I can’t handle this dog.
a short [fiction] story by Kevin Klix
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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a short [fiction] story by Kevin Klix
Note: The characters and events in this short story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Thank you.
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STORIES OUGHT TO begin at the beginning, said Lily, Chance’s “back then” newest prize.
She was a very smart young lady, Lily, as I recall. But even as she would sashay meekly toward crowds, at parties, sort of “ravenous” and free, caring and not caring, lost but not lost, she to and fro would eye the gawkers left molded into a joyful form of falsified pleasure, and therefore, her self-acceptance of this far outweighed Chance’s.
But Chance is not, and won’t ever be, a conformist, at his own single, deceitful heart’s expense. Chance knew Lily’s ways, even as they met at one of those damned fiestas, some odd time ago. A very, very odd time ago.
It was a time of peace and serenity, just after finals week, the big, booming summer afoot, just behind the dashboards of peregrine teenager’s Civics. A time of free-will gushing, prideful and fearful, through our futures’ combined madness. The only thing, or the only motive, mind you, was the crapulous festivities ahead. We all were too young, too far-gone, to see what was going on. We were kids, see. Children, for Christ’s sake.
My account of Lily and Chance’s brief relationship, respectively, is a bit odd-ish in nature. I tried to indoctrinate my loving pal Chance once a few times when he peeked is youthful, lustful eyes toward Lily’s big, buxom breasts, her eyes sharply flashing black, pointy lashes, the voice of an angel swiftly taking you back to the fewer, longer times, or memories, of the mindless adolescent shrill for nothing important in particular. “Y.O.L.O.” was the word/abbreviation for it.
I understood Chance’s possession of Lily; she was lovely, lively, and quite “the bee’s knees.” But she was, and always has been, and always will be, a goodie-two-shoed “brat”—excuse my slang.
I once known Lily back in my elementary school years, middle school years, and (rather briefly) in my high school years, back in those G-star School of the Arts days. She had a father, a man of huge power in the South Floridian photography scene, that could knock socks off and, though worser than ever, more so than physically, slap you in the face with your poor old broken middle-class lifestyle, flaunting his upstate-like upper class, boldly and brightly with a fucked smile.
Why, back in those days, Lily and I would bike up and down the open streets, only two neighborhoods up from my upper-middle class condo my mother bought in 1987, when the prices were down and the wages were up only slightly, and Lily and I would go to her Father’s lofty three-story mansion in Palm Beach.
Her father is, well, an up-your-ass fucking punk/prick. This is what I would explain to Chance, back then, when his infatuation was at the ascend-end just before its hellish climax.
The eye of the storm, as they say, came over him, and then, BOOM, it hits him in the bum, tenfold over.
Chance, at the time, did not listen to my warnings. But from here on, I can only say what he has told me. Granted, this is from Lily and his encounters, to his brain, from his lying, outbursting, revengeful maw, and from my utterances onto these gorgeous pages, that our story manifests. With this in mind, I must say, frankly and unhappily, that there may be some slight Unreliable Narration ahead. And for this, my friend, I do apologize.
Chance and Lily, the richest brat I ever did see, met at the Downtown, City Place Starbucks/Barnes & Nobel.
(Now, as I write this, this place is being torn down, wrecking-balled, and turned into a rather classy gymnasium.)
Chance is an honest man, an honest lad, even back in those days. Chance worked at a part-time job at the infamous Little Caesar’s, just down the street from his poor old Greenacres apartment his father rented. Chance had just bought a scooter, all a month before the party he met Lily at. He worked mega hard for that thing. It took at least two long months for him to get it. The lad would not stop ranting and raving about it.
Anywho, Chance would text Lily constantly, and that day, the day for them two to hangout at Starbucks, was no exception. You see, Chance was “cautious,” and that’s why he even came to me, his long-time fellow, in need of advice on a girl whom he desired. He would text, text, text, and she wouldn’t complain, never to give monosyllabic messages back to him. He was excited, or “hyped,” as he would say, of her or on her.
He road down Foresthill at the fast-pace speed of 36 mile-per-hour, down, down the dangerous roads that even I, a now policeman, would never, ever fuck with.
He was on a mission.
Once Chance parked his scoot-scoot at Lily’s mansion, she saw him immediately from her third-story window, and happily ran down her stairs and opened all the necessary entrances to get to her house’s front gate, where Chance was waiting there, pressing her house’s call button.
She saw him, then saw the scooter. And she said to him, “What’s that thing, hun?!”
“My ride,” was all the sly cookie said.
She grinned. “Awesome. Lets roll!”
And they did commence the “rolling,” sure fire they did, down the road, passing my neighborhood, northbound toward Starbucks.
When they got to the City Place parking garage, Chance was telling Lily to be careful taking her helmet and sunglasses off, because they have strict laws in Florida about passengers with dark shades on at night. It was for her safety.
