Categories > Original > Drama > Fitting1 Reviews
"And you feel just all so unresolved." Mild swearing. In which there is no definative problem, and everything around it is just so bothersome.
"You can all go to fucking hell."
You scream it and water fills your mouth and maybe you'll drown and all this will be over with.
Fat chance, you think in Louie the Cabbie's voice. Pay up, now.
It is the second day, and this is sad.
It's sunnier than yesterday. You can hear kids playing, loud and faraway, like they're making up for lost time.
This can't go on for much longer, you think. You have to work on sunday.
Two more days, you say. That's it.
On the third day, someone calls the cops. He's stalking someone/, they complained. /He is blocking my drive way. I'm having guests. I need the room.
The police man is nice. Well shaved, smooth face. Too young to be a police officer. He calls you kid, and asks you why you're here. You tell him, "I don't know," and this is true, except that you really kind of do, and you can't get your head straight and maybe you really are a kid, in a body that's just a little too tall and a little too worn.
He has nice hands; thin and flat, like they were designed to hold a pen and write poetry and stories and meimoirs and you say, "you should have been a writer," and he laughs and says, "you don't know my family."
He says, sir, move along, please. Or park somewhere else. You are disturbing this woman's party.
"I know a place," you say, and he gets it.
"I really can't. You don't know my family."
That's a shame, you think.
Your sister has been bothering you to find her a good journalist.
One more day.
You stay away today. Instead, your sister leaves you with that kid that is always crying in the background when she is on the phone with you, crying about the kid who won't stop crying. You say, "Hold him tighter. Stop crying," and, "he'll come back soon, I swear." And you really think he will. Your sister is a very nice person.
Anyway. This kid hasn't cried. You gave him some bread to chew on and held his soft, fat hand and marveled how small his fingernails were. His fingers were like the softside of flower petals, wrapped around something strong and study and when he gurgles and blinks and hiccups it's all kind of symetrical and centered around those eyes that came out of nowhere, so dark and homley and inteliigent.
You feel kind of bad for comparing him to a flower, so you call him Little Man and Champ and Handsome and hope you haven't bruised his ego.
The baby gurgules when you tickeled his dainty little foot.
You're wearing the sneakers mom and dad gave you.
Mom hands you a jacket and offers you some breakfast, just like you hadn't run away and hadn't become a cab driver and hadn't forgot to call home when you got an apartment and tell them that you still talked to your sister and saw her and her baby and that you were alright.
"Let's get you out of the rain."
And you feel just all so unresolved.