Three Condoms for Sarah

By Eric Wojciechowski

David Anshire sits on the crown of the Statue of Liberty, brought there in a failed effort to find Sarah Montgomery. Years before, he placed a scathing personal ad that brought him to her attention. Both, disillusioned with the relationship bubble, set out to explore an alternative.

Now, law enforcement is coming to get him, to yank him off the head of the Statue. David reconsiders letting his feelings for Sarah get in the way of being more logical and bides his time waiting, hoping that she'll call him, to explain herself, before the police officer negotiating with him loses his patience.

Somewhere in the city, the fire that consumed David's apartment is being extinguished. Somewhere else, the authorities are investigating a riot that broke out in a well to do neighborhood. The all-male participants are having abandonment issues. Sarah is gone and David is going to be a major news story. Again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Wojciechowski
• Release date: Oct 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311614278

Eric Wojciechowski

Eric Wojciechowski lives with his wife and two children in Livonia, Michigan. Usually writing essays and articles in politics, religion, pseudoscience and Woo-Woo. Lover of all things Fortean. Some non-fiction work can be seen at Skeptical Inquirer, Skeptic magazine, American Atheists magazine and Free Inquiry magazine. Currently blogging and commenting about things of interest over at Substack: https://ericwojo.substack.com/

Book preview

1

It took them twenty-minutes to see me. And I might have twenty more to piece it all together. The officer below, surveying the scene, trying to figure out how this happened won't believe me when he finally gets around to asking. I'm waiting for a phone call from a ghost.

But when the Judge asks, it's, Catch a ferry to Liberty Island. Get on Liberty Island. Don't get off Liberty Island. That's my story, all one big accident. I'm not going into the Sarah Montgomery issue. Which goes more like this...

In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was, Dork. And from my appointed position on the steady ground of the Firmament, I cast one last stone into what was left of the Face of the Deep, just to insult the occupants swimming within the ripple, a ripple that spread out much farther than intended. One that brought a challenger to my long held belief that me and women do not mix, one who argued it is not good man should be alone.

A spotlight clicks on from the ground below Lady Liberty's feet. A funnel of light escapes skyward, shoots up the statue's robes, adding more illumination than usual. The green copper washes out, shines an intense call for attention into the Bay. The spotlight's cone bathes Lady Liberty's face before it collides with my own, dissipating out into deep space. My dilated pupils are pried open, my brow wrinkles to adjust to this intrusion. My hand slips, balance is almost lost.

The Statue of Liberty is three-hundred-and-five feet high from ground up to tip of the torch. It's the world's largest, copper monument standing on the world's largest foundation of poured concrete. There are three-hundred-and-fifty-four steps leading to the crown. The seven points of this Great Lady’s crown represent the rays of the sun. And right now, it sure feels like I'm sitting on the crust of the hottest seat in town.

It's only a matter of time when no one's stopping you, no one's looking, you have nothing left to lose and nothing better to do, you find yourself sitting at the top of the crown with feet dangling over the edge between points three and four.

Last night, I laid on top of Sarah. A woman with a massive pedestal all her own. A platform I built, stayed and kept propping up. Last night was so much different. So less windy. So less sitting on top of a copper head. But tonight, I'm out in the open, surrounded by badges and press kits with the one objective to yank me away and label me a terrorist.

The police officer poking his face out of crown window six says, You don't have to do this. Hands cupped in front of his mouth, he says, Sir, what are your demands?

I check my phone. I check the missed calls menu. Damn it. Where the fuck is she?

It seems like forever ago Sarah and I sat on a bench across the New York Bay. The stars were disappearing from the light of dawn. Sarah leaned into my side. The wind blew then, too. But it's much calmer there than three-hundred-and-five feet up in the air. Sarah shook out a chill and wrapped her arms through mine. She snuggled into my side and warmed her hands by holding mine. She said, Fuck Betsy Ross.

