DUM DUM would like to welcome back Jessica Garrison as the resident writer participating in our very first run of web serials. We close out this serial with Garrison’s “Peaking” from her $1 Books series–just in time for Dollar Stories LIVE this Sunday, featuring actors performing 5 of her short stories at The Federal Bar in North Hollywood.
“PEAKING”
The roads are winding my car like a toy, photograph machines are on the lightpoles. I drive by a man with a cardboard sign, another with a fruit stand. A small cart with mangoes, jicama and apples. He waves to me as I pass, a steel blade in his hands. There’s dryness in the air, the wind through the window. The sky is so blue, it feels heavy.
“Can you close the door?” asks the stewardess, under pink lipstick. She puts her hand on my buckle. “Pull here.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” I ask.
She puts a finger to her mouth. “Shh” she says. She points to the woman on the screen.
I close my eyes. Luca sits beside me.
“Luca?” I ask.
“Si, cara, come stai?”
We kiss on both cheeks.
“Bene,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
His face is the same as I remember. He moves the same as he did. He breathes the same, with gratitude. His eyes, still bright like they were.
“I come to America on a visit,” he says.
“Where are we flying?” I ask.
He opens his ticket. Small type letters float from the page and rearrange in space. They spell w h a t e v e r.
He grabs them in his fist and pops them in his mouth. He chews on them like ribeye.
“I want to smoke,” I say, I pull a pack from my purse.
“No cara,” he says, putting his hand on mine.
“I want to,” I say.
He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh” he says and points. Two little bluebirds land on the tray table.
“I want to marry you,” he says. “Do you remember Thailand?”
“I can’t,” I say.
“You promised.”
I strike a match. It doesn’t light. I strike again without looking.
“Si, you do,” he laughs. “I know how you lie.”
“You don’t want children,” I say, “And you don’t believe in reincarnation.”
“I’ll support you,” he says. “I’ll take care of you, cara.”
“Your family hates me, your mother will cry.”
“It’s time,” he says, “We’re going to Thailand.”
The bluebirds fly to my side. They lift my hand in the air and slip a ring on my finger.
“It’s time,” they sing, “It’s time.”
“You hate smokers,” I say.
“You’ll quit,” he says.
“When I’m pregnant,” I say.
“Shh” the birds sing. The stewardess pushes a cart. A tall cart, with glass windows. Pigeons in a cage, eating seeds.
“Coffee,” She says with pink lips, “Tea?”
“I was not good for you?” He turns.
“I was 6000 miles away.” I feel my face, my ears hurt. “I couldn’t stay.”
“I thought maybe you would.” He says.
I turn to the stewardess, “Tea, please.”
“Would you like gum with that?” she asks.
“Thank you,” I say. “I would.”
Her pink lips touch mine, she feeds me the gum from her mouth.
Luca looks out the window. Rolling white clouds below us. Two little bluebirds fly by the engine. Their wings are beating fast, they look tired trying to keep up with the plane.
“I had a dream last night,” Luca said. “I made everything I touch look good. Everything I touch with my finger.” He puts his finger on my neck. “You were in it too,” he said, “But you were stubborn. You needed a lot of touching.”
The lights blink. The plane takes a dive.
The stewardess comes by with an oxygen mask.
“Put your masks on,” she says, and pulls the string on my mouthpiece.
Luca shuts the blind and sleeps.
In his sleep he moves his finger sporadically, like morse code. I feel his finger on my chest.
There are birds outside, flocks of them, but the trees below are birdless.