Robert James Russell

Another day, another excerpt from my currently-seeking-publication novel Impossible Monsters. Again, I present to you the lovable curmudgeon, Anthony.

Enjoy.

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ANTHONY

Three in the afternoon and it’s sunny out and sitting at a Starbucks on High Street with my sunglasses on.  Head feels clear for once, no pain in my body, anywhere.  Finally.  Scratching on a notepad, sitting in the upper level at a table that extends across the large window that looks down onto the street.  Leering at those unlucky enough to fall into my line of sight.  Sucking on an iced coffee and picking at a piece of cake that looked good but once I bit into it I was instantly turned off by the cranberries.  Thinking about a lot of things.  There’s a pub across from the place called Will-O-The-Wisp which sounds familiar but I can’t remember if I’ve been there or not.  Next to the pub is a paper store called Pulp which makes me think of the song “Common People” which makes me think of the line “She told me that her Dad was loaded / I said ‘In that case I’ll have a rum and coca-cola’” which makes me smile.  Today, I think, will be good.  Decide my goal for the day will be to get caught up on homework.  To get so far ahead I won’t fall behind again.  Just can’t, I reason.  Look down at the notepad and see that I’ve been doodling the whole time I’ve been daydreaming and there are little screaming stickmen all over the paper but no stickwomen.  There’s a stickman tied to what looks like a cross and supposedly I’ve drawn flames around him.  Talk about a way to go.  This makes me smile again.

Look back outside and see a boy I met at a party during welcome week named Felix, Austrian or Australian, I can’t remember.  Austrian, I think.  His English was impeccable and we talked to each other a bit at the pub we were at but I don’t remember which pub it was.  He wore a rugby-type shirt that night, I remember.  Dark blue.  Studies engineering, is nineteen like me.  Long blonde hair combed back and he really could be a model.  I remember calling Deirdre about him, actually.  Tilt the sunglasses up and rest them on my forehead and watch him talk to a scraggly and witchy looking girl with wild bushy hair.  He’s wearing tight jeans and ankle boots and a button down shirt tucked in and he looks very GQ.  He’s carrying a satchel bag, leather.  Find myself beaming and just studying the way he interacts with her, the way he looks past her while she groans on about whatever it is she’s groaning on about.  The way he takes his left boot and itches the back of his right leg with it, then repeats it with the right itching the left.  Boredom.  Could recognize it anywhere.  Practically leaning over the thin table with my nose almost on the glass looking down and suddenly he looks up and sees me.  Cups a hand over his eyes like a visor and sees me but it takes a second for him to realize he knows me from somewhere and when he does he smiles real big and I remember I liked that his teeth were so white.  He waves a bit then holds up a finger to tell me he’ll be a minute and I just sort of wave back and slink back into my seat, unsure if that was the reaction I was going for.  Look around behind me and see only a few tables filled with students, the rest empty and stained with coffee spills.  Adjust my clothes.  Peer back down and they’re still talking.  Foot starts tapping of its own accord and I start doodling again and find myself drawing a stickman with an axe chopping the head off another stickman and then a family of stickmen crying nearby with lines coming out from their heads representing their anguish.  Smile.  Feel a buzz in my pocket, jolting me stiff.  Take my phone out and don’t recognize the number but know it’s from Chicago so I answer.

(more…)

Why not, right? Short little chapter I quite like from my novel Impossible Monsters. Enjoy.

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RICHARD

It’s kinda cold outside and Beatriz and I are walking down Medard Road which runs past the dorms and down a steep hill that overlooks a nice little area of Wellington before it curves, goes past some pretty decent-looking houses, and dead-ends into Bexley Hill. I managed to track down her dorm room number from Mora, called her to apologize for my behavior at the party, I think really just to make us both feel better about everything, and ended up asking her to take a walk.  I met her by the road and she had a small Spanish-English dictionary with her, which was pretty adorable, and I smiled when I saw it, which caused her to blush.

“I…am sorry.  My Eenglish is…not very good,” she said, bashful, sexy, holding the book up.  I don’t remember her English being particularly bad last night.

“No, it’s fine…I like this,” I said back, then we started walking, not really saying anything, just exchanging lots of awkward smiles mostly.  Now we’re down the hill right past the curve and there’s this old church with dark stones, grass in front of it, surrounding it, a small stone wall lining the sidewalk made up of similar dark stones and we’re sitting on the wall.  I’m thumbing through the dictionary, asking about my pronunciation of random Spanish words which makes her smile and look away, and she’s wearing this hoodie and some jeans and some tennis shoes that makes her look very American for some reason.  I’m wearing a tight sweater and favorite jeans, and I removed my green army jacket earlier so she could look at me, so I could show her my body again, just to make sure she knows.

“I’m glad you wanted to come with me,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, nodding.

“Listen, I think what happened, last night, is something…well, we were drunk, right?” I say and she looks at me, processing what I just said, so I add, “Borrecho, si?”

“Ah, borracho.  Yes, very,” she says, the R’s rolling off her tongue and hanging between us before they disappear.

I look out to the road and watch a few cars drive by, a small Indian family out for a walk, a stray cat that’s really dirty and mangy.  I look back to her and she’s looking up toward the sky, studying the tree that’s hanging over us, the branches already bare, the bark like peeling slate.  “I think you’re very beautiful,” I say.

“Hmm…thanks.  You are also…very handsome,” she says and I smile.

“I don’t think we’re bad people, you know?” I say and pause to look in the dictionary, then, “That I’m…uh, mal hombre, right?”

“No, no.  We were…just drunk, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, she’s looking at me.  “You really are very beautiful.  Do you miss your boyfriend?”

“Uh…yes, sometimes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hector.  He’s a good man.”

“My girlfriend’s name is…Jennifer.  Jen, I call her.  I met her at…a friend’s wedding, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Is this weird I’m telling you this after…you know?”

“I…do not understand.”

“Um, after last night,” I say slowly, gesturing with my hands.  “I mean, after what happened between us.”

“Ah, yes…yes.  No, is good to know.”

“I agree.  You know, I never…cheated before, on her.  On Jen.  Cheat?” I say, making sure she understands.

“Yes, I have not cheated too.”

“Well, at least we’re on the same page.  Uh, I mean, we’re…the same?”

“Yes,” she says, looking at me again.  “We are the same.”

I hear what sounds like a car accident echo from somewhere, not sure which direction, so I look around quick and just listen, waiting.  Nothing happens, nothing right away, anyway, and I see the Indian family walk by again, retracing their steps, then three birds flirting across the street in the branches of another bare tree, then look back to Beatriz and catch her watching me, studying me, just looking at my body in a way that I think I understand.

“I think,” I say, smiling at her, making a conscious effort to articulate like a translator might, pausing, then, “I think that you and I will be very good friends, yes?”

“Maybe…is possible,” she says, smirking.  “Nothing is impossible.”

“True,” I say.  “Nothing is impossible.”