Short Story, fiction. Hi there, here's a fiction sample for you while I'm working on some things. I hope to see you at my book signing at Awakenings April 3! 6pm sharp. I'm ready, are you? Much love to you, C.A.
While You're Down There
by C.A. MacConnell
Stifling. The air. A hot, damp, thick Seattle summer evening. Seven-thirty on the nose, it was time for Charlie to head home. She scanned the crowd and spat. It was her secret, buried bad side that flew out of her mouth only when no one was looking. A simple thing - spitting - but it felt good. It seemed like she had spent her entire life with her mouth pursed in a tight petal, acting demure. Spitting, every now and then, gave her a tiny, wet release. When no one was looking.
Standing at the entrance to Seattle's Pike Place Market, Charlie removed her apron. Under the apron, Charlie was thin. Well put together. She was thirty-three, but she looked twenty-six, give or take a few.
With a bony finger, she tucked her hair behind her right ear. For ten years, she'd maintained neat, straight, brown hair with short bangs. She slid on bug-style, sexy sunglasses, hiding her deep brown eyes.
Moving forward, Charlie waited to cross the street. Wind blew at her dress enough to reveal her pale, clean, long legs, and her slender ankles. When she went out, anywhere, she wore dresses with closed-toe sandals. Market rules on shoes. Calf-high boots in the winter. Her classy look never varied. When she walked the Seattle streets, heads turned.
The lights were taking forever. Red. No change. A dirty skate kid rolled up, handing her a flyer for the latest show at the Seattle Art Museum.
Charlie read the brochure, then tore it to shreds. At heart, she was a painter, but she never painted anymore. Not for ten years.
For ten years, she'd lived in the city of rain. Ten years. No variation. For spending cash, she worked at The Market. The job was filthy, and the hours were long, but it was simple. Charlie was wickedly smart, but she liked the grunt job. It gave her an excuse to have short, rough nails. Besides spitting, this was her only flaw. Bad hands. And being part of the downtown scene was all that she had left of her creative side. She took home leftover produce, and she liked the ease of it. Among all market employees, Charlie stood out. Everyone thought she was spitting gorgeous. Daily, men and women whistled at her. So she stayed. For ten years.
Something must be wrong with the light, Charlie thought. No change. Still, she stood there waiting, sweating, and musing about her life. Ten hours a day, four days a week, her job was to stand with a dripping, half-cut nectarine and force testers on the tourists. To the boss, fruits and vegetables were gold. Charlie’s stand was the largest in The Market. Daily, tourists weaved through her aisles, squeezing skins; what they took home had to feel ripe.
When they packed in on her at lunchtime, Charlie gave it her all. She'd yell, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em!" over and over until, on the busiest days, her voice turned hoarse. Sexed-up.
--
For ten years, Charlie had taken the same route home.
She still hadn't gone far. Still waiting on the damn light. All around her, people started shifting and complaining, but Charlie said nothing. She waited. Like a sniper, she waited. As usual, in each hand, she carried a plastic bag full of avocados, lettuce, peaches, almonds, and more. One bag split. She paused to check the damage. She'd lost everything. She shrugged, littered, and finally walked forward. One bag was enough for her and Danny, her husband, anyway.
But when she neared the bus stop, when she looked up again, she saw someone strange and new. There was a man, an oddly young, white-haired man; he was heading toward Seattle's Best Coffee. Quickly. On a mission, perhaps. The man looked cool. Retro.
Charlie thought about stiff Danny. A handsome, slick computer suit. She and Danny were a horrific match. They both said so daily. But they stayed together, acting out parts in their modern, cold apartment uptown. It held angular furniture, the kind that looked better than it felt. What kept them together was the sex, and the codependency that Charlie knew everything about, but she didn't care. Long ago, she'd decided that she wasn't changing anytime soon. "Anytime soon" had turned into ten years of Charlie waiting on Danny and his cocaine to come home.
The white-haired man stopped in front of Seattle's Best Coffee, studying the building.
Curious, Charlie watched him. Her stomach hurt, gurgled. Then she felt her gut start to boil, as if it might rupture. She put a hand at her aching belly. Something seemed wrong.
Danny always thought it was cute. Her shrugging, her spitting silence, her stomach aches.
Charlie liked the sex.
The white-haired one rocked from foot to foot, the way Charlie's fish stand lover did. The fish guys were two stands down from her stand. While the boss timed her, during Charlie's coffee breaks, she watched the men throw salmon. Hands gloved in slime, the fish men sang to the tourists, reeling them in, smiling and wiping grimy fingers on grimy aprons that were already black from the day before. Daily, Charlie imagined their hands turning into slick, human fins. Danny had taken away many of her things -- her paints, her brushes, and her blank canvases -- but Danny couldn't steal her imagination. This, and the spitting and the sharks, was Charlie's little secret.
For ten years, she'd been picking up sharks, banging them. Her current one was twenty-three, and he had quite the stamina. Kid was always asking Charlie to leave Danny and run away to Portland, but when he looked at her with watery blue eyes, begging, "Please," Charlie shrugged and answered, "Maybe." She'd said "maybe" to a different shark for ten years.
