New Fiction by Derek Tench

A Blog Post

2009-03-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

Fifty-two pieces in fifty-two weeks. It's been a whole year. I'm taking a break. Not from writing, just from this blog. Just for a while. I have some other things I'm working on. Please check back from time to time for updates. Maybe more stories. And thank you for reading my stuff. Hate to get soft, but it means a lot to me. Take it easy.

-Derek

Can You Hear The Singing? Sounds Like Gold

2009-03-02T21:37:00.000-08:00

There he was, smoking a cigarette in the cold. Thirty five degrees but with the wind chill, something like seventeen. No jacket, no sweater. No coat. Only a long-sleeved flannel shirt, rolled to the elbows. And he flicked closed the rusted, wick lighter and he blew smoke out his nose.

“That’s him. Aw shit. That’s totally him.”

“Who? Where?”

“Right there, smoking. Oh man, that’s him.” I was losing my shit.

He looked around. No eye contact with anyone, barely anyone for eye contact. And then, she wasn’t standing next to me. She was right in front of him. Shaking hands. He gave her a cigarette. She walked right over and bummed a cigarette. From him. Like asking Bill Gates to spare a dime. Like asking God to give a damn.

In the dark, I watched. I waited. My tickets in hand.

* * *

A casual music fan, I am not. When dropping coin enough to see a show—and in the age of Stub-Hub legalized scalping, that can be several coins—I expect a show. What I don’t expect, listening to a crew of drunks run their mouths—this is not a bar. Listening to a couple poseurs chat it up, just here for bragging rights. Listening to a few kids who don’t know shit about rock and roll as they talk through a set. Their mommies—holding car keys—gossip in the row behind. I am not a casual music fan. And casual music fans I do not suffer.

Cell phones sounding off.

Grooving hippy dancers. Feeling vibes.

That prick yelling, “Play Free Bird!”

At one show, a mother held her baby’s arms—barely old enough to stand—and danced around the pit. This until security interrupted. Said she’d have to pop some ear plugs in the kiddie. My thought: If you can afford concert tickets, you can afford a babysitter. Me, I can’t afford distraction.

* * *

Onstage later, he wore the same flannel shirt from the alleyway. I had asked for the cigarette butt she’d bummed. She called me disgusting. I had reached down to grab his butt. Her look froze me and caused second thoughts. But later, in the concert hall, what did that matter.

A few power chords before the drums kicked in, steady behind. Until the first chorus when the bass and lead guitar joined and the keyboardist started messing around. That was when I grabbed my pipe.

One hit, deep and held onto. A quick spark of my disposable lighter. Exhaled upward and I pass it to her.

And from thin air. Like how a near-death experience must look. I see nothing but brightness.

Right there, flashlight in my eyes, a black-shirted security guard. Myself, hands in the air, like don’t shoot. The goon stares me down for a few beats too long. He looks hard. I look high.

And this at a rock show. A full-grown man can’t smoke a bowl. Because somewhere, there’s a baby with earplugs.

A Day In Haiku

2009-02-23T20:55:00.000-08:00

7:05 am
Between toes it seeps.
Like oatmeal with hair: cat sick.
Me, more a dog guy.

9:12 am
Coffee pot near dry.
Office rules: Kill it, fill it.
Have a smoke instead.

1:47 pm
A scotch with my lunch.
Many—a lunch with my scotch.
Next,fake productive.

5:20 pm
Cars for days, rush hour.
Springsteen on the radio.
Tramps like me, stillborn.

10:02 pm
Wife says she’s on rag.
Same excuse was used last week.
Jerk in sink, goodnight.

Blossoming All Over

2009-02-16T21:59:00.000-08:00

Legs or breasts, he asked me.

And I said, you mean like dark meat or white?

No, he said, what I mean is, are you a dude who digs the strong thighs, solid calves? Or a full set of titties? Every guy, he said, every guy is one or the other.

And I said, neither. Really, have to pick something, guess I’m an ass man. Yeah, I like a nice round ass.

No good, he said. Can’t count it. We’re all ass men. The ass, that’s what leg guys and breast guys agree on. Either the climax of the thighs or another set of round, meaty bumps. Both ways, it’s a point of compromise.

So I thought. And after a beat or two, okay, mark me down for boobs. But a great butt can get me into trouble.

* * *

Along with many of the best ass kickings, this one was dealt in a piece of shit dive. Where the mugs were chipped and not a damn person had any ice in their drink. Where the exposed brick wasn’t a bit trendy. Where vomit pocked the gravel parking lot. Between shots of well whiskey and pints of draft beer, I was working on a broad. Oh, and she had an ass like two kegs of Pabst.

What I sat through was an hour and a half of bitching. First about her husband, to whom she was on-and-off separated. Then kids, three of them, all sounding like little jerk offs. Finally, her boss and coworkers, everyone taking advantage. Her making them rich. And throughout I followed. Every worthless anecdote, registered despite being so shitty my eyes kept trying to touch my nose.

That was it. Finished waxing pathetic and up she stood. Off to shoot pool with some prick in a denim shirt. And denim vest. And jeans. For shit’s sake. And I held it down at the bar awhile. Another shot. Another pint. Another shot. Then watching her bend over the green felt, ass in the air like two hills waiting on a yodeler. I walked right over. Smacked her hard on the rear. And made a b-line for the parking lot.

But before I could think about dodging puke, I was off the ground. Not going anywhere. My eyes saw red then my upper body cracked then I’m screaming. Right here, I was kicking my feet, eight inches from the floor. The bouncer, a pony-tailed Tongan or some such, he had me by the collarbone. Raised to eye-level. Fuck’s the matter with you, he said. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I said.

Dropped and I landed hard. My shoulder was jutting at a fucked angle, the collar bone disconnected and almost stabbing through the tent of flesh. Why shouldn’t I fuck you up, he said. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I persuaded. Then the heel of his boot was up. Then down. I slept pretty solid for a pretty long time.

* * *

What he asked me was, flowers or chocolates? So I shrugged and didn’t say a thing. Flowers or chocolates, again, you know dude, like for a chick. Like for Valentine’s Day.

So I said, both, I guess. Cover all bases.

He clucked his tongue. He said, for the sake of argument dude, pick one. Are you a flowers guy? Are you a chocolates guy?

I went with chocolates. This, I said, because if I had to receive one. That’s what I’d prefer.

Very selfish rationale, he said. And wrong. Correct answer: flowers.

Didn’t know I could be wrong. I told him as much.

Listen, flowers are the perfect gift. So beautiful for a couple days and dead. Then, buy her more. On and on without end. A perfect gift for the woman who has lots. And the woman who has little.

Chocolates, I say, they come and go too. Perishable too.

Totally not the same. Chocolates grow tiresome. No, what’s palatable to the eye endures far longer than what’s palatable to the…well the palate.

* * *

Dark wood, the color of coffee without milk. Whittled, chip by chip, into human shapes. One, a man, sombrero pulled low, accordion on his lap. The other, a man, head back laughing, holding a drink with a thin wire straw. Both, on the bottom, green felt. Bookends, handcrafted and pretty damn fine.

Placed in a bag with scrunched, pink tissue. The handles tied tight by ribbons. Scotched taped to the side, a construction paper heart and written in Sharpie: Happy Valentine’s Day Babe.

When presented she started to tear. Blinked it out and said, so heavy. I can’t imagine…

And then the heart was torn off. The ribbon snapped. The tissue paper flung by wads. The bag itself ripped in two. Left behind in the mess, in the wrecked cocoon of wrapping: two carved, lacquered, pretty damned exceptional bookends. Really, the only bookends she would ever need. The finest bookends she could ever hope for.

Oh, she said. Aren’t those interesting. Beautiful.

Fever Dream

2009-02-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

Something like being buried alive. Cold earth everywhere. Damn cold. Over my lips so breathing comes only in dirty, shallow sucks. Eyes pulsing with the beat of my heart and so hard I can feel it in the back of my skull. My head. Like I was smacked with a shovel.

Not moving for maybe hours or years or maybe minutes. The ridge around my nostrils fills with yellow sweat. So too my forehead. My eyelids. Something like darkness, eventually it gives way.

Skyscrapers made of tree branches made of Styrofoam. And inside the elevators move back and forth—never up or down—but that does not matter. Security guards at the front desk remove my coat and underneath I have nothing. No jacket, no sweater, no shirt. No skin, no muscles, no bones. Nothing.

“You’re looking for the twenty-second floor,” says nobody in particular.

And they are right, of course. Though this is the first I’ve heard of it. But in the elevator there is no button for the twenty-second floor. So all I do is hit the button for the second floor twice. Very fast. And hope for the best.

Metal doors part and this is not the twenty-second floor. And this is not the building. But this is where I am so this is where I should be.

“C’mon. If we don’t get out soon, the fish won’t be much for biting,” says a man who looks nothing like my father but is my father. I don’t even question, I follow.

At the pond, there are no fish. So I dive in, swim five yards down, I bite my own line and I reel myself in. I fillet myself. Marinate in lemon and butter and pepper. I light a wood fire under a portable grill, and I cook myself until I am no longer pink in the middle. Then I dine and I am good.

My back is twisted into knots that are twisted into knots all the way down to the base of my spine.

Eyeballs throbbing so hard, I peel the lids open with two fingers. They are gummy and wet. The ceiling is white. Please be sweat. I’ve soaked all through the sheets.

A Short One

2009-02-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

Two bottles of red wine between us and my tongue is black. The buzz nice, but inefficient. Anyways, it makes this whole lame exercise a little more fun.

Overall the process is not complex. A few cords plugged into a few slots. Run the disc. Setting up the router is straight forward. Still, I’ve never been too handy.

She yells to hurry up. I shake an empty bottle at her, stick out my black tongue. Give me time, I say.

And what does it matter? Today, pretty much a throwaway. A paid holiday. There is no wrong way to live it. Sleep until noon. Drink too much wine. Set up the wireless. All this is fine.

What to name the network, I ask. Ask again. But she is asleep, sprawled across the bed and snoring through deep maroon lips.

So the network named and a third bottle opened. On the bed, she’s still crashed out. On the couch, I slug wine. My laptop connected. All this is fine.

Times are good. A day with no work but full salary. Connected beyond six inches from my desk. In the living room. On the shitter.

Ah, what America’s about. Casual drinking and money for nothing and wireless internet. Freedom, what an abstract idea that is. To spread its gospel around the globe, difficult to get behind. By contrast, had it been Operation Iraqi Paid Holiday—if these were the principles to diffuse—maybe the public heart would be won more readily.

All this is fine.

Thoughts Before Passing Out

2009-01-26T21:46:00.000-08:00

Given a choice, I’ll opt for the bus over the subway. True, this may increase travel time—as much as twenty minutes additional. But what’s lost in efficiency, it’s more than made up by scenery. Once—out the window of the M103—I caught two bums, the first urinating on the second. The second, of course, sleeping hard. At the light, corner of Fourteenth and Third, I saw even steam rising off the hot flow. I guessed, when bum number two woke, he’d find himself stuck. Glued to the sidewalk by frozen piss.

Contrast that scene, if you will, with the regular view from the Six Train. Black tunnels interrupted by cement platforms. Nothing really. I don’t mean vagrants avoid the subway, far from it. The subterraneans, though, tend toward a couple flavors. First, the two dollar hotel guests, sleeping on the train—often stirring but never waking. Their sandaled feet caked in shit. Second, the folk intent to sing, tell stories, bemoan. Panhandlers really. To cope with these, I recommend headphones.

Now, I’m reminded of a particular ride. Into Brooklyn on the L Train. Somewhere between First Avenue and Bedford, passing underwater—no escape—one passenger rose and addressed the crowded car. Dressed well enough, this man, probably not homeless. He kept on, orating all through the tunnel and three stops into the BK. Of what he spoke, I don’t know—I was grooving to Journey on my iPod. But his arms flailed and he made eye contact with near everyone. Finished, he collected—not linty change—but dollar bills. A fist full of moist cash. I offered nothing—but thought about donating a five-shot if he’d run through his story again. So affecting I imagined it. I didn’t, but it was a good idea. I’m full of good ideas.

On the subject of good ideas, here’s another. Fights with the wife, they’re unavoidable. Mainly because of the drinking. Not about the drinking. But because of the drinking. Like how last month I might have let the C-word slip in reference to her mother. Might have. Don’t remember. Based on hearsay really. That, and the fact I woke on the couch. So much I remember. And my point: when she decrees a night on the sofa my fate—and it happens man, it happens. What I tell the kids is, Daddy’s got a cold. Daddy doesn’t want to make Mommy sick. Daddy will be a good boy and sleep on the couch. This, it saves the little guys some worry. And bonus: come morning, with a major hangover, faking ill ain’t all too hard.

And other good ideas too. Bottles worth. When the days move slow and the nights are alive. And each day gives birth to wilted promise. Bottles worth. Each night I can taste something fresh. Even if it won’t digest. And, if I may be candid, that is my story: I drink. And for a handful of fuzzy moments, dreams cease to be dreams. I am the splendor. The fulfillment of the unfulfilled. Bottles’ worth. And I forget, not just who I am, but the evolution I always expect. I can enjoy triumph unearned. I have so many idas.

...But You Can't Come Back All The Way

2009-01-19T21:33:00.000-08:00

She is a distinguished looking woman. Deep lines in her face, like swaths of permanent marker. Hair pulled tight into a bun, save a few stray wisps. A beige parka, fake fur collar, to protect against the cold. And her purse, compact and solid and tube-shaped, it sits beside her on the park bench.

She looks solemn, this woman. Her posture straight. Her eyes focus ahead, always. For hours. For days. On the concrete wall at the park’s edge. Children play handball against a mural of chipped and faded paint. For weeks. For months. The cold is no bother. Nor the snow, so easy it is to brush off her parka. Rain is another matter. And sleet, that’s worst. Like a terrible milk shake poured from the sky. Cold as snow, piercing like the rain. But somehow heavier than either.

She is a serious woman. Rarely does she speak, but instead smokes cigarettes at a steady interval. Thin, brown ones she keeps in a chrome case. Keeps in her purse. The smoke she takes in deep and thoughtful drags. And lets go in directed plumes. Filters, yellow with nicotine, gather at her feet and on pleasant days birds peck them and carry them off. When the weather is not so fine, they are buried in the snow. Or torn apart by the rain.

She is troubled, this woman. The steady eyes. The cigarettes, sucked to nothing in three puffs. The routine, unbroken. Rarely she speaks but when she does, she speaks of the mural. Laid it down, she says, stroke by stroke, her own brush. This was decades ago, she says. Somewhere between three and four. By now everyone has forgotten this, her work. The children playing handball, even they do not see it.

* * *

This was years ago. People look back and say the neighborhood was much better. They say it was clean and safe. A young girl could walk home after dark. All by herself and without worry. That, and never have to step over a littered soda bottle or fast-food container. People look back and say these things, the good old days. But they are wrong. The only change is this: then they were young. And now they are old.

A lifetime ago, that’s when this was. When everyone was an artist or a poet. And sleeping on mattresses without bed frames was cause to brag. Sharing food and drugs and beds. An odd moment, a sepia snapshot of history. When they judged one another not by the sum of their assets but by the sum of their dreams. Tomorrow? Never.

This was a world ago. The day she went down to the park with her paints and her brushes. On the concrete divider, a safe partition between the basketball court and four lanes of traffic just beyond, she sketched first with white chalk. Women blending into mountains dissolving into clouds. And every day she would paint. The old men playing chess made foolish moves when she bent over to exchange brushes. And every day she would paint. Until all she could add were the most diminutive details. And still, every day.

A dream, that’s when this was. Before the artists and poets became addicts and nobodies. Before they realized the sum of their dreams could not buy even a cup of coffee. And one by one the old men stopped showing up to play chess. Replaced, one by one, with men not quite so old. And she gave up adding details. She let the mural be.

The World and Winston

2009-01-12T22:33:00.000-08:00

The Usual

This is the sum of forty-seven years on earth. My great achievement. Proof of my existence. Are you ready? Payoff for a life lived. My high water mark. Check it out: I enter Pinnacle Deli, approach the counter, I say, “The usual.” Nothing more.

Like setting off a Rube Goldberg machine, these two words have feet sliding and arms twisting and eggs landing on the skillet, a hiss. Toasters toasting and coffee pouring. The end result: an everything bagel topped with two eggs over easy (yolk runny enough to moisten the bread, not so thin it’s dripping down my fingers) and a large coffee (light, two sugars). But only, “The usual.”

Here I peak. God bless these folk. Who’ve set aside a small piece of their memory (a chunk of brain that could hold football statistics or their daughter’s imaginary friend’s favorite color) for this poor fool’s breakfast.

So if I leave no other footprint upon departure from this sticky planet, let that be my legacy. And when other men dine with wives, families, remember: their meals may be spoiled by argument, or worse, silence. But Winston’s is always perfect at only two words.

Rules

As best I can figure, the difference between laws and rules is this: laws apply always. Rules need only be followed in public. Murder is never appropriate, regardless of forum. But letting rip an outrageous fart—acceptable when seated alone on your couch, of immeasurably poor taste on a jam-packed bus. Here is my problem: so many people don’t get the between-the-lines nature of rules.

On the stoop, I watch my breath and I watch dog piss slowly freeze into hazardous ice slicks. Who walks by is this 20-something with a sharp pea coat and a pair of white Velcro shoes. Exactly what I mean. In your private residence, go on and get your kicks. But among the general population, Velcro shoes: kosher only on those under seven or over seventy. Take some pride in yourself. Try not to slip.

Rules, I’ve gone far to abide. Never, not even in childhood, was I to make a disturbance, a scene, a splash. If, in addition to most athletic and most likely to succeed, my senior class had voted on most anonymous, I’d have been a shoe-in. Unless, maybe I’d kept too low a profile.

Games

When typing smack over internet checkers, I follow two rules: first, keep the salty language in check (“fool” not “fucker”). Second, never threaten an opponent’s person (Yahoo! will involve authorities). That said, WinningWinnie61 doesn’t suffer fools.

I will jump and double jump. Sacrifice pieces, set up shots. Triple jump. Blockade. And throughout, a running commentary at screen’s bottom. Your collapse, play-by-play. Sometimes, no response. But you read. Sometimes, a curt reply. You’re fuming. Sometimes, I might just bring out the best in you.

WinningWinnie61: What could you hope to accomplish with that move buddy?

FlyingKingFaLife : strategy

WinningWinnie61: Gotcha. Hey, can I ask you a question?

FlyingKingFaLife: ?

WinningWinnie61: Faux hawks and you?

FlyingKingFaLife: dude. what’s your issue?

WinningWinnie61: Wait for it…

WinningWinnie61: …you’re both over!

FlyingKingFaLife: damnit

WinningWinnie61: Disappointing effort buddy.

FlyingKingFaLife: whatever man. i gotta go take my lady friend out for dinner

WinningWinnie61: Remember, you need at least a basic skill set before calling your moves a “strategy.” And review my play. You cross a talent this caliber but almost never.

FlyingKingFaLife has signed off

Sketches of Suburbia

2009-01-05T23:01:00.000-08:00

I.
Out of the concrete island, three lanes on either side, grows a weeping willow. Drooped branches, hanging just above traffic, brushed by the none-too-rare SUV. In the winter’s lack of sunlight, the foliage atrophies to banana yellow. Such is the contrast between milky sky and cartoonish leaves, that one could almost expect the Lorax to appear. To speak for the tree. To decry the Hummers and their bastard barber jobs.

II.
Until five years ago, a locally owned hardware store operated on Piccolo Street. It was replaced by a juice bar. Replaced by a pizza joint. Need a claw hammer, now you’ll have to drive a mile down the highway. Home Depot. Admittedly, their selection is every bit as extensive. Better even. Up till last month, day laborers lined the fence at the property’s edge. But with the economy crushed the work dried up and most of those men—plaid shirted and mustachioed—traveled back to Mexico. More opportunity to be had.

III.
The bartender laughs and jokes. In the restaurant behind, families eat quesadillas and cheeseburgers. The bar and grill. A kid, flat brimmed baseball cap, hooded sweatshirt, goatee on chin only, he says, “My man, get me a glass of water. But make it seem to be a real drink, would ya? I don’t wanna look like a pussy.” So the bartender hands him a short tumbler. Ice, a wedge of lime, two thin black straws. And back with his crowd, the bro impresses all by how quickly he drains the vodka tonic.

IV.
Night falls and neon lights up. No more highchair crowd dining but the barroom is shoulder to shoulder. Most early-twenties and lost. Some early-thirties and sad. They bullshit and argue and piss on the bathroom floor. They tell the bartender he doesn’t deserve a tip, all he did was pop a beer. Outside, cigarettes are bummed and smoked and bummed again and the men and man-children stare into darkness at the town which is, by turns, their kingdom and their purgatory. Exchanging stories of girls whose asses they were this close to pulling. Guys whose asses they were this close to kicking. This close, always.

V.
Christmas lights twist around the willow’s limbs. Ensuring its unearthly appearance is not missed in the late hours. One thing so bright and obscene even a drunk driver could not hit it. Unless, of course, on purpose. This is suburbia. An artificial small town. Ornate and comfortable. Where the paper is delivered every morning, the mail every afternoon. Safe and stable. This is suburbia.

Overnighter

2008-12-29T23:30:00.000-08:00

11:45 p.m.
“Look at that bunch. Tell me, are those people you’d be comfortable dying with?"

Strange question. I have no answer. So I hand him his scone, blueberry, and his change, sixty-five cents. But he lingers. Still fifteen minutes until he boards and becomes the flight attendants’ problem. For now, I guess, he’s mine.

“That’s what I ask myself whenever I fly. I look at my fellow passengers and I say, ‘Billy, worse case scenario: would you be okay falling from the sky and meeting your maker with these folks?’”

This is graveyard shift. This is Molly’s Muffins, a coffee-stand in the international terminal. It’s rare to work in the service industry and have no regular customers. But here people come and go. From everywhere and to everywhere and at all times and I never serve the same person twice.

“You know,” he says. Pretty much a monologue by now. Couldn’t call this a conversation. “People always say, ‘you’re born alone and you die alone.’ But that needn’t be true. Me for instance, I have a twin. And if I die in a plane crash, I’ll have proven the exception to both rules.”

Can I get him with anything else, I ask. He stares off at the crowd. “They seem alright,” he says.

3:23 a.m.
Working nights, sleeping days. You fall out of rhythm with the rest of the world. I never see my friends anymore. Same for family. I can’t catch the primetime television lineup and I eat my dinner at eight in the morning. I’ve lost touch. I no longer empathize with the problems of day dwellers. So when some cranky old lady, red-eyed and sleepless, moans something awful about our over-priced water bottles, I care so little I don’t even try to justify it.

“Four dollars! Four dollars for water! It falls from the sky for Chrissakes. And you’ve got the nerve to charge four dollars. This is one hell-of-a racket.”

After the summer 2006 revelation that terrorists had planed to blow up transatlandic flights with chemicals smuggled aboard in water bottles, all outside liquids were confiscated at the security checkpoint. In the wake of this development, my manager inflated the price of bottled water an extra buck fifty. So yeah, it’s a racket

“This is robbery. I ought to call the police. Ugh! How do you sleep at night?”

But of course, I don’t sleep at night. “Ma’am,” I say. “There’s a water fountain near the restroom. Maybe you can find an empty bottle in the recycling bin and fill it up.”

“You’d have me root around in the trash like a bag lady? My Lord! You people are despicable…” And on and on she went. Until finally, she ponied up four dollars for the bottle. They always pony up the four dollars.

6:55 a.m.
When the sun starts its rise, my stomach turns. The clear, cool morning forms underneath the dense night. No more mystery. All is laid bare.

And waiting for my shift to expire, I find myself privy to a thorough explanation of the benefits of child dentistry. “Another thing, they don’t have coffee breath. Oh man. Back when I dealt with adults, used to drive me ill. Reminded me of grandma’s kisses.” And while he says this, I should point out, he’s finishing his third cup. Forty-five minutes into his layover.

“Oh oh oh,” he starts so suddenly. “I almost forgot the best part. Baby teeth! When the kids start coming to me, I don’t even pay attention. Cavities? Who gives a shit. Those are just practice teeth.”

I shrug. “And when the baby teeth pop out,” he taps at his chompers with his index fingers. “Then I have half a mouth worth of work. Fucking cake walk. And my hygienist does the lion’s share. Most of the day I’m in the back, dicking around on the computer.”

Across the terminal, my daytime replacement has arrived. She walks through the metal detector and past the newsstand. “Ha ha. And all these suburban mommies, I can charge whatever I like. Nothing’s too much for their babies.”

And I reach in the drawer and pull out my timecard. My sunglasses. I punch out. Grab a danish for the road. And behind me, as I work through the terminal’s morning crowd, I hear, “Four dollars! Who the hell do you think you are?"

Three Scenes of Christmas

2008-12-22T21:01:00.000-08:00

In the stool next to mine is a man with a blood red suit, furry white trim. He orders eggnog and says, “Gotta stay in character.” I think he’s talking to me. But I don’t know. I don’t look up from my pint.

Only a special breed of loser congregates in bars on Christmas Eve. The sort without family or friend or sense of tradition. One rung up from hermits and vagrants. Our only consolation, the bed—or futon, or cot—to which we’ll eventually retire. That and alcohol.

The man orders a second eggnog. It’s thick and milky-yellow and looks pretty much the same way it will when it comes back up. “You the Macy’s Santa?” I ask him.

“No.” And I can smell the bitterness in his words, even over the brandy. He pulls at the silky beard hanging from an elastic band around his neck. It snaps back hard. “That's the major leagues, dude. They only hire Santas with real beards. A year long commitment for a five-week job.”

I nod in sympathy. The clock reads five past eight. Happy hour’s gone and I’m not one to pay full-price. Even if it is the holidays. “Take it slow,” I tell Saint Nick. “Rudolph’s the one with a red nose.”

And he laughs but his belly doesn’t really shake. Total second-string Santa.

* * *

From the bar, I take a scenic route home. So cold out, the air is almost unbreathable. You have to suck hard to get anything and it burns your lungs like a kid’s first drag on a cigarette. The week-old snow has either turned into some sort of soft-serve mud in the gutter or a slick, well-trampled layer of ice on the sidewalk. Twice I nearly slip and brain myself. These extra-few blocks, I’m not walking for exercise. What I want is to hit up the market, grab more drink.

The big glass door is bordered with multi-colored lights. Has been since Thanksgiving. I push through and walk to a cooler in the store’s rear. There are clear bottles and brown bottles and green bottles and slapped across are labels in every color. Add to this the glimmer of Christmas lights.

I allow myself a minute of window-shopping. In the spirit of the holidays. But really, I haven’t any option. I grab a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor and turn towards the counter. There’s a reason every other commercial is for Bud Light but you never see one for malt liquor. Cheap brew with high alcohol content, that sells itself.

