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The Breast Milk Savings Plan

"Mark! Hey buddy!"

"Michael, hi, good to see you." The two old friends embraced.

"Been way too long, thanks for stopping by."

"Sure, thanks for having me."

"Come on in."

Mark stepped into the foyer of Michael's Bryn Mawr mansion, a multi-million dollar home in the Philadelphia suburbs. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Michael, but couldn't.

"Gosh, Mike, this house is incredible."

"Thanks bro! Yeah, we like it, been here five years now."

"When's the last time we hung out?"

"Hmm, don't know, probably that first year after college?"

"Sounds about right. Time really flies."

"Well, I can understand why you never wanna leave the city, even though we're only a short drive away."

As Michael spoke, his wife walked in from an adjacent room. Immediately, inadvertently, Mark noticed that her chest was much, much bigger than he remembered, though she didn't seem to have gained weight elsewhere. He assumed she'd had an enlargement.

"Mark, hi honey! It's been, like, forever?!" she opened her arms and approached for a hug, which Mark accepted, her big bosom nearly sending him backward.

"Wow, Julie, you look great."

"Thanks! How have you been?"

"Good, still in the city. Same job, same house. Sheila sends her regards."

"Oh, thank goodness for that, so many of us move out to the Main Line nowadays, but the city's so much fun! I don't blame you guys for staying. Having all of this space," she did a little twirl in place, right arm raised with palm open, as if making a presentation, "isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"I'm sure it's nice."

"Sweety," Michael said, "don't you need to go feed Mikey and Christine?"

"Yes, you're right, I'll be down later, you two have fun." With a demure wave, Julie disappeared up the stairs.

Michael sighed and led his guest into a cozy room. "How about a beer?"

"Please."

He reached behind a large wooden bar, motioning for Mark to sit on a brown leather couch. The paisley wall papered walls were covered with family photos.

"How old are your kids now?" Mark asked.

"Good question! I forget sometimes." Michael laughed loudly at his little joke. "Just kidding, Michael Jr. is seven, Christine is five."

Mark looked at his watch: nine thirty. "They eat dinner pretty late, no?"

"Oh, yes, by general standards, that's true. But our kids are always starving around this time."

"Hmm, why's that?"

"Well, Mark," Michael hesitated, then continued, "take a look around this house."

Confused, Mark did as he was asked, conspicuously letting his eyes wander around the room and through its two doorways. Designer furniture, tasteful artwork everywhere.

"How much do you think this place and all of this stuff cost?"

"I don't know, Mike, a lot, I guess?"

"Yes, Mark, yes. A lot. So as our two children grew from being babies to toddlers and on from there, we figured out a way to afford this lifestyle and still be sure they're as healthy as possible."

Mark, now even more confused, the passion with which Michael spoke making him uncomfortable, waited for his old friend to finish.

"Let me tell you Mark, the taxes alone on this place are over $25,000 a year!"

"Wow, hefty."

"Yes, Mark, yes. Hefty indeed. For these reasons and more, Julie still breast feeds our children."

"Still … breast feeds them?"

"Yes, Mark, yes. Did you happen to notice how large her breasts are?"

"I did, I mean, no, but yes, kinda."

"Well, that's because this 9:30 meal is one of the largest of the day for both children, so she was practically overflowing! By the time she comes back downstairs, she'll be two bra sizes smaller."

"Oh, that's a big difference."

"Mark, have you ever tasted breast milk?"

"Not since around age one, but yes, I have."

"Well, let me tell you, it's delicious! And nothing is more nutritious. Cow's milk is so expensive nowadays! We don't buy it in this house anymore, buddy. There's no need." Michael winked as he spoke this last sentence, sending Mark into a dizzy state of disbelief.

Just then, Julie sauntered into the room. Mark noticed she'd changed clothes and though he couldn't be sure, her breasts did look smaller.

"Oh good, Mark, glad you're still here. Michael, there's a new episode of Girls on tonight, right?"

"Yes, sweety, sure is. Maybe Mark wants to watch with us?"

"You guys have HBO!" Mark exclaimed. 

Michael and Julie looked at each other and laughed. "Of course we have HBO! It's so worth it."

At this, Mark polished off his beer and placed the empty bottle on the bar. "Mike, it was great to see you. Julie, great to see you too, but I've got to get home."

"Oh, Mark, are you sure you have to go so soon?" Julie asked. "How about some homemade ice cream?"

The Man at the Diner

Winston sat by himself inside the diner in his usual place, a table meant for two. The waitresses always greeted him with a smile and the coffee always tasted the same. His eyes roamed around the décor of the place, which had surely been the same since the '70s.

Between orange formica table tops and faded yellow bench style seats, his eyes met those of a man he'd never seen there before, a man who'd already been staring in Winston's direction. Winston held his stare momentarily and then let his eyes continue to move, glancing across light brown interlocking tiles and the old black grout sandwiched between them.

"What can I get for you today, honey?" a waitress asked.

"Oatmeal with brown sugar and fruit, please."

She took down the order and walked away wondering why he didn't just make that for himself at home, but then again eggs were easy to make too, and some people just liked to get out.

Winston wanted to get a better look at the man who had seemed to stare at him, but was afraid to lock eyes for a second time. He did his best to seem casual about it. Immediately he knew that nothing had changed. Even as the man ordered breakfast, his glare never left Winston's face. 

Something else began to bother Winston as he slowly abandoned his attempt to hide his own stare: other than the man's loosely hanging long hair, bushy beard, and flashy style of dress, Winston thought the man could be his doppelganger. Winston's own close cropped hair, clean shave, and plain clothes prevented him from seeing this at first, but the longer he looked at the man, the clearer the resemblance became.

"Here's your oatmeal, sweety. More coffee?" 

"No, thank you."

As the waitress placed the food on Winston's table, he'd already risen from his seat and started walking across the room. The man nodded toward the old yellow bench across from him as Winston approached.

"You look familiar, do I know you?" Winston said as he sat down.

"Yes, I thought you might say that. We haven't met, but you do know me."

"How so?"

"Remember how you didn't have the balls to ask Penny Tate out in college?"

"Huh? How do you know Penny? And what makes you think I wanted to ask her out?"

