an airplane

  ***

 

  “Y'know you could just volunteer for the clinic instead. It's a lot cheaper than paying women to be their moral support,” Amanda says as I drive her home.

  “That would be against what I believe in. It's bad enough that I'm doing this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Six months ago, I was behind the picket line, holding signs, evoking God and Satan to stop another baby from being murdered. Once I saw Becky walk into the clinic...”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?You're doing this because of a chick?Do your friends, your church know about this?”

  “I told them that work was keeping me away from taking up a slot on the protest schedule. I keep tabs on it so I know when I can provide moral support without getting caught.”

  “I'm a woman and I'm not into men willing to change themselves entirely for me. A little maybe, not not entirely. It's gonna suck for you if this doesn't work, isn't it?”

  ***

  “Sean, what are you doing here by yourself?”

  “Becky, I finally worked up the nerve to ask you something.” I look down at the floor, heave the courage out of my stomach, into my cheeks. “Would you like to go out sometime? I mean it doesn't have to be anything fancy, just two people talking, hanging out somewhere. No expectations.” Becky stops chewing her gum. The people in the waiting room, her coworkers stare at us.

  “Um, sure. Is tomorrow ok?” I nod my head. “Here's my address. Pick me up tomorrow around seven.” She hands me her address written on the back of a Planned Parenthood benefit flyer. When I got into the car, I high ten the steering wheel before cranking up my Jars of Clay CD to eleven and turning the ignition.

  ***

  Becky and I sit in a booth at Dairy Queen, licking our soft serve cones. I can't stop staring into her hazel eyes. Becky's light blue sundress, bobbed dark brown hair bring them out.

  “What the fuck is that?” Becky says, pointing at the window. There's a small group of people outside, holding picket signs. They chant “Baby savers don't date baby killers.”

  “I'll go take care of these fucks.” I slide out of the booth and walk out the door. As I get closer, I see Ben holding a megaphone.

  “Dude, what the fuck?”

  “Sorry, man, but you can't be going out with this girl. I didn't think she was gonna say yes so I didn't rat you out to the congregation but once I saw the flyer and her address, we had to finally step in and do something.”

  “I'm not allowed to be happy, Ben? I really like this girl.”

  “You know these people?” Becky's voice taps me on the shoulder.

  “Becky, I can explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Sean's been using Craigslist to find women who need money for abortions and then going with them as 'moral support' so he could get close to you. Here.” Ben throws my notebook at Becky. Becky catches it, leafs through the notes and observations, then peers up at me.

  “Sean, I'm not sure how I feel about all this. On one hand, all of this effort you put in to get close to meet is strangely sweet. On the other hand, you willingly compromised your beliefs just to get close to me. Which Sean did you want me to fall for?” Becky drops the notebook and calls a cab. I sit on the hood of my car, watching Becky wait for the cab inside, wondering how everything went wrong.

  ADAM GALLARI DREAMS OF

  PITCHING NO HITTERS

  Paulie dribbled the soccer ball toward Michael, the goalkeeper for the Gun Hill Torpedoes, their defenders lying on the cold Hull Avenue asphalt in pools of their own blood, unclaimed dog shit. In the Bronx Soccer League, physical contact between attacker and defender wasn't just allowed, but encouraged; handballs equaled knives. The switchblade scar on Paulie's left thigh ached as he pivoted, then launching the ball toward the goal like a mad scientist wants to bat around the moon. Like his dreams, the ball slipped through Michael fingers.

  “Goal, motherfucker! Goal!” Paulie shouted into November stars, the tenants opening the gullets of their windows to tell Paulie to shut the fuck up. A moment later, Michael tattoos failure into Paulie's jawline.

  ***

  Lawrence sighed, the keyboard resting on his lap like Sarah's head once did. “Tell me what you're thinking” Sarah's eyes telegraphed, her hair cascading off the cliffs of his thighs; Lawrence unscrewed the quarter-filled bottle of Popov on his desk and took a swig. The acrid mudslide wouldn’t wash away her last kiss; Lawrence didn't want to believe this.

  “Waaaaariors, come out to plaaaay”, Cyrus, as played by David Patrick Kelly, taunted from the safety of The Rouges' decrepit hearse, menacing the hearts and ears of The Warriors with his war cry, beating beer bottle fingers. Lawrence remembered how Sarah giggled at such ostentatiously poor acting the first time they met at the local indie theater, the mix of “not impress
ed” and fear on The Warriors' faces. Lawrence normally didn't pick up girls at the movies. Lawrence normally didn't pick up anyone, but there was a siren song in Sarah's giggle. Lawrence tried remembering what he said to Sarah that first time; at least I can't remember that, he thought. He blushed, thinking of the soft tumors on Siouxsie Sioux's cheeks erupting from Sarah's t-shirt.