Waiting to pay and some guy enters talking all loud into his cell phone. Everything is, “Do you want me to pick up some milk?” and “I’ll be home in a few honey.” When he passes, I see his scarf is Burberry, tag facing out. So he makes more than you. He claps his phone shut and sidles to the counter. Of course, he’s buying a sixer of some micro-brewed winter ale. Labels on the bottles, very festive.

I pay partway in change. When I move for the door, the micro-brew guy says, “Hey buddy, enjoy your Christmas.”

I mumble something like, “Fuck your mother,” before almost eating it on a patch of ice.

* * *

In space—I’ve been told—No one can hear you scream. Well New York—where people commute underground and work high in the air and live one stacked on another on and on—New York sure-as-shit ain’t space.

So sitting on my couch, sipping my bottle, it’s really hard to hear the weatherman on the news tell me Santa’s slay has passed over Ottawa. My neighbors are yelling. About responsibility. About money. About drinking too much and screwing too little. Then three blessed beats of silence before, “Get your ass back in bed or I’ll tell Santa to fuck off.”

Tomorrow maybe—just some hours from now—maybe they’ll cheer up. Over torn wrapping paper and Tonka trucks and waffles with sausage. I think, if I wake early enough, I can listen to them come together on Christmas morning. And how creepy that would make me, I’m embarrassed by the thought.

Tired and drunk and looking forward to New Year’s, when getting blitzed is a mainstream custom. Roll my empty. Uneven revolutions until it clanks against the far wall. Slouch. When I fall asleep, Santa has just been spotted above Boston.

Troll's Decline

2008-12-15T21:53:00.000-08:00

Once was, folks feared the bridge. On its far side grass grew tall. Beyond was anyone’s guess. But in time, all that remained was a well-worn path to mundane countryside. The change in condition, a testament to the poor work ethic of The Troll.

Time was, nobody dared step foot on the bridge. The Troll, he would bellow from below and his inhuman growl would freeze blood and liquefy bone. He requested neither money nor services from would-be travelers—the shrieks of children, the hurried footsteps of once-courageous men in retreat, this was reward enough.

But The Troll got sloppy. In later years, one was likely to find the poor sap sprawled on the creek bed. Sleeping off a case of cheap beer or stoned silly on a stick of weed. His roar regressed to nothing but a mumble and he did little to dissuade townspeople from crossing the bridge that—not long ago—he had tended with territorial fervor.

At most he’d toss a few empties—of which there was no shortage—at an oblivious wanderer and fall back to sleep. On one occasion, he caught a young girl with a drained fifth of Jack Daniels. The thick glass and squared-off bottle resulting in seven stitches. The locals were angered, even a little disgusted. But not frightened much at all. Mostly, they shook their heads at the fallen creature. The pathetic beast.

Listen good, I tell you what’s what. Troll still hate people much as always. Still hate sad little girls and big angry men. Troll hate and hate because that what trolls do. But here my point: I such a troll, I even hate trolls. Really, this make Troll most troll of all.

Townpeoples say, “oh, that Troll. All he like is drink boozes and smoke dopes.” But townpeoples—how Troll hate them so—they is wrong. Troll hate the drinks and the smokes too. But it make I think less about hating little sad girls. And it make I think less about hating big angry men. And it make I think less about hating trolls. Also, make Troll sleep good.

So, one day, as happens to those in a freefall of spirit, The Troll hit bottom. What occurred was this: After draining four Olde English tall boys and punctuating with a joint—fat as a baguette—The Toll succumbed to a comatose slumber. Upon waking with a killer hangover-headache, he discovered the townspeople had played quite a prank. His hair—once black and oily and streaked across a blemished forehead—was dyed the most obscene shade of green. And more than that, it was washed and combed and spiked into some sort of Don King styling. It goes without saying, The Troll hated his new ‘do.

And I wish I could say The Troll rebounded. That after this unfortunate episode he went back to the same fiend all of us wanted him to be. I wish I could, but it just wasn’t so. Truth is, no one knows for certain whatever became of The Troll, though rumors abound.

Some say he moved to the city, developed a smack habit, blended in among the dirty, misshapen addicts of urban alleyways. Some say he filled his pockets with stones—from bitty pebbles to near-boulders—leapt off the bridge that once he protected and into the icy creek below.

Other folks—those more into the whys than the whats—they see the Troll as a tragic figure. A wretch who realized all too late that he was full of love. A pitiful soul whose broken disposition had skewed a passion for menace and uncrossed creeks and tall stalks of unmolested brush growing like over-moussed hair.

No Good Deed

2008-12-08T21:47:00.000-08:00

Often the phrase is repeated, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And poetic though it is—cute and clever and pleasing to the ear—this saying amounts to little. For if no good is ever intended, than all good is left to chance. And that’s just no good.

But this thought has not yet come to Kenny. All that tomorrow. Right now he is settled into the well-worn ass groove of his sofa. The television on, tuned to CNN and Kenny reads the quick moving ticker at the screen’s bottom. Looking for a clue or a hint. Anything for encouragement. Anything to reinforce his theory.

But all he gets: last night’s hockey scores and something about a tornado that tore across central Kansas. Then the threat level, still yellow, not at all promising. So Kenny flicks off the set and ponders. What, oh what shall he do.

Finally, a decision: action before apathy. If he does not act. If his fear is actualized. The guilt, it will gnaw at his core. More every day until nothing exists at which to gnaw. So, rubbing the small piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger. The little scrap that plunged him into this mess. Rubbing the piece of paper until the ink smears and colors the contours of his fingers a dirty blue, Kenny resolves to make a trip to Henry Clay Middle School in the morning. Personally, he will tell them terrorists have plotted a bombing. On their campus. In three days.

* * *

Any number of things can drive a man mad. One factor, quite possibly, is the piercing, unavoidable cold known only in select corners of our often-temperate country. The sort in which you dare not chatter teeth for fear the impact will splinter your taut, frozen cheeks. Another, waiting in great hurry for your bus, long past the time you are expected at work. Watching bus after bus pass in the opposite direction and wondering what your eighty-dollar Metro Card, what your thousands in taxes have bought.

So, it is understandable if, experiencing both these aggravations, Kenny was not quite himself when finally he boarded the cross-town earlier that morning. And if mistakes were made—and no doubt they were. And if someone must bear the blame—and no doubt that someone is Kenny. Well then, let us remember this: his mindset was colored by forces outside his control. Let us not be too hard on the fellow.

And it was in this sour mood that Kenny found himself in the rear of the bus, staring at his watch and cursing with vile disregard for any who sat near him. Damn this and screw that and other words as well, too distasteful to repeat. And then he saw it. Just a torn corner of notebook paper, some figures scrawled across. Maybe that, but maybe more.

On one side, a possible codename, a location: #108, Henry Clay Middle School. On the other side, something slightly more sinister: 11-21-08 Pop! And today being November the eighteenth, Kenny knew: if he intended to intervene, the road to valiance ever-narrowed.

* * *

So let us jump ahead. Now, twenty-four hours removed from that vexing bus ride. A sleepless night past his ill-fated decision. Now, Kenny sits in the administrative office of HCMS. His ass half stuck in the misshapen groove of a couch where many a sick child has awaited the nurse. He pled his case, delivered the single damning clue to Mrs. Feldworth, the principle. All to do now is wait. Wait, he assumes, to be declared a hero.

But then this, Mrs. Feldworth returns and with a curl of the forefinger, beckons Kenny follow. A sucker for authority, he obliges and finds himself in a nearly desolate hallway—it is, after all, smack in the middle of third period. Nearly desolate, except for Mrs. Feldworth and a freckled boy of about twelve.

“Michael, please demonstrate to our visitor the meaning of your note,” this being Mrs. Feldworth. And his face flushed so red his freckles almost vanish, the boy walks to a dented locker. On its door a plaque reads 108. The kid twists a combination lock right until it aligns with the number eleven. Left to number twenty-one. Right again to eight. Then, pop! And the locker swings open. “Thank you Michael. Please return to the computer lab.” And red as Michael’s face had been, Kenny surely beat it. But such is the road to hell, they say.

Gunther

2008-12-01T21:38:00.000-08:00

I have full faith in karma. I’ve seen it move swift and accurate right before me. How an ancient will attest to hearing the roar of God in an earthquake. So too I believe in the ebb and flow of karmic justice. A belief so embedded in personal anecdotes that no amount of scientific evidence to the contrary could ever change my mind.

The way a man, having just stiffed his taxi driver on the tip, is smacked across his head by the side view mirror of a passing bus. Not with the force to brain him, just wake him up. I’ve seen it. The way a middle school bully finds himself in the emergency room. Nothing serious, just a broken hand. I’ve seen it.

And this was on my mind the day Gunther asked me to hit him. He jogged up, sucking wind while I finished off a cigarette break. And he said, “Punch me. Hard and in the face. Make sure to leave a mark or it’s all for naught.” And I almost forgot to ask him why. Just let myself become a vessel of universal balance. Because this was Gunther. And karma’s a bitch.

* * *

There’s a reason Caring Christmas Charity won’t allow you to wrap Wish Tree presents. Gifts bought for disadvantaged children, likely they’ll receive nothing else this holiday season. There’s a reason Caring Christmas Charity requires all gifts be donated in their original packaging. And that reason is Gunther.

Two years ago Gunther selected three cards off the Wish Tree—a giant aluminum Douglas Fir that each year cast it’s shadow over the strip mall. Every card with the name and address of an underprivileged youth. Also, a present they hope to receive. The idea being: those whose circumstance permitted could fulfill the holiday wishes of a child. Like I said, Gunther picked three.

What these kids discovered on Christmas morning wasn’t a Tonka Truck and it wasn’t a Barbie Doll. It wasn’t a Gameboy and it wasn’t a stuffed unicorn. The three kids Gunther chose, what they received on Christmas was a box of coal. Kingsford self-lighting charcoal briquettes to be accurate. Maybe the only gift they got. So this year, when you give to Caring Christmas Charity, don’t wrap your donation. Thank Gunther for that.

* * *

Now, this much I’ll admit. For the longest time I had wanted to shake Gunther. Just grab him by the shoulders and shake him and demand to know what his goddamn problem was. For so long I’d wanted to do this, that when he asked me to hit him, I shot a quick uppercut before asking questions. This because I figured it wouldn’t leave a mark. A free shot.

“Fucker,” he said after his jaws clacked. “In the face bro. Bust my lips, blacken my eye, get my nose bleeding. No uppercuts.”

“Woah, woah. What’s the score here? What are you getting out of this?”

And funny thing was, Gunther thought about it for a second. Like he could say, “nothing,” and I’d buy it. As if this was for kicks on both our ends. But then, “I can’t be late. Maurice said I clock in late again and he’s gonna fire me. Just be a pal and bust me up. I’ll tell him I was jumped on the way over.”

So while his plan seemed pretty weak, I happily obliged. A quick jab to the crook of his nose, then a hook to the eye, then a slap or two just for the hell of it. And repeat until I drew blood. Because I figured, no matter how it ended, Gunther deserved this. Plus me, I was having fun.

* * *

Two weeks before, we had been out barhopping. Returning home down damp sidewalk, I figured I had bought a good three rounds more than Gunther. That, and I spent the whole night playing wingman. Still, only the two of us passing over the dark boulevard. This, at 2:30 in the morning.

“Check it out,” Gunther said and made a quick b-line up the stoop of some random apartment building. Like giving a high-five, he slapped the buzzers for all fifteen units. Even from the street I could hear the dull ring. The wrong letter guessed on Wheel of Fortune. Then, “Let’s go.”

And as we ran down the block a chorus of “Hello’s” and “Who’s there’s” and “What the fuck’s” called after us. Angry and part-asleep.

* * *

So things went like this: I finished my break and moved inside, commenced working. Gunther held tight, this to ease any suspission on Maurice’s part. But believe me, I stuck by the boss man’s side. Waiting for Gunther’s enterance.

When finally Gunther pushed through the revolving door, he looked even better than when I’d left him. Or maybe worse. What you see depends on where you stand. Anyway, he was still bloody and bruised but the guy had torn his t-shirt so it hung loosely over one shoulder. And he must’ve been doing jumping jacks or some such shit because perspiration dripped from his busted nose like a leaky faucet.

“Maurice, Maurice,” Gunther panted as he hurried to make audience with our boss. “Man, so sorry I’m late. But these guys, they jumped me in the park. Maurice, they beat me bad, they took my wallet.”

Maurice scratched at his beard. He looked at the caked blood and the purplish eye and the glassy sweat. And he said, “Well Gunther, this must be the worst day of your life. Because you’re fired.”

And karma caught right up with Gunther. Just how the man, counting dollars in his wallet, doesn’t see the oncoming bus. Just how the bully missed my face and cracked his fist on the locker behind. Karma caught right up with Gunther the way it catches us all. By our own invitation.

Oh Well, Fuck It

2008-11-24T21:09:00.000-08:00

I. (Oh Well)
They played the game often. Not a game really, for there never was a score. Never much in the way of winners and losers. More an ongoing conversation. But unlike a conversation, where one subject begets the next and onward. The way tides wash ashore but no two waves contain the same water. Unlike a true conversation, the topic never changed. Stagnant.

“How about this one,” Dan led. “Christopher Walken and Willem Dafoe.”

“Excellent,” Tommy now. “Both creepy middle-aged dudes.”

“Emphasis on the creepy.”

“Totally. Also, bonus points since each has played a whacked-out Vietnam soldier.” Of course, there never were any points.

It went like this: name two actors who are exactly the same. That’s all. Where one makes the other redundant. Unnecessary.

“Okay, my turn,” Tommy says. “Brad Pit and Matthew McConaughey?”

Dan squints like he’s reading the fine print, then “Naw. I can’t give you that. Certainly you have the beefcake, eye candy thing going…” (At this point, it should be noted, Tommy squints right back at Dan). “But really they play completely different roles. Brad Pit has some chops. McConaughey, he’s a bum.”

“Okay, Matthew McConaughey and Keanu Reeves?”

“Passable.”

And the two sit for a while, mull it over. Neither comes up with a new pair. Maybe because both are out of ideas. Maybe this. Or maybe sometimes, giving up makes you less a failure than continuing on. Sometimes.

II.(Fuck It)
It was a total chicken-shit thing to do. Ronny figured this much. Anyway he sliced it, they had fucked him so hard he couldn’t even walk right. Metaphorically of course. Literally, they had fired him at a completely inopportune time: the Friday before Thanksgiving. For them, a good move saving some paid holidays. For Ronny, a majorly shitty Turkey Day on the horizon.

So after stewing for the whole of the weekend. For the whole of the weekend plus Monday. Plus Tuesday. After stewing, Ronny boards a downtown bus heading toward his office. His ex-office.

What he meant to do was this: let his former boss know exactly how heartless Ronny’s termination was. Because really, even if he was a horrible employee. Lazy or rude or smelly. Even if he were all these things, to fire him on the eve of Thanksgiving was just plain fucked. And Ronny would let the boss know and Ronny wasn't about to mince words. It was not like he had been counting on the reference.

But when he enters the tall building’s lobby, the grizzled security guard greets Ronny same as always. Ditto the young (and Ronny always thought cute if it weren’t for the buzz cut) receptionist on the eighteenth floor. In fact, on his march to the corner office, no less than four of his ex-coworkers smile and welcome Ronny like nothing happened.

And then the realization: whether or not he was around, these people noticed no difference.

So Ronny turns and moves in the direction of the elevator. Maybe he lost his nerve. Maybe this. Or maybe sometimes giving up makes you less a failure than continuing on. Sometimes.

The Work That We Do

2008-11-17T21:03:00.000-08:00

The kid drove down the block at a crawl. Entering license plates into his phone, not every car but just those likely. For the most part anything manufactured in the past five years. Nobody’s going to owe much on some ancient rust farm.

Outside was gray and threatening rain. Late autumn, but pretty much winter already. It was so damn cold. The kid loved this weather. All calm and peaceful. At the stop sign, he sent a text to dispatch. Stating the area—seven hundred block of Cedar Drive—and a list of license plates.

Out of maybe fifteen cars on the block, only five had been worth listing. Out of five, the kid would be lucky if even one hit. Still, there was always the eight hundred block. And the nine hundred block. And after Cedar Drive, there was Maple Lane. Twenty-five bucks a hit and the kid was set on recouping his gas money today. At least that.

* * *

The truck left the yard, heading north on the Boulevard. “The fuck are you listening to?” Chester, he was in the passenger seat, kicked the tape deck. Lightly. But still. You don’t do that.

“Bob Marley, man.” Arnold pronounced it “mon” in some sort of wannabe island speak. Really, the dude was fifty-six and so white his undershirt looked tan. He sounded foolish but at least he didn’t go off about Chester’s kick. “Everyone loves Bob Marley. He’s like the pizza of the music world.”

And when Chester didn’t say shit, just looked straight ahead, Arnold asked him, “Seriously?”

“Gluten allergy,” Chester said. “Pizza rips my insides apart. Same with all sorts of breads and cakes and crackers and…”

“Well, fuck me. If you aren’t the most anti-American bastard ever to ride shotgun in my tow truck.”

“Anti-American because I don’t like Jamaican music and Italian food?”

So Arnold only nodded, acknowledged the point, and drove ever northward. Eventually, “I hate making pickups way out here. In the city you jut nick some car right off the street and the shithead owner will spend three hours trying to remember where he parked. Here, you’ll likely get shot just walking up the driveway. Fuck me.”

Chester agreed, but didn’t ask for further exposition. He had heard the speech before. Then finally he called out, “Target on the left.” This just as the tow truck lumbered onto the 700 block of Cedar Drive.

* * *

Parked at the bottom of the driveway, the tow truck of course, blocking any hasty exit. And this is where Chester waited, looking to the cloud covered sky and leaning against the rig’s front bumper. Waiting as Arnold walked to the house, knocked on the door, maybe convinced the owner to submit easy. Maybe. If they were lucky. And maybe the owner wouldn’t be home. And they could nab the car and go without static. Maybe. If they were really lucky.

But no. Chester saw the door swing open even while Arnold still knocked. And though he could hear but bits and pieces of the conversation, what with posting up thirty yards from the house, there was no question the owner wanted to keep his automobile. Arms in the air and the dude was babbling without pause, no opening for Arnold to work with. So this would take time. Chester reached into the front pocket of his shirt and removed a cigarette. He blew smoke straight up and the plumes disappeared immediately, camouflaged by overcast sky.

Always, Chester had liked the crossbars on back of the tow truck. He couldn’t help but think of a crucifix every time he looked at them. Each time they hoisted a vehicle up, it always felt so damn poignant. What this meant, Chester could never be sure. Maybe machines are the gods of our time. But no, he didn’t like that. Maybe he sacrificed these people, displayed their troubles on the cross. They suffer in order that he be saved.

Then, “But I need my car to do my job!” This the owner screamed so loud as to be perfectly audible across the yard.

“No.” Arnold, just as loud. “I need your car to do my job!”

Even if they had to call the police, Arnold and Chester, no matter what, the car was theirs. Another sacrifice. Another payday. And Chester asked himself, why? And Chester answered himself, because of the times.

The owner, trailed by Arnold began out into the yard. Further from the house. Closer to the car. Overall, Chester took this as a good sign. “Listen buddy,” Arnold to the owner. “We got no real use with your car. We don’t want it for keeps. Just make a couple payments and it’s yours again. Simple like that.” And the man nodded and bowed his head and handed his keys to Arnold.

Chester pulled some leavers. Lowered the crossbars.

* * *

A couple chimes sounded when the kid entered the convenience store. He walked to a cooler in the back and removed two large cans of beer. At the register he handed a twenty to the clerk. Covering the drinks and a few gallons of gasoline.

Back in his car the kid held up a crisp white envelope. Inside, the remaining few dollars. His sack of gold. His day’s work. Then, he kissed his cell phone gently and drove off down the boulevard.

Drunk Tank

2008-11-10T21:18:00.000-08:00

III.
The crust rubs from my eyes and I crumble it to the floor like a clump of granola. My mouth tastes sour, gummy saliva. I roll around from my back to my side to my belly to my other side. No matter how I lay, I’m thirsty as hell and really have to pee. I wonder why these problems don’t cancel each other out. Then I push myself into a kneel, eyes still closed.

And when finally I peel the lids apart and look around, I want to lay right down again. Me on a smooth, cold, concrete floor. A drain right smack in its center. Cinderblock walls dimpled where people have tried to carve initials. Or punched over and over. A deep sink and a rusty faucet. And of course, the bars. So I cup my hands and slurp from the sink. So I piss into the drain and it leaves me winded. Then I collapse back to the ground. And I try to sleep. Hope to wake someplace other.

But nothing. I crawl to the cell’s corner and prop myself against the wall. I cough hard and deep and feel like something’s about to come up and nothing does and I try to spit toward the drain but mostly it runs down my chin and my neck. Must have had a massive night.

II.
The air was cold and sharp and even though there wasn’t anything in the way of a breeze, I ran so fast my hair blew wild behind. Whatever they spoke of, now it was so far back. And now even further. And now further. Sucking wind but still not about to slow down. Did I tip enough? When will they look for me? Will they look for me? Further.

So at the stoplight I stopped. Not because I had to, I was on foot. Not because I was tired, though a tightness gripped my chest and soon weaseled outward. Why I let up there, the sunburst of traffic light grabbed me. Needed inspection. Like a red, glowing sea urchin reaching out to puncture. Some crazy stuff. And I huffed hard and saw my breath float before my face and swatted it and only tired myself further. Then, when the burning in my lungs became a sinking in my stomach, I leaned down and puked on the candy-apple red hood of a parked car. Chicken wings and liquor and stomach acid.

For a second I stood. Cocked my head and looked at the lumpy mess. Like pink oatmeal with brown curds. Something like that. Then with my finger I swirled it around, spread it out. Like a big sunburst, like a sea urchin. Something like that. And the paint, it was eaten away. Beneath was dull metal and nothing more. I sunk down against the car. Tried to recuperate, find my bearings, rest. And maybe I slept some, I can’t recall. But next I knew, a police officer was hustling me to the back of a squad car.

I.
“My problem is this: every time I shit, I masturbate. Because, you know, I’m just sitting there and I’m bored.” This was what I had to listen to. This was an interesting conversation. So I flagged the bartender, I ordered another drink. “Dude, ever heard of reading?” Another friend asked. “Okay, okay. But check this out man. I think I’ve trained myself into a fecal fetish. Like, I’ve done this so many times that now, turds get me horny.” And this was an interesting conversation. So I drank.

“Get this dude,” one of my friends, it matters not which, said this. “How come when something is child proof, it means a child can’t do it. But when something is fool proof, it means even a fool can do it?” All sorts of intellectual musings. So I drank. This was what I looked forward to all week. At my desk. With my reports and my coffee breaks. The thought of Friday night. This was it.

So I drank. And when someone, it doesn’t matter who, when someone asked me what I was thinking, all I said was, “I gotta run.” Not like a euphemism, I just had to. So I chucked a fistful of ones onto the bar, a tip. And I walked into a jog into a sprint and out the door. And my friends’ eyes, they burned holes in the back of my head. Blistering, hot, warm holes. Just holes.

Absentee

2008-11-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

You say, don’t vote. That nothing good ever comes from it. You say, when somebody votes they’re just cannibalizing themselves. Like eating fingers right off one’s own hand, it might provide some nutrients. But the short-term benefits don’t equal the never-ending inconvenience. I ask you, like sticking your foot in your mouth? But you’re not amused.

When one votes, no longer can they complain. You say this, but I beg to differ. No, no, you raise a hand and shut me up. Then, if you didn’t vote, you’re not responsible for any problems, the mistakes of those elected. It’s the other way around… I start but you’ll have none of it. Think if nobody voted? Nobody at all. What would happen then? And while the prospect frightens me, you just smile and gaze at the horizon

If I must vote, you tell me, if I’m too brainwashed by all this ‘civic duty’ bull. If I’m caught up in the whole ‘make my voice heard’ scheme. If I must vote, you tell me write-in candidates are the way to go. Instead of throwing my lot in with the narrow choices provided, pick the real best person for the job. You say, vote that friendly grocery store bagger for head of the Tourism Bureau. You say, vote Jesus for president. You say, only if I must vote.

While we’re on the topic, while you’re on a roll, don’t pay taxes either. Refuse to buy bombs for wars you don’t support. Refuse to bail out companies that would never bail you out. And I say, that’s illegal and you just shrug. And I say, what about building hospitals and paving roads. And again you shrug. So what if we build hospitals, you declare, not ask. Paying taxes won’t cover our health insurance. And roads? You say that you don’t own a car.

Sounds like you have a problem with democracy. I say this to you. I say, maybe it’s not perfect but surely it’s the best we’ve got. And you thank me for that chestnut. You ask, did I eat a big bowl of cliché this morning? So what, I scream, what is any better? And, acting all cool, you say, anarchy. Like riots and violence and lawlessness, I ask. You tell me I’ve listened to too much punk rock. You say, true anarchy, everyone governs themselves. Responsibly. It’s the ultimate one-man-one-vote. Anarchy, it’s the ultimate democracy.

Closed minded, you call me. Ignorant and naïve. You ask me what I studied in college and you shake your head when I answer chemistry. Even though you knew this already. I say, what about you and your liberal arts degree? And a smile on your face like this was all set up, you ask if I know what liberal arts means? You say, it’s not painting pictures of blue states. It means the processes and disciplines used by free peoples in order to remain free. And you chuckle like all that crap you said before is now gospel.

Torn Genes

2008-10-27T20:56:00.000-07:00

I.
The album held hundreds of pictures. Polaroids and photo lab developed. Candid amateur shots and old sepia hued professional portraits. Every one of them, the subject is someone I’m related to. Somehow.

A great great great uncle in Union Army uniform. My Mother’s cousin with long greasy hair and a bright poncho. Some guy with some woman and some child standing in front of some house, all of us sharing some DNA. Dad, with a crew cut and a football.

And on every page a half dozen relatives, though few of us have the same last name. How I’m a Stevenson even though I’m just as much a Goldman. How my Mother’s a Goldman even though she’s just as much whatever Grandma’s maiden name was. How I’m that too, even though I’ve got no idea what that is. But connected only to my Dad’s Dad’s Dad’s Dad. Even though dozens, hundreds of people are kin just as close.

A family tree, more like a family forest. Genetics losing out to tradition. Somewhere, a common ancestor.

II.
Over a cup of pink grapefruit tea, one afternoon my neighbor told me he had engineered a half-chimpanzee half-human. A himp, he said, that’s what they called it. Same idea behind mules. And just the same, the himp ended up sterile.

But a mule serves a purpose, I said. The temperament of a donkey and the strength of a horse, a perfect pack animal. Whatever purpose could a himp serve? Why would you create such a thing? And my neighbor—a long retired government scientist, old and approaching senility—he said, because we could.

