So, I've started a new novel. This is the first chapter.
Here you sit in your backyard, on a newly assembled swinging chair opposite the faded blue, two-story house that your landlord refuses to repaint. Due to the mono-colored, overgrown and dying grass, it would seem that this yard would be accurately labeled as plain. However, it is anything but. Just in front of the house stands an eight-foot tall paper mache lizard with his tongue out. White, less the random splash of turquoise paint crossing his abdomen. Some nights after smoking too much marijuana, catching a mere glimpse of him through the window leads you to believe that he’s alive.
To your left, squirrels amble across the four-by-four wooden highway running horizontally to keep the vertical planks of the fence sturdy. Their route is always the same, starting from somewhere behind you as you swing comfortably, and jumping to the tree in your neighbor’s yard behind the fence. The fence’s role as a separation of property lines must not register to these curious little mammals as they unknowingly cross boundaries. How does it work with fences anyways? Are they owned by the entity that erected them, or does each own a side? If the latter, who owns the surface area of the bottom and top? If the squirrels were to continue along the fence, they would be trekking just behind the lizard’s neck, which leads you to believe they have some deeply embe dded fear of the pale, looming creature.
In front of you to the right is a parked greyhound bus, matching the washed out shade of the house except for the flash of silver along the side. The license plate verifies its registration in the state of California, yet the out-dented, blue letters G-O-N-E-F-A-R run contrary to the recent stationary nature of the bus. You wonder if it, like the lizard, comes alive at night and is true to the claim of its vanity plate – silently revving up and lifting from the earth to drift through the sky and visit destinations afar.
Haphazardly placed tree boxes and tiki-torches litter your yard, evidently avoiding a vein attempt at a fire-pit with its surrounding ring of cheap and uncomfortable chairs. They are made of plastic, a feature that suddenly dawns on you as highly incompatible with flame. Surely potential fire hazards are against the basic rules of Feng Shui. You wonder.
Your housemate, friend, and swinging conspirator, Alyce, offers you water from a cream-colored mug that’s been a senior-member in your cupboard collection for a number of years. Your lower-lip bends downward in disgust as you notice a coffee-stain on the bottom, but you drink the water anyways. As you feel the cool liquid coating your throat, your thirst awakens and you remember the pints of beer and cigarettes from last night.
Last night you had made plans with your friend Michael to meet at a bar and attempt to catch up on weeks gone by over live jazz music and interrupting, hip-swaying waitresses. He was originally going to pick you up and drive you the ten or so blocks away, but that plan turned into him meeting you at the bar, which ultimately evolved into you getting stood up entirely, with not so much as a call to let you know. You wondered what had happened as you walked home in the dark, jumping at every sound and moving shadow in your periphery. And now, you wonder still.
“Hey Michael, it’s Cassandra. Just calling to let you know that I’m at The Venus, sitting right in front of the stage. Come find me, or give me a call when you get here. See you soon. Adios.”
That was your first message.
“What’s up, Michael. It’s Cassandra. Not generally a fan of leaving multiple messages on my friends’ message machines, but, um, I’ve never really been stood up before, so I’ll sarcastically thank you for that enriching experience. I guess I’ll talk with you later. Bye.”
That was your second message, left at least two hours later. One pint and two cigarettes later, to be exact, and that was after the band had stopped playing and a decently long flirtation session with the keyboardist had ensued. It made no sense, really. Weren’t you just two friends getting drinks together? Couldn’t he have at least called?
Alyce holds out her hand for the return of the stained mug, interrupting your remembering. “Men suck,” you say as you complete the handoff.
“Boy’s suck,” she replies, alluding to a previous conversation on the subject this morning at a nearby café, over omelet breakfasts with toast.
You weren’t looking for any more of a response really. The only one you could see wanting was an explanation of why boys don’t turn into men until they are at least in their mid-thirties. But you and Alyce have spoken about this time and time again, and you know that she is just as curious about the answer as you are.
It wasn’t even the fact that you necessarily had an affinity for Michael, you just couldn’t deal with the lack of answers. As far back into your childhood as you can remember, you’ve always had a strong curiosity about the truth beneath the smoky film of a mystery, not to mention an irritation towards unfairness. More of a loathing, really. Michael’s failure to communicate was presently both a seemingly unsolvable mystery as well as unfair. It made sense why you were having trouble with this.
If only I were a lesbian, you think. Wouldn’t it be easier then? It would seem that way, but you’ve thought about that a handful of times before too, and though seemingly ideal, realistically implausible. Is there a way to outsmart biological inclination? You wonder. I’d even settle for being a squirrel, you continue thinking, or better yet, a paper mache lizard who you suspect isn’t subject to its emotions at all. Weren’t you and Michael just friends? What happened? Forget about it, you tell yourself.
“Forget about it, Cassy,” Alyce says, slapping her hand on your knee. “Let’s go watch a movie.”
And in you go, freeing the lizard king and bus from their distracted chaperones who would render them in adamant.
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