Headaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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