9 Meters
9 meters, a sign hung above twelve chairs in a circle read, each set on a blue masking tape X, about 3 feet apart. How many meters is 3 feet? Alone in the room, Cindy wondered if it all added up to 9 somehow, as she circumambulated and ran her fingers along the chair backs, each sporting a domestic scene carved in relief—women in a kitchen, men with dogs out hunting, children playing with toys by a Christmas tree, barn full of animals and antique machinery, various farm scenes. The second time around, others filed out from the waiting room and looked relieved to be free of orderlies, who held your arm and made you wait for what no one knew was coming. Walls covered with clocks, all set different, many had more than one face and she counted ticks, compared intervals and sought to tell what the real time is? But orderlies kept pushing her towards what she had to do next and couldn’t remember where she’d left off or… why wasn’t anybody else in there when she was?
Papers blew about Tom in a whirlwind and he snatched one, like a fly, out of thin air—Derivative! Been done before! Comments scrawled all over it in red ink—Overwrought! Bloated pastiche! A man appeared from nowhere and said, “You’re not much of a writer…” Looked like a coach, dressed in fancy sweatpants and a pullover windbreaker—red, with a BIG I patch, green and gold, on the front sewn. Standing at the intersection of Grant and Lincoln, top of a big hill he’d walked a million times going to school and the college gym. The man had Tom’s stories in hand and multiple sheets blew off, as he rifled through them, frantically seeking, it seems, examples of what he needs to correct. Tom tried to read the page in hand but words swam allover and, when he double-checked, didn’t make any sense. Panic struck—where’s my truck? Seamus is going to kill me! Tom thought he’d lost Seamus’ truck! Handed his paper in, patted himself all around and found no keys, no billfold, no phone! The coach, half smiling, seemed to know what Tom felt or didn’t. “Lose something?” He asked and pointed, over Tom’s shoulder, to a truck, leaned against the massive old oak in Ms. Schotz, Tom’s Senior English Teacher’s front yard. Someone was in it… Cindy?
When the music stopped, Cindy scrambled for a chair but a teenage boy knocked her off with a hard hip check, as they tried to sit in the same spot. Cindy fell between chairs and got stuck. “You are never going to win!” The boy said, reached down and grabbed her belly fat in disgust, as if that was what he meant. Her eyes followed and fat squeezed through his fingers like butter had her brother’s, making cookies as a kid, before he got in trouble for it. She looked up again and now it was him—her brother Scot, smiling like he did, having done something he shouldn’t, when only she saw it. Cindy grabbed his wrist and dug her nails into its tendons, until he, no longer her brother, let go and yelled, “That hurts. That’s not fair!” Looked around, as if for an authority, to tell on her. Not wanting to play anymore (or get in trouble), she scooted over to a big picture window, looked out and realized—they were on a ship! No wonder she had trouble keeping herself up, Cindy thought, as the ship pitched. “Nothing whatsoever to do with being fat! Might even be a benefit, in a big wind. Have a nice rest of your day!” A large lady in a sailor’s uniform, stationed by the pool, looking ridiculous, pointed this out, to Cindy’s great relief and she leaned fearlessly, as a consequence, against a well worn brass rail, felt cool to the touch. Could see… well, at first only hear, shouts from below, a commotion, her father would have said, back in the day. One of those words made her feel a certain way when she heard it—old and stiff and irrelevant, like agenda, sporty or when her mom called her dad a big lug—archaic words, harboring worn out sentiments no one feels anymore. She looked over the rail and it was Tom, making all the racket, climbing up a metal ladder bouncing off the hull. He appeared calm but she knew he couldn’t see what she saw—rough seas whipped and white water churning behind and below him. Looking up it was like Mordor on the horizon, big red eye in the sky, black and blue clouds. Fear gripped, she looked down again and behind Tom now, like milk boiling over, a wall of white foam rose faster than he climbed. “Hurry up!” She yelled but nothing came out, only a tiny squeak, as moving along, expression unchanged, looking up at her, he disappeared.