"Come on, don't bullshit me. How about how you intended to move out to L.A. and pursue acting, but instead you took that desk job back in Philly?"

"Where do you get your information, pal? And who are you?"

Just then the waitress approached, "Here you are, sir: eggs over easy, pork roll, bacon, hashbrowns, white toast."

"I'm you, Winston. I'm every decision you never made. I'm the free-wheeling, fun-loving party guy you wish you could be."

Winston sat back in his chair, thought for a few moments about his life. Then he laughed out loud. "Enjoy your breakfast. I'm heading back to my table to eat mine. Nice to meet you."

"Wait a minute! You can't just walk away! Don't you wanna hear about all of my adventures, the adventures that could've been yours? All the fun and good times you missed out on?"

"Sounds enlightening, but my oatmeal is getting cold. Maybe some other time."

"That's the problem, Winston: 'maybe some other time,' you've been saying that your entire life. When will that time ever come, Winston?"

"Can't tell you that, but one thing I do know is that Penny Tate turned out to be a real bitch."

By the time Winston returned to his seat, the table where the man had sat was empty, just an orange formica table top and a faded yellow bench.

Yoda Dreams

Sometimes Yoda appears in Joseph's dreams. Sometimes by surprise and other times, Joseph thinks, by his own design, as if he summons these somnolent visions through his own concentration, his own intrigue.

This morning he awoke perplexed, last night's visit from the Jedi Master more vivid than those past and entirely unprovoked. Joseph found himself in an orchard, strolling tree lined aisles, collecting apples into a bottomless cart. Suddenly Yoda stood before him and Joseph thought perhaps he came to slice Empire apples with his light saber. Or maybe he was just running from Disney.

The diminutive green sage approached and walked beside him.

"Joseph," said Yoda, "everything you need, here you have. Food," he pointed at the apples, "shelter," he pointed to a rickety wooden shack off in the distance that Joseph hadn't noticed, "and the sky."

"The sky?" asked Joseph. "Yoda, don't you mean clothing. Food, shelther, and clothing, right? Aren't those the three basic needs?"

Yoda laughed. "Oh, yes, a smart one you are. Of course, clothing you need. Yes, clothing. But the sky too, you need. Without the sky, there are no clouds. Without clouds, there is no rain. Without rain, there is no food."

"By that logic, you can't only mention the sky. Don't forget the sun, dry land, etc."

"Yes, Joseph! And also something else there is, or should say I, someone else."

"What are you getting at, Yoda?"

"For Jedi, forbidden, love is. But for you, without it, lost, you will be."

"I'm not ready to commit, Master Yoda, please, don't push me."

"Okay, Joseph, back off, I will. Other suggestions for you I have."

"What suggestions?"

"First, a new cart for your apples, you must get. So from your labor, some apples you will have."

Joseph watched himself pick an apple and drop it into his bottomless cart, watched the apple fall through and land on the grass.

"Second, Joseph, you must wake up."

And in that instant Joseph awoke, perplexed. He spent most of the morning that followed searching for meaning. When he told Annabeth about the dream, he mentioned the apple cart, but left out the part about love.

EVERYTHING FOR SALE

Day after day, a man sat outside his house beside a large, white sign with bold, deep orange letters. EVERYTHING FOR SALE. His street saw its share of traffic and the home's ornate façade attracted many to stop and have a look.

"Is this a yard sale?" they'd ask. "A garage sale?" Their eyes would search for trinket covered tables to peruse.

Eventually the man would explain to his visitors that he didn't have dolls or tools or knickknacks to sell, that in fact all he had was the house itself.

Some would ask, "Why not list with a realtor? Why the funny sign?" implying that they'd been mislead.

So the man would further explain that the entire house wasn't for sale all at once, but rather any of them could purchase any piece of the house they liked. He'd invite them inside to see every room and every room had its own unique features: cherry wood baseboards and paneling, maple crown molding, solid mahogany doors. He told them that any part of the home they liked could be carefully removed and they could take it with them or have it shipped.

The house was cavernous, so the man expected to live the rest of his years selling it off little by little, spending less than he earned.

Word spread about the man and his house with EVERYTHING FOR SALE, all of the antique wood from which the home had been built. Soon his customers weren't just casual folks who happened to pass by; people came from surrounding towns to shop the man's home.

One morning the man awoke to find his bedroom floor flooded. He easily found the source of the leak: an area of the roof from which he'd sold the old tin shingles. He thought to hire a roofer, but realized his meager savings were only enough for his weekly bread. The realization came to him all at once that all he had left of his once beautiful home was the attractive façade and his own bedroom, now uninhabitable. He walked outside and removed the sign and wondered what went wrong.

Selfish Kisses

Four blankets draped over her, a stuffed lion and baby doll under arm, she sleeps. I look at her and see the future: tomorrow morning picking out clothes for the day, next summer visiting grandparents, fifteen years from now dropping her off at college.

Today she ate cereal for breakfast. She watched a movie and did puzzles and then we went to the grocery store. Sitting in the back of the shopping cart, facing me, she sang and chattered her way down every aisle.

She played soccer in the afternoon. Well, she sat on the ball, dribbled it, kicked it into the goal more than once. She ate two helpings of spaghetti with butter. When the time came to wash up for bed, she would've preferred to continue playing her little ukulele, which she made clear to me by rolling around on the floor, crying hysterically. She cried so loud and so hard that any childless passersby would've thought me an abusive father, but all I'd done, I promise, was tell her it was time for pajamas and brushing teeth.

Now as she rests in her little bed and I think of all the days ahead, I wonder what the world will be like for her, what decisions she'll make. It's too much for me sometimes, the world all around us. But right now the night air is still and she and I are within the same walls. I know it's selfish of me to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek while she's asleep, but I do it anyway.

Libby and Connie

Two tennis fans, Libby and Connie, sat beside each other for a best of three exhibition match between America's top two players, Barry O'Bannon and Mitchell Ryan.

Libby and Connie quickly became aware of their opposite rooting interests, their muted claps coming at different times. During the first set, Libby did a lot less clapping than Connie, as Ryan soundly defeated O'Bannon, 6 – 2. No one was surprised to see Ryan take the first set, but no one had expected such a dominating performance. Connie turned to Libby, chiding, "I think your guy O'Bannon is showing his true colors today. He's just no match for Ryan."

