---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Path of Least Resistance” Down in the Dirt (v131) (the September 2015 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the Intersection the Down in the Dirt July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 Down in the Dirt issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

False Flag

Andrew D. Grossman

    In order to fulfill my husbandly duties on a hot, dry Saturday afternoon, I was on Bell Boulevard in Bayside, mentally checking off appointments and errands. With two small shopping bags containing sundry items from the drugstore and a fresh bag of cat food, I turned towards my car, considering whether and what to bring home for dinner, when I saw Grace.
    Even after so many years, her profile was unmistakable as she leaned over an outdoor bookstand, perusing the clearance offerings.
    “Grace?” I said, as I came up behind her, bags in hand.
    “Oh my god, I thought I saw you on the street earlier; how many years has it been?”
    “More than I care to remember! How the hell are you?”
    She smiled, loosened her shoulders, relaxed slightly.
    “I’m not bad, just killing an hour or two until my girlfriend gets back from the spa. Do you have time for a quick drink?”
    I surely did.

—

    Years before, Grace lived in the big blue house across from me, in our wending cul-de-sac suburbia. She wore colorful, frilly dresses, but that was the only girly thing about her. She and I were the same age, and together with my younger brother we explored the wilderness of our backyards, made forts under the lush trees and solid wooden fences, and devised games to give the summer meaning and purpose.
    She won every game. That was the first rule of most of them, actually: the girl never did learn to accept second place graciously. Those few times she came close to losing, her eyes would glow fire-red and my brother and I- young, but not stupid- would dial it down and let her steal the victory. She was the generalissimo, the ship’s admiral, the Indian chief, the team captain.
    One of her favorite games was borne of a misunderstood construction of capture the flag. She explained to us, the uninitiated, that we had to steal a flag, secure it in our fort, and it would keep us safe from attackers until someone stole it, in turn. The identity of our prospective enemies was ill-defined.
    At first, we used a small American flag on a sad, thin wooden pole. It stood perhaps six inches high, and in those days some local denizen with too much time on his hands used to line the cul-de-sac with them for the 4th of July. The flag was made of thin plastic, and needless to say, it did not last long in our indelicate, grubby young hands. Grace tasked us with finding a new flag.
    Ever the industrious boy, I ran across the backyard, into the kitchen through the sliding glass door, and scanned the room for flags. Seeing none, I shifted my focus to flag materials. My eyes quickly settled on a wooden broom handle, our dining room tablecloth, some Elmers glue, and a pair of scissors.
    To hear my mother later recount it, she had been out of the kitchen scarcely five minutes when she heard a sound like a herd of elephants stomping into the house, rustling about, and then stomping out again. She returned to find the kitchen a mess, with her mangled tablecloth on the floor, glue spilling on the counter, and yelps of triumph from across the backyard, where a makeshift flag had been raised over Fort Necessity.
    Gathering what had transpired in the few minutes since we left her sight, she marched across the grass, voice volleying attacks, seized my arm and led me roughly back inside, where I was sent to my room to await sentencing by my father.
    The next afternoon, I saw Grace and demanded an explanation: she had promised that the flag would keep us safe. “I guess it wasn’t a true flag,” she replied sadly.

—

    We dated on-and-off through high school and most of college. For two ill-conceived years we lived together, in an off-campus hovel that would never pass modern building code standards. She was fierce and passionate, and I was honing my skills in oral argument- we had fights that could curdle milk.
    Her fury and energy had a positive side, of course, and there were many long winter days we never left the bedroom, having furious sex, tender sex, sex for hours and hours. At last, exhausted and sated, we would cling to one another, overheating and relishing in our stink and our sweat, falling asleep that way, awaking disoriented but content.
    Her twin appetites for fucking and fighting made our relationship wonderful, and terrible. To the outside world, we presented as sweet and supportive; friends and family thought we were just the perfect couple, they could never imagine how we interacted behind closed doors, nor did we care to enlighten them.
    Over time, the sex grew less important and the fighting grew more frequent. Midway into our junior years we decided to call it quits, and while the breakup was styled as “mutual” and “amicable,” and we both professed our desire to remain friends, it didn’t quite work out that way. We saw each other in passing, in social groups, at parties and events, but we weren’t close, not after we parted.

