Before you think this will become an emo blog full of wishy washy "no one likes what I write" claptrap I want to tell you about some of my writing SUCCESS!
1) I write a bi-weekly column for Trumansburg's local paper. Ok well that is kind of like writing a bi-weekly column for a really good high school paper but it's legitimate! Bill McKibben (Author of
, etc. The guy is a writing tank!) once told me the best tip for an aspiring writer is to find that regular blank space someone will read and run with it. He suggested a small time community newspaper as a good starting point and well here I am.
New Talent 2006 Short Story Contest! I got 60 dollars for it too! AMAZING! The story will not get published, but it is a nod! I plan on sprucing it up and sending it out to some serious contests!
Thanks to
BigFoto for the free pics!
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Moo Shu
By Garik Charneco
Out by the dumpster, the air smells like ripe, just off the boat from Ecuador bananas. The smell is rat poison. I prefer the smell of the peanut butter variety—a sweet lingering odor that reminds me of the temp’s lunches. Josh, however, claims the rats just love the banana flavor. He throws down another handful of pellets and chuckles at the rats’ misfortune. “Here you go you little bastards! Eat up! Maybe next time you won’t bother the girls at lunch!” Every time he booms out a laugh his heather grey shirt pokes up above his waist, revealing a keg of a stomach. I look up at Josh and throw him a quick smile.
We finish spreading the poison and sit down on the cement step outside the back door. The step is a narrow, two-foot slab and we have to squeeze together, so that our thighs press against each other and I can smell, almost taste, the smoke of Josh’s “Little Cigar” cigarettes. He presses one of them past his bristle-brush mustache and enjoys his third cigarette break of the night. I don’t smoke, so I just stare out into the street and stew in Josh’s smoke. Josh takes the cigarette out of his mouth and points back at the dumpster. “Hey, maybe we will see one of those rats come out tonight and eat the stuff. Too bad that shit doesn’t work instantly!”
It is chilly out, early October, and I doubt the rats will leave the warmth of the office’s air ducts. I cock my head back at Josh and ask him, “You know how rat poison works?”
Josh puckers his lips together and gives me this goofy look, like he just swallowed something really sour. “No, I don’t. Teach me, Mr. Terick.”
I blush and pull up the collar of my coat so he can’t see. I want to educate others, become a teacher, but for now I have custodial work and Josh. “Yeah, well the poison makes their blood really thin and runny so it just starts to ooze out of the rat’s veins in a rush of internal bleeding. Then their heart just explodes because it is so strained from pumping lots of nothing.”
Josh takes off his Orange County Choppers cap and slaps it against his thighs. “Wow! That’s fucking awesome! They teach you that at the college? You a chemistry student or something?”
I look at him quizzically, feeling awkward. This is my second year at Talos and I’m sure I have told him teacher education about a hundred times. I shy back further into my coat. “No, just a fun fact that I picked up somewhere.”
“Really fun, I tell you.” He looks at his watch and then readjusts his cap. He snuffs the cigarette out in a cranny in the stucco wall. “Better get back to work, I guess. We can pound out all the desks and bathrooms before real break.” Josh laughs. “And then the boss’s office.”
I nod and follow him.
* * *
At Talos Horizons the business is import/export. These are just the offices though and we don’t get to see any of the limited batch German beers and Peruvian alpaca wool ponchos kept at the warehouse; here it is just data processing. People sit here at desks entering numbers into spreadsheets or absorbing the latent heat of the copier. That isn’t the job for me and when I first started here, a couple of the interns, who I met on campus, told me I had the better job and that that Josh guy was a riot. Josh reminds me every night that he will never be caught at a desk.
“Even if I had all this schooling I would never do this shit,” he points at the computer monitor on the desk he is dusting. “This office makes me sick.” He puts down the duster and reaches down to pull the trash. He doesn’t bother to change the actual bag; instead he reaches in and pulls out the trash. A bunch of used tissues splatter on the floor. “Nope. No matter what, janitor is the job for me. Any place, any time.” He grabs a moldy, fuzzy orange and some of the juice drips onto his hands. He tosses the fruit in his own garbage bag, picks up the loose tissues and wipes his hand on the side of his black Levi’s. “You done over there?”
