"You Won't End Up Hating Yourself"
A story--in fragments--from the vault, circa 2005.
…She might have made wines from a stinking herb, or cast spells to boil water, grow hair on rocks, split continents… She could have been nursing a weeping monster or taking bets on who'll live or die for all we knew…
I was 23 when I wrote this. If I were to title it now I think I’d call it…
LIFE AND AFTERLIFE
By the time it was already too late to start anything afresh, I took a job shadowing an old woman who otherwise lived alone in a two-room apartment in a part of the city sectioned off for greasy bakeries, black market pharmacies, and cold, too-brightly-lit bars serviced by altogether lackluster however large-titted girls in their forties. The old woman was the fearful, stubborn type with a wheezy, cotton-mouthed rag of a dog and a middle-class son who lived across the river. She talked about death as an absentminded city clerk, some kind of short-changing briefcased shmuck not too honest for her to outsmart. I was part of a plan, hired to watch her sleep and stop traffic on her walks to and from the post office where she visited the contents of a safe deposit box, whispering god knows how sweet nothings to fa gold watch and matching ruby tennis bracelets. We didn't care much for each other. Most nights we watched the same evening news on our respective televisions after supper.