Laughter
Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force. He earned an MA and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He worked as a house builder, pipe-fitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender and painter.
Salted Butter Bread
by Anne Freier
We were fifteen and collecting almost-haves. Almost summer break, almost old enough for weekend discos, almost ready to give away our real names to boys on the Internet whose grainy faces flickered at the distance of our uncharted desires. DarkAngelXx from Hannover had frosted tips and a tongue ring. In his photos, he wore oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirts, posing in front of Seinfeld posters. He typed in Courier New: “Du klingst wunderschön.” You sound beautiful. Our chests tightened. We knew better than to meet him. Only insane people met with strangers from the World Wide Web. But at night, we’d touch our lips imagining his piercing, cold then warm.
That summer, we hid at Karin’s. Her flat was our quiet revolt – no parents, no forced family vacations to the Baltic Sea, just a cat-scented corner sofa and a Grundig TV playing MTV. Karin didn’t have a father, and her mom worked late shifts for Deutsche Bahn.
We played grown-ups in her living room. Low-rise jeans, neck chokers, halter tops with English words we half-understood: Y2K READY and FCUK. We drank mint schnapps that Joanna’s older brother had bought for us. It tasted like nail polish remover. We smoked menthol Marlboros, the only cigarettes that didn’t make us gag.
One night, we crafted a Ouija board from a pizza box and used a shot glass as a planchette. We called out to the void, summoning Oma Greta and Keanu Reeves. When the glass slid, we shrieked and jolted up to switch on all the lights. Death was cooler in theory.
Afterward, we ate, not for sustenance but comfort. Always warm butter bread. We fished the toaster from the kitchen and installed it at the center of our circle, its chrome shell reflecting our faces, distorted and elongated like a fun house mirror. We listened to the hum of the nichrome wire. The heat warmed our faces as we bent across to check. How much longer? Always longer than the dial-up modem. Longer than DarkAngelXx’s “Na, Süße?” at 1 am.
Slices of rye leapt from the toaster, their scent earthy and sour. And quickly, we piled on flakes of butter and watched them melt into the gaps. We sprinkled salt on top, the crystals catching light like the glitter on our eyelids.
We typed: “Tut mir leid, bin beschäftigt.” Sorry, I’m busy. And fed more slices to the toaster. Karin smiled and said she wasn’t hungry for a second serving, then nibbled at the edges of her first. She pulled a blanket tight around her shoulders.
The bread leapt up, singed black, a plume of smoke rising to the ceiling. We covered our ears when the fire alarm wailed. Only Karin didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes fixed on the TV while the siren blared. A music video was playing an unfamiliar song. The rest of us raced to fetch the broom while Joanna climbed onto a chair. We jabbed at the alarm until the shrieking stopped, then pushed open the window, letting the night air in to chase away the acrid smell of burning. We took turns leaning out, breathing deeply, while city lights twinkled in the distance. When we’d had enough, we huddled back around the coffee table, balancing Karin’s abandoned plate. The butter had oozed through the cracks in the dough. It sat in golden puddles like the candle wax from our Ouija seance. Solid yet shapeless, it refused to be bread again.
