This is another article. It’s quite short, but sometimes less is more.
Here is my last article printed in my college newspaper. Enjoy! It’s educational.
“But vanilla is boring! I want to try new things to revitalize our sex life. I haven’t felt intimate with you in such a long time. You’re never home. The connection just isn’t there, I…”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH!!! Are you telling me I’m not good enough? HUH?!!! I don’t satisfy you, now you want to get some toys and shit!”
He pushes her into the closet. There is a loud crash, and the final silence of the slamming door. Just for kicks he grabs his hand drill and drills in a few screws. That will teach her.
He strides into the sullen kitchen, and grabs a soda out of the refrigerator. All of a sudden there is a knock at the door.
Rata-tat-tat, rata-tat-tat! For a moment he thought it was the police. They had been fighting for an hour now. He quickly pushes back the blinds and then opens the front door.
“What’s sup, man?!” It is his homeboy Brice.
And with a smile on his face he steps out, gently closing the front door behind him. A smoke break. Just what he needs. Brice always comes through with the good shit. He coughs. Laughs…as if nothing ever happened. Thanks to Brice, he had almost forgotten how terrible of a person he was. He is enjoying himself so much that he decides he will let her out as soon as Brice leaves. His longtime girlfriend had just insulted his manhood, but now he could cope much better, and hopefully coax her into that vanilla sex she is so used to. But that’s just it…he is enjoying himself too much.
Why was it so quiet? Why wasn’t she kicking down the door and threatening to call the cops like she usually does? As soon as his homeboy left he opened the closet door. There she was. Lifeless. Crumpled in a corner. Her neck twisted and contorted unrecognizably. Hm. It was really hard to hear her neck snap with the slamming of the door. He wanted to be serious, but his bloodshot eyes just twinkled as he tried not to laugh. This is only happens in the movies. Right?
He takes one last swig of his crisp, cold soda, tilting his neck almost as far back as hers. And then he takes a look at the can.
Vanilla Cream Soda.
I don’t know much about her, but they call her “B”. I see her all the time. Sometimes she looks dead, sprawled out feverishly on the sidewalk. Sometimes she is hanging about on a street corner talking to herself. Sometimes I think she is talking to the wind, which is just as invisible as she is, to the world. This one chilly night, she walked past my front porch, and said, “Hi.” Her voice was sweet as sugar, as soft as butter, a total contradiction to her being. Even in the darkness I could see her chapped lips. They were dry as cracked asphalt. Her eyes were blood-shot, either from crying, being high or just witnessing sleepless nights. She only had on a pair of raggedy jeans and a black and white polka dotted bra.
I live in downtown Stockton, California. Port City, but it was once nick named Brick City. Our entire city went bankrupt. My neighborhood went bankrupt long before that even made the headlines. The streets are crawling with drug dealers, homeless people, sex-offenders, prostitutes and addicts. There has already been a murder right outside my door. And I once sat at the park and talked with a man who recently raped and killed his grandmother. ME. I actually talked to this guy!
I told “B” I had extra shirts if she would like some. She nodded yes through my rod ironed gate with her hands wrapped around the bars.
I couldn’t tell if she was half-naked because she had no clothes or if she was just high and trippin’. I have spoken with the homeless before and they say others like them will steal their dirty clothes. Maybe that is what happened to her stuff.After I handed her the shirts she proceeded to ask if I had a quarter for a cigarette. I didn’t, but I would have given it to her if I did. God knows we all need a smoke break from time to time…whatever you choose it to be…
I saw her the next day on my way home from school. She had on different clothes, including a tank top, but not the ones I had given to her. Maybe she gave them to someone who needed it more than she did.
Maybe she traded them for a cigarette…