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Projecting Fear

“Follow me,” the man says.

The young boy doubts the man’s intentions, wishes he knew what life was like for his friends whose fathers still live with their mothers.

He could refuse, tell the man he has to get home, but Mom doesn’t kick a soccer ball back and forth or watch baseball games on television.  It’s not her fault, the young boy knows.

The man walks into the forest and the young boy follows.

Fallen leaves crack beneath the young boy’s feet.  Barren tree limbs sway with the breeze.  The sun fades from view and everything changes, birds cease to chirp and squirrels freeze in place, dropping their acorns in unison.

The boy stares at a deer trotting toward them, its face transforming.  The deer’s body remains but its face becomes that of Santa Claus, then the Devil.  The boy is more scared than ever before in his life, but he doesn’t scream or say a word.  Now the face of Jesus Christ replaces the deer’s head before it runs away, out of sight.

The man leads the young boy out of the woods, holding his hand.  The boy goes home and when his mother asks him about his day, he says it was “fine.”  He says nothing of his trip into the woods, remembering only the deer, but keeping it to himself.

Assigning Blame

Winston grabbed the two pages he’d just printed and took a thorough look at both.  One wire order, one approval.

“Ron, we need to talk, it’s important.”  Winston closed Ron’s office door behind him.

Ron pretended to have been doing something other than following the Phillies game on his computer.  “Give me one sec,” he said, eyes fixed to the screen.

Winston planted himself in a chair.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I logged into the PNC account today to make the China wire and our balance didn’t look right.  Take a look at this transaction.”  He handed the two pages to Ron.

“Seventy five thousand even.  That’s odd.  What’s it for?”

“I was hoping you knew.  I don’t know of any bills for that amount.”

Ron glanced up at Winston, back down at the printout, up again and now locked the other man’s eyes, his expression a combination of anger and fear.

Winston, expectant, held Ron’s stare.

“Who’s the beneficiary?”  Ron asked.

“It’s a numbered account at a bank in the Caymans, no name attached.”

“When was the wire made?”

“Last week.”

“And you know nothing about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you ask Dan?”

“I wanted to discuss it with you first.  You know he and I are the only ones who have access to the system, and the wire was made via his login ID.”

“But any wire made with one ID has to be approved by the other, and from what you’re saying, you didn’t approve it.”

“Look at the second sheet of paper.  It’s an approval for the wire made via my account, but I didn’t do it.”

Ron’s stare became more intense, searching for weakness in Winston’s face, a flinch, any implication of phoniness.  He got nothing, but kept quiet, waiting for what he knew Winston would say next.

“Dan has access to my password and I can access his.  Just in case something happens to one of us, we keep them written down in the safe.”

“Dan’s worked here twenty years.  You’ve been here three.  Are you accusing him of stealing seventy five thousand dollars?”

Winston shifted gears, looked away from Ron, appeared personally hurt by Dan’s alleged thieving.  “I don’t know.  He certainly doesn’t seem like a crook.  I’m just presenting you with what I know.  Maybe someone else got the passwords from the safe.  You wanna call the police?”

“Seventy five fucking thousand.”  Ron shook his head, slapped the desk in front of him and turned in his chair, away from Winston.  “Dan’s not the type to do something like this.  Something’s not right.”

". . ."

The boss turned back to his employee.  “Get out of my office.  I’ll handle this from here.  I’ll tell the cops and see what the banks can find out and," Ron's eyes widened, "rest assured I'll get to the bottom of it.”

Winston nodded and left Ron’s office as quickly as he could.  He imagined himself, as he often did, sitting at Dan’s desk instead of his own, thrilled for a moment and then suddenly angry, yet again, recalling the day he stealthily learned that Dan had been sleeping with his wife.

Fate of a Fly

This defines insanity.  Bumping and bumping and bumping into some invisible barrier with my destination straight ahead, in sight.  I don’t know how I got here, and now I can’t get out.

It’s so bright out there today, the sun shines through but it’s not the same.  So many others like me, living off waste, why should anyone care?  I’ve seen such random meanness, such evil, my friends murdered in front of me, in front of others, and none of the monsters even react.  Some watch the killings, others ignore them, but they all just go on with their lives like nothing happened.  Sure, they’re still breathing, still eating and sleeping and shitting, still making the waste that feeds us.

All I really want is my freedom.  To feel the wind blow against me, let it move me, glide.  That, and some food.

Wait, I sense something, someone, one of the monsters.  Should I hide or just stay still?

*****

“Yo Garret, did you drink the last few beers last night?”  Joseph asks.

“I don’t know, probably.”

“Whatever, you needed to restock anyway.”

“Why don’t you go out and buy me a case?  You spend enough time here.”

“Alright.  Yo, there’s a fly in the house.”

“Yeah we get a lot around the compost pile out back.  Just kill it.”

“I think I can let it out.”  Joseph opens the sliding glass door.  “Go on, dude, get out.”

“Are you talking to the fly?  Did you just call it a ‘dude?’”

*****

Maybe the monster doesn’t see me.  What’s happening?  The barrier moves?  Something’s changed.  Maybe I won’t go insane, let’s try again. . . .

