A BEAR IN TOKYO

a factory in denver. we arrived at the manic disco like roided out bulls entering an interstellar china shop. we meandered through the crowd of fairies and monsters
and pushed as close to the alter as we could. all around us faces were crashing together like bangkok cars. there were snake charmers floating up the walls; paid entertainment for the day glow princesses and the queens and kings of the beat. we found our seat and met rabbit who offered to take us with him on his journey but we told him we weren’t big fans of wonderland and were happy just staying where we were, amongst the digital ocean waves and the illusions of heaven. amongst the dirty vibrations and the organic computers of seratonin we hid our beers in the corner where no one would mess with them and we headed out to the dance floor where we swam the technological wavepool.

i was dressed as jack kerouac as usual and she was dressed as bohemian ingalls wilder. there was a group of hissing girls on the dance floor dressed like tim burton mean girls. they danced like sandworms in their black and white striped slinky dresses. fuck-me pocahantas was at the bar ordering a long island iced tea, she asked her boy galactus if he had eaten and he said no he was stuffed from eating planets all day.

i breathed. just took a minute to breathe. i wasn’t used to this much energy. it was a bit overwhelming, like being at a city zoo in a different galaxy. saturn was out on the dance floor spinning her rings and her boy was watching in awe from the sidelines of the space gym. dj gnome was twisting the color of the room so it sounded less red and more blue. i kept breathing, and looking over i realized that i was the luckiest guy in the room, having the company of bohemian ingalls wilder. i asked her how she was doing and she said “fine” like none of this could break her zen. i was so in love. the idea of someone who could meditate at a circus like this was something to admire and something i wanted in my own life. i myself always fluctuate between dalai lama and mad scientist. between cool hand luke and yosemite sam. in a sense, i’m a basket case, but she seemed to be the apples i was looking for to fill the bushel of my psyche.

the red room was spinning. the day glow princess and her royal party hovered over the room looking down at us like electric greek gods. saturn was still spinning her rings. i was getting tired which means i needed to push myself a lot further down the beer spectrum if i had any chance of surviving the evening. i excused myself from boho ingalls wilder and went to the corner where i chugged down three of my cervezas like it was the end of the world party, and for all i knew it was. i felt like i was on the inside of a television. even the walls with all their wiring and weird technology looked like the clockwork guts of a tv. my stomach felt overloaded as i finished the last beer. it was then miss mayor of fuzzytown found me, wearing her official fuzzy sport coat. “hi” she said. “hi” i said. “touch my arm” she said. “why?” i said. “just trust me.” never being one to distrust i placed my palm flat against her forearm and looked into her cosmic empty eyes. i was not attracted to this woman, but it was clear she was attracted to me. why was i so trusting to do what this stranger asked of me? i guess it’s just this writer’s curse: carpe fabula, seize the story. I could never say no to people. “come sit with me” she said. “okay” of course i said. she took me to the next room, less astrological, but far more menacing than the former. the paintings seemed to be changing, mingling with each other. she sat me down with a jester and a man wearing a burglar’s costume. “there must be some kind of way out of here” i said to them, pointing at the joker then the thief, but they didn’t catch on. these were supposed to be the brilliant minds, the enlightened souls, the kind eyes of modern times but it seemed to no one could muster up a damn conversation. i guess at the end of the day we’re all still millenials. we sat there watching act after act of the circus, miss mayor of fuzzytown just kept staring at me and i myself started to feel a bit odd. i knew i had to escape the clutches of this oversized couch. i saw a man, a normal looking young man staring at one of the paintings on the wall; i knew they wouldn’t be offended if i excused myself to go speak with him, so i did just that. he was the aura of normalcy i had been looking for.

i approached him from the side as he stared at a painting of a cow in space and another one of a bear in tokyo. tonight i related to these characters in these paintings. torn from my normal habitat i found myself thousands of miles away from home. i asked him which one he liked more.
“i can’t decide” he said, staring at me. “i want to buy one.” day glow princess had invited me here tonight, and i knew this was her home that these paintings helped pay for – this amazing factory of nonsense, so i went subtle salesman on this unsuspecting cat. “you should buy one” i said vigorously, as to be heard over the roaring music. “these are great.” “i can’t decide” he said again. “i like the bear better” i said. “i think i do too” i said. “maybe i’ll get both.” these paintings were a couple hundred bucks each. i was intrigued that in this room full of lavish bums there seemed to be a wealthy simpleton. “i want to buy one” he said again. “yeah, you said that” i said. “i want to buy one” he said again. i looked in his eyes and thus began my suspicions that this stranger was in fact a robot: with only so many preprogrammed phrases. “where you from?” i asked him. it was time to uncover the truth of it all. “chicago” he said. a robot factory in chicago, i thought to myself, but i couldn’t let him catch on to my feelings. i thought about bohemian ingalls wilder in the next room, realizing i had abandoned a beautiful red riding hood in a room full of wolves. i looked back over my shoulder. the robot man could see i was lost in something. “i’m sorry” i said “what brings you to denver?” “i like to travel” he said, not blinking his robot eyes. “i think i’ll buy one” he said again. “why denver?” i asked, preparing myself for his rant about how weed is legal here and there’s a cultural revolution afoot and how he just wanted to see it for himself “weed, honestly.” he said. i laughed. “yeah… we do have that here i said “chicago is so stuck up sometimes” he told me. maybe he wasn’t a robot after all. “everyone is moving so fast there and it’s almost as if everyone is in a silent battle with each other. denver is just so chill.”

