Rasmenia Massoud has made a living with both blue and white collars.  After deciding that collars are not good, she ran away to France, where she has done away with collars completely, choosing instead to spend entire days in pajamas.  Rasmenia likes to have conversations with people while secretly holding them under her mental microscope.  She currently spends her time confusing the natives of her adopted country by speaking French poorly and writing about what she struggles most to understand - human beings.  You can visit her at: http://www.rasmenia.com/

Shit Water (July 20, 2011. Issue 29.)

Now that they'd finished screwing, Nick and Stacey couldn't think of anything to do with themselves until one of them decided to take a shit. It was part necessity, but mostly boredom that finally motivated Nick to get up and make the long walk down the hall to the bathroom.

The TV had three channels. One of them got decent reception. Stacey didn't look away from it when Nick announced his big plan to have a shit. Sitting there, naked on the couch with her feet up on the coffee table, she didn't seem to notice him at all.

When he returned, he found her in the exact same position, only now she was smoking a cigarette.

"Something's wrong with the toilet," he said.

"Whattaya mean? Nothing's wrong with the toilet," she exhaled a cloud of smoke without looking up.

"Well, it's clogged. Don't we have a plunger?"

The sounds of water tinkled behind him. Stacey leaned over on the couch and looked down the hall. She could see water running over the edge of the bowl, trickling on to the floor.

"Oh, that's just fucking great," she said. "Shit water on the floor. Why do you have to shit like that?"

"Like what? How am I supposed to shit?"

"I don't know," she said. "Not like that. Maybe one of the neighbors has a plunger."

Nick stared at her with a dumbfounded stare for a moment before bending over to pick up his clothes.

"Fine," he said. "I'll go ask around."

Closing the door behind him, Nick could see the front door and window of every apartment in the building, except for the ones directly above and below him. The U-shaped building that he lived in with Stacey allowed no secrets to the tenants. Everyone saw who arrived and departed, who had visitors or a UPS delivery. Most of the lights were on in the other apartments. He looked up at the sky and thought it might snow. He wished for a moment that he had put on a jacket, or at least some shoes over his dirty white tube socks. He rubbed his arms, walked a few steps to the apartment next to his and knocked on the door.

Almost immediately, the door opened and Lennie appeared before him, shirtless, reeking of beer and sausage. The baseball cap he usually wore was missing, leaving his comb over and shining scalp exposed.

"Nick! What the hell are you doing out there? Get on in here, out of the cold."

Nick stepped inside the older man's apartment. The only lamp in the room was on, next to a comfortable-looking, vomit-colored reclining chair. A tiny television sat atop a little table, still on, with the volume turned down low. Nick could barely hear Bruce Willis' cocky remarks to the evil terrorists.

"I love this one," Nick said, nodding toward the TV.

"Aw, yeah." Lennie took a swig from a beer can. "It's a holiday classic. Yippee-kai-aye, motherfucker! So, what can I do you for? You wanna beer?"

"I would, but I can't. Got a crisis over at my place."

"Oh, hell. Everything ok? I figured you two would've gone out celebrating tonight."

"We decided to stay in. Maybe we'll head over to the bar later or something," Nick said. "I just need to borrow a plunger, if you've got one."

"A plunger?" Lennie took another swallow from his can of beer. "So you're shitter's on the fritz? I tell you, the plumbing in this place has been a mess for as long as I've lived here."

"Yeah, it's not the first time we've had problems with it."

"This building is such a piece of shit," Lennie said. He finished his beer and set the empty can on a table.

"So, you got a plunger, then?"

"Aw, no… don't have one. I should really pick one up, though. You sure you don't wanna beer before you head back to the shit?"

Nick thought about Stacey. Naked Stacey on the couch, sitting in front of the television while the bathroom filled with shit water. He guessed that she wouldn't move from that spot for a while. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess I might as well. It's a holiday, anyway, right?"

Lennie stepped over to the fridge and pulled out two cans of beer. "Yippee-kai-aye, motherfucker!"

Nick stepped outside, closed the door to Lennie's apartment and belched. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide if he should continue his quest for a plunger, or return home to naked Stacey and the shit water.

He'd been at Lennie's for the end of Die Hard and most of Die Hard 2. Stacey would likely go into her banshee wail if he returned without a plunger after being gone for so long. He couldn't blame her, but he didn't feel much like questing or facing an angry Stacey.

