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Where’s Waldo?

The red and white stripes…what do they signify?

Some people say he looks like Hugh Grant, horn rimmed glasses and striped apparel. A solemn yet wise gaze. Who is this man?

He walks through crowds of men. Some of these men have extremely feeble torsos and jacked legs. The other half of the men have toothpick legs and phenomenally jacked torsos. This is the world he lives in. The world he explores.

Someone is looking for him. He knows it. He is somewhat aware that a book has been published using his likeness. Someone is always looking for him.

He is also looking for someone. Someone important. Someone who he has always believed in.

Waldo is his name. He does not know his last name, since he has never had one. He was born with a single name: the name Waldo.

There was a strange recurring pattern throughout Waldo’s journeys. From time to time, he observed many red and white striped objects that bore a remarkable resemblance to himself. He had a time discerning the precise meaning or nature of this anomaly. His journey never seemed to cease.

He was on the beach at Puna Mana and he looked in the water and saw a fish that looked like him, all striped, white and red

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Side-gimmick – Candy Cane Condoms
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Carolin

She’s the lady who lives at the bus stop. She has a stack of trash bags packed with pillows beside her, and a radio plays on the bench as she sits there rolling cigarettes or knitting gloves. She’s always there, no matter what, and a conversation is hers to claim from anyone who waits at her stop. Minutes roll by as she goes on tangents.

“My letter of recognition came back from the statehouse today.”
“Oh yeah, what for?”
“My undercover work for the police.”

And she wraps you up in a fanciful tale of national importance, full of conspiracy theories and such. A car stops in front of the bus stop to drop a friend off, and she breaks her train of thought to take a picture of the car’s license plate. She snitches on cars that stop in the bus stop lane long enough for her to waddle behind them, heckle them, and remind them it’s against the law.

She’ll make calls on a burner to unlisted numbers if the buses are not on time, and heckle the drivers when they arrive, or give them traffic updates. Everyone anxiously tries to board and get out of her conversational satellite of control.

“I received a commendation from the governor for helping in a drug bust.” In other words, she snitched on a bad dealer who sold her bad drugs. She was missing one of her incisors, but the rest of her teeth were surprisingly well kept.

“The White House knows about me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I keep their secret services in the loop out here.”

I look around and four people roll their eyes. The bus arrives, and Carolin retires to her knitting and cigarettes for another few minutes before the next group of commuters arrive to wait.

It begins like a story, seat 19C and I’m too close to the stewardess’ ass which is uncomfortably moving thru the aisle, half-offering beverages to thirsty patrons at a premium. Nothing has happened yet, except the dull din of engines and circulated air. My headphones are still out of earshot at level eight. I close my eyes between the students, businessmen and hard bodies watching me as they pass on the way to the bathroom.

DC is where the American Nursing Society’s 37^th Annual Members Induction Ceremony would happen. My mother was being inducted, and I had the opportunity to fly down. I will remember her accomplishment for all my life. I came for the ceremony, but I stayed for the reunions with college friends over a brief, two-day/two-night visit.

Night one, Friday, 7PM. My flight lands at Reagan, and there’s an exhibition by Slideluck Potshow in Georgetown. If we can make it there by 11PM closing, I hope to have a moment with the proprietor. My eyes should be closed; preserve the energy, slow down the blood, and deny these demons inside the privilege of idle boredom.

If I had one sentence to sum up the whole of my experiences in DC, it would be this: “I don’t know why I never considered living there before.” My social experience was a mash-up of events, and I was caught off guard. It was good: the Metro system with its well-funded substations, the automatic revolving doors, the blue glass art sculptures and jade garden walkways, the smell of clean city.

I hit the ground running that first night, like a quiet frenzy of positive energy. I met Hammer at Cure, the lounge bar at the Grand Hyatt where I was staying, and we talked for an hour over brews about life, since we last met, before meeting Levy and friend. We talked about jobs and job searches, music, women, money, and relationships. We talked about how badly we wanted to relive our Killington Weekend, and then Levy showed up with his friend Robbie who made me laugh.

We drank enough at Cure, the four of us, and decided it was best to move on before the older folks gave us any dirtier looks. Down 11^th street we walked towards Chinatown, an urban golf shot from the opening gates.

Mambo sauce. I heard about it more than once during my trip, but never got around to have it. Hammer told me he’d take me to the best spot for Mambo sauce in all of DC the next time I visited.

We didn’t quite cross the threshold into Chinatown. We ended up at RFD’s, and sat in the center table, pulling back more drinks. They had a great beer selection. Levy toasted our reunion with shots of Jack, and that’s when the night began to tip. Levy told me about his return home from California, where he had spent the last couple years living with his now ex-girlfriend, making music and making a name for himself in LA. She was hot, but things went sour, and he left LA and came back home to save money and work on his music.

We got nostalgic about Boston as the booze took its course. They told me stories from their life in DC, stories that entertained me to no end. Listening and learning about their subculture happenings felt anthropological. I wanted to see more of this.

It wouldn’t happen that night, however. I drank up all the culture I could handle and ended up staying at Hammer’s place in Columbia Heights, sick with rot-gut and blacked-out memories. I had to put the pieces together quickly the next day: my folks called, concerned about where I was, and wanted me to come back to the hotel. Hammer reminded me about the two frumpy girls who met up with us as we left the bar, right around the time our friend Robbie was getting kicked out of RFD’s. He fell back in his chair and knocked our table over, all the drinks going down, and a laughing fit ensues that got the whole bar laughing and clapping and drinking. It was the Jack that did it.

BROOKLYN SOUND

22^nd Street, between 4^th and 5^th
Brooklyn, NY
10/23/2010
Anchor Steam

The last time I visited Brooklyn was in April, my brother lived on Classon Avenue, and we got together with the folks for a nice weekend, but that’s a different story. A shady trend was growing in his area (sky-boxes and stained brownstone buildings), and he took the move as a blessing.

Now, on the corner of 22^nd street, between 4^th and 5^th, my brother adjusts to a life with his girlfriend. She’s a great girl, and they go well together. They love all the same things, and they even apply to the same jobs. There was nothing out-of-place in this scene, nothing except for maybe the scene itself.

“The house used to be all red, like these stairs,” my brother pointed out as we walked towards it. I was surprised not to walk up the stairs, but instead beside them to the garden-level entrance left of the house. A cozy barbecue patio looked at us as we stepped down into the apartment. It was a unique world underneath a gay couple’s paradise. The bathroom looked to be carved out of a cave, and the radiator (after an interesting story of breaking down and leaking) had a burly towel covering it.

There should be no expectations of greatness, I thought, other than the greatness you make for yourself.

My bed was the floor where the coffee table rests. There was no rug, but they prepared for me a sleeping bag and several warm blankets. I slept like a baby that first night, but not before checking out an art gallery (Under Minerva) we passed by earlier on a walk around the block. There was a painting in the front of a DJ in layers of orange and blue, playing records and mixing it up at a club of diverse colors in the background. The basic colors of the DJ washed over the pretty lights, and it truly stood out from afar.

Over ATM slips and Grizzly Bear, I was enjoying the taste of sugar on my tongue, making a list of songs I had recommended to my brother. It was appreciated over drinks and jazz in south Brooklyn on Saturday, with him and his girlfriend and two of her friends from Pratt. For moments during the show, I saw a notebook passed between the two of them, collaborating in silence while the rest of us watched and listened.

I sat behind the piano player, and on occasion he would look back at me with an odd smile. I didn’t know what to think, and continued drinking my double of Scotch, next to the Cosmopolitan and Brooklyn Lager, Mai Tai and Gin & Tonic.

The show was good. The quartet of drums, piano, bass and trumpet were like four young wolves on the street. For an amateur show, the buzz of the evening revolved around the trumpet player, an awkward sixteen year old with short black curls and bifocals.

There was a saxophonist; his instrument rested casually to my right for a long time. His wine glass was on the table we took when we first arrived, before he came over and took it away himself. He did not play with the group until much later in the set, and his cameo appearance upped the quality dramatically. The trumpet and saxophone ran together, picking up on each other’s vibe as if they knew what the score was.

And then there was that pianist. I don’t know what I did to provoke him, but he was enthusiastic, keeping the melody and giving it his all. There were times when he stood up to bang down on the piano, as if he really needed to let it out that way. Perhaps he just didn’t give a damn.

When the show was over we walked up 5th Avenue and landed at a bar called Commonwealth. It had a nice outdoor patio, with bench-tables and umbrellas. I remember red tables; a tall boy of Anchor Steam beer; the bottle so cold it had icy condensation on it. We were talking about the music and the people at the show. Art-speak and journeys and briefs on photography and music and television were shared over nightcaps, and quip upon quip upon quip… I told them about Boston, and they told me about New York.

