The Cerebral Catalyst

“The rain pulls the smog from the air,” Molly said to Ann as she leaned back and lit a cigarette. “And this is good.” She blew out. “The equation changes little, though.” She bounced her strong thin fingers. “It’s appearance of course, and the rain brings third world sewage to the open.”

“This is third world.”

“Claro. My friend. Of course.” Ann looked out into the fragile horizon. “That’s what I’m talking about.” She looked toward mainland.

“The bright sun also magnifies the shadows,” Molly continued.

The inland was dense. The beige trunks of palms leaned over the water. The clouds were thick and bulbous. If you watched, they moved: shifted and rose, sunk and rolled. Molly was tall, 5-10. She was well in proportion. Her chest was full and her hips flared out like to palms.

This was how she talked, though. She had a skiff and Ann was her best friend. There were the two of them and now there were four of them, a great combination (for obvious reasons), but only when things are obvious. Which they rarely are.

“If you were totally sane, I’d have concern.”

“Totally, totally, she says. Same to you.” Molly nodded, “Cheers.” She smiled.

“Umhm.”

“It’s a combination. It’s undeveloped therefore the development hasn’t hurt it. It’s undeveloped and therefore the development hasn’t helped.”

“If I wasn’t your best friend I’d ask you what the hell you were talking about.”

“I really wish you would ask me what the hell I was talking about. It’s hot.” Molly brought a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “This is pristine. But it’s not a cultural pristine… like we were used to.”

Her face was long since white. She was lost somewhere in the labyrinth between tourist and local. She wore a broad hat and there was sweat on her chest, on her brow. Her cleavage was dotted and brown skin rose from her maroon bikini. They were doing nothing, they were waiting. There were long pauses.

“Why?” Ann asked and looked out into the curving coast.

Molly didn’t answer. Sometimes it was too much.

“Can you see them?” Molly asked without trying to look.

Ann shifted and rose, then sat back down. She brought a hand to her face.

“Um...”

“Maybe you should take a picture of them. They love that.”

“Yeah.” Ann rose and took a picture.

Molly was smart enough. Which is to say, she stood proud and had a small idea and the ability to direct it toward a profit. She had the confidence to gather people that depended on her.

Men thought girls were hot. That was simple, the first cliché. The girls were down there anyway... it was a small step to become local, more local, at least. To know spots... they knew the sites and all else being equal, men would rather stare at a pair of tits.

“You should jump in there and grab some shots. They love that.”

“Yeah I know, that’s what you said,” Ann said and she didn’t want to go. She stood her ground for a moment and then got up. Put on some fins and splashed into the water.

Molly watched Ann slowly paddle away. She thought of taking her top off. It’d be at least 45 minutes. The curling lips of water hid her view anyway. It was quiet. It was hot, a pleasant hot where things were motionless. The key was to not move.

There was a splash. She didn’t look. Likely it was a stingray, flopping.

A, sort-of-dream... That was an ample description. She lay in the skiff with her hat on low, she took off her shorts and pulled her shoulder straps down and shifted the cups, uncomfortably, to adulterate the line. Time passed. She undid the thing and let them hang.

How do you describe these sorts of things? She laid there in the warm sun with the bob and the breeze. Contentment. Indeed that was a mighty thing to chase.

The boat reacted and she opened her eyes. The sun had worked on her. It was only Ann.

Molly shut her eyes again to the sun. She blinked them open but to Ann’s observation, nothing could be discerned. Molly hadn’t moved and she was wearing sunglasses.

“How are the boys?” She asked, fully exposed. Ann stood, staring with the opportunity from the question.

Molly shifted when Ann didn’t answer. Ann looked away in embarrassment; she stumbled as she pulled at the fin. She sat down and pulled the heel inside out.

Before she spoke, teeth chattered once. “They’re good. They’re having fun. Yelling and hooting. I got some good shots.”

“Good.” Molly settled. “Boys...” she said.

Ann Shrugged. “Boys...”

“Much rather have a boy than a man.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They break easier but it’s not an irreparable break.”

“Yeah...” Ann said and crossed her arms. She thought. Molly closed her eyes again, finding that contentment. Thinking if what she’d said was true. Was the only difference age? Does age make things rigid or is it repeated mishandling?

“You know who Bob looks like?”

Molly’s head jerked. It was the first major movement. Her chest jiggled and as she sat erect, their weight elongated them. She looked for her cigarettes. Ann sat there and stared. There was a horizontal splash of a birthmark above the left nipple. The nipples were large and dark. The tips sunk into the brown circle.

“And what a stupid name Bob is, anyway. What is he, a plumber? Jesus that’s stupid. In today’s world...” She lit one and breathed heavy. “Bob and Gramm.” She shook her head at the injustice.