What he wanted was to crawl into bed, away from pissed-off wives, shit water and the cold night air. Under his blanket, warm and unconscious, not thinking about anything.

She would be waiting. He knew when he walked through the front door, he would find her on the couch, smoking a cigarette, or maybe a joint. Staring at the bad reception on the TV, remaining catatonic in an effort to keep the misery away.

If someone asked Nick why he loved her, he couldn't answer because he had forgotten. He didn't need a reason for loving her anymore than he needed a reason for having brown hair, or not liking the taste of broccoli. Some things just fit together to make him what he was, and he had always been content with that.

He decided that he could find a way past Stacey, prolonging her wrath. None of the apartments in the building had a back door, but Nick figured that making his way through a window at the back of their apartment would be easy enough. He headed toward the steps to the ground floor.

Nick walked around the corner of the green brick building to the parking lot on the north side. He walked toward the street, stopped about halfway, one floor directly below the bedroom he shared with Stacey. Someone had parked a Jeep with rusted wheel wells under his bedroom window.

Perfect.

Nick climbed onto the hood of the Jeep, moving slowly, trying not to make any noise, hoping that he was still sober enough to pull this off. After he was on the hood, he stood up. His socks slid on the Jeep's smooth surface and he landed on his ass with a loud metallic thud.

Within seconds, the curtain inside flew open and Todd opened his bedroom window, directly below Lennie's. "Hey, Nicky. What's up, man?" He rubbed his clean-shaven scalp. "What're you doing, jumping around on that Jeep?"

Cars were never parked in front of Todd's bedroom window and the lights were never on. Todd conducted all of his business here. Drive-up drug dealing.

"I'm getting into my place. Through the back." Nick got to his feet again, more carefully.

"What? Did you lock yourself out, or something?" Todd removed the nightstick from his belt and tossed it on the bed. He held a cigarette in his mouth as he rolled up the sleeves of his baby blue security guard shirt.

"Nah," Nick said. "I could use the front door, but… well, you know… Stace is up there and it's maybe better if I just go around her."

"Oh, yeah. I feel you, man." Todd blew a cloud of smoke out the window. "You going over to One-Eyed Jack's later?"

"Thought about it. I've already had a few, though. I'll probably just pass out once I get inside." Nick jumped up and reached for the window ledge of his bedroom and missed.

"Hey, that was close!" Todd had leaned out of his window a bit farther to get a better view of Nick's attempts to break into his own apartment. "Maybe if you were a little taller. You want me to give you a boost?"

Nick thought this was a great idea and within a couple of minutes, Todd had hopped out of his window and was on the hood of the Jeep with Nick.

"Man, we're denting the shit out of someone's car," Todd said.

"That's all right. No one here has a nice car."

Todd agreed and leaned over, interlocked his fingers, making a basket for Nick's foot.

This time, Nick made it and was hanging from the window ledge.

"Oh, shit!" Todd jumped from the hood of the Jeep. Nick looked up at the window just as Stacey flung it open. Startled, he lost his grip, crashing down on the Jeep's hood, bouncing off and landing on the hard parking lot at Todd's feet.

"Nick, you fucking jerk-off!" Stacey shrieked from the second-story bedroom window. "Is this how you look for a goddamn plunger?"

Carrying his right arm with his left hand, Nick made his way up the stairs to his apartment. Little bits of gravel from the parking lot adhered to his skin of his rapidly swelling limb, which was beginning to turn a horrible shade of purple.

The best he could hope for was the silent treatment. Maybe Stacey would be too mad to yell at him for being stupid and would leave him to pop a few painkillers before passing out in peace and quiet.

He opened the door and stepped inside. She hadn't locked him out. So far, so good. No lights were on, only the glow of the TV tuned into its one decent channel. The door to the bedroom was closed and Nick stared at it for a moment as if it were a portal to Hell. He heard the tinkling of the water in the bathroom and wondered if Stacey had needed to pee while he was gone. He felt a little guilty then and carefully holding his arm, lowered himself to the couch.

