Underwear (X)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam hadn’t thought this through. There was more he wanted to ask his ex-wife – there had always been more that he wanted to say to her – but like so many conversations before, he floundered. A familiar feeling of shame choked him as he imagined the face Angela was probably making on the other end of the call, waiting impatiently for him to say something. To say anything. He had to say something.

“Who are you talking to?” Kit had flung the door open with her usual gusto and was now shoving a cup of steaming hot coffee into Sam’s face.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Sam said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You really don’t have to,” Angela replied.

“Sam,” Kit growled still holding the coffee right in front of his face.

“Yeah. Bye,” Sam said before dropping the phone and taking the coffee from Kit.

“What’s up?” she asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

“Nothing.” Kit threw a suspicious glance at her partner. She had already put the keys in the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. Sam looked her direction, but was unable to maintain eye contact. “What?” he asked.

“What’s up?” she repeated more slowly.

“I had to make a phone call.” Sam knew he was being awkward, and he knew what Kit would say if he mentioned Angela. And he really didn’t want to think about the teasing that would follow if he explained why he had called his ex. So, to avoid the conversation, he took a nice casual swig of coffee. “Mmmfffg, ahh!” he choked.

“Yeah,” Kit said. “It’s hot.” She maintained a level gaze of scrutiny as Sam recovered and fished for napkins to clean up the coffee he had managed to spit onto the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

Kit just sighed. “It was her, wasn’t it?” Sam didn’t say anything, just directed a particularly intense focus on the little tasks of wadding up the napkins, shoving them into a cup holder, and blowing on his coffee. His face was red, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. Kit wasn’t going to let him get away with anything though “I thought you weren’t going to talk to her anymore.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” Sam grunted into his coffee.

“Didn’t you delete her number?”

“Yes.”

“So she called you?”

“I . . . had her number memorized.”

With a roll of her eyes, Kit finally started the car. “For god’s sake, Sam. Get your shit together.”

“My shit’s my own business,” he answered gruffly. “Just because you’ve never . . .”

Jaw set tight, but otherwise unmoved, Kit waited. “Well?” she said at last. “Just because I’ve never what?”

“No,” Sam said, feeling a fresh shame rising around him, “Nothing.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Evangelical

Posted on by gmfx

“Wait, you never threw your secular music in a bonfire?” Ash asked in exaggerated shock. “Are you sure you grew up evangelical?”

“Please,” McKenzie replied. “I was wearing WWJD bracelets before and after they were cool.”

“Are we competing for something?” Ryan asked, looking around the circle at his friends.

“It’s easy,” Ash explained. “Since we all met at a Christian college, that means we’ve had some very niche experiences. Like, how many of you went to that Acquire the Fire rally?”

Groans and cheers in equal measure as more than half the group raised their hands.

“Weak,” said Hope.

“Excuse me?”

“This is all casual stuff,” she said. “I was getting into religious debates in my public high school.”

“Oh no,” McKenzie said. “What class?”

“Biology of course. Someone had to inform the teacher that the textbook was wrong about evolution.”

“You got me,” Ash admitted. “I was never that intense.”

“Alright, your turn, Ryan,” McKenzie said, “you were a pastor’s kid. You’ve gotta have something that can beat Hope”

“Oh. I . . . uh,” Ryan floundered. “I’m gay.”

. . .

“Wait, what are we competing for?”

“Honestly,” Ash said, “growing up evangelical and then coming out as an adult: pretty legit.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Gravity

Posted on by gmfx

“What do you mean, no?” Denise couldn’t quite keep the panic out of her voice as she asked the question. Alarms for two different patients chimed loudly, the phone she carried was ringing again, and she still hadn’t had a chance to clean the puke off her shoe.

Monica, meanwhile, remained unmoved by the chaos of the busy surgical unit. “That’s Dr. Melnik’s patient, right? The kid with the double mastectomy?”

“Right,” Denise said. Her eyes flitted toward the bed just a few feet away from them where the patient slept. “They’re ready up on the floor, and we’ve got another—”

“Yeah, someone else can take her,” Monica said, turning away.

“You have to,” Denise insisted, voice growing almost as shrill as the chimes that surrounded them. “Just because you’re uncomfortable with—”

“I’m not taking her,” Monica announced with a glare of finality over her shoulder.

