roger lamb

by James Zoller

I was born into a family of great failures.

My father was a failure. He ran business after business into the ground, declared bankruptcy three times, and died young.

My mother is a failure. Twice divorced, and cheated on in both marriages.

My grandfather was a failure. A commercial pilot who flew a 757 into the Amazon, somewhere north of the Rio Negro. No survivors.

My brother was a spectacular failure. Held back twice, and overdosed at sixteen.

After my father and brother died, my mother did little to dissuade me from believing in my own imminent doom. I am unathletic, unsociable, and irritable. I’ve spent my life trying to outrun the loserdom bred into me. But no matter how fast I moved, I stayed on the same slow, predictable path.

The first big failure occurred when I was seven. I danced ballet. I was thin, nimble, jittery, a dainty little boy. My father would’ve been appalled, but he had already failed in the most permanent way — six months earlier. My brother, three years before him.

My mother, in those days, drank heavily. More often than not, she was drunk by the time I came home from school, still wearing her work clothes. In these instances, she’d wave me toward the Rosickys’ house next door.

Sebastian Rosicky was my classmate. His family lived in a brownstone at the end of our street. His father was a Russian architect. His mother, a Swiss-Austrian, spent most days at the dog park, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. His sister, Aly, three years older, was a ballet prodigy already training with the elite at Lincoln Center.

Their second-floor living room had been converted into a dance studio. Sebastian’s father had knocked down the south-facing wall and replaced it with towering ten-foot window panes. The floors were chestnut-colored, so rich and dark it felt like your feet might sink into them.

One afternoon, my mother told me, “You’re three fucking handfuls, Roger. You mu-must go to the Sebastians.”

She had a habit of calling them “the Sebastians,” even though Sebastian was just the boy. I obeyed and headed down the street.

Sebastian answered with his usual cheer, accent thick. “Roger! I was hoping you’d come!”

Inside, the playroom — adjacent to the studio — was floored with thick rubber mats, once colorful, now stained with food, sweat, dirt, bite marks. It smelled like melted plastic and spit. During a lull in play, I wandered to the wooden doors dividing the two rooms. They were parted slightly. Through the crack, I watched.

There she was.

She moved like weight meant nothing. A lunge. A turn. Three steps forward, two back. A spin. Another. A glance to the sun, then the mirror. No music. Just the quiet thread of motion. Her limbs pulled as if by strings, not by one puppeteer, but many, tugging from different angles with no regard for her body.

The room was built for her. The light hit her hair with eerie perfection. She was both object and force.

I didn’t explain myself. Sebastian was absorbed in his toy bird, spiraling it through the air. I left him without a word.

I walked to the studio door. I knocked, then entered.

She froze. Her eyes, blue like her brother’s but sadder, more alert, locked onto mine. She giggled, crossed the room, placed her hand on my shoulder, and led me to the center of the floor. Silently, she positioned my feet, then stepped away.

We faced the mirror. She moved. I followed. A lunge. A fluttering step. A crisscross. A kick. A twist. She floated. I copied, possessed. My body listened better than my mind ever had. She giggled, surprised, delighted. Her pace quickened. So did mine. She spun. I spun. We became two points in a single pattern.

And then suddenly, a sharp pop. Pain shot through my calf. I screamed. Aly screamed. Sebastian screamed. His mother ran in.

My leg healed. I never danced again.

Photo of James Zoller

BIO: James Zoller is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. He mostly writes poetry and fiction. This is his first appearance in Blood+Honey.