TWO STORIES
BY SAMUEL BRODSKY
Drew Dominick was telling me about the end of the world. We were in the Russian schvitz on 47th street. “You seriously haven’t heard?” he said. “I guess I haven’t” I said. “Everyone at the office is talking about it,” he said. “Apparently, there’s a rumor that in two years’ time generative technology will be able to reproduce the human neuron, and the world, as we know it, will come to a total end.” “What happens after that?” I said. Drew looked like he was entertaining a serious thought. “God knows,” he said. It was Sunday, and I was thinking about the list of things I needed to do that day. I had to get some dishwashing detergent, the kind that comes in little square pods, and pick up food for Raúl, our Australian shepherd, and get the materials for Kristina’s pottery business. There was a lot to do, and I thought that I should just get up and leave the guys at the schvitz. But that’s when Alan Jinich got up from the ancient oak and cobblestone, sweat dripping from his red face, towel dangling from his hips and said, “How about some pierogies?” And I thought Christ, I can’t say no to that. We made our way, the guys and I, to the restaurant inside the bathhouse and ordered some potato-cheese pierogies and Polish lagers. An imprudent woman, surely of Eastern European descent, showed us to our table. It was only much later, no matter how later, that in the steam room, Dabney told us he was interested in buying a mountain with his crypto. “What do you think,” he said. He showed us the pictures of the mountain on his phone. I didn’t like the shape of it, to be frank, but I had to be polite. “Quite the mountain,” I said. “That’s right, George,” he said. “It’s a steal. What do you think, Drew?” Drew said he didn’t care about his mountain or North Carolina or rattlesnakes for that matter, which I could tell was a lie. We sat in silence for some while, sipping from our lagers and contemplating the steam coming from the walls. I tried to lift my head but it was too heavy. I looked over at Alan, and his skin had turned crimson. I think I had enough of the schvitz. “Don’t you guys think we’ve been here long enough?” I said. Drew Dominick checked his watch. “Let’s wait a little longer,” he said. “We just got here. Besides, it’s good for your blood,” he said. When a guy like Drew Dominick checks his watch and tells you something is good for your blood, you take his word for it. So we stayed in the schvitz, but I couldn’t shake the thought that I had to buy dishwashing detergent and then I remembered the rumor Drew had told me some time ago about the end of the world. We must have been in there for quite some time because when we get out, the street was cold and unusually morose. “Where the hell is everybody?” Dabney said. “To hell with it,” Drew said, by which I think he meant, Let’s all just go home. We shook hands and I was sorry to see them go. I don’t remember much after that. Some napkins danced together in a circle. A girl with a saxophone and a cream-colored dress asked for directions. Four military jets flew low overhead. The light from an apartment window flickered, and then I heard somebody from the other room yell, “LAST CALL!” and it went dark.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
In the evening I make salmon. I make salmon most evenings. I bake salmon and drink a glass of lemonade. I put on the news, but the news bores me. I live on the 79th floor of a high rise, you see, and people look like ants from up here. My neighbors work in finance. I don’t work in finance. I work in lifestyle. As I was saying, I bake salmon and drink lemonade and watch college basketball. It looks like Miami will take it this year. I went to college in Washington, D.C., and even though my college doesn’t play in March Madness I still own hundreds of mugs and t-shirts from our alma mater that we bought during our senior year. My wife got the ones in pink.
We met, my wife and I, in Psychology 107: Social World, Social Mind. I remember it well; we were dissecting the brains of mice with Professor Linz. When we got out of the class the air smelled of dew. It had rained. When her friends left, I asked her if she would want to study for the midterm together. That same night, we fucked beautifully. I pumped and pumped, and she yelped, “Oh my GOD,” and orgasmed, and then I orgasmed, and we went again, and again, and her roommates told us to please stop, but we didn’t care. We kept fucking, like I said, beautifully. I love her so much sometimes it makes me want to jump off my high-rise. She thinks it’s an exaggeration but she doesn’t know I’m deadly serious.