My brother mentioned taking shots in the subway tunnels. The empty tunnels of Brooklyn are vast and incredibly dangerous to explore on your own. There is something alluring about the darkness within, and it has my brother’s lens fixed. He tried to explain it to me, but I was too concerned about his safety to go on with it.

It’s just like a butterfly and its fleeting moment in the sky.

We walked up 5th Avenue, passing the famous pizza shop Adam Sandler ate at in “Big Daddy”. I stopped at the all-night bakery ran by some lovely Hispanic ladies who enjoyed my company at 3am, in such a state, ordering cannolis and donuts and cookies and such. We laughed and smiled together for those five minutes before taking it all back home.

I slept on the floor that night, on top of a sleeping bag underneath four warm blankets.

Sunday felt like waking up without a care in the world. In a good way, I felt free to do anything. I had but the clothes on my back. One of them was my Plaid Weekender jacket, and it kept me warm during the walk down to Bagel World, a bagel shop my brother swears by. I went by myself this time to enjoy south Brooklyn’s sights and smells. I bought one of my all-famous egg and pastrami bagel sandwiches in addition to garlic bagels and cream cheese. There was a produce stand across the street, so I waited in line to buy two Macoun apples and a pint of fresh apple cider.

We spoke about music when I got back. The third roommate, PK, was making egg-shaped plaster molds on the kitchen table that looked surprisingly like mini-cities. “Don’t burn me out of your picture,” he said as I got ready for my train home. I think he made his point.

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.

Dorchester, November

I’m in my coworker’s car with his girlfriend and 2-year old son sitting next to me, and we’re heading from work to Dorchester and Blue Hills Avenue. The conversation was between him and me, sitting right behind him, about work and the people we work with. His girlfriend sat shotgun and their kid sat next to me. F-bombs and judgments enveloped the air, for good and for worse, and I composed myself as best I could while the kid listened blindly looking out the back window.

A Jamaican super-mix was playing track forty-two, and a brief interlude of melodic vocals helped me escape the fact that people live differently out here. “You’re in the hood now,” he said, laughing like he was joking, “Deep in it.”

Why wasn’t I concerned? Why didn’t I care about the kid or the girl, or the three loiterers inside the gas station while I bought a bag of Fritos through bulletproof glass? The company I had, and the randomness of it all… it was too odd for the neighbors.

My coworker is changing his fate with the help of this job.

We sat in his apartment and shared a Dutch over business talk. It reminded me of nights in Rolling Green when I was younger, drinking and philosophizing about all things. Except back then, I didn’t worry about my safety.

By 7pm, I was wishing I was home, and I felt like he felt the same way. He drove, so he had to drive me back. He quickly changed into something more comfortable while I packed my things. From Perry Ellis Portfolio he changes to light blue Levi’s and a flat white sweatshirt. He threw on his winter jacket and completed a fashionable picture. Maybe he knew; he didn’t really notice, or care.

He was thinking about going to Foxwoods. He could have been using that as a cover for more sinister shit, but I’ll never know. I said my goodbyes and waited for him in the hallway as he said bye to his family. It was a sincere picture; in a “last time” sort of way. It had a genuine impression on my memory. He lifted his head to her through the door, said “I’ll be back,” and closed the door behind him as we rolled out of Dorchester.

The following story was dictated, not read.

Story Time with Toby T:
Toby T hangs with Ghostface Killah

Before there was a show, before there was any talk of a show, there was this kid named Downey…

He paints a brief picture of a college friend with Aspergers Syndrome.

…starting a Facebook group called “Bring Ghostface to MCLA,” and he sent me a request to join the group. Now, I’m a big Ghostface Killah fan, but I was like “no way is Ghostface gonna’ come to MCLA.” I just found it too funny a person like Downey would not only listen to Ghostface Killah, but like him enough to start a group to get him to MCLA. He’s like, a random artist for someone like Downey. I thought it was a joke, so I ignored it.

Well, three months later or something like that, I’m driving home from work and on my way home, my buddy, who was still going to MCLA, calls me and says, “Ghostface Killah is gonna’ be at MCLA tonight.” I’m like, “are you serious?” Downey did it. He got Ghostface to MCLA. How random is that shit? This socially-awkward kid who no one really thought much of was able to nail that down.

He started the buzz, and when the MCLA Student Activities Center saw how much people were interested in getting him there, they took steps to make it happen. And when I heard that, I just continued driving on to MCLA. I’m like, “I’m going to this show.” I’m making this.

Being a freshly-graduated alumnus, I got into the show for free, so now I’m at a Ghostface Killah show for free. There’s a big crowd already there so I’m not as close to the stage as I want to be. The show had not started, in fact; the show was late. Word is, the DJ got lost or something trying to find the place, which makes sense because this place is in the middle of the damn mountains.

So an hour goes by and people start leaving. I make my way right up to the front of the stage. An hour and a half goes by, and finally Ghostface Killah comes out on the stage, and is like, “Yo, our fucking, piece of shit fat-ass DJ is late. We’ve been here, you’ve been waiting. When he walks out on stage, boo his ass. Just boo him hard!”

And so this big, fat, white DJ dressed head to toe in fuckin’ Lakers gear walks up on stage, and everyone just goes “BOO! BOO! You fucking piece of shit, BOO!” and he looks all sad and goofy-lookin’. He saw Ghostface and knew he was in the right place.

So they start the show, an hour and a half late (at least), and now I’m right up front, and he starts rocking out, just rolling through a bunch of different pieces, putting his own words on tracks, going through some different solo work and just giving a real solid mix of shit. He brought a bunch of bitches up on stage, and all these chicks I knew from school were grinding up on stage. Shit was cool.

And then I see this little kid, my old weed dealer, get up on stage and he’s like ‘la la-la la la!’ Well, security grabs him up mad-quick, manhandles his ass and just drags him off stage so violently and unnecessarily. Just drags him away. And I heard, after the show, that they handcuffed this dude and brought him outside.

Now where we are on campus, we go outside and there’s a roof of a building, and there are flights of steps that go up around the building’s side. You’re up there. It’s kind of cool architecture. So they take him out there, and he just starts running, up the stairs, in the handcuffs, and he fucking trips and takes the ill tumble, down the steps, just fucking himself up real good on those concrete steps.

I didn’t see that, but I heard about that afterwards. Meanwhile, I’m in the show, just enjoying myself. Ghostface only does like a 45-minute set, and word is he got like 20-Gs to play. Imagine that, you get out on stage to spit some rhymes for 45-minutes and get twenty-thousand dollars. I imagine it had something to do with the DJ being late, but dude’s getting old, his time is valuable.

Show ends, I meet up with my boys and chill out. It was a solid show, not the best concert I ever been to, you know, but I’ve been listening to this stuff forever. Always like Ghostface, but I love it when the gang gets together. In any case, we decide to go to the bar later on that night. My friend and I end up going to the Pitcher’s Mound; I used to bounce there, and it’s right by the school.

We’re walking there, and I see, sitting in the parking lot, this dark green Escalade, and I think to myself, ‘what if Ghostface is in there.’ I was just joking myself. We get there and it’s fucking crowded! Like, crowded for a Thursday (and it is never crowded on a Thursday). I make my way through the crowd, my friend and I are both pretty big guys, you know, kind of pushing our way through. We got right up to the bar, and I sit down. I’m ordering a drink, and I turn to my left, and swear to god, right there, sitting to my left, was Ghostface Killah. Just chillin’, sipping on a drink.

He was drinking some kind of mixed drink and it was red. I don’t know what it was. When I saw that he was next to me, I ordered two shots of tequila and offered him one, and he took a shot with me. Then he asked me what I wanted, and I was like, “you know, I’m fine with beer.” He was like, “get these guys a pitcher of beer.”

We were just drinking and shooting the shit; lots of people were coming up to him and thanking him. There was this one dude who came up to him on some real dick-riding shit. He was like “I’m your biggest fan, I have all your albums, I’m a producer, you should let me get your manager’s number and this and that…” and you could tell Ghost just wanted to be left alone.

We finish our drinks, and before I get up to go I turn to him and say, “Hey dude, if you ain’t trying to go home just yet, I’m about to go to my boy’s apartment. We’re gonna’ pick up some more booze, and we’re gonna’ roll up a blunt, you know.” And so I give him the address on Blackington Street. “If you want!” And he was like “Aight, thanks.” Now in my head I’m thinking, ‘there is no way he’s gonna’ show up.’ He’s not gonna’ fucking show up, but why not?

From there, I go with my friend and pick up a thirty-rack from his house, and then we pick up a blunt, and some pot, and we start walking towards Blackington. As we approach, we look over and see a big green Escalade rolling towards us down the street, parking right on the side of the road, and out pops Ghostface and his posse.