Stacey had left a half-smoked joint in the ashtray, so he lit it up. He let the smoke wash over him, trying not to think about the throbbing pain in his arm, or how much he deserved it. He looked down and saw an ugly bump poking up in his forearm. He heard the bedroom door open. Stacey emerged, barefoot, wearing a pair of Nick's boxer shorts with a dirty mustard-colored t-shirt.

"It smells like shit in here, you know," she barked.

"I know. I'm sorry. I fucked up."

"Why are you holding your arm like that?"

"I think it's broken," he said, standing up.

"Well, I guess that's what happens when you jump around on cars and try to climb buildings."

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, walking past her and into the bedroom. He laid down on the bed.

"You're not sleeping in here with me."

"Fine," he said. He threw his pillow on the floor and laid himself down on the floor.

"No!" Stacey kicked his legs. "I don't want you in here. Get out!"

Nick got to his feet and stood in front of her. He looked down at her for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. He was tired, in pain and was certain that somehow, in some way, the misery he felt right now was Stacey's fault.

"Ok," he said. "I fucked up. I will fix it tomorrow. In the meantime, stop kicking me and stop acting like a damn psycho."

He hadn't even been expecting her to slap him.

His purple arm throbbing, his cheek hot and stinging, Nick decided that he wouldn't make the same mistake twice in one night, so he slipped on his sneakers and carefully put on a jacket.

"Where in the hell do you think you're going?"

"Out," he said. "I'll be back tomorrow." He scanned the room for his wallet and Stacey ran into the kitchen. He saw it sitting on an end table and slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Stacey emerged from the kitchen holding a knife. Before Nick could react or say a word, she slid the blade along the length of her forearm.

"Stace, my god, what are you doing?" He suddenly became aware of how hard his heart was beating and thought he might start crying. "Please, Stace, put the knife down. I'll fix the toilet!"

She began sobbing and ran out the door, down the steps the courtyard, leaving a trail of blood drops behind her. Nick chased her out the door, still holding his purple arm. He caught her in the courtyard and grabbed her with his left arm, saying nothing, just letting her scream at him. He removed his jacket and tried to wrap it around her bloody arm.

In the back of the ambulance, Nick and Stacey were well behaved as the EMTs cared for their wounded limbs.

"Who called the police?" Stacey wanted to know.

"It was a neighbor," the paramedic told her in a friendly, soothing voice. "That's all I know."

Nick looked over at his wife, her red eyes, her sniffling nose and her tear streaked cheeks. It had been a couple of years since the last time she pulled a stunt like this. That time, they had kept her at the hospital for two weeks. He guessed that this time, it would be longer.

"Nicky?"

"Yeah, angel?"

"Will you have the toilet fixed by the time I get back home?"

"I will," he promised. Laying there on their gurneys in the back of the ambulance, Nick reached out with his working left hand and took Stacey's uninjured right hand.

The ambulance driver closed the rear doors.

"Nicky?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy New Year, baby."

"Happy New Year, angel."

Table of Contents

Paintings (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)

“Whatever it is that you know, or that you don’t know, tell me about it. We can exchange tirades. The comma is my favorite piece of punctuation and I’ve got all night.”

I shifted around in the booth and took a sip from the pint glass sitting in front of me. I could have told him what it was that I knew, that this would never go anywhere, that in spite of whatever either one of us wanted – what we were pretending we wanted – we were both full of shit and this would all be another mistake under the rug a month from now.

I could have told him those things, but we hardly knew each other and I know better than to be honest while making a first impression.

“I know that just about everyone thinks that they’re funny, even though they aren’t.” I said.

I know that blind dates are some sort of audition, but it’s not always clear which role you’re trying out for. Maybe it’s a friend. A spouse. A partner. A fuck. We get dressed up and lay on the charm as thick as we can get away with. False advertising. Trying to get into character.

He was watching me. I made a conscious effort to appear thoughtful as I scanned the gaudy oil paintings hanging from the walls.

“I know that mirrors give us a false sense of confidence.” I continued. “The reflection that we see everyday has nothing to do with how others see us. The glass lies.”

He was grinning at me. His eyes were a shade of gray that reflected no more light than dirty ice. There was a feral quality in them and I felt a little as though I were sitting across from a wild dog.

I was his prey. It didn’t matter.

