Corbin

My muse of life and beautiful death, spirit of the void I reap. Into your arms I cravenly crawl, hold me and ne’er let go. Nearing the shore of our blissful dream, keeper of time, oh keep. Ask not what dreams shadow mine own, descending into the deep.

June 12, 2016

Gangly. The word floated lazily into his thoughts as he looked at his reflection across the counter. The bar room was clean, but shabby and not chic. He grimaced at his wry humor . . . not having someone to share it with was what had him so depressed.

His mother had mentioned he was gangly once when he was a young teen, at twenty-five he expected to have grown out of it. He stood exactly at six-foot-four, the sorry part was he was not athletic, all of the questions about basketball and track made him withdraw as a kid. Having to explain why he wasn’t on the team hurt. It’s hard to be invisible when one is so tall. Dropping the bones of his last buffalo wing onto the plate, he downed the last of his beer and allowed the stein to slam with a bit of force.

He expected to be working in some cushy office as an accountant by now; that’s what he went to college for. Instead, he was stuck in the same town he grew up in, working at the local hardware store . . . not the large chain store either. Not much chance of moving up and getting a pay raise there. He had a habit of spending the evenings with his friends at one of three pubs, but most had moved on having completed college, gotten married and the jobs they studied for.

So what had college done for him? Absolutely squat! Corbin Masterson felt his anger welling up as he contemplated the unfairness of it all. If only, he thought.

“Yes, if only.”

Corbin looked over to the striking man on the stool beside him. “You say something?”

The man nodded and replied, “If only there were a way out of your situation, would you take it?”

Corbin’s head was buzzing, as he replied firmly, “Heck yeah, I’d sell my soul at this point! This life is a load of crap!”

The seeming angel of light chuckled as he replied, “I can turn crap into gold.”

Corbin sat stupefied for a moment allowing the meaning of the words to filter through his drink induced fog. The guy must be drunker than I am! he thought. Yet he continued to sit there awaiting an answer.

Corbin shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure, turn this crap into gold and I’ll follow you to Hell.” He was sure he’d get a chuckle from his joke. With a caustic laugh he pushed the plate of chicken wing scraps towards the golden-haired stranger. Before he could add a second snide comment, the man passed his graceful hand over the plate and then dropped three gold coins into the empty stein, leaving the plate void of its contents. The sound resounded in Corbin’s ears . . . the music from the band seemed muted as the room appeared to slowly spin.

Extending his hand towards Corbin the stranger said, “The name’s Quarry. Do we have a deal?”

***

Morning dawned and passed by as Corbin slept in. He didn’t have to be at work until 12:00 noon. Having forgotten the experience of the night before he felt rested, he didn’t feel so pessimistic.

“Morning dog,” he said as his black lab looked up at him with a thump of his tail. Junior, as the lab was christened, didn’t bother getting up, he knew his master always showered before letting him out. He dropped his head with a sigh and resumed his doggy thoughts.

Corbin chuckled as he wondered what sort of thoughts ran through a dog’s mind. Briefly a flash of running through tall weeds and catching a Frisbee entered his mind. “Yep,” he laughed. “That’s about it I guess.”

Closing the door, he proceeded with his morning ablutions. And indeed it was near ritualistic in nature. He was not truly afflicted with OCD, yet he preferred to do things in an orderly fashion. First step: turn on the shower and allow the room to fill with steam. After relieving his bladder he left his shorts in the hamper and stepped into the shower face first.

Having watched a show about yoga as a twelve year old kid he always cleansed his sinuses first. Inhaling water up his nose and spewing it out, among other procedures. Next he washed his hair, not once but twice. His mother had tried to tell him it was unnecessary since he’d always kept his hair short, but what do moms know? He’d read the instructions and it said—
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. So that is what he did. Corbin’s hair was the one thing he was proud of, even if it was what his mother called mousy brown. She had said it reminded her of the color of mouse fur. He now wore it long—grazing his chin, and so after washing it, twice, he added conditioner.

Next he used a facial scrub. Acne had been the bane of his young life; at least it was only two or three new flare ups a week now. Carefully he used a washcloth to rinse his face as he liked to leave the conditioner on as long as possible. Last he soaped up the rest of his body, running his hands over his chest he had to stop and look at himself. Surprise and delight enveloped him as he realized he had slight definition in his pecs and abs. Continuing to wash and rinse he quickly toweled off and made his way back to his room where he had a tri-fold mirror. His grandmother had left it to him in her will. He did think it was a beautiful piece of art. The woodworking was finely wrought and the walnut stain was strong and manly. Yet he always felt scrawny looking at his slight frame from every angle.

