“Please Don’t Be Upset and Other Stories” by Brandi Wells (reviewed by Nidya Sarria)

Do you love someone? Pause and take a deep breath – you’re about to get the shit kicked out of you.

“Please Don’t Be Upset and Other Stories” by Brandi Wells is a riveting collection of short stories, notable for its clean, clean prose and subtle use of imagery. The title story centers around a woman who attempts to stick her hand in her lover’s throat, something most of us have never tried. Why would anyone do such a thing? The narrator explains herself in an offhand manner – her man doesn’t let her drive the car and “yeah, it didn’t upset me” she says – but you know, you just know, that it really does.

Think about the times you couldn’t do something. You put on a sweater, and then a coat. You put on a scarf, and mittens, and boots. You walked outside in the snow. You couldn’t find it, whatever you were looking for, and God knows, you were looking for a lot of things those days. Every weekend you lost your cellphone, keys, wallet. Every weekend you lost a little bit of yourself – you threw it up and cried it out and other times, just gave it away. Here have this, you said, and no, it doesn’t upset me.

Published by Tiny Hardcore Press

These narrators give their power away. The narrator in “Seven Things I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You” describes her neediness in metaphors: she infiltrates her lover’s closet, she saves his gray hairs (which she claims she will need one day), and she imagines wearing his body like a shirt. She does these things to prove that she can keep him, that one way or another, he’ll be hers forever. That’s sweet, you think – sweetly disgusting and familiar.

In truth, you can never keep anybody. Or rather, you can keep the memory of them, but little else. Their body and thoughts and feelings and tiny fleeting expressions are gone for you, and no amount of gray hairs in a bag will change that. But it doesn’t upset you. Other things upset you: skinned knees, overdraft fees, missed appointments. He doesn’t upset you anymore or ever again. You’ll never again -

The narrator of “Bald” has lost her hair. Has anyone else had that dream? You’re sitting with an attractive man and you bat your eyelashes and run your hands through your hair and suddenly, large clumps fall onto the floor. Dream dictionaries explain that hair represents sexual attraction and seduction. The subconscious mind is terrified of losing her power to entice men, or women, or anyone, into her bed; you dream because you’re scared, you dream because you no longer have him and can’t get him back.

You’ll never again hold hands, or talk about squirrels. You’ll never again giggle at night, kiss his cheek, touch his face with your hands as he tells you a funny story. You’ll never again wait for his texts. You never again discuss him with friends, because they’re sick of him, and you, and the idea of the two of you together. You’ll never again worry about his frown, follow him like a particularly stupid kitten until he smiles again. Such wild uncontainable love. All you want is to kiss his stomach, but this won’t ever happen again.

“A Dozen Notes to Ruben” is about a woman who has a man. She wants to keep him, because she loves him. She’s watched him, played games with his head and heart, made lists about him (as this story attests), but he’s not a perfect man.  And yet who cares about perfection when you have someone to kiss in bed?

Maybe you never had him in the first place. Well, all right then; like the narrator in “Contortionist Ballerina” you try to make yourself small. She fits herself into a washing machine, suitcases, duffle bags. People are amused. What’s not funny about a young girl in pajamas, crying over ice cream and then regretting it? What’s not funny about compulsive gym-going or baggy clothes? Be small, be tiny; hug your knees as you balance on a ledge, under the stars alone. This is the dream. This is a better dream that the one where you lose your hair.

You have this dream because you couldn’t do something. Maybe your limbs were paralyzed by fear. Maybe you couldn’t speak any coherent words. Maybe you were caught in the web of your own experiences, stubborn hurtful feelings and the weight of time and memory. Or maybe you just wanted to drive a car. Brandi Wells will tell you. She’ll tell you about stolen wedding rings, blueberry pancakes, fucking him and fucking other people, cracked ribs and bent bones. She won’t teach you how to drive a car, but hey, you can’t have everything.