Skida-ma-rink-a-dink-a-dink...

So I'm sitting here digging through all of my old computer files, reading what I wrote so long ago. Why did I save all of these papers and stories from high school and undergraduate? Why as a tool of future procrastination, of course! I should be cleaning the bathroom. I'm having a party tomorrow night. That bastard Dan Richardson is coming in to town to sleep in our guest room tonight... so much to do. So little I'm actually doing.

I now present a special gift for Ben Cox, who loathes me for never updating the gur-nal... My short fiction accomplishment from undergrad... I think I got an "A" on this, but I was mostly drunk when I wrote it and when I went to class and when I received the grade.. anyway... I worked for a long time on this story and it should suffice until I write in this bitch again... Here goes.

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For Your Hot Butts and Ashes
By Julia Bonham

When Olive first met Paul, she was swept up in the story of his life. Paul was an artist. He was intense. Intense in every aspect of his existence. He spoke passionately, he made love to Olive with his eyes locked directly into hers, and on the weekends he always drove her two hours to see the gallery openings in Kansas City. Paul said that Olive made him manic. She made him creative. Paul said that before meeting her, this manic side had never been able to escape him and his artwork had never been so groundbreaking. Paul and Olive attended his art openings together. His friends, family, and fellow sculpture people poured for hours over the genius behind his new collections of work. They drank so much cheap wine. Olive hated the headaches that watery red wine gave her, but she never told Paul. It was free and she felt a little glamorous drinking wine in an art gallery. Now, after a year of ups and downs together, mania and depression, Paul sat in her living room every night and drank a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He leaned forward on the couch and slowly pushed an errant strand of hair behind his ear. Drunk again at four a.m., he stumbled to bed and curled up next to Olive.

The next morning, Olive woke up two hours early for work. Paul’s heavy, gargled, drunk snoring startled her awake every few minutes and she felt like she wanted to smash glass with her hands. She rolled over in bed and let her eyes adjust to the dim light of the early morning. Drool had collected around the corner of Paul’s mouth during the night, and a thick, clear trail seemed to be frozen to his round, bearded cheek. She studied his face. Paul’s dark hair was long and sweat made it curl and stick to his forehead during the night. She leaned closer to Paul and thought of all the times she had climbed on top of him in the morning, slowly waking him for groggy sex under the covers. His facial expression as he slept always made her want to stir him awake and send him into orgasm. Paul looked so sad when he slept. He had said that Olive was the only one who could take his sadness away, if just for a moment. The drool crept through the coarse hairs of Paul’s beard. Olive didn’t want to have sex with him today. His drooly face disgusted her. She climbed out of bed.

He was grating on her again and this time she couldn’t turn it around. The nickname “Ollie” had been working its way into his daily conversations with her. She hated nicknames. His ups and downs usually came with her coping mechanisms, and they always came to a plateau in the end. After a year together, something was changing inside of her and she didn’t like it. She couldn’t pinpoint where the change was coming from, but it dragged on her. It made her eyes move slower when she read books and it made her internal monologue more acidic than ever. Olive walked in to the living room and noticed Paul’s sculpture tools scattered around on her floor. Paul’s dirty clothes piled in the corner. She bent down to pick up the heavy clothes, crusted in clay from a late night of working in the studio. Olive looked up and saw his meticulous pyramid of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans stacked next to his art books on top of the television. She stood up and scanned the living room with her eyes. “When did he manage to move all of his belongings into my apartment?” she asked aloud.

Olive and Paul decided to take a break from college for the summer so that Paul could spend more time in the studio working on his sculpture. Olive worked part-time at a locally owned grocery store that had been a trafficking hub for black tar heroin in the 1970s. Discovering this detail one day in the Local Archives section at the university library was the main reason she decided to apply as a checker at the grocery store. She was a sucker for kitsch and didn’t consider the monotony and boredom that a grocery store job would bring. Working at Value Valley wasn’t as seedy and glamorous as she had pictured it to be. She was disappointed.
After her first two weeks on the job, her manager decided that the store needed a little extra income, mainly to support his blossoming methamphetamine addiction. Olive suggested that he open up a small video rental area in the middle of the grocery store where customers could pick up a movie one day, and stop in the next day to return it and buy more food. He agreed to the idea and placed Olive in charge of the project. She was given two hundred dollars to buy cheap videos to rent out, and ended up getting most from the previously viewed bin at the Video Vault down the street. She didn’t have an actual space of her own in the store, so she spent hours setting up her video rental area in one of the vacant corners near the liquor department. A red polyester skirt was adhered to the lip of a folding table from the break room. She purchased an oversized black, fake-leather bound log book and devised an intricate system of tracking the rentals that was so complicated only she could understand it.