To which Libby replied, "He was certainly off his game in that first set, seemed like he was in a daze."

Connie nodded, "I've really never felt he was any good, frankly, and I think Ryan just exposed him."

Libby did not deem this last Connie comment worthy of a reply, so the two fans sat in silence as they awaited the start of the second set.

And a doozy of a second set it turned out to be. Days later, pundits would label it the most competitive set of tennis in recent memory (whatever that means). Each point was a battle, some rallies seeming like they'd never end. Each game went back and forth from deuce to advantage and back to deuce until someone would win by attrition. When O'Bannon finally took the set 7 – 6 after Ryan shocked everyone with a double fault to end an eighty seven point tie break, Libby clapped but, more than excitement, she felt relief. She tried to avoid Connie's eyes, but the Ryan fan tapped her on the shoulder, saying, "Wow, O'Bannon sure got lucky at the end there, the judge completely blew that call."

"What do you mean?"

"That second serve was in!"

"How could you see from here better than he can from down there?"

"Come on," Connie shook her head in disgust, frowning, "it was obvious. You'll see I'm right in the tv highlights."

Libby saw no use in arguing, so once again she let Connie have the last word between sets.

Just as no one had expected such a lopsided first set victory for Ryan, no one would've predicted O'Bannon to prevail by a wide margin in the third. But that's exactly what he did, winning 6 – 1, taking the match, sealing his place as the number one rated US player.

Standing to leave, Libby bowed her head toward Connie. "Good game," she said, "take care."

Connie, brow furrowed, replied, "Ryan got hurt at some point during that second set, I know it. His people will confirm it and this result won't affect anyone's opinion on who's the better player. Just look what Ryan did to O'Bannon in the first set, while he was still healthy. . . ."

Connie continued on for another full minute before she realized that Libby had left the stands, and she'd been talking to herself.

Choice of Locale

You tell me you have two job offers, one in some population twenty thousand Illinois town, the other in Man-hat-tan. I think about how every time I see 'widely recognized' in print, I imagine three or four white haired men nodding in unison, shaking hands, grinning, wearing tuxedoes. They look like Statler and Waldorf.

You snap me out of it, tell me you're serious. I tell you that in some small town you can't stop by a tented Oktoberfest block party run by a local bar selling bratwurst and pork with kraut en route to a gourmet, wood-fired oven flat bread pizza shop.

You tell me you're leaning toward NYC anyway and there's lots of stuff like that there, more than we have in Philly. I tell you that in NYC you'll have to wait an hour to sit down at the wood-fired oven flat bread pizza shop whereas in Philly we can sit at the bar pretty darn soon after we show up, and how the Yankee Stadium crowd remains lifeless most of the time because the fans just expect their team to always win.

You tell me you'll think about it. I call verses versus verses and lead off:

Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'
Get busy quittin' or get busy tryin'
The city speaks truth, the city don't lie
It's Philly: a coop you don't fly.

You just stare at me like I'm crazy. Then you surprise me with:

There's more to life than just cheesesteaks
Tony the Tiger loves Frosted Flakes
But even though he says they're grrrrreat
Cocoa Puffs also satiate.

Now I look at you like you're the crazy one until we're both laughing. I tell you your rhyme made me hungry and we go for appetizers and soup at Vietnam Restaurant.

Introductions

He sits and the clock ticks. He wants them to see him. He sees them all the time: at Higher Grounds, at Liberty Lands, at the Piazza. Here they are at 700 and he doesn't want much, just small talk.

He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.

Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.

"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."

The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."

"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."

"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."

He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.

He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.

"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"

"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.

Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."

Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.

"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.

But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."

His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.

Tunnel Visions

Their four hooves to my two wheels. We're all going home, but they don't enter the tunnel, the horses. They'll trot over to 3rd Street. Displaced by developers, they walk further north than a few years ago.

Their four wheels to my two wheels. I'm always nervous in the tunnel. If a part fails or I slip and lose control, if I'm lying on the ground in pain, will someone stop to help or even slow down or just drive by and laugh? The tunnel only has one lane for cars. I think most are heading to North Philly, but I don't know.

Coasting downward, hustling upward. A banging base line, a screaming singer, a subtle humming: music from passing vehicles. An open top convertible glides, its passengers giddy. Tinted windows accelerate, their passengers hidden. An unavoidable puddle sprays my back as I ride through it.

They pass me but then I pass them when the light is red at Callowhill. Under the bridge to 95, waiting for green, I wonder whether this one legged man will ask me for change. He does and I give him a quarter. What if an eighteen wheeler loses control up above and crushes us both?

I always peddle slowly on that wide section of 5th Street that follows, basking in a brief sense of accomplishment. The tunnel's just one of ten to twenty minutes, one minute to remind me I've been lucky so far.

Generation Gap

Mr. Hamm began his first day of class with the best of intentions.  "Good morning, let's see, ten of you are here, but eleven are enrolled this semester.  Does anyone know a Claude—"

"Yes, Mr. Hamm!  We’re friends, hang on just a sec and I’ll bet I can find out where he is. . . ."  The helpful young man grabbed his phone and stared at it in silence.

"Um, Ross, is it?"

"Yes sir."

"You said Claude is a friend?"

"Yes sir."

"And you know why he’s not here?"

"I’m checking on that, Mr. Hamm, I’m sure I can find out."

"'Checking?'  I’m confused.  Did he or did he not tell you where he’d be today instead of where he should be, here in class?"

"'Tell me,' sir?  Oh!  No, sorry, we’re not friends like hang-out-on-the-weekends friends.  We’re just facebook friends . . . ah, here’s his profile, right, I thought I saw that post last night.  He’s still in Prague, returning next week."

Mr. Hamm shook his head, unamused.  "Well, alright then, let’s begin.  As you all know, this class focuses on improvisation.  Let’s begin today by discussing a famous group of improv actors, and then we can discuss any experience any of you have to date.  Has anyone followed Christopher Guest's career?"

The question hardly left Mr. Hamm’s mouth before all ten students had their phones in hand, eyes peeled to small screens.