The creature made in a lab with beakers and microscopes. By people who wore baggy white scrubs with baggy white caps and thick plastic goggles and thought how not why. Implanted into the womb of a female chimp. Probably, he told me, it would have worked better with a human mother. The way a female horse carries the seed of a male donkey, the superior species allowing the fetus to develop within. Probably, he told me, that would have worked better. But a woman giving birth to such an abomination, it would have been cruel.

A freak of nature, I said. A freak of science, He said, if you need to be accurate. Nature gave us a common ancestor. Science, a common descendent.

III.
Once a friend of mine—and maybe he was just an acquaintance—drunk he told me a secret. This was three in the morning, in the lounge of our college dormitory. Nursing the final third of a bottle of Southern Comfort. Mixed with Dr. Pepper it tasted just like bubble gum.

What he told me was, he had fallen in love with his cousin. And at this point maybe I should have up and left. Or said, bro you’ve had too much. Or just laughed real hearty and allowed him to play it like a joke. But instead I didn’t. I didn’t and instead I asked him, bro is she hot?

My acquaintance, he mostly ignored that. Instead he answered whatever question he wished I had asked. He said, we didn’t grow up together so it ain’t weird or nothing. He said, we met for the first time last summer, at a family reunion. He said, she’s like a stranger. Like a total stranger. Her being my cousin, it’s just a messed up coincidence.

So I told him, sure bro. And when he made me, I promised not to tell anyone. What he said was, it’s just a messed up conscience. What I think now, there’s something to be said for a common history.

Chrome Horse Diplomat

2008-10-20T21:30:00.000-07:00

What most people never think about is, there’s so much goddamn road. For days I could ride straight. And not like a car, where everyplace I go really I’m still in one spot. On a motorcycle I’m somewhere new every mile. Every inch. On a motorcycle I’m everywhere all at once.

And today, on my Sunday. On my day off. What I’ll do is ride out for five hours. Ride out and then ride back. Then sleep into tomorrow and another workweek.

This, what I’m about to say maybe it won’t sound like anything too agreeable. But once I rode right through Iowa with no stop. What it must’ve been is something like the time of year to sow. And through the whole of the state, all told just more than two hundred miles, only thing I smelled was fertilizer. And like I stated before, maybe on paper this doesn’t sound too agreeable. But nobody I know ever caught a ride on paper.

Like once, in the mountains near Lake Tahoe, when I guess the butterflies were in migration. Each one against my visor like the impact of bubble gum popping. Until they hit with such frequency that I couldn’t wipe the beige splatter away fast enough. And waiting it out in a hardware store dwarfed beneath the pines, I listened to a guy play Billy Joel’s Piano Man on an acoustic guitar.

And when he’d finished I asked him, aren’t you being irrelevant? And he told me, “Sometimes that’s the point.”

But in a car I’d never have felt the hundreds of insect kamikazes. Just turned on the wipers. The way I’d never have heard Piano Man as played on guitar. Not even noticing the hardware store in my rearview. The way I’d have thought Iowa smelled of dangling tree-shaped air fresheners and stale coffee.

In a car, my Sunday would be a waste. My day off.

* * *

Halfway through I roll into the parking lot of a diner. All tall steep roof and giant empty windows. Inside, twenty maybe thirty booths. And not one occupied. Here, as far as I go. Everything after, just closer home.

Before I can walk through the greasy glass door, a man standing outside and smoking a cigarette, he grabs my arm. “You’re running from something,” he says. And I say, no. “You’re running to something,” he says. And I say, no. “Out of guesses,” he says. And I say, just trying to move.

The man tells me long ago he was a preacher. Or a priest. Then one day he came to the realization, if there’s a God, then we’re all screwed. And if there’s no God, then we’re all screwed. So the man, and maybe he’s an ex-pastor, he says, “Now I aim for peacefulness. A standard more concrete than Godliness.” He says, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Gandhi said that.” And as I walk into the diner I say to the man, no. I say, that leaves the whole world with piss-poor depth perception.

I sit at the counter in the vacant diner and order a hamburger. The waitress looks at me for a beat. Two beats. Three and I know she expects something from me but what it is I can’t tell. Finally, “How would you like that done?” And she sighs. Medium. I ask what beers she might have and she lists, counting on her fingers, “Budweiser, Bud Light, and Heineken.” Then, “Oh, and cans of Milwaukee’s Best for a buck.” And I say, if it’s the best of Milwaukee than it’s good enough for me. She walks back to the kitchen.

When she returns and I pop open the aluminum can, I ask her, is she alright? And she says, “Yeah. Yeah I’m alright.” And I wait a beat. Two beats. Three and she goes, “That’s the problem. I’m always alright. Time was, as a little kid, I would be over-the-top happy one moment and devastatingly sad the next. Time was, just a candy bar, a stubbed toe would get me going. Now, I’m always alright.” I say, time does that to us. And she says, “It does.”

When my burger arrives I bite into it and then pull a few flakes of oatmeal from my teeth. The grain added to the meat like coke cut with baking soda. Stretching the product. The waitress asks me what I do. I say, all sorts of things. “Like, for a living,” she says. And I tell her, I’m a mailman. “So you drive a truck down the street at a crawl. Same few blocks everyday?” And I say, Yeah. Exactly.

I tip well and then walk to my bike. Through the window, I see the waitress pocket the cash and smile.

* * *

The sky shifts from red to black and I’m thirty miles from home. Tomorrow, another day of work. Another day that will be alright.

But nothing like the day I drove through Texas. Across roads freshly paved and so smooth I could’ve mistaken them for polished marble. And I thanked the Lord for mild weather and rain would’ve killed me and I laughed and sped up and left Texas behind.

Nothing like topping out at 120. The way I don’t even feel like I’m moving anymore. I just stay still and watch as all around trees and fields and mountains sail past. Like a rollercoaster. Like flight

Nothing like the way I can ride straight for days. Because there’s more than enough road in this country for anyone, I don’t care how wild you are. There’s so much goddamn road.

Boom or Bust

2008-10-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

I.
From the waitress Ben orders a cup of coffee, Doug a turkey sandwich. “And two pickles,” he says to her back. “Coffee for lunch?”

“Times are tight buddy.” Ben coughs into his hand. “Looks like I may lose the rental on my chair. A lot of guys I used to see every week. Now they aren’t about to part with thirty-five bucks for a haircut.”

“That’s how you do it? The chairs?”

“Yeah, I pay every month for the right to cut hair. What I make beyond that is my living.”

“Shit, Ben.” Doug shaking his head. “You must be the only fucker I know gives his boss a paycheck. You took a hit?”

“What can I say, plight of the Lower Manhattan barber. When things were rolling, sometimes I’d give the same guy a shave five days a week. Lots of clients like that. But it went south.”

“Well next time one of those Wall Streeters comes in for a shave, cut the fuckhead just a little. For me.”

“Next time?” Ben reaches over the table, accepts a cup of black coffee from the waitress. “Ha. There’s no next time buddy. A few haircuts a day I can pull in but nobody’s buying a shave. Hot lather and a straight razor, easily replaced by a can of foam and a disposable.” And he winces. Maybe the coffee burns his mouth. But probably not. “Fucking economy.”

“Let’s be real man. You lose your job. What then? Work out of your apartment?”

“No, no. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll travel around. Like during the Great Depression. Ride the rails, eat beans from a can, play the harmonica. Didn’t you have a cousin who was a hobo?”

“Not a hobo, a drifter. There’s a difference. And my family doesn’t talk about him much anymore. Got thrown in prison. He was a cat rapist.”

“A what?”

“He would climb through windows and sexually assault woman. Like a cat burglar. But worse. We don’t talk about him anymore.”

“See, I was thinking something different.”

“Huh? Oh, well that’s fucked up too. They’re both fucked up. Either way, this whole idea you have about hitching west with a knapsack of essential tied to a stick, it’s a bit romanticized.”

“True, I’m just thinking out loud.” And snapping his fingers Ben makes the waitress’ eyes, points to his cup. “Maybe I could work with you. Or for you.”

“Don’t think so man. My job, it’s not something you can jump into. And besides, you have a real skill. There’s always been a place for barbers. Really, it’s not something a machine can do.”

“True, I’m just thinking out loud.”

Ben
Back against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette, he looked at the skyscrapers. Manmade mountains. Unable to withstand erosion. Filled with used to be clients and sometimes their used to be offices. His whole day had been a cigarette break.

Ten bucks a pack in this city. Ben stepped to the sidewalk’s edge and threw his butt into the street. Can’t pay rent on the chair means can’t pay rent on the apartment means ten bucks for fucking cigarettes. He turned and faced the barbershop window. Five empty chairs and a stack of unread Playboys. The kid who swept hair was fired Tuesday.

“Whoa, Mr. Richmond. How’ve you been?” Ben waved to a man rounding the corner, waved him over. The man, wearing a suit and with a paper under his arm and a briefcase in his hand. A hat. Ben forced a smile. “Mr. Richmond, how’ve you been?”

“Well, you know.” Said the man. He looked from side to side but never into Ben’s eyes. “How has anybody been around here? Around anywhere lately. Bumpy. It’s awful bumpy.” Side to side, then at his watch. “But things will straighten out. I’m sure they will. They always do. Maybe next week I’ll be in for a shave.” And the man moved to step past.

“Sure thing Mr. Richmond. Hey, maybe even a haircut. Hell, you haven’t been around in three weeks.” Ben patted the man’s arm as he shuffles by. “Must be awful shaggy.”

The man stops. Removes his hat, his hair trimmed short. Buzzed close to the scalp. “See, I bought myself a set of clippers. An investment.” And he laughed at his own choice of words. “Cost about the same as a cut. And well, I think I did a decent job.”

“Sure Mr. Richmond. Sure. You’ve got yourself a nice shaped head.”

“Well Ben, I’ll be seeing you.” He set off.

“Sure Mr. Richmond. Sure.” Then to nobody, “Guess I’ll take my lunch break now.”

II.
Ben stares into his third cup. Doug crunches a pickle. “Man, I told her two.” Staring holes in the back of the waitress’ head.

“She probably didn’t hear you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you got her pissed, snapping for attention. And I suffer. You know that’s really fucking obnoxious right?”

“I guess, but it works. Three cups and I’m feeling a forth can’t do no harm. Got to make a meal out of it.” The cup tilted to the ceiling, drained. Ben raises his hand, about to snap but the waitress is already on her way over. “You can’t argue results.”

“You’re gonna be buzzing out of your mind man.” Then to the waitress, “Dear, do you think I could get another pickle? Thank you.”

“There you go, show a little initiative.” Ben stops a beat, sighs. “Election’s in three weeks. Who’s your man?”

“You know me, raised by my grandma, a total FDR Democrat. So that’s where I’m at. Plus the guy wants to set a date to end the war. Man, eight years ago we were peaceful and prosperous. Look at our sorry asses now.”

“Where you’re coming from I can appreciate. But for me, there’s a moral code above regular black and white, right and wrong. For me, nothing’s more important than loyalty. Like if you, my buddy, like if you got in a brawl. Called some dude’s girl a whore. I’d have your back. Even though you were in the wrong, it’s the right thing to do. That’s where I stand on the war. We may be wrong. But my loyalty lies with my people. And we fight to win.”

“Goddamnit Ben, that’s the most ridiculous shit I’ve heard all day.”

“But…”

“I mean, what you said about being a hobo was pretty bad. But this, you topped yourself man.”

“But,” Ben holds up a hand. Stop. “The situation I’m in now, I have to vote with my pocketbook. And your guy’s offering the tax cut. Long as you’re pulling in under two fifty. I don’t know if that applies to a big shot like you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t pay taxes.”

“You don’t pay taxes? Kind of nullifies your stance as a Democrat.”

“It is what it is man. But drug dealers don’t get W2 forms.”

“So how do you handle your money?”

“Some is in the bank. But I’m careful, a deposit around my birthday, a deposit around Christmas. Keeps things looking legit. The rest, it’s hidden. None of your business.”

Laughing, Ben rolls his eyes. “Come on buddy, just a hint. Please.”

“A lot of gold. Been valuable in all sorts of civilizations for thousands and thousands of years. I figure if shit goes down, if the dollar isn’t even worth its paper or if zombies rampage. No matter what, gold is fucking golden.”

“How’s business been lately?”

“Surprisingly man, never better.”

Doug
Walking up the stairs from the 79th Street station, he saw the van right away. With curtains along the side windows and the color of split pea soup and totally the most conspicuous place to transact. Like everyone’s mental image of a stoner-mobile.

All day long going uptown then downtown then midtown then cross-town. He was winded from so many jogs over the subway stairs. And now this prick might as well have a sign suction cupped to the window, Pothead on Board. Doug popped the passenger door, hopped in. And staring straight said, “Around the block, my man. Drive.” Because like they say about moving targets.

Inside, the van smelled of cigarettes, the guy dressed in mesh shorts and a Knicks T-shirt. “Christ,” Doug said, hiked his thumb toward the van’s rear. “You got Shaggy and Scooby back there?” The guy grinned, looking far prouder than the situation warranted.

“So what’s up,” Doug, the paranoia evaporating. “No work toady?”

“Called out dude. Not about to be canned with a month and a half of sick time in the bank. I earned those days.” The guy made a left onto 76th.

“The normal?” Doug said. Then, “Worried about your job?”

The guy, he nodded and reached into his shorts. “Nobody’s said anything. But you know. We’re in New York, the total epicenter of this shit.” And he pulled out a wad of bills, sorted them with both hands, using his knees to steer.

“I’m not looking to talk myself out of business. But if you’re so concerned, maybe you shouldn’t blow cash on a sack.”

“Dude,” said the guy, arched his eyebrows and tucked his chin. “Dude, I’ve had tuna sandwiches for dinner all week. I make my sacrifices. But peace of mind is a fucking blue-chip.” And he laughed a little.

Doug opened his book bag and felt inside. Quick eye contact between the two and they shook hands. Slowly, clumsily. The guy, all that time driving with his knees. “Can I take you anywhere?”

“Actually I’m trying to get downtown. Wall Street.”

“Whoa dude. I was thinking more like the subway station.”

III.
An empty coffee cup and a plate of crumbs. And a pickle. “All that bitching and you didn’t even eat the thing,” Ben says this.

“How’s she going to bring it after I finish my sandwich. That’s way past pickle time. Go ahead man.” Doug points to the slimy thing with his chin. “Get a little food in that stomach.”

Thinking for a good moment but then Ben grabs the pickle and eats it in three bites. The brine dripping from his moustache. “Thanks.”

“Back to the barber shop?”

“Suppose so. See if I can wrangle up some business.”

“Well, there’s always next week.”

“There’s always next week. What about you?”

“Me, shit I’ve had five pages since we sat down. I’ll be traversing this island till midnight.” Doug pulls some bills from his pocket, smoothes them on the tabletop. “Don’t worry man, coffee’s on me.”

“Thanks.”

“Same time next week?”

“Always. Next week.”

Fortunate Son

2008-10-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

“I know you,” said The Voice. “I know who you are. I know what you have coming to you.” And The Voice was smooth and syrupy and all Jason Barnes could get. Around his head, wrapped like the invisible man, four or five yards of duct tape. His eyes covered so tight he was getting a migraine.

“Scratching his way to the top,” said The Voice. Jason knew the headline well. “Local resident Jason Barnes of River Drive came up big in the Pot O’ Gold scratch-off lottery game.” Reading, louder as the sentence went on, The Voice. “Now he’s set with a cool hundred grand.” The dollar amount spit like spoiled milk.

What Jason wanted to do was yell. Yell for help. Yell for mercy. What Jason wanted to do was yell but he couldn’t do more than taste the bitter adhesive side of duct tape. And thinking maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to a profile in the local paper. Or at least not posed for the picture.

“So what will happen here is three-fold. First, I’ll tell you what I need. Then, I’ll demonstrate the gravity of the situation. And third, you will graciously assist me. Understood?” And Jason mumbled something through a gluey mouth. “Nod,” said The Voice. And so Jason did.

* * *

“I don’t believe in luck for the same reasons I don’t believe in God. First, neither can I see. And second, neither has done me any favors. Everything I have, I have not by the grace of God. Not through good fortune. Everything I have, I have because I took it. Everything you see around you is mine because I grab opportunity by the proverbial balls. Well, of course you don’t see it. But imagine.”

Jason imagined he was in a mildewed basement, maybe a single overhead light bulb swaying from an extension cord. Nothing but grease stains and concrete and a roll of duct tape. Places like that were for situations like this. So Jason imagined.

“And moreover. I recognize no claim with a basis in luck. What has randomly fallen in your lap may just as well have fallen in mine. I have just as much right to the fortunes of fortune.”

Hollow footsteps bounced off the floor, further away each clack. Then the sound of rummaging like a tin of Altoids shaken. “What I need of you,” The Voice now across the room. “Is your PIN number. And before you decide whether or not to abide, let me prove how serious I am.” And like punctuation on his sentence a low mechanical hum rose from the same corner in which The Voice now resided. Bruuuuuuummmm. Bruuuuuuummmm. Then the footsteps again. Advancing this time.

“We’ll only do this once.” The Voice so close Jason could feel its heat. “So long as you cooperate.” And now louder this time Bruuuuuuummmm, the unmistakable roar of an electric drill. He thrashed and squirmed and jumped but Jason was duct taped tight to the chair. And as the bit burrowed through his jeans, his meat and chinked against bone, Jason prayed, oh Lord let me crawl from my skin. Bruuuuuuummmm. His whole body tightened. Legs flexed, asshole puckered, stomached clenched, his teeth bit down and splintered. And his mouth filled with grit. And blood. And then he slept.

* * *

The room was bathed in the swath of light from a desk lamp. Floored with hardwood panels. Not really how Jason had imagined. Then he looked down and saw the drill bit still deep inside his knee. Denim, brown and sticky with congealed blood. And it struck him, his head was no longer wrapped tight. And it struck him, this whole deal was totally fucked.

“What…fuck…what’s happening?” Jason coughed through broken teeth.

“What is happening?” The Voice standing behind him. “What is happening is, you are about to give me your PIN number.”

“What…why…why?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll take your other knee.”

“1486…1486, what the fuck. What fucking good will that do you?”

“Are you in shock? Have you forgotten who you are? Or what’s in your bank account?”

“I’m Jason Barnes. And I won the lottery. $100,000 to be paid over twenty years. That’s five thousand a year before taxes. And I won’t receive my first annuity until next month. I’m broke bro. I’m fucking broke.”

What seemed like an hour passed in only a few beats. Then The Voice, it said, “Goddamn Jason. I guess we’ve both had some horrible luck today.”

Starting Lineup

2008-09-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

It explained so much. This little folder of spreadsheets and graphs. Almost like any of the hundreds maybe thousands thrown about the office. An easy accident to slip into the copy pile. But not like other folders. It explained so much.

Milton made the discovery. Not discovery really, but figured out what it was. Something a little more important than discovery. Halfway though the copy job and half an hour after the office closed. Just the two file clerks left to finish the day’s load. Out of the corner of his eye, Milton saw his name on one of the spreadsheets. This at six in the evening.

So what they did was what anyone would do, the two of them. They let the Cannon imageRunner finish. Then they each—Sarah and Milton—grabbed a copy of the file and sat at the long maple table in the conference room. At seven o’clock they punched out to avoid suspicious timecard activity. But still they sat around the table. With the files. Late into the night.

* * *

The documents titled Office Fantasy League 2008. Each page listing all employees as divided into two teams. One managed by Mr. O’Leary. The other, by Mr. Rabinowitz. Graphs tracking every employee’s statistics across a range of categories. Among them, Coffee Pot Refills.

Over Chinese take-out the file clerks studied papers. Milton, slightly jealous that Sarah doubled his output in the Pages Copied category. But even so, he was a head above everyone when it came to Filing Efficiency.

Still, more than settling personal wagers. What this folder provided was answers to longstanding mysteries. Why had Bruce—the low-billing lawyer with a coke problem-not been fired months ago? Well it was Bruce who single handedly won the Most Bathroom Breaks category for Mr. Rabinowitz. Every week of the year. Of the season.

Why did Molly serve as secretary to only one lawyer? All other secretaries handled the workloads of two, sometimes three. It was a nasty trick by Mr. O’Leary. A sabotage of the Phone Calls Answered category on his opponent’s roster.

Closer to dawn than sunset, the file clerks at last went home. Each retaining a copy of the folder. The original returned to the oversize desk in Mr. Rabinowitz’s office.

* * *

The next morning office business went as usual. More or less. Milton made sure to brew the day’s first batch of coffee. The gurgling hot pot then finished almost solely by Sarah. Which of course resulted in numerous visits to the lady’s room.

Gradually through the week both Milton and Sarah made more and more calls to Molly. Mostly saying, “Uh…wrong number.” Sometimes just hanging up. Either way. So long as the stat was counted.

In a month Bruce was gone. No longer keeping pace with Sarah’s caffeine-fueled piss breaks. Molly assigned a second Lawyer. O’Leary figuring she was taking personal calls with the free time. Figuring his plan backfired. And slowly Old Man Rabinowitz began addressing Milton as “Champ.” Just an office nickname. More and more O’Leary would call Sarah his “MVP.” Out of affection. For a job well done.

Bookends

2008-09-22T20:22:00.000-07:00

A Story In Dramatic Form

I.
[Two men sit at a foldout card table. Bottles of beer, packs of cigarettes and an ashtray lay about].

Ralph: In life, few pleasures compare to reading. A movie, a television show, even music, these entertainments unfold at an established pace. Everyone who saw Titanic, they each lost three hours. Listen to that Titanic song, four minutes. But with a book, each takes the time they need. Pour over every line in search of meaning. Or skim to the climax and have one more title under your belt.

Georgie: For shit’s sake my man, I wish you were a book. I’d skim my way right to the fucking point.

Ralph: Georgie, I don’t know if you’re much of a reader…

Georgie: Box scores on the crapper. Once in a while my bank statement.

Ralph: Are you familiar with a piece of literature entitled, If you Give a Mouse a Cookie?

Georgie: [Laughs] You mean the kiddie book? “You give a mouse a cookie and he’ll want some milk.” And so on until he fucks your daughter. Teaches toddlers to be greedy little bastards.

Ralph: That cute picture book, you may have read the words and glanced at the illustrations. That cute picture book, look close and it’s an allegory. It’s the appeasement of Nazi Germany that led to World War Two.

Georgie: If you give a Hitler Poland.

Ralph: Exactly. If you indulge your problem, you only get a larger problem. A larger problem with a sense of entitlement. But not a solution. Maybe a rodent that chewed through three boxes of cereal. Maybe a despot plowing through a whole continent. Maybe an ungrateful nephew who expects a paycheck based on genetics instead of hard work.

Georgie: So what you’re saying here, I’m Hitler?

Ralph: If you want. Or if you’d rather, you can be the mouse. What you can’t be is a drain on my business. A drain on this family. Not anymore. I love you Georgie but I can’t allow this problem to grow.

Georgie: Problem meaning me? Like I’m some fucking tumor?

Ralph: Tumor. That’s one I hadn’t thought of.

II.

[Ralph and Georgie stand outside. Behind them is a worn down American-made automobile.]

Georgie: So what now Uncle Ralph? Mice get their necks snapped. Hitler, he died too. What’s my fate?

Ralph: Oh kid, you’re too dramatic. Let a problem multiply, grow out of control and true, it has to be destroyed. But catch it early, there’s a humane solution. A mouse, you can release to the wild, so long as it hasn’t nested and bred. A tyrant can be exiled, so long as he hasn’t scorched the earth and bunkered down. And you Georgie Boy, you can keep on keeping on.

Georgie: Up and leave? Walk away from Ma. From everything here, what I’ve worked for?

Ralph: When it comes to your mother, she’d be more than proud of her little boy out in the world, finding himself. As far as everything you’ve worked for, I can’t imagine what that is. I put you to work straight off expulsion. And despite an insistence on producing fuck-all, I continued to employ you. To support you. But that ends tonight. Move on or stick around, I won’t bleed for a damn parasite.

Georgie: I can’t just drive into the night. Where man, where? My whole fucking world is here. I wouldn’t even know what direction...

Ralph: Kid, it doesn’t even matter a slight bit. Go to a small town and make a name for yourself. Go to a big city and become anonymous. What I’m saying to you is quit skimming through life. You’re getting nothing from it. Find a way to live at your own pace. And even then, if you don’t find meaning, kid, at least look for some.

Georgie: You set a mouse loose from one home, likely it’ll be a nuisance in the next.

Ralph: Then keep running Georgie Boy. Cause if you don’t, they’ll snap your neck.

Cruise Altitude

2008-09-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

Seat 14A (Aisle)

When the flight attendant hands me a Coke, I tip her a buck. Probably this isn’t a tipping situation. But it couldn’t hurt. Sort of like an investment in karma. Maybe my dollar is the only thing keeping this plane in the air. Probably it isn’t. But it couldn’t hurt.

My business in Chicago, I’m going to a funeral. My uncle died, his liver like chewed hamburger, a lifetime drinker. But a long lifetime. And if you’ve got to die—and you do—then maybe dying for something that gave you kicks is the way to go. Better than being gobbled in gears at the factory where you hate working. Or headplanting off the roof while scooping fists of leaf-mush from your gutters. Besides, he was a happy drunk.

And damnit, the circumstance might be a bummer but I sure do love a plane ride. Watching the cars below shrink to peanuts shrink to nothing. Perfect geometric parcels of farmland. Looking down and seeing clouds, for Chrissakes. A view reserved for the Lord himself until man figured to make 200 tons of metal float on air.

Plus sometimes I’ll even meet some real nice folks. All these strangers stuck together, going from the same place all of them to another same place. With different reasons entirely. All of them with the same where and when and how. All of them with their own whats and whys. But today not so much. Next to me this dude twists and squirms and looks at what must be an expensive watch. One seat beyond and some guy stares out the window. Looking down on the clouds, no doubt. And could you blame him?

If I might complain about one thing though. And I feel ill mannered. But if I might complain about one thing, I’d say being perched next to the restroom is a drag. What with the airline food rushing through everyone like it’s got an appointment to keep and leaving me stuck in the odor collage.

What I’ll do, and you’ll have to excuse the crude speech. But what I’ll do, add mine to the mix. On the off chance smelling my own handiwork will be more bearable. Probably it won’t. But it couldn’t hurt.

Seat 14B (Center)

Here’s my issue. And I hate to complain. But I’ve never heard of downgrading somebody’s ticket. Upgrading, sure. Flights overbook, it happens. But bump a schmuck up to first. Don’t drown a bite of caviar in a sea of mayonnaise. And downgrading is a euphemism. They’ve stuck me in the middle seat. Near the lavatories.