“Him,” a soft voice replied. The patient’s eyes were open, staring fixedly at Monica. No animosity. No challenge. Just a calm demand for dignity. One word spoken with a gravity that could change orbits. Monica realized this sixteen year-old understood himself better than she had ever known herself. Face red, eyes wet, she fled.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Betrayal

Posted on by gmfx

Late night was turning into early morning when something inside her finally broke. She couldn’t deny what was happening, even though she would like to. “So this is it?” she asked, giving in to pain and exhaustion. “After all this time?” Her throat spasmed, voice cracked. “Do . . . do you have any idea how much I loved you?”

No answer of course. She felt the knot tightening around her belly again. Another up-welling of agony. Another spiral into the abyss.

It had all started with a date at a trendy brew-pub all those years ago. They had split an order of parmesan truffle fries. That’s when she knew—from the first taste of those crisp, tangy fries—she was in love. And over all these years, she had been faithful, ordering the same fries almost every time she visited that brewery, each experience as satisfying as that first.

And now this. Betrayal of the most visceral kind.

Had she been stress eating? Of course. Was the high ABV pint she’d ordered a part of this too? Undoubtedly. But there was only one thing she could blame for the chunks floating in her toilet bowl.

“Alright,” she muttered in resignation. “It’s over.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Blizzard

Posted on by gmfx

Frost and steam.

Snowflakes glinting in the streetlamps. Breath on cold glass. Fingers tracing pictures; hands closing around ceramic that’s almost too hot to touch.

But only almost.

Mismatched mugs. Faded paint, familiar chips worn smooth. Marshmallows, plump and sticky, squishing together. Lips, stretching in smiles. Smiles tinted by chocolate and tinged with laughter.

Ice at the corners the window frame. Beads of water gathering, trickling down.

Comfort.

Curiosity.

Curtains.

Small explosions. Butter and salt. One big bowl. A blanket not quite big enough for two. Two bodies beneath it anyway. Darkened lamps and LCD glow. Static sparks jumping between hands.

Wind whistling down empty streets. Snow drifts like frozen waves, slowly swallowing the whole world.

Touch.

Tension.

Trust.

Mouths opened for laughter, for popcorn, for words unspoken, unutterable, and unnecessary. Shoulders, elbows, knees, hips.

Belts and buttons.

Couch and carpet.

The sudden darkness and silence of a blackout.

Fumbling hands, groping, seeking. Dancing flashlights. Shy matches and eager sparks. A constellation of candles. More blankets. Wine and skin. Heat.

Desire.

Delight.

Dreams.

The gentle approach of a winter dawn on a soft, white world. Shapes blurred, sound muffled, movement stilled.

Waking. Whispers. Eyes full of wonder. Full of light.

Underwear (VIII)

Posted on by gmfx

She was smirking. He was sure of it. And it was driving Sam crazy.

Kit had been walking with a mirthful spring in her step when they left the station, and Sam had gotten the distinct impression that it was due to some joke at his expense. Now he was trapped behind the wheel of the squad car, that feeling had only grown. His eyes flicked toward his partner and sure enough, she was smirking. Sam sighed. “Something you want to say?”

“Who, me?” she replied. “Nothing to say. I’m just curious about something.”

“Go on then?” Sam said. He was determined to keep his eyes on the road now, but he still new that Kit’s smirk had widened into a grin.

“Boxers or briefs?”

Sam clenched his jaw. He’d known something like this was coming. Kit was not the sort to let a joke die. “Why are you so curious?” he asked with a thin hope of turning the teasing back on her.

Kit was completely unfazed. “You’re wearing briefs aren’t you?”

Sam had the distinct impression that she was examining his pants, looking for some sort of tell. “You think I care about your opinion on my underwear?” He shot back.

Y”ou should! Everyone knows I have impeccable taste.” Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything further. This seemed to be the same as an answer for Kit. “Sooooo…” she began, intonation dripping with implication, “classic tighty-whities, or did you go for a more daring shade? Every man should have a pair of black—”

“Gray,” Sam cut in.

“Gray? Well it’s pretty boring, but—”

“Boxer-briefs.”

“You’re still wearing the dead guy underwear?” she exploded. “After all your brooding yesterday, you still—”

“I was not brooding.”

