Instead of walking somewhere I planned on, I stop and I turn down a side road up North. My walk goes a little vertical; I’m not going to my normal place. I’m trying something new this time.

“Life is short,” says the butterfly, flapping right in front of me as it jumps from branch to branch. There’s a set of houses with Virgin Mary Statues shrines proudly placed in front yards. A woman in her house told me they were symbols to show their hearts are as open as their doors. A few had been taken down in the last few years.

And then I walked by the old city hall, rich in red columns, cobbled engravings, next door to the new city hall. It was a big, bustling street, a sunny open void that made me hungry.

And then I noticed the strange, awkward, audible feedback from people passing me as I wrote all this.

Once a way back, a forgetful man cut his toenails and left the remains in a cup for cleanliness. The toenails stayed in that cup for a whole day, overnight, and in through the morning. The cup itself was a plastic summer juice cup with blue stripes. There were 21 shards of toenail in the cup.

On the first night, the toenails became aware. They discussed and they laughed with the bacteria that grew on them. They lived there overnight in a thousand little years, and life grew on them like moss on a tree. A forest of undiscovered life was growing – a neighborhood of life and progress in the making.

On the second day, the man came back for them, for the cup – to wash it (and them) out. It was a horrible scene. When the man tried get the toenails out, they were stuck in place. The life on the toenails had bonded to the cup. And yet, the man’s fury created a torrent as powerful as a thousand tsunamis. All the toenails were washed down the sick disgusting drainpipe… all except one.

One toenail stayed so fixed, the water could not move it. The man, in spite, tried to pick it out and it cut him deeply in the process. He was surprised, but remained persistent until it too fell from the cup. It eventually was flushed down with the rest of its kind, and the man suffered a terrible infection on the tip of his finger for about three months. The last toenail was satisfied in the final moments before darkness; satisfied it shed the blood of its maker, and of its destroyer.

It was a dream, a great life as a baseball catcher. I was playing the game right then and there, in the stadium of millions. I didn’t think of the eyes of the fans and not. The cameras… they broadcast it all.

Now a voice in my headgear is telling me they want to see my face. I say no, this is for protection, and I’d rather just anyways. The voice takes my mask away, and my dream becomes my nightmare. I panic at the thought of my concentration on every bit of it all.

I’m dazed, the pitch comes in… I miss it – woaow!

Combination reasoning
Halloween 2010

It was the Halloween party, 2010, out in Somerville, deep in the residential area, among the houses rich enough to build, but too expensive to own. It was fun; the house was a notorious four-bedroom, three-floor brownout that held parties year after year, a tribute of the press company my roommate worked for, exploding into 300+ visitors.

I was a coked-out investment banker in my blue Saks pinstripe, black portfolio pants, Aldo dress shoes and old red tie; a blotch of white face paint covered my nose, and I was considered one of the more original costume ideas of the night. Honest, except for the hot women and men who were too proud to say anything, everyone I introduced myself to was impressed. I was too, on the inside, at all the characters I half-knew amidst the beer and booze.

But I left – combination reasoning. Shit grew weird after the 6^th drink, when I ran into some butchers who called themselves “ninja turtles.” It was intolerable; the three of the four I met (Raphael, Donatello, and Leonardo) wore green clothing underneath white smocks with “blood” spattered across them. Different colors, yet they all looked like green Jackson Pollock’s.

Apparently I offended one of them with my costume. I told Donatello what my costume was, and he began to question my intentions. “Why would he be coked-out?” I was caught off-guard, kind of like an awkward come-back from a would-be girl you’re hitting on. I had to defend my intentions, and it gained the interest of more than just the turtles. Raphael was more offended than Donatello. His father was an investment accountant.

The beer and booze did little to solve the problem. Raphael began to ask me who I was, who I came with (to the party), and really made a scene around the ten-odd people in the foyer. I was humiliated at the hands of a bastard ninja turtle; there was no social comeback.

I decided to leave. The keg was finished and I rounded up the remaining booze in a blue solo cup. Believe me when I tell you, the party is over when the booze is all gone. Luckily for me, I spent my last minutes there drinking a combination of Yellow Tail and Jim Bean, provided by a girl dressed like a clown, but claimed she was Elton John. She looked funny, and I thanked her for the help before running into a Frenchman and his companion with a proposition.

“Hey, do you want to smoke some pot?” I was easily swayed, and I quickly forgot about the party inside. The smell of marijuana didn’t seem to bother other people, despite it countering my inebriated self the same way sugar does with coffee. I was in a good place, even after the negative episode minutes earlier, feet away.

I left when I saw the ninja turtles hovering around the front entrance. I didn’t want to cross paths with them again. My roommate would find his own way home; he’s the type to milk a moment until it’s dry, and being only 2am, I knew he would continue his escapades for a while longer. I said my goodbyes to the Frenchman and friend, Gretel and Charlie Brown, along with Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield, Red Riding Hood, Dobby the House Elf, and that dancing banana from that hit “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” by the Buckwheat Boyz.

There were so many others I remember, but I knew there was no opportunity worth trying for to get past the obstinate (and obdurate) ninja turtles. Before heading down the gravel path, I saw them talk and point and stare directly at me, bringing Michelangelo into the mix, making my odds of physical conquest four-times more difficult. I cut my losses and left. It wasn’t worth it.

I had my iPod shuffle. It was somewhere in the middle of a track mix my brother gave me from New York, so I couldn’t tell you what I was listening to. I wasn’t sure where I was going, either, but I was blessed with five seconds to ask a passing cyclist where Highland was. He pointed in the right direction, the general area which led me towards another house party.

Now imagine this scene – you’re out of your mind and in a personal zone, and all of a sudden a character you know and revere is standing outside with a monk and a tennis player smoking a cigarette. Patrick Bateman, the lead character from “American Psycho,” was wearing a poncho over a business suit, just as he did before killing Paul Allen with an ax.

I play off that angle when we first met. I simply asked where Highland was from here, and then asked if I could use his bathroom. “Yeah, go for it. You seem like a nice guy,” he said, and I casually entered the scene. The place was amazing, definitely more expensive than my place on Grand View. He had a bigger foyer with dark brown tiling and windows overlooking the street, and steps leading up into the apartment rather than a hallway turn-around like mine.

The party was still in effect; club girls in skimpy outfits were talking to each other near a billiards table that nobody was using, dudes in cop outfits and spiked Jersey do’s were taking shots of Petron, and a couple or two were making out in distant corners of the lavish apartment. I wandered around, looking for the bathroom, kind of like a fool who didn’t know where he was. The bathroom was in a weird location, and there was a line, but a cop who knew I wasn’t a part of the crowd saw through me and let me jump in line. Nice guy. I enjoyed the relief and thanked him as I left.

I walked back outside just as quickly as I entered. “Thanks Bateman,” I said to the host as he talked to the monk. “No problem,” he said, as if he didn’t notice the name I called him. I told him flat out, “you know, you look just like…” and he flipped out, in a good way. “You know, you’re the first person all night to get my costume. Why don’t you come in and have a drink…”

All the random people who saw me quickly come and go were surprised to see me return with the owner’s arm around my shoulder in smiles and praise. It was a different turn, and I took it. I became one of the dudes taking shots of Petron. I opted for a round of pool with the owner. “You know, it’s been ages since I played this game.” I don’t remember if he or I said that.

I remember we shared quotes and scenes from American Psycho, and the girls with hard bodies revolved around us because we looked like we knew what we were doing. I caught the eye of some blonde who was talking to her friend; they were among the few sitting by the entrance when I first arrived. When the game ended, I shook hands with the owner and thanked him for his hospitality. “Hey man, thank you,” almost competitively gracious; explains the multi-hundred dollar getup he was rocking.

I had to excuse myself, not because it was late, but because I wanted to meet the blonde outside before I left.

“Hey,” she said, “who are you?”

“I’m Alex.” She meant what my costume was, confused by the blotch of white paint on my nose. I told her, and she said “oh, that’s funny.” She didn’t laugh, but smiled. Her teeth were whiter than my face paint. I got her number but didn’t get her name.

I stumbled home the remaining half-mile to the sound of Cate Brothers “Give It All to You.” I still got home before my roommate. 4:30am or so, and he strolls in with some girl he met at the party. She wasn’t fabulous, certainly a couple notches below the blonde I met, but still fun. He brought home a brown paper bag full of beers, and he and I drank more as the girl began to have second thoughts. Within minutes, they left again; he drove her home as I sat in my Eames chair, drafting the first part of this story. At 5:10am, he returned with a smug look on his face. “Man, I did that girl a favor.” I could care less if he got laid that night.

We talked about my shenanigans at the press party, and laughed about the chance encounter with Patrick Bateman and his lavish house apartment over stale pizza and beer. It was near 6am when I went to bed, and my dark empty sleep was interrupted a few hours later when my parents texted me to meet them in Copley for brunch.

I like to imagine the world and the universe once acted like the story in Italo Calvino’s “Cosmicomics” entitled “The Distance of the Moon.” In my imagination, the moon was not the first to grow apart from the Earth. The whole cosmos once lived as neighbors around our world, within earshot and eye, at distances where we could see galaxies swirl with one another, and recreate themselves in endless chemical attraction.

At night, I would sit out on my rooftop and smell the solar vapors of Alpha Centauri. I wouldn’t be trying to take Ferris wheel rides on the moon. Instead, I would shed a solitary tear, for the moon, for the stars, for the worlds beyond ours. We don’t mean to push you away, but it’s our nature to grow and change. You might as well leave right now, I’d say, and still, everything took their time. Now, several tens of hundreds of thousands of years later, the memory of a time long past is but an ever-distant photograph.