i couldn’t argue with him. i loved this city. always had. it’s like this secret show for one of your favorite bands. all of the intimacy and joy you want and no one else has to know about it, but don’t tell anyone i told you that about denver. “i’m gonna get both” he said. “i think i’m gonna buy them” he said. “you should!” i said “i can grab mallory to check you out?” “i’m not sure if i’m gonna buy them” he said. “alright” i said. i had tried, but it seemed he wasn’t a human nor a robot. maybe an android. i couldn’t be bothered with his android problems anymore. i went back to bohemian ingalls wilder.

surprise surprise a man in ultraviolet briefs and a hugh hefner red robe had found a seat beside boho ingalls wilder. she had those big scared listening eyes as he explained to her the nature of the universe, how we are all one, how there is but one consciousness and she oh so politely took in the lesson, as if she hadn’t heard it all before. “hi” i said to him, politely, i did leave her alone in the room after all “hey i’m rocket” he said to me. of course he was rocket. “nice to meet you, rocket” i said “how do you know everyone?” “i don’t” he said “i was just over at eskimo bar across the street and heard music so i wandered on over here. the factory, day glow princess’s kingdom, had open admission to their events. anyone willing to pitch the few bucks could get in. it was a bit jarring to see these people at a birthday party, who were unaware it was someone’s birthday. rocket went right back to his pontification to boho. boho gave me the help me look. “wanna go grab another beer?” i asked her. “yes” she said.

we went to the bar this time. through the course of the evening i had killed the six pack i had snuck in. “two pbr’s” i said to the octopus bartender. boho gave me a look as the bartender fetched the beers with her tentacles. “what?” i said. “pbr’s?” she said “you hipster you.” “look” i said. “it’s not that i want to be a hipster. it’s just that i’m not rich enough not to be, if that makes sense.” she said nothing. she was one of those quiet ones where every thing she didn’t say could drive you crazy with curiosity.

“what do you say we sneak out back with these?” i asked her. “sounds good” she said. i threw the bartender the total and the best tip i could manage and boho ingalls wilder and i snuck behind a couple curtains, climbed a very unsafe ladder, and made our way up to the rough. i was feeling fairly romantic, and then i felt the midnight wind outside. i snuck up first, so i called down to boho and asked her if she minded. she didn’t mind. of course not. this girl wasn’t one to say no. the romantic man who lives in my heart was break dancing. we sat on the roof top on some wooden crates and we didn’t say much at all. i’d say we stared up at the stars but in the light pollution of denver there weren’t really too many stars to be seen. we watched the cars drive by below and then i looked over at her.

“i’ve got a question for you,” i said, gathering myself, “is this a date?”
she smiled. “a date?” she said.
“yeah” i said “i always do this to myself. i ask girls to go to things with me and i mean it to be a date but i never tell them it’s a date and i never know”
“you always ask girls on non-date?”
“that’s not what i mean. but is this a date?”
“no” she said “i didn’t think of this as a date.” the romantic man who lives in my heart proceeded to die of a heart attack.
“oh” i said, the saddest living man in denver.
“i’m sorry but my heart belongs to someone else” i wanted to think what she said there was stupid, a cheesy way of saying ‘i’m seeing someone’ but there was a sincerity there i knew not to fuck with. her heart really did belong to someone else. had i been trying to trick her into a date with me? why couldn’t i have just said ‘this is a date.’ that’s all i had to say.
“i appreciate you being honest,” i said.
“i try to be honest” she said, “i don’t like the games, you know?”
“yeah, me neither.” i looked up at the sky. “it’s still nice to get away from it all with you up here.” she smiled at me with that brutal sincerity.
“cheers” she said, gesturing her beer neck towards me.
“cheers” i said.

it was strange to think of the monsters lurking and the peacocks peacocking below us. the bass slipped through the ceiling to the roof but barely. everything in me felt like i should be in the mindset of disappointment, but escaped from the circus below, just sharing the company with such a beautiful person left me with very little to not be grateful for.

we winded our way back down the ladder. she took off, giving me the longest, most fearless hug i’ve ever received and i was left with the leftovers of madness. she had vanished. i made a pillow of my jacket and i fell asleep, wondering if i was entering or leaving a dream.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