And he had a bunch of older white chicks with him, like in their mid-thirties; you know, like fucking, like it was weird. There were his height men (who were on stage with him) and then his manager, a couple of other dudes and then a few of these older white chicks. All of them there in that Escalade, except the manager who had a Cadillac Deville.

And that kid, the one who was dick-riding Ghostface Killah at the bar, followed them over to where we were and walks up to us and says, “Yo, you guys have to let me smoke with Ghostface Killah. I’m his biggest fan, you have to let me in, like yadda-yah,” and my friend who’s got a mouth on him is just like “Yo, fuck you; you’re a dick-riding bitch. Get your bitch-ass out of here or we fuck you up.”

I wasn’t gonna’ curse the kid out. I was just looking at him like ‘come on, are you serious, dude?’ Like, ‘why are you dick-riding?’ But instead my boy just goes off on this kid, and then the dude runs over to Ghostface Killah and tells him that my friend was calling him a bitch. So Ghostface Killah walks up to my boy, right in his face, and immediately his boys surround my boy and Ghostface is like “what you say about me? What you say?”

It got serious mad quick. It was getting real, so I had to step up and separate my boy and Ghostface Killah, and straight-up get in the middle of that. I’m not gonna’ let my boy get his ass beat. So now I’m breaking up what could be a big ass fight with Ghostface and his crew.

It was just me. I step in, and just pull out the bag of weed, unravel it and say “Listen, no one’s calling anyone a bitch; we’re talking to this stupid mothafucka right here, not you. We came here to smoke this. I got the weed, I got the blunt, just come inside and drop this shit, or you know, just fuckin’ leave. And Ghostface is like “alright, you make a good point. I know this kid, you know; when he was talking with me in the bar, like yadda-yah… let’s go inside.”

So we’re walking up, and that kid tries to follow us in, and Ghost’s boys just put the hand on him and are like “get the fuck out of here,” and sent him on his little bitch-ass way. The rest of us walk up and knock on my friend’s door. Now he looks a little tired. I tell him “I hope you don’t mind if I brought some people over.”

“Are you serious, who’d you bring over?” And Ghostface walks in with his boys. “Oh, Oh! Welcome! This is my place, welcome!” So we walk in and make ourselves comfortable, and I crack the Dutch. I break up some bud and start twistin’ this up. Well, word immediately spreads out (being a small college town in the mountains) that Ghostface Killah is on Blackington. All of a sudden a hundred people show up, and as people are coming in, some are giving me their pot to roll the blunt in.

“Oh shit, is that the blunt you’re gonna’ smoke with Ghostface? Here, take some of mine!” And so this turns into a fucking cannon, and there’s a lot of pressure because there’s only one blunt, and you know I’m twisting this up for Ghost. The pressure was on, but I twist up this massive blunt, and it was perfect. Light it up, pass it around, and we kind of move into the “beer pong” room. Ghostface kinda’ just picks up one of the ping pong balls, and we start playing beer pong.

Smoking blunts and playing beer pong with Ghostface fucking Killah. Everyone is partying and having a good time. Mad people were there, and that motherfucker was not even trying to go anywhere. He fuckin’ straight-up chilled out with us until five in the morning, at least. 5AM. We were hanging out outside, dude didn’t have to be anywhere, he just made 20-Gs. Just taking it easy. The fraternity on campus came over to the party and made Ghostface an honorary brother of the fraternity. Brother Ghost.

The one thing I look back on and regret was not getting a picture. I know throughout the whole night people were coming up to him and getting his picture, trying to dick-ride him and shit, and he really seemed to be bothered by it. I could have talked about my work as well, could have pushed my shit on him too. We talked for a long time about shit, just general shit like girls, joking about this and that, and I was talking about certain albums by him I really liked, certain songs. His music.

I think he was impressed because I was quoting some of his lines and shit. Anyone has to be into real fans, the genuine fans that know his shit and know what material is actually good and bad, because everyone puts out bad songs. Very few don’t put out bad songs. Usually, popular songs are not liked by the artists themselves, you know, and the opposite goes for the ones not usually talked about. It’s good to say “I really like that song,” and have it really mean something to the artist.

So that was quite possibly one of the best concert experiences of my life. I’ve talked about it with other people who’ve been there, and when I do, it’s like reliving the experience all over again. A friend of mine from MCLA who now lives in California came into town and knocked on my door, and it was a whole different story. We both went to MCLA, and bumped into a few people, and the story just came up.

“You remember playing beer pong and smokin’ with Ghostface Killah?”

Yeah, in 2008, if not 2009. I got an autograph and the bag of weed I rolled the blunt out of. Got it in a jewelry box somewhere. His autograph looks like gibberish, but I can’t make that up. I couldn’t make it out the first time; it looked like a scribble, but over time I found the right angle and was like “oh, there it is.”

That was story time, with Toby T. See you next time.

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 had the day to my self. Finally some time alone to do what I wanted after weeks and weeks of catering to others. It is mid Autumn in Manhattan. Back in Boston it had been unusually warm, not so down here. I had most of the afternoon ahead of me after a quick coffee with a few colleagues in the city, the friend I was going to meet for dinner had to work late, so there I was with a good eight hours to kill. I went to Bryant park; the last time I was in the city with time to spare that is where I went, I ended up meeting with a dead end recruiter in the Chrysler building shortly after that, so who knows where this moment of pause in the park would bring me. I wanted Indian food, and of course, being only a few blocks from the tourist traps of the city, every place I looked at was either packed or over priced. I looked online to see where the closest subway was and then saw where that subway would take me; I could go uptown towards Central Park, have some food and then have a cigar (I brought one because I knew I would have time to enjoy it), or I could go downtown to SoHo and Greenwich Village. I opted for the later. I got off at Washington Square and started walking towards the Indian restaurant I picked out in the West Village. I really didn’t want to go into Greenwich Village because of the bad memories of my last time there over the summer, so that guided me towards the Hudson. While I walked I happened to come across this little Mexican restaurant that looked perfect to relax for a few hours and have some tasty food. Just as I hoped the place was empty and it was warm, those were the two requirements I had.

Like I mentioned earlier, the weather in Manhattan was pretty different than Boston’s the day before, it was actually seasonal so I can’t complain, all I can say is that I was sorely mistaken for not wearing a jacket. I had a pretty good burrito at the Mexican place; the ground beef was just spicy enough to warm me up and the guacamole, lettuce, tomatoes cooled my tongue when things got too hot. I wanted a beer, but they wanted too much for one, so I got coffee. The coffee was fantastic; almost like Turkish coffee there was a pleasant sweet aroma and a hint of cane sugar and caramel that worked my palate

like a crisp sauvingon blanc would after having brie and apple in a puff pastry – if that means nothing to you then I highly suggest you try it right now! Anyway, this is not a restaurant review, but this would be an otherwise unsavory account of an ordinary afternoon if I didn’t include the above. After gorging on Mexican goodness I needed that cigar and a good walk. I really had only one objective and that was to find a park were I could enjoy that cigar, as luck would have it, Washington Park was only a few blocks away.

It had gotten dark and I saw that the bums had set up camp in on the benches by the entrance I was approaching. I decided to be bold and invade their territory with hopes of not angering the urban homesteaders with my cigar smoke. It was here where I met Alex. About sixty years old, Alex was dressed like your typical hobo; he had the baseball cap, at least one big puffy winter jacket and probably a few layers of pants on. I actually felt envious for once – I was clearly out of my element in my jeans, cotton button down dress shirt with only a thin cotton v-neck sweater, hardly protecting me from the penetrating cold wind that pushed its way through the trees of the park. Alex was sitting in front of a chess board. I loved chess and I had nothing to do for several hours, I asked him if he charged to play. I knew his time had to be worth something. It only cost me a coffee and donut from the Starbucks up the street.

Alex didn’t say much, but he played chess pretty well. I figured he would be about as good at chess as I would be at making macros given that this must have been somewhat of an occupation outside of his cigarette business. He sold a pack for nine bucks, making a small profit margin, especially in New York, but he still undersold the corner stores by a few bucks. His clients tended to be exclusive though, he knew them on a first name basis like any good proprietor and was flexible with the quantity he sold. I liked this guy, he was smart. I guess even the bums in New York have that drive to achieve that I really haven’t seen in other cities. Alex and I played three games. I lost all three. What I learned though was not just a better way to play chess, but I learned something about my self. In chess, just like in life, I like to make the first move. I guess that is the control freak in me, but what it does is open me up to a vulnerability of being taken by someone who waits for me to make the bad move that inevitably comes. This guy exploited that bad move every time just like a sharp trader on Wall Street would make a quick in and out move on an undervalued stock and get out just before the price hits equilibrium and the gains flatten. So Alex just waited. Even when I tried to change up my playing style in the second game he still got me after about twenty moves. He took me after I had every major piece except a rook and a queen and he took me after I totally shifted from a heavy offense to an almost neutral playing style. The key he told me was not strategy, but tactics, and then it made sense; I had a strategy, but he really didn’t play with a strategy, he would not hold himself to a predictable pattern, but he would use a few clever tactics to put me into a position where I was trapped – trapped by my own strategy as it were since that is what he exploited. It would not have mattered if I played defense or offense I think since he was always just a few moves ahead of me. Alex’s favorite piece was the knight, I hate the knight, but I have now come to respect it just like I respect Alex and will be thankful for the lesson he taught me.

