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Saturday, September 10, 2011

Tricks (from Traffic)

I'm in the middle of school and reviewing footage from the film I shot this summer.  I figured I'd try to keep adding material to this blog so I'll put some of my old prose here.  This is from the short prose series Traffic I wrote a while back.

Sylvie was sitting in a trailer on the top of the mountains in southern Colorado. The sun was setting like an old worn-out butt on an octogenarian. There was not enough candy in the trailer, just some old pieces of toffee that tasted like dirty bed sheets. Lots of bears and mountain lions were roaming around looking for fresh meat, no doubt. Good thing she wasn't on her period or they'd all be knocking on the door, looking for a taste. She could see her tired face in the reflection of the mirror in front of her. She focused on the pupils of her lopsided eyes, up to her unevenly plucked eyebrows. Her black hair was turning red from the excess of sunlight while living in Colorado. God. The honesty of the mirror was biting. The toilet didn't work in the trailer either. It smelt like piss and potpourri. When she went pee pee or poo poo outside, she had to save the used toilet paper in a baggie and throw it away when she went into town.

It was getting cold and all she wanted to do was eat but all she had were peanuts, vegetables, and weak coffee perked in an aluminum container. She remembered that she had read somewhere that cooking in aluminum containers caused Alzheimer’s. Maybe Ronald Reagan had eaten all of his jellybeans from aluminum containers, and here she was in her trailer drinking aluminum-flavored coffee. Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer’s.

"I'm drinking sugared Alzheimer’s," she commented to herself.

It was an unsatisfactory meal. In town tomorrow, she could pick up some Ben and Jerry’s and some potato chips.

However, at least the tape player in the trailer worked. She popped in an old experimental ambient tape a friend had sent her months ago. Sylvie had never said thank you for it. Sylvie was always too busy to be with friends, but never too busy to fall in love with skateboarders. The saps. Until now. The last one, she resolved. Last week was the last one she'd ever let into her life.

"I will never fall in love with another skateboarder. Those fucking assholes. Trucks this, tricks that. Punks. All of them. All of them useless children with diarrhea spurting from their urethras and their mouths simultaneously."

Sylvie lit up a Winston lite. Burned. Burned going down. Down like fowl cum. Satan's spew. (In her view, all skaters were Satan.) She had not smoked in over three weeks. Today, on her way up to the trailer, a pack of smokes just had sounded godly. So she bought some when she got gas at the small town at the foot of the mountains. At the gas station, she had walked past a teenage blonde girl who looked like she loved horses, daddy, and tennis way too much. Sylvie wanted to smash in her Noxema commercial face, but got ten dollars worth of gas instead and a Diet Mountain Dew.

"Fucking skate-or-die-pies." The cigarette was hurting too much and she put it out in an old can of diet Dr. Pepper. "My dad had a skate board shop back in the '80s when Tony Hawk and Mike McGillis were the creamed corn of the crop and I even fell in love with them. Hung their pictures up on my wall next to my Duran Duran poster. Then, Dad's shop failed. It was cursed. I was cursed. Skaters. Losers. Trucks and bearings and tricks and ramps and fucking police and baggy pants. Mother fucker children. They are all children with small penises. Make my eyes baggy with tears. My scalp dry and stinky."
The sun was going down. She wrote a quick letter to a friend back home and ripped it out of the book, the perforation a shitty job and the frills stuck to the page.

"Feed that last skater to a mountain lion. Wish I could. Yes. Wish I could." Sylvie grabbed the container of Folgers out of the fridge. She was going to perk more coffee. "Shit. I sound like Yoda."

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