How long ago had she graduated? She still drew out her guidelines—a blueprint for her work; planning out what would go where instead of jumping in, trusting years of practice. Was that it? She just didn’t trust herself? No. She knew better. It was another step in putting off the inevitable dissection she dreaded. The purple dashed line was all a part of the image; a tool to help her through the job she never wanted but landed fresh out of med school. She had gone through years of hell, promising herself it would all be worth it when she graduated; a nice fat check and a job diagnosing runny noses as the common cold and sore throats as Strep. That’s what she had envisioned-- not this nightmare.
The gleam of surgical steel winked at her in the artificial lighting. It dragged her kicking and screaming away from backing out, throwing up her hands, ripping off her latex gloves and quitting on the spot. It happened every time. She was afraid. She was terrified, disgusted, and far too sane to do this. Leah stared at the scalpel in her hand. It was so sharp. Mirror, mirror on the wall… Who’s the fairest of them all? Leah blinked, the eyes reflected on the scalpel blinked. They didn’t answer her. She was relieved. She couldn’t put it down. Even if she opened her hand, tried to throw it, it would stick there defying the laws of physics. Leah sighed.
The scalpel positioned itself above the dotted line, held in Leah’s hand like a pen ready to write something that would change the world. She pushed the edge down, onto the pasty skin of Mr. #48862. The skin split under her knife like it had been too tight; she could see places never meant for human eyes to know. It’s a seam ripper. You’re just ripping a seam.
It wasn’t the greatest feat of imagination but its what she could come up with; it’s what got her through the workday. Leah smirked at the idea of being a seamstress one day when she finally had “fuck you” money. No, she wouldn’t really be a seamstress; she would quit the medical field and do something that reminded her nothing of this hell. Maybe she would be an interior designer or a wedding planner. No, not a wedding planner—it would be too hard to be around so many people in love. Leah was too selfish to be happy for them. Jake. She inhaled sharply as his smiling face popped up into her mind followed by a whirlwind of half remembered visuals from the night of his accident.
“No!” Leah, startled at the sound of her own voice, was pulled from the nightmare and into another one. Through the dermis, a layer of adipose tissue, the abdominal muscles, and sternum and rib cage, Leah ripped seam after seam, widening the hole to a pocket she couldn’t fit her hand in. She peeled each layer back, noting normality’s and searching diligently for the irregular. So far Mr. # 48862 was no different than any cadaver. She looked down at her work. Leah would start with the heart like she always did—that wasn’t the way they taught her in med school. It didn’t matter now though; no one was watching over her shoulder grading every movement she made. She could do things however the hell she wanted; it’s hard to screw up dead people after all. Sure, these people were definitely dead by the time they ended up on her examining table, but what if they weren’t? What if she cracked them open and their heart was still fluttering? The solution was just to take care of the heart first.
The heart came out, was examined and deemed normal. Lungs, liver, and stomach followed with the same diagnosis. Then it was time for the intestines. Leah reached her hand in, willing herself to believe she was rummaging through an unfamiliar purse or pair of pant pockets. She fought back the whisper of knowledge that someone, in some other morgue had done the same thing to Jake not quite a year ago. Her job had always been unpleasant, but his death made it so much worse. Even through her latex glove she could feel the slippery wetness her fingers maneuvered through. She closed her hand around the folds of sausage links. Kind of a weird thing to keep in a pocket but who was she to judge? She pulled out the slippery pale chain of organ onto the examining table, flipping the contents of the pocket completely inside out.
Leah ran her hand down the snake like viscera with a firm grip, feeling for any blockages or hard areas that could explain Mr. #48862’s mysterious death. Around foot seven of the 21 approximate feet of intestine something didn’t feel quite right. Leah marked the area and finished the inspection. When no other abnormalities cropped up she returned to the circled section and looked closely. She noticed a small rupture in the delicate lining just above the hard mass she had felt.
Now for the more important question: Why did it tear in the first place? Leah set the portion of intestine on a separate rolling table. She closed her eyes for a moment, reestablishing her pocket façade. Exhale. Scalpel once again in hand, unzipping an invisible zipper, Leah cut into the intestine over the hard lump. The whispering scrape of metal against razor sharp metal made her cringe. She didn’t want to look, couldn’t look. Exhale. Don’t taste the air. Her fingers danced through the small slit, tentatively touching the anonymous piece of metal lodged in the dead man’s intestine. She trapped a cold rock between her index and middle finger and scooped out the treasure on to the steel-examining table. She didn’t want to look but after the initial clang of solid metal hitting metal, a curious hissing sound made her open her eyes.