I’m free!  Time to eat.

Freddy the Fiddler

Freddy sat alone with his fiddle, alone because his girlfriend had dumped him the day before.  He thought about the good job where, up until last week, he sold men’s clothing, the good job he couldn’t stand but the one that used to pay the bills.  Hobbies prevented him from losing his mind during the five years he worked there: he grew various vegetables and played cards and wrote songs on his fiddle.  Now, the girlfriend gone and the job a thing of the past, the hobbies were all he had.  Figuratively, that is.  Literally, he had the hobbies and a bottle of scotch and a futon that alternated between his couch and his bed and a very small kitchen where he stocked Ramen noodles, Apple Jacks, and 2% milk.  He had a Panasonic three disc changer with double tape deck too; he’d found it on the sidewalk.  One man’s trash was another man’s entertainment center.  He bought random CDs and old tapes from the discount rack.  The vegetables grew in a small garden he kept on his very small back porch.

He decided to wait a while before looking for a new job, his plan to do as close to nothing as possible for as long as possible.  America much underrated doing absolutely nothing, he thought.

After a while doing nothing gave way to doing nothing in between long sessions on his fiddle.  He played Earl Johnson and Charlie Bowman and Doc Roberts but mostly he just messed around and made up his own stuff.

One night he’d had a couple of glasses of scotch and thought about his girlfriend, their break up.  He told her he’d lost his job and she asked about his plan.  He didn’t pretend to have a plan, just shrugged his shoulders and their relationship didn’t last much longer.  Another scotch and the bottle was empty.

He didn’t think about it, just grabbed his fiddle and walked to the pub down the street where he’d been a regular when he used to have a paycheck.  He told the owner he was broke and asked if he’d let him play his fiddle on the little stage in the corner.  The owner told him he couldn’t pay him, but Freddy said all he wanted in return was one glass of cheap scotch.  It was a deal.

He jammed and jammed and jammed without saying a word.  People were into it, but he preferred to pretend they weren’t there.  He wasn’t nervous, just focused.  For some reason it was the first time in his life that he felt truly free.

Suddenly he held the strings still and stomped his feet and tucked the fiddle between his arm and the side of his body.  Clapping his hands, he sang:

“She said ‘Play that fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
Play it for pay or play it for free.
Dance in a circle or dance in a square,
Play your life away, see if I care!’”

He took up the fiddle again and jammed again and could hear some shouts and cheers from the crowd.  Still he paid them no mind.

He tucked the fiddle again and sang one more time:

“And I said, ‘Oh I’ll play this fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
I’ll play it all day and I’ll play it for free.
I’ll dance in a circle or I’ll dance in a square.
I’ll play and play and won’t have a care!’”

This time the crowd cheered louder.  Freddy looked around, took a bow, and everyone watched him walk to the bar, his scotch waiting for him.  He drank it down, nodded to the owner, and walked home.

Anywhere But Jail

He didn’t know, as the night began, that it would end for him in jail.  Not an individual cell, a large one with ten roommates, mostly drunks picked up off the streets for disorderly conduct, one of whom insisted on being naked from the waist down and keeping in constant motion.  He didn’t know he’d be staring at this drunken, half naked man pacing the room as he lay on a mat on a concrete floor; he hadn’t expected to be anywhere at this hour other than home in his comfy bed, and he missed it dearly.

Drinks with Bob early.  Theoretically they were celebrating, though they would’ve been at the bar anyway, probably just later and not as rowdy.  They were celebrating today’s victory in the rec league championship with exaggerated joy, laughing and drinking loudly and largely with a wired but sloppy sort of intensity.

Some hours passed and a few guys from the losing team came to the bar and Bob said something.  The other guys didn’t really care about what was said, the words meant nothing just like winning or losing the rec league championship meant nothing.  But these were the sort of guys who looked for a fight.  They came to the bar to drink heavily and then look for a fight, it’s what they did.  They said something back to Bob and he and Bob erupted in laughter, raised their shot glasses and threw back another.  Bob said something about kicking their asses in the game that day, and the guys from the losing team just looked at each other and then back down at their drinks.

When he and Bob left the bar the other men left too.  “Hey,” one of them called out, “how about you try to kick our asses again right now?”  He and Bob kept walking.  Then the men, three of them, caught up and one of them tapped Bob on the shoulder and punched him in the face.

He reacted when Bob fell to the ground the only way he knew how.  He hit the guy who’d hit Bob and the guy went down.  One of the others hit him and in that brief moment, drunk, he couldn’t think about anything at all, he just knew he was outnumbered and had to get dirty.  He did what he had to do and when the cops got there, Bob was still on the ground and two others were too.  The cops saw him with his knee to the third guy’s chest, pinning him down.

He protested with slurred speech but the cops arrested him only, to make a point.  Now there he was, locked up with a half naked man who might’ve seen a few years since his last shower, watching him pace, braced to shield himself in case the guy came close.  Some of the others slept.  They must not be concerned, he thought, or just too drunk to stay awake.  He knew at that moment where he wanted to be: anywhere but jail.

