The Editrices
Showing posts with label Issue 7 July 2010. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 7 July 2010. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Issue Seven's Table of Contents
The Creation of Human Emotion/The Oreo Cookie, River Otter
Excelsius (Parts One-Four), Hugh Fox
Excelsius (Parts Five-Nine)
God's Little Cows, Ben Nardolilli
The Old Con (Parts One and Two), Annabelle Baptista
The Old Con (Parts Three and Four)
Bad Day, John Bruce
Mark and Donny (Part One), Chris Castle
Mark and Donny (Part Two)
Anteros A Go Go, John J. Trause
Voice Overhead, John J. Trause
Cash and Carry, Luigi Monteferrante
Nice to See You, Amanda Deo
The Truth Fairy, Harry Calhoun
Obscure Knowledge, Harry Calhoun
Sweepstakes Arcade, Kenneth P. Gurney
Proportion, Kenneth P. Gurney
Lying Down, Jef Peeples
Captain, Richard Donnelly
Gazea, Michael Cluff
Zoe, Michael Cluff
self portrait#25-artist, JANEisnotplain
Raindrop, Sheri Hillson
The Unexpected Exchange of Lady Sute-Jo and Joel Allegretti, Joel Allegretti
Fly, Parker Tettleton
her dad, Molly Guy
Art by Laura Rynberg
Contributor Bios
Editrice Missive: When Life Gives You Lemons, You Know What Time of Year It Is
Excelsius (Parts One-Four), Hugh Fox
Excelsius (Parts Five-Nine)
God's Little Cows, Ben Nardolilli
The Old Con (Parts One and Two), Annabelle Baptista
The Old Con (Parts Three and Four)
Bad Day, John Bruce
Mark and Donny (Part One), Chris Castle
Mark and Donny (Part Two)
Anteros A Go Go, John J. Trause
Voice Overhead, John J. Trause
Cash and Carry, Luigi Monteferrante
Nice to See You, Amanda Deo
The Truth Fairy, Harry Calhoun
Obscure Knowledge, Harry Calhoun
Sweepstakes Arcade, Kenneth P. Gurney
Proportion, Kenneth P. Gurney
Lying Down, Jef Peeples
Captain, Richard Donnelly
Gazea, Michael Cluff
Zoe, Michael Cluff
self portrait#25-artist, JANEisnotplain
Raindrop, Sheri Hillson
The Unexpected Exchange of Lady Sute-Jo and Joel Allegretti, Joel Allegretti
Fly, Parker Tettleton
her dad, Molly Guy
Art by Laura Rynberg
Contributor Bios
Editrice Missive: When Life Gives You Lemons, You Know What Time of Year It Is
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Happy Summer Issue!
One of these days we will manage to get the issue up at a decent hour of day. But we suspect you really don't care what time it appeared, as long as it's up. And it is (phew). Thanks to Auguste Haboush for our very stylized cover, to Tom Besson for creating our enduring logo, and to Dan Cirilo for setting us all up yet again. Now if the 4th of July fireworks are keeping you awake, at least you have some reading material!
Editrice Missive--When life gives you lemons, you know what time of year it is.
Editrice Liz never thought she would have to credit her mother in this note. But she paced back and forth downstairs, being bitter, trying to think of something to say on the squeezed dry topic of summer. “I don’t want to be as sour and depressing as I really feel,” she said. “Then no one will ever want to pick up this magazine, not even for the unabashed honesty of the editrices!” It was at this fateful juncture that the Mother Figure suggested lemonade, of which there was a convenient jug in the fridge.
And that’s the story, folks. If you like summer, you might like lemonade. And no, life hasn’t given us a freighterload of lemons lately. No more than the usual weekly delivery. Just can’t think of anything to say in the missive from the Editrices, that’s all. Well, this will be our longest issue yet—44 pages dripping with type—crap, they’re not supposed to be dripping—dammit Editrice Laura, how many times have I told you not to drink that stuff around the proofs? Now go get a towel and a glass for our mascot, and see if you can persuade it (often the gender of a toucan cannot be discerned without genetic testing) to stop smoking that stogie. We have a pulchritudinous specimen on the front, referring to the bird-bird, not the…bird. Clearly, we’ve lost our minds, so we’ll shut up now and tell you about the issue. And not our issues.
Before we spread this fowl mood any further, we’d better go jump in the nearest lake. If you’re interested, and you know you are, Editrice Liz recently did an interview with Duotrope. Find it at http://www.duotrope.com/interview.aspx?id=4420. As always, check out our site at www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, and if you have anything to send our way, it should be going to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. We’re all full for fall, but why not shoot for a piece in the issue diametrically opposed to this one, AKA winter?
Summertime, and the magazine business is mildly aggravating. So we’re off to have an ice-cube fight.
And that’s the story, folks. If you like summer, you might like lemonade. And no, life hasn’t given us a freighterload of lemons lately. No more than the usual weekly delivery. Just can’t think of anything to say in the missive from the Editrices, that’s all. Well, this will be our longest issue yet—44 pages dripping with type—crap, they’re not supposed to be dripping—dammit Editrice Laura, how many times have I told you not to drink that stuff around the proofs? Now go get a towel and a glass for our mascot, and see if you can persuade it (often the gender of a toucan cannot be discerned without genetic testing) to stop smoking that stogie. We have a pulchritudinous specimen on the front, referring to the bird-bird, not the…bird. Clearly, we’ve lost our minds, so we’ll shut up now and tell you about the issue. And not our issues.
We had a little fun here, especially with the poems. We were feeling lighthearted before we started drinking lemonade. “Cash and Carry” has the rather fantastic distinction of being the only poem we know of containing the lines “And I burped!” And aren’t you just dying to know what on earth the creation of human emotion has to do with Oreo cookies? Or are you just hungry? Well then, better make sure “The Truth Fairy” hasn’t swiped any of yours…she has a nasty habit of doing that, you know.
Before we spread this fowl mood any further, we’d better go jump in the nearest lake. If you’re interested, and you know you are, Editrice Liz recently did an interview with Duotrope. Find it at http://www.duotrope.com/interview.aspx?id=4420. As always, check out our site at www.thetoucanonline.blogspot.com, and if you have anything to send our way, it should be going to thetoucanmag@gmail.com. We’re all full for fall, but why not shoot for a piece in the issue diametrically opposed to this one, AKA winter?
Summertime, and the magazine business is mildly aggravating. So we’re off to have an ice-cube fight.
The sweltering, sticky, occasionally sweet but more often sour editrices,
Liz and Laura (guess who's who)
The Creation of Human Emotion/The Oreo Cookie--River Otter
In the very beginning, there were four beings. The God, The Angel, The Demon, and The Human.
The God was the only one of the four who was born with knowledge of emotions. And though all of the beings were equally powerful and intelligent, The God soon became very bored with the monotony.
So, one day, The God left its house with a small bag in its left and right hands. The bags were marked ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ respectively. And The God went to meet the three other beings.
As the four beings all stood together, The God said, “My friends, I love you all dearly, but I have become bored.” And though the other three did not understand what ‘love’ and ‘bored’ meant, they listened intently to The God.
First, The God took The Angel aside. It reached into each bag and extracted a small, dark disc from each.
To The Angel, The God said, “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.” And The Angel took Love from The God’s hand and consumed it. And The Angel was at peace with the world.
Next, The God spoke to The Demon. “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.” And The Demon took Hate from The God’s hand and consumed it. And The Demon had the power to have dominion over the world.
Finally, The God spoke to The Human. “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.”
The Human paused and thought. Finally, it said, “That is all you have?” The God was surprised at the question. The Human continued, “I have observed far more than these in you. Where are those?” The God, impressed with The Human’s observance, curiosity, and intuition said, “These are my most powerful. But would you like to see more?”
The Human nodded and followed The God to its house. The God opened its cupboard and inside was bottles filled with emotions of all colors imaginable. The Human looked at each one carefully.
Then, The Human asked The God, “Can I borrow a large pot, please?” The God fetched a large cauldron as The Human started a fire on the stove and took a bottle of each emotion from the cupboard. The Human placed the pot over the fire and poured a small amount from each bottle into it. Then The Human stirred, and stirred, and stirred until the contents of the cauldron became a thick, white amalgamation of emotions. The God watched The Human, fascinated.
“Now, may I have Love and Hate?” said The Human. The God handed The Human one of each of the black discs and with a spoon, The Human spread a small amount of the other emotions between the two discs, sandwiching them. And it was this concoction that The Human then consumed. The Human gained every emotion.
And The Human could be at peace with the world or have dominion over it, but unlike The Angel and The Demon, The Human, as a result of all of the other emotions, had the ability to choose which.
The Human also got the idea for a badass sandwich cookie in the process.
The God was the only one of the four who was born with knowledge of emotions. And though all of the beings were equally powerful and intelligent, The God soon became very bored with the monotony.
So, one day, The God left its house with a small bag in its left and right hands. The bags were marked ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ respectively. And The God went to meet the three other beings.
As the four beings all stood together, The God said, “My friends, I love you all dearly, but I have become bored.” And though the other three did not understand what ‘love’ and ‘bored’ meant, they listened intently to The God.
First, The God took The Angel aside. It reached into each bag and extracted a small, dark disc from each.
To The Angel, The God said, “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.” And The Angel took Love from The God’s hand and consumed it. And The Angel was at peace with the world.
Next, The God spoke to The Demon. “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.” And The Demon took Hate from The God’s hand and consumed it. And The Demon had the power to have dominion over the world.
Finally, The God spoke to The Human. “In my left hand, I hold Love, which will make you at peace with the world. In my right, I hold Hate, which will give you power to have dominion over the world. I want to you choose one and consume it.”
The Human paused and thought. Finally, it said, “That is all you have?” The God was surprised at the question. The Human continued, “I have observed far more than these in you. Where are those?” The God, impressed with The Human’s observance, curiosity, and intuition said, “These are my most powerful. But would you like to see more?”
The Human nodded and followed The God to its house. The God opened its cupboard and inside was bottles filled with emotions of all colors imaginable. The Human looked at each one carefully.
Then, The Human asked The God, “Can I borrow a large pot, please?” The God fetched a large cauldron as The Human started a fire on the stove and took a bottle of each emotion from the cupboard. The Human placed the pot over the fire and poured a small amount from each bottle into it. Then The Human stirred, and stirred, and stirred until the contents of the cauldron became a thick, white amalgamation of emotions. The God watched The Human, fascinated.
“Now, may I have Love and Hate?” said The Human. The God handed The Human one of each of the black discs and with a spoon, The Human spread a small amount of the other emotions between the two discs, sandwiching them. And it was this concoction that The Human then consumed. The Human gained every emotion.
And The Human could be at peace with the world or have dominion over it, but unlike The Angel and The Demon, The Human, as a result of all of the other emotions, had the ability to choose which.
The Human also got the idea for a badass sandwich cookie in the process.
Excelsius (Parts One-Four)--Hugh Fox
They’d known each other for decades, what seemed like centuries. Poetry meetings, you know the Somerville-Boston get-togethers, the Bards and their readings, and then afterwards little chomp-chomp parties where he’d hang around with Doug Holder and Sam Cornish and Lo Gallucio, and she’d always manage to end up at another table with other writers, painters, singers...wangadi wang wang wang...bang them guitar boxes and twang them strings.
Always reviewed her poetry books. Age 64, 43 books:
Life for a wife,
what am I, a fife
to be blown at your whims,
who swims away when there’s no where cash
and I’m willing to take a bash
now and then.
Not that he’d ever met or even heard of her husband. Some retired anonymity who never left the house, but just ate her spaghetti and ravioli and baked squash and pancakes, oatmeal cookies food and drank loads of decaffeinated coffee? An M.D., n’est pas, hadn’t she mentioned that once. Mr. Irish exodus lost-everywhere anonymity.....
2.