He reached over and clinked his glass against mine. “Lady, I’ve just gotta tell ya – you are absolutely charming the pants off of me.” He proceeded to deliver a few more lines through a smirk and a raised eyebrow. I pretended to feel flattered when he said that I was different, that he was intrigued by me.
“Unlike any other woman I’ve ever met” he said. “Refreshing” was another word he used. I played the part of an active listener. There wasn’t anything to hear.

He mentioned the connection between us. He identified with me. These are the things that many people want to hear, that most “normal” people want to be able to truthfully say, but almost no one can.

The right amount of empathy and interest, applied to all of the right places. I knew this because I was doing the same thing.

The empty pint glasses on the table were breeding. Two became four. Four became eight. The foam clinging to the inside of them was drying. Our conversation had increased in volume as the ambient noise surrounding us swelled. What had earlier been a buzz that could easily be ignored was steadily changing into a static mess of shouts and angry music.

“I’d like to ask you something.” He leaned over the table, propped up on his elbows. “I don’t want you to think that I have anything in mind and even asking this leaves me a little self-conscious and whatnot.”

We both knew that this was the time of night where we’d leave together. He was putting on a decent performance, playing bashful. I’d seen better. I’d also seen worse. Much worse. I knew what he would say next – something about enjoying our conversation and not wanting it to end. I nodded my head before he could finish. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

Somewhere between our first tirade exchange and our last beer, the sun had gone away and headlights appeared, moving up and down the street where we had parked our cars. “I have a roommate.” He said as we walked to his car.

This wasn’t just to inform me of the roommate, it was to drop a hint regarding his intentions. The roommate was something that would make the difference between a blind date and a one-night encounter.

As if it mattered.

We stopped at his car. “I’ll follow you.” I said and continued walking.

Andy the roommate was standing in the kitchen when we arrived. Andy of the sunken shoulders, wearing glasses that looked too heavy for his face. He was covered in a button-up shirt and a sweater that appeared oversized and itchy. Andy was the roommate who never brought girls home.

Andy didn’t show any interest in conversation or introductions. It could have been shyness. I guessed that it was boredom with meeting his roommate’s blind dates.

The house felt like one of those model homes in new housing developments. Well-watered ferns, well-dusted Pier 1 bric-a-brac strategically placed on shelves and shiny table tops. Throw pillows on the couch thoroughly fluffed.

Polished and sterile. Bland and false.

There were framed pictures on shelves and hung from walls. None of them were of people. The same prints can be seen in waiting rooms and motel lobbies. Anyone can purchase them in any shopping mall.

The only difference between this house and an actual model home was the smell of the air freshener that smells like baking cookies. The aroma that sells houses.

“Nice place.” I said. “You decorated all of this yourself?”

Andy blinked behind his heavy glasses. His eyes bounced back and forth at the two of us standing in front of him before he quietly excused himself.

My date shrugged with false modesty. “I had some help.” He stepped over to the fridge and opened it. I watched him lean inside and remove two bottles of beer. “Let’s sit.” He motioned to the pristine couch. “We can have more great conversation and I’ll tell you all about my big moments, ridiculous failures and necessary disappointments.”

So many cigarette butts had accumulated in the ashtray on the coffee table that it was now difficult to extinguish another one. This and the bottles that had gathered created an imperfection in the living room that was impossible to ignore – it now looked lived in.

Soon, someone would have to get up to dump the ashtray, or we would have to stop smoking for the night. I wondered why all of this was taking so damn long.

I wondered why humans were even given the gift of speech at all. We no longer needed it; we’ve forgotten to talk about anything. We only waste it.

He was selfish. I was selfish. Groping, sweating, moaning and grunting. Done. I looked up at the walls and saw only white. No plant hooks. No pictures. Nothing. A hairbrush lay on the dresser next to a pair of sunglasses. The nightstand next to me supported a single lamp.

Stark white. Bare surfaces. No ferns. No waiting room paintings. No Pier 1 anything. Only a blank space filled with apathy.

I fell asleep and dreamt of a stick man playing with a Matryoshka doll – one of those little Russian dolls that open to reveal another smaller version of it inside. The doll should open again and again, each time revealing another smaller doll inside until finally, a tiny solid doll remains. Something so tiny that it can be easily lost or misplaced, forgotten about completely.

One might be happy to find it again, until they realize that it’s just a useless piece of wood, thinking nothing and feeling even less.

