Since I've written. I think I gave up a little bit, back in April, when I was departing for a 2-week international work trip, attempting to hire a new writer at my job, and (frankly) just feeling overwhelmed.
I had intended to post a notice announcing a break - a long break or a short break I didn't know -but failed to even deliver that.
So let this announce a break. I'm on a break. Hopefully (given that I enjoyed reading a bit about Danny just now.....) I'll be back sooner than I think.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Y8: Yowl (there is no W)
From V8:
The next morning he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.
Danny tore through the restaurant, racing past his trainer and showering every guest with smiles and jokes and a hand run down the back. His eyes felt glittery, like diamonds. His heart and stomach raced. The coffees (three sugars) and Cokes (free refills!) powered him to a sick degree - when he bumped another trainee and was told to "chill out," he yowled like a junkyard cat over a tossed bone.
The next morning he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.
Danny tore through the restaurant, racing past his trainer and showering every guest with smiles and jokes and a hand run down the back. His eyes felt glittery, like diamonds. His heart and stomach raced. The coffees (three sugars) and Cokes (free refills!) powered him to a sick degree - when he bumped another trainee and was told to "chill out," he yowled like a junkyard cat over a tossed bone.
V8: Volume
From U8:
Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.
The next morning, he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.
Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.
The next morning, he woke ravenous, the sugary sludge in his mouth a tease for what was to come. And on his second shift, he turned up the volume again.
Monday, April 19, 2010
U8: Universalist or "another word for omnivore"?
From T8:
On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.
The entire day felt flushed and feverish. He knocked back Cokes, coffees and juices like a Unitarian Universalist samples different strains of religious belief. His trainer, a girl named Mindy with chubby elbows and one half-lazy eye, hovered near him like a terrified confessor.
Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.
On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.
The entire day felt flushed and feverish. He knocked back Cokes, coffees and juices like a Unitarian Universalist samples different strains of religious belief. His trainer, a girl named Mindy with chubby elbows and one half-lazy eye, hovered near him like a terrified confessor.
Danny hadn't been so furiously focused in a long time. He thought about nothing other than food, food, food. If another thought crept in, he found something salty or sugary to push it down.
Monday, April 12, 2010
T8: Tantrum
From S8:
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.
***
On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.
***
On Danny's first day, he threw a food-tantrum of epic proportions, snatching french fries off diner's plates as he ran them out to their tables, downing hundreds of free Cokes and breadsticks, and -- at the end of his shift -- making two 'mistakes' in his ordering so he could scarf an Oreo cheesecake and a cookie dough cheesecake in the parking lot when he finished his shift that night.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
S8: Stone or If He Couldn't Be A....
From R8:
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
******
And he quit his job, electing to wait tables at the Cheesecake Factory across the mall.
He wasn't stone. He wasn't hard and impassive, and he couldn't take the story Miriam wanted to tell. So he walked through the bookstore, grabbed his bag and his coat, and walked back out the door. In the parking lot, flecks of snow hit his lashes but failed to reach the ground.
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
******
And he quit his job, electing to wait tables at the Cheesecake Factory across the mall.
He wasn't stone. He wasn't hard and impassive, and he couldn't take the story Miriam wanted to tell. So he walked through the bookstore, grabbed his bag and his coat, and walked back out the door. In the parking lot, flecks of snow hit his lashes but failed to reach the ground.
The Cheesecake Factory would be safe, he figured. Miriam, he knew, despised the place.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
R8: Repetition or Again, Danny Runs Away
From Q8:
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well I ran away, of course" she continued, scuttling her two fingers across the table, "right up to my room. But he won me, over the next few months of parties and the small circuit my parents enjoyed." She looked away, and Danny wished they were on a broad lawn somewhere, in the sunshine with a river running below. "He was subtle, of course - he wasn't a smart match for me, old as I was. Repetition," she added. "Persistence. Yes, he found his ways... until." Her eyes and smile trailed away, and Danny pulled back. It felt as if his Adams apple was pressing into his throat.
"Miriam, I should really-" His eyes skittered over the food court, bouncing of garish neon signs. The big clock glared at him. He didn't need an "until" right now. He was already late for his shift.
"He died, Danny. That summer, and I married my husband that fall."
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well I ran away, of course" she continued, scuttling her two fingers across the table, "right up to my room. But he won me, over the next few months of parties and the small circuit my parents enjoyed." She looked away, and Danny wished they were on a broad lawn somewhere, in the sunshine with a river running below. "He was subtle, of course - he wasn't a smart match for me, old as I was. Repetition," she added. "Persistence. Yes, he found his ways... until." Her eyes and smile trailed away, and Danny pulled back. It felt as if his Adams apple was pressing into his throat.
"Miriam, I should really-" His eyes skittered over the food court, bouncing of garish neon signs. The big clock glared at him. He didn't need an "until" right now. He was already late for his shift.
"He died, Danny. That summer, and I married my husband that fall."
Danny knocked the table into her as he jumped up and ran away.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Q8: Quotable or Trembling with Anticipation
From P8:
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Pushing the great, white lock back, she leaned in. "Stavros was a waiter who had worked plenty of events at my parent's house, and the parties of their friends. He was quiet, polite, and handsome. His hair was black enough, and his features... strong... enough, that it was easy enough to smile at him and accept a canape." Danny thought of Marina. Quotable, no matter what.
"But to me, he was terrifying." She placed a hand on her chest. "More beautiful than I knew a man could be. More of a man than any of the boys I knew at school. He was my woodcutter." She looked at her lap.
Danny knew the type - that longing. The lifeguards at the pool, impossibly tan and muscular and at ease on foot, in the water, or on their high lifeguard chairs. Their feet gripping the edge of the pool, their bodies knived over the water. He could still name individual coaches and football players. A cop who monitored the school parking lot his senior year. All those men who were the opposite of what Danny was, or knew he was, inside.
"So when he spoke to me, I nearly died."
Danny remembered his first heightened brush against a man in the bathroom on a trip to visit colleges during his senior year.
Miriam was lost in her story now. "It was at the end of the party, and my parents were on the lawn saying a few last goodbyes. I'd stayed inside to help tidy up - unnecessary, really, but I wanted to let the air back into the room - and he'd stepped quietly into the dining room where I was watching my parents through the blinds. 'Beautiful,' he'd said, in his thick accent, and I'd dropped my glass on the floor. His hand touched mine when I stooped to help him rather than let him clean up alone."