Alone today in the Je Ne Sais Pas Gallery in Somerville, just the two of them, this little coffee clunk-out place that was stuck on the edge of a gallery of purely Boston-area (nowhere else!) art, all sorts of post-you-guess-what-it-is paintings, stick you fingers into the paint heaps and then scramble them all over the canvases...although there were some older paintings too, down by the Harvard river, or down by the sea, an old white-haired aristocrat from the just-settled-in-Massachusetts days. A place he loved. The way he loved her....and the owner of the place, Sam Niemandstein.
Both of them with their decaf lattes and bingle-bang carrot-blueberry-chocolate chip muffins and Nagasaki mustard shrimp-wraps. He’d always finish his first and then she’d leave a scrap-piece for him, “You have more weight to keep up than me!” ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...
Although it was never a real-time, real-fang laugh, somewhere between amateur theatre and desperation.
“The point being that everything has to begin at some time. Sperm and egg, cantaloupe seeds, mango seeds, storms, graveyards. But (pointing to the full moon out in the sky, filling the already-nicely-lit up streets and time-to-time cars with a subtle overlayer of magic whiteness) OK, the universe has to begin. So god/the gods create it? But how does he-she/them begin. God/the gods have to begin
3.
too, but just think of the immensity of it all. You can travel millions of light-years, a hundred and eighty six thousand miles a second....millions of light-years and then you get to the ‘edge’ of the universe. But how can it have an edge, it has to be contained in SOMETHING? Or is it infinite? Only how can it be infinite, unending? And how can it begin? I can see a mango-tree beginning, but the universe....? And how can there be an Anything that can create infinities of matter and space...and us? And where is He-Her/Them NOW? All the talking to mankind in the biblical past....why no more appearances now? Silent Sinai! And an afterlife? Ghosts? Great inventions, but le realité? I’d like to have a heaven of hell or something, but all I see are graves, and the sun wearing out, the earth cracking apart. How much weight does the earth lose every minute, just with petroleum-use. Not that the sun is eternal,” turning to the empty table next to them, starting to talk to an empty chair, “Hello Henry the Eighty, how’s Anne Bowling do? Much bowling last night? Tudor...to DO...., I’d like to invite you over for the Fourth of July....”
Starting to cry.
“Come on.”
Louie moving his chair over to her, putting his arm around her skinny shoulders, feeling all the right-wrong impulses-needs. Her pulling away from him.
“Please! No! We’re just literary friends.”
4.
Louie feeling like getting up and just leaving. Three dead wives and kids everywhere all over the world but HERE....allein, allein, allein....but his inner butterflies whispering with their wings, “Stay, stay, stay, if you leave she’ll walk out in front of a car and kill herself!”
So he pulled back, chomped on his muffin wishing that they just had plain chocolate or plain blueberry or plain anything instead of all this smorgasboardish gaming around.
“So…ooooooo.....the answer is.....”
“Is?”
“I want you to drive me home. I’m.....I’m....j’ai peur....”
“Jay Purr? What are you, a cat?”
“I’m afraid of driving home. All those crazies out there.”
“What about...?
Trying to talk his way out of it, happy to just be, be there, be hair, be legs, be a kind of airborne copulation of two Rocky Mountain eagles in the middle of a squint-eyed summer afternoon, re-feathering the world in beak-peace.....
“Forget it!”
Getting up. Stalinishly grave-faced, walking out toward her car.
“Wait! I’ll do it, for god’s sake......”
Stopping, turning, almost Pax Eterna.
DOES HE GET THE GIRL? READ PARTS 5-9 BY CLICKING HERE!
Always reviewed her poetry books. Age 64, 43 books:
Life for a wife,
what am I, a fife
to be blown at your whims,
who swims away when there’s no where cash
and I’m willing to take a bash
now and then.
Not that he’d ever met or even heard of her husband. Some retired anonymity who never left the house, but just ate her spaghetti and ravioli and baked squash and pancakes, oatmeal cookies food and drank loads of decaffeinated coffee? An M.D., n’est pas, hadn’t she mentioned that once. Mr. Irish exodus lost-everywhere anonymity.....
2.
Alone today in the Je Ne Sais Pas Gallery in Somerville, just the two of them, this little coffee clunk-out place that was stuck on the edge of a gallery of purely Boston-area (nowhere else!) art, all sorts of post-you-guess-what-it-is paintings, stick you fingers into the paint heaps and then scramble them all over the canvases...although there were some older paintings too, down by the Harvard river, or down by the sea, an old white-haired aristocrat from the just-settled-in-Massachusetts days. A place he loved. The way he loved her....and the owner of the place, Sam Niemandstein.
Both of them with their decaf lattes and bingle-bang carrot-blueberry-chocolate chip muffins and Nagasaki mustard shrimp-wraps. He’d always finish his first and then she’d leave a scrap-piece for him, “You have more weight to keep up than me!” ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...
Although it was never a real-time, real-fang laugh, somewhere between amateur theatre and desperation.
“The point being that everything has to begin at some time. Sperm and egg, cantaloupe seeds, mango seeds, storms, graveyards. But (pointing to the full moon out in the sky, filling the already-nicely-lit up streets and time-to-time cars with a subtle overlayer of magic whiteness) OK, the universe has to begin. So god/the gods create it? But how does he-she/them begin. God/the gods have to begin
3.
too, but just think of the immensity of it all. You can travel millions of light-years, a hundred and eighty six thousand miles a second....millions of light-years and then you get to the ‘edge’ of the universe. But how can it have an edge, it has to be contained in SOMETHING? Or is it infinite? Only how can it be infinite, unending? And how can it begin? I can see a mango-tree beginning, but the universe....? And how can there be an Anything that can create infinities of matter and space...and us? And where is He-Her/Them NOW? All the talking to mankind in the biblical past....why no more appearances now? Silent Sinai! And an afterlife? Ghosts? Great inventions, but le realité? I’d like to have a heaven of hell or something, but all I see are graves, and the sun wearing out, the earth cracking apart. How much weight does the earth lose every minute, just with petroleum-use. Not that the sun is eternal,” turning to the empty table next to them, starting to talk to an empty chair, “Hello Henry the Eighty, how’s Anne Bowling do? Much bowling last night? Tudor...to DO...., I’d like to invite you over for the Fourth of July....”
Starting to cry.
“Come on.”
Louie moving his chair over to her, putting his arm around her skinny shoulders, feeling all the right-wrong impulses-needs. Her pulling away from him.
“Please! No! We’re just literary friends.”
4.
Louie feeling like getting up and just leaving. Three dead wives and kids everywhere all over the world but HERE....allein, allein, allein....but his inner butterflies whispering with their wings, “Stay, stay, stay, if you leave she’ll walk out in front of a car and kill herself!”
So he pulled back, chomped on his muffin wishing that they just had plain chocolate or plain blueberry or plain anything instead of all this smorgasboardish gaming around.
“So…ooooooo.....the answer is.....”
“Is?”
“I want you to drive me home. I’m.....I’m....j’ai peur....”
“Jay Purr? What are you, a cat?”
“I’m afraid of driving home. All those crazies out there.”
“What about...?
Trying to talk his way out of it, happy to just be, be there, be hair, be legs, be a kind of airborne copulation of two Rocky Mountain eagles in the middle of a squint-eyed summer afternoon, re-feathering the world in beak-peace.....
“Forget it!”
Getting up. Stalinishly grave-faced, walking out toward her car.
“Wait! I’ll do it, for god’s sake......”
Stopping, turning, almost Pax Eterna.
DOES HE GET THE GIRL? READ PARTS 5-9 BY CLICKING HERE!
Excelsius (Parts Five-Nine)--Hugh Fox
5.
“You don’t know how much I....”
“No problem.”
Her getting into the driver’s seat. No problem. Handed her his keys, getting in next to her. Some time both putting on their seat-belts, like an intermission between Bach and Barber, not asking her if she knew how to drive his kind of Chevy, not asking her about her car and how she was going to pick it up, how....when...not asking her about her husband at home, turning it on, Park, Reverse, Drive....as if she’d been driving it for a thousand years.....
Sidestreeting it, into Somerville’s plushest areas, the Nineteenth/ Late Eighteenth Century whispering from the houses through the trees and gardens, DuPontish, Rockerfellerish, “We will always be here, the rest of the world may be tectonic deplated, burned away by sun-blasts, atomic attacks, but we are here to forever stay, like the Great Wall of China, Mount Sinai, Tiawanaku, ici, ici, ici....”
He wanted to say something about how impressed/surprised he was at her agility at the wheel, but said nothing, turned on the radio, a CD of Samuel Barber’s concerto for violin, THE most calming, caressing, sanity-creating music ever written, although thinking that Barber should have made it the third instead of the first movement so that that the concert-goers would walk out of the theater
6.
buddhified instead of massacred by Movement #3.
And then they were there. Brownstone. Three storied. Peaked, peaked, peaked, maybe about 1875, right around there, a gigantic front porch, another back porch, and the whole place surrounded by oaks and lilacs and a primitive natural rock walk leading up to the front door.
Her getting out and walking up the stairs. She wasn’t young but her legs said “Eighteen!” even if the heels were a bit on the 50’s overdone stage, like contemporary sorority puta-party times.
Standing at the top of the stairway looking hungry-dogishly impatiently down at him. Clearly messaged: “So are you coming up or not?”
“So you want me to....?
Thinking he ought to get a cab and go back and get her car, have the cab follow him, and then off into/back into his own Zzzzzzzzz-world. No word from her, just a COME ON! gesture....black gloves, pianist’s, harpist’s hands.
So he came up, she buzzed open the door with a little buzzer she had in her what-looked-live-vulture-feathered purse, and in they went, him expecting her husband to be waiting there with a rifle, that was the plot, wasn’t it, the Marquesa de Sade following through on her inner needs.
Couldn’t believe the living room he walked into. Over the obviously never-used-for-a-couple-of-centuries fireplaces, a huge mountains-in-the-background, forests-in-the-foreground painting, all kinds of other paintings all over the walls.
7.
Styles, ways-of-being/-becoming that he recognized, names starting to dice-throw around in his brain, his whole childhood, after all, spent soaking in The Arts, his frustrated ballerina-singer mother, his frustrated violinist-composer father living out their frustrations by turning their only son into the culturally historionized artiste that they (M.D. father, secretary mother) had never become.
“Over here!” she said, pointing to the plush leather sofa in front of the fireplace, her sitting down in an obviously eighteenth century English oak chair that was screaming to be placed in the Chicago Art Institute furniture museum, “I’ll be giving you some Greco di Tufo in a moment, but first I want to ....without tears....confess to you that Angelo is morto, morto, morto....you know, the usual, prostate cancer, esophageal cancer, heart-rupture.....and my daughter Angela out in the Dakotas, went over a cliff skiing in the winter, right down on top of her head, a couple of thousand feet. Instant death. All I’ve got left is Goosebumps Jerry in Somerville, Mass, and he’s talking about moving out to the Cape. I only see him once a year, if that, Mr. Ingrown Toenail Introvert...you’re all I’ve got, really.....”
“So now it’s sex time?” he mockingly smiled, getting up and walking toward the bedroom.
Her getting up, going over to the fireplace and getting a little brass ash-
8.
shovel that had obviously never been (another Anglo-antique) used even once, brandishing it over his head, him grabbing it and delicately putting it back on the brass hook where it belonged, going toward the door.
“Wait...I haven’t....”
“I’m not going to wait around until you do. I’m castrated for prostate cancer. And it seems to be working viz a viz cancer, but sex.....? Sometimes I’ll see some little girl’s or old lady’s legs–like yours!–and a cloud of sexuality will blow over me, but my dingy-wingy is about the size of a week-old carrot...”
“Vulgar! My sexuality. It’s like an erased blackboard that had been filled with algebra kill-alls, logarithms, The Book of Genesis inked on ox-skin....”
“OK, so how much is in it in for me? You want me to move in or you want to move in with me?”
“I don’t even think about crass cash or crash cashouts.....I mainly want to just use the few moments I have left before cremation to be The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady.....”