This doll was empty. No smaller versions inside, no tiny solid center. Nothing. But, I dreamt that the doll was happy – happy in ignorance, but mostly because she and the stickman were both unable to speak.

“Don’t you have to be at work early in the morning?” He pulled me away, back into the darkness. I didn’t recognize it at first, the sound of his voice was still too new to sound familiar to me in a dreamy, drowsy state. My surroundings began to come into focus. The high, empty walls, the bare windows. The absence of personality.

Had he asked me a question? Something about work?

“Ugh…are you talking?” I asked, hoping that my annoyance could be heard.

“I am.” He was propped up on one elbow, wide awake. “I was asking you about work. Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

“What time is it?” I ignored his original question.

“About three in the morning.”

“Well, I don’t have to be anywhere quite this early. Why are you waking me up in the middle of the night to ask me about this?” I asked, even though I knew that his answer would likely be a lie.

“I was, uh…just concerned. I didn’t want you to be late.”

“Concern.” I sat up and turned, letting my feet fall to the floor. “Concern is boring. I stood up. “I wouldn’t use that one the next time you’re kicking someone out of bed.”

I pushed some clothes around on the floor with my foot, trying to identify my pants in the dark.

“Please,” He was sitting up. “Don’t take it the wrong way.” I noticed the tapping sound on the other side of the window. It had started to rain while I was sleeping. I found my pants and pulled them on while searching for my shirt. “I’m just not sure if you’re my type, that’s all.”

I located my shirt and flipped it into the air with my foot. I grabbed it with my hand and pulled it over my head. “Well, I’m not really too surprised to hear that,” I said. “I don’t imagine that your ‘type’ gives blow jobs.”

He ran his hand through his hair. The gesture made it clear that he was exhausted. Not from fatigue, but from being in character, from human contact.

He motioned as though he intended to get up out of the bed, but slow enough to give me the time to stop him. “Don’t bother,” I said. “You don’t want to get up.”

He stopped moving. “I should at least walk you out.”

“You should,” I agreed. “But I don’t need you to.”

“Come on,” he sighed. “Don’t be like that.”

I have never understood this statement, why people say it. An absurd command that suggests someone should be acting in a way other than his or her true nature.

It suggests that the speaker is too lazy to argue, or is out of arguments completely. There are standard responses: “be like what?” or “how am I being?” and “how should I be?”

I decided to skip it. I had had this conversation before when it might have mattered. This time didn’t.

“Ok,” I said. “I’m bored. Do you remember where I left my shoes?”

The place was called “Deck the Walls”. There were watercolor prints of animals, landscapes and houses. I perused cheap copies of oil paintings that had originals hanging in museums. I stared at bold colors and pastels surrounded by metal, plastic and wooden frames.

I tried to be interested.

I’d been in the store for nearly an hour and still didn’t know which of these would define me as a person, would sum up who and what I am for the next blind date I decide to invite over.

Having nothing on my walls didn’t matter until recently. Now, it was almost obsession. I’d been to almost all of the other shops in town like this one. There was a pile of framed pictures lying on the floor of my apartment. I still hadn’t decided where they were supposed to go.

“Doing some redecorating?” I looked up from a picture of a red and white soup can. There he stood in his ill-fitting sweater and his heavy wire-framed glasses. Andy the roommate who never brought girls home.

Andy the roommate who likely had something hanging on his bedroom walls. “Uh…well, not exactly.” I said. “Not redecorating – just decorating.” Andy took one of his hands out of his pants pocket and pushed his heavy glasses up on his nose. “I see. So, what style are you going for?”

I looked back down at the soup can. “I don’t know what that means,” I confessed. He was trying to make conversation. I didn’t want to stand in the mall having a conversation about a topic that I knew nothing about.

Andy laughed. “You know, if you like, I could help you out. I think I did a decent job on my place.”

I turned my head to look at Andy once again. The clicking sound was almost audible when it all came together. The sweater that didn’t fit, the well-watered ferns. He didn’t wait for me to respond to his offer.

“Come on,” he grinned. The face behind the weighty glasses changed, but only a little. “We’ll grab some beer, head to your place and see what we can do. We can exchange tirades. The comma is my favorite piece of punctuation and I’ve got all night.”

Table of Contents