Six: A Biography

By Mark Buchignani

Eddie is a player, playing the field, chasing the skirts, looking to score, whatever you want to call it.  His cute, crooked grin, his smooth, smooth patter, and his rake's eye for just the right detail are all on display as he chats, flirts, and seduces his way through life, trying to find the perfect woman, and bedding them all along the way.  On display, because now the last half dozen of his conquests are comparing notes, sharing their exposure to and their horror stories of their short-lived relationships with Eddie.  And these are some pissed off women.  This is the biography of a man as told by the last six women he slept with.  Is this a guy you'd like to meet?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Buchignani
• Release date: Sep 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215174203

Mark Buchignani

An avid reader of literary fiction, fantasy, and science fiction, Mark Buchignani has more ‘favorite’ authors than he can count, among them George R. Stewart, John Wain, Martin Amis, John Steinbeck, Margaret Atwood, Nicholson Baker, Richard Flanagan… The tip of the iceberg.  Novels of my own began spilling out in 2005, resulting in, among others, MTee’s Lament, a twist on a post-apocalyptic tale.  Many more narratives followed.  Some are published here; others languish behind “fair use” entanglements. My stuff tends toward societal commentary, presented via normal people who find themselves in unexpected, offbeat, or abnormal circumstances – circumstances replete with threatened or actual upheaval.  The choices these folks make move the action forward and expose brokenness in the culture and in the actors themselves. I’m also a huge Tolkien fan and have written volume one of a loosely-planned five-book set: The Recitation of Ooon.  Though in the same genre as Lord the Rings, Ooon is definitely not Middle Earth, and there are no Hobbits.  Just people trying to find their way while engulfed in a magical upheaval driven by a clash between followers of the ancient ways and those seeking a new, less-fettered life.  The narrator is a thousand-year-old man, trying to see forward, while looking back, as his existence comes to a pre-destined end. And I have devoured everything Theodore Sturgeon and quite a bit of old school SF.  Though I have yet to draft anything within this genre, ideas continually percolate.

Book preview

Groups

The shit! hissed One as she glowered at each of the other five – a challenge or maybe a dare to contradict.

They were meeting in Sue’s office – it was an intimate, at times fusty space with its dark, sturdy wooden shelves shouldering yards of journals and textbooks, and with the heavy desk she had bought used and had refinished.  Conducting the group there made it all the more close – Sue wanted it that way: physical proximity helped build trust, and this group needed, required, trust to succeed, as many of them felt betrayed by Eddie and by each other for allegedly luring him away.

Yes!  Four agreed, half chuckling, half angry.

Yes, said Six quietly.

He was okay sometimes… said Three, her small voice aimed at the floor.

One, Four, and Six spoke simultaneously, the former two matching cadence: Bull shit!  The latter speaking over them: Not really.

This isn’t working very well, said Two. She looked at Sue, who nodded minutely.

One and Four glared at Two.  Six scowled.

Five: We are not in disagreement, her distinct, crisp enunciation drew all ears.  Five was the smartest and the most demoralized – or so she felt – but hadn’t yet showed or discussed it.

One: The shit!

Four: Yes!

Five: NO! not loudly, but firmly.  "Yes, he was a shit; no, we will not continue in this vein.  This is not an Eddie bashing session—"

Six: I know a bar…

One: I’ll drink to THAT.  Here’s to—

Four: The shit!

Even Sue, the psychologist, laughed.

That was the gist of the first meeting. Even though the shit exchange had taken only a minute of their paid-for fifty, Sue thought it good to adjourn to Annie’s bar – for venting.  These women, Eddie’s last six women, needed to vent, before they could be at all constructive, before they could even a tiny bit heal.  Sue tagged along to orchestrate – and to mediate.  Anger – anger at Eddie, at themselves, at each other – anger was everyone’s emotional kingpin just now.  She hoped to contain the explosions.  And afterward to drive anyone home who needed it.

* * * * * * * * *

For the second meeting, they covered logistics and goals and, at Sue’s insistence, ground rules for the sessions.  She felt it important, knew it was important, to set boundaries, boundaries she could later refer to and use to guide the work they had ahead of them.  For the anger (and the hurt) to fade and be replaced with understanding, and eventually, acceptance, they would all require guidance – guidance to avoid the impending pitfalls and traps and obstacles.  Sue wrapped up this introductory material in 45 minutes, after which they departed singly or in pairs.

* * * * * * * * *

Helen (One), thinnish, tallish, reddish, with heated eyes and pointed facial features, wore a business suit and shared a small bar table with Four. He really was a shit to me, you know? she said.

