Current Issue: Fall/Winter 2010

Electric Feel  
N.T. Brown

October 2007: I slouch into Poison Girl to the sounds of MGMT, dark red light, women’s heads turning, sloshed beer, eyeliner, lipstick, velvet portraits on the walls. Andy Z, the doorman, gives me the nod to enter. A few people shake my hand, slap my shoulder as I make my way down the bar. I smoked a blunt on the walk over, and now everything’s fuzzy.
            I find Kasim downing a shot with a tall blonde girl—seriously tall, like six-five. She laughs and clutches his shoulder. “Zachary,” Kasim says, waving me over. “Meet my new friend.”
            She offers a long slender hand to go with her unisex name. Kasim places his fedora on her head, like adding a star to the top of a Christmas tree. She explodes with laughter. Vodka cranberry. Somebody bumps me from behind. Pinball machines line one wall. A beer finds its way into my hand. I’m talking to a short chubby olive-skinned girl with long black hair and bright red lipstick. She has a biblical name.
            “Your lips are striking,” I tell her.
            “I had you for Freshman Comp three semesters ago,” she says.
            “Oh, Christ. What grade did you get?”
            “A-minus.”
            “What was the minus for? I barely remember.”
            “You tell me. You’re the professor.”
            “Ha. I was a T.A.”
            “It’s probably because I didn’t use New Times Roman or some crap like that. You were too picky.”
            “It’s Times New Roman, and it was on your syllabus, I’m sure.”
            She rolls her eyes.
            Outside, on the gravel patio, Greg and Mike stand together talking about the Coen brothers: “I don’t care what anyone says, Blood Simple will always be their best movie.”
            “Really? Better than Fargo?”
            “Fargo’s overrated. Barton Fink is better than Fargo.”
            “Lebowski,” I say as I pass by.
            Greg and Mike nod like sages. “Lebowski,”  they say.
            Then I see Lauren.
            Time stops. Everything freezes. Clouds congeal above us.
            She is tall and curvy with green eyes and red hair. A tall fruity drink with a cherry in it. She wears a big smile, talking to some balding dwarf. Her teeth are straight white perfect. She has a tiny mole at the base of her clavicle and another on her upper thigh. Her breath tastes like spicy honey in the morning. I haven’t seen her in twelve weeks.
            “Don’t do it,” Kasim says, suddenly at my shoulder. “Don’t talk to her.”
            “What is she doing here? Who is that follicle-challenged hobbit she’s talking to?”
            “Free country. She can be here if she wants.”
            “She knows I come here Thursdays. She’s trying to fuck with me.”
            “Let’s go,” Kasim says. “Smoke a blunt at my place.”
            “What about your WNBA player?”
            “I got her number.”
            We wade through the crowd, and I stare at Lauren the whole time. She never looks up, but she knows I’m watching her, I can feel it, and when Kasim drags me through the doors and into the street, I’m bawling.
            “If I don’t go back in there, I’ll regret it the rest of my life!”
            He and I tussle somehow—he grabs my lapels. The sidewalks tilts up at me, then lurches back down.
            “You’re not going back in there!”
            “Kasim, I love her, I love her!”
            “He loves her,” says a bearded hobo sitting against the wall.
            “Oh, Jesus,” Kasim says. “You’ve had too many Lone Stars. Listen, Zack, forget it. She’s talking to that Rogaine-ready munchkin.”
            I yank my arm away. “I’m not worried about some gnome with a comb-over. I’m going!” I burst back into Poison Girl, again to the sounds of MGMT—is this déjà vu? Andy Z waves me through again. I stumble into Duncan, blonde beard, eyes that bore into you like electric drills. So many names to remember.
            Duncan: “Did you hear that report on NPR?”
“Um—I think so—All Things Considered?”
            “Can you believe she didn’t get shortlisted for the Prize? Fucking travesty.”
            “Well, I only read one of her short stories and it was mediocre.”
            “But the novels—and the activism!”