“One of my favorite films too....”
“We both like the same grass and hills and boats and mansions, egrets, crows, river banks, a little wine, some nice sedatives, sleep, hoping this is the last night, and when it isn’t it’s anti-cholesterol oatmeal time and mega-cafe coffee....so.....”
9.
Going over to the huge cabinet next to the fireplace, taking out a tall, thin bottle of...he didn’t know or care, damn his almost-ulcer...sitting down and accepting a great big glass of (thinking of Napoleon being slowly poisoned with arsenic) WHO CARES wine.
“So where is this going?” he asked after his first delicious slurp.
Her not answering, just sitting on the sofa next to him, bending her head down, closing her eyes, a little slurp to match his, and then silence, clicking a little controller of some kind that he’d never seen the likes of before, and the room filled with soft, distant piano music. It was Lili Boulanger, wasn’t it, the title not coming to him, his head filling with all sorts of titles, “Gaspard de la Nuit” “La Fille Avec Les Chevaux de Lin,” “Menuet Antique...,” Der Mond, Der Mond, Der Mond....damned aging brain....buddhifying it, cancel it out, fill the world with a wire-statue of the Great Goddess, then Nothingness, that was all he wanted, wasn’t it.....Glo’s kind of high-as-a-blade-of-grass highness, her highness, your highness, a condensed, tearful (Nadie dead at age 24) for—how long? NOW.
“You don’t know how much I....”
“No problem.”
Her getting into the driver’s seat. No problem. Handed her his keys, getting in next to her. Some time both putting on their seat-belts, like an intermission between Bach and Barber, not asking her if she knew how to drive his kind of Chevy, not asking her about her car and how she was going to pick it up, how....when...not asking her about her husband at home, turning it on, Park, Reverse, Drive....as if she’d been driving it for a thousand years.....
Sidestreeting it, into Somerville’s plushest areas, the Nineteenth/ Late Eighteenth Century whispering from the houses through the trees and gardens, DuPontish, Rockerfellerish, “We will always be here, the rest of the world may be tectonic deplated, burned away by sun-blasts, atomic attacks, but we are here to forever stay, like the Great Wall of China, Mount Sinai, Tiawanaku, ici, ici, ici....”
He wanted to say something about how impressed/surprised he was at her agility at the wheel, but said nothing, turned on the radio, a CD of Samuel Barber’s concerto for violin, THE most calming, caressing, sanity-creating music ever written, although thinking that Barber should have made it the third instead of the first movement so that that the concert-goers would walk out of the theater
6.
buddhified instead of massacred by Movement #3.
And then they were there. Brownstone. Three storied. Peaked, peaked, peaked, maybe about 1875, right around there, a gigantic front porch, another back porch, and the whole place surrounded by oaks and lilacs and a primitive natural rock walk leading up to the front door.
Her getting out and walking up the stairs. She wasn’t young but her legs said “Eighteen!” even if the heels were a bit on the 50’s overdone stage, like contemporary sorority puta-party times.
Standing at the top of the stairway looking hungry-dogishly impatiently down at him. Clearly messaged: “So are you coming up or not?”
“So you want me to....?
Thinking he ought to get a cab and go back and get her car, have the cab follow him, and then off into/back into his own Zzzzzzzzz-world. No word from her, just a COME ON! gesture....black gloves, pianist’s, harpist’s hands.
So he came up, she buzzed open the door with a little buzzer she had in her what-looked-live-vulture-feathered purse, and in they went, him expecting her husband to be waiting there with a rifle, that was the plot, wasn’t it, the Marquesa de Sade following through on her inner needs.
Couldn’t believe the living room he walked into. Over the obviously never-used-for-a-couple-of-centuries fireplaces, a huge mountains-in-the-background, forests-in-the-foreground painting, all kinds of other paintings all over the walls.
7.
Styles, ways-of-being/-becoming that he recognized, names starting to dice-throw around in his brain, his whole childhood, after all, spent soaking in The Arts, his frustrated ballerina-singer mother, his frustrated violinist-composer father living out their frustrations by turning their only son into the culturally historionized artiste that they (M.D. father, secretary mother) had never become.
“Over here!” she said, pointing to the plush leather sofa in front of the fireplace, her sitting down in an obviously eighteenth century English oak chair that was screaming to be placed in the Chicago Art Institute furniture museum, “I’ll be giving you some Greco di Tufo in a moment, but first I want to ....without tears....confess to you that Angelo is morto, morto, morto....you know, the usual, prostate cancer, esophageal cancer, heart-rupture.....and my daughter Angela out in the Dakotas, went over a cliff skiing in the winter, right down on top of her head, a couple of thousand feet. Instant death. All I’ve got left is Goosebumps Jerry in Somerville, Mass, and he’s talking about moving out to the Cape. I only see him once a year, if that, Mr. Ingrown Toenail Introvert...you’re all I’ve got, really.....”
“So now it’s sex time?” he mockingly smiled, getting up and walking toward the bedroom.
Her getting up, going over to the fireplace and getting a little brass ash-
8.
shovel that had obviously never been (another Anglo-antique) used even once, brandishing it over his head, him grabbing it and delicately putting it back on the brass hook where it belonged, going toward the door.
“Wait...I haven’t....”
“I’m not going to wait around until you do. I’m castrated for prostate cancer. And it seems to be working viz a viz cancer, but sex.....? Sometimes I’ll see some little girl’s or old lady’s legs–like yours!–and a cloud of sexuality will blow over me, but my dingy-wingy is about the size of a week-old carrot...”
“Vulgar! My sexuality. It’s like an erased blackboard that had been filled with algebra kill-alls, logarithms, The Book of Genesis inked on ox-skin....”
“OK, so how much is in it in for me? You want me to move in or you want to move in with me?”
“I don’t even think about crass cash or crash cashouts.....I mainly want to just use the few moments I have left before cremation to be The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady.....”
“One of my favorite films too....”
“We both like the same grass and hills and boats and mansions, egrets, crows, river banks, a little wine, some nice sedatives, sleep, hoping this is the last night, and when it isn’t it’s anti-cholesterol oatmeal time and mega-cafe coffee....so.....”
9.
Going over to the huge cabinet next to the fireplace, taking out a tall, thin bottle of...he didn’t know or care, damn his almost-ulcer...sitting down and accepting a great big glass of (thinking of Napoleon being slowly poisoned with arsenic) WHO CARES wine.
“So where is this going?” he asked after his first delicious slurp.
Her not answering, just sitting on the sofa next to him, bending her head down, closing her eyes, a little slurp to match his, and then silence, clicking a little controller of some kind that he’d never seen the likes of before, and the room filled with soft, distant piano music. It was Lili Boulanger, wasn’t it, the title not coming to him, his head filling with all sorts of titles, “Gaspard de la Nuit” “La Fille Avec Les Chevaux de Lin,” “Menuet Antique...,” Der Mond, Der Mond, Der Mond....damned aging brain....buddhifying it, cancel it out, fill the world with a wire-statue of the Great Goddess, then Nothingness, that was all he wanted, wasn’t it.....Glo’s kind of high-as-a-blade-of-grass highness, her highness, your highness, a condensed, tearful (Nadie dead at age 24) for—how long? NOW.
God's Little Cows--Ben Nardolilli
The trip back home was filled with a few triumphs and some small disasters. Nothing of that time is worth mentioning since it all balanced out. For example, there was the last night back in my parents’ place. I was in the room I raised myself in, flags, maps, posters, pictures, and postcards all where I had left them, representing places I still had yet to visit, let alone conquer. Since I would have to get up in the morning to catch the bus, I decided that it was best to take a shower in the evening. I am a morning shower person. I like to embrace the day as cleanly as possible. But the bus trip back to Pittsburgh would end up dirtying me no matter how much I showered, so it was better to save time and get the shower out of the way while I could.
I gathered up a clean pair of boxers with paisley designs on them and a t-shirt. These would form my uniform for sleep. In the bathroom I turned all the handles and knobs so that I got an elevated stream of water coming out at the temperature that I desired. Back in my room I undressed and put my clothes in my white wicker hamper. I took a red towel and wrapped it around me. My parents had not bought a new set in a while, or at least not one for my brother and me. It no longer felt as soft as I remembered it back in high school, when I would use it on my face to wash off stage makeup after a play.
Soon, the water was coming out of the showerhead in nice thin columns. They almost looked like threads that could be somehow woven into wet textiles. I put my hand in the stream to see if it was warm enough yet. It was too warm for drinking, but not hot enough for me. While waiting for the temperature to rise, I looked up at the ceiling. I saw something crawling. It was a small dot that was capable of flight. I blew some air in its direction and it did not move. Such small creatures are fine outside, and normally do not bother me. But having a small unidentified flying object right over me indoors, especially while nude, made me feeling vulnerable.
Shooing the speck away with the wave of my distant hand was ineffective. It stayed on the ceiling, hanging upside down or perhaps thinking I was the one hanging the wrong way. Normally I am a pacifist, but when an insect, bug, or arachnid comes into a space I consider quite personal, I want to get rid of it. It is no personal slight against the creature, but if I somehow found my way to its sacred spot, say the underside of a leaf, it would probably act the same way towards me. Looking at the dot hanging on my ceiling reminded me of when my brother was bitten by a spider while bathing in the same bathroom many years ago.
My first attempt to dislodge it was with water. In my mind bugs and water do not mix, especially the flying ones. Nothing wounds them so easily than a simple jet or spray of droplets in their direction. So I cupped my hands under the shower and tossed water at the little dot. The water rose and landed on the ceiling, but seemed to fall around the insect, not on it. It remained clinging in the same place. The water beaded up and began dropping back down from the ceiling. It was like watching a melting chandelier.
I tried a spray of water again. A little bit of it landed on the speck and it flew in a small loop, leaving the wet space on the ceiling for a dry one. The water was pooling and dripping like before and I did not want the cool, paint-stained drops to land on me. I took the towel off and made it into a ball with my hands. I was naked before the little dot, but did not care. Putting my feet on the flat cold edge of the bathtub, I raised myself up and balanced using the curtain rod. I turned the towel into a thick whip of red coarse cloth. I crouched and then let the towel loose like a hand-held thunderbolt. I absorbed the wet spot on the ceiling and I captured the bug.
I got off my little pedestal and examined the contents of my towel. It was wet and I could see a tiny dead creature wrapped up in the folds. I saw legs, a body, and a shell. The shell was red with black spots. I had killed a ladybug. Something inside me felt bad for doing it. They are not a vicious kind of insect. They do not bite or sting. They do not make loud music or buzzing sounds. There is a sort of clumsiness about them as they scurry and fly with their round bodies. It’s bad luck to kill one, my mother says, and although I’m not superstitious, the idea that I had been fooling around and acting like a warrior to kill a ladybug just did not sit right with me.
I tossed the remains of the insect into the stream running along the tub, from where the shower hit the back corner of the porcelain and caused a small waterfall. I imagined it a bit like disposing of bodies in the Ganges, the river carrying away whatever clumsy round soul the ladybug carried. Once it was gone, I stepped into the shower and cleaned myself. I took soap and water over my body and washed my hair and beard. Running my hands through the thick fields ready for a combine harvester of scissors, I realized it had been nearly six months since my last haircut.
After I got out and turned the water off, I dried myself using the same towel from before. It was slightly wet already and so was not as absorbent. However, I was more concerned that the parts from the ladybug would get on me. Checking my body, it seemed that I was all right. I looked at the drain to see if any parts were sticking up or out, but it was all clear. In my room I dressed for bed and noticed a bright red dot clinging to my t-shirt. I thought something inside of me had burst, or that my shirt somehow had a boil.
Looking closer I saw it was another ladybug. I was not sure how so many were getting into my room, but decided this one had to be saved. Shaking my t-shirt a bit caused the ladybug to fall into my hands. I opened my window to see if I could let it out, but there was a screen separating outside and inside. A breeze could pass through the holes, but no ladybugs. I shut the window and tried to think of what to do with it. I did not want to rush down the stairs and open the front door and wake everybody up. But leaving it in my room raised the possibility of a whole colony of the roaming red dots erupting.