She sat at her counter for three hours. She laughed. The customers amused her. They asked her highly specific questions about movies in which they knew every scene of the film except for the title, actors, year, and so on. She was proud of her nerdy amount of knowledge concerning film and television. Olive believed that pretense was a necessary trait for any successful video clerk. Today, she was excited to be at work. That morning, she had made sure to apply eyeliner and wore her gold hoop earrings that Paul said made her look like a whore. Her bright red hair was styled with both mousse and hairspray, two things that only Paul would normally use in his grooming process. She looked at herself in the mirror and focused in on her crooked eyes. They weren’t symmetrical and although Paul or anyone else had never noticed them, they drove Olive crazy. Her head was usually tilted slightly to the right in order to compensate for the unevenness of her eyes.

Three days before, she had seen a mildly attractive, older man watching her from the whisky section of the liquor department. He played the “extended stare” game with her, finally approached her and started speaking with Olive about politics. He told her that his name was “Bullet” but when she set up an account for him to rent videos, she observed that his driver’s license said his name was Gordon Graber. They flirted for a bit, he used the phrase “paradigm shift” seven times in one conversation, and he rented a three-night video, Fellini’s 8 ½. Olive noted that his build was thin and his posture was slouched. She wondered if he had osteoporosis. No milk in his cart. He probably drank Southern Comfort for breakfast.
She had been fantasizing about cheating on Paul with him ever since he rented the film, and today was the day it was due back. Olive waited. She checked the man’s account log. No activity since three days before. Sometimes she felt guilty for toying with the idea to cheat on Paul, but recently, she had noted that it wasn’t fazing her as much as it used to. Her shift ended. Olive sighed and checked Gordon’s account log again. Nothing.

Olive came home from work a few hours late that night. She had been wasting time before she had to go home, driving around town, past the apartments of former boyfriends, past the restaurants she and Paul used to frequent. As she drove, she created little scenarios in her head, ways in which to push Paul out of her apartment and eventually out of her life. Olive knew that when she pulled up in her parking spot, Paul’s truck would be there in the visitor lot. She didn’t want to see it. The apartment was a wreck, and although Paul didn’t pay any rent or utilities, he always tried to make her happy by doing housework while she was away. It was kind of like a special bonus at the end of the day, to walk in the door and find out what domestic task Paul had performed for her. She loved Paul for his little surprises.

A smile stretched across her face as she opened her front door and glanced around the small living room. Paul sat on the floor in front of the television, playing Excite Bike on her old Nintendo.
“Hey Ollie,” he said.
“Quit calling me that, it’s Olive. Ollie sounds like a dog’s name,” she said and leaned back against the door as she closed it. Paul didn’t take his eyes off of the screen for a second. She wanted him to at least turn his head and greet her. He wasn’t going to pay much attention to her this night, he was in one of those moods and she could sense it. Olive decided to test him. “So I had this customer tonight,” she started. “Oh?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the screen. Springs squeaked as she sat down on the edge of the old couch and stared at the back of his head.
“His name was Gordon, and he hung around the counter and flirted with me. For… two hours,” Olive lied. Paul played his video game and said nothing. “No, he flirted with me for three hours.” Nothing. She leaned forward and came as close as she could to the back of his head without touching it. The smell of sweat and Suave Strawberry shampoo radiated off of Paul’s head and a few of his stray hairs tickled her nose.
“Huh. Really,” Paul said.
“Yeah. So after four hours I told him to leave and punched him in the back of the head,” Olive lunged forward and head butted Paul from behind. She hoped he would be startled awake, stop paying attention to the video game and tackle her to the ground. This is how she had generally initiated sex in the past.
“Huh,” Paul didn’t flinch, didn’t even fake interest.
Olive stood up and walked over to Paul. She blocked his view of the television and he slumped down to try and see the television screen from between her legs. The heel of her foot kicked the small RESET button on the Nintendo. It flashed off and the title screen for Excite Bike returned.
“Are you going to listen to a fucking word I say?” The anger in her voice rose. She was trying to keep herself from yelling at him, from saying all of the things she had been practicing in the car ride after work. She looked down at Paul’s face. The reflected light of the television screen gave it a bluish tint. She noticed that his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He had trails of dried and wet tear marks down his cheeks. “Paul, are you okay?” Olive asked. Paul started to quietly cry. He tossed the little gray game controller to the side and curled his body around Olive’s lower legs. Paul’s sniffling turned in to sobs. His shoulders and chest buckled as he tried to draw in air. She dropped down, sat next to him on the floor and wrapped her arms around him as he cried.

