trois_pistoles
01-17-2012, 09:00 PM
I just read some Murakami, and felt inspired to fix this up.
original:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=66763
Chamille
I was wandering around, stalked by wispy tentacles of l'Ennui, the type that evaporate when you turn back and then catch up as you meander forward. Out of errands to run, I was pacing around like a panther. I felt eyes on me, and so turned and saw her, a truly rare beauty. The eyes were profound and reflective, the type that couldn't possibly belong to someone unintelligent. Eyes like these, these deep blue corridors traced by black eyeliner, had to be the portal to somewhere complex and mysterious. I longed to tumble through them.
Confident outfit, shy body language; the big leather boots were sort of knocking together. Every time I made eye contact with her she looked down and blushed, or turned to the side and hid a smile. It dawned on me that I looked like ****, like a hurricane hit me. Feigning confidence, I sat down next to her. Luckily, I was amused enough to wear a genuine smile.
Small talk. The usual stuff. Short on wit, I asked plainly for her phone number. Surprisingly, she gave it to me without hesitation.
We met at a wine bar. I don't remember whose choice it was, but neither of us really knew anything about wine. Searching for complex notes to blab about, my smoker's tastebuds failed me. I had borrowed a sports car, a six-speed, and put together enough cash to order comfortably. She was dressed up a bit. I wanted her to think I was classy, and I guess she wanted the same. We were both pretty relieved to find out that the other was actually quite broke, so it was agreed. The next date would be simpler.
She turned out to be a year older than me, at 22. We talked about politics but I have a hard time feigning agreeableness. Absent anyone who might kick me in the foot, the topic degenerated to an ominous silence.
Brave, she rescued the conversation. She was "not exactly bisexual but umm…" had been with girls before. She had had a threesome once but didn't like it. I considered that option still kind of open, although the ruling sounded final. Actually the thought began to consume me. I had never really known anybody to talk like that, especially on a first date. It made her seem exotic. She said she liked dirty talk, but wouldn't give an example. She was the most enticing combination of forward and hard-to-get.
We saw each other a couple more times. A cafe, a dive bar, a park bench. It got harder and harder to leave. We had been loitering around a restaurant, reminding each other that we "really should go." We ended up in the car, steaming up the windows like douchebags. I lifted her dress up, and found she was sort of au natural, although neatly so. I could picture my friends laughing and giving me **** about it. Philistines. I didn't give a ****. I was transported instantly. I imagined we were in an old movie or an old book, that, somehow, we were in the good old days, if there ever really were any. I thought the world of her. I figured I was in love. I had to have been. Married couples can't even stand each other. We were inseparable. There was no way that two old duffers giving each other singing Christmas cards on a Florida cruise felt like this.
I have read, here and there, of couples engaged in a lover's embrace such that they become one. Attempting such a feat, I was continuously frustrated by the infuriatingly persistent physical reality of separate human bodies. Nonetheless, we were close, and I could smell her hair and perfume, although not at the same time, and there wasn't really much else I could ask for.
Sitting here now, I am physically pained by the fact that she didn't come back with me to spend the night. My roommate and I have just moved into a new place and it doesn't really feel like home. She is out with friends, drinking. I seem not to have the right to be indignant.
"I'm going to the convenient store."
"for what?"
"cigarettes."
"they don't have any."
"of course they have cigarettes"
…
In the store, there's fruit behind the counter. There are usually cigarettes behind the counter. My blood is curdling like sour milk. They must be stored somewhere weird so as not to entice children. Someone must not have had the patience to wait in line and ask.
…
"pack of Marlboros"
"Marlboro? Cigarettes? We don't carry tobacco products."
Holy ****ing ****. They really put the fruit there to taunt smokers. Bananas. They're really telling me to smoke a banana. I am ****ing overheating. I walk outside to bum a cigarette. No one in this city smokes, and people rollerblade here. You're supposed to get beat up for rollerblading. I am a fish out of water. I imagine myself walking back into the convenient store in a long overcoat, leather brimmed hat and, for some reason, goggles, carrying two pistols.
"No cigarettes?" I'd taunt them.
I am a man on the edge.
