writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 


This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.

cc&d v199.9

Order this writing
in the book
Laying the
Groundwork 		Laying the Groundwork
paperback (just issues) 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $15.95 paperback perfect-bound 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $17.95 paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ b&w pages: $21.95		 paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ color pages: $114.95
Fugue

D.L. Olson

    Mark Prentice is a bastard.
    All men are bastards. Mark Prentice is a man. Therefore, Mark Prentice is a bastard. I used to think he was a human being.
    Bruce Ripkin is a bigger bastard. He’s head of the School Board. He’s on the City Council. He’s my ex-husband’s lawyer. His divorce settlement screwed me over bad. But now he’s screwing me over even worse. I used to think he was a human being.
    Gary Johnston is the biggest bastard. He used to be my husband. He used to be my lover. He used to be a father to my son. But he gave that all up for good to become a drunken lout. I used to think he was a human being.
    All men are bastards. Big, bigger, biggest. That is the only question. Get used to it.
    My son Matthew is a boy. My son Matthew is a human being. One day my son Matthew will be a man. My son Matthew is not a bastard, but one day he will be, I’m afraid.
    I used to think Mark Prentice was different. He and I used to be the best of friends. Last Monday he calls me up like he used to every other day. He says, Kate, how about another lunch? Just like old times?
    Another lunch? Like we’d been getting together all along? Like nothing had happened in between? Like we’d stayed best friends? Another lunch? After five years without a word?
    I show up at D.K.’s exactly on time. No sign of him. I grab the last booth. I order coffee. He doesn’t come. I get a refill. I twiddle my thumbs.
    Finally Mark strolls in. Finally. Only forty minutes late. Only. Just like old times.
    He slides into the booth. So how you doin’, Kate? he says. And he winks and he smiles. No apology at all. None. Nada. Zero. Zilch. So how you doin’, Kate? he says. Like he hasn’t seen me in a week. Not even a hint of an apology.
    And he keeps on smiling. And then he starts sneaking peeks. All around my face. Like I was a Michelangelo in a museum. But I have forehead wrinkles. I have crow’s feet. I have laugh lines. A Michelangelo is a statue. I am a woman. A woman is not a statue. Therefore, I am not a Michelangelo.
    He grins. He winks. He keeps sneaking peaks. Like my wrinkles are the biggest news in years. He chuckles. You’re looking good, Kate, he says. The liar.
    He looks good. I don’t. Another lunch? After five years of fighting to keep the house? After five years of raising Matthew all by myself? After five years without a word? I don’t look good. Not any more. Not after five years of lonely hell.
    He smiles. He chuckles. Cat got your tongue? he says. He stares. Does the bastard actually expect me to look the same?
    Say something, he says.
    Something, I say.
    He chuckles. He shrugs. He sneaks another peek. Really, you look nice, he says. The liar.
    I look nice? Some compliment. Kind of modest. Kind of meager. Kind of pathetic compared to saying I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Like he always did before.
    I glare. I grind. I gnash.
    He grins. Are you mad at me or something? he says.
    Or something, I say.
    He laughs out loud. He says, I mean it’s not like I could have done anything to hurt you, since I haven’t even seen you in what—my goodness—it must be five years.
    Right, asshole. Rub it in.
    He smiles. He stares. He says, sounding merry and nonchalant, I’m sure you heard I finally found that good woman I was looking for. And you know, ever since, everything in my life has fallen into place.
    Right, merry, nonchalant asshole. Rub it in.
    Mark Prentice is an asshole. Bruce Ripkin is a bigger asshole. Gary Johnston is the biggest asshole. Or is it the other way around? Big, bigger, biggest. That is the only question. Get used to it.
    He smiles. He stares. He says, Ellen and I will have to invite you over. You won’t believe how she’s fixed the place up. And she’s a big jogger. Just like you.
    Just like me. Right, bastard, asshole. Rub it in.
    He grins. He says, So, Kate, you been dating anybody since your divorce? Just like the liar really cares. He stares. At my forehead wrinkles. At my crow’s feet. At my laugh lines. Like I was a Michelangelo in a museum.
    I don’t have time to date, I say. I’ve got a fulltime job. I’ve got a son to raise. And I’ve got a house to keep up.
    He chuckles. He says, Isn’t Matthew old enough to take care of himself yet? What is he now, fifteen?
