{"id":4041,"date":"2013-05-01T19:25:22","date_gmt":"2013-05-01T19:25:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/?p=4041"},"modified":"2013-05-01T19:25:22","modified_gmt":"2013-05-01T19:25:22","slug":"id-like-to-buy-a-vowel-by-thomas-kearnes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2013\/05\/01\/id-like-to-buy-a-vowel-by-thomas-kearnes\/","title":{"rendered":"I’d Like to Buy a Vowel by Thomas Kearnes"},"content":{"rendered":"

I won\u2019t lie. I thought about taking it, slipping it into my gym shorts. Like I\u2019d told Serena earlier that day, the poor man was losing his mind. I hadn\u2019t told her the worst of it; Serena was not on friendly terms with absolute truths. His credit card lay facedown in the towel cabinet above the toilet, the card surrounded by washcloths, denture cream and lotions. A Visa, one with an obnoxious \u201cpersonalized\u201d design: an aquarium filled with ghost-bright fish, motionless as if suspended by wire.
\n     \u201cClive, this belong to you?\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat you got?\u201d
\n     \u201cIt\u2019s a credit card. I think it\u2019s yours.\u201d
\n     \u201cWell, doggone.\u201d He rose from his seat in the kitchen, hands pressed against the tabletop for leverage. \u201cThings come and go like the breeze up in here.\u201d
\n     I smiled and handed it to him. \u201cVanna would\u2019ve gone disco dancing if she\u2019d found it.\u201d
\n     Clive chuckled. \u201cVanna be shady.\u201d
\n     \u201cShe ain\u2019t the mastermind. It\u2019s that faggot Pat Sajak. He\u2019s behind it all.\u201d
\n     \u201cI know that be right.\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat you trying to buy in the bathroom?\u201d
\n     \u201cMaybe I need a vowel.\u201d
\n     I laughed, tossing my head. He didn\u2019t know the first thing about me, not the first thing after four months. \u201cJust make sure you don\u2019t go bankrupt.\u201d
\n     Clive couldn\u2019t make it to the gas station on his own. The painkillers reduced his gait to a toddler shuffle; the sleeping pills knocked him out before he learned which castaway got snuffed on \u201cSurvivor.\u201d Our house manager, Wayne, apologized constantly for the urine Clive splattered around the toilet. Helpless, that\u2019s the word. I\u2019d expected my involuntary stay in a group home might expose me to ex-convicts, the deranged, the retarded\u2014those rightly abandoned by society, but never those still possessing a flicker of vitality.
\n     A month before Clive\u2019s Visa appeared in the bathroom like a vision of the Virgin Mary in a runny waffle, he flagged me down on my way to the gas station. Wayne didn\u2019t allow us to roam the neighborhood of prefab houses; what went on here was no business of theirs, and what went on out there was none of ours. Trapped, that\u2019s the word. Clive handed me his credit card with a trembling hand, asked for a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper and a slice of pound cake.
\n     \u201cHow will I know it\u2019s fresh?\u201d I asked.
\n     \u201cPeople from these parts take pride in those things. No joke.\u201d
\n\t     , I saw an opportunity. Already, it shimmered like the wet cunt of a buddy\u2019s girlfriend. \u201cAnything else?\u201d
\n     \u201cYou gone need my PIN number.\u201d
\n     The half-mile to the gas station gave me time to rationalize things. Every time I stumbled on the grassy incline sloping from the edge of the highway to a ditch filled with stagnant rainwater, I convinced myself this was my tip: a pack of menthol Marlboros, of course. Every time a sports car zipped past, horn blaring, I reminded myself Clive had offered me no compensation. Had he not sent me on this errand, however, I\u2019d have returned to the house empty-handed. Walking for its own sake was forbidden; Wayne was craftier than most blacks I\u2019d met, including Clive.
