Mk.22
08-02-2010, 10:49 AM
It’s Summer. The trees are in full bloom-thick with green leaves, chirping birds, and those ugly hissing cicadas. Alex is running late. If she walks fast she’ll probably make it home before sunset. She decides however, to stroll home, leisurely and careless, ebbing down the road like leaves floating on a rocky stream. It’s a smart choice- she had been working in the basement of the theatre all day and is tired and sweaty and sticky, plus, the breeze is cool and refreshing on the back of her neck.
It’s what she does in the summer months when schools out, Alex, organizing film reels down in the basement of the theatre-1920’s, 30’s, 40’s, 50’s-immersing herself for a few hours every day in a black, and white, and sepia world of flappers, speakeasies, and folk tunes.
She walks towards the sunset. The sky is all red and yellow and purple, and the sun, like an orange laser, is searing through the sky, steadily down to the horizon. Alex is taking a short cut-a dirt road that takes her up past the lake and down to a cross street, where her house is just a little further on up the road. She walks, elbows at her sides, hands turning and fingers rolling through the wind, and she pauses every couple of minutes to admire the stables, and long wooden fences, and the squirrels that chase each other around the trees, and over and under the bushes and into the shrub grass.
She’s mulling something over in her head- trying to remember the name of the movie that was on this morning. A film with Humphrey Bogart, playing some con man, with five other people, trying to buy land loaded with uranium, but playing it off like they’re on the market for vacuum cleaners. Vacuum cleaners. She laughs.
The movies rub off on her, she’s not going to lie. At work she finds herself carrying crates of film reels stuffed in small silver cartridges, twirling and spinning around a dark room, rich with creaky shelves, and old wooden desks, holding candy cigarettes between her lips and looking careless, rolling her eyes and blowing out fake smoke to the air. It makes her feel more mature. When she’s alone at home, she puts on lipstick, and blush, and eyeliner, and mascara, and purses her lips and squints her eyes in the mirror like Vivien Leigh. She borrows heels from her sister, and dances around in front of her armoire: swirling and tilting her head and bending her leg back and laughing like Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn. Alex speaks eloquently into the mirror, saying things like “Acquiesce,”
and “Ravishing,” and quietly places her hand on her chest when she says things like, “Oh my,” and “Good Lord.”
But the truth is, Alex isn’t a woman. She doesn’t have the posture- the drawn back shoulders. She doesn’t have the cheekbones, high and pointy and defined. She lacks the thick, full-grown legs, and mature, round breasts. Her walk is wobbly and unsure, and hunched forward, not strong and assertive and hard.
She isn’t a woman, but for 15, she is still a pretty girl.
Bending her head forward, she walks towards home, through the dirt, and rocks, and sticks and stray patches of grass. The Farms, and stables, and homes grow more and more sparse, and eventually there are none-just trees: thick, full, arching trees, dense with leaves and flowers, and roots that brake out around their stumps like a bolt of lightning in the night sky.
There’s a stray chill in the air. It cuts through her tan, sweaty skin, and rolls up her arms and onto her neck and she shakes for a moment, and her arms get all bumpy and prickly. She grabs her elbows and takes a deep breathe.
Behind her, she hears it- a low noise, something buzzing, humming methodically, like an engine, interrupting the sounds of nature: the birds chirp, the trees rustle, the squirrels chatter.
She guesses she’s been on the road for a while now. Looking back uncertainly, she sees nothing but a twisting path, like an entranceway to a cave of branches and twisted vines.
She gets curious. It was in the silence between her inhale and exhale that she hears it again, coming up behind her, following her.
Than she feels it, headlights pressing on her, shining on her, like a lighthouse shepherding a stray rowboat to shore.
She turns around-sort of spooked, sort of curious- and the car comes to a slow stop. She squints and shields her eyes in the headlights. They’re bright, like big, bug eyes, and their bluish rays battle the evening haze, lighting up the dust and dirt and mosquito’s that floated along in their path.
She gives the car a curious look. She’s never seen anything like it before- low and curvy, and sleek, with big thick tires, and shiny, silver hubcaps.
The wind picks up again, a stronger breeze now, colder, and unsettling. Alex lifts her shoulders and shivers. The leaves pirouette off of the ground and rustle through the trees. The car was still behind her, following slowly and steadily.
The engine revs and she can feel the car moving behind her. It’s moving closer, she can tell, and It pulls up along side her and she examines her reflection in rear passenger side window, black and shiny like obsidian glass.
The window rolls down a few inches, buzzing low and smooth. Alex sees part of her reflection sinking into the silver trim. She feels the steady stream of cold air leave the car and cool her skin. It smells of leather and expensive cologne.
“Hello, Alex,” he says to her, in a smooth voice.
Tilting her neck, she looks in the window. The car is dark. She struggles to see him, and is caught off guard, and a little nervous. It’s been stressed to her hundreds of times, “don’t talk to strangers,” and hundreds of times she’s scoffed and rolled her eyes and told her mom in an irritated voice that she knows, and she’s not stupid.
