What that means is, four different people have recently encouraged me to start writing again, so here you are. I'll start by posting some old stuff, including short stories and serialize a few novels, while a work on some new stuff.
So here you are. This was written for a creative writing class in 1997. Comments welcome!
c Virgo Rising
by
M. S. Olsen
People can really be disgusting, you know?
Ever watch somebody chew gum? At best it’s a rhythmical rolling of the jaw, like a cow working on its cud. It makes you wonder if they’re eating on the sly, or if they’re saying something they don’t want you to hear. At worst, it’s a jaw dropping to chest level, to give you a view of the interior of somebody’s mouth, and you never wanted to see in the first place, did you? Sometimes the chewer’s tongue hangs out with each stroke. Sometimes they make those hideous cracking noises, or maybe they constantly blow bubbles, and you hear this popping, and you jump a little and have to find your place and start over again. Grown-ups do that. So do kids. So did George.
If they’re not chewing gum they’re fussing with their sinuses. You know—their noses run so they sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sometimes they sigh and make rueful gestures to convey a sense of nobly bearing up under the tyranny of an inconsiderate nasal member, as if you should feel sorry for them. If you do take pity and offer them a Kleenex they smile and say “Thanks, but I have one.” Sniff. Sniff. Or they have post-nasal drip. You know that stuff—it feels like you have a growth at the back of your throat. Personally, I’ve always thought of post-nasal drip as one of God’s little jokes, like cockroaches, and there’s no way to get rid of it altogether. But some people make you suffer along with them. They snort. Loudly. Way back in their throats, like they’re grasping that little growth and with a sort of gurgling growl they pull it down until they can swallow it. George used to do that. All the time.
Actually, they swallow it if you’re lucky. If you’re not lucky they spit it out. Right on the street. A lot of the time they don’t even make any attempt to hide it. You know, if you’re walking along a city street and you don’t watch your step you could step on somebody’s loogie at least once in every block. If you don’t watch out, somebody might spit right on you, because people who are that crude never bother to make sure they’re not spitting on something, or somebody—they’re concerned only with their sinus problems. Women do this now and then, but men are the real culprits. This grows worse as men get older, too. They reach a certain age and they think there’s nothing that matters anymore except hocking a loogie, as loudly and as prominently as possible. Like that creepy old pawnbroker in his creepy little dungeon where I bought the .22, that some loser had never redeemed. That man’s hands were curled up like dried leaves; he could hardly write anymore, not with those hands. And he must have held the all-time record for the worst mucus fixation ever. He couldn’t even finish a sentence without pausing to snort, to cough up a big wad of whatever, then turn to spit on the floor. It took him five hockers to get me through the registration form. Five hockers for a lousy little .22, so small it could fit in my purse. I suppose I should have been grateful—after all, at least he didn’t spit on the counter. George did that once, at a restaurant where he thought we were getting poor service. He said that was the only tip they’d get from him. What can you do with a guy like that?
Little things. Wars and political disputes don’t make much difference in most of our lives. But those little things will kill you. Tiny, human things. Sometimes . . .
Oh, don’t get the impression that I’m just some raging, man-hating radical feminist in combat boots. Oh no. Women may not be as bad about the spitting business, but they have their little problems, too. Don’t you just hate the way some women sneeze? Teensy little tepid things, that they force out through their noses. As if they’re too dainty to cut loose with a good sneeze, or that maybe they’re so refined that such a crude thing as a sneeze would never happen to them. The woman they put in here with me, she sneezed like that. Ha-tsss! Makes you want to hit her, doesn’t it? Actually, it made me almost feel nostalgic for George. His sneezes used to be so loud and juicy I would just about jump out of my skin. I used to hate it. I used to ask him, politely, to tone it down. But he, like most men, never gave a thought to anyone else’s comfort, so what could I do? But for a while I sneezed more loudly than I used to, just to make a point with this woman. Not that she ever understood. George never did, either.
But really, even the worst woman is nothing compared to any man. Anybody who’s ever watched TV with a man knows how awful that can be. Click! Click! Click! The channel changes every few seconds. And do they ask you if you mind? Do they ask if it’s okay with you if they change the channel? Hah! You know the answer to that. Once I got so fed up with George that I jumped on him and wrestled the remote away from him. But he was a lot bigger and stronger than I was so he got it back without much trouble. And then he said I was so cute when I was mad and tried—unsuccessfully, of course—to turn the incident into a seduction . . . Well, I don’t know about cute I was, but I was definitely mad. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in, thinking I would sit there in the dark for a few minutes and cool off.
Which reminds me. Really, why why why can’t men put the toilet seat down? Honestly, do they think the bathroom looks attractive like that? Why would anyone want to look at the underside of a toilet seat, with those little yellow spots (or, even worse, brown ones—ew!) splattered all over it? Why would anyone want to even touch it? If they need to lift it, that’s their problem, but if they had an ounce of consideration, even an ounce . . .