My Father Laughed (by Wesley Jacques)

I sat where he usually sat, on the tattered armchair by the front window.  He stood there awkwardly asking me for his seat with his body language but wouldn’t say the words.  It was just a chair after all.  And I was his son, returned only for a moment, to sit and stare out the window he’d been stingy with for years.  The view was unremarkable: typical Queens avenue lined with American colonials and lower-middle-class bungalows.  But it was hard for him to feign disinterest while he stood there seemingly lost, with nowhere else in the house, in the world, for him to sit and find himself.

“You’s remember when we use to pick-up Anne from work at the hospital, the one by the Van Wyck?”  He asked the question like it was an answer to something else, in a thick Haitian-Creole accent that’d over time picked up New Yawk speech more readily than American-English.  I nodded remembering Anne as mommy.

“Nah.  You don’t remember,” he said with a wry smile.  Luckily, I wasn’t thirteen anymore, easily frustrated and provoked.  I could turn away and stare out the window to the streetlights flickering on and the sun setting slowly behind elm trees.  He went on, “One time, she called to pick her up because they fired her.”  He laughed, which I found strange due to an upbringing that hadn’t allowed me the privilege of finding unemployment any bit funny.  He lost his job in ‘95 and then even smiling was strongly advised against.  But he continued laughing.  “In the car, when I ask why, she tell me ‘because they’re racist!’”  I’m not sure I understood the punchline, if there were one, but he snickered loudly and finally grabbed another chair to finish his story seated.

All the nurses were West-Indian women like my mother and truthfully, she was fired for her poor work etiquette and attitude, which I surely believed.  “They catch her sleeping, while a man almost dying in the other room!”  I smiled like the sadist I am, sharing memories of my mother with my father, something I would never have expected in my hundredth year, let alone my twenty-third.  But there he was - smiling and laughing, thinking about her.  “She said if he wasn’t a white man, they would’ve let her continue sleeping!”  We were both laughing then.  My mother had always been blunt even when misguided.  She used the race card like she’d walked with Dr. King but still didn’t quite know the difference between George Washington and George Washington Carver.  “Silly Americans love their peanut butter; gon’ elect the man president for it. Ha!” she’d told me once while grocery shopping.

It struck me, while reminiscing, that my father had known my mother, they’d had some sort of relationship, may have even been in love.  I looked at my father then, sitting and smiling like a stranger, and the realization sent me reeling through memories of the latter days of their volatile marriage.

The new more romantic image mixed poorly with the old; the one left by the image of my mother battered and abused by a man that vowed in a suit in a church in a photo album in the basement to protect and cherish her ‘til death (en Francais).  My mother cried when her only son, thirteen, saw her swollen face in a gurney.

(Wesley Jacques has been writing short fiction for twenty years, not to be discredited by the fact that he is twenty-three.  Born in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York, to Haitian immigrant parents, he was raised in a web of group homes, foster homes, and other non-homes. He has a master of arts degree in English literature.)

It

I can find it. Not consciously, another way. It’s out there and when I find it I can be at peace.

To reach that place. Mind set free in a confined space. Leave the key in the house and just sit in the driver’s seat. Can’t turn the ignition without the key. No danger.

It happened long ago. If only I could remember. I was in no state to remember, thought I’d always know. Now I’m stuck searching. Friends, lovers, parents, my brother and sister, they don’t know. They’ll try to help. Big hearts, good intentions. My fault when they leave, not theirs.

Or it’s in a future I once foresaw, in a dream I can’t live. Can’t wait for it, how could I? I’ll seek it every day. Everything will make sense when I find it. Then I’ll matter.

It’s ethereal, surrounding me. It’s infinite but fleeting. Feeling for it with unnatural senses, heightened but must go further.

Bottom of the bottle. Didn’t find it today, maybe tomorrow. Blind faith until I see it, no room for doubt. I know it’s real. I’ll find it or die trying.

The Nature of Man

It’s almost always sunny in Philadelphia, but this Saturday afternoon was overcast with a cool, comfortable breeze.  Garret and Joseph walked down Poplar Street toward 2nd.

“What’s this place?” Joseph asked.  He pointed to a series of outdoor, tent covered tables and a food cart.

“Don’t know, looks like that old late night hot dog stand.”

“Let’s check it out, I’m hungry.”

They discovered La Copine Brunch Cart, ordered breakfast sandwiches and flatbread, and sat along a wooden fence.

“How can you argue with me about this?  I have thousands of years of evidence on my side,” Garret insisted, stubborn as usual.

“But there’s one key point you seem to overlook.”

“What point?  In all of recorded history you have war.  The fall of Babylon, the Greek and Roman Empires, the Crusades, etcetera etcetera.  India versus Pakistan, Iran versus Iraq . . . terrorism!  The IRA, the ETA, al qaeda . . . the list goes on and on.  How can you argue?”

“I don’t have to argue.”

“Of course you don’t, and you shouldn’t because it’s pointless.  The nature of man is evil.  We’re a bellicose species.”

Near their table, a little girl perhaps two years old ran in circles, laughing aloud, chasing after nothing at all as her parents ate brunch and laughed too.

