issue120thesubstitute

                                                        ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** Cindy Rosmus is a New York textbook editor by day, a hardboiled Jersey female by night. Her fiction has appeared in Black Petals, The Beat, The Cynic, Red Fez, Zygote in My Coffee, Hardboiled, NVF, The Monsters Next Door, Out of the Gutter, Devil Blossoms, & 13th Warrior Review. She has four collections of stories out: Angel of Manslaughter, Gutter Balls, Calpurnia’s Window, and No Place Like Home. She is the editor of the e-zine, Yellow Mama: http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/index.html

She is also a thrill seeker, a Gemini, and a Christian.

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BIRTHDAYLAND

by Cindy Rosmus

Why me?, you think. By the looks on their faces, they’re thinking the same thing.

The birthday elves. One blue, one pink, named Bluebell and Pinky. Like the Lollipop Guilders from Oz, but cooler. Both male, you guess. Pinky grants chicks’ birthday wishes. Bluebell is antsy, like he’s dying to go outside for a smoke.

That sucks, you think, about Birthdayland. Even in this magical place—topped with buttercream frosting, lit by blazing birthday candles—you can’t smoke inside. The whole world is down on smokers.

Bluebell’s scowl says you’re right. In his sheer pocket you spot Marlboros. You wouldn’t mind lighting up, yourself.

“This year you’re the lucky one,” Pinky says, in a falsetto voice.

“Our honored guest,” Bluebell says.

Yeah, right!, you think. A trick, this feels like. Something Javier and that sneaky bitch Mandy cooked up. To pay you back for his birthday surprise.

Torching their truck.

Your smile scares the elves. Bluebell pats his Marlboros, nervously. This bitch, his phony smile says, is crazy.

You are. Crazier than some blade-wielding biker. He made you this way. Up your ass till you fell for him, then he cast you aside for that controlling bitch. Moved her in with him, right downstairs, so your nose is rubbed in it, day and night.

Those nights . . .

That headboard banging, her screams of ecstasy, his guttural, Spanish groans . . .

“And how old are we today?” Pinky asks you.

These fucking elves. What do they know about love, and revenge? That feeling like somebody drilled a hole in your heart? Every time you relive it, your nails spear your palms, and draw blood.

Like now. Pinky looks away. His “How old?” comes out even squeakier.

You can’t remember. Thirty-five? Fifty-five?

On his birthday, you colored your hair, three weeks back. Just in time, you made it back inside. As the flames rose from the SUV, you were squirting black dye on your roots. In the hallway: heavy footsteps, shouts. Your maniacal laughter drowned out your music: Simon and Garfunkel. Triumphant, you felt, but also mellow.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Fourteen?”

The elves don’t get it. “Would you like an iPod?” Pinky asks, “For your birthday treat?” Bluebell sticks on his headphones, turns on his own iPod. “Or a laptop?”

Outside, carolers sing “Happy Birthday” in the distance. Soon they’ll be here. When it’s your turn.

“Fuck no!” you tell Pinky. Bluebell shuts off the iPod. “I’m way older than that!”

“Okay.” Bluebell takes control, now. “It’s like this, Birthday Girl. . . .”

You smirk. From outside, smells of sugary frosting and cigarettes waft in. Bluebell is tortured by the smoke, and you love it.

“A grown-up girl deserves a grown-up gift.” Out come the Marlboros. Smiling, he takes something out of the pack.

A Lotto ticket. He unfolds it, hands it to you. “Congratulations,” he says smugly. “You’re rich.” Pinky titters.

Javier, you think, would kiss your ass. Already you hear his footsteps, pounding up the stairs. He can’t dump Mandy fast enough for this crazy rich bitch. Even after you torched his truck.

“A mega millionaire!”

A soft knock on your door. “Mami?” Javier purrs. “Estás ahí?”

No, Shithead, you think, I’m not home. I’m in Birthdayland. Where nothing is real. Not even you.

“Then what. . .” Pinky shuts up, fast.

Your teeth are clenched. Once again, nails spear palms, though you haven’t stopped bleeding from before. “No,” you say, through clenched teeth. “I don’t want money.”

The elves just stare.

“People using me. For all they can get.” You can see it now: a yellow Lamborghini with him at the wheel. “Suing me.” For torching their truck.

The elves look confused.

With a birthday napkin, you stop the blood, finally. “What I do want . . .”

They lean forward, expectantly.

“Is the . . . head . . . of Javier Rodriguez.”

“What?” they say, together.

“His head!” you say, impatiently. “You know, that thing on his neck, with the brain inside.”

They look at each other, then back at you. “A picture of it, you mean?” Pinky asks.

“No!” They jump. “I want his head, cut off that skinny neck, right here, on this table.”

Outside, the carolers are getting closer. “How old are you, now?” they’re singing to somebody less crazy than you.

You see it now: Javier’s head. On the pink birthday platter, where your cake should be. His black eyes like marbles, shocked open for good. Glasses askew: the blow from the ax made them shift. That bad haircut she gave him. Delilah to his Samson, she’d snipped off his balls along with those curls . . .

“Mami?” his dead lips say.

Smiling, you lean back. “Yeah,” you whisper. You’re so relaxed now, you could fall asleep. Like a kitten, you stretch, yawning.

The carolers are here, but they can’t get inside. Pinky won’t let them. With incredible strength, he leans back against the door, holding it shut.

Bluebell jams all the Marlboros in his mouth, and lights them, one by one. Eyes wild, he puffs harder and harder.

“Oh, yeah!” you say. “That’s what I want.”

June 2009

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