1983
“He wrote a book?” Sorehead said. “That loser?”
I cringed. Nothing like a worse loser calling the guy you liked one.
“Cheap drunk,” Frankie poured himself a beer. “Drinks our pitchers, but when it’s time to ante up…”
Dreamy-eyed, Brian would strike a pose, recite his poetry. Here, at Liberty State’s pub, he was famous. At least to me, a writer, too. I was scared to show anyone my stories. Instead, I hid them in my dresser.
“C’mon,” Frankie said once. “How bad could they be?” I shook my head.
Brian got it. “’Fear,’” he’d quoted, but just to me. “’Of failure, of not putting yourself out there . . . into someone’s arms.” My heart leapt, though his words made no sense.
He was so cute, with long-lashed brown eyes, and that sparse mustache. Like a teen trying to look grown-up. Who cared if his poetry was screwy?
“A chapbook,” I said. “That he published himself.”
“Of his fine poetry?” Sorehead sounded respectful. They both laughed.
In my tote bag I had a copy, but I wasn’t sharing it. Bad enough it was stapled, inside a purple plastic file folder . . . But if they knew I’d paid for it . . .
And he can’t buy a pitcher? they’d say.
“What’d he name it?” Frankie asked. “This so-brilliant-I-couldn’t-wait-for-a-real- publisher-I-had-to-do-it-myself poetry book?”
Again, I cringed. “Cellophane Violet.”
Like hyenas, they laughed. Sorehead almost fell out of his chair.
“Why cellophane?” Frankie said. “Why not plastic? And what’s wrong with purple?”
“Too hard to rhyme,” Sorehead said. “But violet, there’s forget, regret, Corvette. Debt! Like you’re in so much debt, you can’t chip in for . . .”
“Shelley!” they yelled, when I stormed out.
But I was never mad for long. I loved those two jerks. Not like how I loved Brian, but . . .
Every time that Police song came on the jukebox, I swelled up. “Every . . . Breath . . .
You . . . Take.” I knew Brian was watching me. Waiting. . . .
Would he ever make a move?
If he only knew I slept with Cellophane Violet.
Violet. Debt. So much debt . . .
That’s it! I realized. A party at my place. Just beers and snacks.
With free booze, I couldn’t lose.
My own rhyme made me smile.
“I’ll be there,” Brian promised. Eyes sly under those long lashes.
“’Course he will,” Frankie squeezed a six-pack into my fridge. “Empty-handed.”
He and Sorehead had shown up first. Next, my neighbors: Lonely Nathan, who brought a case of Bud. Sammy, the newest tenant, whose one unpacked box (labeled “Open this first”) held a half-gallon of rum. Raul, the super, with his new fat girlfriend.
“Mami!” As Raul squeezed me, Fatty Pants glared.
Great, I thought.
The Jackson Brown cassette should’ve mellowed us out. For once, my tiny studio was clean. All I could afford with my shitty job. Kitchenette, tiny bathroom, half-living room/half- bedroom. No matter where you stood, my bed and desk were in plain sight.
On top of the desk, you couldn’t miss the flash of purple . . .
The crudely stapled Cellophane Violet.
“Where’s Dylan Thomas?” Sorehead said.
“That old poet?” Nathan nursed his beer. “Thought he was dead.”
“Dead thirty yearsss.” Sammy had showed up trashed, with only one eye open.
“Put on some real music!” Raul said. “Let’s dance, Mami!” Fatty Pants glared harder as he pulled out his Spanish music cassette.
Hours passed. Where was “Dylan Thomas”? If he didn’t come, I would die.
“I’ll be there,” he swore.
My gut ached. Even with Nathan’s case, we were almost out of beer. Raul and I had danced a few times, then I got dizzy. For spite, Fatty Pants had eaten all the Cheese Doodles.
“He ain’t comin’,” Frankie said smugly. I was close to crying.
Then, out of nowhere, Brian showed up! If he’d knocked, or rung the bell, Raul’s last tune had drowned it out. But here he was.
“Hide that rum,” Sorehead told Sammy.
In the doorway, Brian swayed, with this strange look. Like he’d just woke up, but he wasn’t sure from where.
Did he even know he was here?
“Go get ‘im!” Frankie said as I went over to Brian . . .
Whose pants were on backwards.
I stood close, to block the others’ view. Smashed myself, I still smelled the all-day drunk on him. His bloodshot eyes looked through me.
“Want a drink?” I said.
“Yeah,” I heard from behind me. “He looks like he needs one.” Fatty Pants’s first words of the night.
We’d run out of beer. But in the fridge, behind the SlimFast mix, was my emergency beer. Only for Brian would I give that up.
“I’m glad you’re here.” My hand shook as I gave him the beer.
He cracked it. After a big gulp, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Finally, his eyes focused. “Me, too.”
Nervously, I looked down at the floor. When I looked up, he was leering.
“I was gonna grab your ass,” he said, “But I’d rather read your stories.”
I almost fell over. “Huh?” My face felt red-hot. No way!
In my mind, I saw them, in composition notebooks, in the dresser drawer, tucked between my bras and panties.
Like he’d read my mind, he marched past us all into my bedroom.
“What’s he doin’ in there?” Frankie said, a little while later.
“Waiting for you, Mami,” Raul told me.
Sammy was out cold. I splashed some rum into a used cup, downed it, then went into the bedroom.
Somehow, Brian had found my notebooks. Maybe he really had X-ray vision. Or he guessed which drawer they were in. Bras and panties had been flung about. His back was to me. My favorite bra, the black lacy one, was draped over his shoulder.
Hunched over, he was scribbling something. Shook his head, then grabbed a handful of his hair. “No! No!” he said. “Say it like this.” Again, he was scribbling.
Correcting my stories.
Trembling, I sank down on the bed.
He turned and gave me a haughty look. “No wonder you keep these hidden.”
I opened my mouth, but no words would come.
He winked.
“Get out,” I said.
He wrapped my bra around his neck and picked up Cellophane Violet. Kissed the top of my head and left.
It had got quiet out there. Then a click, as Raul ejected his dance cassette. Footsteps, as most guests left.
“Shel!” Frankie called out, finally. “You OK?”
I clutched the notebooks to my chest.
“Say something.”
“Violet,” I whispered. “Regret . . . Forget.”
THE END
Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and the art director of Black Petals. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
