The Barbeque
Seth Siegel
Winter 2010
Winter 2010
Characteristically, the writer sat at his desk, man and lamp bent over a pad of paper, with nothing to write.
At the same time a character of his, (only a few lines) a blonde drinker of white wine, sat on a piece of teak patio furniture. Her small mouth was closed, which from her demeanor looked to be the rule more than the exception. She was attractive for the normal reasons, except when examined up close: her face, flushed from the heat and sunlight, looked like fresh red meat, all collapsed blood vessels and marbled fat strata.
Both writer and the woman waited for something to happen and had nothing to say to one another. She put her glass down to take another drag from the burning cigarette in a blue abalone shell ash tray. Naked children who ran past screaming, chasing each other withcordless power drills (skinny white, bony arms and hands bowing under the weight of battery-filled handles) did not move her. The cigarette was quickly turning into ash between her tightening lips. She chose instead to look at the wood fence in front of her.
The writer wrote on, only to see the pen move across the lined page.
Bored as she was, she began to observe the surroundings she found herself in. A mundane barbeque: lighter fluid scent in the light breeze, people speaking in unhurried tones, the trebled sound of burning meat on a rusty grill over manicured grass.
Unbeknownst to the writer, who was rubbing his forehead sideways with one hand, biting nails of the other, the woman was now wondering how long she had to stay. At social engagements, there is a certain amount of time that must be spent with the people there. For example, at a birthday party one cannot leave before the cake’s candles are blown out, but a barbeque is different. Are two, three hours sufficient? How long before she could leave without people embarrassing themselves by asking why she was leaving so early. They were content comparing pistolets from different restaurants and she wanted meaningful action. Tension, violence. She had nothing in common with the people in shorts that surrounded her, and she didn’t like them.
She switched the glass from her lap to her knee and ran her hand along the curvature of her thigh, seeing the men at the corner of her eye; flabby, married men that desired her. They surrounded the grill and took unspoken turns looking at her. They squinted when they looked over, as if looking into the sun. If only they could brush a shoulder with her, get her a drink or another cigarette, show her where the bathroom was.
Their female counterparts were tired and silently wished the woman did not share the same backyard with themselves and their husbands. They sat in shapeless sundresses, busied themselves with cutting produce into bowls, and making sure there were enough napkins. Hands occupied, they talked about schools, crime rates, food, and their children, all the while shooting wary glances at the woman, their husbands.
Again the children ran past, now with broken machetes they must have found in a nearby garden shed. They didn’t know the woman with a cigarette and glass in the same hand.
The writer took his pen off the page and bit into it, shattering the plastic exoskeleton. He thought about the enamel he was losing forever.
The woman set down her glass and walked to the fenced-in dog no one cared about, at the side of the house. A small basset hound named Frisbee. The dog jumped at her petting affection. He had a sty in an eyelid that had developed into a disgusting red bead that made him hard to look at.
After a minute she poured herself another glass and sat back down. Her eyes began to glass over into gray behind her dark sunglasses.
Things could have happened. Granted, the writer could have mentioned the man with the knife in his pocket with a violent temper, the running children could have discovered the century old cannonball among the azaleas, or the rogue meteor that was on its way toward them all at that very moment. Note, the looks from the men, pungent with adultery. A confrontation could have occurred between a woman who knew her husband was cheating, between a man who wanted to get a divorce, wanted to move out because he could not sleep in their bed anymore. But really no one wanted to make a scene if they’d never done it before, not in front of everyone and the kids around.
The woman poured another glass of white Zin, touched her pastel-nail-polished fingertips to the tight bun on her head, and re-crossed her legs.
Self-doubt and fatigue began to set in on the writer. It had started in his head, the sensation of being held down by lead, and was now infecting his hand, slowing him down. He wanted to take a nap.
The children were now chiseling pieces of brick from a neighbor’s chimney and throwing them at one another, making nasal howls when they made contact.
The hamburgers ready just the way the blond woman liked them, but this could not influence her to stay. There were people among the groups who she might deem interesting. She could free the dog. But night was coming on and she wasn’t contributing anything.
One of the married women was singing to the children, now tired, strewn out in the growing shade of a citrus tree, watching the tiny insects between the blades of grass. Their toys on the ground near them, as was half eaten food. No one observed the passing of afternoon. But then there are days that seem mostly afternoon, and nights that are clean beginnings, where the weather is right for anything to occur, a canvas gessoed and to be painted by the world or by nothing that has happened before. The woman sang and the children started to close their eyes.
The writer believed he had a different voice with which he wanted to grace the page. There were glimmers of something true he might build on, possibilities and potential. Only after he’d gone through all the motions, happiness, doubt, frustration, and day-dreaming was he ready to begin something honest and thoughtful. He was too late.
She’d waited too long for the writer, her patience was shot. She threw the wine glass over her shoulder on her way from the driveway to the empty street.
The writer held his breath and at once everyone heard the glass break. The children woke, the singing woman and the insects stopped, the men all looked to the empty chair, and the last burning ashes on the mother of pearl abalone. Hundreds of subtly bent shards no one would ever step on.