“The Writ”

Some people swore that the house was haunted. I didn’t believe them, and neither did John, who by the time we met, was almost finished writing his book “The Writ.” To him, the house was a source of inspiration. To me, it was an excuse to leave town for the weekend.

I wasted few words with John when we first met, like a public defendant first meeting his client. We knew what the score was, and took things pretty seriously until it was all said and done with. My story didn’t start at the house, like John’s perhaps, but it did end there, wrapping up a three-day visit in regards to his upcoming novel.

Arriving forty minutes late to his pre-release party, I drove up the long stretch of gravel driveway to find John talking to an attractive couple on the porch, laughing about something out of earshot. His antics humored me as I waited for an opportune time to interrupt.

“John!”

“Fred, you made it! Marsha, Todd, this is Fred Deblin, an old friend of mine from Mississippi State.” He checked his watch and soured his face. “What happened, Fred? Did you get lost again?”

“Sadly, yes. For some reason, my Garmin doesn’t think this place exists.”

“That’s not surprising. This area has been off the grid for years.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad,” said Marsha, who looked like a young Nancy Pelosi, “this land has real potential.”

“Farmers could make a lot of money here,” said Todd.

“Criminals could do even better if you ask me,” said John to a bout of laughter.

“You really think so?” I wasn’t convinced.

“Oh yeah, think about it!” And we did think about it, the lucrative rackets that could make use of a run-down mansion like this in the middle of nowhere. The other guests revolved around our conversation, and everyone had their say.

By the time the party ended, it was after one in the morning. Most of the other guests had left by this point, and John was outside seeing off the rest. I was left to my own devices, and decided to explore the run-down house that John had fancied so much. When I was in the kitchen earlier, I didn’t notice a peculiar smell that now overpowered my senses. With drunken curiosity, I searched out the source, thinking it was some sort of spoiled food or laundry hamper.

When I found the marijuana plants in his pantry, John had already returned to the house. He saw me in the kitchen, staring slack-jawed and still, but I had yet to notice him. He casually walked towards me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Does this bother you?”

“No, it doesn’t bother me. I’m just surprised.”

“These things can do that. Do you want to hang out?”

“Sure.” And before we retired to the now-empty living room, John plucked two grape-sized buds from one of the plants. The stereo was playing “Susie Q” by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and we proceeded to write the epilogue of my human interest piece over a joint, shedding red light on an author I had a profound level of respect for.

We easily spent the next hour and a half talking about the future of literature in modern society, and despite our mutual lack in confidence, we were humbled by the thought of more intellectual generations to come. Any rumors that came to pass about John and his habits would stay unconfirmed. Between him and me, however, nothing was ever the same again after that.

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.

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…

Per Chance
3.24.2010
Ritz Carlton Resort, St. Thomas

I had seen her at the gym, the gym at the hotel, almost empty. She was there when I got there; I noticed her first; she was running on a treadmill looking out over the beach. White shorts, pink top, ponytail, matching hair scrunchie. She looked like something out of an aerobics class from the 1980’s.

If there were more units to choose from, I would not have chosen the treadmill left of her. I would have given her more space, another window overlooking the ocean, but fate suggested otherwise. I was wearing deodorant, and hope it smelled alright… she smelled very good. She wasn’t sweating, but her body was hot, and it released a pheromone that made me dizzy with attraction.

I started my workout running at speed 8.5, a seven-minute mile, for around ten minutes. Minute two, and I’m off to a good start on some vision of sandy beaches in front of me with this girl right next to me. We were running on the beach together, only with less clothes and maybe a drink in our hands. Rum drinks.

She was running at speed 6.5, a ten-minute mile, and had been going for five minutes before I started. Minute seven, and I’m kicking my own ass on the treadmill, my heart rate a steady 155. She watches me run, I see her head move and stay, her eyes on something in my direction. I looked over at her and she looked up at me and then off towards the beach again, smiling and embarrassed.

Minute nine, and I began running faster, hyperbolic. She noticed, astonished, as minute fifteen on her clock dragged on in comparison. Minute ten, I hit the “cool down” button and began my rapid deceleration into a fast walk. I stepped off the machine before the clock dropped to zero and came back with a wetnap to wipe off my sweat. She watched me go.

I headed to the weight machines on the other side of the small facility, and turned back to see her slowly walking on the treadmill. She had a bounce in her step I could not describe.

I exercised my biceps, deltoids, abdominals and pectorals with a three-round circuit of pushups, sit-ups, presses and rows. I think she went looking for me; I wasn’t exactly sure, but within a few minutes, I could see her walking around the gym through the mirror in front of me. My eyes caught hers again and she came over to the weight room. She smiled, and I crunched my last ab.

She didn’t leave, but instead waited by the water cooler, wiping away the sweat from her brow and her body. She looked really great, and I felt bad breaking up her show with the towel, but I was thirsty.

“Sorry,” I reach for a paper cup right in front of her and begin to fill it up.

“It’s ok, you could use it.”

I smile, “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah, well, no. I mean, you really push it.”

“Yeah, I get the best results that way. Plus this weather, I love it.”

She was impressed by my enthusiasm. “Yeah this is really great, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” We both looked out at the beach. “I’m Alex.”

“I’m Kara,” she smiled and put out her hand. I shook it with a strong hot grip.

“Nice to meet you, Kara.”

“You too. How long have you been here?”

We stood and talked for about five minutes; nobody else was in the gym to overhear, so time moved casually between us. It was a good talk.

“What were you going to do later?” I didn’t want to leave without the chance of seeing her again.

“My friends and I will probably stay on the resort tonight.”

“Do you know the Coconut Cove?” It was the outdoor bar on the residential side of the resort.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be out there after dinner, we should check it out.”

“Sure, we’ll be out there after 9pm.”

“I’ll see you then, Kara.” She made for the door and gave me a smile before taking off.

Several hours later, I’m making my way down to the Coconut Cove; down to the stone-tile walkways, over a couple coastal turnarounds by foot, five minutes away from the resort glitz and glam, exotic women yelping and retired rich men ranting over hard drinks and sports. I’m dressed casual for 9pm in 90-degree weather: swimsuit and tight blue designer t-shirt from Modern Amusement, Ray Ban sunglasses, and a thin leather necklace hanging loosely around my neck.

She was already there, Kara, with two other girls and a guy. They were dressed a little more proper, with polo shirts and shorts, but still casual.

“So that’s what you wear to dinner?” She spotted me first and comfortably spoke over her friends to grab my attention. People looked in my direction, I smiled, she smiled, and her girlfriends smiled. The guy was indifferent.

“When you live on the beach, you wear whatever you want to dinner.” I didn’t exactly know what to say, but I had to say something.

“Everyone, this is Alex. Alex, this is Kim, Chloe, and Ryan.” I said my hellos and pulled up a chair around the corner closest to Kara and Ryan, separating them, closing the gap in our group around the bar.

“What are you guys drinking tonight?” Each of them had 16-ounce cups of different colored drinks; coconut rims and parasol hats, melons and lemons and a few leaves of mint. “Alright, next round is on me.” And from there the ice was broken. We talked about college days and vacation spots, best food found on the island. I was feeling my confidence boom.

“Kara told me you met at the gym here,” Chloe started, “how do you pick somebody up at the gym?”

“I didn’t really pick you up, did I?” I asked Kara as if I’d known her my whole life.

“No, not really.” She smiled.

“Not really?” Chloe laughs as she presses on.

“Well, there was nobody else in the gym.”

“There were only two treadmills, and she was using one of them, so it kind of just happened.”

“Yeah, I bet it did.” She looked drunk.

“This little gym here has everything I need to get a good workout.”

“Not the best workout,” Kara said, sipping her rum drink through the straw, “I can think of a better workout.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Buy her a couple drinks and she’ll show you!” Ryan cracked wise to which I smiled and all the girls gave us a dirty look. Kara played with her drink, sort of smiling, twirling the straw around with her tongue. Chloe was watching my reaction as I lost track of my face and my jaw, gawking at Kara. I notice Chloe and compose myself quickly while she laughs into her glass and takes a big gulp.