In the evening I make salmon and meet up with Brad. He’s a jerk but he buys me martinis. He says I keep him grounded. We get drunk and he talks to me about fucking a Black guy he met in Chelsea. His wife doesn’t know it yet but she’s suspicious and knows that something’s fishy. Fishy. Like salmon. Hold on, I have to take this, he says. He’s taking a call from a client in Pakistan. I look behind him and there are men arguing over the weather. They’re yelling. Brad yells at his client. Everybody at the bar is yelling. I’m yelling at the men to stop yelling. We buy more drinks and meet up with our wives. They’re waiting for us at the entrance to the opera. Our wives glow and sparkle. We’re all wearing wonderful shades of magenta and amaranth in cotton and wool. Our hearts swell. At midnight I make salmon.
In the morning my wife goes to the gym. In the evening, when she gets home, I make salmon. Does it always have to be salmon? she asks. It’s good for you, I say, and give her a kiss on the head. Her hair smells like coconuts. Like one million coconuts. I pass her the asparagus. Drink your lemonade, I say. I can’t stand it anymore, she says, I can’t stand it, I can’t eat any more salmon, every fucking night it’s goddamned salmon, it’s insanity, she says. She screams and throws the salmon at the wall and smashes the plate. What’s wrong, honey? I say. She looks at me in sorrow. Our eyes lock like they did that first night. I’m sorry, she says, and looks down. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, she says. Long day at the gym? I ask. She looks down at the salmon and starts to cry. I pick up the salmon and I throw it in the bin.
That night we don’t have sex. She snores. I toss and turn all night in bed. The sheets don’t feel right or something. Maybe I’m still hungry. Then I get an idea. It must have been six or seven in the morning, because when I put on my slippers I could hear the hustle and bustle of the little ants below. I tiptoe my way into the kitchen, with a greedy little smile on my face and all. My heart beats against my chest and I even feel my penis get a bit wet. I check to make sure she’s still sleeping. She sleeps so beautifully, my wife. I go back into the kitchen, tippy toe tippy toe, here I go. I’m grinning ear to ear. I look at the wall and I can still see the orange glaze from where she threw it. I inch a teeny bit closer to the wall. I can smell the scales. I put the tip of my tongue on it. Mmm. Sweet like caramel. I start licking the walls up and down, wiping them clean. Butter, soy sauce, honey. I lick so much the paint starts to come off the walls. When I taste “blush beige,” that’s when I decide it’s time to fish out the big one. I can’t wait for the entree, and I get so giddy my dick feels like it might burst.
So I take the bin out, breathing hard and everything. I take the top out. There’s some coffee, and some toilet paper. But no salmon. I move my hands around a bit more, but it’s so dark in there I can barely see. I reach further and further, but my bin’s never felt this deep, I think, and so I keep digging, and damn it if I didn’t look, but I really didn’t see the salmon, so that’s when I decide to just put my whole head in, you see, because my bin at that point was just as deep as the ocean, but once inside I still couldn’t see where the damn thing went, and by then it was just irresistible, so I just throw my whole self into the bin, and I start to feel myself falling deeper and deeper into the bin and I just start to laugh hysterically like I’m on a water slide, you know, hahahahaha, hohohoho, hehehehe, HOOOOOOO, HEEEEEEEEEE, I’M SINKING MOMMY, I’M SINKING, I yell, because I feel like I’m drowning, and it tickles, and I can’t get out, and the salmon is nowhere to be found! And that’s when I hear my wife get up, and she walks over to the bin, I can see her now, she’s looking down at me as if from the top of a wishing well, and her voice echoes through the tunnel of darkness, and she says, “Rich, I’m leaving you.”
SAMUEL BRODSKY is a Chilean writer and filmmaker based in New York City.
HOME
We met, my wife and I, in Psychology 107: Social World, Social Mind. I remember it well; we were dissecting the brains of mice with Professor Linz. When we got out of the class the air smelled of dew. It had rained. When her friends left, I asked her if she would want to study for the midterm together. That same night, we fucked beautifully. I pumped and pumped, and she yelped, “Oh my GOD,” and orgasmed, and then I orgasmed, and we went again, and again, and her roommates told us to please stop, but we didn’t care. We kept fucking, like I said, beautifully. I love her so much sometimes it makes me want to jump off my high-rise. She thinks it’s an exaggeration but she doesn’t know I’m deadly serious.
