TOTM: 26:: Elucidation

[thereplacement]

Elucidation

By K.S.R.

A black sequence dress that looks like a skimpy long shirt and hangs over breasts with lots of side cleavage. Short blonde hair--razor edges and sleek. Large eyes that meet at tight angles. Very petite. Her ass cheeks flashing from under that obnoxiously sexy dress. Sequence thong too--the front part. Her lotion makes her look like she's sweating, and it looks like her lotion is something along the lines of Elucidation, a Rae Field's brand, because that's what I bought for Brittany, and it's impressively pricey.

Black Sequence Dress Girl is somewhere behind me and I'm willing to bet that she's thirty-four years old, but she looks like she's thirty-six and maybe she's forty, and if she is forty ... that's just fucking fine.

Perfect circle eyes. All of them. Round, wide circles with black dots, dumb looking. A lot of white in these dumb eyes. Black, black skin and nappy hair and perfect circled lips, fat lips. All of them. Boney arms. Raised above their heads. Palms facing the sky. Boney legs. Leafs covering their crotches. Spears at their feet. Although they appear to be identical at a quick glance, they're not at all. They all are probably in their early thirties, probably thirty-two or thirty-three years old. All of them. There're slight differences in their facial features and expressions. Very slight. One has his tongue slipping out between his lips. One is frowning. One smiling. One has high cheek bones. One has fat cheeks. One has a double chin. Their postures are the major difference. They have different bends to their knees and rises to their shoulder, hunches in the back. But these really don't matter. What matters is the level of their palms. And they are level. They need to be. They are holding up the bright green glass platform for our drinks. The ones who aren't holding up the green glass platform, are standing in groups of three holding up circular brown leather cushions for our asses. These little African Jungle Midgets.

I'm nose to nose with one now, and I tap his eye, say to myself, "Plastic. Really, really ... fucking strong plastic."

I can hear Charles, sitting by Marla at the far corner of the table, which is under an evaporating rainfall that glows florescent green and yellow, saying, "Salas should seriously slow down, and I'm not saying that because he's making me look bad, because, I mean come on, I do not look bad. I'm saying that because our good friend Steven 'I'm not an illegal' Salas is fucking making himself look bad. Did you see his death-by-PowerPoint presentation? Were you there? It was ridiculous. I hope J.L. doesn't expect me to waste his man-hours implementing animated slides. I hope not. He knows that I spend my time making him money. Fucking Salas lands that fucking back shaver POS product and he thinks he's the brown angel." Charlie is twenty-six years old. His face is ridged and his nose points downward and he has frown lines, so he looks like he's thirty-two and a half.

Marla says, "Riley Inc." Marla, bright red hair with slight gray roots, is thirty-seven, but will be much more appealing at forty-seven, and I hope that I'm around to see this as long as she keeps up with her gray. She could ruin it all by becoming comfortable with aging.

I place my index finger on the African midget's lips and outline it. "Thick, thick rubber. Rubbery plastic. God. Incredible. True art. Original I bet. Must be."

Charles says, "Riley Inc. I know this."

Marla casually concludes, "He landed Riley Inc." Then in her hollow voice, with these moments of depth that one would expect from a professional lady who prefers her men dependent upon her says, "Riley Inc. is a big deal, Charlie Boy."

Charles changes the subject with, "I am getting misted on by this fucking rainfall machine thing. What is this? Seriously. Where are we? What the fuck is this place?"

I stand up. I grab my Former Alter Boy: lots of Vodka and a little of The Simple Trend energy drink: sharp neon pink, nearly glowing, in a tall cylinder with a glass yellow straw. I sip it.

Samantha, to my left, sitting on African midgets, says to me, "Where did you go?"

I eye down.

