---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v204) (the January 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

Order this writing in the book (bound) cc&d prose edition		order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 8.5" x 11" ISBN# book

Strings

Fred Venturini

    “She was a blonde,” Gerald said. “A nurse named Sally. She worked out and had a hard body, but it was like talking to cardboard. She was devoid of imagination. She wasn’t you.”
    Cindy was reading in the recliner, wrapped in a flannel blanket. “He was an astronaut named Buzz,” she said, closing her book. “He was a looker, too, but an empty person. Not you. Not by a long shot.”
    She stood and unwrapped herself, blinking back tears. “Welcome home, honey.”
    He damn near ran to her and gobbled her up in his arms, lifting her, her feet floating just above the hardwood. He kissed her neck. She stroked his hair.
    Another year of beautiful, faithful lies.

*

    Marriages form in a cast of good intentions. Built from love, forged with faith, stamped with a kiss. But these vessels aren’t built for the rough seas. Some make it to shore, boards splintered, sails tattered, crew exhausted and sick of each other. Others plain sink, lashed by the Leviathan of money, seduced by mermaids of sex, lanced by Poseidon’s trident laced with lethal boredom.
    The Marriage Enhancement Act of 2012 pushed into the voting booths amid controversy, news outlets reported failure at the polls, exit surveys revealing the act was struck down, ninety-five percent against. Vote tallies revealed the act passed, ninety-two percent in favor.
    Gerald Dixon voted against. He’s a Cancer. He enjoys keeping the family cars clean on weekends. His gutters are never clogged. He’s never been cited for a moving violation, but got a ticket once for drinking underage. He uses more elbow grease than sick days.
    Today, he drinks Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. He sits on a creeper in the garage, looking at the clock. Midnight’s coming.
    Fuckin’ mandatory vacations, he thinks. My ass. He cracks open a bottle of Sam Adams and chases the Pepto with lager. Fuckin’ yellow-belly unconstitutional weeklong furloughs of social decomposition.
    He wipes cold sweat onto his sleeve, then goes inside to look for his wife.
    Cindy Dixon doesn’t vote. She swiffers their hardwood floors and does the laundry because that clumsy Gerald will shrink jeans and chew up cashmere. She cleans the cat’s litterbox with one scooper for urine patties, and a separate scooper for shit clumps. She actually has a favorite brand of toilet paper.
    They have sex on Sunday nights, before her television shows are on, a perfect storm of sexual conditions. She is neither too tired nor too awake—sex can make her tired, he’s learned. She is neither too empty nor too full—empty and she feels nauseous, unable to enjoy the sex. But with a full stomach, the contents will slop around and make her nauseous.
    They have sex the night before marriage enhancement week, as named by the federal government. Or singles week, a slang term coined by those with taste. Or fuck week, for those who get really excited and enjoy calling a spade a spade.
    The sex before the absence ranks among their best. Kisses build into teenager-messy mashups of bumping teeth and lips. Greedy hands rake and pull at the edges of clothing, then become more gentle, yet still hungry when they move to flesh. On top of her, he breathes into her hair, searching for her ear for nibbling kisses and to whisper “I love you” over and over, in rhythm with their bodies.
    Cindy takes her turn and insists on controlling his hands, sandwiching them against her skin, rubbing them on her torso and chest like a bar of soap as she rocks back and forth, her eyes never wavering from his.
    “Remember this,” she says. “All week. Remember I’m your wife and I love you and we can do this the rest of our lives.”
    They throttle into climax together, a simultaneous moment that shatters them into a sweaty mess on the bed. He ends inside of her, careful not to get any of his stuff on the good sheets, or the expensive comforter, or her silk panties.
    He washes his hands with mango-scented soap he hates and they lay together in bed. She has her arm draped over his chest, her leg hoisted over his legs. They breathe together.
    “So is all your paperwork together?” she asks.
    “Yes.” He plays with her hair.
    The Marriage Enhancement Act W-404 packet contains forms to file with your tax return, supplementation information including a FAQ about the Act, guidelines for planning your marital furlough, and of course, ample copies of the form required to record and notarize Exempt Acts of Federally Mandated Adultery.
    “I hope you have fun. Really. Have a blast. You deserve it.”
    He just smiles, locked into her eyes. They married young, and he tries to remember life without her, and can’t, and doesn’t care that he can’t.
    “Tell Ryan I said hi,” she says, not meaning it.
    “I’ll miss you,” he says.
    “Pepper will keep me company. He’s enough man to last a week.”
    And that’s the end of the conversation about fuck week. He gets her a glass of water with two ice cubes. They watch a romantic comedy.
    At the stroke of midnight, he’s banished from his wife by law. He drives, letting her have the house during MEA week, as any gentleman would. His week will be hotels and eating out, catching up on movies tracking his sports teams. Cindy’s goodbye kiss lingers on his cheek. If he gets caught within 500 feet of his wife, he can be arrested and fined. Arrested he can live with. A fine would ruin the delicate balance they’ve achieved living paycheck to paycheck.
    Cindy spends that first evening apart like she has the years before, laying awake in bed with Pepper purring at her feet. She grazes the edge of sleep, tossing and turning, the bed half-empty.

