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Down in the Dirt v044

in propria persona

William Emmett

    The thick red curtain opens. It rises smoothly, stopping occasionally while the small stagehand, dressed all in black, regains composure. In my mind, it’s warm on the stage, flowers blooming, trees swaying in the gentle breeze.
    “No it’s not,” she interrupts. “It’s cold. Feel my hands.” Our cards are dealt. Five to both of us. We’ve placed our wages in the pot. I have a ten of spades, a jack, a four and a pair of eights.
    I look at the scene; the small stagehand replaces green leaves with dormant branches. He shivers in the bitter October cold while we walks offstage, arms full of green leaves.
    “That’s better,” she says.
    I look towards the voice, offstage, my brow furrowed, limiting half my vision. I try to explain with merely a look that this is my story. Not hers. I would like it warm.
    “Well, get on with it.” She leans forward in her chair, a move which in cards indicates great power, a great hand. A full house or royal flush.
    A woman walks onto stage. She’s short. She turns towards the front of the stage, smiles and waves. Her teeth are stained from too much coffee, her hair in an untidy bun. She holds a book in her hand; when she gets bored, it opens. Her hands and arms are covered in pen marks, personality traits. “Funny.” “Loving.” “Yearning for commitment.”
    A name appears above her head. “Tara.”
    “That’s Tara, with a long ‘a,’” the voice says as she leans closer to me.
    Again my furrowed brow.
    Tara looks around and thinks about the story she’s in. She shivers in the cold, appearing to me as if she doesn’t particularly like the bitter October wind.
    I turn and smile as the voice leans back. The small stagehand dressed all in black sighs and carries the loose leaves back towards the stage. I have won this battle and started to regain control.
    “No,” says the voice. “Feel my hands.”
    The stagehand stops, looks at Tara, looks out hoping to see me, then walks offstage again.
    We hear a dog whimper somewhere in the real world.
    “Go get your dog. She misses Daddy.” She leans forward, holding a flush draw, smelling my weakness.
    I turn towards the voice placing one finger gently over my mouth. I feel the beard starting to form after days of not shaving.
    “Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet.”
    Tara, with a long “a,” looks around the cold. A figure walks into view. It has no face and is transparent. Nothing is written on its body. A translucent hand rises and waves.
    Tara looks above its head, searching for a name.
    An “N” slowly appears, fuzzy.
    “You’re not going to do that are you?” The voice looks at me, most likely holding an Ace, King, Queen, and Jack of hearts. “I mean he’s a perfect match, but once you publish this and he sees it, he’ll know.”
    I look back at her. I try to tell her this is fiction. It’s not based on reality. But she’s right.
    She knows I’m lying. Everything is based in reality. Ten of hearts.
    A dog barks in the real world.
    “You still haven’t dealt with that dog. You’re cruel.”
    I turn my head away. I look at my cards. I only have one pair. Eights.
    “You’re tempting fate by writing this.”
    I try to block her voice out of my head but I can’t. I love her.
    The figure next to Tara, indistinguishable, stops waving. No name appears above its head.
    “Why do you keep using the pronoun ‘it?’ We both know he’s a man.”
    I try to tell her, without using words, that I don’t have a character yet. Therefore without a character, I have no gender. There is no him. Only it.
    I throw my ten and four into the discard pile. She’s right. It has to be a man. Without that the story would not work. Love is the most common conflict and plot. Tara, with a long “a,” needs a man.
    And the man, thus far, named “N,” should be that man.
    But he’s not.
    Tara looks at the man, transparent. She paints a face on him and draws in fingers. She looks at the space above his head and frowns.
    His eyes are bright and his hair spiky. He looks like the man named “N.” The letter slowly appears.
    “Stop that!”
    The N disappears from above his head. His eyes turn down. An engine revs just outside my real window. Tara and the unnamed man turn towards the sound, unsure of its origin.
    “They’re home.”
    I sit and stare at my characters. I start to concentrate on Tara and the unnamed man. I forget about real life, disconnecting myself from the barking dog, the cold, and the car. I pick up a Jack of spades and an eight of diamonds. She throws two cards. What does she have?
    Is she bluffing?
    Small tulips sprout on stage as Tara, with a long “a,” turns back to the yet unnamed man. With only her index finger, in one continuous movement, she paints a small “N” in the air.
    “No!” She’s a little quieter now, somehow.
    I explain, without using words, that I’m losing control of the characters. They’re becoming real. They’re almost finished, authentic.
    The letter hangs for a moment, weightless, before falling onto the thawing ground and shattering, like a balloon steeped in dry ice.
    The front door opens and we hear a bark.
    “Where are you going with this?” the voice asks. “And why are you writing me like this? You know I’m not like this. You love me.” She picks up her two cards and bets twice the pot, trying to scare me.
    I do love her. I don’t know where I am headed. I am at the bridge, the part of the story or song near the end at which I halt and regroup. Where am I going? It’s possible I had to stop at this point and make a sandwich or pour a cup of English Breakfast. Once I return, I tread water, trying to regain my train of thought.
    Where am I—
    I call her bet. Soon this will all be over.
    Tara, with a long “a,” looks out and smiles. She’s waiting. We are all waiting. She hopes I know where I am going. The man, yet unnamed, tries to smile. Tara did not draw a smile.
    Tara and the man look to their left. A woman walks onto the stage, a test. She is slightly taller than Tara. The woman’s long sandy blond hair is pulled into a tight bun, showing off her long, tan neck. Her smile is bright and her teeth white. On her arms is written: “Outgoing.” “Funny.” “Everything he ever wanted.”
    “Who’s that?” the voice asks, quieter, impressed I called her bet.
    I don’t respond.
    “I don’t recognize her.”
    I do, but I don’t respond. I don’t realize I can no longer hear the barking dog.
    Tara, with a long “a,” stares at the woman, unsmiling. She doesn’t recognize this newcomer either. The unnamed man does not take notice, only concerned of Tara’s distress.
    The small stagehand runs out on stage, grabs the unnamed woman and pulls her back offstage.
    “That’s better.” I’m barely able to hear her.
    I show my hand. A Jack of diamonds, a Jack of spades, a Jack of clubs and two eights.
    Tara turns, startled at the disappearance of the newcomer. She smiles again. She would rather be alone with the unnamed anyway.
    “Have you found where you’re going yet?” Barely a whisper as she shows her cards. A Queen of hearts, a four of diamonds, an eight of spades, a three of hearts and a six of hearts.
    Tara, with a long “a,” turns towards the man and grabs hold of his newly formed hand and fingers. With her other hand she repaints the “N” above his head. She slowly writes on his arm, “Everything I want,” “My love.”
    The stagehand dressed all in black, walks onto stage and starts reattaching green leaves.
    I hear no objections as the “N” holds firmly in place above the man’s head. He turns towards Tara and smiles. An “i” slowly appears after the “N.”
    Like the rev of an engine. Like the bark of a dog. Like the screech of tires. The moment is finished.



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