The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twelve Sounds Pure White

Again, reversed. Getting to be a bad habit. And the sword pierced heart seems a bit melodramatic. For a second I think I can feel the rain on my head. No, can't be. I'm inside. I'm standing in the dining room of Suzie Creamer's place. We went out for a few months back when Christ was a cowboy. It wasn't going to last. She was a devout Catholic, desperately afraid of getting pregnant. So it was blowjobs, blowjobs, all the way. I got so tired of blowjobs. And when we were finished she'd spit me out into a glass of water she always kept beside her. Anyways, we're standing there, Suzie, her mother and me looking under the diningroom table. They're pointing out where her father slept last night. He was a bum, an alcoholic, gone for weeks, months at a time. Came home every once in awhile, abused the family, slept under the table then headed back to the gutter. He was out of the habit of showering and that night the smell of him still permeated the apartment. Not strong anymore but insistent. The clinging power of unwashed misery somewhere on the spectrum between poverty and rot. I knew it. I'd smelled it. My uncle Bob was a great guy. Life of the party. Lost everything in a battle with the bottle. My parents let him sleep on the front porch for one night when he'd staggered into town from somewhere unexpectedly. We all pretended it never happened but his residue strangled the air all the next morning. And that was on a screened porch. In summer.

Wait, now we're in bed, in her bedroom. I'm having trouble getting going, though. Can't get that smell out of my nose. Hugging me like clingwrap. Then her mother comes in and sees us. We're up to the usual. We have a bedsheet over us. We look like a camel with no legs. Mrs. Creamer sees us, says "oh" then slowly backs out again bent at the waist. Closes the door behind her ever so gently, even if disturbance is no longer an issue. Looks for all the world like an apologetic server trying to avoid offending her customers. Sorry, Suzie, but that's it for me. Besides, we're breaking up in a couple of weeks anyway.

"So you're an asshole. All men are assholes. Again, not really helpful."

Suppressing annoyance can be annoying. I have no idea exactly what I'm supposed to do. She watches me - no, wait, SPIES on me - while I'm doing it, then criticises me for doing it wrong! My obedience was being sorely tested. But if I looked it I certainly didn't communicate it effectively to her.

"So tell me, how did you break up with this girl?"

"I sent her a postcard."

Oh ya, it was definitely there this time. She looked at me like she had just mistaken a sample of baking chocolate for semi-sweet in the bulk bin.

"Hey, it was a big postcard! And it could have been worse. It could have been a text. Or a tweet. I think I showed a lot of characters."

She concealed any amusement well.

She took another drag then, with a couple of delicate jaw snaps, spat out two smoke rings. They were incredible. They stopped, frozen in the air a foot from her face like two little puffy white tires. Perfect. As if they were animated. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Then she carefully stuck her index in the middle and left it there. The rings didn't move or change shape. Finally she snapped her thumb and middle and the rings collapsed into an entropic haze.

"Wow, that was physically impossible. Where did you learn to do that trick?"

She shrugged.

"Heh, misdirection. Nothing would get done without it."

She reached out and tapped the deck with one of her gnarled fingers. Pull. Flip. This time it was the Ten of Swords.