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I am the world's greatest driver, Claire thinks as she speeds through the city, buzzing through the griddled
streets. I mean, it takes wicked skills to multi-task like this, drinking coffee, changing gears, steering with my
legs.
Claire sips through the lid, unaware that it has been erroneously attached to the cup. She'd purchased the coffee
from a drive-thru coffee shop near her apartment. Just as Claire pulled up to the pick-up window, the attendant,
angered by a sharp cut in his hours, was vehemently arguing with his boss through a cheap static-bound cordless
phone while affixing the lid to Claire's coffee cup. The attendant, upon examining his mistake, dismissed the
broken lid, muttering, "What's the worst that could happen?" Claire didn't notice the broken lid when she took the
cup because she was fixated on the man behind the window, about her age—mid twenties—and very, very cute; it
doesn't matter, though, because he wouldn't go for Claire. Claire is much to plain for a man like that, so Claire just
drove away not giving him another thought.
So now Claire is speeding through a residential district of the city, working the coffee cup into a cup holder and it
is just slightly too small for the cup. Up in the distance, though, two brothers are walking to school.
One of those boys is trying to convince the other to throw a water balloon at the approaching car. The younger
brother is desperately trying to rationalize his attempt to gain coolness in the eyes of his big brother with this act of
water balloon autocide. He mutters, "What's the worst that could happen?" and throws the balloon at the car.
My driving abilities are unmatched! I can hold the coffee cup in my left hand, change gears with my right, steer
with my knee and still work this gargantuan monstrous cup into this tiny frickin' cup holder! There, got it. And I
never took my eyes off the –
WHOMP! The water balloon explodes on her windshield, and the shock of the splash causes her to swerve,
barely missing a parked car, the sound of her brakes drowning out the laughter of the two boys. The swerve
caused the coffee to shift up and over the cracked lid and is now dribbling down the side. Claire slows to a stop
at the intersection, checks to see if anyone is behind her and, seeing no one, takes a few moments to clean up
the spilled coffee with the sleeve of her old sweater, muttering something about whips and insolent children.
These few moments cause her to, as she approaches the last stoplight before reaching Eleanor Bluestein's
house, speed up through a yellow light that she knows full well she will not make. But Claire is an excellent driver.
She is such an excellent that she knows when it's safe to run a red light. She has a sixth sense about these things,
you know? She guns the motor and speeds up toward the yellow light soon to turn red and simply mutters,
"What's the worst that could happen?"
Now, a few minutes before, Roger was on a payphone call to his mother. He chose to call her from a payphone
because he knew the traffic noise in the area would give him an excuse to keep the call short. She was
convincing him to go to a Halloween party tonight because he's been living alone too long, and because he needs
to stop complaining about women and just date one and get to know one and fall in love and get married and give
her a grandchild and make something of his life before she's too old and senile to know the difference. Having
reluctantly agreed to go to the party he decides he needs to pick up a costume this morning of October the thirty-
first.
In the meantime, a homeless woman with the habit of chewing her fingernails has stopped to pick up a dime in the
parking lot of a nearby bank. She fingers the dime angrily as the cars pile up behind her, spilling out into the
street and stopping traffic. Roger approaches the cars blocking the sidewalk and must sidestep to get between
them. As he does, he notices the woman in the parking lot and rolls his eyes. This blockage has slowed him
down and he misses his chance to cross the street. No matter, though, because he has to walk up the street a
ways.
Roger approaches the final intersection; the costume store is across the street diagonally from him, two
crosswalks away from him. As he waits for the light, an approaching car pulls into a parking space near Roger
and, through the open window, music drowns out all other sounds in the general vicinity. The driver is very aware
of the noise pollution but she has casually dismissed it by saying, "What's the worst that could happen?"
Roger glances at the driver of the musicmobile and rolls his eyes because it's just like a woman to force upon
another man her tastes in music.
She smiles at him. Roger smiles back.
Roger's crosswalk light turns green and he starts across the street forgetting to first look to the right for any
oncoming traffic. Hearing only the noise of the blaring music, Roger doesn't hear the sound of a motor gunning.
He's halfway across the street when Claire's car strikes him in the side tumbling him over the top of her car. He is
killed instantly. His lifeless body tumbles to the ground behind Claire's car, his eyes closed, his mouth agape, and
she skids to a stop in the middle of the intersection.
Once her car has stopped, Claire hurries out, rushing over to Roger's corpse. She kneels beside him and places
a request to Heaven for some divine intervention: "Oh God, no! Please God no!" God responds, and Roger
opens his eyes.