After a fourth round of drinks, the bartender, Charlesworth, gave us all a round of Patron on the house before closing the shop. Charlesworth knows me and my family, and he knows what I am doing with these people tonight. Good old Charlesworth, he’s like my sidekick on the island.

“Hey, let’s go to the beach,” I suggested to mixed replies.

“I think we’re going to go back to the hotel room,” said Ryan. Kim didn’t share his sympathies, but left with him anyway.

“Let’s go.” Kara said to me with beautiful hazel eyes. She was excited, and Chloe looked off put, unsure of what to make of all this.

“Ok, give me a sec, I have to use the shack,” and I leave them alone to talk. Charlesworth had left by this point. He unfortunately did not leave a bottle of scrap around, like he occasionally does.

“What are we going to’ do?”

“I don’t know, this guy is really great.”

“Yeah, I like him too.”

“You’re just saying that because he’s hot.”

“Yeah well, what’s your excuse?”

Kara, thinking for a second, “He’s more than that.”

“Want me to leave you guys alone?”

“No, I don’t know this guy, anything could happen.”

I washed my face and fixed my hair and quickly returned to hearing Kara say those last three words. I am drunk.

“Yeah, I like the attitude, anything can happen. Come on, I know the way…” and we made our way to the beach, a brief pathway through brush and ground lamps, guiding the way to tactful breakers on quiet sands. I’m walking behind Kara; my hands are at her waist as I guide her through the dark. Chloe is behind me; her hands are on my shoulders.

Kara stopped and I walked into her, bringing our bodies together. Chloe walked into me from behind, and yelped a surprised yelp that left us all laughing in place. Walking onward, I looked back at Chloe who was smiling, walking with a strut. Her body was fit and her outfit was revealing.

The beach is cared for by the resort staff. Every night they arrange the chaise lounge chairs with blue pillow cushions along the beach in a crescent formation. Tiki torches light up sections of the beach for reference, shining a path towards the security patrol shed at the edge of the resort.

We sat on the dry sand a few paces from the breaking water, and we could clearly see the water in the reflection of the stars. We sat there for a couple minutes, listening to the waves and watching the sky, myself, Kara and Chloe to the right of me. We sat close, my right side brushing up to Kara’s left.

I snuck a kiss on her cheek while she waxed a wide open expression at the sky. She turned to me, her expression changing more serious, and came at me with a kiss on the lips. Soft, warm, wet, talented, we enjoyed it a half-second too long; Chloe had noticed and made us aware by shifting around. She was not amused.

“I should go,” started Chloe.

“No, Chloe, stay!”

“Yeah, stay, I’m sorry, I got a little carried away.”

“I know…”

“Hold on a second!” Kara loudly cuts into the awkward air and begins to whisper into Chloe’s ear. Chloe looks at Kara squarely, and they nod to each other. Then all of a sudden, they kiss each other.

It looked like a first time for the two of them because what started as a peck had snowballed into more. But then again, I was pretty drunk, and in that state I believed more than I saw.

“Wait, wait! What’s the hell is going on?” I had to say something.

“What? Is something wrong?” Chloe crawled over Kara to tell me that face to face in a sultry voice, and immediately followed it with a kiss. She had a strong kiss, more aggressive than Kara’s, maybe brought on by all the awkward sexual chemistry we had. I looked over at Kara when Chloe withdrew, almost worried she would have a problem with what just happened. When she looked back at me she smiled. She wanted this to happen, and in that moment I realize we could have anything we wanted.

When the security patrol saw us fornicating on the beach, they asked us to go home, or in this case, back to our rooms. I invited them back to my place, and finished what we started; a chance encounter gone perfect (better than perfect), and making the most out of a tropical island paradise.

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.

“Joe, come in here for a second,” the fat guy with the small head said through the open door into the quiet waiting room. “So I spoke to a few of the guys here and they don’t really have anything for you right now, but here is my card anyway. We’ll be in touch alright.” I hardly had time to respond before the fat guy led me back out into the waiting room. The time was only 10:15am, my interview was for 10:00am. I know these recruiters work fast, but I hardly had five minutes with this dude, I thought to my self. With at least an hour and a half to kill until I met up with my girlfriend and her mother for lunch in mid-town I needed something to occupy my newly found free time.

It was a perfect summer day in New York; 80 degrees and not a cloud in the sky, perfect if you aren’t wearing a black suit and tie that is, needless to say I could feel the sweat rolling down my back. I walked a few blocks to Bryant Park, I remember passing it as I walked to my poor excuse for an interview with a recruiter. Taking a seat on a vacant bench I took out my phone and called Xue, my girlfriend, asking her if she could meet up at an earlier time. No luck, she was in Brooklyn, walking around to various hospitals inquiring about nursing positions. She just graduated and was looking for a job too. We were both looking in New York, and today was only day one of what would amount to a four day rat race around the boroughs of Manhattan (for me) and Brooklyn (for her); I was looking for work in banking, she, as mentioned before, was looking for nursing jobs.

Upon ending the call I pondered my dilemma. The waste of time interview left me in the middle of Manhattan with the adrenaline still pumping; unable to use that energy to impress an interviewer, I turned to the next best thing: find a new interview. Taking out my phone once more I did a search for recruiting firms. I cold called several of them, telling them I had time to meet today if they were available. Some places had no answer and others said they didn’t accept walk-in’s, another put me into the voice mail. After spending about thirty minutes calling various places I saw a strange number come up on the caller ID, it was a recruiter from the firm I left a message with, one of the places who did not apparently accept walk-in’s. The recruiter’s name was also Joe, but the coincidences did not end there. Joe, turned out was from Rhode Island, just like I was. We talked about Rhode Island for a minute before he invited me up to his office in the Chrysler Building for a meeting at 2pm. I was ecstatic! I know this isn’t that big of a deal, I mean, it isn’t like I got a job out of it, but it was simply the idea of making things happen so fast that got me excited, and the idea that sometimes a little extra (and unconventional) effort pays off occasionally. I had never done something like this before and had it actually work.

The meeting was scheduled for 2:00pm, I still had time to kill until lunch with Xue and her mother. Walking through the hot crowded Manhattan streets towards Macy’s on 34^th and Broadway I called her once more only to find out that she was still in Brooklyn and would likely be there for a few more hours. I told her it was fine and that I had another interview to go to and that I would just have lunch alone; we could reconnect after the interview. I was disappointed that we could not have lunch together, I had been looking forward to it. With hunger now displacing disappointment though I made my way to the nearest Indian restaurant. It seems every time I eat lunch alone, it is either at an Indian or a Chinese restaurant, I don’t feel the stigma I would had I been eating at an American restaurant, save maybe a bar. The restaurant was perfect, crowded with tables full of Indian families speaking in Punjabi, or maybe Hind (I could not tell which), with its doors open to the bustling sidewalk; it warm and muggy inside, low ceilings, very dimly lit; the navy blue walls and the many Indian paintings hanging on the wall gave it the impression of being in a real Indian restaurant back in their home country. I felt like the American tourist coming in for some local flavor. Of course, this being New York, there really is no local flavor, unless you consider Brooklyn pizza to be the pinnacle of haute cuisine in the five boroughs. After eating my meal I asked the gentlemen at the counter to direct me towards the bathroom. He pointed to a small door in a nook partially covered by an Asian decorative screen on the back wall of the tiny restaurant. Faced with a stair case barely illuminated by the restaurant’s poor lighting I felt my way down into the bowels of the restaurant. Once I reached bottom it was totally pitch back and hot, like a coal mine, just with the sound of jack hammers and construction equipment replaced by the hum of the building’s boiler room. I felt along the walls, hoping for a light switch, fearing coming into contact with some exposed live wiring or a rusty nail. After about thirty seconds I found the switch and illuminated the absurdly small room. Everything was arranged in the most space efficient manner possible and the walls were painted a burgundy red. There was no trash on the floor or excrement spattered around the rim of the toilet, the sink was clean and there was both soap and paper towels ample in supply; it quite likely the nicest restaurant bathroom I had seen in the city that week after being in a locally owned cafe, a Starbucks and a KFC, all in mid-town. I hung my jacket on the door hook (another rarity) and tied my tie in the mirror – I had taken it off earlier while I was in Bryant Park. As I was doing this however I heard two men, one who had a thick Indian accent and another who sounded like he was from Boston, they were talking about some leak in the boiler room. I have to get out of here, I thought. I didn’t want to be down here if this place catches on fire or something. I quickly finished fixing my tie, put on my jacket and promptly went back up the dark stairs. I saw one of the men holding a flashlight… smart idea.

Manhattan had gotten even hotter by 1:30pm. The air was thick like cream cheese and filled with smoke from trucks and cigarettes. The heat generated by the herds of people and slow moving packs of cars and trucks was pulsing through my head causing me to sweat instantly upon being exposed to it. I had about six blocks to walk.