  Lawrence recalled cradling Sarah's phone number like it was kitchen cutlery, thumbing the edge of those ten-digits. Her voice on the receiver cut through his disbelief. After six hours of deep discussions about cult films and seventeen rounds of Marry-Fuck-Kill, where Lawrence determined he would Marry Judas, fuck Jesus, and kill John Lennon with Holden Caulfield's whine, they set their first date at the local indie bar with walls that looked like the kind of tattoos Girls Gone Wild girls think are cool and edgy. Lawrence knew it was love when they slow danced to Blonde's “Heart of Glass”, not spilling their PBR along the way.

  “I can't keep the baby,” Sarah said, wearing a prosthetic pregnant belly and a thong.

  “Don't you know abortion is murder?”, Lawrence pleaded, holding a “GOD HATES FAGS AND BABY KILLERS” sign, wearing a cock ring shaped like Jesus's gaping mouth beneath his thong. They often played Planned Parenthood bedroom games.

  Lawrence shook his head, realizing the Popov was finger painting with his memories. They kissed at Planned Parenthood, didn't they?

  Lawrence wiped his mouth, reset the keyboard on his lap.

  ***

  Paulie woke up the next morning in bed, scrambled eggs and burnt toast coughing up into the room. How did I get here, Paulie rubbed out of his head. Maureen, all sweatpants and loose tits, leaned against the frame of the door.

  “Breakfast is served, tiger,” she wheezed, the lit Pall Mall cigarette dangling from Maureen's mouth. Paulie slowly rolled toward the edge of the bed, recovered his bloodied Hull Avenue Brawlers soccer kit and Jockey briefs. Gingerly, he put on each sock before lumbering toward the table where Maureen sat, breakfast cooling on the chipped wood round table.

  “That was a helluva game last night, tiger.” Maureen's body drooped like her Staten Island accent. Paulie's wife will think he was out drinking with the team after another hard fought victory because Jackie understood the importance of sacrifice, whether it was her body for their four children, her dreams, Friday nights. There was a benefit in her squeamishness, of her not wanting to watch Paulie's wolfen elbows rip through defenders and attackers, the blood, not knowing where the bruises came from.

  Paulie excused himself for a moment to the bathroom. He shut the door, removed his shirt and examined his torso. The fingernail scratches against Paulie's chest added exclamation points to “How the fuck am I gonna explain this to Jackie?” The Torpedoes have a guy that's known for playing gay. She won't know he was too fucked up to play last night. Fucking soccer hood rats. If only they didn't know how to fuck so well. Paulie lifted the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. He had twenty minutes before he had to be at his oldest son's baseball game. Baseball is a fag's game. Real men play street soccer and I'm gonna make sure my son grows up to be a real man.

  ***

  Lawrence's belch burned his throat. He unscrewed the one-eighth filled bottle of Popov and took another belt. He tipped it high; the last drops clung before falling onto his uvula. Why did I say baseball is a fag's game? Lawrence remembered:

  “I'm going to be a mother, Lawrence.”

  “Aren't I going to be a father, then?” Sarah stared at Lawrence's doormat. “Who's the father?”

  “He's a rugby player over at Dartmouth. We met two months ago, before you and me, Lawrence.”

  “Are you keeping it?” Lawrence dreamed of c-sectioning the alien seed.

  “I...want to see...if we can work this out, me and him.” Lawrence slammed the door in her face; he couldn't hit a pregnant woman, after all.

  Rugby is too obvious and I don't understand it. I've always hated baseball. I wish my penis was as long as a baseball game. Lawrence hiccuped. Did he play rugby? We live in fucking Orlando. No one who goes to Dartmouth comes here unless they want to play Who's In My Mouth on Spring Break. Lawrence fell out of his chair, the keyboard landing on his calves. I...have...to... Lawrence heard himself snoring.

  ***

  You are on the mound for the Stonewall Jackson Middle School Raiders baseball team. You are working a full count against the Conway Middle School Falcons and their star hitter. Your catcher gives you the single to go to your fastball but you know your cutter could eat up the strike zone like your girlfriend cuts your lower lip up with her braces and enthusiasm. You wanted to play soccer instead but your dad didn't believe in ties, like every good American should. It begins to rain and it smells like plastic and hurt feelings.

  FOLD

  Mathias looked at the cards in his hand: three 4s (two Clubs, a Spade), an Ace of Hearts and a King of Spades, then peeked at Joseph, also looking at his hand.

  “I'm all in.” Mathias pushed all of his chips into the pot.

