Based On Joyce

By John Michael Flynn

Set in Kansas City, Marcello Andrade narrates the story of how he came to make the most consequential decision of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flight Delay Books
• Release date: Jun 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223421382

John Michael Flynn

John Michael Flynn also writes novels as Basil Rosa. He's published three collections of short stories, one with Publerati, and another with Fomite, and a book of essays with New Meridian Arts. He's taught at schools, colleges and university in the United States, Moldova, Turkey and Russia. To quote the poet Forrest Gander, "his poems are not absurdly modern but take the risk of articulating a serious moral gaze." 

Book preview

ONE

We’re sitting naked on a blanket on the floor and Willow’s destroying me again in a game of Scrabble as she lays out the tiles to spell out decide .

Not a big word, I tell her, fidgeting.

Or is it? she says. Care for some wine?

I shrug, unsure, and realize just how indecisive I am, and this is her point, I suppose, she’s always making points, and so I shake my head no as I watch her smile at me. She’s reading my thoughts. We could be playing chess. That’s how far ahead of me she always is. I can’t explain the claustrophobia and restlessness I’m feeling. I need something or someone to blame for it and the best I come up with is, This room, it’s so small today. You ever think you’d rather have a bigger place?

Willow smiles her big toothy creamy irresistible smile and waves her wine glass and tilts her head to the side in that funny way of hers and says, Marcello, this place is huge, I have two bathrooms, but since you asked, yes, I’ve been thinking lately what I’d really like is a house. And a yard. And a driveway big enough for two cars.

Who wouldn’t?

Having jotted down her Scrabble score, she stands and plods out of sight to use the toilet. On her way back, she grabs the wine bottle from the kitchen table where she left it. Rather than enter the living room she pauses in the curved archway to let me observe her body.

Behind her, the hard kitchen light casts Willow’s body in silhouette. In one hand, she holds the bottle against her cocked hip. She runs her free hand down toward her thighs, following her curves, giving me ample time to watch and grow aroused.

Not a gigantic house, she says. But cozy, and with three bathrooms. Not two. Not a house either, but a home.

I nod as my eyes search her body and see that Willow’s pleased by how she’s held my interest. She chuckles, trying to pinch herself in the stomach. Not as much there anymore.

I noticed.

I’m proud of myself. It’s a battle between your cooking and visiting my parents and I’ve always been a little on the, you know –

I know. I’ve cut her off, a habit of mine which she doesn’t always like, but I know she’s not comfortable talking about her weight, even though she brings it up often. It’s one of her small obsessions and hardly a problem. Normal, if you ask me. It’s not as if she’s fat. Not in the least. She’s curvy. Life would be dull if we all looked like twigs.

Not mine, but your Mom’s cooking, I say to correct her. I’ve been meaning to take a crack at her recipe for pecan pie. She emailed it to me. Did I tell you that?

Willow smiles. I’ve stirred her interest. No. When? After our last visit?

I think your mother really likes me. It must be great seeing your parents as often as you do.

It is, but it means being good little Willow. Like I never grew up.

I shrug. But on the positive side, you come back here to your own place and you do your own thing.

That’s the side of us they don’t know.

Sure they do, I say. Parents always know.

No they don’t. She laughs. It’s just that I’m still her baby and she won’t let me forget it.

You know, I bet back in the day, she really turned heads. Just like you do. And for what it’s worth, I’ve got to say that right now you look like a painting of Eve in the garden.

Do I? She smirks. She chuckles again. I love amusing her this way. But most paintings of Eve aren’t very attractive.

I wouldn’t know. All I’m saying is don’t get carried away with body issues. You’ll end up anorexic or something.

Chuckling as if she doesn’t really believe me, Willow’s about to reply, but then pauses as if she’s gone too far and can’t be playful any longer. Look, Marcello, don’t take this the wrong way. Her tone is serious. I perk up. But I really do like that you’re here so much. That it’s getting regular with us, and maybe it’s really going somewhere.

No, no, no don’t go there is my first thought. A knee-jerk one. The thing she won’t accept is that I’m off. I’m not staying. Willow and Marcello aren’t going anywhere.

I don’t say any of this. With a shrug, playing it cool, I tell her, We’ve been through this already. Please. Don’t go there. Don’t try to force my hand.

A big sigh from Willow. One of those that signals she’s peeved. Look at me, she says.