So I went into my brother’s room. He was away at college and I decided that it would be safe to leave the ladybug there. So as to not raise suspicion, I kept things dark. Without the light, my feet kept hitting old toys, books, and the edges of furniture, but I found his old stereo. It was as flat and unused a surface as any, and so I left my ladybug there. My hope was that my mother would find it, and let it go outside. She believes finding a ladybug is good luck.
I gathered up a clean pair of boxers with paisley designs on them and a t-shirt. These would form my uniform for sleep. In the bathroom I turned all the handles and knobs so that I got an elevated stream of water coming out at the temperature that I desired. Back in my room I undressed and put my clothes in my white wicker hamper. I took a red towel and wrapped it around me. My parents had not bought a new set in a while, or at least not one for my brother and me. It no longer felt as soft as I remembered it back in high school, when I would use it on my face to wash off stage makeup after a play.
Soon, the water was coming out of the showerhead in nice thin columns. They almost looked like threads that could be somehow woven into wet textiles. I put my hand in the stream to see if it was warm enough yet. It was too warm for drinking, but not hot enough for me. While waiting for the temperature to rise, I looked up at the ceiling. I saw something crawling. It was a small dot that was capable of flight. I blew some air in its direction and it did not move. Such small creatures are fine outside, and normally do not bother me. But having a small unidentified flying object right over me indoors, especially while nude, made me feeling vulnerable.
Shooing the speck away with the wave of my distant hand was ineffective. It stayed on the ceiling, hanging upside down or perhaps thinking I was the one hanging the wrong way. Normally I am a pacifist, but when an insect, bug, or arachnid comes into a space I consider quite personal, I want to get rid of it. It is no personal slight against the creature, but if I somehow found my way to its sacred spot, say the underside of a leaf, it would probably act the same way towards me. Looking at the dot hanging on my ceiling reminded me of when my brother was bitten by a spider while bathing in the same bathroom many years ago.
My first attempt to dislodge it was with water. In my mind bugs and water do not mix, especially the flying ones. Nothing wounds them so easily than a simple jet or spray of droplets in their direction. So I cupped my hands under the shower and tossed water at the little dot. The water rose and landed on the ceiling, but seemed to fall around the insect, not on it. It remained clinging in the same place. The water beaded up and began dropping back down from the ceiling. It was like watching a melting chandelier.
I tried a spray of water again. A little bit of it landed on the speck and it flew in a small loop, leaving the wet space on the ceiling for a dry one. The water was pooling and dripping like before and I did not want the cool, paint-stained drops to land on me. I took the towel off and made it into a ball with my hands. I was naked before the little dot, but did not care. Putting my feet on the flat cold edge of the bathtub, I raised myself up and balanced using the curtain rod. I turned the towel into a thick whip of red coarse cloth. I crouched and then let the towel loose like a hand-held thunderbolt. I absorbed the wet spot on the ceiling and I captured the bug.
I got off my little pedestal and examined the contents of my towel. It was wet and I could see a tiny dead creature wrapped up in the folds. I saw legs, a body, and a shell. The shell was red with black spots. I had killed a ladybug. Something inside me felt bad for doing it. They are not a vicious kind of insect. They do not bite or sting. They do not make loud music or buzzing sounds. There is a sort of clumsiness about them as they scurry and fly with their round bodies. It’s bad luck to kill one, my mother says, and although I’m not superstitious, the idea that I had been fooling around and acting like a warrior to kill a ladybug just did not sit right with me.
I tossed the remains of the insect into the stream running along the tub, from where the shower hit the back corner of the porcelain and caused a small waterfall. I imagined it a bit like disposing of bodies in the Ganges, the river carrying away whatever clumsy round soul the ladybug carried. Once it was gone, I stepped into the shower and cleaned myself. I took soap and water over my body and washed my hair and beard. Running my hands through the thick fields ready for a combine harvester of scissors, I realized it had been nearly six months since my last haircut.
After I got out and turned the water off, I dried myself using the same towel from before. It was slightly wet already and so was not as absorbent. However, I was more concerned that the parts from the ladybug would get on me. Checking my body, it seemed that I was all right. I looked at the drain to see if any parts were sticking up or out, but it was all clear. In my room I dressed for bed and noticed a bright red dot clinging to my t-shirt. I thought something inside of me had burst, or that my shirt somehow had a boil.
Looking closer I saw it was another ladybug. I was not sure how so many were getting into my room, but decided this one had to be saved. Shaking my t-shirt a bit caused the ladybug to fall into my hands. I opened my window to see if I could let it out, but there was a screen separating outside and inside. A breeze could pass through the holes, but no ladybugs. I shut the window and tried to think of what to do with it. I did not want to rush down the stairs and open the front door and wake everybody up. But leaving it in my room raised the possibility of a whole colony of the roaming red dots erupting.
So I went into my brother’s room. He was away at college and I decided that it would be safe to leave the ladybug there. So as to not raise suspicion, I kept things dark. Without the light, my feet kept hitting old toys, books, and the edges of furniture, but I found his old stereo. It was as flat and unused a surface as any, and so I left my ladybug there. My hope was that my mother would find it, and let it go outside. She believes finding a ladybug is good luck.
The Old Con (Parts One and Two)--Annabelle Baptista
I
Dom staggered through the heavy double doors of the Burger King feeling lightheaded. He likened the feeling to a moment before clarity comes. Usually there was the low moan of the fans, but the fans were still quiet from winter, the old-fashioned parlor lamps were on, with track lighting as well as fluorescent ceiling lighting. Dom tilted his head and glided across the floor like a disco-era pimp.
The dishwashers in their torn t-shirts and filthy aprons called him the Old Con. His black hair rakishly combed in slivers, he would pull the brass ring on his cane back and forth, working a dip into his strides, which the young men jokingly emulated behind his back. He was known to live in a boarding house run by the Sojourner homeless shelter since his release from prison five years earlier.
Dom warmed to the over-heated room and the sight of Carla behind the glistening counter dressed in her cotton-blend trousers and BK polo shirt. Enshrined in his standard greeting were his feelings for her.
“Soon, I’ll be able to get my hands on a lot of money. Nobody knows but I got money,” he concentrated on coolly walking over to the counter, trying to keep up their usual banter, but Carla got there first.
“What ‘nobody’? You tell everybody all the time, someone’s going to knock you upside the head and take it one day…. You know what one of our cooks said –one night?”
She watched him look suddenly worried, as he grazed a wet floor cone situated on the ceramic tiles.
What the cook had told her was this—Dom had been flashing a $5000 bill in her face, out to impress her no doubt. Carla humored him with the passing thought. Old people were known to leave trash bags full of money in their apartment, or give it to a waitress just because she had been nice, or shown a little interest.
Roach blew in with a cluster of dead leaves, the wind at his back, the empty parking lot spread out behind him like a darkened cove. Years spent feeding the cutting machines in a chemical plant had damaged his eardrums, so that he usually shouted.
“Hey man, yeah, old man, I’m talking to you.”
Dom had worked as a maintenance man at the chemical plant’s disposal unit after he got out of jail. It was a day job that lasted three weeks before Dom couldn’t stand the smell, the constant headaches, the piss tests or the eye exams any longer. Roach had stayed there thirty years. Everyone called him Roach, because he had lasted so long. The name on his jumpsuit and cap said Hine. Hine was the chemical plant.
Dom doubled over in pain as he leaned on his cane to steady himself. His bladder was pushing against his bowel lined with last night’s booze. The pressure in his bowels forced him to clench his teeth. All of a sudden he was burning up.
“Are you all right, Grandfather?” Carla asked.
“Yes, damn it,” he said pushing back the nausea that was crawling like a caterpillar up his throat.
“Okay, okay, take it easy. Here, do you want some help?” She started to come from behind the locked area.
“No…stay over there. It’s nothing…the bathroom,” Dom said feeling a churning urgency in his bowels.
He remembered the doctor’s prognosis, a blackened liver, imminent liver transplant necessary, probability of a donor, nil.
Roach turned his back, busying himself with the brightly lit menu.
Dom held onto the wall until he heard the loud electronic buzzer. He bared his teeth down hard with pain and dropped his pants. The viscid taste of chalky acid filled his mouth as warmth spread down his legs and he hit the floor.
II
He lay there for a moment, stained, stunned, seeing what he suspected was morning through the thick milky glass. He felt drained and with effort lifted his head about two inches from the tile. He stared at the tile’s geometric formations. The automatic Glade deodorizer sent up a spray of scent and it filled him with chickweed and clover pushing up among baby’s breath and yarrow, the topiary bushes and trees decked out in brilliant emerald on the Common. He managed to stand and collect his cane. His pants were damp, but he wouldn’t worry about it; if anyone asked he would say he spilled his coffee.
As he collected himself and exited the bathroom, he saw a handful of customers in Burger King for the morning rush. At their regular table sat Roach, who had been joined by Mrs. Jones, the co-owner of a bible store with her late husband.
Dom made his way over to the table as Kayo, a young man from the neighborhood, swept pass him, spreading his leather jacket like beetle wings.
Dom watched the teenaged girls twirl their plum skirts after him. Their excitement carried them forward like a wave of burgundy and white placards at a school game. They had ripe, swollen, cherry balm lips, thick thighs and penny loafers. They circled as close as they dared, watching Kayo as they tittered and whispered to one another behind cupped hands.
“Watch the queen. Watch the queen, where did she go, where did she go?” Kayo spread three worn cards face up on the table first, showing the queen, king, then the joker. He deftly tossed them into the air and the cards performed like tumblers in a circus.
“Is she in the corners or the middle card? Pick.” Kayo told his mark, sucking on the toothpick in his mouth.
“Don’t be a fool. I’m not wasting my money,” Mrs. Jones said in an early Sunday morning voice.
“I’ll give you a free chance to see if you can find the queen.” Kayo said. Mrs. Jones lifted her hand as if she smelled something foul in the air and waved it in front of her face. Kayo didn’t seem to acknowledge rejection, so he stood there like it was the most natural stance in the world.
As if she were playing a game with a tireless child Mrs. Jones reached out to touch the cards, or maybe she was reaching for her coffee. Either way her hand was out there. She made a choice, not touching the card but letting her hand hover over it.
“Ah too bad, you lose.” Kayo said, turning the Joker over and looking steely-eyed at Mrs. Jones, ‘Pay up, that will be $20 dollars. Time has run out on the special offer. Free can’t last,” He leaned in close, sticking the toothpick out and flicking it with his tongue.
“Punk” said Dom, leaning against a large barber-style pole in the center of the room. The teenies cleared their lungs in a collective breath.
“We aren’t giving you a dime, don’t you have any respect for anything,” Dom spat his words out, shaking, as he moved forward using his cane, then he threw it on a bench and leaned against a table, standing his ground. He felt the eyes in the room shifting and resting uncomfortably on him. He braced himself on the table as if he were latched with cable.
“Old man, you got a death wish.” Kayo said, almost in a whisper.
“Do you know who I am, I ain’t no small time chump like you. I hit the big time.” Dom glanced around the room at the harried factory workers, their yellow helmets propped by their sides, the wrecked mother with a handful of kids, all with sticky fingers greedily snatching open packaged Styrofoam containers and wondered if this was the time or the place for his last breath; if it was to be it was to be. He was glad that Carla was there to see it, to see him fierce and proud. He wanted to turn around and look at her, hold her in his arms, but he knew better than to take his eyes off Kayo.
Kayo picked up the cards. And as he went out with his entourage—“I’ll see you later,” he muttered.
“Thank you, Dom, you're my knight in shining armor.” Mrs. Jones said. But Dom was looking for Carla, who was no longer at the counter.
“Why don’t you come over to the house tonight. I’ll make lasagna,” Mrs. Jones said, pulling Dom down on the bench next to her.