It was badly tarnished from the stomach acids, covered in slime and grime from who knows what kind of food and white blood cell attacks but still intact and horrifying. The silver heart shaped locket lay open on the examining table; whatever picture had been inside it was long destroyed, the slender silver chain was knotted and twisted and full of kinks. Leah grabbed some gauze to wipe away the bodily residue. Why would someone swallow a locket? Coroners rarely got the back-story on their subjects and Mr. #48862 was no exception. She didn’t know where he was found, what he had been through, or where he had come from. But what good reason could he have to eat a piece of fine jewelry? Leah looked down. It had cleaned up fairly well from the little attention she had given it. It somehow seemed familiar to her despite being relatively average. She flipped it over in her latex clad hand and noticed an inscription. Her eyes rolled over the pretty cursive script as a chill crept up her spine and spiked the hairs on the back of her neck,
“Love is watching someone die.”
Leah was very hot, her palms sweating inside her latex gloves. Her head was light and the room was fuzzy as it swirled around her in blurs of color. She heard the locket fall. Did she drop it? It sounded like it hit the table, but maybe it was the floor. She steadied herself on the table, eyes closed, breathing through her mouth. A slide show of memories whooshed past her closed eyelids at lightening fast speed. A smoky bar, a guy with a drunk smile and laughing eyes even after a smack across the face for one inappropriate comment too many. A pretty afternoon, cherry trees blooming, her and the guy with laughing eyes hand in hand. A candle lit dinner, a velvet box, a locket from her lover. She remembered thinking the inscription on the back was strange but was too thrilled with the gift to question it. Their street, two cars spread over the entire intersection, ambulances, fire trucks, police cars. With a grimace Leah opened her eyes. She couldn’t think about Jake right now.
Opening her eyes had been a terrible idea. Leah was face to face with the locket and a mass of mangled intestine. It took her brain about a half a second to process it, decide it couldn’t handle anymore: sensory overload. Her stomach emptied. She pulled her hand away from the table to wipe her mouth with her sleeve. Deep breaths. The smell of Mr. #48862 assaulted her. Too much. Far too much. Even with her eyes closed, terrible thoughts rushing her in arrays of color, Leah could feel the room spinning. It didn’t spin for long before it turned completely on its side.
Leah didn’t feel herself fall to the ground. Leah didn’t hear the solid thud of her head hitting the linoleum floor. She didn’t know how Mr. #48862 had acquired her locket, much less why he had eaten it, but she didn’t care. She was happy to be away from it all, floating in an empty space inside her head walking in the park of cherry trees in bloom with Jake.
The memory of tossing the locket into Jake’s grave at his funeral floated in slow motion through her mind. It was a pretty locket, but not valuable enough to dig up a grave over. Leah’s brow twitched at the thought of someone vandalizing Jake’s grave like that. The movement lit a fire inside her head and burned away her train of thought. She struggled to open her eyes against the blinding artificial light in the morgue. Leah’s head pounded; she remained on the floor trying to remember what happened. It came back to her in pieces. The locket was easy, but how had it gotten back to her? The dead man-- the dead man had eaten it? That didn’t seem right.
She sat up slowly, the room threatened to start spinning again. Leah was relieved that it decided not to. She looked around her, at the cadaver lying open on the largest examining table. The locket had definitely come from inside him—she hadn’t hit her head that hard. Leah considered calling the front desk for help. She diagnosed herself with a concussion at the least; a CT scan would confirm any other damage. Leah stood, walked slowly over to where the locket had fallen and picked it up off the floor. She held it in her hand and stared at it for a moment before dropping it into the pocket of her lab coat. Sure. It was evidence, but it was her locket. Leah walked over to Mr. #... she had to look at the toe tag to remember his number. She should call the front desk for help. Instead, the weight of the locket in her pocket made her pick up her scalpel and return to her work. There had to be more.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Araby
I have to say I really did not enjoy this story. I found it relatively pointless. The main character is in love with his friend's sister whom he never speaks to with the exception of a brief conversation about going to a bazaar. He decides to buy her something from it and goes, however, due to his uncle's late arrival at home he doesn't get to the bazaar until close to 10 and most places are already closed. He ends up not buying anything and is very distessed. I wonder if this ending is a metaphor for his relationship with the sister. This was his chance to start something with her but now he cannot. He doesn't know what to say to her and just like the end to his night at the bazaar, he will be too late. The way the main character handles his feelings for his crush make me wonder how old he is. 13? 14? old enough to be melodramatic but young enough to have not grown out of that and live with his aunt and uncle and attend school. I can identify with the unrequited love and its anguish but I cannot stand reading about it for an entire story. Maybe I'm too jaded or cynical to be able to put up with it but it just annoys me. If you are so in love with the girl do something about it. I did appreciate some of the writer's descriptions, especially of the rain being like needles and the way they fall in the garden beds.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Granny's Solution
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem and one of the biggest signs that you do is denying it. I wouldn’t say I have a ‘problem’ I’d say it’s more everyone else. I’m just fine; I like me. It’s everyone else that seems to disagree. Admitting that everyone else has a problem seems like that should be a pretty good first step, right? Okay, that’s the bottle(s) talking. But who else is going to talk? If they didn’t I sure as shit wouldn’t say much. That can’t be a good sign either. Was going mute one of the ‘signs’ they talked about? I don’t think it was. They say I get mean when I drink. Really mean. I say things I don’t really mean (or do I?). I say things I shouldn’t say (or should I?). I get mad and fly off the handle (more like to it). Life isn’t all that bad, I just like to have a good time and sometimes, things get in the way of my good time.
