Jason Toney

Asymptotes, pt. II

"Tough Rocks" - Mr. Rollolazo

Calculus.Mrs. Nishimoto turned from the chalk board after drawing the graph of two lines growing closer together and began her lecture. Jon sat in the middle of the class, thankfully behind Claudia Fugazy, the big haired 6 foot volleyball team captain. Mrs. Nishimoto couldn't see him alternating between dozing off and zoning out.

"Asymptotes is limit on graph," Mrs. Nishimoto said and banged her chalk on the Y axis.

He was exhausted but it was that kind of sleep deprivation that left a person in almost a state of shock. He was too tired to even think about sleep. He was extremely light-headed. His eyes would close but his temples ached and if he kept his eyes closed for long, his head would explode with pulsing pain. Besides that, closing his eyes brought him back to the darkness.

"Is 3 type Asymptotes. Is horizontal. That mean on Y axis. Go this way." She put her right hand out in front of her, palm down and moved it back and forth, left to right, right to left."

His mind kept wandering to the events of the morning (but not the night, right Johnny? Never going back there again are we?). The sunlight began cracking through the blinds around 5:30. Jon had not moved an inch from the couch for 3 hours. But as soon as there was light, the shadows dissapeared and he moved quickly to open every curtain, every blind, turn on every light. He made his way up to his room and it was beautifully bright. The bay window without curtains or blinds faced the east and the beautiful orange early morning sun was beaming into every corner of his room. (the corners, Johnny? Why do you care about the corners so much? Chik-chik-chik.) He grabbed jeans out of the hamper and found a clean t-shirt and went to the bathroom to get ready for school trying desperately to have a normal morning…to not think about the night before.

"Is Oblique asymptote." She said, although it sounded like 'Obli-kay,' "it have formula, y equals mx plus b. B constant." She put her left hand out in front of her in the shape of a fist. She slowly moved it up and down in a straight line. "M is slope." She put her right hand out, palm faced down and brought it towards her left hand in a curved motion, getting close to the fist but never touching it.

Justin, up in the front row, eagerly raised his hand. His buddies were already chuckling, "Mrs. Nishimoto, is it true that the Oblique Asymptote is more commonly known today as the Theory of Spanking the Monkey?"

Jon looked at his bare chest in the bathroom mirror and thought that the bruise looked smaller than the day before. It had faded in color considerably as well. At least something good was starting the day. He started the shower and took off his sweatpants. He groaned as he saw the mishapen bruises on the tops of his thighs. He must've hit his legs a lot harder than he thought trying to make the blood flow.

But what was that on the right side of his thigh? A round purprle bruise about the size of a silver dollar. And 2 inches down from there another one. And another. The complete right side of his leg, from his hip to his ankle was lined with them. It looked like some kind of macabre pair of bedazzled pants. Perfectly shaped marks, exactly the same distance apart with a tiny dark dot in the center of each one. Like something had been poking at him, prodding him. (attached to ya? Working on ya? Pokin' atcha, poki'n atcha?) Then he saw the exact same thing on his left leg. It was perfect symmetry.

And then he let out a yelp.

"And finally is Vertical asymptote. It go up and down." Mrs. Nishimoto was careful not to make any hand gestures this time. "Who can tell me why is important to know that asymptote mean it limit?"

His mother knocked on the door. "You alright, dear?" she asked, "I heard a noise."

"I'm fine, mom." He couldn't show her this. What would he say? How could he explain. He didn't know what the hell it was. What was happening to him. He simply sat on the toilet cover as the shower ran. He put on his jeans so that he wouldn't have to look at his legs and steadied himself. As soon as he wasn't looking at the marks, he could start to pretend things were normal again. He'd go to school, have a good day and everything would be alright. Hell, the other bruise was already gone these wouldn't be around for long either.

And so here he sat in Calculus, having nightmares with his eyes open.

"Limit is important because it mean that there are two lines." She braved hand motions again, this time putting both her right and left hand out in front of her, palms facing. She started moving them closer together. "What asymptote mean is that two things get closer and closer, they get so close look like one thing. They get," and she paused making sure she said the english correctly, "infinitely closer…but never touch. So close look like one thing but no matter how small…still space between them."

Jon snapped back into the real world when he heard that. He started looking at the corners of the room and began to remember (Get in the corner, boy! Just stand there.) and wonder.