“I’m seeing someone tonight,” Dom said and regretted his choice of words immediately.
“Who, Carla? You’re delusional. You can spend the rest of your life on a fantasy or on a good woman,” Mrs. Jones said, snapping her fingers.
“Carla, Carla,” she shouted, “Show Dom that picture of your boyfriend,” But Carla had gone into the back and didn’t return after the breakfast rush.
“Be quiet, woman,” Dom said, looking at Roach, who was looking at them, laughing.
DON'T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? CLICK HERE TO READ PARTS THREE AND FOUR!
Dom staggered through the heavy double doors of the Burger King feeling lightheaded. He likened the feeling to a moment before clarity comes. Usually there was the low moan of the fans, but the fans were still quiet from winter, the old-fashioned parlor lamps were on, with track lighting as well as fluorescent ceiling lighting. Dom tilted his head and glided across the floor like a disco-era pimp.
The dishwashers in their torn t-shirts and filthy aprons called him the Old Con. His black hair rakishly combed in slivers, he would pull the brass ring on his cane back and forth, working a dip into his strides, which the young men jokingly emulated behind his back. He was known to live in a boarding house run by the Sojourner homeless shelter since his release from prison five years earlier.
Dom warmed to the over-heated room and the sight of Carla behind the glistening counter dressed in her cotton-blend trousers and BK polo shirt. Enshrined in his standard greeting were his feelings for her.
“Soon, I’ll be able to get my hands on a lot of money. Nobody knows but I got money,” he concentrated on coolly walking over to the counter, trying to keep up their usual banter, but Carla got there first.
“What ‘nobody’? You tell everybody all the time, someone’s going to knock you upside the head and take it one day…. You know what one of our cooks said –one night?”
She watched him look suddenly worried, as he grazed a wet floor cone situated on the ceramic tiles.
What the cook had told her was this—Dom had been flashing a $5000 bill in her face, out to impress her no doubt. Carla humored him with the passing thought. Old people were known to leave trash bags full of money in their apartment, or give it to a waitress just because she had been nice, or shown a little interest.
Roach blew in with a cluster of dead leaves, the wind at his back, the empty parking lot spread out behind him like a darkened cove. Years spent feeding the cutting machines in a chemical plant had damaged his eardrums, so that he usually shouted.
“Hey man, yeah, old man, I’m talking to you.”
Dom had worked as a maintenance man at the chemical plant’s disposal unit after he got out of jail. It was a day job that lasted three weeks before Dom couldn’t stand the smell, the constant headaches, the piss tests or the eye exams any longer. Roach had stayed there thirty years. Everyone called him Roach, because he had lasted so long. The name on his jumpsuit and cap said Hine. Hine was the chemical plant.
Dom doubled over in pain as he leaned on his cane to steady himself. His bladder was pushing against his bowel lined with last night’s booze. The pressure in his bowels forced him to clench his teeth. All of a sudden he was burning up.
“Are you all right, Grandfather?” Carla asked.
“Yes, damn it,” he said pushing back the nausea that was crawling like a caterpillar up his throat.
“Okay, okay, take it easy. Here, do you want some help?” She started to come from behind the locked area.
“No…stay over there. It’s nothing…the bathroom,” Dom said feeling a churning urgency in his bowels.
He remembered the doctor’s prognosis, a blackened liver, imminent liver transplant necessary, probability of a donor, nil.
Roach turned his back, busying himself with the brightly lit menu.
Dom held onto the wall until he heard the loud electronic buzzer. He bared his teeth down hard with pain and dropped his pants. The viscid taste of chalky acid filled his mouth as warmth spread down his legs and he hit the floor.
II
He lay there for a moment, stained, stunned, seeing what he suspected was morning through the thick milky glass. He felt drained and with effort lifted his head about two inches from the tile. He stared at the tile’s geometric formations. The automatic Glade deodorizer sent up a spray of scent and it filled him with chickweed and clover pushing up among baby’s breath and yarrow, the topiary bushes and trees decked out in brilliant emerald on the Common. He managed to stand and collect his cane. His pants were damp, but he wouldn’t worry about it; if anyone asked he would say he spilled his coffee.
As he collected himself and exited the bathroom, he saw a handful of customers in Burger King for the morning rush. At their regular table sat Roach, who had been joined by Mrs. Jones, the co-owner of a bible store with her late husband.
Dom made his way over to the table as Kayo, a young man from the neighborhood, swept pass him, spreading his leather jacket like beetle wings.
Dom watched the teenaged girls twirl their plum skirts after him. Their excitement carried them forward like a wave of burgundy and white placards at a school game. They had ripe, swollen, cherry balm lips, thick thighs and penny loafers. They circled as close as they dared, watching Kayo as they tittered and whispered to one another behind cupped hands.
“Watch the queen. Watch the queen, where did she go, where did she go?” Kayo spread three worn cards face up on the table first, showing the queen, king, then the joker. He deftly tossed them into the air and the cards performed like tumblers in a circus.
“Is she in the corners or the middle card? Pick.” Kayo told his mark, sucking on the toothpick in his mouth.
“Don’t be a fool. I’m not wasting my money,” Mrs. Jones said in an early Sunday morning voice.
“I’ll give you a free chance to see if you can find the queen.” Kayo said. Mrs. Jones lifted her hand as if she smelled something foul in the air and waved it in front of her face. Kayo didn’t seem to acknowledge rejection, so he stood there like it was the most natural stance in the world.
As if she were playing a game with a tireless child Mrs. Jones reached out to touch the cards, or maybe she was reaching for her coffee. Either way her hand was out there. She made a choice, not touching the card but letting her hand hover over it.
“Ah too bad, you lose.” Kayo said, turning the Joker over and looking steely-eyed at Mrs. Jones, ‘Pay up, that will be $20 dollars. Time has run out on the special offer. Free can’t last,” He leaned in close, sticking the toothpick out and flicking it with his tongue.
“Punk” said Dom, leaning against a large barber-style pole in the center of the room. The teenies cleared their lungs in a collective breath.
“We aren’t giving you a dime, don’t you have any respect for anything,” Dom spat his words out, shaking, as he moved forward using his cane, then he threw it on a bench and leaned against a table, standing his ground. He felt the eyes in the room shifting and resting uncomfortably on him. He braced himself on the table as if he were latched with cable.
“Old man, you got a death wish.” Kayo said, almost in a whisper.
“Do you know who I am, I ain’t no small time chump like you. I hit the big time.” Dom glanced around the room at the harried factory workers, their yellow helmets propped by their sides, the wrecked mother with a handful of kids, all with sticky fingers greedily snatching open packaged Styrofoam containers and wondered if this was the time or the place for his last breath; if it was to be it was to be. He was glad that Carla was there to see it, to see him fierce and proud. He wanted to turn around and look at her, hold her in his arms, but he knew better than to take his eyes off Kayo.
Kayo picked up the cards. And as he went out with his entourage—“I’ll see you later,” he muttered.
“Thank you, Dom, you're my knight in shining armor.” Mrs. Jones said. But Dom was looking for Carla, who was no longer at the counter.
“Why don’t you come over to the house tonight. I’ll make lasagna,” Mrs. Jones said, pulling Dom down on the bench next to her.
“I’m seeing someone tonight,” Dom said and regretted his choice of words immediately.
“Who, Carla? You’re delusional. You can spend the rest of your life on a fantasy or on a good woman,” Mrs. Jones said, snapping her fingers.
“Carla, Carla,” she shouted, “Show Dom that picture of your boyfriend,” But Carla had gone into the back and didn’t return after the breakfast rush.
“Be quiet, woman,” Dom said, looking at Roach, who was looking at them, laughing.
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The Old Con (Parts Three and Four)--Annabelle Baptista
III
Mrs. Jones’ sandy brown eyes and painted eyelids had once held a mystery for him. Now her powerful perfume, something full of roses, reminded him of the single red rose she had laid on her husband’s coffin. He and Roach and a couple of vendors had paid their hasty respects to the Bible storeowner on a workday, deep in last winter. He had had a stroke. Roach, the only serious Baptist among them, had introduced them, and they had gathered for breakfast routinely for five years, Mr. Jones trying to save Dom’s soul, and Mrs. Jones rubbing herself against him like an electric eel.
Now when she smiled at him, he was reminded of how much he missed her dead husband
“Hey, next time I’ll get breakfast, I got enough money stashed to buy us champagne for breakfast,” Dom said.
His mind caught in a groove and he saw himself as a young man in a brick tenement, just like the one he lived in now, only then he was 20 and had drank in liquid sunshine, manically laughing. He remembered the sweat and adrenaline, more than he had ever felt as he screamed into the face of a scared shitless clerk that day. Fear on that sun-drenched afternoon smelled like ammonia-soaked roses. He hadn’t wanted to pull the trigger, but the mind plays tricks on you in such intense moments when you’re confronted with bad breath, sweat and pleading. Then that sound, that poof and pop, the smell of sulfur, he couldn’t get out of his mind; it woke him in a cold sweat at night. Or was it the sound of money in a bag, fluttering like moths that made him wake, always, as if he had been running, his heart pounding.
“You’re a tightwad, an old skinflint. You’re never going to spend any of that money” Mrs. Jones said rolling the words out on her tongue like butterscotch. Dom’s mind jumped the groove.
“You been telling us about that money you hit for as long as I can remember, why you still living in that hole? Why at your old-ass age you still working as a bagger at Sam’s Market? Why don’t you go get it? I don’t think no one knows the difference now, it’s just money,” Roach said.
“Yeah, it’s just money.” Dom winked at him and got up to leave.
“Where you going, old man,” Roach said, clearing the way for Dom to pass, but Dom stared into the liquid sunshine coming through the window.
IV
He was not looking forward to the emptiness of the hours that lay ahead, but he was too proud to be the last to leave. As he walked up the street, he saw several young men gathered on the corner of Campus Street. He stiffened, turned up his shirt collar, and sensing the danger of young idle men, tapped his cane hard on the cement. He angled himself and dipped his shoulder to bowl right through them.
“Hey old man,” Someone yelled in the group of young punks. One of them was Kayo. Dom looked back at the brick wall of the Burger King, now a block away. His heart gave off a slight ripple.
“You got any money? I want a hamburger!” A nearly de-pantsed punk was reaching in his back pocket. He pulled out a brush, pushing Dom with his elbow as they rushed to tighten the circle around him. Dom faced them. The wind stung through his damp trousers. The March frost left a slippery trail of ice on the street. He shivered in his worn leather coat.
“Carla said he robbed a truck or something, she says he’s got a load stashed,” Kayo said.
“You punks don’t know who you’re messing with. I could beat the shit out of every one of you,” Dom said holding the cane by the neck, and shaking it. He was shouting, hoping someone would hear him and break the group up.
“Hey old man, do you want to die today?” Kayo grinned, a toothpick jackknifing between his front teeth.
Dom willed himself not to budge. Someone pushed him from behind onto the slick pavement. He tumbled to the ground, then a foot connected with his groin.
They roughly searched him and took his wallet. He told himself get up and fight, damn it, but the words triggered no reaction in his useless body. Dom felt pain and cold slice through him. Someone towered over him shouting “Get up!” Kayo laughing derisively picked up his cane and said, “Leave him, he ain’t nothing but a lot of talk.” Dom turned on his side, sucking blood from his bitten lip as they walked away. He felt empty, his thoughts emptied, his pockets emptied, even the tenderness he felt for Carla had been emptied.
They would take the five ones, which were in plain view, then throw the wallet away. They probably wouldn’t find the $5000 bill tucked behind his Sam’s ID card. If they did find it and attempted to spend it they would go to jail. Dom stared at the ashen sun petrified in its sky.
Mrs. Jones’ sandy brown eyes and painted eyelids had once held a mystery for him. Now her powerful perfume, something full of roses, reminded him of the single red rose she had laid on her husband’s coffin. He and Roach and a couple of vendors had paid their hasty respects to the Bible storeowner on a workday, deep in last winter. He had had a stroke. Roach, the only serious Baptist among them, had introduced them, and they had gathered for breakfast routinely for five years, Mr. Jones trying to save Dom’s soul, and Mrs. Jones rubbing herself against him like an electric eel.
