Onze Labs

Anatomy of a Tweet: Unchained Melody

Wherein we explain what the frock we were thinking when we tweeted that:

On the way back from the Fillmore Farmer's Market today, I spied — and nearly ran over — a busted Master Lock. Even mangled and missing its hook, looking like it had been chewed and spat out by a Master robot, the signature silver lines and blue band identified it from 10 feet away. I felt a tweet coming on.

Because I do not have the technology to snap a pic and email it from my phone, I was unable to photograph the lock where it lay, in the street. So I leaned down from my bike and took it in hand. How heavy! This padlock had put up a fight to keep something secure. But now that thing had become unchained. Free...

The topic of freedom came up last night at Urban Dharma SF, adding another layer to the story.

Here is how it all came together:

About that chain you put around my heart: It's in the middle of Turk Street. I told you to set me free. #vss

Post-posting thoughts: This is more true to the real lyrics than most Covers pieces. Word-wise, I would have preferred "wrapped" to "put," but I was too close on the character count.

Love Is the Seventh Wave

My mother lost my trust little by little over my first sixteen years. She was all I had and I slowly came to know that she wasn't nearly enough. She was doing a shitty job of raising me; I realized this by the time I was twelve.

When I was about eight, before she'd started in on the hard drugs, Tanya took me to see my grandmother. Grandma Lucy lived in Florida, in a crappy apartment complex that was a 15-minute drive from the beach. She lived there alone, occupying her retirement hours with TV, cigarettes, and lattes made with coffee, milk, and Wild Turkey. Sometimes a bit of honey, depending on how important the taste was. She made a Thermos for herself and my mother packed a picnic for us all and we went to the beach almost every day. There was nothing much else to do.

One day the beach was different: The sky was a slate blue, not the clean bright azure of other days, and the clouds were not white but violet and darker than the sky. I didn't know the world was about to storm; I thought the purple clouds in the distance streaming gray to the sea were magic, an invisible hand feeding the ocean a fairy dust that would conjure some kind of fantastic dream right before my eyes. The cool breeze on my skin felt exciting. The waves were bigger than I had seen them and they amazed me. I expected them to toss something at my feet—a sea creature, a sailor, or a whale. Lucy and Tanya were both drinking from the Thermos and laughing. At some point, watching me watch the water, Lucy insisted on  taking my picture. I grabbed a shovel and pail but Lucy waved the props away.

"Everyone has pictures on the beach. I want to get a wave behind you. That'll be more dramatic."

This sounded fabulous to me, so I followed her directions to stand in the surf facing her.

"Mother…We should go. Look at the sky." Tanya did not sound serious and neither Lucy nor I listened to her. We were having fun. Lucy and I continued our photo shoot and Tanya started to pick up our picnic. She stumbled a bit and had to focus on her movements, especially when she bent over. I took advantage of having Grandma Lucy's full attention and I strutted around like I'd seen Tanya do for her boyfriends. Grandma Lucy loved it.

"Look at you, modeling for your picture. You're a precocious little girl like your mother, aren't you darling?"

Her encouragement made me ham it up all the more. She stumbled a little, trying to get the right placement.

"Oh, darn it. That was a good one and I missed it. Let's try again." She studied the camera, moved a knob, clicked the shutter again and accidentally took a picture of her own face, which made her cut up and call to my mother.

"Tanya, do you know what I just did?" For the first time that day my mother did not cut up with her.

"Lucy, it's going to rain. You two come back here and help me get all this shit together so we can get home before we get soaked." Grandma Lucy was undaunted, and so I wasn't moved either. She mouthed "party pooper" to me while mock scowling, then gave me a hundred-watt smile.

"OK, Kari, honey, can you step back a little bit? The waves are breaking so far out they won't show up."

Happy to oblige, I hopped back a few steps and turned toward her, gave her my best movie-star smile.

"That's better. We're getting close…"

"MOTHER! LET'S GO." Lucy waved Tanya off and looked back to me. Then both my mother and Lucy got the same look on their face: a kind of stunned fear. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a wave taller than I was curling up and at me. I looked back to the beach and ran.