Thinking the lost things might well be in his truck yet, Tom vaulted a set of concrete steps and crawled all-fours up a slippery slope of dune grass, until he reached, what now was Seamus’ restored ‘74, two-tone, half ton, Chevy Custom Deluxe, looked like someone tried to drive it up a tree. Unable to reach the door, he jammed fingers in various eyebolts and sidewall holes and pulled himself along the bed, feet wedged against reinforcement ribs, thinking—No one taught me how to do this, reached for, unlocked, slid open and thrust his head through the back window, almost choked to death, as several teenagers smoked cigarettes and played with buttons and dials, even shifted gears, three on the tree, not knowing which was which, brake or clutch, “What are you doing?” Tom yelled, afraid Seamus waited on him somewhere he couldn’t remember. In the middle of the street again, Tom tried to call Seamus but it was already calling Seamus or was Seamus calling him? Put to his ear, he heard only teenager tones and them coming at him, “I’ll have to call you back…” Tom said, but there wasn’t any call, when he went to disconnect. Close now, one of the teenagers stabbed him with a sharp stick. Feeling no pain or penetration, per se, Tom grabbed the teenager’s wrist, twisted it, pulled him close with one hand and crushed his face, then his whole head, with the other. Like flimsy cardboard it just caved in, before he knew his own strength, but no blood, no wet, just something like trash flying off an uncovered load fluttered around them. Tom fought the others, whose numbers varied between four and six, all boys with knives or sticks. One had a gun but apparently knew not how to use it. Tom kept an eye on the safety, in case he figured it out. Disorganized and uncoordinated, they were no problem to fight off but wouldn’t stop coming, even with their heads crushed, arms and legs bent the wrong way, they threw themselves at him. A long battle ensued down Grant Street hill, Tom maneuvering to keep them in front, as they tried relentlessly to get behind him, something it felt imperative he prevent.
Afraid the flood would swallow her up, Cindy ran towards what seemed the logical choice—a double set of double doors, closed and, when she got close, it was clear, the panic bars were broke, hung limp and tick, tick, tick, ticked in unison against tempered glass, as the deck pitched right to left and she struggled not to lose her affection. Pounding on a door with fists, eyes shaded against her own image, she looked within… many people in a ballroom… animals too. No one noticed. She could see cows and chickens and mules, chasing each other but no kids. Fearful, of a sudden, she looked over her shoulder to where she’d stood before, expecting white waves would crash upon and hurl her through shattering glass doors and into the sea beyond, but instead, there was a bed, a very large bed, half made mattress really, tilted towards her, seeming distressed, holding something back, “My name is Sandbag. Be not alarmed. Go on, celebrate with friends. I’ve got this.” Pillows and blankets peeled off, as it spoke, in flips and flops, was like Cindy could feel gravity’s pull and how each would unfold and fall off as it got more wet, ultimately collapse on deck in a sad wet pile. Only a fitted sheet remained, elastic bra like straps pressed against fat, stretched to their limits, not pulled all the way under the edge, like mom always said, “Make your bed!” Afraid of being punished, Cindy spun and ran towards now open doors and a complicated series of steps, all different sizes and shapes, which seemed to shift when taking weight but she couldn’t tell from or to what, because whatever hold she had on each step slipped, once she got the next grip firmly established, whether by hand or sea, erosion started soon as she touched it. Finally her fingers fell upon a piece of black rubber weather-stripping around an old school window, thinking it would provide respite from the constant need for a next grip, she dug in but it pulled out from the track, way further than she thought, yet somehow counterbalanced her fall, providing, in the end, the perfect amount of resistance so that, as a consequence, she landed soft, upright and surprisingly intact.