            A lumberjack in a flannel shirt approaches Duncan and says, “Hey, motherfucker!” They embrace. Now’s my chance to slip away. Somehow I’m holding a half-finished White Russian. Not sure who drank the first half of it. Lauren. Got to find Lauren.
            Through the crowd. Back down the bar. There’s Casey, there’s Russell, there’s Katherine, there’s Paul. I’m like an athlete jogging onto the court through a tunnel of high fives. I’m Odysseus clawing my way back to Penelope, after Poseidon fucked me over. That means Kasim is Poseidon, I guess. Water god. Water bong. Close enough. Lauren’s suitors will drown in a lake of their own blood.
            Back door in sight. Tunnel vision. Ignore long fingernails down my back. Ignore question called out from a booth: “Did Nash really deserve those MVPs?” Ignore glass of red wine thrust under my nose.
            Almost out the door, crash into a brown-haired girl in a Rainbow Brite t-shirt. Beer goes all over her. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
            “Watch where you’re going, hipster!”
            “Hey, if you know what the word hipster means, then you are one.”
            “Bullshit. Shave the mustache and get some jeans that aren’t painted on.” She stalks away.
            Whatever. Lauren.
            There she is. Still talking to the hobbit. I walk right up to them. “You don’t have to unweave the tapestry anymore,” I say.
            “Excuse me?” the hobbit says.
            “You can stop unweaving the tapestry every night,” I say.
            Lauren cocks an eyebrow. “So where’s your sword? Where’s Telemachus?”
            How could I not love this woman? “We never got around to making a Telemachus, pretty Penny. My sword is in my pocket as usual.”
            “Penny?” the hobbit says. “What are you two talking about?”
            Lauren takes a long sip of her drink, through the straw, without breaking eye contact. Her scent drifts over to me, shampoo and perfume and sweat. We stare at each other for a long minute, while a family of moths flutters inside my ribcage.
            “I’m Sam,” the hobbit says, and I can’t help laughing.
            “Of course you are,” I say.
            Lauren slaps my arm. “Stop it.”
            Her touch is like electricity. “How do you like the music tonight?” I ask.
            “Wish they’d play some Shins,” she says.
            “Shins?” The hobbit snorts. “That’s, like, so four years ago.” He has a black star tattoo on his forearm.
            “Listen, Gamgee, nobody asked you,” I say.
            “Zack!” Lauren says.
            I make an exaggerated display of checking my wrist, even though there’s no watch on it. “My, look at the time. You want to get out of here?”
            “Hey, fella,” the hobbit says, pointing a finger at my chest. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
            “Okay,” Lauren says. “Let’s get out of here.” I smile down at the hobbit.
            “But I thought,” he says. “But I thought—”
            “Think again,” I say, walking away. “See you back at the Shire.”
            Lauren takes my hand. This must be how Peter felt when Christ lifted him out of the water. Her palm is damp. We pass back through the crowd. It’s thinner now, after midnight. Clusters of people hold serious conversations: “Will Obama be Hillary’s VP, or the other way around? What a ticket!”
            On the street, we’re both drunk. “Where are we going?” I say.
            “Let’s walk to the park.”
            We stumble down half-lit sidewalks cracked apart by tree roots. Lauren trips and almost goes sprawling, but I catch her with an arm around the waist. Her body is soft. Menil Park is eight blocks away, a patch of green beside the museum. Big oaks. We sit on a bench in deep shadow. I can barely see Lauren’s orange hair and white teeth in the moonlight. She goes all rigid when I try to put my arm around her.
            “Who was that guy?” I ask.
            “Sam? Just somebody I met at work.”
            “Have you slept with him?”
            “None of your business!” Lauren fishes in her purse and brings out a metal one-hitter. We take turns blowing smoke into the night air.
            “Why’d you leave me?” I say.
            Lauren shakes her head, sighs. “It just wasn’t working.”
            “Are you still attracted to me?”
            “Yes! That has nothing to do with it.”