Believe me when I tell you, under different circumstances I would’ve settled for the next flight out. My meeting though, only four hours away. And I’m primed. Gonna sell the shit out of this account. And there’s no rescheduling for tomorrow. Gonna tough it out in the cheap seats. And all the stress has my hemorrhoids flaring. Gonna get myself some complimentary Bloody Marys. Like I’d pay $5 a pop. Not after this bullshit.

Here’s the thing. And it’s not like I’m complaining. But for me, planes are never ideal. Humans being ground dwellers. Something about soaring in the air just isn’t natural. Boats too for that matter. To a lesser degree. I know cars kill more people than planes. Than boats. I know this. But I’ve been in car accidents. $500 for a new bumper. Higher insurance. When planes crap out you fall 30,000 feet. When boats crap out you drown. Still I’m not about to drive to Chicago.

But here they’ve got me in the middle seat. The aisle with an easy exit. The window can lean and sleep. The middle you have nothing but a jerkoff on either side to fight for armrests.

And I don’t mean to complain, but these guys are some purebred jerkoffs. And I know jerkoffs. The one to my left, nothing but a goofy smile. Like he won gold in the Special Olympics. The other just stares out the window and captivated. As if Nebraska looks any different than Wyoming.

So I’ll sit here and count the seconds. Look at my watch, worth more than most of these dopes make a year. And I’ll count the seconds until I can escape this seat near the shitter. Where every five minutes another asshole contributes to the bowel movement cocktail. And I’ll count the seconds until I’m free of the jerkoffs book ending me. The one on the aisle now the umpteenth bastard to drop a duce in my vicinity. But really, I don’t mean to complain.

Seat 14C (Window)

Miles and miles of nothingness between myself and the ground. I almost expected a perfect line dividing an orange Nevada and a pink Utah. Like the layout in my grammar school geography book. But all I get is square after square of yellow and green and brown and on and on. No matter California or Iowa. And how could I have been so foolish to expect anything other. Still, in sixty years this is the first I’ve been further up than a fourth floor balcony. And how could I have been so foolish. Except that being foolish is damn easy.

So why I’m going to Chicago is not much a reason at all. Truth is I once told myself I’d see Jordan play. Go to a Bulls game and eat hotdogs with pickles on poppy seed buns. And then he retired and I said that’s that. Easier this way. Then he came back and I said, I’ll go to a Bulls game. I’ll drink beer then beer then beer to warm myself from the brutal winter. And he retired again. Easier this way. But now I’m flying. Tickets to a game. A decade late for the man. But timing can be hard.

And timing means less when life is static. When you live in the same town from birth through adulthood through old age and you say, this is who I am. When you work for a freight company for too long but not quite long enough. You say this is who I am. You unload trucks every day and this is how things are. An easy living and an easy life.

But that’s done now. And to be quite honest this air travel deal isn’t so bad. One thing though, it smells like the stables at my grandfather’s ranch. When I had a grandfather. When he had a ranch. The way stench hangs heavy and raw and you never quite get used to it. But that happens. And some of the folks crowded here, they’re a trip. This peckerhead next to me flashing his watch then looking if anyone noticed he’s sporting more than a Timex. Next to him a kid all giddy and passing out dollar bills like they’re business cards. Like he’s General Washington. Characters.

So why I’m going to Chicago is not much a reason at all. I quit the freight company last month. Three years shy of my pension and retiring with half my top pay. Three years shy of doing nothing professionally. An easy way to wait it out, sure. So I quit. And I bought a ticket to Chicago. And from there New York and from there London and from there anywhere. Because when it’s all over, the one thing I’d hate to say about life: it was easy.

American Dream

2008-09-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

Uriah Samuel Anderson’s early career was marked by several minor achievements. A handful of his work had been preformed in community theatres and he even took the grand prize in a one-act competition. Nothing to boast of but as far as young talents go, he was respected.

With the publication of Weak Weary Travelers the reputation of U.S. Anderson took an incredible turn for the better. Better than better. A turn for the best. While unexpected might not be the word, unprecedented could certainly describe his success. Never in anyone’s recollection had such a young playwright rocketed to the head of the industry. In the wake of WWT, nobody could claim to be in the same league.

* * *

Anderson enjoyed not only the wealth his arrival brought but also the admiration. In years following WWT he may have let his ego inflate to unsafe levels. Certainly, he grew accustomed to a style of living that was beyond maintainable for any considerable stretch of time.

As both his public esteem and his bank account began to settle, U.S. Anderson released a follow up, Vicious Weather. And while his previous effort had a straightforwardness that attracted the masses, this newer work’s convoluted plot meandered and snaked and proved unpalatable to most audiences and critics. The general consensus being the playwright had failed, Anderson managed to escape with enough money to continue his comfortable lifestyle. Anderson managed to escape with enough respect to hold his position at the forefront of his contemporaries.

* * *

Time went on as time will do and the writer found himself once more in the position of needing to prove himself. For the physical comfort success afforded him. For the pride success had cultivated. Anderson premiered the first act of his upcoming drama long before the entire piece was finished. The snippet, with a working title of Old Dusty Storefronts, was lauded as a return to form for the now veteran dramatist. Short and unsatisfying but enough of the old spirit to maintain Anderson’s elite status.

But then, like the continual cycles of history, came a new disappointment. Renamed Imaginary Waters, the completed work proved further validation of better days behind. While warmly regarded in previews the new piece soon fell with a thud. All the complaints leveled at Vicious Weather returned: drawn out, needlessly complicated and without any real point.

While some believed Anderson could redeem himself, many considered the latest letdown an end to his career as a serious artist. His legacy tarnished by this grab for a quick buck. Never would another work be given it’s fair due. All of his yesterdays and tomorrows he had traded away for the fleeting comforts of today

6 People, 5 Stories, 1 Night

2008-09-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

I.
This guy, he asks if he can drive the pedicab. And yeah I should’ve said no but what the hell, right? I was tired and if the dude’s gonna pay to drive me around, shit. So he starts up the sidewalk and splitting pedestrians and making couples unclasp hands and dive in opposite directions. And I’m yelling, dude, dude not on the sidewalk. And I’m yelling, dude, dude you still pay full fare.

But yeah dude, not in good judgment letting the guy drive. I should lose my permit for that, you know? He was in a hurry I guess. No time to walk and not about to let me drive all proper. Craziness dude, craziness. I should lose my permit for that.

II.
Did I ask him for money? Naw, naw, naw. Kid just sat on the stoop there and he reeked of well scotch all terrible. Myself, sure I do have odors about me. Like sour feet, I been told. But the kid had some cheap shit on his breath trumped all that came off’a me. And he said this, tell me a happy story. Just straight off he looks me in my eyes and said something to that effect. And I said, do I look like a fella’ with a happy story? I said, kid don’t be acting foolish.

But he don’t head nowhere. So I gave it but a couple and then said, maybe fifteen years back. Back when I was only slightly a’mess. A day once when I took my daughter to that hot dog shack on eighty-sixth. That was happy. And so the kid nods and runs off to hail one of them bicycle rickshaw thingies.

III.
So I see a guy hop off a bike and just puke all over the sidewalk. I mean floodgates opened. Then he shook off a long string of spit and walked right up to my counter. I could’ve guessed before but the guy smelled like my Auntie’s kisses. You know, the sauce. Because that’ll do it. Once, it was my birthday, and I drank a fifth of rum and then sprinted naked for five blocks. Like sprinted. Like naked. But as soon as I stopped I let loose the fifth and then some. Exercise and licks will get you every time.

But right, the guy. He asked for three franks with relish and I figured he just meant to replace whatever it was went right out of him. So I serve them up and he goes to the counter. Eats each dog in four even bites. Twelve bites later and he walks on out, steps over the pile.

IV.
It comes with the territory, this I know. But the same way a doctor must tire of patient after patient asking about an ass rash is the same way I tire of drunk after drunk crying all pathetic in my ear. A bummed out alkie is essential bar décor just like a dartboard and a jukebox, this I know. Even so, nights come when I wish these assholes would grow a pair.

But the guy was relentless. Ordered just so he could bitch about what-have-you when I poured him one. Boohoo, some broad. Boohoo, some job. All that time ordering the cheap stuff so not even a good tip was coming my way. And finally I’m done with it. Like a doctor fed up with asses. But a bartender fed up with asses. I said to him, buddy, lots of guys out there with no broad and no job and a whole lot less beyond. And these guys, they can find a way to be happy from time to time.

V.
True it’s not much to look at. But I’ve lived here thirty-five years and the apartment’s rent controlled. To leave now would be ridiculous. The gentleman in 4C though, he only moved in last fall. And paying two grand a month for a box like this, I can’t imagine. Still he does. His business.

But always a quiet neighbor. Never even knew his name. Always quiet except that morning. Or night, depending on the hours you keep. I had been awake since four, had my coffee and was heading out for a paper. And up the stairs comes the young man, smelling awful to be sure. Whiskey and sweat. Or meat and stomach acid. As I passed he grabbed me. Not to hurt, not to scare. More like he was pulling me to safety. And he says, kill your priorities. Then on his way and on mine. Isn’t that the strangest bit you ever heard?

Punchline Life

2008-08-25T23:05:00.000-07:00

10:35 pm

“See, another thing. Spending every day at the computer, my eyes have developed a sensitivity to light.” On and on with this petty shit. I would have slammed the phone on him fifteen minutes ago. But hang up on a caller and you’re nixed. “You don’t think I could write off a pair of Ray Bans, huh?” Even prank calls you need to pass to a supervisor. “Also, I am fairly certain my assistant is a Scientologist. Which, you know, I’m not intolerant or anything. It just weirds me out.” A call like this is exactly the opposite of why I’m here.

“Sir, I understand these are difficult times but you’ve called Crisis Line. Maybe you should hang up and allow somebody with a genuine crisis to get through?” I say it but I shouldn’t. Another no-no is trivializing the caller’s problem.

“Listen pal, this is important stuff. Did I not just give you a good half dozen crises? How the heck can I run an office with all these extraneous issues? I’ve been going for half an hour and nothing in the way of answers.”

“Sir, I am a fully trained volunteer tele-counseler. I believe what you are looking for is a Magic 8 Ball.” And just as I say this, nothing in my ear but a dial tone. Adios.

I get quite a few of these. People who’ve had it so good for so long their definition of crisis runs parallel to the hired help botching a dish of frog legs. Over that, I’d take a lovesick teenager anytime and twice on Prom Night.

And still, after eighteen months, I’m waiting on a real-deal depression case. That would just be the tits.

* * *

To say my day job was bottom of the barrel would be generous. More like some shit stuck to the underside of the barrel. Like forty pounds of felt and foam rubber fashioned into Mopey the Mole and burrowed deep beneath the barrel.

A summer job as a cartoon animal at Good Times Town and five years later I was manager of mascot affairs for the entire park. What that means, I dressed as whichever character needed a body on any particular day. And with a staff full of pierced dropouts and crystal-head townies, pretty much every day I was somebody new.

The trick to such a fractured existence, understand every character has a basic action. And if you performed this action for six straight hours, the kiddies cheered ferocious and your supervisors kept you around long past the point of wasting your life.

Check it out. As Crabby the Crab, just shake your head and place hands on hips. As Manic the Monkey, jump up and down and dance the twist. When you’re unfortunate enough to be stuck with Beauty the Butterfly, courtesy and prance and try to dodge the teenaged boys grabbing for your ass. What I always said, I had a bad job but I was damn good at it.

Still the buzz wears off fast when marinating in the sweat of so many deadbeats. The joy of a thousand tots never beats out the one little bastard who kicked you in the junk. So nights, I took to manning phones for Crisis Line. Thinking other people laying down some dark shit would make me feel okay about my punchline life.

* * *

11:47 pm

Tonight moves slow around the volunteer office. Only so much time I can kill imagining soft grey cubicle walls fashioned into some sort of elephant costume. Or a mouse. Only so much time I can kill waiting for time to kill me.

The phone goes off and I let it ring three times. Always this to weed out the insincere. Those who solve their own problems in the first two rings. Three and then soft and even, “Hi, you’re talking with Greg. What’s up?” Friendly, informal and never “what’s the problem?”

“Uh, hi. Hi Greg…” The dude gives it a beat. “Man, this is not something I do. Call these numbers and look for pity. No…just, I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s fine,” I say. Always “That’s fine.” Never “No worries” or “No Problem.” You wouldn’t think there’s much difference but any negative language can set the more troubled callers off. The type I’ve been waiting for. Going on a year and a half. But forget that now. What I tell this guy is, “That’s fine. Just talk about whatever you like.”

“Man, I don’t know if you’re a father,” he says. Me? Shit. “But I am. Or I...it’s been a tough month. Tough.”

“What happened?” I ask this and maybe I’m pushing. But my whole purpose here: get these folks to talk it out. Solving problems isn’t my bag. Even helping them solve their problems. Getting folks to figure out what their problems are, that’s a little closer.

“We were outside. Walking. He wanted to push his own stroller. Just. Just trying to be like Daddy. I guess.”

“It’s okay,” I say. My big utility phrase. Always keeps things moving.

“Just. Just. Just out of the sky, this branch fell. Right on him. Right there. Just. Just. Just out of nowhere.”

“Jesus”

“And man, you know. So random.”

* * *

In August sun, peering from the wire mesh eyes of Fussy the Fox, I posed for photographs. All smiling plastic teeth and brick red fur. All upset because I had been hoping for Nasty the Newt that day.

What happened was I leaned down to refasten my lower left paw. Tighten the buckles and all. But as I bent over, my fluffy tale goosed a young lady. Who yelped. And then there was her boyfriend. Who punched me out.

So what could I do? Just so happened, I had a concussion. Just so happened, the fox costume maybe gave me body lice. Just so happened, this was my profession. Just so happened.

* * *

12:19 am

The phone call, it ends. If any comfort came the guy’s way, I have some real doubt. If any comfort will ever come the guy’s way.

To know a Grumpy the Gopher suit is no fate too severe, it provides nothing like satisfaction. If you’re wondering.

So I leave typed notice. Tonight, my last at Crisis Line. I leave a voice mail. Yesterday, my last at Good Times Town. Because could be life is short. And could be life is long. But always random. So fucking random.

Headaches

2008-08-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

This is all what they told me. I was out on vacation but I guess the whole mailroom smelled like sun-baked trash. All day and more and more the later it got. Like how, even if you breathed through your mouth to avoid the reek, you’d still taste it in the air. That bad.

The box it came from was something about 18 inches cubed and waiting to be shipped out for an overnight delivery. And as I said, I never saw this but what I was told, Dino went and sliced through the packing tape with a pair of scissors and pushed away a few handfuls of Styrofoam peanuts and had a look inside. That he totally shouldn’t have done. Like the absolute best way to lose your job. Wrap the box in a plastic bag or store it in another room or just throw the bastard out or anything. But opening the mail, totally not cool.

So then this. Dino straightaway vomited all on his shoes. What I heard, like five gallons of noodle soup. And the poor guy looked up to the ceiling and his head kept going back like trying to look directly behind and he fell hard and was out. In the box, a head. Mostly a skull but still a few clumps of flesh like beef jerky and a dried black tongue. Of course, that’s just the way I got the story.

* * *

The Monday next, starting back up after my break, I’m called to the Manager’s office. I wait in a nice plush chair while he finishes up important business on the telephone. A whole lot of “uh huh’s” and a couple “certainly’s” and once even a “let me run that by some people first.” Every couple minutes the Manager holds up a finger to ask more patience.

“As maybe you know,” he says once the phone is on the cradle. “Last week we had something of an issue involving one of the packages in your area.” What he meant was, you heard some crazy shit went down in the mailroom while you were out. And I had.

“Of course, there is a completely satisfactory explanation for the macabre happening, which you may or may not be familiar with.” This too I’d heard. Supposed to be, the skull was on its way from some county office to a university anthropology department upstate. Had I been in that week, no way something of that sort would go off without dry ice. Those shipping forms, I check like a handicapper reading box scores.

“Our friend and coworker, Mr. Pennington, will no longer be employed at this site.” Again, he meant to say that fool Dino screwed the pooch big time when he opened the package. Still, to keep everything on the down-low, the higher-ups were totally willing to let him stay, long as he didn’t drum up a ruckus. But the kid was like completely shell-shocked. Couldn’t but look at a box without dry heaves and tears. So they let him go with a three-month severance package. No hard feelings.

“Finally, if you ever consider opening an article of mail, you will be terminated without any benefits. We can’t have these situations becoming the norm.”

Okay, I say. You have a point.

* * *

“In our line of work, we tend to get very comfortable. Gather the outgoing, rate the postage, deliver the incoming. Everyday a routine with no variation. We take for granted this security of the mundane. Then out of nowhere comes an occurrence—better still, an accident—and we are forced out of our womb of safety, birthed into an alien world of risk. Of hazard. It’s fucked up.” Peter strokes his goatee with a thumb and two fingers while he explains this to me, what’s up with Dino.

Peter, I say. I feel you but maybe it was the smell. Like Dino couldn’t get past that smell. Or maybe he was embarrassed over puking all on himself. You know, that’s probably it.

Shaking his head and clucking his tongue and giving me a look Peter goes and says, “No, no, no. You forget my friend, I witnessed the entire event. It was neither odor nor humiliation that did Dino in. And truly, it wasn’t even one single head in one single box. The realization that we live in a world in which boxes can contain heads, it was too much for him to accept. That tomorrow he might happen upon a foot in a crate or a finger in an envelope. The wave of this reality breaking right over his head, that was what happened to Dino. I could see this with my very eyes.”

Okay, I say. You have a point.

* * *

Outside I catch Marty mid cigarette break. Two thick darts of smoke fly from his nostrils. He flicks ash at me. “Dude,” saying this but more like, Doo-ood. “A pleasant week off, I presume?” Not a real question because he keeps on talking. “Missed the real craziness, dude. Old Dino finally got some head.” Laughs up a plume of Marlboro.

Cute, I say. From what I hear the guy’s pretty shook up.

“Naw, you kidding? Fuckface made out like a bandit and don’t he know it. Didn’t even make him mop up his own lunch. Shit, just last night I was having beers with the dude. Made him buy though, asshole’s getting paid for nothing.”

But unwrapping a rotten dome is going to leave an impact, I say. He must be a little spooked.

“I guess dude. But he seemed cool to me. Says he’s working on his dream job. Writing reality television shows.”

Yeah, how goes that?

“Well he hasn’t made any money yet. Says that’s not how it works. First he’s gotta write a proposal, then he sells it to the studio. What he ran by me was called something like Historical Injustice Olympics. Competitions between teams from different countries but they’re handicapped based on the ways they’ve screwed each other over. Like check this out. If it’s Japan versus the U.S., the American team would get a big jolt of radiation before they play.”

That’s absurd. You can’t tell me Dino ain’t a tad gone.

“Yeah, sure. The dude would run out of change if he tried to give you his two cents. But he had some whacked ideas before the jack in the box. Remember the night he challenged us all to a tequila contest. Dude held it down after the both of us coughed up every last shot. That’s just Dino.”

Okay, I say. You have a point.

* * *

The floor of Jimmy’s Tavern is covered with peanut shells trampled so thoroughly they’re pretty much sawdust. A good thing when one must clean the spilled contents of stomachs. I see Dino down the bar scribbling ferocious in a marble composition book. He doesn’t look up when I approach, just speaks while he writes. “Tell me something, my man. Would you be tempted to watch a volleyball match between Germany and Israel if first the German team was…”

Why all the trouble, I say. Like, if you wanted out, just quit.

Finally, looking up from his masterwork, “What are you saying now?”

Got it all figured, I say. Somehow you discover this, this…thing’s shipping out. Me on vacation, you decide nobody will catch the missing dry ice request. Then you make sure that dramatic shithead Peter is watching.

“And?”

And you force yourself to puke. The night you drank Marty and me under the table, you boasted complete control of your gag reflex. When I remembered that, it all made sense.

“Yes, yes.” Dino closes his notebook and swivels on his barstool. “Noodles, they come up easy and look impressive. So what now, you go tell the Manager of my evil scheme?” There was some kind of dare in all he said but right now I wasn’t looking to cause trouble.

Just out of curiosity, I say. Tell me, why all the effort?

“Why? Because I was stuck in a nine-to-five, paycheck-to-paycheck shit-cycle. Couldn’t interview for a new job being I was always at work. And just quitting? How would I pay my rent, my bills while I hunted new employment? They had me, my man. So I found a way to free up a little time and income. A way to better my position. A way to get ahead.”

Okay, I say. You have a point.

In Wolves' Clothing

2008-08-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

He never much cared for kerosene lamps. The shadows cast, steady and foreboding. Always, Lockley had preferred the warm flicker of candlelight. But here, in this small hotel room, here was only kerosene.

He looked at The Brother, sprawled on the room’s only bed and cupping a shattered jaw in one hand. Ice melting through the fingers and allowing a thin steam of water down a hairy arm. The Brother gripped an unlit cigar in his other hand and there it would stay. He could not hold it in his mouth.

Below their room men shouted and laughed. Shot dice and drank. A lush was perched at a piano and steadily the music grew sloppier and more disjointed until it ceased to be music and was only noise.

Lockley turned from The Brother. On a table, next to the lamp, was an old revolver. It had belonged to their father. He thought about putting a bullet through The Brother’s temple. After all, there was no money for a doctor and The Brother could not make the ride home. He thought of smashing the lamp and burning down the damn hotel. The damn town. He thought of starting over as a new person, someone better than he was. But what he thought would never win out over what he knew. What he knew, he could never pull the trigger. What he knew, he could never be anything but what he was.

* * *

Last night they had slept on cold, coarse sand three miles outside the town. Just West, torches lit the street and lamps burned in windows. At this distance, looked as though stars had sunk from the sky and settled just above the earth. A jar of blackberry jam was shared between the two, Lockley and The Brother. But their bread was too stale and the remainder they fed to the horses.

Though the night was cold neither man proposed a fire. It was understood that stealth could not be sacrificed for any degree of comfort. So they curled around each other in the dark and tried to sleep but could not. In the town, so close now after all those days on horseback, in the town was Carver. And where Carver did reside, so too did wealth.

Neither fully understood what Carver had done. But they understood anything vile enough to warrant a $5,000 bounty was likely something to hang for. Neither knew how to go about catching the fugitive. But they knew money of that sort could not be made through rational means. And what was more, they knew where Carver had run.

* * *

What sounded like guttural hissing was really The Brother asking for more ice. His broken face allowing little clarity in communication. So Lockley went downstairs to the bar, being in the odd position of wanting terribly to be out of that room and at the same time wanting terribly to hole up. Wanting terribly to be nowhere.

All that evening the bartender had refused Lockley a glass of ice alone and so charged him for a whiskey each time. A whiskey, hold the whiskey. Little could be done. Lockley was in a strange place, far from home. And the only thing worse than being blatantly fleeced was listening to that awful noise The Brother made when he needed something. That God-awful noise.

* * *

Earlier, as dawn had broken, The Brother kicked the door in. Both men entered Carver’s hotel room, Lockley bringing up the rear and holding the revolver level. Carver, awake long before, rose from his chair. His confusion gave to fury. Gave to understanding.

When all three had been in grade school some twenty years previous, Carver regaled the siblings with stories of a town five days west. The elder Carver had relocated there and sent the rare postcard recounting his hazards and victories. No doubt exaggerated. So when Carver ran, a price put upon him, Lockley and The Brother took an educated guess.

In the hotel room Carver and The Brother stood close enough to kiss. Lockley, a few paces back, still with the gun. We’re going to take you in, The Brother said as if it were agreed upon. But just as he spoke, a quick uppercut on the part of Carver snapped The Brother’s head back all fierce. Teeth and blood, mucus and spit flew. The Brother fell. And Lockley found the only thing worse than having no gun to pull, was pulling a gun and having no intention of pulling the trigger.

Carver walked past, walked down the stairs, walked out of the hotel. Lockley gathered up The Brother, laid him on the bed and closed the door. $5,000 so far gone. But when a man with something to gain faces a man with everything to lose, the same man will win every time.

* * *

Sunrise brought with it a few hours of silence. The Brother had passed out or gone completely into shock, Lockley could not tell which. The lamp extinguished and in its stead hung sober, grey morning.

The revolver on the table still. Generally untouched and completely unused. Lockley picked it up and gave good thought to its weight. The weight of everything he was not. Everything he would never be. He gave good thought to Carver, how he pushed right past the day before. Lockley had figured himself a real vigilante but Carver did not believe for one second. And where do we really exist? In our own mind or in the minds of others?

He gave good thought to pistol’s weight and decided he would do anything to lessen the burden. Anything, if only to lighten the load by a single bullet.

The Problem With Hindsight

2008-08-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

You have a one-night stand. And for six months, whenever you think about it, all you remember is smashed sex. Dirty and drunk. Fairly pleasant. Then your dick starts to rot. And all of the sudden the context changes. What once was a successful night of barhopping, now it’s your biggest mistake. Time has a way of doing that. Of bending your memories over a chair long after the fact.

* * *

Ted and I went to a baseball game. This was three months ago. For a couple hours we drove. Narrow mountain highways. Two lanes flanked by redwoods and curving left then right then left again. Every mile the sky grew darker and darker, early afternoon looking more like night.

By the time the highway expanded, eight lanes across and shooting straight through cityscapes and suburbia, by then rain was slapping the windshield like a jockey prodding his horse forward. But of course, it only slowed us. Left us just another set of red taillights in a procession stretching miles. And even though the radio assured a rainout, we crept forward. No way we’d turn back over that serpentine pass with the weather so fucked.

Of course, the game was rained out. And Ted and I, eighty miles and a waterlogged eternity from home, we posted up at a stadium-side dive. Drinking flat pints that tasted of saw dust we waited out last call. Then we pulled Ted’s car into the stadium lot and slept on reclined seats.

I woke up sometime around dawn to strips of pink sky flying past and a sinking feeling deep within—like my stomach was collapsing on itself. I grunted for Ted to pull over, vomited all down the side of his car. Lay back, comatose until we reached my apartment.

Even in bed I rolled around all fitful, unable to sleep off the hangover. Thirsty as shit and wishing anything I’d stayed home the night before. Wishing I’d smoked a joint and watched a movie. What wouldn’t have been better than that miscarriage of an evening?

* * *

And there were other times just the same. Times pissed away on hard drink and soft threats. Times I would have lived a dozen different ways if I could have. Always what I could have.

Then last week, Ted passed. How isn’t important. Just gone. And what could have been is nothing. Just what was. And all the bullshit that now adds up to all of everything. Just fuck what I said before about that night.

The Ballad of Phil's Foot

2008-07-28T21:25:00.000-07:00

Phil yelped and nearly fell out of his towel. Sharp pain suddenly devouring his right foot. FuckMeRunning, he squealed. But he was not running. He had fallen flat on his face.

Phil winced through watery eyes at the throbbing appendage. And there it was. The culprit. A small shard of glass—the residual of yesteryear’s broken light bulb or shattered beer bottle—lodged deep in his shower-softened skin.