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A WELL-KEPT SECRET

An Ode to Hills Like White Elephants

The streets across Denver were long and white. It was dry and the city was desolate, as it tends to get in winter. There was an hour or two to kill before the train came to Union Station before heading to Chicago. The couple leaned on the counter of Leela’s Cafe and Bar.
“Two PBR’s,” said the woman to the bartender. The bartender returned with them and popped one of the caps off.
“Queen of hearts,” said the woman.
“Lower, same suit,” said the bartender.
“Ten of hearts?”
“Nope, jack of hearts,” the bartender said, popping the other cap off, “and yours?”
“What?” said the young man.
The young woman showed him the top of the cap – J and a heart.
“You try to guess the card on the top of the cap. You guess once, and she’ll tell you higher or lower, and then if you get it right, your next beer is free,”
“9 of diamonds…” the young man said to the bartender.
“Yep,” said the bartender.
“Beginner’s luck,” said the woman, “can we get a couple coffees too?”
“Coffee and beer?” said the young man.
“It’s a Denver thing,” said the woman.
The man and the young woman found a table and they sat down. The man stared out the window at the snow falling and the dead streets of a Queen City.
“It’s beautiful,”
“Yeah,” said the woman, drinking her beer.
“Should you be doing that, Kat?”
“My mom did, and look, I’m just fine,”
“Okay,”
“I’m not planning to get belligerent or anything. Sounds like they gave you a solid dose of scaremongering at NYU,”
“I wasn’t trying to preach,”
“I’m sorry. Yeah, it is pretty outside,” said the woman, downing the rest of her beer.
“It’s just white. It’s all white, but i can’t look away. I feel like i’m trying to search for something through the haze,”
“You do sound like a writer…”
“You’re the writer…”
“Travel writer…” said the woman, “That just means they give me an allowance to go write about the strange troubles i get into in strange cities,”
“And strange affairs with strange men,”
“What does that mean?”
“It was just a joke. That’s all,”
“The way you’re drinking that beer is the joke,” said the woman, “do you want a nipple for that thing?”
“What?”
“You’re nursing it. You’re nursing your beer,”
“Oh,” the young man smiled his head turned downward on the table. The music was some girl with a jazzy voice singing over her acoustic guitar. The woman put her hand over the young man’s.
“I love you,”
“I know,”
“Do you like Denver?”
“I love it. It feels like a well-kept secret. Like New York if no one knew where New York was,”
“Huh…”
“I’m sorry; i don’t mean to compare everything to New York,”
“No, i get it. You’ve been there your whole life. I must admit though, it was funny to see you get so excited about seeing a Home Depot,”
“I’m sorry; I’d never seen one before,”
“No, it was charming…” the woman stood up, leaning against the back of her chair, “should we have another drink?”
“I guess that would be okay…” said the young man.
The cold air rushed in along with a group of street kids. The woman walked to the bar and ordered the drinks.
The young man pulled out his phone and checked how long he had. The woman looked back at the bar and saw him. He just smiled and waved at her, like they were meeting for the first time. CONTINUE READING ON GUERRILLA GRAFFITI MAGAZINE.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

02.19

0219

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(in limbo.)

we were sitting on the swings at a park in the aftermath of a snowstorm. you asked me if i had any cigarettes and i told you no. i don’t know how many times i’ve told you i don’t smoke and i don’t have any cigarettes, but it never seems to strike a chord with you, and i guess i get that. smokers have a certain sick sad desperation to their vice. wow, that sounds redundant. what i’m trying to say is despite the insurmountable odds that i don’t have a cigarette, you still always ask me if i do. maybe it’s not desperation. maybe it’s hope. faith in what is most likely not true.

you were glowing. you were always one of those girls who made sense bundled up in the middle of colorado winter. your cheeks looked good with a little extra red to them.

“that’s okay,” you said about the cigarette, “because i have this invisible cigarette.”

you spared no artistic expense with this. you reached into your jacket and pulled out an invisible package of cigarettes. you pulled out one cigarette.

“phew. last one.” you said, “unless you want one, in which case i have one more?”

“no, i’m good,” i said. you looked a little disappointed.

you put the invisible box back in your jacket and swinging a little you pulled out an invisible lighter. i watched you actually inhale. you were smiling. one of those good smiles. one of those true smiles that wasn’t based on some social situation that makes you feel obliged to smile. you were experiencing actual joy, sitting in that park, freezing our asses off.

and then for the high point of your performance, you blew out cold air, and i swear to god, you somehow made it billow like actual smoke.

“very well played,” i said.

“thank you, thank you,” you threw your fake cigarette onto the ground, “fake cigarettes aren’t the same though. they don’t have any sense of danger to them. you don’t feel any fire in your lungs,”

“i wouldn’t know. i’ve never smoked,” i said.

“yes, you have,”

“no. no i have not,”

“you’re a fucking liar,” you said, “i distinctly remember last time we were drunk in denver, you were chain-smoking,”

“i don’t remember this at all, so clearly it never happened,” i said.

“you are a liar,”

“why are we out in this?” i asked.

“because we both are twenty-four and living at home,”

“yeah, i didn’t see that one coming,” i said.

“you have nothing to be ashamed of,” you said to me, in that sympathetic way you say everything, “you are just in limbo between places,”

“i guess that’s true,”

“i, on the other hand, am a bum,”

“no, you’re not.”

my sympathy didn’t sound as good as yours.

“yeah, i kind of am. rich parents are a blessing and a curse. the blessing is they show their affection towards you through money, the curse is the same,”

“your parents love you,”

“i’m not denying that. some days it just feels like their world is moving too fast and sometimes it’s a dry cleaning ticket that gets lost in the madness, or a pair of car keys, but sometimes it’s me,”

i don’t think you, or most people for that matter, realize how often they talk in poetry.

