Chris Carmona chris.a.carmona@gmail.

com

An Insurrection

Ralph had three options: 1. Walk into the bedroom and interrupt her. 2. Flee the apartment and hide. 3. Sit on the living room couch and wait for his wife to finish having sex with some old white-haired man in their bedroom. He chose option three, which, as his wife climaxed, he realized was a perverse compromise. Ralph knew the sex was over when he heard her giggle; a nuance she provided when they finished, too. The old mans voice then approached the living room and Ralph dropped to the floor, ducking beneath his own coffee table. Excuse me? The old man stood over Ralph. He was shirtless, white hair trailing from his chest down his stomach to his briefs, which hung a bit loose, though itd been some time since Ralph wore briefs and he wasnt quite sure how they were supposed to hang. Ralph was still on his stomach, on the floor, when the old man called for Helen. She came jogging into the room naked, all smiles, and wrapped herself around the old man, her hand slipping through his chest hair. Do you know this gentleman? he asked. After Helen bolted to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her, Ralph got to his feet. Im her husband. Oh. Well, thats-. The old man paused. That is uncomfortable. Ralph nodded, and the two men stood staring at each other, both faces fixed with

expectation. Finally the old man asked, Are wedo we fight now? What? No. Because of my age? Because, Ralph started, its not your fault . If I were you and I had the chance to sleep with her, Id have done the same. No. Its Helens fault. Helen, made modest by a robe, flung open the bedroom door and screamed, How dare you! How could you blame me? She ran to her husband, pointing at the old man. Do you know who this is? Do you? How could I? Ralph asked. Thats right. How could you? If you did wed have some money. Well, then, who is this? The old man extended his hand warily. Jack Bailey. Jack Bailey? It took not a moment for the name to register. Of Miramont Pictures? Thats right. Jack nodded with a practiced humility, now more distinguished than old. Jack Bailey, Ralph repeated. It was a name hed often uttered in conversations with other people who know of Jack Bailey. The lapse offered his wife time to tighten her robe and Jack to find his pants. But howd you meet Helen? Well, at work, of course. Work? Ralph whipped his head to face Helen. She took a step back, then, in what seemed a gesture of defiance, took two steps forward and said, quickly and aggressively, Yea work, Ralph. Ive been working the past few weeks. Temping. Is that a problem? I like to have money. I like to have things. What things? I dont know. Food, for example. Food? We have food! Pasta! We have pasta eleven nights a week! Helen turned to Jack desperately. He

doesnt want me to work! Which is fine, noble, whatever. You dont want your wife to work? Good. But somebody has to find money. Find? Earn. Make. You can counterfeit it, Ralph, I could give a shit, but it has to exist. Your ideas dont have any currency, Ralph. Not yet, she sighed, then bounced her attention back to Jack and, in a private tone hushed well within earshot, whispered, Its always like this, Jack. Its never, its just so unstable. Jack gave a confidants nod and, as he buttoned his shirt, turned to Ralph. Tell me, Ronald, whats your trade? My names Ralph, Mr. Bailey, he said cautiously. Im, I like to think Im a writer. Ah, Jack smiled. Well, accounts for the poverty. And the misery, Helen chimed. And it had become miserable. Ralphs rebellion, once romantic, even heroic, had turned redundant. Hed work past exhaustion, bending his wrist and sipping cold coffee, then stuff screenplays into envelopes, receive a pile of curt, anonymous rejections, and commence drinking himself into despair. It became Helens duty to make sense of his failure, to speak as an ambassador for people who understand that success doesnt arrive in the mail, that you offer servitude, you help, you make your face familiar. But it wasnt until a month ago that frustration finally compelled her to speak. Oh Ralph, she said. There will always be people that make you bend your will. Part of being civilized is learning where rebellion ends. But honey. Ralph put his hands on her shoulders. They were warm and a little wet, as though theyd been soaked and squeezed. Honey Im a writer. I dont bend. I just create what I create and hope itll find its place in the world. And hows that worked out so far? she asked, and it ached her to see Ralphs drunk eyes soften as he realized she was right. She wanted nothing more than for his exhaustive efforts to be validated, but she could see that Ralph stood firmly in his own way. His disposition for

solitude was not a quality that beckoned success. If action were to be taken, he would need help. Which is what led to her affair with Jack Bailey. She sought temp work with an entertainment employment agency so transparent in its pursuit for pretty people that it required a headshot be attached with ones resume. This encouraged Helen, who if nothing else considered herself pretty. She was often approached by men in public, though they were, as a rule, depressing men oblivious of their own social retardation: the lonely introvert who spends entire Saturdays at bookstores staring holes through unsuspecting women; the attractive athlete who owns a well-groomed dog but still hasnt discovered hes dyslexic; the artist so unkempt its hard to tell whether hes anguished or schizophrenic, behavior suggesting neither prospect is less right. They were always weird men, but beyond weirdness, they were men who recognized in Helen a want to nurture greatness, a want to follow an odd, unpaved trail, a want that had, in the past three years, diminished in her so much it had nearly vanished. She was over it. Shed come to terms with the normal. She now simply wanted a life of pleasant scenery and people who would hug her and tell her theyd save her from these newfound limitations. This, Helen noted, is what it feels like to have a thirst for rich men, for powerful men, for men who can buy her children carriages and her dog bones and her anxiety medication. And this was when she met Jack, who her boss boss boss called Mr. Bailey and who, when Helen dropped a stack of files, didnt offer a hand but commanded someone else to.

Well Jack trailed, bending to lace his shoes, and Ralph now saw hed finished dressing. In a moment hed be out the apartment and only his old musk, soaked in the sheets, would be left. Its a terribly difficult field, writing. The hardest thing in the world, I say. I deal with writers all day. Course I deal with screenwriters- Thats what he is, Helen said anxiously. That is what I am, Ralph agreed a bit too quickly. Is it. Jack nodded, hesitant. Well, Ive found that success has come to those who

showpersistence. Youre still a young man, twenty-something- Itll be thirty in July. Thirtys nothing. Adolescence, these days. Anyway, Im, well, Ron, Im really, Im just sorry about this whole ordeal. If Id known Helen was married- No, please, Mr. Bailey, Ralph assured him. Its something Helen and I will have to work out. Ralph turned and glared at Helen. She stood in the kitchen where the lights were still off. But you, you must be starving, after, not to be vulgar, all that, and its almost dinner time. I was just about to ask Helen for some pasta and wine- Thats very kind, Ron, but I really should go. One glass of wine, Ralph insisted, maneuvering himself between Jacks gaze and the front door. Please, Jack, Helen followed. We never have friends over. Itd be so nice to just sit and have a glass of wine with some company.

**rest of story available upon request**