Things like my husband (pop open a beer), his job (pour me a glass of wine), my kids (make me a mixed drink), their spouses (one for each hand), their kids (time for shots!), and whatever else would like to tramp through my back door wanting help of some kind (I’ll just hit the bottle on second thought). Can’t they see I’m drinking here? Okay. Okay. This has got to stop. I love my kids, my grandkids and my husband. This is crazy. I’ve tried to quit before and I did for a little while here and there. But old habits die hard, especially the fun ones.
I’ve been through Alcoholics Anonymous too many times to go back; they know me now. Most rehab programs through churches want you to admit there’s a higher power. I’m all for admitting there’s a God but what does he have to do with my drinking? I just can’t make a strong enough connection to keep me away from the booze. So what am I going to do? Just quit cold turkey? Yea that’ll work. I’ll pour all the liquor down the drain, be hung-over for a day and then sober for maybe two. Then it’s time to go grocery shopping and you know the liquor store is right next door so why not stop in and pay my friends the cashiers a visit? Not a very good plan. I can see the pit falls in it already.
They say it helps to have a strong support system from people close to you. I learned that at some of the AA meetings. I believe it. It’s good to know your family and friends are proud of you (or at least not embarrassed by you). It’s good to know how much happier they are when you are away from the booze (it’s so good to be able to make them feel that way). It hurts to know how much you hurt them, but the best part is knowing they love you. But it isn’t enough. I don’t want to make excuses here but they say alcoholism is a disease-- a bad one. And let me tell you; there’s a picture of me next to the word in medical dictionaries. Isn’t that terrible? The people who mean the most to you-- they just aren’t enough to keep you away from it. It’s because deep down inside you know they’ll love you either way.
So what to do? This has got to stop. My friend Jack isn’t such a friend to me anymore. My youngest son is about to get married; I’ve got grandkids and more on the way. I want them to stay with me; I want to play with them. I don’t want my kids, their parents, to worry when they leave their precious babies at Granny’s house. I’ve got to change. I can’t stay mean. What if I don’t though? What if I can’t again? What if I don’t change…. What if something else does? Yes! Why should I be the one to change?! I like me just fine and so does everyone else. I’m not the one who needs to change; it’s my habit that needs to change! I have to tell Bill!
Bill! I’m done! I know I’ve said it before but I really am this time! I’ve got a brand new plan that’s really going to work.
“ ’Ill, I’m-nun! I know I said-it-for but I realllllyyyyyy am this ti! I gotta rand n-plan thas really gonna werk.” Hmmm…. That didn’t sound like it came out quite like it was supposed to.
“What was that Mary?”
No. No I guess I might be slurring a little after all. I’ll try again.
“Doll, sit down before you fall and hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t get it. He just thinks I’m drunkenly rambling like usual. Shit. No. I’m fine! But listen! I’m going to change! I promise this time.
“NO! I’m-Fine! Lissssen! I’m gonna change! Promissss time…”
He sighs. He looks at me. He looks tired, maybe even a little sad. He stands and walks over to me. Did he understand and just not believe me? Or is he giving up for tonight?
“I love you doll, I’m going to bed.” He bends down and kisses the top of my forehead. I know I reek. How could I not? He’s so good to still kiss me good night. He walks down the hall and I hear the door to our bedroom close. Suddenly my legs aren’t working and I’ve sunk into the easy chair next to me that faces the couch where Bill was sitting. I stare at where he was, wishing he were still there, wishing I were sober enough for him to understand. Would he believe me anyway? I’ve let him down so many times before. Maybe I could just surprise him. One morning he’ll wake up and I’ll be not drunk for the rest of our lives together. I want another drink. I try to muster the coordination to stand; it fails me. Maybe another drink isn’t what I need. But I am going to need help.