I know.  To me too, replied Four. Everyone called her Wise for her middle name – Wiseman, her mother’s surname – because she was among five other Jennifers grade after grade growing up.  She was half a head shorter than Helen, three inches curvier, and rounded above the neck.  Almost a geometric opposite.

What’d he do to you?  Helen asked.

All six of them meeting with Dr. Justice had been Five’s brainchild; it had occurred to her the moment she had collided with Six, who’d had been charging down the flight of stairs that descended from Eddie’s porchfront house.  Five had come by to collect a box of mostly sweaters, and Six had already been kicked out of bed – even before it had stopped smelling of Five. Box in hand, Five had found Six sitting on the bottom step, slowly buckling on heels.  She had driven her home, getting her phone number in the process.

It turned out that Six had been in a yoga class with Two; and One (Helen) and Four (Wise) knew Two from having seen her at various parties the last few years.  Everyone knew Three.

After phoning Six that evening, Five was convinced therapy might help them all, despite the chance of spontaneous (unconstructive) Eddie bashing.  They’d all readily agreed, but that first session had been aggressive.

Wise continued, "Same as you – played house with me, then dumped me.  It felt like – he probably already had someone else in mind – and I discovered her one day, when I stopped by to see how he liked a – gift – I’d left him.  It was that brainy girl – what is her name?"

Andrea.

"Yes, Andy, that’s what he said – why does he tells us their names? – I saw her leaving, coming down those tiresome steps – and I’m sure she had no underwear on underneath that skirt.  And she’s the smart one?  We’re all dumb – Eddie dumb.  What is it about him anyway?"  She gulped two fingers of gin.

Who knows?  He talks nice, looks nice… he’s tall?  I dunno.  Tall shit.  That’s how dumb we are.

"Dumb and dumber.  Glad though – she’s the worst."

Yeah…

Glad was Gladys (Three).  Even after Wise had replaced her in Eddie’s bed, still she mooned.  She was the sweetest one, not the smartest, not the prettiest, the sweetest.  She couldn’t let Eddie go and she forgave everyone, Wise (Four), Andy (Five), and Six.  And would probably go on forgiving Seven through Ninety – she’d be sweet to his eventual wife and kids, babysit them while Eddie and whatever number went out to dinner and a movie, and cry her eyes out at Eddie’s funeral.  That was Gladys: always and forever – for whatever reason.

Wise went on: Glad has to get a life.

No shit, agreed Helen.  Or a husband.  Or something – something far away from that shit.

* * * * * * * * *

After the session, Two drove Glad home.  As the least pissed off at Eddie’s behavior, they had formed something of a friendship – at least they could talk without lapsing into name calling and anger.

Glad said, I wish they weren’t so mean to him.  He’s still a nice guy – I think he’s still a nice guy.  She spoke with a sad lilt, a quiet voice Two could barely hear over the engine noise.  Gladys had blonde streaks in her brown hair, small facial features, with a tiny nose, and was shapely and supremely fit.  She generally wore colorful workout clothes, preferring reds and oranges and yellows – the warmer hues.  She felt they matched her personality, her feelings toward others, nearly all others.  She had on little makeup, some blush on her cheeks, transparent lip moisturizer, and clear nail polish.  She muttered: Why do you think they all do that, Mel?

Melody (Two) had deep brown eyes, ‘wells of wisdom’ Glad sometimes called them, over a glass of wine, sitting in one or the other’s livingroom.  Eddie had loved those eyes as well, being both charmed and thrilled by them, at first glance.  He had embarrassed himself, staring into them upon being introduced, with Helen on his arm at some gathering or other.  That had earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs and a hauling away by the wrist, but not before he had mouthed a kiss at Melody.

She had seen something in his face that evening as well, or maybe it had been the attention – the greedy, concentrated affection that had followed over the next few weeks. If touch could be described as devouring, his had been – and she’d loved it.

I know you don’t like the meanness, we all know you don’t, Glad, Melody replied, stopping at a traffic signal.  They both lived a distance out of town; they had some way yet to go.

But Eddie’s passion for Mel’s skin was shortly – astonishingly shortly – smothered and extinguished by the volume and obviousness of the attentive glances she received from all other men when they were out. He, his presence, was irrelevant.  He couldn’t deal.  Glad’s sweetness and physicality had been the perfect spark: he had been suddenly rekindled in Melody’s role – the receiver of copious affection.  He felt an embodiment of smile.  Mel was abandoned to the lusty looks.

Months passed.