Several people have gathered around the accident and their voices homogenize into a slur of worried
expressions, but Roger doesn't hear or see them. He sees Claire towering over him, the light in her hair casting
golden rays into his eyes, those eyes so moist, so worried, her tremulous voice quivering as she stammers, "I'm
sorry, I'm so sorry," and Roger remembers a statistic he read somewhere that said more women are involved in
fatal accidents involving pedestrians and reaffirms his decision that women shouldn't be allowed on the road.
After deciding he survived the incident unharmed, Roger lets the matter go. He pushes through the crowd of
people, waving off their concern and dismissing her fault in the accident, mainly because he doesn't want to
interact with this woman more than he has to. Because she's just a woman, and Roger has had enough to do with
them.
It's now later that night, and the Halloween party is bustling around them. Claire is wondering if anyone will notice
if she just left. Roger is wondering how long he has to stay before his mother will give him credit for attending. In
a living room illuminated by candles that are blending with the city lights outside the apartment—skyscrapers that
span far above and below them—only two people are not having a good time.
Roger is leaning against a wall, constantly checking to make sure his costume isn't brushing up against any
candles. His costume, an Angel of Death cloak, is dragging along the floor behind him having been made for a
man six and a half feet tall, and his seven-foot three-pronged triton towers above Roger, who is barely five feet.
Claire is standing by the juice bowl, unaware that she has a dab of cheese dip on her chin. She is one of those
inner beauties, a young woman who has made it the first 25 years of her life untouched by the male kiss of death.
Oh, she'd had a few boyfriends here and there, mostly unhappy chauvinists looking to bed the first woman they
find, and Claire had wanted nothing to do with those men. And those are the types of men who approach her at
parties, the kind that ask her out when they don't even know her name. Claire sighs. No, they probably wouldn't
even notice if I left. Claire has opted out of wearing a costume; she's wearing a light blue t-shirt that's wearing
thin in places and jeans far too faded to be worn in public, and she's here at the party thanks to the
compassionate cajoling of her married friends in their desperate attempt to hook her up with somebody. Anybody.
Roger decides that he should try to make the best of the party, so, seeing Claire is the only person alone at the
moment, he begins strolling through the crowd brushing elbows with vampires and mummies, struts past the man
dressed as a naked woman, past the woman with the bone-hat on her head, and he makes his way toward Claire.
On the way he looks her over. Blond hair, blue eyes, drooping shoulders, but not too droopy; a perfect stomach
with a little paunch, just the way he likes it, great breasts, thighs to die for, but even still a droopiness that seems
insecure. Roger would probably be attracted to her if only she showed more self-assurance. If he only didn't hate
women. He reaches her and, knowing that first impressions are always the most important in every relationship
big or small, he says with the coyest smile possible, "You got dip on your chin." Roger's first impressions are
usually his last.
She thanks him for pointing out the cheese dip and wipes it away. "Are you the Angel of Death?" she asks.
Roger attempts a menacingly deep voice, but he can't pull it off. "Yes, and I'm here for your soul." He has to look
up to see Claire because she stands at just over six feet tall.
After a polite laugh to pad his confidence, Claire points out that the real Angel of Death carries a sickle, not a
triton.
"Yeah, they were out of those," Roger replies in his normal voice, pulling his hood away so he can see better.
"Last minute costumes; you take what you can get."
Now Claire nods approvingly, but she has no clue what to say next, so she begins to look around the room, and
she notices that every person is paired with another, and she starts counting the pairs: fifteen, which means there
are roughly thirty people here, which means if each person eats two hors d'oeuvres there will be around sixty hors
d'oeuvres eaten, and if there's one napkin per plate then—
"So what's your costume?" Roger asks.
She habitually sticks her hands in her back pockets. "Oh, I, uh, didn't really wear a costume. It's kinda against my
religion."
"Really?"
Tucking her hands into her armpits, Claire's eyes wander around the room. "Well, because Halloween is really All
Hallows Eve, the day before All Hallows Day, the last day the demons can run the Earth before they get banished
by God, or something, and it's really not a good day to celebrate, and all."
"Uh huh," Roger replies with a nod to accompany his pursed forehead. "I almost died today."
"Really? I almost killed someone."
Roger nods. "You don't say."
She smiles a bit and nods. "How did you almost die?"
"Oh, you know, things were slow at work and I thought, ‘If I don't take any souls, I may just take my own.'"
Tilting her head to one side, Claire asks, "Oh where do you work?"
"Oh, well, um, I'm a taxidermist," Roger says shrugging, "but I was joking. You know, almost died, Halloween
costume."