The next day is beautiful. It’s warm and sunny. I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring out the picture window fighting my way up through a fuzzy brain and nicotine high. I just finished a cigarette. I light another one. I don’t know why. I don’t even want one. I hold it in my hand and watch the smoke curl and purr through the light rays. My hangover is mostly gone by the time Scott and Jenny walk through the garage door.
“Hey there mom!” Scott booms. He walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek as I stand to hug him. His nose wrinkles at the smell of me and gives me a once over. His conclusion: I’m sober, but I wasn’t last night. I smile meekly at him.
“Hey there Mrs. Edge!” Jenny coos from behind Scott. I fight past him to her.
“Jenny, sugar, what did I tell you about that?! If you are going to marry my son you are going to have to call me Mary.” It makes her smile. She has a beautiful smile.
“Where’s dad?”
“Upstairs in his woodshop.”
Scott rushes off to visit with Bill, probably to ask him about my drinking, and leaves me alone with Jenny. Perfect.
“Sit down Lov-in’ come visit with me!” Jenny sits. “You want a smoke?”
“Uhh no thank you Mrs—Uhh Mary.”
“Jenny, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know these are the 80’s we are living in and it is a wild time.” How do you go about this? How do I ask this?
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Well, do you ever do wild things?” She smiles at me and shrugs.
“I don’t think they are wild now but I’m sure I will when I look back on them.” This girl is smart.
“Jenny, if I had a problem—would you help me?”
“Of course! I’d do anything I could!”
“Well, That’s good because I have to admit, I do have a problem.” She looks concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know I have a—err—problem when it comes to drinking?”
“Yes, I know.” She fidgets a little when she confesses to having noticed. She doesn’t want to be impolite I can tell.
“Well I want to change.”
“That’s great, Mary!”
“Yes, I think it’s a good idea too but you see I’m going to need your help.”
“Sure! Of course! Anything!”
“Now I know you kids and your hippie stuff. Don’t think I’m ignorant. Scott is the sixth of five children—I know better. And you and him, well you two strike me as the hippie type. Don’t worry; relax. I love you two that way and wouldn’t change it for a thing.” She smiles that beautiful smile again. “So I’m gonna need your help now you see?”
“Well… yes, but what are you asking me for?”
“Honey, I’ve decided I’m gonna quit drinking and start smoking pot instead.” Her jaw drops.
“Are… Are you serious?”
“Yep, I think it’s the only way. Just gonna replace one bad habit with another. I heard the dope makes you happy and calm; I don’t want to be mean anymore. But now I don’t want to get caught and you know I love to garden. I mean just look at all those pretty flowers out there. So I want to grow my own. That way I can have it whenever I want it and there won’t be any ‘deals’ going on.”
“Oh…. Okay, So what do you need from me?”
“Well do you think you could give me your old seeds? I know you kids don’t do anything with them cause I find them scattered all over the back porch on Sunday mornings after ya’ll have been over. A seedling plant would be even better but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Ummm… Sure Mary. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thanks, you’re a doll. Really. Oh and I don’t care if you tell Scott but tell him not to let this get back to Bill yet. I want this to be a surprise.”
“I’m sure it definitely will be.”
Things like my husband (pop open a beer), his job (pour me a glass of wine), my kids (make me a mixed drink), their spouses (one for each hand), their kids (time for shots!), and whatever else would like to tramp through my back door wanting help of some kind (I’ll just hit the bottle on second thought). Can’t they see I’m drinking here? Okay. Okay. This has got to stop. I love my kids, my grandkids and my husband. This is crazy. I’ve tried to quit before and I did for a little while here and there. But old habits die hard, especially the fun ones.
I’ve been through Alcoholics Anonymous too many times to go back; they know me now. Most rehab programs through churches want you to admit there’s a higher power. I’m all for admitting there’s a God but what does he have to do with my drinking? I just can’t make a strong enough connection to keep me away from the booze. So what am I going to do? Just quit cold turkey? Yea that’ll work. I’ll pour all the liquor down the drain, be hung-over for a day and then sober for maybe two. Then it’s time to go grocery shopping and you know the liquor store is right next door so why not stop in and pay my friends the cashiers a visit? Not a very good plan. I can see the pit falls in it already.
