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The Dancer
He put the brisket sandwich
with melted jack
on an onion roll
on the counter,
the way he had for thirty-five years.
Order up,he said.
Reaching into the pickle barrel,
he sliced a dill lengthwise,
put it on the brisket plate.
Pickle juice dripped
across the numbers
tattooed on his forearm
when he was a boy.
This was one of his somber days.
Everyone who worked with him at the restaurant
knew to let him be.
The part-time actor
who worked behind the counter with him
provided comic relief
whenever an impatient customer
gave him a hard time.
A waitress whisked away the sandwich.
He walked over to where I was standing
behind the register,
cracking open a roll of quarters.
What did you do over the weekend, Jack?
He pushed his bifocals up,
I danced naked with my wife
all night long, he smiled.
We barely slept.
He was working the dance steps,
swiveling his hips,
humming a tune.
You should try it with your boyfriend sometime.
He gyrated again,
reaching for my hand.
I took it, spinning three times,
my uniform skirt twirling up,
before I leaned in,
whispering in his ear,
I love you. We all do, Jack.
And with that
he tipped an imaginary hat
and shuffled away,
whistling a tune
and dancing.
Patty’s Pajamas
When I was a child
I saw a woman in pajamas
pushing a cart at the market,
shuffling through the cereal aisle,
cigarette dangling from her lips,
rollers piled high,
bathrobe open.
I asked my mother
why she was wearing her pajamas
at the store.
My mother told me to, stop staring
and go get the Pepsodent.
As I walked toward the toiletry aisle
I saw her grinding her cigarette butt
into the floor with her slipper.
I watched as she helped herself
to a cold Schlitz from the case.
In seconds
she had downed the beer,
crumpled the can with one hand,
threw it over her shoulder.
I retreated behind a Gallo Burgundy display.
What’s your name, little girl?
I stared at her.
Well, my name’s Patty,she slurred.
She pointed to, “Patty,”
embroidered on her pink terrycloth robe.
She lit a fresh Pall Mall.
My husband’s with his little prostitute
on his boat.
You like boats?
I nodded yes.
He’s gonna dump me
and install that little whore in my house.
She grabbed a bag of Ruffles from her cart,
ripped it open,
shoved a handful of chips into her mouth,
tipping the bag in my direction.
My mom told me to never take food from strangers.
Good answer, kiddo.
But you just wait.
It’s eat or be eaten out there.
You’ll see.
Just then my mother appeared,
yanking me away by the arm.
Remember sweetheart, she pointed at me with her cigarette,
it’s a war zone out there.
A tear fell down Patty’s cheek.
My mother dragged me down the aisle by my sweater.
We turned around when we heard Patty scream.
She was being escorted out of Safeway Super Store
by the manager and a male cashier.
He said I was the only one
who made him feel alive,she shrieked,
smacking the manager across the face.
She made her legs go limp.
They dragged on the ground behind her
as the two men deposited her outside
in front of the store.
My mother and I watched Patty,
curled in a ball
on the concrete,
her hands covering her face,
sobbing uncontrollably.
I noticed a pattern of hearts
falling like confetti
on her pajamas,
while the customers walked by,
barely noticing her at all.
Pet Planet
There’s a theory
that our planet
was created by a civilization
much more advanced than our own.
It speculates that a higher intelligence
is using us
as their little plaything.
A pet planet
if you will.
It would explain
why earth seems to be locked
in an endless loop of misery.
Maybe our pain,
our chaos,
our stupidity,
is fodder for their entertainment.
Our world
is their Roman Coliseum.
A Disneyland of degradations.
A Las Vegas show
of vapid perversity
Like little children
peeking into a library
filled with books
written in a language
they cannot understand,
we sense the mystery of the universe,
a cosmic order,
but can only comprehend
the most rudimentary concepts.
And most of us
can’t even grasp those.
Maybe they watch us
in the way we watch slapstick movies
or game shows.
Munching popcorn,
slurping soda,
surfing the porn channel and back.
Sometimes they reach in,
stir up a tsunami,
kick a few tectonic plates around,
throw an asteroid our way.
They’re tickled
that the most delicious foods
are bad for us,
though mystified
that we let so many go hungry
when clearly there’s enough
for everyone.
Amused by our variety of religions.
Such imaginative storytelling! they squeal.
Entertained by our ability
to come up with ever new reasons
to hate our fellow man.
Kinda sexy
how they’re always at each other’s throats.
Intrigued by our desire for domination over others.