\n     At the counter with the soda and pound cake, I envisioned Clive poring over his Visa bill, feebly asking his wife on the phone to write a check for whatever balance appeared at the bottom of the statement. I asked the Indian woman for two packs\u2014not because I believed he owed me, at least not two. I asked because I wanted them, the same reason you ask a girl to suck you off. Behind me, a black woman in a tank top stamped with sexy yanked her son\u2019s arm while he whined for beef jerky. Further back, a Latino couple bickered over which brand of beer was the best bargain. I was the only white man in the store; I felt like the only white man in the world. After forging Clive\u2019s name on the receipt, I bolted into the night. One more thing Serena didn\u2019t need to know.
\n     \u201cI forgot the receipt,\u201d I told Clive as he unwrapped the pound cake. He\u2019d been right; its freshness was apparent the moment he sank his thick, clumsy fingers into the bread.
\n     \u201cYou good.\u201d
\n     \u201cI walk down every day after the van drops us off.\u201d
\n     \u201cThat right?\u201d
\n     \u201cIt\u2019s good to have a purpose in life,\u201d I said.
\n     \u201cI know that be right.\u201d
\n     I wasn\u2019t a fool. Even Clive (or his wife) would find too many unexplained charges on his bill suspicious. Since my first excursion with his card, I\u2019d padded the total with two packs of Marlboros only a half-dozen times. Each day Clive sent me, my heart fluttered like moths orbiting a floodlight, mind racing with how far his Visa might take Serena and me\u2014skinny-dipping in the south of France, fucking beneath the stars on an Irish hillside, hunting for homes in Malibu. These fantasies provided more delight than any cigarette, spare for my first each morning.
\n     Along with our housemates, Clive and I watched \u201cWheel of Fortune\u201d every night after the weathergirl with the fake tits and the sportscaster with the lisp. Vanna and Sajak paraded onto the stage like a prom couple. Their smiles made promises none of us believed. Whores, that\u2019s the word. The producers made sure we knew the show was celebrating its thirtieth anniversary; a fanfare of fonts and applause preceded Vanna and Sajak. Clive chomped vanilla cookies as the players introduced themselves.
\n     \u201cHow old you think she is?\u201d I asked.
\n     \u201cVanna? She been on there a long time,\u201d Clive said.
\n     \u201cMy grandma used to watch this.\u201d
\n     \u201cShe gotta be sixty.\u201d
\n     \u201cMy mom is sixty-two.\u201d
\n     The cookie crumbs tumbled down his white T-shirt, landed on the carpet. Wayne vacuumed every day while I killed time at the drug rehab across town. Serena said I was lucky, said it often and not always happily. At her group home, she washed dishes, did laundry twice a week, and reported her roommate\u2019s bedwetting.
\n     \u201cYou need to be on there,\u201d Clive said.
\n     \u201cThe show?\u201d
\n     He nodded. \u201cThat be right.\u201d
\n     \u201cYou gotta audition first, old man.\u201d
\n     \u201cNo joke?\u201d
\n     \u201cThey only pick people you\u2019d root for.\u201d
\n     \u201cThat right?\u201d
\n     I had a gift, a knack for puzzles. Hangman was my favorite growing up, back when Dad was around. I loved letters, words\u2014what they could do, the infinite shades of meaning. Several of my English teachers told me I was special, not to give up on myself, but people are such liars. The bitch whose husband looked like a faggot and whose children looked like her went to the bonus round. The category was Thing. The word was hindsight. She won a sporty green car. Dad used to make fun of the winners on these shows, how they likely couldn\u2019t afford the taxes on their prizes.
\n     Clive chuckled, wiped the crumbs from his shirt. \u201cGirl gone have trouble.\u201d
\n     \u201cWhy you say that?\u201d
\n     \u201cVanna be shady.\u201d
\n     \u201cAin\u2019t nothing that slut can do.\u201d
\n     \u201cShe gone smack that woman blind and drive off into the sunset.\u201d
\n     \u201cWith who? Fucking Pat Sajak?\u201d
\n     Clive grinned, slapped the arm of the recliner. \u201cNaw, boy. She gone knock on that door and come asking for me.\u201d
\n     Two weeks ago, Clive stopped attending the rehab. I wanted to ask why, but that\u2019s the sort of question you only ask a friend. Wayne shook his head and reported that Clive did nothing but vegetate in front of the tube all morning, all afternoon. Serena asked about him nearly every day. I decided the first day she hounded me to go easy on her. Like our therapists said, this was a selfish program; obsessing over others was the fast road to relapse.