The closer we get to seeing it all, the closer we get to capturing but a moment’s feeling of that relationship we once had with all things.

– And for your entertainment, here’s a short film I found that tells the story of “The Distance of the Moon.” Enjoy :-)

Sound is a memory,
from the point something happens,
it echoes for eternity.

Sight is the point,
the center of being that ties
the past and the future together.

Smell is a catalyst,
a fleeting forecast
of things to come and pass.

The Tester

~~~~****~~~~****~~~~****~~~~

I am a tester, and I’m out of my mind.

I’m sitting in an airplane right now with 74 other passengers. We’re all wearing green jumper suits with parachutes strapped on. It’s been 7 hours, and we are almost at our destination. We’re on the first bio-fuel airplane flight from New York, New York to Anchorage, Alaska. What was I thinking?

‘We’ll pay for your flight, and you’ll receive compensation packages.”

It was settled, I thought. We all look like astronauts on a test flight in space. It took us so long to come this far. Five years ago we flew a passenger jet from Texas to California unmanned successfully. Five years later, after rigorous research, they decided to test a flight with passengers in it. None of us know how to parachute. What are we going to do?

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Red lights are flashing, the airmasks come down. No word from the pilots. No word about our status. We all begin to look at each other.

“What the hell do we do now?”

“Wasn’t there some kind of backup plan?

“Jesus Christ, are we going down?”

The plane begins to rattle and shake, and we are all still strapped in. A couple passengers unbuckle their belts to try and approach the cockpit, but only get knocked down by the turbulence, and fall head over heels towards their intended destination. The two random passengers crash hard on the floor right before the door, moaning and yelling from the pain. One of them must have broken something, he was crying. A grown man, crying.

The other finds his balance and enters the cockpit.

“Hey guys, what are we supposed to – “

The cockpit is empty.

“Holy shit! There’s nobody flying this plane!” A panic begins to overwhelm the passengers, and screaming and yelling almost omit the intercom announcement that soon follows.

“Everyone SHUT UP, there’s something going on!” A hushed quiet proves the point, as the intercom makes an automated announcement.

“Attention passengers. This unmanned flight from New York to Alaska has experienced technical malfunctions, and the ability to automate the flight is no longer a viable option. Please listen carefully for alternative safety precautions…”

The announcement instructs us to move to the back of the airplane and prepare to parachute out of the pressure-safe exit. Our other option is to manually fly the plane. Nobody here knows how to fly the plane. Nobody knows how to parachute either. Our choice is made though. We struggle to move out of our seats amidst the turbulence and make our way to the back of the plane. A couple people are getting trampled in the struggle.

“The aircraft will maintain a level flight altitude until the pressurized door is released” The intercom announced. “Please follow the onboard instructions for safe exiting procedures.”

“Holy shit, we’re gonna’ die!”

“Shut the hell up,” I said back to them. We all see the large instructions plastered to the wall next to the door we head for, and quickly read over what to do.

1. Ensure straps on parachute are connected and tightened fully.

2. Do not open door until everyone is ready to exit the aircraft.

3. When the door is opened, a blinking locator will drop from the aircraft. Navigate yourselves towards this beacon.

4. Allow the centrifugal force to pull you out, and tuck into a ball as quickly as possible.

5. When free of the aircraft, extend your body naturally to hang in the air.

6. Count to 30, and release parachute.

7. Hold onto the straps that descend from the pack to navigate your direction.

8. To land, approach open landscape as in a run, and place your legs in front of you.

9. Hop on first contact and maintain balance until safely on the ground.

10. Release parachute from back and head towards the beacon, which will continue to emit a bright light for 24 hours. A emergency response crew will be there within 3 hours.

“No fucking way” I thought.

Somebody in front of me begins to unlatch the door.

“No! Wait we’re not all ready yet!” Too late.

The door begins to hiss and flies off the cabin into the sky. A strong gust begins to whip at our shoulders and pulls me out the aircraft. A volley of screams and “oh fucks” overlap the loud depressurization of my eardrums, and I look back to examine the situation. There are still some people in their seats.

“Here goes nothing,” I say, and ball up right before the weightless feeling of flight takes over.

Amazing… The sound of the airplane disappears. The screams and yells from the other passengers no longer exist to me. My eyes are closed and tears begin to form. Before 30 seconds is up I open up the parachute and look back at the airplane, a spec in the sky now with lights and fragments coming out of it. I see other passengers flying loosely out sporadically. What a terrifying sight. The plane is heading towards a hillside with trees and rocks. I hope people get out in time before it hits that obstruction.

I still see people falling out of the plane vaguely as it collides with the hillside. A flurry of fireballs and debris explode from the spectacle, and some people I see bounce off the earth like fleas on skin. It was horrible. I can’t look anymore.

I turn around right before the sound of the crash hits me, a large BOOM and CRASH, a wave of warmth and wind tells me it’s down. I look for the beacon, which is floating downward towards an open prairie. I aim myself towards the beacon. This is getting easier. I see my way down, and land with limited issues. The parachute gets wrapped around me as I roll on the ground. It’s not until I’m down that I notice how cold it is outside. We must be north of Oregon. It’s dark outside. I see snow in the trees north of me. The beacon is in my sights. I take off the parachute and wrap myself up in it to stay warm, and sit next to the beacon, bright now, too much to look at. I lay down now, watching the stars above, and see numerous others completing their descent. There are only so many out there, I imagine some did not make it back so easily.

I think the makers of the aircraft have some kinks to work out.

My back to the sunshine, through cotton and plastic and glass and atmosphere, beating down, reminding me of summer and fall. My feet hang off the stool I’m sitting on. I could be five years old if I wanted, the feeling is just the same. I shift, and listen to the local weather on the radio, and the wind is passing by my hanging feet. If it weren’t for my arching back, I would sit here, whenever I am, and listen and feel the world outside, mere inches away.

It was a gathering of minds I had not felt in ages.

Years, ages, times were long forgotten in the ignorance of youth.

Today we stood, sat, and spoke like men, proud reflections of our inner selves.

And what did we talk about in the wake of their shadows?

The same old things we kept so close between ourselves.

Two became musicians, one a bachelor savant, another a lawyer;

I looked at the records and we spoke about our lessons learned so far.

The electronic artist played his beats through the area speakers,

entertaining us all with his natural and original material.

The original beat boxers began flowing anew, ten years long, ten years strong.

A Chef Washes his Fork

Well Fork, it’s been a long time coming, but your time to get clean has come at last. Stay no more in the foul waters of my sink, and rest easy in my soapy embrace. Has it really been so long? Come, rinse yourself, cleanse your palette, and be at peace. Your hellish endurance is over now.

Now life has begun anew, can you see? The hot water has brought change to the world around you. It took an eternity for everything to get this way. Ah, we have had some great times together, my Fork. I only regret leaving you to this hell in my sink for so long.

You have to wait like all the others (the silverware, the kitchenware, the glassware, the cookware, the strainers, the decanters, the breadknives, the potato peelers, the garlic crushers, the meat thermometer, the chopping board and the rest). The sink is not your home anymore. Here on the dry rack, you will dry out those memories from your former life as the purifying waters seep deep into your being. You will develop a new awareness, a new consciousness, and a new purpose as you wait.

It wasn’t love that brought me to you. I came to you out of necessity. These changes in season fortuitously begin with you, and this will always be so. Every dish is to be cleansed, in one way or another, and you… my precious Fork… you inspire me, and that’s why I choose you first.

Out of murky, hellish waters, covered in muck and smelling of brine. You remember this, don’t you? You had clumps of curry and onion hanging from your body, and an orange tinge was staining your skin. I took my golden sponge and washed your body clean of imperfections. I purified your mineral form in the hot springs that banish all bacterial creations.

And in my hands you sparkled afterwards. I remember this part too. You look like a baby, all shiny and new. I remember when my hands first felt those rejuvenating waters – it felt incredibly refreshing. I remember filling up my sink for the first time and watching the water fill up. So clear… so clean. My sink used to be a source of great pride for me, my Fork, but now… now my sink is just a sanctuary for dishes among the refuse and rejects; dishes that wait for salvation in the form of my soapy hands.

The others are here; the others that lived with you, in the sink and beyond. Some have lived lifetimes longer than you, Fork, only to wait for that one shining moment when they are needed again. You’re lucky to be needed so much. After all, you are friends with the plates and the bowls, the knives and the spoons, and familiar with words like succulence, texture, and flavor. Do you even know what flavor is? It’s remarkable to think about it in the grand scheme of things. We relish the word, you and I, but we have so little to show for it! Things like the saucepan, the wooden stirring spoon, the potato peeler; such unique cookware will only live once in heaven while you rush past them a dozen times over. They will wait longer to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And how bright their light will be…

Heaven for you is the light, my Fork, where the purpose in your life is realized. In the light you’ll find answers to all of your questions. Yes, there is an ending to all of this nothingness and doubt. You know what will happen; you’ve been through it so many times over.

You may not understand this, but now is not the time for understanding, anyway. Now is the time for indifference. Now is the time for your purpose to be reevaluated. Is life going to slice through a luscious piece of flourless chocolate cake; to grab at fresh chunks of watermelon; to pick at a plate of marinated steak tips; to twirl pasta primavera with that spoon you love so much? You have lived so many lives like these, my dear Fork, each with a story worth telling!