A bevy of fast-food restaurants came up on Tom’s left, shuffling backwards in defensive stance. He felt encouraged, if he got the chance, to duck in one of them and hope whosever store it was, had security or sense enough and sufficient self interest to protect him. A KFC sign drifted by and the time seemed right, so Tom ducked inside, put on an all white disguise and went straight to hide in the restroom. Figured he’d climb out a window or bounce by the side door, if it was locked, occupied or had no window … but it turned out to be an art class, subject—him, one whole wall of windows whitewashed and Tom’s stories attached. Tom’s stories turned into pictures—one per thousand words. “Obviously we see shame and impotence on trial here,” the teacher(?) was saying, “each punch to the face, represented by the number 8, at practice that day.” Her lips were beautiful, the way they moved, as she said this. Tom looked to where she’d illuminated an owl with a laser pointer, pointing out how it had the head of a chimpanzee, in a cheerleader’s uniform, emblazoned with the number 8, tumbling through a ribcage space colored Whisper White (handwritten), a color he’d been charged by Seamus to remember and pick up a gallon. He knew(?) the teacher, who, after instructing everyone to find a thousand words that correspond to their own hot take, turned to Tom and asked, “Why don’t you tell the truth? Why are you so afraid?” Tom saw red, did not like being singled out or asked this, but all the pictures and writings they were meant to represent—who else was she going to address? “What’s not the truth?” Pleased with this come back, he wrote stories based on real life. But what wasn’t? “You think you know the truth? I can’t tell you how far…” She seemed offended, didn’t finish what she started and Tom didn’t understand—how far, how far was? Was it far enough? The distance from truth? Or how far she was willing to go to make sure he didn’t write anymore pictures like this, in her classroom? Now, extremely attractive, she was standing right in front of him, “speaking words of wisdom, let it be…” The Beatles struck up and the teacher (Tom loved) had Isolt’s face, spoke without moving her lips. Tom mouthed like he was the dummy… someone coughing woke him up.
Cindy sat on a mechanical bull had the face of Brad Pitt, from Thelma and Louise. She laughed, symbolism not escaping. Something pokey, behind, felt good but she could not find it, the more she reached, the more she couldn’t breathe and woke up, coughing. Discovered the pokey was Tom’s erection… pressed against her ass. It felt good and she wiggled back but it retracted quick, as he woke. Tom opened his eyes, felt drugged with dreams and knew not, right away, where he was or with whom? Cindy knew… felt the welts on her wrists and ankle pain, warmth between her legs. Tom didn’t know what to do. Didn’t want to be where he was and felt drugged. Like awakened from hibernation too quick, he wanted most to be alone, get something to eat. His stomach hurt. Cindy? WTF? He bit his tongue, needed a drink, groaned, “I gotta go pee,” climbed out of bed and stumbled naked to the bathroom, while vigorously rubbing his head. Quietly closed the door, once there, splashed water in his face, and drank some, secretly hoping she’d fall back asleep. He leaned hard on the pedestal sink and shook his head slowly, hung in disbelief, water dripping, forearms cold against the white porcelain sink, trying to think. Drew himself upright again, reluctantly went to and pulled from the hamper a pair of dirty jeans, put them on, brushed his teeth, able only to think—What have I done?
Cindy sensed something wrong, in the way he shot out of bed, had hopes herself to linger, cuddle, chat awhile, have perhaps another go at it? But Tom seemed distant, disturbed even. Don’t read too much into it—preconceptions send you down a path that doesn’t exist. Her therapist always said, Let the mystery unfold at pace and take care of what’s next, in your chain of events. She took a deep breath, rubbed her wrists, checked her pussy and… yep—leaked on his bed. Ugh! Got up. Looked around. It was cold. Found her thong, damp but she wiped up the bed best she could. Put on sweatpants and a shirt, wanted to wear one of his… but that felt a bit much, just then. Tom came back and they met at the door, “Way to go Tom!” She high-fived him in passing, “I’ll be right… need to… uh, use the…” she gestured over her shoulder to the bathroom, then, once even with the door, stopped, snapped out a first finger and with a big smile pointed at him, now standing just outside his room, said, “You’re the greatest, Tom! Thank you, so much!” Switched hands to prayer position before her chest, obvious red welts on her wrists, bowed to him and ducked in.
Tom, put on a shirt and socks, gathered up all the ropes and clips and cuffs, put them back in the box and made the bed. Forced himself to recall what went on and wondered again how it got that far? What now? He couldn’t ask her to leave. It was getting dark. She came back and smacked his ass with her hand.