The sore red area pinched between both of his thumbs, Phil tried to extract the glass like puss from a pimple. However, this accomplished little more than hurting like a motherfucker and Phil was soon crawling toward the bathroom on hands and knees. A pair of tweezers the subject of his pursuit.

Tweezers, they didn’t do the job. The glass too far embedded to grip. Next idea: a sewing needle. Phil would dig at the offending shard the same way his mother had often removed his most savage of splinters.

But Phil knew searching for a sewing needle in his house was a fool’s errand. His few dress shirts pocked with holes where buttons should be, his ratty old shorts cinched together at the top with safety pins. Phil had never found much use for sewing needles and finding one would indeed be like looking for a needle in a haystack. No worse. Looking for a needle in a haystack in which there wasn’t a needle.

* * *

Now Phil was onto plan C. Or plan D. Or whichever plan he was onto now. Now Phil had to improvise. Around his pad, he scoured for something close to the thin sharp metal of a sewing needle.

First, the thought of a knife occurred but was dismissed with haste. Likely too much tool for the job. Likely to make a mess. Likely it wouldn’t solve the glass splinter problem. Just add a knife-in-the-foot problem to the mix.

His eyes flitted over a small replica Empire State Building sitting on his bookshelf. The pointy pinnacle atop presented a tempting option. But this too Phil had to drop. The kitschy souvenir, a present from his grandfather given not two months before the old man’s passing. And just in case there was a heaven. And just in case Poppy was there. And just in case Poppy was looking down on him right at this moment. Phil didn’t want the guy to see his grandson penetrating a swollen extremity with his thoughtful gift. Of course, just in case.

Then he had it. A killer idea. So killer. Phil limped to the living room and extracted one staple from his desktop stapler, straightened it as best he could. Then, ever so cautiously, he dug into the tiny puncture wound surrounded by sore inflamed skin.

Ow, he said. But pressed on. OwOwOw, he said. But continued to jimmy the makeshift needle inside himself. OweyOweyOwey, he said. And it was obvious little would be accomplished. Intense stabs of agony? Sure. The sickening sound of metal on glass? Absolutely. But anything in the way of improvement? No, not at all.

* * *

So here was Phil feeling hopeless. Deciding he might just price check some wheelchairs on eBay. Or maybe a cane would be enough. But until he got his hands on any of the essential hardware, he’d have to make due. And as he scooted off to the kitchen on his desk chair—using only his left foot for propulsion—Phil wondered if at least he could get a handicapped plaque for his truck.

The foot, throbbing something awful. Throbbing so fiercely Phil could hear it. Throbbing so perfectly he wanted to dance to the beat. If he could. Which he couldn’t.

Louder and louder and louder it throbbed. Clouding out his better judgment and casting a dark shadow over any logical plan. And in this haze of pain and noise a bounty of new options arose. None of which made a damn lick of sense.

First, Phil considered wearing three maybe four socks for the rest of his days. To cushion the…no, no, he could do better than that. How about spreading some peanut butter thick around the wound and letting his dog lick away until…no, no, heaven forbid the sliver lodge itself in Bogie’s tongue. Could Phil ever forgive himself?

ThudThud, ThudThud, much too much to bear. ThudThud, ThudThud, enough. Phil took off in an awkward gait toward the garage. Drastic times and all that bullshit. He had little choice now. Waddling to the workbench, to the hack saw, to his last best hope. And then, just as the implement of relief was within reach, Phil stepped on his right foot the wrong way. And he totally ate shit.

On the cold, oil stained concrete of the garage floor lay Phil and an assortment of tools and supplies he had managed to clear off the workbench with his fall. A ratchet set, an Allen key, three small screws and a bottle of…

* * *

Later that evening Phil vigorously vacuumed and swept every room in his house. And to be safe, wore shoes throughout the process. Sure his foot still hurt. But it was the sort of dull pain that so often accompanies triumph. Like the aching lungs of a runner fresh off a marathon. Like the sore loins of a new mother.

The solution to his predicament had at the same time been far more elementary and far more bizarre than anything he had thought to try previous. And had it not so fortuitously landed—dare I say at his feet—then Phil might well have hobbled himself beyond repair.

So what happened. Phil, hopeless and helpless on the garage floor, found himself nose to nose with a bottle of Elmer’s Glue. And figuring all other possibilities exhausted. And remembering grade school days of peeling thin layers of Elmer’s off his hand like a snake’s shed skin. Phil figured, it was nontoxic. Phil figured, give it a try. Then the hacksaw.

And what would you know. A nice squirt of glue upon his foot. Rubbed slowly and thoroughly into the slit until it had dried into a nice film. Then with the steady hands of a champion Jenga player, Phil peeled away the thin coating. And with a marvelous pop, gone forever was the wretched splinter.

Back to that evening. Phil finished with the post-op house cleaning. In his bedroom, before him an open cigar box filled with baseball cards from childhood, friendship bracelets from summer camp, the Durex wrapper from his first time. And into this menagerie of memories he placed a small gluey wad. A little piece of himself.

Can't Get No

2008-07-21T20:37:00.000-07:00

Sunday
Carl, if a high school baseball injury hadn’t blown his shoulder, he would have given himself a pat on the back. The early morning cab ride more than paid for with last night’s tip haul. So while he only lived twelve blocks away, who needs a walk of shame when you can ride baby ride.
And Lisa or Linda or whatever it was, she had been all over him last night. Carl, not sure if loosening up patrons with free shots was some unethical fucking flirtation. Decided, fuck it, I’m the man. Decided, tips and tail what more was there? Decided, life is nothing but looking for satisfaction.

Monday
Oh damn, Carl wanted her bad. And while Lisa or Linda or whatnot had been a looker, this broad was a dime piece. Straight red hair hiding one eye and lips like inner tubes and totally looking like the real life Jessica Rabbit. One big problem, his drill wasn’t working for shit. He sent her free drink after free drink. First vodka cranberries. Then craziness like Jolly Jumpers and Pit Bulls on Crack, all about displaying his bartending prowess.
She took the drinks no problem. Thing was, anytime Carl stopped to chat her up, all the dude got was a one word answer or maybe a shoulder shrug. When she cut out hours before last call, hours before the end of his shift, Carl was burning for her. No ass, no number but still, she left a killer tip.

Tuesday
With a shit crowd, Carl pocketed some tabs. Old men with cheap drinks and tipping in little stacks of coins. Him just looking for a few more bucks to make the night worthwhile. To be honest, looking for a little kick. Or satisfaction. To be honest, whatever. And when, just as he slipped an illegitimate fiver in his pants, a hand—all braided with arthritis—grabbed him. When that happened, to be honest, Carl nearly shit.
Kid, the guy said. Kid, would it trouble you much helping this sauced ol’ feller to a cab? And what could Carl say? So bony paw on his forearm, Carl walked the dude out towards the street. Keep with it and surely you’re gonna lose the job, the guy said. And stopping Carl to look both way before he crossed the street, he said, Better to live in fear than to die in fear. Carl thinking, that’s a point. But when the guy tipped him half a dollar and a yellow grin, Carl thinking, fuck that. Anyways, his rent was past due.

Wednesday
If there was anything like karma in this world, Carl figured he’d get it good as the pretty boy over there. Asshole flanked by a couple prospects and flashing a wad like tomorrow was impossible. With Carl, bringing over round after round and getting a plastic thank you and a shit eating grin. Whatever, dude was just lucky.
Hump Day Hooch Night had Carl all over with half-priced well drinks. The place busy like an Eskimo Pie left near an anthill. And every time he looked up from a bottle of grenadine or a pearl onion he caught that jerk off smiling a smile and laughing a laugh and acting like tonight was just par for the course. But if this weren’t a drink special night, if Carl had room enough to maneuver, the dude wouldn’t look like prime shit no more. This Carl knew.

Thursday
Pounding shot and shot and shot. And even on his night off, Carl still found himself at the bar. Lisa or Linda or whats-her-name not returning his call. Bored and without plans and totally wishing he’d remembered her name and not left a voicemail addressed to hey you. A shot and to hell with the old fuck who caught him stealing. A shot and to hell with that slick prick from last night too.
The bartender on shift tonight made his rounds and chatted everyone up equally. No doubt in it to get paid. But benefiting from house shots all night, Carl couldn’t begrudge the guy nothing. Just shot and shot and shot. And not even a look up from the empties to check for some maybe action. Just shot and shot and shot. Until he figured to be something like satisfied.

Friday
So close to bounding over the oak and smashing the fool’s nose flat. The fucker ordered some whacked-out drink then coached Carl through the mixing all scoffs and eye rolls. So close to hopping the bar and making the asshole swallow some teeth. Dude pointed to his watch. What, had he expected the shit was on tap? And then—when Carl dropped the drink before him and the guy said, I wanted two olives you clod—then, so close was in the rearview mirror.
But as Carl wound back to slap the single-olived-swizzle-stick from the punk’s mouth, he was nabbed from behind, bear hugged. Mort the bouncer hauled his ass outside. Carl, squeezed tight like Snidely Whiplash bound him to the tracks. Listen buddy, Mort said. I don’t know your fucking issue but check it out, shit only piles on. Every day you make your decisions and every morning you have to wake up and live with all the decisions you’ve made. So think first, dig? And Carl nodded, thinking he wouldn’t be anything like satisfied tomorrow.

Saturday
All afternoon on the couch doing a whole lot of nothing. Television and weed and the pure fucking definition of nothing. Dude, Carl’s roommate said and stubbed out the second spliff on a wrecked coffee table. Dude, if you’re at the North Pole, like the total Northest of the North Pole, can you only walk in three directions? I mean if you’re as North as you can go, aren’t the only options South, East and West?
Carl, less satisfied than ever, got his ass off the couch, went for a warm beer. And slurping down foam he thought, the hell am I doing. Thought, whatever satisfaction is, this is just fuckall. Thought, if quitting wasn’t so easy he’d have something to show for himself. But that was always the problem, huh? The only thing easier than quitting was never trying to begin with.

Next Time's a Charm Pt. 2

2008-07-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the conclusion of last week's story. So read that one first. Or you won't know what's what.

The bar again. It’s been a half hour solid. No Walt, no Walt’s boyfriend, just me and my lost cause. Two more shots and I don’t feel any less nervous. Just slightly more nauseous.

Better off this way, that I’ve been stood up. Now nothing’s holding me here. I can cut out, forget the misadventure. Still, dudes pack the dance floor like divorcees at a Tom Jones concert. How I’ll escape, I can’t say. The air is warm, not easy to breathe. I just want to lie down.

Thinking, I need a plan but not able to think much beyond. Thinking, what a fuckup I am. Thinking, all this time wasted on a half-baked plan. Can a plan be quarter-baked?

The newspaper, on Sunday it lists local happenings, shindigs. I had pulled the section and studied. Combed through the nightclubs and bars like a diabetic reading nutrition facts. Had to. At best they gave only subtle hints. Cryptic clues pointing toward the sexual preference of a given joint. Phrases like “Great for a guy’s night out,” caught my eye. But I was cautious—probably just a sports bar. The tag “Open-minded atmosphere,” more promising. Eventually, I compiled a list—short though it was—of potential spots.

Today, I woke up about noon and spent the next couple hours trying to talk myself out of this monkey business. In the end, figured I’d scout the three finalists.

First place I dropped by, Chameleon’s, turned out a drag joint. And while the whole “dress like a woman, think like a woman, understand the woman” philosophy has some merit, I decided to hold that for plan B. Next, The Cave, looked like it had a leather dress code. Last on my list, Charlie Horse, was more what I had in mind. Nothing too flashy, too kinky. This I could dig.

But now, now I kind of wish I’d tried my luck at The Cave. My brown leather jacket, it once belonged to my dad. Not so much hip and trendy as middle-aged suburban chic but probably would’ve gotten me in. And once inside, I couldn’t have done any worse than I was doing now.

“Excuse me,” I hear. The voice thick with accent. Over my shoulder, a tall olive-skinned man.

“Excuse me.” Again, now that he has my attention. “But I wonder, how do I get service here?”

“You want a drink?” Making sure we’re on the same page.

“Nice of you to offer,” he smiles. “I will have bourbon.”

Well played. I wave to the bartender. Vodka for me, bourbon for my new friend.

“I’m Josh,” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Marc.” A pause. “It is good to meet you also.”

We sit and we sip. For a few minutes nobody talks. Occasionally glancing at Marc. He smiles.

“I like this place,” he says finally. “The people, they are quite friendly.”

“It’s not bad. The music’s awfully loud. And the dance floor’s all crowded. And there’s that smell of cologne…”

Marc interrupts with a laugh. “You misunderstand me,” he says. “I do not mean this bar. I mean your country. It is a good place. Better than I have been told.”

“Yeah, land of the free and home of the brave. Good times for all.”

“I do not understand. My English is not…excellent. What is it you mean by that?”

“Nothing, just an old saying.”

“Ah, yes. An expression. In France we have one, ‘Taper dans l'oeil.’ Word by word it means, ‘to hit in the eye.’ But as an expression, it is, ‘to be pleasing to the eye.’ Do you understand?”

And just like that, we’re flirting.

“Why are you here?” I say.

“It is Friday night. Would I be at home?”

“No, In America, I mean. What brings you to America?”

“Ah, America. My sister, she studies here. I am just on a visit. But it is nice, you know? The people, they are kind and the cute ones always buy me drinks.”

We sit quietly. Marc orders the next round. We sit quietly but it’s not uncomfortable. Somehow, the language barrier excuses awkward silence. Makes it understandable silence. Unavoidable silence. Relaxed silence.

“I must leave now,” Marc says. “I have promised to meet my sister for coffee after she has finished with her studies for the day. But it was very enjoyable meeting you Josh.”

“Yeah, Marc. It was nice to meet you too.”

“Take this please,” he says, scribbles a number on the inside of a matchbook. “I will be in town until the end of the month. We should have dinner, no?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

~ ~ ~

I wake early the next morning. Eyes heavy with hangover, the sun is way too bright. I open my fridge and grab a bottle of water and head down to the bakery for a cranberry muffin.

In the alley, Duke’s propped against the brick wall, breaking up discarded cigarette butts. Combining the leftover tobacco to build a fresh smoke.

“Josh! You don’t look tiptop.”

“Long night, Duke. But I feel alright.”

“Maybe you just look that way on account of all the poison They’re feeding you.”

“The Government?”

“The one and only!” Duke pats his belly with one hand, places the skinny cigarette in his mouth with the other. I toss him a book of matches.

“No need to worry. I quit the soda. Diet and regular. They can’t get me now.”

“No? Well, what you got there? Water?”

“Just a little H2O Duke, no healthier drink.”

“That so? Think about all them chemicals from the plastic bottle seeping on into your beverage. A cancer cocktail, if ever there was.”

I bank the half-empty bottle off the alley wall, into a dumpster.

“That a’boy, fight the power. You know, I only tell you this because I care for my people. Not trying to frighten you or nothing. Just being the best Duke I can be.”

“Thanks.”

“Well enough with the small talk. Tell your old buddy how things went. Spare no juicy detail…or, if the details are too juicy you might just summarize. But let’s hear it, brother.”

“No juicy details to speak of. I gave it the old college try. But I’m not sure hitting on gay men is any practice for hitting on straight women.”

“Me, I never went to college but I could’ve told you that much.”

“Duke, it was your idea!”

“I have lots of ideas, my man. Not all of ‘em top shelf. But tell me this, did you learn anything? Anything at all?”

“Yeah, wasn’t a total bust. Actually, I’ve got some plans for tonight.”

“Well? What’d you pick up, kid?”

“Just an idea. I’ll tell you if it works out.”

~ ~ ~

Deep in the evening when I get there. Half a red sun perched on the horizon. In a different season, everything would be dark by now.

Ornamental wooden doors are propped open and inside I can make out the rough shapes of people—dancing and chatting and having an all around good time. Roll my shoulders, inhale deep—I smell pleasantly of Hugo Boss—and walk past a bouncer with more muscles than a seafood restaurant.

I slip through the crowd, closer and closer to the bar. Music, loud and not all too clear. A poppy R&B song—everyone in the mood for a little bump and grind.

A few feet from the bar, survey the scene. Folks huddled together, usually in groups of two or four, timing interactions with the bartender so their next drink will arrive just as their current one is finished off. Further on down, a lone figure.

“Excuse me,” I say and boy does she jump. “But how would one get service here?”

“You want a drink?” She’s confused by my heavy and unidentifiable accent.

“Sweet of you to offer. I’ll take vodka.”

She laughs. “That’s a good one.” Flags down the bartender, she orders us a couple drinks. “Interesting accent. Where are you from?”

“France,” I say. “Your country is very nice. Always, cute women are buying me drinks.”

She smiles and we sit. Drinking in a calm and comfortable silence.

Next Time's a Charm Pt. 1

2008-07-07T20:54:00.000-07:00

A tickle when sweat drips from my armpit, down the side of my ribcage. A techno number—sampling, of all things, the theme from Braveheart—too loud for me to think. A whole lot of lights in a whole lot of colors and it’s total sensory overload.

“Fuck,” I say to myself. “Fuck, fuck, I am so fucked.”

And I really am fucked. Got in way over my head this time. Inching through a crowd of people—happy, dancing people—I see their polo shirts, skinny jeans, their leather shoes and I don’t fit in at all. My loose sweater, cargo pants, my sneakers—they’re new and not too shabby but still I can’t compete. I’m not happy and I’m sure-as-shit not dancing.

Hugo Boss all up in my nostrils, I choke a bit. It’s everywhere, like one of these sharply dressed folks spontaneously combusted and the fire sprinklers sprayed cologne. Me, smelling of Old Spice anti-perspirant. I want my money back.

Through the sea of people, I pass like a modern-day Moses, find myself at the bar. The most fortunate turn all night far as I’m concerned. Give me beer or give me death. I sit on a stool, close my eyes and wait for the bartender.

Music still pounding. So loud it’s beyond sound. So loud I feel it, causes my liver to twitch. I try a meditation exercise a friend once taught me. Big breath in, now imagine you’re a wave washing up on the beach—peaceful, pristine. Exhale and you roll back out to sea—beautiful, the natural order of things…

“Want a drink, or a nap?” someone says. Snaps me back.

“Huh...uh…draft beer…” I start. Then think better. If my shoes, my scent haven’t given me away, I don’t want my adult beverage to do the job. “Or, forget that. Green apple martini.”

The bartender laughs. Big, earthy chuckle. It shakes my bones and combined with the thumping techno, I fear I may implode. A gold tooth glows in his mouth and for some reason the guy’s wearing sunglasses. Even though he’s indoors. Even though it’s night.

“That’s a girlie drink,” he says. “And we don’t serve those here if you get my drift.” Another heavy laugh and he slaps my shoulder. I squirm, realize I’m even more fucked than I thought.

Before I revise my order, two shots hit the bar. The bartender shows his gold tooth—I guess that’s a smile.

“On me,” he says. “Your first time here, no?”

Nod. We each down a shot.

“Loosen up,” he says. “Everyone’s first time is sometime.” Can’t argue with that logic. “You’ll fit right in.” He lifts his sunglasses to wink then moves down the bar to another customer.

I swivel on my stool, look at the dance floor. People. They’re enjoying themselves, and for a moment I wonder if I should join. I wonder if I should jump in. Dive in. Sink or swim. I wonder how I let myself get into this mess. Then I wonder where the bathroom is. Because I really have to piss.

The men's room, first thing I notice—before the erotic yet tasteful painting on the wall—how clean the place is. No crumpled paper towels inches from the trash can—some guys have terrible aim. No puddles near the urinals—like I said. And it smells of Hugo Boss. Which now, I’m getting used to.

I saddle up, face a large canvas with a naked woman’s watercolored behind and make sure to steady my stream. Lest I risk blowing my cover again.

Washing my hands, another patron enters the piss parlor. Tall and blonde and has a wine colored shirt. He smiles when I carefully place my used paper towel in the trash. Then he extends a hand.

“Walt,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

This is it. Work it. Time to work it. “Hi Walt, I’m Josh.” We shake.

“You’ve never been here before have you?”

“No. That obvious?”

“It’s just, you have quite a distinguished…style. And that’s something I don’t forget.”

Not too bad. No sir. Maybe not so fucked after all. Maybe this was actually a good idea.

“So,” Walt says. “How’s this compare to your regular joint?”

“My regular joint?”

“You know. Your regular bar”

“Oh. To be honest, I’ve never been to a gay bar before.”

Walt smiles. Knowing, smug. “A newbie,” he says. “Cute. Why don’t you meet me at the bar in twenty? I’d love to introduce you to my boyfriend. We’ll buy you a shot. Nobody should drink alone.”

Boyfriend? Flirting, really it was friendly banter. Not fucked, really I’m totally fucked.

“Thanks,” I say. “See you in a few.”

~ ~ ~

Last weekend was when I decided to give it a go. It was supposed to be an experiment. It was supposed to teach me a thing or two. It was supposed to change my life. What it wasn’t, was my idea.

Saturday morning, left my apartment and walked around the corner and up the alley toward my favorite bakery. Duke was there, hunched over on a milk crate. Always.

“Hey Duke,” I said. “What’s cracking?”

“What’s cracking? They’re trying to kill us is all. Same as last week and the week before and every week since They realized we ain’t going nowhere!” His beard was so thick, so bushy I couldn’t see his lips. Words rained from a cloud of grizzled hair.

“Nobody’s trying to kill us, Duke. Hell, if anyone wanted to kill you they’d have done it by now. You never leave the alley.”

“Oh, you’re wrong. You are WRONG! They’re killing me alright, They’re killing you too. They don’t have to know where I sleep at night to get me. And They don’t discriminate between noblemen like myself and common peasants.”

Duke, he swore that was a title. Swore he descended from Scottish nobility. Maybe. But I was still pretty sure that Duke was only his name.

“Who’s trying to kill us?” I asked, squatted on my haunches.

“Who do you think? The Government, like always. They have big charts and computer-made-graphs and They figure ain’t enough room on this earth for us all. Running low on food and fuel and forests and They take it as duty to thin the herd. Well I’ve lived in an alley for a half decade through and I ain’t thin yet. So good luck to them is what I say.”

I first met Duke the day I moved into my apartment. He was making the rare trip from his ally to a corner bodega. Carton of milk in one hand, a half smoked cigarette wedged in his beard.

It was a busy afternoon. People going this way, that way. Trying to make it home, trying to mind their own business. Duke, the only one to offer me help with boxes. We finished and I tried to buy him dinner. But he was too proud for that. Said a good nobleman helps his subjects, asks nothing in return.

“So, the Government’s trying to kill us to curb overpopulation?”

“Oh, They’re not trying. They’re goddamn succeeding. They’re smart you see. Doing it slowly. Slowly but surely.”

“Duke man, you’re paranoid. I’m gonna grab a bagel, you want a Coke or something?”

“Ha! See, that’s my point, brother. That is my point. You buy the Coke and what do you get? All the sugar They can dissolve in water. Sure enough They’ve put you one step closer to a heart attack.”

“Then I’ll get you a Diet Coke.”

“Diet Coke, chock full of chemicals! You’ll get the Big C for sure. That’s what They do—poison you. Microwave some food, just turns it radioactive. Plop down in front of the tele, They beam radiation right to your brain. They’re taking us out and ain’t a thing to do about it.”

“So why worry? If we can’t do anything about it, why even worry?”

“Who’s worried, brother? I’m just warning you—live your life while you got it. ‘Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.”

“Thanks, Duke. I appreciate that.”

“Because Josh, I worry for you.”

Wow. The man lives in an alley, babbles conspiracy theories and he’s worried for me. Talk about a downer.

“Why’s that Duke? I’m doing alright.”

“Because a man your age, he should be thinking about one thing and one thing only. You know what I mean, my boy?”

Nearly said keeping a roof over my head, realized that might have been on the rude side. Shook a no.

“Women, brother. Beautiful, beautiful women. And long as I’ve known you, ain’t ever seen you with a nice lass on your arm. Not once. Ain’t ever seen you bring one to the bakery for a spot of breakfast after a hard night’s work. If you get where I’m coming from…”

“Ever think I might not score points by introducing a lady to the local bum?” And I felt like a grade-A cocksucker right off.

“Josh, that’s cold. But a benevolent ruler never holds a slip of the tongue against a lowly peon. Just try to show more respect in the future.”

Thing was, women were kind of a sore subject with me. There was something about the fairer sex I didn’t get. They seemed foreign—exotic, mysterious, intimidating. They humbled me like nothing else.

Two months ago I vowed off the singles scene after one particularly shitty incident.

At a club on the North end of town, I had tried to drink myself courageous. Seven pints in, decided to give it a go. Stumbling to the far end of the bar, I took a seat next to a short, dark haired woman with over-glossed lips. So shiny I could see my reflection in them.

“Uh, would you like a drink?” I said, legs twitching something fierce.

Forced, tightlipped smile and she blew a quick breath from her nose. No words, pointed to a nearly full margarita sitting before her.

“Right…well, maybe later,” I said, watching myself go red in her lips. Just sitting next to her for another few minutes—the silence burning my ears—before I retreated out the door.

Back in the alley I tried explaining to Duke how I’ve never been smooth with the women.

“What do you mean, ‘smooth’?”

“I get nervous, flustered. Can’t be myself.”

“Well, how’s it you ain’t nervous with me. Hell, I might lack a set of ovaries. But kid, I’m kinda intense. Most people, they avoid me. You seem ‘smooth’ enough.”

“Too bad you’re not a young lady, Duke. I’d be on easy street.”

“Well brother, maybe you need some practice,” Duke said and I think he was smiling. But with that beard it’s anyone’s guess.

“What’re you getting at?”

“Well, like you said you need to work at some smoothness. It ain’t happening with the ladies, so maybe, maybe you oughtta try your shtick on the dudes. You know, for practice. Then take your learnings, really knock them dames for a loop.”

“Duke,” I said. “Might be you’re on to something.”

Next Week: the conclusion of Next Time's a Charm

The Prophet With His Poison Tongue

2008-06-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. I try to help you and you flip me off. I try to save you and you pay me no mind. And while other prophets may have been ignored in their lifetimes—validated by future generations—me, I won’t have the luxury.

Sometimes you toss me a few coins. Like I’m a bum. Sometimes you drop a doggie bag at my feet. Like I’m in this for half a chicken fried steak. And besides, your money will be no good. Not when the time comes. Your comfort food will be of no comfort. Not when the time comes.

But I stand on my simple mount and preach my simple sermon. The End is near, I tell you. Best be ready, I tell you. Time is not forever, I tell you. And you pull your children close. And you keep walking. And you say, forget the crazy man, Dear. Forget the crazy man. And me, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.

* * *

From thousands of years back the Mayans saw it coming. Their calendar, racking up the k’ins (days), the unials (months), the tuns (years). Ticking away like an odometer, closer and closer to the end of the Great Cycle. 5,200 years in the making. Closer and closer to the End of History.