Now, today he couldn’t get the grin off of his face as he noted he had somehow missed the fact that he had been developing broader shoulders and better muscle definition. Looking at Junior as he joined his master, Corbin crowed, “Looks like hauling lumber and stocking shelves has its benefits!”

The dog didn’t care. Corbin dressed and let the dog out to the fenced back yard. Breakfast was a bowl of cereal while Corbin logged in to his writing site…he had been among the first to sign up, back when he was a thirteen-year-old with dreams of poetic greatness. Rarely did a day go by that he did not log in at least twice. Nearly as rare did he actually get more than ten reads and a minor award in the countless contests he felt compelled to enter.

It was no surprise that he had written something in his drunken stupor, he enjoyed reading them as they were generally new to him. Corbin was surprised to see he had not only written a poem, but had entered it in a quickie round and had taken first place. It read:

     melodious scents caress my soul                                                                                                            breathless i’ll never be

        for in you i find my joy is full,                                                                                                                         musical giver of light

        inhalations so honeyed and rare                                                                                                                drown me now in your elixir 

         deeper and deeper i fall in your song                                                                                                                        into the sea of your soul

         embraced by your being                                                                                                                      a lullaby pure, rock me to sleep with your love

~Quarry

Corbin sat stunned as he vaguely recalled golden coins dropping into a beer stein. It seemed so real, and yet obviously had to have been a beer induced hallucination. Still he marveled at the poem; usually, they were more like:

What now, Pops? I thought ya liked my company . . .

Ya don’t look so chipper to me, Pops. Well? Look at me when I question you.

Huh, Pops? Are ya gonna take me for a ride? Huh?

I’d leave ya alone if you’d spend more quality time with me. Ya know?

Aw Pops, cheer up. Where’s the rubber ducky?

A poem he’d written dedicated to Junior. And yeah it had gotten an award as well, and girls loved that he included a picture of his sweet dog, but still, his style had never been so . . . he had to pause before actually admitting to the word which the poem brought forth. He’d never written so sensual, so mature.

He was backward and a touch shy . . . yes, and a virgin. Yet he definitely liked the poem and felt proud to type back responses of thanks to all the fellow poets who had taken the time to read and comment.

The last person he replied to had been the first to read it, an old friend from Florida; Crissy Goforth. Her username was CrissyAngel, she was a long-time poet like himself.

She had said, *Oh hun you have outdone yourself this time. Does this mean you have found yourself a keeper? Oh, and I love the name Quarry. Are you gonna switch your username?*

Without thinking, Corbin said, *Sure am. I think it will get me better attention . . . Corbin is kinda lame.*

Crissy quickly replied, *Nonsense, Corbin is adorable . . . Quarry just sounds mysterious.*

Corbin inhaled at the compliment and responded with several emoticons. Crissy had always been a sweet lady who wrote about angels and short bedtime stories for kids. And she loved emoticons.

Corbin affected the change. Taking the name Quarry felt so right, a sense of satisfaction infused him, he could swear his chest expanded another two inches as he sat without his customary hunch. He scanned a few contests and selected one at random . . . Jasmine was the hostess. He’d looked at her page before, but felt like taking another look since she changed her pictures often. She was an attention whore and didn’t mind saying so.

He preferred blondes and so while he didn’t mind treating his eyes, he had never been overly attracted to her, yet this time he felt drawn to her. He read everything she had to say about each picture and kept returning to a few where her smile was particularly sly.

“Whoa! I don’t have time for this, I’m late for work.”

He left without logging off and quickly ensured that the dog had water and food in his bowls. Then locking the door, climbing onto his motorcycle with his helmet securely in place, he made his way to work.

Feeling confident, Corbin smiled more as he helped customers. It seemed to him as if people were staring and he loved the attention. Deep inside he could feel himself asking what was wrong with him, but outwardly he continued to shower customers and fellow workers with smiles and direct eye contact.

The thrill was almost more than he could handle when a girl he’d gone to school with asked for his help, and then afterwards placed her hand on his bicep and said, “Thanks Cor, you’re looking good.”