Now when she smiled at him, he was reminded of how much he missed her dead husband
“Hey, next time I’ll get breakfast, I got enough money stashed to buy us champagne for breakfast,” Dom said.
His mind caught in a groove and he saw himself as a young man in a brick tenement, just like the one he lived in now, only then he was 20 and had drank in liquid sunshine, manically laughing. He remembered the sweat and adrenaline, more than he had ever felt as he screamed into the face of a scared shitless clerk that day. Fear on that sun-drenched afternoon smelled like ammonia-soaked roses. He hadn’t wanted to pull the trigger, but the mind plays tricks on you in such intense moments when you’re confronted with bad breath, sweat and pleading. Then that sound, that poof and pop, the smell of sulfur, he couldn’t get out of his mind; it woke him in a cold sweat at night. Or was it the sound of money in a bag, fluttering like moths that made him wake, always, as if he had been running, his heart pounding.
“You’re a tightwad, an old skinflint. You’re never going to spend any of that money” Mrs. Jones said rolling the words out on her tongue like butterscotch. Dom’s mind jumped the groove.
“You been telling us about that money you hit for as long as I can remember, why you still living in that hole? Why at your old-ass age you still working as a bagger at Sam’s Market? Why don’t you go get it? I don’t think no one knows the difference now, it’s just money,” Roach said.
“Yeah, it’s just money.” Dom winked at him and got up to leave.
“Where you going, old man,” Roach said, clearing the way for Dom to pass, but Dom stared into the liquid sunshine coming through the window.
IV
He was not looking forward to the emptiness of the hours that lay ahead, but he was too proud to be the last to leave. As he walked up the street, he saw several young men gathered on the corner of Campus Street. He stiffened, turned up his shirt collar, and sensing the danger of young idle men, tapped his cane hard on the cement. He angled himself and dipped his shoulder to bowl right through them.
“Hey old man,” Someone yelled in the group of young punks. One of them was Kayo. Dom looked back at the brick wall of the Burger King, now a block away. His heart gave off a slight ripple.
“You got any money? I want a hamburger!” A nearly de-pantsed punk was reaching in his back pocket. He pulled out a brush, pushing Dom with his elbow as they rushed to tighten the circle around him. Dom faced them. The wind stung through his damp trousers. The March frost left a slippery trail of ice on the street. He shivered in his worn leather coat.
“Carla said he robbed a truck or something, she says he’s got a load stashed,” Kayo said.
“You punks don’t know who you’re messing with. I could beat the shit out of every one of you,” Dom said holding the cane by the neck, and shaking it. He was shouting, hoping someone would hear him and break the group up.
“Hey old man, do you want to die today?” Kayo grinned, a toothpick jackknifing between his front teeth.
Dom willed himself not to budge. Someone pushed him from behind onto the slick pavement. He tumbled to the ground, then a foot connected with his groin.
They roughly searched him and took his wallet. He told himself get up and fight, damn it, but the words triggered no reaction in his useless body. Dom felt pain and cold slice through him. Someone towered over him shouting “Get up!” Kayo laughing derisively picked up his cane and said, “Leave him, he ain’t nothing but a lot of talk.” Dom turned on his side, sucking blood from his bitten lip as they walked away. He felt empty, his thoughts emptied, his pockets emptied, even the tenderness he felt for Carla had been emptied.
They would take the five ones, which were in plain view, then throw the wallet away. They probably wouldn’t find the $5000 bill tucked behind his Sam’s ID card. If they did find it and attempted to spend it they would go to jail. Dom stared at the ashen sun petrified in its sky.
Bad Day--John Bruce
After George got laid off from Digital Discipline Technologies, which everyone called DDT, he worked for a while as a contractor installing DDT software. There was a market for customers who’d gotten fed up with DDT, had kept their products, but wouldn’t let anyone from DDT on their property.
George even worked a job as a contractor for DDT’s sales side, when they didn’t trust anyone from the DDT post-sales side to do the installation right. Not that they’d actually rehire him – they went through an agency. The customer was up in Silicon Valley. Their employee bulletin boards had a no-questions-asked free ride home policy: if you were too drunk to drive home yourself (this, you understand, is at work), you could call Security, and they’d drive you home.
DDT’s sales team had been in this place for something like eight months trying to get the stuff to work right. George had worked with the guy who was putting it in while he was still at DDT. Everyone called him Doc, the way you call a guy who runs a card game Doc. When George got there, he discovered that it sort of worked. It sort of worked if you didn’t look at it too hard. It worked the way you might expect it to work if someone named Doc had installed it.
The customer wasn’t looking at it too hard, because Alison was their account rep. She came in wearing miniskirts and tight sweaters, and they looked much harder at Alison than they did at the software. The two customer guys who were working on the project would leap after her like crazed puppies.
So George started to make a careful review of how things had been installed. If you started up one part of the product, you’d get a security error on another part. If you tried to start the other part without the first part, it wouldn’t work at all. He asked Alison if she knew anything about how things had been done over the past eight months that might have caused this. Of course not, it wasn’t her job – her job was to wear miniskirts and tight sweaters. She was sure, though, that Doc had installed everything correctly.
George tried reinstalling twice. He spent two hours on the phone with DDT support getting the thing straightened out. It turned out Doc had screwed something up with Windows security eight months earlier. George changed the Windows security PARM, and after he’d been there two days, everything worked.
The customer was ticked off it’d taken him two days. They didn’t mind having Alison around for eight months while things didn’t work. They thought George could have fixed the Windows problem sooner than he did. They knew all about Windows, after all. They complained to the contracting company George was working through. The company docked him two hours billing—according to the customer, he should have fixed the thing two hours sooner.
George even worked a job as a contractor for DDT’s sales side, when they didn’t trust anyone from the DDT post-sales side to do the installation right. Not that they’d actually rehire him – they went through an agency. The customer was up in Silicon Valley. Their employee bulletin boards had a no-questions-asked free ride home policy: if you were too drunk to drive home yourself (this, you understand, is at work), you could call Security, and they’d drive you home.
DDT’s sales team had been in this place for something like eight months trying to get the stuff to work right. George had worked with the guy who was putting it in while he was still at DDT. Everyone called him Doc, the way you call a guy who runs a card game Doc. When George got there, he discovered that it sort of worked. It sort of worked if you didn’t look at it too hard. It worked the way you might expect it to work if someone named Doc had installed it.
The customer wasn’t looking at it too hard, because Alison was their account rep. She came in wearing miniskirts and tight sweaters, and they looked much harder at Alison than they did at the software. The two customer guys who were working on the project would leap after her like crazed puppies.
So George started to make a careful review of how things had been installed. If you started up one part of the product, you’d get a security error on another part. If you tried to start the other part without the first part, it wouldn’t work at all. He asked Alison if she knew anything about how things had been done over the past eight months that might have caused this. Of course not, it wasn’t her job – her job was to wear miniskirts and tight sweaters. She was sure, though, that Doc had installed everything correctly.
George tried reinstalling twice. He spent two hours on the phone with DDT support getting the thing straightened out. It turned out Doc had screwed something up with Windows security eight months earlier. George changed the Windows security PARM, and after he’d been there two days, everything worked.
The customer was ticked off it’d taken him two days. They didn’t mind having Alison around for eight months while things didn’t work. They thought George could have fixed the Windows problem sooner than he did. They knew all about Windows, after all. They complained to the contracting company George was working through. The company docked him two hours billing—according to the customer, he should have fixed the thing two hours sooner.
Mark and Donny (Part One)--Chris Castle
He folded up the letter into a small square and put it in his back pocket. He looked around his flat, collected up the bottle, pitched it against the wall. Outside snow started to fall, a long and unbroken mist. His brother used to tell him it was raindrops, each wearing their own suit of armor. He walked through the room silently. He closed the door and turned the key, double-locked; he didn’t take a jacket.
He walked the streets, empty with the weather. Shop assistants looked out absent-mindedly, vendors clapped their hands and smiled to themselves. A newspaper broke loose and blew into the road, collapsing into separate sheets and running free. He folded his arms, imitating the few strangers who made their way through the afternoon, even though he didn’t feel anything at all.
He stood looking at the DVDs on the shelves. He overheard a few kids talking. It had been a long time since he’d heard voices close by. He decided to listen to whatever it was they had to say.
“Retard” said one of the voices. It was young and full of hate. Another repeated the word, trying to imitate the hate of the other’s voice. He couldn’t manage it, the last few letters tailing off when they should have been getting harder. He moved his head round the aisle to witness the silence.
Four boys. Standing just close enough to be in the man’s space but just far enough away to break if they were faced with someone stronger.
“Can’t you talk, spastic?” said the leader. He was tall and thin but full of enough menace that only teenagers can hold. He looked as if he was constantly on the verge of attack.
The man stood still. His trousers were too high on his waist; his shirt was buttoned too close and all the way to the top. His windbreaker jacket was nondescript cream and too short on his arms. He clutched the small cases he had collected off the shelves close to his chest with both hands, like guarded treasure.
He looked round to see if the staff behind the counter were going to intervene. They watched the screens with a mannered distraction, pretending not to hear. Only a few years older than the other boys. They turned their heads at an angle, the way people did at restaurants when couples argued nearby. One turned the sound up to try to drown out the voices.
The leader sprang forward and knocked the cases from the man’s hands. As soon as their hands came into contact his arms loosened and the cases fell easily to the floor. The boys kicked them to each corner. They laughed, cold and hard, each making the other up the level of noise.
After that the boys seemed at a loss for what to do with the man. They moved amongst themselves in a circle, unsure of the next stop. Then the leader punched one of the other boys, the one with the weaker voice. They started to leave. The leader stopped in his tracks and turned and spat on the man’s sleeve. He seemed satisfied with that and moved back to the group, who froze without his lead. They patted and punched each other and they moved toward the door, swearing at the snow outside.
The man looked down at his sleeve, where the spittle lay. It started to spread into a patch on his arm. He didn’t seem to know what to do, but just blinked over and over at the mark. He wore very small glasses. His hair was short on his skin. His lip drooped a little as if it was trying to reply to an unheard question. His skin was the color of weak coffee.
He watched as the man started to walk to one of the corners of the floor, the furthest, to collect his cases. He walked slowly and calmly, as if the cases had been put there for him to collect. He looked around and saw the staff looking back over. One of them smiled. He walked over to another one of the corners and picked up one of the other cases. He collected one of the others. He turned and saw the man holding the other two cases to his chest as he had before. They stood opposite each other. He thought the man looked more intimidated than he did before the boys. Then he realized the man thought he might be taking the games. He reached out and passed them over to him. They stood in silence, the voices from the film echoing from the screens.
“I’m sorry those boys teased you.” The man didn’t look at him directly, but instead looked down to the floor. “I’m Mark.” He held out his hand, certain the man wasn’t going to take it.
“I’m Donny.” The man slowly brought up his arm and took his hand. His skin was cool, like warm, melting ice.
“You like computer games.” He felt the staff staring and did not care.
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for these for a long time.” He drummed his finger along the cases, a slow tap-tap-tap. “Football and cars. I like cars the best.” His voice was steady and slow, each word carefully put in the air.
“You playing them all today, or going to play one a day?” Their hands fell to their sides.
“All together. To see which one I like the best.”
“Today’s a good day for it, with all the snow.” He watched Donny as he looked out to the street, blinking as if he had seen the snow for the first time. Then he turned back, looking directly at him.
“Would you like to play the games. With me. They are two player games.” He held his gaze, so it was Mark who took a few seconds to reply.
“Sure. I’d like that. That would be great.” Donny nodded without smiling. They walked to the counter together, Donny reaching into his pocket. He put the cases on the counter and pulled out a green wallet.
“I’ll get these, Donny, I don’t mind.” He said, scrambling all the coins together in his pocket.