And she isn’t stupid, but this man knows her name. He’s no stranger. He’s probably a friend of her moms, or he’s seen her around the theatre.
It’s what she does in the summer months when schools out, Alex, organizing film reels down in the basement of the theatre-1920’s, 30’s, 40’s, 50’s-immersing herself for a few hours every day in a black, and white, and sepia world of flappers, speakeasies, and folk tunes.
She walks towards the sunset. The sky is all red and yellow and purple, and the sun, like an orange laser, is searing through the sky, steadily down to the horizon. Alex is taking a short cut-a dirt road that takes her up past the lake and down to a cross street, where her house is just a little further on up the road. She walks, elbows at her sides, hands turning and fingers rolling through the wind, and she pauses every couple of minutes to admire the stables, and long wooden fences, and the squirrels that chase each other around the trees, and over and under the bushes and into the shrub grass.
She’s mulling something over in her head- trying to remember the name of the movie that was on this morning. A film with Humphrey Bogart, playing some con man, with five other people, trying to buy land loaded with uranium, but playing it off like they’re on the market for vacuum cleaners. Vacuum cleaners. She laughs.
The movies rub off on her, she’s not going to lie. At work she finds herself carrying crates of film reels stuffed in small silver cartridges, twirling and spinning around a dark room, rich with creaky shelves, and old wooden desks, holding candy cigarettes between her lips and looking careless, rolling her eyes and blowing out fake smoke to the air. It makes her feel more mature. When she’s alone at home, she puts on lipstick, and blush, and eyeliner, and mascara, and purses her lips and squints her eyes in the mirror like Vivien Leigh. She borrows heels from her sister, and dances around in front of her armoire: swirling and tilting her head and bending her leg back and laughing like Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn. Alex speaks eloquently into the mirror, saying things like “Acquiesce,”
and “Ravishing,” and quietly places her hand on her chest when she says things like, “Oh my,” and “Good Lord.”
But the truth is, Alex isn’t a woman. She doesn’t have the posture- the drawn back shoulders. She doesn’t have the cheekbones, high and pointy and defined. She lacks the thick, full-grown legs, and mature, round breasts. Her walk is wobbly and unsure, and hunched forward, not strong and assertive and hard.
She isn’t a woman, but for 15, she is still a pretty girl.
Bending her head forward, she walks towards home, through the dirt, and rocks, and sticks and stray patches of grass. The Farms, and stables, and homes grow more and more sparse, and eventually there are none-just trees: thick, full, arching trees, dense with leaves and flowers, and roots that brake out around their stumps like a bolt of lightning in the night sky.
There’s a stray chill in the air. It cuts through her tan, sweaty skin, and rolls up her arms and onto her neck and she shakes for a moment, and her arms get all bumpy and prickly. She grabs her elbows and takes a deep breathe.
Behind her, she hears it- a low noise, something buzzing, humming methodically, like an engine, interrupting the sounds of nature: the birds chirp, the trees rustle, the squirrels chatter.
She guesses she’s been on the road for a while now. Looking back uncertainly, she sees nothing but a twisting path, like an entranceway to a cave of branches and twisted vines.
She gets curious. It was in the silence between her inhale and exhale that she hears it again, coming up behind her, following her.
Than she feels it, headlights pressing on her, shining on her, like a lighthouse shepherding a stray rowboat to shore.
She turns around-sort of spooked, sort of curious- and the car comes to a slow stop. She squints and shields her eyes in the headlights. They’re bright, like big, bug eyes, and their bluish rays battle the evening haze, lighting up the dust and dirt and mosquito’s that floated along in their path.
She gives the car a curious look. She’s never seen anything like it before- low and curvy, and sleek, with big thick tires, and shiny, silver hubcaps.
The wind picks up again, a stronger breeze now, colder, and unsettling. Alex lifts her shoulders and shivers. The leaves pirouette off of the ground and rustle through the trees. The car was still behind her, following slowly and steadily.
The engine revs and she can feel the car moving behind her. It’s moving closer, she can tell, and It pulls up along side her and she examines her reflection in rear passenger side window, black and shiny like obsidian glass.
The window rolls down a few inches, buzzing low and smooth. Alex sees part of her reflection sinking into the silver trim. She feels the steady stream of cold air leave the car and cool her skin. It smells of leather and expensive cologne.
“Hello, Alex,” he says to her, in a smooth voice.
Tilting her neck, she looks in the window. The car is dark. She struggles to see him, and is caught off guard, and a little nervous. It’s been stressed to her hundreds of times, “don’t talk to strangers,” and hundreds of times she’s scoffed and rolled her eyes and told her mom in an irritated voice that she knows, and she’s not stupid.
And she isn’t stupid, but this man knows her name. He’s no stranger. He’s probably a friend of her moms, or he’s seen her around the theatre.