My Life as Isaac Newton

This character has nothing to do with the Isaac in Midnight Plush (q.v.). The idea for this story came in a dream, and that was his name in the dream, so I didn't change it. This is the closest thing to a traditional short story I've submitted, and I would really like solid critique on it. Especially, did I do a good job of writing from a man's point of view? Oh, and I guess I should state this explicitly, based on some so-called "feedback" I've gotten on other stories: Everything I write is fiction.

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WHEN I WAS thirty-four years old, I came to the realization that I, Isaac Newton, had done nothing more with my life than bum through it.

It's all my parents' fault. I have to hand it to them for giving me that name. It ensured that, without their ever having to raise an eyebrow or purse a lip, all the high motivations and encouragement to succeed that the world could offer would be focused on their son.

But I fixed them! I majored in philosophy, which prepared me to do with my life exactly what I'd always wanted to--nothing, but with the ability to really ruminate over it if there were no magazines in the bathroom. So, while Mom and Dad were calling NC State to request a refund on my tuition, I was busy perfecting my brickface and stucco skills. I liked the job, liked the guys, liked the paycheck, so I stayed. The cast of characters changed, but there were three of us who lacked the ambition to leave: me, my boss, and the owner.

Then there was Brenda, the receptionist. The first time she saw me flick a butt on the ground, she reacted like I had napalmed a small village and made me skulk over and pick the cigarette up. She was always reprimanding me for my smoking, but she'd looked kind of bummed when I'd asked my boss for two weeks off to go see my family and my best friend Phil. I was ready for a break from the routine, but I had to admit I had started sort of liking it when Brenda nagged me.

Mom and Dad were thrilled that I'd come home, and they were slathering me with parental love in the form of brontosaurus-sized steaks and Mom's Magic Peanut Butter Cup Pudding. Before both my liver and pancreas broke down from exhaustion, I excused myself to go sit out on the stoop and have a smoke.

It was early September, but it still felt like summer. I plopped down onto the concrete, thinking how when I was a kid we'd all be out here playing, watching for the first street light to come on, which meant we had to come home. There were no kids out now; probably they were playing video games or watching softcore porn disguised as network TV.

I'd just lit up when my brother Ernest "Don't Call Me Fig" came out and sat beside me. "When are you gonna quit those things?" he said.

I took a long drag. "I plan to be the last person on the planet still smoking," I said.

"You probably will," he answered, raising his beer at me, "but it's a pretty pathetic vice."

"Yeah, well, crossdressing wasn't working out so well."

He snorted and I kicked off my boots and rested my bare feet on the step. As a kid, it had always been one of my favorite things to sit out on summer evenings when the air was getting cool but the concrete was still warm. It made the right parts of your body just the right temperature to totally enjoy the experience.

"How's work going?" I said.

"Okay." He shrugged. "My boss is an ass." He left unsaid the obvious sequitur: But whose isn't?

"Well, if you want him bricked into his office, you know who to call."

"How's your job going?"

"Same as always. The only reason my boss and I know what's going on is because we can't have our heads up our asses because the owner's is already in there."

Ernest snorted again, but now I was thinking about Brenda. Fireflies were streaking upward from the grass. Ernest and I had used to catch them and put them in jars, and they would blink by our beds all night long. Brenda was bright and sparkly like that. I let the last smoke of my cigarette slouch out of my mouth, then ground the butt out on the step. I did not flick it into the bushes.

With an extra bowl of pudding in tow, I set out for Phil's. We hadn't seen each other in a year; it was harder now that Phil had three kids. But when I pulled into the driveway, Phil regressed into the Sweetheart of Kappa Delta Rho and gave me the brotherhood yell while I flipped him the finger. A second later he straightened up like a CEO's tie as his daughter Trudy came up from behind me with the mail.

Trudy was taller and thinner now, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. "Hi, Trude," I said, reaching out to shake her hand.

"Greetings, Sir Isaac," she giggled, tilting her head winsomely. Great, she'd finally heard about him in school.

"Trudy, that's not funny," Phil said automatically, not even looking up from the mail.

"It's okay. What grade are you in now, Trudy?"

"Fourth." She was smiling cutely. I didn't know what else to say. I'd always been a flop with chicks, even when I was in the fourth grade. Luckily, like most chicks, Trudy liked to talk, and she regaled me while Phil finished checking the mail. Then he looked up and said, "Have you done your homework?"

"Daddy, it's after supper."

"I know, but did you do your homework?"

"I did it when I got home! Why are you always yelling at me?" She flounced toward the house, somehow managing to communicate disapproval using only her shoulderblades.

"Always in the deep end of the estrogen pool," Phil said. "Come on, let's go find Cindy."

But Cindy'd heard my car, and she threw open the door and grabbed me into a big hug while their escapee pet cats formed a knot around my ankles. She was cute in a sorority sister kind of way, with frosted blonde hair to her shoulders and blue eyes, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with flowers on it.

I was going to be there till the weekend, putatively earning my keep by fixing some of the stucco on their back wall. But what I would in fact be doing was keeping the kids' attention diverted from the fact that they were being parented. And it worked out pretty well, because everybody loves wet stucco and everybody really loves having Uncle Isaac clean them up by blasting them with the garden hose. But by Thursday night I was beat. Maybe that explains why I started rehashing my so-called love life as I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep.

I hadn't had a steady girlfriend in about a year. Of course, it was my own fault. My last girlfriend liked to be spanked and I just couldn't do it. She had a great ass, but that was the problem. Who wanted to bruise a fantastic set of cheeks like that? She'd be there across my lap begging, and all I could muster was a soft pat. So, since I didn't satisfy her deepest longings, she'd had to leave. Brenda had a nice ass too. What if she liked people to do kinky stuff like snap rubber bands on it or something? I wasn't up for that. Why couldn't she just want me to caress it? I'd even kiss it if she'd let me. Nothing like the feel of some peachy soft cheeks...I had to take a deep breath.