Claire nods in realization. "Ah, right, because you're the Angel of Death." She taps her forehead lightly. "I'm a
little slow tonight." She smiles nervously, and thinks about Brian, who left her because she was too dumb to see
that he didn't find her attractive; of course he didn't, because after he left he got a rail-thin actress, and then he
married her. Claire blinks Brian away and realizes she hasn't introduced herself. "I'm Claire, by the way."
"Oh, right. I'm Roger."
They shake hands. "So what do you do for a living?" Roger asks.
"Oh, I housesit for an elderly lady named Eleanor Bluestein," Claire says scratching her neck. "She's pretty nice
most of the time but can be a bit of a grump about things."
Roger nods. "Married?"
Claire is observing the crowd again. "No, she's a widow." Returning her attention to Roger, Claire asks, "Do I
know you? I think I've seen you before."
Roger shakes head. "Hm, I don't know. We may have met, I don't know, I'm not very good with faces."
"No big deal. I think I recognize half the people I meet."
"Eh, I just have one of those faces," Roger replies, knowing full well that every single person in the world has said
that same line at some point in time, which of course means every single person in the world has "one of those
faces." He suddenly realizes why there are so many false recognizations in the world. He wonders why he hasn't
caught on to this before.
"So how did you almost die?"
Shaking away his thoughts, Roger thinks for a second. "How did I almost die? Well, I fell asleep at work and one
of my over-zealous employees tried to stuff me."
"Tried to stuff the Angel of Death?"
Roger's mouth opens but he says nothing as he ponders the best way to explain the joke. "No, not the costume.
I'm a taxidermist."
Her head goes back in realization. "Oh, right. Taxidermist."
They both take a deep breath.
"Actually, I was hit by a car. Some lady ran a red light on ninth and main."
Claire's eyes widen. "That was you! You're the guy I hit with my car!"
Roger points at her and mutters, "You hit me with your car?"
The couple next to them stops talking and glances their way.
"You left the accident so fast," Claire says. "We were all worried about you. We thought you might have internal
injuries or something."
Here she goes, another woman prying in his personal business, obsessed with his health, forcing her little health
remedies on him, not allowing him his own shred of dignity and privacy and – "I'm fine," Roger says with a wave of
the hand. "Sorry I worried you, but I figured that you'd have enough to worry about with the damage of your car.
An ambulance would have jacked up your insurance rates even more."
"Oh, that's sweet." Claire smiles and grabs a napkin from the table behind her. Pulling a pen out of her purse,
she says, "Here, let me give you my number. If you have any medical problems I want you to call me so I can
reimburse you. It's the least I can do."
Roger takes the napkin. "You're serious?"
"Yeah," Claire replies. "I mean, I'd have paid for anything at the scene, so it doesn't make any difference now."
Glancing down at the napkin, Roger smiles. She is obviously trying to manipulate him into thinking she's this
good, caring person who wants to help him when she's really some cold, conniving woman out to dash his hopes.
Roger folds the napkin and, lifting up his robe, slides it into the pocket of his pants underneath. No chance this
woman will come through with her promise, no chance she really wants to help him. Roger glances back up at
Claire, who, seeing his smile, is smiling too. She'll just hurt him, drag his manhood through the muck and leave it
to rot.
Roger takes a deep breath and says, "You know, I might call you anyway." It's probably not even her number.
"And if I did, we could get together."
"I'd like that," Claire replies. The crowd parts briefly and Claire catches her reflection in the full wall mirror across
the room, her makeup mismatched, her breasts too flat, her stomach too fat, and her thighs jutting out like
pontoons. It's a pity call, for sure, if he even calls at all. Roger doesn't think she is attractive; how could he with
buxom models around every corner? He just thinks a frumpy girl like she doesn't get much action and he'll play a
Good Samaritan showing her a good time as some act of dating charity. I never should have given him my
number.
Look at her staring at herself in the mirror. She's obsessed with herself, beautiful women like that always are.
Bail out now, Roger, before you crash and burn.
From behind them, a heavily intoxicated man is holding a cup of hot coffee in a desperate attempt to sober up for
the drive home. He takes a sip too strong and scalds his lips, the force lurching him backward, into an ottoman,
and the cup goes flying from his hands. It flies through the air, spilling on Claire, scorching her back. She recoils
in shock and lets out a yelp.
"Oh, geez, are you okay?" Roger grabs a stack of napkins from the table and starts patting her down.
The drunken party-goer is extremely apologetic, but unable to stand, so the owner of the apartment appears out of
nowhere to lead Claire into a bathroom, also apologizing for the hot coffee. As the host leads Claire to the
bathroom, Roger's patience for his costume has run out; he pulls off the cloak and tosses the triton to the floor.
