Flash Fiction - Issue 5
Memento Mori
My dad turned to me, grown, and asked, over the radio's steel voice, "Do
you remember?"
Remember? Where do I begin to remember? I remember the sickly gleam
of black ice on a bend of road near Mount Vernon. I remember the sudden
flapping wings of a quail at my feet leaving my heart beating as fast as it flapped
away. I remember the pungent smell of Old Spice when grandpa hugged me
into his neck. I remember many things. Things I'd rather not remember. And things
that make me long for the past. That I ache ... I remember that ache.
His hand gripped the wheel with confident ease guiding us smoothly down
the Alaskan Way Viaduct. My eyes pled with the surroundings for a clue only to
be answered with cryptic flashes of afternoon sunlight reflecting off the city's
mirrored panes and the bruised body of Elliot Bay where a parasailor floated
away from the waves, edging towards the sun like a lassoed Icarus.
My dad looked from the road to me again as if to say, Well, do you
remember?
I said, "No." Our conversation seemed disjointed, as had most of our
conversations since I'd reached the age of man.
He sighed. A sigh usually followed by "Shit," a word he often used to express
himself. Ranging from his aw-shucks "Shit," said with a warm smile after a good
anecdote, joke, or interesting factoid, to the seemingly unconscious "Shit" he'd
repeat over and over, like a vulgar mantra, as he performed a task, to the insane
bursts of fatherly anger when spit would fly from his contorted mouth with a
venomous "shhhh..." before the thunderously compact "...it" that sent tremors
through my childhood... But this time his sigh, thankfully, remained only a
wearisome sigh.
"Turn it up," my mother ordered from the backseat.
I reached for the serated knob and with a twist turned up the radio. The
Beatles' The Long and Winding Road drained out, softly swarming within the car. I
remembered sitting Indian-style on long-haired, puke-green carpet with oversized
headphones on, listening to that song spinning out from under the phonograph
needle into my ears as my mother coated the air with swirling plumes of Kent 100's
smoke, feet kicked up in a plush orange recliner, watching Donahue.
"You'll remember," my dad assured me in a flat tone.
I looked away to my right -- the familiarity of the city intoning like weather-
worn lines of poetry as deeply rooted within me as my very own heartbeat. I
spotted an open window on the top floor of the Pike Place Market, a window I
had once stared out, fascinated by the city's delicate swarm and the shades of
Elliot Bay under dreary October skies, while eating lunch with friends at the
Athenian SeaFood Restaurant.
I pointed to the window and said, "That's where Janet, Sylvia, her little boy
Royce, and I ate."
My brother Will responded from behind me with an uninterested, "Hmm."
"The one with the big tits?" my dad asked, referring to Janet.
I answered by rolling my window down a turn, letting the rushing hum of moving
pavement mix with the horn and string accompaniment on the radio.
"A long long time agooo-ooo," my mother's slightly soured, soprano voice
overlayed Paul McCartney's.
The viaduct bent to the right, my dad's column of knuckles easing along the
curve with a gentleness he was unable to share with me, or I with him.
The Battery Street Tunnel loomed into view. We neared the lip of its entrance
when, without forewarning, my dad counted down, "Three...two... one," sucking in
a lungful of air and holding it. I realized I had unconsciously followed his lead,
holding my breath alongside him as we drove on, entering through a gate of light
into darkness.
"You left me standing there," my mother crooned.
"What are they doing?" Will asked her. But she continued singing, his words
falling wilted on the vinyl backseat.
My dad and I faced forward watching the black pavement unfurl around
each bend revealing in that tunnel twilight only more shrouded pavement
ahead. We glanced at one another, checking to see if either of us was cheating,
with thin, silent breaths.
The airless darkness between us evoked a childhood memory of when I
entered my parents bedroom, lights off, and they told me to go away. Instead, I
closed the door, pretending that I had left, and quietly laid down on a pile of
clothing on the floor, holding my breath, trying not to laugh aloud. Moments
passed, the bed's covers rustled above, and I laughed, unable to contain my
innocent secret any longer. My dad yelled ferociously, "Get the fuck out of here!" I
opened the door, confused and frightened, and dashed to my bedroom to hide.
"Lead me to your doorrrrr," my mother continued.
My dad's right hand began moving in a circular, hurry-up motion, as if summoning
the tunnel's end. My lungs tightened and burned, the body's impulse to breathe
surging with need.
I envisioned the tunnel as a womb. The car, a steel sack of amniotic fluid
incubating us. Our held breath, anticipation of that final contraction of concrete
muscles pushing us forward. I held the door handle. My dad's hurry-up rotations
quickened. The edge of light neared. Its illuminated lip, freedom. Our wheels
pushed on and passed out of darkness into a splash of light.
We released a long gush of air and laughed.
"I forgot all about that," I said.
"Forgot what?" Will asked, head peeking forward between our shoulders.
"Why were you guys holding your breath?"
"We used to always do that when driving through a tunnel," I tried to
explain.