For us, it will be December twenty-first, two thousand and twelve. What I mean is, by the Roman calendar, the Great Cycle ends on 12/21/12. One two, two one, one two. Add them together and that’s 3,3,3. Maybe not the Number of the Beast but halfway there. For them, it was to be 13.0.0.0.0. What I mean is, by the Mayan calendar, the Great Cycle ends on a perfect thirteen. How lucky is that?

And check this out: that day—12/21/12 if you like, 13.0.0.0.0 if you’re a stickler for accuracy—that day is the winter solstice, shortest day of the year. And while the sun makes but the briefest of appearances, on that day it crosses paths with the galactic equator. Bam.

So what happens? Floods, earthquakes? Tornadoes, hurricanes? 5,200 years coming. Four years to go. An End to History.

* * *

Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You laugh at the dirty old man, the loony fool. But there is no time for laughter. There is no time for levity. There is no time for apathy. Because really, there is no time.

Once in awhile you sit by my corner, in my square. Play your guitar and sing your songs and wink at passersby as you drown out my message. As you drown out the message. I tell you, sir, I’m preaching here. I tell you, sir, even if you don’t care, others must be reached. I tell you, sir, the End is near. There is no time for merrymaking.

And of course you care not. You tell me, bro, I’m preaching too. You tell me, bro, the people don’t dig on downers. You tell me, bro, I’m singing ‘bout peace. There’s always time for peace.

But really there isn’t. And I tell you as much but you laugh. Everybody laughs. You tell me, bro, you’re crazy. And I tell you, sir, I might be crazy. But I’m not the only one.

* * *

Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. He didn’t know about any Great Cycle, didn’t know about any 13.0.0.0.0. Nostradomus wasn’t any Mayan. But he called the End of History just the same.

And check this out: Nostradomus, he predicted all sorts of crap using judicial astrology—forecasted the future based on the movements of stars, movements of planets. Sound familiar? Did he see the solstice sun cross the galactic equator? Fucked if I know. But whatever he saw, what he made of it was plenty clear.

What he predicted: he predicted three Antichrists, three manifestations of evil, three destructive forces—3,3,3—that would precede the End of History. The first—an Emperor born near Italy who would exhaust his forces in Russian snow—was Napoleon. The second—a Captain of Germany whose revolt would cause great bloodshed—that was Hitler. The third—the Antichrist who finally ushers in the End—the third Antichrist is the worst of the bunch.

Of the third, Nostradomus wrote, he’ll “come out of the country of Greater Arabia.” Nostradomus wrote, “From the sky will come the great King of Terror.” Clear enough? Terror from the sky?

The most important historical event of the new century and Nostradomus called it almost half a millennium ago. And more, he knew this wasn’t just some serious shit. Really, this was the End of all serious shit.

* * *

Maybe you’ve seen me. By the corner, with my sandwich board. In the square, on my milk crate. You pity me. But still I try to help you. You ignore me. But still I try to inform you. You laugh at me. But still I try.

You need to know nothing lasts. You need to know there’s always an End. You need to know it only grows closer. Never further away.

Of course, I understand your reluctance. You refuse to accept that there is an ebb and flow. You refuse to accept that you are temporary. That everything is temporary. Of course, you are afraid. But fear is not excuse enough. Not for me.

So prepare, I tell you. Repent if that’s what you believe in, I tell you. Make amends if you have amends to make, I tell you. I might be crazy, I tell you. But I’m not the only one.

I might be crazy, I tell you. But all things considered, there’s something to be said for experiencing the End of History. And there’s something to be said for peace of mind.

The Correspondence

2008-06-23T20:28:00.000-07:00

From: Peter Smithson
To: Nathan Himes
Subject: Happy Monday!

Dear Nate-the-Great,
Not that I need to remind you buddy, but this is going to be a most busy week. An initial report for the Chester account is due Wednesday and I’m going to need you to redraft your charts. Basically, a pie chart with only two sections looks a tad dull. So, what I’d like is for you to redo them as bar graphs. Thanks buddy.
Speaking of bars, hope you didn’t get too drunk this weekend, lol. We don’t need another situation like last Monday, with you all hungover and slurping down a whole pot of coffee. That coffee’s for the whole office, buddy. Lol. Any-who, good luck with those graphs.
Sincerely,
Pete

From: Nathan Himes
To: Peter Smithson
Subject: Crappy Monday

Dear Peter,
I’m a full grown man. Call me Nathan. Call me Nate. But kill this Nate-the-Great shit. You sound like my grandfather.
The Chester account is not my department. While you may be my superior, any graphs constructed were done only as a personal favor, not a professional duty. I gave you pie charts because I figured a fellow as portly as yourself would have an easier time relating to something that looked edible. My mistake. I’ve got my own work to do here. Any changes you need, make them yourself.
Finally, as you know corporate can read all company e-mails. Therefore, I’d prefer you didn’t speculate when it comes to my weekend activities. I’m sure the higher ups might frown upon my off-hours drinking, just as they might frown upon the bottle of cheap whiskey in the bottom drawer of your desk. Oops, I forgot they can read our e-mails. Sorry. Lol.
Very Truly Yours,
Nathan

From: Peter Smithson
To: Nathan Himes
Subject: Sincere Apologies

Dear Nate,
I’m so, so sorry you took offense to the nickname. I assure you, it was meant only as a show of affection. However, since we're on the subject, I’d appreciate if you referred to me as Mr. Smithson, or simply Boss in all future communications.
While the Chester account is not technically your responsibility, as your supervisor I have full authority to delegate tasks. So if I tell you I want a bar graph, give me a goddamn bar graph.
To conclude this correspondence, whatever’s stored in my desk is entirely my business. Just as whatever’s stored in your desk, such as a huge pile of condoms, is entirely your business. And whatever happens to those condoms, such as their tendency to disappear each time your secretary frequents your office, well that’s your business too. Certainly not any of my business. And certainly not any of the higher ups’ business. And certainly, certainly not any of your wife’s business.
With respect and admiration,
Boss Smithson

From: Nathan Himes
To: Peter Smithson
Subject: Blow Me

Dear Captain Douche Bag,
First, in all future communications, please refer to me as King Himes: Master of Pie Charts. Or better yet, don’t refer to me at all.
Next, with respect to the Chester account, you can turn your bar graphs sideways and shove them up your fat ass. Be careful though, I wouldn’t want you to incur any brain damage.
And lastly, I’d like to clear things up with regards to the interoffice romance referenced in your previous e-mail. Not that I owe you an explanation. As you may be aware, everything a man does, he does with one goal in mind. That goal, of course, being pussy. Some men prefer sporadic, varied pussy. Other men, frequent and familiar pussy.
For example, one man might use his position of authority to diversify his pussy intake. By the same account, another man might embezzle a little cash so his wife doesn’t leave his pathetic, overweight ass. Thus stabilizing his flow of commonplace pussy. That being said, mention the secretary situation to my wife and I’ll choke you to death with your stupid fucking Tweety Bird necktie.
Love you lots,
Mr. Nathan Himes

From: Martin Shaw
To: Peter Smithson
Cc: Nathan Himes
Subject: Urgent

Dear Misters Smithson and Himes,
I would very much like to see you both in my office as soon as possible. Feel free to bring your secretaries and/or whiskey bottles with you. While you will soon have little need for the former, the latter may provide some consolation.
Many thanks,
Martin Shaw
President, Shaw Analysts Group

Wandering

2008-06-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

With the heavy summer heat, a smothering blanket. With the acidic winter cold, a badger gnawing at exposed flesh. Probably, you can count the number of nice New York days on your hands. Combine spring and autumn and you’ll get a week and a half of mild, sunny weather. Total. And if you’re lucky, a couple of those days you’ll be off work.

I’m not about to risk it.

Today, I call out. All the flowers blossoming, I say my sinuses are killing me. All the pollen in the air, I have a major migraine. On the other end, The Boss sounds less than sympathetic. But in an office without windows, on a day this choice, can I blame him? And I’m totally full of shit. So can I blame him?

I take the subway into Manhattan. Because days like today, they’re worth more than fifteen bucks an hour.

A Helluva Sight.

In SoHo, I look at shops I can’t afford to shop at. I look at restaurants I can’t afford to eat at. I look at a homeless man with his rubbery prick in hand. Standing in front of a bougie boutique, pissing on a pile of garbage. I assume he’s homeless, being he isn’t housebroken.

Men in suits pass, say nothing. Students in bright purple t-shirts don’t even look. New York City, everybody fits in. And on a day this fine, nobody’s about to worry on account of a little urine.

The homeless man zips up, proceeds to root around in the trash for cans and bottles and assorted treasure. More power to him.

Northward Bound.

Moving slowly and without any real point. What they call a New York Walk is the exact opposite of this. New York Walks are for days too hot or days too cold or days when you have someplace to be. New York Walks are for most New York days. And today is anything but.

At Washington Square Park, old men play chess and smoke long brown cigarettes. A college kid sitting on concrete steps strums an acoustic guitar, collects loose change in an NYU hat. A wannabe bohemian. A well-fed artist.

Some man with no shirt offers me coke. Some girl with a long dress offers me salvation. To both, I politely decline.

The 1 train takes me to midtown where businessmen who don’t give half a shit about the weather push past tourists who don’t realize how they’ve lucked out. The businessmen, too into themselves to notice. The tourists, too into everything else.

Who Could Have Anyplace Better to Be?

Just inside Central Park, a man in a jury-rigged clown costume twists and folds balloon animals. Striped pajama pants, a plain white undershirt stretched over his gut. No makeup but a red foam nose. And at least a dozen children lined up. Waiting. They request giraffes and tigers and hippos that all look exactly alike.

I nod slightly to the clown. He winks and turns his attention back to the kiddies. If I had offspring, I wouldn’t let them within spitting distance of this guy. But lucky for me, I don’t have offspring. Lucky for my offspring.

Cherry blossoms and fresh green lawn. Toddlers stumble around like drunkards. Weeping willows and just opening daffodils. Kids lazily toss a baseball back and forth between bare hands. Bees and statues of important men on horses. Young ladies in bikinis sunbathe with raggedy paperbacks. Blackbirds and boulders. Men in shorts far too short jog with their iPods.

And I wonder, damn, shouldn’t these people be in school? Or at work…

Love is in the Air. Or Maybe Just Pollen.

A walkway shaded by trees, lined with artists busy sketching young couples. Most days, these guys would do back flips just to make eye contact with a passerby. But spring is for lovers. And with the Valentine’s Day hangover still thick as fog, no park-side doodler is without subject.

Heading north slowly, without any real point. I see a man kneel and remove a small, velvet box from his pocket. This all happens not fifteen feet away. Before he can get a word out, before he even opens his mouth, the woman with him screams. Oh my God, she says. Oh my God, oh my God, of course I will.

What I first want to say is, I give it a year, tops. Just to be funny. Just to be a dick. But I can’t. So I keep on strolling. Because today, it’s far too prime a day to be a total asshole.

And I don’t want to say I start misting up. Just that maybe my allergies are kicking in for real. So I move East. Out of the park and away from all the blossoming vegetation. Or away from all the puppy love. Whatever.

Time Keeps Moving. Too Far Sometimes.

Countless hi-rise apartment buildings and sushi restaurants. Upscale thrift stores and gourmet markets. To my left, the yard of a convalescence home is partitioned off by a tall fence of iron bars. A handful of elderlies hunched over in wheelchairs, propped on walkers with tennis ball-padded legs.

And up against the fence, an old man with paper skin and sagging jowls grips the bars with both hands. His gaze follows me until I’m no longer in his field of vision. Then he looks back to the street traffic.

Like an inmate whose only crime is age. But criminals can be paroled, pardoned. The old man, he’s only getting older. His prison’s only getting smaller and there will be no time off for good behavior. But at least he’s outside. On a day like today, that’s as much as anybody can ask.

Low Tide Blues.

When the sky goes pink I figure it’s getting toward happy hour. On Second Avenue there’s no shortage of bars offering the two for one but anything with an outdoor patio has a line like Splash Mountain. So I end up in a dark room with a warm glass of whiskey. But that’s alright.

Heading home I take the local train, making three stops for every one on the express line. I can use the sit. And the whiskey, dense in my belly, it fights off boredom. Sure, a forty-minute subway ride is milked for a solid hour. But that’s alright.

At home, my inbox is full of emails from The Boss. Listing assignments and meetings and important presentations that occurred. Nothing asking about my migraine. Listing projects and reports and everything I missed out on. Everything I missed out on. But that’s alright.

Inappropriate Proposition

2008-06-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

“Can you imagine the first bastard to ever eat an egg?” This is Big Larry talking. Talking with a mouth full of omelette. “All those other cavemen must have looked at him like he’d lost it.”

Gil isn’t at all sure what Big Larry’s getting at. “I’m not at all sure what you’re getting at,” he says.

“Listen kid, what in the name of fuck would compel a person to eat cooked chicken menstruation?” A string of American cheese stretches from the corner of Big Larry’s mouth to his chin. One hand holding a fork, the other stretched across the pleather booth like he’s cradling an invisible date. The waitress approaches and Big Larry waves her off before she can speak. Doesn’t even look at her, just waves her off. “Because that’s all an egg is, a goddamn chicken period. But some nut decided to eat one, figured it was tasty, now we call them eggs. Much more appetizing.”

Across the table Gil nurses a cup of black coffee. Dark, like his prospects. Bitter, like Gil himself. “I guess you got a point.”

“Of course I have a point,” Big Larry says. “But I haven’t gotten to it yet. Just listen, pollen is nothing but tree jizz. I’m telling you kid, that’s exactly what it is. But nobody calls it that. Can you imagine people walking around all spring and bitching ‘This damn Elm cum is making me sneeze.’ That would never fly. So we call it pollen. Now, do you get my point?”

Gil has no fucking idea what Big Larry is talking about. But he doesn’t say as much. Gil, he just scratches at his two-day stubble and stares Big Larry straight in the eyes. All this, trying his damnedest to come off as thoughtful.

“Listen Kid,” Big Larry says. “What I’m trying to get across is, in this life you’ve got two choices. Either you look at things the way you want them to be or you look at things the way they are. Either you choose to be right or you choose to be happy.”

* * *

The omelette, gone. Gil, on his third cup of coffee. “I got a question,” he says. “You can’t be more than five foot nine, a buck forty. So why’s everyone call you Big Larry?”

Big Larry pats his not-so-big belly and says, “Kid, once was a time my reputation preceded me. My reputation, let’s say it entered the room about ten inches before I did. You get my point?”

“I get it, yeah,” Gil says. And standing up, he chokes down the last of his stale coffee, grimaces at the taste and says, “Yeah, I get it. But there’s places I gotta be. Get my point?”

“Your point is you’re a broke, shit-eating, ingrate,” Big Larry snaps. “So sit down and listen up. Sit down, and thank me for the three cups of joe I bought you. Listen up, and maybe you won’t be so goddamn broke this time tomorrow.”

To save a shred of pride, Gil stares right back at Big Larry. He stares for a beat, but there isn’t any doubt who’s in control here. There isn’t any doubt Gil’s going to sit back down. The waitress approaches and this time it’s Gil who waves her off before she can speak. “Okay,” he says. “But I don’t wanna hear no more about any tree busting its load.”

“Kid,” Big Larry says. “I can’t spit out a window without hitting someone you owe money to. Of this you’d have to agree.” Gil nods. “What I have for you is a proposition. Do what I ask, you’ll be rewarded. Will it be enough to wipe out your debts? No Gil, no it won’t. Will it be enough to keep your knee out of a cast for the next couple weeks? I would think so.”

“Okay,” Gil says. “Let’s hear it.”

* * *

“Right now Kid, right now relations between Missus Big Larry and myself are a shambles. We kept the flame burning longer than most, but right now, right now the connection just isn’t there. And you know, these days they'll stick a prenup in your Happy Meal. But back when the Missus and I tied the knot, wasn’t the case.”

“Jesus, man,” Gil says. And his eyes are so wide an onlooker would swear they’re Q-balls. The waitress approaches and both men wave her off before she can speak. “I don’t know what you heard about me but no, man. No. I won’t kill your wife.”

Big Larry’s head flings back so hard it bounces off the pleather cushions and he laughs something awful. Sounds like smokers cough. “Kid, you’re alright,” he manages before another laughing spell.

“Listen,” Big Larry says finally. “I can’t remember the last time the Missus and I had relations and I didn’t pretend she was someone else entirely. No different than masturbating really, if you had a right hand always bitching about the toilet seat being up.”

And while Gil is relieved that murder was not the deal to be brokered, he’s also a little disappointed. When he figured Big Larry was setting up a hit, it was the only time all evening Gil felt they were on the same page. Everything said before and since may just as well have been Greek.

“Here’s the point kid, I can’t divorce my wife on account of having no prenup. I can’t kill her on account of me not being a complete prick. What I’ve got to do is appease the lady. Keep her off my case. Keep her satisfied.” Big Larry winks a big wink. “However, as you might assume, half a lifetime married to a fellow with my reputation, Missus Big Larry has certain standards. But Gil, you have quite a reputation yourself.”

“So, you’re asking me to bone your lady?” Gil says, totally tactful. “And you’re gonna give me coin to do it?”

“Yeah Kid, that’s the offer,” Big Larry sighs. “Now, you can look at this two ways. Either you can look at this the way you want it to be. And then, you’re doing me a favor. Or you can look at this the way it is. And then, you’re nothing but a whore. Two choices kid, be happy or be right.”

For the first time all evening, Gil grins. “I don’t care much about being happy or being right. The way I see it, in this life the only choice I have is to get paid.”

“Kid,” says Big Larry. “We can shake on that.”

A Modern Magellan

2008-06-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

Get this. There are no more frontiers. Not in terms of real estate. In now times, you can’t just move in and lay claim. Globalization and public relations and the Internet, they make it a bitch to pull off. Look at Iraq. Look how that’s turned out. No, you can’t barge in and grab land anymore. You’re liable to look like a real fuckhead

You say, I’m wrong. You say, ever see Star Trek? You say, space, it’s the final frontier. What I say is this: fuck space. Space is cold and dark. Space, nobody owns it so nobody wants it. It was the final frontier when everybody was trying to get there. It was the end-all be-all of adventure when there was a race on. Now, it’s nothing. Why do you think 1972 was the last moonwalk? Because we got there and nobody else owned it, so there was no point in taking it.

But a frontier, it’s a border. Where something ends and another thing begins, another thing entirely. A border. Between comfort and the unknown. A border. Between what’s yours and what’s not. My point being this: frontiers, they don’t necessarily divide land.

* * *

Get this. New York City was all Lanape Indians when the first Europeans showed up. And after Whitey tired of trading with the Lanape, after all the beavers had been killed for their pelts and there wasn’t anything left to exploit, after all that the Europeans sent the Indians packing. Sent them West. And they turned New York into a crowded heap of concrete. What’s more, they kept the Lanape name “Manhattan.” Maybe because they weren’t creative enough to think of another title. Maybe because they liked to rub it in.

They took. Moreover, they took with a certain satisfaction, a certain lack of shame that seemed to say, “Fuck you and everyone you know. And everyone they know too.” My point being this: even in the time of real adventurers, discovery was just another word for theft.

* * *

Get this. A good while ago, I stole a beer from some guy at a party. What I discovered, it was half drunk. What I discovered, it was still cold, it tasted good. Admittedly, that was both an asshole move and also disgusting. What’s more, the party was a kegger. So not only was stealing the beer fucked up and gnarly, it was completely unnecessary. That’s likely why it tasted so good.

What people always say when I tell them about this. What people always say is, I’m a punk, not an adventurer. What I always say when people call me a punk. What I always say is, punks take candy from babies, adventurers take honey from bears. My point being this: adventure is in the risk, be it the risk of a drunken sucker punch or the risk of an expertly chucked tomahawk.

* * *

Get this. In any large city, see someone walking down the street holding a black plastic bag and inside is either liquor or pornography. Without exception. Find someone carrying a black plastic bag filled with baby formula or bibles and I’ll eat my hat. It never happens. Why I’m telling you this: black plastic bags are like frontiers for the twenty-first century.

Steal a man’s $5 gin and he’ll come at you as if it were gold. Steal his copy of Midget Gang Bang 4 ½, it may as well be his first-born. Never will he call to bystanders for help. Never will he involve the police. But he’d sooner lick an electrical socket than let it go. Black plastic bags, pure fucking adventure.

It’s not about whether you’ve nabbed yourself a bottle of Blue Label or the June issue of Foot Fancy. It’s about not knowing what you nabbed, not knowing if someone’s right about to nab it back. The first frontier or the last frontier or every frontier besides. An island or a beer or a black plastic bag. Every one an adventure. My point being this: there’s any number of ways to steal the unknown.

Love in Five Acts

2008-05-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

I.
Used to be, there was a cat lady living in my building. Every time I passed her door, all I’d smell was piss and stale tuna. This was a problem because, when she stroked out, her body rotted for two weeks before anyone found her. The smell of a dozen cats can totally mask a decomposing corpse. And get this: when finally the door was kicked in, when finally they found her, the cats had chewed her face off. Burrowed right through the soft meat of her cheeks. What I'm trying to say is, if you’re going to love something, love something that can love you back. Or at least love something that can use a phone.

II.
Greg, he’s my buddy but sometimes I’m not too sure about the kid. Late-twenties and broke and living with his Mom and not really giving a shit about any of it. The other day, we sat in his basement room and he told me he had something to show me. “I have a secret,” he said. What he had was a box of porn. Movies and magazines and eight by ten glossies. And the thing was, all the girls looked really homely, kind of ugly. “I can’t stand that commercial shit with the dime-piece chicks, the fake tits,” he said. “This I love. These girls, they’re totally accessible. I could actually bag ‘em.” But of course he doesn’t. He sits around in his Mom’s basement and watches someone else do it.

III.
From time to time, I’ll close down a bar. When I have nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. When I have too many places to be and too many things to do. One night, a couple weekends ago, as last call loomed and stools began to empty, an old man started talking to me or his drink or nobody in particular. “I masturbate to my ex-wife every night,” he said. “Every single night.” He was balding and fat and hunched over, the type of guy every local watering hole needs. “You know how many times I masturbated to her while we were married?” And when neither myself nor his drink nor anybody in particular answered, he said, “Not one goddamn time.” Then he stood up to leave. “Love, you never really love anything until it’s gone, until it’s lost. While it’s still around all you can feel is infatuation.” And as he stumbled out the door, I figured he had a point alright. He had a point, only he had it all backwards.

IV.
“Surprisingly, when it comes to bootlegged videos, dramas are the top sellers.” My cousin told me this over lunch. “Action films don’t transfer well. The explosions and screams blow out the recording microphone.” Always, he’s been obsessed with movies. As a kid he would write his own Disney sequels, storyboard them and everything. “With comedies, the theater audience’s laughter gets picked up. It’s very distracting.” And when he started bootlegging movies, it was only to help pay for film school. But money aside, he never got accepted. “Horror flicks always sell but that’s because of the audience. Kids don’t have the coin to see all of them in theatres.” He likes to romanticize, likes to say he’s destroying what he loves only so he can build it up again. But I think it’s something altogether different. I think what he loved destroyed him. And now he’s just trying to get even.

V.
My niece is four years old. And as much as her parents and grandparents and even I tell her she’s special, she’s actually pretty typical. Everyday she wears either blue overalls or a blue dress. To hear her tell it though, she just says, “I love blue.” Every evening she runs around with her favorite toy, a fuzzy stuffed elephant. To hear her tell it though, she just says, “I love Mr. Bobo.” And every time she sees someone she says, “I love you Mommy, I love you Daddy, I love you Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle.” And every night, every single night, she falls asleep with a big smile on her face. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes love is enough. At least for a little while.

Here's to a Better Tomorrow

2008-05-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

Across the room, I hear him. I can’t see him, can’t see anything for that matter. Too far gone. But I can hear him, leafing through a magazine, every few seconds friiip. Steady, a syncopated rhythm with the bleeps of my heart monitor. Bleep, bleep…bleep, bleep, friiip. Magazine after magazine, for two days now. A hundred of bucks an hour I’m paying him. For two days now.

What I’m paying him for is to wait me out. And yeah, a hundred bucks an hour is a lot of money to pay anyone, especially if that particular anyone is just brushing up on celebrity gossip. A hundred bucks an hour is a lot to pay anyone, but where I’m going cash isn’t all that useful. At least for a while.

When I go—and I’m pretty far gone as is—then he’ll earn his keep. Five hundred pounds of equipment, a hundred pounds of ice, a retrofitted van. When I go, he’s got his work cut out for him. But right now he waits. And I wait too. Bleep, bleep…bleep, bleep, friiip.

* * *

Number one consideration with cryopreservation: viability of the brain. What’s the point of being brought back to life in a decade, century, millennium if you’re retarded? Or worse, a vegetable. And brain damage, it starts just ten minutes after you kick it. In an hour, your circulatory system is totally shot. No matter what, you won’t be getting any oxygen to the old noodle. After a few days, your brain’s completely liquefied. When it comes to cryonics, time is definitely not on your side.

This is why there’s a professional periodical reader camped in my hospital room. An employee of Frozen Futures Incorporated on twenty-four hour standby. When the bleep, bleep degrades to a long steady drone, then he’ll go to work. Immediately, he’ll ice my head, slowing any brain damage. He’ll toss me in the ice bath, the ice bath in the van.

Most people say this is a joke. Freezing your body in hopes of being brought back sometime in the future. Sometime in the distant future. Most people say this is crazy, something out of pulp sci-fi novels. A liquid nitrogen bath—negative three hundred and eighty five degrees Fahrenheit—virtually stopping any cell decomposition. Most people say it’s for those who can’t deal with their mortality. Me, I say I’ll have the last laugh. Long after most people’s great-great grandkids are nothing but maggot farms, I’ll have the last laugh.

* * *

My breathing slows, inhales and exhales come with less regularity. Across the room, the pages continue to turn. What I wonder is, if there’s a heaven, do I still get to go? If there’s a hell? When they thaw me out, will I be evicted from the pearly gates? Thanks for the hospitality, see you again in a little while. What I wonder is, am I buying a life extension, or peace of mind?

Across the room he stands, puts the magazine down, paces back and forth. The clack of his footsteps forming a whole new beat. Bleep, clack, bleep, clack… He’s impatient and that makes two of us.

If I have to keep him on the payroll much longer, I might not be able to afford a full body freeze. I might end up a neuro. That’s what they call the head-only freezes, neuros. The idea being, when the technology is there to reanimate a frozen body—a frozen dead body—the technology will be there to perform a brain transplant too. What’s more, human cloning. Imagine: your brain transplanted into the exact body you had as an eighteen year old. That, and neuro’s are a whole lot cheaper.

Now though, now’s not the time for counting beans. Now I count footsteps. Now I count bleeps. Now I count minutes because I’m done with hours, days, weeks.

