Milo's Sweater

This is dedicated to myself goddamnit !!

    Milo considers the number keys inhabiting the right hand portion of his keyboard. "Someone got rich for that idea, who was it?"

"What Milo?"

"N-nothing Stephanie, sorry."

"Whatever."

Milo opens his desk drawer and scribbles, "I am a bratwurst in a land of gym coaches, a maxipad in a tampon world." 

"Milo, aren't you going home early today? Jesus, aren't you hot!?!?"" Stephanie's face is exquisitely screwed up at the strain of peering over the partition separating their respective workspaces. It's true, Milo is hot, Milo was boiling. Atop his t-shirt was his dress shirt, atop his dress shirt a sweater vest, atop the sweater vest a powder blue cardigan. And here he sits, three hundred and twenty pounds crowded into hundreds of yards of sweater.

"No, um, I'm g-good. M-maybe I will sp-split."

"O.k-k-kay...just k-k-kidding sweetie."

B***h.

He hates when anyone remarks on his multitude of layers. Layers always softened punches, layers eased the pokes and jibes of his father, "Need to losed a few, eh?" Layers could even soften eyes, but not always.

Milo gathers his things, marking them off the list in his mind: lunchbag, umbrella, windbreaker, chapstick, briefcase and walks to the bus stop. His is a life of order, even socks reside on the hangers of his closet. For this reason, he has never ventured into the city lying just across the river behind his house. He has never had a girlfriend, he has never had an orgasm, he has never had a driver's licence.

Usually, the bus ride home would allow him plenty of time to plan the next seven evenings of his life. Typically, the mathmatics of caloric intake would reel in his mind an burst into his frontal lobe like fireworks. Most of the time, the hour ride home is spent pragmatically.

Not today.

Today, is Milo's birthday and when he returns home his mailbox will be filled with birthday cards. He will hear from distant relatives, old roomates, childhood chums and maybe even an old professor or two. In a life of obscurity and annonymity, lovemaking and terms of endearment are no more than the distant thunder of the room next door.

And, it is on this thought that he pauses. I am one three hundred and sixty fiths happy, this cannot be true, this cannot be how life turned out.

But, it is, he is that alone. 

The bus brakes, squeaks and the gasps of hydraulics bring him to. His excitement returns, this is his stop!

Milo bounds for the opening door, being careful to turn sideways, yet, still, dragging his belly and a*s over the shoulders of irritated passengers.

He makes for the mailbox, gripping his briefcase tighter with excitment, and opens the metal door.

It is empty.

No cards or packages, not even a mailer from JCPenny or an upcoming comicbook convention.

He zooms in on the mailbox but backs away like in the climax of Hitchcock's Marnie, his waiting room of a life stretches before him. Every chance untaken and every dream left to die on the play ground mock him and feed on his terror like zombies. He feels the prickly pre-cry heat on his cheeks but is interrupted.

"Excuse me."

Startled, he backs into his rusty yellow mailbox.

She is pedaling her bicycle and smiling at... him?

Smells of cucumber, roses, orchestral sheet music, and chocolate tornado in his brain, filling his blood with perfume.

"Hi" he says.

She is looking back and biting her lip, drifting straight for the bridge.

Milo leans forward, snagging one thread of his sweater on his mailbox, and begins to run.

His khakis whine and tear, his shoes fly from his feet.

Clothes so tight cannot withstand such demands and they flee from him.

Milo, concerned only with the chase, feels a chill across his barren chest, across his legs, his scrotum.

Naked, he stops to catch his breath. He turns his head to the right and notices the string, still hooked to his mailbox, blowing in the wind before him. It is pointing in the direction of the city, sun setting behind it, looking like the most beautiful birthday cake you've ever seen.

 

Author's Note

first draft bitches!

Reviews

[Pink Poison]

And it is fabulous. Don't change a word. If this is indeed your first draft, you have sick talent. I laughed even while I felt sorry for fat old nerdy Milo. I love the part where he even hangs up his socks, and him being a maxipad in a tampon world. Such great analogies...the thought of him running nude through the streets after a girl on a bike is almost sweet after such a life of nothingness. It is a poignant story, carefully worded, hilarious and cunning all at the same time. Yep...I'm addicted.

[Inda Lauryn]

Awesome. Sadly, I can relate to some of what this guy goes through. It's a beautiful story, beautifully told. Great write.