The door to the bathroom is open and he steps in to find the host has produced some ointment to stop the
burning. She hands it to Roger and says to Claire, "Your boyfriend will help you with the cream and I'll find you a
shirt to wear out." She hurries out of the bathroom leaving Roger and Claire alone where, despite the pain, she is
laughing slightly.
"Well, that was fast," she says.
"What can I say," Roger says opening the tube. "I move quickly."
Reaching behind her, Claire gathers up in a bunch her shirt and pulls it up to her nape revealing her reddening
back. Roger begins rubbing the ointment into the affected areas, fingering up beneath her bra strap, palming
lightly the red areas.
Claire is facing the mirror and is watching Roger behind her. She cannot tell what he is looking at, but he's
looking at her waist and thinking it's too flabby, or her butt and thinking it's too flat, or her oversized thighs.
Roger exhales slowly through his nose. No, she didn't do this on purpose. How could she do this on purpose?
Did she ask the drunk guy to throw coffee on her? What would that serve?
"I suppose this is my penance for hitting you with my car," Claire mutters.
"Nah," Roger replies. "Just random happenstance."
"Nothing's random," Claire says shaking her head. "Not everything is terribly important, but nothing is random."
"Well, you know, after what happened this morning I'm inclined to believe you. This morning I didn't have any
plans, at all, and now I'm here with you and, it's all changed." He pauses briefly to think. "I remember reading
something about an ancient tribe, somewhere, that believes if two people share a near death experience, or
something like that, from that near-death they're connected for life."
"Hm. I don't know how well that fits with religious dogma but it's an interesting idea." Their eyes meet in the
mirror. "We may be stuck with each other."
"We may just be." Roger examines her back in closer detail. "I don't think this will leave any scars. That's good
‘cause I'd hate to see burn marks on a beautiful back like this."
Claire tilts her head to one side. "You think my back is beautiful?"
"Well, yeah," Roger replies with a matter-of-fact undertone. "Your back, your legs, everything else too. Don't you?"
Shrugging, Claire looks down at the sink. "Not really."
Roger stares at her, and his only response is, "Huh."
They hear a knock at the door, and they recognize the host of the party. Roger opens the door and she hands
Claire an old shirt. "It's my husband's and I hate it. You can wear it home and then burn it. He won't miss it."
Claire thanks her and Roger follows the host out of the bathroom. She apologizes to Roger for what happened to
his girlfriend.
"Actually, we're not anything. We just met."
"Really?" The host raises one eyebrow. "Coulda fooled me. You two look good together."
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he says, "You think so?"
"Oh yeah," she replies, sidestepping away from him toward a small group of people leaving the party. "There's a
standin' invitation for the two of you for next Halloween. Hope to see you together." She turns her attention to the
goodbyes of other guests.
His hands in his pockets, Roger fingers the napkin, mutters, "Yeah, me too."
Inside the bathroom Claire pulls off her shirt and examines the stain on it. She crumples it into a ball, tosses it into
the wastebasket next to the toilet, turns her attention to the mirror. The strap to her wonder-bra is rubbing against
the burns so she unhooks it and pulls it off.
Her deflated breasts seem to suck up against her chest, and her oversized stomach seems to hang low over her
pants. She turns sideways to examine her chest, and turns away from the mirror in dismay. Beautiful. Facing the
mirror again, she takes a deep breath, thrusting out her chest. She exhales, and they return to their normal,
unimpressive size. Crossing her arms at their elbows, she pushes her breasts together, but very little cleavage
appears. Back, legs, everything else too, beautiful.
Her drained breasts are like two shriveled prunes, and her bulging gut hangs like a watermelon strapped to her
back, while her pear-shaped legs make shockwaves across her raisin skin when she moves.
Claire smiles and tilts her head to one side as she pulls the clean shirt over her back. Beautiful.
Roger is waiting outside when she opens the bathroom door, and he is holding her purse. He hands it to her, and
she smiles at him as she stuffs her bra into it. It's a cruel smile meant to seduce him, her siren's call, the bait in
her bear trap, the sweetened cherry floating in a glass of arsenic.
"You know," Roger says, "there's a nice little coffee shop down the road. I think they have iced cappuccinos."
Claire laughs not taking her eyes off Roger. "I could really go for an iced cappuccino right about now."
Roger offers her his arm, and she takes it, an obvious ploy to–"Great," he replies, looking up at her. "I'll drive."