I look. She puts down the wine bottle and pushes her breasts together with each hand and then leans back against the wall, one hip cocked. It’s a cheesecake pose from a vintage calendar, complete with what I think of as a pin-up’s coy little pout. It gets me all hot and bothered and she knows I can’t take my eyes off her when she strikes such poses, and to worsen the taunt a nasty little grin creams across her face. She then runs her tongue slowly across her bottom lip.

I don’t know what to think. I can’t. Not in such a riled up condition. I should calculate more in terms of plans, since it could be true that I won’t skip town soon. I could be deceiving myself too. What I need to do is make the best of any moment while it’s still good. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. And so I start crawling all on fours and barking as if a hound, tongue out, panting, really hamming it up until I’ve crossed the floor and I’m at Willow’s feet.

Looking down at me, she snorts lightly and says, I do worry, though, that you really know what you want. You act like you do, but I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think you have what my mother would call the foggiest of notions.

Does anybody? I give her my best weary hound-dog look. C’mon, Willow. Let’s not get too serious about all this. I stand and lean against her body and lodge my right hand between her thighs and start to probe with my fingers.

She pushes my hand aside. Not so fast.

I blow a sigh and back away. I almost pout, but then check myself. Why not?

A smile trickles across her lips. Right. Let’s live for the moment. She wets one thumb between her lips and runs it across my eyebrows. But tell me something, Marcello. Just slow down and tell me. What am I to you?

Not this question again. It’s hardly the first time she’s asked. Why does she have to be so concerned with definitions and our future? Why can’t we be together in the moment, without a plan, understandings, or some dream of owning a house with three toilets?

I say nothing. I don’t want to ruin the spontaneity of the moment. I shake my head no to answer the question. This means I won’t answer it. I’ll keep her guessing. At the same time, I keep inching closer toward her until I catch her off guard and clamp my big paws around her narrow waist and lift her off the floor. She’s light in my arms and shrieks a playful protest, kicking her legs, crying Put me down as I carry her to the bedroom and lay her down gently, straddling her and pinning her arms to the mattress.

No more questions. It’s just you and me. In this moment. That’s what you are to me, since you asked. Again!

And then what? she asks.

Exactly. And then what. I laugh. I have to. I can’t even believe I’m where I am. I can’t believe Willow, who’s so attractive, is lying under me and ready to surrender once more to my advances. Sometimes, life is too crazy and wonderful at once. I feel like I’m the luckiest man on the planet.

Because Willow, nobody ever knows. This is what I tell her. I’ve found some confidence and what I want to say. Nobody knows. They’re all pretending.

The long silence that follows proves she’s been listening, that what I’ve said is sinking in.

Can you imagine us in a house? This is what she finally asks. Next will be questions about kids. Of course, she knows I can imagine all of it. I’m just not sure I’m ready.

She’s toying with me. She knows I’m unsure, that I might leave. That I might stay. That what I feel for her carries a potency that I need to respect. Sometimes, it’s all a game between us, a battle of wills. Look, I tell her. Whatever happens, happens.

As she sighs, a huge, letting-go smile ignites her face. But can you imagine us together?

I start to reply. I stop. "What are you saying? We are together. Right now. Right here. We couldn’t be more together."

She doesn’t answer. My words have served a purpose. Enough with the talk.

FEELING ANGRY AND UNSURE why, I stand at the gas oven in Willow’s kitchen, a newer unit made of stainless steel that starts clicking whenever I turn one of the black knobs to produce a ring of blue flame. Poof! Just like that, I’ve got a result. If only all desired results were as easy to achieve.

Maybe that’s why I’m angry. No results. Lots of desires, choices, uncertainties. Too much waiting required. Mulling it all over. Yet it seems for others that everything happens instantly. I’m patient enough and know how to wait, but I don’t need to. Or do I? Others don’t seem to wait. They win the lottery. They take home trophies and blue ribbons. Everything is too damn easy for them in their push-button existence.

Not in mine. Nobody struggles like I do. Yeah, believe it or not, this thought crosses my mind, though the minute I hear it I’m ashamed. There’s nothing worse than a guy who feels sorry for himself, no matter the situation he’s in.

Willow shouts from the bathroom where the door is partly open and steam is leaking out. Please shut off the oven, Marcello. I can smell it. You’re being wasteful. You know how I feel about being wasteful.

Yes, that’s Willow the eco-warrior talking. I like that she’s used the word please. Growing up, no one spoke that way in our house. My brothers and I took what we wanted when we wanted and expected the same lack of consideration from others.