She smiles. Samantha is utterly sexy with a very slight build that is remarkably anorectic, and she probably is, and this ages her to look like she's thirty. She's twenty-five, and she's wearing some God awful Solon Drift outfit that's implanted here, and it looks like something from the Flintstones. Cruelly safari with stripes, animal-fuck'n-stripes. Poor girl. When will she get it? I bet she has seventy-K already in her saving's account, and she is a Legacy Credit Union member, just like me, and it bothers me that she's only been at this for a couple years and she's probably got eighty-K in her saving's and at least, very least, three grand in her checking's. Where will her money go when she force vomits herself to death? Probably to her silly sorority, probably two her sixty-six-year-old mother and seventy-year-old pops--payback for their midlife mistake: Her.

"I'm just playing with the little people," I say.

Charles calls across the table, "Kent! Son of a bitch, are you digging this place?"

I look at Marla, and she rolls her eyes, and she grabs her fruity drink of some sort and sucks some of it back.

"I'm digging it."

Charles places his hands behind his head and says, "I am getting misted on."

"So don't sit in the rain."

He gives me a mordant smile and holds his hands above his head and into the artificial rainfall. "We should hit Masters. Let's finish our drinks, hit Masters. We can fuck with the NECN intern prick-bitches. Show them what's up. Whaddaya think? Huh?"

"I hate that place. Full of swine, my friend. Full of swine."

"And this place isn't?"

Bradshaw, sitting out of the rain, randomly says, "I'm loaded." Bradshaw is epitome of forty-five; he's accomplished his utmost value, which is comparably nil. He did it at thirty-nine. Reached his peek. Burnt out. Now he's just content. Content to eventually fizzle out, in the process, I'm sure, wrecking a few marriages (his and others') and demolishing a few more vehicles. Bradshaw. I love the nut.

Charles says to Bradshaw, "You're an alcoholic. Go back to the meetings."

Bradshaw winks and sips his scotch. "Absence from A.A. proves that I am just a ... drunk, and I'm no damn alcoholic. I'm simply a lush."

Charles says, "You're an alcoholic. Don't think we don't know that you booze it up at the office."

Bradshaw holds his hand out and extends his fuck you finger, pointing it at Charles. He says, "I am, I am killing it, and you're not. That's why the Brown Angel is swimming across that river, which splits your left and right portions of your pathetic brain."

"That's a terrible analogy, Brad-fuck."

"It wasn't an analogy. You're letting Salas rent space in your head. You're a miserable prick."

Charles laughs it off. Then he says, "Let's just fuck it and go to Bleachers. The C's are playing tonight. Bleachers is fun. Let's pretend for just one night that we are what we are: people. Normal people. Not normal like people like the ones at Bleachers. Normal enough. Fuck it. Let's go there, watch the C's kick Detroit's ass."

"Fuck the Celtics," I say.

Marla says, "I actually have courtside somewhere"--digs into her purse--"in here. Davis sent me down to grab a package for him and the bicycle deliver boy hand delivered the tickets to me with the package from Jensen and Sons."

"And you didn't give them to Davis?"

She gives up searching through her purse. Looks at me and says in an obvious tone, "I am the one who rode the elevator down and up forty-seven floors."

"And you're not even going to go to the game?"

"Fuck no."

"Why go to the game? There's nothing there. It's full of them." Charles points from the rainfall upfront to the tinted picture window--shadows move through the shade--out there.

I grab my Former Alter Boy and give the table a departing nod and turn to the bar and move to it, and I sit next to a man wearing an oversized black sweater and dark, dark blue jeans and he's wearing black shoes with a matte polish. His hair is black and he should really consider shaving his face.

He's talking on his cell: "Where are you? I'm here. You're, you're who the fuck knows where you are! I don't. Where are you? Fuck it!" He slaps his phone shut.

This man is in his thirties, and his face isn't blemished, and it's smooth and there are no signs of gray in scruff. He can pass for mid-twenties.

He looks to me, says, "I hate leaving messages."

I nod upward.