Aaron Steinmetz © 2006
streets. I mean, it takes wicked skills to multi-task like this, drinking coffee, changing gears, steering with my
legs.
Claire sips through the lid, unaware that it has been erroneously attached to the cup. She'd purchased the coffee
from a drive-thru coffee shop near her apartment. Just as Claire pulled up to the pick-up window, the attendant,
angered by a sharp cut in his hours, was vehemently arguing with his boss through a cheap static-bound cordless
phone while affixing the lid to Claire's coffee cup. The attendant, upon examining his mistake, dismissed the
broken lid, muttering, "What's the worst that could happen?" Claire didn't notice the broken lid when she took the
cup because she was fixated on the man behind the window, about her age—mid twenties—and very, very cute; it
doesn't matter, though, because he wouldn't go for Claire. Claire is much to plain for a man like that, so Claire just
drove away not giving him another thought.
So now Claire is speeding through a residential district of the city, working the coffee cup into a cup holder and it
is just slightly too small for the cup. Up in the distance, though, two brothers are walking to school.
One of those boys is trying to convince the other to throw a water balloon at the approaching car. The younger
brother is desperately trying to rationalize his attempt to gain coolness in the eyes of his big brother with this act of
water balloon autocide. He mutters, "What's the worst that could happen?" and throws the balloon at the car.
My driving abilities are unmatched! I can hold the coffee cup in my left hand, change gears with my right, steer
with my knee and still work this gargantuan monstrous cup into this tiny frickin' cup holder! There, got it. And I
never took my eyes off the –
WHOMP! The water balloon explodes on her windshield, and the shock of the splash causes her to swerve,
barely missing a parked car, the sound of her brakes drowning out the laughter of the two boys. The swerve
caused the coffee to shift up and over the cracked lid and is now dribbling down the side. Claire slows to a stop
at the intersection, checks to see if anyone is behind her and, seeing no one, takes a few moments to clean up
the spilled coffee with the sleeve of her old sweater, muttering something about whips and insolent children.
These few moments cause her to, as she approaches the last stoplight before reaching Eleanor Bluestein's
house, speed up through a yellow light that she knows full well she will not make. But Claire is an excellent driver.
She is such an excellent that she knows when it's safe to run a red light. She has a sixth sense about these things,
you know? She guns the motor and speeds up toward the yellow light soon to turn red and simply mutters,
"What's the worst that could happen?"
Now, a few minutes before, Roger was on a payphone call to his mother. He chose to call her from a payphone
because he knew the traffic noise in the area would give him an excuse to keep the call short. She was
convincing him to go to a Halloween party tonight because he's been living alone too long, and because he needs
to stop complaining about women and just date one and get to know one and fall in love and get married and give
her a grandchild and make something of his life before she's too old and senile to know the difference. Having
reluctantly agreed to go to the party he decides he needs to pick up a costume this morning of October the thirty-
first.
In the meantime, a homeless woman with the habit of chewing her fingernails has stopped to pick up a dime in the
parking lot of a nearby bank. She fingers the dime angrily as the cars pile up behind her, spilling out into the
street and stopping traffic. Roger approaches the cars blocking the sidewalk and must sidestep to get between
them. As he does, he notices the woman in the parking lot and rolls his eyes. This blockage has slowed him
down and he misses his chance to cross the street. No matter, though, because he has to walk up the street a
ways.
Roger approaches the final intersection; the costume store is across the street diagonally from him, two
crosswalks away from him. As he waits for the light, an approaching car pulls into a parking space near Roger
and, through the open window, music drowns out all other sounds in the general vicinity. The driver is very aware
of the noise pollution but she has casually dismissed it by saying, "What's the worst that could happen?"
Roger glances at the driver of the musicmobile and rolls his eyes because it's just like a woman to force upon
another man her tastes in music.
She smiles at him. Roger smiles back.
Roger's crosswalk light turns green and he starts across the street forgetting to first look to the right for any
oncoming traffic. Hearing only the noise of the blaring music, Roger doesn't hear the sound of a motor gunning.
He's halfway across the street when Claire's car strikes him in the side tumbling him over the top of her car. He is
killed instantly. His lifeless body tumbles to the ground behind Claire's car, his eyes closed, his mouth agape, and
she skids to a stop in the middle of the intersection.
Once her car has stopped, Claire hurries out, rushing over to Roger's corpse. She kneels beside him and places
a request to Heaven for some divine intervention: "Oh God, no! Please God no!" God responds, and Roger
opens his eyes.
