3 SHORT SHORTS
by Roberta Allen
LIVING ON THE EDGE
In the country, the disabled woman, drunk on gin and stoned on
weed, drove over to my house from her own, a good half-hour
away, and banged on the door to see if I, a woman who doesn't
drive, wanted to go dancing at a club later on, since her phone,
which she had balanced on the edge of the tub and forgotten, had
fallen into the bath water as she orgasmed, having masturbated to
a picture of a half-naked basketball star in The New Yorker,
which was probably not as crazy as my consenting to go out with
her after cooking dinner for us both, though hours later, when
even the band had stopped and it came time to go home, since she
was drunker than ever and, having smoked more weed, glassy-
eyed and swaying, I refused to drive with her, choosing instead to
be driven by her married pal, whose husband was a stay-at-home
type, and who seemed slightly less inebriated and spacey though
she claimed she wasn't and, in that state, proceeded to do
Gurdjieff breathing exercises in the car "to ground herself," as
she put it, before dropping me off on her way to another bar
where she and the disabled woman would continue, she said with
a wink, "living on the edge."
KILLER
My car is a little animal. A dog. One of those little white fluffy lap
dogs. A Bichon Frise, friendly, gentle, cheerful, with spirally curls
and sensitive skin. But I'm supposed to see it as a killer--a pitbull
perhaps that tears people apart. At least "Killer" is what my
cousin's husband calls my car. I call him "the hysterical
man," especially when he sits in the passenger seat and I am the
one behind the wheel. Maybe his faulty eyesight makes him see
accidents where there are none and makes him sweat till the little
white car, sick from his stink, wants to explode, which is not far
from how I feel when I smell his fear and his long red hair flies
even without wind, desperate to escape his malodorous scent.
"Killer" is not his only word for my old Cabriolet convertible.
"This is a two-ton weapon!" he shouts. But, to me, it is still
small and fluffy as it cradles me in its arms, licks my face with its
warm pink tongue. I want to lose myself in its embrace, which
may be the reason why the hysterical red-haired man is scared.
SYLVIA
By the time it was clear that the man couldn't start the outboard
motor, after offering to take Sylvia, a Spanish secretary, and
myself to the island where we both were staying, we were already
out to sea with no way back. "Where are the oars?" she kept
screaming, as though her screams had the power to make the oars
appear, when, in fact, her screams scared the men on the first two
boats who might have saved us.
Copyright 2007 by Roberta Allen
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