The water level was rising quickly up my legs and it was harder to move. Before the wave hit me I tripped, face-planted into the foaming water and when I yanked my head back up for a breath, the wall nailed me from behind. I was tossed into a tumble, rolled ass over teacup to the shore. I was cold, wet, and my mouth was full of sand.

Looking back I realize that Lucy was drunk and Tanya was not far behind her. I understand that they were grateful things hadn't gone worse than they did and I believe their reaction was a reflection of the relief that follows a horror you feel helpless to stop.

But at the time all I knew was that I wanted to be collected in someone's arms, to feel loving fingers rake my hair and all I felt was a sickness of heart when Lucy yelled "Whoopsie Daisy!" and Tanya bent over to pick up her beach bag with one hand and instead of taking my hand with the other, used it to hide a grin.

Then the rain came and we all ran to the car, and we were all soaked. Somehow I knew to rinse my mouth out with water, like at the dentist. I stood in the parking lot, spitting, for much longer than necessary. I made them wait for me while I did what neither of them had the sense to do: take care of me. 

* * *

Part of the Covers series

For more flash fiction from other writers, follow #fridayflash on Twitter and check the archive.

Covers: Fictions With Song-Title Titles

Love Is the Seventh Wave
What You See (Is What You Get)
Equinox
Graceland
That Voice Again
After Midnight
Let's Call the Whole Thing Off
Straight to My Heart
Would I Lie to You?
Back on the Chain Gang
Little Earthquakes
Turbulent Indigo
Message in a Bottle
Nevermind
Happy Birthday to You
Bad
Wipe Out
Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in my Hand

What You See (Is What You Get)

   

   The slice of skin that emerges when the girl's shirt rides up from her pants is the shape of a marquis diamond. The plane is the color of a fawn, the same color as the leather bucket cupping Kylen's ass, and he feels like if he grabbed the wheel a little harder, pulled himself up out of the cockpit and leaned over the windshield he could lick it. But she will outrun him. She always does. She pedals down Montgomery and reaches Market while he sits one, then two, then hopeless, hopeless blocks behind, following, glimpsing, dreaming that slice of smooth.

    Kylen does not see her every day, but he has seen her enough, watched her enough to know that this is not a girl with Champagne tastes or a Botox habit or a living room out of a catalog. She is not someone who discusses window treatments. She has not chosen a china pattern, determined "her" colors, or fretted over a gown. Kylen is sure.

    What Kylen is not sure of is sitting next to him, seemingly staring at her nails but actually peeking sideways behind her sunglasses, seeing him as if for the first time, watching him watch the cyclist. She is wearing a two-carat solitaire on her left ring finger, which she is drumming, along with its brothers, on a bare thigh. The light changes and Kylen jams the gear shifter into first position and hits the gas.

Raquel mutters, more loudly than she intended, "Who are you kidding?"

Kylen may or may not hear and Raquel may or may not have meant him to. His head turns as if to speak to her but it stops at one o'clock, rests on a point just beyond the right front fender, where the cyclist is creeping along at his pace.

    The light turns yellow and they are about to be stuck in the intersection.

    "Go around—to the other lane. We're going to block traffic."

    Raquel throws her hands up to her ears to deflect the horns she is sure will ring out against them. She only cares what other people think, and regardless of whether or not it is also true of himself, this riles Kylen. The cyclist does not care what other people think. She does not care if there are twenty cars ahead of her or eighty cars behind, parked or cruising, she just pedals on. She does not care if Kylen watches her shirt ride up; she does not care if Kylen neglects to notice her. The cyclist does not care what Kylen is thinking or how he feels. She does not want to know. And this excites him.

Kylen swerves left and then the line he just escaped surges on and he swoops back into it and he can't believe what he sees: There she is, as if waiting for him, one foot on the curb. She pulls a cellphone to her ear. Kylen slows as he approaches and another sports car, built in another part of Southern Germany, cuts in front of him.