Several people have gathered around the accident and their voices homogenize into a slur of worried
expressions, but Roger doesn't hear or see them. He sees Claire towering over him, the light in her hair casting
golden rays into his eyes, those eyes so moist, so worried, her tremulous voice quivering as she stammers, "I'm
sorry, I'm so sorry," and Roger remembers a statistic he read somewhere that said more women are involved in
fatal accidents involving pedestrians and reaffirms his decision that women shouldn't be allowed on the road.
After deciding he survived the incident unharmed, Roger lets the matter go. He pushes through the crowd of
people, waving off their concern and dismissing her fault in the accident, mainly because he doesn't want to
interact with this woman more than he has to. Because she's just a woman, and Roger has had enough to do with
them.
It's now later that night, and the Halloween party is bustling around them. Claire is wondering if anyone will notice
if she just left. Roger is wondering how long he has to stay before his mother will give him credit for attending. In
a living room illuminated by candles that are blending with the city lights outside the apartment—skyscrapers that
span far above and below them—only two people are not having a good time.
Roger is leaning against a wall, constantly checking to make sure his costume isn't brushing up against any
candles. His costume, an Angel of Death cloak, is dragging along the floor behind him having been made for a
man six and a half feet tall, and his seven-foot three-pronged triton towers above Roger, who is barely five feet.
Claire is standing by the juice bowl, unaware that she has a dab of cheese dip on her chin. She is one of those
inner beauties, a young woman who has made it the first 25 years of her life untouched by the male kiss of death.
Oh, she'd had a few boyfriends here and there, mostly unhappy chauvinists looking to bed the first woman they
find, and Claire had wanted nothing to do with those men. And those are the types of men who approach her at
parties, the kind that ask her out when they don't even know her name. Claire sighs. No, they probably wouldn't
even notice if I left. Claire has opted out of wearing a costume; she's wearing a light blue t-shirt that's wearing
thin in places and jeans far too faded to be worn in public, and she's here at the party thanks to the
compassionate cajoling of her married friends in their desperate attempt to hook her up with somebody. Anybody.
Roger decides that he should try to make the best of the party, so, seeing Claire is the only person alone at the
moment, he begins strolling through the crowd brushing elbows with vampires and mummies, struts past the man
dressed as a naked woman, past the woman with the bone-hat on her head, and he makes his way toward Claire.
On the way he looks her over. Blond hair, blue eyes, drooping shoulders, but not too droopy; a perfect stomach
with a little paunch, just the way he likes it, great breasts, thighs to die for, but even still a droopiness that seems
insecure. Roger would probably be attracted to her if only she showed more self-assurance. If he only didn't hate
women. He reaches her and, knowing that first impressions are always the most important in every relationship
big or small, he says with the coyest smile possible, "You got dip on your chin." Roger's first impressions are
usually his last.
She thanks him for pointing out the cheese dip and wipes it away. "Are you the Angel of Death?" she asks.
Roger attempts a menacingly deep voice, but he can't pull it off. "Yes, and I'm here for your soul." He has to look
up to see Claire because she stands at just over six feet tall.
After a polite laugh to pad his confidence, Claire points out that the real Angel of Death carries a sickle, not a
triton.
"Yeah, they were out of those," Roger replies in his normal voice, pulling his hood away so he can see better.
"Last minute costumes; you take what you can get."
Now Claire nods approvingly, but she has no clue what to say next, so she begins to look around the room, and
she notices that every person is paired with another, and she starts counting the pairs: fifteen, which means there
are roughly thirty people here, which means if each person eats two hors d'oeuvres there will be around sixty hors
d'oeuvres eaten, and if there's one napkin per plate then—
"So what's your costume?" Roger asks.
She habitually sticks her hands in her back pockets. "Oh, I, uh, didn't really wear a costume. It's kinda against my
religion."
"Really?"
Tucking her hands into her armpits, Claire's eyes wander around the room. "Well, because Halloween is really All
Hallows Eve, the day before All Hallows Day, the last day the demons can run the Earth before they get banished
by God, or something, and it's really not a good day to celebrate, and all."
"Uh huh," Roger replies with a nod to accompany his pursed forehead. "I almost died today."
"Really? I almost killed someone."
Roger nods. "You don't say."
She smiles a bit and nods. "How did you almost die?"
"Oh, you know, things were slow at work and I thought, ‘If I don't take any souls, I may just take my own.'"
Tilting her head to one side, Claire asks, "Oh where do you work?"
"Oh, well, um, I'm a taxidermist," Roger says shrugging, "but I was joking. You know, almost died, Halloween
costume."
