Story for workshop 10/10

It was the first time we had gone to a party together since she'd become...I won't say addicted, but interested...in new forms of intoxication. I didn't tell her she couldn't do it at the party, but as far as I knew none of her friends were going to be there who did it and none of my friends did it, so I figured we'd be safe. She was starting to seem normal again, like maybe she'd been taking it easy. It was our elephant in the room, the massive problem that we both recognized but refused to acknowledge. She hadn't taken her mom cheating on her father well, the deterioration of her family had torn her apart, and I apparently hadn't been enough to pull her through. Her eyes were still sunk in somewhat and they shifted constantly around the interior of the car. I reached for her hand and squeezed it, she squeezed back and smiled weakly, feigning excitement about the evening, much like myself. This was more to keep up appearances than anything. I could think of a million places I'd rather be than on my way to another night at Brad's, the same 15 or 20 people drinking, same stories, same jokes, same everything. But at least it was something, and maybe it was a chance to get things back on track.
Upon exiting the car, we made our way towards the house, and she stopped and looked at me, pulling me close to her.

"I want to have a good night tonight Connor."
I looked at her quizzically.
"What do you mean?" I figured she was saying she wanted to find some of her chemicals, and my stomach turned.

"I mean for us, I want us to try and be happy again. I really do."
I smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
"Me too doll." 
We walked in hand in hand and I felt like the night was looking up. Brad, already completely shithoused, greeted me at the door with a bottle of Fat Tire and pointed Chelsea towards the mixed drinks. I smiled at her and watched her head over, saying hello to her girlfriends at the table, Samantha and Blair. Brad disappeared into the garage where various drinking games were going on, and I started to try and find Alex.
I found him back behind the counter, passing out vodka shots to various girls he was trying to get to wasted. I grabbed his shoulder and scratched my nose, pointing upstairs. He nodded and we started to walk away, the girls gasping. I heard one of them ask if we were going upstairs to do coke, and another
ask if she could join. I smiled at Alex.

"You're a real casanova man."

"Those girls were the one. All of them."
We continued our trek to the upstairs balcony and I leaned against the balcony as Alex packed a bowl. 

"Maybe we should just start going up to each other at parties and creepily ask one another 'wanna get high?' It might draw less attention than the obvious sign for coke."
Alex shrugged and laughed.
"Fuck it, let them think what they want."

I lit a cigarette and inhaled deep, the first beer having been drank surveying the party and me well into my second. Alex paused from packing the bowl and looked up at me with a serious stare. 

"Hey, are you and Chelsea ok? I haven't seen you two hanging out as much or anything lately."
I grimaced. I hadn't really talked to anyone about what had been going on, trying my best to keep things quiet, for her sake as much as mine. I figured Alex was trustworthy enough though, and took a hit as he offered it, then exhaled into a half hearted attempt at ending the conversation.

"No, not really."

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
I looked up at him then leaned on the other side of the balcony, overlooking the front door and the mass of parked cars occupying Brad's cul-de-sac.

“o, not really."
He lit a cigarette, and passed the bowl back to me.
"Why not?"

I waved the bowl away and looked over the edge of the railing, down at the door.
"I don't know, it's just this whole fucking thing with her and this drug..."
Just then, the door burst open and I heard girls laughing. Alex rushed to my side and stood stoically as we watched Chelsea and Blair spill onto the sidewalk, holding onto one another and stumbling. I glanced at my phone and wondered how they managed to get so fucked up within 15 minutes of being at the party. They wandered towards Blair's car and climbed in, as I sporadically puffed my cigarette and Alex stared at the scene, trying to comprehend it. The dome light stayed on momentarily then shut off. I hung my head and sighed, dreading the worst. I lit another cigarette and stared intently at the car, wishing she would climb out, only drunk. Only drunk. Please god, let her only be drunk.
A few minutes passed and she poured herself onto the sidewalk, Blair stepping around the driver's side door. They walked arm in arm back to the party, much quieter, but stumbling even more. I finished my cig and threw it as hard as I could towards the street, slumping back against the adjacent side of the balcony. Alex just stared at me. 