    "Sweetie, pay attention…"

    Raquel's irritated tone spurs Kylen's indignation and he toots the horn and immediately looks to the right to see if she will turn toward him but her arms are crossed and she is staring at her handlebars.
    And then, a miracle: Traffic stops.

    Blocks away horns claxon in response to a surge of bikes ejaculating down Market Street. Kylen taps the steering wheel with the butt of his right hand while his left hides a grin. He can't believe his luck.

    "Shit…"

    Raquel shifts in her seat.

    "I told you if we didn't leave by 5:30 we would hit Critical Mass. Now we're going to be parked here for an hour." Her finger does a glissando across the shiny screen cupped in her hand and her phone wakes up.
Kylen squirms to make himself taller in his seat. The cyclist is inches away from his right front headlight and she still has not noticed him.

    "Hi, Gerome, it's Raquel. My fiancé and I are stuck in traffic downtown…. Hopefully no more than 15 or 20 minutes….I know, I know. I really, really, really appreciate this…. OK. I understand. Thank you, Gerome."

    Raquel taps the screen with a motion a fairy tale queen might use to make someone disappear.

    "He can only wait until 6:30."

    Kylen senses the need for a reply and offers a vaguely commiserate "OK…" What he really feels is a helpless panic that his fantasy is veering away from him. His cyclist is now peering into traffic, her phone still to her ear; she is scanning every vehicle but cannot see the gunmetal convertible that is right on her ass.

    Kylen presses the heel of his hand into his crotch. He doesn't know how he's going to make it without a look from her. Please, just that. As long as he has that, he can accept this.

    The cyclist is off the phone now and in one swift motion Kylen could not have anticipated—did not even think to imagine—lifts off her shirt. Underneath it she is wearing a tank top, the hem of which rides up so high that the diamond of skin doubles in size and becomes the shape of a flag rippling in a breeze.
Raquel watches Kylen watch her go. A long breath later the cars move. Raquel checks her watch as Kylen stares into the brake lights. She lifts a string-bean arm up to Kylen's shoulder, plays with the hair on his neck.

    The car inches, inches, inches along and Kylen feels her rolling further and further away. Then there is a break and they make half a block in one tap of the gas. His heart turns over.

    "Honey…"

    "What? It's opening up. We'll make it. Don't worry."

    "Let's just forget the invitations. Gerome can meet us tomorrow, after we go to taste cakes."

    The hurdles in this procession continually appear; Kylen thinks he sees the finish and three more jumps pop up for him to clear. Kylen cranes his neck, pulls on the wheel, prays for a glimpse, a flash. Raquel drops her hand into his lap. Traffic moves.

    "Look. I don't mean to stress you out over all this. We can take a day off."

    The light is red before Kylen even saw the yellow. He slams only one foot to the floor and the car stalls out. He is nose-to-ass with a minivan and occupying the intersection. Cross-traffic is paralyzed. Horns accuse him.

    "Shit."

    Kylen spits the words into his fist.

    "Too late."

That Voice Again

So
here's
that voice
again -
a slow drip
that quickens to a steady stream
that courses to a flood
that winds and roars and finally disgorges a tsunami
that denudes then drowns the shore
putting things where they should not be:
a boat on a roof
a baby in a tree
me on top of you

 

 

Equinox

simply
to feel
what is felt
the blood the heat the chill
the wave cresting
breaking at the impossible moment
a scythe a scimitar a lathe
a tide turning
upending a grain of salt
reeled
spun

felt

done

Checkmate

It started as a chess game: cerebral and deliberate. He would get my knight with a pawn; a long moment later I would slide my bishop in position to take his queen.

    Now it is War.

    We slap our cards down together, fast and hard, swipe our wins away in a blink and then throw down again, again, again, again, pausing only to reshuffle the deck.

    This morning he barreled into the kitchen ahead of his coffee, bent on tearing me from my notebook. At the end of Scene One he seized the top of a chair I was not sitting in and his red face erupted to the breast-like dome-light above the breakfast table: “Do you hear me?”

    “Oh, yes,” I said, my scribbles coming ever faster. “Do you know how to spell ‘obstreperous’?”