He calls to the bartender, and he orders a Preteen Orgy Party.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Mexico Energy with Red Bull with Simple Trend."

"Oh. No alcohol."

He cocks his head at me. Sneers. "No. No alcohol."

"That just seems pointless."

"Not if you don't drink."

"I suppose."

He blurts out, "There's a lot happening." Then he starts telling me about his girlfriend who is in grad school in NH and how she's lost on the highway, but how he really thinks she's fucking some small state school undergrad. "Some punk ass marketing major!" And I don't know why he's telling me all this, and this reminds me that I have a girlfriend too, and I don't know where she is.

"I'm Holden Kent," I say extending my hand. "My biziotch is MIA too. We might, just possibly, have something in common." And I doubt this, but I'm drunk and am looking for interesting dialog.

"I'm an 'H' too," he needlessly laughs this. Too much energy, I think. He says, "Hunter Graves."

We shake hands.

"So, Hunter, how's life?"

"Life is sucky shit, Holden. Sucky, sucky shit."

"That's a unique spin to put on it: sucky shit."

"Sucky shit."

"Sucky shit, how?"

"My bitch is fucking some kid. Some douche bag kid."

"A marketing major." I smile and raise my eyebrows, rubbing it in for my personal pleasure. "What do you do?"

"I'm a photographer."

"Nice."

"Nice my sucky shit ass."

"Not nice?" Raise my eyebrows even higher.

"Photography ... that was the past for me. Now I just fix people's bullshit. You see, Holden, fuckers, swine"--nice choice of rhetoric--"they think that we're pointless. Photographers. They think that they can do the job themselves. However, you see, what they do is go and buy a two hundred dollar camera, and price of the camera doesn't matter; I can shoot an event with one of those disposables better than somebody can with my Canon. By someone, I mean these fucks. They buy digital cameras, cheap, and they don't have experience, no formal training, and they pay ten grand--at least--to have a reunion or wedding, but they want to cop out and fuck'n shoot the fucker themselves with a cheap camera and eight mega-pixels. And then ... whoopsy! The next day they realize that they fucked it up: blury images, slow shutter, bad composition, hot spots, under exposed, over exposed--garbage. So this is when they call me: 'please. I need help. My daughter told me to get a photographer. I had a camera. I have this one. Now all my shit' is fucking shit. God. Swine bag fucks. So I'm stuck with the miserable task of rescuing flawed coverage."

"Sounds tough."

"Well ... the money is good."

Get a text. It's Starla. The text: I'm outside. On my way in. Where are you?

I text back: At the bar.

Look to Hunter. He's combing his fingers through his hair, grinding his lips against each other, just saying, "Plymouth State ... Plymouth State?" Looks to me, says, "Is that even a real school? Plymouth State University?"

I shake my head. "Not really. It's standard. It's part of the University system of NH, which, as I'm sure you know, is very Busch League."

He nods. Looks down at the bar.

I look to the entrance. Press my back against the bar.

Starla is incredibly decked out. Gold blonde hair. High heels. Solution dress that carves her frame into this room and I'm surprised that all the Jungle Midgets don't freak out, magically coming to life and drag her away.

I start to declare the arrival of my girl with: "There she--"

"Holy shit," Hunter says, "See that bitch? Me and boys gangbanged her a few years back. And that's not all. She's something else. That hot ass bitch in. Her. See her?"

I have this grin. This grin and my back is pressed against the bar, and Hunter's words resonate but don't, because I'm more concerned about Starla wearing her sunglasses inside, and I love it when she does this, and surely, surely-surley-surley, Hunter can't be talking to me about my girl.

He goes, "Looks like she's coming over here. Got the shit on tape--love the sluts. Shit, hope she doesn't recognize me."

He turns quickly and puts his forehead into his palm.

Starla bends to my cheek and kisses it.

She says, "Sorry I'm late, dear."

"No worries. This place sucks."

Hunter's voice: "Not the only thing that sucks."