…
My roommate has some friends over. He's apparently kind of popular, and sort of a jock. He has a bizarre sense of humor; Chad seems to quote movies I haven't seen.
"Howdy-doody there private **** patrol" in a Southern drawl.
"Oh, hey." I offer.
"All hands on dick, private." In the living room, laughter effervesces.
"Engage your **** holster." He's making mechanical macho motions. "Activate schlong sensors." An uproar.
…What the **** movie have I not seen?
I am so relieved that one of his friends smokes, the puzzling homo-eroticisms evacuate my mind. She dances through my thoughts. I can't carry a conversation without leading it toward her. I can't speak highly enough of her. I am informed that I am acting like "Lieutenant *****-boy of fag company." I am warned that if I continue acting like a *****-boy I will be banished to the friend zone, unable to get out until the ****-chopper lands at my LZ. I am then treated to a long-winded jeremiad about how females are genetically programmed to have an Alpha male impregnate them, while simultaneously tricking a Beta male *****-boy to take care of them. I reject it as pseudo-science.
I call Chad an *******, and he swells with pride. It is explained to me that there are two types of *******s: a dick-head ******* and a ****-sucking *******. A dick-head ******* is just a proud man that others are jealous of. A ****-sucking ******* is insecure and venomous. He gives examples. He seems to have thought about this. I wonder if he's smarter than he lets on. I wonder if he was a nerd in high school. I have to admit that his cavalier attitude is enticing. I swear, though I won't let any external **** **** this up. Baggage from an old betrayal, Ranting dude-bros, that is all bull****. I decide that a '*****-boy', truly, is someone who acts in fear. I determine to go out on a limb with her. I resolve to carry a zen cup, a mental space for new experience, free from assumption.
***
We are at a crowded bar, but not in presence. We are hovering, somehow, near the ceiling of the establishment. We pan around and spot Chamille DesRosiers, the object of our narrator's affection, looking around a bit nervously and playing with her hair at the fringes of a high table. The table is packed with affable 20-somethings, laughing uproariously and downing margaritas. She seems uninvolved in the conversation though, perhaps even intentionally left out. We imagine she might not want us to see her like this, as she looks by no means comfortable. We wonder how a girl so attractive can be lonely, and it seems this same notion has dawned on her as well. She walks onto the dance-floor and brushes up against a man, the type of guy that probably leads conversations at tables in bars. We are strained by this, as we feel somewhat betrayed on behalf of our protagonist. We can't feel justified holding it against her though, as everyone seems to be dancing carelessly.
We zoom in to her eyes, attempting to assay the objects of our protagonist's lofty description. He is right, they are an exotic blue, and vast like tiny oceans. We zoom all the way through them, and then turn and look out from behind. Instantly, we are struck by a longing, a desire for someone, for a certain embrace. We reason that the protagonist has left this impression, this capacity for an endorphin rush, since the stranger's presence feels uncomfortable. The mobile phone is in her hand, no in our hand (dissociations vibrate over us but we drop that matter); it has a strangely powerful aura about it. It might crush us or sweep us off. We want to master it by dialing. There is a voice insisting that we stay though, keep doing what we're doing, resist the phone's gravity, stay independent of it, stay close to the friends at the high table. Evacuating Chamille's brain, and returning to midair, we are now more at ease than we were in her shoes. We fully forgive her now for brushing up so closely to this interchangeable dance partner. We zoom out, back to the ceiling. All is well. In fact, Chamille even has an angelic aura about her as she sits back with her friends, this time glowing enough to engage in the conversation comfortably.
Strangely, her aura becomes speckled with gray and then black. A dark shadow casts over our vision, and then breaks it apart in shards. The scenery has disintegrated, now people crumble apart. Maybe we are being barred from acting as disembodied observers. No, that's not it. We regain our vision little by little; in fact everything is coming into clearer focus than before. Strangely though, Chamille is absent from the table where we last observed her. In fact, the table is filled only with females, apparently genetically programmed ones. They huddle conspiratorially. We pan swiftly to the dance-floor and spot Chamille putting her leather jacket on, heading for the door with her new acquaintance, and laughing diabolically. For some reason, my roommate Chad is yelling in the bar, his voice echoing through the building. The imagery vanishes in an instant.