Ann looked at her curiously, “They’re Australian.”

“As if that solves anything.”

“I think Gramm likes you.”

Molly scoffed.

“I miss Paris, anyway.” Ann said.

“You’re a free person, anyway. You know that, right?”

Ann shrugged.

“Gramm likes any ol’ tan pussy, why don’t you open up?” Molly snapped and she instantly regretted it.

“Sorry.” She said.

“Odd you didn’t say Bob.” Ann said and she regretted it. Molly had talked about it plenty before, callously, only joking; but there had been a large chunk of time since she mentioned it at all. There were different thoughts with a drastic change of scenery, a change of continents.

“Sorry,” Ann said.

“It’s OK.” Molly reached for the lotion and began to apply it to her chest. Her skin was red. Ann swallowed and looked away uncomfortably.

“How long have we known each other?”

“Eight years?” Ann asked.

Molly nodded and finished with several, heavy, downward strokes across her chest. Ann couldn’t help but watch the skin react. Molly watched through her large dark glasses.

“Did I ever tell you about how my dad used to be into fighting?”

“Your dad used to be into fighting?” Ann asked.

“Yeah, you know he coached in that mixed martial arts stuff once it got popular. And he’s the nicest guy, you know, the mellowest man. It’s just an... I don’t know, art, I guess, to him. It’s... it’s whatever the exact combination of art and sport is. Probably similar to what these Australians out here would think. Maybe we should ask them when they get back.”

“Ask them?”

“Ask them what is the exact combination of art and sport.”

“Fighting?”

“No. The word that describes all those little words that would fit under that... larger... banner, word. Jesus, we’re dumb.”

“No.”

“Yes. But, when my dad was about 20, before he moved to the city, when he was living in some hick upstate place near the mountains, his training buddy fought an Orangutan. He was the only one to beat him. Or it. Or whatever.”

“An Orangutan.”

“Yeah.” Molly smiled at the memory.

“An Orangutan... That is one of the strangest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, can you picture that? That, big, 400 hundred pound orange thing... was just... knocking people out... left and right... and then my dad’s friend got in there and... started choking it. The thing was pounding on him but he got the animal in a submission position. The refs had to end it.”

“They had refs? That might be the strangest thing.”

“An Orangutan, can you imagine?”

“So barbaric. What on earth made you think of that?” Ann asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just remembering things. Getting older, finding these memories more foreign, you know, haven’t seen my dad in a year and a half.”

“Since...”

“Since the funeral, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Piers?”

“He’s the one,” Ann answered the odd question.

Ann didn’t know what else to say. She wanted Molly to say something else. “Orangutan,” Ann said instead.

“Haw. You want to hear something weirder. One of Piers’ friends apparently knows, or knew, I guess... this crazy Muslim. I call him crazy, because I think he was. Piers thought he was alright. But the guy actually bragged about all these jihads he put out.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He was a... I don’t know, a sheik? Some religious leader and it was his job to put out these... bullshit jihads against, you know, mascara, or whatever it happened to be.”

“And then they’d... go out and wage... war against mascara?”

“Metaphorically. I suppose. I always thought jihad meant like, a death warrant. But most of what this guy put out were silly abstract things like that.”

“How did Piers know this guy?”

“I don’t know. Piers knew everyone.”

“He did. Where did this guy live?”

“Out. I don’t know. Past Montmartre. Piers painted him once. I don’t know how they met.”

“You and Carlos are serious?” Ann asked.

“As serious as a clown can be.” Molly replied.

“You take people to a point.” Ann said.

Molly looked over. She then lowered her head and picked at a piece of something that had landed on her chest. She rubbed her thumb against the nipple and it perked up a bit. She looked up and Ann looked away.

Ann spoke. “I heard this girl in Saudi Arabia went out without a... a male custodian, or whatever. And, that’s against the rules, so she got raped by seven men and then her husband gave her 100 lashes. She said it wasn’t fair and then he gave her 150 more.”

“Why do we say that, now?”

“You were talking about jihad. I guess.” Ann said.

Molly shifted to a contemplative posture. “Barbarians. I’m glad we’re to a point now that we can hate them.”

“Who?”

“The Muslims, of course.”

“Who, me and you? Or, the U.S., or...”

“Everyone, I guess. Me and you, first, though. I suppose. Remember that poor Lebanese, Arab woman who was bombed for 9 years of her life, from 10 to 19. All those fabulous years... and she was bombed by the bullshit PLO.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice to see a picture of a child throwing a rock at an Israeli tank. It’s really moving. But fuck them. I’m glad we’re at a point where we can say that right? It’s nice to hate.”

Ann raised her brow and looked off. The shades of ocean were shifting in the intermediate depths. Smaller waves were starting to ripple on the plateaus of the larger ones. “I haven’t been back to New York for a long time,” Ann said.