To Be Continued…

Asymptotes

My Mind's Playing Tricks on Me - The Gheto Boys

Chickita-chickita-chik-chick-shhhh-chickita.

His eyes opened wide but he could see nothing. His heart beat rapidly as his pupils darted from left to right trying desperately to adjust to the shadows. He looked towards the door, rolling over so that he could see it more clearly. As his knees landed on the couch, a vicious snarl broke the night silence and teeth clamped down on his big toe.

"Jesus!" He got up and shooed his dog off the couch. He rubbed his toe to see if the little bastard had broken the skin. His heart rate slowed. The sound that . After deciding that his big toe didn't need a bandage, he pulled the blanket back up over him and started to turn over and get in his comfortable couch sleep position. And then he saw it. (or almost did.) Right out of the corner of his eye, the hint of something. He turned quickly staring at the far corner of the room. He couldn't make out anything in the black night but he felt like something was there. Something watching him. And there was the faintest sound… chickita-chickita-chik-chick-shhhh-chickita. He stared for a while, straining to see if there was anything in the shadows, his pulse again starting to race…but nothing. He decided he was being stupid and laid down again on the couch. It took him awhile but he did fall back asleep…eventually.

----{<*>}

One Day at G.A.

"This right here is a picture of Jesus and Biggie on a seesaw. Jesus is always in the air." - Chris Rock

He always loved this part of the Gambler's Anonymous meeting. They sat in a big circle on these pastel colored chairs with legs just a little too short for adults. He'd named them "kiddie" chairs and always referred to them just like that. He'd say, "I guess we get the Kiddie Chairs again" to whomever was nearby and mime his fingers in the quote-unquote signs. Alex Arcieri was just witty like that.

He'd been coming to GA--not the state abbreviation but the rehab group, he'd tell his co-workers at lunch--for 8 weeks now. He'd spent an entire paycheck on lottery tickets because God had told him the winning numbers in a dream. But God, or so he thought at the time, had given him 10 numbers and the lottery only allowed you six, so he had to buy every possible combination of numbers in order to guarantee a win. It came out to 188 combinations and wouldn't you know his paycheck was 188 dollars? It had to be fate right? He might have repeated some combinations and forgot a few but he had 188 tickets from his 188 dollars and he thought surely that was a leap of faith that the big guy upstairs was bound to notice.

He didn't win. In fact, none of his numbers were called that week. And that's when he knew that the devil was out to get him. When he told his father the news, he said, "The Devil works in mysterious ways." And you know what? He was right. But the temptation was really strong. He started to think about what would happen if he ever got the chance to visit Las Vegas or Atlantic City one day. They were called the Sin Capitals of the world in every article he had read about them. He wouldn't be able to control himself. That's when Alex Arcieri knew he had a gambling problem. And when Alex Arcieri has a problem, he fixes it.

He sat in his chair still wearing his leather jacket and sunglasses. He never took them off in these meetings. They were Anonymous and he was scared that he might be recognized. He had a sneaking suspicion that a few people already knew who he was. They had started to shy away from him, like they were intimidated by his fame. He had to admit that he always liked that. Fame was tough but it had its perks. He may not be in Hollywood anymore but hosting a public access show in a small town like San Francisco made you pretty famous amongst the locals.

He chuckled to himself letting his pride get the best of him. Someone grunted and he looked up and realized he was disrupting the discussion a bit. Oh well, a star shining as brightly as his sometimes couldn't be contained but he'd try to control himself. "Apologies," he said, "Please continue."

The woman who had been talking continued with her story. "As I was saying, if it hadn't been for blackjack and living so close to Reno, I really think I could have been a successful actress. I mean I had been as a child. But that early success afforded me both luxury and a problem. I was too young with too much money and an addiction to casinos. I mean the sounds, the cards, the--"

"Umm, excuse me," Alex interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Yes, you said you were a child actor? What show were you on?" Alex knew this tramp couldn't possibly be an actress. At least not one of his caliber.

"Well, this is an anonymous group and if I tell you the name of the show, you'll figure it out. I was quite young so I don't think you'd recognize me from it now…but that's not really the point of this is it? Aren't we supposed to be discussing our addiction?" She looked to the others for support and they nodded in agreement.

Alex didn't notice. "Well, I find it hard to believe that a successful, talented actress would be here in little ol' San Francisco. I mean why aren't you in Hollywood?"