Joseph nodded in their direction, indicating to Garret that he should notice the little girl if he hadn’t already.  “You think she’s got an evil nature, Garret?”

“The kid?  No.”

“Right.  Not sure how we get into all these wars or become terrorists, but people aren't just born evil.  Look at a child and you know.  Circumstances affect us and choices are made, but there's nothing absolute about our nature.”

Garret didn’t respond, he just took another bite of his sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, a silent concession.

Pinkie Master's, Savannah, Late (by Conrad Ashley Persons)

Floyd Monroe was down there at Pinkie’s last night, lording over the place even though he was drunk on credit.  Stool came free on my left and nary a second later he was in my ear.  ‘Tessa,’ he says, breath like something’s underside.  ‘Tessa.’  I swiveled round and showed him my face. 

Floyd said he’s heard about my trouble.  Said he wanted to help me out.  He said something I didn’t understand.  He said there was poetry in a white lie.  And then he offered me a tip, holding up three crooked fingers.  I listened hard.  He said, ‘So you know, there’s a few ways to tell if a man’s lying.’

The bar bustled.  Budweiser six ways to Sunday.  That sound you get on a good break shot.  I drink nothing but beer because I fear getting drunk.

‘First way is the eyes.’  His voice crackled.  Like an Army radio.  ‘Some folks say they look up.  And to the right.  But truth is the eyes are sadder when they’re lying.'

Floyd went on, but I could barely hear him for all the ruckus of the jukebox.  And I was distracted.  All I was thinking about were them eyes of Terrance.  As unbending as something manmade.

Floyd has flawless teeth because they’re dentures.  He smiled in a way I would call wistful.  I smiled too.  And then I didn’t because I caught on that he was pitying me. 

‘Second way is the voice.  Man’s voice is always liable to be deep.  But listen to a lie. It’s light. Sing-song.’  The sound of a man calling your name.  Done a million ways.  Plaintive on the first date.  Familiar on the third.  Marriage comes and it grows tired, your name as a sagging balloon. 

‘A man who’s lying’s got ants in his pants.  Jittery.  Scratching itches that ain’t there.  That’s the third way you can tell.’  

Terrance had been a bundle of contempt.  Like his whole body was a balled up fist.  This made our time together a war.  And instead of tiring of its violence, I was grateful for its reprieves.  He had been my best customer.  My problem was in forgetting that he was only that. 

Pinkie shook the closing bell and the bar got rushed by everybody who didn’t need another drink.  I put my head in my hands.  Floyd went quiet.  His head dipped like an elk’s.  He put his small, brown hand on my thigh.  He moved towards me to speak.  But after all that Floyd ain’t have a damn thing to say.

(Conrad Ashley Persons, co-founder of Arkstone Publishing, has been published in the short story anthology Richmond Noir, blogged for The New York Times, and reported for the Guardian.  He lives in London.)

Drew's Diet

“Do you drink?”

“Socially.  Few times a week.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“How’s your diet?

“I’m not on a diet.”

“I mean, what do you eat?”

“Oh.  You know.  All kinds of stuff.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”

“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”

“Oh, sorry.  I guess that’s about it.”

“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”

“Oh yeah, those too.  Cheeseburgers.  Always a dog at the Phillies game.”

“You don’t eat fish?”

“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”

“No fruits or vegetables?”

“. . .”

“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese.  You must exercise pretty often?”

“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”

“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits.  If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”

“. . .”

“And come back and see me more than once every ten years.  You should get a physical every three years.”

Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening.  By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him.  “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder.  ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’  “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”

The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process.  Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.  The five pounds returned to his body post haste.

The Weather, and Other Concerns

Walking east on Girard to the El and random thoughts bounce off the pavement like hailstones.  There’s always baseball to take your mind off things.

They set aside their paper goods, glass bottles, plastics and wonder about the energy used when it all gets recycled.

Oil rigs the world over employ people and transform the planet and give us the stuff we’re built to need.

You worry about man-made disasters until tornadoes destroy Southern and Midwestern cities.  Survivors count their blessings, their lives forever changed.  Easy on the east coast to read the headline and watch the news and think about it for a while and feel safe ‘cause it’s not you, but what if?

She takes SEPTA to school every day but now it won’t be free.  Can’t afford the daily bus fare so might just be a cutter.  Parents could be prosecuted but money’s tight so they don’t know what to do.

Budget cuts.  Teachers stressed about keeping their jobs and it’s last-in-first-out so the youngest ones lose.  He finished his masters and got certified but when and where and who and what and how will he teach?  Arlene Ackerman will make $500,000 this year, though.  That’s fair.

Turning the corner by Trax where the clerk was killed during a 3:00 am robbery a while back.  Two bucks buys a train ride to the ballpark.  Cliff Lee’s pitching.  I hope it doesn’t rain.

(Click here for a brief blog post from PhillyNow on Arlene Ackerman's 2011 compensation)

Fishtown Mews

“I wanna live in a mews.”  These words Garret speaks to Joseph, as they sit on a couch in Joseph’s apartment.

“In Philadelphia?”

“Yes.”

