The Night I Met Jack

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 29, 2024 | Writing

The Night I Met Jack

I remember the night I met Jack. It was sometime after 1:00 a.m. on November 30th, 1999. Christina and I had been hanging out after work at the downstairs bar at Penang’s, a Malaysian restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The bartenders there treated us well. Was it free drinks, extra booze, or engaged conversation? It’s hard to recall, probably a combination. The restaurant closed at 1:00 am, and Craig invited us to meet him after work at a bar down the street. We went ahead of Craig to Peter’s on Columbus Avenue between 68th and 69th streets. I was warm from the Cosmopolitans and didn’t notice the cold November night. The taxis and cars whirled past us.

Christina had a crush on Craig, but Craig had a crush on me.

Craig walked in and breezed past us without a glance. Christina pulled her sad puppy dog face. “He’s ignoring me,” she whined. Craig was talking to a couple of guys – one of them was Jack, my future husband.

I was pretty sassy back then. I walked up to Craig and said, “Hey, Craig, you walked right past us. Is that any way to treat your friends?” I teased.

Craig, with his blonde rockabilly hair, smiled at me, his grin wide. “Hey, meet my friends, Andrew and Jack. Jack’s in the band RoxVox.”

They both said hello, and I immediately had a visceral reaction to the tall man with splotchy blond streaks in his dark hair. His skin was pale and effervescent. My heart fluttered, my gut tightened, and a smile painted my face.

“Oh, cool. Well, nice to meet you guys.” I said nonchalantly. “Say, do you want to dance?” I said to the man named Jack.

He smiled and spoke with a British accent. “Where are we going to dance?”

“Outside on the street! I have a boombox with mad bass. We’ll throw a dance party on the street.”

The three men grinned. “Sure!” They said, like obedient dogs.

I pulled my boombox out of my handbag and expanded it to half my size. “Could one of you carry it? It’s always a bit awkward when I have to do it myself.”

“No problem,” the British guy said to me. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have a cosmo,” I said, locking my eyes with his.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, his sultry voice luring me. I blushed.

We had a couple of drinks at the bar. Poor Christina was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing her drink, looking down, and concentrating on her drink. Poor self-pitying, Christina. She’s missing out on a good time.

“Hey, Christina, come join us!” I encouraged, keeping an eye on Jack, as he would never leave my sight now.

Andrew said, “I’m ready to dance with you, babe.” I glared at him.

“I have a name. Don’t call me babe.”

“Sorry. Yes. I just got carried away,” he said solemnly.

The five of us walked out of the bar, drinks in hand. Jack carried the boombox. I like him, I thought to myself. We got outside, and I put on the beats. Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” blasted out, and Christina and Andrew started dancing. Blood rushed to my cheeks; so embarrassing.

“Oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there! That was a joke from a dance class earlier.” I switched discs. This time, it was Moby. Moby I could groove to. I started dancing with Jack. He was a fierce dancer, and the three others stopped and watched us. Soon, the 2:00 a.m. crowd circled around us, drawn in by the music and the energy of our impromptu street performance.

Someone from an apartment above yelled out of the window, “If you don’t shut up, I’m calling the cops.”

Jack turned down the music.

“Hey, let’s go back to my place and order Chinese food,” said Andrew, his corkscrew curls bouncing on his shoulders.

Jack looked at me. “Are you coming?” His almond-shaped eyes mesmerized me. I smiled at him. “Sure, I’m game, but I don’t want Chinese food.”

“Yeah, me neither. I never eat and drink,” he said to me, a slight smile parted his lips.

I folded the boombox back into my bag, and we started to walk down Columbus Avenue to Andrew’s place. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete and a hint of cigarette smoke, the remnants of a bustling evening fading into the quiet of the late hour. The night air was crisp and biting, carrying the faintest whisper of the Hudson River in the distance, mingling with the earthy coolness of Central Park just a block away. I was tipsy and twisted my ankle on a curb in my 4” heeled boots.

“Ouch!” I said, leaning down, rubbing the pain away. “I don’t know if I can put pressure on it,” I said, discouraged.

The three men all said, “I’ll carry you!”

I looked at the three of them: Andrew with his salt and pepper corkscrew hair, Craig with his Colgate smile, and Jack, perfect in every way. “Sure, thanks, Jack,” I jumped on his back, and he carried me to Andrew’s place. I rested my head on his broad shoulders; his leather jacket cooled my flushed cheeks.

Christina was lagging behind, whining. Poor Christina. “Wait for me!” She complained.

We arrived at Andrew’s apartment. Jack set me down gently, and I smiled up at him. We sat down on Andrew’s L-shaped black velour couch; the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes. Jack brought me a drink from the kitchen and sat beside me.

Christina sat down next to me on the other side. “Craig’s not talking to me. He doesn’t like me. Will you talk to him?” she pleaded.