"Excuse me, but what are you all doing?" the teacher asked.

"Mr. Hamm?"

"Yes, Ross?"

"Christopher Guest is the guy who did Best in Show and Spinal Tap and those other mockumentaries, right?"

Great, we're connecting, Mr. Hamm thought.  "Yes, Ross, that’s right—"

"Well I searched and it doesn’t look like he has a twitter account.  There are quite a few Christopher Guests on twitter, but none of them seem to be the famous one—"

"What?"  Just when he thought he’d gotten through to them, Mr. Hamm was perplexed.  "What are you talking about?"

"You asked whether any of us followed Christopher Guest, but I don’t think that’s possible.  We can’t follow someone who doesn’t even use twitter!"

A muddled laugh ensued and Mr. Hamm spoke over it.  "Alright!  Forget it, we’ll discuss his work later today if we have time.  Let’s just start with all of you and your experiences.  Has anyone ever performed an improv act, and for whom?  Yes, um, Gill, is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Hamm!  I practiced some improv over the summer to get ready for this class."

Mr. Hamm beamed.  "And how did it go?"

"It went alright, I guess, I did a short act for my grandmother."

"And what were some of her comments?"

"Oh, well," Gill frowned, "I did it for her in person, Mr. Hamm."

The teacher made an effort to locate his patience.  "Of course you did, Gill, and what were some of her comments?"

Gill, growing nervous, looked around the room for support.  "Like I said, Mr. Hamm, she was right there in the room.  Just a few feet away, really I promise. . . ."

Mr. Hamm took a deep breath.  "Okay, Gill, I understand, she was right there.  And now please, I’ll ask one more time, what were her comments?"

The students all shook their heads, feeling sorry for Gill, who eventually said, "Mr. Hamm, I didn’t put it on youtube or facebook or anything like that, I just did it for her at her house.  She made a pot of tea and—"

"Aha!"  Mr. Hamm, half-crazed, laughed out loud just as Ross typed a three letter text message to Gill: LOL.

Safety in Numbers (by James Parsons)

Through the window, the moon cast a ribbon of light diagonally across her body, revealing a shoulder, two ribs, and the curvature of a hip.  A path of skin like fresh snow beneath a streetlamp.  The smell of lilacs – her ever-present scent – invaded his nostrils.  This time mingling with sweat and the moist August air.  Yet the rest of her was veiled in storm cloud gray and grew more indiscernible despite his staring.  Sheldon had known Tatum for over a year but she seemed so vague to him, as if he were peering at her through a rain-splashed windshield, betrayed by broken wipers.  She was opaque lying there in the tousled bed linens and that made him anxious.  It occurred to him to quietly exit the room and leave her to her dreams, so he made his way out the door, down three floors, and into the silent streets.

The city pulsates like a switchboard of energy in the waking hours.  Yet, after midnight, within certain neighborhoods, it is a cloister.  The small streets can be like portals to a quainter era.  The atmosphere so different than in the daylight.  This is what he loved most about Philadelphia.  It rested.  And because of his inability to do the same, Sheldon walked.  West, on Locust, toward the river, he meandered past narrow, cobblestone back alleys.  The giant silhouette of a cargo train vanished northward toward the Art Museum.  Around a corner, a cat, like a sentry, slinked back and forth on the slender top of a property gate, and startled him.  Ahead, on a street perpendicular, two women in flowing skirts passed by on bikes that seemed too large for them; even at this hour, in the bright darkness, they looked purposeful yet carefree, as girls in skirts on bikes often do in the summer months.

Sheldon favored Fitler Square to the much bigger Rittenhouse.  Rittenhouse Square was a spectacle.  Fitler Square, at this hour, a sanctuary.  The brass ram in repose greeted him.  The bear in mid-stride paid him no mind.  He imagined them coming to life like in a child’s daydream.  He sat on a bench next to the tortoises conferring with one another.  The moonlight was still strong and it gleamed off the helmeted backs of the tortoises; the largest casting a fatherly figure in front of two attentive children.  Be patient, you’ll get there, don’t worry, it is who you are.  Sheldon began to feel at ease and the edges of his mouth curved upward forming a wry smile.  He sat and enjoyed the solitude for minutes which seemed longer.  Suddenly the drone of the southbound #12 bus on its final run grew closer and it roused him.  Above, some lonely stars shone in defiance of the city and its artificial light.  The warm air was sweet with alyssum.  It reminded him of lilacs.  He thought of Tatum.  Was she still sleeping?  Perhaps she too had left the house.

(James Parsons is a writer living in Philadelphia.  When he's not writing you can find him on his bike, running in the Wissahickon trails, or coaching on soccer fields throughout the area.  He has a master's degree in journalism from Temple University.)

Comfy Couch

On a comfy couch in the corner seat, you snuggle with the world. Whatever else: the wars, the debt, climate change, you wrap your arms around it and feel the pain and stress and paranoia and squeeze tight so it can’t breathe. A movie, or two. Popcorn on the table, in and out of sleep, the occasional cigarette, a text message. Barefoot between carpet and tile, reaching into the freezer for Ben and Jerry’s, back on the couch eating straight from the carton.

You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.

But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.

Listless

Winston stared at the miniature house with its fresh coat of paint and its perch, feeling a mixture of pride and anxiousness.  Birds flying through his yard would now have their own special place to relax, and he envied them.

He paced around inside the house.  Eyes darting, he couldn’t find a trace of his ex-wife.

How to get over her completely?  He’d begun with a list of all the things he wanted to change about himself.  He learned to cook, established an exercise routine and vowed to stick with it, stopped watching so much television in favor of reading more books.  He made lists of herbs to plant in his garden, carpentry simple and complex around his home (the birdhouse being a small, most recent example), places around Philadelphia to visit via bicycle, new gastropubs to frequent, etc.  He even made a master list of his various lists, for organizational purposes.

But today he couldn’t think of a single thing he felt like doing.  Unnerved, he felt.  Who was he anymore without something to do?

Back in the backyard, he stood and stared.  A light breeze passed and made his neighbors' wind chimes chime.  He took a deep breath and sat in his favorite chair, an outdoor rocker with comfy cushions.  Maybe I’ll just do nothing for a few hours, he thought.