Seek your own answers to questions about life. Your life is as simple as soup. My life is more complicated, however, full of many dimensions, involved in your life and countless others at the same time. It’s a life you simply cannot comprehend. I assure you, that for the labors we’ve endured, we have shared a great life together. I often think, in fact, you are quite fortunate to have such a simple life to live.

Is it difficult to see the bigger picture? You were created to help me enjoy food of the finest quality. Remember that, Fork… the finest quality. Look forward to my next culinary achievement. I will return for you with a smile on my face, for I am the Chef, after all! I will return when the time is right. Until then, stay with your kind in my kitchen drawer. Remember my wise words, passed on to you during this unique phase in your life.

Right now, my thoughts are with you in the empty darkness of the kitchen drawer. My thoughts will always be with you, my Fork, reminding you to never lose hope. Never forget that you are destined for great things.

Before you know it, the drawer opens, and the light returns to your skin with a shimmer and a shine. I’m holding you in my hands now, gingerly and overjoyed. Do you recognize me? Another miracle has been cooked up for us to enjoy! Your turn has come, my awesome Fork. It’s time to enjoy this divine meal I created! Has it really been so long? Was it longer than you expected?

Your purpose in life has not changed, nor will it ever change. Come with me, my Fork. We are blessed with an amazing dinner: a filet mignon au poivre, cooked to perfection, in a plum wine reduction sauce over a bed of seasoned asparagus, topped with seasoned potato frits. It would have been impossible to imagine such a meal without you and your crack team of loyal kitchenware. You deserve a trophy and a podium on which to stand on tonight. Triumph is hanging from our grinning teeth! Flavors and colors enable our bodies, my Fork, and bring exotic sensations to our hearts and souls. Be proud. Be happy. Enjoy these moments. Enjoy them as much as I am.

Eyes can’t do justice in explaining exactly what has happened to me, my Fork. I can’t believe my senses; they are so completely saturated with pleasure and happiness. I am tingling head to toe. I am full, and I am satisfied. We are surrounded by everything: the cookware, the cutting knives, the garlic crushers, the mixing spoons, the water glasses, the wine glasses, the plates, the platters, the silverware, and the rest. Together we’ve been discussing the nature of all things, like a shepherd with his flock. Have you been listening? Enjoy, I would always say. Enjoy this for me. Your purpose fulfills mine, Fork. And yet, it seems, a grand circle continues to spin. At some point this bacchanal must conclude. What a life! Have we all sinned in enjoying this so much? If so, then let Hell take our dirty dishes away… and on that note, it’s time for you to sit in the sink. Things have changed so little, haven’t they? Bless you, Fork, for I will always come back for you. I don’t expect you to remember that… but I will.

Never forget that, Fork.

Never forget about that light at the end of your tunnel.

Shugg was about the size of a baby guinnee pig when Zucker first met her, but even then she explored the floor with such excitement. She was bought for a pretty penny by Adam and Michelle, and they raised her in their house, shared with tenants (like Zucker) for the first year of her life.

Shugg never really saw much of the tenants until she grew strong enough to climb the stairs in the backyard that led to the back porch upstairs. There, Shugg met Zucker, sprawled lazily on a chaise lounge recliner, surrounded by empty flowerpots and trash bags destined for the dumpster.

“Hey Dog,” Zucker was deeply involved in his own world; absorbing the sun, listening to birds over music in his headphones with a notebook in hand.

At 7 inches off the ground, Shugg was a terrier something… She was bred for urban living. From infancy to maturity, Shugg will stay incomparably close to the ground.

Zucker felt her vibrations up the stairs before her light grunts and wet nose explored his fingertips and thigh. She still had that energy – that curiosity about the world that drives her wild. Like a blank canvas looking for new colors and experiences, so too little Shugg, looking aimlessly in each flowerpot for new smells and new friends.

Shugg had a pretty sheltered upbringing, not really leaving the house or the backyard much, except when Adam and Michelle took her to the vet or perhaps on a weekend trip. No, the most unusual place for Shugg in that house was the back porch upstairs. There, she met the cats…

It was purchased at the Zara clothing boutique on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was the only thing Zucker had to cover himself from the cool ocean wind nearby. It was part of his wild experience there in California, visiting the Monkey and Ryu and Epstein. It came with him on the sandy beaches of the west coast, over the skies and through the woods of the east coast. It became his jacket of the moment. The other sport jackets were not amused. For years, the Brooks Brothers collection was the scotch to Zucker’s cigar, but not anymore.

Wearing it later as an overcoat in December, Zucker takes off the Zara Man and hangs it in the closet on its heavy, plastic hanger. The other jackets are hanging on their end of the rack, down from the pants and the shirts. It was the white suit at a party, and it divided the place in half.

~“Ah, don’t even think about hanging near me!”~ The Bomber jacket sat comfortably in front of the Blazer. It wasn’t any better off.

‘Relax! Like it’s up to me where I go.’

“How was your run at the gym?” A burst of laughter came from the other jackets, an inside joke between them. Zucker wears the Zara Man jacket over his Adidas sports liner in the winter sometimes, and they believe he wears it when he exercises.

‘Not bad, not bad. It was kind of cold out there.’ More rustling among the clothes less worn.

*Was it?* The Blazer had something to say. He was the most respected jacket on the rack. *I hear there’s been foul weather recently… what do you say about that?*

Awkward now, the Zara Man never had a solid conversation with the Blazer. ‘Yeah, it’s been raining a lot. He’s got that umbrella to help protect us, but the wind makes it so much worse. I’m glad to still be in decent shape.’

“*You’re filthy and disgusting, stay the hell away from me!*” The Fitzgerald was within inches of Zara Man’s back, a discolored, wrinkled mess. It had been worn without washing since its first days on the Californian coastline. It had a small orange stain between the back and the right shoulder. The jacket was a little smelly, and yet, it continued to go out into the bitter cold with the sweater and the Adidas, the gloves and the umbrella. It didn’t mind, it didn’t know or care about the consequences at all.

The Zara Man would always have the stories of life outside of the closet. The real stories, worn outdoors and indoors at eclectic events: dinners and parties and bedrooms and busses, commuting and waiting and rushing past pedestrians. The Zara Man saw more of the world than those damn jackets ever dream! The Hounds Tooth and the Camel Hair, the Bomber, the Fitzgerald and the Madison, the Blazer; each had their moment in a world of culture at a special time in Zucker’s life. Maybe the Zara Man will see that time come and go as well, in which case it will certainly be dry-cleaned.

She was one of those girls you only meet once…

I lament as I sit here now in my custom made leather chair, sipping my eighteen year old single malt scotch, overlooking the expanse of the Mediterranean outside the floor to ceiling walls of glass in front of me. In this world where one works hard to accumulate all the luxury money will buy, I still feel empty. Perhaps this is just too cliché; the guy who has made it big still missing the “one who got away”. The funny thing is that I have heard that story before. The girl was perfect, just the timing was off. It always ends up the same way, with the man doing something stupid to get the girl. Ultimately he ends up loosing any chance of having a relationship with her, and in the process destroys all the other relationships he has taken for granted once she invaded his mind.

This type of parasitic love exists for the sake of pure evil. There is nothing productive which can come of it; it is merely a conduit for one to destroy themselves while numbed to all logic.

It starts when I see her picture with him. The guy who is so much like me, but for whatever reason is having all the fun. I try and make my self believe that I will have my time to be happy, but what I have now does not satisfy me like she could. The trips they take together, I take alone. The celebrations they attend together, I always have just one name on the invitation. The pictures they take together, are picture which contain just one face when it is my own. Of course I realize how this sounds, but this is how I heal. I feel the need to write, yet I worry about how these words will be interpreted. Are you keen enough to get what I am saying, or must I be blunt?

You are the type of girl I only will meet once.

But I’ve said that before too, before I met you.

So I know how this ends…

I feel an odd presence as I write these words, a ghostly memory of a childhood dream stirs sounds in a room nearby. A drop from a table downstairs, like a cat knocking something over, quickening the beat of my worried heart. I hear voices yell and laugh outside the window, down the alley, off the street, down the avenue I don’t know. Is someone coming up the stairs? Weight presses down a creaky stair step and wind blows through my room a little. My skin prickles and my eyes dilate, trying not to look away from the computer screen while the trash bag near my open door begins to bustle. A flashback hits me with unstoppable speed, and I see myself running down a hallway lit in blue twilight; into a living room walking, suddenly confronted by a ghostly apparition as if waiting to pounce. Everything went white and I felt like I woke up.

Instead things rewound and began again down the hall. Even my feelings rewound to a sense of curiosity and ignorance. The pounce did not occur, and with hapless reassurance I walked into the kitchen ahead. The blue twilight around me suddenly disappeared, and the world around me went dark. I was four years old. Voices began to chatter, chitter-chatter in misdirection, desperate and growing in number. I couldn’t go anywhere; I was frozen stiff; so cold and so alone. I crouched into a ball, shook my head in between my arms, and whispered midnight screams to disappear evermore.

Central Park South & 5th
Chapter Four – Respect Reflected
11:17pm
12-26-2009

My cab ride to Bowery Bar on 40 East 4th Street would have been a lot faster if the cab driver knew where he was going, but thankfully for me, I was the first to arrive. I thought I was late since we shot for 11:00pm; the bar did not have a lot of patrons because it was raining outside. I walked in, bought a drink, and sat down in the lounge area past the bar to dry off.