***
“What'd she lay eggs in your brain already?”
Dry eyes. Blink twice. I've been staring off. The cigarettes has an inch of ash. Marvel for a moment, then flick it in the plastic cup.
“I think you're the ****-suckin' type, Chad.” I slap him on the shoulder.
“You too, buddy.” A pat on the back.
“Why don't you two get a room?” The Mom of the group.
I see her again, and am deeply intoxicated by her presence. Everything seems fine. Nothing in particular, but everything about her strikes a perfect chord with me. We are outside, in some common area, in some town that we wound up in, lost, not really caring where we go anyway. We have one of those cliche conversations where it turns out we have so much in common. We swear we've known each other for a long time. We have been looking for each other. We declare, officially, that we are boyfriend and girlfriend. Time slips by. It's getting dark. I'm enraptured. She starts acting strange. She's looking around a lot, avoiding eye contact. She's biting her lip and wincing a little. I tell her no one is looking at us. I am assured "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
Adrenaline. Romance evaporates.
She coughs up that she's sure I'd understand. Takes a deep breath. She starts mumbling and stammering something about "some guy she ran into." I am stunned. I am rung like a gong. I feel deeply betrayed: taken for a *****-boy, and then poisoned by the girl I trusted.
"I knew you were a slut. It was obvious all along. I knew not to care about *****es. I never even ****ing liked you" I fire, possessed.
She is crumpled up, crying, with her head cocked all the way to the side. The back of her hand is against her forehead. She looks like the damsel in distress from a bad movie. Everything is still around us. The wind is blowing eerily. There is a distinct impression that the passing of time is absent. She whimpers quietly. I am fuming. She looks at me and winces.
Air escapes from her throat, like steam through a valve.
A pause.
"I was sexually assaulted" She fires out, monotone. It is more a slip of paper than a piece of conversation. In the plainest typeface, it drifts slowly past my vision.
First a few, and then a thousand poison arrows hit me. Guilt rings through me, resonates in my fingertips. It vibrates in time with the pain in her eyes, which echoes in those deep corridors. I am falling a thousand miles. I snap back. I am a coward. I fall again. I have the distinct impression that this cannot be undone.
original:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=66763
Chamille
I was wandering around, stalked by wispy tentacles of l'Ennui, the type that evaporate when you turn back and then catch up as you meander forward. Out of errands to run, I was pacing around like a panther. I felt eyes on me, and so turned and saw her, a truly rare beauty. The eyes were profound and reflective, the type that couldn't possibly belong to someone unintelligent. Eyes like these, these deep blue corridors traced by black eyeliner, had to be the portal to somewhere complex and mysterious. I longed to tumble through them.
Confident outfit, shy body language; the big leather boots were sort of knocking together. Every time I made eye contact with her she looked down and blushed, or turned to the side and hid a smile. It dawned on me that I looked like ****, like a hurricane hit me. Feigning confidence, I sat down next to her. Luckily, I was amused enough to wear a genuine smile.
Small talk. The usual stuff. Short on wit, I asked plainly for her phone number. Surprisingly, she gave it to me without hesitation.
We met at a wine bar. I don't remember whose choice it was, but neither of us really knew anything about wine. Searching for complex notes to blab about, my smoker's tastebuds failed me. I had borrowed a sports car, a six-speed, and put together enough cash to order comfortably. She was dressed up a bit. I wanted her to think I was classy, and I guess she wanted the same. We were both pretty relieved to find out that the other was actually quite broke, so it was agreed. The next date would be simpler.
She turned out to be a year older than me, at 22. We talked about politics but I have a hard time feigning agreeableness. Absent anyone who might kick me in the foot, the topic degenerated to an ominous silence.
Brave, she rescued the conversation. She was "not exactly bisexual but umm…" had been with girls before. She had had a threesome once but didn't like it. I considered that option still kind of open, although the ruling sounded final. Actually the thought began to consume me. I had never really known anybody to talk like that, especially on a first date. It made her seem exotic. She said she liked dirty talk, but wouldn't give an example. She was the most enticing combination of forward and hard-to-get.