"Well, to be honest, I've considered going back. I think that I could get back into it. Maybe do some theatre or film work," As soon as she finished her sentence, she knew that she had said the exact wrong thing. The leather jacket man was sitting up in his chair now, trying desperately to keep his glasses on straight.

"I know a thing or two about Hollywood, as I'm sure a few of you have figured out. And I can tell you that I don't think that you've got what it takes." Alex sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "Gotcha, faker." He thought.

"You're very rude, Mr. Whateveryournameis. But I have to tell you that my old manager thinks that I could definitely get work."

"A manager? What else does he manage? McDonald's?" He took a sitcom pause, waiting for everyone to stop laughing at his great burn. Alex seemed not to notice that no one was laughing to begin with. "Everyone in Hollywood knows that you have to have an agent. When I was in Hollywood, I knew all of the players. I have a great agent for you if you need one. You may have heard of him, his name is William Morris."

The group chuckled at that. Alex knew that they were anxiously anticipating his every word.

The woman was intrigued by this conversation, in spite of its absurdity, "You were in Hollywood? What did you do? What might I have seen you in?"

Alex would not be insulted like this! He took off his sunglasses. "Don't pretend like you don't know who I am. I know you all have seen me on television here. 8000 people see my show PHAME - That's P-H-A-M-E for Pretty Hot and Magically Entertaining every 3 weeks. I know you've all seen my paintings hanging at Crazy Wok Chinese Dine In or Take Out. It’s the one with the Panda bear playing baseball with Ichiro and Chan Ho Park and Godzilla while Jesus looks on from above. Mr. Hun said its beautiful and gives me a free fortune cookie every time I order because he loves it so much."

"Okay, I have no idea what you're talking about. I just want to know what you did in Hollywood."

Alex knew he had her. He was going to enjoy this, "If you want to continue to act like you don't know, I'll tell you. I was "Ninth Grade Boy" in 8 episodes of the third season of Punky Brewster and I was very nearly a breakdancer with Cuba Gooding JR at the 1984 Olympics. I poplocked outside the Olympic Village anyway. Several newscasters came by to cover my story. I was called Jiffy-Pop because when I was doing my electric boogaloo the kids would always say it was quote-on like popcorn-unquote."

There was absolute silence in the room as everyone nervously looked at each other and then an uproar of laughter. Alex didn't understand what was so funny. Did he have something on his face? He rubbed at his nose to see if there was a booger. He took off his glasses and looked at his teeth on the lenses to see if there was something stuck there.

The moderator of the discussion was wiping tears from her eyes and began to speak as the group quieted down, "Well, Mr. Jiffy Pop, I think it would do all of us some good if you popped yourself out of 'group' this week. You're a disruption and quite possibly a fool." They all cracked up again.

Alex stood up and stormed out. His father really was right, the devil was working in some mysterious ways. Well, he'd show them. He knew he was destined to return to Hollywood again and become a national star again. He'd have to go in the closet and find his old headshots and it'd be a couple weeks before he could afford a bus ticket but he was going to do it.

And the first thing he was going to do was walk into the offices of William Morris and get himself an agent. He couldn't remember their address but he knew they were in Santa Monica.

And he knew that they would never pass up the chance to sign a star like Alex Arcieri.

first day of school

"Don't talk about it, be about it." - Busta Rhymes

As the steam dissipated, she pressed the corner of the picture back onto the glass with her thumb. "Dumb stupid," she thought, "Why would I tape it up before I took my shower?" She looked disapprovingly at her reflection slowly appearing in the mirror. All she could see was this brown blur and she reached for where her glasses should be and found…nothing.

"Right," she thought and smiled. She wasn't a four-eyed freak anymore. She opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed her contact lens case turning it over in her hands, marveling at it just a little bit. After a few nervous moments when she thought she wouldn't have the courage to poke her finger in her eye, she finally could see and looked up at herself.

Her smile quickly faded as she recognized herself. The contacts were an improvement but she was still just this 'nothing special' thing. Plain in every way. Practically invisible to everyone at school unless she was dancing or someone caught her under the breath comments and chuckled. But all that was about to change. She was fifteen now and despite her father's objections, old enough for makeup, old enough to buy her own clothes, have her own style. And today was the first day of school and she was going to show it off.