Poof! The blue ring vanishes. Money is saved. The planet will survive. This is the point of living, after all. Not to use the planet, but to protect it from our use. I don’t waste my time arguing Willow’s eco-warrior perspective. She’s the type who’ll lie down in the road in front of moving vehicles to make her point. I’m not that way at all. But I get the gist of her perspective, I do, and I value conservation, but it’s toward the bottom of my list, not the top. At least she isn’t Vegan. I couldn’t stand that. I could eat steak, on the rare side, every night of the week. 

I can’t help thinking how misguided it is, all this thrift and caution, a way for people who have too much of everything to show off by acting as if they’re caring and sensitive and frugal. Denying themselves the pleasures of life out of some guilt and bizarre idea that life is or should be fair. Nothing should be anything.

Each little choice the likes of Willow make is meant to be seen in the name of saving the planet from being what it is – basically a fiery ball whirling through space and destined to explode one day. What do I care if natural gas is expensive and someone is profiting by it? Would I rather freeze and go hungry? Is that a better option? What do I care if future generations will have to wait in line to get their water in bottles from state-controlled pumping stations? They’ll figure it out if they don’t blow each other up first. Each day and what it offers is a gift. I need to live it as if it’s my last. The planet will likely recover no matter how badly we humans mangle it.

I can taste salt on my lips. I don’t know why, but the taste brings me to remember the green walls of a bar where Willow and I drank too much and shot pool before we ended up shamelessly dry-humping each other in a corner without anyone seeming to care. At one point, I was bending over the pool table and Willow was sneaking up behind me, grabbing my package and squeezing ever so carefully in full view of everyone there. Thanks to her, I missed more than a few easy shots.

Much later, walking home in the moonlight we kissed against a brick wall in an alley on the way to her car. I faced Willow, my gloved hands in the air and leaning against the wall, pressing my hands against it above Willow’s head, keeping her hemmed in. If the intensity of her gasping was any indication, she liked the spontaneity of our make-out session more than I did. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have because I kept worrying half the neighborhood would hear us and a cop at any moment was going to show up and slap his cuffs on me.

That didn’t happen, but when the initial spark began to wane, we downshifted into a lower gear and within minutes became more or less civil again. We then walked on as if we’d done more than just kiss. Strange how it had all felt for a minute so liberating and satisfying that our full-on lovemaking in bed later on was a bit of a disappointment.

Natural gas fumes linger, as they always do near this oven whether it’s on or not. I move away from it and I feel caged and still don’t know why. I should be walking on air. I’m having sex daily, often twice a day, and I have real feelings for Willow. We’re developing what she calls an enlightened arrangement, and what I think of as an understanding that’s working for us both.

The problem is I still believe I’m leaving soon. I’ll be off to greener pastures. Or will I? I don’t know. This flip-flopping is the problem. My problem. I just don’t know how to make up my mind. All I’m sure of is that I feel wired and bizarrely out of synch with everything. I feel annoyed, too, as if my underwear rides sideways up between my privates and my socks have holes in them and stink like rancid cottage cheese even though they’re freshly washed.

I lean against a chair, tilting it backwards. Water has stopped running in the bathroom and I’ve just noticed this and don’t know how long it’s been silent and when I look up I see Willow with a light green towel around her body up to her breasts and a darker green towel on her head. She’s scooting past me toward her bedroom. It doesn’t take her long to get from one point to another.

"It’s too damn something in here, I shout. You know?"

Too what? she shouts back from the bedroom. And stop shouting. No need to shout.

Too hot, too cold, too small...whatever....

Stop griping too. You’re always griping. What am I going to do with you?  

I wasn’t expecting such a reply and before I can speak I see her, yep, there she is, standing in the arched bedroom doorway – she just loves her doorway poses. The dark towel is still wrapped over her head, but she’s let the one around her waist fall to the floor.

I move toward her. I thought you were in a hurry.

She whispers, A quickie.

You’re on.

"But remember, Annette’s on her way, so we can’t dawdle.

Right. Dawdle. Good word. If you say so. Her boyfriend coming, too?

What are you asking? You want a kinky group thing?

I doubt Annette’s that type.

Sure she is. We all are. We just don’t know it until we try.

I shrug. I’m always shrugging. And Willow’s always cracking me up with these philosophical announcements. She’s hilarious when she wants to be, and really smart. Way too smart for me, but I admire her for it. I want to be around smart people. It’s