Sarah and I did the dinner or movie thing a lot, kinda like a date, but not. We'd be at her place or she'd be at mine, sipping Johnnie Walker Black or red wine. She'd always tell me how much she valued my friendship. We weren't a couple but we really had something. I'm not sure what you'd call it.

So often she'd stay at my place with no intentions of going home until morning. She'd run to the cupboard, rip it open, grab a bag of snacks and plop on the couch next to me. She'd twirl her hair with one finger and dig in the bag with the other hand. Her lower jaw would rotate in wide circles over popcorn or cheese-filled, artificially enhanced, curled, corn-somethings. Her head would bob to some imaginary music. She'd ask me what's on the tube. And on each of those nights, I wanted to be intimate with her. I wanted more when she didn't.

Twenty-four hours ago, she gave in. I felt the warm touch of her skin against mine. But now, it's cold copper under my ass at thirty-stories high.

The officer in window six stares at me. He's rubbing his forehead, trying to think of the next thing to say. He throws his hands up as if to say, What the fuck? I return a shrug. He ducks back through the window and recedes into the Statue's head.

Sarah and I. What would you call it? Not a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Just a thing. The difference boils down to whether or not sex is involved and it almost happened. Almost-Friends-With-Benefits.

Back at her place, I stepped out of the shower, toweling off. I slipped into a robe and opened the bathroom door to a she-lion, Sarah lying stomach-down on the bed, facing me. Her knees bent upward, she made playful, kicking movements with her feet. Her finger beckoned me to come to her. Three folding and unfolding knuckles said, I've changed my mind.

Steam from the bathroom crept out into her bedroom and mixed with the stale smell of tobacco she and I built up earlier. She laid in the middle of her king sized mattress, causing it to fold up at opposite ends. The radio played in the background and her feet moved to the beat of the music.

In our intoxicated state, I didn't want to be blamed for taking advantage of her. Yeah. That's a laugh. Should someone actually pull off taking advantage of this woman it would probably cause a rip in the time/space continuum.

Fun Fact: At the feet of the Statue of Liberty lie broken shackles, symbolizing an escape from oppression and tyranny.

The officer returns. He leans further out the window than before. He's getting courageous. Through cupped hands he says something I can't make out.

A gust of wind strikes me from the east and circles around my core before flying off in multiple directions. The smell of sea salt gets into my nostrils. The cold makes me shiver, my balance up on the nimbus comes into question one more time.

The officer yells over the rushing air. Sir, it's getting to be something of a circus around here. What can I do to convince you this is a bad decision?

Sarah lying on the bed, facing me, called me over with her bending finger. A scorpion's tail that kept curling in upon itself. Me being the frog that always carried her, I accepted the invitation. She let me take the top. And I let all my weight fall on her, pressing as much skin together as possible.

Fun Fact: The Statue of Liberty weighs four-hundred and fifty-thousand pounds.

The officer waves to get my attention. Hey, what's your name? He's the head of a snake of first responders winding up the Statue's staircase. At ground level, the tail spills out of the main entrance into a blob of anyone and everyone who made the big show. A second spotlight clicks on from ground level making it impossible for me to gauge the situation around me, below me. Two light sabers clash together, crossing through my face, blinding me. It's for the world to see me. Exposed.

What I need is to hear from her.

I need answers.

Right now.

But she's not calling and her phone has been disconnected.

Lying with Sarah. On top of Sarah. She said, You can't unless you say it. Her passion and allowance of intimacy came with a catch. A requirement I admit she's always been in control of things. That even then, she still was. It was my last shred of dignity not to.

Her dark hair strewn about the pillow fanned out around her face. Her eyes blinked at me, outlined by a whiskey blur. I counted the up and down of her eyelids. Down took one, two seconds. Her chest rose with a deep breath, saying, I'm preparing for you. Then her eyes opened. Up one, two seconds. Her index finger traced the stubble on my face. Her finger rested on my lips and she said, Shhhh, shhh, shhh, calming me as my body shook. She said, Baby, take it slow.

