The list

I haven't written fiction in quite a while. But here is a short story! Enjoy.

The list

The winter wind blew softly against the window, snow falling against left over summer air conditioners left hanging out of new york city windows. In the warm glow of inside light, six silhouettes of lovely women stood. Leaning casually around the kitchen, they drew up their plans carefully, easily, precisely, their perfectly manicured hands slipping over large pieces of parchment rolled out onto Maryanne's dining room table in her upper west side apartment. They took turns drawing, the rest standing calmly, observing the work, taking occasional notes, playing out possible scenarios in their minds, martinis in hand. Sometimes they laughed, but mostly they stood still, taking in the enormity of what was about to happen.

From the outside of the window looking in, where the neighbors often watched jealously, they appeared to be six typical Manhattan women, pristine and lovely looking. Like expansive vases in 5th avenue windows. Lovely winter coats and the best bags and shoes covered their delicate bodies. Composed, classy and sophisticated. All speaking second and often third languages, ivy league educated with many degrees. Jet setting, gorgeous, independent, ideal Manhattan women. The kind of women tourists passed on the streets and wanted to take photos of, but were embarrassed to. But something was very, very wrong. Their hearts had been broken. In ripping and devastating ways. And now something must be done.

They would meekly avoid taking action no longer. Too many years they had wasted waiting for their perfect men, and now that their dreams had died, other things must be killed as well -- their memories.

As they exchanged glances and clinked glasses, the women's minds ran wild. They had known many men in the city, and as all men and human do, these men had made mistakes, many of them. But their worst mistakes were made against these women. And these mistakes, they would soon regret. The women were being tortured, by these stale thoughts and dreams, written by men they had loved. Soon, it would all be over.

As the wind blew harsher against the window, the sound of sirens rose and faded. As ordinary a sound as the wind. The women stood quietly, mixing thoughts in their minds, calm demeanour's and graceful posture as they added fruit to their wine, but something fiery lived in each of their expressions. These men would soon regret it, if only for that second before something dark descended on them.

And so, the plan needed to be drawn. And easily, they drafted it, using Maryanne's architecture rulers and Christine's art charcoal chalk. But the question remained -- whose names to put down? And whose to leave off? It was a very important decision.

The consultant would be arriving in a few hours, and the list must be prepared. Martina was a trained memorida -- a counselor trained to literally rewind a person's memory as if it was old VHS tape, and cut out the horrible scenes, the heartbreak, the smashed glass, the screams of pain -- and in its place, each woman would remember lilacs and have no recollection of their pasts. Their divorces, their cheating husbands, their lying boyfriends, the dates who insulted them or used them, the players who lead them on, would all vanish into dust. And in its place, the innocence of their youth. Yet, they would retain the lessons learned and the strength they had acquired from their pain. But all bitterness vanish. Martinia promised. The six women had signed her contract eagerly, excitedly taking turns signing away their pasts.

They clinked glasses again, as they poured another round and played more soft music. Jeffrey, Daria's personal Jazz pianist was playing for them. As always, he was sworn to secrecy about anything he had overheard during a ladies get together. And tonight was no exception.

It was a full moon and the women's soft eyes met one another as they looked, up, hands dirty with charcoal now, brows tense in concentration, their glances met in a moment of regret. Once their memories were erased, they would never get them back, not ever again. Each name must be chosen carefully. They stood dizzy with anticipation of what would soon come to pass, wishing things might be different. But things weren't different, and this they all knew clearly. Jeffrey focused on his fingers hitting ivory and ignored the soft chatter and the occasional teary revelation about what they would soon forget.

The list was now made. A long list of names written in black charcoal chalk, covering the long pieces of parchment paper stretched across Maryanne's kitchen table. Martina would arrive any moment.

The women sat together, nervous now. The buzzer rang and Maryanne buzzed Martina into the building. The women stood when she arrived and offered her a martini, but she smiled politely and declined.

"We have serious business to attend to," she said, pulling folders from her briefcase. "Show me the list you have made."

Maryanne and the other ladies lead Martina to the kitchen, where she began to look over the long list of names, running her hands over each.