    I glare. I grind. I gnash. Sixteen! I say. My son! My house!
    He laughs, sounding merry and nonchalant.
    Mark Prentice is a prick. Bruce Ripkin is a bigger prick. Gary Johnston is the biggest prick. Or is it the other way around? Big, bigger, biggest. That is the only question. Get used to it.
    He gives me a grin. He sneaks another peek. He says, Hey, Kate, it’s okay not to date. But it’d be a snap for a woman like you to find somebody else.
    I glare. I grind. I gnash. Why’d I ever think Mark Prentice was any different from the others?
    Honestly, he says, it’d be a breeze.
    Honestly, he lies. Honestly, he sneaks a peek. Like I was still beautiful. He smiles. Like this is just another lunch. Like we had stayed best friends. Another lunch?
    You know, he says, I’ve been wondering if you’d like to meet my new colleague. His name is Tom Davis. He just got divorced. And he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And a whole lot of fun. What’s not to like?
    Me like a bastard, asshole, and prick? I glare. I grind. I gnash.
    What if I have Tom give you a call? he says. Just like the liar really cares.
    I already know all I need to know about this Tom Davis. Because all men are bastards, assholes, and pricks. Tom Davis is a man. Therefore, Tom Davis is a bastard, asshole, and prick.
    He smiles. He says, Now, Kate, this is going to sound strange, but I’m getting this distinct impression I’ve offended you somehow.
    Right, bastard, asshole, prick. Rub it in.
    He stops grinning. He stops sneaking peeks. He says, Now, Kate, are you going to talk to me or what? If not, why did you agree to another lunch?
    Another lunch? I glare. I grind. I gnash.
    He frowns. He folds his arms. He says, Speak up, Kate. What’s on your mind?
    I say, All men are bastards, assholes, and pricks.
    He laughs, sounding merry and nonchalant. He says, All men? You’re not being rational.
    Mark Prentice is. Gary Johnston is. Bruce Ripkin is. Tom Davis is. Because all men are. Because all men are men. I’m being perfectly rational. Big, bigger, biggest. That is the only question. Get used to it.
    He furrows his brow like I’m not making any sense. Like he doesn’t mind getting wrinkles. Like the liar really cares.
    You know, Kate, he says, you’re not making any sense.
    I say, My ex and his lawyer are taking away my son. And now I have to put the house up for sale. My son! My house!
    He blinks.
    Were we not best friends? I say.
    He shrugs. He frowns. We were, he says.
    Were we not closer than best friends? I say.
    He shrugs. He frowns. We were, he says.
    Were we not affectionate friends? I say.
    He sighs. He frowns. We were, he says.
    Did we not avow our love? I say.
    He sighs. He frowns. He looks away.
    Did we not make plans? I say.
    He frowns. He folds his hands. He looks down.
    I glare. I grind. I gnash. I scream, Mark Prentice, you’re a bastard! And an asshole! And a prick! You avowed your love! And then you backed out!
    He makes a face like he’s worried about me. He says, You know, Kate, I’m worried about you.
    I shout, Bastard! Asshole! Prick! My son! My house!
    He shakes his head like I’m out of touch with reality. You know, Kate, he says, you sound out of touch with reality. Sure, we were close friends. And affectionate friends. But.
     Close friends? Affectionate friends? But? Close, yes. Affectionate, yes. Friends, yes. And so much, much more. We phoned. We talked. We teased. We hugged. Again and again and again. We never wanted to let go. Our hearts were in tune. Our hearts. Ours, ours, ours!
    He shakes his head.
    Liar, liar, liar. Big, bigger, biggest. That is the only question. Get used to it.
    You know, he says. And he stops. I don’t know, he means. You know, he begins again. I don’t know, he means.
    Liar, liar, liar. Bastard, asshole, prick. Punch him, kick him, smash him! Get used to it! I shriek.
    He makes a face. Are you okay, Kate? he says. Just like he really cares.
    Bastard! Asshole! Prick! I shriek. Liar, liar, liar! My son! My house! Punch, kick, smash! Get used to it!
    The waitress rushes over, the child-woman, without one wrinkle, without one crow’s foot, without one laugh line. Not yet. Is something wrong? she says.
    He gives her a grin. He sneaks a peek. No, he says.
    She says, sounding merry and nonchalant, Will there be anything else?
    He gives her a little wink.
    I shout, Bastards, assholes, pricks! Mark Prentice is! Gary Johnston is! Bruce Ripkin is! Tom Davis is! Because all men are! Because all men are men! I’m being perfectly rational! Big, bigger, biggest! That is the only question! Get used to it!
    She gives me a little wink.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...