“wanna make out?” i asked, smiling some deadbeat frozen smile.

“you’re funny,” you said, but i wasn’t trying to be funny. maybe it was a poor word choice on my part, or maybe we were just gonna keep on living in this land of indecision. maybe we’re destined to swing back and forth together in this white nothingness at some time between night and morning.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.20, THE NEXT ENTRY IN THE 28 DAY 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

A LOVE SONG FOR ELIZABETH BENDS

A shot from the mini-bar costs roughly $7.
Tonight I have spent over $140 on the mini-bar.
I feel like I’m inside of a washing machine. Everything’s oozy and spinning so god damn much.
I’ve been leaving messages on Tanya’s phone.
Beep.
Hi Tanya. It’s Mark. Um. Call me.
Beep.
Hey. It’s… well, it’s me. Call me when you get this. It’s been probably three weeks since we’ve talked.
Beep.
Hi, if this isn’t Tanya, would you please give me a call back? The voice message thing doesn’t say whose phone it is. This is Mark. Mark Swift.       Also, I’m sorry. I realize it’s 2:33 in the morning.
If you are satisfied with your message press one.
Does it cost money to make phone calls using a hotel phone? Can they track your calls?
I’m watching Late Night with Eric Creed, and the musical guest is some Irish band I’ve never heard of. Some band called “The Last Calls”.
Right now, Eric is interviewing this girl, Elizabeth Bends. I shouldn’t say some girl, this girl is gorgeous. Elizabeth Bends. She is flirting with the entire room, and she’s not even breaking a sweat. Her skin looks like it’s never seen sunlight or a bruise or a scar. She’s wearing this soft looking dress with her toned legs sneaking out underneath. She crosses her leg away from the camera. If you think that’s an accident, you are bat shit crazy.
I am standing less than six inches away from the television. The static is jumping to the little hairs on my forehead. I don’t feel that drunk. I’m close, really close to Elizabeth Bends.
“I understand you have a film coming out this weekend?” says Eric, dumbly.
“Yes, it’s called Scandals and the People Who Pay for Them. I believe we have a clip.”
They say something, and cut to the trailer. I fall back on the bed and count the tiles on the ceiling. It’s a nice hotel. The mini-bar, I mean, it is stocked. I’m alone in the hotel room. There are 25 tiles going one way on the ceiling, 26 going the other way. They each look about a foot long.
Beep.
Tanya? Is this Tanya? Call me, okay? I’m in room 917.”
I can’t believe someone put those tiles in one at a time. There are 14 floors in this hotel, probably 30 rooms on each floor. That’s, I don’t fucking know, a shit-ton of tiles to install.
I wonder if one person put each and every single tile in, or if there was a team. I wonder if Elizabeth Bends works hard. Do you think her parents instilled good work ethic and good moral values into her? My stomach hurts. I unzip my pants, and I start to think about Elizabeth Bends naked. I’m touching myself, but I’m not hard.
Do you think she cares if a guy is bald? She’s got to be loaded. I wonder if she thinks about money when she dates a guy. I wonder if she gets nervous on dates.
Elizabeth Bends is whispering naughty things in my ear. I sit up, my chin pressed against my chest. My stomach feels like it’s on fire, like it’s filled with rubbing alcohol. Elizabeth is no longer on. That band, The Last Calls, is playing. They sound more Irish than I even expected them to.
“Thank you for calling 719-555-3221, please leave a message after the beep.”
Beep.
“Hey, Elizabeth. Shit. Hey, Tanya, or whoever. I don’t know if this is Tanya. Just calling again. I mean, it’s 2:40 something but I haven’t talked to you since I left. How are you? I’m doing fine. Denver’s treating me well enough. What are you up to? I’m just about to do some painting and…” I blink, and the room resumes its soap spin cycle.
I’m having a conversation with myself.
I’m having a conversation with a telephone number.
Beep.
“Hi, Elizabeth?” Aw, fuck it. “Yeah, hi. Elizabeth Bends, it’s me, Mark. I just wanted to say you did great tonight. You looked gorgeous. Give me a call back when you get a chance, sweetheart. I’m in room 917. I’ve got a queen-sized bed here, and I wish you were in it with me. I hope your movie does well. It looks wonderful. I can’t wait until your home, and I’m home and we can just lie together and discuss your long days on set, and I can tell you how beautiful you look without makeup on. How beautiful you look when I wake up beside you. I can’t wait to kiss your neck and tell you about my newest painting. I miss hearing your voice. I miss talking to you. Telling you how I’d love to paint you, but you’re never here. I feel like it’s been years since our wedding. I talk to your mom, now and again. She’s lovely. I know when you’re older you’ll be like a great painting, just like her. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss you. It’s hard being in hotel rooms in weird cities and only seeing you through the television screen. It’s hard looking at empty pads of paper in hotel rooms and realizing those are there for lonely people like me. Like a coloring book for kids on a long car ride.”
If you’re satisfied with your message, press one.
To listen to your message, press two.
To erase and re-record, press three.
To continue with your message, press four.
I don’t press anything. I just stare at the hotel phone for a second.      There’s a button for room service. There’s a button for the front desk.    There’s a button for the restaurant.
Are you still there?
The phone knows I’m drunk, I think. It’s checking in on me. If I press five, I wonder if it will bring me a glass of water.
I press four.
“Elizabeth, I want you to know that there’s a lot of guys out there. I know how Hollywood is for a young, beautiful starlet like you, but they don’t love you like I do. They don’t know how I would kill for you. They don’t see the twinkle in your eye that I do. They don’t hear your beautiful voice or the effortless way you speak. They just see a nice pair of legs. A good screw. I want you to know that what we have is all that is keeping me living right now.”