            I lean over and kiss her face, beside her ear. She closes her eyes and smiles. I have to make the most of this opportunity. Slowly, softly, I move down to her neck. She leans the other way to give me access. Soon I’m kissing all over her cheeks and forehead. But she won’t let me kiss her mouth. She passes the one-hitter and I take a deep pull.
            “I’m still in love with you,” I say, exhaling.
            “I know,” she says.
            “This has been the worst twelve weeks of my life.”
            “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been easy for me either.”
            So much to say, nothing to say. Across the park, a possum shuffles by, its white face glowing. The oaks rustle in the wind.
            “Lauren,” I begin, but before I can say any more, a spray of cold water hits me right in the face. I spit, cough, stumble backwards. Lauren screams. The sprinklers.
We sprint across the grass as they come alive all around us, until we’re soaked and laughing on the sidewalk. “Did it get you bad?” I ask.
“Just this leg. And my hair.”
“I’m drenched.”
“Poor baby,” she says, but not in a mean way.
Empty streets at three a.m. We walk silently, hand in hand, and I realize we’re heading back to my place. Not sure when or how this decision was made. On my corner stands a palm tree with leaves that hang down like a canopy. I pull Lauren under it and wrap her in my arms and kiss her without giving her a choice.
Then we’re clomping up stairs, fumbling with keys in the dark, staggering around the apartment drunkenly, kissing, groping, scratching. We peel off our wet clothes and throw them in the corner. Her body, Jesus God, her body. Everything happens in flashes. Snapshots. She writhes and bucks under me. My spirit leaves my body and rises over the bed where it entangles with hers until we can’t tell which is which anymore.
She lies with her head on my chest, one damp palm gripping my side. “Are you asleep?” I ask.
“No.”
“I have that MGMT song stuck in my head.”
“How does that go?”
I try to hum it, but she laughs. “That doesn’t sound like anything.”
“Here,” I say, and reach for the iPod on the dresser. I find the song, start playing it, and then pull her by the hand out of bed. “Come here.”
“What is this?” she says. I take her by the hips and start dancing her around the room, naked, in the dark. My knee bangs against a chair, but I keep going. “You’re crazy,” she says.
Four and half minutes we dance around my apartment. Then the song ends, and sobriety nudges me in the ribs, and I stand nose to nose with Lauren, with the knowledge that I may never see her this way again. I breathe in her hair. “Stay the night,” I say.
“Zack….”
“I still have your old toothbrush, the pink one.”
“You know I like to wake up in my own bed.”
“Just this once,” I say. “It doesn’t mean we have to get back together. Just let me hold you for one more night.”
“All right,” she says, and we get back into bed.
The next morning it’s cold. First cold day of the year. We wake up late, in each other’s arms, the air outside the blankets freezing. How—how could she want to give this up?
“Lauren,” I say, but she puts a finger to my lips.
“Shhh.”
We stay in bed until mid-afternoon, not talking much, just dozing and touching each other. Gray outside. Eventually I say, “What are you going to do?”—meaning, what are you going to do today, this afternoon, but when the question comes out, it sounds much weightier than I intended.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I have no idea.”
“I’ll shave the mustache, you know,” I say, and she laughs.
“I can’t hang around Montrose forever,” she says. “Going to the same bars, seeing the same people, riding my bike around, sitting at the park every weekend. I’m treading water. I want a baby.”
Fear shoots through me—stupid, irrational fear. After a long silence, I say, “I want one too,” even though I’m not at all sure about that.
“Really?” Lauren says.
“Sure.”
A ball has started rolling. I can feel my feet slipping even now. I want to say things are about to change, but that’s not true. They already have.

Nicholas T. Brown lives, writes, and teaches in Orlando, FL. He has a dog, Seven, and a cat, Mrs. Mia Wallace.  His work has appeared in Kudzu, Gulf Coast, Matchbook, Nanofiction and elsewhere.  He held a Donald Barthelme Fellowship from the University of Houston, where he received his MFA in creative writing, and was nominated for Best New American Voices.  To research the story "Electric Feel," he had to live undercover as a Houston hipster for almost six years.