Short Fiction: 239 Sycamore St.

While walking through my neighborhood yesterday, I wondered what actually went on behind those manicured lawns and drawn curtains. I wondered how much I really knew my neighbors.

This is what my brain spat out:

Ian missed living in a city that didn’t keep any secrets from him, where everything was out in the open: junkies, hookers, pan handlers, rich snobs and bad cops. You knew where you stood with everyone in the city, and everyone in the city knew where they stood with you.

In the suburbs, though, everyone had a secret. Two houses up, the Doyles were overdue on three months’ of bills, but they kept paying the gardener to come and keep up appearances. Across the street, Mrs. Canton practically begged every delivery boy who came to the door to fuck her, except on Sunday when she went door to door, passing out bible tracts. Next door, Doctor and Mrs. Thompson argued quietly and intensely almost every night about their son, who they’d put into a group home for troubled youth.

Day after day, Ian smiled and waved to his neighbors, while recording all of their secrets in journals and photo albums.

When the police finally found the bodies buried in the loose dirt of his basement, his neighbors were shocked: “He was quiet,” Doctor Thompson said. “He kept to himself,” Mrs. Thompson added.

“He never left his garbage cans out. He kept a lovely lawn,” The Doyles told investigators.

When the handsome young reporter from Channel 6 came to her door, Mrs. Canton smiled carefully and said, “Would you like to come inside and talk about it over a cup of coffee?”

I worked on it a little bit yesterday, and again this morning, mostly focusing it on the beats I wanted to put together. I'll be honest: I'm nervous to release fiction, even short fiction like this (just 239 words) to the world without even showing it to an editor, first … but the point of this isn't to be perfect, it's to be creative. So, writers who are afraid to show their work to readers: if I can do this, so can you.

NB: My neighbors are actually quite lovely … as far as I know.

i got a new t-shirt today …

I did a bunch of writing this morning, but I still don't have a monster to unleash on the villagers. I'm not going to lie to you, Marge, it's kind of frustrating, and my goddamn inner critic is screaming at me that I'm terrible and it's stupid and they're all going to laugh at me, which doesn't help even a tiny bit. Don't worry, I'll get over it.

Still, it was enough that I felt like I'd earned the right to make an X on the calendar in the "Creative" box, which is kind of the whole point right now. To continue the running comparison, I'm still just trying to make it around the track without throwing up, which is fine.

I also got a stupid idea for a stupid cell phone video, and made this:

Context, for the seven of you who don't know what the Alot is.

I also customized my band in Rock Band 3 (I bet you didn't know that a large part of writing is not actually writing, but doing all sorts of other things when you should be writing and calling it "letting my mind wander" or something like that), which could also be considered creative. We're three hot girls and me, and we're called Abby Nermal. Our logo is a cute cat who has swallowed a fish that glows inside its tummy.

a whole lot of good exercise

Today's effort to do something creative didn't result in anything I can actually publish (yet), but was still enjoyable and worthwhile, and I wanted to share something about the experience that I hope some of you find useful.

I'm disappointed that I don't have anything to point to and say, "hey, I made this", because even though I think it's an unreasonable expectation, I still hoped that I'd be able to pull together a 100-300 word story, like some of my friends do.

Yeah, it turns out that making something up and giving it life, as opposed to remembering it and recreating it, is hard enough without trying to cram it all into a very small space. Being seriously out of practice after spending months focused on acting didn't help, and the ideas I had just couldn't be assembled into a monster from their individual parts. (They looked lovely, though, spread out all over the lab, and the thrumming of all my mad scientist electrical equipment was … energizing, to say the least.)

But this doesn't mean that it wasn't worthwhile. I don't have something to show off today, but one or both of them may be available soon … and even if they aren't, I still spent a considerable amount of time today working at it. I spent a lot of time and energy today being a writer, being a creator, and that goes down as a good day in my log book.

I guess this could be compared to a runner working really hard and logging a lot of miles trying to get a faster time, or greater distance than before: even if that specific goal isn't met, she still got a whole lot of good exercise.

good evening (and good night)

"I want to have a date tonight. Do you want to have a date tonight?" Maybe I should have passed her a note that said "check yes or no" but after fifteen years together, I often think of these cute and clever things hours after the fact.

Anne looked up from her magazine. "I like having dates with my husband," she said.

"Yeah, I was talking to him online earlier today, and he said that he likes having dates with you."

She closed her magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Where do you want to go?"

"Someplace we haven't gone before. That'll be an adventure."

Yeah, I've been suburbanized so long, going to a restaurant I haven't been to before now qualifies as an adventure. Twenty-two year-old Wil just put down his copy of Naked Lunch long enough to shake his head in either sadness, or disgust, depending on what angle you're looking at him from.

"Let's try that cafe on Raymond," she said.

So we did, and it was amazing, and we'll be going back frequently in the weeks and months to come.

(Parenthetical highlight: during our meal, a woman in her late 40s, wearing a fur leopard-print bucket hat and a shiny patent leather overcoat sat down next to us. It was such a stunning display of wrongness that I involuntarily stopped talking in mid word, and just stared at Anne. She looked back at me and very calmly said, "I have … comments." I laughed so hard, it must have looked like I was having a seizure.)

After dinner, we went to BevMo to get a present for one of our friends. While we were there, I picked up a Sublimely Self-Righteous Ale and a Rogue Chipotle Ale.

"I thought we were just here to get [REDACTED BECAUSE OUR FRIEND READS MY BLOG]," Anne said.

"It's so weird when you talk in all caps like that," I said. She looked back at me, patiently.

"Well, we are … but if I don't buy these beers, the terrorists have won."

"What is this, 2003?"

"NEVER FORGET, ANNE."

She gave me a look that said Tired of Your Shenanigans, Next Exit.

I got the message and quietly took my place in line.

(Incidentally, our time in BevMo may not have transpired in precisely that manner, but as I found the creation/retelling of this experience entertaining, I hope you will indulge me this bit of creative memory.)

When we got home, the night was still young, so I suggested we watch a movie together.

"What did you have in mind?" Anne asked.

I turned on our Roku and went to my Netflix queue. "How about … Thank God It's Friday?"

"The Disney movie?"

"What?"

"… oh. That's Freaky Friday. Never mind."

We laughed together. "This is a disco movie that was made in 1978, and features Donna Summer and The Commodores, plus career performances from Debra Winger, Terri Nunn and Jeff Goldblum."

"You had me at 'disco movie,'" she said.

I was delighted to see that it was streaming in HD, thanks to my ISP temporarily forgetting to serve up about a quarter of the bandwidth I'm paying for, which is their custom.

The movie was just spectacular, and a ridiculous amount of fun. If you have 90 minutes and the means to view it, I highly recommend it.

About twenty minutes into the film, Anne paused it and looked at me. "You know what would make this movie even better?"

"Something I wouldn't want to recount on my blog?" I didn't actually say, but you must admit just made you giggle.

"Scotchy scotch scotch."

"It goes down … down into my belly!"

I went to our liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig. I poured two small glasses and gave her one of them.

"To cheesy 70s disco movies and dates together," I said.

Clink!

"I just love my husband," she said.

"I love you the most," I said.

Twenty-two year-old me turned up Chet Baker on the CD player, and sighed wistfully. He didn't have any idea that in less than a year, he would meet the girl of his dreams.