I breathe into the phone. My lips pressed against the mouth piece, I can feel the condensation of my breath on it. The phone smells like a Long Island Iced Tea.
I press 3. I erase my message and I re-record.
“Hi Tanya,” I say, and that’s about it. I’m looking at my reflection in the window. I’m looking out at the city. I’m counting the buildings in the Denver skyline.
One, two, three. I literally say one, two, three into the phone. I am so embarrassed.
“Sorry, Elizabeth. I’m not going to lie. I’m drunk.”
I set the phone down on the table, next to the note pad. I pick up the hotel pen and I write on the note pad “I am in love with Elizabeth Bends,” I set the pad down on the desk and I retire to the corner of the hotel room, a dark corner near the front door, but it’s uncomfortable. I move into the closet, I scoot the ironing board to the side, so I can sit cross-legged on the ground. I start to cry. No tears come out, which makes me feel even more pathetic. I just sob, like I’m forcing it, but I can’t stop. I look up and the ceiling light hits my eyes, and I’m squeezing them shut. Trying to kill this headache before it can start.
I grab my suit-jacket off the hanger and I hold it like it is Elizabeth Bends. I try to remember what Tanya looks like naked, but I can’t. I just met Elizabeth tonight on the television screen, and I can picture her naked more clearly. I close my eyes and there she is, straddling me, biting her lip. In my college dorm. Maybe, on our honeymoon.
My stomach starts doing back-flips and I run into the bathroom. I puke right before I get to the toilet. There, splotched all over the nice tile floor.   Imagine what your vomit would look like if there was nothing in your system but booze. That’s what my vomit looks like. I close my eyes and its Tanya straddling me. I can still smell the vomit, and it’s no longer me Tanya is straddling. It’s some guy. Some stranger with a better body than me.
I look out in the hotel bedroom, and my easel is set up and there’s a canvas on it, but there’s nothing on it. The television is something about some product for making life easier.
I can hear the telephone in the background. The dial tone, like the sound of robots dying.
Beep.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Mark. Was it written in my life story that I would deplete my 401k one expensive hotel room at a time? Was it written that I would be here, marinating in my own body fluids, pondering my marriage to the girl on the television? That I would confess my love to Elizabeth Bends on a hotel room note pad? That I would hit the mini-bar before I even touched my paint brush? I’ve been dragging that same easel into hotel rooms for two weeks now. It’s like my cross. My burden to bare. It’s like an ugly child from a one night stand that I have to drag around with me.
Beep.
God, why is it that if I make money selling paintings, if my art makes it into fine museums that I’m a success, but if it doesn’t, I’m just some child doing finger paintings, avoiding reality? If I kill myself, will I get to talk to you in person? Or do I have to call you on some God-awful payphone from the bowels of hell?
Beep.
Tanya, where are you tonight?
Beep.
I’m here in the bathroom of a nice hotel, debating whether I want to order room service: a snack off the late night menu. I can’t even find the menu, let alone read it.
This washing machine is tossing me hard now. I’m on the floor now, cursing it for the rug burns.
Beep.
There are 25 tiles going one way on the ceiling. There are 26 going the other way. There is a man in a warm bed with his wife tonight who runs all 14 floors of this hotel; all 30 rooms on each and every floor. His wife wakes him up every morning so he can do this. There are companies that run half the hotel rooms in this city. One person runs that company.
There is a company responsible for every light I see in the Denver skyline. Someone made the machine that made those bottles of shots I took tonight. Someone invented the wheel so there’s a legitimate reason why Tanya chose not to be here tonight. Some guy invented the telephone so I could leave messages to fictional characters. Someone looked at Elizabeth Bends and said the world will love you. Let’s put you on a piece of art that is in constant motion called a television. Let’s enlarge your face on screens.
Beep.
God, it’s me. Do you even get to rest on Sundays? Do you ever find yourself lonely, drunk and sick on bathroom floors? Do you think it’s funny that I have no hair left on the top of my head? God, I’m drunk. Do you ever take a drink from the mini-bar? If your blood is wine and your flesh is bread, how can you tell me you aren’t self-absorbed? Maybe we really are made in your image.
I crawl to the living room, my knees bleeding with carpet burn, and I bite down on the telephone cord. I need something to chew on, so I don’t swallow my tongue. This is me clicking the trigger on the phone to make a new call.
The tiles are laughing at me. I can’t prove it, but if I could reach the note pad I would leave a note to hungover-tomorrow-morning me telling him the ceiling tiles aren’t your friend.
Beep.
“Tanya, Elizabeth meant nothing to me. Please take me back. Please. Call me. I know I’m an asshole, but I’m an asshole who loves you. I would do anything for you.”
I erase and re-record. Beep.
“I would do anything for us.”
I press four. Beep.
“I just want you to be happy.”
I press four. Beep.
“I just want us both to be happy. I need to know that still exists.”
I press four. Beep.
“Hi Tanya. It’s Mark. Listen, I loved you, but I think if I keep holding onto what we have left, I will go crazy. I’m sorry.”
If you are satisfied with your message, press one.
Are you still there?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SHOCK TOP”

