The excerpt I posted last weekend from my story, Her Life, comes two thirds of the way through the story. This is pretty much where the story begins.
...they heard the sound of the bolt snapping open in the front door.
“God,” she said under her breath, “I hope that’s not Charlie.”
“Charlie? What would Charlie be doing here?”
“He comes by sometimes.” She reached for her glasses. “He has a key.”
“You gave him a key?”
“Quiet.” She stood up, scanning the room for her robe. Robby caressed her bottom with the backs of his fingers. He kissed her left cheek. “Stop that!”
“I don’t understand why you don’t want Charlie to know about us.”
“I just don’t. It’s none of his business.”
“If it is Charlie, he just opened your refrigerator.”
“He’s allowed.”
“He’s allowed to know the contents of your refrigerator but not the contents of your bedroom.”
“That’s right. Look. He’s a friend. He comes by late at night sometimes when he’s feeling down. If I’m up, we talk. If I’m asleep or out, he makes himself a sandwich and puts on some music, smokes a little grass. In the morning I find him asleep on the couch.”
“He’s kind of pathetic, isn’t he?”
“Kind of. Where is my robe? Do you see it?”
“You should greet him like this. Make his night.”
“Give him a heart attack, what it would do. There it is.” Kathy dug her robe out from under a pillow at the foot of the bed. She bent and kissed Robby on the mouth, and said, “Remember my place.” At the door she looked back quick and saw him in the moonlight, lying flat on his back, his arm across his eyes, already falling asleep.
“You are so beautiful,” she whispered. “Except for that stupid goatee.” But every other guy sprouted one of those these days and at least his was a pretty color. She reminded herself: I’m not in love.
It wasn’t Charlie.
“So I’m at the Brig.” Kara started right in. She was sitting at the table in the dark. The streetlight outside the kitchen window lit half her face and, shining through the beer in front of her, made the bottle glow amber from inside. “You know how they got the three bars in there, the big one in back for the tourists and college kids and the two up in the front windows for us locals who are there just to drink? Well, I’m up at one of the ones in front, staring out over the bartender’s shoulder at the street, just sitting there having one more cigarette, and this guy going by outside looks in at me and does a doubletake, his eyes going all wide, like this.” Kara demonstrated. “And I smile, because I think, naturally, he’s got an eyeful of my tits, right? I figure I smile nice, maybe he’ll come in. Cause he’s nice looking. Old, forty maybe, but nice looking, and he’s got that summer tan and the polo shirt. Money. And looks. I think, I’ve struck gold! Dummy me. The look on his face? It was, I can’t describe it. Fuck that. Course I can. Pure pity. Asshole was feeling sorry for me.”
Kathy turned on the light. Both sisters winced. She turned it off again. “Sorry.” Sitting down at the table, Kathy slid Kara’s pack of Winstons over, tapped one out, and pulled her sister’s hand over to light it on her cigarette. “Why would he do that? Feel sorry for you?”
Kara laughed. He laughter had turned harsh. Her laugh was the laugh of a middle-aged woman who smoke and drank too much. Kara had always been precocious. She said, “Why do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because...What he saw wasn’t what I thought I was, a hot babe with ten miles of cleavage wearing her best Come Fuck Me smile. What he saw is what I am. A poor pathetic go nowhere loser drinking all alone at ten minutes to closing.”
“You’re not a pathetic loser.”
“Yeah, right.”
Kara was eleven months older than Kathy. When they were kids, and even up until only a couple of years ago, people had often mistaken them for twins, they’d looked that much alike. That’s why Kathy had never gotten contacts. Kara said Kathy wore the glasses to make people think she was the smarter one, and what did she care if they did, as long as they knew Kara was the sexy one. But Kathy wore them to make sure people didn’t confuse her with Kara and expect the same things. She didn’t need them anymore for that, Kara had gained so much weight. He legs were still good, and she’d packed it on in her chest as well as in her butt, so she had bigger boobs, and Kara was pleased about that. But her face had changed. Her features seemed to have shrunk. Her eyes were little black slits. And her skin had turned red. Kathy thought her sister was ugly now, which is why she’d turned out the light. More than to spare their eyes, she’d done it to spare herself the pain of feeling sorry for her big sister.
Kara said, “Oh well. He probably had a real tiny dick. Those types always do.”
They were quiet for a long time, sitting together in mirrored poses, heads back, holding their cigarettes near the tips of their first two fingers, bringing them languidly to their lips, exhaling the smoke toward the ceiling with identical sighs, losing themselves in thought after every puff. Kara stared at nothing in the shadowy air of the kitchen. Kathy stared at nothing in the drifting fog outside the window. It was a muggy night, but cool, with enough of a breeze to luff the curtains. Their apartment was on the third floor of a four-story gabled house on Main Street. There were five other apartments below theirs, one above. Their landlord ran a liquor store on the first floor. Late at night, with the sidewalks emptied of tourists, with few cars passing by on the street and those few going by solitarily, long, silent gaps of time between each one and the next, Kathy believed that she could hear the surf growling and sighing its way to shore, although the beach was a mile away. Maybe she only heard it the way you heard the ocean when you put a seashell to your ear. She listened now and heard something. Whatever it was, waves on sand or blood in her own ears, it made her sad. Irritation with her sister came over Kathy like a headache.
“Is this all you plan to do with your life? Go to bars hoping to get picked up by rich tourists, come home and beat yourself up when it doesn’t happen?”
“I don’t plan to do anything. Whatever happens, happens.” Kara stood and walked over to the sink. She ran water over her cigarette and threw the butt in the wastebasket. “Is there any pot in this house?”