Claire nods in realization. "Ah, right, because you're the Angel of Death." She taps her forehead lightly. "I'm a
little slow tonight." She smiles nervously, and thinks about Brian, who left her because she was too dumb to see
that he didn't find her attractive; of course he didn't, because after he left he got a rail-thin actress, and then he
married her. Claire blinks Brian away and realizes she hasn't introduced herself. "I'm Claire, by the way."
"Oh, right. I'm Roger."
They shake hands. "So what do you do for a living?" Roger asks.
"Oh, I housesit for an elderly lady named Eleanor Bluestein," Claire says scratching her neck. "She's pretty nice
most of the time but can be a bit of a grump about things."
Roger nods. "Married?"
Claire is observing the crowd again. "No, she's a widow." Returning her attention to Roger, Claire asks, "Do I
know you? I think I've seen you before."
Roger shakes head. "Hm, I don't know. We may have met, I don't know, I'm not very good with faces."
"No big deal. I think I recognize half the people I meet."
"Eh, I just have one of those faces," Roger replies, knowing full well that every single person in the world has said
that same line at some point in time, which of course means every single person in the world has "one of those
faces." He suddenly realizes why there are so many false recognizations in the world. He wonders why he hasn't
caught on to this before.
"So how did you almost die?"
Shaking away his thoughts, Roger thinks for a second. "How did I almost die? Well, I fell asleep at work and one
of my over-zealous employees tried to stuff me."
"Tried to stuff the Angel of Death?"
Roger's mouth opens but he says nothing as he ponders the best way to explain the joke. "No, not the costume.
I'm a taxidermist."
Her head goes back in realization. "Oh, right. Taxidermist."
They both take a deep breath.
"Actually, I was hit by a car. Some lady ran a red light on ninth and main."
Claire's eyes widen. "That was you! You're the guy I hit with my car!"
Roger points at her and mutters, "You hit me with your car?"
The couple next to them stops talking and glances their way.
"You left the accident so fast," Claire says. "We were all worried about you. We thought you might have internal
injuries or something."
Here she goes, another woman prying in his personal business, obsessed with his health, forcing her little health
remedies on him, not allowing him his own shred of dignity and privacy and – "I'm fine," Roger says with a wave of
the hand. "Sorry I worried you, but I figured that you'd have enough to worry about with the damage of your car.
An ambulance would have jacked up your insurance rates even more."
"Oh, that's sweet." Claire smiles and grabs a napkin from the table behind her. Pulling a pen out of her purse,
she says, "Here, let me give you my number. If you have any medical problems I want you to call me so I can
reimburse you. It's the least I can do."
Roger takes the napkin. "You're serious?"
"Yeah," Claire replies. "I mean, I'd have paid for anything at the scene, so it doesn't make any difference now."
Glancing down at the napkin, Roger smiles. She is obviously trying to manipulate him into thinking she's this
good, caring person who wants to help him when she's really some cold, conniving woman out to dash his hopes.
Roger folds the napkin and, lifting up his robe, slides it into the pocket of his pants underneath. No chance this
woman will come through with her promise, no chance she really wants to help him. Roger glances back up at
Claire, who, seeing his smile, is smiling too. She'll just hurt him, drag his manhood through the muck and leave it
to rot.
Roger takes a deep breath and says, "You know, I might call you anyway." It's probably not even her number.
"And if I did, we could get together."
"I'd like that," Claire replies. The crowd parts briefly and Claire catches her reflection in the full wall mirror across
the room, her makeup mismatched, her breasts too flat, her stomach too fat, and her thighs jutting out like
pontoons. It's a pity call, for sure, if he even calls at all. Roger doesn't think she is attractive; how could he with
buxom models around every corner? He just thinks a frumpy girl like she doesn't get much action and he'll play a
Good Samaritan showing her a good time as some act of dating charity. I never should have given him my
number.
Look at her staring at herself in the mirror. She's obsessed with herself, beautiful women like that always are.
Bail out now, Roger, before you crash and burn.
From behind them, a heavily intoxicated man is holding a cup of hot coffee in a desperate attempt to sober up for
the drive home. He takes a sip too strong and scalds his lips, the force lurching him backward, into an ottoman,
and the cup goes flying from his hands. It flies through the air, spilling on Claire, scorching her back. She recoils
in shock and lets out a yelp.
"Oh, geez, are you okay?" Roger grabs a stack of napkins from the table and starts patting her down.
The drunken party-goer is extremely apologetic, but unable to stand, so the owner of the apartment appears out of
nowhere to lead Claire into a bathroom, also apologizing for the hot coffee. As the host leads Claire to the
bathroom, Roger's patience for his costume has run out; he pulls off the cloak and tosses the triton to the floor.