I nearly elbow him.

Starla says, "The crew with you, your little crew?"

I nod, eye the table.

Starla is twenty-seven-years old. She looks fresh, but she does seem much older than her age. She could pass for thirty-five-years old--easy. Her face has sharp angles; sharp angles make people look older. Her eyes are seriously controlling; this makes her seem serious, and, for the most part, she is--seriousness also adds on years. However, the way she manages her diet and diligently cares for skin, by the time she's fifty, she'll only look like she's forty-two and a half, and I doubt she'll have much gravitational pull, forcing those loose wrinkles around the corners of the mouth and the chin; however, she will have the "11" lines, because that's how controlling her stares can be. Everything about Starla is cutting. Or sharp. Or direct. Decisive. This is why I love her.

Starla says, "Are we going Newport this weekend?"

I nod.

"Good," she lights a smoke, "Father expects us to be there by ten, and he's all about showing us a good time."

"Newport is a dive."

"I know."

"Too much cobblestone."

"Tell me about it."

"Hate that place. I hate Rhode Island in general."

"We have this discussion every time we go."

"I know. Sorry."

"Don't be. Daddy just wants to have people around while he get's loaded. Speaking of which"--she gets the bartender's attention--"can I get a Razor Burn Stubble?"

I hear the bartender ask, "Penis or Vagina?"

"Vagina has the cherry?"

"Yep. And Penis has whipped cream."

I crack a grin.

"Can I have both? A combo? Is that possible? Please and thank you." She eyes flirty to me, "I like both."

Hear Hunter say, "No shit."

Bartender says, "One He-She Razor Burn Stubble coming up."

I ask, "Do you want to get out of her ... like now?"

"After my drink."

"Cool."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. How ... about ... the Chuck Wagon?"

"Where?"

"Shit, changed its name. What was it called before?"

"I don't know. The Chuck Wagon sounds wretched."

"I know it does. But this place is too much right now. This place is wretched."

"Was it Seven's?"

"What? No, Seven's is still open."

"No it's not. There's a place called Cutting Edge there now."

"If you know the Cutting Edge is there why would you ask if Chuck Wagon is there? God."

"I'm just brain-storming, Kent."

"Call me Holden."

"Why?"

"Because you called me Kent when we weren't fucking. Now we're fucking, and I'm going here and there to crappy old NE sights to visit your family ... Kent seems too much like ... well it's just not appropriate."

She get's her drink. It's a shot. She bites the cherry from the whipped cream, chews, swallows and then shoots it. It's seventeen dollars. I tell the bartender to put it on my tab and ask for my credit card back--time to go.

"I need to go the bathroom," she smiles--puts out cigarette--and starts to move--stops and looks at Hunter--taps his shoulder and says with a surprised bitch-noise: "Hey you!"

I look to the bar tender. I say, "This guy banged my girl in a gangbang"--point to the two, who are know rambling--"and now they're catching up."

The bartender shoots me a grin. "That's a reason to drink." He shakes his head. "You driving?"

"You bet your ass I am. So I must pass."

I hear Starla say to Hunter, "Those were crazy days." Then she looks to me and gives me this you won't believe this expression and says, "I went to grad school with this guy."

"Oh ... Hunter. You and Hunter ... in grad school."

Hunter says, "Yep. We liked studying."

"Bet you did." I laugh loudly--over do it. Starla eyes me, pauses and then moves to the bathroom.

Hunter says, "Shit, man, you need to stay away from that."

"Stay away? She's my fiancé."

"Sorry."

"Fuck, man. Gang bang?"

He just nods.

The bartender says, "That's it. Suicide Bombers on the house.
This is some crazy shit."

He slides me shot. I shake my head. "I can't. Driving."

Hunter says, "Holden, your girl was a fucking buffer, man. We'd call her at three a.m. for fucking head."

"What?"