“No problem, hun,” Lily told him. “It’s no biggie.”
“Cool.” And so Chance parked the scoot-scoot, put all the necessary gadgets back into its small butt compartment, and walked, hand in hand, with Lily down toward Starbucks.
When they got into Noble (short for Barnes & Noble), Chance was skimming through the latest Transworld Skateboarding magazines located at the front doors.
“You’re a skater-boy, huh?” Lily asked him.
“Oh yes. Very much so. Since I was friggin’ nine.”
Lily just nodded. That’s all she could’ve done, anyway.
They went up the escalators, as quickly as they could. Usually Chance would just run up the stairs as they would ascend; he was the type of kid that found it invigorating to go fast. But they stood, going up, up, up. Lily was prissy and would never indulge in such rubbish of running. Like I said, a total “brat.”
As Lily sat, off by the lone table in the café, Chance started to walk up to the line. He stopped, though, and whorled around to ask Lily if she would like a beverage.
“Nope,” she answered plainly. “I’m fine, thank you. Watching the figure.” Chance thought she was silly to think she was fat. She was an absolute doll in Chance’s eye.
No matter, he nodded. Then he went in line, got his Vanilla Frappé, and sat on back at Lily’s table she picked.
Slurping his drink, getting a possible underlying brain-freeze, Chance asked Lily, “I’m not sure what to talk about. What do you think?”
This aggravated Lily, you could bet, but she held her tongue. Then she went on and said, “Stories ought to begin at the beginning,” as my opening sentence shows. “Just talk about yourself, hun.”
But then, after her suggestion, Chance took it, mended it, and discussed a long, drawn-out topic of politics. Mind you, this was not in one single sitting, it was in a few exchanges between both parties involved; and for this, I’d like for you to read the gist of it:
“Lily, I have thoughts about today’s world, in regards to propaganda in our USofA. The media, it appears, grants those with power the inhuman ability of mind control. Let me explain.
“First, they start with what they desire out of society. Example: they want us to vote and like a specific president. They will boast about all his rights and the other candidate’s wrongs so that we, the voters, can sympathize and rationalize the best interests of America.
“It seems to be of an actual sane perspective, clearly, but that’s what they want you to think. What others don’t get is the potential background the president has on this country. The overall effect of his speeches does nothing but keep us sane.
“It’s all an act. Nothing more. This said, I, Chance Clark, personally think after all of this, we set ourselves up for a bleak future. The rich control the pudding. They control the wages, the lives of others under them, and the overall future of America. They are in it to make money for themselves.
“The very fiber of a human is gone, at this point. We are transcending from human to machines, and visa versa. Our minds are made up of ideas. When something is repeated, over and over, not only does it cause insanity but it causes belief, too.
“When you believe in something, wholeheartedly, my dear Lily, you begin to put your all into it. Today, in fact, you came to me hoping for a possible romantic encounter. But what you don’t see is my past standing clearly and surely into the conversation in front of you.
“Without my past encounters, Lily, I would never, ever be able to speak in the same exact way I speak to you in this, shall I say, ‘dimension?’ Perhaps in another I would have been sitting alone here, drinking and looking at magazines. Or perhaps, more realistically, I’d be home, jacking my damn dick off.”
Lily laughed at this. Not because she’s crazy but because the very way Chance said “jacking my damn dick off” contradicted his intellectual conversation in such a way that tickled her. He seemed joking with a slight bit of realism. Chance continued, anyway:
“So Lily, my darling, my sunshine that a met at a party, you must know now that all of life is coming at us in righteous waves that even God Himself couldn’t be able to decipher; for He has His own ulterior motives, too, like the media does.
“With this said, I must say that this is on my mind quite often, and do hope you understand this matter. I’m not the greatest man ever, but I surely am wise beyond my years. So, Lily, would you be patient with me on this quest to find a mate? One that will trust my judgements and goals?
“I’m not ready for sex, marriage, or even kissing, because of a previous young dame who was beyond my inference of a good mate, fancy and clean, that she was not. So, in your mind, you should look at me, Chance Clark, as a sensitive man that you must proceed with caution, like I do with you, Lily. Could you understand that?”
And Lily nodded yes. And she really meant it. She saw Chance in a totally new light and found him to be an “un-ignorant” young gent, as she would think.
After shooting the shit for another 30 minutes or so, Chance and Lily decided to go back to her place. So they left, scoot-scooting back toward Lily’s house.
This night I would rather not go into details, because of its irrelevancies, but I can say that Chance met Lily’s pops, and as expected, the dad paid no attention to him, because of boredom and probably uncaring thoughts and tiredness.