"Why though?" Will persisted.
"Tradition," my dad said, looking at me with a slight smile.
"Yeah yeah yeahhhh," my mother ended her song.
I looked to him as he drove on through this puddle of light pooled between
the dark shores of eternities, watching his smile that hid every word, and I thought,
I remember you.
you remember?"
Remember? Where do I begin to remember? I remember the sickly gleam
of black ice on a bend of road near Mount Vernon. I remember the sudden
flapping wings of a quail at my feet leaving my heart beating as fast as it flapped
away. I remember the pungent smell of Old Spice when grandpa hugged me
into his neck. I remember many things. Things I'd rather not remember. And things
that make me long for the past. That I ache ... I remember that ache.
His hand gripped the wheel with confident ease guiding us smoothly down
the Alaskan Way Viaduct. My eyes pled with the surroundings for a clue only to
be answered with cryptic flashes of afternoon sunlight reflecting off the city's
mirrored panes and the bruised body of Elliot Bay where a parasailor floated
away from the waves, edging towards the sun like a lassoed Icarus.
My dad looked from the road to me again as if to say, Well, do you
remember?
I said, "No." Our conversation seemed disjointed, as had most of our
conversations since I'd reached the age of man.
He sighed. A sigh usually followed by "Shit," a word he often used to express
himself. Ranging from his aw-shucks "Shit," said with a warm smile after a good
anecdote, joke, or interesting factoid, to the seemingly unconscious "Shit" he'd
repeat over and over, like a vulgar mantra, as he performed a task, to the insane
bursts of fatherly anger when spit would fly from his contorted mouth with a
venomous "shhhh..." before the thunderously compact "...it" that sent tremors
through my childhood... But this time his sigh, thankfully, remained only a
wearisome sigh.
"Turn it up," my mother ordered from the backseat.
I reached for the serated knob and with a twist turned up the radio. The
Beatles' The Long and Winding Road drained out, softly swarming within the car. I
remembered sitting Indian-style on long-haired, puke-green carpet with oversized
headphones on, listening to that song spinning out from under the phonograph
needle into my ears as my mother coated the air with swirling plumes of Kent 100's
smoke, feet kicked up in a plush orange recliner, watching Donahue.
"You'll remember," my dad assured me in a flat tone.
I looked away to my right -- the familiarity of the city intoning like weather-
worn lines of poetry as deeply rooted within me as my very own heartbeat. I
spotted an open window on the top floor of the Pike Place Market, a window I
had once stared out, fascinated by the city's delicate swarm and the shades of
Elliot Bay under dreary October skies, while eating lunch with friends at the
Athenian SeaFood Restaurant.
I pointed to the window and said, "That's where Janet, Sylvia, her little boy
Royce, and I ate."
My brother Will responded from behind me with an uninterested, "Hmm."
"The one with the big tits?" my dad asked, referring to Janet.
I answered by rolling my window down a turn, letting the rushing hum of moving
pavement mix with the horn and string accompaniment on the radio.
"A long long time agooo-ooo," my mother's slightly soured, soprano voice
overlayed Paul McCartney's.
The viaduct bent to the right, my dad's column of knuckles easing along the
curve with a gentleness he was unable to share with me, or I with him.
The Battery Street Tunnel loomed into view. We neared the lip of its entrance
when, without forewarning, my dad counted down, "Three...two... one," sucking in
a lungful of air and holding it. I realized I had unconsciously followed his lead,
holding my breath alongside him as we drove on, entering through a gate of light
into darkness.
"You left me standing there," my mother crooned.
"What are they doing?" Will asked her. But she continued singing, his words
falling wilted on the vinyl backseat.
My dad and I faced forward watching the black pavement unfurl around
each bend revealing in that tunnel twilight only more shrouded pavement
ahead. We glanced at one another, checking to see if either of us was cheating,
with thin, silent breaths.
The airless darkness between us evoked a childhood memory of when I
entered my parents bedroom, lights off, and they told me to go away. Instead, I
closed the door, pretending that I had left, and quietly laid down on a pile of
clothing on the floor, holding my breath, trying not to laugh aloud. Moments
passed, the bed's covers rustled above, and I laughed, unable to contain my
innocent secret any longer. My dad yelled ferociously, "Get the fuck out of here!" I
opened the door, confused and frightened, and dashed to my bedroom to hide.
"Lead me to your doorrrrr," my mother continued.
My dad's right hand began moving in a circular, hurry-up motion, as if summoning
the tunnel's end. My lungs tightened and burned, the body's impulse to breathe
surging with need.
I envisioned the tunnel as a womb. The car, a steel sack of amniotic fluid
incubating us. Our held breath, anticipation of that final contraction of concrete
muscles pushing us forward. I held the door handle. My dad's hurry-up rotations
quickened. The edge of light neared. Its illuminated lip, freedom. Our wheels
pushed on and passed out of darkness into a splash of light.