Looking directly at her he noticed for the first time that her green eyes were ringed with gold. “No problem, Manda and you look pretty sweet these days too.”

She had lost weight and really did look pretty sweet. But he was sure she was engaged to Jim Bonner. Still, she blushed and bumped a display as she left the aisle.

Corbin felt like he was in junior high again. The grin on his face was almost embarrassing, so he worked to lower his glee. It seemed as if the day flew by in an hour when his shift manager told him he could finish up the floors and check out.

***

Instead of going home to change and then go out as usual, Corbin went shopping to restock his bare cupboards. He then made a pot of cheese raviolis covered with a white sauce, paired with a strawberry and spinach salad. Sitting down, he almost questioned how he had even come up with the meal, but felt his questions being tamped down. He silenced the wonder and simply enjoyed.

Savoring each bite, he felt his desire to write a poem of passion as delicious as his repast. Then thoughts turned to Jasmine, Corbin returned to his computer and noted her question asking if he would enter her contest.

*Sure thing my little flower. Are you as fragrant as you look?*

She did not respond. Corbin noticed she was logged out. He went to change his page; he’d had the same set up for six months, so it was time for a change anyway. It seemed as if his alter ego receded as he went through the motions of finding a new wallpaper and looking through his old photos for something that reflected his new persona. Feeling discouraged Corbin felt a surge within as Quarry took definite control.

“Where’s the frikkin’ Camera?” he exclaimed, searching his memory for when he’d last used it. “Of course, where it’s always kept.”

Quarry combed the silvery brown hair, conceding it did have a certain attractiveness to the way it shone. The sun was low in the sky so natural lighting was out. He collected several free standing lamps and arranged them so as to not create shadows under his eyes, set the camera on auto, and posed with studied grace.

Most of the shirts Corbin owned were too big, so his muscles were never seen. He decided to remove the stupid thing altogether and flexed and postured. Taking the card to his pc, Quarry relinquished strict control and monitored as Corbin sorted through the photos. Most were a mess, but several were stunning. Quarry and Corbin agreed the one where his hair fell over one eye with jaw tensed, was perfect for his new avatar. They cropped it so his bare shoulder was noted, but the eye was the focal point, sure to capture the attention of anyone who appreciates fine art.

Once the page met Quarry’s exacting desire, he reviewed Jasmine’s contest. She wanted poems with both wit and horror. Elation filled the young man’s chest as Quarry stifled Corbin’s wonder.

“Exactly my style, little flower . . . oh, this is going to be a delight.”

Quarry returned to Jasmine’s author page for inspiration before writing. Many of her photos were of her at school with friends or at parties. But the one to attract his attention the most was in a garden. The greens behind her were muted and blurry, fused with pink and yellow splashes of color. In her hand Jasmine held a single yellow jonquil; the ripples of deeper orange stood out almost as much as her deep nearly black eyes which looked right into the camera even though her head was down. She looked up through her lashes and appeared to be saying, “Come to me.”

“Oh yeah, I’m coming, baby . . . ”

Quarry preferred the tactile feel of writing by hand, so he searched the shelf until he found a small half-filled journal. “Perfect.”

He wrote the date and penned slowly and with thought, he hated having to scratch out and begin anew. Looking back at some of the poems already included, he saw several which were indeed written and rewritten.

He wrote:

June 12, 2016

  Little flower, dressed in white                                                                                    Pure symbol vessel of delight---Symbolic vessel of delight

  Shall I leave you where you’re planted?                                                                Or pluck you whole and make you mine?

  Ripped away from your roots                                                                              Torn and dripping, how ‘bout it Toots?

  Mangled limbs your petals crushed                                                                          Soon your cries will all be hushed

  Jazzy flower of delight                                                                                              Now I have you in my sight

~ Quarry

Quarry had indeed had to cross out a line as he decided he didn’t like the second line as – pure symbol vessel of delight. Still, he sighed with great satisfaction and returned to post the entry; the thrill of imagining what she would think of the poem was practically all consuming.

Unable to remain silent he exclaimed, “Ah, Corbin, my boy, it feels so good to be a man.”

Corbin remained mute and simply went with the flow, it felt pretty good, and he saw no reason to stop what was happening. He was just re-imagining himself, wasn’t he?