Bitter and Numb Nothing More

[Steven Hunley]

Bitter and Numb Nothing More
by

Steven Hunley




When Timothy woke up it wasn’t light yet. In June it gets foggy on the coast. Californians call it the "June Gloom" for good reasons.

He walked through the kitchen and grabbed his army coat and a bottle of Jack Daniels, half-empty from the night before. He went back into the bedroom and put on his rubber flip-flops and walked out the sliding glass door silently, leaving Julie, her blond hair a tousle, asleep in his bed undisturbed. There was nothing wrong with Julie you understand. She was perfectly satisfactory---for a substitute. But she wasn’t the real thing. Kaleana was that. Kaleana was all that and more.

He stumbled to Ocean Beach pier, then over the sand across the deserted beach to the jetty. Something about the waves, about the interval between them, their rhythm, reminded him of that sunny day back on the docks in San Francisco. They gave him no comfort. That day had been shared with another woman, another woman entirely. No one was at the jetty either. It was unaccountably quiet. A single sandpiper nervously poked at a pile of sea weed while Tim finished off the bottle.

He took off his flip-flops and forced his feet into the sand. It was no good. He still didn’t feel rooted. He couldn’t feel his toes. Without thinking he peeled the label off the bottle. In his pocket he found a baggie of coke half full. It had been full but that was last night. He thought of Julie lying in bed. He remembered a funny thing she said.

The mirror on the nightstand was devoid of the substance, they’d finished it off. He decided they needed some more and was lining it up. It wasn’t a mirror actually; it was a piece of cobalt blue glass from a welder’s helmet, quite small so it could be carried in your pocket. She was watching him chop it up.

She said with a smile all sinister and sweet, “Give me three lines and you’ll get three more minutes.”

The girl really knew how to be nasty. Right then it was just what he wanted.

But now was now. He bowed his head in silence and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he folded his hands on his lap. Just as he noticed the sun refusing to break through the fog he took a swallow of sacrament. Although it burned all the way down his throat, it still failed to warm his innards. Nothing would. In his pocket was the baggie half-full. In his other pocket was plenty of money. On his bed was a woman.

She wasn’t the right one at all.

He found the stub of a pencil and tipped up the bottle to drain the last of the Jack while around him sullen grey waves washed relentlessly against the sodden shore. He’d had a lucid thought for a change and wanted to write it down. Placing the label on the bottle for support, he wrote on the back. Taking the baggie from his pocket, he rolled it up in the label and stuffed it in the bottle. He screwed on the cap real tight.

He didn’t want the fog or the money or the controlled substance he had so much of. Much less the wrong girl. What he needed was the warmth of the sun and the touch of the proper woman. He walked towards the sharp-edged rocky jetty surrounded by mad foaming waves. Climbing all the way to the end he took the bottle by its neck and tossed it in. Then he turned and trod slowly home.

Days later a couple, holding hands, found a bottle half-buried in the sand in a cove in Laguna Beach, almost a hundred miles away. They’d been watching the sunset together like lovers do. It was bright and crackly, as if God had pinned colored cellophane over the sky.

The girl pulled it free.

“Look, a message in a bottle!”

She unscrewed the cap and opened it.

She found a syrupy liquid dripping from a small baggy and before she thought about it, placed the tip of her finger on her tongue.

“Oh,” she cried out, “that’s bitter!”

“Watch out!” said her boyfriend. “It might be dangerous!”

She unrolled the paper. The empty baggy fell out, all wet inside but the writing in pencil on the label could still be read.

“What’s it say?”

“It says HELP, only help, that’s all.”

“Probably some kid trying to be funny.”

They threw it back in the surf.

As they were walking up the beach her tongue grew numb. Bitter and numb that’s how it felt, just bitter and numb, nothing more.

[hillwalker]

Interesting - as ever. I liked how the title makes a reappearance right at the end of the story - and here was me thinking it was Timothy who was going to be bitter and numb.

One thing I spotted right away in para 2 though -

He walked through the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels and his army coat. It was half-empty from the night before.

You might want to rearrange 'army coat' and 'bottle of JD' in the opening sentence so the second sentence makes more sense.

H

[Steven Hunley]

Well now I've got a problem. I can make this easy or I can make it hard and more thought provoking.

I can say "The bottle was half empty from the night before." That clears up the confusion.

Then I can make it more thought-provoking and say. "Both were half-empty from the night before." This implies that the bottle is half-empty but so is the man. Maybe it means he's a shell of a man. Or maybe it means he's literally half-empty in sexual way if you get my drift, from the night before.

You should make something easy to read for some readers yet still offer something for readers who bring more to the table on another level. Let them interpret it in their own way? Personalize the story? I'm hanging out on a limb here and need some imput. Anyone got any ideas which way to run with this? OK, online litnetsters do your stuff!

[MystyrMystyry]

Tim woke before first light. The Californian Junegloom of foggy mists sprawled along the glowing coast.

In the kitchen he grabbed his army coat and the half bottle of Beam. He went back into the bedroom, slid his toes into his sandles and crept through the sliding glass door.

