I saw the movie crazy/beautiful yesterday on television and it was, well, beautiful. I tend to be very very critical of teenage coming of age love stories, since it's so hard to do anything interesting with a genre that's been done to death, but this was one done right. Apparently the more explicit sex and drug use scenes were edited so that the film could maintain a PG13 rating. This may have compromised the quality of the film, but it's still damn good. It's really nice to see Kirsten Dunst act her little heart out as Nicole, a role more challenging than Mary Jane in Spiderman, or Torrence in Bring it On (although she was charming in both those roles). And damn--Jay Hernandez, who plays the male lead Carlos, left me weak in the knees. His lips, his eyes, his chest, his tattoos...*swoon.* What a gorgeous guy. The critique of well-meaning but clueless liberals was not as trenchant as it could have been, but the wince factor was high when Nicole's father tries to empathize with Carlos by telling him that "it must have been hard to escape from la vida loca of drugs and violence...it's not just a Ricky Martin song." (Or something close to that).

I love Caffe Driade. Not only do the servers and the patrons provide plenty of eye candy, as well as nummy pastry treats, but they almost always play fantastic music there. It was where I first heard Beck's Sea Change, as well as Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism. I got more done during five hours there tonight than I've gotten done the entire past week. Damn but I wish I were more productive at home.

Anyway, there's a story of mine which has been in progress for over a year, called "Cookie Dough." I had the first couple of lines and the last couple of lines for the longest time, but couldn't write what happened in between those two points until tonight. This is a first draft, so it's unpolished (God, I always say that...at every story reading, I've said those exact words). I think this is the first story I've written in three years that does not contain the word "orifice." Woo!