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Pushing the great, white lock back, she leaned in. "Stavros was a waiter who had worked plenty of events at my parent's house, and the parties of their friends. He was quiet, polite, and handsome. His hair was black enough, and his features... strong... enough, that it was easy enough to smile at him and accept a canape." Danny thought of Marina. Quotable, no matter what.
"But to me, he was terrifying." She placed a hand on her chest. "More beautiful than I knew a man could be. More of a man than any of the boys I knew at school. He was my woodcutter." She looked at her lap.
Danny knew the type - that longing. The lifeguards at the pool, impossibly tan and muscular and at ease on foot, in the water, or on their high lifeguard chairs. Their feet gripping the edge of the pool, their bodies knived over the water. He could still name individual coaches and football players. A cop who monitored the school parking lot his senior year. All those men who were the opposite of what Danny was, or knew he was, inside.
"So when he spoke to me, I nearly died."
Danny remembered his first heightened brush against a man in the bathroom on a trip to visit colleges during his senior year.
Miriam was lost in her story now. "It was at the end of the party, and my parents were on the lawn saying a few last goodbyes. I'd stayed inside to help tidy up - unnecessary, really, but I wanted to let the air back into the room - and he'd stepped quietly into the dining room where I was watching my parents through the blinds. 'Beautiful,' he'd said, in his thick accent, and I'd dropped my glass on the floor. His hand touched mine when I stooped to help him rather than let him clean up alone."
Fuck the new hardbacks, Danny thought. For this, I'm sticking around.
P8: Pester
From O8:
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Danny took a closer look. Even hooded, her eyes caught and reflected the lights above and people walking past. Her steel-gray hair had a single, luxurious sweep of white that hung with her bangs over her eye. Her track suit, fitted smartly to her trim, lady's frame, was a soft but electrifying blue.
"I'm laughing," he admitted, keeping his face very serious but hoping his eyes would smile. He could pester her a bit, he thought. She won't leave me alone, let's see how she does when the tables turn. "But just a bit."
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Danny took a closer look. Even hooded, her eyes caught and reflected the lights above and people walking past. Her steel-gray hair had a single, luxurious sweep of white that hung with her bangs over her eye. Her track suit, fitted smartly to her trim, lady's frame, was a soft but electrifying blue.
"I'm laughing," he admitted, keeping his face very serious but hoping his eyes would smile. He could pester her a bit, he thought. She won't leave me alone, let's see how she does when the tables turn. "But just a bit."
"Well." With great exaggeration, she tossed her napkin onto the table. "I suppose you might as well should."
Monday, March 15, 2010
O8: Oligarchy or "Oligarchy?" A surprisingly helpful word
From N8:
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
Danny leaned in.
"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.
Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
Danny leaned in.
"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.
Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
Monday, March 8, 2010
N8: Not or "Are the Words I'm Getting Uninspiring or What??"
From M8:
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"Now at the time, we had a little bit of money. Not a lot," she assured him, looking demurely at the floor. "Enough." She appraised him. "You understand?"
"I do." Danny said it slowly. He wasn't sure if she was a half-wit, of if she thought Danny was a fool.
"Good." A forkful disappeared between pursed lips. "So we had service. Waiters. A silver buffet."
"OK...." He tried to imagine something else - a porno? Motorcycle magazine guy?
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"Now at the time, we had a little bit of money. Not a lot," she assured him, looking demurely at the floor. "Enough." She appraised him. "You understand?"
"I do." Danny said it slowly. He wasn't sure if she was a half-wit, of if she thought Danny was a fool.
"Good." A forkful disappeared between pursed lips. "So we had service. Waiters. A silver buffet."
"OK...." He tried to imagine something else - a porno? Motorcycle magazine guy?
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
M8: Mainline or "Seriously?"
From L8:
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
"Uh huh." Seriously?
"When I was twenty-three, I was still unmarried, living in my parent's house on the Main Line-"
"Philadelphia?"
"Philadelphia," she confirmed with a nod. "I was already too old to make a good match," she chuckled and tassled his arm with her napkin, "so my parents set about hosting a series of parties that summer - any old excuse - to introduce me to all the young men."
Danny took a sip.
"At the, oh, third of these parties," she continued, leaning in like Danny was her oldest girlfriend, "I met HIM."
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
"Uh huh." Seriously?
"When I was twenty-three, I was still unmarried, living in my parent's house on the Main Line-"
"Philadelphia?"
"Philadelphia," she confirmed with a nod. "I was already too old to make a good match," she chuckled and tassled his arm with her napkin, "so my parents set about hosting a series of parties that summer - any old excuse - to introduce me to all the young men."
Danny took a sip.
"At the, oh, third of these parties," she continued, leaning in like Danny was her oldest girlfriend, "I met HIM."
"Him!" Danny wowed his eyes and decided to play along. He could sit with her for a while, he determined. He was the manager on duty, after all.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
L8: Lint or, "Finally, Miriam's story begins"
From K8:
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room.
"Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room.
"Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
"You see," she started, plucking a tuft of lint from her track suit, "I was in love once, too."
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
K8: Kick-off or "Whoa"
From J8:
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick-looking blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
It was like the kick-off to every team sport he'd ever had to endure in school. The captains not choosing him. Even his friends avoiding his eyes. That pitying school-teacher smile.
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room. "Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick-looking blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
It was like the kick-off to every team sport he'd ever had to endure in school. The captains not choosing him. Even his friends avoiding his eyes. That pitying school-teacher smile.
He'd spent years growing out of that, he thought, as Miriam began to speak: years teaching himself to embrace brighter, tighter shirts and British-looking jeans. Years of taking two deep breaths and speaking "whoa" into his chest before walking into the room. "Whoa," he muttered, waiting for Miriam to dive in.
Monday, March 1, 2010
J8: Just or "Just the Tip"
from I8:
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
The skinny, pushy biddy, Miriam, returned with her tea and a small cup of yogurt topped with slick blueberries. She gave him just the tip of a simpering smile.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Danny Takes a Hiatus
Hi folks:
Sorry to say that the old ball and chain (and by that I mean my job) is doing another round at full-time "plus," so I'm taking a quick break from Danny.
Look for a new post on Monday, the 29th.