The door to the bathroom is open and he steps in to find the host has produced some ointment to stop the
burning. She hands it to Roger and says to Claire, "Your boyfriend will help you with the cream and I'll find you a
shirt to wear out." She hurries out of the bathroom leaving Roger and Claire alone where, despite the pain, she is
laughing slightly.
"Well, that was fast," she says.
"What can I say," Roger says opening the tube. "I move quickly."
Reaching behind her, Claire gathers up in a bunch her shirt and pulls it up to her nape revealing her reddening
back. Roger begins rubbing the ointment into the affected areas, fingering up beneath her bra strap, palming
lightly the red areas.
Claire is facing the mirror and is watching Roger behind her. She cannot tell what he is looking at, but he's
looking at her waist and thinking it's too flabby, or her butt and thinking it's too flat, or her oversized thighs.
Roger exhales slowly through his nose. No, she didn't do this on purpose. How could she do this on purpose?
Did she ask the drunk guy to throw coffee on her? What would that serve?
"I suppose this is my penance for hitting you with my car," Claire mutters.
"Nah," Roger replies. "Just random happenstance."
"Nothing's random," Claire says shaking her head. "Not everything is terribly important, but nothing is random."
"Well, you know, after what happened this morning I'm inclined to believe you. This morning I didn't have any
plans, at all, and now I'm here with you and, it's all changed." He pauses briefly to think. "I remember reading
something about an ancient tribe, somewhere, that believes if two people share a near death experience, or
something like that, from that near-death they're connected for life."
"Hm. I don't know how well that fits with religious dogma but it's an interesting idea." Their eyes meet in the
mirror. "We may be stuck with each other."
"We may just be." Roger examines her back in closer detail. "I don't think this will leave any scars. That's good
‘cause I'd hate to see burn marks on a beautiful back like this."
Claire tilts her head to one side. "You think my back is beautiful?"
"Well, yeah," Roger replies with a matter-of-fact undertone. "Your back, your legs, everything else too. Don't you?"
Shrugging, Claire looks down at the sink. "Not really."
Roger stares at her, and his only response is, "Huh."
They hear a knock at the door, and they recognize the host of the party. Roger opens the door and she hands
Claire an old shirt. "It's my husband's and I hate it. You can wear it home and then burn it. He won't miss it."
Claire thanks her and Roger follows the host out of the bathroom. She apologizes to Roger for what happened to
his girlfriend.
"Actually, we're not anything. We just met."
"Really?" The host raises one eyebrow. "Coulda fooled me. You two look good together."
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he says, "You think so?"
"Oh yeah," she replies, sidestepping away from him toward a small group of people leaving the party. "There's a
standin' invitation for the two of you for next Halloween. Hope to see you together." She turns her attention to the
goodbyes of other guests.
His hands in his pockets, Roger fingers the napkin, mutters, "Yeah, me too."
Inside the bathroom Claire pulls off her shirt and examines the stain on it. She crumples it into a ball, tosses it into
the wastebasket next to the toilet, turns her attention to the mirror. The strap to her wonder-bra is rubbing against
the burns so she unhooks it and pulls it off.
Her deflated breasts seem to suck up against her chest, and her oversized stomach seems to hang low over her
pants. She turns sideways to examine her chest, and turns away from the mirror in dismay. Beautiful. Facing the
mirror again, she takes a deep breath, thrusting out her chest. She exhales, and they return to their normal,
unimpressive size. Crossing her arms at their elbows, she pushes her breasts together, but very little cleavage
appears. Back, legs, everything else too, beautiful.
Her drained breasts are like two shriveled prunes, and her bulging gut hangs like a watermelon strapped to her
back, while her pear-shaped legs make shockwaves across her raisin skin when she moves.
Claire smiles and tilts her head to one side as she pulls the clean shirt over her back. Beautiful.
Roger is waiting outside when she opens the bathroom door, and he is holding her purse. He hands it to her, and
she smiles at him as she stuffs her bra into it. It's a cruel smile meant to seduce him, her siren's call, the bait in
her bear trap, the sweetened cherry floating in a glass of arsenic.
"You know," Roger says, "there's a nice little coffee shop down the road. I think they have iced cappuccinos."
Claire laughs not taking her eyes off Roger. "I could really go for an iced cappuccino right about now."
Roger offers her his arm, and she takes it, an obvious ploy to–"Great," he replies, looking up at her. "I'll drive."
Aaron Steinmetz © 2006
Crash and Burn
| This work by Aaron Steinmetz is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. |