“There’s Washington Mews and Lombard Mews, both on Lombard, but you’d have to move south.  I don’t think there’s a mews in No Libs or Fishtown. . . .”

Garret shakes his head in disagreement.  “Joseph, you’re a small thinker.” 

“A small thinker?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re missing the point.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Enlighten me, please.”

“We’re going to build a mews, right here in Fishtown.  We’ll call it . . . Fishtown Mews.”

Joseph stares at his friend, waiting for him to laugh and give up the joke, but it doesn’t happen.  Garret just stares back at him, his eyes suddenly passionate, intense.

“Dude, what are you talking about?  How are we going to build a mews?”

“It’s not a question of how, Joe, the question is: when?  And the answer is: soon.”

“Actually, Garret, the question is how?, and the answer is, you don’t know how, because you don’t know the first thing about buying land, let alone designing and building a mews, not to mention the fact that you don’t have any money.  In fact, a better question is: why are we having this conversation?”

Again Garret shakes his head, this time slowly, disappointed.  “I never thought you’d be so negative.  Dare I say, ‘a hater.’  But I suppose this is how all revolutionary ideas are received.  When Edison first imagined a light bulb, his buddy probably said, ‘shut up and get me a candle.’  When Ford designed his first car, his friends probably asked, ‘what, you don’t like horses?’  The list goes on. . . .”

“Alright, Garret, go ahead, tell me your plan to build this mews.”

“Well, the idea came to me the other day as I walked along Frankford Ave.  There are still plenty of empty lots and shell properties between Frankford and Front.  I just need to go down to City Hall, research who owns the various lots and shells, call around a bit, and find out who’s willing to make a deal.”

“What about money?”

“I think when potential investors hear about my vision for the mews, they’ll line up to get involved.  I mean, it’s an exciting thing, a mews.”

“Who will design it?”

“FUSA Designs.”

“Right, okay, I suppose once you have your funding in place, you could hire them.”  Now Joseph’s having fun with their chat, Garret still serious.

“Yes, I can, and I will.  Don’t you see, Joseph?  A mews is always a desirable place to live.  I mean, we’ll make it a totally awesome place, don’t get me wrong, but just the fact that we’ll call it a mews will make people want to live there, whether they know it or not.  Think of how nice and neat your address would be if it were, say, 42 Fishtown Mews?”

“That which we call a mews by any other name would be as neat.”

“Are you mocking me, Joseph?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well, mock all you want.  But I’m going to do this.  I’ve had an epiphany.  I realized this is my career goal, the contribution I wanna make to my city, my purpose.  Fishtown Mews . . . I’m determined, and I’m going to make it happen, with or without your help.”  Garret gathers his cell phone and windbreaker and leaves without saying goodbye.

Joseph laughs out loud, wondering how far his friend’s ambition will take him.

Christiania

He walked with eyes wide open, a long, old dormitory sort of stone building to his left, wooden walls painted with colorful faces and then a small field with blue picnic tables to his right.  A marketplace emerged, vendors in a small plaza type space selling pipes, tees, hats, baked goods.  He walked further past a shawarma shop and a burger and fries stand and some other store fronts until he found a path up a grassy hill and took it.  He stood above it all for a while, observing people and the lay of the land. 

Then he walked back down the grassy hill and approached a different area with just as many vendors, these selling other goods.  He passed a fence where a painted green leaf flourished beside a painted syringe broken in half by a painted fist.  He walked back up the hill and found a bench looking out on an inlet in one direction and the heart of Christiania on the other, a bird’s eye view of trash can fires interspersed among the merchants, kiosks, residents, tourists.

A while later, he rose from the bench and approached a store for a soda.

“Ginger ale, please.”

“Sure, that’s fifteen.”

“Thank you.  Hey, does everyone here speak English?” 

“Yes, everyone, except for the ones who don’t.”

He laughed.  The storekeeper, perhaps in his mid-fifties, his hair grayish white and his face clean and smooth, remained still-faced until hearing the laughter, seeing the smile, and then erupted into a loud guffaw himself.

Ginger ale in hand, he strolled in another direction, beneath a sign that read ‘You are now entering the E.U.’  He switched to Carlsberg as he stopped into multiple pubs, exploring the streets and canals, occasionally walking in a bike lane before hopping back up to the sidewalk.  He noticed how people would leave their bikes at a train station or outside of a shop, unchained, and wished he could do the same back home.

(Links to information about Christiania on Wikipedia and a Google-translated version of Christiania.org)

Chance Arrival

It’s destiny, he thinks.  Everything else led to sitting upstairs at the Tap by the window and looking out onto the moonlit façade of the old building across the street.

Sitting at the bar moments earlier, something made him rise and walk to the empty table and chair by the window and now that he’s here, somehow he just knows he’s found his place.

He arrived in Philadelphia yesterday.  Riding shotgun from Chicago after half an hour with his thumb in the air, no destination in mind as he waited for a willing driver, the long haired young dude who picked him up popping Mini Thins to make the drive nonstop after partying all night with his buddy’s band, he decided Philly was as good as any other city to start fresh.  All he knew of the place were cheesesteaks, a famous cracked bell, and the Rocky movies.