SAID THE GUEST BED

The Lamp always sat on top of the Desk and it made the Wardrobe incredibly jealous. The way she oozed heat onto him. The Wardrobe knew it was because the Lamp thought the Desk was “wise”. She told him every day. She said the Desk made her shine brighter. Told the Wardrobe he was made of cheap wood. Told him he probably couldn’t handle her heat if he wanted to. The Wardrobe was older than the Desk; his skin splintered and his innards were a bit disheveled. He was a bit of a fire waiting to happen. Though, to be fair, the whole room was picking up dust. They all lived in an attic that had been fashioned into a guest bedroom. Apparently, the owners of the home were not too fond of guests.
The group of furniture was not stupid. They knew downstairs they had all sorts of fancy Cutlery hoarded in upper class China Cabinets. China Cabinets were always so arrogant. The Cutlery did nothing. Everybody knew the Tea Cups were a bunch of whores. Tea Cups were always around, but they never got used, at least not here in the States. They often became restless and reliant on social games to feel useful. The Wardrobe always told the Desk and the Lamp that he was beyond glad that he wasn’t fashioned into a China Cabinet, but the Desk was usually too busy pending on some conundrum and the Lamp was far too busy clinging to the Desk. The Wardrobe did have a good friend in the Guest Bed, but the Guest Bed was always asleep, or simply too comforting, like a mother. The Wardrobe never could tell if the Guest Bed was just being kind or meant what she said. The Guest Bed was even older than the Wardrobe and hummed old songs a lot. Love songs. She told the other’s funny stories about the golden age, how guests in the house used to try to quietly do things to each other. How they whispered, and how they probably wouldn’t have been so bold had they known she heard every quiet moan that they tried to hold in.
There was a Window in the room. Positioned at the window a Telescope, but he never spoke a word. He just stared, longingly, at the world outside.
The Guest Bed and the Wardrobe went way back. The Guest Bed was like a mother to him. She saw him through the hard times. The Wardrobe used to have a love, you see. The Candlestick. Ages ago, the Guest Bed and the Wardrobe would tell you. But they were definitely and madly in love with each other. The Candlestick was humble and she had that flicker about her that drove the Wardrobe mad. They talked for countless days without stop. There wasn’t much to do, but they were lost in each other and the Guest Bed saw the whole thing. Downstairs, in the master bedroom, they were the envy of the rest of the house. The Wardrobe was filled with the most astonishing of suits beyond organized. They were alphabetized by designer, cross-categorized by stitch and color. Navy blues separated from dark blues. The Candle loved him because he was such a gentleman.
They knew from the start that the Candlestick had a dwindling battle with death. Each day they spent together she grew closer and closer. I love you, the Wardrobe would say, you look so beautiful, especially in the darkness. Do you not see how this flame you adore so much is bringing me closer to the end of my days, said the Candlestick.
She began to drip on him, more and more each day. The scars still remain; puddles of wax like drops of blood that stained his skin.
One day, the Wardrobe awoke to the sound of the Guest Bed screaming. An earthquake. The room filled with trepidation. The tremors scooted the Guest Bed, who was the Master Bed then, around the floor, like a dog on ice. The Windows screamed like a banshee. The Wardrobe called to the Candlestick his love, above his head, but she did not respond. In a flash, the shaking room, began filling with smoke. You’re on fire, said the Master Bed. The Wardrobe felt as if he was having a stroke. He called out to the Candle, but he didn’t even hear a flicker. Strange red and yellow men rushed in and put out the Wardrobe. The room fell as silent as a wake. The Master Bed said to the Wardrobe, the Candlestick, she’s dead.
Wardrobe was beyond shaken. For days he said nothing. His head charred and scarred, remnant wax of his love still remaining. The ceiling received third degree burns all over its skin too, and though the ceiling never spoke, it spoke to the Wardrobe in other ways.
A family came into the Master Bedroom. Stepping on the Carpet, lying down on the entry way they looked around at the Paintings, the Master Bed, the Ottoman and finally they rested their eyes, stared directly at the Wardrobe, and he stared back.
“It’s ruined,” they said, “It’s ugly,” the Wardrobe felt as if he could cry.
They put him in isolation. The attic was sparkling then, yes, but he was beyond alone up there. No Ottoman, no Painting, they hadn’t even put in the Window at that point yet. The House was new, he hadn’t even Rats running through his veins yet. The Wardrobe was separated from the ones he loved, stationary and unwanted. For a night, he cried. The Walls were there, but they could not see him, they could not hear him, they could not tell him that in the end everything would be okay. The blind, deaf, mute Walls might as well have not been there.
It was then the world weighed down on the Wardrobe and its hanger bar buckled and snapped. The suits were gone, his friends were gone, the love of his life, gone. He didn’t rest one minute that night alone in the attic.
The next morning, sounds of jilted heavy steps filtered in from the stairway. They brought up a frame and a box spring, a mattress and a comforter, all the pieces and they assembled them. The sun shining through the cracks of the attic, the Wardrobe had been reunited with the Master Bed.
Now, the Guest Bed.
Won’t you miss it down there, asked the Wardrobe.
No, you’re up here, said the Guest Bed, in that comforting way she did.
Over time, others joined forming the guest bedroom it had become. The Desk, quoting Nietzsche, like no one had ever quoted Nietzsche before. The quiet telescope, staring and staring at the new window. The young Lamp. She reminded the Wardrobe of the Candlestick and the day they set her in the room, he thought maybe, just maybe, she could fill the emptiness within.
She burned bright, yes she was younger, but time is such a fleeting thing, and opportunity even more fleeting. The Wardrobe made her laugh. The Guest Bed saw the way his frame over the years leaned more and more her direction, but the Guest Bed saw the way the Lamp stuck by that Desk’s side. The Guest Bed had always been alone. She was gorgeous, yes. The dresses that wrapped her were the most beautiful and detailed you’d ever see but she was a Queen. Men feared her size and knew they would look small beside her. She had nothing to give but comfort, warmth and patience, but sadly it was strange couples who only took her up on her offers.
Someone ascended the stairs. Strange men filtered in. Stared at the Wardrobe, and taller than them both, he stared back.
“That’s the one,” they said, and they pulled him downstairs, carelessly, his sides scraping, scratching the walls, his charred head bumping the ceiling. A woman followed, grabbed the Lamp like a trophy. The Wardrobe was in pain, but he saw the Lamp, thrown in a bin, with other small items. But they continued outward with him.
The strange men threw him in the street. He shattered into pieces of wood. Bones breaking. They liberally poured kerosene on him like they were drowning something out. The strange man took a Match, those poor short-lived beings, and he scraped its head against the ground. The Wardrobe tried to relax. The man threw the Match, burning bright, into the mess that was the Wardrobe. The Wardrobe tried to relax. He could feel fire. He could feel his memories of the Candlestick, burning inside of him. In his last breath, he could do nothing but burn.
Upstairs, in the attic, the telescope saw it all, but he could not say a word. The Guest Bed and the Desk knew what was happening.
Wardrobe, said the Desk, he’s in Hell out there.
No, said the Guest Bed, it is us who are in Hell.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WENDOVER, UTAH”, A POEM