Outside he took a parting glance at Julie, her blond hair tousled, asleep in his bed. There was nothing wrong with her, but she was a substitute - not the real thing. Kaleana was that - and more.

He stumbled to OB pier, then along the wet sand to the jetty. Something about the waves, about the interval between them, their rhythm, reminded him of that sunny day back on the docks in San Francisco. That gave him no comfort. That day had been shared with another woman entirely. No one was at the jetty either. In the far distance he could discern a couple of pimps arguing.

A single sandpiper nervously poked at a pile of seaweed while Tim began polishing off the Beam.

Sliding out of his sandles and forcing his feet into the sand, he still didn’t feel rooted.

He couldn’t feel his toes.

Staring at the lapping shore he idly peeled the label off the bottle, and then let it drop.

Fishing in his pocket for a smoke he instead found what remained of the coke and a piece of cobalt blue glass from a welder's helmet. He thought of Julie.

The mirror on the nightstand had been void of powder; they’d finished it. He was lining some more as she watched.

She said with a smile all sinister and sweet, “Give me three lines and you’ll get three more minutes.”

The girl really knew how to be nasty. Right then it was just what he needed.

But now was now. He bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Just as he noticed the sun nearly breaking through the fog, he took a swallow of sacrament. Although it burned all the way down his throat, it still failed to warm his guts. Nothing would. In his pocket was the coke. In his other pocket was a wad of cash. On his bed was a Julie.

She wasn’t the right one at all.

He found the stub of a pencil and tipped up the bottle to drain the last of the Beam while around him sullen grey waves washed relentlessly against the sodden shore. He’d had a lucid thought for a change and wanted to write it down. Placing the label on the bottle for support, he wrote on the back. Taking the coke from his pocket, he rolled it up in the label and stuffed it in the bottle. He screwed on the cap real tight.

He wanted neither the fog nor the money nor the snow. Much less the wrong woman. What he needed was the warmth of the sun. When he got up he stumbled towards the rocky jetty surrounded by crazy foaming waves. Climbing all the way to the end he took the bottle by its neck and tossed it in. Then he turned and reeled slowly home.

Days later a couple, holding hands, obviously in love. They’d been watching the sunset together like lovers do. It was bright gold, vermillion and crackly scarlet, as if God had pinned colored cellophane over the sky.

They found a bottle half-buried in the sand in a cove in Laguna Beach, almost a hundred miles away.

The girl pulled it free.

“Look, a message in a bottle!”

She unscrewed the cap.

She found a syrupy liquid dripping from a small bag and absently placed the tip of her finger on her tongue.

“Oh,” she spat, “ Bitter!”

“Careful!” warned her boyfriend. “It might be toxic!”

She unrolled the paper. The empty bag fell out, all wet inside but the writing in pencil on the label could still be read.

“What’s it say?”

“It says HELP, only help, that’s all.”

“Probably some kid trying to be funny.”

They threw it back in the surf.

As they were walking up the beach her tongue grew numb. Bitter and numb, nothing more.

[MatthewFarlow]

I enjoyed this one very much.

In my opinion, preferable sentence is: "The bottle was half empty from the night before." Otherwise there is confusion as to how a jacket can be half empty, for that's what it would read like.

Plus, I find the use of 'half' to be in a perfect amount already. Enough to get the point across, but, yet, not too much as to hit the reader over the head with it.

[MANICHAEAN]

Steve
Keep it as it is. When it comes to interpretation by different levels of readers, you are screwed anyway! They will find meanings and nuances you have never even considered. In fact sometimes, just for the fun of it, insert some totally unrelated nonsense, and someone will be your soul mate! Do what you do best my friend. Keep writing.
Best regards
M.

[hillwalker]

Ahem.... my only query was the grammatical sense of the sentence.

He walked through the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels and his army coat. It was half-empty from the night before.

You have a choice as reader of either assuming the opening 'object' of the first sentence is carried over to the second sentence - in which case the kitchen was half-empty, or more likely since 'coat' is the nearest 'object' to the following sentence, that automatically becomes the 'object' of that sentence when you open with 'It'.

Not really interpretation - merely following conventional logic..... (even though I knew all along that you meant bottle) :-)

H

[Captain Pike]

The hooker he had enticed to his place by brandishing a bag of coke had long since left, owing to his, "weird antics!" Barricading the door with his Ivers and Pond upright piano just didn't provide the security it promised. Tim still felt extremely paranoid as he limped, geek-like across the living room, trying not to break his ankle.

Using his 18 V DeWalt screw gun, he finished securing the attic trapdoor with 3 inch sheet rock screws -- he used all 48 screws, toe nailing the back of the hatch into the surrounding framing. Now his fear was, he might not have enough lighters to smoke all the crack he could cook up while peering out the louver, down into the driveway. He had everything he'd need: his large, trusty spoon -- his mother used to use it to baste turkeys with, good and long and plenty voluminous, his dogeared box of baking soda, that mismatched, 6 ounce cup for water and his, almost full bottle of Old Crow bourbon.

He took another Xanax and thought that he might actually be able to relax a little, now that that girl was gone -- after all, he'd never have enough for her. At last, he could now use the way he wanted to.