Gladys, knowing his history – she listened well to everything he said, of course she did – took the seduction of Eddie that Wise’s curves performed stoically.  In less than a day, Glad was out, and the replacement set of big boobs and broad hips was in.  She’d cried.

Still, the two women – Two and Three – retained a soft spot for him, Mel’s a goodly amount smaller than Glad’s, but there nonetheless – and bonded over their hurt, disappointment, and the abrupt withdrawal of his attention.

"Why do they do it, anyway?  He loved you.  He loved me.  He loved all of us.  Why wasn’t that enough?"

Melody drove out the progressively less-well-maintained road, the city lights moving away, the streetlights farther and farther apart, the oncoming headlights decreasingly frequent.  She said, You know, Glad, I don’t know.  But it isn’t or it wasn’t or it turns out that… I think most of us maybe feel like we wish we’d never met him.  He loved us, but he hurt us too.

I don’t feel like that.

I know you don’t.

Is that bad?

I don’t know that either.  I think it’s not bad if it’s not bad for you.

Well it’s not!

A couple miles later, Melody walked Gladys to her door.  She declined an invitation to come in and stay a while, to have a glass of wine.  I’m sorry, Glad.  I just want to go home and go to bed.  How about next time?

Okay.  Thanks for the ride.  She smiled at her friend.  Drive carefully.

I will.

Good night.

Night.

* * * * * * * * *

Andrea (Five) left the session to head back to work.  As she drove, her mind considered the proposal she and her team had been preparing that afternoon.  A hotel chain had constructed a concept in a growing area on the city outskirts: an integrated mixture of rooms, suites, and short- and long-term residential units, with interspersed retail and dining.  As the complex neared seventy percent occupancy, residents began to discover damage due to settling, some as minor as small driveway or sidewalk cracks; other as major as foundation failure.  The proposal was for a site-wide investigation: exactly what had happened?  Could the damage be repaired?  If so, how?  Landing this job would be a boon for her civil engineering firm, and would remove company financial concerns from her list of worries for a while.

She thought about the records the construction company had turned over to the plaintiff’s attorneys – how could the supervising engineer have been so sloppy: it required no experience at all to realize the piles had not be driven to sufficient depth – or had failed – in numerous cases.  The liability was clear, but how many man months would Mitchell & Associates have to spend to identify and describe a thorough, durable repair and to oversee the work itself.  The estimate had to both ensure a decent profit and land the contract.

Andy really wasn’t a business person – she was an engineer: she preferred numbers and calculations, preferred the concrete to the abstract or the emotional, but she was also Andrea Mitchell – her company, her responsibility, for bringing in new contracts.  She disliked it, the glad handing, the insincere niceties, the raw masculinity of most of the people she worked with and had to both endure and entice into business with her.  How often had she nauseously flirted with potential clients to get the job?  Her stomach churned, recalling those interactions.

She pulled into the parking lot – a professional building in a growing, revitalizing part of town: lawyers, engineers, accountants. Cars were clustered about her offices: her team, working a long day.  She had put together a strong group – all men, unfortunately – but all solid engineers, with good educations and valuable field experience.

Andrea opened the door and went in.  Conversation stopped; people turned, looked.  Jackson said, Welcome back.  We think we’ve solved the parking lot problem.

All business – all work – Jackson.  Thank God for him!

* * * * * * * * *

Six lingered behind, after the others had left.  To Sue, she said, Why don’t you join me for a drink?  You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?

Sue was tidying up her office.  She was a petite woman – little: little hands, little nose, thin, little feet, chestnut hair, ponytailed.  She had a large voice for all that littleness: she had trained herself to speak carefully and clearly and with volume.  Her perspectives deftly filled her (little) office; her patients neither missed nor misheard her advice, her assertions.  When she incidentally encountered them months or years later, they invariably most remembered her voice – her voice telling them to do this or that thing; to behave this or that way.  Her voice helped them find solutions to their problems. Sue sometimes wondered if her voice had been doing all the work…

She moved chairs back against walls, shuffled papers into piles, and returned pen and tablet to her locking desk drawer.  At Six’s question, she stopped to look at her.  Sue’s clean, confident voice said, No, Annie, I don’t think so.  I appreciate your friendly offer – I do – but for me to socialize with a patient would not be appropriate.  Maybe after we have all worked through the anger you all feel and the hurt.  Maybe after we’re done with all that.  Maybe then.  She resumed putting her office in order.

Annie shrugged.  She was tall and slender and had on a thin print dress, falling just above the knee.  She liked to show her legs, which was at least as much Eddie’s doing as her own: he’d loved her legs, loved their long smoothness, even shaved them for her.  He liked to see them so she showed them, even though he was probably two or three