“You’re doing it right now!” she said, almost delighted. “You look like you’re trying to get your eyebrows to touch your lips.”

It was such a startling comment that Sam momentarily took his eyes off the road to glance at his own reflection in the mirror. Dammit, she had a point. Kit must have seen the realization hit because she immediately started cackling.

“It’s just underwear!” he exclaimed. But the mantra was no more convincing to Kit than it had been any of the times he had repeated it to himself over the last 24 hours.

“A deeeeead man’s undearweeeeear! Spoooooky!” she said before bursting into a fresh bout of giggles.

Sam’s face was hot. His hands grew sweaty on the wheel. “I have the underwear I have,” he said. It came out softly, not forceful, not a shout. Just a helpless declaration. But something about it must have made an impression on Kit, because her laughter trailed off almost immediately.

They drove in silence for a full minute, both of them staring straight ahead. Then Kit finally spoke. “Boxers.”

“What?”

“Orange, with little dinosaurs on them.”

“Are you…?”

Kit shrugged. “Now you know what sort of underwear I’m wearing too.”

Another moment of silence as the statement settled in. “You wear boxers?” Sam asked.

Kit shrugged. “They’re comfy.” She was smirking again, but this time Sam was included. “There’s a whole world of underwear options out there, Sam. You’ve just gotta think outside the boxer-briefs.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Serve

Posted on by gmfx

His name was Laurentius, and he served the emperor.

“Wine!” a voice echoed across the marble floors. “Wine, you useless son of a barbarian whore.” A milder insult than usual. The ruler of the world was not that drunk. Not yet, at least.

Laurentius moved swiftly, but not to the cellar. Instead, he scooped an ember from the central fire, carried it out to the balcony, and lit a brazier. Light blossomed invitingly in the cold night.

Was this how he served his emperor?

No time to contemplate. Laurentius descended to the cellar, retrieved a wineskin and carried it to the bath chamber. He poured it into the emperor’s cup himself and took the first sip.

“Some nights I wish it was poisoned,” the emperor declared, “and then I’d finally be rid of you.” Laurentius inclined his head politely and exited.

The general was waiting in the hall with a detachment of soldiers. At a nod from their commander, the men moved swiftly into the bath chamber.

Screams in the night.

Meanwhile, general appraised servant. “So, you’re the traitor?”

A bow. “My name is Laurentius, and I serve the emperor.”

The general smiled grimly and drew his sword. “Not anymore.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VII)

Posted on by gmfx

It was a vegan bakery. From inside his car across the street, Sam studied the little shop. Was there any trace? Any remnants of the past showing through the new, trendy facade?

None that he could see.

The problem wasn’t the bakery itself. And he didn’t have anything against vegans. He did have the thought that it must be a sad life without cheese, so all the more need for delicious baked goods. Sure, a cookie without butter or eggs apparently cost twice as much as one with them, but that didn’t seem to be a problem here. The shop was nestled between an upscale boutique and a stylish cocktail bar. There was a Tesla parked in front of him for crying out loud. Clearly an eight dollar muffin would be no big deal in this neighborhood.

Maybe he should have become a baker instead of a cop. He definitely wouldn’t have to deal with corpses as a baker, right? And there was no reason he would ever need to find out that he wore the same underwear as a murder victim. And if he ate a donut on the job, it wouldn’t be some sort of ironic joke, just a perk of the job.

But he liked being a cop. Didn’t he?

Sam knew he should go. Still, his eyes drifted back to the building across the street, up to the second story and the northernmost window, where his old bedroom had been. Dammit if even the windows weren’t different. They were modern, double hung windows that probably didn’t let in a cold draft all winter, then swell so much they wedged themselves shut in the summer. There might not even be a bedroom on the other side of that window. It was probably an office or a storage space. He doubted the people who ran businesses here now needed to sleep in the spaces they rented.

Thinking now of his parents, Sam remembered that he had three missed calls from his father along with three voicemails he hadn’t listened to. He didn’t open any of them up now, but texted his dad anyway: Went by the old place this morning. It’s nice of course, but it’s not the same. Wonder what will happen to it now.

Not the same – an understatement. No abandoned store fronts or plywood panels on broken glass doors. There were actually flowers growing in the small beds along the sidewalk. And even this early in the morning there were people around. There was more life and energy here than in even his best childhood memories. The area had been completely revitalized, and it was all thanks to the clever dealings of Richard Polbrock, the man whom Sam had found dead in his underwear in a part of town as run down as this had once been.