Then I was in the bathroom, standing there naked and completely unconcered about that fact. Cindy was in the tub, suds snaking down from her throat between her spread knees. God, she was sexy! How could I not have noticed it before? She stood up and the suds bubbles were sliding down around her nipples and navel, the water shining on her body. Phil grabbed me and pressed me up against her. The cool water parted and her warm skin was against mine, and my cock was sneaking toward her waiting pussy...

I was in a cold room. My eyes were wide to the dark, like those of a mental patient in the throes of a particularly horrible hallucination. I had had a sexual dream about Cindy! Jesus fuck! I started to sweat. Now I was not only an underachiever but a pervert.

I had to do something quick, so I envisioned Brenda standing in the shower, water curtaining down her body. Much better, and my penis was agreeing, so I kept going. I got in the shower with Brenda and took her in my arms. Her soft tits were mashed into my chest, her curves fitting nicely into my angles, and when I kissed her she kissed back. I ran my hands down her back, and she caressed my ribs, the warm water sluicing down between us. "Oh, girl," I said, and lay her lightly against the wall. Our breath cut swaths through the steam in the air, and she opened up for me and whispered my name just as I entered...

Errrtt! Rewind! To just as I backed her into the wall, where she would say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not that kind of girl." No, even further, to where I was peeking in the shower and she looked at me with her wet hair swept back except for some lacy tendrils on her cheeks and said, "If you want this with me, you'll have to marry me."

"Okay," I said, "will you marry me?" and she smiled and nodded.

But the whole thing was coming unglued, because what if we did get married and our life morphed into...Phil and Cindy's? Brenda would be in the shower yelling about how the kids couldn't even let her get a bath in peace, and I'd be frantically racing after babies and cats, trying to remember which ones needed the diapers and which ones got the milk. Now my sweat was cryogenic, and my penis had gone into witness protection. Fuck! Phil and Cindy had ruined my life!

I looked at the clock. It was only five-fifteen, too late to sneak a smoke without waking everybody, too early to call anybody. Ernest would answer the phone but he'd pummel me the next time he saw me. Nobody was at the office yet. But I could still leave a message for Brenda. I grabbed my cell and dialed.

"You have reached Hinkle Brick and Stucco," Brenda's voice said, "but we're not available to take your call. Please leave a message at the tone."

Beep!

"Bren, this is Isaac," I said. Then my mind went blank. "Uh, I just wanted to say hi, and, uh..."

Well, this was sounding good, and I could never delete the message, which I was sure the guys would play all day.

"So, uh, could you tell Dave I'll be back Monday? Thanks, bye."

Where had that come from? I wasn't planning on going back for another week. I reached for my smokes. The pack was empty. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Next thing I knew, the door opened and Phil said, "For Christ's sakes, get the fuck out of bed." He was talking frat talk

"Blurgh," I said, but he knew what I meant.

"Isaac," he said crisply, authoritatively. "It's late. Get out of bed." Now he was back to Daddy-speak.

I opened one gluey eye, wiped the drool off my cheek, and looked at the clock. "Seven o'clock is late?"

He kneed the bedrail and said, "Everyone else is up and moving. The cats are the only people still asleep."

"The cats aren't people, Phil."

"You know what I mean. Get up."

When I got downstairs, Phil was the only one left home, checking his Palm Pilot one last time before he went to work. I put the empty pack of cigarettes on the counter, and he just looked at me. I took the last fifty dollars out of my wallet, leaving the last forty in, and put the bills on top of the cigarette pack. "I'm going the fuck home," I said.

"Good," he said, and nodded.

"You asshole," I said, laughing.

He put the Palm Pilot down and stood up. "Man, I'm glad you came," he said.

"Yeah."

Then we did something we'd never done before. Usually we punched each other, but this time we hugged. It didn't feel weird, either; it was like hugging Ernest at Mom and Dad's.

"Take care of yourself," he said as he let me go.

"You too."

"And take the money with you."

"Come on, you guys put me up for four days."

"I'm just going to send the money back to you."

He would, too. All I could come up with was, "Well, it's your postage stamp."

"Get out of here," he said as his cell phone rang.

A couple of hours later I was heading south, waiting for my cup of mini-mart coffee to cool down to the temperature of magma while the voice of Ricky Skaggs reminded me that we were taking the Dixie Highway home. I hadn't bought any cigarettes and there wasn't a lot to do, so I dialed my phone.

"Hinkle Brick and Stucco," Brenda's voice said in a tone that meant: It's Friday, don't push me.

"Hey, Bren, it's Isaac."

"Hey!" Her voice brightened. "Where are you?"

"I don't know. Somewhere in Virginia." I was trying not to flop. Then words channeled from some other, bigger brain than mine. "Hey, you doing anything this weekend?"

"Nothing special. Why?"

I was trying simultaneously to figure out where these actions were coming from, and not to disrupt their flow. "Well," I said, "you want to do something?"

She paused, and I waited for her to laugh in my face via my phone. But then she said, "Okay, what?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something on the way down. I should be there right about when you're getting off work."

"Okay. But I don't want you smoking."

"Not a problem."

"Okay, then, see you later."

"Okay."

I wasn't sure what to say next, but she saved me by telling me she had a call on the other line and we hung up. Then the car levitated over a bump and I realized that I, Isaac Newton, had conquered gravity and was happily settled in a slow but realistic orbit.