Gossamer

Ben Spivey

Fall 2009

It took half an hour to drive to the place. I cursed the entire way. Swerving like a maniac over lanes, around cars; I was a real danger, a complete fool. Stretched my mouth wide, completely obtuse, full, vertical. That's all I could remember from the drive, no stop signs or changing of lights.

I was later standing just off stage, beading sweat on my bushy brow. Holding a copy of my book, titled, You Can, and You Can Too, Now. I hated the title, but my publisher insisted it was clever. About to give what was my eighty-ninth motivational speech, I still felt nervous before walking to the microphone.

“Give a welcoming applause to our very special guest. Malcolm Blackburn,” said a man with a big grin, with greasy hands, with a bald spot in the center of his head.

I walked paced and rhythmic from behind the curtain. From stage right wing, moving toward the center, waving to the gathering of students, professors, walk-ins, regulars, anyone, sporadically seated in the auditorium, in chairs with fuzzy backs.

These things never gathered a full house, maybe once or twice, three times.

When I looked at the audience, my eyes swirled through the heated-lens of the spotlight’s rays, twinkling in the tip-top of my eyes; the spotlight which followed my steps to the podium casting my shadow in a crescent of light, and then in an adjacent angular sphere to my back, hidden to the attendees.

“Good evening, thank you for having me, and thank you for attending,” I said paced and rhythmic. My smile was wide. My hands were energetic; I thrust my book forward as if I was saving souls, rehearsed.

They clapped equally rhythmic and rehearsed.

I told them how to save money, how to leave their deadbeat jobs, how to gain promotion, how to stand out with out being stood on, and my favorite, how to think positive therefore be positive. I cleared my throat.

The spotlight was bright; I eventually did something that I would not normally do. I opened up to the audience like I was on one of those television talk shows. At first my mouth paused open, my brain rummaging thoughts, weighing on scales. Then, I pissed truth, flipping it off my tongue, I told them my life was not going in the direction I desired, in so many words.

I paused. Shook my head, visibly unaffected, as a proper speaker should appear. Selling myself to the crowd. With a big smile I said, “Like some of you in crowd, some of you know what I mean.” Next I shouted, “My wife left me this morning, cold as ice. She left only a few hours ago, and I’m supposed to tell you people that your life will be better when you take my advice. But really, who believes this bullshit?”

The place was dead silent.

I broke the silence and said sarcastic: “I know, I can't believe it either.”

Then to myself whispered, ‘I probably deserved it.’

I had loosened my grip and the microphone was sliding out of my hand slowly, pulling the sound with it.

Some people laughed.

“I think I will be going away from a while,” I said at last. The microphone picking up my voice small before it made a dull thud when it crashed to the ground, like so many things unexpected.

I walked off stage. They did not clap, maybe one or two people did.

The way that I see you and the way that these people see you is not the same as you see yourself. You’re much less pathetic to them, gawked the sparrow; it landed on my shoulder, I brushed it off, “Please leave me alone,” I said honestly, talking toward my shoulder.

I hurriedly signed a few books on my way out of the building. By hurriedly I mean really fucking fast, like a scribble, or something like a scribble, nothing legible, harsh. I don’t even know why anyone wanted my book signed anyways, after that mess.

Out the door I entered, I made a dash for the parking lot.

A young woman was leaning against my truck, her legs were long, and her hair was pulled over one shoulder, southern.

“Can I help you?” I grumbled, just wanting to get away.

Her lips pouted, “I was listening to you in there.” She took a step closer to me, putting her left foot in front of her right. Briefly the air smelt like the sea, as if a long drawn gush of wind traveled a hundred miles from the coast to my nostrils.

“You're an obvious wreck,” she said. “At least,” she purred, “you seem very stressed.” She took another step closer, her right foot in front of her left, “Are you stressed?”

A breeze, sea salt air flowed her hair from her shoulder, pushing it, flying it in the invisible current.

“I want to help you,” she continued, “I want to help you relax. Like in your book. The chapter about helping other people.”

I could see her bra strap diagonal on her shoulder, black, lace. She was half my age, I was sure.

She moved her fingers, drawing a circle on the hood of my truck.

“Are you going to let me help you?” she asked again, voice almost static, almost like the clicking sound of a turning dial.

I opened the passenger door. She got in, legs first. “Will you sign your book for me?” she asked. I noticed her eyes, blue. “You left so quick I couldn't catch you, but I saw you drive up. Thought I’d wait for you here.”

I signed it. I wrote x.

She touched my crotch, giggling, culled teeth.

I tried not to think about my wife, my ex, recent, fresh, dark-cloud over head, the memory was heavy: but the girl, young woman, she looked so much like her. Her smile, for the moment, stitched me. She unzipped my pants and pulled my penis through. My organ filled rapidly, nervously, anxiously.

She pulled it up and down.

“I don't usually do things like this,” she said, licking lips. “Honest, just watching you in there was pitiful,” her voice was a higher pitch, almost annoying, “I think you need this, like that chapter in your book, something to take your mind off of your troubles. And maybe, just don’t tell anyone, and just don’t touch me. I mean, I’d feel better about it if you didn’t.”

After that she kept talking but the things she said were only registering in my brain as segments, fragments, and concepts. Some of the words I heard fully; some of the words I only heard as first or last syllables. Some of the words sounded otherworldly. Some of the words made sentences. Some of the words sounded like changing radio stations.

Then I only noticed her mouth moving. Then I noticed no sound.

Her mouth became still, solid-clasped-shut, with words pouring out. None of them stayed with me, all of them fleeting, everything fleeting, and meaningless: except for my bad seed, except her opinion of my failure.

“Are you going to come?” I heard clear as glass.

“Yes,” I said. I nodded. Feeling a little embarrassed, a little out of place.

She, though, bless her, hair draping, long, over her hand, touching the tip of my penis occasionally as she positioned her head, reminded me in many ways of the love I lost only hours ago, what beauty, what simple beauty.

Maybe I’d lost that love years or months ago.

She reached with her free hand, her left hand, into her purse. She was squeezing my penis with her right hand, preventing my gush; with her left, from her purse she produced some tissues, convenient. I let go my load, flow, splash like memories, a receding wave (waves are moving memory: natures, collective conscious of the human mind), go; she caught it in the tissues.

We looked into each other’s eyes, taking away in that moment a shared of understanding, a genuine connection of us, of two people as human beings.

“Thanks,” I said, unsure of what to do next.

I extended my hand to hold hers.

She met my hand and I began to suck her fingers.

“No touching,” she said blushing, pulling back her hand. “Will you take care of this?” She asked, holding the balled up tissues.

I nodded.

“You don’t talk much do you?”

Smiling, “I guess not. Not always,” I said running my fingers through my hair, sweaty, “thanks again.”

“You already said that.”

She pulled the handle on the door to open.

“I better get to class,” she said, “it was nice to meet you.”

“Will I see you again? Can I see you again?”

She shrugged. She exited the truck and ran off. I watched her become smaller and smaller, farther, and father away; eventually she went into a building; as quickly as she appeared she was gone again.