“Ollie,” he started. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes. I just want to make you happy, baby. I did the dishes for you.” Paul’s crying softened as he buried his face in the side of her leg. He left little wet spots of tear streaks on her khaki colored work pants. Olive sat with her arms around Paul and stared up at menu screen on Excite Bike. Her eyes focused intently on one white pixel on the screen. Everything blurred around her as the single pixel came perfectly into focus. She knew it had to be asked.

“Paul,” she hesitated. She looked down at him and used her finger to brush some of his long brown hair off of his cheek. “Did you take your meds tonight?” she asked.
“What the fuck, Olive?!” Paul jumped up from the floor and staggered back against the coffee table. His right arm flailed out and knocked the double thick pyramid of beer cans from the surface of a table. They fell gently and rolled across the carpeted floor. Droplets of backwashed beer dripped out of the cans and left specks on the carpet. His face had a well-worn contortion of disgust and drama.

“How dare you accuse me, Mom? Fuck you. I don’t need this from you!” Paul turned too quickly and had to lean against the wall for support. He reached down and dug for his pack of Camel Filters from his art supply bag. Paul stabbed a cigarette between his lips and glared at Olive as he searched his pockets for his lighter.
“You are such a bitch to ask that of me,” he said, his voice muffled a little from the cigarette in his mouth. He turned to the door, opened it, walked out, and purposefully slammed it behind him as he left. Olive sat cross-legged on the floor in a daze.
“Of course,” she thought. “This is how it will always be. The keeper of a drunken, depressive Paul.” Olive tilted her head to the ceiling and noticed the cobwebs collecting in the corners of the room. She slowly rose to her feet and started to pick up the cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
That night, Paul came home right before the sun rose. Olive had waited a few hours for him, but eventually went to bed. His reaction hadn’t surprised her at all. This is how Paul always dealt with conflicts between the two of them, by storming out of the room and hoping that Olive would chase after. The game grew old to Olive after the first year, and Paul complained to her that she didn’t follow him when she was supposed to.

The next morning at work, Olive was more upset at the fact that Gordon Graber had dropped his movie in the overnight return box, than the fight she and Paul had. She took Gordon’s late-night drop off as a personal offense, and promptly erased his name from her account logbook. Tiny flecks of eraser were scattered around the space on the page where his name had been. Olive lowered her head to the page and started blowing the eraser remnants around the countertop. She felt someone’s eyes on her and became self-conscious. She sat up.
“Hey, Olive,” Gordon Graber said as he walked over to her from behind one of the liquor shelves. Olive scrambled to hide the space of his erased name with her arm.
“Gordon Graber,” she said with a smile.
“Please. It’s Bullet, remember?” He was wearing a stained, yellow t-shirt that read “Macho Man’s Fruits & Vegetables Guide” across the top. The shirt crudely displayed twenty different women’s naked breasts of varying shapes and sizes with the corresponding fruit or vegetable name below each one. Olive was mildly offended, but classified herself as somewhere between an “egg plant” and an “orange.”

“Nice shirt,” she said with sarcasm. Bullet looked down at his shirt and gave a surprised laugh.
“Oh yeah. This one’s horrible, isn’t it? I got it from a free bin at one of the shelters in town, but that’s another story, man.” He paused and Olive leaned forward in her chair. “You want to get coffee tonight and talk?” he asked.
“Yes!” Olive said. She leaned back. She had sounded too eager. She felt silly and trite. She had embarrassed herself.
“Excellent. I’ll meet you outside the grocery store when it closes at nine. See you then, sister,” Bullet smiled a crooked smile at her. He gave her a lopsided salute, turned on his heel and walked away.