“No. They are in my name, I have a ticket and I get to keep them for seven days.” Donny carefully put the card on the counter, the cash, the leaflet, looking to the cashier after each action, checking each part of the process. They turned and walked towards the automatic doors. They both waited until the door closed and then they stepped out into the snow.
“Do you live nearby, Donny?” He talked over the snow, nearly shouting.
“Nine streets. Twenty-five minutes.” His voice stayed the same tone, but still carried over the snow.
“Well, seeing how you paid for the games, I thought I might buy some supplies, while we’re playing. Shop’s right here.” Snowdrops settled on his arm as he pointed to the grocery. They melted into the material. He waited until Donny nodded and ducked in.
He moved into the shops, picked up snacks, bread. What did you buy a stranger? He walked up each aisle, picking up random items. He moved to the checkout, paid quickly. He looked out to Donny, standing statue-still, the snow gathering on his tired jacket.
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He walked the streets, empty with the weather. Shop assistants looked out absent-mindedly, vendors clapped their hands and smiled to themselves. A newspaper broke loose and blew into the road, collapsing into separate sheets and running free. He folded his arms, imitating the few strangers who made their way through the afternoon, even though he didn’t feel anything at all.
He stood looking at the DVDs on the shelves. He overheard a few kids talking. It had been a long time since he’d heard voices close by. He decided to listen to whatever it was they had to say.
“Retard” said one of the voices. It was young and full of hate. Another repeated the word, trying to imitate the hate of the other’s voice. He couldn’t manage it, the last few letters tailing off when they should have been getting harder. He moved his head round the aisle to witness the silence.
Four boys. Standing just close enough to be in the man’s space but just far enough away to break if they were faced with someone stronger.
“Can’t you talk, spastic?” said the leader. He was tall and thin but full of enough menace that only teenagers can hold. He looked as if he was constantly on the verge of attack.
The man stood still. His trousers were too high on his waist; his shirt was buttoned too close and all the way to the top. His windbreaker jacket was nondescript cream and too short on his arms. He clutched the small cases he had collected off the shelves close to his chest with both hands, like guarded treasure.
He looked round to see if the staff behind the counter were going to intervene. They watched the screens with a mannered distraction, pretending not to hear. Only a few years older than the other boys. They turned their heads at an angle, the way people did at restaurants when couples argued nearby. One turned the sound up to try to drown out the voices.
The leader sprang forward and knocked the cases from the man’s hands. As soon as their hands came into contact his arms loosened and the cases fell easily to the floor. The boys kicked them to each corner. They laughed, cold and hard, each making the other up the level of noise.
After that the boys seemed at a loss for what to do with the man. They moved amongst themselves in a circle, unsure of the next stop. Then the leader punched one of the other boys, the one with the weaker voice. They started to leave. The leader stopped in his tracks and turned and spat on the man’s sleeve. He seemed satisfied with that and moved back to the group, who froze without his lead. They patted and punched each other and they moved toward the door, swearing at the snow outside.
The man looked down at his sleeve, where the spittle lay. It started to spread into a patch on his arm. He didn’t seem to know what to do, but just blinked over and over at the mark. He wore very small glasses. His hair was short on his skin. His lip drooped a little as if it was trying to reply to an unheard question. His skin was the color of weak coffee.
He watched as the man started to walk to one of the corners of the floor, the furthest, to collect his cases. He walked slowly and calmly, as if the cases had been put there for him to collect. He looked around and saw the staff looking back over. One of them smiled. He walked over to another one of the corners and picked up one of the other cases. He collected one of the others. He turned and saw the man holding the other two cases to his chest as he had before. They stood opposite each other. He thought the man looked more intimidated than he did before the boys. Then he realized the man thought he might be taking the games. He reached out and passed them over to him. They stood in silence, the voices from the film echoing from the screens.
“I’m sorry those boys teased you.” The man didn’t look at him directly, but instead looked down to the floor. “I’m Mark.” He held out his hand, certain the man wasn’t going to take it.
“I’m Donny.” The man slowly brought up his arm and took his hand. His skin was cool, like warm, melting ice.
“You like computer games.” He felt the staff staring and did not care.
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for these for a long time.” He drummed his finger along the cases, a slow tap-tap-tap. “Football and cars. I like cars the best.” His voice was steady and slow, each word carefully put in the air.
“You playing them all today, or going to play one a day?” Their hands fell to their sides.
“All together. To see which one I like the best.”
“Today’s a good day for it, with all the snow.” He watched Donny as he looked out to the street, blinking as if he had seen the snow for the first time. Then he turned back, looking directly at him.
“Would you like to play the games. With me. They are two player games.” He held his gaze, so it was Mark who took a few seconds to reply.
“Sure. I’d like that. That would be great.” Donny nodded without smiling. They walked to the counter together, Donny reaching into his pocket. He put the cases on the counter and pulled out a green wallet.
“I’ll get these, Donny, I don’t mind.” He said, scrambling all the coins together in his pocket.
“No. They are in my name, I have a ticket and I get to keep them for seven days.” Donny carefully put the card on the counter, the cash, the leaflet, looking to the cashier after each action, checking each part of the process. They turned and walked towards the automatic doors. They both waited until the door closed and then they stepped out into the snow.
“Do you live nearby, Donny?” He talked over the snow, nearly shouting.
“Nine streets. Twenty-five minutes.” His voice stayed the same tone, but still carried over the snow.
“Well, seeing how you paid for the games, I thought I might buy some supplies, while we’re playing. Shop’s right here.” Snowdrops settled on his arm as he pointed to the grocery. They melted into the material. He waited until Donny nodded and ducked in.
He moved into the shops, picked up snacks, bread. What did you buy a stranger? He walked up each aisle, picking up random items. He moved to the checkout, paid quickly. He looked out to Donny, standing statue-still, the snow gathering on his tired jacket.
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Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Mark and Donny (Part Two)--Chris Castle
They walked to the flat quietly, the weather worsening so that they could barely see in front of themselves. The snow helped to hide the quiet. They did not come across a single person on their way. Street lamps flickered, weakly burning under the blizzard. Mark looked at it for a while, how it looked beautiful somehow, half smothered and helpless. Without thinking he told Donny this, as they marched on, their boots crunching against the thick layers below. Donny nodded to him and they headed to a small bungalow ahead, lost in the blaze apart from a red door that was the color of weak blood against the sky.
Donny pulled the single key from his belt carefully and opened the door. Minutes later they were inside, each carefully slipping off their shoes. It was as bare as the flat he had left this morning, a single television, a small radio in the corner, a sofa, a small crippled chair. Nothing on the walls. Just a space that would never be filled. Donny walked up to the player and carefully placed the four games by its side. He pushed eject and slipped the disc in.
“Shall I open up some of the food, Donny?” Mark asked. He felt unsteady, not knowing where plates were kept, knives, boards. Donny nodded, concentrating on setting up the game.
He moved into the small kitchen, as bare as the rest. For a moment he felt as if he were breaking and entering into some deserted city. He imagined going from house to house, moving through the hidden, leftover parts of other people’s lives. He collected up the bowls, glasses. For a moment he closed his eyes and used his fingertips to find items he thought they might need.
When he moved into the room, the game was flashing up on the screen. Two square rally cars buffeted against the edges, smoke rising and spelling out the rules. The sound was down so the commentator’s voice was a low hum, like a part of the cars that would not quite start properly. Mark remembered a friend who died in a car crash when he was fifteen. Everyone was in love with his sister. The other driver had been reaching down to stop flowers he had bought for his wife from slipping into his lap. After the crash the flowers were taken from the wreck. Not a single petal had been disturbed.
He placed the bowls on the floor. He put out the food; put the whiskey and beer in the center, with two glasses.
“Do you drink, Donny?”
“No, tried it once. Too sour.” His eye flickered remembering the taste.
“Do you mind if I do?” If he said no, he would pour the whole bottle away without a second thought.
“I don’t mind. Do you want to play?” He put a finger to the second joystick, his own already gripped solid.
They began to play. He struggled at first, got a little better. He half-played, half-watched Donny, watched as his eyes opened wide, tightened with the corners, listened to his breath as the times came up. After each few games, they stopped for a while, ate from the bowls, sipped whiskey or water. After a while they decided to change games. There were a few seconds where there were just the sounds of Donny snapping the CDs, moving the console, snapping down.
“How old are you, Donny?” He wondered when his birthday was, how he celebrated.
“I’m twenty-seven years old.” He said. He said it particularly.
“I’m twenty-eight.” Once he’d helped a man who’d collapsed in the street. He had loosened his tie, loosened his collar. He watched, crouched by his head, holding the man’s hand, talking without knowing what he was saying. Then the ambulance swallowed him up. As it drove away, he knew the man had died on the edge of his fingertips there and then. When he went to the hospital, they found out the man was twenty-nine.
“I like the raindrops.” Donny suddenly said. He looked up from the disc, held it at an angle, so the light reflected off and made it look like a sunbeam. “I like it when the light rain falls into lakes. It looks like the water’s full of tiny explosions.” He looked down to the disc, turned it in between his fingers.
“When did you see that happen, Donny?”
“A long time ago. I saw a lake from where I sat. I went outside by the stairs and watched all the rain.” He pushed the disc into the machine, pressed a button, two. The screen flashed an emblem. He watched Donny’s eyes return to the screen.
He edged over to the floor, making space for himself as he waited for the game to begin. He wondered if Donny had ever been in a photograph before, what the occasion would have been. He wondered how he had ended up by the lake, to see the rain explode.
“Do you mind if I put the radio on?” He asked, even though he liked the sound of people moving without speaking. Donny nodded and he flicked the switch. A man’s voice came on, deep. He was in a play of some sort.
“Would you like this channel?”
“I like this one. An older lady talked about it in the shop. The frequency is 104.03 on the middle dial. They tell stories each week. I like the way they use their voices.” He imagined Donny in the aisles of a supermarket, standing frozen and rapt, listening to other shoppers, finishing quicker than they would as they finally became aware of him.
“What stories did you like best, Donny?” He memorized the dial, resolved to put it on his own battered stereo.
“There was a story about a wristwatch that got passed on to people all around the world. Everywhere. I liked that one the most. I wished they’d play it again.” He looked back to the screen. The load sign appeared.
They played for a few hours, refilling their bowls. They worked through the games, asking each other occasional questions. He looked outside. The snow was still falling, a blanket over the stars in the night sky. He stood at the window for the longest time, watching the snow shift with the breezes, early evening traffic, articulated lorries and office workers. He poured the rest of the whiskey down the sink, threw the beer cans in the bin. He took Donny’s coat from the hook on the back of the door and ran warm water on the spit mark. He scrubbed at it until the stain was almost gone.
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched Donny take the last disc out of the player. He got on his knees and carefully put the disc in. Then he sat back reading the names of each disc running his finger along each letter.
“I’ll think I’ll be leaving now, Donny.” He said from the kitchen doorway, already feeling the distance. He watched Donny’s head nod, without turning. He said ‘okay’ quietly. The radio in the corner was saying the news was coming up next. He didn’t want to know anything about the world right now. As he made his way to the door, Donny stood up and walked over.
“I had a nice time today, Donny. Real good. Thank you for that.” He looked Donny right in the eye, watched his eyes fall to the ground. A plane moved overhead.
“That’s okay. What about the food that’s left?”
“You eat it all up, Donny. I’m sorry those boys were nasty to you. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything. To help.” He felt his chest tighten up, stiffen.
“You picked up my cases.” He looked over to the cases, then back.
He put his hand out, hoped Donny would take it. When he did, they shook briefly. Slowly Donny’s arms fell back to his sides. They stood facing each other. He didn’t know how long they stood like this. When he edged back he opened his mouth, but the words were dry and he had to clear his throat to speak again.
“I’ll see you around, Donny.” He said. He didn’t recognize his voice. “Goodbye.”