Thanks,
Alex
Sorry to say that the old ball and chain (and by that I mean my job) is doing another round at full-time "plus," so I'm taking a quick break from Danny.
Look for a new post on Monday, the 29th.
Thanks,
Alex
Monday, February 15, 2010
I8: Ignorant or Miriam's Story Begins
From H8:
Danny sat back in his plastic seat.
"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."
More than enough thoughts jostled to reach his lips: Seriously? Who ARE you? No offense, but I only have a half-hour for lunch... "OK?" he settled on instead.
"Good. Thank you." She looked around. "I'm just going to get some tea. Can I treat you to...?" Her eyes roved the creamy salad, the small side of fries, the massive coke.
He put his hands behind him and pushed his chest forward while sucking his stomach in. "Oh, no, thanks. I'm fine." He tried to put a twist on it so she'd be clear he wasn't some needy fool.
As she sped nimbly off toward the salad place, he wondered what was going on. "Heartsick," she'd called him. Who was she? He jabbed his fork deep into the bowl and pulled up a huge chunk of blue cheese which filled his mouth with enough flavor to push off the bad mood. He was a manager at the bookstore. He was paying his own rent. He was thinking about designing again some day. He wanted to lose some of the weight. Who was she? Ignorant, is what she was.
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
Danny sat back in his plastic seat.
"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."
More than enough thoughts jostled to reach his lips: Seriously? Who ARE you? No offense, but I only have a half-hour for lunch... "OK?" he settled on instead.
"Good. Thank you." She looked around. "I'm just going to get some tea. Can I treat you to...?" Her eyes roved the creamy salad, the small side of fries, the massive coke.
He put his hands behind him and pushed his chest forward while sucking his stomach in. "Oh, no, thanks. I'm fine." He tried to put a twist on it so she'd be clear he wasn't some needy fool.
As she sped nimbly off toward the salad place, he wondered what was going on. "Heartsick," she'd called him. Who was she? He jabbed his fork deep into the bowl and pulled up a huge chunk of blue cheese which filled his mouth with enough flavor to push off the bad mood. He was a manager at the bookstore. He was paying his own rent. He was thinking about designing again some day. He wanted to lose some of the weight. Who was she? Ignorant, is what she was.
He managed to polish off the fries, crumpling the greasy half-cone and tossing it two booths down. When she returned, he sat waiting, as expectant as a homebound puppy, when she returned.
H8: Heartsick or Miriam Puts it On the Table
From G8:
"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."
"You too?" A sprig of cold lettuce hung from his lip. He didn't want to be rude. Miriam reminded him of his Jewish grandmother: a Jewish grandmother he actually - not being Jewish - never had. She smiled.
"Listen, Danny," the diamond sparkled across the table and the fingers that supported it stopped his hand from forking another pile of sodden lettuce. "I know you probably want to read your..." her eyes trailed the bright pink cover and bikinis of US Weekly, "magazine, but, well," she sighed and looked over at the movie theater across the way. "You just look so heartsick." She tapped his hands again.
Danny sat back in his plastic seat.
"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."
"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."
"You too?" A sprig of cold lettuce hung from his lip. He didn't want to be rude. Miriam reminded him of his Jewish grandmother: a Jewish grandmother he actually - not being Jewish - never had. She smiled.
"Listen, Danny," the diamond sparkled across the table and the fingers that supported it stopped his hand from forking another pile of sodden lettuce. "I know you probably want to read your..." her eyes trailed the bright pink cover and bikinis of US Weekly, "magazine, but, well," she sighed and looked over at the movie theater across the way. "You just look so heartsick." She tapped his hands again.
Danny sat back in his plastic seat.
"If I could, I'd like to tell you a thing or two."
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Writing: A Quick Detour
This is an odd process, writing always forward with no revision, without having planned a true narrative arc and without taking the time to assess too closely what's come before.
Going into this, I knew Danny would be broken quickly. I knew that he would be far quirkier, funnier, and more stylish than The Zookeeper's Sam. I knew he'd eat the way I dream about eating all the time.
I didn't know I'd have to return over and over to Roddy's death, in order to figure out how Danny gets through it. I didn't know how remarkable this starting prompt - this loyalty to the alphabet rosters I created a year ago -would be. That the word "elegy" would detour me back to more mourning. And I didn't know that a word like "Unitarian" would introduce me to a mall-walking Miriam who I now think might matter to Danny quite a bit.
It makes me wonder - who are Danny's parents? We know his friends a bit now - Marina, now Miriam - but where are his gay boy friends? His parents and siblings? Does he still dress so dapperly as he did on page 1?
OK - detour over. Tomorrow will bring another Danny day.
Going into this, I knew Danny would be broken quickly. I knew that he would be far quirkier, funnier, and more stylish than The Zookeeper's Sam. I knew he'd eat the way I dream about eating all the time.
I didn't know I'd have to return over and over to Roddy's death, in order to figure out how Danny gets through it. I didn't know how remarkable this starting prompt - this loyalty to the alphabet rosters I created a year ago -would be. That the word "elegy" would detour me back to more mourning. And I didn't know that a word like "Unitarian" would introduce me to a mall-walking Miriam who I now think might matter to Danny quite a bit.
It makes me wonder - who are Danny's parents? We know his friends a bit now - Marina, now Miriam - but where are his gay boy friends? His parents and siblings? Does he still dress so dapperly as he did on page 1?
OK - detour over. Tomorrow will bring another Danny day.
G8: Grate or She Walks Back In to His Life
From F8:
Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.
From the corner of his eye, he spied some free samples at the Bourbon chicken place, and detoured to pop a sweet glazed bit of chicken into his mouth. Kelis pounded rhythm into his steps, and he bopped his head. He designed himself a special Cobb salad at Chop't, making sure the Asian girl behind the glass sneeze guard grated extra parmesan on top. Sweet soda in his mouth, he dropped into a quiet corner with the latest US Weekly magazine.
Head in the magazine, Beyonce screaming "Crazy In Love" in his ears, and fork-deep in creamy salad, Danny didn't notice her standing over him until she rapped two bony knuckles on the table.
"God!" His heart pounded. His body wanted to shake. He didn't want to recognize her, but the track suit and pointed squint made it impossible not to. "Oh. Hi."
"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."
Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.
