"Did I tell you about the time he painted his toenails green?"
"Maybe," I answered. She had told the story on countless occasions before. I was just unable to recall the details, as I was unable to remember most of the particulars she felt compelled to bore me with time and time again.
"Yeah, he came by to pay his alimony wearing Birkenstocks and his toenails were painted green. I just looked at him and wondered, how could I have ever married this idiot?"
"Uh," I grunted. Anything more than a grunt was an invitation for her to ask just another one of her infinitely thoughtless questions. Most of her pointless queries simply seemed to be based in a need to have her doubts, or existence validated.
"That's when I realized I never really knew him . . . Should I turn here?" she asked, as we approached my street.
I didn't answer. She turned anyway. She knew where I lived. She was half a block from my studio, and I was half a block from saying good-bye to the inquisition I'd been suffering since she'd arrived the previous day. We'd had a mid-afternoon lunch and then returned to my place. She'd come to town to buy a purse at one of the local shops. Knowing that she seldom made it over this way, I suggested she continue shopping, then we could meet up later, but she decided to return to the studio. She was the friend of a friend who divorced about a year after I had. We'd hung out for a while, and ended up in bed a few times. That was until she started whining and trying to make me into a puppet who dangled from her strings.
After lunch we laid around for a few hours, Elena continuing with the stupid question routine, most of them slipping by unanswered. She was on the couch, and I was on the bed. It was truly amazing, how she'd ask something random, and before I could even respond, she'd fire off another, like target-less shots fired from a machine gun into the dark of night, to keep an imaginary predator at bay.
It wasn't her fault; Elena was Elena. There was just no longer a place for her in my world. Besides that, I'd spent the entire previous week around people, having volunteered to man the booth at a trade show for a friend. Every night that week, after working the show, I'd had dinner with old colleagues and business constituents. Someone I saw at the show must have run into Elena and mentioned me, because she phoned out of the blue saying that she was coming to the coast for that weekend. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was just a coincidence—old ghosts have a way of their own.
The last time I'd heard from Elena before this encounter was a year or so earlier, at an annual Christmas party. She found me sitting in the kitchen, catching up with some old friends. She whispered something to her date, left the guy standing alone with his hands in his pockets, and walked over for a hug.
"You're looking hot!" I whispered into her ear as we embraced, her date observing from a distance.
"Thanks, you're looking pretty good yourself," she whispered back. "If I remember right, you've got a birthday coming up soon."
"Quite a memory you got there."
"Some things are hard to forget. Have plans?"
"Yeah, I'm having dinner with a friend that evening," I answered, testing her reaction. I had dinner plans with a beautiful young woman who I'd been dreaming about for the past couple of years.
"Well, how about lunch then?"
"Sure, that'll work," I answered, thinking about having my birthday cake and eating it, too.
And it all came to pass: we met for lunch, and I ended up rolling out of her bed at six-thirty that evening. I hurried home to shower off the remnants of our meal and was only half-an-hour late picking up my lovely dream-puff. I turned a year older that day, for lunch I got my brains screwed out by the grand inquisitor, what little brains I had. And then that evening, I basked in the delight of who I wished would pop out of my birthday cake and be my happily-ever-after—but that's another story.
Anyway, that's how Elena came back into the picture, and after a couple of years, she had come to buy a purse and pay a visit. Between the barrages of machine gun fire, Elena managed to slip from the safety of the couch where she'd taken refuge and joined me on the bed. I rubbed her back and neck for a while and then told her to roll over so that I could do her front side, but she developed a timely bellyache and ran off to the toilet, defining her visit as non-conjugal. When Elena came out of the bathroom she sat on the couch and began to talk about herself and a girlfriend, about all the different men they'd been dating.
"Did I tell you about that one guy I dated who had E.D.?"
"E.D.?"
"Erectile dysfunction," she translated, as if she was an expert in the field. "He was mushy anyway."
"Mushy?"
"Yeah, you know, too emotional."
"No, I don't know," I answered, glancing over to see the expression on Elena's face. I was confused; most of her pissing and moaning over the years had all been about men who were emotionally unavailable and unable to commit.
"He was so needy. One time he told me that his lips were dry, hinting for me to give him a kiss. I told him, 'Look, if you want to kiss me, kiss me. But don't come off with this, my lips are dry crap'," she rattled, staring up at the ceiling with a wrinkled up forehead filled with disdain.