Walking into the lobby of the Chrysler building one is met with imposing and brooding architecture. The art deco motifs in marble, wood, mosaic and stainless steel are impressive but look almost like a movie set given its detail and conspicuousness. The elevators are styled accordingly and appear almost as they must have when the building was constructed. I could imagine a couple guys coming from a three martini lunch, smoking their cigars and talking about the next big railroad or oil deal, back in the day when this building was not a tourist attraction alone but a thousand foot plus tall boy’s club where men dressed in suits and had bottles of bourbon in a cabinet behind their desks. Those are the days I wished I worked in. The elevator let me off at the 27^th floor and immediately I was plunged 75 years into the future, or present as it were; dark walnut sconces and brown marble gave way to glossy white walls illuminated by florescent lights and accented by plasma screen monitors displaying news and stock quotes, soft gray carpeting beneath my feet was a welcome change to the hard surfaces of the streets. There were glass double doors open which gave way to a medium size waiting room with a fantastic view of downtown Manhattan. A woman at the front desk greeted me and then showed me to a small conference room with a view equally as good of the many little roof decks and patios over looking the streets below. Buildings seemed to go on for miles down to the tip of the city.

“Would you care for a drink?” the secretary offered.

“Water, please.” I replied.

“Here you are sir, please have a seat, Joe will be in to see you shortly.”

I sipped that water slowly and took in the view. I had the corner office at the Chrysler Building with a view of Manhattan all to my self, I thought… for ten minutes anyway. That was the best glass of water I had during the whole trip.

The Bird

“Chirp!” Of course, the little bird chirped, the only little bird on the tallest fingerling branches of the only tree around. It had hundreds of sunflower-shaped petals blossoming from them all, collapsing in the wake of approaching nightfall. The sun was a half hour from setting, and the bird was chirping continuously.

“My love, my love, my love, where are you, my love bird.” Nothing.

“My love, where are you, my love bird, why?” A tiny female bird flies within his sights, but no longer.

“Why-have-you-let-me-go-for-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-long?” Shaking the sky around him, he lets out a strong repetitive chirp unlike his usual singing, a cat call for all the tiny birds to know he is there. It pulsated through the wind and through the residential noise of Somerville for half a mile, enveloping everything around (in what could be illustrated as a loud, brown, orange, and yellow wave of color across an otherwise empty sky).

The sun was setting, and still no tiny bird came to him.

“My love, my love, my love bird, where are you,” and silence for a moment as the faint sound of a tiny female bird catches his ear again.

“My love?” He sang only once, a call of desperation, ‘are you there,’ expecting a quick reply. Regretfully, there was no reply.

On the little bird went, “My love, my love, my love, my love, where are you, my love…” all the while oblivious to a tiny bird, jumping quietly up the tree underneath him. She heard his call, and sang back  her song to him before swooping down to come closer. It was only in fun she hid herself from view so she could see what he does.

“My love, where are you, my love, my love, why?”

“Play more for me.” And her voice caught his and his heart skips, a quick reply so close he could feel it. He was filled with a new energy. And on he goes, still alone on the tallest fingerling branches, singing his song for the world to hear. Several feet below, the tiny bird watches his stanza, his empty waiting and choral climax that sends ripples through a noisy sky. She watches and smiles, and waits for the sun to go down before flying to meet her committed companion.

Open Field

A Fictional Manifestation

Based On

“Christina’s World” by Andrew Wyeth

“God blast this heat! We need a miracle!” said Joshua with labored frustration. “Why’d we have to move out here? We live a dozen miles from a blink of life.”

“Joshua, I told you. This is our piece of the good life. It’s ours, now come on!” Gabi said this to her son Joshua as she pushed a small wheelbarrow with her daughter Mary around a strawberry patch in front of the house. Originally from the city, they moved to Dersit, Hyland a few months ago. Joshua was the oldest, seventeen, and Mary and Henry were twins of five. Henry was diagnosed with a cancer of the brain when he was just three; they couldn’t support the costs of surgery, and the doctors didn’t give him long for this world.

Despite the heartache with Henry, Gabi has lived her life to the fullest yet, and now uses the open field to her advantage, trying to grow a living with her family. There were twenty acres of open prairie in every direction.

When living in the city, Gabi worked in a cotton factory. She made money bundling cotton, but never had to spend any of it because her husband always provided. That all changed when she got pregnant with the twins; conceived by another man, an African jazz musician she met in a speakeasy. Joshua was twelve at the time, and her husband did not suspect a thing. When Gabi had the twins however, her husband, realizing they were not his own, left her and the family high and dry, ashamed and heartbroken by her infidelity.

“Take the house. You’ll need it to raise those bastard kids of yours.” And he was gone.

Gabi’s best friend and coworker at the time was a woman named Meagan, and the two of them spent the next five years raising the kids together in the city. They worked it out so one of them would always be home and another would be working. Joshua became the man of the house, went to school, became an apprentice, and things were very good for all of them. Unfortunately, right before Henry and Mary’s fifth birthday, Meagan passed away from Brown-lungs disease.

“If I were you, I’d get off the line and get your money into something more sensible, like land.” That was a piece of the last conversation Gabi and Meagan shared, discussing the dream of buying land out in nature’s valley, living a wholesome existence with the family. They meant to share it together, Meagan and Gabi, along with the kids. The thought (much like Meagan’s death) took her by surprise, and yet it all made perfect sense.

After Meagan died, Gabi sold everything she had in the city, including the house, and bought a modest stretch of land in Dersit, Hyland.

“Now Joshua, I’m gonna’ go out and check on the outer field. Please keep an eye on your brother and sister.” Gabi said as she began walking through the strawberry patch towards the prairie lands.

“What are you gonna’ do out there?” Joshua replied.

“I’m gonna’ see if the soil’s ready. I won’t be gone long.” She walked through the open field, and disappeared in the prairie.

“Joshi, my head hurts.” Henry is groaning from inside the house.

“Well I can put an ice block on your head, or you can take a drink outside, what’ya think?” Joshua replied.

“I already did that… it still hurts!” Henry cries.

“Get some fresh air, bud, you’ll feel better.”

“Okee, Joshi.” Henry goes outside, stumbling while walking. “Ow, it hurts!” Henry wails, “I want mommy. Where’s mommy?”

Joshua couldn’t hear Henry’s cries; the sound of the wind enveloped his fragile words. He leaned on the ladder that rested alongside the house, looking up at the big blue sky. He mindlessly started climbing up the ladder, slinging his weight left and right as he reached for each rung. From the top of the roof, Henry could see Gabi walking away towards the barren fields on the horizon. It was at that moment a rush of blood filled his head, blinding his eyes and numbing his body. He fell unknowingly off the side of the farmhouse and hit the ground with an awkward thud.

Mary screamed a moment later, and Joshua ran outside to find his brother motionless on the ground. With whimpers unheard of by anyone before, Joshua carefully tried to revive him.  From the roof of the farm, you could still see Gabi; her head turned, listening to the noise, curious of the odd new feeling in the air. She ran back to them in a state of anxiety but stopped in the open field, just beyond the little strawberry patch. She fell to the ground; her legs went limp as a piece of her “good life” vanished forever.

Hey, Zucker.

~ Hey, Mel, how’s it goin’?

Oh, it’s all good, you know. It’s sunny outside and we got a good breeze for 8am coming thru the door. What can I get you?

~ I’ll have the Breakfast Blend today please.

Sure thing. Small?

~ Yep.

Soy?

~ And sugar, please.

There’s a quick smile of understanding between the two of us before she goes to make my cup. Her eyes look at me, searching for meaning, for a moment. It’s just a good day, I suppose, for both of us.

Here you go.

~ Thanks.

She notices the book in my hand, different from the one I was reading a few days ago, “Cosmicomics” by Italo Calvino.

What are you reading now?

~ Oh, I’m trying some Gertrude Stein. “The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas.”

I show her the book, she looks at and opens it, reading the personal note that was written from my mother to my brother. She smiles and quickly closes the book.

Cool. Is it any good?

~ Yeah… it’s a lot of talk right now, though.

A quick laugh, as I, nor her, apparently know nothing about Gertrude Stein’s writing style. I’m not thirty pages into the book, and the journey within has not yet begun.

Alice does talks a lot, but it’s enjoyable. Autobiographies in general are written to show no distinction between conversation and narrative, and that’s what makes this book so great. Whenever a character speaks, it is Miss Toklas’ interpretation of it (even though Gertrude Stein is writing everything). The conversations between Miss Toklas, Gertrude Stein and other characters in the story are ensconced in art and the procurement of art in Paris during the 20′s, 30′s and 40′s.