Curious how it’s never enough
for the rich to have everything,
one of them smirks.
They’re not satisfied
until the poor have nothing!
At times they almost pity us.
The little half-wits never learn,
do they?
How can it be
that there has never been a war
shocking enough
to galvanize them all
into ending their madness?
Peering into our windows,
they sense our loneliness,
feel our despair.
Look, she’s eating a frozen pizza
by herself again,they murmur.
Maybe you have awoken from dreams,
in the dark chill of night,
never remembering
who cradled you in their arms,
who lullabied you to sleep
in the moonlight,
under a thick blanket of stars.
Douglas Aircraft
My mother had a job roller skating
through an airplane factory,
delivering blueprints and memos
to desks and drafting tables.
When she’d come home after her shift,
she’d melt into the couch.
I’d rub her aching feet,
her blue eyes smiling
at the touch of my tiny hands.
Years later, my mother told me
that she had to be speedy
on those skates.
Not only was she being timed by her supervisor,
but some of the men had wandering hands.
And there were so many isolated places
where they could grab you,
remote areas,
where no one would ever
hear you scream.
She flew
as fast as she could.
Fifth Grade
I don’t remember why I stopped bathing,
or why I stopped playing soccer at recess,
or why I stopped talking altogether.
The school transferred me to a class
of mostly older students in the sixth grade,
who were different
than any kids I’d ever known.
Some of them would go berserk
at the slightest provocation.
Others were sullen,
droning on like forty-year-olds
from their desks in the back row.
A few of the girls smelled of cigarettes
and cologne,
their breasts bouncing in tight t-shirts.
They eyeballed my flat chest with disgust.
The one wearing mascara asked me
if I knew what a blow job was.
She flicked spitballs at my head
when I turned my back to her.
The teacher was a bearded sixties dude
who called us all by our last name.
So, Rainey, when do you plan on joining
the land of the living?
I told him I didn’t want to talk.
I told him I wanted to be left alone.
I brought paperback novels to class
that I would hide inside my textbook
and read while he was teaching.
The next day he was talking to the class
about Mayan civilization,
while I was reading Slaughterhouse Five.
The Mayans believed that spilled blood
was a gift to the gods.
He walked between the rows of desks,
gesticulating with his hands.
Usually only the highest nobles
participated in the ritual blood-letting,
which played a major role
in religious and cultural functions.
He snuck up behind me,
yanked the novel out of my hands
and tossed it across the room.
The class erupted into laughter.
He continued walking through the aisle,
his voice amplified.
Sometimes a rope
embedded with razor sharp stone flakes
would be pulled through holes in the tongue
or earlobe.
"Sooo gross,"Mascara giggled.
The blood was collected and burned.
Archaeologists say this ritual was performed
to feed the gods
with the life force.
He came back around to my desk.
What are you going to do, Rainey?
I just chucked your book across the room.
What are you going to do about that?
He stroked his beard.
Narrowed his eyes.
The class was howling by now.
Mascara and her friends
screamed with laughter.
He motioned for them to quiet down.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
I wanted to run out of the room,
but I just sat there.
My face burning.
My heart pounding.
Unable to speak.
He leaned down, whispering in my ear,
Go get the book. Now!
I got up,
grabbed the paperback off the floor,
and threw it onto my desk.
Standing there, hyperventilating,
I imagined my fists pounding into his soft pudge.
I pictured him collapsing to the floor,
while I pummeled him with paperbacks,
and kicked his fat, hippie ass across the room
with my Wallabees.
Sit down, Rainey.
He motioned for me to take my seat.
I sat down, envisioning my hand
yanking a spiked rope through his tongue,
his granny glasses flying off his face.
I watched as he fell
from the top of a Mayan Temple,
his head hitting each stone step
on the way down.
His mangled body falling
into a vat of blood.
I set it on fire
with Mascara’s cigarette.
I love it that you’re reading.
He put a hairy hand on my paperback.
And Vonnegut, no less!
But save it for after class,he winked.
He turned around to face his students.
So, how many of you have heard about the plight
of the California Gray Whales?
No hope for the human race
I may have been having a bad night.
Or maybe it was the nervous breakdown
brewing just below the surface.
Perhaps I simply didn’t like the customer
who ordered pie à la carte.
Where’s my ice cream?he scoffed
when I set the piece of apple pie
in front of him.
You didn’t ask for ice cream.
Yes, I did, hon.
I asked for apple pie à la carte.
He threw his hands up,
shook his bald head.
Pie à la mode
is pie with ice cream, I explained.