\n     \u201cI went online last night,\u201d she said. \u201cDo you think Clive has dementia?\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat the fuck, Rena?\u201d
\n     \u201cSweetheart, I\u2019m serious.\u201d
\n     I kissed her to shut her mouth. We spent mornings before therapy behind a brick cottage while the fucktards kept the techs busy.
\n     \u201cHe\u2019s old, baby,\u201d I said.
\n     \u201cHe\u2019s younger than my grandpa. He\u2019s barely in his seventies.\u201d
\n     \u201cNot everyone gets a happy ending.\u201d
\n     She muttered my name. \u201cDon\u2019t talk shit. Not today, please.\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat\u2019s crawled up your ass?\u201d
\n     \u201cDon\u2019t pretend you care.\u201d
\n     \u201cYou think I\u2019d risk getting busted for just anybody?\u201d
\n     It was late June in Houston, a couple weeks before I turned twenty-eight. I had a tradition of getting laid on my birthday. Odds of that happening this year weren\u2019t good, but Serena had promised to suck me off\u2014if we were alone long enough, if she could forget about the rape, if her father hadn\u2019t called the night before. For now, I contented myself with her hand shoved inside my boxers, stroking my hard-on. I tried not to fixate on the healed scars crisscrossing her wrist like a pile of tinsel on the ground. Pathetic, that\u2019s the word. I moaned, told her I wanted inside her, but we were both thinking about the lucky fuckers we left behind, like Gina.
\n     \u201cWill you tell Clive to call me?\u201d
\n     \u201cJesus, Rena, at least wait till I come.\u201d
\n     \u201cPlease, baby, I\u2019m serious.\u201d
\n     \u201cI\u2019ve noticed.\u201d
\n     \u201cPeople fucking vanish every day in this fucking place.\u201d She gripped my tool even harder; it sort of hurt. I wondered if Vanna White knew how to give a decent hand job. \u201cPromise you won\u2019t leave me here?\u201d Her eyes glistened with terror, like an English fox dashing from the hounds. \u201cI can\u2019t do this by myself.\u201d
\n     \u201cYou know our deal,\u201d I said.
\n     \u201cMen are such liars.\u201d
\n     \u201cIt\u2019s cause we hate to disappoint.\u201d
\n     A tech from the other side of the cottage announced that group was about to begin. Serena\u2019s gaze darted back and forth. Paranoia is just the funhouse reflection of narcissism. I knew I wasn\u2019t special enough to warrant anyone\u2019s attention.
\n     \u201cWe have to go,\u201d she said, withdrawing her hand.
\n     \u201cBaby, I\u2019m so fucking close.\u201d
\n     \u201cTomorrow.\u201d
\n     \u201cYeah,\u201d I said. I grabbed her wrist, the scarred one, yanking her hand out of my shorts. \u201cTomorrow.\u201d
\n     Her blue eyes shimmered. Upsetting her was so easy, it was useless trying to protect her. She stumbled away, vanished around the corner. The sun was too much; she wore a long-sleeve pink blouse.
\n     \u201cRemember our deal,\u201d I called out.
\n     Wayne met me at the front door after the van dropped me off. I ignored the other patients wishing me goodbye; I didn\u2019t know why they liked me, and I didn\u2019t wish to find out. Clive fell in the closet, Wayne told me. He\u2019s pretty banged up. He\u2019d dropped Clive at the emergency room. He beat himself up for not confronting Clive about all the painkillers he took.
\n     \u201cAren\u2019t they prescribed?\u201d I asked.
\n     Wayne sighed. \u201cYou get to be a certain age, those fuckers just dope you up and send you home.\u201d I never called that place home.