  “Call,” Joseph shoved all his chips into the pot, then crushed Mathias's three-of-a-kind with a full house (three sevens [Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs] and a pair of Queens [Hearts, Spades]). “It looks like you're out of the game.”

  “God dam...” The petrification started with his mouth, pouring out to his face, coating his shirt, suspenders, pants, boots until he sat in the chair statuesque.

  The chair legs groaned as Daniel pushed himself away from the poker table. “What the fuck is going on here? What kind of fuckin' game is this?” Henry buried his face in his hands, smudging his spectacles with clammy palms. Frank took a flask out of the inner pocket of his worn gray duster.

  “This is gonna be a long night,” Frank said after a pull.

  ***

  Henry Wormwood stood next to a freshly covered grave, alone. He baked in his black bowler hat and sack suit, face swollen from grief.

  “I'm sorry for your loss.” The sentence sneaked through Henry's sobs, into the back of his neck. Henry turned around to see a figure, cloaked and hooded in white.

  “Who...are...you?” The figure handed Henry a handkerchief. Henry cleaned his spectacles, blew his nose.

  “What are you willing to do to get this person back?”

  “I can't get them back. No one can do that.”

  “What if I can?”

  ***

  “I'm done with this! Deal me the fuck out!” Daniel yelled. He took five steps away from the poker table before a lightning bolt struck where he would have taken the sixth step.

  Only one will be allowed to leave this table.

  Frank drew the sawed-off double barreled shotgun out of his duster. “Who's there?” The cards in Joseph's hands began humming, the pitch growing louder. Frank clutched his head, Daniel his stomach, Henry's glasses cracked.

  “Joseph, what did you just do?” Frank's shotgun pointed at Joseph's chest.

  “Nothin', I swear to God, nothin'”.

  “Frank, he's right.” Henry said, putting his hand on Frank's left shoulder. “It's this game. Strange things have happened at the end of each hand. There's something about those cards.”

  “When I lost my showdown against Frank, I couldn't see out of my right eye for a coupla hands,” Daniel said.

  “Mathias said he lost that limp he had after winning a hand,” Joseph said. “But why did he die?”

  “How did we get the chips?” Henry rubbed his chin, “We didn't get an equal amount either. Some got more some got less.” Henry looked at the other men. Frank was in his mid-40s, a scar running like a tear beneath his left eye. You couldn't tell Joseph had wrinkles until he smiled. Daniel's cheeks looked like they were slapped by the doctor after birth.

  Only one will be allowed to leave this table.

  ***

  Joseph's back was to the wall. Four bad hands, two bluffs later, he was down to his last few chips. In the showdown against Henry, his two pair (Aces [Hearts, Diamonds], 10s [Spades, Diamonds]
) lost to a straight (5, 6, 7 [Spades], 8 [Diamonds], 9 [Hearts]). Joseph's last pose was his hands clasped in prayer. Frank couldn't move his left arm

  ***

  Daniel was ahead in the chip count, Henry second, Frank third, slowly losing more and more chips after each round.

  “Hot damn, I'm gonna win this whole thing,” Daniel yelled. “I'm gonna get cleared of the charges and go home to my wife.”

  “Wha...are...you...talkin'...about,” Henry slurred. The last hand he lost paralyzed the left side of his body.

  “I was told if I won then what I did on the train is gonna go away. I'll get to go back to my family, my little girl. You are almost done, old man. Then it's just between me and the yellow belly. I'm gonna beat the Dutch, just you wait.” After his final showdown, the shotgun dropped out of Frank's hand before he had a chance to fire at Daniel. His arm stayed outstretched. Henry picked the gun off the floor and opened the barrels.

  “Daniel, I think Frank was the man they called Eureka in the papers a while back.”

  “What are you talkin' about?”

  “The barrels are full of pyrite, 'Fool's Gold'. He was the scourge of the Union army. Killed 120 men before going into hiding after the war was over. Wasn't even a solider, just a vigilante. Before he shot someone, he yelled “Eureka”, according to the papers.”

  “That's horseshit, Frank, horseshit. Now, sit down and let's get this finished. I gotta a wife and a little girl waiting for me.”

  ***

  After the next few hands, Henry's glasses looked brand new, Daniel coughed and wheezed every so often. The chip count on both sides looked fairly even. Daniel's last hand was a Jack-high flush (Diamonds). Henry shuffled and dealt. Daniel looked at his hand and smiled.

  “I'm goin' all in.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Daniel?”

  “Hell yeah, I am. I won with a flush last hand. Diamonds. Every time one of us won with lots of Diamonds in their hand, somethin' mighty good happened. I've got a good feelin' about this hand.”