The Hamburger Story
I bought your book. Used. But, still. I bought it. It was mean. I dropped it hard on the floor when I finished. You didn't have to keep the ending. I took a picture of my foot stepping on your face. You liked my feet. You would like this picture.
I didn't like her. I like the name. You know I hate that name. I always thought you were funny. Maybe even more than you were mean. All you seem to remember is that I was mean. You even made me ugly. I like that you made them way different sizes. You know I always thought one was bigger. I like that you gave me a tiny nose and big feet, and that I always wore the same green coat. I like that I didn't sing in the car, or eat oatmeal with blueberries or take baths instead of showers.
I'm not so mean that I'm not happy that your face is on a book for me to step on. Are you still that mean? He is not mean at all. I would never throw a hamburger at him. I liked that part best.
I like your picture, too. You shaved your beard. My chin was raw for two years. John told me you shaved it right after you threw my pillow out the window. Erased my scraped face from yours. I got a haircut the next day. It's grown back.
Do you still have my chair? I came back for it. Everything I left was gone. I took all the best stuff on my first trip. The only thing I wish I still had is the chair. I'm pretty sure you're sitting in it in your book picture. I don't recall you being obvious. Have you become lazy? I know you haven't become stupid. You can't hide a present under ugly wrapping.
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Author's Note
Wigleaf 8/31/09.
Postcard: (i love writing these!):
Dear Wigleaf:
You are very attractive in your homemade three-piece suit. Your moves on the dance floor are smooth. I am a little bit in love with your feet. You wear fascinating socks.
I want you to spin me and catch me on your arm. I want to do the Thriller dance with you. I want your mother to knit you socks with my name on them. I think that you would wear them.
These things are too private to tell you on the dance floor. You never leave.
Yours,
Lauren
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I like how you stack declarative sentences together. I like how each sentence could almost be its own little pithy statement. I like how none of the sentences connect. I like how they all work together.
I like how you stack declarative sentences together. I like how each sentence could almost be its own little pithy statement. I like how none of the sentences connect. I like how they all work together.
"I'm not so mean that I'm not happy that your face is on a book for me to step on."
What a delight that line is, L. Really. THat's a superstar line.
Scott -- thank you so much. You're a superstar. I would never throw a hamburger at you.
Thanks for your nice comments, also, Jon.
Barry, you are lazy.
I don’t recall you being obvious. Have you become lazy? I know you haven’t become stupid.
Nice work.
This part is my favorite. I like the tension and contradiction and humor in it:
"I took a picture of my foot stepping on your face. You liked my feet. You would like this picture."
I agree with Tim. This are very clear images that resound inside the rest of the story very beautifully.Just like 1-2-3-or a-b-c. I couldn't stop thinking about those feet and their own story somewhere on the outside of this one.
Thanks David, Tim and Darryl. You are all very kind readers. No meat thrown at you either.
(Darryl, you'll be the first to know if the feet get their own story)!
I think a little of Lydia Davis and Break It Down and a little of early Rudolph Wurlitzer but this is entirely original in its appeal and attack. It's so clean and every declarative sentence suggests a deep past, many doings. The sentences are events: decisions made after deliberation. Best part--it's funny too.
what everyone else already said. i like it too. i like the violence underneath a lot.
thanks james and alan. both of you have recent stories up that i love, so i especially appreciate the messengers here.
Sparse and enjoyable,Lauren! I love the chair and the book stepping. Sad and lovely in the mixed way of loss. If there were no more conflicted thoughts about the ex, there'd be no need for comparison between old and new--this makes the piece feel rich for me. :) xoxo, H
Well done, Lauren. I love the premise of this story. A delight to read. How intriguing to have our work go out into the world and not know who receives it, and what they do with it!
I like how she flails her arms and then lands a punch, how it goes from abstract - "mean" - to the beard on her face stuff, which scratches my face, too. This is how spurned and flummoxed people act before they retreat into brooding. The feelings are still fresh, even though it's been long enough for her hair to grow out.
The book is "Used." ha. The ultimate dig to a writer.
Very belated thanks to Heather and Ethel for reading and commenting kindly!
Thanks, also, Pia. You expressed the essence of the hurt and anger behind the humor better than I could have.
I read this on Wigleaf this morning and saw that it was here too.
A delight, indeed.
"I don't recall you being obvious." Great line, as I think it may also be a jab at his writing, too, no?
thanks katrina! yes, she alternates between jabs, regret, anger and sadness, i think, much of it aimed at his writing (the used book, the picture, the "obvious" thing ...) others have told me much more about it than i can explain, really.
i'm so glad you liked it. i am crazy about the stuff you've been putting up.
i just came thru here and stared and thought, could it really be that i haven't faved this?
scott: thank you for remedying that horrific oversight.
(fave back at you for publishing it.)
This story makes me smile every time I read it. It also makes me want to step on faces, but that is neither here nor there.
thanks sarah! maybe step on pictures of faces ... it will make a difference! :-)
time for you to post ...