Surrender – Short-Shorts

#1

This is it, this is it, this is it, thought Wilkinson, over and over, as he leaned out past the edge of the sand-colored wall, aimed roughly toward another sand-colored wall behind which sand-colored men with guns were hiding. In this glare, even the guns were sand-colored.

The bullet went wild. He knew it would. His job was to make enough noise so the enemy would keep their heads down instead of shooting, so Jenks and Jameson – thick as thieves, they always went in together – could vault over their sand-colored wall and take them down.

It was so damned hot. Wilkinson counted and shot again. He didn’t see any sign of the enemy, they must be keeping low. Good.

When had he last taken water?

His Camelbak had been empty since they’d first taken cover, when the sand-colored men had ambushed them in the ruins of – something. Something that used to be a home, maybe, or a school or a post-office. Part of this sand-colored town. Jenks had let him take a pull of water from his. But how long ago was that?

There was an itch or a tickle in the middle of his back. Just sweat and sand and boredom. They’d told him about this, the guys who’d been here longer.

Jenks and Jameson should have signaled by now, should have jumped over the wall, should have returned by now with a whoop and a high five slap, sandy palm to sandy palm. The unit was all sand-colored now, too. Not just the camo, either. It was the sun that did it. Long enough and they’d go native, too. It happened in ‘Nam, he’d heard. Or maybe it was a movie. They used to smoke weed, too. He wished he could do that now. He used to smoke in high school. No more, though, now they take piss tests over and over, the creepy nurses watching him piss, like he’d cheat somehow.

Shit, how long since he’d shot? He popped off another one, and it sounded different somehow. It seemed to echo in his ears, even after he’d ducked back behind his sand-colored wall.

He hoped Jenks and Jameson were all right. He’d be sad if they were hurt. Even if Jameson wined at him funny, and was maybe a flit. Don’t ask, he always said. And maybe it’d be lonely enough one night. It happened in ‘Nam he’d read – or was it a movie?

When had he last had water? He wasn’t sweating anymore, the streams of it running down out of his helmet were dried, salty and sand-colored on his skin. He knew that was bad.

He was getting a headache, and his heartbeat was getting loud, echoing like that last shot. How long ago?

How long ago?

How long ago was it they’d watched the video about the dangers of the heat? Of STDs?

How long ago was ‘Nam? Before he was born, sure. There weren’t any chink whores here, just the women in bags, and who knew what they were like? They could even be men. He supposed he could get lonely enough. People did. He’d read about it – or was it a movie? Was that ‘Nam or here?

Where was Jenks? He never needed a shave, that was weird, wasn’t it? He and Jameson, thick as thieves, thicker than water.

How long ago?

Why is that shot still echoing? Maybe I’m just tired.

Yes. Tired. Who’d have thought? Getting shot at and I’m tired.

I can lean against this sand-colored wall. No, that’s not the wall. It’s the sand. How’d the ground get here? I guess I fell.

S’okay. Just tired. Where’s Jennison? No, that’s not…

S’okay. I’ll just wait here. How long ago did I fall?

Did I just sleep? Weird. No one’s shooting, no one’s shooting, no one’s ever going to shoot ever anymore. Not the sand men, not Jenniss, not Jimison. No that’s not right.

Maybe a little sleep. Until the Jay men come, until the sand men come, the sand, the sand…

This is it, this is it, this is … it.

 

#2

“I can’t – you know.” She was so embarrassed. The doctor would just laugh, tell her she was silly, it was nothing, who cared, really?

“Can’t what?” The doctor, oh God, he didn’t know what she meant. She’d have to spell it out.

“O … Orgasm. I can’t orgasm.” Like the word was a verb. But how else to say it?

The doctor crinkled at the eyes. “I see.”

Oh, God.

She was a nervous, dishwater blond with bright blue eyes and a habit of looking at the floor when she talked. Today she’d arrived in a smart suit, like for a job interview, but now of course she wore the flimsy, backwards robe. Her bare ass – still pert, James had said – crinkled the paper on the table. She stared at the doctor’s brown, sensible leather shoes. Like a lawyer’s shoes.

The doctor was too young, maybe 30, younger than her by ten years maybe. Handsome, dashing even. Silver at the temples, premature, yes, but so dashing. And yet boyish. Even the wispy stubble on his chin, a long night and no sleep just added to the effect.

“Let’s get you in the stirrups and have a look,” he said.

Oh, God.

“James says it’s a bad thing, makes him feel guilty, but I don’t know, it’s no big deal, really, only maybe there’s something wrong, something in my, you know, wiring” and babbling so she could pretend she wasn’t lying down, pretend she wasn’t spreading her legs, somehow more intimate than with James, the lights are on for one, and she’s putting her feet up into the stirrups, like riding a horse, and isn’t she bareback, a ha ha?