Straight to My Heart

From the Covers series

I know the potholes on this block like I know the piles of magazines in my living room and I slalom around them with the same practiced grace I navigate my own neglected pylons with and uttering the same silent admonition that "someone" should make the way more safe for my traveling.

You stood on the corner when you had the light, when I was a block and a half away—my eyesight is that good; I watch that well. When I was three-quarters of a block from you the green turned mine and when I was ten yards out you stepped into the street; not once had you looked my way, so you did not see my face go pale as I swerved left and shifted up, to beat it to beat you to the center line, but you smiled when I was nearly upon you and you stepped back and spoke the "Hey" of one who has been awakened from a sleep, one now looking around and liking what he is seeing and forgetting what had captured his eyes just a moment ago.

I hit one of the holes and a spoke went pang! and you said "Hot dang!" and in spite of myself I grinned and allowed, for that moment, that my face might be red not because I had pedaled so hard and that sound might have been not a spoke but a string; I, not the bike, was sprung.

After Midnight

From the Covers series

After midnight, an evening of chatter and jazz in a warm room behind me, the air felt more still, the sky a deeper cool. Not one car passed me as I rolled along Chestnut, thinking about how to get home.

During the day I would have made my way to Polk and taken the safety of the bike lanes up and over Russian Hill, even though that would be going west to eventually go east. I thought about Van Ness, just one block closer and slightly less steep than Polk—and even at night an artery coursing with manic cars too.

The most direct route south would be to take the next right and ride Steiner up and over Pacific Heights, which is to say up four blocks of 10 percent grade or more and the last block steeper than 18 percent. Well after midnight and an evening of chatter and jazz in a warm room, up seemed to be the right way to go.

Steiner Street from Greenwich to Fulton is part of Route 45 in the Official San Francisco Bike Route System. Riding it north from the Lower Haight is not a huge challenge, especially if you take Fillmore to Post and shimmy over. The view of Angel Island and Tiburon when you crest the hill at Pacific is delightful and the swift descent toward the bay is fantastic. None of this is visible at night, behind you. You might hear a foghorn, but this night was clear, no clouds, no breeze, just a basic San Francisco cool.

The music and laughing still resonated in me and the first block from Union to Green went by easily and as I looked left and right at nothing but parked cars and street lights I thought this was definitely the way to go. Halfway to Vallejo my legs started to talk back and at Vallejo I started to listen, saw myself walking the bike. Then I saw a guy walking a dog.

On a quiet empty street, if I walked the bike, the dog wouldn't ignore me even if its companion did, and surely a conversation would ensue about bike riding and walking at night up a hill. It might be a very pleasant conversation, but a witness to my pause would make it feel like a defeat. So I stood up from the saddle and I pushed back on my legs and my lungs started to burn and I forgot the man and the dog and the music and all of life before midnight and kept my eyes on the street where it met my front tire.

I stopped at Broadway to catch my breath and the dogwalker was suddenly behind me and he spoke. That. Was. Great. It was more the tone than what he said: a sincerity, a respect, that I heard as one person feeling the whole night and just then this block at this time. My thanks tripped out with an exhale and I pulled the handlebars upright and went on, unable to say anything more and not wanting to hear anything more that might be said and aware that if I did not ride the wave he'd set in motion with his remark, it would pass and leave me there, on that side of the sky.

The last block was the worst and the easiest because then there was no question but that I would do it. My lungs were on fire, my pulse drummed into my face, and each in and out breath dried my gaping mouth, but I would make it up that hill and I did though there was a moment four parked cars before Pacific when I thought what am I doing I should have stayed and talked to that guy and not because this is killing me and what if I don't make it and then I'll really feel like an idiot—

No.

After riding beyond midnight into the cool deep still blue there is only up and up until the drop into the exquisite eventual inevitable dawn.

Heisenberg in Love

The scientist hates it when the artist employs her principles; he never shows his work. And he inevitably misses the point.

After months of applying himself to her theories, he now applies her theories to himself: He can be with her or  in love with her. No known algorithm can solve the equation without ex.