Neither of us knew why we laughed… maybe it was the book… maybe it was us.

Well, I’ll see you around.

~ Yeah, I’ll see you Monday or something. Have a good weekend, Mel.

You too. Hi, can I help you?

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.

Last night was a strange night for me, filled with deviant detours and unusual circumstances that I am unable to get it out of my mind. I personally am afraid that some instances from last night may have scared away some friendships and social acquaintances, along with my self-respect and understanding of people in general.

My plan was to pick up some packaged goods and spend a relaxing evening by the fire (otherwise known as my computer or television). Instead, plans got twisted. My friend, David, came into town for the night. I thought he was coming into town just to fly out to San Francisco. He neglected to mention that his flight was the following day. That being said, the girls (Jey, Lay, and Tray) made a point to contact me and tell me the good news, and that they were getting dinner in Davis Square at The Boston Burger Company with him. I was requested to attend by the highest authority. Instead of pushing for my ‘pick up and drop down’ plans for the evening, I decided to dress comfortably fashionable and make my way out to Davis.

Wearing my comfy black sweater and Martin+Osa jeans and the Zara Man jacket for cover, I made my way by foot in just over twenty minutes. David and the girls have not seen me in months (almost a year in David’s case). At any rate, we fell into conversation like it had only been days since we spoke. David and I actually talked sports briefly (and we both know neither of us really enjoyed sports), even if it was only about how UMass teams were a joke.

David’s ways have not changed, yet he is certainly finding himself during this period of transition in his life. As I write this he is in the sky, off to California, to see a woman he loves. Have a nice trip, David!

After the burgers, we split ways with Lay and Tray, and I walked with David and Jey to her house. She has a nice house, nice roommates, a nice setup. Because my earlier plans fell through, and because I was in Davis, I decided to ring up my old coworker who lives right down the street. Turns out he doesn’t live right down the street from Jey at all, and a laborious trek through the backwoods of Somerville rendered some eclectic conversations between David and I.

We stopped by a package store and picked up a bottle of vodka, taking swigs back and forth, and opened up about existential futility as we tried to hail a cab on an empty overpass. Our costly cab ride took us back to this place, and we hung out for a special meet and greet during the World Series broadcast (an upset for anyone who hates the Yankees). We made a quick exodus back to my place before too much time was lost. My roommate was waiting for David, probably upset that he missed out on the dinner event.

My old coworker is a solid guy who looks up to me with respect. I have been to his place before, and it always had something to do with the recreations we enjoy. Last night, I felt like I used his respect to my advantage, and I feel somewhat guilty about it. That, in addition to dragging David along for such an impromptu visit, made the situation all the more taxing. I had to actively keep David in our conversations about work and life by breaking down inside jokes and events, an experience that David later confessed to me was rather autobiographical. I wonder if my old coworker thought the same way…

David and I bonded a great deal last night for the better. Him and I never speak on the phone anymore; he is always busy with school and work, and I am always busy with work and life. We are lazy and inconsiderate. Ten minutes of time is not hard to put aside for good conversation. I consistently guilt myself for not calling him more often, but now that guilt is gone because of all the fun we had together last night. We talked about so much, random as it may have been from time to time, and still we worked on a fast-paced connection of minds; an understanding felt by long-lasting friends. Our eyes were red, tired, loaded, and eccentric.

And we still had shit going on next day. David had a 9:00am flight to San Francisco, and I had to go to work the next day.

Today I witnessed a horrible spectacle, where a man was hit by a car. He did not survive.

He was given a funeral and formal ceremonies alike. At this man’s funeral a large number of people showed up.

The people that went to his funeral came from all places. Some knew him from work, some knew him from school. Some knew him from home, and some knew him from his apartment building. Some knew him through the people that he didn’t really know, and some knew him through the places he visited only once in his life.

The owner of a famous nightclub came to his funeral and paid him homage after realizing that it was this man, the recently deceased, that gave him the idea to start his own nightclub. It happened one night in a dive bar, when the man commented on the wall designs, or lack thereof, and wanted to go to a bar that made great use of the walls, artistically.

The president of the golf club, a 90-year old prune, said, “he was the best damn fella’ I ever knew! He hit the balls,” stuttering… “all over the course!” He said. “I am sure he’s up there… somewhere… hitting those balls on fairways in the clouds…” he began to tear up, and began a slow lazy walk back to his seat.

A kid, younger than the others, walks up to the microphone, mostly confident, not affected by the sorrow. “I can’t believe this guy got hit by a car!”

So I’m running along the path in front of me, minding my own business, enjoying the day, and all of a sudden –

“HHHeeeyyy!!!” – I yelled with all my might.

A damn sheep dog runs in front of me, a white- and brown-spotted “fly-in-your-ear” dog named Clifford.

“Hey yourself, pal! Just what do you think you’re doing running out here?”

“It’s MY field, Cliff! Do you know where you are right now? Go bother someone else” –

And I hopped over him. Cliff couldn’t catch me if he tried, and he did try for a moment. He never knows where he is, as long as there’s some kind of action going on. He’s a common annoyance around where I live… I see him and his friends a lot unfortunately.

Off I go, racing to catch up with the wind that passed me when I stopped. Ah Woah!! An electric pole is down! I can see little sparks coming from the toasted end, so I run around it and away. I jolt in a new direction now, away from the road and into the country. I see the wind lick the high grass in front of me, and I now know where my opponent is.

I stop, moments from the high grass. I have a slight feeling I’m being followed. I wait a minute to prove my feeling.

I hear something. A sound I never like to hear. It sounds like rocks grinding against each other. It was the farmer’s truck, coming to get me. My owner found out I ran away and tracked me down.

I know what’s going to happen. It’s not fun, and the ride home is scary. There’s always a lot of riff-raff trying to keep me still, and when they finally get me in the wagon, they haul me back to the farm. I don’t want to go back there, not on such a wonderful day.

I take off into the field, a long stretch of sun-cooked high grass that feels like a thousand feathers brushing my face. I don’t blend into the grass, unfortunately, and the farmers can keep after me like a bird in the sky. The tree line on my right connects up ahead to a river that runs alongside my left. The valley begins to widen up over the horizon, and if I really wanted to get away, I would have the next few miles to do it. I’ll either turn myself in or venture into the woods I’ve never been in before.

I look forward, watching the field and the road quickly run alongside me, covered in warm summer sun. It feels great to run at long stretches like this. It’s like… it’s like I’m flying. I am flying, really, on the wings of my feet across the ever-moving ground. The last time I had a chance to run like this, I was a lot younger… I grew up with my family in the open country. I don’t know if the other horses got to know about the world beyond the wall; the world I’m running away from right now. Where I came from, I was used to open fields as far as my eyes could see. I would run for a long time, and still see my friends and family on the horizon. There were no walls. There was nothing to hold us back.

They came for me then like they come for me now. I laugh to myself because we both get what we want in the end. They get to put me in races, and I get to keeping running. It’s never the same as this countryside, though. Out here, there’s no competition, no desperation, and no fury in my heart. Out here, I don’t hate what I love. That all changes when I get on the race track…

***

I overheard some horses talking in the den one time before the race, my first race ever. They were huddled around each other, talking about the races they won and how fast they won them in. They threw out names of places I had never heard of before, like Churchill Downs and Pimlico. One of them said, “I’m the fastest in the world! I ran the Aqueduct in a minute-fifty flat!” I laughed and thought he was kidding because to me, that seemed like a long race time. Nobody else laughed. He didn’t know me, or my talent, I thought. “It’s time to put your title to the test,” I said to him, “because you’re looking at the fastest horse in the world!” They all looked back at me with stupid faces. Then… they all started laughing. Their heads bucked high with teeth showing, making me feel worse with every chuckle. “Heeeyeeah right, Rookie! Watch me whip you in this race, and then I’ll whop you in your face.” They all resumed laughing, and my heart was hot with rage.

I took the first chance I had to get out of there and get onto the track. I needed to let out this anger as soon as possible. Luckily for me, the race was about to begin. I took my place in spot #9, all the way on the far edge of the starting line. The track looked constricted and animated, but there didn’t seem to be an ending. People were watching from every angle. Beyond the arena I could see a land filled with giant buildings that touched the sky in ways I cannot explain. It was beautiful, and frightening at the same time. The world beneath us must be holding a great weight on its back.

~ ! B A N G ! ~

Off I go, Oh my God, this is nuts! Go Go Go! Gal-lop Gal-lop Gal-lop! This is kind of fun! I can make a beat in my head from the sound of my steps. I relax to the groove, take in the scenery and the world dissolves around me.

“Oh Crap!” The next thing I knew, I was in last place. I take off like the wind, after the other racers and after the prize. All the running I’ve done before this moment would bring me strength today.

