Thirteen Channels
by Karl Krausbart
Henry and Alice, each reading. Every few seconds Henry looks up, as if
a conversation is about to begin. Alice is flipping pages in a novel,
looking for the plot. The wall-clock hums. Every :59:59 one hand
twitches, leaps toward :00, :00.
Henry and Marie. They are on a bed in neutral territory, a friend's
bed. Henry does not look at his ring. The window is open. They are careful
not to make too much noise. Each one hears distant freeway sounds, not
the same freeway sounds each hears at home. There is a clock on the
dresser, an antique, stopped at an exact second, an exact minute, some
indeterminate day.
A large party. Is he the one she's been seeing? Am I looking at Marie
too often? Alice imagines she has never heard laughter and hears how
grotesque it is, like twenty animals each choking on a bone. Outside, four
noble horses are slowly becoming mice.
Alice and Marie. They are having a heart-to-heart and telling all. They
are lying through their teeth. They are revealing very deep feelings.
They are concealing their "little" indiscretions. Neither says she might
enjoy intimacy with the other. Both go home and watch the six o'clock
news.
Henry and Arnold. They are trying something new for both of them,
though Arnold came close to doing it once before with another man, a long
time ago. Everything is prepared, liquor gulped down, hard rock. Henry
wants to continue to the end, but Arnold is getting twitchy about the
whole thing. Overhead, the 10:18 to Boston has reached 8000 feet. Engine
number two is making a faint new sound, a kind of breathing.
Marie, at the mall. She is here to be alone, to think, to think about
showing up, glancing around, knocking quietly on the strange door,
slipping in, slipping out of her things and then, then what will her life
be? Watching words, remembering not to know a suburb she's never been in.
In the shop window, dozens of clocks lie about the time, each in its
own way.
Alice on her bed naked, fingers inside her slowly in and out. Fantasy
of one man after another, one finished and out, next one ready and in,
each differently thick, differently hard, each stretching her a
different way. They come like clockwork.
Marie and Harold, standing up, braced against each other, ramming
rhythmically face to face, far out as they can not slipping out, far in
pressing together until breathless again, then faster all over again. He to
she: "I've wanted you since I first saw you;" and she to he, "I've
wanted you in me forever;" and he to she, "You drew me into you with your
arms, your beautiful smooth skin;" and she to he, "I wanted my mouth on
yours, our speech making breathsong together." And then he to she,
"You're no better than most;" and she to he, "Just another sweating man,
don't know why I bother;" and he to she, "I'm going to pretend to come.
Then I'll put on my pants and leave;" and she to he, "I wish you'd just
get it over with so I can sleep." Without intending to, they stroke
exactly once each second.
Alice, to herself, daydreaming, keeping her hands to herself. "I shall
be so happy, with the day's heat wrapped around me like a lover, and a
wave of my arm brings trays of parti-colored fruits, bright green and
red and yellow. And I shall have 'Yes ma'am' and 'Very well ma'am' and
'As you say, ma'am' at all times; and when I coax a lover to my bed he
will say 'Yes, ma'am, I shall please you greatly, ma'am;' and he will
please me oh so very much--." The ceiling fan circles slowly, rhythmic
sounds of air.
Henry, alone. Behind the half-opened louvers of Alice's bedroom he
moves slowly. He is carefully and thoroughly looking for something. He
opens and closes drawers. Occasionally he holds up a blue sheet of note
paper, a notebook, or an envelope to the single room light, scans it
quickly, and carefully replaces it. He paws through clothes, looking for
something, gaining some odor of sensuality. He finds a diary and tries to
decode the cryptic marks. Now he is frantically looking, making no
attempt to be silent or neat. He thinks he has figured out the code, each
mark can mean, has meant, an infinite number of things, strokes on
paper, rhythm in time to desire.
Henry, by himself, imagining many others, one -- two -- many at a time.
Waiting as long as he can before losing the power to imagine. His rising
pulse counts off the seconds.
Marie and Alice, each making some feeble comment as each removes
another piece of clothing, "It's getting hot in here", then blushing at the
words, "I meant..." too late, a little laugh, tight throat. Neither Marie
nor Alice has done anything like this before, each says, except for the
time that Alice is about to mention -- but it's not worth mentioning,
she thinks. Each is trying to believe it's the other's idea, just going
along out of curiosity, friendship. Finally nothing left to take off,
they slip under the covers together, kiss tentatively, touch nipples
gently, intertwine their thighs, begin to move more urgently. Their hearts
beat now more quickly, together.
Henry and Alice. Alice closes her book with a sigh of impatience. Henry
is now sure a conversation will begin. Alice goes away and has a
headache. Henry sets the alarm and turns out the light.
©2001 by Karl Krausbart