Please, please, please.
The white-haired man wasn't moving. Customers slipped in and out of Seattle's Best, and he stood there, staring at the window.
Charlie had never seen him near the Market. Not a customer or worker. She studied the back of him.
He wore slick black gloves. Black combat boots, a black leather jacket. Too many layers for summer.
Charlie moved closer.
The white-haired man slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling out a black gun.
Drooling, Charlie put a hand over her mouth.
Slowly, he aimed the gun at the glass window of Seattle's Best Coffee and shot. Then he stood there smiling, watching people run.
Behind him, like a firm statue, Charlie waited.
Maybe he'll kill himself, she thought. But he didn't. It didn't seem like he was looking for money
or blood. Charlie spat.
Everywhere, people scattered into alleys. Even after the shatter, the screams, and finally, the sirens, the white-haired man stood still, putting his gun on the ground, surrendering, hands up.
While they cuffed him, he looked back at Charlie.
Amidst the chaos, she was the only one standing out in the open. A still, naked, easy target.
The shooter's expression remained flat, expressionless. His v-shaped mouth was closed tight, upturned at the corners like an envelope's seal. Then he smiled at her.
Charlie shrugged. For a second, she thought about smiling back, but people were looking. Still hiding, but they were looking. The shooter's only visible audience, she stood tall, full of rage and peace and utter fear and no one was near. No one came out of hiding. She felt like her body might split in two, and half of her would roll away like a splintering, wooden wheel. She'd never felt so bare, so exposed. No more than a blank piece of thin, wet paper about to tear.
Repeatedly, the shooter turned his head to look at her. He smiled one last time before the cops got rough. When the police hauled him away in a dark cruiser, the sky leaked rain.
She'd better get home. Surely, Danny was waiting, wanting her to make him a meal. But for some reason, it felt good to connect with a criminal. Charlie had never even stolen a single grape.
Nobody died that night.
--
The next morning, Charlie didn't kiss Danny, because she knew he hated her strawberry lip-gloss.
They had sex on the kitchen table.
In his stiff suit, Danny gave her a stiff hug and left.
As usual, wearing a pretty dress and sandals, she took the bus to work.
Mornings, Charlie had to carefully arrange the fruit and vegetables to attract people. Colors sucked them in. She was good with colors. But numbers were difficult. Sometimes, she cheated customers. Sometimes, they cheated Charlie. But she figured it all worked out in the end, one way or another.
Lunchtime. It happened every day. When she bent down to pull out a crate of nectarines, her boss laughed and said, "While you're down there, why don’t you do me a favor?" He said this when her eyes were level with his zipper. His mustache was thick, a spongy mess hanging over his lip.
Charlie thought about peeling him, but she smiled, shrugged, turned, and became good and quiet, hauling out the heavy crate, acting like nothing happened. For ten years, she acted like nothing happened.
"Last chance. Come and get 'em," Charlie muttered to the tourists.
On her way home that night, it rained hard. She accepted the feel and kept on walking, oblivious, imagining she was in the desert.
At the bus stop, she thought about Danny saving her from Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad. When Charlie was ten, she got a "B" once, which made her sniffle.
Mom said, "Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Work harder."
Mom and Dad were doctors who liked to save the world. To Charlie, Mom was a Type A bitch, and Dad was a shoe sole.
After the "B," Charlie made an apple wood carving in Art class. Because it looked so real, and she was hungry, she bit into it. She got splinters in her teeth. And a bloody lip. Other kids laughed at her. Laughed and laughed. Charlie decided that day to never, ever create anything that real again. Then, when no one was looking, she spat.
Her bus came and went. Charlie sat still. After ten years of Danny, uptown, thick silence, suits and sex on hard, angular chairs, Charlie's teeth chattered. She felt a subtle, stirring anger, and then full-on fury bled into her. She pictured Danny coming home from the office, wearing his fresh-pressed suit, and his striped, expensive tie. She pictured Danny opening and shutting and opening and shutting the blinds. She pictured him doing lines on the glass den table, then leaving without a word. Then she saw him returning at six a.m., redressing, wanting sex and breakfast.
Always home by eight p.m. Ten years of home by eight. She should be there, boiling something.
Another bus came. And went.
People did what doctors told them to do. If Charlie didn't, Dr. Mom would give her that look, and that look meant that no matter what, Charlie was no more than bruised fruit.
Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. Rough enough to give her splinters. Later, alone, she had to pick them out of her lip, in the basement, in the dark, tasting blood and spitting and tasting blood until it tasted good.
Then Charlie thought about the shooter. She thought about his nature -- unpredictable and cool. She thought about what she could do, since she wasn't home, boiling dinner. She could find her lover, the kid shark.
Please. Maybe. No. She had another idea.
She returned to the bus stop. Here it came. It was the wrong bus to take her home, but suddenly, it was the right bus to Charlie.
Why not, she thought.
Why not just get on the wrong bus, get off at the wrong stop, and stay there. Forever. Why not.