We saw each other a couple more times. A cafe, a dive bar, a park bench. It got harder and harder to leave. We had been loitering around a restaurant, reminding each other that we "really should go." We ended up in the car, steaming up the windows like douchebags. I lifted her dress up, and found she was sort of au natural, although neatly so. I could picture my friends laughing and giving me **** about it. Philistines. I didn't give a ****. I was transported instantly. I imagined we were in an old movie or an old book, that, somehow, we were in the good old days, if there ever really were any. I thought the world of her. I figured I was in love. I had to have been. Married couples can't even stand each other. We were inseparable. There was no way that two old duffers giving each other singing Christmas cards on a Florida cruise felt like this.
I have read, here and there, of couples engaged in a lover's embrace such that they become one. Attempting such a feat, I was continuously frustrated by the infuriatingly persistent physical reality of separate human bodies. Nonetheless, we were close, and I could smell her hair and perfume, although not at the same time, and there wasn't really much else I could ask for.
Sitting here now, I am physically pained by the fact that she didn't come back with me to spend the night. My roommate and I have just moved into a new place and it doesn't really feel like home. She is out with friends, drinking. I seem not to have the right to be indignant.
"I'm going to the convenient store."
"for what?"
"cigarettes."
"they don't have any."
"of course they have cigarettes"
…
In the store, there's fruit behind the counter. There are usually cigarettes behind the counter. My blood is curdling like sour milk. They must be stored somewhere weird so as not to entice children. Someone must not have had the patience to wait in line and ask.
…
"pack of Marlboros"
"Marlboro? Cigarettes? We don't carry tobacco products."
Holy ****ing ****. They really put the fruit there to taunt smokers. Bananas. They're really telling me to smoke a banana. I am ****ing overheating. I walk outside to bum a cigarette. No one in this city smokes, and people rollerblade here. You're supposed to get beat up for rollerblading. I am a fish out of water. I imagine myself walking back into the convenient store in a long overcoat, leather brimmed hat and, for some reason, goggles, carrying two pistols.
"No cigarettes?" I'd taunt them.
I am a man on the edge.
…
My roommate has some friends over. He's apparently kind of popular, and sort of a jock. He has a bizarre sense of humor; Chad seems to quote movies I haven't seen.
"Howdy-doody there private **** patrol" in a Southern drawl.
"Oh, hey." I offer.
"All hands on dick, private." In the living room, laughter effervesces.
"Engage your **** holster." He's making mechanical macho motions. "Activate schlong sensors." An uproar.
…What the **** movie have I not seen?
I am so relieved that one of his friends smokes, the puzzling homo-eroticisms evacuate my mind. She dances through my thoughts. I can't carry a conversation without leading it toward her. I can't speak highly enough of her. I am informed that I am acting like "Lieutenant *****-boy of fag company." I am warned that if I continue acting like a *****-boy I will be banished to the friend zone, unable to get out until the ****-chopper lands at my LZ. I am then treated to a long-winded jeremiad about how females are genetically programmed to have an Alpha male impregnate them, while simultaneously tricking a Beta male *****-boy to take care of them. I reject it as pseudo-science.
I call Chad an *******, and he swells with pride. It is explained to me that there are two types of *******s: a dick-head ******* and a ****-sucking *******. A dick-head ******* is just a proud man that others are jealous of. A ****-sucking ******* is insecure and venomous. He gives examples. He seems to have thought about this. I wonder if he's smarter than he lets on. I wonder if he was a nerd in high school. I have to admit that his cavalier attitude is enticing. I swear, though I won't let any external **** **** this up. Baggage from an old betrayal, Ranting dude-bros, that is all bull****. I decide that a '*****-boy', truly, is someone who acts in fear. I determine to go out on a limb with her. I resolve to carry a zen cup, a mental space for new experience, free from assumption.
***
We are at a crowded bar, but not in presence. We are hovering, somehow, near the ceiling of the establishment. We pan around and spot Chamille DesRosiers, the object of our narrator's affection, looking around a bit nervously and playing with her hair at the fringes of a high table. The table is packed with affable 20-somethings, laughing uproariously and downing margaritas. She seems uninvolved in the conversation though, perhaps even intentionally left out. We imagine she might not want us to see her like this, as she looks by no means comfortable. We wonder how a girl so attractive can be lonely, and it seems this same notion has dawned on her as well. She walks onto the dance-floor and brushes up against a man, the type of guy that probably leads conversations at tables in bars. We are strained by this, as we feel somewhat betrayed on behalf of our protagonist. We can't feel justified holding it against her though, as everyone seems to be dancing carelessly.