Chance didn’t sweat it, he played it cool. But Lily made Chance the greatest vegan grilled-cheese ever, and while Chance ate it, they talked until the A.M., and Lily’s mom said that Chance needed to go home, please. And he did, scooting back home with a genuine smile.
After days of texting back an forth, Lily was the one—not Chance this time—to schedule an evening of “chilling.”
“Come on over,” she said in a phone call. “It’ll be fun. I’m home alone.” I always imagined her eyebrows bouncing up and down on her end of the line, but that seems silly to think about.
After Chance said sure, no problem, all that jazz, he headed over to her place, excited and possibly horny, and scooted down Foresthill, then Dixie, and sort of cut into her neighborhood, just out front of her house.
He parked his scoot-scoot, then walked over to her gate. It was open, he said, though I don’t believe him. And then Chance told me this: he was let in, fed by, and massaged by Lily. She had said her father and mother were not home, but I don’t buy it, not even for a second. But what do I know?
Lily and Chance talked while watching some off-the-wall MTV show. This was back in 2008, so I don’t know what our youth was discussing. Chance and Lily cuddled.
What initiated it was Chance literally bouncing his eyebrows, he said, just like how I imagined Lily’s.
Lily rolled her eyes and smiled, and then gave in to this rather moving, blatant move. They talked, like I said, but then, something happened:
“I got to go,” Chance said in the middle of comfortable silence, laying down next to Lily. “I really gotta go.” And he nudged her off of him, put on his shoes, and started to walk out her front door.
Of course she followed, repeating, “Wait wait wait wait! Hold on! Wait!” then, “Why are you leaving so soon?! Come here! Wait! Chance, darling!”
Outside those doors, way out, already on his way to Lily’s house’s front gates, Lily blurts out another, louder “Wait!” and Chance turns around, timidly, and says to her, “I’m sorry.”
Lily comes up to him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she tells him that she had a lovely time, and she doesn’t get it.
This is the part that may, or may not, be unreliable. Why, you can bet that during those times, the times of intimacy, us men may have a bit of psychosis manifest when it comes to disbelieving our successes when we encounter beautiful women liking us, giving us pleasure, and accepting us. Especially when telling a story to another male friend… .
Chance goes, “I just broke up with a girl, just about 8 months ago. I loved her. She was my first kiss, my first everything… . I miss her.”
And Lily just kept silent, listening to him, still tightly holding onto him.
“And Lily, baby, I do want to say that you are an absolute sweetheart, but there’s nothing for us here. It’s because I’m not over the heartbreak, yet. I don’t think I ever will be. So much has happened to me that I can’t explain.
“The kissing, our kissing that you want to do right this second, is something I just can’t, won’t, do. So please—pretty, pretty please!—would you understand this, Lily? Can you understand that?”
And she replied, “I understand, but Chance, you have to get over that. You’re going to go through many hoes in this life. Many, many hoes. They all suck. Crap, even I suck! But I’m going to let you know this: It’s okay if you don’t want my kisses. I get it. I am a bit mad, but I’ll get over it, I guess. I want you to know that I’m here for you, as a friend.”
Chance’s eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes, Chance. But I want you to know that you’re a liar.”
He didn’t understand. “Why?”
“Because the other day, at Starbucks, you told me to ‘understand,’ and I did for you. But now you don’t friggin’ believe it. I’m—”
“Wait,” Chance interrupted. “Just wait a—”
“No. You listen, mister,” Lily little girl’d. “I’m here for you, giving you a great time, and you look at me as something that is of a brain-washed obligation. Well then, fuck you,” she said simply.
This, like anything else in world, made Chance frown, inside and out. Anyone would frown. Even I did, hearing this sad story straight from the horse’s mouth.
Not much was said after that, except of course the unbreakable silence, shoulder spinning, and walking in opposite directions.
Chance immediately came over to my crib, eyes balling tears of sadness. He felt ashamed, but a lot of people don’t know the heartbreak Chance, my closest friend, had faced prior to this failed female encounter.
My only truly sincere motive for disclosing such a tale, is the idea that I, a working man of, and for, the law, should think that Chance’s pitiful misfortune with Lily should have been a damned crime, in it of itself.
Why, if a woman, a beautiful, knowing one at that, takes a gander at a poor, lonely young lad, and doesn’t take into consideration his past trials and tribulation, his nerves toward intimacy with a woman, she should be punished (un-physically, of course), because any man with a sensitive, open heart knows that the eyes of a woman, however scary they may be, have the power to control us, mold us, into strapping, responsible mature men.
And so it goes. Lily hadn’t the slightest clue what this incident did to Chance, for he adds this memory to all his other failed memories, and brings them all up, simultaneously, just before bed at night, he tells me. This all before he goes to his unsuccessful lifestyle of a recent old, lonely man, and he never, ever gets any sleep. Ever. Thank you.
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