* * *

The biggest myth about cryonics: somewhere, Walt Disney is frozen stiff. Somewhere he’s awaiting his reanimation. Really, Walt is buried in a Hollywood cemetery, right off the Glendale freeway.

The second biggest myth about cryonics: nobody’s ever been brought back. Get this: human embryos have been cryopreserved, thawed out and developed into totally healthy people. Sure, they look like some sort of prawn, but an embryo, that’s a human.

I mean, this is science. They don’t just throw a corpse into the deep freeze in some guy’s garage. This is science. This is a process. A whole team opens you up, replaces sixty percent of the fluids in your body with this liquid. This liquid, it freezes a whole lot better than blood. It freezes better, but what it does is turn you all yellowish, goldish, orange.

Then the big freeze.

They stuff your body in a metal pod, like a camper trailer or a subway car only considerably smaller and constantly cooled with liquid nitrogen. Negative three eighty-five. But get this: you’re not alone. Likely, there are another eight or so folks in the pod with you. Sounds crowded, sure. But don’t worry, half your roommates, they’re just neuros.

* * *

I hear potato chips. Across the room, chewing away. Bleep…crunch, crunch…bleep…crunch, crunch… And by the sound of it, I’m getting there. By the sound of it, they’re kettle cooked.

What I wonder is, maybe the future turns out to be a downer. With terrorism and global warming and bird flu. What I wonder is, maybe no future is better than a crapshoot future. Blackness and nothingness and peace. What I decide is, it’s too late to wonder about that now.

The biggest problem: aside from the hundred dollars an hour currently disappearing from my bank account like an odometer in reverse, I still have to pay for the procedure, the storage, the maintenance. Not chump change. One hundred and sixty thousand United States Dollars.

I’m no mogul, no tycoon, no lottery winner. So what I’ve done, I’ve signed over my life insurance to pay for the cryopreservation. My beneficiary doesn’t happen to be my wife, my kids. It’s Frozen Futures Incorporated. But hey, how many guys get to enjoy their own life insurance settlements?

What I wonder is, maybe that was a selfish move. Left to fend for themselves, money spent on dead man’s gamble. What I wonder is, maybe the only place I really live forever is in their memories. Memories I’ve tarnished, memories that now come with an asterisk. What I wonder is, why’s it been so long since I’ve herd a bleep...

Last Stop

2008-05-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

Bob

All day the boss had been on my ass. Nothing was right: the presentation should have been in grayscale not black and white, the spreadsheets organized by department not date. Even my tie looked ridiculous—red and with a slight sheen and exactly like one he wore last week. He was just picking fights. He’s always just picking fights.
But the day was over and I slumped into my seat. Copper colored sky drifted past the window and I figured all that bullshit didn’t matter much. Hell, the worst they can do is fire me. Some days I think the worst they can do is not fire me.
I was in the first car of the train. I always sat in the first car of the train. Maybe something in the back of my mind, a rollercoaster memory from childhood. Maybe because the middle cars are crowded and up here I always grab a seat. An hour to work and an hour home. Everyday. Barreling through North Jersey. Everyday.
My fingers were black from thumbing through the paper. Already past the good stuff, finished the sports and business sections during lunch hour. So I was onto arts and leisure, working my way around a movie review and taking long draws from a paper cup of stale, room-temperature coffee. The train was approaching the next station, another of the dozen between home and work, work and home.
Then the whole car jerked, slowed down real quick and I spilled weak coffee all over my power tie. Like nails on a blackboard only fifty-times louder, those emergency breaks. And immediately after, a hollow thud that shook the car and what sounded like wooden planks being crushed, splintered underneath the train.
We coasted for another quarter mile before coming to a stop beside the station platform. Outside I heard screams, hysterical cries but not clear enough to make out distinct words. Then, over the train PA the conductor announced we just hit a trespasser. Trespasser, what a strange word to use.
Some days I think the worst that can happen is they fire me. Some days I think the worst that can happen is they don’t. And some days I realize I don’t have any idea about the worst that can happen.

Lynn

Every Thursday, every Thursday without fail, I take Madeline into the city to have dinner with Ma. I’ve tried in to persuade Ma to meet us out here—once a month, once a year, just once—but no. Ma, like so many her age, is set in her ways. If in the last five years she’s ventured below 59th street, well I’d be surprised.
So every Thursday without fail—after Maddy has finished her homework—we take a train into the city, then the subway uptown. And every Thursday Ma tells Maddy how much she’s grown and asks what she did in school this week and we eat. And then Maddy and I take the subway downtown and a train back into Jersey.
This week was a little different. We stood on the platform, Maddy’s hand tucked inside mine. She was talking about this and that, jumping from one subject to the next without a comma, period, breath in between. Her second grade class had a hamster and it had little babies that were pink and hairless and there were six of them and they voted on names and there was Pinky and Gus and Snowball and Gremlin and Fluffy and Cocoa and they all look the same right now so nobody can tell which is which except… Beside us on the platform was a young man, head bowed as if in prayer.
Maddy kept going. She hoped that we would have Italian food for dinner because she wanted spaghetti with one of those really big meatballs and she had measured herself last week and this week and she hadn’t grown at all and if grandma said she had then grandma was mistaken. A train was approaching on the track opposite. Probably a half-mile off but I could hear the distant growl, see the lights materialize, pinpoints on the horizon.
What commenced was difficult to watch. And as much as I wish that I had looked away, I simply could not. The young man—maybe twenty years old—climbed down off the platform and rushed across one, two sets of tracks, and waited, stoic as the low growl became a thunderous roar and the pinpoint lights grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. I yelled to him. As loud as I could, I yelled. But he never looked away from the train. Maddy asked me what that man was doing why was he standing there what’s going on? I held her close, her face clamped to my chest so she couldn’t see.
The impact was amazing. Somehow I expected the man to be knocked down, pushed to the side. Hurt, probably killed but still there. It didn’t happen like that at all. The train plowed through him. A slap, like hitting a waterbed with the back of your hand, only so much louder. And he was gone. Just gone.
Maddy fought to look but I held her close. She asked what happened to that man why was he out there would he be okay? I pulled my phone from my purse and called Ma, told her we’d have to take a rain check on dinner this week.

Franklin

It happens. Sounds cold, but that’s the God’s honest truth. Shit, this wasn’t my first. Not even my second. I’ve been a conductor for thirty-plus years. Nobody goes that long without one or two. And believe me when I tell you there’s some folks around here—fine as folks and finer as conductors—had themselves four or five in their careers. It happens.
Old guard types handle it better. Used to be a time when, if you trucked someone, you’d have to hop right back in there and ride out your shift. Forget about a few days off, you’d barely get a cigarette break. The kids now—the ones who’ve been doing this for five years, sometimes less—they don’t handle it so well.
Must be the parents. Kids now, they grow up being told they’re special and unique and their shit don’t stink. Makes ‘em soft. One boy—started working here oh, a good three years back—he had a helluva time.
The kid was twenty-six, thrilled to land the job. Making more than his friends who went to college. And hell, the trains are on tracks, practically drive themselves. Then about six months in the kid caught a suicide, double suicide actually. Couple young lovers looking to pull some Romeo and Juliet type shit. Sat down on the tracks, cross-legged and holding hands and just waiting. Boom.
Well the kid, he got the rest of the day off. And three more on top of that. But when he came back the following week he looked like a turd in a rusty can. Tried his best to keep on keepin’ on but within the month he’d resigned. No, they don’t make them all that tough no more, that’s for damned sure.
But me, this was my third. And call me jaded, call me cold but I doubt I’ll lose too much sleep. I did what I could. Blew the whistle, pulled the breaks. Like I said before, these trains are on tracks, practically drive themselves. If something’s in the way, something’s in the way. If someone’s in the way, someone’s in the way.
What I’ll remember most is this: closing in on the kid and he looked up, right at me. We locked eyes for a second, maybe two before we hit. And he didn’t look scared. He didn’t look scared and he didn’t look sad and he didn’t look angry. Then we hit and he didn’t look like much of anything anymore.
When finally I got the train to stop, a couple hundred yards later, I announced over the PA that we’d hit a trespasser. Always say trespasser because, for one thing, it ain’t up to me to decide what happened—suicide, accident or even the occasional murder. Always say trespasser because, for another thing, technically they are—ain’t nobody supposed to be on those tracks. Always say trespasser because, most importantly, it makes things a little easier on the passengers—a trespasser, well that sounds criminal, sounds like maybe they just might’ve deserved it.
So, I got the rest of the evening off. Another three days too. I don’t have all that long before I retire, a few years left on the tracks. And if this is the last one, well I’d certainly be grateful for that. But I won’t count on it. Still, I won’t beat myself up over it either. Because like I said, it happens. And I could live the rest of my life seeing those eyes staring up at me. Those eyes that didn’t look scared or sad or angry. I could see those eyes for the rest of my life or I could let it go. It happens.

Shelter from the Storm

2008-05-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

Nothing left to eat. Cardboard box but no crust, not even crumbs. We still have some Mountain Dew—two cans from a six-pack. I hate that shit. It looks like piss and tastes even worse. Not that I know what piss tastes like. Still, the carbonation fills me up a little, makes me feel as though I’ve eaten something of substance. At least for a while.

What’s he looking at, the motherfucker? “What you looking at, motherfucker?” He’s been staring at me for a solid five. That’s okay, we’ve been up here for two, almost three days, not a whole lot to look at. But it’s different now, it’s like he’s looking through me, dazed out and blank. Like some bullshit TV show is taking place right between my eyes. It’s freaking me out.

“Nothing, my man. Nothing,” he says. But he doesn’t stop. So I stare back, right between his eyes. Make a game out of it, something to pass the time. Because all we have is time, and we have ourselves plenty of it. Not much in the way of food or drink or entertainment. But plenty and plenty of time.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes, that’s what it took to get to the house. He gave a bad address—a street number that didn’t exist—and a complicated order—a quarter pie mushroom, quarter sausage, quarter pepper, quarter olive. Still, I got there in twenty-five. I’m a professional.

This guy, he took his time coming to the door when I rang. “Oh my,” he said, finally answering. “My oh my. Looks like this one’s on you guys.” He reached over the threshold for the pie but I held tight. “Listen,” he went on. “I’ve already waited over half an hour for this pizza, please don’t delay my meal any further. As the ad states: thirty minutes, or it’s on us.”

“Buddy,” I said. “First off, you gave me the wrong address. Second…” Then I felt it. Rolling like waves under my feet. I stumbled backward, fell off the porch and onto my ass. He braced himself in the doorway as bits of plaster fell off the wall behind him. Crunch. An earthquake—biggest I’d ever felt.

The pizza box was facedown on the porch. There was a rumble far off, like thunder from two towns over. I picked up the pie, a little sloppy from the fall but plenty edible. The rumble was sustained, not like a thunderclap, continuous and growing louder. “I’m certainly not paying for that now,” He said. Louder and louder. “The way it looks, you should pay me.” Louder and louder, closer and closer. “Oh fuck!”

Behind me, a mountain of water barreled down the road, swallowing cars and mailboxes and anything else, everything else. In front of me, the guy grabbed the box and made a mad dash up the stairs. And me, I followed just as the wave engulfed my car and continued on toward the porch, the house, me.

* * *

Damn near three days. At first, I was happy to just be alive. The rush of water moved through and even on the second floor it swept over our ankles. After the surge passed, there was still a good eight-feet of flooding outside, a good eight-feet submerging the first floor. After the surge passed, the upstairs carpet was left wet and littered with trash, sewage, flopping fish. After the surge passed, we were trapped. We are trapped.

He’s still looking at me glassy eyed and gone. The first day, we had conversed. Figured the earthquake must’ve crumbled the dam at the county reservoir. That would have accounted for all the fish—trout stocked every spring. He smiles and licks his lips, the tongue moving steadily around like the second hand of a clock. The first day, we had eaten the pizza. He hadn’t wanted to share, not even in these dire straits. But he eventually conceded and we finished the whole pie, figuring help would arrive any time. He laughs and rocks back and forth, a soft chuckle to start, then deep guffaws. The first day, I had been hopeful and he had been grounded. But this ain’t the first day no more.

He stands, stops laughing but still stares. “Share the wealth, my man,” he says and gestures to the Mountain Dew. “Share the wealth.” I grab a can but hesitate, ponder his motives. Something sinister going on, that’s for sure. “Maybe we should ration this out,” I say. “Who knows how much longer we’ll be up here.” But he will not compromise. He moves toward me. Quickly. Before I can react, he’s on top of me. “Whoa,” I yell and toss the can forward—partially out of fright, partially to appease him. The can is caught handily but he relays no satisfaction.

“Share the wealth,” he repeats and I’m confused because as far as I can tell I pretty much did. “Share…” He turns to face the window. “The…” He cocks his arm and twists his body like a discus thrower ready to launch. “Wealth!” He sends our last full can of Mountain Dew crashing through a double paned storm window and sailing into the newly formed lake beyond. “The fuck?” I cry. “Why would you do that? Who knows how much longer we’ll be up here…” But he ain't paying me no mind. And leaving me with my despair and confusion, he climbs through the window and dives arms outstretched into the body of water formerly known as his front yard.

* * *

I’d like to say I see him swim off into the horizon. Despite all the trouble the guy gave me—the free-pizza-hustle, the extra creepy stare-down, the last can of Mountain Dew through the window—I’d like to say I see him swim and swim until he’s a dot, the dot swim and swim until it’s nothing at all. I’d like to, but that ain’t how it goes down. He makes it about twenty feet in some sort of ass-backward doggy paddle, then slips under. And now he’s gone, and I’m here. And soon, I’ll be gone too.

Maybe I’ll be rescued but I doubt it. Maybe I’ll swan dive out the window and swim for the horizon but I doubt that too. Likely I’ll just wait and wait until I forget what I’m waiting for. I’ll just wait and wait and wonder if Noah was this bored during his great flood. At least he had animals to keep him amused, keep him from starving. I'll wait and wait and wonder if the unicorns were delicious. I'll wait and wait. I'll wait…

Louie and Son

2008-04-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

It was there alright. And growing. Yesterday, it could’ve been anything—a bit of grime, a chip in the grout, some standard shower mildew. But today, today there could be no doubt it was something more. And it was all Louie’s.

This was the Y of course and many individuals frequented the shower stall in question. Some made two, three trips a day in fact. But overly-clean individuals were the exception rather than the rule. And besides, that corner—the corner of the stall where it was growing—that was Louie’s corner. It was the corner where he…well, finished.

Louie examined it closely. About the size of a dime and slightly dome shaped. It was fuzzy and if one did not know better it might be confused for a nasty spot of mold. But Louie knew better. The fuzz was a dull, grey-brown, not unlike Louie’s own hair. Yes, he thought, this is certainly the fruit of my loins.

* * *

While never a family man by anyone’s standards, Louie always had a soft spot for children. During periods of unemployment, which were quite frequent, Louie would wander the park and nod approvingly as children ran and jumped and slid and laughed. So happy, Louie would say to himself. In these moments, they all seem so happy.

But Louie was not of the stock that settles down. Not the type to marry and breed and jockey a gas barbeque grill on summer evenings. If it was due to his chronic bouts of unemployment or his semi-permanent residence at the Y, Louie could never be sure. What he knew was this: some men are not made for family life and he was one of those men.

So explains why Louie took such an immediate liking to the growth in the corner—his corner—of the shower stall. What fellow residents would dismiss as a normal development in an unsanitary bathroom was to Louie a unique chance at fatherhood, however unconventional. More than a chance, it was a responsibility. A responsibility, Louie decided, not to be taken lightly.

* * *

First order of business: what would Louie name his spawn? Garret was the first name that came to mind but Louie quickly dismissed it. Far too strong a name for creature destined to be small and fuzzy it’s whole life. After all, Louie wanted neither himself nor his kin to look ridiculous. Herbert, it was decided. To be referred to affectionately as Herbie. When he matures, Herb. A fine name indeed.

Great. With that settled Louie was free to tackle a far more pressing matter: how to protect, or at least preserve, young Herbie. The current situation was unsustainable. Weekly cleanings of all communal areas at the Y meant the clock was ticking. Who was on bathroom duty that week? Oh…Flannigan, the bastard. There would be no persuading him to lay down the bleach. If anything, a request on Louie’s part would only fuel Flannigan’s cruel streak.

So there it was. Louie had two days to act. Two days before Flannigan and a big bottle of diluted bleach reduced little Herbie to a smudge on the bottom of a paper towel. That, Louie thought, would be unbearable. He was a father now and it was up to him to ensure Herbie’s survival. Two days. Louie needed a plan. Two days.

* * *

A sleepless night was spent weighing options. One plan Louie developed involved transferring young Herbie onto a slice of bread. Mold grew handily on bread so surely Herbie—the fungi-offspring of Louie himself—would thrive in such an environment. However, this plan was not without complications. Would Herbie survive being uprooted, transferred to a new locale? Would the yeasty new abode not eventually develop a mold all its own and would Herbie be able to cohabitate? This will not work, Louie decided in the wee hours of the morning. There are too many variables.

As the sun rose on what could well have been poor Herbie’s last day on earth, Louie had all but run out of ideas. Slowly, quietly, on tippy toes he snuck through the hall and into the communal bathroom. Back against the wall, he slid down the tile and sat by the corner—his corner. The corner Herbie called home. I don’t know what to tell you little bugger, Louie addressed Herbie, things are looking pretty darn grim.

We’re a lot alike you and me, Louie continued. Not just because you grew from my seed. Both of us Herbie, both of us have had it pretty rough. Now, maybe you’ve only seen a couple days but son, if you coulda lived to a hundred you’d realize these couple days have been pretty darn typical. They were mean and cold and sad. But somewhere in there we had ourselves some moments. Those moments, they’re what life is all about. And I hope when my time comes I can go out like you will kid. On my own terms.

Louie choked on his words a bit but managed to say all he had to say. His eyes were wet and he turned, Herbie should not see him cry. He had to make a move today. By tomorrow Flannigan would have done the job quickly, carelessly. The bastard. Louie left the bathroom and snuck down the hall on tippy toes. He opened a door marked Supplies, removed a large spray bottle.

Back in the bathroom Louie knelt before Herbie. I’m sorry it had to be this way, Louie said, I’m so sorry. He lowered the spray bottle and squeezed. Once, twice, a third time. Deliberate and accurate. The small fuzzy growth in the corner of the shower—Louie’s corner—withered and darkened. I’m sorry, Louie said, but we had ourselves some moments. That’s what life is all about.

Why We Fight

2008-04-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

“Pick your battles, son.” My grandfather was 86 when he said that to me. “Pick very few and only pick one’s you’re likely gonna win.” His skin was waxy, sallow and spotted. Arms as thin and knobby as his bamboo cane and always wearing his WWII Veterans baseball cap. Too large for him by then, it slid over his eyes. It was covered with marks of rank or valor or I was never sure what.

“I was an old man before I figured that out,” he said. “Too late to do me much good.” Not long after, he passed. If he had fought too much or if he had lost too much I never really knew.

* * *

Benny doesn’t throw knockouts but what he throws he throws a lot. One after another after another with the ferocity of whiskey. He throws them until somebody drops, sometimes him. He throws them over women, over respect, over nothing. He throws and he throws. When he wins he sneers. When he loses he smiles through busted lips. Tall and lean, he looks more like a marathon runner than a barroom brawler. “Fight every fight like it’s your last,” he tells me.

Benny is my friend, I love him regardless. Still, I always wonder if he only follows the first half of his advice, if all he wants to do is fight every fight.

* * *

For a long time after my mother left, Dad was a mess. He sat in his armchair and drank scotch. First, on the rocks and then, as the nights wore on, straight from the bottle. He cursed, whimpered, stared holes in the wall. He blamed my mother, himself, God in heaven. He tugged at his beard and mused on and on about what might have been. “Boy,” he said to me. “Fight the good fight. Always fight the good fight.” And most nights, for months and months, Dad fell asleep in that armchair, woke up in that armchair.

Dad got over it, people tend to do that. And likely he doesn’t remember those nights too well. Likely he doesn’t remember much of what he said. But me, I remember and I have my doubts that he ever fought a goddamn day in his life, good fight or bad.

* * *

I picked some battles. Sometimes I didn’t have any other choice, most times I didn’t look for any other choice. Beaten and bloodied, literally and figuratively and every other way too. The good one’s are never easy and if you fight every fight like it’s your last, it never will be.

I fought for other people’s reasons, on other people’s terms. At times I fought to win, at times I only fought to fight. What I’ve come to know is this: when something’s worth fighting for, fight for it. And when something’s worth fighting for, don’t lose.

The End of Days

2008-04-14T19:59:00.000-07:00

Donald wakes, startled. Cold sweat dripping from his brow, panting to catch his breath. He walks to the bathroom, takes a shower. Most days, Donald will sing in the shower, but today is not most days. Today, Donald fears, is the End of Days.

Donald brushes his teeth, little circular motions, just like his dentist taught him. Donald goes through his closet, removes a green polo shirt, a pair of Dockers. Donald sits at his kitchen table, drinks coffee, reads the paper. All the while trouble hangs heavy on his mind.

Dreams had never been of much concern to Donald. Usually they were fuzzy little things, abstract and comical. He would be naked while waiting in line at the DMV. He would ride a dolphin to the office and all his coworkers would be in clown makeup. He would pick his nose only to find a cheeseburger on the end of his finger. Then he would eat it. There was never much narrative, never much clarity and Donald never gave his dreams much thought.

Last night, all that changed. Last night Donald found himself in a very strange place. It was dark and hot and far more vivid than anyplace he had ever dreamt before. Donald sat in this strange new place, listened to a strange new sound. It was the sound of moaning and it was soft and eerie and far more vivid than any sound he had ever dreamt before.

Then, “Donald, my son.” A voice boomed through the darkness, over the moaning. “The time has come. Prepare for the End of Days.” A towering figure stood before Donald, cloaked in red. Two eyes glowing like ember. And despite the suffocating warmth of this strange, new place, Donald felt a piercing chill. “Prepare,” the figure repeated. Then Donald awoke, startled.

* * *

Donald sits in a booth at a corner diner. He’s distraught, confused. Dreams are but dreams with no bearing on real life. This is what he tells himself. But would it not be prudent to at least give some credence to the vision. After all, it was so real, so unlike any dream before. And, surely there’s something to be said for being the Antichrist.

So here is Donald’s dilemma: if the End of Days indeed comes, he would like nothing less than to be on the bad side of the Supreme Ruler of the Underworld (if there is any other side, Donald cannot be sure). But if his dream was only that, he does not wish to appear foolish. Or worse, completely batty. So, he must ready for the Apocalypse but he must do so discretely.

Baby steps, Donald decides. He has gone his entire life diligently avoiding any overtly malicious act, badness for the sake of badness. So he will start small, baby steps. But he will start right away. He must be bad.

The waitress arrives at Donald’s booth, takes his order. “Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs and hash browns. Buttered wheat toast, no make that white toast. And cheese, yes cheese on top of it all.” All fatty, greasy food. All food devoid of nutritious merit. Indeed, all bad food. This is a start.

Donald eats. Donald eats and eats. Donald finishes, satisfied. But now poor Donald is left with a harsh realization: while all that food was very bad indeed, it tasted oh so good. Yes, this whole being bad bit is going to be a little more difficult than he had imagined. And then a second harsh realization: having ordered far more food than originally planned, Donald is left with a bill nearly as bloated as he is.

But after a brief panic, Donald has a moment of clarity. Being bad, he realizes, is far too ambiguous a goal. He must be something worse. He must be cruel. Life has given Donald lemons and he will make…well, he will just pass along those lemons. Neatly piling cash upon the bill, Donald leaves a one nickel tip. This, he imagines, is crueler than no tip at all. Then, he calmly rises, walks out of the diner into the street beyond.

* * *

Exhilaration. Donald skips down the street, thinks this whole Antichrist gig is really growing on him. Imagine the look on that poor waitresses’ face. Count the bills, the coins, quick math. Oh, if he could have stuck around for that. Still, to give her the satisfaction of a confrontation would have taken away from the base cruelty of the act. But what fun, what fun.

Before he knows it, Donald has pranced his way down three full city blocks. He stops to catch his breath, compose himself. Looking up Donald sees the mountainous concrete steps and towering marble columns that adorn the public library. Ah, than this shall be the site of his next mischievous deed.

Inside Donald peruses isle upon isle of shelf upon shelf of book upon book. Mystery and science fiction. Biography and cultural study. How to and self-help. Donald grabs a volume here and a volume there. His plan: to check out the maximum of ten books with absolutely no intention of ever returning them. Cruel indeed.

But Donald stops, has second thoughts. No, it’s not his conscience catching up with him, quite the contrary. Donald realizes that, if he is to usher in the Apocalypse, he must continue to up the ante. Baby steps. A cruel deed is just not enough, now he must do something genuinely evil.

So, Donald scraps the ten-book limit. He will pile the books on, as many as he can hold. Instead of checking out, he will run out. And Donald scraps the mystery and science fiction. He scraps the biography and cultural study. He scraps the how to and the self-help. When all of his previous selections have been neatly returned to the shelves from which they came, Donald skips merrily to the children’s section.

Arms loaded with picture books and pop ups and every last copy of Good Night Moon, Donald eyes the exit. He creeps and sneaks and is completely inconspicuous until he passes the checkout desk. Then he runs. Like the wind he runs. “Hey,” yells the librarian. “Hey, stop it you,” yells the librarian. “Hey, somebody stop him.” But Donald has run out of library into the street beyond.

Exhilaration. Donald runs. Donald runs and runs. He doesn’t look behind to see if anybody has followed him. He doesn’t look both ways as he sprints across the street. He doesn’t look up when the bus honks, barrels down the boulevard. Then he doesn’t look at anything, not anything at all.

* * *

It’s dark. Dark and hot and moans come from all sides. Donald sits up and this strange new place is not quite as strange and new as once it was. “Donald,” a voice booms. “Donald, this is how you spend your last day?” Eyes like ember.

“Uh…” is all Donald can say.

“Usually,” the voice continues, shakes the bones deep within Donald’s flesh. “Usually, when I tell someone their days are at an end, they spend time with family. Or they smoke an expensive cigar and drink fine scotch. Or they watch a favorite film, they look at an old photo album, they have some sex. They do something they will enjoy or something that provides them with meaning. But you Donald, you ran around acting like a complete asshole.”

“Uh…” Donald says. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? Are you telling me you were not acting like a complete asshole?”

“It’s not that. It’s just, when you told me it was the ‘End of Days’ and I was supposed to ‘prepare’…well, I thought we were going to usher in the Apocalypse. I thought I was the Antichrist.” And then, almost an afterthought, “It was kind of nice.”

“Ah,” booms the voice, the Price of Darkness, the Devil himself. “Ah Donald, maybe you got it. Maybe you got it.”