“Where it always is.”
Kara opened a cabinet, moved cans of soup and tomato paste around, and found the coffee can in back. “You want some?”
Kathy shook her head. Kara lit a joint. She left the coffee can sitting open on the counter. Kathy frowned at her. Kara held the smoke in her lungs, coughed it out. She took another drag and, holding it in again, managed to squeeze off, “Tonight was the big night for you.”
“Yes.”
“How was it?” “Wonderful.” Kathy strained all the emotion out of her voice. Kara jerked her chin toward the bedroom. “He still in there?” “Yes.” Kara nodded knowingly. She took another hit, let it out with a rush, exclaiming, “God! I am so horny! I don’t suppose you feel like sharing?” “No!” “Whatever.” “God!” “Just a suggestion.” “How can you think like that?” “I thought you might be in a giving mood.” “You’re awful.” “I was only kidding. Jeez. When did you get so greedy?” There was a long silence while Kara sulked. Finally she said, “We used to share Stephen.” “Stephen.” Kathy sneered out the name of her ex-husband. “Yes. Stephen. You were a lot more generous then.” “I was a lot more stupid.” “I thought you were fun.” “I was fucked up, is what I was. Stephen!” “Stephen was your husband. This guy, you’ve had what, three dates with? And tonight’s the first time you fucked? With your husband, it was like, Hey, Kara, come have a piece of my pie. Like he was a dessert you couldn’t finish by yourself. This guy—“ “Robby.” “Robby. Guy you hardly know, you’re all, Back off, sis, he’s mine! I’d say you were mixing up your priorities. What’s so special about this one?” “You wouldn’t understand.” “He’s not special, Kath.” “Drop it, ok?” “He sure as shit doesn’t think you’re special, lay you odds on that.” “Like you’d have any idea.” “I have a pretty good idea what’s going to happen when summer’s over.” “So do I.” “He’s going to go to law school like you said.” “Maybe.” “He’s going.” “He says he wants to stay here.” “Stay here. And do what?” “Paint.” “Paint! Houses?” “Don’t start with me, Kara. I’m trying not to think too hard about this. I’m just trying to take it one day at a time.” “He knows you got a eight year old daughter?” “I’ve told him.” “And a ex-husband?” “Yes.” “Who’s a criminal?” “Yes.” “He’s going. Trust me, come Labor Day it’ll be like, See ya later, bye. It’s been real, and it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been like real fun. Jesus. How did you do this to yourself? Why get yourself mixed up with a guy like that? Who do you think you are? The Little Mermaid? This isn’t a fairy tale, sis. In real life the prince doesn’t marry the peasant girl. He just fucks her, knocks her up, and leaves her for the next knight in shining armor she’s dumb enough to think’s come to rescue her, even with the hard-on poking out his chain mail telling her what’s the only thing on his mind. And he’s such a little boy! What is he, twenty-two? You are way too old for him.” “He’s twenty-one.” “He’s a baby!” “Five years, that’s not such a big difference in ages.” “For guys his type it is. Twenty-one for him is a whole lot younger than it was for us. The difference between him at twenty-one and us at twenty-six is like the difference between him and a kid in junior high school. He’s a baby, Kathy!” “I know. I’m being careful.” Kara looked at her sister sadly. “I hope so.” She took a last drag on the joint and offered the roach to Kathy. Kathy waved it away, then changed her mind. Kara handed it over. She said, “You sure you don’t want to share him? Make him grow up in a hurry.”
---from Her Life, a short story by Lance Mannion.
great stuff, again!
Posted by: Matt | Saturday, July 15, 2006 at 02:20 AM
Oh gawd he's writin' about the Rah-Hah's agin!
Hey Lance did you ever see the movie "Barfly"?
I'll rent it for ya.
Be sure to put a flood in this one.
Posted by: Uncle Merlin | Saturday, July 15, 2006 at 10:41 AM
Now I'd--oh I don't know, something drastic, shave my head, maybe--to read your story IN ORDER. When you first indicated that your first installment fit about 3/4ths into the story, I conjectured that maybe that's where it should start. (Writers are always offering other writers this kind of misleading, unasked for advice.) But you know exactly what you're doing. I was hooked before, but now I've got it stuck in my head in mismatched order. Your true beginning is fast and interesting and no one's going to stop reading it at this point. So bravo! And, if you continue to show your fiction (which as you know, I for one, would be thrilled if you did), remember whatever meets your demands, and only your demands, is always right. People giving advice are talking about themselves. Even the best writers, I'm guessing, tend to focus mostly on their most recent, personal, story-making struggles. Consider posting it start to finish. What you discover then might make a difference as long as you stick to your own voice, the shapes and images as they develop in your head, and dismiss suggestions from people who can't possibly know as much about your short story as you do.
Posted by: grasshopper | Saturday, July 15, 2006 at 08:23 PM
I know there's a lot of really good fiction out there which I'd never read because of the genre. I caught on to one of those spy writers (lots of military insider stuff) for a short bit on a friend's rather emphatic rec, and got 3 more outta the libray before a new one by one of my usual faves showed up on the shelves. I don't even remember his name now! But I'm glad I read him, cuz he was a much better writer than his genre would've led me to believe was likely.
I'm glad you post bits of your fiction here. I hope I get to read the whole thing soon.
Posted by: Michael Bains | Sunday, July 16, 2006 at 07:00 PM
You have a nice way with dialogue, Lance.
Posted by: Idyllopus | Monday, July 17, 2006 at 07:52 AM
I'm really loving it. Thanks for sharing.
Posted by: Claire | Monday, July 17, 2006 at 10:57 AM