At nine o’clock, Olive stepped out into the front parking lot of the store and looked around for Bullet. Her old, white Toyota station wagon was the only car parked out front. She approached it and scanned the areas around the store with her eyes. Olive felt guilty, but ecstatic at the idea of doing something else before going home to Paul. She leaned against the hood of the car and waited for Bullet. Earlier that night, she had called Paul during her break and lied to him. Some generic, high school friend had come in to town and they were meeting for coffee. Olive made the coffee meeting sound obligatory, and told Paul that this high school friend was a Republican. Paul had no interest in joining them. Olive waited.

At nine forty-five, she checked her watch one last time and thought about the night ahead of her. More sitting around. Paul would lecture her on the evils of television while he watched it for several hours before getting drunk and going to sleep. Her eye twitched. She reached deep in her handbag and felt around for her car keys. A random item in her purse poked the sensitive piece of skin between the nail bed and the nail itself. Surprised, Olive’s instincts pulled her hand out of the purse and she examined her finger. It was red. Not bleeding yet. Something deep in her stomach felt like it was turning inside out. Why didn’t Bullet show up tonight? Fuck him. Fuck Paul. Olive pulled her arm behind her head and swung her purse at her car in anger. It landed with a jangly thump against the window. She laughed. It felt good. Her hand drew the purse back again and she swung harder at her car window. The thump was louder. Something fell out of her purse and bounced across the parking lot. She didn’t care. She felt a loud scream escape her throat as she continued to swing her bag at the car window. Over and over again. She laughed. Laughed and screamed. She paused to take a deep breath.
“Olive?” Bullet stood five feet away from her with his hands in his pockets.
“Oh my God,” Olive said and lowered the battered purse to her side. He had probably been there the whole time, watching her madwoman behavior.
“Sorry I’m late. Things came up,” he said. His eyes darted around the parking lot. Olive laughed and pulled her car keys out of the purse. Bullet looked confused. Olive laughed.
“Hey, let’s reschedule for another time. Soon,” she said. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of right now. I’ll call you. I have your number in the logbook at the store.”
Bullet nodded his head in agreement. He still looked confused as he waved goodbye and walked away from her car.

Olive drove directly home from work. Her words were clarified. Paul was going to listen to her. He had to listen to her. Olive swung the front door of her apartment open and stood with her hands on her hips. Paul looked up from the couch. “Hey Ollie.” One of her collectible, nudie-girl ashtrays bearing the phrase “for your hot butts and ashes” was balanced on his stomach. As Olive closed the front door behind her, she stood for a moment and watched him continue to flip through a book of abstract art by Basquiat that she had purchased for him at a flea market. He stubbed his cigarette into the porcelain and ground black marks into the picture of the nudie girl’s naked ass.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. Paul didn’t look up at her.
“Do what? Then quit your job. It sucks,” he replied.
Olive clenched her purse in her hand and swung it at the front door with all of her force. It made a cracking, jingling sound that echoed through the apartment. Paul closed his book and set his ashtray down on the coffee table. The springs in the couch creaked as Paul shifted his weight.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. Paul sat up straight and locked his eyes with hers. “I’m done Paul. If we stay together any longer, I’m going to kill myself. This relationship is killing me.” Olive walked towards the television and stood in front of it, she turned and faced Paul as he sat on the couch. “I can’t handle the ‘up’ times. I can’t handle the ‘down’ times. I’m not bipolar and I can’t bear the burden of your problems any longer.” Olive felt like an insensitive bitch, but knew that this is what she had to say. “I could have cheated on you tonight. I could have. I didn’t. I couldn’t do that to you, but I can’t stay with you now.” Olive thought of Jimmy Carter, lusting in his heart. She wanted to laugh, but had to force herself to keep a sad face.
Paul looked up from the pages of his book and started to cry. He kept his eyes trained on her as he cried.
Olive took a step toward him. She wanted to hold him and take back everything she had just said. The look on his face was too much for her to resist.
Paul stood up.
“Olive, you are an insensitive bitch,” he said. Paul reached down and grabbed his art supply bag. He walked out the door and purposefully slammed it behind him.
Olive sat down on the couch and looked around her living room. The vacuum cleaner was propped up against the wall. Paul had dusted and straightened everything in the living room while she was at work. She rushed to the front door, swung it open, and ran after Paul. She stopped at the end of the walkway. Paul’s truck engine roared from across the parking lot as he made a sharp right turn and drove away. Olive watched his red taillights as they slowly disappeared down the road. She knew that he wasn’t coming back.