Acceleration

Within a month of launching The Literary Brothel, Parker and I realized that there was no way were going to be able to write one piece a week all by ourselves without becoming more redundant than we already were...becoming. We immediately contacted everyone we knew who had an interest in literature or liked to talk. Luckily, my old friend Teddy likes to do both, and agreed to submit some pieces. Here's one of his best. -KV


ACCELERATION
by Teddy Nutmeg

"There's more to life than just increasing its speed." Said someone, I forget who.

Moving on, moving on, 30,000 feet somewhere over Indiana (or is it Kansas?--central time, anyway, what happened to eastern?) and she won't let me go. Its been two moons since Lara's exit stage left and her newly vacated niche in my soul can no longer be ignored - its angry voice gains strength like a semi down a steep grade, brakes out, driver asleep at the wheel.

Accelerating out of control, my life has a will of its own, busying itself with meetings and dinners and flights to locations unknown to the conscious mind. When I think for myself, all I can think about is her. No, that's not quite right. When I am myself, all I am is her, anymore.

My hard boiled shell is cracking-I'm no Phillip Marlowe. The tough-guy mask I make in order to hide from myself is falling apart. That's the problem with paper mache and hasty resolutions; quick to make but quicker to crumble.

Moving on, we're on mountain time now, no, make that pacific, mountain was back there, pal, back when you had time to write some words on a digital tablet owned (like you) by the Great American Insurance Company.

When she left, the great company had me across the country, limbs on puppet strings, dancing and singing for the man to get richer. I had a new career, a new gold card, a new haircut, new clothes and a new emptiness, but no time to grieve. I had no time to wade through dark loneliness and come out stronger. I sat in the darkness and made myself see only light. Just the new job, concentrate all on just the new job. Like a shipping box once you take out the contents, I had a million styrofoam concerns which falsely filled her place in my psyche, but insubstantial, mostly air, these just take up space, they can't occupy it.

Moving on, moving too fast for me to react, like a superbike rider I'm barely aware of where I am - just trying to hang on and guide the ride in a general direction. Three days back in San Diego and my watch is still set to central time. No wonder I've been so early.

Home and a lull, and God how I miss her. Her shadow, her presence still haunts the apartment which is no longer ours; her scent lingers on the walls and her image is everywhere. Strands of long black hair wrap around my bare feet as I shuffle past the couch we shared, the bed we made love in, the life we made together. I miss her tangibility, forever hugs and hands held and the smell of her hair in my face. I wake up and she's not there. I come home and its too quiet. I cook and I make too much. The couch is too big for one, I catch myself sitting in her spot (her butt-dimple is still there) and then realize that she won't rag me for it. I wish she would.

Moving on, across the country, wondering when I can see her next, wondering if she'll ever return my calls again, touch my face again, let me drink from her lips again. My body screams for her touch, but it's getting hoarse. I wonder if she can still hear it? Home Friday night at 11:45, leave Sunday at 2 on a wasted sunny day. Moving on, moving on.

I emerge from the metallic cocoon of a 747 into sweet Kentucky air, everywhere green, and a momentarily clear head. I remember being 5 in Nebraska and the air tasted like this. Humid, summer days sticky like a popsicle stick and just as sweet. Little league and my big brother playing left field, facing away from the plate with his mitt on his head. Castles in the sandbox until the storm sirens sound, then everybody crowds down to the basement to play hearts and Parcheesi and ping-pong. My castles are always worn and pitted and washed away by the rain when we emerge.

Moving on, fast forwarding through the first summer of my corporate career, alternating between not having time to think about her and not having time to think about anything else. The forced introspection on long flights catches up with me over Arizona, and I break down when I realize what I've chosen, when I realize that I am responsible. I've chosen the gold card, the new TV and DVD player, and the Sony Playstation 2. I've chosen short days and shorter nights in places like Burnet, Texas and Magnolia, Arkansas. I've chosen Van Heusen polo shirts and Tommy khakis and Gap leather belts. Laptops and databases and hostile accountants in back offices. Ikea and Best Buy are my significant others now.

I'd take one caress from her gold-skinned hand over golden plastic any day; her currency is the hardest. If only I could knock over a liquor store and take home a loot bag full of Lara.

After she moved out we still saw each other , I'd take her around to run errands, just to spend time with her, and I always would end up driving back to the apartment and getting out of the car like everything was fine, forgetting that the apartment no longer was her home. She'd gently remind me that she didn't live there anymore, and it would come like a kick in the face for the hundredth time; Lara left. But for that blissful couple of minutes while I drove home, everything was fine, me and my baby were just going home to settle in for the night and have some dinner, maybe some drinks, and afterward we'd lay down together. There were a thousand little things I loved about her that won't let me go.

Moving on, airport to airport, hotel to hotel. Empty smiles and "have a good stay, sir" intensify the isolation of the road, and not even the bottom of a bottle helps anymore. Rental cars all have that same smell and it reminds me of our trip to Montreal every time I drive one. Moving on, moving faster, my life is accelerating and it is leaving me standing alone in the middle of the road, frowning in between two peel-out skidmarks, breathing burned rubber and wondering where the sweet air has gone and what Lara is doing tonight. Moving on…

-Teddy Nutmeg, 2001