Last night, bending knuckles pulled me in and said, we’re doing this. This went against her rule that made our relationship platonic. She made it, she can break it.

It's because this little thing we had? Well, it's over.

Holding myself up over Sarah in plank position, she wiping the sweat from my brow and enjoying her little power grab. The soap residue from the shower couldn't stop the smell of alcohol lurking in my pores. I'd thrust my hips and she'd push back on my chest with both hands. Not until you say it.

My feet twisted in the blankets at the end of the bed was another annoyance. Instead of enjoying this long awaited moment, it was ending in a struggle at both ends. Trying to maintain a push-up position over her and, now, trying to untie my feet. I was about to lose it. My potential to perform was so hampered already, and she wasn't making it any easier. This was a perfect moment ruined by the tangle and resistance of so much...so much.

Fun fact: The crown of Lady Liberty is littered with all sorts of used chewing gum. From the looks of it around here, I'd say the typical guest likes Bazooka.

The officer says to me, We're all just here trying to help.

Lying with Sarah. On top of Sarah. I'd push my hips forward to inch myself closer to heaven and she'd push me back. When I'd stop, she'd run her hands around my chest and arms but hold me at bay. She'd smile at me and raise her eyebrows, waiting for me to give in and tell her what she wanted to hear.

Her skin shined in the light from the lamp on the end table. A polish shone on her curves, combining sweat and spilled whiskey, an amber glow. A small pool formed between her breasts. Her legs folded around my waist. She'd lock them and squeeze my pelvis whenever I started a new offensive. But when I'd stop, she'd relax and slide them up and down my body. And when a wisp of smoke drifted and rolled between our bodies, it might as well have been a hazy memory from a bad dream.

All the time I spent daydreaming about how I would tell her how I really felt. All the nights I stared at the ceiling in bed and rehearsed it. All wasted poetry never to be heard outside my own head. When she changed her mind, putting me on top for once, she played games. It was all physical with no emotional attachments to follow.

When a heart breaks, nothing outside the body hears it rip from the aorta and tear off. You could be in a room with a dozen other people, but you'll be the only one to hear yours crash. It'll fall right into your gut. Your stomach acid will burn it up and in the morning, you'll shit out the remains.

I didn't give in to her power grab. I wouldn't say it. So I lost it. Down one, two and my erection was gone. And I really would have loved to put my tongue in that little pool.

You’d think she’d at least have the heart not to make mention of it. You'd think she could just lie there with her stupid smirk, two fingers massaging my brow. But no. She had to rub it in and draw attention to it. She told me it happens to all men sooner or later as if it's supposed to make me feel better.

Our bodies should have come together and nature do the rest. That’s the way it’s supposed to work. But not this time. Sarah is above nature.

She killed the moment and things slowed down. So instead of a burst of joy inside her, a sad awareness of the wrinkled condom dangling at the end of my malformation became the focus.

The stitches are starting to fall away. That's a good thing. But the dark, purple scar remaining looks cavernous. It doesn't even get up all the way anymore. I don't suppose it's holding a grudge. I don't blame it after what I put it through.

This sad, beaten and mostly neglected manhood of mine rejected one of the last of my condoms. Two down. One to go. Still wrapped in its package, waiting in my jacket pocket.

No more chances. The clock has run out. We won't be sharing anymore evenings over dinner. No more late night conversations. No more sharing snacks. No more cuddle parties of two. Goodbye to Sarah Montgomery.

Fun fact:

Engraved on the base of Lady Liberty are the following words, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door. - Emma Lazarus, 1903

This is exactly why I am here.

This is a last stand.

The news helicopters are starting to arrive.

2

Foot down on the clutch. Shift into first gear. Gently let up on the clutch as pressure is applied to the gas. Start rolling.