From the corner of his eye, he spied some free samples at the Bourbon chicken place, and detoured to pop a sweet glazed bit of chicken into his mouth. Kelis pounded rhythm into his steps, and he bopped his head. He designed himself a special Cobb salad at Chop't, making sure the Asian girl behind the glass sneeze guard grated extra parmesan on top. Sweet soda in his mouth, he dropped into a quiet corner with the latest US Weekly magazine.
Head in the magazine, Beyonce screaming "Crazy In Love" in his ears, and fork-deep in creamy salad, Danny didn't notice her standing over him until she rapped two bony knuckles on the table.
"God!" His heart pounded. His body wanted to shake. He didn't want to recognize her, but the track suit and pointed squint made it impossible not to. "Oh. Hi."
"Danny, right?" She placed both hands on the table and deftly slipped into the seat across from him. "Miriam," she offered, placing on mottled hand to her chest. Danny stared, straw in mouth: the diamond on her finger was insane. "Nice to see you again."
Saturday, February 13, 2010
F8: Fantastic, or Danny Let's the Music Move Him
From E8:
He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.
***
He felt fantastic, for the first time in months. His first morning as Assistant Manager had gone smoothly, and Kelis' "Milkshake" was pounding strength into his bones. In three hours he'd gotten a six-box shipment shelved, talked Jenny (the sheepish sixteen-year-old they'd hired for weekends) down from a panic attack, and - he thought - flirted with a big meaty Italian guy who was looking for motorcycle magazines.
Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.
***
He felt fantastic, for the first time in months. His first morning as Assistant Manager had gone smoothly, and Kelis' "Milkshake" was pounding strength into his bones. In three hours he'd gotten a six-box shipment shelved, talked Jenny (the sheepish sixteen-year-old they'd hired for weekends) down from a panic attack, and - he thought - flirted with a big meaty Italian guy who was looking for motorcycle magazines.
Walking into the food court, he stalked and strutted and drummed the air with his hands.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
E8: Elegy or The Funeral Makes Danny Quit His Job
From D8:
On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.
****
During the elegy, Becca had talked a lot about how happy she was that Roddy had found "someone" and was finally living his life for himself. She was wearing a black Anne Taylor suit that fit well at the waist but pinched her shoulders in. An inverted triangle of Roddy's favorite red poked out where her cleavage should be.
Danny sat more than halfway back, his ass sore on the hard pews, his suit pinching, his chest tight. A sheen of sweat rose and receded like nausea on his forehead. The idea that Roddy - nearly closeted, afraid of his family, only tentatively peeking his neck around the corner of life in D.C. - had it all together terrified Danny. A panicky, shaky realization rose in his throat. He wouldn't go back to the office, or any other day. Sassy Marina. Sexy Mitch.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.
On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.
****
During the elegy, Becca had talked a lot about how happy she was that Roddy had found "someone" and was finally living his life for himself. She was wearing a black Anne Taylor suit that fit well at the waist but pinched her shoulders in. An inverted triangle of Roddy's favorite red poked out where her cleavage should be.
Danny sat more than halfway back, his ass sore on the hard pews, his suit pinching, his chest tight. A sheen of sweat rose and receded like nausea on his forehead. The idea that Roddy - nearly closeted, afraid of his family, only tentatively peeking his neck around the corner of life in D.C. - had it all together terrified Danny. A panicky, shaky realization rose in his throat. He wouldn't go back to the office, or any other day. Sassy Marina. Sexy Mitch.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, breathing carefully, gripping hand to hand. Every part of his body wanted to flail and shout and run for the back of the church, but he had to hold it together. Becca was up there, the family knew who he was. So he stayed in his seat through the service, clutching his own hand like a lost child's, and waiting for every person around him to disappear.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
D8: Donate or Danny Eats His Way Happy
From C8:
When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie. Now, two years and fifty-two pounds later, the joke was flavored with bile.
He folded two twenties into Mike's hand and waved off the change, backing into the wall to swing the door shut with one hand, using the same hand to turn the bolt.
Feeding slice after slice into his mouth as he watched TV, Danny tried to imagine himself at the mall the next morning. To turn himself into the chipper, muscular host on TV.
He'd been made assistant manager by Solange largely, she'd informed him, "due to the quality of his displays, not the quality of his work." He'd grinned, given her the finger behind her back, and treated her to a giant mochachino in thanks.
On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.
When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie. Now, two years and fifty-two pounds later, the joke was flavored with bile.
He folded two twenties into Mike's hand and waved off the change, backing into the wall to swing the door shut with one hand, using the same hand to turn the bolt.
Feeding slice after slice into his mouth as he watched TV, Danny tried to imagine himself at the mall the next morning. To turn himself into the chipper, muscular host on TV.
He'd been made assistant manager by Solange largely, she'd informed him, "due to the quality of his displays, not the quality of his work." He'd grinned, given her the finger behind her back, and treated her to a giant mochachino in thanks.
On the couch, first pizza downed, moving onto just a slice or two of the second, Danny was happy. Glad to have donated the nine dollar tip to Mike's middle-aged life. It felt like a down payment on something, he mused, opening the Phish Food and nestling under a blanket with only the ice cream and spoon exposed. A down payment, he thought, on the skinnier, happier Danny he couldn't yet find it in himself to see.
Monday, February 8, 2010
C8: Courtliness or Pizza Brings Back Memories
From B8:
"Hey, Mike."
"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.
"You bet."
The "girlfriend" had started as a tiny lie between Danny and Roddy, when they first dispensed with the courtliness of downtown restaurants and museum dates and gave in to their first pajamas-and-take out night home.
When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie.
"Hey, Mike."
"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.
"You bet."
The "girlfriend" had started as a tiny lie between Danny and Roddy, when they first dispensed with the courtliness of downtown restaurants and museum dates and gave in to their first pajamas-and-take out night home.
When Danny had balked at Roddy's assumption that they'd share a pie, he'd joked that he'd promised some pizza to one of his housemates and her girlfriend. Quickly enough, they'd started calling the second pizza the "girlfriend" pie.
Friday, February 5, 2010
B8: Bet or Danny Lies About Food
From A8:
Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.
Chapter X
The buzzer rang, and Danny buzzed the pizza delivery guy in. His pulse quickened and he shoved a few pillows back into the proper places on the couch. It was Saturday night and he had a Buffy marathon planned.
