Two Pages of Characterization

Resting on the floor with his back pressed against the wall, Robert felt the thumping of the washing machine in the laundry room next door to his cramped apartment. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest. The odd rhythm of the washing machine sounded like tribal drumming, pulsing, chanting in his head. Thump, shuh-shump, thump, shuh-shump!

"I swear I'm not," he thought, protesting.

"Yes," he reminded himself aloud; his voice was sweet and calm, "you are."

Another voice, rising from beneath the dry, cracked earth of his memory, sent a raging wave rippling through his body:

"Goddam it!" It was his father's voice. "You lil' patsy puke, if yer gonna act like a 1il' whore, dressin' up in yer sister's skirts," then, under his breath, in a grainy, noxious whisper, "I'm gonna treat ya' like one."

Robert could smell the stale fermented breath of his father brushing his ear like autumn's leaves, dead and coarse against his skin. He could hear the tinkling of his father's belt looseningYthe sharp cry of the bell in the midst of the tribal ceremony...the clasp on someone's overalls, revolving in the drier next door.

"How can I be," his mind questioned, "I was in love with Cassie. We were engaged to be married. On the fourth of July I proposed, don't you remember; we drove down to Middlesborough to see the fireworks." He remembered. Sitting atop the bluff, alone and together, the bay stretching out before them. Each time a rocket was launched it would split; the rocket would fly high into the air above them and its reflection would be cast out into the cove. First they would hear the crack of the explosion, like a shattering mirror. Then, the brilliant shards would fall and meet their counterpart, extinguishing each other in the water that hissed with their reunion and shook from the low boom of the thundering repercussions.

Robert felt that his apartment was a sauna. He heard the swish and whisper of the washer and drier next door, the sound of water being poured over the lava rocks, erupting with steam. Squirmed desperately he curled down into a ball; the heat descended upon him, squishing him mercilessly.

"Don't kid yourself," his voice remained calm and warm even though his body shivered uncontrollably. "Why are you making this so painful and diffi-"

"I'm not a fucking queer," his thoughts interrupted rudely. "What about the sex? What about the sex, huh? I was a good lover...to Cassie. I had other girls. I enjoyed it!"

"We've been through this before; pleasure and enjoyment are relative. You can't justify or determine emotional satisfaction based on sex. Did Cassie ever make you feel emotionally satisfied or content?"

"Look, just because-"

"What about last weekend" Robert interrupted; his voice was still calm and assured, "with Fidel...it was a good time. It was fun. We went out and had a good timeYno sexYor drugsYor stress. It was healthy and normal." Robert and Fidel had gone to see a band play at a local club and then went out for coffee afterwards. They had met at the coffee shop just around the corner from Robert's apartment. Fidel was open about his sexua1ity .He knew that Robert wasn't.

"That was your idea," he thought "Fidel's a fucking queer."

"Just like me." Robert spoke.

"You! You...you fucking..." Robert's thoughts stumbled and stammered, broken.

"Yeah?" Robert inquired aloud.

"Who the fuck are you anyway," his thoughts demanded, straining against him.

"I am the one," he spoke, slow and confident, "that is in control."

Robert groaned with exhaustion and released a long, heavy sigh. He was tired of arguing and stretched out on his back. Drops of sweat trickled off his neck and shoulders and fell to the floor. He freed his thoughts and memories; like helium-filled balloons of various colors, shapes, and sizes they twisted and floated away. His mind was blank and blue like a cloudless sky. The laundry room was quiet.

Propping himself up off the floor, Robert looked around his apartment. It was a small, one-bedroom studio with two windows. One window looked out across the busy street to the park. The other window faced brick wall of the warehouse next door. In the center of the room there was a table accompanied by two chairs. Pulling himself into one of the chairs he felt dizzy and disoriented. Outside he heard the sounds of the city: the honking of horns, the distant clamor of construction sites, the buzz of the urban beehive.

Regaining focus, he rose to his feet looked out the window. Sunlight fell from the between the clouds and speckled the view. Down in the park, joggers bounced around between the trees, children entertained themselves in the playground, and the mild breeze tickled everything with the tip of a feather. Robert left the window and entered the bathroom. Resting his hands on the cold porcelain, he stared firmly into the mirror. In his eyes, the fire of contention bummed and consumed him. He squeezed his eyelids closed and inhaled deeply, holding his breath. He exhaled and opened his eyes. The smoldering ashes whispered and smoked like strung-out jazzers in an all-night cabaret.

"I," Robert confided resolutely, "am in control."

Hwrrsh...the fire flared and flashed up for an instant and then...Tsss...was extinguished.

          KYLE JEFFRIES