Driving down the road, me at the wheel and Dad in the passenger seat. I'm earning experience to get my license when he starts it. Anyone at your school got your interest?

Sweat swells between my palm and the gear shift. Bill and I are starting a new campaign tonight. I push the gear into second then wipe the dew from my hand on my pants. It's gonna be a good one with a major chance to get the Cube-of-Hiding.

Dad looks at me. His body bobs as the gears work from first to second. He turns to look at something out the window while he builds up the courage to get to the point. He turns back to face me. I mean, is your eye on anyone?

The engine roars to the top of its pitch, begging to put the gear into third.

No, not really, I say, a complete blow off. I push the gearshift forward to end the cries of the engine. I haven't gotten around to it yet.

When I was younger and he'd take me to an arcade, I'd be glued to the screen. Immersed in worlds of knights jousting from the backs of ostriches. Saving princesses from huge gorillas. Commanding a giant, yellow mouth, gobbling up dots and running from ghosts. Or when we went to a drag race, it was all about the cars. Big blocks and horse power, burnt rubber and clouds of sickening smoke. At each outing, I'd be paying attention to the event which brought us there. But lately, he noticed my eyes were following the girls. The games, the cars, were all receding into the background.

Dad waits patiently until I wind out the gear enough to pop it into fourth. The car jerks into cruising. Dad continues, Do you pretty much just hang around Bill?

Girls played in our campaigns. We had female wizards and thieves. Players, I mean. Dad, I hang around Jenny too. She's nice.

Jenny is nice. Ah, Christ. That sounds worse coming from me then when it is directed at me.

I know, I met her. Dad says, and then warns me we're approaching a yellow light.

I lean forward in my seat, grip the gear shift and get ready to jam it into second gear to speed through. I can make it.

Dad grabs my gear shift hand and gives it a squeeze. No, slow down.

I pop out of fourth and cruise in neutral to a stop. We sit in silence and listen to the radio.

I'm used to women who know me asking how come I don’t have a girlfriend. My dad is asking me the same question in a different manner. He checks his watch like time is going to run out for his son if he doesn't start nudging.

Sitting at the red light, dad turns the radio dial. He pauses on Joan Jett.

Do you like this? he says.

Sure.

Dad wrinkles his eyebrows, concentrates on the radio display. It was the song in my day that seemed to be the anthem for the end of disco.

Okay.

Green light. Shift into first and Dad says, Jenny isn't your girlfriend, is she?

No, just a friend. She games with us.

I pop the clutch out too fast and my dad and I go jerking forward and back and forward. Dad waves his hand in slight motions over the gear shift. Okay son, don't drop the tranny.

Second gear. I roll down the window and the wind picks up through the cabin. Dad turns Joan Jett up to accommodate.

Dad says to the radio display, Do you have any questions?

I look at him via profile. Um, about what?

Dad sighs and looks out his window as I jerk the car into third. He mumbles something. He is as nervous about this conversation as I am. He turns to me and his Adam's apple raises and lowers. Have you thought about asking someone to one of your school dances or the movies?

Jenny and I have been to a movie before.

I'm not going to make this easy. If he keeps on this train of thought, I am going to have to admit to my dad, who was a stud in his day, that I am not like him. I do not have the ability he did.

Anyhow, Dad says, If you meet someone you're interested in above that game of yours, remember to treat them differently.

How so?

Well, not like one of your buddies.

I push the gear shift into fourth. I stare straight out the windshield. Okay.

As we cruise down the road, his lessons continue. I find myself counting the lines passing us in the middle of the road. The wind howls through the open window but the car feels like it's getting hotter inside.

Fifty-seven yellow, painted lines go under us and Dad says, What women want is a man who will care for them and listen to their concerns.

I was taught to love them and not be a chauvinist. I was to be a considerate, caring person.

By line seventy-one, Dad builds a bridge to reach me. "What is your