\n     \u201cWhen\u2019s he coming back?\u201d
\n     \u201cI\u2019m picking him up tonight.\u201d
\n     I tried to smile. \u201cMaybe the nurses are hot.\u201d
\n     While he went to fetch Clive, I watched Vanna and Sajak fuck with the world on TV. A few of the other residents joined me; after all this time, I hadn\u2019t bothered to learn their names. Instead, I memorized their sob stories: the middle-aged black dude with dementia, the 500-pound fucker who made sure we never had leftovers, the schizo who swore he had an inheritance coming real soon. I solved the puzzles before their sorry asses could, but no one was impressed like Clive. I was spoiling things for them. The fat dude started rambling how Taylor Swift\u2019s songs were written just for him. He was always saying random shit. I offered him a Marlboro if he shut the fuck up for the rest of the show. Desperate, that\u2019s the word. In the bonus round, the category was Person, and the solution was mail carrier. No Audi for the insurance adjuster from Tampa, Florida.
\n     \u201cDude,\u201d the fat guy said, \u201cyou gotta get on that show.\u201d
\n     \u201cI have bigger worries.\u201d
\n     \u201cThey don\u2019t let felons play,\u201d the schizo informed us, batting at flies that weren\u2019t there.
\n     \u201cYou don\u2019t know that,\u201d the fat guy said.
\n     \u201cVanna White drives me home on my birthday,\u201d the schizo replied. No one bothered to call bullshit on him.
\n     \u201cYou assholes work it out amongst yourselves,\u201d I said and stepped outside for a smoke. Soon, I\u2019d be reduced again to the el cheapo cigarillos, less than a dollar-fifty a pack. No more ghost-bright fish on Clive\u2019s Visa.
\n     Outside, I texted Serena the news about Clive. It was stupid; I shouldn\u2019t have. I didn\u2019t know any details, and that\u2019s the worst kind of bad news\u2014the incomplete kind, the kind that promises something worse, and soon. I wanted someone to feel empty like I did. She never returned my text, but I wasn\u2019t worried; the doctors had Serena on so much sleep medicine, she was lucky to make it through chores without passing out.
\n     I shit, showered and shaved before bed. Evening was the best time for privacy; I thought about jacking off but decided not to, dumbly hoping Serena would keep her word. Searching the cabinet for shaving cream, I spied a small package wrapped inside a napkin, four vanilla cookies awaiting me. I considered telling Wayne but instead took a bite\u2014disgusting like the dessert on a prison lunch tray. Putting back the remaining three, I thought about the Tooth Fairy. Dad left a five-dollar bill under my pillow for each baby tooth. It\u2019s fucked up how people show their love; it\u2019s more fucked up how we take it and can\u2019t return it.
\n     I wasn\u2019t too disturbed to find an ambulance and two police cruisers haphazardly parked at the cottage when my van arrived. Some of these patients were one crack-up away from a lifetime in the state hospital. Perfect, I thought, Serena and I can steal away and do whatever we want.
\n     Lesley called my name, loud and rushed, like she was drowning and I had the last life jacket. We were both in Group C. She grabbed my arm. \u201cThank God you\u2019re here. We\u2019ve all been waiting for you.\u201d
\n     Bubbles of panic exploded in my gut. \u201cJesus, what the hell?\u201d
\n     \u201cShe cut right down to the bone.\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat? Who?\u201d
\n     \u201cDid she call you last night?\u201d
\n     I\u2019d been here too damn long. I slipped into crisis mode all too easy. \u201cShe cut herself?\u201d
\n     \u201cIt\u2019s more than just a cut,\u201d Lesley said.
\n     \u201cThis is Rena we\u2019re talking about?\u201d
\n     \u201cShe did it here.\u201d
\n     \u201cShe\u2014?\u201d
\n     \u201cCan you believe it?\u201d
\n     \u201cGoddamn her. We had a deal.\u201d
\n     Since finding me, Lesley had been navigating the pandemonium, urging me toward the cottage. You might think we were friends. My last words stopped her like a brick wall.