His chauffeur, speaking a mile a minute because of the Mini Thins, told him he’d like Philly and especially his neighborhood, though the best place to stay is one neighborhood south, he said, the hostel in Old City.  He didn’t say much because of the kid’s constant yapping, which suited him just fine, and when the fourteen hour drive came to its conclusion, the kid dropping him off on the corner of Bank and Chestnut, he wasn’t sure about an invitation to meet for beers the following night, but here he is.

Now seated and looking out into the calm night with scattered voices and lo-fi music combining to create a steady, energetic hum, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but he knows he’s here to stay.

Cornhole at the Keep

“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.

“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.

The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”

“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.

Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.

“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before?  Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”

“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both.  I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago.   And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”

“It’s so depressing.”

On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board.  Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.

But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.

“Next!  Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.

The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner.  Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there.  The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.

Terms of Sale

You walk to the end of the dock, cast a line and wait for the fish to start biting.  You wonder what you might do for a living.

People always said you need to have a lot of money, so you take a job with a large corporation and work sixty hours a week for about ten years before you decide it’s time to start your own company.

You thought your hours would become more flexible, you’d spend more time with your family, but the business demands all of your time and you work more hours than when you were an employee.

Another ten years pass in the blink of an eye and your business grows and requires more of your time and your stress level is higher than you expected it to be.

You hire people to help run the business, but you’re accustomed to having control and though your hours decrease slightly, your stress continues and you have a difficult time relaxing.

You buy a Porsche and a home with much more space than your family needs, thinking the car and the cavernous home will ease your mind on the nights and weekends.

Ten more years elapse and though you love your family, you’re on the verge of going mad.

When your youngest graduates from college, you sell the business, the Porsche, and the big house and rent a small apartment near a small lake with your spouse.

You walk to the end of the dock, cast a line and wait for the fish to start biting.  You wonder how much living you have left.

First Date

Joseph took a tater tot, dipped it in hot sauce, and dropped it into his mouth.  He laughed like a schoolboy, still chewing, before lashing out with a loud “La la la la, la, la la la” as Bob Dylan’s "The Man In Me" began. 

Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look.  “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”

Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice.  They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked.  The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.

Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz.  This is going well, don’t screw it up.

“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song.  I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”

Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it.  At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?”  Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.

“I think I know exactly what you mean.  This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”

“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.

“. . .”

“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR.  “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”

Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane.  His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .”  He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.

The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged.  Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.

As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.

(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)

The Little Things (on Bibliophilic Blather)

(Author and blogger extraordinaire Karen Wojcik Berner was kind enough to add this micro story to her Flash Fiction Fridays series, so you can now find it by clicking here.)

Saturday Drew

Drew knew he should be drinking water, not beer, but this didn’t stop him from smiling after the first big gulps from his Darkside Imperial Belgian Stout.  Even Master Yoda would enjoy this Darkside, he thought, as the beer’s deep flavors lingered in his mouth, the subtle bit of dark chocolate taste.

He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games. 

A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently.  Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.  

It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed.  It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.

Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer.  It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.

A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round.  What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.

The Next Moment

She was so young and had so much life ahead of her.  I was there when she died. 

Her family meant everything to her.  Her son had been accepted to college that week.  She and her mother, living twenty minutes apart for years, were soon to move into a duplex in the Northeast.  Private person as she was, she spoke of her son’s accomplishments, beaming, glowing, smiling.  She and her mother would go out to eat around the city, always eager to try new restaurants.  She’d ask me for recommendations.  Her girlfriends told me she might do some dating after her son left for college. 

We were all there, all of us who worked together in North Philly for so many years.  It was a celebration and we went to a place downtown.  Food and drink were served and no one was happier than her.  She and I spoke of the latest with her son and mother but our conversation ended prematurely when one of our friends approached and shook our hands and we all laughed at whatever he said.

Half an hour later, she sat at one of the reserved tables chatting with another friend and I was still standing nearby.  Her eyes had already closed by the time I turned around and saw that something was wrong.  She gasped for air in heaves, unconscious, and we all stood helpless, waiting, after one of us called 911.  The ambulance arrived within minutes, but it was already too late.

There were no warning signs, no pre-existing conditions.  One moment alive, conversing, smiling like always.  The next moment was her last.

I’ll never forget that day and I’ll never take people for granted.  I ate at a place last week she would’ve loved.  I wish I could tell her about the gnocchi.

Up and Away

You remove your small, plastic Ziploc bag with its three ounce liquid contents from the bin on the conveyor belt and stuff it into your overstuffed carry-on bag.  Bag wheeling along, you pass the stores selling Phillies and Eagles and Flyers and Sixers shirts and hats and jerseys and knickknacks en route to your departure gate.  You think about your Phillies, the oldest one-name, one-city team in American professional sports history.

“He friended me on facebook after I just met him Thursday night and I barely know the guy. . . .” 

“Did you see that tweet from LeBron about the Cleveland fan in Miami who. . . .”

You unintentionally overhear bits and pieces of conversation and wonder about simpler times, when people met in person to see each other’s faces and information spread by newspaper and radio. 