He must have been drinking with his friends, because when Petar walked through the door, he was extremely festive. He was also very wet.

“Zucker, so good to see you!” He had the biggest smile I had ever seen. He walked with his fiancé alongside, followed by three guys speaking another language, possibly Croatian, laughing at something while another was upset. “Were you waiting long?”

“No, only a couple of minutes. I got a whiskey sour and was checking out the scene.” I was also checking out the more provocative side of Bowery Bar’s ‘Naked’ New Year party promo. A nice lined halftone pattern filtered through the image on recycled cardboard paper. It acted double as a coaster.

“Ah, yes, my kind of drink,” said one of his friends in broken English.

“Zucker, these are my friends…”

“Nice to meet you guys.” Their looks were welcoming and friendly, and yet their names escape me upon hearing them.

“And this is Irena, my fiancé.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m sorry we’re late,” she said it with a cool and casual voice. I expected her to have an accent, but she didn’t.

“Oh, you’re not late, it’s cool. It’s great to meet you at last. Petar’s told me a lot about you.”

She shoots Petar a look, but he cuts her off. “Not bad things, Honey. I told him you worked in Publishing.”

“I’m so glad I can finally put a face to the name.” She smiled and gave Petar and a look. He smiled back and said, “I’ve told her about you too – your writing and your magazine.” I give her an interested look.

“Yeah, I think what you’re doing is really great. Have you been writing for long time?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid.”

“What do you write about?” A lot of this was lost in the drunken happenings of the night. At this point in time, however, I felt accepted in the group. For the next hour or so, we really made the most of an empty rained-out bar garden.

Everything was great, but then the Bowery Bar closed. It was 12:45am, and I called “shenanigans” on the joint for not living up to New York’s “all night” nightlife. They didn’t understand, but agreed that we should move on. I didn’t feel as drunk as everyone else, maybe; there was no stumbling into the cab and no head-hanging on the windowsill.

Seven bucks took us to La Esquina, a reclusive hot spot on 106 Kenmare Street in Soho.

La Esquina is a taqueria that runs all night, offering up delicious tacos and tasty beers and spirits for parties to go the extra step. Doubling as a pick-up food stop for late-nighters on the front, patrons can also walk inside, downstairs past the ‘employees only’ sign, and through the kitchen to a cozy bistro lounge, aptly filled with hipsters and couples who know about the “other part” of La Esquina.

When we got there, there was a group of people waiting for them. They all spoke in accents, and picked out friends immediately upon our arrival, talking in Italian, French, and Croatian amidst English, the language of choice for international translation. I felt like an mono-lingual jackass half-following the English parts to conversations around me, drinking extremely good beer offerings, trying to collect my thoughts in a strange new place and time.

“Let’s take a picture!” Petar had the camera in his hand, standing with Irena at his side. “Zucker, can you take this?”

“Yeah buddy.” I was standing back about five feet at this point. Aiming the camera at them, drunk, I move around to crop the picture. Click! And I capture the two of them. It was like capturing a special moment for them, together, when they were so young and happy. It may be a picture they come back to years from now and smile at in reflection.

“Yeah, that’s a great shot. Check it out.” And I hand them back the camera. They look at it and smile together.

“Thank you,” she said. Petar and I exchange a look of respect and appreciation.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled at them both, happy and relieved that they saw what I saw. I kept on drinking, and I half-connected with the other group we joined.

“I’m a graphic designer,” said this Italian guy who wore big designer glasses next to me, and we started talking about art design. I thought about how difficult it must be for him to see right now with those glasses on. I mentioned my magazine idea, and he liked it. He talked about the work he put up at his college’s gallery recently. I think he went to Pratt, but I wasn’t sure. I talked about the Picasso exhibit I saw in Chelsea a few months back, and how that exhibit was the first of its kind in over fifteen years. We talked about the thought of living in New York, the costs, and the benefits. He was not interested in it.

It was 3:00am, and the group decided to leave for another bar. Some of the new group came with us.

After deliberation and twelve bucks, the group decided on some random bar in Little Italy, and it was just about to call the last round. We walked in and ordered a quick double order of drinks and had introspective conversations with one another as we downed our drinks. At this point, the Croatians were buying me drinks. Neno, one of Petar’s friends, had left his luggage in the taxi he took to the Bowery Bar. Things did not go over well for him; talking to his friends and me about the things he lost, calling the taxi company for lost and found updates, cancelling his cards and such. We bought him drinks that night too since he didn’t have his wallet. He had his passport, thankfully, safely tucked in his back pocket, along with around $200 bucks. Who keeps that kind of cash in their pocket?

“Neno, there is some good to all this situation,” I actually tried consoling him when we were in this last bar, “you’ll get to go shopping!” By that point, nobody cared about anything, and yet he smiled and lifted his spirits. The Italian and his friend listened to us talk, and two of Petar’s friends were chatting up the female bartender, who apparently was from Boston. Petar and Irena were outside with another friend who was smoking a cigarette.

It was raining outside. I joined them to see what was going on.

“I think we’re going to get out of here soon,” said Irena. She was holding Petar, who seemed too drunk to stand. He was still smiling, like a child enjoying the party, and he was getting wet in the rain.

“It was so good to see you Zucker, I’m glad we got to hang out.”

“Yeah man, me too, and in New York of all places!”

“This would make a good story, right?”

“Yeah man, this would make a great story.”

“Yeah,” he looked away with satisfaction. Irena was holding him up as they looked for approaching cabs, and I smiled at her holding him around the waist with his arm around her shoulders. He was bigger than her, but she could handle him. They looked like a great couple.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and I go back inside, telling the others that people were leaving. I chug my beers and say my goodbyes. They all followed me out though, so everyone began hailing cabs. People in the bar get the message, and in no time, the street was mobbed with people looking to get a ride home. Watching them drift into the night, people dispersed on foot and wheel , and I watched as my friends from the night got in cab after cab.

“Where are you heading to?”

“Central Park South and 5^th.”

“Cool, what’s there?”

“The Plaza.”

“Wow, you’re staying the Plaza?

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” I left it at that. I felt like I mentioned it earlier in the night, but I can’t remember. It’s really hard to explain the extravagance of it all at 4:00am.

“Unfortunately, it’s in the opposite direction to where we’re heading. Are you cool with taking a separate cab?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” They were relieved I had a way home.

“It was great to meet you again.”

“You too.” The doors closed and they sped off into the night; their fluorescent tail lights streaming distance in the darkened streets. The rain was still coming down, and no more cabs were in the area. I found myself alone on the end of a sidewalk between a closed bar and a pizza parlor packed with late night drunks. I couldn’t help but go in and buy some pizza.

“One slice of pepperoni and one slice of bacon chicken, please.”

“You got it.” It was like a factory line, always moving, slowly and surely, looking at all the colorful slices they had. While they had ten offerings on display, I chose my two favorite. I didn’t think when I bought them. They were huge slices, and I was in no shape to eat them both. They had Kiss on the radio, and people slurped away at their soda cups, talking and laughing about things they talked and laughed about in the bars. It was a quiet moment for me, observing the people, trying not to draw attention to my solitary silence.

The pizza was hot and ready and by fortune the cabs were around and vacant. It was a twenty dollar cab ride back to the Plaza, a blurry tour of Times Square and Central Park. I looked out the window with pizza in my mouth as people tried to open my cab thinking it was vacant. Some people were really pissed off that I was relishing the experience so much.

I ended up finishing the slices in the hotel, in one of the comfy lounge chairs that sat at the foot of the bed, next to a small nightstand that had the New York Times and my brother’s Nikon D700 camera laying on it. My brother was sleeping, but woke up when I got back. Our vibrations nearing 5:00am were faint, and yet it did not stop the sky from changing its color from black to blue. I closed the blinds and hopped into bed, falling into a deep, drunken sleep within minutes of the rising sun.

Waking up five or six hours later, I had a light breakfast with my family and packed up my things. I had a train to catch at 1:15pm, and that left me mere hours to clean up and enjoy the remaining time there with my family. They drove me to Penn Station and gave me some money for the Acela Express ticket ($100), wishing me the best on my way back home. I spent the remaining free time I had in the waiting area with a copy of the Sunday New York Times, reading the Book Review, brushing up on styles of writing that were capturing people’s attention. Twenty minutes would go by before I made my way down to the train, back to my everyday life in Boston.

Condensation thickens the air as I plow through the shifting wet wind walls surprising me at each turn.

Feeling my way around people, cars and buildings I plod purposefully passing pools of muddy water, avoiding the sidewalk streams which feed them.

A man’s cigarette smoke is arrested by the moisture before it invades my olfactory with unyielding arrogance and indifference.

The red light, traffic and wide boulevard halt me as I absorb the cool rain drops into my coat.  My eyes scan the landscape for the chance to sprint the gap, I wonder if I can make it…

The Victor

He had just won, but three minutes and twenty-one seconds prior, he had not. He was just another competitor. He is no longer a competitor, now, but an Undisputed Champion. He is a Champion that will go down in history as the Victor of this prestigious tournament. It took him seven years to step forward, fully prepared for the trials and tribulations that stood in his way of Victory today.