"What the fuck was that? What just happened?"
I stood up and took the bowl from him, finishing it off. Lighting yet another cigarette, I put my head in my hands and muttered "Fuck." Catching on to the obvious anxiety the balcony was feeling, Alex quietly packed another bowl which we finished then went back inside.
Once back in the party, I was focused on finding Chelsea and only on finding Chelsea. I was going to take her away from the party, from all these people, back to my house, where we'd stay until she was better. I'd help her, I was all she needed. No drugs, no drinking, no anything. We'd just get better, us, together. I walked to the mixed drink table and found Blair and Samantha. I tapped Blair's shoulder and she looked up at me lazily, her eyes half closed and fully dilated. Her movements were slow and clumsy, her drink spilling on her hand and a look of complete boredom gracing her tired face. 

"Where's Chelsea?" I asked, trying to maintain my last remaining stability.
She stared at me with a confused look on her face. I repeated myself, slowly and deliberately, enunciating each syllable. She finally comprehended it, but seemed flustered.

"She's upstairs with you?" 
The blood drained from my face. I let go of her shoulder and bolted upstairs, knocking on each locked door. My heart pounded hard in my chest and my high had completely faded, except for a lingering daze that seemed to inhibit my movements.
Behind door number one were people smoking a joint, the room was bathed in smoke and I shut the door almost immediately. All the other doors seemed to be locked. I checked the door at the end of the hall, which was unlocked, and stepped in. It was dark and I could hear the sounds of movement on the bed. I walked inside and flipped on the lights. Chelsea was shirtless under Brad, his hands roaming her body and their lips locked in a kiss that seemed to last an eternity. She opened her eyes and looked at me, her pupils failing to change shape at the sudden brightness. Her mouth opened. It was Chelsea, sure enough, but the look on her face, her eyes, everything about her, it was just completely different. This was just a shell of Chelsea, of who she'd become. I stared at her, hating her more than anything in that moment, and her stare told me not only that she understood, but that she would never understand all at once. Brad's fingers played with her belt. 

"Connor...I thought this was you..." Her words were slurred and almost incomprehensible. My fists clenched and my breath froze in my chest. I heard the zipper of her pants go down.
Before I could think, I had Brad on the ground. My fists rained upon his face, a great satisfaction coming over me as my knuckles connected with flesh and bone. She screamed for me to stop, wrapping a sheet around herself. I stopped momentarily, looked at Brad's bloodshot and blacked out eyes trying to focus in the room. I knew he didn't know what he was doing, that he was blacked out and didn't know Chelsea from any other random girl at the party, but didn't care. I pictured her face as I hit him, pictured her when she was on it. I wanted to show her how ugly she was to me when she was on it. I wanted to reach inside her and pull out the part of her that I still loved, the little bit of Chelsea that remained before it was all gone. But I couldn't, I could only do what I was capable of. I left Brad coughing blood on the ground and her in the bed. Back on the balcony for a cigarette, I tried to figure out my next step. I realized I had no idea what to do, and that this couldn't continue. But I realized I loved her, and that I couldn't quit her. I finished my cigarette, went back in the room, and gathered her up from the bed where she had passed out, still without a shirt. Brad had left the room, probably crawled into his bed to lick his wounds. I dressed her and carried her out to the car, ignoring the stares of everyone else, and drove home. I put her in bed with me and laid next to her, stroked her face and told her it would all be ok, even though I knew it wouldn't. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

"Did we have a good night, baby?" She asked.
A tear ran down my face and I kissed her lightly.
"We sure did sweetheart. We sure did."

Round Character Sketch-Ethel

Ethel stands at about 5' 6'. She is overweight with slouchy shoulders and old lady hair. You know the kind that only get washed by the hands of the beautician who perms it. Her glasses are huge like they were made to resemble the windshield on that van she drives. Her husband is ailing from practically everything and was recently put into a nursing home by his family, who by the way all hate her. That's a slight exaggeration. They don't hate her they just dislike her an extreme amount. They disrespect her, they talk about her, and she still loves them. She has an overweight dog. They are great companions, they even share their ice cream. Her house is always a mess. She's always gone to church meetings and lady circles and the such. She's extremely religious. She's trying to lose weight. She started walking with her dog. She visits her husband as much as she can between her hectic schedule. She has a 40 year old son that still lives at home because along with a lot of things she forgot to teach him independence. She stays out of gossip. She's a horrible cook. She is always dressed in those aerobic pant suits, the kind made of felty, stretch material.