~ CaTcHiNg uP WiTh tHeM ! ~

My teeth are literally coming out of my head here, I’m breathing so incredibly hard, my tongue is getting dry and thick. I see my opponents in front of me. There was a turn in the opposite direction after a few more seconds, and a great turn in the track that seemed to have no end.

The other half of the lap ended horribly.

I got up to that big shot who was laughing at me earlier, and he saw me and I could see he was pretty impressed that I came back. He fell back a little bit after noticing me, obviously too shocked by my–

“Yeeeheeeaaaaaa!”

He hit me in the eyes with his tail and I lost my balance. I fell behind so far that the last thing I could see before coming to a crashing halt was him, smiling back at me, with his tongue sticking out. I didn’t give it a second try. I gave it everything I had and I lost it. I decided to give it up and run like I am used to. I spent the last lap running gracefully around the track, hearing shouts like “Come on!” and “For God’s sake!” yelled at me from all the people watching. I didn’t notice or understand most of their taunts, but I still liked what I was doing. In that moment, I found the joy of running again.

***

So now I’m here, in the field, running for the thrill of it, running from that life of pressure and cruelty. The open prairie is being consumed by the forest ahead and I can either run into the woods, or go back to the racetrack. I know I have to go back, so I turn around by the river, stay for a drink, and let them catch me several minutes later.

If I could be anywhere, I would be out here, like this… without borders.

If I was a product of the 2080’s, I might hear stories about how things were in my parent’s time, or perhaps my grandparents’ time. All the same, there would come a time or two when I heard stories of history and change, long before any time of my they knew of. We, the product of that enduring turmoil across the world.

There was this time before all that, in 1969, when a million people came together in search of peace, love, and music, at a place called Woodstock. People found a way to coexist for three days with little food, a lot of drugs, and an endless supply of parties for the senses. The parties were on stage; the passionate cameos of legendary artists, daytime stillness in the sun and rain, explosive demonstrations of musical talent, candid late-nighters by famous sounds like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, The Band, Santana and more. Nobody would know the names of these musicians except the few and privileged, who listened in school, and saw the grand picture of our creative evolution since our modern renaissance.

If life had to be so different from the world of yesteryear, why are we not as happy as then? What has jaded our minds to think that the world of today is not as satisfying? Innovation and technology have made our world better; a living, breathing entity in the galaxy, flourishing with countless, interactive life forms that coexist and sustain a healthy, natural environment. We are living on the product of collective consciousness, sensible and compassionate and in balance with all things.

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.

Two fat cats in corporate America plan to meet to discuss matters of personal importance. The lead-up and suspense to what the two talk about is hyper-sensitive, yet when they sit down in one of their plush offices, they discuss…

“So, Chuck, I need your help, as one rug-wearer to another.”

‘Sure, Frank, what can I do for you?’

“Well, I need your advice,” he takes off his hat, his hair hat, and places it on the table in front of him. Chuck does the same. The two men, balding, are sitting across from one another at a giant business meeting table, each with their hairpiece in front of them. One grey, one white.

They discuss matters of continuity, obscurity, and comfort, all relating to hairpieces and appearance. This conversation goes on for several minutes. Eventually, the receptionist knocks on the door as they discuss openly, and before the woman enters, the two men shuffle to get their hair pieces back on their head appropriately. They are flustered and slightly vulnerable at this moment, as the receptionist comes in the deliver some important information to Chuck. She doesn’t notice a thing.

‘Nancy, you’ve really got to buzz me or something before coming in.’

~ Sorry, Mr. Bampton. Here are those monthly revenue reports you asked for.

‘Thanks Nancy. You’ve met Frank Gimlen, have you?’

“Hi, Nancy, it’s nice to meet you.” Not as sincere as you would expect.

~ Hi, Mr. Gimlen. Can I get you anything?

“No thanks.”

~ Chuck?

‘No, this will do fine Nancy, thank you. Can you set up a phone conference for me with the Fidelity branch manager for 1:30pm? I want to go over these reports with him for a few minutes if he has the time.’

~ Of course.

“You’re a busy guy, Chuck.”

‘Eh, it comes with the job.’ And they both laugh as Nancy exits the room. They laugh to mask the underlying point they originally met for. Nancy doesn’t suspect a thing, but continues about her life assuming that Chuck is just a really quirky executive, and Frank is just another corporate fat cat.

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

In the process of cleaning his room, Zucker takes his Nike sneakers from the center of his room and places them in his closet. The other clothes and jackets are surprised and curious about the shoes, both covered in a strange foulness.

~ Jesus, kids, what happened to you?

- Oh wow, what day is it?

= It’s Saturday.

- The second?!

= Yeah.

~ What the hell happened, Nike?

- Oh man, our head.

• Give them a minute, Houndstooth.

There were bits of vomit and grit on the bright white laces and brown suede bodies of both the left and right Nike Air Force One sneaker. Together they embodied the pain of the hangover instilled in the stains of funky yellow and red.

~ Is someone gonna’ clean you up?

- We don’t know. He took his orthotics out of us.

= Yeah, that means he won’t be wearing you anytime soon.

• Shut up, Adidas, you’re not helping.

= Yeah well neither are you. Get up and do something about it!

~ Everyone shut up. Now Nike, what happened out there?

- It was actually quite fun for a little while…

And the Nike Air Force Ones told the jackets and wardrobe about the New Years Party in the North End, a bacchanal with friends of Zucker’s that ended disastrously. They told them about the booze and the mixers and the h’orderves and the party hats, the ties and the suits and the dresses. Some girls really pushed the fashion bar, some others were down in their own. They told them about the girl who came with another, her style and her body the prize of the party. They told them of when the ball dropped, and when the champagne pushed Zucker over the edge. His feet told the shoes of the thoughts in his head, his apprehension and patience and fear for the worst as he drunkenly stumbled from the couch to the locked bathroom door, knocking tactlessly to gain entrance in front of everyone still there.

= Holy shit, they were having sex in the bathroom?

- Yeah, with the girl he was hitting on the whole night.

A wave of boos and hisses fill the wardrobe in disapproval.

= What kind of shit is that?! That shit just doesn’t happen, Nike! I should have been there; Zucker would’ve been on top of his shit.

- It was a fancy party, Adidas. It was no place for a sports liner. The Victorinox wool coat did just fine.

= Shows what you know.

- Where is Vic, anyway?

• He’s not here.

- Oh, no. We don’t know what happened to Vic when we left. We hope it’s alright. Damn, it was embarrassing…

The Nike sneakers went on to explain the bathroom situation.

- The guy came out of the bathroom first, and said, ‘Give her a minute.’ Zucker gave her three seconds and went inside. She was still putting on her clothes. ‘What’s wrong,’ she asked, calmly and concerned – she talked to him all night – and before he could answer, Zucker made his point clear all over the toilet and floor. ‘Oh, wow,’ the girl said, as if impressed by the grotesque beauty of Zucker’s raw presentation. Quickly and scared, she vacated the bathroom, with clothes in her hands and her hands over her mouth. We remember Zucker’s friend, Ryan, coming in to assist us shortly after. He brought forth the mop and cleaned up the floor. Zucker and we sat helplessly on the towel bench. We exited the bathroom to less people than before – no faces remembered – and the party was officially over.

~ Shit, Nike. That sounds like a pretty messed up party.

= I can’t believe that girl ended up screwing some guy in the bathroom!

- Yeah, we can’t believe it either. He was trying so hard to get close to her.

• I bet it was her boyfriend.

- That makes sense. He showed up late too. We don’t even remember what he looks like.

• Yeah, definitely the boyfriend.

= Hey, Camel Hair, who gives a hell who it was?

• I’m just saying!

~ She probably wasn’t right for him anyway. I mean, who has sex in the bathroom anymore?

= I do.

~ That’s great,  real mature.

All of a sudden, Zucker came into the closet with more clothes and hangers and began to make a lot of commotion. He rearranged boxes and clothing and belts. He took his golf clubs out and cleared up the space around it. The Victorinox wool coat came in and was hung on a hook above all the other hangers.

- Vic!

+ Ah, you’re doing alright then, Nike?

- We guess… we thought you got left behind.

+ No, I was around. Hey everyone, what’s going on?

= Your guess is as good as ours.

~ I think he’s cleaning up.

* About time.

- Whoa, look out!

The Nike Shoes were moved around once again, this time next to other shoes not seen before. A mad flurry of movement occurred in the span of a few minutes, but the changes left them all hanging in awe. And somehow, even after Victorinox gave its side of the story – the twisted maze of city streets and cross walking, dry-heaving in alleyways in plain site to the world; helpless cab-hailings and directories on hold and even after blackout directions to the street of his house – everyone knew Zucker would be alright.

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