*

    The line curls around the side of Barney’s Pub, the lighted reader board on the side of the building proclaiming, “Midnight Awaits!”
    Ryan strolls along the line, finds Gerald, and slaps him on the shoulder.
    “Where the fuck were you?” Gerald says. “I hate standing in these lines by myself.”
    Ryan smiles, and waves his hand up and down in front of his crotch. “I poached me a blowjob before midnight. Kyla or Kaylee or some shit like that, a chick with a K-name, a hot mouth, and an attitude.”
    “It’s not like shooting early during dove season,” Gerald says. “You can go to jail for this shit. It’s serious.”
    “Shooting early is probably why she’s so pissed,” Ryan says. He stands beside Gerald in line, looking around, scanning the possible quarry, the married women dressed for competition, single-strapped shirts that come off easy, tight pants and skirts cut short.
    “You should’ve seen it dude. I opened the floodgates and she comes up saying, ‘how am I supposed to get laid with cum on my breath?’ and I’m like ‘If you’re gagging at the sight of baby batter, you’re a fuckin’ stiff anyway,’ so she goes apeshit and starts screaming, and keys the car.”
    “And you’re smiling? You love that car,” Gerald says.
    “That’s the best part, it wasn’t my car. I just found some unlocked Grand Am and—what the fuck, this place cards?” He points to the head of the line, where a bouncer is checking credentials.
    “The best places card,” Gerald says.
    “Too many singles trying to cash in on the easy pussy, I get it,” Ryan says. “We’re prime meat tonight son, stamped, sealed and delivered.” He whips out his marriage license, curled up, and plays it like a trumpet, his fingers dancing over the paper.
    “You slay me. Really,” Gerald says, his own marriage license rolled up in his hand. “You’re the biggest fake here.”
    Ryan winks, then shows off his wedding band.
    “Licenses,” the bouncer says. He examines the marriage licenses, and runs them through a security lamp to check the validity of the seal. Checks their identification. Nods. Hands them two condoms each. “On the house,” he says.
    At the bar, they order beers. Gerald goes for something dark, with flavor. A Killian’s. Ryan eyes the bartender. She’s a slender gal with brown hair and friendly eyes. She wears a shirt that says, “Not tonight, not with you.”
    “What beer, darling, would you say is least popular around here?” Ryan asks.
    She thinks for a second. “Foster’s,” she says. “No one really orders it, and I can see why. Tastes like shit.”
    So Ryan orders a Foster’s. It’s a conversation piece. Sets him apart. He drinks it with a grimace, but professes that he adores the flavor. He doesn’t like Foster’s but no one else likes Foster’s so he likes Foster’s.
    Midnight has come and gone. Barney’s has rooms upstairs for rent, charging by the quarter hour. The bar bustles with the ebb and flow of folks looking to drink. To build their confidence. Maximize sexual stamina. Believe they’re really doing this. Forget about their spouses.
    The dance floor pulsates with flesh. The women are dressed ten years too young for their age, moist skin revealed in flaps and cleaves. Men bounce around, grinding and feeling where they can.
    Gerald sips his beer. Fuckin’ American dream. The wet part of it, maybe. Get married, buy a house, have a kid. Pick up the paper in your bathrobe while sprinklers turn on in the early morning, wave at your neighbor, go inside to eat a hearty breakfast while Norman Rockwell paints a picture from the city street, jealous and depressed.
    Security personnel have earpieces and crossed arms. They surround the room, gauging the action. Job description: keep the peace. Job necessities: be single. Most married people demand time off during fuck week, and federal law states that employers cannot deny a married person’s vacation request during the year’s MEA dates.
    Beams of light seizure about, carved by a disco ball over the DJ’s station. And the bar itself, marble smooth, like skin. Gerald keeps his hand against the cool tile until the heat from his hand warms it. Her skin.
    “Let them wear themselves out,” Ryan says, nodding at the craziness of the dance floor. “First thing’s first—what you been up to?”
    “The married life. Cut the grass and shit. Fish for a promotion. Catch new episodes of whatever show the wife’s obsessed with this year. Bears fuckin’ sucked this year, you know?”
    “Touché,” Ryan adds with a hard gulp of Foster’s. “So, enough with the small talk, ready to bang some tail?”
    Gerald drinks his beer, laughs a little. “You’re something else. What’s new with you?”
    “Ha,” Ryan says, pausing. For a long time. “Living the life, man. One fat income. My Mustang is custom, it’ll blow your doors off. Did I tell you I got surround sound in that fucker? And a DVD player in the headrest.”
    “But you don’t have anyone in the backseat.”
    Ryan makes a face.
    “I mean, while you’re driving. While the car is—”
    “I’m not lonely, if that’s what you’re getting at. I enjoy life to the max, dude. How can you not love living without any strings attached? At least for one week a year?”
    “I don’t know,” Gerald says. “How can you enjoy playing tennis without a net?”
    “It would be pretty fuckin’ easy if you ask me,” Ryan says. “Isn’t marriage a net anyway? I don’t get you sometimes.”
    Ryan eyeballs the bartender, thinking of a subject change.
     “Maybe it’s tax breaks with heavenly bliss,” Gerald says. “Bound by God, and your local administrators. Dissolved only by death, or a judge, two lawyers, and lots of paperwork.”
    “But you love her,” Ryan adds.
    Gerald nods hard. Drinks a tough gulp of beer.
    “So what about those Bears?” Ryan says.
    Gerald humors him. They drink and talk about sports and weather and politics until Ryan’s dick starts tugging at him like a Doberman with a scent. Time to probe the dance floor, the dark corners, the places where married men and women exchange signatures, fluids, and fantasies.
    He pulls Gerald along. And Gerald knows he’ll never be Ryan, a fact he knew back in the days he wanted to be Ryan.

