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May 7, 2004 #
When the call went out for short pieces to feature on this site, e-mails poured in from near and far. We have been particularly impressed with the dual-state Dakotas' output, as many of the writers there seem to have an "Uncle, Uncle"-type grip on buggying and black rock humor (that is, frequent references to Black Oak Arkansas' ridiculous petroleum output). However, as our first piece we've selected an entrant from someplace a little closer to our hearts: White Plains. Please dip your little toe into this story like it were a warm bath. Snuggle in its comfort and grow comfy in its language. But be warned: the writer is about to drop the hairdryer in there with ya, punk. Nice Fridge by Mike Spinelli Six hours ago, my erstwhile lady friend left for Culebra with Oscar, our building’s erstwhile superintendent. I was standing in the kitchen with the fridge open, cradling a shopping bag full of assorted cheeses, as Vilma implemented her exit strategy. "Put that stuff in the fridge," she said. I reasoned that ordering me to do things I was already doing was the final wrinkle in her evolving approach to our relationship. "You and the Learning Annex and Oscar can kiss my ass," I said, partly to her, partly into the bag, as I removed plastic-wrapped wedges of Goat Gouda, Munster, Reblochon, Asaigo, Stilton, Brie, Pont d'Yeu, and stacked them on a free shelf. By way of retort, she drove her heel into the spine of my flip phone, which lay half-open on the floor like a miniature android yogi in downward-facing bot. "I’m not your welcome mat," she said, then stormed out, slamming the door. I had no idea what she was talking about. Moments later came the sounds of keys and rummaging, then the door swung open again. "It’s Os-car you stupid motherfucker," she hollered. I shut my eyes as the door slammed again. The greasy, pink afterimage of Vilma’s acne-scarred face stared back from behind my eyelids, the perfect cadence of her parting insult tumbling over and over in my mind’s ear like a John Bonham solo. Stupid motherfucker. Motherstupid fucker. Fuckerstupid mother. Stuper motherfuckid. I closed the fridge door. The syllabus sheet attached via a Del Monte Canned Peas magnet reported the local news objectively: Vilma’s days of being nice were over, and her days of living authentically and loving it had begun. Later, as I attempted to coax, under the guidance of Metamucil and cranberry juice, a pound and a half of the world’s fine cheeses through massive volume delays in my outbound tunnel, I wondered what reason there could be that I became aroused by the memory of her breaking my phone’s back. Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. RSS. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