Tugging the bottom of his t-shirt down with both hands, he trotted toward the door, already tasting the cheese and pepperoni in his mind. At the knock, he swung the door back.
"Hey, Mike."
"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.
"You bet."
Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.
Chapter X
The buzzer rang, and Danny buzzed the pizza delivery guy in. His pulse quickened and he shoved a few pillows back into the proper places on the couch. It was Saturday night and he had a Buffy marathon planned.
Tugging the bottom of his t-shirt down with both hands, he trotted toward the door, already tasting the cheese and pepperoni in his mind. At the knock, he swung the door back.
"Hey, Mike."
"Two pies and breadsticks. Your lady friend coming over again tonight?" Mike winked - he was fatherly, with a mustache that obscured his upper lip. Somehow, Danny was still using "the girlfriend" to explain his orders away.
"You bet."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A8: Androgynous or More Self-Hate (sorry readers, I'm working through something here!)
From Z7:
Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.
On the third day, out of food and realizing he would be required to leave his studio for lunch, Danny set out to take a shower.
The whole process was a farce. The tiny bathroom barely had room for his fat frame, and his feet splayed on cracked, moldy tiles. The mirror showed him a pale, androgynous slug, more gelatinous than marshmallow, and his hair retreated from his forehead in slick, choppy disarray. As he peed, he scratched his butt until he realized how fat it was. Everything seemed green. Roddy was dead. He deserved all the shit he was in.
Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.
Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.
On the third day, out of food and realizing he would be required to leave his studio for lunch, Danny set out to take a shower.
The whole process was a farce. The tiny bathroom barely had room for his fat frame, and his feet splayed on cracked, moldy tiles. The mirror showed him a pale, androgynous slug, more gelatinous than marshmallow, and his hair retreated from his forehead in slick, choppy disarray. As he peed, he scratched his butt until he realized how fat it was. Everything seemed green. Roddy was dead. He deserved all the shit he was in.
Danny gave himself one last look, pulling down his lower eyelid to expose the red blood vessels underneath. Rather than take the shower, he left the bathroom and limped over piles of clothes and back to bed.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Z7: Zoology or Danny Lays Still
From Y7:
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days.
The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.
Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days.
The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.
Instead he lay there, a specimen in a freak zoology experiment, while his phone buzzed and stung and he ignored everything from the outside. Light smacked aggressive shadows onto the walls.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Y7: Yard-arm, or "Danny Fell Apart" aka There is no X7
From W7:
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.
****
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days. The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.
****
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days. The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.
Friday, January 29, 2010
W7: Weak or "Too Weak for Her"
From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
A step toward the sales floor and another customer's books slammed onto the counter, stopping him. He swiped the books' black bar codes in a sudden fury, ignoring the chatter of the decked-out baseball enthusiast he was ringing up. With one eye, he watched the old lady nimbly pick her way through the Saturday browsers toward the back of the store. The crinkly fabric of her track suit sparkled the harsh overhead lights.
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.
******
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
A step toward the sales floor and another customer's books slammed onto the counter, stopping him. He swiped the books' black bar codes in a sudden fury, ignoring the chatter of the decked-out baseball enthusiast he was ringing up. With one eye, he watched the old lady nimbly pick her way through the Saturday browsers toward the back of the store. The crinkly fabric of her track suit sparkled the harsh overhead lights.
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.
******
Thursday, January 28, 2010
An interruption on behalf of "W"
Why
Where
Whippersnapper
What-not
Wallaby
West
Weak
Week
Water
Wanton
Wave
Went
Warrant
Wax
Wattle
Wind
Wedgewood
Whiff
Whine
Worry
Wig
Wane
Waft
Woman
Wrought
Woof
...26....
Wend
Wattage
Wedding
Whistle
Wed
Work
Worst
Written
I can't believe I'm only getting to this now, but...
Write
...35...
Wallop
Wagamama
Whore
Wraith
Western
Weep
Wyvern
...42... (I'm out of practice. "W" should be easy!)
Waterford
We
Wallow
Wade
Widget
Whippet
Waterfall
What
There we go. "Ws" for days!
Where
Whippersnapper
What-not
Wallaby
West
Weak
Week
Water
Wanton
Wave
Went
Warrant
Wax
Wattle
Wind
Wedgewood
Whiff
Whine
Worry
Wig
Wane
Waft
Woman
Wrought
Woof
...26....
Wend
Wattage
Wedding
Whistle
Wed
Work
Worst
Written
I can't believe I'm only getting to this now, but...
Write
...35...
Wallop
Wagamama
Whore
Wraith
Western
Weep
Wyvern
...42... (I'm out of practice. "W" should be easy!)
Waterford
We
Wallow
Wade
Widget
Whippet
Waterfall
What
There we go. "Ws" for days!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
W7: There is no W
From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
Since there is no "W", tomorrow, I'll do 26 "w"s and Friday, W7, as planned.
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
Since there is no "W", tomorrow, I'll do 26 "w"s and Friday, W7, as planned.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
V7: Voice or "Even Old People Call Danny Fat"
From T7:
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.
"So you're a walker?" He kept his eyes on the screen. Unicorn. Unitard.
"Clearly." Her voice was low and gritty, twisted with leftover yiddish or hebrew or something.
"Unitarian!" He announced. "Looks like we don't have much." He looked her over, noticed how fit she was, feeling a bit jealous. "You can try the 'Spirituality' section, I guess." He pointed over her head at the back corner of the store.
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.
"So you're a walker?" He kept his eyes on the screen. Unicorn. Unitard.
"Clearly." Her voice was low and gritty, twisted with leftover yiddish or hebrew or something.
"Unitarian!" He announced. "Looks like we don't have much." He looked her over, noticed how fit she was, feeling a bit jealous. "You can try the 'Spirituality' section, I guess." He pointed over her head at the back corner of the store.
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."
Monday, January 25, 2010
U7: Unitarian or "Danny Makes a Friend"
From T7:
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."
*****
Back from his break, Danny was behind the register for the afternoon, the taste of cinnamon and sugar dancing on his lips. He loved it there, the stillness masked as focus, the neat rows of twee gift books and book lights that he could arrange, and rearrange, without leaving his small stool. He could doodle on the Houghton Mifflin note pad. His mornings shelving and re-shelving exhausted him more and more.