I leaned into her and answered quietly, sympathetically, “Go talk to him yourself.” Christina moped and took another sip of her drink.

Jack put my hand in his, and I felt an electric jolt of energy, like the start of something I couldn’t yet define. I felt a connection to him, one that would never leave me. The rest is history.

The Escape Closet

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

The Escape Closet

“If I leave, will it go away?” You’re sitting on your king-size bed with the polka dot duvet set while I go through your clothes. It’s been raining all morning, the sky is grayed out, and your room is dark, so your bedside light and the floor lamp cast a soft glow. You light a candle on your dresser, and its soft lavender scent gently fills the room. Spotify plays Daily Mix 4, with Saint Motel, The Strokes, and Phantogram. “Dance Yrself Clean,” by LCD Soundsystem, is inspiring us. Your closet is color-blocked by category: every shade of blue tops, blue bottoms, and blue sweaters on the shelf above. I pull out a stack of skirts hanging in fives. Your hands can’t clip them back on the hangers anymore, so we’re moving them to a drawer.

“I hope you can escape. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To start over fresh.”

You lean back against the pillows, grabbing one to hug. Your closet is immaculately organized, but the furniture tops are gathering clutter. Ah, too bad, the first sign, I thought to myself.

I hold up the first hanger with five skirts. First, the yellow and blue striped one, “No, too big.” The denim skirt with the zipper and button, “No, I can’t do that button; it’s too tight.” The A-line navy blue pleated skirt. “No way, look at all those buttons! Soon, it’ll all be elastic waistbands. But if I ever go out in public with sweatpants, will you shoot me?” You rest your elbows on your thighs and rest your head in the cup of your hands.

“Hahaha, nice try. What about this teal and black lace one? It has an elastic band waist,” I suggest. The sun poked out behind its cloud and streamed through the window, highlighting your face.

You scrunch your nose, “I haven’t worn that in 10 years. Is lace in or out this year? I stopped keeping track.”

“You know better than I do. Do you still watch Project Runway?”

“No, do they still make that show?”

“I have no idea. No matter. So… is it in or is it out?” I ask in my best Heidi Klum accent, holding up the lace skirt.

You cast aside your joyful pillow and hug your knees tight. “I guess I should keep it. After all, I can pull it on and take it off myself.”

“Yeah, that’s practical,” I say.

You scrunch up your face. You never wanted to be practical.

You scan the closet; you see puff sleeves, circle skirts, bright patterns, kitschy patterns, polka dots, and stripes. “What will happen when I go away?” You rest your cheek on your knees.

“You aren’t going anywhere. We’re just decluttering your closet, getting rid of the things that don’t serve you anymore. There’s no reason to have these things in your closet if they don’t work or fit.”

“But I don’t want to get rid of it all. That’s so depressing. These clothes are a part of my history.”

“If you really love something, then put it in a storage bin; you can always sort them out later when you’re ready.” I smile at you. There’s no rush.

You stand up, reach for the lace skirt, smile, and say, “Maybe I’ll wear this to my doctor’s appointment on Monday.” You fold it and put it in the drawer. “It won’t wrinkle, will it?”

“Wrinkles are OK, they’re better than struggle, right?” I say, reassuring you as best I can.

“Yeah, no more chaos. I just want ease now.” You walk over to me and hug me. “Thanks for being here, I love you.”

I hug you back, “I love you, too. I always will.”

“Me, too, always.” You rest your head on my shoulder.

What is the Purpose…?

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 18, 2024 | Writing

What is the Purpose…?

What is the purpose of keeping a dead battery?

It’s a reminder that you need to buy new batteries. It’s a reminder that you don’t have a working carbon monoxide detector. It’s a reminder that you could die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and when people find you, they’ll say, “If only she had replaced the battery.” It’s a reminder that you ignore important things. It’s a reminder that you haven’t cleaned your desk since last week. It’s a reminder that you should see if they have rechargeable 9-volt batteries. It’s a reminder that you could see if the detector works when the battery isn’t in it. It’s a reminder of why you didn’t already try that. It’s a reminder that you should do your to-do list again.

Dead batteries left on your desk are a great way to remind yourself to replace the battery.

It’s true. If you threw it away or rather, recycled it, you would forget all about it. You know that saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” But then it just becomes part of the desk, so it’s best to move it around every once in a while. I’ll start my to-do list again.

To-do lists help me stay on top of tasks.

That’s great. How long have you been doing that?

Oh, I haven’t started…well, I started a while ago, but then got busy and forgot to keep doing it.

So, are you starting/using it again?

Yes. Okay. You don’t have to judge me.

I’m not judging you.

Yes, you are. I can tell by the way you’re writing and that sideways glance you make. That is your judging look.

“Judging look?” You say that like there are others.

Oh yeah, you have lots of looks. Your judgy look is look number 23.