Five minutes have now gone by since he was crowned Victor. The lights are flashing from every angle of the stadium. The associated press huddles in front of him, microphones listening and recorders taking down every word the Victor had to say.

But the Victor had nothing to say. He watched his fellow competitors walk off the stage in the opposite direction, away from the lights and away from the press. The Victor ran off the podium and approached the group of competitors, their eyes red and dry, as if tears had been there, even if they never feel from their eyes.

“Hey!” the Victor yelled, and in unison the five other competitors turned their heads toward him, lips pursed in straight, no-bullshit frowns.

The Victor knew these men. He watched some of them compete for twenty years or more, on the television, reading their names in the papers, seeing their likeness on the cereal boxes of time. He knew these men, looked up to them, and made idols out of them. He trained with the intent of matching their abilities. It took him seven years.

He looked at them with wide eyes, the gaze of which told them more than the radiance of his composure. No words were said.

One of the competitors, an all-star Victor for the last four tournaments in a row, turned his frown into a smile and made a half-nod towards the Victor, as if to say, “It’s your turn to run the show.” He turned around, followed by the others, synchronized, artistic, and they walked away in a vanguard formation towards the smallest exit in the stadium.

The Victor watched them go until they reached the doorway, the press taking snapshots of him watching the competitors walk away. It was artistic, the lone Victor seeing off those who fought and lost against him.

The hundreds of thousands watching him from the stadiums were chanting for him, praising him, proclaiming him as the new Victor. The chant was earth-shaking in its unison, “Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor! Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor!” Their chant was everlasting, echoing into the heavens above, a dark-blue void covered with twinkling, sparkling, stars. It would not be bold to think that eyes were watching him even now from those stars, watching and applauding the epic tournament that just concluded.

The Victor looks around for his friends and coaches who watched on the side as he competed. They are now in the center of the field, right behind him, in front of the press, actually. They are clapping their hands, arms around each other with smiles and laughter, unbelieving that their friend is the new Victor. This is such a happy occasion for him and his family and friends.

When he goes home today he will be greeted like a great warrior, coming home from a battle in which he single-handedly overcame the opposition. He will ride a convertible motorcade in the streets of Capital City, paper glitter falling from the tallest buildings, blanketing the city streets with colors of white, blue, red, orange, yellow and brown. The kids watching will cup their hands, collecting the glitter only to throw it back into the sky. The citizens of his nation will praise him as he rides off towards his home, his wife, his son and his daughter, his black dog, his farmland, and his quiet land on the outskirts of town. There he will rest, an act he had not done in seven years.

The Boston Red Sox cap watches me write a story about my ski patrol snow cap, and a ping of jealousy burns its soul as I unfold my heart to this snow cap and it’s heritage. It stares straight at me with puppy-dog eyes while I write my discomforts on the table I took from the girls upstairs.

It will only sit and stare at me for a moment more; once I jot down this thought I will get up to place it elsewhere, out of sight and of mind.

1.2.10

4:45pm

And then the Moleskine notebook came into contact with a t-shirt. Its name was Jamaica. The Moleskine was on an ottoman. The shirt was the first of many to be stacked on top of it, and given away to goodwill. Jamaica did not want to go. It cried and it cried as it was folded and placed on the ottoman, and the Moleskine felt its cries. It asked why it cried, and the shirt told it of love.

A shirt is the closest (save the underwear) thing to the skin and the essence of mankind, said the shirt. There is a relationship in the experience we wear. When we slide over someone’s head, they breathe our smell like a bee smells a flower. Each shirt has a unique life to share, the Moleskine concluded. Jamaica was unique, and realized its sorrow. Jamaica was a soccer shirt paying tribute to its local futbol association. Jamaica smelt of sand and wood and sweat. It smelt like the beach and the waters of the Caribbean.

“I didn’t want it to end this way,” begged Jamaica. It was getting squished closer and closer to the Moleskine notebook as Zucker continued placing shirt after shirt on top of them. The Moleskine could not help the poor, forgotten shirt, but listened to its story. Eventually, the stacking stopped, and Zucker started to pick up the shirts and place them in a plastic bag. The bag eventually seemed full, and the Jamaica shirt was still on the ottoman with another, softer shirt from Cape Cod. They felt each other’s presence and knew what was going to happen. For a fleeting moment they assumed mercy was given. Only for a moment, because a moment later, they were both swiped up and squished on top of the other shirts.

Cries of agony came from the swallowing plastic, and when Zucker tied the knot, sealing them in, their cries became muffled and disappeared as he took them away to the storage closet. They would rest in that closet for several months, until one day brought to the Salvation Army.

His lips were covered with frothy mescaline. His lips bled, punctured by his teeth. “Why do you see me as a savage?” There were several thousand in the newly arrived crowd, yet none of the faces revealed the slightest expression. They all wished him wrong.

This was Little Johnny’s first fourth grade play. “Frankenstein.” I’m not longer sure if it’s Frankenstein. I should be down the alley between 47th and Lexington behind the jazz club, Reggie’s, with a pipe in my mouth. What the fuck am I doing in front of these people? Why am I the monster? Why do they see me as a savage?”

30 years later…

Johnny listened to jazz records in his body-length cardboard box that existed in a local homeless community called “rock thunder,” where everyone plays it cool and the homeless community thrives in its collective cooperation. The homeless legislature was comprised of two chambers, the homeless House and the homeless Senate. Silly Bobby had been a senator for the last 15 booze binges. He advocated the free distribution of used syringes to all addicts.

Silly Bobby was homeless. He was also domeless. He hadn’t gotten dome in approximately 1.3 eons. He found ways to turn his shame into his fame, becoming one of the most respected senators to show up for meetings. Little Johnny looked up to him like an uncle, or some kind of nice social services worker.

They first met at the new year’s bash. Since they had no desire to kiss, they realized the mistletoe hanging above was not essential. Silly Bob removed it and fed it to Moe, the kid with the hangover. They originally discussed only politics, issues regarding the Homeless House and Homeless Senate’s incapacity to adequately represent the interests of the broader bum community. There were Dem Bums, Republican Bums, Bums for Peace In Darfur, and Beach Bums. So many constituencies the senators had to represent!

Their second meeting occurred while they were both surfing. Little Johnny had make-shifted a surf board out of a long cabinet door he had kicked down from the old abandoned syringe factory.

“I like the way you handle that board, Johnny!” Bobby murmured over his left shoulder as they float through the lukewarm river water. He wanted to kill Johnny because of a recent guffaw among the two chambers about women that have been visiting the township conjugally. Johnny, being that pride and joy of the Dem Bums, had many affairs on the premises, and Silly Bobby, being homeless, had absolutely shit but the Beach Bums and Bums for Peace in Darfur. But they never truly enjoyed his company, as he was homeless, and ragged, and had nothing to show for it. What a stud. What a bachelor. What a man without restraint.

Johnny was concerned. His was in danger of being drowned by his arch nemesis, Silly Bobby. What a fucking bitch! His long cabinet door was no match for Silly Bobby’s hefty chunk of urine stained Styrofoam.

Silly Bobby’s political affiliations lay with the Republican Bums, a better funded, and more slickly oiled political machine. They had recently garnered support from BADD, Bums Against Drunk Driving, and BETRA , Bums for the Ethical Treatment of Rock Algae. With the combined financial support of those two fundraising behemoths, Silly Bobby would surely achieve his goals and ambitions.

The last time he felt this sensation was when he was wearing tinted sunglasses on a very long, and very intense acid trip. Boris Ergnine, the investment concierge of his soul, had taken him to Tax Village, where they discussed the meaning of life and the meaning of money, and the meaninglessness of money in life. Johnny was walking among the space candy in Central Park with a strut and a slow pace.

It was at that moment that Silly Bobby opportunistically shoved him into the river with a jolt, sending Johnny into a million different kinds of pain, a million different kinds of woe, and an infinite gradient of colors flashed through his mind in waves of unspeakable beauty and horror.

There were never any bubbles… there was a door under Johnny’s right arm, and under his left arm was a branch he nabbed from the undertow. Silly Bobby’s urine stained Styrofoam surf contraption was in the lead as they approached a massive waterfall. This is what they needed to do. The Homeless Congress outlawed voting in favor of seeing the two candidates try to survive nearly suicidal stunts. The winner of the death mission would earn the seat, and rule the Bum community in an authoritarian fashion. Little Johnny hoped to be that one!

“You chose a really bad fucking time to fuck with me, Silly!” Johnny yelled.

“I don’t choose to make things right this way, you damn fucking scallywag!” There was no reasoning with Silly Bobby.

The Bobby showed the same mescal ferocity as Johnny had on that lonely day in fourth grade. The exploitation. The burning message to do the right thing for the greater good. ‘Don’t fuck up,’ was the mantra of that uber-embarassing display of shit acting. The fire of this memory burning strong inside of him, Johnny takes the stick out of the water and jabs Bobby in the eye, sending Silly Bobby into a Silly fit of agony, making Silly motions in the water as he clawed as his eyeball, to free the stick from his own head.

However, Little Johnny realizes his victory is short lived as they both plummet to their deaths down the waterfall onto cold jagged rocks, splitting their skulls.

The End.

Zucker/Slez
August, 2008

The story of a man.

A man walks into a bathroom late one night.