He fell into that peaceful zone between wakefulness and sleep.  A Dark-eyed Junco flew from a nearby tree and stopped momentarily on a fence post in Winston’s yard, listened to him as he snored.

Image courtesy of Steve Creek Outdoors

Domestic Situation (by Marylou Fusco)

After the baby finally stops crying and falls to sleep with little hitches and sighs, she remembers how she used to love being half naked in public. She wore shorty shorts and halter tops all the time if she could. A tinkly gold charm anklet and her toenails painted fire-engine red.

Now she’s sitting around in an old sweater and jeans waiting for Charlie to come home. Waiting sucks. Charlie said he was going out, be right back, and that could mean anything. It could mean fifteen minutes or an hour and a half. He could be picking up a pack of cigarettes or some diapers.

He could have a stocking cap pulled over his face, threatening a store clerk. The clerk sweating and fumbling with the cash. “Please, man. Here. Please, I got a kid.”

And Charlie would probably say, “The fuck? I’m not going to shoot you. I got a kid too.” Ha ha. He thinks he’s being funny.

There’s not much you can do to make a two rooms homey but she tries. Plants on the fire escape when the weather gets warm. Blue throw pillows here and here. When the case worker visits with her tidy notebook and sprayed black ponytail she blinks and looks around and around. She asks, “How about this? This domestic situation?”

When Charlie gets back he’ll smoke his single lonely cigarette in bed. The blue light pouring in from the window. Glass shattering on the street below them.  She’ll stand in that blue light and pull off her sweater. The fabric of her old bra straining against the weight of her new breasts. Every morning she leaks milk across her fingers and hides in the bathroom to taste its sweetness.

She doesn’t care about the gun in the dresser drawer, tucked far back beyond her good panties, doesn’t even think about it anymore because she knows how Charlie’s bones ache for one last hit. She knows how he still feels that pull in his guts and across every inch of his skin. That he resists and resists is the bravest, coolest thing ever.

When he gets home she’ll crawl under the covers with him, her flesh warming from the heat of his hands. Already she’s thinking; I forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive. We have a whole lifetime of doing the right thing.

(Marylou Fusco is a writer living in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Swink, Carve, and Rumble magazines.)

Twilight Surprise

Joseph’s head rested between his forearm and bicep, on the bar.  He refused to look again at the cell phone smushed against the side of his leg, inside his jeans pocket.  He longed for the days when he hadn't owned a cell phone.

She’ll either come or she won’t, he thought.  It’s open mic night and people will play music and either she’ll be here or she won’t.  I’ll be on this barstool or in the bathroom but I won’t be anywhere else until I’m in bed and that’s all there is to it.

“Another?”

“Huh?”

“Another Maker’s?”

Joseph raised his head, squinted, made a fist and stuck up his thumb and then lowered it toward his empty glass, as if his hand were a bottle.

The bartender poured and he eyed his drink as some guys breezed in and sat at a corner table.  A new, buzzing undercurrent began to flow throughout the bar, a sort of lo-fi hum of blended conversations rising in volume.  Joseph felt it hypnotize him.

“I think they opened for Radiohead in Camden tonight,” he overheard the young lady to his left try to whisper.

“They know one of the guys who cooks here,” someone else mumbled.

 “Hi there!”  It was Annabeth’s voice, she came after all.  How much time had passed?

“Hi,” he said, expressionless, suddenly at ease.

“Did you get my texts?”

“Oh, sorry, no.  Drink?”

“Sure.”

“How was your evening?”

Annabeth laughed, shook her head.

He thought of asking what she’d been doing, why she didn’t come sooner.  But all he said was, “It’s got a nice ring when you laugh.”

“You got any extra guitars we could borrow?” one of the guys from the corner table who looked vaguely familiar to Joseph, tall and lean, asked the bartender.  The answer was an emphatic “yes.”  Soon open mic night was over, transformed into a surprise mini-concert seen and heard through a haze of smoke and booze fueled giddiness.

Joseph awoke the next day unsure of whether it had all been a dream, but Annabeth reassured him.

(Click here for a song; you may even hear a line from the story.)

Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice

He descends down the stairwell like a dumbwaiter down its chute. Having taken rest in his small box of a hotel room, the bed barely fitting within its walls, he’s thirsty and eager to explore.

People speaking on cellular phones make faces. On bicycles they grimace. On the tram they smile. Expressionless while walking.

The man moves without any sense of direction, observing everyone and everything he sees. Individuals draw him toward their space: musicians to their sound, merchants to their wares, beggars to their cups.

A boat floats beneath crooked buildings:


His thirst reaching unbearable levels, he chooses a random shop. A quick peek at the menu. “Orange juice, please.”

A barista nods and turns around and makes it fresh on a small machine. He gulps it all down without stopping for breath, pays and goes on his way.

For a while all he notices are Asian and Argentine restaurants:










A man approaches him with arm extended. “Excuse me, are you on facebook?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“No, excuse me, please, are you on facebook?”

“Do you mean right now?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” the man hands him a card, “please ‘like’ our page when you have time.”

He accepts the card and continues roaming the streets. They have everything here, he thinks. Every culture, every virtue, every vice. Some of it’s free, some of it’s for sale, but it’s all here and available.  We can take it or leave it.

NOLA to Philly (on Pure Slush)

(Pure Slush, one of my favorite flash fiction publications in print and online, accepted my story NOLA to Philly as part of this month’s cities theme.  Thanks to esteemed writer / editor Matt Potter for the passion he pours into working with writers around the world.  NOLA to Philly is this week’s micro story; to read it please click here.)

A Friendship

We lived on the same city block.  You had an air hockey table and HBO and we always stayed up late at your house.  I would invite you when my mother made pasta and we ate until our bellies looked like they might pop.

We worked hard at our pursuits.  You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show.  I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.

We drifted apart.  You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer.  I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.

We changed our minds countless times.  You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright.  I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.

We came to desire familiarity.  You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher.  I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.

We reconnected and now our toddlers play together.  Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over.  My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.

One Night In 2003

Sipping an Extra Pale Ale, hand pumped and served room temperature, Brian waited for Alexa.  The last time he saw her she was an eighteen year old senior and he was a sixteen year old sophomore doing his best to conceal what he assumed to be an unrequited crush.  When she strode through The Abbaye’s doorway and their eyes met for the first time in seven years, his jaw unwittingly dropped.