Your plane boards and you take your seat and chew some gum and read Fitzgerald.  Your eyes close and open and close again until they remain shut as you fall into a peaceful sleep.

You awaken to the sound of a loud whistle blowing.  The passengers all around you rustle and bustle to deplane and you’re puzzled by their new, old fashion: men wearing top hats and suits and women like flappers with bobbed hair and hobble skirts.  You nearly jump out of your seat when you realize you’re on a train, not a 747.

You stand and see that you’re dressed like everyone else and your bag is not a black nylon wheelie type, but rather a brown leather attaché case with a flap and buckles.  The hundred bucks you had in your pocket is now only ten and the money looks different.

In a state of shock, you follow the crowd off the train and walk down from the once famous viaduct, the Chinese Wall, to street level and stare at buildings you know to have been demolished many years ago.  Standing on Market Street, you dreamily admire what was once the world’s largest railroad passenger terminal, Broad Street Station.

“I met him at that new speakeasy you told me about last Thursday and he came calling just the very next day. . . .”

“That darn George Kelly and his Giants beat our Phillies again yesterday. . . .”

You do your best to eavesdrop on people’s conversations as you gaze in all directions, your eyes now frantically searching all corners, amazed.  Something inside says you won’t be here for long, so you want to make the most of it.  If given a choice, you might stay forever.
    
(For info and a photo of Broad Street Station, click here)

City Fire

The fire burns a bright orange, lighting up Garret’s city yard of stone, warming the bodies of his roommates and friends.

Joseph stares into the flames, in his own world, Garret’s laughter far away, though he sits at a distance of about five feet.

“Joe,” Garret says between giggles, “yo, Joe, I got a question for you.”

Joseph looks away from the fire pit, at Garret’s mischievous face.  “Whasup?”

“What’s your mom’s phone number?” 

“Shut up, Garret.”

Garret’s roommates laugh because Garret does, though they’re not sure why.  Garret’s girlfriend, Suki, eyes him suspiciously.

“Alright then,” Garret replies, “What’s my phone number?”

“You’re so funny, dude.  Really you are.”

“What’s this about, Garret?”  Suki asks.

“He can’t tell you anyone’s phone number because he doesn’t have a cell phone.  He keeps people’s numbers written down on a notepad at home.”  Now Garret and his roommates roar.  Suki just rolls her eyes.

“267, 365, 8192,” Joseph says, “That’s your number.  I remember it.  What’s mine, asshole?”

Garret gets a hold of himself, nodding his head and twitching a bit as the laughter subsides.  “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d have to look in my phone, I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore.  I just look up their names and push the SEND button.”

“That’s right, buddy.  You and everyone else.  You’re all slaves to your cell phones.  I, on the other hand, am free.”

Suki smiles.

“Free, yeah,” Garret retorts, “free to bum someone else’s phone if you need to call a cab,” he starts laughing again, “or order a pizza. . . .”  The joke takes new life.

Suki just shakes her head and Joseph stands to go inside for another drink.  “Anyone need anything while I’m up?”  he offers.

One of the roommates responds, “I’m alright, but if I think of anything, I’ll call you.  Oh wait.” 

More laughter from the group as Joseph opens the sliding door and enters the kitchen.  Inside, he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer and takes a deep breath, noticing the strong smell of burning wood on his clothes, surely in his hair as well.

You don’t realize you smell like smoke until you walk away from the fire, Joseph thinks.  He returns to his friends, drinks the beer while it’s still cold, and then walks from Garret’s place in Northern Liberties back to his Fishtown apartment.

Boom or Bust

Jimmy looks around and contemplates his next move. 

The guy in the brown fedora tips the hat to shield his eyes as he turns toward a scantily clad waitress.  He orders a rye on rocks.

The beatific young woman with bright green eyes, the eyes obviously not their natural color, adjusts her Phillies cap so that it holds back more of her sleek, black hair.

The big dude wearing an away Jeter jersey taps his fingers on the table and bobs his head slightly, moving to whatever rhythm flows from his iPod.  He gives Jimmy a stern, serious look.

Jimmy considers each of them. 

Fedora man seems like he’s been around the block and will likely walk away if he smells trouble.  Jimmy doubts he’ll stick around for a showdown, but doesn’t want to be wrong.

Green eyed girl’s sneaky tactics don’t scare Jimmy this time.  She’s the one who should be afraid, he thinks, of all the possibilities he may be concealing.

Big Jeter’s fidgeting and occasional staring could indicate that he just wants this one to end quickly, or perhaps he has grand aspirations to make this his big moment?  Jimmy’s not sure, but decides to go with his gut.

Conscious of keeping his face frozen, Jimmy slides his chair closer to the table, rolls up his sleeves, leans forward and, bluffing, declares himself, “all in.”

Annabeth

Annabeth rolls onto her back and looks up into the perfectly clear blue sky.  Some days, she thinks, nature just demands that we be outside.  No specific purpose necessary.  A breeze blowing through her hair and the sun warming her body are enough, today.