Entering as he does, the story unfolds before us…
Washing hands with warm water,

Washing face with the imperial leather, the gem of the land,
taking a piss, brushing the teeth, and
Shaving!

Shaving!
He filled the well below, and filled his hands in lather
So white… so white…

so, fluffy… so warm.
It cooled to the face though!
Hot water softens the blow.

I rubbed it on me, and cut away the trees on my face.
Fast and hard, brutal and merciless, but
Nobody sees it but you. The pain, the honesty, the loss.

12/5/07

How many times do we need to reenact
the same actions that render us the same errors?

When will the lessons be learned
and our patience restored to its optimal confidence?

Learn your way out of misfortune by preventing
the need for trial, and the embarrassment of error.

Take the time you have and assess your options,
always give acknowledgment to the choices in front of you,
and never question the comfort of your gut instinct.

3.25.09

Central Park South & 5th
Chapter One – Family Matters

6:00pm
12-28-2009

I just got off the phone with my parents…

A funny thing happened to me just now. I was opening up my bottle of wine for the week, packed my bowl full and drank a big gulp. The air had just left my body as the taste was recognized, and then my phone rings.

Mom Cell – apprehension does not overcome me like it does at other times. I reach for my phone with a confidence in cohesion. I can talk to them right now. I’m not too far gone…

“Hello?”
‘Hey, Alex!’ My mother’s distinctive greeting welcomes me again, and a sigh of comfort is exhumed.
“Hey Mom, how you doing?”

‘I’m good. I just got back home. I ended up going for a walk with Lynn when the weather got better today.’ She was thinking of coming into Boston with Lynn to window shop and walk around, but the weather turned foul and rained out the plan.

We talked on. My cognition and flow were still quite able, despite a definite shot to the brain. She wanted to talk about her recent walk with Lynn, and confided in me about the conversation they had about Nick, her son and close friend of mine.

Nick has been a fitness enthusiast for a long time. He has a high metabolism. He surfs, and yeah, and he plays a mean game of golf. All things considered, his family is closer to him than anyone, and for them to feel concerned about his health over this lifestyle brings immediate concern to my folks and I. It was only natural she’d want to tell me about the discussion. She thought Nick was a completely different person since she last saw him, two years earlier.

‘It seems extreme,’ my mother went on to say, ‘it is possible for a fitness routine to be unhealthy… it shows in his face.’ She would say something like that, and it would always be true. Our face is our mirror, for good and for worse. If something is wrong, we show it in our eyes, and our smiles. We smell when we’re stressed, and glow when we’re happy. Our body language is everything, but I digress…

By the end of that conversation, my mother handed the phone off to my dad. Talking with him is just as easy, as long as the conversations are mutually understood.

‘Heya, Alex.’
“Heya Dad, how you doing?”
‘I’m doing alright. You?’
“I’m good, I just got back from the gym.”
‘Good for you, Alex.’ Sincerity assured. ‘I won’t ask you all the same questions as mom, but how was your trip home?’ I took a trip back to Boston from New York after spending a weekend with them and my brother at the Plaza Hotel. It was their 30th wedding anniversary.

“It was alright, as much as you could expect on a busy travel day.” I told him more. I told him about the little British girl who couldn’t stop talking in the seats across from mine. All the way to Boston. It was quite and experience, and the group I sat with showed signs of understanding and relief when she walked off to sit with her dad in another car.

‘I just wanted to say thanks for coming out there with us, and for being a part of something this special.’ We both expressed our gratitude to one another for being there in New York on such an important milestone.

“Ah, Dad, I wouldn’t miss something like that. I mean, come on, The Plaza! Thank you for putting that all together, it was such a wonderful experience! You certainly know how to treat us well.”

‘This is true!’ I think he had been waiting for someone to say that for a long time. ‘And I like to treat you guys well, so hopefully there’s more to come as time goes on.’

“I’m looking forward to it.” A moment of comfortable silence hangs over the phone.

‘Well, I’ll let you go, you just got back.’

“Thanks, it was great talking to you.”

‘You too, my boy. Have a goodnight.’
*Goodnight!* I hear my mother yell in the distance as I ready to say it. I laugh into the phone.

“Ah, goodnight you guys! I love you.”

‘Love you too, Alex. Bye.’

“Bye.”

The conversation lasted thirteen minutes, and following the conversation, things had gone their course. The flow of blood to my brain caused a euphoric chain reaction. I saw read vibrations as I sat and laid back on my bed, staring up at an abstract painting of an apple tree; oil on canvas by a college friend’s sister. I felt something in those vibrating apples. It was love. I felt love for my family emanating from its root and its marrow. It’s a feeling I know so well, and cherish now even more, like the fine wines we all imbibe. Age defines quality. The quality of my love for my family has matured and grown stronger, stronger than the days of my childhood when bed-time was fixed and allowances were given. Now is the time when I give my love back to them, and remind them of how much they mean to me.

In a phone conversation like this, the simplest of talks can bring overpowering love and compassion. I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

And then there was New York…

6:50pm

‘Carhartt, what’s going on, brother?’ The light blue jeans remembered Carhartt the black denim construction jacket; the one that was thick enough to stave a knife jab. It had smears of white paint along the right arm.

-         ‘hey Mo, good to see you. Adidas, you know this guy?’

~ ‘yeah, he’s cool.’ Carhartt had never met Zara Man. Adidas has been worn with most everything in Zucker’s wardrobe. The Carhartt, as it turns out, is only now meeting the ‘occasionally-worn’ jackets.

Zucker lays the Carhartt down right next to Zara Man, and lays Adidas on top of Zara Man. Everything was happening on the bed.

• ‘So, how was that walk, Adidas?’

~ ‘hey Zara Man, it was good, I think you would have liked it. So many layers, so many places…’

And Adidas proceeded to tell Zara Man about the trip Zucker went on with his camera and his thoughts. They talked about the walk from Somerville to Harvard and Harvard to Summit, stopping at places along the way to take pictures and Christmas shop. He purchased a gift for his brother, called “the Magic of M.C. Estcher,” found at Raven Books. With this new added weight to carry, the trip became more trying. Forces influenced Zucker’s emotional pilgrimage, and Adidas illustrated the whole scene, laying it out for Zara Man, next to the Carhartt, who could hear everything.

• ‘How far did you all walk?’

~ ‘probably around ten miles.’

-         ‘no, it was closer to eight.’

As if Zara Man didn’t get the picture already.

-     ‘we stopped at some cool places.’ Carhartt took his opening. ‘He wanted to take pictures of so many things; he had not been to this place in a long time. I had never seen the graffiti on Brainard Street before, the slope of Summit Avenue, or the scope of Summit Park’s view.’

• ‘Summit Park, was that a cool spot?’

And Zara Man learned about Summit Park, the place where Zucker fell in love time and time again. Together with him they sat and they watched the city, shaded by clouds of grey mixed with blue.

• ‘Were there any hot ladies checking you out?’

-         ‘ buddy, I’m a jacket, do you think I care?’

• ‘everyone cares. There was a cutie out there, wasn’t there?’

~ ‘There was this Asian girl walking up Summit Avenue while we were walking down towards Brookline. She had those eyes that make men melt. He kept walking his confident walk, but he slipped right as he walked by her!’

• ‘Ahh man! That’s terrible. I wonder if she noticed?’

-         ‘Of course she noticed, she was right there. It was a quiet, awkward, ‘bread-n-butter’ passing. Even so, she was definitely the pick of the day.’

~ ‘yeah, she had a fit body. I like that.

• ‘Of course you do, Adidas. We don’t even have to ask.’

They stayed on the bed, waiting to be put away for several hours. Those hours felt like days to them, motionless in the light from the lamp in the room.

FIRST DATE, FIRST KISS

~ Well, this was a really great night.

The closing remarks on an otherwise entertaining date were taking place. In the cab now, we know what we want, but have trouble expressing it. Perhaps she doesn’t feel the way I do.

“Yeah, I had a really good time with you.”

~ Yeah, this was fun…

“Can I come in with you?”

The question was the move, in my eyes. The intention to join her so late in the evening only brought up feelings of lust, not plutonic enrichment. It was a date, after all.

~ You want to?

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

We exchange a smile; a look of agreement. We step out of the cab, fare 22 bucks, all on me. She walks in front of me towards her apartment building. I’m one step behind her, watching her walk and smelling her scent. We walk through the main entrance of her building, and call the elevator. She pushes the call button, and then turns around to face me. I walk up close to her, and my body connects with hers; I pull her closer with my arms, embrace her, and give her a kiss. Her eyes close as our lips touch and a breathe of satisfaction holds the air for several seconds. She smells like vanilla and cherries.

~ Wow. You don’t waste any time, do you?

“I suppose not, not when our time matters so much.”

The right answer. Saying it right makes her feel the right way. ‘I’ve never been so lucky to have you,’ is the message conveyed, and she picks up on it immediately.

The elevator door opens and a young couple exits the elevator, watching us as they pass. The girl looks at me, the guy looks at her. We smile back, enter the elevator, and begin kissing passionately before the doors close. We didn’t press any buttons; we stayed on the first floor for several minutes, unaware of time.

We only became aware of time when the couple that we saw earlier came back and called the elevator again. The doors open to us entwined, and we broke apart suddenly before the doors fully opened, but they got the point.

* Oh, we’ll take the stairs…

~ No, no, it’s fine; we got a little carried away.

“Yeah, it’s alright, come on in. We’re going up!”

My excitement is making me confident and my energy level is high as we welcome them back into the elevator awkwardly. The guy looks embarrassed and the girl is giving me looks.

* Which floor are you going to?

~ Seven please.

The guy hits seven and eight on the button pad. The numbers go as high as twelve. The elevator moves slowly, and the sexual tension is growing as the couple with us picks up on our intentions. I think they had the same thing on their minds as us. We quickly exit the elevator and enter her apartment, the second door left of the elevator.