*

    She’s got raven-black hair with thick strands of red layered in. Mixed drink in one hand, her other hand kicks a swath of hair behind her shoulder, like she’s on a shampoo commercial.
    The girl next to her looks more normal, and isn’t as short. She’s got blonde hair, blue eyes. She’s the cheerleader you couldn’t fuck, the overachiever you couldn’t touch, the gorgeous girl who never knew your name.
    Ryan’s got her laughing right off the bat. He orders drinks. She tastes his Foster’s and makes a face. Laughs some more. He has his hand on the small of her back, which isn’t because he likes her or wants her, it’s a scientific move he’s long endorsed.
    “Non-threatening physical contact forms an unconscious bond,” Ryan has said again and again. “Like a preview to a dirty movie, only a preview kids can watch. Then, when you touch her, look for flushing on her neck or chest. If you’re near a pulse area, feel for her heart rate. Flushing means she’s into you, almost turned on by the contact. Then, you’re golden.” Then a perfunctory swig of his beer of the night at whatever bar they’re at, and as punctuation: “I read that in Men’s Health.”
    Gerald’s heartbeat filters out the music—he hears nothing but feels the bass thump in tune with his pulse. The girl with the confusing hair stands within arm’s reach. Stares at him, waiting.
    He shrugs at her.
    “Your friend is kind of with my friend,” she says, coming closer. She’s thrown a conversation softball at him, but he’s not swinging.
    “That requires you to talk to me, at least.”
    Gerald leans in. “There’s lots of guys for you here. I’m not on the prowl. Just enjoying a night out.”
    She grabs his shirt and pulls him even closer. She’s short and smells like a mix of hay and honey.
    “Maybe that’s why I’m talking to you, asshole.” She pauses for effect before laughing at him.
    It takes forever for Gerald to stand up, rising away from her breath, her smile. Her skin transcends the terrible lighting.
    “So if I’m a cop,” he says, “and I’m calling in your name and description, what hair color do I give them?”
    Please Christ take it as an insult.
    She slaps him on the arm. Playful. Chilling.
    “I couldn’t make up my mind,” she says. “And there’s no law that says I have to. At least not yet. Officer.”
    Her wedding ring’s diamond catches a flicker of the DJ’s light effects.
    “Hey kids,” Ryan says, sticking his head into their circle of conversation. “We were thinking about getting a room. You know. Getting social.”
    Ryan bolts with the blonde to get in line.
    Gerald looks at her. “We really don’t have—”
    The half-redhead interrupts Gerald with a tug of his arm.
    “No, it’s OK,” she says, pulling him into line. “I’d like to get somewhere quiet and talk.”
    Ryan glances over from his spot in line and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. He’s got his arm around the blonde. She smiles, a devil in a black dress.
    The half-redhead holds Gerald’s hand in line. He looks only at the colors spilling down her scalp.
    “I’m Leah, by the way,” she says, rubbing his hand between both of hers.
    “Gerald,” he finds the breath to say.
    “You got papers?” she asks.
    The papers are required to verify Exempt Acts of Federally Mandated Adultery. They are the final forms in the Marriage Enhancement Act packet, right after the information section, which mentions—among other facts—that the divorce rate was fifty-nine percent in 2012 when the MEA was signed into law, and has since dropped and continues to plummet. According to the packet, this preserves the sanctity of marriage and protects an important American institution.
    Gerald nods, staring at the rashy patch of red blooming on her chest.
    The notary public witnesses their signatures and places a serialized heat seal with the date and notary ID on their forms—for a fee of twenty dollars, tip not included. Every notarization comes with a free quarter hour in one of Barney’s rooms. Leah springs for another half hour on top of that. Gerald ignores the room clerk and walks into a dark hallway, Leah still holding his hand.
    Housekeepers scurry about the hallway, young girls, unmarried of course, wearing white shirts and black slacks. Gerald passes them as Leah pulls him into a room that smells sterile. The bed is made with crisp, military precision—so neat they hesitate to sit on it. The room wasn’t meant for this, wasn’t built for this. Old-fashioned wood paneling clings to the walls, the flimsy kind that can be popped out with your fingers. Thick pieces of drywall tape bulge on the textured ceiling, where the fractures are covered, but not covered well. Patched and broken, this room.
