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splinterswerve
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
splinterswerve.hotmail.com

by Wendi Seskus-James

(every aspiring writer in university has a 'coffee shop' story. this is my version, written a decade ago and shared with indulgence)

 
 
            Sitting.  Waiting.  A sitting target?
Antici........
pating......
nothing.
Sitting at a table of people I don’t know.  Not true.
I know them but not well.  They seem to know each
other well. 
            Bass bombards my eardrums as I watch mouths contort
in conversations, watch mouths convulse in laughter,
watch mouths funnel in beer like fish breathing
water—teeth filtering, tongues rolling.  Unable to
hear the conversation I look off and scan the room.
Is this a room of mirrors?  House of fun for some,
house of horrors for others. I am the inevitable
other.
            If it wasn’t for my fear of flying, I might have
flown by now. This is The Zoo: the university pub
where the beasts from biology, the apes from
anthropology, monkeys from math, amphibians from
accounting, piranhas from poly-sci, philistines from
philosophy and a myriad of other species meet in the
neutral space devoid of institutional, departmental
barriers.  This creates more of an animalistic mayhem
instead of a harmonic haven.  It is innocent party
animal fun thinks the majority and I suppose it is,
insomuch that I believe society as a whole is civil,
fair and just.  Fact is, more than one person anywhere
equals dynamite.
            “Smile,” I hear faintly as someone tap tap taps my
shoulder.  I cringe first, turn and flash a dimpling
grin second.  “Why so glum?” he asks. 
            I resist using profanity and reply with a well
rehearsed, “Oh, I was just thinking, but I’m having a
good time!”  Smile boy nods with a look of strained
hearing.  I was too quiet.  With a lack of concern, he
inspects beer bubbles pretending that his foot bangs
the drum.  Another pats her lap and sings, three more
drinks and she’ll be dancing, five more, on the table
(lucky seven, under).
            My grazing eyes, which are addicted to voyeurism,
spies that the spark is gone between the Adam and Eve
in the corner.  Rolling eyes and the twist of her hair
displays the equilibrium she has achieved with his
yo-yo yawn and glacé gaze.
            Still people browsing, my eyes graze on the sights
across the table and accidentally lock onto another
pair of pupils interrupting a conversation.  With a
smirk, he resumes his babble but as his head turns,
his twin eye disappears revealing his true identity—
Cyclops.  I sigh at the realization that I am not the
only freak.  Feeling pleased, I inspect my boot only
to discover a new scuff.  His shoe is under the table
as well, along with a centipede of others.  An inch
from my right is his left.  I wonder what his other
foot is—I’ve never seen him dance.  I blink.  The shoe
is gone.  My eyes flash their nakedness in an
embarrassing flinch.  He stares.  I’ve been caught.
The charge: Foot Fetish Felony?  The case wouldn’t
stand.  My face scalding, my entire being feels like
it has been gutted and flopped onto the table.  “Time
for bio lab,” I blurt—a thought I meant to keep
inside.  Fortunately no one hears me except for smile
boy who is still attentive.
            “Yah,” he starts, already intellectualizing to his
full beer-brained capacity, “Shouldn’t you be home
studying?”  Flirting, he leans in.
            “Well I should always be studying but everyone needs
some stress relief. But what about you?  Midterms are
coming soon,” I say with my mouth on auto pilot. There
are banal conversations that exist for brainless
living such as “Don’t work too hard” and “Cold enough
for you?” This conversation was no different.
            “I’ll crack the books tomorrow.  Right now I need
some more beer to relax my brain cells.”  I think that
he should really spare the few brain cells that he has
but I keep quiet.  I strain to produce a grin similar
to the Cheshire cat‘s; however, unlike him, I can’t
disappear leaving behind my smile.  I remember my
grandfather could perform this trick but instead of
leaving his teeth in mid-air, he left them in a glass.
 My memory generates a snicker.  Smile boy thinks I am
laughing at him and I suppose, in a way, I am.
Unfortunately, he sees this as an invitation to
transform into a space invader. Assuming that he is
not more than meets the eye, I plan my escape.
            “I’ve got to go to the toilet,” I blurt.  Politeness
is not necessary when I use this life saving device.
As I bolt, I fantasize about him leaving before I
return, but his wink indicates otherwise.
            I push through the bush—over stumps—under branches.
The pub produces a Congo instead of a crowd on a
Friday night.  I dodge shooting glares and darting
stares all the while placing my feet strategically to
avoid mind bombs.  Damn—direct hit.
            “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a
flying.”
            “Oh Mr. Herrick, I do not think it is my time to
marry,” I say trying to be witty.
            “Umm...my name is actually...”
            “Joe Steadman,” I interrupt.  I didn’t expect that I
would need to explain that Herrick is the author of
the poem is he quoting.  I decide to conserve energy
and remain quiet. 
            Joe sits across from me in my semi-circular
Metaphysical Poetry class beside his loyal poodle of a
girlfriend.  Knowing each poem almost by heart, he
volunteers to read the most seductive selections out
loud.  With ocean eyes focusing on me as he breathes
each word, lives each line, I can feel his steel
trance as I focus on my feet, my glimpse upward
causing a single electrical surge through my body,
mounting in a jolting, convulsing heartbeat.  He
finishes his last line and his hand reaches under the
desk for his girlfriend’s manicured paw while his eyes
still reach for me. 