Danny's heart was still racing from the meeting with Marina. He'd barely managed to push her into Crate & Barrel before dashing for the cinnamon roll and soda that were his only, best reward. He was still finding sticky spots on the sides of his fingers, but knew he couldn't ask for a break, again, so soon, to wash his hands, so he surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans.
As he looked up from his grooming, a short, gray-haired woman with large glasses and a larger nose stepped up to the counter, peering closely into his eyes.
"Do you have any Unitarian books?" She asked. "I've been all over the Religion section and a I can't find a thing. My daughter's 'converting' or something, she says, and I need to figure this out." Her hands toured the knick-knacks constantly as she spoke. She was wearing a track-suit and the "3 Circuits" button pinned to her chest.
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."
*****
Back from his break, Danny was behind the register for the afternoon, the taste of cinnamon and sugar dancing on his lips. He loved it there, the stillness masked as focus, the neat rows of twee gift books and book lights that he could arrange, and rearrange, without leaving his small stool. He could doodle on the Houghton Mifflin note pad. His mornings shelving and re-shelving exhausted him more and more.
Danny's heart was still racing from the meeting with Marina. He'd barely managed to push her into Crate & Barrel before dashing for the cinnamon roll and soda that were his only, best reward. He was still finding sticky spots on the sides of his fingers, but knew he couldn't ask for a break, again, so soon, to wash his hands, so he surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans.
As he looked up from his grooming, a short, gray-haired woman with large glasses and a larger nose stepped up to the counter, peering closely into his eyes.
"Do you have any Unitarian books?" She asked. "I've been all over the Religion section and a I can't find a thing. My daughter's 'converting' or something, she says, and I need to figure this out." Her hands toured the knick-knacks constantly as she spoke. She was wearing a track-suit and the "3 Circuits" button pinned to her chest.
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.
Friday, January 22, 2010
T7: Turtle or "Danny Can't Do It"
From S7:
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.
"But Danny, you can't hide away like a turtle in this... mall!" They looked around together - at the faux-wood kiosks selling spinning colored toys and translation software, at the abstract-but-comforting "sculpture" hanging from the sky-lit ceiling 100 feet above. Danny was hurt, again. He actually loved this mall. It's shell was solid and inside there was food and warmth.
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.
"But Danny, you can't hide away like a turtle in this... mall!" They looked around together - at the faux-wood kiosks selling spinning colored toys and translation software, at the abstract-but-comforting "sculpture" hanging from the sky-lit ceiling 100 feet above. Danny was hurt, again. He actually loved this mall. It's shell was solid and inside there was food and warmth.
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
S7: Slippery or "Danny Can't Explain"
From R7:
"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"
He felt slippery on the glossy marble floor of the mall, the waves of geriatric walkers huffing cheerily past. He felt unmoored; from Marina, from his family, from his life before Roddy died.
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.
"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"
He felt slippery on the glossy marble floor of the mall, the waves of geriatric walkers huffing cheerily past. He felt unmoored; from Marina, from his family, from his life before Roddy died.
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
R7: Repetitive or "Danny Gets a Talking To"
From Q7:
She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. A heavy woman balked at the little shoal Marina and Danny were creating, and muttered, loudly, “rude.” That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.
"Seriously, Danny?"
He feels like a stupid adolescent pig. "Yeah?"
"Can you even see how repetitive you're being? How fucking stubborn? She began to tear up and Danny shrunk a little bit. The mall air parched his throat. He badly wanted a Coke. "I mean, I don't come to this fucking mall in suburbia because I like soft pretzels and the Gap." Marina was jabbing her finger at him and her voice was tight like air from a punctured tire. "I come here for you, you asshole, and every time - every time -" she repeated when he started to protest, "you act like I'm the biggest pain in the world."
"Marina...."
"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Q7: Quotation or "Danny says 'Oh fuck off'"
From Q7:
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.
Flushed, he noted the clock - he'd managed to kill four of his 15 minutes. He'd only have to talk to Marina for 10.
She was in Reference, flipping through a thick book.
"Listen to this," she commanded when he walked up. "'As only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.'" She stared him down. "Dorothy Parker. So, advice from a soused literati. Maybe you'll listen to her since you won't talk to me."
"Marina..."
"Nope. Stupid quotations aside, Danny, I've had enough." She put her arm through his and jerked him into the mall. A Muzak version of Madonna's "Holiday" eked through the air. "Listen, this whole... thing of yours.. quitting your job, moving out here to the suburbs..." he waited, but she specifically did not mention his weight, "I get it, I guess. You lost Roddy. You feel- You're dealing with a lot. But it's been months, Danny. You know this isn't your life."
"Not 'my life'?" Danny took back his arm. According to the faux-Victorian clock at the mall's central rotunda, he had only six minutes until he could head back. "Marina, you don't know 'my life' at all."
She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.
Flushed, he noted the clock - he'd managed to kill four of his 15 minutes. He'd only have to talk to Marina for 10.
She was in Reference, flipping through a thick book.
"Listen to this," she commanded when he walked up. "'As only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.'" She stared him down. "Dorothy Parker. So, advice from a soused literati. Maybe you'll listen to her since you won't talk to me."
"Marina..."
"Nope. Stupid quotations aside, Danny, I've had enough." She put her arm through his and jerked him into the mall. A Muzak version of Madonna's "Holiday" eked through the air. "Listen, this whole... thing of yours.. quitting your job, moving out here to the suburbs..." he waited, but she specifically did not mention his weight, "I get it, I guess. You lost Roddy. You feel- You're dealing with a lot. But it's been months, Danny. You know this isn't your life."
"Not 'my life'?" Danny took back his arm. According to the faux-Victorian clock at the mall's central rotunda, he had only six minutes until he could head back. "Marina, you don't know 'my life' at all."
She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
P7: Pest or "Danny....
From O7: And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.
Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.
....
"Hey Pest!"
He didn't need to look up. Marina. It must be Saturday.
Danny hated Saturdays. At the mall. In his life. Not only was it the day when, after a week of recycled-air anonymity at the mall, the crowds returned. It was the day, each week, when his friends and family remembered he was alive. Marina now meant a late-afternoon call from Mom.
"Hi Marina," he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice into a groan. Looking over the register, he gave Solange the thumbs up to confirm he could take his break. "Give me a minute, Mar."
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.
Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.
....
"Hey Pest!"
He didn't need to look up. Marina. It must be Saturday.