What is the point of a literal crisis?

I don’t think there’s a point. It’s a result. The point is that obviously, the person is having a very hard time. The point is that maybe you should have checked in with them already. A literal crisis is when a person always…lives in crisis mode, and they literally have a crisis. The point is that this is not a “thing” crisis. It’s an actual crisis. The point is somebody needs some help, and this is our clue to get out of our own heads and jump into action.

A literal crisis helps you feel like everything is peachy keen compared to a literal crisis.

It helps you break down so you aren’t hiding it all anymore. You might not agree, though, because some people might really clam up. You never can tell with literal crises. I suppose it all depends on the who, what, where, when, and how. You know, sometimes they’re a good clearing of things, and sometimes it means you’ve hit rock bottom.

What is the point of a rebound trampoline?

What is the point? Well, I’m sure there has been a segment about it somewhere. I imagine Richard Simmons had a rebound trampoline workout. Everything Richard Simmons does has a point. My doctor said to get exercise whenever I can. Rebounding is supposed to reset you…get it? Rebound…reset. We’re doing it again. The point is if you bought one, you should use it.

Rebound trampolines are a great way to get exercise.

They’re convenient if you leave it in the kitchen, so when you go past it, you can just jump on it for 30 seconds or something. It’s much better than anything else because you can do it barefoot, in a dress, in your pajamas. You don’t have to turn anything on. You can…you can’t say that about anything else, can you? No way.

Why do you have a rebound trampoline in your kitchen?

It’s great exercise. I was just reading about it. It can actually help change your mood. I needed to get one after my literal crisis. It was awful. I mean, it was my daily. I don’t really even know what happened, except I stopped writing my to-do list, and I fell so behind on my tasks that I forgot to eat, clean, pay bills, shower, do yard work, and check on my family. I never knew a to-do list was such an important thing for me. I mean, sometimes you don’t realize until you hit rock bottom. But the to-do list literally kept me from having a literal crisis. You know, it may have also been a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. Yeah, I was in the hospital. They said it was a good thing I went outside when I collapsed. So, the first thing I’m putting on that to-do list is buying a new 9-volt battery for my detector. It’s a silent killer, they say. I know this firsthand…well, not literally, because I didn’t die. I survived. But I think that lack of oxygen kind of sent me into a crisis…a literal one. Yeah, the literal one. Oh, it was awful. It’s a good thing I went outside because I felt guilty. I don’t think my neighbor knew what to do. And why do people call the police when someone’s having a crisis? It’s stupid, really. They don’t have the training and education for it. Unless you’re lucky. But I wasn’t lucky that day. Well, I’m never really lucky unless you count all the days I didn’t have carbon monoxide poisoning or a literal crisis. Yeah, I guess those are lucky days. And if I look at it from that perspective, then I guess I’m the luckiest person alive. And that’s why I have a rebound trampoline in my kitchen: You have to live life by the moment, take it day by day, and jump for joy, literally.

The Cast Iron Pan

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 10, 2024 | Writing

The Cast Iron Pan

Lindsay picks up the cast iron frying pan with both hands, surprised by its weight. Nevertheless, she perseveres.
“Take one step closer, and I’ll hit you!”

The bear stands there on its two hind feet, its brow furrowed (as much as a bear can furrow its brow) at Lindsay’s threat. It opens its mouth wide, revealing sharp, sparkly white teeth.

“Rar?” it replies, its breathing amplified through the kitchen.

Lindsay looks up at the towering bear. I never thought I’d look up to a bear, she thinks to herself. Its claws are sharp like the knife in the sink. The bear’s scent overpowers the room—a mix of wet dog, skunk, damp earth, and fish. Lindsay plugs her nose. She cautiously steps back, practically tiptoeing, yet her heels touch the ground. I really wish I was wearing shoes. Practical shoes, like sneakers.

The bear continues to look at her, then goes down on all fours. Lindsay realizes she’s backed herself up against the counter. Can I reach the knife? Could I stab it without it mauling me first? No, the frying pan has more power. I have more of a chance.

She says aloud, “I am going to sidle slowly to the side here,” then mutters quietly, then if I can just get to the edge… I think I can make a run for the door.

The frying pan is heavy, tiring her arm, but Lindsay doesn’t notice. The bear takes a step toward her, huffs, and Lindsay gasps. She scrunches up her face and takes a deep breath—two, three, four, hold, two, three, four—and releases, blowing out a forest fire. The bear cocks its head curiously, then sits on its haunches.

Why does that bear look so freaking relaxed? Lindsay wonders. She lifts the frying pan again, first over her left shoulder, then switches to the right. That’s better. Her cell phone vibrates loudly on the counter, like an infestation of cicadas trapped in a metal chimney pipe. Lindsay jumps and lets out a small scream.

The bear says, annoyed, “Rar.”