“Hi there!  Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger!”

“Thank you.  And hello!”  Be cool, he thought.  “It’s been ages.”

“Really, it has.”

They flashed their individual headlines: a brief summary of college life from each of them, her job working with troubled teenagers, his much-less-interesting job in accounting, and, finally, how she managed to buy a home in Northern Liberties.

“So, you been to any other bars yet?”

“No.”

“Well, this place just opened and I love it, then there’s North Third and Standard Tap and Azure who also have great food and beer lists.”  She spoke of local homeowners in the collective.  “If any of us need a contractor, we can always just go down to happy hour at Seven Hundred.  Electricians, plumbers, general handymen, they’re always there when they get off work.”

“What’s the deal with Finnegan’s Wake?”  Brian asked.

“Oh,” she frowned.  “Bad news.  Crazy-frat-party-land.  The neighborhood association fights them all the time, but apparently its owned by a group of city politicians, so they get away with whatever they want.  These kids park on all the nearby streets and then break bottles when they leave the place, scream and shout, it really sucks.  I catch them pissing on the side wall of my house all the time, in the alleyway.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the vibe here.”

She nodded.  “You said it.”

They agreed to meet for drinks again later that evening, and though Brian didn’t sense that she was any more attracted to him now than she was in high school, the slightest glimmer of hope was enough.

That night, they went to her favorite bars and he paid for the drinks.  Their conversation had that effortlessness so often felt among young, increasingly buzzed people with many friends and experiences in common.

She asked him to walk her home and though he couldn’t be sure whether it was strictly for safety or, optimistically, for a night cap at her place, the glimmer of hope was alive and well.

As they approached her house, she began, “Would you like,” but was interrupted by the sound of a bottle breaking against brick, and then loud, drunken laughter.  She turned toward the alleyway and then back at him and for the first time all night he was indecisive.  Testosterone told him to walk into the alley and confront the perpetrators, but what he really wanted was for them both to pretend they hadn’t heard the loud noise and for her to finish her sentence.  When she fell silent and just stood there, looking down at her red ballet flats, he felt compelled to act.

“Why don’t you go inside?”  He said.  “I’m just gonna see what that’s all about.”

“It’s okay,” she said.  For a moment he thought she’d suggest that they go inside together and forget the newly broken bottle, but then she continued.  “I’ll come with you.”

She stood back as he confronted two visibly drunk guys, one of whom was relieving himself on the side wall of her house.  As the first punch landed on Brian’s left cheekbone and he fired back, nose cartilage crushing beneath his fist, he knew that his chance with Alexa had come and gone.

Patty's Green Prelude

Leaves fell from the car’s roof when Patty opened the passenger door.  The lever releasing the shotgun seat had been, for a few years now, nearly impossible for his friends to budge, but he knew the trick.  He slid his chest onto the back seat and glided his hands over cigarette burns to where the cushions met, reached between them, looking for the miniature orange and blue woven wool satchel his favorite girl had given him for his birthday.

Patty proceeded to check every crevice of his ’89 Prelude’s interior, lifting the splotchily stained floor mats, removing some books and debris from beneath the front seats.  An old Doors cassette nestled within a tear in the center console, 'Waiting for the Sun,' saw its first daylight in years, but no satchel.

All hope lost, he retreated from the car and stood staring at it: bungee cords holding its back bumper in place, rear wheel missing a hubcap, scratched metallic green paint.

Resigned to visit the girl without the small pouch and its contents, he climbed into the driver’s seat through the passenger side door, just because it was already open.  He popped in the old Doors tape and listened to 'Love Street' as he drove to her apartment.

When he arrived and parked the Prelude, something unexpectedly fell to the pavement.  He looked down and there it was.  Must’ve been lodged between the door and the driver’s seat all along, he thought, smiling.  As he walked the front steps of the apartment building, he turned back toward his worn old ride.  It seemed like the car was winking at him: one headlight open and the other one shut.  For all of the vehicle’s frequent malfunctions, Patty couldn’t recall any headlight issues, but his memory may have been foggy.

(Listen to The Doors' 'Love Street' here)

Untimely

He drove up 5th Street every day.  Often times on Saturdays, on the blocks approaching Lehigh Avenue, young girls jumped rope on the sidewalk and sang songs.  He always enjoyed seeing them play together, hearing their innocent voices.

Today he saw people dressed in black gathered outside one of the neighborhood’s many connected row homes.  Attached to and all around a telephone pole were large and small, pink and white and brown teddy bears, dolls, drawings and paintings that only could’ve been made by children.

“No.”  He said it out loud, alone in his small pickup truck.  “Please, no.”

He pulled over to the side of the road, shut the engine.  He’d seen these around the city from time to time, teddy bear vigils, as he referred to them internally, and they always made him feel sick, upset, disgusted.  Violent crimes around the city were bad enough when they involved adults.  But kids, a little girl, he didn’t even know her and yet his heart sank.  Maybe it wasn’t murder, he thought.  Could’ve been a car accident or something else but either way, she’s gone. 

I should go inside, he told himself, pay my respects.  Everyone should stop by and pay their respects, the entire city.  Everyone should do it even though nobody can bring her back.  All the love and regrets in the world won’t bring her back.

He reached for the door handle and nearly opened it, but something stopped him, a sudden realization that he’d only be trying to make himself feel better, that nobody who’d actually known the girl would want him there.  What could he say?  “Hi, I don’t know you, but I drive past your house every day, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.”  Too weird, he decided.  Too presumptuous. 

He wiped away the beginnings of a tear and turned the ignition.  The radio came back on and a caller argued vehemently with Jon Marks and Sean Brace for the Eagles to sign Plaxico Burress.  He drove the rest of the way to work without listening.  He just imagined the young girls he’d seen last week jumping rope on the sidewalk, singing songs.

Neurosis

Must wash hands thoroughly.  Between fingers, around nails, across palms, can’t miss a spot.  Okay, they’re clean.  How long has this towel hung here?  Should I get a new one?  No, it’s okay, recently changed it.  Must dry hands thoroughly before using lotion.  Hand lotion’s important on these cold winter days.  Okay, time to go.