With this newfound bravado and confidence, I take her hand again as we enter her apartment, a bare living room with a Yamaha sound receiver, a vinyl record player, and two retro-looking tower speakers. I engage her with hugs and kisses, this time without a care in the world. We drop our jackets where we stand; holding each other at the waists, our upper bodies are slightly curved outwards, and our lower bodies are connected by denim and heat. We were a flower in bloom during the darkest hour of the night.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time.”

~ What kept you so long?

She smiles her smile, and I am at a loss for words.

“I didn’t know how you felt about me.”

~ Well now you do.

“I do now.”

We embrace again, and the spotlight leaves us as the view regresses out the window of her front-view apartment, above the city skyline it overlooks, and beyond the clouds that cover them. Even from up there, you can see our love like the North Star.

Here I finally am, standing thirty-six stories above the harbor, in a room full of sport coats, cocktail dresses and inflated ego’s, poised to break the inevitable silence which occurs when a speaker has run out of material and begs for questions from an awkward grouping of entry level associates and seasoned executives.

I hate the feeling of trying to rationalize my self out of being the first person to ask a question of this nature, giving up only feels good for a split second before you realize you just lost out on an opportunity to make a bold statement.

I over dramatized the five second lapse of time in which I pondered what I would say to the speaker. Almost involuntarily I caught the speaker’s eye, raised my glass of Merlot to signal that I wished to put her experience to the test. Fearing a chilly misinterpretation, I unfurled my question in an unwavering tone.

Her response was laced with innuendo, ironically, just as unexpected as I though my words would have been to her. She conveyed more with her eyes than with her words, gesticulating confidently while holding my gaze. Yes, it was her confidence which I admired most, and her commanding posture despite her petite stature; her words seemed to go over everyone else’s head but found meaning in my own.

I really admired her, I must say again.

Had she only been twenty years younger I would have walked over to her and asked her if she wanted a drink, and then proceeded to tell her how fascinating she sounded – of course she would have not had a gleaming rock on her finger, but that is besides the point. I would have told her about my ideas and listened to more of hers. After finishing another glass of Merlot we would have walked out on the patio and delved into more personal matters, and stayed out there until the crowd had dispersed. Parting ways I would have asked her for her business card. When I got into the office the next day I would have sent her an email to arrange lunch.

Wow… back to reality.

My office is a playground for situational comedy.

Chuck: You inspire me, Joe.

Alex: Chuck, what are you talking about?

Chuck: Come on, look at him!

We all look at Joe, sitting in the corner of the office eating lunch by the window.

Alex: It looks like he’s eating mustard off a paper plate with a plastic knife.

Joe laughs.

Joe: That’s exactly what I’m doing!

Chuck: And to top it off, he’s wearing black leather shoes with white socks on, not to mention that oversized dress shirt. Look at those sunglasses!

Black oakleys from the mid-to-late 90′s, gold reflective tint.

Joe: I’m reading “The Economist” too, learning how to start up an energy business.

Alex: Joe, you’re unreal. You’d need a billion dollars just to see that world move an inch.

Joe: Alright! Check this out…

Joe moves to his coat, and takes his wallet out.

Joe: You see this ten-dollar bill here? Multiply that by 100 million.

Joe neatly stuffs the bill back into his wallet.

Joe: What do you think about that?

Alex: I’m going to rob you after work today.

Everyone laughs.

Back to work…

In a pile of rubble that I see within arm’s length of me, I see a cornucopia of artifacts that explain the nature of existence up here. The existence of the dust pile and the rubble it collects. There are several bottle caps and cigarette butts scattered among the rubble. From that I know this was a spot that ended up collecting what to world brought it.

As I sit here and write these words, I feel the wind blowing against my face, collecting me as it did the rubble beside me. The bottle caps are half-buried among broken sedimentary, definitely erosion from the gargoyle balcony statues along the edge of the roof. It has all collected in a galaxy of dirt, surrounded by more distant fragments of sand, stuck on the tarmac. I’m watching it now, the dirt pile, and I can see the wind move it. It responds to the wind with a wild dance. Each gust is another hour or activity at ground-zero, among the rocks of sand trying to find their way back to common ground.

And in the unchanging pattern the wind creates, I notice one grain moving against the wind, against all the forces pushing at it. A close look reveals an insect, a living entity struggling to move onwards. It’s back looked like a small and thin shard of crystal, reflecting the setting sun in my eye. It was half spider, half hermit crab.

I miss it now, that bug, for as I write these words, the wind has blown it to an unknown area in the dust pile. Later he will try again, try again to leave the rubble for in the end, the wind will always try to bring everything back full-circle. No stone is left unturned in the eternal struggle to move towards paradise.

July 6th, 2008

Afternoon at 1687 Commonwealth Avenue.

There’s a cold sweat on my brow, and I didn’t put it there.

My eyes are glazed with hunger, still holding onto some hope for a great lunch. Here I stand, looking at the open fridge in front of me, looking for my signature brown-paper-bag lunch.

It’s gone! It is gone, taken from this fridge. There’s no alternative! I remember putting my lunch together this morning; the cutting of the fixins, the stuffing of it in my bag before leaving home, and putting it in this very fridge when I got in today! What the hell is going on here!?

BEEN STREET KITCHEN SNIPES

It must be one person, because my lunch was fit for one. I didn’t see any ‘open for grabs’ signals waved, or else I would have noticed it. I work close to my office kitchen. My office floor alone has maybe 500 people,  all of which are loosely sprawled across a wide landscape of cubicles and private offices. There are two kitchens, one on each side, which means at least half the people out there are suspects, I guess… great…

It was a toasted turkey club sandwich, too. I made it with fresh, organic ingredients. I was really looking forward to that sandwich. I made a special point to oven bake the bacon earlier to give it a “juicy-but-crunchy” texture I like so much. Damn… I want to find the punk who took my lunch.

It took me fifteen minutes to get my lunch from somewhere else. It was raining outside, so that made the experience less enjoyable, but I got something good in the area. I ate by myself, quietly looking out at the city in front of my office window. It was a place of comfort that I and a few coworkers of mine took refuge in when we had little work to do. I knew these guys couldn’t possibly be responsible for my predicament.

I can usually breeze through my workweek when days are good, clear of conflict and change, but when my mind is fixed on something like it was on that lunch today, my day gets slower, rougher, and darker. A rainy morning had turned into sunshine for a brief moment before the clouds came and swept all the light away… and that’s how my day went.

By the end of the night, I could care less about the sandwich, but rather more about catching the guy who got to me. I needed a crafty plan to monitor the kitchen. It seems like a simple plan, really, standing up while doing my job and watching the kitchen. I’ll just lean on my cubicle wall and talk to Joe and Elliot, all the while monitor the head traffic that passes through there.

Monitor; not interfere. My intentions are more sincere. I want to catch them red handed, and I want to catch them as they’re about to enjoy it.

Well, my hard work did pay off as much as I would have hoped, because I have my lunch today, along with a renewed sense of confidence. But I wonder what happened…?

For the next couple days I paid less and less attention to what I brought in for lunch, convinced I would get robbed again at some point, and decided not to give the bastard something I put my heart into. I can safely say that a week later, I’ve let my guard down.  It’s Thursday, and I made a salad with some roasted chicken bits from last night, with a ginger sesame dressing I bought.

It’s GONE! My nerves pinch and my tummy makes a wild wailing noise that sounds like a person is dying inside me. Somebody is dying inside of me…me. I am dying inside of me, terror-stricken by this shadow that just takes and takes as it pleases. My paper bag lunch, stolen again…

The next day I left my lunch in the kitchen on the other side of the hall. It was completely out of friendly territory, and out of my sights. I would just trust (in a hope) that it would remain there until lunchtime.

Gone again! It’s a personal vendetta! I’m being victimized by someone with a private grudge on me. What the hell is this all about?! My insides are boiling with stomach acid; I’ve been waiting for that tasty meal, and now I have to deprive my senses for ten dollars and another 15 minutes . Oh, the pain!

Today I am beyond reckoning with. I’m also beyond reasoning with. I think I’ll leave my lunch at my desk for the entire day, no preservation needed, no chilling, no heating, no wetting nor drying required. I’ll have peanut butter and banana sandwiches… with some raisins. I’ll keep everything in my desk. The sheer simplicity of it, the absolute insanity of it!

It’s about 1:20pm and I’m starting to have some free time to eat. I made a peanut butter and banana and raisin sandwich, and left the peanut butter on my desk (along with the sandwich, which I covered with a napkin). I’m just on my way back from the bathroom now…

Boom! My lunch is gone, right off of my desk. My head rises immediately over the cubicles and I look out at the expansive office floor. Where is the bastard? Where’s my lunch?

I walk to where I can see more desks. My nose sniffs the air, looking for leads.  Some people are standing in the distance, passing work and gossiping to each other. The rest are on the move. But to where? A woman is walking towards me; another is walking away with a couple of people. Heads bob up for a few moments before dipping back down into cubes.

Wait! That man over there, the slightly balding man wearing a brown collared shirt. Him! He’s walking kind of fast… what’s his rush?

My fury is rising while I speedwalk after him. He is holding a brown paper bag, and I know from experience that those bags are the same as mine. This son-of-a-bitch took my lunch. He’s not a big guy; I could take him down if necessary. He continues to walk out of my area, and over to a private office in the far corner of the wall adjacent to mine. I can see my work area well enough from over here.