She looked at the magazine clipping taped to the mirror right next to where her face reflected. The beautiful young singer/actress posed in a giddy half laugh-half flirty fashion, glitter shining on her cheeks, blue eye shadow, cloudy blue lipgloss shimmering on her lips, butterfly barrettes all through her hair. And the boys. Almost like an afterthought in the picture, darkened in the shadows of the background but all pointing with facial expressions that say, "Wow, Look at her!" Most people might not notice that just glancing at the picture but she's noticed it. In fact, it was the first thing she saw in the picture.

She has everything necessary to transform herself into this vision of beauty. The lip-gloss, the glitter body rub, the barrettes. She made her mom take her to get her hair straightened. No more braids, no more extensions, no more pigtails. Straight and loose and free. Wispy almost. She had make-up and cute clothes and she was going to get seen today, damnit.

Knock. Knock. Knock. "Baby, you alright in there? Your breakfast is getting cold." Her Dad.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Dang, Dad…can't a girl get some privacy?"

"Oh, excuse me, didn't know I had to ask permission to walk around my house." he said.

"Dumb. Stupid." She began applying blue eye-liner under her eyes trying to remember how her mother did it. She didn't want to look like a tramp.

"Baby, Can we get some black people on your walls, please? How about that boy that sings about the thongs? Or that one mixed girl that sings those pop tunes you love. At least she's half-black. I feel like I walked into American Bandstand in here."

"Dumb Stupid. American Bandstand? What's that like TRL for old people? Did they do, whatchamacalit, the jitterbug on it?" She giggled to herself softly, careful not to mess her makeup.

"Leave the girl alone, Russell, she can have these white boys on her wall if she wants. Do you need help with your makeup, Winnie?" Thank God for her mom even though she had called her Winnie. She hated that name just as much as her full name. Who's named Winifred anyway? She was going to tell people to start calling her by her middle name, Tiffany. How cute was that? Before 'Tiffany' could reply to her mother, however, her father was at it again.

"I'm just saying baby, how can we be raising a strong black woman when the lone rapper she has on her walls is some white boy? She's confused damnit. And I'm still not happy about the makeup thing. Next she'll be wanting to drive."

"One more year, dad." She smirked as she applied the glitter to her cheeks rubbing in circular motions just like the magazine said…for even glow and sparkle.

"You shut up Russell and you, Miss Smart Mouth, quit teasing him. You know how sensitive boys are. Get a move on though, please, we need to be leaving sooner rather than later." She listened as her mother pushed her father out of her room and thought, "No, I don't know how boys are. But that's about to change."

She puckered up and rolled the lip-gloss onto her lips. She was so excited she was humming to herself, practically dancing in her bathroom. She started adding the barrettes to her hair thinking really hard about not thinking about where she was placing them. Just like the article said.

Be free with the barrettes. Have Fun! Your hair will fall into a cute arrangement and then you can just brush it back with your fingers.

And finally she was done. She stood back from the mirror and looked at herself…and almost started to cry. The cloudy blue lip-gloss on her dark lips was making her look ghostly rather than pretty. The glittery bath gel was drying a wonderfully flaky white on her caramel skin. The blue eye shadow under her eyes made her look like she had two black eyes. And her hair? It wasn't falling at all. Instead it hung every which way. Wispy? Maybe. Uncontrollable? Definitely.

She pushed her hands into her head and tried to pull the birds nest back, just like the magazine told her. Her fingers caught in her hair. Apparently straight didn't mean the end to nappy. She grabbed a brush and tried that which worked, after a few tugs, but the butterfly barrettes didn't appreciate the action against them and began popping off her head and flying into different corners of the bathroom.

Knock. Knock. " 5 minutes, Winnie. I mean it." God, she hated her mother. Why'd she always have to be so bossy?

She thought maybe she just had too much eye-liner on and began trying to rub off the edges until it was less creature feature and more Saturday Matinee. As she did so, she began focusing on her lips and how horrible they looked. The lady at the counter said that the color looked good on everybody, guess everybody didn't include black girls. Why didn't any of it work for and why didn't anybody know it wouldn-

"OW!" While she was obsessing about her lips, she poked herself in the eye. It was stinging to holy hell. She smashed the palms of her hands into her eyeball trying to get it out. She felt something slide out. "Oh No." she thought and pulled her hand away to find that half her vision was blurry. The contact had fallen out.

Knock. Knock. "2 Minutes, Miss America. I ate your bacon." Stupid Fathers. She was to tears and near a nervous breakdown.