Riding, she pressed her pale face to the window, watching the human blur outside. Another bus, then another, a few cell calls, and she arrived where they were holding him, the shooter.
She crossed the street without looking. Suddenly, feeling was everything. The rain was the bullet kind. All around, people ran for cover. No control over the weather and the way the peaches weren't ripe yet. They came around with time. Danny was probably home, nursing a bloody nose, wondering why she wasn't there, slicing pears.
She acted slutty with the officers, getting the shooter's name. Aaron something. She sketched it down.
For ten years, Charlie had access to Danny's money. For ten years, she'd refused to borrow cash. But she remembered the passwords. All letters. Letters came easy to her. A few calls to Key Bank, a few emails on her cell, a few transfers, presto. Finally, she had a reason to harvest the goods.
That summer, jails were overflowing. It wasn't hard to bail Aaron out.
Aaron's white hair was slick. His big eyes were shaped like sideways avocados, turning into pistachios when he squinted at her.
Charlie picked at the remnants of mushrooms under her nails.
Aaron came forward to the free side.
Side by side, they walked like any old couple. Criminal and artist, interchangeable.
Aaron put his jacket around her shoulders. His eyes opened and changed. More like plums.
Charlie thought of pistachios. She loved them until the boss saw Charlie breaking shells with her teeth, and he gave her that look that said,
While you're down there.
Danny might be calling the cops, looking. No, he wouldn't want them finding his coke. Either way, right then, there was nothing better than wild, convict Aaron and the rain. That was enough.
Together, they took the bus to Aaron's pad, a dive in Belltown.
Inside, when Aaron kissed her, he kissed her. He swallowed her. He sucked her in. Lip to lip, he held her there. She felt him grow into her. She felt her insides tear.
His hair moved like white fire.
Aaron rested his head on her blue dress, and they slept this way.
--
In the morning, Charlie stretched out naked on the futon. Her body tingled, feeling new.
Aaron looked strangely peaceful, lightly snoring on his side.
She slipped a pretty dress over her head, ran her fingers over her bangs, smoothing them, and stood, looking around.
Aaron's place was simple. One knife, one fork, one pan. No clutter.
She made coffee. Seattle's Best. Black. She felt cold, damp, chilled, as if she were inside a melon. Sipping from the mug, she tiptoed around, rummaging, finding Aaron's other gun under a couch pillow.
She slipped the gun into her purse. One last time, she looked at him. Aaron was strange, dangerous and beautiful, and he had never even spoken to her. She thought about poking him, just to make sure he was real. She thought about squeezing him, testing his age. Then she decided that it was better to wonder. In the moments with Aaron, words had been replaced by lips, jackets, and the sound of his and her breath, breath and only breath, breath alone. With him, she was fresh juice. She was thirsty and alive.
Quietly, she slipped out the door like a thin letter. Heading to work, she felt pensive and alert. She hadn't missed a day in ten years, and she wasn't about to break that vine. When the rain came down hard enough, Charlie drank it. She had to finish things with the boss.
Morning wasn't bad. Charlie weighed apples and caught bananas, yelling, "Last chance! Eastern Washington nectarines and peaches! Come and get 'em! Last chance!" She was perky. She sold it like a lady.
Around lunchtime, Charlie had a bad taste in her mouth. She was sick of hard furniture, lists, and bringing home leftovers. She was sick of Danny leaving, coming home, leaving, sick of his missing nose cartilage, sick of lines on the table, the fruit, the bruises, the fruit, the skins. Nothing was ever fully skinned, edible, tangible, real, whole. No matter how much she touched handsome Danny, he was never better, never ripe.
"Come and get 'em!" she yelled. "Last chance!"
The boss was rotten too. People could be tricky. She could get too close, and they locked her up, and no matter how gorgeous the house or the market colors were, they were still prisons.
Suck it up, Charlotte. Life's rough. This much was clear.
The boss cracked his knuckles over and over, like he was trying to get at a nut's insides. Crack, crack, crack. He had leftover lunch on his mustache.
Charlie fixed the fruit, and when she bent down, when her mouth was level with the boss' zipper, when he said, "While you're down there," she reached her hand inside her purse, pulling out her bug-style sunglasses, slipping them on. Then she reached deeper, finding the cold gun with her bad hands.
She shot at the star fruit, the kiwis, and all of the produce until guts were everywhere. The boss screamed, running down the aisle, backing his fat body against the fish stand.
Smiling, Charlie stood still, holding the gun loosely.
The boss' eyes widened, apricot-sized. Then he covered his face with his hands, crouching low in front of the fish stand's glass case.
She raised the gun again, pointing it at his apron. She said, "While you're down there," smiling. Her finger brushed the trigger.
Then she spotted the blue-eyed kid, her lover shark, who had a wicked tremor going on. He stood up tall, moving his skinny body between Charlie and the boss, right in the line of fire.
Charlie stared into his watery, grape eyes.
One tear drifted out of the kid's left eye, cleaning his market-soiled face. "Please, Charlie, please," he said.
Charlie spat, putting the gun down. She whispered, "Why not."
Nobody died that day.