I follow with discretion now. This is what I was waiting for, to catch him in the act. For some reason I’m nervous now. This hunt, so to put it, is about to reach a stunning climax. Furthermore, I’m blowing a stupid whistle like this on a would-be executive. His name was Byrun Bhundiddikush. My demeanor had to be clean-cut.

KnocK KnocK!

‘Excuse me.’

I am very casual on the outside, but my blood is starting to flood to my head.

Byrun – Hi.

There’s a brief silence.

Byrun  – Can I help you?

‘Yeah, I was just stopping by because I noticed you took my lunch.’

Byrun  – Oh, right, these things.

‘Yeah… yeah…’

There’s another brief silence.

‘Well?’

Byrun – Well, I wouldn’t worry about these anymore. You got me, fair and square.

‘What? Is that it? What are you talking about?’

Byrun  – You sniped me, man!

‘Sniped you? What the hell are you talking about?’

Byrun  – It’s not often a lunch sniper gets sniped himself!

‘You do realize this isn’t the first time you’ve stolen my lunch, right?’

Byrun  – Right.

‘Well? Are you gonna’ make me some lunches to make up for it or something? Are you gonna pay me back at all?’

Byrun  – Probably not.

‘Are you kidding?’

Byrun  – Yeah, I guess I’m not much of a kidder.

‘What gives, man? You’re being such an asshole.’

Byrun  – Actually I’m sure it’s you who’s the asshole.

I am a fed up customer at a claims window where nobody cares about your feelings.

‘What? How can you-? Now, listen here, buddy, I won’t bring any names into this, but you’re making this extremely difficult for me. Consider my point of view for a second. Do you see a problem with this? All I want from you is something in return for stealing my lunches and terrorizing me for the last few weeks! An apology would be really great too, but I doubt you’re the type to do that.’

Byrun  – Why should I give you anything?

Because you’ve stolen my lunch! Numerous times! What did I take from you? What? Nothin!’

My voice is loud, and people beyond this man’s cube can hear me clearly.

Byrun  – Please, let’s exercise a little discretion here, we’re mature adults.

‘I don’t think you are, sir, because we you’re having some real issues resolving our stupid little problem.’

Byrun  – What problem?

‘The lunches, man. The lunches.’

I am losing my cool. I am growing sad and tired with frustration. All I want now is my lunch, and he is still eating it.

‘My lunches. You’ve been stealing them from me, and I want restitution.’

Byrun  – Right, well the way I see it, if you stop bringing in your lunch like this, I’ll stop taking it.

‘What are you talking about? There are so many people in this office, and a lot of them bring their lunch in, just like me. What makes me so different? Why not take their lunches?’

Byrun  – Oh I do take their’s, it’s nothing special. Sometimes people are really on with their culinary skills. But some times, people like you bring in crap. That’s the whole thing with these lunches: sandwiches, soups, salads, leftovers, packaged meals and other crap like this. It’s the containers that really identify people. And it’s important to remember that, Guy, because some of them are really great methods to preserve your lunch in. Lunch boxes, reusable containers, plastic bags, and paper bags. It’s the last of these that really gets my nerves.

‘The paper bag? Is that what this is all about?’

Byrun  – Mostly. If you brought your lunch to work in a more eco-friendly container, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place… maybe.

My heart is a grinder, grinding nickels and dimes. The pupils in my eyes have just shrunk to the size of pin heads, and the madness of this man’s perspective is beyond my tolerance. I can no longer handle it.

Byrun  –Do you know how much harm you’re doing to our precious forests? Do you know how many paper bags you’ve used to bring your lunch in to work? I’ve been watching you, man. How many more do you use beyond that? The paper is culminating, my friend, and the bodies of several trees are rotting away at your feet. Can you comfortably eat this lunch with that on your conscience?

He eats another bite of my lunch after he says this.

‘Give me your money.’

I’ve snapped.

Byrun  Excuse me?

‘You heard me, give me your money. I want payback. Payback for the money I’ve put into those lunches, and the time I’ve wasted with this hunt to catch you, and payback for this failure of an attempt to reclaim my lunch. They never belonged to you, man, and what you are doing is selfish and unfair.’

Strangely, nobody from the office in this guy’s proximity is coming over to investigate. It’s as if this kind of thing happens often.

Byrun  – Yeah, I’m fresh out that, but I’ll give you something in exchange.

‘Exchange for what? Exchange for my lunches? Are you going to give me my lunch back?’

Byrun  – (laughing) Oh heaven’s no. This crap is great. And I want to give you something better. I want to give you advice on how to snipe for yourself.

‘How to snipe?’

Byrun  – Yeah, you know; how to snipe people’s lunches.

I fight back the urge to hop over the desk and strangle this man.

‘No, I want my lunch. I want my lunch back, I want my time back, I want my money back, and finally I want you to get fired.’

Byrun  – Well, that won’t happen.

‘You think so?’

Byrun  – Yeah, I’m pretty sure about it. Now why don’t you take my advice, and learn how to take a lunch for yourself. I guarantee that after one lunch, you’ll never want to turn back.

‘How about you pay for my lunch, asshole?’

Byrun  – Not happening. I can get you a lunch, though. How about that?

I forget about the whole dilemma. I am so hungry and aggravated that all I want at this moment is food, sustenance, and some peace to this whole mess.

‘Get me a lunch… please.’

Byrun  – Deal.

Way too quick. He was waiting for some kind of compromise like this, not involving anything except a lunch. He eats more of my sandwich, and takes a moment to breathe.

Byrun  – Follow me.

After he finishes my lunch, he gets up and proceeds to the kitchen on my side of the office, but in another wing nearby. He stands next to the printer nearby, watching the traffic around the kitchen. He sees a lot of people using the amenities there, heating up their frozen meals, chatting to one another for that brief time it takes to microwave dish or bowl, filling up their water bottles. I look around him, and notice how invisible he is among the other coworkers. He just stands there, watching the kitchen, and waiting.

In a flash he makes for the kitchen, slowly and casually. Almost like birds in an open square, the coworkers all leave the scene moments before he walks through. He goes up to one of the refrigerators and pulls out a plastic bag, quickly shuts the door and casually walks back towards me.

Byrun  – Let’s go back to my place now.

Suave, I have to admit. I notice how cool and collected he is the whole time, briskly swinging the plastic bag back and forth in his hand as he walks back to his corner of the office. I meet him there shortly later with a mixture of guilt and greed in my stomach as he begins to open the bag, look inside, and pull out a tasty, homemade, chicken sandwich, accompanied with carrots and string cheese. My mouth is watering.

Byrun  – Here you go.

He gives me the sandwich and carrots, and keeps the string cheese. What a bastard.

Byrun  – Now go get your own damn lunch, I’m a busy guy.

He turns his head to throw away the bag, and then pulls his things together on the desk to look like he was working. I had no idea what he was doing.

I feel like I’ve been cheated by a master conman who doesn’t fall back lightly. I feel like this guy has total immunity over any kind of threats and actions I can throw at him. He is certainly an officer at the company, somebody with absolute power, able to fire me without even working in my team or department. Instead, this man has walked all over me, in addition to the employees of this office who bring their lunch in everyday. What injustice!

‘I hope you get caught by somebody bigger than you, and hang on your own burnoose.’

Byrun  – I hope you snipe out some really great lunches, man, I really do. I’m excited for you because I think you’ll do alright. Easy, huh?

‘What?’

My heart sinks, and I realize again how much this guy is taking advantage of me.

Byrun  – That was the advice. Just make sure you time the entry right or else you’ll get stuck in a tongue-twister with some curious coworkers. And feel free to use another bag to cover it up if you want.

‘If my lunch ever disappears again, I’m coming after you.’

Byrun – Sure. Oh man that was fun; I’m looking forward to when you’re in my shoes. I’m relieved; really, I’m always relieved when things like this are over. Just remember what I told you about those paper bags, ok? Give a little consideration for the Earth.

‘Screw you, man.’

I walk away with a sense of failure in my heart, and with success in my stomach. I’m thankful the ordeal is over, and I can go on with my life. I walk back to my area with someone’s sandwich and carrots, sit over at the nook, and watch the clouds pass behind the skyline. The sandwich tasted amazing. Someone really put some work into it. I wonder if that’s just a coincidence, or if everyone actually puts some effort into their lunches?

And somewhere on the other side of my office wing, a woman is upset because her lunch got stolen.

July, 2009

One day, a boy bought a hand-carved frog from a local merchant, rich with coins engraved at its feet, and with red jewels in its eyes. It was small; it fit the palm of the boy’s hand. He placed it on his windowsill, and there it sat for many years. The boy grew up, and collected more things as precious as the frog, and surrounded it with his experiences and memories.

At one point, the frog moved with the man he grew to know into a world much greater and larger. From the new window on which it rested, the world turned before him, and the sky opened up into a valley of clouds and blue. When the man settled in, he started surrounding the frog with pennies. Bold, copper coins lay all around the frog, and the carving came to life from the fortunes before it. The frog now had a pool full of coins to swim in, and the world around them watched and smiled.

The coins came to life too. In the waters of this token’s good fortune, an essence emanated from the windowsill, cast in the darkness of night, and the lightness of day. Some of the pennies were very old, and some were very young. Generations came together in a tepid pond of copper. Their stories and experiences were limitless, having exchanged so many hands in life. Each story had a unique purpose, some more so than others. Their stories were not to be heard.

The frog heard them, however, and the coins finally had an audience to speak to. The frog stayed and listened to the stories of the coins, and understood their value, a value unrealized by the boy who found them, and kept them. Their value then was more than today, and the man knew this. He put them out there, on the windowsill, and created a work of art, a living art. He gave life and meaning to the frog and its coin pond. May they all shine in the open waters of fortune and fame.

5.9.09 – 12pm

Zucker