We zoom in to her eyes, attempting to assay the objects of our protagonist's lofty description. He is right, they are an exotic blue, and vast like tiny oceans. We zoom all the way through them, and then turn and look out from behind. Instantly, we are struck by a longing, a desire for someone, for a certain embrace. We reason that the protagonist has left this impression, this capacity for an endorphin rush, since the stranger's presence feels uncomfortable. The mobile phone is in her hand, no in our hand (dissociations vibrate over us but we drop that matter); it has a strangely powerful aura about it. It might crush us or sweep us off. We want to master it by dialing. There is a voice insisting that we stay though, keep doing what we're doing, resist the phone's gravity, stay independent of it, stay close to the friends at the high table. Evacuating Chamille's brain, and returning to midair, we are now more at ease than we were in her shoes. We fully forgive her now for brushing up so closely to this interchangeable dance partner. We zoom out, back to the ceiling. All is well. In fact, Chamille even has an angelic aura about her as she sits back with her friends, this time glowing enough to engage in the conversation comfortably.
Strangely, her aura becomes speckled with gray and then black. A dark shadow casts over our vision, and then breaks it apart in shards. The scenery has disintegrated, now people crumble apart. Maybe we are being barred from acting as disembodied observers. No, that's not it. We regain our vision little by little; in fact everything is coming into clearer focus than before. Strangely though, Chamille is absent from the table where we last observed her. In fact, the table is filled only with females, apparently genetically programmed ones. They huddle conspiratorially. We pan swiftly to the dance-floor and spot Chamille putting her leather jacket on, heading for the door with her new acquaintance, and laughing diabolically. For some reason, my roommate Chad is yelling in the bar, his voice echoing through the building. The imagery vanishes in an instant.
***
“What'd she lay eggs in your brain already?”
Dry eyes. Blink twice. I've been staring off. The cigarettes has an inch of ash. Marvel for a moment, then flick it in the plastic cup.
“I think you're the ****-suckin' type, Chad.” I slap him on the shoulder.
“You too, buddy.” A pat on the back.
“Why don't you two get a room?” The Mom of the group.
I see her again, and am deeply intoxicated by her presence. Everything seems fine. Nothing in particular, but everything about her strikes a perfect chord with me. We are outside, in some common area, in some town that we wound up in, lost, not really caring where we go anyway. We have one of those cliche conversations where it turns out we have so much in common. We swear we've known each other for a long time. We have been looking for each other. We declare, officially, that we are boyfriend and girlfriend. Time slips by. It's getting dark. I'm enraptured. She starts acting strange. She's looking around a lot, avoiding eye contact. She's biting her lip and wincing a little. I tell her no one is looking at us. I am assured "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
Adrenaline. Romance evaporates.
She coughs up that she's sure I'd understand. Takes a deep breath. She starts mumbling and stammering something about "some guy she ran into." I am stunned. I am rung like a gong. I feel deeply betrayed: taken for a *****-boy, and then poisoned by the girl I trusted.
"I knew you were a slut. It was obvious all along. I knew not to care about *****es. I never even ****ing liked you" I fire, possessed.
She is crumpled up, crying, with her head cocked all the way to the side. The back of her hand is against her forehead. She looks like the damsel in distress from a bad movie. Everything is still around us. The wind is blowing eerily. There is a distinct impression that the passing of time is absent. She whimpers quietly. I am fuming. She looks at me and winces.
Air escapes from her throat, like steam through a valve.
A pause.
"I was sexually assaulted" She fires out, monotone. It is more a slip of paper than a piece of conversation. In the plainest typeface, it drifts slowly past my vision.
First a few, and then a thousand poison arrows hit me. Guilt rings through me, resonates in my fingertips. It vibrates in time with the pain in her eyes, which echoes in those deep corridors. I am falling a thousand miles. I snap back. I am a coward. I fall again. I have the distinct impression that this cannot be undone.