clam guts

by Susan Leona Flint

BEFORE YOU WERE BORN I WAS A DIFFERENT MAN. I DIDN’T WEAR MY SEATBELT. I LIVED IN A CITY WHERE THE MONEY FESTERS LIKE MOLD. I HUNG AROUND THAT CITY’S NECK. I ATE THE SCRAPS IT FED ME. I MADE MY LAIR AT THE INTERSECTION OF GREED AND FAILURE. I ENDURED THE SIGHT OF HOMELESS PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY AND I THOUGHT IT MADE ME SPECIAL. I SWALLOWED CIGARETTES WHOLE.

I TOOK A LOATHSOME GANDER AT THE GREENISH MAN TO MY LEFT. HE WAS SNOTTY LIKE A BRAT. HE WAS THE WORST TYPE OF POOR. THE GRAYING SHIRT. THE UNSTARCHED COLLAR. I COULD SEE MYSELF IN HIM. THAT WASTED LIFE.

I CAME OFF THE SUBWAY DESPERATE AND FURRED WITH A TERRIBLE MOLD. I COULD STILL SMELL THAT GREENISH MAN. I SEARCHED THE STATION FOR ASSURANCE. IN BETWEEN THE SCALPS OF THE FORGOTTEN AND THAT WRETCHED CIGAR SHOP, I FOUND YOUR MOTHER.

YOUR MOTHER WAS A WOMAN OF PITIFUL STATURE. SHE WAS AS LIMP AND TEPID AS A NOODLE FORGOTTEN IN THE SINK. HER EYES WERE NO MORE CRYSTALLINE THAN SALT. I TOOK HER TO ASBESTOS DINERS AND LEFT THE TIP OF A NICKEL. SHE LET ME TIE HER INTO A KNOT. SHE PICKED UP MY COLD HAND AND KISSED IT.

I WAS THE KNUCKLE OF A PRAYING HAND. I WAS THE CUCKOO COMING HOME TO NEST. MY COMPATRIOTS MISSED ME AT THE BAR WHERE WE DRANK OUR FIZZY SLOP. I TOLD THEM SORRY BOYS. I’M WITH MY WOMAN.

MY OFFICE WAS A LARGE AND DEEP HOLE. MY DESK WAS LACQUERED LIKE A BUG. BRUCE STOOD ABOVE THE HOLE AND LOOKED IN. HE WAS THE MOST COMPATRIOTIC OF THEM ALL. HE AND I WERE TWO SIDES OF A SPOON. HE WAS MY BROTHER AND MY BOSS. I WAS HIS SUBORDINATE AND HIS SON.

HE FED ME HANDFULS OF CORN. I CAME TO ROOST ON HIS ARM. HE TOLD ME THAT HIS SLEEVE WAS MY HOME.

HE WAS A WHOLE STICK OF BUTTER. HE WAS MY TEETH AND MY GUMS AND MY PLAQUE. HE KNEADED MY SHOULDERS WHILE I SAT IN MY HOLE. I WAS HIS CUP AND HIS ICE AND HIS DRINK.

            “I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU AT THE BAR RECENTLY.” HE MURMURED IN MY EAR. “I MISS YOU.”

            “I MISS YOU TOO.”

            “SO COME.”

            “I CAN’T.”

            “IS SHE REALLY MORE IMPORTANT THAN ME? THAN YOUR JOB?”

I ASKED HER IF I COULD STOP BY THE BAR SOME NIGHTS. SHE SORT OF SMILED THE SMILE OF A DEAD BIRD ALL TWISTED ON THE ROAD.

            “YOU DON’T HAVE TO ASK ME PERMISSION.” SHE SAID.

HER EYES WERE CRACKED WITH WORRY. SHE WAS BEGGING ME TO STAY. I WENT.

WE STILL HAD THE WEEKENDS. I TOOK HER TO THE BEACH AND WE ROLLED IN THE GRIT. I FESTOONED HER WITH VINES OF DIAMONDS AND GOLD. I NEEDED TO MAKE IT UP TO HER. SHE TOLD ME WITH BESEECHING EYES THAT IT WAS FINE, THAT SHE DIDN’T MIND. SHE CLUNG TO ME LIKE AN URCHIN.