Another peep out the window -- all clear. Now to sit down, and cook up some rock! Oh no! A chill ran through Tim, he couldn't believe -- he had forgotten the most simple ingredient of all -- WATER! He jumped up, he looked at the attic hatchway, it looked like someone had hidden the family jewels, somewhere in the house below. It was no use, even if he did have enough battery power, he would never be able to back all of those screws out.

And that sound! Worse than the sirens of Medusa, the wailing, off key scream of those dry, anodized sheet rock screws, bent and hot, they would scintillatingly mock his foolishness -- the world was out to get him.

He opened the baggie and stuck his face right down in, he inhaled violently through his nose. Nothing much more than a gurgling sound emanated until one nostril blew clear and subsequently gagged him with the keroseney stench of the bitter shards of dry, high purity cocaine. His right eye teared up and for an instant, hurt like hell. Then, the pain waifted away, just like all his problems, or exhaled smoke.

"Oh, indeed... quite", Tim spoke with a fake British accent, all very proper as he admired his novel imagination -- "necessity, after all, is the mother of invention", he continued in his best Alastair Cooke, letting the plasticky smelling white smoke escape from him very casually. The ominously yellow looking rocks Tim had managed to cook up using his own urine tasted rather strange, but did the trick.

[Mag1cdr4g0n]

I liked the story and the style you used but the only issue I had was this one line:

Days later a couple, holding hands, obviously in love, found a bottle half-buried in the sand in a cove in Laguna Beach, almost a hundred miles away.

The part in italics should be removed in my opinion. It takes away from the flow and isn't necessary. It just feels like you are stating the assumption that the reader should be making about the couple in the first place.

It flows better like this:

He didn’t want the fog or the money or the controlled substance he had so much of. Much less the wrong woman. What he needed was the warmth of the sun. When he got up he walked towards the rocky jetty surrounded by mad foaming waves. Climbing all the way to the end he took the bottle by its neck and tossed it in. Then he turned and trod slowly home.

Days later a couple, holding hands, found a bottle half-buried in the sand in a cove in Laguna Beach, almost a hundred miles away. They’d been watching the sunset together like lovers do. It was bright and crackly, as if God had pinned colored cellophane over the sky.

[kaushikvikram]

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[sweety]

''O honey, look a message in a bottle.! Uncorking it, a syrupy liquid dripping from a tiny baggy escaped it's glasshouse prison. The girl, applying the tip of her pinky to the fluid, tasted it. “Bah,” she cried , “that’s bitter!”

“Be careful! It might be poisonous!” the boy pleaded. Unfolding the creased note she looked somewhat perplexed. “What’s the message?” the boy asked, images of the south seas and pirates converging on his over imaginative mind.

“HELP.” she said. ''Is that all'' he said feeling cheated somehow.

There was a numbness in her tongue as they ambled hand in hand along the shoreline. The word ''help'' flaming their imagination.

Bitter and numb that’s how it felt, just bitter and numb.

[-Ellipsis-]

very nice. i liked the gritty feel of it...

[faithosaurus]

I really enjoyed this. I'm very much a fan of more solemn pieces, and this didn't disappoint.

Good job :)

[MystyrMystyry]

You thinking of responding, Steve? Or too busy gritting your teeth?

[Steven Hunley]

I have made the corrections now and that's how it appears. First of all I'd like to thank everyone of you who commented. As a fledgling writer I tried to handle humor, then love or romance, and just now, despair. Sometimes you strike a cord. This isn't a happy cord. You write what you know.

I did make one change no one suggested. I wrote:

He didn’t want the fog or the money or the controlled substance he had so much of. Much less the wrong girl.What he missed was the warmth of the sun and the touch of the proper woman. He walked towards the sharp-edged rocky jetty surrounded by mad foaming waves. When he reached the end he took the bottle by its neck and tossed it in.Then he turned and trod slowly home.

What Tim wanted was the touch of a proper woman. Without that, all the money and dope and girls in the world are just distractions. He only realizes this now. It took me a while too. Now I have a proper woman myself, not just another girl. Thank you Kaleana. Thank you readers of litnet.

[MANICHAEAN]

Ah! A happy ending!
Good on you Steve.
M.

[kittypaws]

As usual Steven....your writing is awesome!

[MystyrMystyry]

Not bad Kitty!

You know if it was longer it could become a page turner, and page turners usually become best sellers.

The sudden sense of loss so soon after he 'promised' to meet you again, didn't quite fit with the building sense of hope - like you were unsure how to finish it so instead quickly added on a feeling of defeat that reflected your internal uncertainty.

That's why it seems that it wants to be longer, that it's telling us of the inevitabilty of another encounter, and another...

I could be wrong and you'd say that wasn't your intention at all, but I'm just saying that it's how it reads

Anyway, keep it up!

[MystyrMystyry]

This litnet palce is conspiring to make me look nuts!

A story by Kittypaws miraculously appeared in this thread and when I posted the above, it suddenly vanished, honest

[MANICHAEAN]

You are not going cookoo.
I saw it too.