In the evening I make salmon and meet up with Brad. He’s a jerk but he buys me martinis. He says I keep him grounded. We get drunk and he talks to me about fucking a Black guy he met in Chelsea. His wife doesn’t know it yet but she’s suspicious and knows that something’s fishy. Fishy. Like salmon. Hold on, I have to take this, he says. He’s taking a call from a client in Pakistan. I look behind him and there are men arguing over the weather. They’re yelling. Brad yells at his client. Everybody at the bar is yelling. I’m yelling at the men to stop yelling. We buy more drinks and meet up with our wives. They’re waiting for us at the entrance to the opera. Our wives glow and sparkle. We’re all wearing wonderful shades of magenta and amaranth in cotton and wool. Our hearts swell. At midnight I make salmon.
In the morning my wife goes to the gym. In the evening, when she gets home, I make salmon. Does it always have to be salmon? she asks. It’s good for you, I say, and give her a kiss on the head. Her hair smells like coconuts. Like one million coconuts. I pass her the asparagus. Drink your lemonade, I say. I can’t stand it anymore, she says, I can’t stand it, I can’t eat any more salmon, every fucking night it’s goddamned salmon, it’s insanity, she says. She screams and throws the salmon at the wall and smashes the plate. What’s wrong, honey? I say. She looks at me in sorrow. Our eyes lock like they did that first night. I’m sorry, she says, and looks down. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, she says. Long day at the gym? I ask. She looks down at the salmon and starts to cry. I pick up the salmon and I throw it in the bin.
That night we don’t have sex. She snores. I toss and turn all night in bed. The sheets don’t feel right or something. Maybe I’m still hungry. Then I get an idea. It must have been six or seven in the morning, because when I put on my slippers I could hear the hustle and bustle of the little ants below. I tiptoe my way into the kitchen, with a greedy little smile on my face and all. My heart beats against my chest and I even feel my penis get a bit wet. I check to make sure she’s still sleeping. She sleeps so beautifully, my wife. I go back into the kitchen, tippy toe tippy toe, here I go. I’m grinning ear to ear. I look at the wall and I can still see the orange glaze from where she threw it. I inch a teeny bit closer to the wall. I can smell the scales. I put the tip of my tongue on it. Mmm. Sweet like caramel. I start licking the walls up and down, wiping them clean. Butter, soy sauce, honey. I lick so much the paint starts to come off the walls. When I taste “blush beige,” that’s when I decide it’s time to fish out the big one. I can’t wait for the entree, and I get so giddy my dick feels like it might burst.
So I take the bin out, breathing hard and everything. I take the top out. There’s some coffee, and some toilet paper. But no salmon. I move my hands around a bit more, but it’s so dark in there I can barely see. I reach further and further, but my bin’s never felt this deep, I think, and so I keep digging, and damn it if I didn’t look, but I really didn’t see the salmon, so that’s when I decide to just put my whole head in, you see, because my bin at that point was just as deep as the ocean, but once inside I still couldn’t see where the damn thing went, and by then it was just irresistible, so I just throw my whole self into the bin, and I start to feel myself falling deeper and deeper into the bin and I just start to laugh hysterically like I’m on a water slide, you know, hahahahaha, hohohoho, hehehehe, HOOOOOOO, HEEEEEEEEEE, I’M SINKING MOMMY, I’M SINKING, I yell, because I feel like I’m drowning, and it tickles, and I can’t get out, and the salmon is nowhere to be found! And that’s when I hear my wife get up, and she walks over to the bin, I can see her now, she’s looking down at me as if from the top of a wishing well, and her voice echoes through the tunnel of darkness, and she says, “Rich, I’m leaving you.”
[FICTION]
[07/18/25]
[07/18/25]