Page 55 - WTP VOl.VII#5

rant 1! Brenda is a Quadrant 1, which so was I, before my accident! cries Doug, pointing at his eyepatch, but am now a Quadrant 3! And obviously it goes without saying that no one couple occupying two separate Quadrants can ever be together for the long haul— their daily existence is simply too antithetical, too po- lar opposite, to ever work. It’s hopeless! Impossible!
So then, what am I? asks Coach Huff, holding up a crustless PB&J.
Alright. Who the hell let the gym teacher in here?
There’s no time for this. A fire drill is scheduled for before the end of 4th period. Coach Huff is Quadrant 2. One day, he and Brenda—against all such odds and laws—will fall desperately in love. Though, not today.
Moving on.
The critical incompatibility between those occupying two dissimilar Quadrants lies in each individual’s varying degrees of day-to-day struggle. Namely, the dual contradictory desires upon waking to both crave hot sauce, yet simultaneously need to put in one’s contacts, wherein, depending on such a delicate se- quence of events, could very well result in disaster.
The short and sweet of Doug’s own self-made trag- edy is this:
Out of his skull in love with Tracy—though himself, at the time, a tried-and-true Q1—in a valiantly naïve effort to try and comprehend a Q4’s daily tribula- tions, Doug resolved to pour hot sauce directly into his eyes. Given the profound agony of such blinding pain, however, Doug only managed to douse the right eye before immediately being escorted to the nurse’s office.
Required now to wear a protective lens in his one eye to maintain shape, while also sensing his guts in-
vert at the mere thought of Tabasco sauce, Doug has never been less of a romantic candidate for Tracy. Nor Brenda who (an exquisite Q1, indeed) has at last recognized—and promptly dodged—Doug for the butter-spreading, emotional-wrecking ball that he is.
Oh, love, fate’s most fickle mistress, so uncertain as to where she is going, of even what to wear, will change her mind until, exhausted of options, she surrenders to sleep half-naked on the couch.
But so, what if Andrés just stops using Ketchup? What if he starts wearing his contacts again?
Well, obviously Tracy could never hope for that—for
Andrés to resume putting his eyes at such risk. Plus, what kind of lover would Tracy be, desiring Andrés to change? Surely, no true lover at all.
But then, couldn’t Tracy just start wearing her glass- es?
Certainly. But then who would Tracy be, changing herself for love?
Tracy was notoriously ride-or-die for her Quadrant. Even going so far as to have Q4 stickers made that she would slap on library books and road signs on her way to work. Not to mention her rather gourd-shaped head, which became all the more pronounced—facial features girdled to the bottom—whenever she wore her glasses.
But so then (for fuck’s sake, Coach H.), does Andrés still love Tracy?
He does, indeed. Very much.
Andrés refuses to make their inevitable split easy. He tells Tracy she’s mistaking her guards of defense for walls of shelter. He says so what if they’re in different Quadrants? Who cares?
Andrés is an idealist. A romantic (idiot). He’ll never understand.
Perhaps, if Tracy could learn to love herself the way Andrés loves her, things could be different. Not in spite of her considerable flaws—her weird-shaped head, her predilections towards vandalism, for put- ting hot sauce on her eggs before touching her eyes— but in a total embrace.
But Tracy doesn’t. Love herself, that is. And so for now, things will remain exactly the same. Tonight she will go out and have too many hot chili margaritas, before then drunkenly spraypainting a stranger’s car.
The fire drill goes off. Yet still, though anticipating as much, all four Quadrants jerk at the familiar noise. How often it is we choose to run away from the imagi- nary, in sole preparation for the real thing.
Some pains in life are easily avoided. Others, not so much. The secret to self-love may be as simple as this: First put in your contacts, then have your hot sauce.
Wack is an Atlanta-based writer. He earned an undergraduate degree in Neuroscience from the University of Georgia, where he interned
at the college’s literary magazine, The Georgia Review. His work
has previously appeared in Five:2:One, New Flash Fiction Review, Cleaver Magazine, and Maudlin House, among other places.
48