—

    “I heard you were married,” she said, as we sat on a pair of tall stools around a small, circular table. We glanced without interest at the hot press sandwiches on the menu, and put in our drink orders: a Stella for her, neat scotch for me.
    “Going on six years, no kids.” I completed the eleven-word summary of the state of my life du jour. “How about you?”
    “Oh, I moved here about six months ago, still settling in. I’m seeing somebody, Victoria, and we moved here from Austin.”
    Our drinks arrived, mine in a large, vacuous glass with a plastic stirrer, for some reason, topped with a miniature Olympic flag, hers still in its bottle.
    “Are you liking New York, so far?” We are a city of transplants, and no matter how many years go by I still relish being on the dispensing end of this particular query.
    “It has its moments. Shopping is more of a challenge, but the possibilities are practically endless.” She took a long gulp from her bottle. “What I still don’t understand is the climate. Why do so many people choose to live in a place with such extreme temperatures?”
    “Because of the six weeks each year when its nice,” I flippantly replied. It was a rehearsed retort, glad to dust it off for fresh presentation. “You get used to it after a few years, and I’ve grown to enjoy the variety.”
    “So, tell me about your wife...” she leaned back on the stool, inviting me to take the lead. I recognized this subtle gesture, the way she would relax and let somebody else do the heavy lifting, in conversation, in bed, in dance, in life. She would grow passive, taking it all in with a contented look on her face, then suddenly spring back to life and charge in with such force as to take the reigns back and steal the energy and glory of the moment.

—

    After our split, I heard through the mists of rumor and gossip that she had “come out,” and now exclusively saw girls. At first, I thought it was a misguided attempt to hurt me, as though my male pride would be undermined by the thought of “turning” a straight girl gay, but she knew me too well to think that gambit would actually work.
    It turned out to be a real evolution, not an attempt to somehow exact revenge. She embraced her newfound sexual preference with the zeal of a convert, marching in parades, proudly displaying her rainbow insignia, growing loud and outspoken on issues of advocacy and equal rights.
    She developed a reputation as being somewhat promiscuous, unable to hold down a single relationship but more than capable of juggling several at one time. She was a constant presence at campus parties, late night clubs, weekend raves. She dyed her hair and chopped it short and unruly, a modern sight to behold.

—

    “I’m glad to hear she makes you happy,” she said at last, leaning forward to indicate her re-engagement in the conversation. She still had a tinge of mischief in her eyes, but it was a more sedate, less-dangerous spark than she had once had.
    “She really does. And we love living here, trying to live life to its fullest, you know? How about you and Victoria? Do you think you’ll stay in New York?”
    “Well, her job is here, and I don’t have any particular objections. It’s weird, you know, we’ve been together for almost two years, it’s the longest relationship I’ve had in a long time. Maybe I’m getting a touch domestic.” She gave a wry smile and took the final sip of her drink, waving to the waiter for a replacement beverage.
    I continued to nurse my scotch. Though I prefer bourbon, scotch serves a useful purpose in that a strong sniff is equivalent to a small sip, stretching out my enjoyment and keeping my bar tab from the heights afforded by easy access to Woodford Reserve.
    “Do you two live around here?” I artfully re-engaged her. I’m usually quite at ease in a social situation, but this conversation felt more labored, almost forced. Perhaps it was the years of estrangement, the rapid cooling of our once-hot passions, the guilty remembrance of our once-shared lives.
    “We’re actually between places at the moment, staying in a long-term hotel until the rental season this fall. It’s nice if a bit cramped, but on the positive side, they clean the place each week, and you know I’ve never been much for housework.”
    I laughed, glad for a common happy memory. She joined me, the wide, toothy grin she gives when she’s genuinely amused. I remembered how it contrasted with her all-lip, polite chuckle in mixed company, and the way her upper lip curled menacingly when she was full of rage.
    Her phone rang, or more accurately, it buzzed incessantly, like a wasp having convulsions, until a swipe of her finger calmed it back to silence. “Hello? Hi sweetie...okay. Okay. Have fun, I’ll see you tonight!”
    She hung up, I looked at her expectantly.
    “Vic is going out with some friends, won’t be home until late.” She frowned, threw back her beer for a moment, set the bottle down loudly. “Guess that’s what I get for waiting up for her, huh?”