READ “THE OBNOXIOUS SOUND OF MUSIC UPSTAIRS” , A SHORT STORY

NEWBORN

I locked the doors. Padlocked chained bolted shut the god damn doors and the outside world – cracked wide open a window and I threw out every letter, every picture, every moment of anything that ever meant anything to anyone. Indiscriminate. I took a hammer to the clocks. I threw my watch into the fire. I stomped on a fucking egg timer to make sure there was absolutely nothing left to make that tick tick noise. I shoved open my desk drawer and cut straight down my cheek with a razor blade. I felt nothing at all. I littered the floor with random papers, bank statements, grown-up homework like I was decorating a psych ward. I flipped the couches on their asses, I punched my fist through the television set. I unplugged the fridge and let the useless food begin to rot. I ran all the sinks at once. The gaudy shithole apartment sounded like Niagara Falls. The pipes moaned from pressure and bursted. The ceiling soaked like blood on bed sheets. There I was between fire and water. Between everything and nothing, leaning like the Tin Man back and forth. I felt nothing and it felt so god damn fucking beautiful. I put my rosary down the garbage disposal and hummed along to the sound of God dying. I broke my glasses in my hand like random twigs. I stepped on them like fire ants. I took my mother’s urn off the mantel and shoved it on the ground. I spit on the ashes. I turned on all four burners of the stove. I ripped my brown one-eyed, on-it’s-last-leg smiley-ass teddy bear into bits and sprinkled it on the hot coils. My eyes watered something other than tears as smoke clouded my blurred vision. I’d never seen more clearly. Broken dishes like bad memories and I smashed drinking glasses like I was allergic to thirst. I tore the carpet up and found that buried underneath was a whole lot of nothing. In a matter of what may have once been an hour, I turned a home at war into a mausoleum of peace. I put a record on. It skipped, I watched it mutilate itself. I felt nothing. Not a single drop of loneliness, confusion, anger, turmoil, fear, pain, hate, joy, love or indigestion. The record just kept skipping. I felt nothing and I hardly felt that. And then you walked out of the bedroom, wearing only my business blue banker shirt, you’re legs stemming out underneath like sex, and I fell to my knees on the torn-up carpet and I cried like a newborn fucking baby.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WINTERSONG”

