3 Stories

Berrigan’s Eras

Berrigan’s ears whistle like pipe cleaners in the wind; a head too big for its body, forepaws fluffy and concise. Passed by in a window a man couldn’t resist holding something so small in his hands. The zookeeper corralled him from the ground floor of Cortázar’s apartment building, somehow still alive, flip flopping about. We walk to the patio and slip on the leavings underfoot, hardened and small like tiny ball bearings; somewhere something’s nibbling nearby, but we couldn’t say what. Early mornings filled with exhaust; a faint smell of straw, sweat mixed in the air like a barn, although there was only sprawl. We could have never kept it. You imagine every rabbit you see is part of some untold fairy tale; a familiar, because they’re fast and so hard to catch. Corralling Berrigan was next to impossible. Days seemed like weeks, like months, like years. Nibbling nearby troubling our sleep. This was not the life we imagined, we thought with a sigh, wondering if we couldn’t elope somewhere to spend the days and nights in the solitude of a hollowed oak. Perhaps then, perhaps. Our relationship was short-lived. I’d get home from work each day and Berrigan would glance over his newspaper and nod, then adjust his glasses and continue chewing his carrot. We began to resent each other; or I, being the only one working, began resenting him for his lack of contribution. My mother was right, I’d secretly tell myself as I lay awake at night, I should have never gotten involved with such a man, a … a rabbit. One day I’d had enough. I’d heard from a girlfriend that an aunt had a friend who kept rabbits in a place far outside the city that would likely take him in. That was enough for me. One Saturday, early, we woke and did ourselves up: I wore my favorite dress, fixed my hair and makeup; Berrigan, donned a suit and his cravat. We spent several hours in the Sarmiento train headed west into the interior of the province. Berrigan was upset. The train was packed. He didn’t like crowds—neither did I for that matter—and there were so many people that for half of the ride we’d had to hold our arms above our heads. When the doors had opened briefly there was room, so we stretched them into the air and were unable to lower them before the next crowd of people shoved into the car. By the time it was our stop they’d become numb, sore and shaking. We got off and there was grass and Berrigan, delighted, nibbled on it as we made our way toward the aunt’s house, skipping back and forth and making all sorts of odd observations and exclamations. I hadn’t seen him so happy in years and for a moment, this made me terribly sad. Finally, we arrived at the aunt’s house and she welcomed us in gladly. Berrigan, without a word, jetted straight for the backyard. In the kitchen, one wall was filled all the way to the ceiling with decorative plates and saucers from around the world. Some looked like antiques—fine china—but most were cheap and unattractive, dotted with images of animals, birds and dogs. We sat outside, the aunt and I, and had tea while Berrigan rustled around in the bushes. The conversation was pleasant enough. When were finished, I was almost sad to leave. I looked out into the yard one last time and watched as Berrigan hopped from behind a small bench, chasing a butterfly. The aunt said she’d take care of getting him over to her neighbor’s house. “Don’t you want to say goodbye?” she asked as I stood on the doorstep. I shook my head and left, wondering what to do next. She sort of smiled, as if she knew, like me, that some men, no matter how you try, simply can’t be domesticated. Years later I went back to the aunt’s house with my friend for a visit. As I was passing through the kitchen to the bathroom, I noticed a plate on the wall with the picture of a rabbit. It looked exactly like him.