—

    When I moved out of town, I threw a party, a big, loud, last hurrah to my hometown before launching myself into the world, to grad school, a career, a new life. Going to college in your hometown has quite a few unsung benefits, and among them is the large collection of friends and friendly acquaintances who are a part of your life. There were probably 150 of them at my party, which overran my parents’ basement and spilled into the neighboring yards.
    I played the social butterfly, the gracious host, flitting back and forth, from room to room, greeting people and chatting them up, filling drinks, moving on. I was refilling one of those ubiquitous red cups that are so associated with college parties at the keg when I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned, and saw Grace.
    “Hi!” I said, startled. “What are you doing here?”
    It was a rude question, I realized as soon as I spoke it, but she didn’t take offense.
    “I just heard there was some free booze to be had,” she deadpanned. “No, actually, I just wanted to say goodbye.”
    Before I could react, she thrust her mouth forward onto mine, giving me a frantic, ferocious kiss, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and bending my spine backwards with incredible force. It lasted five seconds, perhaps, and then she suddenly disengaged, released me, and took a half-step back.
    “Anyway, good luck, I hope everything goes good for you.”
    She turned and walked away; I stood there, momentarily stunned, searching for a correct reply. To this day, when I think about it, I’m still searching.

—

    When the check came, I self-consciously considered whether it would be proper to offer to pay, but she quickly drew just the right amount of cash to cover her portion, with a generous tip, so I followed her lead and did the same. As we walked out of the restaurant, I started instinctually following her as she walked towards her hotel, which was just a few blocks away, in the opposite direction from my car.
    In the pit of my stomach, I realized the danger. These old coals, long neglected, still contained the potential for a roaring fire. I remembered all the things that attracted me to her, long ago. I thought, too, of the other things, the parts I hated, the parts I was glad to be done with when we parted. It was wistful, but a bitter wist, smoky but just a bit sour.
    Soon, I thought, she will invite me to join her in her room for another drink. There, one thing might lead to another (Might? Shall. Let’s not feign naivete). This could wind up being a catastrophic mistake.
    My shoulder-dwelling devil, as from the old cartoons, whispered that it might not be a bad idea, that the prospects of getting caught were low, and that opportunities like this don’t present themselves every day. I shushed him, silently, and as we drew near to her hotel I started mentally preparing to reject her offer, but kindly, without offense, though looking back I have no idea what words I thought would accomplish that particular balancing act.
    “Well, goodnight! It was great to see you again, it really was.” She said quickly, and started to walk away without so much as a hug goodbye.
    “Wait,” I said, and she obliged, “I have something for you.” I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the small Olympic flag that previously and unnecessarily garnished my neat scotch. She looked puzzled as I placed it in her hand. “You win.”
    I turned on my heel and walked away. The last image I have of her, she was still standing there, in front of the hotel, holding in her palm a small plastic flag that still smelled faintly of good whiskey, her head bent down regarding it, a mix of confusion and vague recognition in her eyes.

—

    When I recovered my senses, standing in front of that leaky keg of cheap beer, still clutching my now-full red cup, I quickly walked after her. She was nowhere to be found. I looked in each room, in the outside area, where the smokers and Smokers were congregating, but she was gone. I asked a few mutual acquaintances, but none had seen her.
    It was like she had never really been there at all.
    I set my drink down on the upstairs table, leaving a wet, sticky circle on the white tablecloth, and thought about Grace, but only for a moment, letting my mental swirlings start composing the first chapters of my next life.

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...