Commercial Break
- Nov 18, 2020
- 3 min read
by Carleton Whaley
Mr. C —
Was and is alone. Has been for as long as Mr. C — can remember. Sure, there are faces that have woken next to his, but when they leave there is only the smell of Meyer lemons and bleach. What dust they leave behind is quickly excoriated, swept up and forgotten in the bin. Mr. C — is not a man for excess or sentiment. His clothes, his floors, his counters, all gleam white specifically to show any spot, that it might be erased. A single earring is his one concession to asymmetry, and he had that pierced a long time ago. His knees are getting sore from kneeling on the tile, arms tiring as he scrubs. He thinks about the earring. The boy that held an ice cube behind his ear. The hands that felt cool on his neck. He keeps scrubbing, scrubbing until the grout knows only the smell of lemon-scented cleaner and the sweat beading on his smooth, hairless head. After cleaning, Mr. C — showers. How long has he been alone now? When has he last spoken to someone? In his own way, he thinks of himself as a monk. He offers prayers for the orderliness of his monastery. The dwelling, transfigured, a place so bright it hurts to look at. Wasn’t he told that sacrifice is equivalent to love?
Tonight, he will grill the wild trout, will take extra care deboning it. He cannot miss a single one. How long would it take someone to find him, for the smell of his body to rise above the lavender, lemons, bleach?
The Insurance Girl
Wouldn’t call it a breakdown. Rich and famous people get those. She is only of some small notoriety, even in her own circles. The clippers buzz in her hand, and she marvels at the stark white rectangle of her scalp showing through her hair. It’s like she isn’t really there, just pixels on a screen, and someone clicked the Eraser function, dragged and dropped something away. Her white apron catches those long, dark clumps, and she smiles. Reality always had a way of sliding off of her. She keeps going.
She’d never been one to take risks. Happiness was a boat unrocked, or a self-driving car. No more. She will climb a tree. She will eat red berries and not wipe the juice from her lips. She will become a messy shape, unable to be penned into a grave, will rebel until— The hum of the clippers changes frequency as they cut, as every hair is shorn, as her pristine apron darkens, until the person in the mirror can’t really be her anymore.
Can You Hear Me Now?
He asks over and over. In the pines? In the pines? The air is thick with transmissions. I can only hope you find this, and listen. Can you hear me now? I’ll wait. I’ll wait. But if this does get to you, if you find yourself tugging one end of the line—
The you on the line has been listening, is unsure of their next move. They wait while he talks, convincing him there is no one to hear him. How else to get the truth? And what then? To breach the air, or simply fade away?
The Bears
There’s something not right about them, the neighbors say. Not in front of the Bears, of course. Mr. Bear does his part. Mows the lawn regularly, but never too late or early in the day. Takes extra shifts on the Neighborhood Watch. Billy and Susie Bear never play too loud, and even if they roughhouse, they’ve never hurt another child. At least, not one from around here. Mrs. Bear is only seen fleetingly. A shadow in the window cooking, or lathering soap to cut through caked-on grease. A head in the passenger side of the car, a whip of a coat behind her as Mr. Bear lugs in groceries: milk, eggs, rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls of toilet paper.
I’m sure it’s nothing, the neighbors say.
The Bears come over for the cul-de-sac barbecue, and for a moment the queasy feeling turns to guilt. The Bears are alright after all. It’s only in the night, after the cookout, when the smell of charcoal still licks the fence-posts, that the neighbors lie awake. Unable to fall asleep, they think of news headlines, their own faces staring dumbly into the camera lenses saying I never knew, saying I never would have guessed, staring and lying.
Carleton Whaley once walked into a lamppost in Snow Hill, MD. A passing driver laughed. His fiction can be found in Paper Darts, New South, Five: 2: One, Occulum, and more.