She stopped and took a breath. Staring at her image in the mirror, collecting herself. She removed the other contact and put it in her lens case. She wiped all the crap from off her face including her salty tears. She grabbed two rubberbands and made two ponytails. She put her glasses on. She looked at herself one last time.

"Still invisible."

She ripped the picture off the glass and tossed it in the trash.

She opened the bathroom door and found her father sitting on her bed.

"My Baby Girl. More beautiful every day. Did you change your hair? I think you have too much make up on." He scrunched up his nose, surveying her.

"Dumb Stupid. Can we go now?"

What I Would Do to You

Big time sensuality - Bjork

I wasn't going to post today but I slept a whole helluva lot yesterday and I had dreams. I woke up with this real clear vision of a post. The imagery was too strong to wait a few days on it. I'm no songwriter but if I was this would be my love opus. Its not about anyone in particular but there's a couplethree of ya'll that if you and me could get together we could do this right. Syke. I'm only dead serious. No, really, if you know any art chicks though on the fence about a certain mild mannered negro...send 'em right here for this:

What I would do to you? I would grab you from behind, my arms wrapped across your stomach and pull you to me so that you would know I was there for you. There to stand with you, to hold you up. I would breathe on the back of your neck softly, kiss you gently...once.

What I would do to you? I would whisper in your left ear. Tell you that besides your mind, your hopes, your laugh, your dreams, your quirks, your heart, what makes you beautiful is this--my hands gliding across your belly, stopping at your belly button. And this -- my hand holding your breast, my finger rubbing lighty where I can sense your nipple. And this--me tugging you againt me so that you know that your ass is beautiful. And this--my hand laying gently on the front of your jeans. And this--me turning you around so that I can cup your face and stare into your eyes.

What I would do to you? I'd kiss your forehead, the tip of your nose, your eyelids and finally your mouth...once. I'd whisper in your right ear. "What makes you beautiful is the way you make me feel about myself." I'd nibble on your earlobe, tugging playfully. My hands would massage your neck and shoulders as I kissed down the right side of your face. I'd stop at the corner of your mouth and leave my lips there for a second. I'd kiss the left corner of your mouth and linger. I'd look directly at you and let you know what I wanted.

What I would do to you? I'd let my hands explore your back, your waist, your arms, your hips. I'd kiss you deeply, powerfully. I'd let my tongue meet your tongue. I'd pull your waist to my waist and suck on your bottom lip. I'd make you have to stop for a second to catch your breath. And then my hands would move. And then my lips would move.

What I would do to you? I'd kiss down your neck while my hands felt your breasts. I'd kiss your through your clothes. I'd tug at your shirt pulling it out of your jeans. I'd unbutton your top button. I'd remind you what it feels like to not have control. And to not want it.

What I would do to you? I'd explore your body with my left hand while my mouth and right hand worked in tandem. I'd come back to your left ear and tell you that what makes you beautiful is the way you say "oooh". I'd make your chest heave.

What I would do to you? I'd put my mouth on you. I'd put my mouth on you at the base of you. At the part of you that makes you really who you are. A woman, A lover, A giver of joy and pain. And then I'd put my tongue in you and drink you up. I would lift you to me. Accepting you, glorifying you, celebrating you, tasting you, enjoying you. And then I'd come to your right ear and whisper, "What makes you beautiful is the way you moan."

What I would do to you? I'd let you ride me. The part of me that is the base of me would stand at the base of you slightly inside you...and wait. Wait until you really accept me, until your body reacts to me, let's me in. As you engulf me, I would slow you down. I would make you really feel me. Feel us. I would want you to understand our oneness. To understand that at this moment, what makes you beautiful is me and what makes me beautiful is you. I would want to be one with you, our rhythm, our nakedness, our breathing working together like an orchestra of instruments building to a crescendo.

What I would do to you? I would pull you to me and lick the sweat from your upper lip. I would control your motion, contain your passion until it could be contained no more. And then with a glance, I would let you know that its okay to let go. And we would do just that. We would let go completely. I would set you completely free for that instant, that moment. I would make your body shake, quiver with what makes you beautiful. I would make you release. I would make you forget that there is a world out there. In this darkness, in this moment, I would make you believe that there is nothing but you and me. And you wouldn't want it any other way.

Oh the things I would do to you...if we were in love.