They say it helps to have a strong support system from people close to you. I learned that at some of the AA meetings. I believe it. It’s good to know your family and friends are proud of you (or at least not embarrassed by you). It’s good to know how much happier they are when you are away from the booze (it’s so good to be able to make them feel that way). It hurts to know how much you hurt them, but the best part is knowing they love you. But it isn’t enough. I don’t want to make excuses here but they say alcoholism is a disease-- a bad one. And let me tell you; there’s a picture of me next to the word in medical dictionaries. Isn’t that terrible? The people who mean the most to you-- they just aren’t enough to keep you away from it. It’s because deep down inside you know they’ll love you either way.
So what to do? This has got to stop. My friend Jack isn’t such a friend to me anymore. My youngest son is about to get married; I’ve got grandkids and more on the way. I want them to stay with me; I want to play with them. I don’t want my kids, their parents, to worry when they leave their precious babies at Granny’s house. I’ve got to change. I can’t stay mean. What if I don’t though? What if I can’t again? What if I don’t change…. What if something else does? Yes! Why should I be the one to change?! I like me just fine and so does everyone else. I’m not the one who needs to change; it’s my habit that needs to change! I have to tell Bill!
Bill! I’m done! I know I’ve said it before but I really am this time! I’ve got a brand new plan that’s really going to work.
“ ’Ill, I’m-nun! I know I said-it-for but I realllllyyyyyy am this ti! I gotta rand n-plan thas really gonna werk.” Hmmm…. That didn’t sound like it came out quite like it was supposed to.
“What was that Mary?”
No. No I guess I might be slurring a little after all. I’ll try again.
“Doll, sit down before you fall and hurt yourself.”
He doesn’t get it. He just thinks I’m drunkenly rambling like usual. Shit. No. I’m fine! But listen! I’m going to change! I promise this time.
“NO! I’m-Fine! Lissssen! I’m gonna change! Promissss time…”
He sighs. He looks at me. He looks tired, maybe even a little sad. He stands and walks over to me. Did he understand and just not believe me? Or is he giving up for tonight?
“I love you doll, I’m going to bed.” He bends down and kisses the top of my forehead. I know I reek. How could I not? He’s so good to still kiss me good night. He walks down the hall and I hear the door to our bedroom close. Suddenly my legs aren’t working and I’ve sunk into the easy chair next to me that faces the couch where Bill was sitting. I stare at where he was, wishing he were still there, wishing I were sober enough for him to understand. Would he believe me anyway? I’ve let him down so many times before. Maybe I could just surprise him. One morning he’ll wake up and I’ll be not drunk for the rest of our lives together. I want another drink. I try to muster the coordination to stand; it fails me. Maybe another drink isn’t what I need. But I am going to need help.
The next day is beautiful. It’s warm and sunny. I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring out the picture window fighting my way up through a fuzzy brain and nicotine high. I just finished a cigarette. I light another one. I don’t know why. I don’t even want one. I hold it in my hand and watch the smoke curl and purr through the light rays. My hangover is mostly gone by the time Scott and Jenny walk through the garage door.
“Hey there mom!” Scott booms. He walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek as I stand to hug him. His nose wrinkles at the smell of me and gives me a once over. His conclusion: I’m sober, but I wasn’t last night. I smile meekly at him.
“Hey there Mrs. Edge!” Jenny coos from behind Scott. I fight past him to her.
“Jenny, sugar, what did I tell you about that?! If you are going to marry my son you are going to have to call me Mary.” It makes her smile. She has a beautiful smile.
“Where’s dad?”
“Upstairs in his woodshop.”
Scott rushes off to visit with Bill, probably to ask him about my drinking, and leaves me alone with Jenny. Perfect.
“Sit down Lov-in’ come visit with me!” Jenny sits. “You want a smoke?”
“Uhh no thank you Mrs—Uhh Mary.”
“Jenny, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know these are the 80’s we are living in and it is a wild time.” How do you go about this? How do I ask this?
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Well, do you ever do wild things?” She smiles at me and shrugs.
“I don’t think they are wild now but I’m sure I will when I look back on them.” This girl is smart.
“Jenny, if I had a problem—would you help me?”
“Of course! I’d do anything I could!”
“Well, That’s good because I have to admit, I do have a problem.” She looks concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know I have a—err—problem when it comes to drinking?”
“Yes, I know.” She fidgets a little when she confesses to having noticed. She doesn’t want to be impolite I can tell.
“Well I want to change.”
“That’s great, Mary!”
“Yes, I think it’s a good idea too but you see I’m going to need your help.”
“Sure! Of course! Anything!”