    She won’t let his hand go.
    “This feels so,” she says, “different.”
    Gerald nods.
    “But good,” she adds.
    Cool sweat mixes in their palms.
    “You don’t say much. Nervous? This your first singles week or something?”
    Gerald slides his hand away from hers.
    “Fourth,” he says.
    She sits down on the bed. “God! How old are you?”
    “Almost thirty. Like that’s old? I’m guessing you’re barely legal to get in here?”
    “Hardly. I’m twenty three. No offense, but you seem older.”
    “I’ve been told I look old before. When I was a senior in high—”
    “Not look older,” she says. “Seem older.”
    She puts her hand on his thigh gently presses him into sitting on the bed.
    “How long for you,” he says, tapping his ringfinger.
    “Doesn’t matter, does it?” She’s rubbing his leg harder now, with intentions.
    “I think it does,” he says. And the rubbing stops.
    “Hey,” Gerald says, getting close to her, feeling that humid aura that precedes tears. “It’s hard for some people. It’s supposed to be hard, that’s the point. The thing everyone’s forgetting.”
    “I’ve never—” she starts. “My first—” she says, then she cries, the tears coming in shoulder-shaking sobs.
    Gerald holds her close to him, her tears sopped up by his shoulder. He squeezes her, rubs her back, hopes she doesn’t feel how aroused he’s become.
    “Truth is,” he says, “Nine years of marriage, four years of this bullshit and I’ve never. My wife has never. We forge our papers. I get a week off work. Catch up with old friends. Watch spring training games on cable. Maybe visit the family back east,” he stops. Measures his words. “Tonight I’d never do anything to you, to hurt you, to hurt my wife. Let’s just relax here, use our time up. Our papers are done up. We can walk out of here in a bit and just have a drink. No one will know the difference.”
    She rubs his back as he speaks. Her hands sneak down, then around his torso, and end up fumbling at his zipper.
    “You’re a good man,” she says, her shaking hands coming up to find his cheeks, squeezing them as they kiss, tongues probing and flapping, their teeth clacking, like she’s trying to eat him up. Then back to the zipper. And he sits, frozen as she undoes him. She yanks off his pants and underwear in one swoop.
    Then he watches her as she peels off her tight-fitting top. She shoots her thumbs into her waistband, dropping her skirt and panties in one swoop. Her thick, trendy necklace strands click and rattle while she strips, hanging over her black bra, reminding him of rosaries.
    “The bra stays,” she says. “They’re his favorite, and the bra stays.”
    Then she goes down on him and Gerald sits, unblinking as she slurps at him, her mouth greedy and turned on.
    Her right hand jabs him in the chest, knocking him onto his back. She works him, throttles him.
    He stares at the ceiling the pale texture highlighting the moving shadows of her thrashing body. She’s a shadow, not Cindy. He can’t look at Leah, at her moving head, at her naked flesh. Somewhere, Cindy sits with a cat purring on her lap, watching television and waiting for him to come home with forged papers. He bites his lip. A guy can’t cry during a blowjob, can he? Not unless she bites or something, and he feels all tongue, all lips, all heat and passion. All the wrongness makes it feel even better. But Cindy wears the ring he gave her, a ring he made a promise with, and they promised each other to keep their marriage personal, lawless, and faithful, a rebellion that drew them closer, bound at the heart to make their own rules.
    Leah stops. Dismounts.
    “What is this?” she says, pointing at his crotch. “Am I not good enough? I mean, what is this?”
    He gets up to put on his pants, a man proud of being limp. She shoves him a little.
    “Am I not good enough?”
    He slips one leg into his pants.
    “Who the fuck do you think you are?” she says, then slaps him, a head-snapper with an aftershock of tingling.
    He grabs her, two big hands that swallow her shoulders, freezing her.
    “You love him more than anything. Right?”
    She licks regretfully at her lips. “Sometimes,” she says.
    “Then lie,” he says, releasing her softly. “And let him know it.”