We released a long gush of air and laughed.
"I forgot all about that," I said.
"Forgot what?" Will asked, head peeking forward between our shoulders.
"Why were you guys holding your breath?"
"We used to always do that when driving through a tunnel," I tried to
explain.
"Why though?" Will persisted.
"Tradition," my dad said, looking at me with a slight smile.
"Yeah yeah yeahhhh," my mother ended her song.
I looked to him as he drove on through this puddle of light pooled between
the dark shores of eternities, watching his smile that hid every word, and I thought,
I remember you.
Ron Gibson, Jr has previously appeared in Pidgeonholes, Maudlin House, The Vignette Review, Ghost City Review, Word Riot, Cease Cows, Spelk Fiction, Unbroken Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal, etc…, been included in various anthologies, and been nominated for two Pushcarts. @sirabsurd
Gazebo Song
I.
The answer was so obvious, but still they would ask. “He’s going to come this
time, right?” The answer was always no.
II.
The conversation seemed rote. “How was the show, sweetheart?” “Fine fine
fine,” came the reply, answered at hummingbird speed, fueled by theatrically
related endorphins. While the question was posed with an airy cheerfulness, it was
tinged with an edge of disappointment, which was quickly ignored.
Acknowledging the why of it all was not important.
III.
“I think he’s here!” “No, he’s not! That’s ridiculous! He can’t be!”
There was an agreement, and yet there he was, trying unsuccessfully to
hide behind his program, embarrassed at being caught. It was supposed to be an
end of show surprise, as it was the last show before self-imposed theatrical
retirement. It ended up as the mid show dictionary definition of surprise.
IV.
There were typical last show events and behaviors: the mad rush of making
sure to see everyone, the accepting of flowers and praise, the conversations that
seemed to be had in voices an octave higher than usual as no one knew whether
to laugh or cry.
He stood in the back of the theater, hoping all had somehow been
mended between the beginning and end of Act II. There was a hug, full of
warmth and pride, and met with stiff coldness.
“You were wonderful! You have such a beautiful singing voice; it’s so bright
and distinctive!”
There was no answer, only an icy stare before turning on a heel, heading to
linger in the dressing room before finally going home from the opera house for the
last time.
V.
Over the cheery strains of “The Best Things in Life are Free,” the question was
posed in an almost whisper, as if it wasn’t sure it should be said: “Do you know
what this reminds me of? That rule you had when we did theatre where you
wouldn’t let your dad come see you because-"
“Go on. You can say it.”
“No, I want you to, so you can hear how ridiculous it sounds, because it
was. It still is, even now.”
“Because he made a career out of using his voice, and I- I didn’t want him
to hear what mine sounded like on stage.” It did sound ridiculous, but then again,
it always had.
“And?” came the reply. It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like an “I
told you so.”
“And when he finally did, he told me it was beautiful. You know, he was one
of the few people who I actually believe meant it.”
If only I had said thank you.
The answer was so obvious, but still they would ask. “He’s going to come this
time, right?” The answer was always no.
II.
The conversation seemed rote. “How was the show, sweetheart?” “Fine fine
fine,” came the reply, answered at hummingbird speed, fueled by theatrically
related endorphins. While the question was posed with an airy cheerfulness, it was
tinged with an edge of disappointment, which was quickly ignored.
Acknowledging the why of it all was not important.
III.
“I think he’s here!” “No, he’s not! That’s ridiculous! He can’t be!”
There was an agreement, and yet there he was, trying unsuccessfully to
hide behind his program, embarrassed at being caught. It was supposed to be an
end of show surprise, as it was the last show before self-imposed theatrical
retirement. It ended up as the mid show dictionary definition of surprise.
IV.
There were typical last show events and behaviors: the mad rush of making
sure to see everyone, the accepting of flowers and praise, the conversations that
seemed to be had in voices an octave higher than usual as no one knew whether
to laugh or cry.
He stood in the back of the theater, hoping all had somehow been
mended between the beginning and end of Act II. There was a hug, full of
warmth and pride, and met with stiff coldness.
“You were wonderful! You have such a beautiful singing voice; it’s so bright
and distinctive!”
There was no answer, only an icy stare before turning on a heel, heading to
linger in the dressing room before finally going home from the opera house for the
last time.
V.
Over the cheery strains of “The Best Things in Life are Free,” the question was
posed in an almost whisper, as if it wasn’t sure it should be said: “Do you know
what this reminds me of? That rule you had when we did theatre where you
wouldn’t let your dad come see you because-"
“Go on. You can say it.”
“No, I want you to, so you can hear how ridiculous it sounds, because it
was. It still is, even now.”
“Because he made a career out of using his voice, and I- I didn’t want him
to hear what mine sounded like on stage.” It did sound ridiculous, but then again,
it always had.
“And?” came the reply. It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like an “I
told you so.”
“And when he finally did, he told me it was beautiful. You know, he was one
of the few people who I actually believe meant it.”
If only I had said thank you.