No!  What’s that?  How did that happen?  What is it, dirt from boots?  I really thought I wiped them well on the mat last night, but apparently not.  Can’t leave for work with that dirt on the floor but hands are perfect right now.  No, that’s no excuse.  Need to do what’s right even if it means washing and drying and moisturizing hands all over again.  Can’t ignore the mess. . . .

Alright, the floor is clean and hands are all set and I’ll still arrive early to work.  Thank goodness for garages; without one I’d be at the carwash twice as often.  It’s a lovely day to drive.  Mr. Mozart, speak to me.

Hitting all the lights today it seems.  Who’s that at the bus stop?  Do I know her?  I swear she’s staring straight at me!  Can she see the blemish on my cheek?  No, she can’t see my left side from that angle.  Don’t make eye contact.  Will this light ever turn green? 

Oh you couldn’t help yourself, could you?  Had to look her way again and still she stares.  Does she know me?  What if she pulls a gun from inside her jacket and shoots me?  I’m defenseless!  Ah, green light, thank goodness.

It’s okay.  Mozart, perfection.  At least these red lights prolong our time together this morning.  But wait, who’s that man in the car next to me?  Why did he turn to look in this direction?  He nodded!  It’s okay, just nod back.  He’s smiling!  Is that grin some clever ruse?  He could bump me off the road!  Green light, let him go first.  Ah, it’s okay, he’s driving along now.  Hey, who’s honking?  Oh, the car behind me, maybe they’re working together!  The first one knew his nod would stall me just as this one knew his honk would rush me. . . .

No, don’t be silly, it’s okay.  Just enjoy the music and get to work.  No more distractions.

But wait, who’s that crossing the street? 

Overpopulation

He could feel her glare as he drove their sedan away from the quiet, suburban street.  They passed snow covered trees surrounding picturesque stone houses and rode over rock salt, plenty of it sure to stick between tire treads.  Soon they’d be back in the city, where a layer of litter hid beneath the snow for now, until the sun would eventually reveal it, dirtier than ever.

“What did you think of the name?”

She waited a few moments before answering him.  “I like it.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes before he broke it.  He knew he should apologize for what happened earlier, and yet, he said, “Look, there’s no reason to have a coed baby shower.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?  I didn’t see any other husbands there making a scene!”

“I didn’t make a scene.  The guy asked what I do for a living and I told him.”

“Yeah, I know, Mark, I know.”  She raised her voice.  “I know all about it.  You told him you’re studying overpopulation and its effect on global resources.  You told him your conclusion: two kids per family.  Didn’t you know he and his wife have four kids?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Couldn’t you have just said you’re a scientist?  I mean, why would you bring up overpopulation at a baby shower?  Don’t you think maybe it’s, um, I don't know, not the best topic?”

“Alright, alright.  I’m sorry.  I’ll call the guy tomorrow and apologize.  I certainly didn’t mean for the conversation to turn toward vasectomies.”

“Okay, fine.  Just so you know I was mortified when I heard the two of you shouting all the way from the kitchen, but it’s fine, I’ll get over it.”

“Thanks Sheila.”

They took the Broad Street exit and were on their way home when he suggested they head to Chinatown for an early dinner.  He agreed to stop at her favorite place rather than his, and they were on good terms once again.  His fortune cookie, full of wisdom, told him there's a time to swallow pride.  He thought of China’s one-child-per-family policy and decided he stood firmly against it, though he would’ve understood if the limit were set at two.  He himself had always wanted at least three children, but he’d never told anyone, not even his wife.

Through the Smoke (by Big Tuba)

Above the hum or beneath it I’ll survive.  

Looking around with more than just eyes.  

Trying not to see but to understand.

People scream and shout in happiness or despair or they might keep quiet while their insides burn.

A Rick Santorum bumper sticker screams to gay people of their evilness and lack of rights, expecting them to accept it all while he discusses ways to divert funding from public education and defends the home schooling of his own kids between sips of champagne.  This asshole wants to be President of The United States of America and enough people actually think he’d be a good choice for the job that he wins caucuses and stays in the race.  Please, if you’re out there, wake me up and tell me it was all a bad dream and I’ll laugh at the outlandishness of my own subconscious.  

Rationalize the lies and they become true to you.

People protect themselves and shield themselves and create their own little worlds.  I don’t blame them for that.  But when the vibe flattens and the masks come off that’s when I’ll engage, that’s when you’ll see me and I’ll see you and maybe we’ll understand.  For now I’ll just dance and look out through the smoke and try my best to live.  

(Big Tuba lives in Philadelphia.  He's been published on many a men's room wall, and he's friendly.)

One Mistake

For two fifteen hour days in the biggest poker tournament of his life, Jimmy had played perfectly.  He was already thinking about his chip count for the next morning’s start when the director announced the last hand of the night.  Folding would be just fine with Jimmy, eager to get some rest, but he looked down at pocket tens in middle position and felt compelled to raise.  The only stack bigger than his called from the button and when Jimmy made a set of tens on the flop, he never saw the other guy’s set of jacks coming.  

A salesman worked for ten years at the same company and was a leading candidate to be promoted.  After meeting a young, female intern one morning and typing what he considered a light hearted email to a male co-worker about her looks, he accidentally sent it to the entire office staff.  His boss had no choice but to fire him the next day.  

A university president spent twenty years creating programs, wooing financial donors, expanding reach and resources for her students and faculty.  She covered up one scandal for fear of the damage it would do to her school’s standing.  When the same scandal made national news five years later and reporters revealed her actions, the board of trustees forced her to resign.

Exhausted and upset with himself for playing too aggressively with middle set against a bigger stack, Jimmy did the only thing he could think to do: he went to sleep and registered for a new tournament the next day.

Reconnaissance

As Joseph jumped up the subway steps at City Hall, he marveled at how long it’d been since he last set foot near Rittenhouse Square.  One could live an entire lifetime between Northern Liberties and Fishtown, he thought.

Even now he only came this way out of necessity, on a rescue mission he feared would become nothing more than reconnaissance, said fear stemming from the following text message exchange with Annabeth after she didn’t answer either of his calls:

Joseph: When you coming to JB?