“I know that,” Molly said, “You’ve been with me, every step of the way.”

“Your chest is red,” Ann said and her voice scratched a little.

“We’ve been here for what? Nine months?”

“Yeah, about, that’s right.”

“A perfect gestation period,” Molly said and Ann looked away. “Nine months without, right? Not to pry.”

“We share a room, so,” Ann said as an answer and looked off, “They’re in the water a long time. I wonder if they can keep at it all day.”

“Piers and I used to keep at it all day,” Molly said, looking off into the deep ocean.

Ann didn’t answer. Her eyes glanced over Molly’s body and then looked off in the opposite direction, toward the shore.

“Do you regret...” Ann said and touched her belly, then nodded to her friend, “Not having... that...” She trailed off.

Molly moved in her seat. “No I don’t. I wouldn’t have wanted it without Piers.”

“Why did he...” Ann said and glanced quickly at the dark shades, then away.

“Why would he? Is the real question?” Molly asked.

“You think it was an accident?”

“I don’t think he wanted it to happen,” Molly said.

“It seems odd.”

“You two never really got along.” Molly turned her head.

“I think he was jealous of us,” Ann said.

“There was jealously.”

“I think he... well, you were too much,” Ann finished.

Leftover love... Ann thought, love is a terrible thing if the equation doesn’t equal. Ann knew this.

Molly looked for another cigarette but they were gone. She hit the pack against the gunwale and threw it on a shelf near the Captain’s chair.

They looked at each other. Ann had brown hair and dark eyes. Her face was a modest average, nothing focused anything else. Molly, on the other hand, had sharp features that collected stares and deflected them to more subtle features on her face. When she was young they were features that received a hefty teasing. She had black hair with streaks of sun-drenched brown. Her eyes were a sharp green.

“Ann...” Molly held her name. “My partner,” She pronounced. “First mate, I suppose.”

“I guess, huh.”

“Travel’s the world with me.”

“We’ve been some places.”

“Holds me all night long when my boyfriend drowns himself.”

This time she didn’t answer.

“You can kiss me if you want,” Molly said.

“What?”

“You can kiss, me. You love me.”

“I... I don’t, I do love you. I don’t, I don’t need to kiss you.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I,” Ann stammered.

“Come here.”

Ann swallowed hard and rose from her seat. She leaned over and sat next to Molly. Her body shivered as she brought her thin lips toward Molly. Molly brought her hand up, steady, and put it against her friend’s cheek.

Their lips pressed and Molly opened her mouth slightly. With her left hand she took Ann’s right, then brought it to her chest. Ann took her breast and cupped if fully. Shifted it up and around and moved to the other. She pressed her mouth further into Molly and Molly leaned back. Then pulled away. The hand fell away and traced against her thigh, then rested against the seat between them.

They watched each other. Ann wanted to move forward. Molly sat motionless and Ann was afraid of her vacant stare.

Birds skipped across the surface of the water, they called and chased each other. They all looked the same this time of year. Half of the yellow songbirds would grow red tails in the spring. During the fall their feathers were dull.

Molly shifted her glasses up. Ann watched her. Molly reached up and cradled the back of Ann’s head. She pulled it closer. Ann leaned down and looked up before her lips brushed against the warm skin. Molly had goose bumps and with one swoop the nipples chased the tongue as Ann pulled away to look.

They heard commotion. Their Australian clients paddled closer and swung off their boards, then pulled themselves to the edge and playfully peered over the gunwale. Gramm was smiling wide. Ann was pensive and Molly looked distantly.

“Found my stoke,” Gram said as water lapped against his smile. He spit and shook like a dog.

Molly rose, topless, and grabbed the surfboard as Gramm passed it up. She set it upright in the rack and then got the one from Bob and stood it next to the other five.

“You boys have fun?” Molly said. She was originally from upstate New York. Her accent was now aided by time in Paris and was undergoing another transformation in the tropics.

Gramm’s voice was playfully Australian. Bob pulled himself up. Ann was still sitting. Molly handed them towels. Neither had said anything but they were staring like boys.

“Ann was saying how cute you are, Gramm.” Molly said as she stared at Bob, then looked over at Gramm.

______________________________________
Joel Van Noord, upon discovering that he lacked a tagline, submitted the following: "What, wait... uh, eh... fuck. Ok. Eeee uh, Iiiiiiiiiii, sch, bbbbuuuuuuuuurrk. Man, I really don't know. Ok. Um. Shit. Shit shit shit. Ur. I don't, maybe. Iiiii. Ok, wait... like this... heeeet ur a bleeee s tar uh. I don't er, ah. Ok... ok." Also, he likes friends: myspace.com/jvnjvn.

posted 05.05.08.

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