Queer Queens-A Novel of race, sex, age Chapter 1-Crazy Glue

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Meet the characters, and see their messy lives, without any sense of direction.

Chapter 1-

Crazy Glue

Property of Camile McGregor

 

The wooden window of oak holds together the division. My long ass blue fingernails, that my grandma glued on in her drunken-ness, flopped like cheetah knives against the wood. Verged between 4th avenue and the constructed mess you call a front yard. Guarded with garden gnomes, the sidewalk gripped the rust. Ruffle chips, and old doritos crumpled out the grey stench of garbage. With the too-well-known Racoon, part of our sidewalk family, he munched on my breakfast banana peel, rotting green mold to his teeth. Rickety puttered-out-engined oldsmobiles, and bare pine branches stood at the edge. Fractured branches swayed against the nausiatingly- squash roof panelling. A squirrel jumped from its peak standing on its heels to see the smog of the working city. Even his eyes were grey with sleep deprivation. Store bought, right out of the used car dealership yellow bugs, tinkered down the concrete, in much need of a repair. Mufflers held duct tape, at a steady pace of requirements and survival.

 

Coffee beamed my hands to a pink. Suitcase at my toes filled with papers to grade. My foot kicks it aside, assignments exploding from its top. Rolling my eyes, the calendar dangles by a single tack. Days checked off;  comedy club tuesday, rock climbing wednesday, visit Grandma thursday, friday date night.

Linings of red-velvet, thick and ancient wrinkles, the curtains bring me back to years ago. A gift from my grandmother. That old bat never gave up, but she sure loved more than enough for all 6 of us. Hanging in my new window, the curtains bring a longing for the regrettable past. Overtaking me, the sun glared my eyes open.

 

“Oh dearie”, said my grandmother, as she put in her wet curlers wedged in the bathroom door, with only a non-supportive, only fabric, basically naked colored bra, 2 sizes too small for her old damaged sun-spotted skin popping out of the top of the ripped lace. Her toenails still wet with bright magenta, and smells of tater tots deep frying in the hallway.

“I’ve got something to tell you”, as she swigged her shot of whiskey, gasping from the glass. Ice cubes clinked the inside of the glass as loud as her dentures, grinding out, “I found this in the attic”. She held out a paper thick covered dust sheet of fabric, as old as the giblets hanging from her chin.  She plucked a hair from her growing mole in the center of her chin, “I didn’t have time to wrap this, but it should work for you. You’ve got nothing better to do. Go up and hang these somewhere nice, so you can get out of this place. You know you can’t live in the basement forever. I mean it’s starting to mold down there, if you know what I mean”,

“You know grandma’s got a hot date tonight, and he might come a knocking on my front door. So you scurry, and get out of this place while you still can, dearie”. Throwing the fabric, thump it hit my chest. Fog filled dust clouds expanded my lungs. Hacking, I spewed old mucus onto the new and curtains.

I can only imagine the beds that these curtains have shaded for my grandmother’s escapades. Now these curtains shade away the morning mist, taking away the dew, and replacing it with a loving friend. Feeling the curtains against my forehead, peace sways my body drifting against the window pillows. Morning prepares to awaken along with me.

Purple beated against my checks, a ruffle robed around my ankles. “Meow”. A long tail wrapped my winter slipper ankles. Small paws swiped the pom-poms attached.  Looking up  with the brightest of green eyes, I turned to him, “Milo, were you trying to catch birds again?” I pointed to the window, “Are these prints yours…?”, That orange body blobbed with spots of white. Stomach falling to the floor, he swayed away in ignorance and fumbles down the stairs.

 

Clink went the pebbles of kibble and carrots. Water slobbing over my slippers, Milo rushed to his breakfast. “Not again!” His blue rhine stoned water bowl tipped as his oversized belly swayed on the marbal.

Claws swiped my ankles, inches from his breakfast. Running back, liver and cat hair  clogged my nose, blocking the scent of febrezze.  

Feeling the throw pillows beneath my thighs, warmth of brown coffee waited for me. Arm jerking, boiling stains my snuckles. Blood curtling screams hit my ears and drive through the walls.

“You give me that or I swear I’ll sock you so hard the sun won’t shine!”

Small hands pulled on a silver object reflecting the sun, blocking my sight.

“NO! All you’re gunna do is get me later anyways!”

The larger one with red curles hurled the object towards him and as the small one came closer it knocked against their heads and shattered on the cement.

“Look at what you did!” Said the larger one, as he started running off, his voice trailed, “I’m… telling… Mom!”.

The little blonde haired one stood in the sun and flopped against the cement as a tear fell against the glass reflection with a plud.

 

Windex sprayed against the glass with lavender scented hands sweeping the washcloth over the glass. Dregs of dirt, leaves and cat spit crawled onto my rough ripped family hand-me-down washcloth. Why did I ever let him get that cat?

Resting staircase below my feet, it filled itself with hardback covered books. Upon each side, enscribed and faded carvings sit with patterns of nature. Herman hesse sat at the top, with his condesending, witty and brilliantly arrogant binding of pine green spine. Tipped on it’s side, leaning against the frame of the staircase, you could almost see the words of his book slugging down the oak mixed with a wise sense of plywood foundation. Penetrating the belly of Siddartha was bob dylans novel. Painted in coal black soot, Tarantula, added to the disorganization of the clitter clatter group of books. Confusing ripped pages drip onto Alice and Wounderland, bouncing down the isle, herding over the array of novels below their throne.

 

Trodding across the steps, the shag eggshell white carpet squished my heels. Groans tossed and turned the white cotton sheets. Yanking the window blind’s line, slats broke apart  binding themselves. Beams of sun hurled itself against his grey cheecks.