Annabeth: Probably not but come to McG!

JB stood for Johnny Brenda’s.  A bar stool there having cushioned Joseph’s backside for the previous three hours, he and Garret and Suki waiting to hear from Annabeth about when she’d be joining them, Joseph felt toasty during his midnight trek on the Market-Frankford line.  At first Joseph thought McG meant McGillin’s, but then he remembered that Billy was a smoker, so it had to be McGlinchey’s.

Joseph strode through McGlinchey’s doorway and spotted them right away through the smoke filled haze.  They sat in a booth on the left side of the bar, Annabeth beside Billy, a young guy with long hair Joseph had met a few times seated across from them.  Joseph cringed, swallowed his pride, and sat next to the guy whose name he’d never remember.

“Hi,” he managed a smile as he waved at them all.

Annabeth looked in his direction, a devilish face, cigarette between her left index and middle fingers.  Billy exhaled and shook Joseph’s hand.  The young guy, who’d been jabbering away as Joseph joined them, said, “Yo dude,” and then kept talking.  Music blared, an old Velvet Underground tune, Lou Reed’s voice floating indiscriminately among the crowd, through the smoke.

When the kid stopped to breathe, Joseph said, “I’m gonna grab a drink, anyone in need?”

Billy answered, “I think we all could use one.”  The others nodded.  “Shot and a beer, you choose.”

A tall, slender bar tender with tattoos in various places, the one of a diamond on her left breast in particular catching Joseph’s unwitting eye, asked, “What can I get you?”

“Four Miller Lites and four shots of Jameson.”

He paid the fifteen bucks he owed and left a five dollar tip, carried the drinks back to the booth in two trips.

“Thank you much,” Billy said.

“Yeah, thanks dude,” the young chatterbox offered.

“Since when do you smoke?”  Joseph asked Annabeth.

“From time to time,” she said airily.

“I didn’t know.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Joe.”

Joseph caught a smirk on Billy’s face.

“Excuse me,” Annabeth said as she rose.  She looked back at Joseph and winked as she entered the Ladies room.

The music changed and now Nick Lowe sang, ‘Cruel To Be Kind.’

Raising his shot glass, his Yoda tattoo purposefully visible to the others, Joseph indicated for them to raise theirs.  The three men threw back their Jamesons.

“So Billy,” Joseph managed to start before the kid could talk again.  “You head back to Chicago at all?”

“Naaahhh,” Billy drew out.  “No way to get back.  Besides, Philly’s been too much fun.”

The long haired kid stayed quiet for a refreshing few moments and Joseph heard the music say, ‘it’s a very very very good sign’ just as Annabeth returned from the restroom.

She sat and pushed her shot over to Joseph.  “You want mine too?”  She asked.  “I don’t need this.”

The whiskey went down the hatch and Joseph felt his buzz kick up a notch, watched an anthropomorphic red glass ashtray throw a punch across Billy’s face.  He knew then it was time for him to head home.

“Well I was just in the neighborhood so wanted to stop in for a drink, but I gotta go.”

Annabeth eyed him quizzically, knowing he’d actually just been four neighborhoods away.

Goodbyes were said and Joseph hoped he’d catch the train before it stopped running for the night, save the eight dollar difference between that and cab fare.  He decided not to call Annabeth for a few days, give her a little space.

(Listen to the original version of Nick Lowe's 'Cruel To Be Kind' here.  For a live version performed with Wilco last month, click here.)

Whisky Cleansing

“Since we can’t hang on your birthday next week, I brought over a present.”  Garret presented Joseph with a bottle of Maker’s 46.

“Thanks dude.”

“You’re welcome.”

Joseph handed Garret a PBR and grabbed one for himself.

“Play some heads up?”

“Okay.”

Each man shuffled a deck of cards and counted out an equal number of chips.  In their regular ring game with friends they played dealer’s choice, but one-on-one they only played No Limit Hold ‘Em, tournament style for a fixed amount.

After an hour they’d each won a game and had a couple of beers.

“Why don’t we open the bottle you brought over?  Just to try it.”

“No arguments here man, I just thought you might like to save it for some other time.”

“Nah, let’s open it.”

Joseph opened the bottled and poured a glass for each of them, neat.

Another hour passed.

“This stuff is so smooth.  Just plain Maker’s is so smooth, but this stuff is . . . I don’t wanna say ‘better,’ but they’ve outdone themselves with it,” Garret said.

“Yeah man.”

An hour later, “Joe, you’re just not a good poker player.  Let’s play again, I own you.”

“How can you say that after you just bluffed away all your chips?”

Garret snickered.  “I read you right, you shoulda never called with bottom pair.”

“But you had nothing.  It was the right call, I beat you.”

“Yeah but I could’ve had something.  You’ll see next time.  Shuffle up.”

“Hang on, I’ll pour us another.”  Joseph walked to the kitchen with their glasses.  “Garret, you know there’s only about a third of this bottle left.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“We can finish it.”

“That would be dumb.”

The game devolved into a display not much unlike two card guts, rarely seeing a flop before they were both all in.  When Joseph poured the last of the bottle, Garret tossed his deck aside, knocking over his remaining chips.

“I owe you $8.  I’ll pay you later.”

“I don’t care about the money, Garret.  The joy lies in victory.”

“Good, then I won’t pay you later.”

 Joseph raised his glass, “To the remnants of this beloved bottle, Mr. 46, you were delicious.”

“May the juice cleanse our souls.”

The doorbell rang.  As Joseph rose to see who was there, he realized for the first time that he was very drunk, his perception falling into a familiar blur.  It was Annabeth.  He’d forgotten she said she might stay over.

“You guys got wasted, what’s wrong with you?”  Annabeth laughed as she asked, but her tone disapproved.

Joseph, concentrating hard to avoid slurring his speech, offered, “Sometimes people drink a whole bottle of 46.”

“I’ll just be on my way now,” Garret said as he stood to walk home.

Annabeth fell asleep disappointed, Joseph barely making it to the bed.  The next day he felt horrible, nausea and a splitting headache barely affected by ibuprofen, wondering why.  Annabeth thought perhaps her boyfriend was an alcoholic.