Smaller Spaces

City University of New York (CUNY) CUNY Academic Works Dissertations and Theses City College of New York 2011 Smaller Spaces David Plick CUNY City College How does access to this work benefit ou?y Let us know! More information about this work at: https://academicworks.cuny.edu/cc_etds_theses/65 Discover additional works at: https://academicworks.cuny.edu This work is made publicly available by the City University of New York (CUNY). Contact: [email protected] Smaller Spaces David Plick 12/1/10 Submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts of the City College of the City University of New York Table of Contents I September 15, 2000 3 II December 23, 2001 7 III May 14, 2000 45 IV September 14, 2000 82 V January 15, 2002 115 VI January 20, 2002 176 VII February 5, 2002 196 Plick 2 September 15, 2000 Only a month after Gabe’s twenty-fourth birthday, from the late evening of September 14, 2000 into the early morning of the fifteenth, after he woke up that morning, made love to Leah, walked with her and her daughters to school, ran off to his friend Jason’s, drank whiskey, smoked cocaine for the first time, cried, forgot, he realized he left two innocent, frightened children waiting on the front steps at school, argued with Leah over his negligence and shower water, and disappeared again in the middle of dinner to do more drugs and whiskey; there was a fight. “Your girl’s probably fat,” the guy finally said to him. They’d been going back and forth for awhile. Jason whispered in Gabe’s ear, “Look, he’s been drinking all day. Just ignore him, he’ll stop.” The guy, an acquaintance of Jason’s from an alternative high school, ran at Gabe and Jason tackled him to the ground. They were at a friend of Jason's Gabe had never met, out in what seemed to be the last piece of farm country in New Jersey, where the stars shone high above corn stalks, and cows slept amidst an expanse of tall trees and no sounds. "You're lucky bitch," the guy said when he was on the ground. "You're fucking lucky." Everyone stood outside on the back deck smoking a joint. Gabe was too frightened to take a hit. Gabe drank his whiskey down and went inside to the upstairs bathroom. He opened the cabinets and saw several pills, not the kinds he would usually take, but a few Plick 3 showed the warning, "Do Not Consume Alcohol While Taking This." So he figured they'd do something. He swallowed one of each. Someone pulled on the door, but it was locked. "Just a minute," Gabe said, looking at himself in the mirror. His skin was pale and his cheeks looked sunken underneath his shadowed eyes. The bones in his shoulders stuck out. "Oh, it's you?" the guy said. "No one's here now. I’m gonna fuck you up." And he started slamming his body into the door. Gabe found a can of hairspray and stood on the other side, waiting. The guy busted the door down and Gabe sprayed in his direction. "What the fuck," the guy said. "Mother fucker’s spraying me!" Jason walked into the hall, grabbed the guy, and pulled him back. "Your boy is a pussy," the guy said. Jason walked the guy over to their mutual friends on the deck, and Gabe followed, but stood off to the side. They calmed the guy down. "Is everything cool?" One of the friends said to the guy. "Yeah, everything’s cool," the guy said. "How about you Gabe?" Jason said. Gabe returned to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. His stomach and hands were shaking and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the pills, or the guy. His neck started to tingle and feel weak. He closed his eyes and let his head hang, rubbed his neck, and when he looked up the liquor bottles seemed to move like gelatin, swaying slowly back and forth. The whole room started to vibrate and become blurry. He wanted to lay his Plick 4 head down on the table until it went away, but that usually made him throw up. He thought he should get back to the group. It wasn’t safe in the kitchen. He walked slowly, careful not to fall or spill his drink, keeping the whiskey in front of him and following it, until he found the deck. No one was there. "Hello," Gabe said, wondering how long he was in the kitchen. "Hello," he said again. He heard voices whispering and giggling and thought they were watching and laughing at him. The whole thing with that guy was probably setup by Jason, who wanted to prove to Gabe that he wasn't a fighter by scaring him a bit; show him he’d been too serious since he started dating that older woman. Jason said to Gabe earlier that day, “You haven’t made a joke in months.” Well it’s not funny, and look what happened, the guy was sprayed in the face-- they took this too far. He thought maybe they left to get beer, and when he turned around to go to the driveway, there was the guy. Standing still and staring. The whispering stopped. Gabe looked down at his glass, hoping to finish it off, but it was empty. He saw him clearly, but everything else was covered with thin clouds. The guy’s eyes were big and white. His tank top had stains all over and his jeans were falling down his legs. He was holding something. Gabe screamed, hoping someone could hear, and the guy ran right at him. Gabe threw his glass, hitting him somewhere, and saw his hand thrust towards him. Gabe Plick 5 swung down on his wrist, seeing it was a knife, and the thing went free and fell onto the deck. They reached for it, slammed into each other and collapsed. They wrestled--their hands frantically grappled, shoved, and slapped the other in the face. Gabe sensed no pain though, and finally felt the knife underneath his foot. He held it in his hand. The guy reached around his neck and squeezed him tighter and tighter. When Gabe tried to breathe, he choked. His arms were weak and he couldn’t see, but he forced himself to swing the knife up and around several times. He heard screaming and hoped it was Jason, who had come to save him. He opened his eyes, feeling no pressure on his neck. No one was in front of him. No one was anywhere. Blood covered his hands and dripped onto his forearms. He watched the guy lie on his back. Through the darkness and the fog Gabe glimpsed the front door beyond the kitchen and the living room. He stepped over the guy's body, who was rocking back and forth with his eyes closed, like he was having wild dreams, and rubbed his right elbow slowly up and down against one of his wounds. Gabe fled through the kitchen, the house, the front door, and threw the knife into one of the bushes lining the path to the road. It was a farm road, newly paved and surrounded by tall corn stalks on both sides, and with the stars shining on his back, Gabe ran and kept going. Plick 6 December 23, 2001 Gabe pinches his tired eyes shut as he passes under the doorway. He searches for Leah’s expression, how she would look right now watching him leave, walking out of C- pod with his eyes closed, an orange jumper and orange floppy shoes, an unending smile, but he can’t piece her all together. Somewhere in there he lost her. When did it happen? Where did he leave her? He doesn’t give up because since he’d been arrested an hour hadn’t passed without her, usually hearing their last conversation when she said, “How can you take care of me when you can’t even take care of yourself?” Other times, like when he was in the shower or lying in his bed, he’d hear something like, “All we need is time for you to get through this. Find yourself--not through me and not for me, and you will naturally become the man I need.” Officer Bard nudges him to move but Leah tries to come back to him. Her crinkle that appeared as she smiled from her dimple to the side of her mouth. Her long hair falling on her shoulders. Her green eyes and eyelashes that would flick his own. Her lips tracing the outer edge of his earlobe. He remembers her face as if it was pressed up against him. What is she doing right now? Is she wrapping presents and stuffing them under her tree? Does she feel warm with the glow of candles on her face as she smiles thinking of her daughter’s opening Christmas gifts? She always cooked too much food and spoiled those girls with too many presents. He rubs his thumb along the lapel of his jumpsuit, imagines wool sweaters and jeans, soft burly cotton blankets and velvet rubbing against his skin. All those fabrics in Plick 7 existence out there he can roll into and out of, feeling all the differences between air and the physical, the rubbing of his prickly little goosebumps with corduroy or satin.

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