"Why were you hanging out with that queer fucker for, anyway?"
"I'm a queer fucker magnet," she answered, without giving it two seconds thought.
"And what the hell does that make me?"
"Oh . . ."
Oh, my ass, just get up and get the hell out of here, just leave me the heck alone to be in peace, please . . . I listened to Elena's horseshit that evening, had breakfast with her the following morning and then the ol' ghost and her new purse set off for home.
I never really liked the woman all that much. She was a great big pain in the ass, always had been and always would be. There was a reason ol' Twinkle Toes had gone his own way. Elena always expected a man to respond to her in a certain fashion, and if he didn't, there was something 'wrong' with him. Limp Dick's pecker might well have been serving him, not standing to Elena's attention. He might have had a built in safety device that said, "Run like hell while you still can."
My problem was . . . well, I can't say that it was really a problem . . . it just became a problem later. Pain in the ass or not, I'd stick it in, and then I'd run. And then Elena would call a week or two later, asking why I hadn't phoned, saying that she felt used . . . But damn, I just didn't like her all that much, having to hear all the bullshit drama about how her sister-in-law had brainwashed her brother, about how she ran his life and that he was no longer a free man. I'd have to listen all about how her friend was dating some scumbag who had once done time. I'd have to listen all about how her boss wanted her, but he was depressed, and on and on, and on. And on top of it all, she wasn't so hot in bed. Oh, she'd make a hell of a lot of noise, but it was all about her, all about her being pleased, but not about her pleasing, but like I said, ol' Twinkle Toes left for a reason.
Elena's entire life was centered around taking, about taking another's time and energy, about a 'new purse,' about having her existence validated, all at the cost of others. If she didn't fall in love with herself every time she looked into a mirror, perhaps she and her alter ego could have had a meaningful conversation and all those unanswered questions could be resolved.
Anyway, all that was eight or more years ago. Last time we actually spoke was a few years back. She had somehow tracked me down, called to piss in my ear about how she and her sister-in-law had had it out and the entire family was at odds, divided. Half had sided with her and half had sided with her brother, and they had been at a stalemate for more then two years without as much as speaking to one another. I thought that was a pretty sad thing, and I told Elena so, too.
"Elena, who care's who's right or wrong. It's your brother, for goodness sake. Just make up and be done with it. Just fix it and be done with it. The poor guy's married. Even if your sister-in-law was out of line, he can't side with you. He's stuck in the middle. He can't flippin' win and you're the only one who can fix this. So just fix it, even if you are in the right . . ."
"Yeah, but..."
That was Elena—Miss Yeah But. She didn't want to fix a thing. She wanted to fight. She wanted to piss and moan. She wanted to have the whole family in an uproar, that way she remained the centerpiece of attention. She wasn't about to give up that throne.
Six months ago, Queen Elena sent an email, found my address from my website. I didn't answer . . . actually, I did. She wanted me to write to her, to fill her in on my life. The queen had graced the jester with her query and wanted to be entertained. I just wrote back, turned her words on her and asked that she tell me about her life. Well, that really screwed with her, and she responded with some . . . well, she was baiting me into her web, so I just let it go. If she really wanted to know about my life, all she had to do was read my books.
A few months later, she phoned my publisher and left a message, wishing me a happy birthday and asking that I return her call. But I didn't bother returning her call once I did receive the message. Then, just last week, she emailed my publisher, complaining that I hadn't gotten back to her, making it seem as if there was a crisis. When asked if it was an emergency, she wrote back, saying that there was no emergency, and then explained that she was an old friend and just wanted to share some news, 'old family stuff,' crap that she just knew I'd be interested in. Her message ended by saying that her next step would be to contact my parents in order to obtain my phone number. One way or another, the Queen will have her way—it's all about Elena, you know!
I emailed my mother: "Mom, if Elena calls looking for me, tell her I'm in Dubai and don't give her anymore information, not my phone number, nothing! She's a real crackerjack!"
Mom wrote back: "Okay, I'll also tell Dad. Who is she, anyway, and how crazy?"
I didn't answer Mom on that one. It doesn't really matter how crazy Elena is, just as long as she doesn't know how to find me. I'll tell you one thing; you can bet Elena's not trying to track down ol' Limp Dick to piss in his ear. She forgot about him long ago. But me . . . well, I had to go stick it in, and now all these years later, I'm still running from that black hole. I wonder whatever became of ol' Twinkle Toes?