BRUCE WAS THE VINE ON WHICH MY TOMATOES GREW. HE WAS THE SNAKE THAT LAID MY EGGS. BEST MAN AT THE WEDDING. SLAPPED MY BACK AND CALLED ME TIGER. HE LOVED ME LIKE A PLOT OF LAND. MY EYES TWITCHED SLOWLY SHUT. I WAS READY TO BE FARMED.

THEN YOUR MOTHER SAT ME DOWN AND TOLD ME THAT SHE HAD BECOME CLAM GUTS AROUND A PEARL. MY EYES FLEW OPEN.

            “I AM SO SORRY, CLAIRE, FOR ALL OF YOUR MISERY. I WILL DO BETTER FOR YOU.”

I TOOK HER TO THE ASBESTOS DINER AND LEFT THE TIP OF A DIME.

A MOTH BEAT ITS FISTS AGAINST BRUCE’S WINDOW. I STOOD AT ATTENTION BY THE DOOR. BRUCE CREASED A LINE INTO HIS NEW CASHMERE JACKET WITH THE BACK OF HIS FINGERNAIL. HE WATCHED ME WITH A HALF SMILE LIKE I WAS HIS FAVORITE SPORT.

            “TIME TO HIT THE BAR, TIGER?”

            “I’M NOT COMING.”

            “NOT TONIGHT?”

            “MY WIFE IS PREGNANT.”

            HE DROPPED HIS SMILE.

            “AN EMPLOYEE WHO CANNOT MAINTAIN A POSITIVE RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS COMPATRIOTS WILL HAVE TO BE LET GO.”

BRUCE STRAIGHTENED MY TIE AFFECTIONATELY.

            “SO ARE YOU COMING?”

If I choose Bruce:

UNCLE BRUCE WAS THERE FOR YOUR BIRTH. I WAS WORKING, OF COURSE, WHEN WE GOT THE HOSPITAL CALL. SO HE DROVE. WE ALMOST MISSED IT. YOUR MOTHER HELD YOU AND I HELD YOU AND BRUCE HELD YOU. HE KISSED THE TOP OF YOUR FURRY HEAD AND STARED RIGHT AT ME. I HOPE THAT YOU ARE AS IN LOVE WITH ALL YOUR TCHOTCHKES AND TOYS AS I AM WITH YOUR MOTHER, WHO IS STIFF AND DRY LIKE UNCOOKED PASTA. I HOPE THAT YOUR QUIET SCHOOL NIGHT DINNERS ARE SATISFACTORY. AT LEAST WE STILL HAVE THE WEEKENDS.

If I choose Claire:

 YOUR MOTHER HAD A DIFFICULT PREGNANCY. I LED HER AROUND THE HOUSE LIKE A MULE AND WIPED THE UNDERSIDE OF HER BELLY. HER SKIN WAS TAUT AND SHINY AND TRANSLUCENT LIKE A JELLY BEAN. WHEN SHE DIED I HELD HER HAND. THERE WAS A LOOK OF VICTORY ABOUT HER CORPSE.

YOU AND I. YOU AND I. WE DRIFT THROUGH THE SUBWAY, MY COLLAR UNSTARCHED, MY SKIN A GREENISH TINT. YOUR HAND IN MINE. I SIT ACROSS FROM YOU AT DINNER. WE CANNOT AFFORD THE GIFTS OF THE WORLD. I DO WHAT I CAN FOR YOU BUT IT’S NEVER ENOUGH. SOMETIMES WHEN I LEAD YOU THROUGH THE SUBWAY I FEEL A LONG GAZE GRIPPING MY NECK, AS IF THROUGH THE FERNS HE IS STILL WATCHING.

Photo of Susan Leona Flint

BIO: Susan Leona Flint is a writer and video game developer originally from Vermont, but currently sweating her ass off in Austin, Texas. You can find her written work published or forthcoming in Jabberwocky, BULL, Putney Litmag, and others. You can find her video game work online at forgetmenotgames.com.