WHITE LINGERIE

They say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but he saw her anyways. She tried on her dress for him, and he told her she looked beautiful.
She was nervous. He could tell.
“Hey,” he said to her, lying in bed beside her, “You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a day like any other, and you look gorgeous,”
“It’s just…”
“Haven’t you heard of cold feet?” he placed his hand on the outside of her thigh, his thumb playing with her white garter belt, “You’re gonna be fine,”
“I’m just glad I can be with you tonight. I don’t care about tradition, any of that. This feels right,”
“This feels right?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be going through all of this if it didn’t…”
The bed squeaked. Its metal frame was painted white and wasn’t the sturdiest of things.
“What happens tomorrow though? Do you and I change?”
“What do you mean?” she said, looking into his eyes, the way she had since the day she met him.
“You shouldn’t lay on your dress. You’re going to get it wrinkled…”
“Do you really care?” she said, standing up.
He sat up on the bed, facing the bathroom, and the empty closet.
“Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. Call it off. You go your way, and I’ll go mine,”
“I can’t believe you’d say that…”
“I’m sorry, I just know tomorrow’s a pretty big day, and if you’re not certain about everything, I…”
She removed her dress, laying it carefully on the cot. He lost his thought, as through her reflection, he saw her, drowning in white lace – a firm bodice fading down into sheer white stockings. She looked like an angel. A virgin.
“I’m certain about this…” she circled around the bed to his side. Her expensive heels brushing against the cheap carpet. She grabbed him by the tie and kissed him the way she always had. Like she knew for certain he was the man she was supposed to marry. The love of her life. He fell back on the bed, her body grazing over his. She ran her hands through his thick hair, but he places his just above her hips, stopping her,
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” she said, disenchanted, “Who could it possibly be? You can be so paranoid sometimes…”
A knock came at the door. He buckled his belt and opened it, leaving the chain on. A cold winter draft snuck in as he said,
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a call for Mrs. Lereaux…”
“Alright, well, thank you, you can send it through to the room’s extension…”
“We tried, sir – it didn’t want to go through. I believe your line may be unplugged,”
From the bathroom, she yelled to the doorway, her voice echoing,
“Who is it?”
“A mister James Thomas…”
“He’s probably just calling about the wedding tomorrow,” she said, “Tell him I’m asleep, and I’ll handle it in the morning,”
“Will do, Mrs. Lereaux. Mr. Lereaux, I apologize for the disturbance,”
“Oh, um…” he laughed under his breath, “That’s fine, thank you for stopping by,”
The door shut and the gentleman left, but the cold draft remained in the room. She was in the bathroom, wiping off her makeup, and he turned on the television.
She came out, a cotton swap still wiping her face,
“Really?” she said, “The night before the wedding and you’re turning on the television?”
He didn’t waste time with justification. He turned the television off and he smirked, because he knew he had her already. He looked straight on at her now plain face, and he said,
“You look gorgeous,”
She blushed.
He took her hand in his holding it up, and he said,
“May I have this dance?”
She nodded, smirking a bit herself, and she said,
“Yes, you may,”
They swayed back and forth, careful of the bags on the floor, cautious of the nightstands.
“I’d like to turn on the television again, but I know you won’t disapprove…”
“Fine…” she said, curiously.
He grabbed the remote off the bed and pressed the power on. He pressed a button or two more, one hand still on her waist and he threw the remote back down on the bed.
“Ooh…” she said, “What’s this?”
“Big Band, swing…” he told her, “They have music channels added to the hotel’s programming, just for moments like this.
“Do you have a lot of moments like this, Mr. Harrison?”
“Never,” he assured her, “And I doubt I’ll ever have a moment like this again.”
“What about tomorrow night?” she said hopefully, tragedy on the tip of her tongue.
“I’m sorry, I can’t…”
“And why’s that?” she said, her face pressed right up to his.
“I’ll be at a wedding…”
“Oh, really?” she played along. She always did.
“Yes, really…”
“And who’s getting married?”
“You are,” he whispered in her ear, “You are.”
She grabbed the remote and turned the volume up as high as it went.
“We might disturb somebody…” he said.
“I sure hope so,” she said, “We’ll never get another chance.”

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “DEAD POLAR BEAR”

DEAD POLAR BEAR

I walked home the same way everyday. Today was no different. Two blocks from my house, driving would be insanity. Every day I noticed the liquor store and the bikini-clad girls holding giant beer bottles. You know, those cardboard cut-out advertisements they make. But today, I noticed the dead polar bear in the middle of the street.
I live in Florida. And there was no doubt in my mind that there was a dead polar bear in the middle of the intersection of Cross and Main. Cars were lined up like frozen ants. A long, long line. How the hell does that happen?
A construction worker came by. Took one disbelieving glance at the thing and said “We have to move it.” I said no. I said there is no way in hell you are moving that polar bear from out of the middle of the road. He just repeated in his dumbass way “We have to move it.” I wasn’t the fighting type but if this guy and his dumb fucking orange vest was going to try to move that polar bear, the thing that took my wandering eyes off of the beer-holding cardboard broads, then I was willing to fight him. There were a lot of people lined up like ants with a lot of places to go and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I was desperate.
I found myself walking to the middle of the street and lying down on top of that polar bear. I felt its fur. It was icy. It was real. Fifteen minutes later, I felt handcuffs being placed on my wrists. They were icy and real too. But I had my fifteen minutes. And I never have to walk those two fucking blocks home again. I never have to fantasize about plastic beer girls again. And I will never be the orange-vested douche-bag who everyone expects to play hero. No one expects anything from the guy who tried to save the dead polar bear.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “(PAUSE)”