Two young men walk down Frankford Ave and she hears them laughing aloud, one punches the other and runs a few steps ahead and they call each other names until they're out of sight.  A pregnant young woman pushes a giggling toddler around in a stroller.  An octogenarian couple walks gingerly to the former Neumann Medical Center on the corner, now an assisted living facility.  Annabeth watches them all.

She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest and then sinks down again onto her back, stretches her arms and legs as far as they'll go, like that famous da Vinci drawing, enjoying the feel of Palmer Park's cool grass against her bare arms and lower legs.

Many a male poker player assumes she deals cards for a living because she wants to meet him.  She’s accustomed to being hit on just about anywhere she goes. 

A guy with tattoo sleeves walks his Rottweiler across the small park and for a moment she thinks it's that bartender guy with the Yoda tattoo.  She's surprised by a feeling of disappointment when she realizes it's not him.  After all, he's just another drunk dumb enough to ask her back to his apartment within hours of meeting her, even after she'd given him her number and made it clear he should call her some other time.

She picks at the grass in front of her and throws it.  What would she do if he calls, she wonders?  The bar was crazy that night and when a couple of meaty dudes became belligerent over nothing at all, she loved the way he handled it, staring at them calmly, somehow displaying great strength in his passivity.  She didn't take him for the type to pursue her so aggressively after last call when she’d stuck around waiting for her sister to stop talking to that Garret guy. 

If he's at Drew's party Saturday night, she decides, she'll consider letting him talk to her. 

She rolls over onto her chest and rests her chin upon her knuckles, smiles and waves back at a young boy and girl who pass.

Joseph Hears of a Napkin

Waiting for his friend, Garret, Joseph sips water through a straw and reads “I Love You, I Hate You”: 

Die Ye Basterd
 

You told me you’d always love me no matter what happens and we said we were free to live our lives and be in the moment and then one little thing happens last week between me and hot bartender four leaf clover tattoo guy and you think it’s ok to make a move on my best friend.  I hope your brother buries you in the sand again and this time leaves you to die but if you’re still alive to lose my number, do it.
    

Camera Thief
    

Whoever stole my Canon PowerShot SD850, when I find you, ‘sblood.  Try to sell it on ebay or craigs list and I’ll snoop the post and you’ll beg me to just call the cops.  Take a picture anywhere in Philly and I’ll recognize the sound of the click from around the corner and I’ll be there to. . . .

“Joe, whasup bro?”

“Hi Garret.”

Garret, long and lanky with a pale, pointy face, bright orange hair buzzed around the sides with a couple of bushy, unbrushed inches on top, sits beside Joseph at a table in Silk City’s beer garden and looks around frantically for a waitress, craving a Bloody Mary and feeling entitled to instant gratification.  He’s twenty minutes later than he said he’d be but pissed at Joseph for asking him to brunch at 12:30, the stroller crowd typically still lingering around that time, most hungover folks, like Garret, barely out of bed.

“Where the hell’s the waitress?”

Joseph shrugs.

“How’s your day going?”

Joseph scrunches his face and shakes his head from side to side, indicating that not much has happened in his day thus far.  Garret starts telling him what he did the previous night and Joseph drifts into his own thoughts, considering a stop at the bookstore down on Frankford off Girard later that day, perhaps a movie at the Ritz that night.  He wonders about what’s playing and who he might ask to join him. . . .

“Joe, did you hear what I just said?”

“Sorry Garret, what?”

“She was there last night, that girl you were so buddy buddy with Monday night.  She said you haven’t called her.”

Joseph now in the moment, he tells Garret, “Man, I don’t think I got her number.”

“She said she wrote it down on a napkin for you.”

“She did?  Shit, I don’t know.”

“Figure it out man, she’s hot.  Oh good, here comes a waitress.  Hey, excuse me, Miss?  Can I get a Bloody, and can we get some menus?”

As the waitress tells them all about the day’s specials, Joseph thinks of nothing but a napkin he may or may not have in the pocket of the jeans he wore Monday night.   

(Check out Philly's real "I Love You, I Hate You" reader write-in column from City Paper here)

Curbside Daydream

You sit on the curb in front of the entrance to Walgreens at Snyder and Broad and your eyes move north from McDonalds to T-Mobile to H&R Block, Popeyes, Dunkin Donuts, Rite Aid . . . you wonder which does more business, the Walgreens or the Rite Aid.

You fade into the curb and travel beneath concrete through the Broad Street Line into the earth and then emerge above ground in the place where you began but now the stores are all gone, replaced by open space and a stable where horses look up from their hay and show you their teeth.  Time does not exist and you don’t feel your heart beating as you breathe.  Ben Franklin walks past you, tips his cap and continues chatting with a burly man walking beside him.

You turn your head at the sound of a basketball bouncing and see Charles Barkley come down with a rebound and turn at the hips with elbows out, brushing stick figures aside.  He passes you the ball and when you try to catch it, you miss and it disappears and Charles gives you a stern look before he runs for shelter from the rains that suddenly pour from the sky.

You stand to get cover and then realize it’s not raining and the horses are gone, but the McDonalds is back.  You look at your watch and note the time as you stare at its ticking hands.