Well, anyway. You can imagine what sort of man George was with regard to toilet seats. So instead of sitting there quietly in the dark, I splashed right down into the water. Right into it. One thing I must, in fairness, say for George is that at least he flushed consistently, which is more than can be said for some that I could name. But for heaven’s sake, I was wearing a brand-new skirt, and it was soaked, just soaked, and it didn’t cool me off one little bit. In fact, I was downright irritated when I walked back to the living room. I mean, who wouldn’t be? If he thought I was cute before, I must have been utterly adorable then. George took one look at me and doubled over laughing.
That’s another thing. The way some people laugh. They bray like donkeys or giggle like hyenas. Or women—you know, some of them are too dainty for a good laugh, just like they’re too dainty for a good sneeze. That woman—you know, the one who used to sleep in the top bunk here—she laughed like that. She was in here for vehicular homicide and she acted like the Queen of Sheba, tittering with her hand in front of her mouth, as if she was afraid somebody might see her teeth.
But anyway, George was one of those hyena people, and my purse was right there on the coffee table, and the .22 was in my purse. And it was certainly regrettable what a mess he made, splattering all over the couch and the wall behind him. It would have taken hours to clean all that up, especially to scrub the upholstery. But I barely had time to get started before the police arrived. That old busybody next door—you know she actually has a hairy mole on her nose? A great big one, too. I’ll never understand why she didn’t have it removed. But, as I was saying, the .22 didn’t make much noise, but she probably had a glass pressed to the wall so she could eavesdrop more efficiently.
And then . . . oh, how could anyone be expected to put up with that public defender? Honestly, the hem of his jacket was hanging loose, and he never bothered to have it fixed. No, I’m not making this up. Who wouldn’t have fired him? And the district attorney—he snorted and sniffed like there was no tomorrow, constantly blowing his nose on a filthy handkerchief. And in two weeks he never once changed his pants. It was awful, the same ill-fitting, wrinkled pants with frayed cuffs—how could a man like that ever win a case? Probably the jury identified with him—a worse bunch of snorting, sniffing, gum-chewing idiots is hard to imagine. They actually tittered and brayed at his feeble attempts at humor. Of course I had to stand up and tell them what I thought of them all—what else could a reasonable person do?
At the very end, though, came the worst part. I had to stand up and face the judge, and it was just too much. Before he started speaking he hocked a loogie into his hankie—it was just awful. And then he blew his nose into the same hankie! To make it even more disgusting, he didn’t wipe his nose thoroughly, and I spent the whole time staring at his nose, because what the vulgarians of the world sometimes refer to as a, ahem, booger was hanging there, quivering with each word. And you know, he was so inconsiderate he wouldn’t even listen when I said I’d never, ever be able to sleep if I had to have a roommate. And the privacy—there’s none! None at all—how could a decent woman be expected to live under those conditions? But he wouldn’t even let me finish. That disgusting old man just banged his little hammer—he probably thinks he’s a real power in the universe every time he does that—and ignored me.
And—well, they only have themselves to blame. I told them it wouldn’t work. The Queen of Sheba may have been a titterer and a tepid sneezer in the daytime—that was bad enough—but at night she showed her true, crude self. She snored. Every cliché you’ve ever heard about snorers, that was what I had to put up with, every night. Eardrum-shattering, paint-peeling snorts, all night long. Even worse than George. I asked for a transfer, but nobody listened to me. They said I couldn’t be fussy in my situation. “Fussy”? Me? I was asking only for some human consideration. And the Queen herself—when I asked her to sleep on her side, to keep her snoring at a minimum, she was aghast. She had the nerve to say she couldn’t possibly snore, her husband had never complained. Hah! As if he would—he probably snored even worse than she did. He was probably one of those insensitive boors who can sleep through an earthquake.
What could I do in that situation? Needless to say, they wouldn’t let me have my .22—I didn’t even bother to ask. But, you know, it’s easy enough to sharpen a hard, plastic toothbrush. You just have to rub it against an iron bedframe for a while. It takes some patience, but what else is there to do in the middle of the night, when the person above you sounds like a human chain saw? In fact, it took several weeks, but it was worth it. I didn’t even pay any attention to the blood dripping down the wall. I knew they’d make me clean it up in the morning, but that was a small price to pay for a good night’s sleep.
But things just don’t get better, not for long anyway. Tonight I asked for lobster for dinner, and you know what they gave me? That fake stuff, that’s made from soybeans or something. I was simply disgusted. And they actually handcuffed me to this gurney, as if I’d try to run away. And you know, they still won’t listen. The people on the other side of the window—they think they can fool me, but I know it’s not a mirror, and I know there are people sitting there, watching, like ghouls, probably chewing gum and spitting. And the way they’ve set it up, probably those disgusting slobs can see right up my skirt. Can you imagine? I asked them, nicely, to turn me sideways, but I might as well not have wasted my breath. And worst of all, I told them I can’t stand needles. I told them, very politely. But would they listen? Sheesh--. People are disgusting.