A group of women
at the table across from him
convulsed into snorts,
sloshing wine on one another.
One of them gave him the finger.
He was so flustered,
his hand knocked the pie
to the floor.
Get the manager! he seethed.
On my way
to the manager’s office,
I noticed a dirty diaper
shoved between two booths.
As I tossed it into the trash,
pieces of feces fell to the carpet.
An old man in a walker wheeled over them,
tracking excrement throughout the restaurant.
After explaining the pie situation to Chuck,
the night manager,
he waved me off, Apologize
and comp him,is all he said.
Apologize?
Comp him?
Sure thing, Chuck.
You’re pie à la mode, at last!
With a flourish of my hands,
I set a plate of hot apple pie with ice cream
in front of him.
And it’s free of charge!
Chuck lingered, somber faced,
in the background.
I refilled his coffee cup.
“Look, I’m sorry you embarrassed yourself tonight.
It must have been humiliating
to have been wrong in front of everyone.
I put a saucer of creamers in front of him.
But doesn’t it make you feel good
that I’m in trouble now?
A smile crept across his face.
Chuck led me to the office,
closed the door.
That’s two complaints in a week.
He shook his grey head.
You’re your own worst enemy,
ya know that?
He looked at me for a moment,
then stood up.
You’re fired.
Stay here. I’ll get the paperwork.
Another waitress popped her head into the office.
That pie guy is a jerk.
You can fight this, ya know.
“No, Gale, I don’t want to fight it anymore.
It’s a shame, really.
Chuck came back into the office
shoving papers in front of me.
I had high hopes for you.
Suppressing a giggle, I signed my name.
I have high hopes for me, too.
I rose from my seat,
unsnapped the bow tie from around my neck,
tossed it onto his desk.
Untied my polyester apron,
threw it into his lap.
But I have no hope,
I thought as he escorted me out of the diner,
onto the busy sidewalk,
I have no hope
for the human race.
Little St. Jeff
They come from the Walmarts of Nebraska.
They come from the corn fields of Eastern Europe.
They come from the mobile home parks of Florida.
They come in their pep squad sweaters,
unshowered after soccer practice,
Pioneer Chicken
and 7/11 hot dogs on their breath.
They come to me
unaware of their power,
afraid of their beauty.
I am their mentor,
their father confessor.
I treasure their broken homes,
their impoverished souls.
I fall asleep kissing their lips,
cradling them like babies
in my arms.
I own an island,I tell them,
where you are free to explore
your wildest desires.
Dispense with the conventional,
the pedestrian,
and I will change you
into something you never dreamed possible.
You can be the star of your own movie.
And then I send them in
like gazelle
to the starving tigers.
You see, the world is an intricate network
of hustlers and recruiters.
A pyramid scheme built on empires
and trailer park daughters.
A boutique of children
there for the taking.
Beauties in black slip dresses
and thigh-high boots
who answer only to me.
Men of science
plucked from the laboratories
of Harvard
and Princeton,
all orbiting around me.
I own dictators,
presidents,
judges.
I own the CIA
the FBI,
and the IRS.
I own their wives.
I have footage
of them with the nubiles,
while they and their colleagues
watched.
I have the boys in blue
on a short leash.
I keep their balls
in a climate-controlled aquarium.
When I get bored
I feed them to my Komodo dragon.
If I’m guilty of anything
it’s that I hold a mirror
to your face.
Look into that mirror.
Let me help you
make your dreams come true.
I had a dream
I was back in high school.
A couple of blonde jocks
were shoving my head
into the toilet.
I was on my hands and knees,
my mouth wide open.
That’s my wish for you.
I want you groveling,
your head shoved
into the toilet bowl,
mouth wide open,
your lips quivering.
Crawl to me.
Crawl,
and I’ll rock you to sleep
like a baby in my arms.
Also find Wendy Rainer’s short story ‘You’re So Beautiful, I Can’t Breathe’ here on Bold Monkey: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2022/06/short-story-wendy-rainey-youre-so.html
Wendy Rainey is author of Hollywood Church: Short Stories and Poems and Girl On The Highway. She is a contributing poetry editor on Chiron Review. Her poetry has appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Trailer Park Quarterly, Misfit Magazine and beyond. She is a 2022 recipient of the Annie Menebroker Poetry Award, and a runner-up in the 2022 Angela Consolo Mankiewicz Poetry Prize. She studied poetry with Jack Grapes in Los Angeles and creative writing with Gerald Locklin at California State University, Long Beach.