*

    At the bar, Ryan chuckles over another Foster’s. “Dude, so she looks up and says that she smells another girl’s breath. So what the fuck, I can just shrug, and she smiles and just keeps on dippin.’ I swear, I think her and her rainbow-headed oompa loompa friend pack a box lunch once in a while. That would be so hot, man.”
    He claps Gerald on the shoulder.
    “Hey, why the sour face? Do you finally regret forging your papers? That’d be a first. God, I love this shit. God bless America.”
    Gerald watches the cute bartender work the patrons. She catches his gaze, smiles at him. He does not smile back.
    “Six more days of this,” Ryan says. “And I got my papers popped on day one. The rest is just gravy now.”
    Papers. Gerald runs his hand over the seal, over the slight indentation of her handwriting, the neat curves, bold letters saying she’s Leah and she’s proud. Gerald’s papers state that “consenting parties have performed, or intend to perform within a reasonable timeframe, vaginal, anal, or oral intercourse.” The frequently asked questions section maps out the requirements and benefits—during Marriage Enhancement Week, one notarized act of adultery is required. If you’re audited on your taxes and cannot produce proof of at least one MEW adultery, the fines and jail time are substantial.
    One act and you’ve filled your requirements. Between two and four acts and you can claim an MEW credit on your taxes, as well as all expenses relating to your mandatory spousal furlough. Five or more acts, you will be required to attend government-mandated therapy sessions at the expense of the government. Domestic abuse is down seventy percent since 2012. Over twelve billion in MEA related tax-credts have been refunded to taxpayers, augmenting the economy.
    The divorce rate in America is currently twelve percent.
    Ryan doesn’t care much about the counseling sessions, but he still goes because he’s fucking his counselor too—an old fashioned, morally-wrong, illegal act of adultery.
    “I have to ask,” Gerald says. “Are you happy? Or is it all one big bullshit story?”
    “Oh shit,” Ryan says. “You did something with that girl. Didn’t you?”
    They sit at the bar for a long time staring at their beers.
    “I’ll never be happy, Gerry.” Ryan finishes his beer, a penance of sorts. “Not a big deal though. Really. I’m jealous of you. I don’t know what happened tonight, but I hope you and Cindy get buried together man, sixty years from now. Seriously. But since I think I’m your friend, I want you to know that I’ll never be sad either. And sex is a great way to pass the time in an unhappy life.”
    “Another one?” the sexy, brunette, slender, untouchable bartender says.
    “Just you in a glass, honey,” Ryan says helplessly. “All wet.”
    And Gerry waits for the scowl from her. Waits for the slap. Waits for the tell-off. It doesn’t come. She smiles and grabs him another beer. Ryan touches her hand a little when she hands it over. Just grazes it. Their eyes catch and hold for a moment, their fate sealed.

*

    He walks through the door, suitcase in one hand, papers in the other.
    The papers say, polls indicate higher levels of marital bliss, making for a stronger America.
    “He was a railroad worker named Lewis,” Cindy says. She’s washing dishes at the kitchen sink. “Strong, but only his hands. His body. Not strong the way you are.”
    He drops his suitcase. The papers flutter from his hands, scattering on the floor in a kaleidoscope shape.
    “She had black hair with thick strands of red, red like I’ve always wanted. Charming and quirky. Kind of beautiful. Not like you, though. Never like you.”
    She puts on a smile, then turns back to the dishwater.
    He puts his hand on her shoulder and stands there for a long time. She scrubs and rinses with shaking hands. Finally, a dish breaks in the sink and she starts to cry.
    “Shhhh,” Gerald says, soothing her, his hands firm on her shoulders. He stares at her neck a long time—the suck-bruise looks days-old, yellowing on her skin. He thinks about how it’s supposed to be hard, about how in a few days, the bruise will dry up, a mark that leaves no scar in a world intent on forgetting. A world he can’t bear alone.
    “Shhhh,” he says again, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her neck next to the mark that isn’t his.

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...