"Seriously. We did crazy shit to her. Starla was a sex slave. And everyone took advantage. Randy, my good pal and great photographer, he took this hermit crab one night, wait, no--yeah: two hermit crabs one night and that thing that dentists use to keep your mouth open and he, wow this was sick, he prep--"

"Dude, I hope you're fucking with me."

"No. I'm not. I'm not fucking you with, man."

Starla returns. "You ready?"

I nod. I shake Hunter's hand. He wishes me well. He hugs Starla. He takes her number. He slaps my shoulder.

Driving. She's looking out the window. I'm looking at her.

She says, "What's wrong?"

I say, "Babe, that Hunter character told me that you were On Demand for head and shit, sucking all kinds of boys off."

"It was college."

I nod. Eye her. Nod some more, trying to find logic.

"Gangbangs? College too?"

"Kent, dear, if you're going to get angry about the naughty things I did in the past, then I don't know."

"Don't know? Don't know what?"

"If this is going to work?"

"What works? Seriously, what works?"

"Are we going to Newport this weekend?"

"Yes."

"Good." Then she says, "Brittany called." She taps my cell. "Brittany. Who's that?"

"Flesh Collection."

"What?"

"That's what it was ... Flesh Collection."

"What was Flesh Collection?"

[Alex]

I liked it, seemed like it was very well written, kept me wanting to read to the end. Didnt quite understand it though, I got how it connected with the picture but, well, I guess i just didnt like the way it ended. i understand it ended while the picture was taking place but, just seemed like it needed something.

[thereplacement]

Yeah. I agree. I was waiting for something to happen. I was really letting the characters do their own thing, and nothing happened. Normally I go into my stories with three elements, which I find essential: Story (no shit, right?), theme and plot.

The story is all the action. The theme, for me, is the message--what I'm saying, my voice, and I sprinkle the story with the theme, and the plot is what I try to develop with the story sprinkled with my theme and if I can (or in most of my cases: the characters) work it out right, all three of my basic elements merge at some point--usually the ending. And sometimes I do get giddy when this works.

My problem with this is that I had no plot. I had a story going and the theme but they never worked together to create a plot and it didn't happen. I tried to pass it off in a lazy--I'm too fucking deep--for a conventional plot, which, BTW, works well without the laziness, but in this case it was lazy. However, I did manage to get Holden, Hunter, Charles and Marla out of this deal, and I'm sure they'll show up in my more serious stuff. I love characters. I left out my friend Bradshaw. I've already placed him in a longer story, which I've been running through my brain since 2005 and now I have lead character to carry the weight.

I love it when I create characters who I find remarkable. If I don't kill them off, they can keep showing up. Good deal. Thanks for the input.

[Venomous Vixen]

I liked the overall atmosphere of this, but I agree with the others, why this moment, why is this important to be reported on beyond just an account of a fictional character. I would have liked it to be a bit more that just casual observations and the usual chatter with friends and co workers. You do have a way with dialouge though, it was impressive, as was a lot of your descriptions. You take some risks too, in the way you describe certain things, and that was refreshing. Very interesting take on this and like I said at the beginning, in no way did you fall short of the atmosphere of the photo prompt.

[Lubesh]

I agree with bri, but also your motives and what u say you derive and have gained even characters from it. More important, as far as getting always getting it across, dont lose sight of your audience. Dialogue was refreshing though.

[dorian hanes]

My apologies *thereplacement, I thought that I had read this before.

I think…(…savings’ account,…).

And here…(…in her savings’ and at least, the* very least, three grand in her checkings’.) I’m not 100% certain, but on most statements doesn’t it read ‘savings’ and or ‘checkings,’ minus the ‘s’ on ‘checking. (?)

Should it be ‘to’ here…(…,probably to* her sixty…) (?)

I have no clue or clues to your tale. Its, this is going to be one of those ‘if I come and read stories,’ or ‘yeah…I read some of it, but it didn’t really peak my interest tales.’