Caroline's Story for Friday

...is attached to an email in the hittstreet inbox. Email me (scgarz@gmail.com) if you don't have the password.

Dark Modern Fairy Tale.

Her name was Delianna. Everyone called her Didi for short, mostly because they couldn’t say it. She thought the name was immature, and hated stupid Americans for never being able to pronounce anything. Fifteen years ago, Delianna was so frustrated with her nickname that she killed a man for it. She was chuck-full of issues: attention problems, anger problems, depression problems and anxiety problems.
She still thought he deserved it. It was when she was eight. She swore to herself that if Mr. Robinson called her Didi one more time, that she would kill him. She was sick of repeating herself.
It was his first year teaching and he was a nervous wreck. He was a short, fat, prematurely balding, sweaty wreck. He wouldn’t let them rip him apart. “I am a man,” he told himself. There was one student responsible for turning his classroom into a zoo, Didi. She was a petite blonde with bouncy curls, almond-shaped blue eyes, and creamy skin. She may have looked like an angel, but he thought she was an evil little devil.
She always talked back to Mr. Robinson. She would push the other children around, steal their toys and eat their snack packs from the brown bags in the coat closet. But she would only do it when he wasn’t watching. She was a little Eddie Hascal. Delianna loved picking on the other children, she loved the control and seeing the fear in their mousy eyes. One day, Mr. Robinson noticed her behavior was particularly bad. He scolded her for calling Lucas “a fat little piggy.”
“Didi, you need to apologize or I will send you to the principals office.”
“It’s Delianna.” She said.
“Duh-lee-hanah, you need to apologize or I will send you to the principals office.”
She had had it. He never imagined how strong a third grader could be. She looked at him fiercely as she walked towards his desk. Her little purple-handed scissors would not be big enough. She grabbed the big-metal left-handed scissors from his “Number One Teacher” coffee mug on his desk. His mother bought it for him when he graduated teaching school. He was confounded watching what she was doing. She plunged the cold blades into his chest. Warmth squirted across her face, his eyes filled with blood, and a slow trickle of red leaked from his mouth.
“It’s Del-i-anna.” She said, letting go of the scissors. Her classmates started screaming and crying as he collapsed to the ground. She had hit him directly in the heart.

Round Character Sketch- Elle

Elle pulled her short brown hair into a bun on the top of her head. She let it down, and repeated it until every piece was perfect. She hated lecture classes because every word was a number. She organized every surface in the classroom, grouping everything into categories by color. She changed her outfit four times during the day, all at specific times. She clamped her hands tightly and moved her fingers in a repetitive manner, that to the naked eye, it just looked like clenched fists, but to Elle it was a distinct pattern. The angrier she got the more intensely she twicked, the more her hands cramped up.
The doctor’s told her she developed her obsessive behavior during her parent’s divorce. She was the oldest of three, the one with the most responsibility. Daddy’s little girl until the divorce but after, he abandoned all responsibility for his children. He treated Elle the worst, ignoring her existence. The only time he would feed them was when the hamburgers at McDonalds were 42 cents. She clothed her siblings, fed them, made sure they did their homework. She felt like an adult, before she was even in middle school. She was their mother, now. It was only after they realized how terrible they were being, that her mom tried to take the reigns. Elle fought with her like a mother bear, defending her cubs. Her mother’s failed attempts wouldn’t matter anyways, her little brother and sisters wouldn’t respond to their parents. She was the only one her little brother would talk to. Nick became a mute after they split up. She felt like she missed out on her adolescence and shot straight to adulthood.
She had been writing her father a letter for three years. The relationship between her and her mom had improved in the least few. She was now attempting to become a mother. She kept asking her mom if what they said was true. Elle didn’t understand the denial. She questioned everything now. She said it over in her mind a thousand times, but couldn’t put it down on paper. She rewrote the words, making sure they were equal distance apart.