“Now I know you kids and your hippie stuff. Don’t think I’m ignorant. Scott is the sixth of five children—I know better. And you and him, well you two strike me as the hippie type. Don’t worry; relax. I love you two that way and wouldn’t change it for a thing.” She smiles that beautiful smile again. “So I’m gonna need your help now you see?”
“Well… yes, but what are you asking me for?”
“Honey, I’ve decided I’m gonna quit drinking and start smoking pot instead.” Her jaw drops.
“Are… Are you serious?”
“Yep, I think it’s the only way. Just gonna replace one bad habit with another. I heard the dope makes you happy and calm; I don’t want to be mean anymore. But now I don’t want to get caught and you know I love to garden. I mean just look at all those pretty flowers out there. So I want to grow my own. That way I can have it whenever I want it and there won’t be any ‘deals’ going on.”
“Oh…. Okay, So what do you need from me?”
“Well do you think you could give me your old seeds? I know you kids don’t do anything with them cause I find them scattered all over the back porch on Sunday mornings after ya’ll have been over. A seedling plant would be even better but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Ummm… Sure Mary. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thanks, you’re a doll. Really. Oh and I don’t care if you tell Scott but tell him not to let this get back to Bill yet. I want this to be a surprise.”
“I’m sure it definitely will be.”
Tapka
I'd like to start off by saying I did in fact enjoy this story. It was predictable; as I read I called the reactions of the Doctor and Rita and Misha play by play and about two pages into the story I knew the dog, Tapka, was going to hit by a car. Despite how predictable the story was I wanted to keep reading it; it flowed. I identified with the pride Mark takes in caring for Tapka and his childish love for her. I liked the image of wearing a shoe lace with the important keys on it as a necklace for a first grader. It was a specific image that made the story more believable. I also identified with Mark's repulsion at Jana calling Tapka 'Shithead'. Someone could call me 'Shithead' and it wouldn't bother me; if someone were to call my horse 'shithead' I would be angry (I'm the only one allowed to call her shithead). It was also a little funny because in the first grade I may have known the word shithead but I might not have realized what it meant or how to use it. This first grader and second grader, via Mark's emotional distress about calling Tapka the derogatory term prove their mastery of the word. When first reading I thought they used it because they had heard it but they seem to know what it actually means.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Gogol
A line that really struck me as a great simple character description was, "It has never occurred to him to buy his wife flowers." I also liked the advice Ghosh gives Ashoke. He tells him, "without thinking too much about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can. You will not regret it. One day it will be too late." Up until the train derailing this story was immensley boring to me. Had I not needed to read it for this class I would have quit reading it before I got to the interesting part. Ashoke dealing with worrying about not being able to do the mundane day to day things of life to the point of dreaming about them was very moving. Ashoke recovers and lives to see his baby boy born. Once again, I was ready to put click the little "X" in the upper left hand corner of my computer window. I did find it amusing how little thought Ashoke and his wife put into the naming of their son. While the name choice is obvious, prior to choosing it they placed all faith in the name their grandmother would choose. I have little to no connection to the characters; I just don't care about them. Maybe it's because I can't relate to them-- they are in a different world from me. I can't imagine moving to a different country, or giving birth, or placing so much emphasis on family heritage and tradition.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Pocket
Leah stared down at the dotted line. It seemed so trivial to still draw with purple ink on her projects these days. How long ago had she graduated? How many times had she done this? It didn’t matter. She still drew out her guidelines—a blueprint for her work; planning out what would go where instead of jumping in, trusting years of practice. Was that it? She just didn’t trust herself? No. She knew better. The purple dashed line was all a part of the image; a tool to help her through the job she never really wanted but landed anyway fresh out of med school.
The gleam of surgical steel winked at her, caught her eye, in the artificial lighting. It drug her kicking and screaming away from backing out, throwing up her hands, ripping off her latex gloves and quitting on the spot. It happened every time. She was afraid. She was terrified, disgusted, and far too close to reality to do this. Leah stared at the scalpel in her hand. It was so sharp. The edge sparkled; the sides up to the handle had eyes that stared back at her. Mirror, mirror on the wall… Who’s the fairest of them all? Leah blinked, the eyes reflected on the scalpel blinked. They didn’t answer her. She was relieved. She couldn’t put it down. Even if she opened her hand, tried to throw it, it would stick there defying the laws of physics. Leah sighed.