I still do the trash run like I was trained. I take out the entire bag and replace it with a fresh one, right off the roll. I also sort out the loose recyclables that people were too lazy to carry to the kitchen and throw in the bin. That slows me down and Josh gives me some flack for it. My first night on third shift he asked me if I was some sort of radical. “One of those damn tree-huggers like Anna over in accounting,” was the exact phrase. Josh acted like caring made you a freak, like one of the office people typing diligently at their computers. Wanting to make a good impression, I told him that it was just for the deposit. That placated him.
“No, not yet. Sorry,” I tell him, stuffing an empty Diet Coke can into the kangaroo pouch of my hooded sweatshirt.
Josh guffaws. “Still screwing with the recycling? That’s ok. I am going to go hit up the bathrooms then.” He throws his trash bag over his shoulder and struts to the back of the office.
I hustle, going from desk to desk, pulling the trash and straightening any big clutter. I try to beat Josh out of the bathrooms, but when I get to the last desk, he is already by the break room door, smoking again. Josh is missing his front three teeth and the hole makes the perfect cigarette rest. His buff yellow incisors flank the cigarette, guarding the brown stub. He pops the thing out of his mouth and yells, “Hey slacker! You done yet?”
“Almost,” I tell him, feigning a smile. I tie off the last bag and throw it in the larger sack, with the rest of the trash. I meet Josh and hold the sack up, my arm stiff with a pseudo-sense of pride. Josh snatches it away.
“Great. I’ll take all this out at the end of the night.” He tosses the bag to the side and it hits the particle board corner of a desk. Josh takes another drag and holds the smoke in his mouth. With his cheeks puffed up, he stands on his toes and exhales all the smoke into an air grate.
I point at the trail of smoke. “Did they change the rules again or something? I thought there was no smoking in the building.”
Josh comes off his toes and raises the cigarette up to the vent. I can see the wisp of smoke meander into the duct. “That is what the air duct is for. They’ll never catch me. I do it all the time.”
“Really?”
Josh pulls the cigarette down and cups it in between his hands. He tilts his head over to the break room. “Oh yeah, I’ll tell you in the break room. The air flow is better in there anyway.”
In the break room he sets his cigarette down in a makeshift ash tray made from the bottom of a water bottle. I have never seen the thing before, but the rim is buffed smooth and ashes caked on the bottom. Josh pulls up a chair, kicks up his feet, and hangs them on the table where, seven hours ago, everyone at the office gathered for the boss’s, Mr. Uhls, birthday party. Josh starts to flip through a parts catalog before I remind him of the cigarette issue.
“So, you smoke here all the time?”
He stops going through the catalog and stares me down. “Well not all the time. Just those nights that it’s just me here like when you have classes the next day. Never been caught, but I do spray some of that Air Neutralizer sometimes just for safety’s sake.”
Josh’s tactic impresses me, but I don’t feel congratulatory. I feel awkward and wonder why he can’t trust me? Two years here and I have never even seen Mr. Uhls. How could I rat Josh out? I am always careful to resist the urge to correct him on what procedures he forgets. I mouth the words to an answer but nothing comes out. I swallow hard and manage to say, “Oh, cool.”
The room becomes quiet, except for the flip of pages, Josh’s heavy breathing and the tap of my shoes against the linoleum floor. I look down, realizing the floor needs to be mopped. Josh usually does that before I punch in, but today there are scuff marks from penny loafers, sticky spilled coffee and uncooked ramen noodles staring up at me. I look at Josh and catch him lighting another cigarette. He takes three huge puffs and then gets up. We still have ten legitimate minutes left on our break. He leaves the break room, trailing smoke and tells me he is going to take that trash out to the dumpsters. Before his footfalls begin to dissipate he shouts, “Meet me in Uhls’ office. We’ll hit that thing up together.”
At the word “together” I snap up from the chair and head to the boss’s office.