\n     \u201cA deal?\u201d she asked, seizing my other arm, threatening to shake me like a child. \u201cYou mean, like, a suicide pact?\u201d
\n     \u201cWhat? No\u2014Lesley, don\u2019t be\u2014\u201c
\n     \u201cI promise I won\u2019t tell.\u201d
\n     \u201cWhere the fuck is she?\u201d
\n     Enraged, that\u2019s the word.
\n     Paramedics brought out a gurney supporting a figure blanketed in white. I saw no splotches of red. It could\u2019ve been anyone. There are lots of ways to leave a drug rehab.
\n     \u201cWe love you, Serena!\u201d Lesley shouted, followed by a chorus of patients, tech and therapists. Their love seemed about as sincere as Vanna\u2019s disappointment when a winner bombed the bonus round.
\n     \u201cYou selfish bitch!\u201d I screamed. \u201cWe had a deal! You promised me!\u201d
\n     Lesley and a few other patients tried to hold me back, but they didn\u2019t need to. People are such liars.
\n     Back home, I took a seat next to Clive. He perched in the same recliner watching TV from morning meds until evening meds. Aside from a bandage taped high on his forehead, he had no visible injuries. I won\u2019t lie; I was relieved. I had refused to speak in group, after watching them haul Serena away \u2014I was fucking tired of babbling about my life and not living it. Seeing Clive watching a Mexican whore forcing a guy she used to fuck take a paternity test filled me with an odd sensation others might call hope.
\n     \u201cSerena tried to kill herself again this morning.\u201d
\n     His features sharpened. \u201cNo joke?\u201d
\n     \u201cShe cut herself.\u201d
\n     \u201cSomeone needs to smack that woman.\u201d
\n     \u201cI\u2019ve been tempted.\u201d
\n     \u201cI know that be right.\u201d
\n     \u201cShe always asks about you.\u201d
\n     \u201cWell, you tell her if she don\u2019t shape up, I\u2019m gone smack her bottom.\u201d
\n     On the TV, the slut burst into tears after learning the greasy guy she once fucked was not the baby\u2019s father. I almost had a son once, but Gina got rid of it. No one at the rehab or the group home knew; some things you can\u2019t tell even a friend.
\n     \u201cYou know what I\u2019m in the mood for?\u201d Clive said.
\n     \u201cBet I can guess.\u201d
\n     He staggered to his feet. \u201cYou got my number in your head?\u201d
\n     \u201cYeah.\u201d
\n     He chuckled. \u201cDamn good one of us does.\u201d
\n     Those fucking fish, I couldn\u2019t take my eyes off them. The walk to the store got shorter each time, but the walk back grew longer, so much longer. I couldn\u2019t think of anything to say, not even to myself. Alone, that\u2019s the word. I was so lost in what should\u2019ve been thought, I stumbled and almost fell into the ditch, the disgusting water. I had to pay better attention. I had to keep walking. Past the store welcoming every face except mine. I could win the bonus round, no doubt. Vanna would be proud. As I marched farther and farther from home, Clive\u2019s card in my hand, I thought about all the things I needed. I thought about what should be mine.
\n     
\n     
\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013
\nThomas Kearnes<\/strong> is a 36-year-old author originally from rural East Texas, now living in Houston. He has published work in The Ampersand Review, PANK, Storyglossia, Word Riot, Eclectica, JMWW Journal, wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, A cappella Zoo<\/em> and numerous GLBT venues. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and columnist for Flash Fiction Chronicles<\/em>. His first two fiction collections, “Pretend I’m Not Here” and “Promiscuous,” will publish this year from Musa Publishing and JMS Books, respectively. He is an Eagle Scout and throws like a girl.
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I won\u2019t lie. I thought about taking it, slipping it into my gym shorts. Like I\u2019d told Serena earlier that day, the poor man was losing his mind. I hadn\u2019t told her the worst of it; Serena was not on friendly terms with absolute truths. His credit card lay facedown in the towel cabinet above […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,3,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4041","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-fiction","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4041","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4041"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4041\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4041"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4041"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4041"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}