Issue 10.1 Fall 2014

issue 10.1 cover image

 

 

Untitled

 

Brady Adams

 

 

HE nibbles and then eats his fingers casually, one by one. SHE approaches him directly
through a clutter of chairs and tables. ANOTHER YOUNG LADY chats on the phone for
all to hear, and He tries to think of clever remarks to the forthcoming discourse.

 

HER: Do you want a Coke. (She points to its damaged top and sets it in front of Him on
the beardless table.)

 

HIM: (after She begins to walk away emotionless, softly and without ever trying to make
eye contact) Yeah.

 

They love each other dearly.

 

HIM: (to the Coffee Maker beside him wearing the same color; neither of them have feet
so the table rests on its own almost mockingly, but submissively too—after a few
thoughtful sips) It’s just as temperate as the air—it makes my figments persist.

 

COFFEE MAKER: (thinking to itself) Don’t write them, we’re better not to.

 

TABLE: I settled. You two move more than I do. How come some that can don’t?

 

HIM: (making eyes at anyone he can, with Her still pacing around and could notice at
any moment) I tried to wink at someone today.

 

YET ANOTHER YOUNG LADY: (halfway across the café) I heard you… need to use
the restroom, and not for the purpose of resting either.

 

HIM: Uh huh, I’ll finish the rest later when the bald men quit flirting with the island of
condiments looking around for something on Her.

 

YET ANOTHER: Don’t they know that I’m an udder one too? An udder day an udder
dollar, they say.

 

HIM: Eh, I’ll crawl to the bathroom now, finish the rest when it’s udder-ly impossible.

 

TABLE: (meekly) I would go with you but I’ve only one leg and four feet…that’s one to
many to cover a yard, and so I won’t go.


Later She lifts three bags of waste and, in doing so, reveals more of her tasteful chest.
Returning, scratching her back one of her straps slips unnoticeably and He thinks of
bliss. The ceiling tiles are warped in places and have birthmarks. They wonder if they
have feet.


THRIFT GIRL: (Emerging sincerely) I symbolize de-feet. That’s sun square table you’ve
elevated there, sunhow. I love what you’ve blinded with the place.

 

HER: (from across the room, though joined in the malversation naturally) You sure
know how to lift someone’s lidded (shits) spirits (stated lovingly though).


THEFT GIRL: (rear in appearing) Smudge porridge—I dig.


BEHIND HIM: I’m all limbs, friends. I was once droppings surrounded by the thriving
potted plants, but now I’ve acquired—not earned, mind you—the identification of cherno-
zem. I relish in listening to you all, but I wouldn’t taste like it on a hot dog.


HIM: (to HER) Why race? It makes your feet tired, there’s no rush anyway.


BEHIND: (additionally) … and even when there is, the word expelled from your face is
‘Mush!’ and so your nose wanes and your toes get wrinkles.


DWINDLE: A lil’ wane goes along with a long way. I’m the ‘Another Young Lady’ you
heard from earlier—and I speak on behalf of the coughing herd.


HER: (coughin’ in the coffin) Coffee will go straight through ya though, you’re right—
but seldom will it make it all the way down to your heels.


HIM: (with an ornery snicker) Cum on my lean simoom.


DWINDLE: Oh, I thought She’d told you—Simon isn’t here tonight.


CHEESY, GIGGLY DANCERS (named PLAID and SIPPING DAWN): (entering,
buying one iced coffee and synchronized swimming to the island, only to behave there
before settling.)


HER: (back at the counter fixing drinks and such; to no one in particular, not even
herself) Alright.


HIM: (desiring to strike up the match of conversation with the dancers, but already
lengthily glancing plenty, so whispering in their direction out of earshot) Teach me how
to move poorly so that I forget about controlling myself intelligibly and therefore laugh
and lose legible handwriting.


Nothing else is heard as we ignore the dancers’ chatter, the instrumental music from the
stereo, HER perpetually repeated work-dance, and only focus in upon the only other
gentleman who munches without showing us, his one layer of hair just as wonderfully
false as Her hips are beautifully set off-kilter. The Gentleman’s three-inch stack of white
papers silently acts as mirror to your narrator. The stench of intrigue that everyone has
set aside rises. It is a beautiful late afternoon and the black man (not discovered until
now), in my soul only for a second because of us glancing, ventures to speak—though not
even She hears—only what’s BEHIND Him discerns and opens to his words.


BLACK MAN WITH TIE: That’s probably just the storm talking, but get to those poems
with your intent, we want them—and flaccid too, like this place’s pancakes that you and I
and Her love.


BEHIND: (after the man exits forever) He spoke with such alacrity that I’m ashamed of
my saturnine behavior; but I also do not pity what’s in front of me now (we share
disposition and behavior, you know). (He spins upward and exits, kicking the large
plants’ pots lovingly)


GENTLEMAN: (gently makes a point when turning around to give HIM and BEHIND
HIM acknowledgement, then sheds his presence in this place) I’ll take everyone’s place
and say—


HER: (interrupting and keeping HIM/BEHIND from doing the same) …I put the ‘nine’ in
saturnine.


Everyone coexists and exits simultaneously, except for HER.


…“Leading the world one pair at a time,” that’s what I’d beyond say; I’d like HIM to
make love to me from BEHIND.


HIM: (waiting off-stage, reflecting to himself) Oh, if I wasn’t in a chair right now…


HER: (exiting to close the curtains and be with HIM, and hearing His remark that He
wants to dance to the song playing proudly in the foreground) Do you want me to say
something?


And then He insulted Her (dotingly).

 

 

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