Andersen Prunty's Blog, page 14

The Tailors

My pants make me depressed. They make me feel sad and fat. I stop in the middle of the room and summon Rugby, my bodyguard. I sling an arm over his shoulder, my legs weak. I beg him to call the tailor to come and alter my pants. Rugby goes outside and constructs a mammoth fire in the front yard. I collapse to the floor, staring down at my pants. The tailors arrive by bus. A whole fleet of tailors run from the bus and invade the house. They say the carpenter has the worst looking house on the block and the same could be said for the tailors’ clothes. They are all ill-fitting. Binding. Too loose. Voluminous, in some cases. And their selection is poor. Logo t- shirts and jeans. Out of date clothes that look they were purchased from a second-hand store. I have little faith in them. They prop me up and take measurements. A man with an outgrown mohawk, wearing a denim skirt with a flag embroidered across the chest pulls out a pair of scissors and snips the air.

They set to work.

I black out.

When I wake up, I’m sweaty and famished. I’m in my bed. I toss back the covers and hop out. I feel refreshed. There is a definite spring in my step. I look down at my newly tailored pants. They are very sleek. Almost a part of me.

When I get downstairs, I find Rugby entertaining the tailors. He explains to me the great sacrifice they all went through to reconstruct my pants. One by one, the tailors lift their shirts and drop their pants and I see missing flesh and hair. As I squat down to test the give in the pants I realize their sacrifice was worth it and, looking at them, I see they are all smiling, proud of their craft.

Bonus 3

Cabbage Suits

They wore cabbage suits. Completely biodegradable. They squeaked a lot. Then people started lubing up.

Bad Air

The children are the first to go outside. We, the parents, can’t keep them in anymore. Besides, we’re all curious how it is out there.

Our son and daughter charge through the yard and right into the street. We don’t have to worry. There isn’t any traffic anymore. My wife and I watch them through the big living room window.

“Huh, look at em go,” my wife says.

“Go lock the door,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“We don’t know what’s out there. Can’t have them bringing it back in. They’re tainted.”

She does it, begrudgingly, shoulders slumped. I can tell she’s struggling inwardly, feeling like a bad parent.

I walk over to her, place a hand on her shoulder, and say, “This doesn’t make you a bad parent.” Her eyes are still glazed with doubt, so I say, “I’ll get the wine,” and she perks up considerably.

We get completely trashed. Other than an occasional beer or glass of wine at dinner, we’ve tried to keep drinking to a minimum unless the kids are at their grandparents’. Their grandparents are all dead now. They were the first to go.

There are now a lot of children in the yard and streets. Our boy, Aiden, smashes out the window on my wife’s car parked in the driveway. He has a girl with him. I don’t recognize her. They’re both smoking and holding bottles of beer.

“Huh, looks like Aiden’s already got himself a girlfriend,” I say.

“He’s too young for that kind of thing,” my wife says.

“Relax. They don’t have a future anyway.”

By nightfall, the fires become more visible. Looking down our once quiet street, a house burns here and there. In the distance, the city is an orange glow.

“We really should unlock the doors,” my wife says.

“Nonsense,” I say. “I’m tired and wasted. I wouldn’t feel safe.”

Deeper into the night, most of the streetlamps have been pulled down or shattered by rocks and assorted debris. We’ve been locked inside so long, I’m envious of the chaos and fun they’re having. It’s all my imagination at this point. I can’t actually see anything.

I lower the blinds and say, “I think it’s time for bed.”

My wife and I retreat to the bedroom and have the wildest, best sex we’ve had since we were dating. We fall asleep shellacked in sweat and various other bodily substances and I think, I don’t want to wake up.

We are woken up by the shattering of windows. Or, at least, I am. My wife may have taken too much of the wrong thing and might be dead. I don’t know.

The bedroom is darker than it’s ever been but I can sense someone standing in the doorway.

“Aiden? Katrina?”

“Yes, Father?” they both slur.

“It’s your world now. We’re leaving it to you.”

“It’s garbage. We have to redo everything.”

“Well,” I say, “I guess it worked okay for us … or something.”

Those are my last words.

Bonus 2

How We Spend the 4th

When the kids were younger, we used to pack them up and fly somewhere that didn’t celebrate the 4th. Or, if they did, it was in a less percussive fashion. But that got expensive.

Now we lock down. Even though it’s usually a gorgeous summer day, we stay inside with the blinds drawn. The kids want to go outside and play but we tell them it’s too dangerous. We tell them we’ve lost our jobs. We tell them we’ve had to move to the rough part of town, the part they’re always hearing about on the news. They’re way too dumb to realize they’re in the same house. They’re excited about the loud sounds outside. We tell them that’s the sound of people shooting other people. They believe us because they don’t even know what a calendar is. They still want to go out and see until it starts to get really loud.

We tell them to get to bed right after dark, saying “It might be the last night you ever get to sleep. And trust me, if that happens, you’ll be thankful you’re not awake.”

They stare at us with blank eyes.

“What we’re trying to say is … we just hope they don’t make it inside.”

It takes them a while to get to sleep but we don’t go into their room to quiet them because they’re already being quiet, speaking in hushed, terrified whispers. All we have to do is walk by the door and they’re immediately silent, fearing we might be intruders. Hopefully they end up with decent survival skills, at least.

We pour some wine and laugh and bitch about the fireworks the way we used to bitch about the kids and we wonder what it’s like to live in a bad area. When it’s finally quiet, we get a little sad.

We both remain mysterious to one another.