* * *
This office has its own cleaning rules. Mr. Uhls is a fanatic of all things Asian, including Feng Shui. Mr. Uhls doesn’t want the flow of energy disrupted, but doesn’t want to do any of the cleaning. As I wait for Josh, Mr. Uhls’s regulations revolve in my mind.
The pens on the desk must have their tips facing forward.
The desk also has to face the door, but at a 45 degree angle, so as to not directly face any incoming negative energy.
The dragon tree plant, Altron, must be oriented so the leaves arch towards the doorway. The fish bowl and its sole resident, Wakizashi, always stay in the northern corner.
The cast iron safe remains in the west.
Cords and wires stay hidden.
Never ever touch Sora.
All the rules scream, ‘Don’t Fuck Up!’, but I can do this office by myself. I scamper to the desk and peek at the trash can. Sheets of bright wrapping paper adorn it. I arch the goose neck lamp up and pour its light onto the carpet. I swivel the lamp like a spotlight and see a few crumbs of birthday cake near the couch. They are big and spongy, so I won’t even need the vacuum. I turn the lamp off and stand in the weak glimmer of the streetlight outside. I wait for Josh.
Josh busts into the room and his huge shoulder whacks the dragon tree. A single long leaf flails to the ground. Josh looks at me and then points to the fallen leaf. Bending over to pick it up he asks, “Shit. Do you think this little leaf here is going to mess up the room’s Moo Shu?”
I bite my lip, debating whether to correct him. I wonder why he feels so distant tonight. The smoking, the floor, and the distrust take me back to my first night here. Last week was midterms and maybe I bitched too much about my Marxist theory paper or having to memorize all the phases of archetypal revolution. I hate coming across as an overeducated, whiny college kid and cater to Josh’s love of professional wrestling, Blue Ribbon beer, and mudding. I decide not to correct Josh. I won’t point out it is Feng Shui. I shrug; bow my head, and say, “I don’t know. I don’t think he will notice, but you have been working here longer.”
Josh brushes the bottom of his mustache and gently nods. “Yup, sure have.” He struts over to the couch, spreads his legs and throws his arms around the tops of the cushions. “I have been here a long time, but there is something I got to tell you.” He unrolls his t-shirt sleeve and pulls out the pack of cigarettes. He starts to whack the bottom of the pack, slamming out a pudgy ‘Little Cigar’ with his ham-sized hands. Over the sound of paperboard and skin he tells me, “I’m leaving. Put in my two week’s notice today.”
Whatever surprise I feel is dwarfed by all the pieces, all the weird behavior, coming together. He is just living it up before leaving. But I smell the cigarette smoke and remember those nights he mentioned, those nights when I’m not here.
“Oh,” I say. “What are you going to do now?” I want to look at him, but I can’t. I might use some glance that seems too failed to him and make him wonder why I think I can look down on him.
“I got a job at the high school. Doing the same shit, but this time with no recycling to pull or kitchens to clean or Moo Shu to fuck up.” He claps his hands together and starts to chuckle. “Yeah, and I’ll get all the holidays off and snow days! Haven’t had a snow day since I dropped out of junior high.”
He stops laughing and brings his free hand to his chin. His fingers push a starburst of liver spots up to his cheekbones. He sets the cigarette on Mr. Uhls’ coffee table, balancing the baby stogie on a pair of bamboo chopsticks. Mr Uhls. He isn’t even bothering to deal with the smoke; he doesn’t even try to hold it aloft, towards the air ducts. I realize that I am the one that is going to have to worry about the smell. I need to develop a plan to hide the cigarette smoke from Mr. Uhls. I start to fumble through the trash, but my hands slip against the plastic. I see Josh on the couch, spread eagle and content. He no longer cares. I continue cleaning.
I end up doing the whole office by myself. Josh loafs on the couch; swaying his feet to an unheard beat, creating deep grooves in the carpet. He rakes the heel of his boot against the carpet, dragging out bits of grit and dirt. I start to dust the mantle where Mr. Uhls keeps Sora: his katana. I want to say something or ask Josh for help—to empower him. I shine the black lacquer wood under the sword to a hard polish, almost feeling the layer of veneer give. Josh cocks an eyebrow and points to Sora.