He stepped out of the bungalow. The snow was steadily falling. He looked out to the streets. He looked back to the door, which had already closed. He looked back. Tears fell and then dried. The future was where he would walk to now. Into the night streets and past the damaged houses. All he had now was the warm buzz of a stranger’s hand on his palm that somehow kept the cold from his skin. He focused on that and started to walk into the night-time of the city.
Donny pulled the single key from his belt carefully and opened the door. Minutes later they were inside, each carefully slipping off their shoes. It was as bare as the flat he had left this morning, a single television, a small radio in the corner, a sofa, a small crippled chair. Nothing on the walls. Just a space that would never be filled. Donny walked up to the player and carefully placed the four games by its side. He pushed eject and slipped the disc in.
“Shall I open up some of the food, Donny?” Mark asked. He felt unsteady, not knowing where plates were kept, knives, boards. Donny nodded, concentrating on setting up the game.
He moved into the small kitchen, as bare as the rest. For a moment he felt as if he were breaking and entering into some deserted city. He imagined going from house to house, moving through the hidden, leftover parts of other people’s lives. He collected up the bowls, glasses. For a moment he closed his eyes and used his fingertips to find items he thought they might need.
When he moved into the room, the game was flashing up on the screen. Two square rally cars buffeted against the edges, smoke rising and spelling out the rules. The sound was down so the commentator’s voice was a low hum, like a part of the cars that would not quite start properly. Mark remembered a friend who died in a car crash when he was fifteen. Everyone was in love with his sister. The other driver had been reaching down to stop flowers he had bought for his wife from slipping into his lap. After the crash the flowers were taken from the wreck. Not a single petal had been disturbed.
He placed the bowls on the floor. He put out the food; put the whiskey and beer in the center, with two glasses.
“Do you drink, Donny?”
“No, tried it once. Too sour.” His eye flickered remembering the taste.
“Do you mind if I do?” If he said no, he would pour the whole bottle away without a second thought.
“I don’t mind. Do you want to play?” He put a finger to the second joystick, his own already gripped solid.
They began to play. He struggled at first, got a little better. He half-played, half-watched Donny, watched as his eyes opened wide, tightened with the corners, listened to his breath as the times came up. After each few games, they stopped for a while, ate from the bowls, sipped whiskey or water. After a while they decided to change games. There were a few seconds where there were just the sounds of Donny snapping the CDs, moving the console, snapping down.
“How old are you, Donny?” He wondered when his birthday was, how he celebrated.
“I’m twenty-seven years old.” He said. He said it particularly.
“I’m twenty-eight.” Once he’d helped a man who’d collapsed in the street. He had loosened his tie, loosened his collar. He watched, crouched by his head, holding the man’s hand, talking without knowing what he was saying. Then the ambulance swallowed him up. As it drove away, he knew the man had died on the edge of his fingertips there and then. When he went to the hospital, they found out the man was twenty-nine.
“I like the raindrops.” Donny suddenly said. He looked up from the disc, held it at an angle, so the light reflected off and made it look like a sunbeam. “I like it when the light rain falls into lakes. It looks like the water’s full of tiny explosions.” He looked down to the disc, turned it in between his fingers.
“When did you see that happen, Donny?”
“A long time ago. I saw a lake from where I sat. I went outside by the stairs and watched all the rain.” He pushed the disc into the machine, pressed a button, two. The screen flashed an emblem. He watched Donny’s eyes return to the screen.
He edged over to the floor, making space for himself as he waited for the game to begin. He wondered if Donny had ever been in a photograph before, what the occasion would have been. He wondered how he had ended up by the lake, to see the rain explode.
“Do you mind if I put the radio on?” He asked, even though he liked the sound of people moving without speaking. Donny nodded and he flicked the switch. A man’s voice came on, deep. He was in a play of some sort.
“Would you like this channel?”
“I like this one. An older lady talked about it in the shop. The frequency is 104.03 on the middle dial. They tell stories each week. I like the way they use their voices.” He imagined Donny in the aisles of a supermarket, standing frozen and rapt, listening to other shoppers, finishing quicker than they would as they finally became aware of him.
“What stories did you like best, Donny?” He memorized the dial, resolved to put it on his own battered stereo.
“There was a story about a wristwatch that got passed on to people all around the world. Everywhere. I liked that one the most. I wished they’d play it again.” He looked back to the screen. The load sign appeared.
They played for a few hours, refilling their bowls. They worked through the games, asking each other occasional questions. He looked outside. The snow was still falling, a blanket over the stars in the night sky. He stood at the window for the longest time, watching the snow shift with the breezes, early evening traffic, articulated lorries and office workers. He poured the rest of the whiskey down the sink, threw the beer cans in the bin. He took Donny’s coat from the hook on the back of the door and ran warm water on the spit mark. He scrubbed at it until the stain was almost gone.
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched Donny take the last disc out of the player. He got on his knees and carefully put the disc in. Then he sat back reading the names of each disc running his finger along each letter.
“I’ll think I’ll be leaving now, Donny.” He said from the kitchen doorway, already feeling the distance. He watched Donny’s head nod, without turning. He said ‘okay’ quietly. The radio in the corner was saying the news was coming up next. He didn’t want to know anything about the world right now. As he made his way to the door, Donny stood up and walked over.
“I had a nice time today, Donny. Real good. Thank you for that.” He looked Donny right in the eye, watched his eyes fall to the ground. A plane moved overhead.
“That’s okay. What about the food that’s left?”
“You eat it all up, Donny. I’m sorry those boys were nasty to you. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything. To help.” He felt his chest tighten up, stiffen.
“You picked up my cases.” He looked over to the cases, then back.
He put his hand out, hoped Donny would take it. When he did, they shook briefly. Slowly Donny’s arms fell back to his sides. They stood facing each other. He didn’t know how long they stood like this. When he edged back he opened his mouth, but the words were dry and he had to clear his throat to speak again.
“I’ll see you around, Donny.” He said. He didn’t recognize his voice. “Goodbye.”
He stepped out of the bungalow. The snow was steadily falling. He looked out to the streets. He looked back to the door, which had already closed. He looked back. Tears fell and then dried. The future was where he would walk to now. Into the night streets and past the damaged houses. All he had now was the warm buzz of a stranger’s hand on his palm that somehow kept the cold from his skin. He focused on that and started to walk into the night-time of the city.
Anteros A Go Go--John J. Trause
Behold
the whirligig statue
in Piccadilly Circus
Anteros of the roundabout
(i. e. traffic circle)
a god crippled
by dreams of revenge
and of removing himself
from the spindles
that hold him down
the shaft that connects him
and hopping off his base and
crossing the threshold
of the Underground
flitting
down
the stairwell
and hopping a train
to anywhere that love blooms.
Butterfly wings make you
dream that way.
Yes, I have seen
the Virgin of Ballinspittle
rock and pulsate
on her pedestal
and I suspect she jumps off
when no one’s looking
and thumbs a ride to Cork.
Voice Overhead--John J. Trause
I was the voice of the Planetarium
at the Newark Museum, telling of the wonders
of the night sky, the solar system, the Milky Way,
the stars, the constellations, the universe.
I was the overhead voice in the Hippodrome Garage
at 1120 Avenue of the Americas in New York City,
telling people what level they were on, where to go,
where the elevator was, where to pay.
I am now the voice on the answering machine
at the Oradell Public Library,
telling when we are open and when we are closed.
I am La donna della voce, unlocking the mysteries
with my voice – no sweat – and I guide you still.
at the Newark Museum, telling of the wonders
of the night sky, the solar system, the Milky Way,
the stars, the constellations, the universe.
I was the overhead voice in the Hippodrome Garage
at 1120 Avenue of the Americas in New York City,
telling people what level they were on, where to go,
where the elevator was, where to pay.
I am now the voice on the answering machine
at the Oradell Public Library,
telling when we are open and when we are closed.
I am La donna della voce, unlocking the mysteries
with my voice – no sweat – and I guide you still.
Cash and Carry--Luigi Monteferrante
I walk by her
Every day
She sits at the cash register
Holds a can to the scanner
She puts in a bag
Takes my card
Scans that
Never looks up
Not even a word
I go every day
Mondays for salt
Tuesday for sugar
On Wednesday it's tea
Thursday for milk
Friday it's wine
Weekends it’s bread
I tell her nice things
Not even a word
And I burped!
I stand at the corner
Got to change my approach
I pick up my bag
I wait at the corner.
Every day
She sits at the cash register
Holds a can to the scanner
She puts in a bag
Takes my card
Scans that
Never looks up
Not even a word
I go every day
Mondays for salt
Tuesday for sugar
On Wednesday it's tea
Thursday for milk
Friday it's wine
Weekends it’s bread
I tell her nice things
Not even a word
And I burped!
I stand at the corner
Got to change my approach
I pick up my bag
I wait at the corner.
Nice To See You--Amanda Deo
Waited for you at
EWR in dirty Terminal C. It's
been seven years now, mate, since
you left me on a curb at the
Holiday Inn. I was nineteen and
had you on the breath and
what more can I say about
first loves? They're a mile
long slur...they have to
start and end somewhere. So
when I saw you today, with her,
(she's so fucking lovely)
it was okay. It was more than
okay. I was happy. Not for you, really,
but for her. I could have never
made you that happy.
EWR in dirty Terminal C. It's
been seven years now, mate, since
you left me on a curb at the
Holiday Inn. I was nineteen and
had you on the breath and
what more can I say about
first loves? They're a mile
long slur...they have to
start and end somewhere. So
when I saw you today, with her,
(she's so fucking lovely)
it was okay. It was more than
okay. I was happy. Not for you, really,
but for her. I could have never
made you that happy.
The Truth Fairy--Harry Calhoun
You extract the facts from me
slowly, painfully as we talk.
It’s not that I’m lying, but
I don’t always know the truth
until it’s yanked out for me to examine
its bloody roots. I slide it under my pillow
and sleep on it. The next morning
there’s a quarter beneath the pillowcase
and your sly smile saying,
“I told you so.”
slowly, painfully as we talk.
It’s not that I’m lying, but
I don’t always know the truth
until it’s yanked out for me to examine
its bloody roots. I slide it under my pillow
and sleep on it. The next morning
there’s a quarter beneath the pillowcase
and your sly smile saying,
“I told you so.”
Obscure Knowledge--Harry Calhoun
A hostage and an ostrich
are not the same unless you are
held against your will
with your head in the sand
a shorthand stroke abbreviation
is an ampersand
peeing on a jellyfish sting
will make the swelling go down
so I guess don’t pee on an erection
unless you have no use for it
and a spoonful of sugar
makes the medicine go down
but it takes some other chemistry
to make a woman want to do it
are not the same unless you are
held against your will
with your head in the sand
a shorthand stroke abbreviation
is an ampersand
peeing on a jellyfish sting
will make the swelling go down
so I guess don’t pee on an erection
unless you have no use for it
and a spoonful of sugar
makes the medicine go down
but it takes some other chemistry
to make a woman want to do it
Sweepstakes Arcade--Kenneth P. Gurney
We laid the story out for a leaded glass window
with important personages stained in colorful pigments.
The ocean played harp strings: some
John Cage pieces adapted to withstand the salt.
The supporting timbers warped under the constant
pull of the tide, the wetness regularly drying crystalline.
The sunrise remained a hopeful hymn
no matter how difficult the notes, the harmony.
Maybe the carillon’s inactive bell hammers
formed a nesting that explained the flocks of pigeons.
As much as we claimed we wanted to know the truth,
we much preferred the mass given in Latin.
with important personages stained in colorful pigments.
The ocean played harp strings: some
John Cage pieces adapted to withstand the salt.
The supporting timbers warped under the constant
pull of the tide, the wetness regularly drying crystalline.
The sunrise remained a hopeful hymn
no matter how difficult the notes, the harmony.
Maybe the carillon’s inactive bell hammers
formed a nesting that explained the flocks of pigeons.
As much as we claimed we wanted to know the truth,
we much preferred the mass given in Latin.
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