"Maybe," I answered. She had told the story on countless occasions before. I was just unable to recall the details, as I was unable to remember most of the particulars she felt compelled to bore me with time and time again.
"Yeah, he came by to pay his alimony wearing Birkenstocks and his toenails were painted green. I just looked at him and wondered, how could I have ever married this idiot?"
"Uh," I grunted. Anything more than a grunt was an invitation for her to ask just another one of her infinitely thoughtless questions. Most of her pointless queries simply seemed to be based in a need to have her doubts, or existence validated.
"That's when I realized I never really knew him . . . Should I turn here?" she asked, as we approached my street.
I didn't answer. She turned anyway. She knew where I lived. She was half a block from my studio, and I was half a block from saying good-bye to the inquisition I'd been suffering since she'd arrived the previous day. We'd had a mid-afternoon lunch and then returned to my place. She'd come to town to buy a purse at one of the local shops. Knowing that she seldom made it over this way, I suggested she continue shopping, then we could meet up later, but she decided to return to the studio. She was the friend of a friend who divorced about a year after I had. We'd hung out for a while, and ended up in bed a few times. That was until she started whining and trying to make me into a puppet who dangled from her strings.
After lunch we laid around for a few hours, Elena continuing with the stupid question routine, most of them slipping by unanswered. She was on the couch, and I was on the bed. It was truly amazing, how she'd ask something random, and before I could even respond, she'd fire off another, like target-less shots fired from a machine gun into the dark of night, to keep an imaginary predator at bay.
It wasn't her fault; Elena was Elena. There was just no longer a place for her in my world. Besides that, I'd spent the entire previous week around people, having volunteered to man the booth at a trade show for a friend. Every night that week, after working the show, I'd had dinner with old colleagues and business constituents. Someone I saw at the show must have run into Elena and mentioned me, because she phoned out of the blue saying that she was coming to the coast for that weekend. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was just a coincidence—old ghosts have a way of their own.
The last time I'd heard from Elena before this encounter was a year or so earlier, at an annual Christmas party. She found me sitting in the kitchen, catching up with some old friends. She whispered something to her date, left the guy standing alone with his hands in his pockets, and walked over for a hug.
"You're looking hot!" I whispered into her ear as we embraced, her date observing from a distance.
"Thanks, you're looking pretty good yourself," she whispered back. "If I remember right, you've got a birthday coming up soon."
"Quite a memory you got there."
"Some things are hard to forget. Have plans?"
"Yeah, I'm having dinner with a friend that evening," I answered, testing her reaction. I had dinner plans with a beautiful young woman who I'd been dreaming about for the past couple of years.
"Well, how about lunch then?"
"Sure, that'll work," I answered, thinking about having my birthday cake and eating it, too.
And it all came to pass: we met for lunch, and I ended up rolling out of her bed at six-thirty that evening. I hurried home to shower off the remnants of our meal and was only half-an-hour late picking up my lovely dream-puff. I turned a year older that day, for lunch I got my brains screwed out by the grand inquisitor, what little brains I had. And then that evening, I basked in the delight of who I wished would pop out of my birthday cake and be my happily-ever-after—but that's another story.
Anyway, that's how Elena came back into the picture, and after a couple of years, she had come to buy a purse and pay a visit. Between the barrages of machine gun fire, Elena managed to slip from the safety of the couch where she'd taken refuge and joined me on the bed. I rubbed her back and neck for a while and then told her to roll over so that I could do her front side, but she developed a timely bellyache and ran off to the toilet, defining her visit as non-conjugal. When Elena came out of the bathroom she sat on the couch and began to talk about herself and a girlfriend, about all the different men they'd been dating.
"Did I tell you about that one guy I dated who had E.D.?"
"E.D.?"
"Erectile dysfunction," she translated, as if she was an expert in the field. "He was mushy anyway."
"Mushy?"
"Yeah, you know, too emotional."
"No, I don't know," I answered, glancing over to see the expression on Elena's face. I was confused; most of her pissing and moaning over the years had all been about men who were emotionally unavailable and unable to commit.
"He was so needy. One time he told me that his lips were dry, hinting for me to give him a kiss. I told him, 'Look, if you want to kiss me, kiss me. But don't come off with this, my lips are dry crap'," she rattled, staring up at the ceiling with a wrinkled up forehead filled with disdain.
"Why were you hanging out with that queer fucker for, anyway?"
"I'm a queer fucker magnet," she answered, without giving it two seconds thought.