THE DIAGNOSIS

There was nothing to do, and so he did nothing at all. Tic-tic-tic went the clock. Thump-thump-thump went his heart, for he was very nervous. The room was large, sparse and white. It was a hospital room.

The doctor was in the back room, tapping his foot. Tap-tap-tap. He was not nervous; he was scared. The test results displayed in front of him were frightening, and he regretted feeling sorry for the gray-haired man waiting outside. The doctor had committed his life to helping those who could not help themselves, and after graduating from medical school he had moved overseas. That was three years ago, though it seemed to him like a lifetime.

The doctor stopped tapping and entered the white room. The man looked up, and his heart beat faster. He remained seated, and he was more nervous than ever before. Thump-thump-thump-thump. The doctor's face was expressionless.

"Good news," said the doctor. He made sure to keep his distance. "You're going to be fine." He hated himself for his lie, but at the same time he was relieved he had told it.

The man was also relieved, and let out a sigh. He thanked the doctor, and they talked for another few minutes. Every answer was good, and brought new hope to his fragile psyche. He was not old, merely pre-maturely gray. He still had things to live for.

The man left the hospital room with a spring in his step and a bottle of pills. The doctor slumped into a nearby chair. He thought of the results, and shuddered. Ignorance, he mused, was bliss. He had never smoked, but he wished he had a cigarette. Or maybe chocolate. A lot of chocolate. Tic-tic-tic.

He stared at the clock on the wall. Tic-tic. Time was running out. Every moment the gray-haired man was alive, more people would die.

Thump-thump-thump.
He had to leave town, before the quarantine.

3rd person narrative

From the outside, she emitted an attitude of complete composure and calm.
Thank God for yoga, she thought. On the inside, she was a bundle of nerves.
Walking east on Sixth Avenue, she began to run through her mental check list.
Resumé, check.
This was the biggest interview of her career. She couldn’t help but wonder how she would stack up against the competition. After all, she had gone to college, gotten good grades, and made it through without any significant screw-ups. She pulled out her compact from her purse.
Make-up, check.
She was a city girl at heart, growing up in Manhattan and never having the desire to leave. So when she started looking for a job, she had two requirements: one, she needed to stay where she was at, and two, she refused to take “no” for an answer. Settling was simply not an option. She reached up her hand and touched her blond curls bouncing in rhythm with her step.
Hair, check.
There it was, Burke & Burke Financial, one of the biggest investment banking centers in Manhattan. The pressure she felt was intense, as if the building itself was resting on her shoulders.
This interview could make or break me, she told herself.
Fortunately, she was smart, becoming skilled at working the system to get her needs met. She knew how to show these company big-wigs that she could handle it. She could make it in a man’s world.

Walking west on Sixth Avenue, he felt like he was in a dream. He had grown up in the land of country bumpkins, otherwise known as rural Oklahoma. He was feeling a little on edge, the interview weighing heavily on his mind. He pictured himself wobbling through a sidewalk entirely made of jell-o.
Jell-o, he thought. It reminded him of his childhood.
His focus shifted as the ominous skyscraper came into sight. Burke & Burke Financial. It looked exactly as he had pictured it in his dreams. He reached up and smoothed the front of his shirt.
Tie, check.
He entered the building and made his way onto the elevator. He felt lost, out-of-place, like a bum off the street begging for a scrap of food.
Brrrrrrr, he thought. This place is freezing.
He rubbed his hands together, careful not to drop his leather-bound portfolio. It had been a gift from his parents. Climbing into the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirror.
Hair, check.
Ding! “Floor 42,” the elevator announced.
Here we are, he told himself. He felt like this interview could be a beautiful beginning or the means to a tragic end. As he got off, he masked his anxiety as best he could.
Go, Fight, Win, he chanted to himself. There is no day but today, no moment but now.
He noticed a young woman seated at the end of a row of chairs.
Breath, “hah hah,” check.
He strategically sat down in the seat across from her.
“Are you here for the interview?” he asked casually.
“Yes.”
He didn’t know what to say next, and looked down.
Awkward, he thought.
She looked at him, expecting him to go on.
That was strange, she mused.