The barred glass door swinging back on it’s hinges as the chimes above it jingled, noon heat poured inside along with the slow bass rattle of a car stereo. Shouting in Spanish, two boys sprinted to the back for cold sodas, flip-flops slapping dirty tiles as they raced. The pair tore past the Korean cashier’s argument with a stooped, sweaty man in his early seventies about the convenience store’s refusal to accept unrolled pennies in the purchase of lottery tickets.
Category Archives: fiction
Making Chit-Chat
She told him all about Harvey Milk; told him how homosexual teens have the highest suicide rates in America; told him how her cousin had been stuffed inside a gymnasium locker and whipped with towels until he bled when he had ‘came out’. These were topics he thought it was a bit weird to broach during intercourse, but the whole thing just went on for so-so-so-so-long that they had to talk about something, he guessed. Mostly he wouldn’t listen. He’d just go on, turning her over, this way or that. She’d never break a sentence for anything other than a coldly placed, “Wait. Ok. Right there. Good.” What did he care anyways? It was actually kind of refreshing to talk to someone, well… listen to someone, at least. He hadn’t talked to a soul since he’d been fired from the pants factory. Not a one unless you count that guy who asked him for directions to the L-train to whom he hadn’t responded. ‘Loneliness’ was not a ‘thing’ to him; he couldn’t understand it. Why did all these people, all crammed together, all busy and angry and hungry and constipated, why did they all have this desperate need for human contact? Hunan interaction? Couldn’t they just exist in their own little atmosphere? They were never really alone anyways. Who knew, he guessed.
The Ad-Driven Love of a Father for a Son
The Dad they’d sent me was everything I’d imagined – a pronounced graying at the temples that framed a face which appeared to have only just recently left youth behind. He had this wide smile that came with a booming laugh you could hear from a mile away. You could tell from his eyes that if on the rare occasion he might be forced to lose his temper, you would not make the same mistake twice.
Island Story
The girl lived on a rock in the middle of the water. Tall buildings rose on the land to one side, and buildings and smokestacks squatted on the other shore. She could see the smokestacks from her bedroom window, and hear the squall of seagulls from time to time. The rock was old, very old, and ran in a long thin strip from north to south. People had buried their dead long ago on the rock, and exiled their paupers, and lepers, and men with the blinding sickness. Now men with no legs roamed the streets, in packs or alone.
4:10
JP’s hands are shaking. The scars on his hand – where their father threw the scalding water onto the boys when they were just six and eight – glare at me white against his tan skin. He goes to set the coffee mug on the counter but it rattles too much so he clutches it tighter.
“That’s George’s backpack.” He gestures with his chin, then goes to take a sip from the mug and can’t seem to get it to his lips. I take a sip of my tea.
True Love Travels
What is love but a push in the wrong direction? We took a left turn, a right turn – whichever it was that sent us in the wrong direction.
And I was never impressed by horses. As I stood with you, once, on the laneside while they passed – my disdain, you thought, reserved for the riders. What was I doing there, anyway? Why was I out in the woods? The open air, the countryside, the animals: a similar stink.
On a Toupee
Phil remembered the specifics of the day he went shopping for a toupee. It was a crisp day, one of the first of autumn. A faded baseball cap covered his burning shame. Phil considered the generous patch of flesh on his skull an ode to his many failures.
The toupee store smelled like an OTB. A blend of cigar smoke and squandered paychecks. The clerk that came to help looked shockingly akin to the forty-five year old Denny’s manager who had just sat Phil in his usual booth-for-one, to eat his usual Sunday morning Moons-Over-My-Hammy…
The Baseball Parable
Everything happening in the news reminds me of a short parable story, if you will allow me:
The entire extended family huddles around the living room table, readying themselves to give gifts to the youngest son. Is this technically a parable story? I think it is, but before I turn this parable story in, I should find the answer by cozying up to the fireplace with a nice Harold Bloom tome and a steak…
Class Dismissed
In English the assignment was: bring in a song that shows how two generations see something differently. I didn’t see much differently than my parents. They were Baptists. I was Baptist. They loved the 4th of July. I loved the 4th of July. At fourteen I didn’t see many differences.
I brought in a 45, “Epistle To Dippy” by Donovan, had no idea what he was singing about-who the heck was Dippy? Maybe it was about the generations. Our teacher, Mrs. Frumpkin, made a tape of the ones she liked best, no Donovan included.