works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present

pancakes.

I blinked once, then a second time. Where was I? Somewhere cold, somewhere dark – hazy lines solidifying into indefinite details – lines turning into curves – curves of human bodies. Shapes, forms, barely moving with the slight inhale-exhale of slumber.

Oh, right. I was on a bed, someone else's bed. The other people were friends, or acquaintances to be more precise, but well-acquainted enough for me to fall asleep around them without fearing for my wallet or my extremities. No whipped cream on my face or hands; my virgin ass remained virgin.

How many of them? It hurt to blink with that morning crust caking eyelid to skin. Three, it looked like. Okay, so it wasn't that crazy of a party. Right? No pounding headache. Stomach fine, though empty. Pancakes sound good. With butter and syrup. Three buttermilk pancakes. And coffee. Coffee would be great.

"Hey, you. Want some coffee?"

Oh shit. Who is that? It's a girl. Where is she? Where is this voice of temptation coming from? I wiped the sleep from my eyes.

"Yeah, sure," I said, my voice cracked and stilted. Yeah, coffee. Why does this blanket have holes in it? "Why does this blanket have holes in it?" Damn. I didn't really mean to say that out loud. She laughed.

"It's a quilt, dumbass," she said. Still can't see. She walked into the other room, the whatchamacallit – kitchen. Where are my pants? Why aren't I wearing my pants? Or my shirt? Where did my clothes go? A breeze coming in from the window – why does this goddamn blanket have holes in it?

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had a much larger problem looming within walking distance. The girl. I didn't remember her name (presumably I had learned it at some point in time the previous night). So, what to say? Maybe she didn't know my name either. She did greet me with the innocuous "hey, you." But the fact of the matter is, I have no leverage in the situation. I could instantly be condemned as a pretender, a poseur, an inconsiderate bastard – which must be avoided at all costs.

"How do you like your coffee?" she called out from the...the uh...the kitchen. Think fast. Come on. Ignore the lack of pants, that's a matter for another time. The name, her name, come on man, think!

"Lots of sugar, lots of cream." That's right, sound like the suave bastard that you are. You didn't forget her name, you just misplaced it. Like a set of keys. Or a contact lens. Easily rectifiable situation. Think, think, think –

"Where are your pants?"

Damn. Caught like a goddamn gangster in a Warner Bros. cartoon – a caricature, a concept, a joke. The jig is up, see. You'll never catch me alive, copper, not if I have anything to say about it. What would Bugsy Siegel do? He'd go out guns blazing. Catch 'em off guard. Don't show any sign of weakness. This isn't some random girl's apartment, this is the fucking jungle. This is Nam. This is the Shit, and I'm knee-deep in the Big Muddy.

"I was hoping you could tell me that," I said and grinned, propping myself up on my elbows. That's right. Play it cool, real cool.

"Well, the last thing I remember is taking them off – "

Whoa, wait one minute here –

" – and then, well," and she paused here to make sure the other people in the room were sleeping, "you know, we..."

No, I don't know, so why don't you tell me?

Can girls smell fear? They're all savage animals, every last one of them, but had they developed that particular sense to the acute level required to ascertain that I had no goddamn clue what we had done the previous night?

"Hm?" I tried to sound as innocently oblivious as possible.

"Well, we got pretty wild...are you sure you don't remember?"

Play it straight. "No."

"Aren't you...sore?"

Dread, creeping dread, growing by the moment in size like a tropical storm being upgraded to a hurricane off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico –

"You know...from the d.il..."

Oh god. I am New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

"...do."

I am New Orleans after Hurricane Rita and I have been looted and pillaged.

"Um..." she began when I sat straight up.

Pancakes never sounded better.