Green and Gray

We’re in the mountains. Just the two of us. Dusk. Gray, not black. The insect sounds are everywhere. The bright green trees drip with early summer heat. We’re dressed up. Clean. Smell great. We’ve escaped from a gathering. We can hear the laughter, the glasses clinking. Fun and conversations being had. Neither of us hate it, but we don’t want to be anywhere except here. In the distance, thunder rumbles. The sky turns purple from lightning we cannot see. Now is our time. We could go back into the gathering, surround ourselves with beaming smiles under the white fairy lights.

Or we could run.

Deeper into the woods, away from the storm, into the darkness, and wait for it. Wait to get caught. Out in it.

I imagine the others, the storm forcing them inside, their night ruined.

But I’m here with you, outside, in the dark, waiting for the storm to break over us.

The Folk Singer

I’m in my house enjoying a cocktail when I hear a loud commotion coming from outside. Upset, I groan and hurl my cocktail across the room. The glass shatters dramatically against the stone hearth. Cautiously, I saunter over to the door and gently part the curtains just far enough to see outside. There, on the front lawn, bathed in floodlights, a group of people are rioting.

What could they possibly be rioting over? I wonder.

It doesn’t seem to be a race riot. They are all predominantly white. All ages seem represented, as well. An old lady uses a chain to strap a teenager, sprawled on the ground and howling with pain. This could get ugly, I think. Better try and calm them down. I figure a folk song is just the thing.

With my acoustic guitar, I drift elegantly out onto my front porch. After the first chords, I have their attention. Now is the time to placate them with my soothing, dreamlike words. I start singing, the voice of an angel, but the words are coming out all wrong. I’m spouting hate, goading them. The guitar playing becomes driving and frantic.

Within a minute, they are back at it, harder than before. The old woman goes back to lashing the teenager, her mouth twisted into an angry snarl. Confused, I hurl the guitar out into the crowd where it takes out a toddler-sized girl. I retreat into the house, locking the doors and waiting for the first rock to come through the window.

Bonus 1

I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and it’s wonderful.

Childlike

I’m sitting in the park on an early summer day. There’s a little girl, probably a toddler, running around picking dandelions. I’m smoking a cigarette and drinking straight whiskey from a travel mug. The little girl picks a dandelion, squeals, and does the weird toddler walk to the next one, which is like six inches away. Still, she is filled with wide-eyed excitement and I wonder what it’s like to have that sense of joy and wonder. Dandelion after dandelion, the excitement remains unquenched. Then a large bird of prey swoops out of the sky and plucks out one of the girl’s eyes. The girl begins screaming and I wonder where her guardian is. The bird comes back and tears open the girl’s jugular before flying off again. There is a large jet of blood as the girl falls to the ground. The blood continues to spurt into the air and I have the vague notion I’m missing an opportunity. I set my mug on the bench, clench my cigarette in my lips, and hurry over to the dying girl. I strip off my shirt and lean into the fount, a wave of elation washing over me as I bathe in the girl’s blood. This, I think, this is as close as I can get to feeling what she felt before the bird ripped out her eye and tore open her jugular. This, I think, this is what being a child feels like.

Sticky

My phone rings for the first time in months. It’s my ex-girlfriend.

“I’m sticky,” she says.

I think about this for a few seconds.

“How sticky?”

“Really sticky,” she says. “The stickiest I’ve ever been.”

“How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. I really just don’t … Can you come over?”

“I’m pretty comfortable right now. I’ve changed a lot since we were together. I sleep, like, twelve hours a day now. And I wear more comfortable clothes.”

“I really need your help.”

“The comfortable clothes … I don’t like to go outside in them.”

“I still live in the same building as you. All you have to do is take the elevator up two floors. It’s late. No one’ll see you.”

I think about this. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved in with somebody else. It’s been over a year.

“Pretty comfortable,” I say.

“Really sticky,” she says.

I sigh. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Do you still have the key?”

I don’t know if I do or not. I do not recall having thrown the key away in a fit of rage or giving it back in an act of kindness. “Are you unable to open the door?”

“I’m so sticky I can’t even get off the floor. I’m not doing well.”

I pause for a while, for effect. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“You will? You don’t know how relieved this makes me.”

I look for the key. The comfortable clothes make it a little easier.

I find the key in the corner of the bathroom. How do I know if this is the key? It’s something I should have used a couple times a day for a few years, but it’s not giving me familiar vibes. I decide it’s not the key to her apartment and throw it in the trash after bending it a lot.

I call her back.

“Are you on your way?” she says.

“No. I can’t find the key. I think I gave it back to you.”

“Do you hear that?” she says.

I don’t hear anything. “What is it?” I say.

“That’s me trying to get off the floor.”

I imagine her there. I’m glad I couldn’t find the key. Now, close to bedtime, the idea of taking my comfortable clothes out into the garbage-smelling hallway and up to her floor, and then doing whatever I had to do to make her less sticky feels exhausting. I can’t even imagine myself in that situation.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I need to get to bed.”

I hang up before she can protest and block her number.

Your Next Existential Crisis

My phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket to see it’s my next existential crisis calling. I press DISMISS. I’ve fallen for this several times before. Always answering. Always left reeling.

I go outside.

I smoke some weed.

I drink some beer.

More weed than beer because I finally realized I don’t like waking up feeling like shit.

I think about my life.

It’s good.

It’s almost everything I want it to be, and that’s more than enough. It’s more than the vast majority of people have. Not just material things. All the other things too. The things you don’t talk about because people either think you’re gloating or wildly delusional.

Maybe you are both of those things.

So what.

Delusion is a tremendous amount of work and gloating is a lot like spreading positivity.

But if you’d answered that call …

You’d spend the rest of your life obsessing on the almost, trying to find it, trying to make it perfect, trying to take away the good you feel, the good you have.

Now you feel guilty.

Maybe you should have answered it.

You look at your phone.

You look at the missed number.