 

“What the hell!”

He turns in his Calvin Clien boxers of deep oxford blue silking around the mattress. Dipping into the ground, his hips felt the lack of a box spring, cold against the carpet. Knocking his head on the headboard of anchor grey, pinched with cotton fabric molding into circles above his blonde bangs.

“7:30!” He shakes the clock with a record inside frame.

“What are you doing on a Saturday morning?!” I flopp over his almost dark blonde chest hair, noticing his biceps clinging to the sheets for dear life. Those pencil forearms just flung there.

“Do you want some coffee?” With a smirk, I poked his oversized button nose.

 

“Ugh” he moaned, pushing me aside, slooping me down the side of the bed, thunking against the carpet. Flopping under the comforter, his stubble sandpapered that old pillow that he will never give away. Irrelevant were the palm trees on that dark indigo pillow cover.

Cold slippers flopped down the bookshelve’d steps. Hearing a crash, clunk, cloop! The wood beneath my feet shook. Throwing the washcloth on the table with surrender, I clenched my knuckles.

“Fuck you cat! Why do I even clean this window when you just run into all the other ones!” Another thumbp sounds below. “Get rid of all the windows, and you’ll just fall off the balcony!”.

Slippers cluned down the fuffled throw carpet. Goodwill couch of walnux mixed with tortilla brown sat in it’s stuffing swirling out of the sides.Sweat fogs my palms at the new cat controlled living room.

Black lamps cracking on the wooden entry-way brought into view little prints against the window. Walking closer I saw Milo with his mouth open chiping like some kind of demonic bird. Watching my gardenias sway in the wind, the red bird flied away.  Milo bounced along the window-sill chanting his clattering teeth. My rolled eyes saw an image walking towards the street.

A little blonde blob reflected the sun from his hands. Head almost in his chest footsteps ding on the porch.

3 knocks.

Mickey Mouse pajama fuzz my bottoms with a red spaghetti strap gave cold to my chest. Moving, my breasts remind me that’s my tits sag against the cotton. Frantically, I  see Paul’s old work-shirt dangling on the wall.

One more knock.

Buttoning up just enough to hide the boob popping, the window reflects, “Hi I’m Paul”, crunching on my chest under my chin. Fumbling my umber brown hair messed in a nest of pink scrunchies, an aching smile reaches on my face.

 

The yellow chipped gold door-handle reached towards my hand. Crickety squeaking manges the lipstick door to a swing.

A reflection is shoved into my nose. Flies mangling into the liquid of my eyeballs, my feet grasp onto the floor, almost buckling over for deer life. Little eyes stare in wonderment, as my boobs begin to sway, as my blue long fingernails swat the flies away. Little eyes run while I bat at the air. Pink scrunchies flying at his blonde head, he is knocked to the porch, and finally i pull up my fuzzy bottoms and breathe a sigh of desperation. Reliefed, the child says,

“I just wanted to ask you a question”.

With a cold morning hand, I drag him on his feet, “Yeah, but what in the hell are you doin comin in here, bringing the whole herd of flies in your parade?”

“Well, I just wanted to ask…”

“I have been up since 2am, tossing and turning from this damn imsomnia, if you even know what that means. Basically, it means that all you ever do is bake, and walk around the halls like a loony bin. And when you go to work, all you do is drink Dave’s old coffee while he just sits watching Netflix again, ignoring his assignment. And you have all the paperwork to do, falling asleep every second until your eyes turn grey, and your skin starts to sag. But, then when you finally get home, kid. Here’s the trick! You lay in your cozy bed, and hell no…your eyes are peeled open.” I pace back and forth, looking for a cup of coffee. “What do you want anyways?”

The kid sat on my old box that held the fan from 2 summers ago, filled with other boxes of random do-dad’s. A gnome stuck his head out the side, with a crack in his forehead, and dust against his chin. Holding himself stable on the box, he goes, “Well…I just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen my mom. See, I got her this mirror for her birthday…but it broke since I was so clumbsy….And well…I just don’t know what to do”. His chin falls in his hands, with a reflection of his blonde bangs in the broken glass.

“Hey kid, I may be a bit out of it, but look how hard you worked”. Feeling the camping material of the outdoor folding chair plumping under my things, my blue fingernails lay on his shoulder. “But, I am here for you dude”. His blue eyes look up at me. “We will fix it. All we got to do is find some crazy glue”. His eyes widen. “You ready?”

He punched the pillow upstairs, throwing it at the attic. Scuttering nails scrunched above his head.

“Damn rats”. He took his palm tree pillow off the carpet, and underneath something shone in the window-sun. Picking it up, his bright blonde-newly-dyed eyebrows raised in shock. With engravings written in a language he knew, he ran his fingertips against it’s wooden edges. Sitting at the window-sill, his calvin clien boxers held tight to his tanned thighs. With a screech he opened the top, holding the box bottom over the junk in his trunk. Sunlight shone so bright, the box began trasparent. Fragile, it’s wooden top began to crack. Cracking, pieces of its top scratched and broke apart. In pieces, he held the wood in dismay. Rushing around the room, his morning wood peaked through, as he swat it with his pillow. Holding the pillow to his front, he rushed through the bedroom. Under the mattress, an array of old junk and dusted bunnies sneezed up his nose.

Footsteps thumped near the stairs. His eyes widened. His back sweat.

Holding the pillow to his front, he jumped into the closet, clothes, dresses, and makeup falling over his messy, last night-greased up business cut.

Something rumbled at the top of the shelf, falling over.

The door squeaked.

“Hey girl”. He threw the box behind his sweaty morning back.

With my blue fingernails against my lips, “Have you seen my crazy glue?”

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