"Oh these names are warm, they are simmering, they almost burn my hands," she said, her fingers jumping back from the parchment paper. "These must be removed. We will start with you, Maryanne."

Martinia had Maryanne sit down at the head of the table, as she lit a candle and pulled a large book from her briefcase. All of the other women were seated at the rest of the chairs.

"Before we begin, please know that this will never be undone. And what you let go of tonight, will be dead to you tomorrow. All of your memories, gone. This man will completely vanish from your life and the earth as you know it."

The women nodded, hesitantly, but excitedly. "Yes!" they said.

"Let's begin."

Jeffrey was instructed to play the next series of songs.

Martinia began to sway, eyes closed, her hands still over the letters drawn across the parchment. The other women looked unsure. What was the protocol for this?

Oh I see it now, said Martinia. Close your eyes Marriane, place your hands over his name.

"Which name?" asked Marriane, looking at her list of five names.

"You know."

Marriance without looking up found her hands moving over Bryant's name. Bryant F. Crawford.

"Ouch!" she yelled, the heat rising from his name.

"Keep your hands there," instructed Marianne. "The heat will soon pass, after the memories are gone. Keep your eyes closed."

Marian's face rose and fell into an assortment of bittersweet expressions.

"I see him now, telling you sweet words," said Martina.

"You walked along the river and he told you that he wanted you there. You would build great things together. He said he would be by your side, always."

Maryane looked as though she might cry.

"He said together, it would be impossible to lose. Your children's eyes would be green like yours, with flecks of his blue. He promised to make you omelets every Sunday. He said that no one would ever harm you again."

Without opening her eyes, Martina told Maryanne to close her eyes, or it wouldn't work. She did as she was told.

"Be strong," she said.

"And now he has taken your hand on a cold winter's day, like the weather tonight. He's lead you somewhere. When you slipped on the street, he grabbed you and pulled you up. He took you to his apartment and you ate across from him as he admired you. You built your dreams there, that night. He said he'd waited too long and would not settle for anything less, than you. He played your favorite song on his guitar, and you knew it was coming. He got down on one knee. You'd waited for this. A year later, he slept with the waitress in the diner on the end of his block. He slept with her in the bathroom and when he came home you knew it. You wanted to kill him, but didn't. He saw her every Wednesday at 4pm. You saw blood dripping in your mind for a moment, but then something pulled you out of it."

The memories continued. Bittersweet, some interesting, some ironic, some trite. Fights, long walks, normal afternoons. Cereal in the morning, bookstores, wine glasses. Loves, dates, ex-husbands and boyfriends.

"In the park he stood next to you and asked what your plans for the rest of your life were. He asked if it would be so bad if I was there for you forever. He then used you and never spoke to you again."

One by one, Mariane went through each of the six women's lists, reciting the memories that bubbled up from the hot names she held her hands over.

"You wanted him dead, you had never been so betrayed, he left you alone there in the woods to die, metaphorically," she continued.

Finally, she stopped.

"And this is where these memories come to an end. This is where this all ends," said Mariane as she moved her hands over the entire paper, now quickly rolling it into a long tube. Her hands grew hotter and hotter as the names and memories mixed into what sparked into a flame, blue and red flames running along each side of the parchment. Had the candle lit the parchment on fire? What had happened? Placing the tube of parchment into a nearby vase, it burned bright red, lighting the women's surprised eyes with a glow.

"And here the memories die, here the men who caused the pain will feel a cold shiver down their neck, a cold hand placed on their backs, here their sly smiles and fitted designer jeans and thick wallets, and their barterer's hands, and their liar's mouths and their cheating hearts, will suddenly, turn to dust. Slowly, every name on the list, every man listed will feel the pain in this fire times a thousand, until it is so overwhelming their hearts stop."

And as if the earth stopped breathing there was an enormous pause -- had the women gotten this wrong? Marriane was suppose to free them from their memories, not torture the men themselves. Had they just killed their memories, or the men as well? They were afraid to ask. The parchment fire swelled to an enormously hot ball, and in the smoke were there, images? Were the women hallucinating? Or could they see each of the men who had harmed them? They were sketches in the smoke that rose to the ceiling, sketches of the men who had hurt them and left them for emotional dead -- and now the darkness was turned toward them. Their eyes wide as they ran from pain, scurrying in horror from some monster too horrific to be seen. Was it real? Or was this yet another memory? Running they were, but it was inescapable. Like a thick cloud of smoke billowing into a locked room, they scurried and hurried away. There was no where for them to run. All of the torture they'd inflicted, their unkindness, their lies were now reflected back to them, times a thousand, and all of their athletic builds and strength and power was now wilted, now killed. Now they slunk into piles of darkness, their lying bodies exhausted with the full thick smoke of truth. The fell, one by one, right off of the earth. Right out of the women's minds. Until, they sat quiet. The candles burned, the smoke stopped, the burning parchment now a calm pile of ashes. Their minds were clear, calm. Sitting the dark, no one spoke a word.

Martinia finally broke the thick silence. "What has been forgotten, is now forgotten and not meant to be recalled. You will not remember the source of your pain and will only take its lessons. And in the place of smoke is now lilac and white light. In the place where his face was, is now a lovely lilac, and you are rid of him."

None of the women ever learned what happened to the men. Had they died? Had they been tortured by the women's thoughts? Or were there memories all that was dead now? Because they could not remember the men, they could not remember to care to ask the question of Martina, who stood slowly, happily, grasping the women's hands and thanking them all for the lovely drink, and urging them to enjoy the rest of their ladies night.

"Have some more sangria!" she urged. "Enjoy our lives, and make many more memories. Just remember, if the darkness becomes too heavy, call on me and I will burn some of those bad memories up, to create more space. Like a farmer needs to burn his field occasionally to start fresh for a new crop."

And the women smiled calmly, glad to be free.

I despise the post office...

In the last year I have learned to hate the post office and anything related to postmen, packages or "sorry we missed you" slips.

My screaming post man from last year is now a faint memory, what, with his incoherent ramblings and shrieks about how I should tell my friends and family to stop sending holiday packages, because he doesn't want to have to deliver them. Plus, his horrified speech about the atrocity that was outside...a note from someone to please leave a package by their door!

Anyway, I walk all the way through Chinatown in the rain. I'm also just about as far away as it's humanly possible to be from my assigned post office. If you were to draw a line from my front door to the post office they've assigned me, the line would not be straight -- it would be zig zags, loops, some spiralgraph art, some instructions scribbled in Chinese, with that kid from the "ATM!" bank commercials running myseriously ahead wanting me to follow him (but saying "USPS!" instead) and some people on the street calling after me "can't get there from here" while they chew on a piece of straw.

There is a perfectly good post office 3 blocks away, but nooo, I have to go go on a USPS "adventure" and walk a good 15-20 minutes in a direction where there are no subways to the Knickerbocker post office. Thanks USPS. And what is a knickerbocker anyway? Is that another word for underpants?

I only had to pick up a package. There isn't a buzzer in my apartment (long story -- equally annoying, but less fun to write about), so I walk all the way over there in the wind and the pouring rain -- wait, a song is coming to me...what kind of package, what kind of package makes you go out in the wind and the pouring rain? Only this USPS package I have -- anyone remember that? No? No? Ok...anyway, I'm glaring at the front of the line. It's not moving. Everyone has that planted stance and look of apathy as if they've accepted they will just live here, and maybe die here, in the USPS waiting area. And that's OK.

The woman behind the counter has this look on her face like she has no idea how to match the slip to the packages behind her, which appear to be thrown around with no obvious system. Sometimes she comes back and informs the person that sadly, their package is missing, which prompts the person to nearly crawl through the two open glass windows to look for it themselves, "It's a white box, this big, it must be there!" "No, it must be lost. Next."

This is her only power over our line-standing apathy. The power of the package reject. We look at each other nervously -- what if my package...didn't make it? Her only other defense is, "Ah. they re-deliver. see?" The poor tiny older asian woman discovered this sad fact -- it probably took her twice as long to get here as me and now she has to go sit at home and wait for the re-deliver. Just dandy.

I try to see if there are different ways to fold up my umbrella, I read old email on my blackberry, I read the passport instructions on the walls, look at everyone's shoes. A cute guy arrives two people back. I occasionally glance behind me, he looks over. I ignore him. I'm just not one to talk in line, especially with two asian people between us.

I wait so long for my package, that the two asian people behind me get their's first while mine is lost. Cute guy stands next to me. If I had known I'd be here so long, I would have talked to him. At this point, we would probably have already had several inside jokes and reached that point where talking wasn't even necessary.

She comes back and looks at me like "why are you standing here?" I remind her that I'm here for a package. "Oh, OK," she says. As if I would be here for something else? This is the place where you buy food right? Oh no? Is this where you buy jewelry? Oh it isn't? Parakeets? No? Well in that case, I'll just pick up a box -- thanks.

I tell her my name and address again -- cute guy is right there, being quiet. I like quiet. But that means I'm suppose to talk, nah. Forget it...he can memorize my address and send me letters like in that post office movie -- except I never saw it. The previews showed something about a letter and a mailbox though. What was that called...the postcard? The letter? The Postal Service? Oh wait, that's a band -- not a bad one either.

Then I finally get my package and can no longer wait around seeing where this might go. Or, I could have. I could have just hung out, like she thought I was doing before. And she'd say "why are you here for?" And I'd say "ah, just hanging out. I don't need a parcel or anything like that. I just come here for the atmosphere."

Then I fight my way through the wind and the pouring rain, almost die crossing that crazy highway street where the light turns green with white man waving "come on into the street!" only to get halfway across where it turns red and all the highway traffic starts. Thanks little white man for welcoming me into traffic.

I think I'm finally done with my bitching. Happy Holidays! :)

Neighbors...

So I walk into my building to see a guy carrying about 100 shirts on hangers...he is bracing himself for stairs, like mentally preparing himself. I awkwardly stand behind him, as I'm returning from the gym and have nothing to carry. His friend up ahead is also carrying hundreds of shirts on hangers. He yells something about how he can do it, and to think of how strong that one finger that is being crushed by the weight of all of those shirts will be!

Is this a gay couple? I can't figure out who in Manhattan has so many shirts. Then I notice a long flowing red thing -- a devil's costume? Nah. A woman's dress? Yeah. Flapper-ish...hmmm...

He finally lets me pass him, after stopping in the middle of the flights of stairs a few times. He introduced himself and was rather cute...perhaps he is a straight guy with a gay friend who has a woman's dress not because he has a girlfriend or is a cross-dresser, but uh...for some other unknown reason? A girl can dream...

In other news, I don't usually get pissed at deli people or pizza places that yell and are blunt and rude. Doesn't bother me. That urgency in their voice says "there is a line, it's nothing personal, I want to make sure you can hear me."

HOWEVER, while I was buying my hostess cupcake (and an antioxidant drink to uh...balance it out?) I walk up to the registers. There was mix of people standing in front of me, so it wasn't clear I was next. The super rude guy doesn't look at me and stares into space, so it's unclear who is next. Then he suddenly yells "put your stuff down!" Um...huh? OK.

Then the other guy behind the other cash register says $4.79 under his breath to no one in particular (I assume to the person at his register). "How much is it?" I say to the guy who is now staring into space without having given me a total.

He then screams "$4.79...FOUR.SEVENTY.NINE!!" with such a sharp tone that it instantly pisses me off, sort of like a toddler who says "I.don't.want.the.broccoli!!!!"" It was just like that "four.seventy.nine!!!!" So I grab my stuff, throw it in my bag and turn away.

He then yells after me "CHHaaange!!! Change."

Without thinking I yell back, "Fuck you!"

I wasn't proud of it, but it just came out. Something about being yelled at tends to make me yell back. That happened once with a screaming cab driver, and another time with a screaming tour bus guy (those guys who try to sell you tickets). He had lied to us about which bus was leaving and made us wait over an hour and then he forgot us on the wrong bus, and wanted us to sprint after a already driving away bus to get on it. He was the other person I said "fuck you" to this year. Twice a year, not so bad I'd say.

A homeless guy on the street right before thanksgiving told me "Happy turkey lady." I expected "Happy Turkey Day," or something like that. It made me laugh, picturing this turkey lady who is rather happy.