The scalpel positioned its self above the dotted line, held in Leah’s hand like a pen ready to write something that would change the world. She pushed the edge down, onto the pasty skin of Mr. #48862. The skin split behind her knife like seas parting; she could see places never meant for human eyes to know. Bile bubbled up into the back of her throat. Leah fought it down, swallowed it, forcing it back down into her stomach. It’s a seam ripper. You’re just ripping a seam.
Through the dermis, a layer of adipose tissue, the abdominal muscles, and sternum and rib cage Leah ripped seam after seam, widening the hole to a pocket she couldn’t fit her hand in. She peeled each layer back, noting normalities and searching diligently for the irregular. So far Mr. # 48862 was no different than any cadaver laid in front of her in med school. She looked down at her work. Leah would start with the heart like she always did; not really sure why—that wasn’t the way they taught her in med school. It didn’t matter now though; no one was watching over her shoulder grading every movement she made. It’s hard to screw up dead people after all.
The heart came out, was examined and deemed normal. Lungs, liver, and stomach followed with the same diagnosis. Then it was time for the intestines. Leah reached her hand in, willing herself to believe she was rummaging through an unfamiliar purse or pair of pant pockets. Even through her latex glove she could feel the slippery wetness her fingers maneuvered through. She closed her hand around the folds of sausage links. Kind of a weird thing to keep in a pouch but who was she to judge? She pulled out the slippery pale pink chain of organ onto the examining table, flipping the contents of the pocket completely inside out.
Leah ran her hand down the snake like viscera with a firm grip, feeling for any blockages or hard areas that could explain Mr. #48862’s mysterious death. Around foot seven of the 21 approximate feet of intestine something didn’t feel quite right. Leah marked the area and finished the inspection. When no other abnormalities cropped up she returned to the circled section and looked closely. She noticed a small rupture in the delicate lining just above the hard mass she had felt. That certainly explained why Mr. #48862 was dead. Having digestive juices leaking out of your intestines contaminating the rest of your body would certainly do it, not to mention all the bacteria that would set loose.
Now for the more important question: Why did it tear in the first place? Leah set the portion of intestine on a separate rolling table. She closed her eyes for a moment, reestablishing her pocket façade. Exhale. Scalpel once again in hand, unzipping an invisible zipper, Leah cut into the intestine over the hard lump. The whispering scrape of metal against razor sharp metal made her cringe. She didn’t want to look, couldn’t look. Exhale. Don’t taste the air. Her fingers danced through the small slit, tentatively touching the anonymous piece of metal lodged in the dead man’s intestine. She trapped a cold rock of metal between her index and middle finger and scooped out the treasure on to the metal examining table. She didn’t want to look but after the initial clang of solid metal hitting metal, a curious hissing sound made her open her eyes.
It was badly tarnished from the stomach acids, covered in slime and grime from who knows what kind of food and white blood cell attacks attempting to destroy this foreign object, but still intact and horrifying. The silver heart shaped locket lay opened on the examining table; whatever picture had been inside it was long destroyed, the slender silver chain was knotted and twisted and full of kinks. Leah grabbed some near by gauze to wipe away the bodily residue. Why would someone swallow a locket? Corners rarely got the back-story on their subjects and Mr. #48862 was no exception. She didn’t know where he was found, what he had been through, or where he had come from. But what good reason could he have to eat a piece of fine jewelry? Leah looked down. It had cleaned up fairly well from the little attention she had given it. She flipped it over in her latex clad hand and noticed an inscription. Her eyes rolled over the pretty cursive script as a chill crept up her spine and spiked the hairs on the back of her neck,
“Love is watching someone die.”
The gleam of surgical steel winked at her, caught her eye, in the artificial lighting. It drug her kicking and screaming away from backing out, throwing up her hands, ripping off her latex gloves and quitting on the spot. It happened every time. She was afraid. She was terrified, disgusted, and far too close to reality to do this. Leah stared at the scalpel in her hand. It was so sharp. The edge sparkled; the sides up to the handle had eyes that stared back at her. Mirror, mirror on the wall… Who’s the fairest of them all? Leah blinked, the eyes reflected on the scalpel blinked. They didn’t answer her. She was relieved. She couldn’t put it down. Even if she opened her hand, tried to throw it, it would stick there defying the laws of physics. Leah sighed.
The scalpel positioned its self above the dotted line, held in Leah’s hand like a pen ready to write something that would change the world. She pushed the edge down, onto the pasty skin of Mr. #48862. The skin split behind her knife like seas parting; she could see places never meant for human eyes to know. Bile bubbled up into the back of her throat. Leah fought it down, swallowed it, forcing it back down into her stomach. It’s a seam ripper. You’re just ripping a seam.
