Creative Writers
2003
Barnes & Nobles
Wilmington, Delaware
Tracey Landmann, Editor
When she called Buck it was a short conversation.
“I’ll be late.”
“Why?”
“Frank‘s featured at the 4W5 and I want to hear him.”
“How late?”
“Not much,”
“Hold up the band or start a set?”
“Start a set.”
Buck asked no more questions. She didn’t mention her birthday. Maybe he would have given her the night off. No, he would have ordered a cake and embarrassed her.
Goldie snuck a peek at her watch, a habit. Her deadline could wait. Time meant nothing tonight. Various poets read during Open Mike. Frank had finished thirty minutes ago. If she had left then she could have gotten to the tavern on time. It didn’t matter; she had a more important task tonight and wanted to hear the poetry, such varied styles and so many talented people in the world.
She left during the final applause before Frank could ask to accompany her to Buck’s as he surely would. They always caught each other’s performances.
She went outside to a street illuminated for a lively evening. At every turn the colors and shapes changed to new patterns.
She entered Wine World. Neon pastels dazzled and sparkled off the rows of bottles, changing with each twist she took finding the brand she desired. It was $35 a bottle. She had never spent this much on wine, but it was a special night.
Back on the street, alive with a carnival atmosphere as usual on a Saturday, she paused behind a crowd to watch Rose, a street artist on the strip. A smiling man stood holding high the caricature just finished, his heavy eyebrows and jutting chin dominating the cartoon face atop the disproportioned body of a weightlifter. The crowd laughed. A young girl clambered upon the posing stool and Rose began swishing brushes across a new canvas and the girl began to appear in paint somewhere beyond exactitude. Rose was capturing the merriment and mischief in her subject’s eyes.
Goldie walked away with the oohs and ahhs of the crowd fading behind.
She turned a corner into shadows weaving new webs with every footfall to her apartment stoop. She entered and closed that door.
Now came the Chardonnay. She found a corkscrew, a glass and carried all into the bathroom. The cork squeaked and popped free. She poured a glass and enjoyed the gurgle and splash. Highlights of changing color swirled in the wine under the bathroom light. She took a sip. It was cool and burning at the same time. She drank, savoring, and poured a second, setting the drink on the toilet seat.
No candles tonight. She did not intend for the house to burn.
She turned the tap and tested the flow for temperature. It needed to be hot. She had read it didn’t hurt in hot water. As the tub filled, she undressed and tossed her clothing aside. She stared at her naked form in the medicine cabinet mirror, pinching her sides between forefinger and thumb.
She set a single edged razor blade on the tub edge.
She eased into the water. It tingled against her, warmer then she was used to, but not unbearable. It was deep enough. She turned it off.
Silence.
Enjoying the caress over her legs and belly, the lapping of small ripples across her breasts, she sipped her second wine. This was as good as it could get on the night you killed yourself.
She drained the glass, set it aside. The pool embraced her like a last lover. Her eyes closed at the touch and it blanketed her with its kisses. She drifted weightless and serene. Her fingers slipped along the tub until they touched the blunt end of the blade. Her body quivered.
Why?
Because tonight I’m forty with deep wrinkles in my brow and furrows along my cheeks. My waist is wider. There’ll be no standing on a bigger stage. I’m where I started and this is where I’ll finish.
The water waved warm and silky across her skin. A mosaic of sparkling colors haunted her mind.
Rose at the easel painting the blond girl twitching eagerly on the stool, brushes dipping and stroking until appeared young blue eyes, a swatch of blond hair across forehead, freckles peppering the nose. If Rose’s father had allowed her to attend the College of Art, she would have a portrait studio, not doing paintings at the curb for a few bucks.
Two women dancing in slinky dresses with silver rhinestones sparkling in a spotlight replaced Rose. There was applause and whistles. Amber and she sharing a dream of Broadway stardom. Amber went no further than the local dinner theaters and teaching music at the high school.
And I end as a singer in a bar band.
One more of many nobody painters, poets and performers entertaining only those who could afford to buy no better. Unknown talents who shown only in the eyes of unremarkable people.
Something cold dribbled down her nose. She shivered. The water was chill. The bathroom was quiet. The wine glass was empty on the toilet seat.
Goldie pulled a towel from the rack.
She walked into Buck’s Tavern. The band was playing. The regulars, crowded at the tables and around the bar, clapped and whooped seeing her enter. She smiled and went to the microphone. She caressed the stand and began to sing in a rising rhythm like a reed weeping in the wind. The glasses stopped tinkling, the ice ceased it clink and the crowd glowed in the shine of their star.
L. E. Meredith © 2008
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