            I remember this now while he shadows over me, his
hurricane eyes trying to consume me with their violent
twisting.  I manage to blink to escape before I slip
too far but then I feel the crack and ache of metal
jaws on my hand as he clamps it with his.  Panic
marinates my forehead with brine as his torture
continues, “So, are you going to introduce me to your
boyfriend?”
            Boyfriend?  “Who?”
            “The guy at your table.  To be quite honest, I would
not have imagined him to be your type.  You need
someone like...well, like me.”  I find the fragment of
a shield which does little to deflect wounds.
            “I don’t have a significant other and I’m not into
sadomasochism.”  I’ve confused him now, perhaps even
offended him with implicit allegations. 
            Suddenly a fluff of a girl slinks up between us.
They suck each other’s herring lips, while his angling
eyes hypnotize me.  The rapture breaks with his wink.
With force, my hand retreats.  I don’t recognize the
back of it anymore.  I look both ways before I dart
but my hesitation allows enough time for him to add
insult to injury as he pinches my fleshy backside.
Bolting, I continue the torture by mentally flogging
myself for my arousal.  I passionately loathe him.
            I burst into the bomb shelter which is actually the
bathroom.  It is more than just a place of relief; it
is a sanctuary with its white, once sterile tiles and
its senseless residents making up an insane asylum of
sorts. 
            To reach the toilets, I must push my way past sinks,
mirrors, and preening post-teens in a counselling
session:  “I’m so fat,” says hungry eyes and 6X hips.
            “No you’re not.  You’re really pretty.  Jeff said
so,” a coy smile appears.
            “So...do you think he’s hot?”
            “Definitely!”
            “Should I go for him?”
            “If you don’t, I will!”
            “Oh, get back girlfriend!”  She slides a loonie out
of her pocket and slips it into the condom dispenser.
            “Oh, you go girl!”  Problem solved and hundreds of
dollars saved, but discount psychology always has its
costs. 
            I lock myself behind door number five and fix myself
in front of the toilet who became my porcelain pal
last year when I spilled my guts to her.  Toilets are
intimate friends that everyone takes for granted.  I
push the handle.  Tonight I will listen to her
problems. 
            If you’ve seen one flush, you’ve seen a thousand: the
water whirls around the bowl—the water whirls around
the bowl—the water...still whirling, but less now.
The only place it goes is into an abyss at the bottom.
 If I had a tear it would lose itself in the confined
flood.  I feel her cold hard porcelain numbness.  The
water swirls around and around, repetition and
rotation—an endless cycle.  I’ve lived this night
before and I will again.  Proof that history repeats
itself, I repeat myself.  Death has as much life as
birth says the sermon.  Is that reassuring or
monotonous?  I wonder how my blood would look swirling
down the bowl.  A symbol of life spilling out of me as
it flows into the hole; the splash of red giving the
toilet life. 
            Someone knocks on the metal slab between me and
judgement. “Hey, are you all right in there?” 
            I reply, “No, but is anyone ever all right?”  But I
am disregarded with, “Well, listen, if you need
something I’ll be next door for a moment.  Can you
pass me some toilet paper?”  Now I’m doing deeds for
the Good Samaritan.  I pass under a wad of paper
devoid of pillowy softness. 
            The toilet is filling up with water again.  I know it
won’t overflow, but for every inch it rises I feel a
foot of suffocation.  This oasis now feels like a
prison.  I escape from my cell and crawl out under the
locked gate only to meet a sea of jury eyes.  I feel
compelled to explain in my defence; “It’s out of
order.”
            “And so is your hair!” is shot at me.  I’m not sure
if it was a hit or miss.  It’s now my turn at the
sink. 
            I am surprised at a reflection that mirrors my Medusa
hair.  In contrast, Miss America stands beside me
making me feel like a beauty school dropout. “Hey
Frenchie, can I borrow your lipstick?”  Even she
senses my sarcasm as she smears fluorescent pink
lipstick, or rather “Shocking Sunset” on her lips.  I
don’t know her: animosity toward the anonymous.  She
looks for a tissue, some paper, anything to dab off
some of the thick colour creamed under her nose;
instead, she is satisfied to book her lips and kiss
the mirror beside two other prints in purple and
orange.  Preening technique or narcissism?  I wipe my
hands on my hair.
            I stand in the doorway to The Zoo and observe a
socket and plug playing pool risking electric shock.
Later, they will probably be so brave as to stick a
fork into a plugged toaster.  He hovers close enough
to transfer heat to her back as he helps to line-up a
shot.  Her eyes aren’t on the ball, but she shoots and
she scores.  “Lucky,” she giggles.  His plastic reply:
“Okay, baby, now you tell me...how should I line-up
this next shot to sink the pink?”
            I move past the billiards toward the billboard of
drink specials and grab myself a dollar fifty Warthog
noticing that one already awaits me at the table
beside smile boy.  Well they do say that two heads are
better than one.  I think that I need about six.
Smile boy notices me, waves, and points at the beer.
I give him the thumbs up but continue to wait for my
own. 
        I roll my eyes and turn my back. I hand the
bartender a bill and get a tap on my shoulder. Smile
boy. Gawd. “What?” I say with a plastic smile.
            “Life doesn’t have to be that hard you know,” he
says, sort of mean, at least for him. Cold like, with
no smile.
                    “What are you talking about?”
            “It’s your choice.” And with that he turns and walks
away.