Danny hated Saturdays. At the mall. In his life. Not only was it the day when, after a week of recycled-air anonymity at the mall, the crowds returned. It was the day, each week, when his friends and family remembered he was alive. Marina now meant a late-afternoon call from Mom.
"Hi Marina," he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice into a groan. Looking over the register, he gave Solange the thumbs up to confirm he could take his break. "Give me a minute, Mar."
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.
O7: Oleander or "Danny remembers what happened"
From N7:
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grishams stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.
As he stacked the books, he remembered the days immediately after Roddy died. First, he'd called Marina to tell her, his mouth wet like raw oysters and his voice nearly illegible. She'd sent him home and told their boss he was sick. The walk home had been collapsed and extended in time; he remembered the gray streets sighing into lame prisms from the tears in his eyes, the confusion over what it meant that Roddy was dead, the guilt and - he had to admit it - relief that their two year tug-of-war was over.
It wasn't that they'd been so happy together. He'd been remembering a fight over Danny's choice of cocktail, "another fruity drink," as Roddy put it, when Danny had detoured into the corner store on his block for two pints of ice cream, a canister of potato chips, and a large bottle of wine. He remembers cradling the red sleeve of chips against his chest as he watched Michelle Pfeiffer overact in "White Oleander" on the couch as he finished the merlot and avoided the incessantly ringing phone. It had been one of his favorite things about the apartment - something he missed terribly in his reduced, group-house circumstances now: the fact that no one could get close enough to barge in through the door.
That weekend he'd rented a car for the drive down to Richmond and made the journey alone to the strains of the "Garden State" soundtrack. He had given up on answering the phone or going back to work. He'd scrolled through their pictures on his camera, crying as much for his lack of reaction as for the false, sunny picture the images conveyed. For four days he had subsisted on delivered pizza and Chinese food, and when he'd emerged to the parking lot at the funeral home, it was only his darkest sunglasses that kept the low winter sun at bay. Becca had hugged him and sobbed. Roddy's parents had nodded and -briefly - taken his hand.
And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.
Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grishams stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.
As he stacked the books, he remembered the days immediately after Roddy died. First, he'd called Marina to tell her, his mouth wet like raw oysters and his voice nearly illegible. She'd sent him home and told their boss he was sick. The walk home had been collapsed and extended in time; he remembered the gray streets sighing into lame prisms from the tears in his eyes, the confusion over what it meant that Roddy was dead, the guilt and - he had to admit it - relief that their two year tug-of-war was over.
It wasn't that they'd been so happy together. He'd been remembering a fight over Danny's choice of cocktail, "another fruity drink," as Roddy put it, when Danny had detoured into the corner store on his block for two pints of ice cream, a canister of potato chips, and a large bottle of wine. He remembers cradling the red sleeve of chips against his chest as he watched Michelle Pfeiffer overact in "White Oleander" on the couch as he finished the merlot and avoided the incessantly ringing phone. It had been one of his favorite things about the apartment - something he missed terribly in his reduced, group-house circumstances now: the fact that no one could get close enough to barge in through the door.
That weekend he'd rented a car for the drive down to Richmond and made the journey alone to the strains of the "Garden State" soundtrack. He had given up on answering the phone or going back to work. He'd scrolled through their pictures on his camera, crying as much for his lack of reaction as for the false, sunny picture the images conveyed. For four days he had subsisted on delivered pizza and Chinese food, and when he'd emerged to the parking lot at the funeral home, it was only his darkest sunglasses that kept the low winter sun at bay. Becca had hugged him and sobbed. Roddy's parents had nodded and -briefly - taken his hand.
And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.
Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
N7: No or "Danny Shouldn't Bother Any More"
From M7:
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.
"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.
"Hey Sol." He knew she was looking at his fat ass, probably smirking, probably wondering why he was such a mess. Twice now, she'd found him crying in the storeroom during his break. And the one time they'd gone upstairs for drinks at Ruby Tuesday's, he'd poured back three sweet daiquiris and she'd had to walk him to the Metro in order to get him home. "Did you get the chance to read my idea about those new storefront displays?"
He was trying; that much he could tell himself. He might have killed his ex-boyfriend, quit his job, moved into a group house, and gone from chubby to pitifully close to obese - he tugged at his jeans - but he still had ideas. For a new arrangement of impulse-sale crap, admittedly, but... ideas.
She was focused on her shelving. Jotting each book down on an unnecessary ledger, and gazing at each spine thoughtfully before sliding it into it's place.
"Solange? My idea for the displays?" He'd worked hard on them. Actually opened his design software for the first time in months. "What'd you think?"
"I thought," she turned, slowly and fixed her eyes on his over the half-glasses she wore to show she was smarter than her age and tight-fitting wardrobe implied, "that I didn't want to tell you 'no'." She smiled as if at a dog. "Corporate doesn't like store-staff to create their own designs. I'm pretty sure I told you that when you brought me the idea."
Danny focused on the hardbacks in front of him, on the clotted dust that shrouded the base of every shelf . "No, you told me. I just thought -"
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grisham's stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.
"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.
"Hey Sol." He knew she was looking at his fat ass, probably smirking, probably wondering why he was such a mess. Twice now, she'd found him crying in the storeroom during his break. And the one time they'd gone upstairs for drinks at Ruby Tuesday's, he'd poured back three sweet daiquiris and she'd had to walk him to the Metro in order to get him home. "Did you get the chance to read my idea about those new storefront displays?"
He was trying; that much he could tell himself. He might have killed his ex-boyfriend, quit his job, moved into a group house, and gone from chubby to pitifully close to obese - he tugged at his jeans - but he still had ideas. For a new arrangement of impulse-sale crap, admittedly, but... ideas.
She was focused on her shelving. Jotting each book down on an unnecessary ledger, and gazing at each spine thoughtfully before sliding it into it's place.
"Solange? My idea for the displays?" He'd worked hard on them. Actually opened his design software for the first time in months. "What'd you think?"
"I thought," she turned, slowly and fixed her eyes on his over the half-glasses she wore to show she was smarter than her age and tight-fitting wardrobe implied, "that I didn't want to tell you 'no'." She smiled as if at a dog. "Corporate doesn't like store-staff to create their own designs. I'm pretty sure I told you that when you brought me the idea."