Cookie Dough

Robbie smashed a second scoop of chocolate ice cream into the paper cup. He sang with Britney on the radio, his overly cigaretted voice offering a plaintive and weary interpretation of “Oops I did it again.”
“Is that all? I can’t believe I’m paying $3.14 for just that much.” The woman’s red lips were pursed in displeasure, like a bloody gash beneath her nose. Her knuckles were white from grasping the Sunday Times so tightly.
Robbie masked his irritation with a creative interpretation of a smile. “You asked for two scoops. Ye ask, and ye shall receive.”
Robbie had renounced God after a particularly nice screw with a plaid-sporting Steve McQueen type in a red pickup truck on October 23rd, 1977, and he never went back. But when he raised his eyes from the cash register to take the next order, he could have sworn that an angel appeared before him. This vision of such beauty and purity and innocence was so sickeningly sweet, he felt like he was being asphyxiated with vanilla. Robbie was suddenly self-conscious about his rough, scarred skin, and the strands of gray mixed with dirty blond of his straggly shoulder-length hair. This boy…his creamy smooth skin, rosy cheeks, chocolate curls of hair…this was a dream of a boy, who knew no evil, no ugliness, no wrong. Robbie almost wanted to take a bite of him and swallow him and digest him to incorporate his young fresh molecules into his own body’s aging matter…but then again, eating veal or lamb doesn’t make one feel any younger or more innocent.
“Your name must be Dick, right?” Robbie found these words escaping his mouth, to his surprise.
“Why do you say that?”
“You look like a drawing in one of those Dick and Jane books, the kind that my Dad read to me when I was a kid.”
The young boy smiled widely, and the brilliant glow of his teeth combined with the sparkle of his eyes nearly blinded Robbie. “I guess I do look pretty old-fashioned. I’m not like some of the other kids here with spiked, bleached blond, or purple hair. My name is Jim. What’s yours?”
“Barbra Streisand.”
“Well, your nametag says ‘Robbie,’” Jim noted, confused.
His mother suddenly appeared, resembling a massive peach elephant beside him. “Jim? Have you gotten your ice cream yet?”
Jim turned to his mother and gave her the same charming smile he had given to Robbie just a few seconds earlier. “No, mom. You sit down and I’ll take care of it. You want butter pecan, right?”
His mother looked critically at Robbie. “You make sure this boy gets nothing but the best, you hear? He got a 1580 on his SAT’s. He’s going to go far someday. Maybe even president!”
“Well, I’ll make sure that this future luminary gets whatever sweet treat his little heart desires.”
Mom glared at Robbie. “Just make sure that your dirty hands don’t come in contact with his ice cream. I don’t want him to get any diseases from the likes of you.”
Was it that obvious that he had HIV? His T-cell count was still decent, and he had always been skinny. Robbie didn’t think he looked sick, at least not yet. Or was she just assuming this because he was gay? Robbie wasn’t sure, but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he regarded Jim’s mother. “I wouldn’t dream of corrupting your son. After all, he’s our future president.”
Jim blushed. “Mom, you just sit down, okay? He’s doing a fine job.”
Mom harrumphed and navigated the way back to her chosen table.
Jim leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sorry she was rude. She didn’t mean it…Sometimes she just gets a little uppity.”
Robbie felt himself melting under the soft brown-eyed gaze of this boy. “She’s proud of you, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m just an ice cream scooper. You’re gonna be someone important someday.”
Jim looked startled by this comment. “Everybody’s important, including you.”
Robbie paused, and tried not to show the emotion that he felt, which manifested in a burning sensation inside of the bridge of his nose. He managed a crooked smile and brandished his ice cream scooper. “So Jim, your mom wants butter pecan, what about you?”
Jim gave him another of his devastating smiles. “Chocolate chip cookie dough, please. Both large, in cups."
“You got it, Dick.” Robbie grinned.
“My name’s Jim!” he protested, mock-offended.
“Well, it should be Dick.” Robbie went to task, slipping the edge of the scooper beneath the surface of the butter pecan carton and carving a curl of ice cream which he deposited in a cup, followed by a second scoop. He placed the cup on the counter for Jim. He then rinsed his scooper and moved to the cookie dough carton, repeating the motions. He heaped the contents of this cup particularly high.
“Do you guys make your own ice cream here?” Jim queried.
“Sure do. The best you’ll ever have, Dick.” Robbie placed the second cup on the counter next to its older sibling.
Jim grinned. “You’re awfully confident about that. What will happen if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. This is the best, kid.” Robbie’s fingers were a little stiff from the near-contact with the freezer as he rang the order up on the cash register. “$7.26.”
Jim fished in his coat pocket for his wallet, and extracted a $10 bill. “Here ya go.”
Robbie slipped the $10 bill into its slot in the register, and counted out the change. “All right, Dick. You and your momma enjoy your ice cream, okay?” He placed the change in Jim’s hands, and his fingers brushed Jim’s open, waiting palm. A jolt of electricity raced up his arm from the point of contact. Robbie trembled slightly and looked away from Jim, not wanting to showcase the vulnerability likely present in his eyes.
Jim looked at Robbie with knowing gentleness and withdrew the hand clutching his change. “Thanks. You take it easy, okay?”
“Take it easy,” Robbie echoed. His eyes followed Jim as he grabbed a couple of spoons and some napkins from the counter, and made his way towards his mother. Robbie realized that they had probably come in after church, given his mother’s dress and flowered hat, and Jim’s navy suit.
“Sir? Sir! Excuse me, I’m ready to order.” Robbie snapped to attention and turned to look into the face of a twenty-something Asian woman with an impatient expression, a physiology textbook tucked under one arm. Must be one of those medical students.
“Sorry, sweetheart. What can I get you?”
"Small pistachio, please."
As Robbie moved his scooper toward the pistachio carton, he quickly glanced over to the seating area to find Jim. He and his mother had risen from their chairs and were putting on their coats. As they headed for the exit, Jim turned and his eyes met Robbie’s, whose heart raced in response. The corners of Jim’s lips rose in a shy smile, and his arm rose in a jaunty wave.
Robbie paused in his scooping and dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He did not blink once until Jim’s figure was obscured by the glass windows and finally left his sight. He wanted all 24 frames a second to replay in his mind as he lay in bed that night, beneath the constellations he had fashioned on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark sticker stars.