Through the dermis, a layer of adipose tissue, the abdominal muscles, and sternum and rib cage Leah ripped seam after seam, widening the hole to a pocket she couldn’t fit her hand in. She peeled each layer back, noting normalities and searching diligently for the irregular. So far Mr. # 48862 was no different than any cadaver laid in front of her in med school. She looked down at her work. Leah would start with the heart like she always did; not really sure why—that wasn’t the way they taught her in med school. It didn’t matter now though; no one was watching over her shoulder grading every movement she made. It’s hard to screw up dead people after all.
The heart came out, was examined and deemed normal. Lungs, liver, and stomach followed with the same diagnosis. Then it was time for the intestines. Leah reached her hand in, willing herself to believe she was rummaging through an unfamiliar purse or pair of pant pockets. Even through her latex glove she could feel the slippery wetness her fingers maneuvered through. She closed her hand around the folds of sausage links. Kind of a weird thing to keep in a pouch but who was she to judge? She pulled out the slippery pale pink chain of organ onto the examining table, flipping the contents of the pocket completely inside out.
Leah ran her hand down the snake like viscera with a firm grip, feeling for any blockages or hard areas that could explain Mr. #48862’s mysterious death. Around foot seven of the 21 approximate feet of intestine something didn’t feel quite right. Leah marked the area and finished the inspection. When no other abnormalities cropped up she returned to the circled section and looked closely. She noticed a small rupture in the delicate lining just above the hard mass she had felt. That certainly explained why Mr. #48862 was dead. Having digestive juices leaking out of your intestines contaminating the rest of your body would certainly do it, not to mention all the bacteria that would set loose.
Now for the more important question: Why did it tear in the first place? Leah set the portion of intestine on a separate rolling table. She closed her eyes for a moment, reestablishing her pocket façade. Exhale. Scalpel once again in hand, unzipping an invisible zipper, Leah cut into the intestine over the hard lump. The whispering scrape of metal against razor sharp metal made her cringe. She didn’t want to look, couldn’t look. Exhale. Don’t taste the air. Her fingers danced through the small slit, tentatively touching the anonymous piece of metal lodged in the dead man’s intestine. She trapped a cold rock of metal between her index and middle finger and scooped out the treasure on to the metal examining table. She didn’t want to look but after the initial clang of solid metal hitting metal, a curious hissing sound made her open her eyes.
It was badly tarnished from the stomach acids, covered in slime and grime from who knows what kind of food and white blood cell attacks attempting to destroy this foreign object, but still intact and horrifying. The silver heart shaped locket lay opened on the examining table; whatever picture had been inside it was long destroyed, the slender silver chain was knotted and twisted and full of kinks. Leah grabbed some near by gauze to wipe away the bodily residue. Why would someone swallow a locket? Corners rarely got the back-story on their subjects and Mr. #48862 was no exception. She didn’t know where he was found, what he had been through, or where he had come from. But what good reason could he have to eat a piece of fine jewelry? Leah looked down. It had cleaned up fairly well from the little attention she had given it. She flipped it over in her latex clad hand and noticed an inscription. Her eyes rolled over the pretty cursive script as a chill crept up her spine and spiked the hairs on the back of her neck,
“Love is watching someone die.”
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Nativity Caucasion
I love the line, "... and smokers not inhaling but hooked anyway." I felt like this really added to the scene of the southern women's persona when together. The narrator focuses on how 'well-bred' and the high society they all 'represent'. Smoking was in fashion but the idea that none of them are addicted and just doing it for show really shows the character of these women; the type that will say your dress is lovely and then when you leave the room say to their 'friend' how they saw it on sale for 5$ at Wal-mart because it was last season's throw back. I also thought the action of the two women upstairs listening in on the phone call to the hospital berating the woman who makes the phone call for not requesting an ambulance when they could have easily said something themselves about it was funny and further added to the character of all these women. They crave action and attention but are too caught up in their societal image to do anything but feed off of others and blow things out of proportion.
The attention to detail, almost over whelming the reader with images, adds to the idea that he has heard this story second hand from his grandmother. It's almost as if he's recounting what she told him word for word while she felt the need herself to give gross amounts of detail to prove the accuracy of the story. The focus on the physical also adds to their shallow focus on life, the 'keeping up with the jones' mindset.
The attention to detail, almost over whelming the reader with images, adds to the idea that he has heard this story second hand from his grandmother. It's almost as if he's recounting what she told him word for word while she felt the need herself to give gross amounts of detail to prove the accuracy of the story. The focus on the physical also adds to their shallow focus on life, the 'keeping up with the jones' mindset.
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