And Donald sits. He sits in the dark and in the heat and with the moaning. He thinks about his dream that was not a dream and he thinks about the diner where he left no tip and he thinks about the library where there are no more copies of Goodnight Moon. He thinks about his time as the Antichrist and he thinks about the end of his days.

Development

2008-04-07T19:20:00.000-07:00

It was the summer before I started high school when construction began on the new development. I would ride my bike to the town’s edge and watch the wooden frames erected, a dozen on one side of the road and a dozen on the other. All exactly the same. Large men with bad sunburns laughed and worked until four every afternoon. I would spit on the asphalt and watch it evaporate. Then I would get on my bike and ride back into town.

One day, deep into July, I took a bad fall on my ride home. I was right outside the McKenzie house, hit a pothole, went head first over the handlebars. My bike was fine but my elbow lost a good chunk of flesh. I sat on the curb and bit my bottom lip, tried to get through the pain.

“Are you okay?” she said from the McKenzies’ doorway and I looked at her but didn’t respond, continued to bite my lip. She disappeared for a moment, returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I had never seen her before, this girl who was dressing my wound. Not at school, not in town, not in front the McKenzies’ and I rode by that house just about every day.

When all was done and a tight, white bandage hid my missing skin, I thanked the girl, asked her name. “Heather,” she said. “I just moved here last week with my dad. This is my grandparent’s place and we’re going to stay until dad can find some work and get back on his feet.” I introduced myself and offered to show her around town, maybe buy her an ice cream cone to show my gratitude. “It’s getting late and dad will lose it if I’m not home for dinner,” she said. “But maybe tomorrow.”

* * *

Heading out to the development the next day, I went by the McKenzie place at a crawl. Heather wasn’t in the yard, wasn’t in the doorway. I couldn’t see her in any of the windows. At the corner I made a left, then another and another and another and I came back up the McKenzies' block. This time she was there, sitting on the lawn, smiling, looking as if she’d been that way all morning. “Hey there,” she said. “Come sit with me.”

The lawn was little more than scattered patches of dead crabgrass and laying on my back, the beige-brown blades tickled my ears, scratched my neck. “Have you lived here long, in this town?” Heather asked me. I told her that I had, all my life. “That must be nice.”

Later, I again offered to show her around town. “Not today,” she said, and it was left at that. It would soon be dark so I headed home, mindful of potholes in the fading orange light. Over meatloaf and mashed potatoes my father assured the family that those new houses on the edge of town would never sell. They were too fancy for the current residents and there was nothing in these parts to attract anyone new. No, they would never sell.

* * *

Summer dragged on with little change. I rode to the McKenzies’ and watched the clouds move overhead. I rode out to the development and watched the houses edge toward completion. I rode home and watched the new flesh, pink and tender, emerge on my skinned elbow.

Near the end of August I asked Heather why she spent all her time on that lawn, why she would never go into town with me. “Show me that construction site you always go to,” she said and as I started toward my bike, “Tonight. Let’s go out there tonight. Meet me here around ten?” I said I would, then rode home.

I returned at ten sharp and Heather was waiting on the dead lawn. A black sweatshirt was zipped up, hood framing her face. She waved, stood up. I waved back, hopped off my bike.

We made our way to the development. Cars rarely ventured that far out of town, particularly so late at night, and the trip was quiet and dark. Heather did not have a bike so I walked mine. “I like the way the air tastes out here,” Heater said. “It’s sweet, almost like honey.”

By now the houses had progressed beyond skeletal beams. No doors had been installed and we entered one of the structures, sat against the sheetrock wall. “This will be a nice house when it’s finished,” Heather said. I had to agree. “And one day it will be old and it will not be so nice anymore.” I figured that was one way to look at it. “But when that day comes, it will be important to remember that once, not so long before, this was a very nice house.”

* * *

The week before school began rumors spread all over town about the McKenzies. People whispered all sorts of things to each other, shook their heads. As I heard it, the McKenzies gave their son a place to hide out. He was wanted for the kidnapping of his teenage daughter.

Some said the McKenzies didn’t know about any kidnapping, that their son said he was he was in town for a visit. Some said the whole kidnapping was the McKenzies’ idea in the first place. Either way, Heather was gone, her dad likely in jail. The Mckenzies couldn’t make it past the stares and the whispers and soon they moved out of town. And then life went on.

The development on the edge of town was completed before the winter storms rolled through. By spring all the houses had been sold. Over the next couple years all sorts of new shops, restaurants sprang up by the edge of town. And now, years later, those houses aren’t very new anymore, aren’t very nice. But I still remember a time when those houses were very new, were very nice. Back when the air smelled like honey, before life went on.

The Sound of Silence

2008-03-31T18:51:00.000-07:00

Sir, I’m sorry about the mess but there’s no need to throw me out of your fine establishment. No, just hold on a second and we'll work something out. How about I just sit myself down, order a drink and we discuss the situation. Yes, that sounds like quite a plan.

What’s your best red wine? ‘House wine’ you say? Well, that sounds very nice, yes I’ll take a glass of that. You said your name was Carl didn’t you? Well Carl, let me assure you that I am not a vandal. How about you slide that glass of delicious house wine my way and I’ll tell you how all this came about. What do you say Carl?

* * *

I suppose it was just about a month ago when the rejection letters arrived. The first, I believe from American Verse Quarterly, on Monday and followed in short order by a second from New Century Poets. Your standard artist might have been a little frustrated, what with two rejection letters in one week. Your run-of-the-mill artist might have taken this for a sign, a sign that he ought best find a new occupation. Your everyday, white bread artist just may have called it quits. But Carl, believe me when I tell you I am not your normal artist.

The third letter came, oh just about a week later. This one happened to be from The Patterson Review. Are you familiar with Patterson Carl? Well, allow me to enlighten. See, The Patterson Review happens to be the boorish and poorly edited literary arts journal published through Patterson City College. I know, a community college lit mag, is it even worth the paper to produce? Save a tree is what I say.

Anyhow, I knew upon submission that these blokes wouldn’t know a good poem if it landed at their doorstep. And of course that is exactly what happened. The rejection from Patterson was not a setback, no quite the contrary. If my work—my art—was not for them, well then it must have some merit indeed. If ever I desire my work published in Patterson, I will be sure to send a limerick.

* * *

Still with me Carl? Excellent, excellent, because here is where my story gets interesting. Here Carl, here you shall see that I’m more than your common, vanilla sort of artist. See, your typical artist may have given up. At best he would have continued submitting his poems, likely very bland poems at that, to journal after journal. And journal after journal would have said to him, ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ And maybe a city college monthly might have cut him some slack, but only if his work was just the most ho-hum sort of drivel. A true artist, an artist like myself, takes fate into his own hands.

I knew Carl, I knew I had to get my work out there. I knew my poems were meant for the world to enjoy. The question was 'how?' How, if at every turn I was rejected by dimwitted editors and below-average students posing as dimwitted editors? Well Carl, I have one word for you my friend: classifieds. That’s right, I figured to bypass the whole elitist literary establishment. I would have my poems circulated by the tens of thousands, delivered to people’s doorsteps, sold on every street corner. It would have been perfect.

It would have been perfect, but a ‘starving artist’ can’t very well afford a dollar a word. Not to mention the paper would have given me very little formatting input. So, another roadblock to be sure, but I would get my work to the people. Oh yes Carl, I would get my work to the people.

* * *

So Carl, why don’t you top me off? Well, of course I know there’s still half a glass left. I’ll tell you what, you can just charge me for a glass and a half. That seems fair, no? Now, as I was saying, my work had to find its way to the people. And as only happens in times of hardship, inspiration struck. Let me ask you this, where do most people get their reading done? No Carl, not the subway, though you’re close. The toilet Carl, on the toilet.

Public restroom stalls, they’re the future of literature. Nobody wants to read crude penis graffiti and phone numbers of tramps. People want substance and that is exactly what I provide. So you see, what was done in your men’s room was not vandalism, it was art. Please Carl, there’s no sense in calling the police, go ahead and put the phone down…no, I can’t just wash it off. I wrote in white out, I’d have to scrape it off if anything. But you don’t want me to do that Carl, trust me.

Think of the big picture. I’ve transformed your fine establishment into a forerunner of the new literary revolution. Likely, this joint will be made a museum in a quarter century or so. Be proud Carl, be proud. At the very least, you’ll one day sell the stall door to the Smithsonian. Think about it, this isn’t some dime-a-dozen literary movement. This is the real deal sir, and you’re involved on the ground floor. Carl, buy a lottery ticket because this is your lucky day.

Theo Goes on a Date

2008-03-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

Theo entered the restaurant and walked to a corner booth. “Julie?” He sounded hopeful, which is okay. But hopeful can often be confused with desperate, which is not okay.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Hello.” She sounded disappointed, which is also not okay. But Theo told himself not to read too much into her tone. He always over-thought these things and damnit, he wasn’t going to let his insecurities ruin this date. No, not this date.
“Have you been waiting long? I would have been here sooner but…”
“But you insisted we wait until ‘after sundown.’ I have to admit that’s kind of odd. What, are you a cowboy or something? Have you had your hands full since high-noon?”
“Actually,” said Theo and he paused for a moment. Usually he did not announce this so early into a relationship. Still, insecurities to the wind, right? “Actually, I’m kind of…I’m kind of a Vampire.”
Julie did not look shocked. Not like Diana had, and he had not told Diana until the third date. Diana just kept pressing him to have brunch with her. And a meal between breakfast and lunch, well there would be no way of avoiding daylight there. No, Julie did not look shocked at all, but she did not look pleased either.
“Jesus Christ,” Julie exclaimed, and Theo cringed slightly. Not because of Julie’s overt annoyance, but rather because the thought of the Good Lord’s one begotten son reminded him of crucifixes. And of course, Vampires are not at all fond of crucifixes. “Not again,” Julie continued.
This inspired in Theo quite a bit of confusion. He had not met many Vampires in New York City and he had searched very thoroughly. Indeed, the few he had found were already in relationships, but such is life.
“Do you date Vampires often?”
“No,” said Julie. “Not exactly. It’s just that Hannah always sets me up with Monsters.” Hannah was the mutual friend who had arranged this blind date. Hannah was a plumber and also a lesbian, but that was neither here nor there. “Last week she set me up with an Invisible Man and the bastard stood me up. I have a feeling he was there, he just stayed, you know, invisible. Bastard.”
“I’m sorry,” said Theo and he really was. Not too long ago, he had been stood up himself. As far as he knew his date did not have the power to be invisible, she had simply not shown up.
“And you know,” Julie continued. “If I had blue eyes would Hannah only set me up with blue eyed men? If I had one leg would Hannah only set me up with amputees? But because I’m a Monster she thinks every other Monster would be my perfect match. I am going to have a long talk with her tomorrow. Jesus Christ.”
Theo cringed again, because of the Jesus reference, but also because of Julie’s pessimistic outlook. This was a bad start to be sure, but he was not ready to throw in the towel. “Well,” Theo said and mustered up a very charming smile. “What kind of Monster do you happen to be?”
“I’m a Werewolf.” And it was so matter-of-fact that Theo did not know where to go from there.
“What’s good here?” He asked, hoping to buy some time in which to think of an interesting, Werewolf-related question. Maybe one that would show her some Monsters could be worthy and capable dates.
“The chicken parmesan is pretty good.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have,” Theo said with a little too much enthusiasm. Amiability was the goal, but he feared he came off as desperate. Or worse, a little dim. And then, “So, you’re a Werewolf. How’s that going for you?” Not the most interesting Werewolf-related question to be sure. Theo knew this too, but his nerves had gotten he best of him, and quite possibly reinforced the theory that he was a little dim.
“Uh…” Julie began. But then, oh merciful fate, their waiter arrived.
“May I start you folks off with a drink?”
“Yes, please,” said Julie. “A draft beer.”
“And I’ll have a glass of white wine,” said Theo.
To the kitchen the waiter went, napkin folded over his arm, intent on providing excellent service. His name was Mikey and he had a particularly poor tip haul the evening prior. Tonight he was set on making up for the loss in funds, but that was neither here nor there.
Meanwhile, back at the corner booth, relations had not exactly improved. “White wine, huh? I would have expected red,” said Julie.
“Red? But I told you I was ordering the chicken.”
“Well I just assumed. Since you’re a…”
“Since I’m a Vampire?”
“Yes and…”
“And blood is red so I must drink red wine? It doesn’t work like that.”
No, relations had not improved much at all. But at least Theo was no longer feeling insecure, for in the wake of such an ignorant question he could not help feeling anything but offended. Rather than laughing it off, rather than taking it like the man he fancied himself to be, Theo decided on a most juvenile form of rebuttal.
“It must be nice to be a Werewolf,” said Theo. “You’re only a Monster once a month.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Julie.
“Let me ask you, as a female Werewolf, does the full moon sync up with your...you know, your cycle?”
“No,” said Julie sharply. “No, they actually come two weeks apart. Totally opposite.”
Theo did some quick math. It being the first week of March, with the full moon scheduled for the third week…well, if his inappropriate question had not sullied his chances his calculations left little doubt. It would not be that kind of date.
Mikey, the friendly and slightly broke waiter returned with drinks. “Here you are folks, one draft beer and one glass of white wine.” He smiled from ear to ear. “Are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?”
Julie requested a few more minutes, leaving Theo slightly miffed as he had decided upon an entrée quite some time ago. Mikey continued to smile, said “No problem at all folks, no problem at all,” and back to the kitchen he went. Of course there was a problem and it was quite obvious to both Theo and Julie. The problem was this: thier blind date was a total bust.
“You know,” Theo said. “Another reason you Werewolves have it easy is that only a silver bullet can kill you. That isn’t so bad really, getting shot with a silver bullet would probably kill just about anyone anyways.”
“Oh,” Julie said. “I think the same holds true for a stake to the heart.”
“Fair enough, but I also have to watch out for crucifixes and garlic. Those are certainly not everyday worries for normal people. And don’t get me started on sunlight.”
Julie just let out a sigh and turned her attention to her draft beer. So, things were not shaping up so well at the corner booth, but Theo and Julie could have fancied themselves lucky, for theirs was not the worst date at the restaurant that evening.
Across the room sat Mr. and Mrs. Rubenstein, a couple 81 and 75 years old respectively. They had not said a word to each other throughout their entire meal and had in fact said but a dozen words to each other in the past week. They would have divorced quite some time ago, but at their age they did not see much point in going through all that hullabaloo. Until one of them kicked the bucket, this is the way life would be, but that was neither here nor there.
Back at the corner booth Mikey had returned to take dinner orders. Theo, as had already been established, ordered the chicken parmesan. Julie ordered the linguine with shrimp and alfredo sauce.
“Excellent choices,” said Mikey. And then, to help boost the nightly haul, “very excellent.”
“Oh,” said Julie as Mikey was about to walk away. “Also, I’d like to start off with some garlic bread. With extra garlic.”
Indeed, thought Theo as Mikey left for the kitchen. It would not be that kind of date. No, it would not be that kind of date at all.

The Story of Henry Johnson

2008-03-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

They say there ain’t any real men left in the world. Well, I never was too sure who “they” were, but I reckon’ I’ll have to agree with them on this one. Still, I take comfort in knowing I bore witness to the last of the real men. And Brother, believe me when I tell you the good Lord saved the best for last.

I never talked to anyone who was too sure ‘bout where Henry Johnson came from. Never found anyone who knew much concerning his folks or his schooling or how he came to show up at the Big Bread Toaster Factory back in April of nineteen-ninety-three. No, there ain’t a single story going back that far, and Brother, I’ve heard just ‘bout every story there is to tell when it comes to poor ol’ Henry Johnson.

See, just so happened that he showed up there at the factory back in April of nineteen-ninety-three, and he sat himself right down at a work bench, and he went to work. And from as far as anyone could tell, that Mr. Johnson must’ve been buildin’ toasters all his life.

Some of “them,” they say it was his second nature. Some of “them,” they say it was a gift. But I’ll be damned if there’s one man, woman or child who ever saw ol’ Henry Johnson work and didn’t swear the fella’ was a flat out toaster buildin’ man.

Well, Henry Johnson sat there at his workbench in the Big Bread Toaster Factory, and he put those toasters together like it was nobody’s business. And for a while that was plenty fine. But then, as tends to happen from time to time, everything went to shit.

* * *

“Outsourcing” was the term the Boys Upstairs used but from as far as anyone ‘round here could tell that just meant they were fired. See, the Boys Upstairs, they figured to build themselves a factory in a whole new place. Not just a new town but a new country. And in this new country the Boys Upstairs could hire six workers for what they were paying one here in America. And Brother, as far as they could tell, that just made good sense.

Then, a real peculiar thing happened. Someone, and “they” never can agree on who, but someone tipped ‘em off upstairs that this fella’ Henry Johnson was the real deal: a real toaster buildin’ man.

So it was that the Boys Upstairs decided to hold onto ol’ Henry Johnson. The Boys called it “efficiency” but from as far as anyone ‘round here could tell that just meant Henry could make ‘em money. But with the factory all closed down, well ol’ Mr. Johnson was sent to work at the head office out in The City. He sat in a funny little room called a cubicle and in his cubicle was a workbench. And at that work bench poor Mr. Johnson kept on working just like he always had, putting together toasters like it was nobody’s business.

Time went on and things seemed plenty fine for ol’ Henry Johnson. But then, as tends to happen from time to time, everything went to shit. The Boys Upstairs, they just ain’t in the business of leaving well enough alone and they figured poor Mr. Johnson could likely make ‘em a few extra bucks. The Boys, they sent out a press release all ‘bout “The man who defied outsourcing.” And they got ol’ Henry on the talk show circuit and before he knew it he was a real, big time celebrity and Big Bread Toasters had the kind of publicity that money just can’t buy.

Now Henry, he was of the stock that didn’t have much use for fame. He didn’t have much use for television appearances and press tours. He didn’t have much use for autograph signing and photograph taking. He didn’t have much use for hob knobbing and elbow rubbing, hand shaking and smile faking. No, about all Henry Johnson had much use for was toaster buildin’.

* * *

There, in the head office out in The City, as ol’ Mr. Johnson toiled away over his toasters, upstairs a plan was being hatched. The plan, it was just like all the others that came before. The plan, it was a plan to make a few more bucks for those folk that already had a few bucks to spare. The plan, it went something like this: a big, Pay-Per-View spectacular held at The City’s finest sporting arena. Henry Johnson would square off against six of Big Bread Toaster Company’s finest out-of-country workers in a half-hour toaster building contest. To the Boys Upstairs it was like charging people to watch a commercial. And brother, as far as they could tell, that just made good sense.

So the day came, and all across this fine country good, hardworking folk gathered together in their living rooms and at sporting bars to watch the main event. Good, hardworking folks crammed into The City’s finest sporting arena, not a seat went empty, and every one of ‘em was rooting for good, hardworking Henry Johnson.

The curtain came up, the announcer sounded off and ol’ Henry Johnson, well the man took a big bow. And I’d like to think that at least for a moment Mr. Johnson saw in himself what all the good, hardworking folk saw in him. Well, a moment would’ve been about all he had because after the announcer sounded off and the bows were taken, an old-fashioned steam whistle cut through the air like an axe. And the competition began.

At the outset things were looking a little rough for poor ol’ Henry Johnson. Those out-of-country workers, well you cold tell they were the cream of the crop. And while Henry’s heart was in it, sometimes that just ain’t enough. But then, well something peculiar happened. Some of “them,” they say he hit his stride. Some of “them,” they say he was possessed. Well, I ain’t exactly sure what to call it but looking into Henry Johnson’s eyes, there wasn’t any doubt that something just plain clicked.

Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and his jaw was set and he fit the heating coils inside the metal casings and connected the wires to the power source. Yessir, he was building those toasters alright, just like he always had. Like it was nobody’s business.

As the final seconds clicked down and the old-fashioned steam whistle cut through the air like and axe, there wasn’t an ounce of doubt concerning the winner. The good, hardworking folk all knew it. The cream of the crop workers from out-of-country knew it. The Boys Upstairs, well even a dense bunch like that knew it. And, in those last moments, I’m sure Henry Johnson knew it too. ‘Cause as he slumped over his workbench, right there in the middle of The City’s finest sporting arena, poor ol’ Henry Johnson had one helluva grin slapped ‘cross his face.

* * *

Some of “them,” they say it was a heart attack. Some of “them,” they say it was an aneurysm. Well, I sure ain’t no doctor and I couldn’t tell you one way or the other. All I know is that some folk, they just ain’t meant for this world. And I reckon’ a man like Henry Johnosn is one of those folk.

So, next time you remember, say a prayer for poor ol’ Henry Johnson. And when someone tells you there ain’t any real men left in the world, well you tell them you reckon’ that’s probably so. But then you tell them about that time, not so long ago, when the last of the real men made a stand. And brother, you tell them that the good Lord, he saved the best for last.

Hardly Working

2008-03-10T17:23:00.000-07:00

Mikey

The second punch breaks my nose and I know it right away. Between the loud crunch and the sting and the throbbing, there really ain’t much doubt. But I’m lucky, ‘cause it never hurts as bad when you’ve got it coming.
“Damn dude,” I say and it comes out all nasally, kinda sounds like "bamboo"
“What the hell were you thinking, Mikey?” He’s standing over me like he’s a tough guy. Man, real tough guys don’t need to sucker punch.
“I was thinking I’d make a little extra cash, but shit…I think I need to go to the hospital.” It hurts my face to talk. Still, there ain’t that much blood. Not as much as you’d think.
“Harold knows it was you,” he says. “And he’s pissed. Understandably.” This is Wes. Sucker punching, tough talking, motherfucking Wes.
“Man, Harold doesn’t know who I am,” I say. “How’s he…”
“Shut up, just shut up,” he cuts me off. “I’m going to help you get out of this one, okay?”
Help, huh? Like I want any of his help now. The asshole just broke my nose for Chrissakes. Man, all this is his fault anyhow.
Last week I saw him at the pub. Wes, the nose breaking, ball busting motherfucker. He said, “Hey Mikey, how’s it going?” and, “Hey Mikey, can I buy you a beer,” and man, I liked him a lot better last week.
So, I sat there and we were talking a bit. Just small talk and all. I told him my boss had been riding me man, and it ain’t like waiters don’t get enough shit as it is. “At least you get tips,” he said. “Come work at the deli with me. It’s all the shit and none of the tips.” Yeah, I guess he had a point.
Then he said this, “I don’t know how Harold does it. Every night he closes that place all by himself. I’m off at six and his worthless son is god-knows-where. But Harold stays late. It isn’t safe.” And yeah, that got me thinking. But I guess I thought wrong because now my nose is broken.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out,” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say. And I don’t. All I know is my face really hurts.
“So here’s the deal. Harold is willing to let this slide if you give the money back. He says business is bad enough as it is, doesn’t need a robbery scaring off customers. Just give me the money, I’ll get it back to Harold and we can all forget about this.”
“Screw that,” I say. “Why would I just give it back?”
“Because if you don’t, then we call the police. And if we call the police, you lose the money and you go to jail. Understand?”
“Under my bed,” I say. “In the blue duffel bag.” And then, “Hey, can you give me a ride to the emergency room?”

Harold

My father always told me, “Son, this is America. Just work hard and everything will turn out alright.” He was stuck in a factory until his heart gave out at 52, but I sure believed that lesson. Turns out, we were both fools.
I’ve done my share of labor. Worked in kitchens, worked on docks, even spent a summer in the North chopping trees. I’ve worked every damn day of my life, even my days off. I’ve worked every damn day of my life and every day it was honest work. Well, I’ll tell you something I wish my father had told me: hard work kills you early, and honest work is for chumps.
Now, that’s something I’d like to tell my son. I’d like to, but the kid probably knows it already. Working for his Pops, he must see the poetry in motion everyday. The kid, it must be getting to him. He hasn’t been acting the same lately. No, he sure hasn’t been the same at all.
But that’s all beside the point. See, I worked hard and honest and I saved up a little cash. Not much, but enough. I opened a deli. Someplace all my own, someplace where I wouldn’t have to answer to any boss. And yeah, the son of an Irish immigrant opening up an Italian Deli, sure I caught some shit. But it was just more honest work and it paid the bills. Barely, but it paid them.
Lately though, lately business hasn’t been so hot. I’m coming up in the red. And sure, that’s bound to happen every once in a while. But six straight months? That I cannot deal with.
And things keep on getting worse. See, two weeks ago I find out I’ve got an employee stealing from me. He always seemed like a straight shooter, but what do I know? So I fired the kid. Nothing else to do.
Honestly, that didn’t help any. Last two weeks I’ve still been coming up short. And things keep on getting worse. See, there’s a nice little cherry that tops this sundae. Past Friday, just as I was closing up, some thug comes in, smashes up my deli case with a bat. Now, forget that it’ll cost me a good $1,200 for a new case. Forget that I had to throw out all my meat because the little shards of glass went all over the place. Nope, all that aside, the bastard robs me and a week’s worth of hard, honest work gets thrown in a duffel bag.
So, I’m done. If ten minutes of working easy and crooked will get you as far as a week of working honest and hard, well then sign me up. Sorry Dad if I’ve let you down, but this is America and working hard only gets you buried in a poor man’s grave long before your time.

Wes

I’ve got nothing against stupid people. Nothing really, except stupid people, well they have a tendency to be predictable. And predictable people, they’re easy to manipulate. I’m not a bad guy, I’m a guy who was done wrong.
See, I didn’t deserve to lose my job. Harold, he was nice enough when he let me go, but the man’s in denial. And denial, well that’s for stupid people. And you know what they say about stupid people.
Yeah, Harold doesn’t want to face the facts. The fact is his son’s a no good smack-head. Fact is his son’s been stealing from the family business to keep that shit flowing. And the fact is I caught the little punk with his hand in the cookie jar.
But the kid, he wouldn’t go quietly. Shit, I wasn’t even going to rat him out, but he flipped. Ran and told Harold I was the one ripping off the deli. Harold, deep down he knew I was innocent, knew his son’s no good. But the man’s in denial. And while I’ve got no problem with stupid people, I do have a problem with being fired.
And then there’s Mikey. I don’t know Mikey that well. His sister and I dated for a few months. I’d buy a round whenever I ran into him, stay on the family’s good side, you know? But that was a year and a half ago and the kid still thinks we’re buddies. Mikey’s another guy who ain’t exactly MENSA material. Mikey likes to drink, likes to smoke, likes to take it a little too easy. Mikey, he’s stupid and man, is that kid predictable. I used him sure, but the lazy fuck had it coming.
And yeah, maybe he didn’t deserve the broken nose. But with guys like that, you’ve got to grab their attention. Stupid folk appreciate violence. And besides, he went a little overboard with the baseball bat.
There it is. Harold fired me for stealing, so sure-as-shit I had to make things square. I’m not a bad guy, I’m just karma in the flesh.