“That thing has always fascinated me. Damn Uhls is so possessive about it. What is it called, again?” He lets out a puff of smoke and holds the cigarette off to the side.
He looks like a red-neck mob boss, wearing a cracked red-leather racing jacket instead of a pinstripe suit. “Sora,” I tell him, still wiping away.
Josh points at the sword with his cigarette holding had. “Wanna pass her over here? I want to see Sora up close.” He giggles, fumbling with the uncommon name.
I alternate between quick glances at him and then at the sword. Mr. Uhls keeps it on two hand-crafted wooden pegs and cleans it every day. I would not be surprised if she had an alarm. My hand hovers over the sword’s handle, skirting the dimpled shark-skin grip with my clammy fingers. “I don’t know, Josh. The sword is his prized possession. I think Sora is reclaimed from Guadalcanal, from the Pacific Ocean.”
Taking one last quick puff, Josh finishes the cigarette and then throws it to the ground. “Oh c’mon,” he moans, swiveling his head and rolling his eyes. “This is my last few weeks and you’re just a student.” He rocks his arm, in an up and down motion, waving me over to the couch. “Don’t be a pussy. What are they going to do?”
I take Sora off her stand and hold her against my leg. I hesitate, expecting an alarm to go off or for Mr. Uhls to burst through the door as he catches me as an accomplice in Josh’s crime. Against my leg, Sora feels good, but heavy. I elevate Sora to my waist and hold her against my hipbone, letting my fingers feel the grooves left by the pellets of a shotgun blast. The hilt juts past my stomach and the rest of her covered blade tickles Mr. Uhl’s desk. I rake her against the desk for a few seconds, moving my hips with every motion and starring down Josh. He snorts and motions again. “C’mon, Terick. What are you doing anyway?” Josh blasts off a guffaw.
I let Sora make one last long scratching noise before I blush again. This time the burst is clear and I turn my head down, keeping my eyes on the floor. I twirl Sora against my hip so her tip comes forward and extends to the couch. Josh grabs the end of the ivy-patterned scabbard and pulls. I move the hilt up so that Sora’s blade falls back into the sheath.
Josh brings his legs together, holding Sora between both kneecaps. He grabs the hilt and the draw sounds icy. Josh stares at the metal and becomes giddy; I see his eyes burst open like when he puffs a cigarette. “Oh man! This thing is fucking awesome!” He brings up the blade and swings it around, cutting down invisible enemies. With one arch of the sword he overextends and starts to tilt forward. Screaming and cursing, he teeters on toe tips. He almost falls, but catches himself against a tuft of loose, flowing curtains. Sora drops out his hand and, in her descent, rips the side of the couch. A bit of multicolored, foamy fluff drips out of the gash. Josh looks at the tear and doesn’t even frown. He just puts on his goofiest smile and tells me, “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll get that after you leave.” He spins around and puts his back to me. I can’t see him well, in the dark half-light of the office, but the slick shimmer of Sora pulsates. “Trust me,” is the last thing he says as he hacks off three leaves from the dragon tree. Josh’s laughter guts the air. “Oh, Terick. You have to try this thing!”
I don’t reply. Josh notches Sora’s tip into the carpet and plucks away a bit of loopy felt. I leave Mr. Uhls office and catch the time in Zen elements symbols wall clock; the hands are at “Metal” and “Stone”, which means 2:30am—three and half hours before I punch out. The door to Mr. Uhls’s office closes and I head to the bathroom while the wobbly sound of twisted metal rings from the inside.
The bathroom lacks the smell of citrus antiseptic. Crumpled paper towels lie in the corner and hang over the lip of the garbage can. On the mirrors, I can see my reflection but only through streaks left behind by water and soap. One of the toilets is un-flushed and there is no paper on any of the rolls; it is no wonder Josh finished so quickly. I blow my nose with the last clean paper towel and start to pick up the litter. Every time I bend down my head hurts; maybe sinus pressure or the blood rush, but my janitor keys jingle and I think of Josh. Every time I pick up his slack I feel like one of the rats back by the dumpster—its innards melting, but never breaking the surface.