Danny focused on the hardbacks in front of him, on the clotted dust that shrouded the base of every shelf . "No, you told me. I just thought -"
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grisham's stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.
Monday, January 11, 2010
M7: Misgivings or "Four months later, Danny's gotten fat"
From L7:
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?
Chapter 2
Danny had misgivings about the stack of John Grisham's on the floor. He squat-crouched low, working around his new Santa belly to get a better view, until a cold draft from the mall's concourse whipped the small of his back. He'd been showing his behind to the entire mall, he realized, and scooted back to standing. As assistant manager of the bookstore, he need to show some class. Four months had passed since Roddy died, and Danny had gained almost 30 pounds.
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.
"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?
Chapter 2
Danny had misgivings about the stack of John Grisham's on the floor. He squat-crouched low, working around his new Santa belly to get a better view, until a cold draft from the mall's concourse whipped the small of his back. He'd been showing his behind to the entire mall, he realized, and scooted back to standing. As assistant manager of the bookstore, he need to show some class. Four months had passed since Roddy died, and Danny had gained almost 30 pounds.
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.
"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
L7: Listen or "Danny Is a Chicken Shit"
From K7...
With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.
"Listen, Becca," he started, and then followed along, incredulous, as he spoke the words. "We weren't fighting. Everything was," he choked, "fine." Tears felt like ice on his eyelashes and cheeks. What was he doing? Why lie? Why this lie?? "Maybe he was, I know he was, worried about work?"
Becca sighed into the phone. "You're right. I know." He didn't say anything, exactly, but he just sounded so blue." She took a huge, shuddering breath. "And now he's gone." Her voice swooped and shook. "Danny, Roddy's gone."
And I'm a chicken-shit, Danny thought. He felt like his heart was swollen and chapped. Like his something was scratching inside his chest trying to find its way out. "Becca. Listen, Becca, I - I'm at work. When's the - what are the plans? I can't talk right now. I have to go."
"Um, we don't know the details yet, I'll-"
"Just call me when you know something," he squeaked into the phone. "I really really have to go."
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?
With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.
"Listen, Becca," he started, and then followed along, incredulous, as he spoke the words. "We weren't fighting. Everything was," he choked, "fine." Tears felt like ice on his eyelashes and cheeks. What was he doing? Why lie? Why this lie?? "Maybe he was, I know he was, worried about work?"
Becca sighed into the phone. "You're right. I know." He didn't say anything, exactly, but he just sounded so blue." She took a huge, shuddering breath. "And now he's gone." Her voice swooped and shook. "Danny, Roddy's gone."
And I'm a chicken-shit, Danny thought. He felt like his heart was swollen and chapped. Like his something was scratching inside his chest trying to find its way out. "Becca. Listen, Becca, I - I'm at work. When's the - what are the plans? I can't talk right now. I have to go."
"Um, we don't know the details yet, I'll-"
"Just call me when you know something," he squeaked into the phone. "I really really have to go."
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
K7: Killer, or "The Mixing Bowl Guilt Creeps In"
From J7...
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"
"Oh, Danny, Roddy's dead."
"Becca... What? How?" Another thunk to his chest. He tik-tocked an awkward pirouette, staring up at the sky.
"He was driving home last night, on that stretch of 95 where all the roads get all twisted up, you know, just before D.C., where the -"
"The mixing bowl," Danny supplied, feeling a folding in his chest. The mixing bowl was a killer - the junction of multiple highways, and Roddy had been drinking yesterday afternoon. Danny knew that much about his boyfr- his now-dead boyfriend, at least. He felt ashamed, flushed with guilt. He yanked at his scarf.
"Yeah, the mixing bowl." She sniffed and he heard her move her lips very close to the phone. "Danny, were you guys fighting this weekend?" Her whisper reminded Danny how young she was. "He just seemed really upset when I talked to him last night."
With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"
"Oh, Danny, Roddy's dead."
"Becca... What? How?" Another thunk to his chest. He tik-tocked an awkward pirouette, staring up at the sky.
"He was driving home last night, on that stretch of 95 where all the roads get all twisted up, you know, just before D.C., where the -"
"The mixing bowl," Danny supplied, feeling a folding in his chest. The mixing bowl was a killer - the junction of multiple highways, and Roddy had been drinking yesterday afternoon. Danny knew that much about his boyfr- his now-dead boyfriend, at least. He felt ashamed, flushed with guilt. He yanked at his scarf.
"Yeah, the mixing bowl." She sniffed and he heard her move her lips very close to the phone. "Danny, were you guys fighting this weekend?" Her whisper reminded Danny how young she was. "He just seemed really upset when I talked to him last night."
With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
J7: Jester, or "Danny talks to Becca"
...from I7:
"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.
"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.
Danny had always felt a bit like the court jester with Roddy's family - the chubby, gay appendage that most of the Bakers could easily have done without. In the six months since he'd first met them, Danny had never managed to move beyond small talk with any of them: except Becca.
Rebecca Baker was a pistol. As tall as Roddy or her father, Becca towered over Danny and most of the wiry boys she coveted at the few arts-and-disaffection joints she frequented downtown. She wore her hair in a classic bob that she'd had sheared off like a terraced cliff in the back, and was as likely to steal "Daddy's" truck or come home drunk as any of her brothers. She was the youngest, the only girl, and Roddy's absolute best friend in the world.
Standing in the cold outside his office, his nose and hand freezing, Danny paced back and forth, watching his new black boots hold their shine against the grit of the sidewalk. He walked and waited, heart pounding, as he listened to her cry.
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
I7: If or "Danny and Roddy's Family"
...from H7:
That was all he heard the first time. It took him two full replays to get through the rest of the details, zombie out of his office and down to the street outside, and dial Becca's number on his phone.
"Becca? It's Dan."
Even now, it stung. Roddy had introduced Danny as "Dan" when they'd all met for the first time. Even though Danny had coughed out a nervous correction, in Roddy's family's eyes, "Dan" had stuck. More appropriate, he was sure.
"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.
That was all he heard the first time. It took him two full replays to get through the rest of the details, zombie out of his office and down to the street outside, and dial Becca's number on his phone.
"Becca? It's Dan."
Even now, it stung. Roddy had introduced Danny as "Dan" when they'd all met for the first time. Even though Danny had coughed out a nervous correction, in Roddy's family's eyes, "Dan" had stuck. More appropriate, he was sure.
"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.
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