By Darren Kaminsky
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Darren Kaminsky's novel, Sugar Spun Sisters, appears in serialized form every Monday right here on Me Three. The story follows the lives of five twenty-somethings living in Washington D.C. As far as the editors are currently aware, none of these characters work in politics.
Chapter Forty-Eight
December 15
Today, when I walked into work, Chris pointed me towards Jill’s office. “They want you,” he said and his face was very serious like I’d been given just weeks to live.
And it turned out that that was pretty much the story. Jill sat me down, said that she appreciated the effort that I been making since our last talk, but that there was to be a consolidation (she didn’t precisely say what was being consolidated), that my position would be redundant, but that she’d enjoyed working with me and that I’d have another month before I was foisted out onto the street.
It was all so quick that, at first, I was stunned and hurt, but then realized that there would now be no excuse, none, for not moving to NYC. Hadn’t she said that I’d be given a chance to prove myself? Maybe a month is enough of a chance in her mind?
I was now free. She’d made me free. My decision on when to move had been made for me.
Saturday, December 16
Immediately after work yesterday, I left for New York, running for the bus, which, as usual was packed. More than half the people on it were women over 50. The bus doesn’t get into NYC until after midnight so I had to wonder about all these people criss-crossing the country at all hours. Airports are different than bus terminals, so are train stations. Planes and trains are expensive, full of business travelers and vacationers. Planes and trains are for the prosperous.
These aren’t vacationers, Their crimped, slack faces and unfocussed eyes tell terrible stories. The looked dazed and worn-down, ghost-like; they don’t even seem to notice each other, just shuffle onto the bus and take their seats almost mechanically. They weren’t there on the bus; they weren’t present; they were still with sick relatives or their daughters’ new babies or still on visits to their feckless sons. Their mothers or fathers are dying. Their sons-in-law beat their daughters or their daughters will never be off welfare. Their sons are working 2 jobs, but that’s not enough or they have gambling problems or won’t go back to school or have just fathered 3 children by 3 different women. I wish their faces said something else. I try and look at the dirt and smudges on the floor. So hard to tell what’s a smudge and what’s supposed to be the pattern.
It’s always the same when I arrive in NYC. No matter if it’s by bus or train: overwhelming. Too many sights and sounds. Too many lights. Too many people and me not sure where to look or who to trust.
I took a cab to Dani’s; the Twin Towers loomed up at me as I made it downtown. When I got there, I felt this tremendous relief when I saw her, but I could tell she didn’t. At first she smiled, but after that she looked almost accusatory. We were both exhausted and there just wasn’t much to say. Every time I visit things seem to have changed between us and rarely for the good.
She’s been getting colder towards me for a while. There’s something like a game that goes on. She’s non-responsive and progressively colder until I get to a point where I stop even trying to talk or smile at her, then once I’ve given up and gotten colder myself, she warms up. It’s like she’s waiting until she knows she’s hurt me.
And she’s so prickly. I have to watch what I say. Everything seems to upset her. I asked her last night if I could stay with her when I move here and she was furious so today I said that I wanted to look for places now so that I wouldn’t have to stay with her when I move here and she seemed furious. Everything makes her furious.
She started cleaning the room, but it mainly consisted of her throwing herself across the room carrying various armful’s of clothes or books. There’s no response to any attempt to make conversation. I feel trapped. I want to leave the room, but I have nowhere to go and I have to rely on her to guide me or I get lost. And I certainly can’t afford a hotel.
December 18
Back in DC. Got back last night to find the roommates having a party, but I was not at all happy about it and just went upstairs. I’m done with parties. It got progressively louder towards the end of the night.
This morning, I found Kerran asleep on the landing at the top of the stairs. He didn’t even make it to his room. Funny.
He was wearing a new Bleed Monkey t-shirt. Yellow with woodcuts of red monkeys doing the see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil thing. It was pretty cool and I wanted to ask him for one, but I’d have to wake him up to do it.
As I try stepping over him, he reached up and grabbed my ankle and pulled it down to him. When he’d pulled my foot all the way to the ground, he curled around it like it was a pillow. I thought he was trying to be funny and I told him to stop, but he appeared to still be completely asleep. I tried to wake him. I said his name loudly. I tried to move my foot, to shake him off. Nothing worked.
I thought for a second about pulling him down the stairs with me, but we’d both have ended up with lots of broken bones so I stood there trying to figure out what to do while Kerran settled into an even deeper sleep with his new teddy bear.
After about 10 minutes, Brenna walked out of her room on the floor below. I called out to her and explained to her the situation. She started laughing almost uncontrollably. Jean pokeed her head out of her room to see what was going on. Brenna, in between bouts of uncontrollable laughter, told her. She started laughing uncontrollably too. She walked out of her room and stood next to Brenna near the bottom of the stairs. Nell shouted up to them from the first floor and Brenna shouted to her with a synopsis of the situation. Even though she was two floors below, I could hear her starting to laugh.
“You know this isn’t funny,” I said to them, but they started laughing even harder. I started laughing too. “I really hate you guys,” I told them while laughing, but they were laughing and didn’t seem to hear.
Darren Kaminsky is a writer living in Brooklyn. He can be contacted at sugarspun @ bigbagoftricks dot com.
© 2006 Me Three