Golemitos

We’ll never make it out of here alive, it’s impossible. We use the rangefinder each day embedded in our right eye to focus on the pores of our skin, zooming in until they look like the little holes in swiss cheese that have bubbled and burst away, forgotten. We’ll never make it—you ought to listen to us. We know for sure. We focus intently on one of the holes until it becomes clear in our optic viewfinder and ready our tweezers for extraction—the first time we saw this we were fucking amazed—and just as if we were playing Operation® we reach in slowly without touching the sides of the pores. If the tweezers come in too strong or loud it spooks the little versions of ourselves burrowed deep within. It’s like this: everybody has more than a million pores and inside each lives a tiny golem tied to a string called Destiny. When you squeeze a blackhead it’s now considered murder. Here’s one, see the tiny thread attached to it as we pull it out and place it on the windowsill? No, that’s right, of course you don’t, you’re not fitted with optical implants but trust me, it’s there. Based on the stethoscope, mask and tiny white gloves, this must be a doctor, a surgeon perhaps. Another one: here. It’s a lawyer, see his little hat? The next is simply a newly formed idea of success. Plug into our temple port. Now there, see? There are three tiny versions of ourselves standing next to each other on the windowsill. Look what happens when the thread of Destiny is torn or broken (with our small pliers we snip the doctor’s thread with a flick of the wrist. For a moment nothing happens, then the tiny doctor drops to his knees, hands around his head, screaming something incomprehensible. A millisecond later he bursts into flames, his ashes thicken and grow like those black snake fireworks, extending across the sill, then breaking off and plummeting to the floor below). Watch what happens when I open the window and let the lawyer out (at this point I should also mention that the thread of Destiny will stretch as far as need be but become ever more fragile the farther away the golemito’s body gets from its host). Watch! The lawyer’s looking left and right. He’s scaling the wall cautiously to the ground below. Now he’s down. But he’s only managed to take several steps. Here comes some sort of masked assailant. My goodness, he’s got a little black ski mask on and everything. I don’t think the lawyer’s going to get too far today (we watch as the masked figure drives a knife into his heart. The thread of Destiny is severed and burns toward us like a tiny fuse back to the pore from which it came). Next up is the newly formed idea of success, which in theory, should have a better chance in the open air because it’s still abstract. Let’s crack the window. See how it floats upwards into the air for a moment then totally deflates. It’s turning the color of jade now and crumbling away into nothing. Starting to get the picture? What’s that? You think you’ll try it anyways, despite my protests? Fine by me. After all, it’s your life not mine. Go ahead if you want. There you go, right out the window there—watch the ledge. Look at you! We’re amazed. You’re right there in front of us—outside—and it appears nothing’s happening. You’re sure you’re not feeling something; anything? Really? Great, you say? Never better? You really feel alright? Then perhaps we’ve miscalculated. Yes, it would be good to get some fresh air. But are you sure it’s safe? Believe us we’d like nothing more than to leave. You’re absolutely positive? Alright then. Eventually we’ve got to learn to trust one another, why not now? Here help me—yes that’s it. Let me just get my leg up and over and—ah, there we go. Here we are. Yes indeed, it is refreshing, very refreshing. But just a moment, we seem to be caught on something, it’s right behi—Oh Christ, we shout, watching in horror as the window slams shut, severing a thick piece of twine. A little wick from our bottom illuminates the night in blinding fashion then poof! we’re right back where we started; this child’s life, it’s often inescapable.

Ooks (Waterproof Radio in the Shape of Lips)

Ooks, oocks … oosp … oops … oops … opps. Oops! Oopsoopsoopsoops. Oops! How do they feel? Good, bert nort perrfect. There’s a bit of an adjustment period. That much was obvious, we thought. The tinkerer glared as if he’d heard us actually say this, then forced a smile as he held out his hand. I placed seven pieces of coral in it and we were on our way, towards where was to be decided. Most mornings we tend to wander until the fresh air caught up with us from the bellows beneath the city. The air wasn’t really fresh, of course—around here nothing is—but it still offered a pleasant warm whoosh each morning. When we could find an unoccupied sewer grate to stand over we’d remain still and let our skirt billow up until we had to press it down again, just like Marilyn Monster. As we crossed the street one of our cohorts shouted to us, nice lips, they said, you look just like Marilyn Monster. This made our cheeks turn green and we checked just to make sure we weren’t right then standing above a sewer grate with the billowing hot wind flushing up our skirt so all could see what’s down below. But we were just walking. These new lips—Oooks, we shouted—they look pretty good right? Out of all the stuff that usually floats down, these lips are probably our favorite. The tinkerer was right though, they do take some getting used to—oopsoopsooops, how hilarious! We’re not entirely sure how it works, but things float down from above that can be used in different ways than they were meant to. You were probably thinking they’re a set of real lips from real a person, haha—no way! Hard plastic, like the shell of a hermit crab. The antenna (it’s folding) stretches out around a meter or so when fully extended. There are two dials: one that controls the volume and another to channel surf. These lips can really groove when they’re turned all the way up. But they only pick up a few channels. Speaking of course, isn’t as easy as it seems. You’ve got to tune yourself to the radio so it can broadcast properly, otherwise it’s mostly static.

We soon cross paths with Mariana and we walk for a time, through the crablands to the other end of the marsh, then part ways, explaining to each other that we’d love to see each other more but these days we simply haven’t the time. It is a lie on both our parts of course. We’ve never really liked each other to begin with, but a walk is often better with company than alone, especially when the tide is low. Nearby is a rock and we sit down for a spell, scanning channels to see what we can pick up. The most interesting broadcast is about toy ducks that keep on washing up on the shore of some country far away. It reminds me of my lips. There are several others here who have them, which makes them not so unique, more like a fad really. Keeping up with fashion at the bottom of the sea—or above it, it seems—is no small task. We’ve left our rock behind, headed toward home now. On the way we stop in at Jarrod’s to pick up some acelga for our mother; she makes the most unimaginable pies. As we wait in line we fiddle with the knobs of our lips, trying to get it just right before it’s our turn. When it finally is, the shopkeeper greets us warmly and we try to ask for what we need, but all that comes out is static, high-pitched and ear piercingly loud. The windows crack, then break. He snatches the lips off our face and shakes his head disapprovingly. Get out, he says. Without any lips, we’re unable to protest.