Lindsay suddenly makes herself big and towering. She’ll stare the bear down—she read that’s what you’re supposed to do with a wild animal. The bear stands up on all fours again. Lindsay shrinks down, cowering. The bear looks at her; she bites her lip. It turns around, and she watches it closely, tightening her grip. The bear walks over to the door. Lindsay suddenly drops the cast iron pan on the floor with a crash!

The bear turns to look at the disturbance. Lindsay looks on in horror and quickly picks the pan up. The bear scratches at the door to go out.

How can I let the bear out?

The bear looks at her, sits down again to wait, and says, “Rar,” then lies down and falls asleep.

This is Lindsay’s lucky day. She snatches her cell phone and runs out the door with the phone and cast iron pan in hand. She dashes outside and, once safely away, collapses on the ground, holding the pan tightly.

She shouts, “Thank god for cast iron pans!” She gives the pan a big, loud kiss and holds it tight. Shaking, she says, “That’s it, I’m selling the house and moving to the city.” She takes a big breath and says, “Siri, call 911.”

A Tangle of Keys and Kisses

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 9, 2024 | Writing

A Tangle of Keys and Kisses

This experimental triptych presents three short stories intertwined through variations of the same core sentences. Each tale shifts in tone and perspective, weaving together humor, competition, and absurd drama while remaining anchored by shared pivotal moments.

Story One

Trixie climbed to the top of the dome and screamed, “I found the key!” Jan and Bill cheered; now they would be able to get into the storage room to get the tools they needed. Susan was mad. She didn’t want Jan and Bill to compete; she knew it would be a bad idea. Still, Trixie climbed down from the top of the dome, walked over to Jan and Bill, and said, “Good luck. May the best person win. And whoever wins gets to take me to bed.”

Jan and Bill looked at each other and smirked. Jan licked her lips, and Bill tapped his feet in a little dance. Suddenly, Susan squirted Sam’s hot dog with red, juicy ketchup. Sam looked at Susan, astonished at her audacity.

“What are you doing, Susan? I always put the relish on first, then the onions, then the mustard, and then the ketchup!”

Susan blushed. “Sorry, Sam. I got a little excited once I realized we are going to do this thing. I haven’t had such an exciting event since the last time Dick Clark did the New Year’s countdown.”

Everyone walked over to the racetrack, and Jan and Bill ran through the finish line at the exact same time. It made history, and everyone would talk about it for years.

Story Two

Jan and Bill ran through the finish line at the exact same time. It made history, and everyone would talk about it for years. Susan looked at Sam and said, “What do you think they’ll do? Will Trixie have to sleep with them both?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they’ll have to decide that.”

Susan rolled her eyes at Sam. He never committed to anything.

Trixie walked over to the dome. She climbed to the top and screamed, “I found the key!”

Everyone looked up at Trixie and gasped.

“Trixie, get down from there! Throw away the key, and don’t let them find it. You’re asking for trouble,” shouted Susan.

She started frantically packing hot dogs into their buns and placing them in a line on a plate. She searched for the ketchup bottle, finally finding it on the ground. Picking it up, she wiped off the dirt. Suddenly, Susan squirted Sam’s hot dog with red, juicy ketchup.

Story Three

Suddenly, Susan squirted Sam’s hot dog with red, juicy ketchup. Sam looked at Susan intently, picked up the mustard bottle, and squirted Susan’s hot dog with golden, spicy mustard.

Susan laughed. “Oh, Sam. You do make me smile. I love the way you squirt my hot dog with mustard. Hey, should we take our hot dogs into the house and find a bedroom?” She winked at Sam.

He threw down his hot dog, grabbed Susan, and kissed her, right in front of Jan and Bill.

Jan and Bill could not believe their spouses were smooching in front of everyone. They ran through the finish line at the exact same time. It made history, and everyone would talk about it for years.

Susan and Sam snuck off to the bedroom and locked the door. Jan and Bill stopped celebrating and got everyone’s attention.

Everyone started looking for the key. They searched high and low, far and wide.

Trixie climbed to the top of the dome and screamed, “I found the key!”

Everyone cheered, and Bill ran over to Trixie. “Throw it down!” he said.

Trixie tossed the key to Bill.

“You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?” she asked.

“I’m going to kill them. They humiliated me.”

Bill ran toward the house with the key, and Jan ran after him, jumping on his back and sending him to the ground.

“Bill, I can’t let you do this. You’ll regret it.”

“Get off me, Jan!” Bill shouted, struggling beneath her.

Trixie ran over with a shovel and hit Bill over the head. He passed out—or died.

“Shit, is he dead?” Trixie asked.

“God, I hope not, Trix. Why’d you do that?” Jan asked.

Trixie replied, “Because I’m pregnant with Bill’s baby, and he said he wasn’t going to leave Susan for me.”

Next Entries »