"And what the hell does that make me?"
"Oh . . ."
Oh, my ass, just get up and get the hell out of here, just leave me the heck alone to be in peace, please . . . I listened to Elena's horseshit that evening, had breakfast with her the following morning and then the ol' ghost and her new purse set off for home.
I never really liked the woman all that much. She was a great big pain in the ass, always had been and always would be. There was a reason ol' Twinkle Toes had gone his own way. Elena always expected a man to respond to her in a certain fashion, and if he didn't, there was something 'wrong' with him. Limp Dick's pecker might well have been serving him, not standing to Elena's attention. He might have had a built in safety device that said, "Run like hell while you still can."
My problem was . . . well, I can't say that it was really a problem . . . it just became a problem later. Pain in the ass or not, I'd stick it in, and then I'd run. And then Elena would call a week or two later, asking why I hadn't phoned, saying that she felt used . . . But damn, I just didn't like her all that much, having to hear all the bullshit drama about how her sister-in-law had brainwashed her brother, about how she ran his life and that he was no longer a free man. I'd have to listen all about how her friend was dating some scumbag who had once done time. I'd have to listen all about how her boss wanted her, but he was depressed, and on and on, and on. And on top of it all, she wasn't so hot in bed. Oh, she'd make a hell of a lot of noise, but it was all about her, all about her being pleased, but not about her pleasing, but like I said, ol' Twinkle Toes left for a reason.
Elena's entire life was centered around taking, about taking another's time and energy, about a 'new purse,' about having her existence validated, all at the cost of others. If she didn't fall in love with herself every time she looked into a mirror, perhaps she and her alter ego could have had a meaningful conversation and all those unanswered questions could be resolved.
Anyway, all that was eight or more years ago. Last time we actually spoke was a few years back. She had somehow tracked me down, called to piss in my ear about how she and her sister-in-law had had it out and the entire family was at odds, divided. Half had sided with her and half had sided with her brother, and they had been at a stalemate for more then two years without as much as speaking to one another. I thought that was a pretty sad thing, and I told Elena so, too.
"Elena, who care's who's right or wrong. It's your brother, for goodness sake. Just make up and be done with it. Just fix it and be done with it. The poor guy's married. Even if your sister-in-law was out of line, he can't side with you. He's stuck in the middle. He can't flippin' win and you're the only one who can fix this. So just fix it, even if you are in the right . . ."
"Yeah, but..."
That was Elena—Miss Yeah But. She didn't want to fix a thing. She wanted to fight. She wanted to piss and moan. She wanted to have the whole family in an uproar, that way she remained the centerpiece of attention. She wasn't about to give up that throne.
Six months ago, Queen Elena sent an email, found my address from my website. I didn't answer . . . actually, I did. She wanted me to write to her, to fill her in on my life. The queen had graced the jester with her query and wanted to be entertained. I just wrote back, turned her words on her and asked that she tell me about her life. Well, that really screwed with her, and she responded with some . . . well, she was baiting me into her web, so I just let it go. If she really wanted to know about my life, all she had to do was read my books.
A few months later, she phoned my publisher and left a message, wishing me a happy birthday and asking that I return her call. But I didn't bother returning her call once I did receive the message. Then, just last week, she emailed my publisher, complaining that I hadn't gotten back to her, making it seem as if there was a crisis. When asked if it was an emergency, she wrote back, saying that there was no emergency, and then explained that she was an old friend and just wanted to share some news, 'old family stuff,' crap that she just knew I'd be interested in. Her message ended by saying that her next step would be to contact my parents in order to obtain my phone number. One way or another, the Queen will have her way—it's all about Elena, you know!
I emailed my mother: "Mom, if Elena calls looking for me, tell her I'm in Dubai and don't give her anymore information, not my phone number, nothing! She's a real crackerjack!"
Mom wrote back: "Okay, I'll also tell Dad. Who is she, anyway, and how crazy?"
I didn't answer Mom on that one. It doesn't really matter how crazy Elena is, just as long as she doesn't know how to find me. I'll tell you one thing; you can bet Elena's not trying to track down ol' Limp Dick to piss in his ear. She forgot about him long ago. But me . . . well, I had to go stick it in, and now all these years later, I'm still running from that black hole. I wonder whatever became of ol' Twinkle Toes?
Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com or www.malcolmclay.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2008 Mel Mathews
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2008 Mel Mathews
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