Sam knew that’s why his father had called. He had watched the news and knew that Sam had been at the scene of the murder. And his father would understand why Sam had stopped by the store and apartment that had once been theirs – before Richard Polbrock bought it and canceled their lease. Sam hoped that if they never actually talked about it directly, neither of them would have to admit the truth: that they were glad Richard Polbrock was dead. Sam didn’t want to describe that crime scene to his father. He didn’t want to here satisfaction in the man’s voice, didn’t want to reduce his father to that sort of base cruelty. And he didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about that corpse in his underwear.

It was just underwear, right? It didn’t mean anything.

It was just underwear…

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Climb

Posted on by gmfx

WHY do you climb?

What sort of a question was that? John huffed as he drove a piton into the rock face, and not just because of the exertion. He hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid interview, but his friends had convinced him that it would “inspire people.”

Why DO you climb?

The question echoed in the vacuous space where his answer should have been. How could he articulate something so basic? Why does he breath? Why does he eat? Of course, those were things everyone did. Very few other people climbed mountains on multiple continents. So shouldn’t he have an answer?

Why do YOU climb?

The question stung like an accusation. Why must he justify his past time. Who cared? Certainly not the reporter. She seemed even less interested in the interview than he did. And in her blank, dispassionate stare, John had finally seen the pointlessness of his entire life.

Wind buffeted him on the rock face, howling:

Why do you CLIMB?

Cheek pressed against stone, John looked down. How insignificant he was to that wide world below him. How extraordinary that he should get to see it.

And because the alternative would be falling, he climbed.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VI)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam wanted to destroy something, maybe just himself. He sat in the driveway in the dark for a long time, engine off, his hands gripping the wheel with the same panic that was crushing his throat. What had he almost done? Was he really the sort of cop who would…?

Finally, he climbed out of the car, consciously willing each individual muscle to move, accomplishing something that approximated normal movement. Precise strides carried him to the door. He unlocked it, stepped inside and went immediately to the gun safe, shutting his sidearm away without his usual care. He simply couldn’t carry the thing any longer.

It was not a heavy gun, but having it safely stowed still lifted a noticeable weight from Sam’s shoulders. Unfortunately, this allowed the cycle of confused and anxious thoughts he had been unconsciously suppressing to resume their parade through his mind.

A corpse.

A pair of underwear.

His underwear.

A millionaire.

A slum.

A bodybag.

A corpse.

That body was the gravity well around which all his mixed up emotions now swirled.

He needed a distraction. Settling into the couch of his narrow living room, he finally took his phone off of airplane mode, and the device nearly leapt out of his hands with vibrations from text messages.

“Saw you on the news. Looking good!”

“Yo, did you catch that killer?”

“Was that you on the news?”

“Hey, nice uniform Farnsworth! Saw you on 57. When are we hanging out?”

“Did someone really kill Rupert Polbrock?”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with a TV star!”

And from his father, simply: “Call me.”

Right, so no distractions to be had from his phone. Sam sent the damn thing sailing across the room into the recliner. He hated news cameras, at least when he happened to pass in front of their lens. Attention made him uncomfortable for reasons he had never entirely understood. And Sam really didn’t want to be associated with this particular news story either. But a job is a job. He had to secure crime scenes, and news crews had to secure footage for evening updates.

A part of him was tempted to turn on the news or to look up the video online and see the events the way everyone else did, but even that pulled him back to the image of a corpse lying on a living room floor wearing the same underwear he did.

Vertigo.

Sam suddenly felt like he was back in that same room, back in that house that had almost the same layout as his, back in that “slum.” His life was somehow superimposed on that murder site. There was an outline on the floor where a human life had ended. And the gravity pulled him down. Sam rose from the couch and fell to his knees in almost the same motion. He sprawled out on the floor of his living room in the exact same pose that he had found Rupert Polbrock.

Strands of old shag carpet brushing against his lips, Sam muttered, “What the fuck am I doing?” But he didn’t move. In the chair nearby, his phone buzzed repeatedly as he missed a call. Sam stayed right where he was on the carpet, wishing for something to destroy.

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox