What Is Wrong With People?

Now I get it. Why Wren just had to see this guy.

Sato Kenji, author extraordinaire, has the same tattoo on his hand that Wren has on her stomach. Definite WTF.


He read all this shit about trains, weird stuff, stuff that didn’t sound real. I didn’t really like it. I didn’t not like it. I wish I could ride on trains  like that. But I don’t think they’d let me on, you know?

She accosted him after the reading—a bunch of weird shit about Japanese train conductors—and hauled him between the bookcases so she could take her shirt off and show him. He was, I don’t know, late-forties, neat and nice, in a suit, all combed and slick, and he smiled at her, kind of a sad smile, and touched her belly. Man, just everyone gets to touch everyone lately.

He said: It’s not a tattoo, and I sort of swallowed that, mostly glad I didn’t have to pay for diagnostics for the UV machine. But Sato kept looking over Wren and Steph’s shoulders, all nervous, like he was expecting someone.

Wren was totally wrecked. She cried and begged him to tell her what it was, and she started babbling about bad dreams. Even Steph was sort of taken aback, she just stared at her new girlfriend practically on her knees in front of this nice old man. Finally, he leaned down and kissed her stomach right in front of all of us. He might have actually licked it.

“They don’t have it?” he said.

“No, just me,” Wren sniffled.

“Come with me. I have a hotel room, I can show you, but…I can’t be heard…”

She went.

Holy shit, I have got to start licking girls’ stomachs.

Steph and I went out for coffee. We felt bad, since we’d driven Wren there, but Steph called club rules: you hook up and ditch your friends, you get your own ride home.

Afterward, in the parking lot of the diner, this guy came running up. He was wearing a suit, like he’d just come from work, or maybe he wanted to to impress us. He pounded on the car window.

He yelled: “I have to talk to her!”

I said: “Are you the guy from the phone? Get a grip, dude. She’s right here.”

But no, he didn’t mean Steph. The other one, he said, Wren. He had to see her, where was she, would I talk to her for him, would Stephanie talk to her, tell her to meet with him. His name was Jack.

No, I would not. Patient confidentiality. Also, you’re weird.

He pulled up his shirt and pressed his…do men have a bosom? I guess. Huh. Well, his pectoral, I guess, he pressed his pectoral to the window. Same mark as Wren. Same black streetmap. Same tiny writing.

“I. need. to. talk. to. her. She won’t see me, she doesn’t understand. Please help me.”

Aw, man, I really just have no defense for totally fucking pathetic. I told him to meet me Thursday at the office. Wren’s appointment is Thursday. We’ll see.

Steph was shaken up pretty bad. She’s not a fan of screaming men slapping their flab against her window. I took her home and made her coffee. Mom was asleep.

And while we were waiting for water to boil, she kissed me.

I’m not bragging. I’m just saying.

3 Responses to “What Is Wrong With People?”

  1. Aitch Says:

    Yeesh. But setting aside, for a moment, all the cascading oddities associated with Wren, and the benison of Steph’s kiss, I just want to be sure you are making French press or ye olde drippe Silex coffee rather than instant.

    Not that any of this is my business, of course, but it’s the only thing on which I feel competent to comment.

  2. Timur I. Says:

    Great! Thank you very much!
    I always wanted to write in my blog something like that. Can I take part of your post to my blog?
    Of course, I will add backlink?

    Regards, Timur I.

  3. eddie Says:

    Sure. I don’t think my writing is anything special, but be my guest.


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