“Just relax,” he said, but who could relax when a doctor puts on his gloves? Who could relax when he has the tube of some sort of gel that was always cold nearby? Already she was cold, or shivering at least, and oh! He’s touching down there!

And she couldn’t babble any more, no words would come, and what’s he doing in there? Christ, does he need a miner’s cap?

“Just relax,” he said again, and who could relax when the doctor picks up a flashlight and shines it in, like an explorer, like she was a cavern, maybe with rare and exciting formations inside, or hidden treasure? She felt herself pressing back against him, not relaxing at all, maybe gripping his fingers like a handshake, but pushing forward, so he was deeper down there, and isn’t it the same thing?

There’s a sound and she shudders again. A wet sound. How embarrassing! Like, oh, like stirring macaroni, and oh, what a horrible comparison!

She can feel herself blushing. She always did, even when changing when the cat was in the room.

Blushing across her face and throat, and down her chest. It must be cold, glancing down, her nipples were as, well, as pert would be the word, standing up like twin minarets, objects calling the faithful to worship, and oh, what a funny image!

The wet sound continues, and ohmygod, the tube is still there, unopened! That’s all her, he never opened the gel at all! How embarrassing! Em-Bare-Ass-ing, really, a ha ha, and she shifted, squirmed really, her butt on the table cold, and feeling flattened as he presses her down, holding her to the table like gravity, and if she shifts a little, just so, and just so, it feels more comfortable.

Comfortable? Is that the right word? Is it really important just now?

What is he doing down there and what’s that? What the hell is that I am feeling?

The doctor hums as he goes about his work. Goddamned humming for God’s sake! And oh!

There it is again, and she shifts forward like a back row spectator, trying to get a better look at oh, a dancer, perhaps. Or a master craftsman, a glassblower, maybe, spinning and blowing the fragile crystalline threads and bubble, white-hot, then red, and then luminous not through heat but through something else, magic, maybe, miracle, art certainly. A transformation from sand to beauty, a gift from God, and oh! There it is again! What’s he doing down there?

Mmmmmm, that’s nice, like a massage, like a deep tissue, healing massage. Can’t get much deeper, really, a ha ha.

Oh god, what if I pee? How embarrassing that would be! And he’d stop. He mustn’t stop.

The doctor sensed the new tension, the squeeze not of acceptance but of fear. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just relax.”

Easy for him to say, but his voice was so deep and warm, and that humming was sort of hypnotic, really, and really, she knew the right words after all, didn’t she? Best not say them or even think them, or he’d stop, and he mustn’t stop, above all else.

What was that tune he was whistling? Maybe he could show James this trick, this massage, this, oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, mmmmmm!

No, not James. James was hopeless. He couldn’t do anything for himself, really, and wasn’t that the only reason he’d married her? Maybe this wonderful, wonderful oh! wonderful thing was something anyone would know, or he should, anyway, or maybe she should, whose fault but who cares please don’t stop, and hmmmmm, they’re both humming, it’s the same tune, and he’s working a little harder, and the sound is even more wet, and she’s oh my god, that’s her making that sound how embarrassing, shut up, oh my god, that’s good, and what’s that what’s that really oh my god, here it is, here it is, and she’s not going to pee she’s going to light! Fanfare! Oh my god oh my god, oh, breathe, Rachael, breathe and “Breathe” he says, and “let what happens happen” and he hums a little louder, and there’s a trickle of sweat, and his forearm must be well developed if he does this often, like Jim Henson’s and doesn’t that make me the Muppet and oh! oh! Here it comes again, here I come again and oooooo! and oh! and oh, a third time so quick? Is it possible? YES! It is possible, and so is anything, and why oh why have I been holding on so long?

“Oh!” she said, and “oh!” and he said, “Yes. Oh.” And he laughed.

“I guess I’m not broken,” she said and he said, “I guess not.”

“I never knew,” she said and he said, “Now you do” and “You know what to look for now.”

“Yes.” And “I am calling James right now. We are going to get a divorce.”

“Good luck,” he said. “You need to let go more often, in more ways.”

“One more, for the road?” she asked, and “so I know it wasn’t a dream?”

And he said, “Yes.”

And she said, “Yes.”

 

#3

I awaken in the same bed, brush the same teeth, take the same piss. I drive the same road, walk the same path, climb the same stairs.

I sit in the same chair, my shoulders already stooped, my body surrounding the paunch, shaped from the same, the same, the same.

I plug in, I take a piss break, ha ha cheating time from the Bosses, I plug in, I take lunch, the same lunch, I plug in, I watch the same clock tick the same minutes, I unplug.

I descend the same stairs, walk the same path, drive the same road.

My son says, “What happened, Daddy?”

I answer him the same as my father did: “I gave in.”

Oh, the hand of God makes fools of every man who looks to the future.